Foxmask

by Juliet Marillier

  “That’s nonsense!” Creidhe pulled her hands away from Eanna’s. “They would never take him, and they didn’t take Kinart either! The folk of the Seal Tribe love the islands, and protect all those who honor the ancient powers. They value life; they do not steal children. Those are simply the fireside tales of old people, told to keep infants away from dangerous shores. They will not harm Mother or her baby.”

  “You sound very certain.” Eanna watched her sister closely.

  “I am certain. He told me.”

  “Who?”

  Silence. Creidhe closed her mouth into a tight line.

  “Let me tell you something, Creidhe. I was shown a vision at last full moon, when I made a circle and kept vigil through the night. I saw a man, wild and fierce, chipping rocks with a heavy hammer, working as if to put his whole being into what he made. He wore distinctive clothing, decorated with many small feathers. This was a lean, weathered sort of man, with dark hair held back by a strip of leather. Young; not so much older than yourself. The hillside where he stood was steep and grass-covered; many birds flew above. I could not see what he was making, perhaps a wall to shield sheep, perhaps a hut for his stock. There was rain falling, and he worked on as if he could not feel it. He talked to himself as he labored, and your name was in it. Often. He repeated it as if it were a kind of talisman. I have seen this man before, in visions. The last time I saw him, I saw you as well, sewing the Journey, with a little, ragged child by your knee.”

  Eanna watched her sister. It was like the moment when a dam begins to break its banks; first one tear trembled in the blue eyes and fell down the pale cheek, and then another, and another, and in total silence Creidhe put her face in her hands and wept. Eanna said nothing. She did not offer the comfort of touch or words of reassurance. Both of them knew well that the visions of the ancestors show was and is and will be mixed together, along with the cruel may be and might have been. One interpreted their meaning as if solving a puzzle, a puzzle that might have many possible answers.

  Creidhe’s shoulders were heaving, her hands still clutched tightly over her face, as if to try to contain the flood of grief. She had held these tears back a long time.

  “The Seal Tribe,” Eanna said at last. “You weep for one of the Seal Tribe.”

  “You don’t need to worry,” choked Creidhe. “He’s dead. Thorvald killed him.”

  Eanna absorbed this. Creidhe had said, I can keep them alive. “And the child?” she asked.

  “Well, and content . . . a great seer . . . he saved the people and made the peace. But it was too late for Keeper.”

  “Keeper. That is his name? And you love him.” No judgment in the tone.

  “With everything that I am.” Creidhe spoke these words in a tone that made her sister’s spine tingle; it was not the voice of a lovesick girl, but a deep, solemn swearing of truth. “I never thought such a bond was possible . . . He did not deserve to die, he was so brave, so loyal and strong . . .”

  “You saw him die? You witnessed it?” Cruel again, but she must press the advantage she had; Creidhe must tell it all.

  “No. I was knocked unconscious. They told me later. He told me. Thorvald. They were enemies, one sworn to protect Small One—the seer—the other to hunt him down. It was my fault Keeper died.” The voice very small now, like a child’s. “I tried to stop them. If I had not done that, Keeper would have won. He was by far the better fighter. He never lost a battle, until that day.”

  “Then Thorvald would have died.”

  No response.

  “You know, Creidhe,” Eanna said carefully, “how hard the ancestors’ messages are to decipher; one could spend a lifetime working them out. Indeed, some of us do just that. Tell me, is it possible you were wrong? Could this man still be alive, do you think?” She did not tell Creidhe her own interpretation of the vision, nor her certain belief that it had shown not then but now.

  Creidhe shook her head. “Why would Thorvald lie? Why would he spare Keeper’s life? Thorvald hated him for what he had done, for all the men he had killed over the years, for making the war continue. He never understood why Keeper did it, not even when he knew what the Unspoken intended for Small One. Of course he killed him.”

  “All the same.”

  “Don’t seek to comfort me with false hopes, Eanna. That’s cruel. I long to see your visions, to hear of them, to find solace in them. But I cannot believe them. I cannot think of any reason Thorvald would tell me such a thing if it were not the truth.”

  “Because he was jealous?” Eanna asked softly.

  Creidhe stared at her a moment, and then burst into terrible laughter, a sound that chilled her sister, so full was it with bitterness. “Thorvald? Jealous? He never even saw me. Thorvald cares for nothing but himself.”

  “Didn’t someone say he was a leader of men now? Well respected? A selfish man does not become such a leader.”

  “Maybe he has changed,” Creidhe conceded reluctantly. “Just a little.”

  “And he may also have changed in his feelings for you. Would that make a difference to you, Creidhe?”

  “Nothing can make a difference.”

  Eanna drew a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. Was that all this had been, an argument that simply came full circle?

  “Now, Creidhe,” the priestess spoke again, “I’m about to make a request and to give you some advice. I’m not going to tell you to stop the self-pity and find another good man; I hear in your voice that this was the only one, and I grieve for you, though unlike you I think nothing is certain. I ask you, as your sister, to speak to Mother today, to reassure her, and to promise her you will deliver her child expertly and safely as you always do. That may seem obvious to us, but she needs to hear it from your own lips. And you must explain to her about the Seal Tribe.”

  “But—”

  “It doesn’t matter how much you tell or how you do it. Just make sure she’s not frightened anymore. She needs you, Creidhe. We all do.”

  “Not you, surely.” The tone was dry.

  “You’d be surprised,” Eanna said. “Now the request. I want you to start working on the Journey again.”

  “I can’t—”

  “You said you don’t know how it goes from now on. But I think there is a part of your work you did know how to make, but would not fashion, out of fear. If he is dead and the child safe, what is there to be afraid of anymore?” That, too, was somewhat less than kind; Creidhe’s pale cheeks grew still whiter. “So, get your work out, sort your colors, make that small part at least. And listen for what the ancestors whisper in your ear, sister. No matter how dark the day, how crooked the path, they are always close. Make room for them in your heart, shattered and sorrowful as it is. They may surprise you.”

  FIFTEEN

  . . . this contemplative life is far safer, believe me, both for myself and for others who may cross my path. I do not forget the past; I remember what I was. Looking at him, I feel no regret for the loss of what other men have: the warmth of family, the security of household and community, and a path to tread among men of affairs. That is our son’s life, not mine. He need not fear me. I would never challenge him for power. Already he is a finer man than I could ever be, and for that I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I treated you badly; I knew no better. In return you have given me a priceless gift. I promise you I will guide him, advise him and love him as a good father should. That is all the recompense I can make you.

  Know that my dark path is turned to light, not only by the return of this son I never knew I had, but by the love and guidance of a God whose existence, until last summer, was as much of a mystery to me as Thorvald’s. I am unworthy of such joy: I greet each day with wonder. With all sincerity I wish you a life of equal contentment. For the making of this fine son, for nurturing him to become the man he is, you deserve no less.

  EXTRACT FROM LETTER

  It was spring once more: a whole year since Margaret had given her son the letter and sent him racing
off across the ocean to find the man who was his father. Now the green hills of Hrossey were dotted with new lambs, and on the cliffs south of the Whaleback the small, bright blooms of heart’s-eye flowered in profusion under a mild sun.

  Creidhe was tired of weaving. She had made a number of heavy, plain blankets, and a wall hanging to be presented to a nobleman in Rogaland. Eyvind was sailing there in summer as part of a delegation seeking a trade arrangement with the Jarls in that region. The hanging was not her own design; the bold ideas that had once been her great strength had deserted her. She no longer sought to create new dyes, fresh shades of color, or to fashion intricate borders on the strip loom. She had made what was required to Margaret’s specifications, and it was both expertly crafted and pleasing to the eye, but it was not her own. Whatever she had lost from within her when Keeper died, it was the same thing that had created those works of magic and beauty. There was no point even trying anymore. She just couldn’t do it.

  Today her back ached and her eyes had had enough of the monotonous task: the work on the loom was very plain, done in the natural cream of the fine wool Margaret’s main flock produced, and the only skill required was in keeping the weave even. Creidhe got up, stretching, and walked into the long room of Margaret’s house. Margaret’s and Ash’s house. She must get used to the fact that they were married now; she must get accustomed to the astonishing sight of Margaret happy. The two of them, who had shared the house so long as mistress and steward, had been quite transformed by what had happened. They were like a pair of young lovers, clasping hands as they passed, exchanging shy smiles and whispered words. Creidhe had seen a warm blush of awareness creep across Margaret’s ladylike features; she had seen a look in Ash’s steady gray eyes that signified, quite simply, ardent desire. They welcomed Creidhe to their house, as had always been the case; they worried about her as her own parents did. On the other hand, it was always evident, when Creidhe made her excuses and headed back home, that the two of them were glad to be left alone together, save for the discreet, well-trained men and women of the household. The bond between Ash and Margaret could be read in the way they moved, the way they looked, in every note of their voices.

  Creidhe was glad for them. But under this, there was something hard to bear, a wrenching reminder of the joy that could be had in the finding of a perfect partner, and the deathblow suffered when such a one was stolen away. She had tried, very hard, to shut herself off from feeling. She had tried to be a little as Margaret herself once was, calm, distant, moving through her days immune to pain or joy. This had not served Creidhe well. It took only a small thing, perhaps observing Sam and Brona as they shared a joke by the fire, or seeing the way her father held his newborn son in his arms, as if the babe were a treasure more valuable than all the gold in a dragon’s hoard, or noticing Ash’s work-scarred hand move to touch his wife’s sleek auburn hair in a gesture of tenderness. These things brought Creidhe’s pain alive so vividly she thought she would break apart, would shatter into brittle pieces, no longer able to bear the intensity of it.

  A whole year. It was plain her family had expected her to be better by now, to have begun forgetting. But everything had seemed to make it worse, to make her remember. The birth of her small brother, Eirik: it had been a joyful occasion, for once Creidhe had reassured her mother about the Seal Tribe, in a general sort of way, the delivery had been accomplished calmly and easily. Eirik was a fair-haired infant of robust health and strapping build; plainly he took after his Wolfskin father. And Creidhe had thought of Keeper, who had taken such care of his small, frail kinsman; Keeper, robbed by Thorvald’s quick blade of ever having a son or daughter of his own to love as he had loved Small One. She had clung, for a little, to the hope that she might be carrying his child when she came home, but it had not been so. A dark day, that had been, when her monthly bleeding came on time; so dark she had come close to spilling out the whole truth to Brona, just so she could speak Keeper’s name aloud. But she had not; Brona was happy, and that had made Sam happy, and why would Creidhe spoil their well-deserved joy in any way? What had happened to her was not their fault. Besides, keeping the truth inside, secret, seemed necessary; the worst thing, now, would be to let her memories wither and fade. They were all she had left.

  She sat on the steps, her bag beside her, and let the afternoon sun warm her. Soon she’d head for home; it was a good day for walking, and the solitary journeys from her family’s longhouse to Margaret’s and back again were somehow soothing. Under the wide sky, with the sea’s hushed music in her ears and the sweep of the gentle hillside before her, she was able to remember how small she was in the great memories of the ancestors, how tiny and insignificant her pain in the long tale of her people’s history. It did not provide solace, but it brought acceptance just a little closer. She had not reached it yet, for acceptance seemed to her the death of hope. And without hope, what was there to live for? She had thought, at first, that she had no hope at all, but it could not be so: if it did not exist, somewhere within her, why had she bothered to come home? Why not walk off a cliff, or take a knife to her wrists, and put an end to the hurt once and for all?

  There had been reasons to go on, of course: to deliver her mother’s child, to see Sam and Brona married, to avoid causing her family any more sorrow. But she knew that even without these things she would never have made an end of herself. Life was too precious to be treated with such contempt. It was for the ancestors to decide how long or short a mortal span would be, not for each man and woman. If she still lived, even with such grief, there was a purpose to it. And purpose was hope, in a way.

  All the same, she had not followed her sister Eanna’s suggestion, not fully. She had taken the Journey out, looked at it, and put it away again. She had replenished her stock of colored wools, replaced needles she had lost, sharpened her little shears. But she had made not a single stitch. For this task, her hands seemed to have no will, her mind no pattern.

  The sun was kind today; its warmth was easing her aching back, bringing life to her cramped hands. Little puffy clouds passed over; she could see their shadows skipping across hillside and drystone dike and rocky outcrop, then dancing away again. Light . . . shade . . . light . . . shade . . . A gull glided overhead, its voice high and harsh. A silent voice, fierce in its entreaty, spoke behind that call, chilling her blood. Put him in your web, now, now! Small One had believed it, and Keeper had believed it. It seemed possible even Eanna, a wise woman who surely should have known better, believed that Creidhe with her needle and wools had some power beyond the ordinary. Could she have saved him? Had she indeed needed only to set his image on the linen to determine whether he walked onward in his own journey or fell lifeless under Thorvald’s sword? Creidhe shivered. She was no goddess, for all Keeper’s sweet words. She was flesh and blood, ordinary, weak, helpless . . . and it was too late . . .

  Cold logic spoke inside her: the voice of her sister, the priestess, or perhaps her own voice. If it is too late, then surely to do it now can cause no harm. Why not try? Why not finish what you have begun? Then, at least, the effort of spinning and dyeing and setting aside these materials will not have been wasted. Take your work out again. Thread your needle. See if your hands will fashion one stitch, or two, or three. Not to go on with this is exactly the same as death. It means you’re given up on life. Move your Journey onward. Keeper deserves no less.

  It was strange to find, after so long away from this most cherished of tasks, that her fingers obeyed her instantly, that the choice of color and starting point and pattern happened as it always had with the Journey, seemingly without any decision on her part; how her hands worked ever more quickly and her eyes scanned the blank expanse of linen ever more intently as the images that would fill it formed themselves whole and complete in her mind, ready for needle and wool to give them physical form. She sewed as the sun sank into the west, as the breeze got up and the ewes headed for shelter with their lambs at heel. She sewed as the sky cooled and darkened;
she went on until she could barely tell sea-blue from weed-green, scarlet from rich purple. At some point Ash came out with a warm cloak and laid it around her shoulders; he had lit a lantern and put it on the steps nearby. A little later Margaret brought soup and bread and set them beside her. A man rode away to the north, probably with a message to let Nessa and Eyvind know she’d be staying the night here. Apart from that they left her undisturbed. She was hardly aware of time, of place, of the cold or the darkness, only of the need to make this, a need now as fierce and pressing in her as Small One’s silent entreaty that long-ago day when the two of them had waited in hiding as the hunt raged above them on the slopes of the Isle of Clouds.

  She was lying curled up on the steps when Ash and Margaret went out to check again, some time after supper. Her cheek was pillowed on her hand; the other hand clutched the length of embroidered linen to her breast. Needles and threads were safely stowed; Creidhe was ever an orderly worker. Her breathing was calm; her long lashes were closed peacefully over the blue eyes. She was sleeping as soundly as a child.

  While Ash carried Creidhe to the bed his wife had prepared, Margaret gathered up the Journey and the little bag and bore them indoors, out of the dew. This embroidery had long been Creidhe’s most prized work, and her most secret. All the same, it was more than Margaret could manage not to look at it now. When Ash came back to the long room, she was standing by the table with the bright expanse of delicate color, of intricate, mysterious detail laid out before her in the warm glow of a lamp. Margaret was stock still, entranced.

  “Look,” she said simply. “Just look.”

  All was there: all of a life, and all of the unseen life of the heart, the sweet, the terrible, the strange visions of the spirit. Here was family, with its strength and its warmth, its joys and its losses. Beyond family, the images showed a more distant past in which two boys marked their flesh with a hunting knife and swore an oath in blood. The images moved on through time. They did not make a story. Sometimes they did not even show what could be judged real or possible, but always they made a picture of truth. Nobody, looking at this wondrous piece of work, could doubt that. Here was Creidhe herself, flying through the sky, her hands reaching out to touch the moon. Here Thorvald, alone. His small figure was made with great care, the red hair blown into wild streamers by the wind, the eyes shadow-dark, the expression forbidding. Their boat, the voyage, the images of steep, stark islands, lonely in a cold sea. One isle was shrouded in perpetual mist, encircled by birds. Then stranger things: eyes hidden in the bushes, a wall of screaming faces, hands in the water, guiding a little craft through wild seas.