Freya glanced up at the low gray building, now just an outline against the florid sky. His house.
So, Dad, I’m here. You whistled finally. And I came. Abrupt tears filmed her sight. Freya shook her head; too late for that, far too late.
The face of Fuil Bay changed, the surface chopped by a rising wind. Fuil. The word meant “blood”—Walter Boyne had told her that, shouting against the engine and the sea as they tore over the water toward . . . what? This moment she’d never expected.
Skirling air caught the girl where she stood on the beach, lifting her soft, shining hair, streaming it away behind her head. Freya shivered and chafed her arms. So, this was summer in Scotland.
A white blur swooped close. Panicked, she ducked from the yellow eyes, the slashing beak. An owl? Freya straightened and her heart lifted as she watched the bird ascend the face of the cliff. Owls are good luck. Cheered, Freya began to ferry her things from the boat. All would be well. She could do this. The owl told her so.
Silently, behind her, a bright, small sphere rose in the eastern sky. Lassoed by Earth’s gravity, the erratic orbit of the comet had circled back to the north after more than twelve hundred years.
The people had called it the Wanderer then, and the brighter it became, the more they feared its power. Wandering stars were omens of evil times.
But as owl-light died, Freya Dane turned her back to the stars. She did not see the Wanderer as it climbed the sky.
CHAPTER 2
I’LL TELL our mother it’s your fault—you took too long making the sacrifice. We can’t stay here.” The whisper was fierce, but Signy knew what was going on—her older sister was trying to pull rank.
She made an effort to be reasonable—she was always the reasonable one. “Father asked me to, Laenna, you heard him. How was I to know they’d be tilling instead of singing?” Signy nodded toward the stone hut the newcomers used so often. They’d arrived on the island when Signy was still a baby, but every day since, the strangers crammed inside and sang at least seven times from well before dawn to deep in the night. Even the girls’ father could not explain why.
But Laenna was jealous. She was older than Signy. Why hadn’t she been asked to perform the sacrifice to the Sun? “If we’d got here earlier, we could have made the sacrifice to Cruach, taken the eggs, and gone.”
Signy spoke over her sister. “But it’s safe here, Laenna—they can’t see us. If we wait, they’ll finish what they’re doing and go off and sing again. Then we can—”
“Oh yes, and what about the tide?” Laenna glared at her sister. “We’ll miss it, and then we won’t get back before Cruach leaves the world. The Wanderer will find us here, and that’s worse. You know it is.”
Laenna was impetuous, Signy was not. “If we run, they’ll see us; there’s hardly any cover. Besides, their God is powerful, and He’ll help them catch us. We shouldn’t take the risk.”
“Oh, what would you know? You’re just a baby. We’ve got Gods, too, lots more than them.”
“Yes, but—”
“No! I am not going home until we’ve got the eggs. That’ll show these idiots. They can’t stop us taking what’s always been ours. Come on.” Said with the unshakable authority of fourteen summers to eleven, Laenna wasn’t whispering anymore.
Signy desperately shook her head. They’d be heard!
“Don’t you shoosh me, Signy.” But Laenna lowered her voice. “You have to do what I say—Mother said. And we have to stick together.”
“Hah!” Signy rolled over on her back. She would not look at Laenna; she was too angry.
“I’m not lying. Father said it too; it’s dangerous if we split up.”
Signy smothered a sigh. That was true at least; it was dangerous on the island now, and that was not fair. The newcomers seemed to think they owned Findnar, but that was not right. The clan memory keeper said the interlopers had arrived from the South just as summer began the year after she was born. They came in three boats—big, well-made craft with plank sides and woolen sails. They even brought livestock, cattle and pigs and sheep. The men and women dressed all alike in black and spoke a language—gabble, more like—that no one could understand then and still did not. But there were no children with that first group, and none had been born on Findnar since, which Signy and the memory keeper both thought was strange. Then, before the end of that first summer, the newcomers had begun to build with the stone of the island. A hall—square, not round—then the singing hut, and barns, too, in which they slept—men in one, women in the other.
They’d been friendly at first, but then as their second year on the island began, something changed. The people of the clan found they were no longer welcome when they landed their coracles in the cove. Even Signy and Laenna’s own family, traditional custodians for generations beyond counting of the holy places—the ring stones and the great tomb of the ancestors—were made to feel like strangers.
The contest between the clan and the newcomers deepened year by year, and as Signy grew in understanding, she became fearful. She was not alone. All the clan women were frightened of what their men might do if provoked too far. No one had died yet, but that day might not be far off. Things were tense.
“Come on, Signy, please.”
Laenna was wheedling, but her younger sister was sick of being bossed around and being responsible. She folded her arms. “It won’t work.”
“Sulk if you like. I’m not waiting.” And Laenna was off at a crouching run through the seeding grasses; Signy had no choice, she had to follow. But she was right—as usual—for, as the girls sprinted along the cliff toward the gannet rookery, one of the new men saw them. He bellowed something loud and harsh, and two others dropped their hoes and began to run after the sisters. They hauled up their tunics, white legs flashing, screaming as they came.
Signy gasped. “Told you!”
“Idiot!”
The sisters, being young and thin and with a good start, actually made it to the marshy ground ahead of their pursuers, and they plunged in among man-high rushes; the ooze around the roots was cold and sloppy as duck shit. Just a bit farther, a bit farther, and they could hear the rookery now. All those eggs and chicks just waiting, if they could only—
“Ha!” Unfriendly hands dragged at Signy’s hair, Laenna’s hair. One of the strangers, bigger and faster than the others, had cut around the back of the meadow, and a mighty effort had got him to the marsh just as the girls peered out.
“Deo gratias!” Thanks to his God was premature, for Laenna bit the man’s wrist. Cursing, he punched her and Laenna fell to the grass. Like a dog will shake a rat to kill it, the man shook Signy’s sister. “Little filth! Slut! Thief!”
A boy arrived. He was not much older than Laenna, and the man shoved Signy at him. “Take her. This one’s mine.” He grabbed Laenna’s hair with his good hand. She was crying and choking as blood splashed from her nose, but he yanked down spitefully. “We know how to deal with heathen thieves.” Laenna howled as she stumbled after him, trying to match his long stride, trying to pull his hands away.
The boy attempted the same trick. “Come on, you.”
Signy was already standing, and she was not much shorter. She hit his hand away. When he grabbed, she growled, lifting her lips from her teeth.
The boy backed off. He picked up a rock. “I’ll use this and I won’t be given penance. Your heathen soul will rush to Hell.” His voice was a squeak.
Signy didn’t understand, but she grabbed her own rock and hurled it, hard. It took him on the side of the head. The boy collapsed to his knees, yelping.
“Hah!” Signy ran, faster than a hare raised from corn. No time for gannets now; this was all about her fool sister—they had to get back to the cove.
The world was a blur as she closed the gap. Her sister was wailing, begging for pity. As if he understands, thought Signy, ignorant beast!
At three paces, she launched herself. She took the man’s knees from behind, and he fell hard, t
he breath knocked from his chest as he hit the earth.
“Come on!” Laenna hauled Signy up. Fear lent the sisters rabbit speed. They ran, lungs burning, until the shouting died behind them and, somehow, they’d found the cliff path.
Laenna panted out a promise. “My amber beads, Cruach, if you get us safe home. I swear it, into the fire they will go.” The necklace was precious—a gift for her first moontide—but she didn’t care now.
It was hard to run on the narrow path, but they hurled around the first steep curve, past the lone young rowan, then the next bend, and soon they would be—
Laenna stopped as if hit. Signy collided with her sister’s back. Her foot slipped from the path—she was falling!
Laenna yanked her back. Signy yelled, “What did you do that for?” And then she saw why.
Dragon ships were moored in the bay, and men, too many men, dressed in skins and homespun with swords and shields, were jumping into the sea.
Laenna said, softly, “Raiders. Nid told me. They’ve been seen up the coast. I thought he was trying to scare me.” Under the blood and the mud, her face was white.
There was nowhere else to go. Signy grabbed her sister’s hand. “Come on!”
They turned and ran back the way they’d come, too terrified to scream; breath and energy were needed for survival. At their backs a thudding crash began. The raiders had seen the girls and that noise, sword hilt against shield boss, frightened the sisters more than facing the newcomers. That noise meant death; now, not later.
The children hit the top of the cliff. They screamed as they ran toward the Abbey, past Laenna’s captor, only now getting to his feet.
“They’re here, they’re coming. Run!”
If the man did not understand, he heard the bellow of approaching death. And then he was sprinting after the girls, he was past them, yelling . . .
“Brothers, Brothers, ring the bell. The bell! Raiders!”
That was the first night of the Wanderer in this world.
CHAPTER 3
NO POWER? What do you mean, no power?”
Walter was moving Freya’s things from the dinghy to the handcart he’d brought down from the house. “Never had the electricity on Findnar so far as I know. But there’s a gas ring in the house for cooking and a VHF radio for weather reports and contacting the RNLI. Runs on batteries.”
Freya had just been tired before; now she was exasperated. “Why doesn’t the house have power—and what’s the RNLI?” She knew she looked ridiculous, hugging the laptop like a baby.
Walter hauled the clothes bag into the cart. “RNLI is the Royal National Lifeboat Institution, search and rescue for mariners. Like to ride?” He extended his hand.
Irrationally, Freya was angry. “I’ll walk,” she snapped. She heard herself. Surly. She stretched her face to a smile. “I’ve been sitting in a tin can for a day and a half. Walking’s good.” Walter had been a stranger only an hour ago and he didn’t need to be this kind.
The fisherman said nothing, but he grinned as he bent to check the load. This one would walk up the track on her own two feet even if they bled. He picked up the cart handles and stepped forward. Two months, he thought, as he led Freya up the cliff path, three months maximum, and this girl would be gone. Autumn and the great gales would do it; that, and the truth of living on Findnar alone.
After a minute he looked back. “It’s not so bad when you’re used to it.” He smiled encouragingly. Freya nodded; the gradient of the track was making it hard to speak. Walter slowed his pace without being obvious. “I’ve a cousin in Sydney; beautiful place I hear. Never been there, though, the bottom of the world.”
“It’s a nice city. Friendly.” Freya tried not to pant.
“You’ll miss it then?” The cart’s wheels turned, white spokes catching some flicker of last light.
“I’m not sure, not yet anyway.” Liar. Freya stopped and wiped her face as she stared across the strait toward Portsolly. She didn’t like to be alone. At home there was always something to do, someone to see, gossip, work; but now it would be just her and this sky, this island. Could she do it—learn to just be in this place while she waited? For what?
A breeze nudged Freya. The man, ahead, was disappearing into the dark. She hurried after him.
Fumbling with keys, trying first one and then another, Freya said, “I hate to think of you getting caught on the open water, Walter; the wind’s up. I can manage now, really.”
She saw the glimmer of his teeth. “Well now, I’m thinking there’s just a few little things I should—”
“Got you!” A key turned. Freya pushed the plank door wide and, stooping beneath a lintel designed for shorter people, entered Michael’s house for the first time. And nearly killed herself.
Five steps led down to the kitchen; hurrying, Freya stumbled on a dip and pitched forward. Walter snatched the girl’s backpack straps and swallowed a grin as she scrambled a foothold. “Perhaps it will be best if I show you how to light this house?”
Ruffled, heart thumping, Freya stood to one side, and Walter descended into the void beneath her feet. After a moment, ruddy light bloomed as he lit the wick of a lamp. With a shade of oxblood glass, it looked like a runaway from the set of a period drama, and behind him on the table stood its cousin—blue milk glass on a base of tarnished copper.
Walter waved matches. “Paraffin, these lamps. Just keep the chimneys clean, trim the wick each time, and make sure the fuel’s topped up; you’ll have no trouble once you’ve used them once or twice.”
Freya nodded, bemused. These were actual functioning objects, not ornaments, and from the same era, there was a kitchen range. That ancient black bulk against the wall was intimidating—some kind of secular relic, like the lamps. She gestured. “What about the stove?”
“This?” Walter patted the monster fondly. “You don’t have to cook on it—the gas ring’s over there.” He pointed. “But you’ll find the old girl does well with a belly full of peat on a cold day—she’s got a wet back.”
“A wet what?”
Walter laughed. “Pipes, Freya Dane, around behind. Water’s from a tank on the hill—gravity-fed.” He waved toward a deep porcelain sink. There was a steel hand pump beside it. “Pump the pipes full and the water heats up when the stove’s working—that’s for your bath.”
He set the lamp down on the kitchen table and lit the other. “Let me know how you get on next time you’re over in Portsolly. Ask at the Nun. Anyone will say where to find me.”
“I’ll do that, but would you mind if I took your number?” Freya was unsure why that suddenly came out of her mouth, but she patted pockets, found a pen, and held it up. She said, encouragingly, “You could scribble it here if you like?” Was he reluctant? She offered a cereal packet from the box of groceries with what she hoped was a winning grin.
Walter took the pen, and Freya watched him write the numerals, chatting brightly. “And thanks again for bringing me over here. I really appreciate it.” She went to get her wallet.
He waved a genial hand. “Whisht, none of that.” Closing the back door gently, he was gone.
Whisht? What did that mean?
A quick knock, and Walter eased the door open again. “I forgot to say there’s a cruiser in the cove. That’s how you get to Port.” He tipped an imaginary hat.
“Thanks.” But Freya called out to the door as it closed. “Thanks for that . . .” Her tone faded as she stared around the empty kitchen. Michael Dane’s kitchen.
She set the lamp with the red shade on the windowsill over the sink. The warm light was comforting, and as her eyes adjusted, she began to absorb her surroundings.
The kitchen was a useful size—not cramped but not so large it couldn’t be heated quickly. The floor was flagged with pieces of natural slate; that would be cold in winter, but cheerful kelims broke up the expanse. Winter won’t bother me. I won’t be here.
Freya ran her hand over the scrubbed top of the kitchen table. It was massive, so la
rge it must have been built within the room. Generations of islanders had sat at this table before her, before her father.
“Hello, Dad.” Freya spoke without thinking. Eerie. She shook herself.
“I’m going to explore, that’s what I’ll do.” There was no one in this house to challenge her. Walter had put the groceries on the table. “After dinner.” Soup and bread, that would be easiest.
But as Freya began to remove the bags, the tins, the bottles one by one, she saw something she’d not noticed before.
Beside the cardboard box was a folder and a string-trussed package. “For my daughter, Freya Dane” was scrawled on the front of both.
Freya picked the folder up. His fingers had formed these words, shaped the letters. He’d thought of her, at least for that moment.
The edge of a chair seat caught behind her knees. A nudge to sit. Was this his chair? A Windsor carver, curved in the splats with a gentle hollow in the seat; the wood was mellow as honey.
Freya didn’t want to put the folder down. It might disappear as he had. She watched herself place it on the table as carefully as an offering. From somewhere outside her head, she saw that she was shaking.
Eight remembers a lot. Four does too. Even at four she’d sensed her parents’ unhappiness, and sometimes, after she’d been put to her bed, after the last story had been finished and she was on the edge of sleep, she’d heard them in the rooms downstairs.
Her mother, mostly. Shouting sometimes.
Michael did not shout, he spoke more softly.
Her mother would cry some nights. Then a door would slam—the downstairs bedroom, that’s where Elizabeth went when she did not sleep in the big room upstairs. The room Freya thought of as her father’s.
Those were the nights she did not go to sleep. She’d wait for him to walk up the stairs, wait for the door to the bedroom to open, wait longer for the light under the door to go out. Then she’d run from her own warm bed and burrow in behind his back. He never said much, just “Go to sleep. You’ll see, it will be better in the morning.”
The Island House Page 2