The Island House

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  But it wasn’t. They’d pretend, of course, for her.

  It was then that dread had become her companion, because Freya knew, she knew, that one day she’d come home from school and he’d be gone. And that is what happened.

  Freya squeezed her eyes shut. Why?

  From misplaced loyalty perhaps—but loyalty to what, to whom? Elizabeth would not tell her. Not when she was a child and not when she was an adult. Even now it was never possible to talk about the meaning of that absence in their lives, but there was anger. A rich vein of it beneath the surface of the skin, hers and Elizabeth’s, too, with confusion at its core.

  And now there was this. A manila folder. A package.

  “For my daughter, Freya Dane.”

  She thought he’d forgotten. But why contact her now, and in this way? Perhaps the folder would tell her that Michael had married again, that there were other children out there—half brothers and half sisters.

  Freya got up with such force the chair squawked. “I’m hungry.” The weakness was low blood sugar, bound to be. “And I’m not going to do this now.”

  She would make him wait as he had made her wait, all those years ago.

  But at least, then, she’d had hope that one day the door would open and there he would be again—that he would ask her to forgive him.

  She’d never worked out if she would or not. Tears or icy rejection? It depended on her mood.

  Fingers stiff as twigs, Freya lit the gas ring as wind began to hunt the eaves of the house. The flame, when she struck it, was bright. A star in that dark room.

  CHAPTER 4

  RATHER THAN run for the doubtful safety of the Abbey, Signy and Laenna had scampered back to the rushes. Burrowing, they’d clawed their way to the roots, curling together in the mud like cats in a basket. And there they’d lain as the sack of the Abbey began, too frightened to move.

  The invaders had begun with the chanting shed, but now all the buildings were burning, the sky was burning, as Findnar’s newcomers were herded toward death and worse. Perhaps the raiders were demons, evil beings conjured from flame, creatures who feasted on blood.

  The howls were the worst. Even at this distance, the sisters could hear men screaming. Who could tell if it was the newcomers as they died or the raiders about the slaughter?

  They heard women’s voices too. Higher-pitched, sobbing, screaming out one word, over and over. Mary.

  It was owl-light now, that dangerous time half light, half dark, when things change their shape. The screams stopped, and there was a lower confusion of sounds. Smoke was thicker than mist. Soon there was only the crack of burning timber and the occasional shout as an invader found something or someone missed in the first chaos. Meat was cooking; the raiders must have killed the animals as well.

  “Stay here.” Laenna was pushing the reeds aside, wriggling away.

  “No! Please, Laenna. Don’t go!”

  “I have to see what’s happened. If they’ve gone, we can go home. Be quiet and lie still. I’ll come back for you.”

  Signy tried to stop her sister, but Laenna pushed her down. She was gone before Signy could sit up.

  The child closed her eyes and shivered. She should pray for help, but who would hear her? Her own Gods were at home in their parents’ house, and Cruach had left the world for today. She could not call on the new God of this island either, the one the strangers worshipped—she did not know His name, and He would not know her. Anyway, He wouldn’t help, why would He, when He’d just allowed his own followers to be murdered? Had He punished them for taking Findnar from her people?

  Signy shivered. Her father always said Gods were dangerous if you crossed them. He was a shaman and knew such things. Maybe she should pray to Tarannis in the sky. He wasn’t one of their usual Gods, but she knew he looked down on everyone; he was the fire God, too, and the God of thunder. The fires lit by the raiders had roared like a storm at their height and, even if the ring stones weren’t his home, Tarannis might approve of the sacrifice she’d made, since Cruach, who lived there, was his brother. Yes, when this was over she would hurry to the stones to thank them both for the hiding place—it might be fetid, but the rushes were thick and had hidden them well.

  Them. Where was Laenna?

  Flat on her belly, Signy moved like a worm, knees and elbows propelling her through the ooze. Beneath the rot there was a hint of apples and mushrooms; if the marsh ever dried, this would be good soil. The strangers had come here for the same reasons her people always had; Findnar was a summerland of plenty.

  Smoke hung, curtain high, above the smudge of Signy’s face as she peered out. There was clear air close to the ground, but three handspans higher and the world was blanket-cloaked, smoke hiding the stars.

  That, above all else, broke Signy’s courage. If she could not see the sky, Tarannis would not see her. She would never get home, never; neither of them would. Tears fell, clean lines on her dirty face.

  An owl came out of the smoke, pale as ash. It landed close, so close Signy could touch its feathers. It turned to look at her, gold eyes unblinking. A sign!

  She whispered, “In the name of Tarannis, show me how to leave this place.”

  Soft as it had come, the owl left, swallowed by the dusk and the smoke. The child screamed out, “No! Don’t go!”

  A man’s hand descended from the smoke-blanket. He caught Signy by the throat, and she was jerked into the air, flailing and coughing. Desperation turned fingers to talons. Signy slashed at the man’s face, and she was lucky—long nails found flesh and gouged.

  Blood filled the man’s eyes. Bellowing, he nearly dropped her.

  She wriggled and howled. A lucky kick did the rest as one of Signy’s hard little feet found her attacker’s balls. He staggered, yelping.

  That was enough. Signy fled, fast as a hind, swallowed by smoke as the owl had been.

  Breathless, choking, she thought she was running toward the cliff path, but she stumbled and fell. She’d tumbled over something. A body, facedown in the grass. A sudden gust of wind tore the smoke.

  Signy stuffed her hand in her mouth.

  Oblivious to danger, oblivious to pursuit, she knelt. The back of the skull was a bloody mess, broken like an egg. Without words, without tears, she laid her face against the unmoving back, the dirty homespun cloth. Laenna. This was all that was left of her sister.

  The smoke thinned, and through it she saw the man. He was blundering toward her, an ax in his hand—a red ax.

  When Signy fled this time, it was purely from instinct, no thought in her mind but running and breathing. She ran from the light of the fires, ran and ran, and when she cried, the tears dried in the heat of that night—the heat of destruction.

  Down the cliff path, down to the beach, down to the sea. It was nearly dark, but no moon had yet risen to expose her. This was all she could do, and perhaps, in the end, Tarannis was merciful, for the ships hauled up on the beach were unguarded—there’d been no need to leave sentries.

  So the child hurried alone, in the shadow of the cliff, to the place they’d left their coracle at dawn, outside the sea cave.

  She found their small craft smashed.

  Like a wounded animal, Signy crept deep into the back of the cave, and from the pain that clenched her body she thought she might die, but in the end she only sobbed until she slept.

  She did not see the comet as it rose against the clearing stars. She was too deep in the dark.

  The long-necked ships would leave soon. They were being readied to push out from the beach on the swollen, full-moon tide.

  The raid had been successful, and the vessels were laden with trade goods because the invaders had kept nearly all the younger nuns alive, though some of the older monks, those who’d tried to fight, had been killed. A loss, of course, but the remaining boys—those without beards—would be valuable; they’d likely be gelded before the autumn markets and sold on as merchants’ clerks. And a large enameled cross had been looted from the chapel
, along with a good, uncracked bell of bronze. Since there was always a shortage of bronze on the market, this alone would fetch a price that would put the raid into profit.

  Reimer, the captain of the raiding band, was impatient at the slow start to the day. He was beginning to pace. A bad sign.

  His men had eaten and drunk well after the raid—too well. After their days at sea, they’d gorged themselves on the fat sheep of Findnar’s meadows. Mutton, though not as good for fighting men as beef, was relished after fish for so many days, and they’d also found jars of mead in an earth cellar under one of the barns.

  “Men of God they call themselves—idiots and drunkards, that’s what I think them. Our Gods crushed theirs last night. No contest. Eh? Eh, Thorkeld?”

  Thorkeld nodded, keeping his eye on the work going forward. He was happy to agree with his volatile war leader, since doing so saved trouble and time. No contest. The lieutenant yawned, scratching his belly. A big man who had survived late into his third decade, Thorkeld was unexcitable. He commanded Wave Piercer, the second largest ship in the fleet of twelve, and he’d worked hard last night but, after so many similar raids this season, he was, unusually, feeling the effects. His ax arm, for instance. He’d jarred it torching the chapel; plus the smoke, noise, and ale headache from the aftermath was more annoying than usual. The Abbey folk had not offered significant resistance, however, except for one or two hotheads, who were easily dealt with. On balance, irritations aside, a good result. Today though, when he was both queasy and tired, Thorkeld had no relish for the long, cold voyage to come.

  Perhaps he was finally too old for this life. He didn’t enjoy it as much as he once had; maybe it was time to leave it to younger men and retire to his farm, paid for from twenty years of raiding, and breed sons. He’d earned that.

  “I’ll kill you!”

  Reimer and Thorkeld turned to look at a fight at the water’s edge. A wheat-haired youth in his late teens was choking another member of the war band. They were fighting over a coffer from the Abbey. Its lid was up, and vestments, one or two of silk, were spilling into the water.

  “They’ll ruin those if they keep this up.” Reimer hated waste.

  Thorkeld nodded and started off to pull the men apart. Reimer called him back. “No. It might help Grimor. He’s been black since last night.”

  Grimor, the blond, was winning—his opponent was on his knees in the surf, blood from a split nose and a broken eye socket washing away in the sea. At last the defeated youth staggered to his feet, hands held high and empty; he waded out of the surf followed by Grimor’s jeers and the laughter of his comrades on the beach.

  Reimer grunted, transferred his attention back to the loading. “No word of the boy?”

  Thorkeld shook his head. “No. Just classic inexperience—the kid was full of himself after the river village, and he thought this one was easy.”

  Reimer agreed. “A waste.” His band had sacked a settlement at the mouth of a small river some days sailing from Findnar before they burned this monastery. The river people had been a tougher contest since they’d been armed and had more trained fighters among them, but Grimor’s younger brother, Magni, had done well in what had been his first real raid.

  Thorkeld continued. “I looked for his body this morning, so did Grimor. Nothing. Magni’s dead, burned I’d say. He showed promise, though, and courage—that’s something Grimor can take comfort from.”

  The war leader sighed. “You’re right, you’re always right, Thorkeld. But we can’t let one boy’s death hold us up.” He was distracted watching the last women being stowed onboard. Reimer didn’t want them damaged. Two of the three were handsome enough to fetch good prices at the markets, and the third was a real beauty, even with all her hair hacked off. “Would you look at what the Christians did to her? The hair!”

  Thorkeld took his leader’s elbow in the ribs in good part as they watched one of the men pull the girl to her feet—she began to scream, of course; they were all good screamers. But he agreed, the monks and nuns truly were fools. Why would you knowingly damage the looks of a girl like that? It would take at least a year for the hair to grow to anything like an acceptable length, and someone would have to invest the money to feed her while she was held back from sale.

  Reimer sucked his teeth reflectively and watched the pretty novice struggle as she was carried to Fenrir, his own ship. The craft was the largest in the fleet, big enough to take thirty rowers on each side. The girl was gagged now and her hands securely bound, but even though she was filthy with smoke and scared out of her wits, her face was a pleasure to look at. And her body was at that early stage of ripening that Reimer, personally, found very attractive; the young ones were so much easier to deal with. In fact, as he watched, he made up his mind. He’d keep this one. It was a while since he’d allowed himself anything pleasurable from a raid, and he deserved something for his efforts, long overdue tribute, in fact.

  His senior wife would not be pleased, but she’d come around; he’d just have to make sure she didn’t harry the girl to a miserable death. But, in the end, what did it really matter—what was one concubine more or less?

  “Careful! Look at that, Thorkeld. What is that great oaf doing!” The girl had wriggled so much the man who had her over his shoulder lost his footing, and he and his burden both fell into the surf. Having her hands tied, she hadn’t surfaced. “Pull her up, you fool! Go on!” The girl was hauled, choking, out of the water.

  Thorkeld was bored. He’d seen it too many times; this island had given all it had for the moment, and he was as impatient as his master to weigh anchor. “I’m sure she’ll settle now, Lord.”

  At the last minute, Reimer had decided that the three best women should be placed on his own vessel, and Thorkeld agreed with the decision. There was no point putting valuable merchandise on any of the other ships, since, having been used by the crew, they’d be in a shocking state by the time they arrived at winter quarters.

  Reimer nodded absently as he watched the crying girl pushed over the side into his ship. As Thorkeld had said, all the fight in her was gone. “Good. Let’s be away.”

  After the raiders left, when the tide had lowered once and come in again, Signy left the cave.

  She was hungry and thirsty and numb with grief, but the sea had washed away the marks where the hulls had rested. The raiders were truly gone.

  Now she must bury her sister.

  CHAPTER 5

  THIS HOUSE had a name, and Freya remembered it from the solicitor’s letter. Compline House, Findnar Island, near Portsolly, KA33, Scotland—a mouthful with a twist that seemed uniquely charming when first read.

  Compline. She’d looked it up. In monastic tradition, the last prayers before bed were called by this name—prayers of protection against the evils of the night.

  Freya raised the lamp higher. She was reflected in one window of the largest room, at the very front of the house. In daylight there would be a view of all the western sky and the strait between the island and the mainland. The letter had told her he’d died out there. That night, in the water, there’d been no protection for Michael Dane; no search and rescue had come for him.

  Lost at sea; the words had never resonated before now.

  Abruptly, Freya turned away from the glass. Holding the lamp higher, she saw faint marks on the board ceiling above her head. This must have been two rooms once, and there would have been a corridor where she’d entered from the kitchen; someone had taken the walls out to open up this graceful space.

  The place was sparsely furnished, yet each item spoke of a clear aesthetic. The chair of stainless steel and leather, a small deep couch and matching armchair, a glass table loaded with books and magazines—even the old station clock over the fireplace had been chosen for its design and style, not just price.

  So, he’d had taste, her father. Unaccountably that made Freya angry—he’d not been around to show her how much he loved beauty.

  She walked to the desk pl
aced beneath one of the windows and ran her hand over the timber. Oak, planed and then meticulously sanded.

  “Did you make this, Dad?”

  From long ago, she remembered his hand holding a chisel as the other tapped on the end with a wooden mallet. He’d made her a bed once, and carved a bas-relief of her six-year-old profile on the headboard.

  She banished that image. Concentrate.

  Her father’s desk was still covered with working papers, and there was a stack of books on the floor beside the chair just as if he had, at that moment, got up and gone to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. And there was a VHF radio. Small and bright yellow, it was the size of a TV remote. Freya thumbed the On button; the screen stayed blank. Her father had died six months ago. Of course the batteries were flat.

  Ruby light displayed a bloom of dust on the sprawled possessions, the pot full of pens and pencils, the stapler. There was even dust on the paperweight—a snow dome of the Sydney Opera House, the sort of thing you’d give a child as a joke present.

  Could she see him shaking it, or was that just imagination? No snow in Sydney, Little Fee, except in here. That was what he’d called her, Little Fee. Was that her laughter she heard, a happy kid? Freya stared at the paperweight, reached out, almost touched it . . .

  No. She turned away from the black glass, away from the image of her face, one side in shadow, one side bright. Was it a trick of that strange mirror—to see her face so haunted and so strange? And younger, the face of the lonely child she’d once been.

  “This is rubbish.” It was bracing to shout; the noise filled Freya with energy.

  “What rubbish.” She said it softly the second time. Freya wandered around the austere and beautiful room, trying to take it all in, trying to smell out the truth of Michael’s presence.

  What remained here? What was really left? His books—he’d collected them and no doubt knew the contents of each one. Floor to ceiling, the width of the entire front wall of the house was lined with his library, and there were even shelves below, between, and above each of the windows. “Lotta trips up that path, Dad. That must have kept you fit.”