The Island House

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  “What’s that?”

  A man spoke.

  Signy buried her head in the woman’s belly, quivering.

  “Hush, Brother. She’s just a child, badly frightened.”

  The man muttered, “Aren’t we all?” He cleared his throat. “One of ours, Sister? I do not recognize her.”

  “No, Brother Cuillin. I do not know where she is from.”

  What were they saying? It was the same gabble all the newcomers spoke; Signy dared to open her eyes. The man was staring at her—his eyes were bleak. He was about the same age as the woman.

  “A heathen child. Local. Has to be unless she came with the raiders. No good to us either way.”

  Why was his voice so harsh? The man seemed angry. Signy buried her head again, shaking—it was hard not to cry.

  The nun, Sister Gunnhilde, put a finger to her lips. “Hush, Brother, you’ve scared her. At least she’s alive.”

  Cuillin sighed. He was too tired to be offended. To help Gunnhilde, he bent to lift Signy, but the girl screamed when he touched her.

  Gunnhilde put her arms around the child. “I’ll do it, Brother. There, girl, no one will hurt you.” She pulled Signy onto her hip and walked beside the monk toward the ruins of the Abbey.

  Signy hid her head in Gunnhilde’s neck. She did not want to see what the world looked like, not yet.

  The adults murmured together as they walked. “How many of the community are left, Brother?”

  The monk shook his head. Like Gunnhilde, his eyes were red from smoke and grief. “No more than a handful. Besides me, two brothers from the Scriptorium, Anselm and Simon, and only one of the novices; he hid in the combe.”

  Gunnhilde nodded. The combe was a small wooded valley beneath the Pagan stone circle, a sensible place to hide. “I saw Brother Vidor from the kitchen earlier, and one of my novices managed to run away also.”

  Cuillin caught Gunnhilde’s glance over the child’s head. “Praise be, Sister, for this at least.” They’d both seen what happened to most of the Abbey’s novice nuns.

  Signy felt something wet drop on the back of her neck. Tears. She clung on more tightly.

  They were close to the Abbey when Gunnhilde stopped. Slowly she absorbed the extent of the blasphemy and the horror. She crossed herself, as did Cuillin. “The end of the world. You were right, Brother—you told us the traveling star was a warning.”

  Cuillin’s anguish was very great. “Why would God punish His servants in this way, Sister?”

  Gunnhilde hitched Signy higher on her hip. She was exhausted, but there was far, far too much to do to acknowledge weakness. “Perhaps, in His mercy, God will tell us. Then we can make reparation for our sins.” The nun walked toward the ruined buildings carrying the child as if she’d been a mother all her life.

  Brother Cuillin caught up. “I forgot to say, there’s another one. A heathen boy—he came with the raiders, I think. He looks like them, rather than her.” He eyed the filthy child dispassionately. Black hair, black eyes, brown skin. The boy was blond, a superior type compared to the tiny native people. “I think he is dying, however. Perhaps we should put him out of his pain; it might be a kindness.”

  Gunnhilde stopped. She faced Cuillin, eyes snapping. “If God has given us these children, it is for a purpose, Brother. They will be treated as Christ. It is our privilege to receive them and to bring them to Him.” She clutched Signy tightly and cradled the child’s head to her chest, muttering, “The idea. The very idea!”

  Signy did not know or care what the adults were fighting about; all she knew was that the old lady would protect her. That was enough.

  It was many days before Gunnhilde was sure the boy would live.

  He’d been caught in the Abbey as it burned. One of the roof beams had fallen, breaking both his legs, and he’d been trapped beneath it. Someone must have seen what happened, for the burning timber had been pulled away and the boy dragged outside. Dumped behind a pile of rubble, he’d lain unconscious for all that night and the day afterward until found by Cuillin. By that time, shock from burns and blood loss was compounded by infection.

  Now the boy was lying on a heap of straw under the one piece of roof still left on the nuns’ dormitory. Flushed and moaning, barely conscious, his eyes glittered beneath bruised lids. Signy, edging closer, recoiled from the stench of his wounds and the sight of his damaged face. Nausea made her forget hunger.

  “You must help me, girl. We have little time if he is to be saved.”

  With sign language, Gunnhilde showed the Pagan girl how to drip water into the boy’s mouth from an unbroken beaker. Then she hurried away to find medicinal plants in what was left of the Infirmarian’s garden. First she must make poultices for his burns and then consider what to do about his other injuries.

  Clutching the beaker, Signy sat back. She tried not to look at the boy, since flies covered his face in a black, heaving mass. When he attempted to move his head, they rose in a fizzing swarm and then settled back. In weakness and pain, the boy called out, “Grimor!” as slow tears bled from closed eyes.

  Signy dropped her head to her knees, dizzy and weak. I will not vomit!

  “Grimor. Grimor!” The boy was increasingly agitated.

  Signy leaned forward. Perhaps he was calling to his Gods. She tried to coax the boy to drink, and he did not have the strength to push her hand away. His eyes opened wide and blank, and the two children stared at each other until his gaze clouded. He muttered something and sighed.

  “Water.” Signy knew he could not understand, but he frowned as if he had. He did not want her help. Did she care? If he really was a raider, he deserved to die in as much agony as Laenna had; she should be glad that he suffered, but that was hard.

  This stranger was just one more poor, broken creature and, when he died, as seemed likely, he would pass into the dark alone, far from his family. Without the comfort of his Gods, or someone to perform the rites of passage, where would his spirit go? Unappeased, perhaps he would haunt them. That thought, if nothing else, made Signy sidle closer, and she tried to drop water into the boy’s mouth. She was frightened of malevolent spirits.

  “That is good. Very good.”

  The old woman had returned. She smiled approvingly as she pounded leaves and roots together on a flat rock with a hand-size stone.

  Signy smelled wild garlic, and she saw plantain roots plus another plant with large, hairy leaves.

  The old woman beckoned; she handed Signy a small pot. “Here, just a little at a time when I say.” Gunnhilde mimed dripping the contents onto the mess of crushed plants.

  Wary, Signy sniffed the liquid; she smelled honey. Her eyes brightened.

  Gunnhilde knew the girl would not understand, but the sound of a human voice among such devastation was comforting. “Yes. It’s nice, mead: just a little splash.” She mimed the action, and Signy copied her. “That’s right, good.” The nun talked as she worked; at least the child seemed bright enough to grasp simple instructions. “Fermented honey—that’s the smell; honey is a powerful healer, especially with comfrey and garlic.” But Gunnhilde cast a worried glance at the boy.

  This first poultice was for the outside wounds—the damage to the child’s face and the burns on his body. For the deep wounds, and to control fever, she must brew simples of shepherd’s purse and the bark and leaves of willow. But that would have to wait; the boy’s broken legs must be set very soon, or it would be too late.

  “Here, Sister, as you asked. And the rope as well.”

  Signy scuttled away. The man had appeared again.

  Cuillin produced four broad stakes. Signy did not know, but the monk had split them laboriously from straight timber—the remains of a precious half-burned roof beam.

  The man dropped a hank of flax rope beside Gunnhilde. He had not changed his opinion; it upset him to see the boy in such agony. “He’s a lost cause, Sister. Smothering would be a kindness.” Cuillin swallowed. Help me, Lord, if it is your will. “Even if he lives,
the boy will be crippled and scarred.”

  Gunnhilde did not acknowledge the kindness of the monk’s pragmatism. “God will guide my hand when I set the bones in his legs. I have all that is needed.”

  “But these are weeds, Sister. Weeds for broken bones and burns?”

  The poultice was finally ready, and Gunnhilde knelt beside the boy’s head. “These are not weeds, Brother Cuillin, they are weapons in God’s armory.” The nun waved her hands, and constellations of insects rose in a single mass. She slathered green slime over the wounded face and chest, though the boy writhed under her hands. “There, child, do not fight me. This will cool your face, I promise you.”

  Cuillin sighed raggedly. “I must help the others. Where is the girl?” Seeing Signy, he beckoned. “You. Here.” His tone was impatient.

  Signy backed away. She remembered the other man by the rushes, the one who had broken Laenna’s nose; the newcomers were always ready with a hard hand.

  “Make her come, Sister. You won’t hold the boy alone.”

  Signy watched them. The woman was stubborn, and from his expression, Signy understood the man did not agree with her treatment. But she stared him down, and eventually, defeated, the man left, shaking his head.

  Signy crept over to sit beside the boy. She fluttered her hands to drive the insects from his face.

  Gunnhilde smiled at the little girl. She was sad that Cuillin had not seen what she saw now—a sign that the Lord’s Grace was working even through these Pagan hands. She patted the child’s shoulder approvingly.

  Cautiously, Signy smiled. The woman did not want the stranger to die, and neither, now, did she. He was only a boy, and the good side of his face reminded her of Nid, her oldest brother, though the ruin of the other side was grotesque—fire had stripped skin and fat from the muscle beneath and left the twisted features of a demon.

  Signy shivered. This might so easily have been her, or any of them on Findnar.

  “Come, child, it is time.” Gunnhilde spoke confidently, as if the girl understood each word. “His legs.” She clamped her lips into a colorless line; this would be agony for the boy. She pulled back the covering of old sheepskins.

  Signy came closer and looked where the woman was pointing. Gunnhilde mimed gently placing a wooden stake on each side of the boy’s broken lower legs, and then wrapping the rope around to keep them in place. But each leg was swollen to twice its usual size, and the entire bottom half of his body was purple-black—shocking when joined to a chalk white torso. Abruptly the world reeled around Signy’s head.

  “Do not faint—he needs you.” Gunnhilde spoke sharply. She, too, was sweating, and vomit clogged her throat, but there was work to be done. “Hold his hands. Like this. Yes, above his head. Tight. Do not let go.”

  Signy nodded; she understood. She lifted the boy’s arms up and back, gripping his hands with her own. If he’d been stronger, he’d have fought her, but nothing was working in his mind and body, and all he could do was groan.

  “I’ll straighten the bones while you hold him. One leg at a time. Now!”

  You can hear broken bone moving within its covering of flesh; you can hear the scraping click when two ends meet again.

  The boy’s hands convulsed in Signy’s, frantic to be free, but she fought him, tried to hold his twisting upper body straight. They’d both heard pigs in autumn as they were killed; the boy made a sound like that as he tried to flail away from the agony. It was an assault inside Signy’s head, but she swallowed the red mist of transferred pain—and then he fainted. That was good.

  “This, first.” Gunnhilde smeared more handfuls of plant slime on the broken, swollen shin. “And now this.” Long strips of clean linen were wound around and around from knee to ankle.

  Signy stared. Where had the old woman found the cloth?

  Tears dripped on the nun’s busy fingers; these had been spare shifts for the novices in her care. “Now the wood, then the ropes. They will hold everything.”

  Signy turned her head away. With eyes closed, she could concentrate as minute after minute, strong and still, she held the boy because his pain was so much greater than her own.

  “Good.” Gunnhilde looked up briefly. The girl was ash-pale, but white knuckles showed she had a grip like death.

  And then it was done.

  The old nun sat back on her heels and wiped green hands on the skirts of her habit. She was trembling. She gestured to Signy. “Let him go. You did well.” She found a smile.

  Signy relaxed her grip. Carefully she placed the boy’s hands beside his torso again. He did not move. Was he dead? She looked at Gunnhilde fearfully, patting his chest.

  But the boy sobbed a breath, muttering.

  “He’s still alive, praise be.” Gunnhilde picked up the sack she’d used to gather herbs. “No more plantain, though, and only a little shepherd’s purse.” She sighed with utter weariness. “Tomorrow. I’ll look for more tomorrow.”

  Plantain. Shepherd’s purse. Signy saw an association between these words and the things they named as Gunnhilde drew out the last leaves in the sack. The nun had picked the current stock at dawn, when the dew was still on them; moon-infused water added greatly to the potency of the plants—everyone knew that.

  Both were familiar to Signy, though her clan called them different names. She would find more, for the boy must have fresh green slime on his face and his legs. She surprised herself in a prayer. Let him live, Cruach. Help him . . .

  CHAPTER 7

  THERE WERE only a couple of places on Findnar where Freya’s mobile phone actually worked. Inside the house the signal was uncertain—the bars coming and going depending on which way she faced—however, the top of the hill behind the house seemed okay.

  It was piercingly cold standing on that smooth, green dome and shouting toward Australia. Sydney winter clothes were no help on this sharp morning of a northern summer.

  “Hello, Mum. Sorry you’re not home. I’ve arrived, got here last night. Long trip but no dramas.”

  Freya closed her eyes with the rush of images. It was true, the dramas had come later. “The place is amazing, like nothing I’ve seen. The house is really interesting too; nice.”

  Nice. That was an inadequate word for something so stamped with her father’s presence. “And there are ruins—church buildings of some kind, I think. There’s even a ring of stones.” Freya was staring toward the east, toward the circle of tall gray stones surrounded by a wider ring of mostly broken monoliths. “Imagine that. My very own standing stones, so lots of things to explore. And the view is . . . It really is spectacular.”

  Freya looked down on Compline, roosting like a gray bird on the top of the cliff. Beneath, the strait between the island and mainland to the west was covered in a carpet of solid white. “There’s fog on the water at the moment. It’s very pretty—just like lamb’s fleece—though I think it’ll burn off a bit later, once the sun’s properly up . . .” Maybe. If anything, the mist was getting thicker as she watched.

  Why was it so hard to tell the truth, say what she really intended instead of well-meaning platitudes?

  “Look, I should just let you know a couple of things. There’s no power at the house because Dad never sorted that out. I guess there were fewer options, technology-wise, when he came here or he liked it that way. I have paraffin lamps, though—very pretty, colored glass and all that. Anyway, the problem is, I can’t charge my phone on the island, so that means I can’t call very often, but we can text back and forth and I’ll pick up messages a couple of times a day. I’ll reply as soon as I can, promise.”

  Freya glanced down at the battery strength bars on her phone. “This place is full of Dad’s things, though. That’s a bit weird.” Her mother would be curious about Michael’s house, though she’d pretend otherwise.

  “I’ll go over to Portsolly a bit later—Dad had a boat, and it’s the nearest village on the mainland—so I’ll try calling again from there when I’ve sorted myself out some. Still not sure w
hat I’ll do with this place, though. I might just stay for the summer and work on my thesis. It’ll be a good place to work—no distractions; then I’ll see if someone wants to buy Findnar. There must be someone out there who’d like an island paradise, even if it’s not the Bahamas—all the tranquillity and serenity you just don’t get in Mosman. Better go. Love you.”

  Freya cut the call. Glib. Elizabeth would know there was a subtext. And Freya hadn’t mentioned the letter; maybe the isolation was good in more ways than one right now . . .

  She looked down over Findnar. The island was shaped roughly like a teardrop with a dent on one side—that was the landing beach. As far as she could tell, the rest of the coast was cliffs, sheer cliffs and even more, bigger sheer cliffs. Wind nudged at her jacket, and she looked at the phone in her hand. There was another difficult call she had to make—but it was necessary.

  She’d put the number into her phone, so after thumbing the keypad she pondered her new domain as the phone connected. And rang. And kept on ringing. “Please be there . . .” Six rings, seven, eight, nine, but who was counting?

  “Workshop.” Abrupt. Male. But not the person she wanted. “Workshop, hello?” The man’s voice had an edge, the first time Freya had heard broad Scots sound anything but cozy.

  “Oh, yes, hello, this is Freya Dane. I’m wondering if Mr. Walter Boyne is there please?” Silence for a moment.

  “Hello?” She could hear the anxiety in her voice. She sounded neurotic.

  “He’s not in. Try later.”

  “Could I leave a message?” She wasn’t quick enough. Freya looked at the phone in her hand. He’d hung up. She was annoyed now. Her friends in Sydney described a certain duck-and-cover look when Freya was pissed off. She wasn’t laughing.

  Freya hit Recents. This time the phone was answered a little faster.

  “Workshop.” Terse, definitely.

  Keep it light, Freya. This is not your country.

  “Hello there, Freya Dane again. I’m wondering if I can just—”