The Island House

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  It was true she’d gone to a church school in Sydney, but it had been Anglican, not Catholic; perhaps—but it was a stretch—something in Portsolly had triggered . . . what? She’d never been remotely religious. There was the Abbey, of course, but you can’t catch hysteria from ruins. Ridiculous! Too damn Jungian, and who believed any of that stuff anyway? The shadow. Nonsense. Yes. Is it?

  Freya moved too quickly, and the room wavered. She was dizzy. At least she knew why that happened. She’d always had low blood pressure, especially in the morning, and this was a tangible, physical cause, the opposite of mystical visions.

  Clothes, outside the door, Katherine had said—and there they were, a neat pile; jeans, underwear, T-shirt, and thermals all washed and, yes, ironed.

  Freya folded Che carefully and put him neatly in the center of the pillow after she’d made the bed. At the door, dressed in her own clothes, she looked back—Michael’s T-shirt, it had to be.

  I had a right to him too, that was Katherine’s message without one word spoken.

  “Milk?” The kitchen was brilliant with morning light.

  Freya blinked as she entered. “Thanks, yes.” She was distracted watching Ishbelle and her kittens; the basket had been placed in a splash of sun by the back door, and the cat was a tough mother, washing each squeaking kitten with a tongue like pink sandpaper. Not so different from Elizabeth, really—Freya remembered bath time as a little girl, how vigorously her ears had been washed, how much she too had protested. She smiled ruefully.

  “Sugar?”

  Freya nodded; she didn’t normally use sugar, but today was different.

  Bright and fresh, Katherine deposited the cup in front of her guest before she sat down on the other side of the table.

  Freya sipped the scalding liquid. “Maybe it was a strange bed, but something got to me last night. I had weird dreams.” Here she was, sitting across a table where her father must, once, also have sat. How many times—that was the question. Perhaps Keel Cottage felt like home to Michael. Was that Che’s message too?

  Katherine cleared her throat nervously. “Your father . . .”

  Freya jumped.

  Katherine hurried on. “Has anyone told you where he’s buried?”

  Freya shook her head.

  “Michael has become part of Portsolly’s history.”

  Freya put her cup down carefully; they were near enough to touch. “How so?”

  “The cemetery is part of the grounds of the church. It was deconsecrated and sold—declining congregation and all that upkeep, the usual story. Your father was the last person buried in the Portsolly cemetery.” Katherine looked away.

  Freya was uncertain what to do. Katherine was upset, and she should say something, but the librarian cleared her throat and said brightly, “Yes, indeed, the building’s been bought by an architect from Ardleith, and so the church has been deconsecrated. He used to come here as a boy with his family, and now he’s turning it into a summer home.”

  “What Dad would have called a shack.” Freya tried to match the determinedly light tone, and her reward was Katherine’s smile as she offered marmalade.

  “Well, the church is a little large for a shack, I suppose, and there’s the spire. Don’t often get one of those, even in Australia. But perhaps it is an odd choice for a holiday house—I’ve always thought it a grim building.” Katherine paused. “Perhaps you would like me to show you Michael’s grave? The churchyard is actually rather lovely, and I could take you there on my way to work—I walk right past.”

  What to say to that? Freya crunched a bite from the toast. “This is delicious. Lemon and lime? Bet you made it yourself.”

  Katherine nodded; she seemed pleased. That helped. “I think I should get going back to Findnar, so another time. But thanks for the offer, Katherine. Very kind of you.”

  “Of course, I quite understand.”

  They both knew Freya would visit her father’s grave alone.

  Later, ghosts of truths unspoken wove around the polite farewells like smoke.

  “You’d not like me to strip the bed? I’m more than happy to, Katherine.”

  “No, no, please don’t bother. Be sure to drop in again to the library soon, Freya.”

  “I shall, certainly. Good-bye and thanks again.”

  After the spontaneity of last evening, morning had made Katherine MacAllister into the well-defended person she usually was. But Freya knew that she, too, was not the most forthcoming of people. They would have to take this slowly. She stepped into the shining morning with complex regrets—for so many things.

  “Freya? Freya, wait!”

  Halfway down Keel Street’s hill, Freya stopped and looked back.

  Katherine was hurrying toward her, waving; she was holding a shopping bag.

  “For your work.” A quick duck of the head, as if that were explanation enough, and Katherine strode away.

  Freya watched her go before she peered inside the bag.

  A package was wrapped in tissue paper, but she didn’t have time to look; she wanted to see where her father was buried.

  CHAPTER 12

  SIGNY LAY on her back beside Laenna’s grave. It was spring, warm enough to dream of happier times.

  “Signy! Come quickly.” Bear was calling, so agitated he spoke the raiders’ tongue.

  Signy bobbed up. The boy was running toward her, hair flopping and bouncing on his shoulders and, if anything would make her believe in the newcomers’ God, this miracle would, for Bear ran fast on straight legs. She was so used to his face now she didn’t see the scars.

  “They have come for me.”

  Signy gaped. “What?”

  The boy hopped from foot to foot. He tried again, this time in her words. “It’s good, Signy. Come!” Bear hauled the girl to her feet and towed her toward the cliff path. His joy was powerful, more powerful than her fear. And she saw where he was pointing.

  “Look!”

  There was a boat running in to the cove. As they watched, its single sail bellied, and a final push from the wind drove the hull up the beach.

  Signy’s heart swelled. She could not breathe. She snatched her hand from Bear’s and ran back up the path.

  “Signy, wait. It’s all right, we’ll take you home.” But the boy could not catch any part of her, not even the rags of her tunic as they flew out behind.

  Signy stumbled through the meadow, streaming tears.

  She reached Cuillin first and collapsed, sobbing, across his feet. As she reached up, painfully learned words deserted her. “Orwic, Orwic!” Raiders! But this was her language, not his.

  The monk almost dropped the piece of dressed stone he’d been carrying—another step, a little more unbalanced, and he’d have crushed her skull. “You could have been killed!”

  Signy gasped the word. “Raiders!”

  Cuillin dumped the rock and clutched Signy’s arm—he, who never touched female flesh—but she scrambled up, breaking his grip. “Goonhelda, I tell. Must!”

  “Wait!”

  Sobbing, Signy ran toward the living quarters. She burst through the sacking that divided the women from the men. The old nun was praying with Idrun.

  “Raiders. We run. Now!”

  Gunnhilde clutched the terrified novice as Cuillin stumbled in. “Hide!” He snatched up the cauldron and began to beat it—terror made the old iron ring.

  Gunnhilde froze, for the sight of Cuillin’s wild face shocked her. Then she and Idrun grasped Signy’s hands, and they ran so fast Signy’s feet skimmed the ground. They were all crying.

  “Trees, hide good.”

  Gunnhilde managed to nod. A sheep track on the side of the combe led down to a thicket of trees, but the path was steep and narrow. Sweating, the three slowed their pace as, behind them, Cuillin beat out the warning.

  Idrun was shaking. “Where are our brothers, Mother?” Gunnhilde did not say it. Dead, they will all be dead.

  The three burst on toward the trees. There was only the noise of
wild bees and their feet as they ran crashing toward the lowest part of the little valley.

  Signy pointed. “Big, good!” She pulled the sisters toward the largest tree in the glen, an oak. The spring had been late after a hard winter, but it was fully in leaf and the canopy would hide them.

  Gunnhilde pushed Idrun forward. “Quickly, child.”

  Idrun jumped, and one hand grasped a low branch—it held her weight. In a moment, she lay along its length.

  “Idrun, help Signy! Your girdle.”

  Idrun nodded. The rope girdle had been wound around the novice’s body several times, and she flung one end for her companion to grasp. Signy had climbed trees all her childhood, and she swarmed up the trunk. On that first thick branch, she pointed down at Gunnhilde.

  “You.” She mimed catching the end of the rope, but jump as she did, faster and higher every time, Gunnhilde still could not quite grasp what hung so close. Signy slipped her knees over the branch and dropped her arms down.

  “I pull.”

  The girl’s voice was muffled by her tunic. It had descended as she hung, exposing her skinny little body, but so frightened was Gunnhilde, she did not see Signy’s nakedness. Catching at their hands, she did her best, and together the girls pulled Gunnhilde up to a low fork; another wrenching scramble hauled the nun higher.

  All three rested for a moment. “Up.” Signy pointed. “More up.”

  Gunnhilde was pale, but for the sake of the girls, she tried not to show how frightened she was. “Yes.” She pointed to Signy and then to her own chest. “You show us, Signy; we’ll follow.”

  And then Cuillin stopped beating the cauldron.

  “Sisters? Can you hear me?” Signy could see him through the leaves—Brother Cuillin was standing at the top of the combe; he cupped his hands and tried again.

  “Sister Gunnhilde, Idrun! Please come out, all is well.”

  Signy frowned. He’d ignored her as he always did. She was used to that, but she’d never seen Coolun happy before.

  Gunnhilde’s anxiety matched Signy’s. What if her brother was a hostage? She was responsible for these two young souls, and though she was ready to meet her Savior—she’d lived more than fifty winters, a great age—she would not throw the lives of these children away. She shook her head, a finger to her lips.

  Cuillin hurried down the sheep track. Behind him came other men, men they did not know.

  Signy touched her eyes and pointed. I see.

  Reluctantly, Gunnhilde nodded; she whispered, “Take care, child.”

  Signy said nothing—of course she would be careful, she did not wish to die. Descending from branch to branch, she dropped to the ground, soft as a leaf. Once Coolun and the men were among the trees, they would not see her, and she could scramble up the far side of the combe—she had to know the truth.

  Cruach, help me now . . .

  Signy knew where Bear would be, where he always was when not working: standing on the cliff looking out to sea, his damaged face turned into the salt wind as if it alone could heal him, restore what had been taken.

  She was right, but instead of standing where he could be seen, he was hiding behind the young rowan at the top of the path. Even at this distance she could hear him—he was crying. Edging closer, she saw what he saw.

  The vessel had not come to raid; this craft had no shields, and none of the men carried swords. Dressed in black robes tucked up into belts of rope, some were herding animals through the shallows, goats and several sheep, all bleating as their young were carried across the surf. There was even a bellowing cow in the boat, with a very young calf. She would not jump into the sea, abandoning her baby.

  Because she was kind, Signy made a noisy approach, scuffing pebbles on the path. Bear heard her, and he turned away quickly, wiping his eyes with one dirty fist.

  “Hello.” Signy did not know what else to say.

  Bear nodded, clearing his throat. He would not look at her but said, bitterly, “Just more of them. I was wrong.”

  “I am sorry, Bear.” What was she saying—sorry these people were not raiders?

  “You do not mean that.” His fury seared her.

  Signy shot back, “No, I was being nice.” She folded her arms and turned her back on him.

  Eventually Bear said, “They’ve brought an anvil.” He pointed. “That means they’re staying.”

  Signy peered past his hand. Yes, among the goods on the beach, an anvil had been unloaded, and Bear was probably right—setting up a smithy made these people settlers, not visitors. There were large wooden chests on the beach as well, and three women and a girl were carrying them, one by one, up above the tide line.

  “More Christ-sisters?”

  “Yes.” Bear’s glance was dark. “They greeted Cuillin like their own true brother when he arrived in the cove. He was smiling.” He made a disgusted noise.

  Signy beckoned urgently. “We should go, Bear; they’ll see us.”

  The boy’s eyes were bleak. “I do not care.”

  She ventured closer. “But I do. I don’t want them to see us. They’ve brought a ship; you know what that means.”

  Bear turned and looked at her. “What do you mean?”

  Signy swallowed. “We can take it, and we can both go home.”

  It was night, and the clinkered hull perched, canted, on the sand. She was starting to shift as the returning tide crept up, and very soon she’d ride the surface of the moon-calm water.

  The body of the ship was wide and shallow and quite short, for she was designed for trade and service, not war. The boom was tied off at the top of the mast with ropes attached to the flanks of the vessel, and around it was lashed the sail. A hawser had been looped over the neck of the prow and was secured under a granite boulder high on the beach—this was the anchor.

  Signy fought the sense that the vessel was waiting for them, as if this meeting was appointed; it was just a thing, this boat, a clumsy, wooden thing, inanimate, not like a horse or a bird, something you could talk to. And it was intimidating, too, now she stood at the water’s edge. “The ship’s too big for us, Bear. How will we sail her?”

  The boy shook his head. The moon touched the white part of his eye, a little flare of light when he looked at his friend. “Once we’re out past the headland, it will be easy. You will see.”

  Now that the time had really come to leave the island, Signy was frightened, and she felt guilty. The Christ-sisters and Christ-brothers had been kind to them both, and they were repaying that kindness with theft; she was leaving Laenna’s grave behind too.

  “What?” Bear sensed Signy’s hesitation.

  She turned away, pointing to the rock that pinned the line from the prow. “The mooring rope. Shall I throw it?”

  “Not yet.”

  Bear hurried into the sea. Shivering, he stood beside the hull in the tide’s returning surge, peering at the ship. Tapping along her length, he smelled the wood and flicked Signy a smile. “Well caulked and well made—there’s sap in this timber—she’s young and flexible still and won’t let us down; she’ll take us both home, Signy.”

  Home. Signy’s eyes blurred. Perhaps Tarannis, God of Storms, would accept her tears as a sacrifice and they would be safe in his domain. But then she thought of Laenna; this island had taken much from her and from her family; perhaps it was time to trust the sea and not the land. “I am ready, Bear. Tell me what to do.”

  The tide, the rushing, full-moon tide, was higher on the beach with each volley of waves, and for the first time as he glanced at Signy—stick arms, stick legs, standing so uncertainly in the shallows—Bear felt doubt. He squashed it; too late now, they were committed. “Right,” he said. “After I’m onboard, you free the rope when I say so. You’ll have to climb up quick, but I’ll hold her with the steering oar. Then we row—that’ll get us out of the bay and into open water.”

  The prow of the ship tossed like a horse’s head at the sea’s nudging, but Bear judged the moment well. A bigger wave and the v
essel was floating, free from the sand and, as she dipped, head pulled down by the mooring rope, Bear jumped for the neck and, with a scrambling swing, was over the side. Nearly winded as the prow reared up again, he pulled the rope taut while he hopped across the rowing benches.

  “Now!” Bear had the tiller in both hands and began to pull in the direction opposite to the tide’s drag. Muscles half the size of a man’s held that flexing hull as Signy, straining hard, shoved and shoved, and burrowed beneath the rock to free the rope.

  Bear yelled over the slap of waves, the clatter of shingle in the wash. “Signy, hurry!”

  “I’m trying, I’m nearly . . . there!”

  The rock tilted into the hole Signy had scrabbled, and freed the line. She grabbed the last hank as it snaked away, burning her palms. With her arms nearly jerked from delicate sockets, the power of the restive craft and the waves pulled the child at a stumbling run toward the sea.

  “Jump. Now!”

  Easy to say and much, much harder to do, Signy mistimed her leap and fell, belly-flat into the shallows. The shock of cold water closed her eyes and mouth, but grim strength, the power to hold on, hauled her body against the water’s weight, and she surfaced, coughing.

  So how did Signy do it? How did she climb the side of the bucking hull and find her way across the rowing benches to the stern?

  Bear could only think about that afterward, and when he asked the question, she did not answer.

  For now the girl jumped into his sight, more sea spirit than mortal, streaming water and seaweed, and joined him at the steering post. Holding the tiller, they heaved together, shivering, joints cracking, hauling to turn the ship toward the open sea.

  The tide helped, and so did the wind, reversing off the land where before it had been rising from the strait.

  Then Bear did a mad thing. “Hold the tiller. I’ll row.”

  Signy nodded. Why would she question when there was nothing else to be done?