Swooping to a bench in the middle of the vessel, Bear found an oar and shipped it. Made from spruce, it was three times his length and more, though light.
He dropped the blade in the running sea, back bent and straining against the obstinate water. Years spent watching his brother and the war band told Bear what to do: dip and heave the blade back, dip and heave.
Teeth clenched as she tried to hold the hull, Signy saw what Bear was doing—he was pivoting the vessel, on one oar, and turning the prow toward the mouth of the bay. There was open water in front now as the beach fell away behind—receding, receding—and it began to seem possible. But how to steer and row at the same time, with just two?
Signy called out, “Calm water over there!”
Bear nodded, shouted back, “She’ll wallow and we’ll set the sail—just a bit more . . . not far.”
Two exhausted children, but Tarannis was their friend, for perhaps it was he who guided them to flat water. And in that pool on the surface of the sea, the hull rocked like a cradle as Bear pulled in his oar and called, “Hold her steady. I’ll manage the sail.”
Hold her steady. Signy nodded and managed to do what was asked.
Bear looked up. The sail must be freed from the boom and then tied off to the sides of the hull, and he must judge exactly how much air should be allowed into the belly of the cloth—that was the tricky part. He wet one finger and held it up, turning his head toward the floating moon as it rose, and then to where the sun had left the world. “The wind remains offshore. Gods be praised for this, at least.”
Signy nodded. Her arms trembled holding the tiller, and she could feel the ship swing away from her grasp; then she got the inspiration.
Leaving the oar—Bear saw and shouted at her, “Signy? Signy, go back!”—she returned with a coil of rope. Slipping a loop of walrus leather over the tiller’s end, she pulled it taut and fed the other end through a metal ring, tying it off as tightly as she could. And then she scrambled toward the boy with the ruined face and the bright, bright eyes.
“It will work better with two.”
Bear smiled at her, happy. “It always does.”
Despite the fear, despite the pain, he was joyous. This was his proper place, a ship at sea. He climbed the mast as he would a tree, right to the boom—Signy gasped as he swayed above—and unlashed the sail, tie by tie.
It dropped cleanly, and Signy had caught the sheet on one side as he slid to the deck again. Bear grabbed the rope on the other and ran it through an iron ring.
By day the cloth would have been gaudy—brave red and yellow stripes—but the moon leached the color away. On this night, the red was black and the yellow gray, but the sail was so new—like the rest of the ship—there was no wear on it, not even one patch.
Signy smiled and gathered the sail sheet in her hand. She loved seeing Bear so happy.
He shouted out, “So on my word, we haul.”
She nodded.
“Now!”
In unison, one on each side, the boy and the girl pulled in the sail. Air filled the cloth with a crack, and it curved out above in a glorious, pregnant curve—ells and ells of heavy, woven wool, still smelling of sheep’s lanolin, strained in the wind, carrying them home.
“We’ll see her fly now!” Bear had his lines caught and tied away in less than five breaths. He turned to help Signy, but she had done the same and was standing there, smiling.
“Yours are sea people too?”
She nodded happily. “But we never had anything as fine as this.”
“Then we shall steer her together.”
Signy looked up into the drum-skin sail and felt the power of the sea surge through the keel tree beneath their feet. While Bear took the tiller, she freed the steering oar and turned her face toward the island as it slipped away behind them.
“Sleep well, Laenna.” She raised both arms in farewell to her sister.
Then she smiled and reached out her hand to Bear.
He took it. “Home?”
She nodded. “Home.”
And they held the tiller together as they looked out toward the moon-road beyond the mouth of the bay.
CHAPTER 13
PORTSOLLY WAS a small place, and it had few obvious landmarks within the town, but one of them was the spire of the church. For centuries, fishing boats had navigated to harbor safely once the spire appeared over the horizon. And at night, a lantern burned there to guide stragglers caught out at sea. For most of that time, too, the building had stood by itself and looked directly out to the strait, secure on its own spur of rising ground. But then, over the hundreds of years since it was consecrated, the village had crept closer until, at last, the church was locked tight among smaller buildings. Now it was the focal point, the center of a nest of narrow streets. Only the spire, a finger pointed directly at God, pierced the sky above the roofs like an admonition.
But of what? wondered Freya as she stood outside the somber building. Did she imagine the church had a secretive air? It was built from the same granite as Compline House. The local stone. And, though supremely hard, it was weathered by the salt wind. Some stones had flaked into curious patterns, too, as if granite had a grain, like timber.
“Frost damage.”
Freya jumped. The voice came from above, and she looked up, shading her eyes.
A man was perched on the steeple, his harness fastened to the very top of the spire. He was enjoying her confusion. “The crazing of the stone, it’s frost damage.” He rappelled down and landed beside her with breezy efficiency.
The stranger had thick, rope-blond hair that curled well past his collar. Innocent brown eyes, a wide grin and white teeth were additional assets. “And, I know what you’re thinking. How come there’s frost, this close to the sea?”
Freya found she was smiling. The way he spoke was droll—and it wasn’t just the beguiling Scots accent.
“That’s not what I was thinking, actually.”
“No?”
She shook her head. “I was wondering what you were doing.” She gestured toward the steeple.
“Oh, just checking the structure and the cladding—there are stone tiles up there. They’re not in bad shape, but some will need renewing.” The man unclipped the harness and stepped out of the straps.
“Oh. You’re a steeplejack?”
He grinned. “No. Guess again.”
“Very Rumpelstiltskin. Anyway, I don’t know anything about frost. I’m from Sydney.”
“An Outlander! Excellent. It will be my privilege and pleasure to show you the sights, starting here. This kirk now, is an outstanding example of early Romanesque. My name’s Simon, by the way, Simon Fettler. And you are?”
Slick as an otter fresh from the sea, Simon Fettler.
She laughed. “Freya Dane,” she said and held out her hand.
He took it and held it and smilingly bowed. “I am pleased indeed to meet you, Freya Dane. But let me show you something you’ll never have seen in Australia.” Simon placed one light hand beneath Freya’s elbow and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, steered her toward the portico.
She let him sweep her along solely because he had such great timing—and he made her laugh.
“Now this is just my private theory, but having bought the place—”
Freya stopped. “You bought it?”
“Certainly. You seem confused. Do I not appear holy enough to dwell within the tabernacle of the Lord?” Simon allowed himself to look hurt.
She giggled. “I can’t comment. Besides, I’d heard you were an architect, not a priest, and that the church had been deconsecrated.”
“Well, so I am an architect. But do not mock or be so quick to judge, Freya Dane. They come in all shapes and sizes—so I am told—the clerical gentlemen. In here.”
Simon ducked beneath the lintel of the porch. Like Freya’s back door on Findnar, it had been built for shorter people. Pulling open an iron-bound door, he bowed her inside.
�
��I always liked this building, even as a kid. It’s not especially large, and it will keep me more than poor with the work that needs doing, but I find the space handsome.”
Freya did not, for the interior was grim, as Katherine had said, and dark. She said, politely, “It will certainly make an unusual house.”
He nodded happily. “It will indeed—just needs more light, that’s all. Glass was sparingly used in early churches, of course—the expense, and then the taxes. That’s why there are so few windows.”
They both looked up. A modest clerestory ran around the walls beneath the roof, and wan daylight struggled through, a cool green.
Like living under the sea, thought Freya. She shivered.
He strode ahead, chatting happily. “Perhaps I shall put a stone lantern into the roof like St. Paul’s—but smaller, you get the idea.”
He’s right, Freya thought. I shouldn’t judge. He must be able to see the possibilities of this building. She relaxed, content to listen as he ran on about his plans. She was never this at ease with strangers, and it was a nice feeling. He was attractive too—open and warm and funny—that was a change. Her last boyfriend had been a brooder and self-obsessed, not to mention passive-aggressive. And yes, there was a glint when he flicked her a glance. Freya decided she liked being glinted at.
Simon stopped; he was staring at her—plainly she was expected to comment. She said, quickly, “So, will your renovations be allowed through council?”
He shrugged. “Och, it is a listed building certainly, but the interior has been altered before, many times. No strangers, these stones, to being moved about a bit, and they don’t care, they’ll outlast us all.” He patted a wall as if it were a restive horse. “You see, Freya—do you think me bold, appropriating your name?” That naughty glint again.
She waved airily; it was so good to lighten up. “Not at all—appropriate away.”
Simon’s grin widened, and he swept his arm in a generous arc. “Early buildings are a passion of mine, you see. And I know from research that some of the fabric of this church is authentic—and very old indeed—but how much? That’s the question and a very good one. I’ve made a practice out of restoring old structures, some almost ruins. I enjoy the work. And it’s always a challenge.”
This time he smiled straight into her eyes.
Woah, lad, thought Freya. Simon was certainly intriguing, but then, of course he knew he was—and he knows I know that too. Men like that were a worry. Who cares?
They laughed simultaneously.
Standing together in what must, once, have been the nave of the church, they faced a dais set upon a flight of granite steps. Squat pillars, thick as tree trunks, lined up on either side.
Simon pointed toward a side aisle. “Over there was a lady chapel—it’s long gone, but you can see where the screens were by the marks in the floor. The altar was up there”—he gestured to the dais—“under the rose window.”
Freya stared at the delicate tracery of stone, which framed clear glass; it was the prettiest thing in the building. “That’s really lovely, Simon,” she said, “though it might be a bit later than the rest of the building.”
He nodded and flashed her an approving glance. “At least the stone mullions survived. A genuine bit of Gothic that, and it must once have had colored glass. John Knox and his merry friends would have seen that off, of course, but though they de-Popeified Portsolly thoroughly and turned this building into a plain old kirk, they couldn’t destroy everything, even if they tried. Come and see what I’ve found.”
Simon ushered Freya to a side wall. “Do you see? Here, and here also . . .”
Old surface plaster had fallen off, exposing a painted surface underneath. A man’s face peered out with bulging eyes. He was snarling, and for a moment Freya drew back, intimidated. She’d seen him before, or someone very like him.
Simon didn’t sense the trepidation. “So refreshingly violent; the days before political correctness, obviously.” He grinned. “I bet it was the elders who had him covered up, but how are the mighty fallen now? Barbarians, one; Elders, zero.”
Freya resisted the urge to tell Simon about the carved panel in the undercroft of Compline House. She said, “It does seem quite old. I’m betting Norse. Quite a find.”
Simon flicked her a glance. “I’m impressed. The official history of the church says that parts are supposed to have been built pre the turn of the first millennium, Common Era, but the text provides little real evidence, though I’ve been doing some work of my own. However, perhaps this gentleman goes some way to proving that theory if he can be dated.” He paused, staring at the brutal little face approvingly. “Anyway, I’ve decided he’s my protective deity. After all, he chose to emerge from the dark only after I bought the place.”
Freya glanced at Simon. “He’s a bit scary, isn’t he, to be a protector?”
Simon laughed. “Not at all. Think of China—all those snarling lions and demons. Thailand too. I think he’s either a demon or maybe a Viking, as you say—a raider from the sea. That’s exciting if it’s true, because though there’s a lot of myth about Vikings in Portsolly, I’ve found few actual records so far. I’m hoping there’s a whole cycle of frescoes under the plaster—wouldn’t that be great?”
“Yes, it would.” Freya’s enthusiasm was ignited by his own, and Simon sensed it.
“You’re welcome to drop by and observe progress any time you’re passing. It’ll be a bit of a process turning this place into a house, but it’s going to be great, just great.”
It seemed churlish to disagree, but Freya found it odd to imagine eating, sleeping, washing, working on a computer—all the day-to-day banality of life—among such frowningly massive forms. She glanced at her watch. “You certainly do have a challenge here, as you said.” She held out her hand again. “Thanks for the tour—very interesting.”
Simon took her hand and shook it gently. His fingers were warm.
Freya held his gaze, slightly embarrassed, and asked, hesitantly, “Would you mind if I had a look in the churchyard? Does one need to get permission or . . . ?”
Simon shook his head. “Not from me.”
There was a small self-conscious moment as Freya removed her hand from his.
“I don’t own the graves; they’re the property of the families, and the council is responsible for the graveyard, but I signed on as sexton—the title came with the building and it seemed the least I could do. So there you have it—I’m the official protector of those who lie here at peace.”
Freya was surprised how moved she felt. “That’s really nice to know.”
Simon sensed the change. “Anyone special you want looked after? You have only to ask.”
It was hard to say it. “Michael Dane. I’ve come to see his grave.”
Simon nodded, his eyes compassionate. “Ah. He was your dad?”
She shrugged and looked away, conscious her eyes had filled.
He said, softly, “The Australian connection.” He sighed. “People in Portsolly speak well of your father, though I never knew him. We stopped coming here for holidays before he bought the island. I am so sorry for your loss, Freya.”
She managed to respond, “Not your fault, Simon, not anyone’s fault.” Was that true?
He nodded slowly. “But a sad business. Let’s go and see him, shall we?” He picked up her hand, tucked it into his arm, and walked Freya toward the porch.
She let him. But why, if she had not wanted Katherine to come here with her, did she feel so comfortable with this man she had never met before?
Inside a high wall, the graveyard lay behind the church. Ancient and crowded, it allowed little space between graves, and many of the memorials were unreadable, the names consumed by centuries of Scottish rain and lichen. But Katherine had said it was beautiful, and Freya could see why; roses climbed everywhere, and there was the sound of bees in this sheltered place, busy among the flowers.
“Here you are.” Simon squeezed Freya’s hand g
ently, then walked back toward the church.
She appreciated his sensitivity, but now it seemed lonely to visit her father’s grave by herself.
So much of Michael’s life had been solitary. It had been his choice to exist here, on an outer edge of the world away from other people, and so it was in death, for he was buried in the least-used corner of the cemetery, beside an ancient yew tree.
Freya had expected to cry. She had tried to rehearse how she might feel, hoping that would help her through the actual moment. Now, standing on the raked gravel path, she began to murmur the Lord’s Prayer, but she felt self-conscious. Theatrical. She’d never been religious, didn’t believe in an afterlife—though she’d often wished she could—and there was no comfort to be found in words that were only words.
Freya bent to pick up a leaf that had fallen on the grave and saw that someone had arranged for an inscription. Who? Perhaps her father had left instructions for his lawyers, as he had about the letter she’d found in Compline’s kitchen. Katherine, perhaps, could have taken charge? Or Walter.
Freya closed her eyes. She remembered Katherine’s face this morning, when they’d talked about Michael’s grave, remembered the undefended feeling in the other woman’s eyes. She felt unkind excluding the librarian from this moment. Too late now.
Freya stepped closer to the grave—stainless-steel lettering was incised into the dark stone.
MICHAEL DANE
BORN SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA 01.08.1956
DIED PORTSOLLY, SCOTLAND 01.01.2012
SCHOLAR
Scholar. How could a life be summed up in just one word? He had been a father and a husband and, it seemed, a lover. A friend too.
But Freya remembered a man with large hands and small feet and a lopsided grin who had made her feel safe. She remembered, too, that her father was a good cook, where her mother was not, and that he had told her stories about the past. And the sense he had given her that each life, no matter how ordinary or obscure, was still a wonderful thing, that everyone had a history. That everyone was important.
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