1. Sigrid
2. Agatha
3. Jaime
4. Sigrid
5. Agatha
6. Jaime
7. Sigrid
8. Agatha
9. Sigrid
10. Jaime
11. Agatha
12. Sigrid
13. Agatha
14. Jaime
15. Sigrid
16. Agatha
17. Jaime
18. Sigrid
19. Jaime
20. Sigrid
21. Agatha
22. Jaime
23. Agatha
24. Jaime
25. Sigrid
26. Jaime
27. Sigrid
28. Agatha
29. Jaime
30. Sigrid
31. Jaime
32. Sigrid
33. Jaime
34. Sigrid
35. Jaime
36. Agatha
37. Jaime
38. Agatha
39. Jaime
40. Agatha
A Note on the Languages
Acknowledgments
About the Author
My face is on fire, but I’m not gunna scream. I don’t think I could even if I tried. I need water but can’t ask for it. My mouth doesn’t work no more. I knew it was gunna hurt. It’s sposed to hurt. Still, I didn’t know it was gunna hurt as much as this. Somethin’s gushin down my cheek. I dunno if it’s ink or tears or blood or what. Praps it’s a mix of all three.
“I’m movin on to your neck,” ses the man. “Keep still.”
As if I’m gunna move with that hek massive needle close to skewerin me. I grip the sides of the stool, lettin its splinters dig into my skin. One of the stool’s legs is shorter than the others, so I gotta hold my weight slanted to stop it wobblin. Evrythin’s hek skittin in this shack. I knew soon as I came in that this was a bad idea, but it was too late by then. Mamma’d already paid him.
He looms over me, his breath harsk as milkreek. Dark blue ink drips from the end of the needle. I close my eyes as the stabbin starts again.
A forever time later, the man pulls away and tosses the needle on the side.
“Done,” he ses.
I’m hot all over. Swear Øden I never been so hot. Even breathin hurts.
“Þokka,” I say, although it seems hek foolin to thank him, given how he’s done nothin but stab me with a needle for the last however long.
My mother is waitin for me outside. Soon as I step out, the man slams the shack door shut without sayin goodbye or nothin.
“Well,” ses my mother, “let’s see it.” She grabs my head to steady herself and leans in for a better look. Her face is too close to mine. Bits of sweaty hair are stuck to her forehead, and her eyes are all faraway and wild. “Ha!” is all she ses.
“What?” I say. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothin,” ses my mother, but she’s smilin wicked. She could at least pretend it looks all right. It was her what convinced me this was a good idea, after all. And I was far too keen. But who wouldn’t want their first ink early? This wasn’t how I imagined it happenin, though. All of my mother’s ideas are bad ones; you’d of thought I would’ve learnt that by now.
“Did it hurt?”
“Yes,” I say. No point in lyin.
“It’ll heal soon,” she ses, pretendin she cares.
The walk back to our shack is a blur of throbbin. The ground’s sodden from where it’s been spewin all afternoon, and the wet finds my toes through the holes in my shoes. I tried fixin the shoes yesterday, but I guess I didn’t do a very good job. I’ll try again tonight, do them better.
Soon as we’re back, my mother crashes on her sleepin mat and asks for water. There’s a mirror by the water bucket, so while I’m fillin up the horn I see my new ink for the first time. The mirror’s cracked, which doesn’t help none. Has been ever since I knew it. Probly my mother did it before I was born. Or maybe it was my pa before . . . Well, before what happened to him happened. One of the mirror cracks goes right through my reflection. My face is diffrunt now. I keep starin at it, but I can’t find the person I was before. First inkin is sposed to make you look brave. On me, the way that sickweasel done it, it doesn’t look nothin but ugly. There’s no other word for it. It’s swollen red and crusty with blood. Mamma thinks he was lyin about used to bein a tatovmaðr. I coulda told her that. He woulda told her anythin to get his greedy hams on our money.
The ink’s sposed to be a raven. Mamma let me choose, probly cuz she couldn’t be bothered thinkin of somethin herself. It don’t look nothin like what I was hopin, though. It clings to my neck with its head stretchin over my jaw like it’s tryin to peck out my cheek. It looks dead, like someone clean snapped its neck. It looks like it’s cryin on my cheek but it’s not got no tears. Oh well, isn’t nothin I can do about it now. We just gotta hope it’s good enough to fool whoever my mother’s plannin on showin it to. Now I’m inked I should be able to get work on one of the larger farms, diggin up crops or somethin. It’ll be hard grind, but I don’t mind that none. Anythin’s better than spendin all day bein pushed around by Mamma.
I cross over to her now and hand her the water horn. She takes it without sayin nothin and doesn’t even open her eyes. I try to slip out, but of course she hears.
“Where you goin?”
“Granpa Halvor’s,” I say.
“What you goin there for?”
“I wanna show him my ink.” That’s a lie. He’s gunna be hek grieved when he sees it. I shoulda told him we were gunna do it. I didn’t cuz I knew he’d only tell me not to.
“You spend too much time with that old man,” ses my mother. “It’s not normal.” She doesn’t hardly speak to Granpa Halvor. I think cuz he reminds her too much of my pa. “Don’t be long. My head’s throbbin and I’m hungry,” she ses.
I’m already out the door before she’s finished speakin. Granpa Halvor’s shack isn’t far from ours. Close enough to run to when my mother’s turned sour from neckin. I knock on his door and, soon as he opens it, first thing he ses is “What has she done to you?”
“She didn’t do nothin,” I tell him.
“She may not have held the needle, but I bet it was her idea.”
His face is tight with so much concern, I feel my own face crumplin. “I shouldn’t of done it,” I say. “It’s my fault. I knew it was a sickrotten idea.”
“Hey, shush, girl. Come inside and I’ll make you some sweetmilk.”
He puts his arm around my shoulders and leads me in. Granpa Halvor’s shack isn’t nothin like ours. It’s hek poky, but everythin’s put neat and tidy clean. Best of all is the twistknot rug on the floor what’s nearly as big as the whole place. Granpa made it himself when he was a kidlin out of bits of old clothes and scraps. He cleans it every day so it isn’t never dusty. I sit on it and run my fingers through the scruffs.
He brings me over a bowl of sweetmilk, and while I’m drinkin, he dabs at my face with a wet rag. I hold in the wince what’s wantin to come out.
“Who’s the grotthief what did this to you?” he asks me.
“I dunno, Granpa,” I say.
“Sure as hellfire wasn’t no proper tatovmaðr.”
“I know, Granpa.”
“How much’d you pay him?”
“I dunno, Granpa.”
“It wouldn’t of come cheap, gettin him to do it with you bein only twelve and all. What was your mother thinkin? What’s her game? And what sort of a lyin, thievin scoundrel would do this to a girl? I feel like trackin him down and . . . and . . .”
I can’t help smilin at that. The thought of Granpa Halvor hurtin anyone is hek smirks.
“What you laughin for?” he ses. “If I was twenty years y
ounger . . . I’ll have you know I was a force to be reckoned with in my time.”
“Sure you were, Granpa,” I say. I slurp down the rest of the sweetmilk. It’s hek creamin on my insides. “I thought you didn’t agree with fightin anyways?”
“Depends who’s fightin and what they’re fightin for. If it’s sendin away our kidlins to be slaughtered on foreign lands for nothin but pride and power, then no, I don’t agree with fightin one speck.”
He’s talkin about his son, my pa. I don’t hardly remember him. He died over the seas somewhere when I was a little kidlin, fightin for the king in some bloodsplash invasion.
“What about if Mal-Rakki came back?” I ask. “Would you fight for him?”
“That’s diffrunt and you know it. His fight has purpose. The day he returns, I’ll be the first to stand by his side.”
What if Mal-Rakki never comes back? I think, but I don’t say it. I draw lines in the dregs of the sweetmilk with the tip of my finger.
“Here, I got this for you.” Granpa Halvor throws somethin at me.
I catch it quick, and my gawpers open hek wide when I see what it is.
“Where’d you get this?” I ask. The plum is bright yellow, soft as a babkin’s foot, perfectly ripe.
“I pulled it out my nose hole; where d’you think I got it?”
“But I thought you had to give them all up to the king?”
“I did, but I sneaked one away, just for you.”
I smile, and for a speck I forget about the wreckmess of my face and all its hurtin. The tree behind Granpa’s shack is a scraggin old knot, but it grows the most hek ríkka plums in the whole of Norveg. I bite into the one in my hand and it’s good — so good! Its juice trickles down my arm, and I lick it up, not wantin to waste none. I take another bite, then offer the rest to Granpa.
“No, girl, it’s yours. I want you to enjoy it,” he ses.
I don’t need tellin twice. I put the rest of it in my mouth, stone and all, and chew down, lettin the sweetness burst inside my cheeks. I should slow down, take my time scrammin, but it’s too good for bein slow. Once all the flesh has gone, I keep the stone in my mouth, suckin on it for any last drips.
“I think you enjoyed that,” ses Granpa Halvor.
I nod. “Thanks, Granpa.” I spit out the stone and bury it in one of my trouser pockets. “Once I’m earnin, I’ll buy us fruit evry day.”
“What you talkin about, earnin?” His forehead creases, makin the ink rabbit what’s there crumple into a slackdead heap. Granpa’s got hek loads of ink, but the rabbit on his forehead has always been my favorite.
“Mamma says I can earn good pennies workin on one of the big farms. That’s why I got the ink done.”
“You don’t wanna be workin down there. You’d have to get up before the sun to arrive on time. Earnin isn’t evrythin, Sigrid. Specially when the king’s men come take it all from us anyways.”
“What choice have I got?”
“What do you mean what choice? There are always choices. It’s knowin which are the right ones that’s the hard part.”
I dunno about that. Far as I see it, I haven’t got no choices, sept doin what Mamma tells me. Which reminds me . . .
“I gotta go, Granpa,” I say. “Mamma’s not feelin too good. She’ll be hek skapped if I’m not back cookin somethin soon.”
Granpa scowls hard, like a beaver what’s been bit. He’s always scowlin when I mention Mamma. “Well, don’t let her talk you into no more brainrot plans,” he ses. “And keep that ink of yours clean. If it gets any redder, come straight back to see me.”
“Yes, Granpa.”
Before I go, he holds my chin between his thumb and finger and turns my head sideways to get another gawp at my ink. “My little Sigrid, growin up,” he ses. “A raven was a perfect choice. He may not have been no real tatovmaðr what done it, but I think he did a good job. I like it.”
He strokes my other cheek with his knuckles. It’s nice of him to lie.
“Again, again,” all the children are saying.
I ask Milkwort if he wants to do it again and he does. He likes it. He is going to do the fastest one ever.
“Okay,” I say to the children. “Get r-ready.”
They put their hands on the table in a line. I give Milkwort two taps on his head and put him next to the first hand. The children are smiling.
“Here he comes. . . . G-go!” I say, and I say it to Milkwort in my head as well.
As soon as he hears it, Milkwort runs up the first girl’s arm, around her neck and down her other arm. Then he moves on to the boy next to her, then the next one and then all the other children in the row. They like it because it tickles and they laugh. It is good to laugh. Some of the children are from Clann-a-Tuath which is my clan and some of them are from Clann-na-Bruthaich which is a different clan. I am their favorite and so is Milkwort.
“Again!” they say after Milkwort has gone around all of them.
“No more. Agatha has a meeting to attend,” says a person behind me who is Maistreas Eilionoir. I did not know that she was there and was watching.
“Oh, yes,” I say. “I d-do.”
I tell Milkwort it is time to go and he runs up my arm and into my pocket. It is okay that Maistreas Eilionoir saw me talking to him, even though he is a vole. Speaking to animals is not dùth but Maistreas Eilionoir says I am allowed to do it now. I say goodbye to the children and they all shout, “Goodbye, Agatha” and “Goodbye, Milkwort” very loud.
I walk with Maistreas Eilionoir to the meeting bothan. It is different here because we are in Clann-na-Bruthaich’s enclave which is not our enclave. We’re on our island Skye but it is more south and a different place. The people from Raasay are still living in our enclave and they won’t leave because they are mean. We tried to get them to go by asking them and talking to them lots but they won’t. That is why there is the meeting to decide what we should do.
The meeting bothan is big. Some people from Clann-na-Bruthaich are inside it already and are talking in groups. There are chairs in a square shape and I count them and there are eighteen.
“Take a seat,” says Maistreas Eilionoir.
I sit on the chair that is the closest one. It is hard and not comfortable. Maistreas Eilionoir goes away to speak to the Clann-na-Bruthaich people so I am on my own.
I am here because I am important. I am the hero. Maistreas Eilionoir said it and so did the other people. I was so brave to go all the way to Norveg in the ship with Jaime and I did the clever plan in the mountain room. I talked to the bats in my head and asked them to put out all the fires so the shadow things could come in and it worked and all the nasty deamhain were killed. That means our clan was free and I did it.
More people come into the meeting bothan who I don’t know. It is boring to wait for them all. Milkwort wants to go out of my pocket so I let him. I stroke him for a little bit and then he runs down my leg and goes off to do exploring. He likes looking in new places. He will come back to me soon.
The next person to come in is Jaime. He stops near the door and looks at all the people. When he sees me he does a little wave. I wave back to him and smile a big one. Jaime is my good friend. He walks to where I am.
“Hi, Aggie,” he says.
“Hello, Jaime,” I say. “You can sit by m-me if you like?”
“Thanks.” He sits on the chair next to my chair. Jaime is allowed to be in the meeting because he is the hero too.
All the other people sit down which means the meeting is going to start. A man called Kenrick is the only person who does not sit down. He is the clan chief of Clann-na-Bruthaich. All of the other elders from Clann-na-Bruthaich were killed by the deamhain so he is the only one left. I thought they should call him “Maighstir” Kenrick but they don’t use that word here. He has lots of creases on his face and dark hair which only grows on his beard and the sides of his head and not on the top.
“Fàilte,” he says, which is to mean “welcome” in the old language,
“particularly to our honorable guests from Clann-a-Tuath. This meeting was requested by Eilionoir on behalf of her clan, so perhaps you would like to speak first?”
Maistreas Eilionoir nods and stands up at the same time as Kenrick sits down.
“Mòran taing, Kenrick,” says Maistreas Eilionoir. I don’t know what that one means. “And thanks to all of you for your hospitality during this last moon. It has been a difficult time for us all, but particularly for my clan, as I’m sure you can appreciate. While we are enormously grateful to be able to stay here, what we really want is to go home.” Her voice is scratches. She stops and does two coughs. “Despite our best efforts, negotiations with the people of Raasay have come to nothing; they are resolute in their decision to remain in our enclave. So now we must decide upon a new course of action. This isn’t about pride; this is about what’s right. It is our home, and it was taken from us.
“We have been here nearly a month now, and we are beginning to feel like we’re outstaying our welcome. Some of you are not willing for us to remain here indefinitely — that much has been made clear — and I understand your concerns. This is your home and you are protective of it, just as we are of ours. But if we do not reclaim our enclave, we have nowhere else to go.
“I implore you to pledge your support, to take up arms and march north by our side. It was always agreed that we would try and resolve this conflict without bloodshed, and that is still our intention. The Raasay islanders are not as skilled at fighting as we are, so will not wish to engage in combat if it can be avoided. A fierce show of force should be enough to convince them to leave. With your help, I have every confidence we will be successful.”
She sits back down with a big nod.
“Your voice is heard with respect,” says Kenrick. “I can only apologize if you feel our hospitality is waning. You know you have our full support, but — after all we’ve been through — it’s difficult for me to ask my people to put their lives in danger again so soon.”
“May I respectfully point out that if it wasn’t for Agatha and Jaime, you wouldn’t have any people to risk,” says Maistreas Eilionoir. “They’d all still be rotting in a prison in Norveg.”
“We would have found a way out,” says Catriona. She’s another important one from Clann-na-Bruthaich. She is young but her hair is not nice and her face is angry. “You cannot make demands of us now in recompense for assistance we never requested.”
The Broken Raven Page 1