Obsidian

by Suzie Wilde

  ‘Are you thirsty?’

  He nodded and she brought him a ladleful, which he drank down in one.

  ‘That ensense stuff,’ he began. ‘I was wondering… did you really see Rakki?’

  Bera smiled. ‘Of course. Scampering behind Faelan.’

  Heggi’s voice warbled. ‘Bera…’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘When I saw my father again… I thought it would be like when he used to come home from the Marsh Lands. I sort of made him different.’

  Bera nodded. ‘I used to think the same about Ottar but he was always the same hard father.’

  ‘In my head I made it that he had come back for me.’

  ‘And…?’

  He just shook his head.

  ‘Boykin, listen. What happened on the beach. The only important thing that you must understand is that Thorvald and I wanted to protect you. I would never keep you away from your father if that’s where you wanted to be.’

  His poor breaking voice rose to a squeak. ‘I wanted us all to be together, like folk in the old days, with me and Ginna and our babies and you and Papa.’

  It upset Bera too. ‘I wish it—’

  ‘No, I know it’s not your fault. I asked him last night and they never went to Iraland.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They came straight here, for the black stone. They’ve been here all the time, Bera, so why didn’t they send for us?’

  Bera was reeling. It explained why Egill had the time to ‘devise’ the trolley. They must have tried to get Obsidian and only sent for her when they failed. She wanted to curse Hefnir but Heggi was already hurt enough. He was tugging her sleeve.

  ‘And you know who brings all the stuff from Iraland, don’t you? The one they all say is a god thing?’

  Of course, with his full dragon body. How blind she had been! Why had she not seen all this? Was she so bound to the land and the earth to her that the events of these men passed her by, like midges to the mountain? Or did her mind skip to Faelan too readily? No, the Serpent King was her enemy and she resisted thinking of him as a provider. He must not have come yet from Iraland, or Hefnir would be dead. Heggi’s uncle.

  ‘What did your father say about him?’

  ‘Nothing. He got really cross and left me alone in here.’ His voice wavered. ‘Like he used to shut me in that cell.’

  ‘I promised that you would never be locked in a cell again, didn’t I? And you never will be, while I breathe.’

  ‘I wasn’t exactly locked in,’ Heggi said, ‘but there was a warder outside.’

  ‘I’m here now. I’ll watch over you. This is a safe billet, boykin.’

  Bera pulled the blankets over him and softly sang until he fell asleep again. Or had Hefnir made some pact with the Serpent King? Was she to die in his place? Surely this was proof that the Serpent sent wolfsbane. She would keep her boy from harm of any kind – even if it came from his father – and do whatever it took to stop him.

  The next time she woke, Bera saw that Hefnir and Egill were asleep in the room. She was lying next to Heggi, who was dreaming, twitching like a dog. She sensed it was early morning and the candle flames were low. Her mouth was dry but otherwise she was feeling stronger. Just as well: she wanted to hurt Hefnir for being a worse man than she thought. How could he have overwintered here, after refusing to stay on Ice Island with them? Why had he not sent for his son? Telling Heggi he had not gone to Iraland was like slapping his face. Bera’s pressing duty lay elsewhere and she might need them – but she would be on her guard with Hefnir and Egill, his willing puppet.

  She carefully got up, stretched like a cat, and slipped out as silently, in search of Cronan. Short, dark-haired warders stood along the passageways. They wore thick leather tunics and sheathed swords at their belts. They made no move to hinder her; in fact, she wasn’t sure they even noticed her as they kept their eyes fixed to the front. It must have been these men in the shadows the day before. There were shufflings in the darkness and the humming sound again; echoing footsteps in corridors leading up into the tunnels and warrens. Sometimes Bera heard a kind of chanting. Perhaps all the noises were ermites in their separate cells.

  The Beehive of Brid.

  Bera began to feel herded. The unblinking men were gradually closing in. She deliberately made for an unlit tunnel and at once a warder took one step to the side to block the way. Were they protecting her from something or protecting something from her? Or were they keeping the dangerous taint of a woman away from the holy men? She kept to the lit tunnel, sure that she was being led back to the serpent door. It was where she thought Cronan was likely to be. Sure enough, she ended up in front of it. She braced herself to touch it, grasped the heavy ring in both hands, turned it and entered.

  The blue smoke was denser now and everywhere; there was no separate layer and no fresh air. The room had no walls, no substance. The ensense dazed her and then took swift effect. Her skull opened to messages from the ancestors. Up in the high, dizzy spaces, some shadowy forms were gazing down at her. She could almost see their features but the more she strived, the mistier they became. One had a heart-shaped brow but… no good. It was always like this when she tried to picture the whole of her mother’s face.

  She was glad to have her skern with her. ‘That was her, wasn’t it?’

  One of them. Hold my hand and look, dear one. Learn.

  They floated upwards together, through the scented smoke, past birds, past bats, up towards a widening patch of sky. At the top, Bera felt the sharp claw of icy air on her scalp. The softly curved spine of Ice Island lay before her, leading south towards her new home. Beads linked by fire. There would be no escape for anyone at the homestead. The black bead on her necklace was a branding iron on her skin.

  ‘What does it have to do with the black bead?’

  Obsidian is fire-made stone.

  The mountains were growing flatter as Bera drifted upwards, higher than the clouds. She was far enough away to see the ancient Skraken’s slow, slow growing of the Ice-Rimmed Sea and all its islands. It lay bleeding on the abyssal plain, making the beaches of Ice Island clotted black. Then it coiled, biting its monstrous tail in pain, and became, for an instant, her mother’s bracelet. Pain and fear, forever linked with loss. It was writhing in agony, lashing its tail faster and faster until Bera looked through the blur to fiery liquid flowing beneath, like the white-hot metal Dellingr poured.

  Brewed by Hel.

  The Skraken was a solid mass of pain, surrounded by molten fluid that would burst through the thin crust and boil the sea, far beyond Ice Island, into the White Sea.

  Not yet. And maybe not at all if you get this right.

  ‘So what do I have to do?’

  Hold the black stone and gaze into its heart. It will reveal truths.

  It was not at all as she expected. No wonder it was kept away from others.

  There was a storm of coughing.

  Bera was a giddy girl, standing on solid ground before the high wooden throne. Beside it was Cronan, glistening with sleek black ravens. Humming began in the darkness, which grew louder until it made her ribcage thrum.

  ‘Is that bees?’ she asked.

  ‘Plainsong.’ Cronan’s chest was rattling.

  There was a harsh, rasping breath and the ravens flew up, cawing, into the deeper black. Bera wondered if bees made plainsong.

  Ermites chanting.

  ‘Not bees?’

  Of course not bees. Her skern frowned. Are you up to the job?

  ‘Watch me.’

  The chanting sounds odd because they are all ill here, so it’s phlegmy.

  ‘What did you see?’ Cronan asked her. ‘Ensense is quicker next day, but often gone bad, more like a nightmare.’

  ‘What was your nightmare?’ she asked.

  ‘My lost childhood.’ His sad voice barred more questions.

  Bera also needed to move on. ‘I have seen what happens next.’

  Cronan sighed, making Bera wonder if he was
envious of her. There was fluttering far above them and the ravens spoke.

  ‘Three in one for the wearer of the stone.’

  ‘Your ravens say I am three in one because I wear the stone.’ She showed him the black bead.

  Cronan nodded. ‘I taught them well. Ensense is fruitful for you, it seems.’

  ‘What is ensense?’ she asked.

  ‘It gives meaning: en-senses you.’

  ‘I meant what kind of thing is it?’

  ‘It’s a substance that is traded. One of the precious things that travel halfway round the world to be exchanged for others.’

  ‘Like obsidian.’

  ‘Obsidian! ’ cawed the birds in the high reaches. ‘Obsidian! Obsidian! ’

  A harsh breath elsewhere, followed by the sound of a bubbling chest and wheezing. Cronan turned awkwardly towards the throne. His face twisted with pain as he made a low bow. To what? The throne looked empty, apart from a pile of rich fabrics heaped on the cushions.

  ‘The Abbot,’ said Cronan.

  Bera moved closer and Cronan grasped her arm.

  ‘No one must breathe his air,’ he hissed. ‘Especially no woman.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘Keep this distance, or risk death.’

  He stayed low and shuffled backwards into the darkness. There was a cawing as the door slammed, then silence.

  Now she was alone with the Abbot. He was shrunken in furs, his face pinched between a tall silk hat and high collar. How could this be a person of power? His garments rustled as he turned to look at her with hooded yellow eyes. Hostility seared Bera like a smith’s flame. The Abbot was no sea-rider or Drorgher, and yet Bera wished she had a warrior with her. Thorvald. The thought of his strength and belief in her gave her courage. She pulled back her shoulders and stepped forward.

  She had never seen anyone as old. It was dishonourable and disgusted her. His breathing was so laboured that it was more like a death rattle.

  ‘This place is making you ill,’ Bera said. ‘You need fresh air. You all have phlegm.’

  ‘What… are… you?’ His voice was a reedy whisper.

  Bera thought he kept folk back because he would crumble into dust if anyone breathed too hard.

  ‘My name is Bera.’

  ‘Brid?’

  ‘I’m a Valla.’

  His words came in small whistles. ‘Explain… Valla,’ he said.

  ‘One family of Northwomen are Vallas, passed down mother to daughter. We can see the future. Some of my ancestors were skilled at verse, others at raising storms; some could cure the sick with potions. That’s what I’m good at. And reading weather, keeping us safe at sea.’ That hurt.

  ‘Hefnir… says you control Fate.’ His tiny eyes glittered. It was a test.

  This would be for Hefnir’s own benefit, for he believed in nothing except wealth. No lies on Ice Island. It seemed even more important in the muddle of what she had to do now she was here, so she tried to be exact.

  ‘Folk say Vallas make Fate – but I think we ride our fate, or steer it like a longboat on a whale path.’

  ‘You must… believe.’

  How dare he tell her what she must do?

  ‘I chose to come here, not to help you but to quieten the land. Now, thanks to ensense, I know it’s even more important. What I need to do next is to hold the black stone in my hands.’

  ‘No one… ever… may gaze upon… Obsidian!’

  ‘Why?’

  It punched the air from his chest.

  Bera went on. ‘Only a Valla can do this. I have to see how to stop the destruction of this island and every creature on it. Including you.’

  The Abbot hissed, gasped and then began coughing: a retching, hawking, bubbling noise that made Bera feel sick. She was frightened that he would choke and she would be accused of killing him. The noises stopped. She looked round for some water but there was nothing.

  Don’t thump his back, whatever you do. Her skern was on the throne, swinging his long legs nonchalantly.

  ‘Where are his wardens?’

  He doesn’t want them corrupted by being close to you. Better do something, ducky, and fast.

  The Abbot was turning blue. The air was so thick, it made it difficult to breathe – and there was her answer. She had to get him out into fresher air. Lifting him was out of the question. The thought appalled her but she had to act now to get air into his body. Bera pulled him towards her. It was like handling a papery moth that could crumble into dust. She pushed down his collar, lifted his chin, wiped away the dribble with the back of her hand and then clasped her lips to his and blew, suppressing the feeling that she was held by a beak.

  She could die for this.

  Bera tried to concentrate. The Abbot must have been brought in here without being touched, so in a pause between breaths she studied the chair. Her skern tapped its wheels, so it must have been pushed into the colossal throne. She gave the Abbot another breath, uncoupled his chair and rolled it towards the entrance. She flung the oak door wide and then trundled him outside.

  Cronan was talking with a warden. They both turned white when they saw her.

  ‘Move away!’ the man shouted.

  Her only hope was to keep the Abbot alive. He was still not breathing for himself, so Bera pressed her mouth to his again.

  The warden came closer but then stopped, looking terrified of the crumpled body on the chair.

  Cronan pulled her shoulder. ‘What is happening?’

  ‘I am breathing for him,’ Bera said.

  He groaned. ‘The Abbot’s wardens are unarmed but the warders are coming.’

  The sweeter air was having no effect on the Abbot and Bera blew into his mouth again while the others dithered. Footsteps were approaching from a tunnel.

  She was desperate. ‘Cronan, help me!’

  Two armed warders walked in but stopped dead when they took in the Abbot, slumped in his chair.

  ‘Fetch the healer!’ one of them shouted.

  ‘I am the healer,’ Bera said and breathed again into the stale lungs of the dying man.

  They rushed forward, swords unsheathed.

  Cronan stepped forward. ‘Wait! If you want the Abbot to live, let her be.’

  ‘But she cannot touch him!’

  ‘You see that she can,’ Cronan said quietly. ‘Fetch water!’

  It was all too late. The wizened lips were now covered in blood-flecked spittle.

  For goodness’ sake, do it properly. Her skern was testy.

  ‘I’m trying.’

  Watch. First close his nose…

  Bera took a deep breath, pinched the Abbot’s bony nose, covered his whole mouth with her own and felt his chest rise. She made herself do it slowly and deeply six times, then bent him forward, waiting to see if he could breathe alone. There was a small trail of air and she sat him upright.

  ‘I’ve done what I can,’ she said to Cronan. ‘He may be too old to save.’

  ‘Live or die, there will be consequences.’ His voice wavered.

  The warden crossed himself. ‘No woman may touch the Abbot except Brid herself.’

  Armed warders ran in and surrounded Bera but she clung on to the Abbot’s chair, willing him to live. If he died, she would be killed at once. If he lived, surely even he would be grateful. They were all trapped in this moment, waiting.

  The Abbot gave a deep, rattling sigh. His purple eyelids stayed closed but he took a whole breath, and then another. He was breathing again, if noisily. At least everyone there could hear he was alive. It occurred to Bera that he may think she had tried to kill him, not save him. Or even if he accepted the truth, she was still a woman, who had handled him roughly. Intimately. Perhaps he was thinking up a worse punishment than death.

  The Abbot slowly opened his dragon eyes.

  21

  ‘You… have… transgressed.’

  His voice was the merest whisper but the crowd sighed.

  Bera stood taller. It wasn’t a good word, whatev
er it meant. The warders stepped closer with a stamp of feet. If death was coming, she would meet it proudly. But she would have failed – and who then would save all the creatures on the island? Rakki, Heggi, Valdis… poor little Dotta, Miska… Faelan.

  ‘I saved your life.’ Bera made each word weighty.

  ‘Only Brid could save my life. Only she.’

  ‘Are you alive? Yes. So who do you think saved you?’ Bera crossed her fingers.

  The Abbot’s voice was torn silk. ‘Take her.’

  She stepped away from them. ‘Cronan, tell the Abbot what you know.’

  Cronan shrank back, his curved spine making him a rune of distress. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘What did you hear in the Abbot’s throne room?’

  ‘Nothing, I—’

  ‘What did your ravens tell you?’

  Cronan at last understood. Bera hoped she was the only one to see him cross his fingers.

  He tapped the tattoo on his wrist. ‘The wearer of the black stone is the three-in-one.’

  The others began to murmur. The Abbot stirred and such was his influence that they noticed. He took a few breaths.

  Only the powerful are given time to speak, as Ottar would say.

  ‘It – cannot – be – you,’ he declared.

  Bera held up her necklace to show him the black bead. Its heat reminded her she must act fast.

  ‘If only Brid could save your life, I must be Brid,’ she said.

  The deep humming from the cells throbbed like the pulse in her forehead.

  ‘Hear that?’ The Abbot raised a blue-nailed finger to the sky. ‘Brid will strike you down!’

  ‘Well, she hasn’t, has she? And the only possible reason is because I am Brid.’

  There was a cry and running footsteps. Egill burst into the circle round the Abbot. Bera’s heart sank. If it was possible to make a bad situation worse, Egill would manage it.

  ‘Bera can heal,’ Egill said. ‘She makes medicine sticks and things.’

  She made Bera sound like a simple crone.

  ‘Be quiet, Egill,’ she hissed. Bera turned again to the Abbot. ‘I made no claim. It was Cronan himself who told me I was Brid.’