by Dan Davis
“Kolnos guide my spirit,” he muttered through gritted teeth.
Instead, she spoke a few words of command in what he recognised as the Seal People tongue and the men stepped back, put up their spears and walked away, leaving the room entirely and their footsteps faded as they passed outside. There was no sound now but the wind blowing against the walls and the roof above them and the breathing of the dog.
The light footsteps of his captor came around the pillar and Herkuhlos saw a pair of bare feet, a long white robe and a remarkably tall, slender figure standing over him. The woman had large dark eyes, high cheekbones, and a wide mouth with full lips and long dark hair bound in an ornate braid and her skin was of a soft brown that shone like bronze. Her features were strange to him, somewhat like the Heryos yet also like the Seal People and yet different to both and quite remarkably beautiful.
“You are a goddess,” he said in awe.
Her mouth was touched by a faint smile. “My children call me goddess and the Mother but you may call me Nehalennia.”
“Your children?”
“You know them as the Seal People.”
Herkuhlos looked around him again in wonder that this great place could have anything to do with the Seal People. “Where are we?”
“My home.”
Nehalennia walked away from him, past the hearth and sat down on her stool. The dog, watching her go, climbed heavily to his feet and padded across to her. He was even taller than Herkuhlos had thought but beside the goddess he seemed almost to be in proportion and when he reached her side he sat and then lay once more, his head resting by her bare feet.
“Do you know my father?” he blurted out and then felt ashamed of how young he had sounded.
“Once,” she said carefully.
“Are you my kin?”
She tilted her head, much as her monstrous hound had done. “I suppose that we are kin, Herkuhlos. What do you know about our clan?”
“Our clan? You mean the gods? I know what everyone knows. No more.”
There was no expression on her face but he could tell she did not believe him. “You swore an oath to slay Torkos and the others. Why would you do such a thing?”
“Kolnos asked it of me.”
“Ah,” she said, drawing in a deep breath and sighing. “Kolnos. He is most cunning but also he is wise. If he sent you then it must be for the good of your people.”
“It would be for the good of all people, Nehalennia, but I have failed and no good has come of it for anyone.”
“You speak of the burning of one of my villages.”
“That is but part of it.” He felt a strange and overwhelming need to speak of his failures, as if he could lay down the burden of them at her feet. “I led a warband against Torkos and intended to challenge him to combat but my own people turned against me and Torkos was without honour and would not face me. Since then I have only fled and fled again and I have failed also to fall in battle. The last of my faithful followers were killed before my eyes. I am alone and I am now without honour.”
She listened closely and her face was a mask but her voice was not without sympathy. “That is grave indeed. Why then did you fail?”
Herkuhlos was confused by the question. “I was not strong enough to fight through my enemies to victory or defeat.”
“You believe your fault is a lack of physical strength?” She looked at him with her strange eyes, running her gaze over his limbs and his body. “No. That is not the reason.”
Her words irritated him. “I know better than you my own failures. You know nothing of me and of what I have done.” He paused. “What then is the reason?”
Slowly, she got to her feet. Nehalennia stepped toward him across the room, the soles of her feet tapping lightly on the hard floor until she was standing over him. He looked at her toes. Her feet were remarkably clean and perfectly formed. Finally, he looked up at her. From her great height she stared down at him and when their eyes met she seemed to look through him and into him. “You cannot understand while your spirit is broken. You must be healed.”
“I am healed,” he said but already she had turned away. As she strode from the hall the great dog climbed to its feet, stretched, and padded after its mistress without looking at him.
“Where are you going?” Herkuhlos called out to her, his voice echoing. “What do you mean to do to me? Come back.”
Now he truly was alone.
29. Goddess
The initiates of the Mother had not been unkind but they were displeased by their sudden arrival and it was only when Sif called out that she had come to find Zani that they had lowered their weapons and spoke to her properly. They refused, however, to say whether Zani was on the island.
For some time they guarded them without saying more and eventually some came down to the beach with a bier, lifted Herkuhlos onto it and six strong men carried him up through the trees along a path. Alef made as if to carry his father after them but the initiates told him he was not permitted to leave the beach and though he was outraged he acquiesced with surprising speed. Satara and Z’ta were likewise commanded to stay with him on the beach with their canoe.
“But I can come with you to find Zani?” she asked him.
The strong young initiate who hefted S’tef into his arms nodded. “Follow me.”
“What about us?” Alef cried.
Z’ta merely smiled, waved to her, and sat on the edge of the canoe. Satara, though, was appalled to be left behind when he felt he should be initiated but he kept quiet.
“Food and water will be brought to you. If you leave the beach you will be killed without further warning.” At that the initiate had gone on up the beach and through the trees there. They were gnarled and twisted and the ones on the coast were stunted and bent by the wind but deeper into the woodland they grew taller but still they were disordered trees, the bark shaggy and mottled with green growth and the twigs brittle and ugly.
“These are apple trees,” she said.
“Yes.” The initiate ahead of her said.
Not only apple but hazel, alder, beech, ash, hawthorn, and hornbeam but a great many were apple trees. Bees flew lazily through the dappled afternoon sunlight of the track and birds called to one another unseen in the green branches overhead. A flash of green caught her eye far through the undergrowth off the path and a moment later she heard the unmistakable noisy cry of a woodpecker as it flew between trunks. It was a small island but soon she felt impossibly far from the sea beneath the green canopy and surely she had entered another world quite separate from the one she had just left.
A clearing ahead opened into what might have been a typical village only the huts were large and well-built and in the centre was the most enormous building she had ever seen, towering high overhead with a thick roof of reeds and strong timber walls. The acolytes carried Herkuhlos into that building but S’tef was carried to another smaller structure and she followed. Inside, a hearth was burning and an older woman was crouched by the fire. For a moment she thought it might be her mother but the woman was too small and hunched to be Zani and so Sif stood and watched as the chief was laid on a bed of furs.
“He is to be healed,” the initiate said to the old woman who nodded absently as she continued picking stones from the fire and dropping them into a bowl of water at her feet.
At that, the initiate ducked out and she made to follow him.
“Wait here,” he said.
“But where is Zani?”
“Wait here,” he replied and left.
She was frustrated but tired after the exhausting journey and so she sat on another bed of furs opposite the door and watched as the old woman crouched by S’tef and began examining his battle wounds. She clucked her tongue and sang softly to the spirits while she worked and Sif could see from her sure movements that he was in expert hands. The woman washed him and pulled open his eyelids and opened his mouth to look inside and poked and prodded his neck and beneath his arms and between his leg
s, occasionally stopping her song to mutter some new spell before singing on. Outside the people of this place crossed back and forth with their work and the shadows lengthened.
“Here,” the old woman said, offering a bowl of steaming liquid.
“What is it?” Sif asked.
The woman grunted and shook her head as if it was a stupid question.
Sniffing the bowl, Sif’s stomach growled and she found it was a broth brewed from bones and herbs. Gratefully she drank off the salty, savoury liquid and sighed with the relief it gave her. She thanked the old woman who ignored her while she continued to work.
Sif was frustrated and anxious to find out if her mother was here but it seemed as if the day was already coming to an end and still she did not know one way or another if she had come to the right place. She decided that she would leave this hut, disobeying the initiate, and search until she found Zani. But she was tired. They had paddled all night and half of the next day and the exertion of it all suddenly descended on her. The destruction of her village had likewise been an assault on her spirit and she felt the need for rest and for the healing of both her body and her mind. Yawning, she stretched her aching back and then lay down on the soft furs just for a moment.
With her eyes closed, listening to the soft chanting of the initiate, Sif felt the spirits speaking to her but she could not hear their words. She called out to them and begged them to come back and say it again. The chanting changed and suddenly seemed impossibly loud and then far away. It was night now and it had grown cold. Her mother was there in the darkness, stroking her hair, and Zani smiled as she covered Sif with a fur and told her to go back to sleep.
“Is it really you?” Sif muttered, impossibly tired.
“Sleep now,” Zani’s voice said from the darkness. “Sleep, little one.”
“Mother!” Sif sat up, her heart pounding, with the full light of morning streaming through the door and people speaking outside as they passed. A fresh fire crackled in the hearth in the centre of the hut.
Zani kneeled beside her.
Kicking off the furs, Sif threw her arms around her mother and held her tight. It was really her. She was alive and she was here and Sif had found her. Squeezing her back for a moment, Zani prised Sif’s arms from her and touched her daughter’s face.
“What took you so long to come?”
Surprised and offended, Sif scoffed. “I came as quickly as I could. I didn’t know where you were. I didn’t even know this island existed, you never told me about it.”
Her mother groaned and rolled her eyes. “I would doubt you were my daughter if I did not draw you out of my body with these two hands. You have the wits of your father, that much is for certain.”
“Is he here?” Sif asked, smiling.
“He is dead.”
Sif sat back, a sob escaping her lips as she did so. “When? How?”
“The Heryos got him.” Zani’s face was hard and the lines beside her mouth were deeper than they had been. “The demon they worship killed him.”
Sif held her hands over her face. “But why?”
Zani sighed and slapped her daughter’s thigh with her calloused palm. “You should eat something, girl, look at your legs, you’ve grown as thin as a crane.”
“Tell me, mother.”
“That demon, Torkos the Devourer is his name, he is searching for the Mother. And poor Sama knew where this island was.” She shrugged. “So do I and that’s why I ran here before they got me, too.”
“But if they caught him then they know where the island is. We are in danger.”
Zani shook her head. “If they knew where it was then they would be coming for her now. No, no, they’re going after all the spirit walkers of all the tribes but after Sama was taken we got word to them and most have come away from the mainland now. Come over to the islands or gone north across to Skana and the other lands.”
“All the tribes have lost their spirit walkers because of this? But what is going to happen to our people without us to guide them? What of their spirits? How will the tribes find their way?”
“Oh, you need not worry about such things, girl,” Zani said, rolling her eyes. “The tribes will do well enough and most have come off the mainland now anyway.”
Sif looked at the other side of the hut. The furs there were empty. “S’tef.”
“Oh no, girl, the spirits don’t seem to want that one, do they.” She snorted. “They sent him back again, though the Mother alone knows why. No, no, he is perfectly well and up and eating and will live and go on and on for another ten seasons, I don’t doubt. Yes, his flesh is strong and the spirits don’t want him out of it but his own spirit is weak, however. A chief should not see his people dying and go on living, it is quite wrong and it would have been far better for him to die.” Zani shrugged. “But they sent him back and so he has to find his way, I suppose, and go and be chief again.”
“Mother,” she said, grasping her. “Z’ta has returned.”
Her hard face softening, Zani nodded. “I know, child. I went down to him this morning on the beach and brought him up here to help your chief and because the Mother had a use for him. Z’ta has become a man. He will make a fine chief or a hunter or a spirit walker but I think he has found his path.”
“What path?”
Zani looked into her eyes in that way she had, looking and looking as if working a needle through a tanned hide. “The Heryos are not like us, child. The Furun, too, are a strange people but the Heryos are stranger still. Z’ta, my poor boy, was always a little like them, I think. Something in his spirit, something in your father’s spirit, I think, went through into Z’ta. Some of our line have been this way and his years living amongst the Heryos have awoken it in him.”
“Awoken what?” she asked, afraid to hear of this terrible affliction.
“Our chiefs are the heart of tribes. Our hunters submit to their chief. Our women submit to their men. Our children submit to their mothers. The Heryos are like this of course because these are the bonds that tie a people together as one but they go further. The Heryos warriors must devote themselves to their lord, body and spirit, so completely that through their devotion they touch the sacred and the eternal.”
“You mean Z’ta has done this?”
“Done it? That is his spirit’s path.”
Without asking further, Sif knew Zani meant that Z’ta was committed to follow Herkuhlos now. Perhaps the spirits told her, for she understood that her brother was devoted to the strange young warrior of the Heryos.
“How long did you speak to him, mother, to know all of this after so long apart?”
She scoffed. “A spirit walker knows the paths of the spirits.” She sniffed. “And a mother knows her son.”
“But how is it that you know so much about the Heryos?”
“The Mother has told me.”
“How does she know about the Heryos?”
Zani gave her a look scornful enough to wilt fresh herbs and Sif bowed her head. Of course the goddess would know everything that could be known.
“What about me?” Sif asked. “What is my path?”
Zani narrowed her eyes and bored her gaze into her. “Why? What is it that you intend, girl?”
“They wanted me to submit to Alef,” she said, taking a breath. “And Satara wanted me to submit to him.”
Contempt pouring from her, Zani scowled. “You could never join with those weaklings and even to consider it is pathetic, you foolish girl. Do not tell me you would abase yourself beneath those worms, not with your lineage, child, not while I yet breathe and not after I have passed, either. Alef, by the Great Mother, what have the spirits done to your wits?”
“I never said I would submit to them,” Sif snapped. “I told you what the chief wanted and the others.”
“I care nothing what they want and neither should you. They know nothing, they are fools, they stagger through their years like children grubbing in the sand for clams.”
“You s
ay such things yet also you say we must serve our people.”
Zani held up a finger. “No! I say we serve the spirits, girl. That is what we are. We serve the Mother and we serve the sacred and the eternal. Only through such submission do we serve our people.” She shrugged and softened her tone. “And through submission to a worthy man.”
“I know all that,” Sif replied. “I do serve the spirits and I do serve the Mother.”
Taking her pointed finger, Zani jabbed Sif in the ribs, making her wince and squirm. Zani had a finger like a bone needle. “And what man will you dedicate yourself to, girl?”
“Stop it,” Sif said, slapping her hand away. “You just said there is no man worthy. If not Alef or Satara then there is none worthy in our tribe.”
“Aha,” Zani said, triumphant and grinning maniacally. “So you do know.”
“Know what?”
Zani chuckled. “The spirits have spoken to you and you have heard them.”
“Heard what? What have I heard?”
Zani reached out and pinched her flank just over her hip and Sif slapped it away again. “You will have to start eating like a woman if you wish to carry his child. You will need your strength or the spirits will not bless you, that much I know.”
“Whose child?” Sif said, her hands ready to defend herself this time.
Zani merely chuckled and pushed herself to her feet. “Come with me, witless child.”
Her spine cracked and the muscles of her back ached as she stood and followed her mother out into the sunlit day. The mature trees came right up to the edges of the village, the branches overhanging the roofs of the house, and she knew she was in a special place separate from the rest of the world. Acolytes worked here and there or walked by with their arms full.
“I slept late,” Sif said, surprised by the height of the sun.
“You needed rest, girl. Besides, old Is’ta dosed you with enough all-heal root to kill a stag in rut. I’m surprised you woke up at all.”
Sif’s retort died in her throat as a group of male initiates went by with tall spears in their hands and she watched them as they passed and they watched her, some of them looking at her body with lust as they passed, and her mother raised her eyebrows.