Foxmask (11 page)

Brightwater bell tolls
Which does it mark
the birth of a child
the sighting of whales
or the coming of strangers?

M
ONK'S MARGIN NOTE

T
here was a bell ringing somewhere, its note dull and regular. There were men coming down from the settlement. Creidhe could hear their voices. She could tell from Thorvald's face that he had one of his headaches; nothing else could give him that sickly pallor, that grim tightness of jaw. Beyond that, everything was starting to blur. She was managing to walk, her feet seemed to keep going, but her legs were half numb and she couldn't stop shivering. In the teeth of death, cold and hunger had been forgotten for a while. Now she knew a chill like winter's harshest frost, deep in the marrow; her clothing was soaked through, and although she walked on solid ground, her head reeled and her belly churned with nausea. Sam was grasping her by the arm, helping her to keep going, and Thorvald, face white as chalk, was walking forward with commendable steadiness as the reception party of three men came down the path toward them.

“Good day to you.” Thorvald's voice was firm; evidently his teeth were not chattering uncontrollably as hers seemed to insist on doing. “I hope you can help us. As you see, we are cast ashore here and our boat is damaged. We seek food, water, shelter. Can you help?”

The three men had halted in a line across the path. They took no notice of Thorvald; each of them had his eyes fixed intently on Creidhe. They said nothing. Through the haze of dizziness, Creidhe observed that they wore thick clothing of dark-dyed wool and boots of sheepskin. There was a certain hardness of countenance common to the three of them, two young, one older, perhaps their leader. There was no telling what race they were, nor what tongue might be spoken here. The oldest man had gray hair and was clean-shaven; the others were fair and bearded. How they stared; did she really present such a spectacle, disheveled and sick as she was? One might expect such folk to be surprised at the unexpected arrival: shocked, even. But this silent scrutiny went beyond that; she felt she was being examined, somehow measured, and she did not like it. One man had front teeth missing, and one a torn ear. Each man bore scars on his right cheek: neatly incised parallel lines, four or five of them. No aftermath of combat, these, but ritual markings. Two carried spears; all three wore knives. If Thorvald and Sam had brought weapons, they were still on the boat.

“I hope you can help us,” Thorvald said again, more slowly. He spread out his hands, palms open. “We mean you no harm. There are just the three of us, my friend here,” nodding at Sam, “and—the girl. As you see, she is sick and cold, and my friend has an injury to his head. Can you offer a night's shelter?”

Now the eyes of the three men turned to take in tall, blond Sam, who stood stolid under their searching gaze, and then moved back to the shivering Creidhe who leaned on his arm. She felt the force of that stare through all her misery, felt it like a blade scraping away her surface to lay bare what was within. They could hardly have been impressed; she was aware of how bedraggled she must appear. Their eyes traveled over her once more, assessing, calculating; it seemed to her they made some decision with not a word spoken. The silence became uncomfortable. Sam shuffled his feet.

“They can't understand you,” he hissed to Thorvald. “Use signs. Sleep, eat, you know. Keep it simple.”

“My name is Einar.” It seemed that, after all, they did understand; the older man spoke now in a barely accented form of the Norse tongue. His eyes were deep-set, their expression guarded. “The woman,” he went on, gazing at Thorvald. “Your wife? Your sister?”

Thorvald blinked; perhaps the answer to this had been ready, but it evaded him now.

“Our friend and kinswoman,” Sam put in. “Under our protection. We want to mend the boat and sail back home. That's all. Got blown off course, heavy storm to the southeast.”

“You have wood for this mending?” one of the younger men asked bluntly.

“Perhaps you didn't understand,” Thorvald said. “The young lady needs rest and dry clothes—”

It was at that moment Creidhe felt the world spinning before her eyes, and for a while darkness overtook her. She awoke to find herself naked under woolen blankets, which was somewhat alarming, though it was blissful beyond description to be dry and warm. She lay still, aware of the aches and pains in her hands, her arms, her back; the stint at the
Sea Dove
's steering oar had punished her body sorely. By all the ancestors, if she hurt this much, how must the others be feeling after rowing all that way? Creidhe rolled over cautiously, opening her eyes. She was lying on a rough pallet; whatever filled the mattress, it did not make the softest of beds. Above her were the low roof supports of a cottage or hut, poles of driftwood holding up a latticework of withies overlaid by turf. The place was dark. She turned her head. This was a small sleeping chamber; there were several bed spaces crudely marked off by slabs of stone, but the only occupant other than herself was an old woman sitting on a high stool by the cloth-hung doorway, plying distaff and spindle by the light of a simple seal-oil lamp, no more than a shallow bowl with a floating wick. The lamp's glow accentuated the crone's deep wrinkles, her gnarled hands steady at their work, her dark hooded eyes. Creidhe cleared her throat.

“Excuse me—where are my clothes?”

The woman turned toward her; her hands did not halt the movement of the spindle, the twist of the wool. Her expression was blank, uncomprehending.

“Clothes,” Creidhe repeated, sitting up carefully with the blankets clutched across her chest. “Tunic, trousers, shoes? My things?” She tried to illustrate what she meant with one hand, while gripping the blankets with the other.

The spindle twirled slowly down. The old woman jerked her head toward the foot of the bed, then looked away.

“Oh,” said Creidhe, somewhat disconcerted. There was a little heap of clothing there, certainly, but it was not her own, neither the old ones of Thorvald's she'd been wearing nor the others she had carried in her bag. Indeed, her bag was nowhere to be seen; as far as she knew, it was still tucked into a dark corner under the decking of the
Sea Dove
. A shiver ran through her. “I need my bag! Where are my things?”

There was no reaction at all. Very well, she'd have to scramble into these garments, whatever they were, and go out there in search of her belongings. There was no way she'd let these dour individuals get their hands on the Journey.

Abandoning the attempt at modesty, Creidhe got up and dressed herself, aware of the biting cold raising goosepimples on her exposed flesh, and conscious of the old woman's sunken eyes scrutinizing every move. You'd think they'd never seen a girl before, the way they looked at her. Well, it was a different land; one must allow for different customs, different manners. There was a shift here, and a gown of coarse gray cloth, not elegant but warm at least, and a thick woolen shawl. The sheepskin boots were too big, but they would have to serve for now.

“Comb?” she inquired without much confidence, running her hands over the damp, salty tangle of her hair. The ribbon that had held the single, thick braid in place was gone in the storm; only a thorough washing with soap, followed by lengthy, painful combing could restore her hair to its usual well-kept state. One might as well go about with a haystack on one's head. “Wash? Soap?”

The old woman grunted disapprovingly and jerked her head again. This was becoming irritating. There was a length of gray cloth on the bed, finer and softer than the gown's fabric. At Creidhe's blank look, the crone ceased her spinning and gestured, making it clear what was intended.
Take, wrap, cover your hair
. She was frowning; it was not possible to tell why.

“Comb?” Creidhe mimicked the action, doing her best to look polite and friendly. “Please?”

The old woman glared. She spat out a single incomprehensible word with such intensity that Creidhe flinched. Very well; she had a comb in her bag, if indeed her bag had not been washed into the sea in those last days of storm. She hoped very much that it had not, for to lose the Journey would be a cruel thing indeed.

“I'm going out,” Creidhe said as calmly as she could. “I need my bag, and I want to see my friends. Thank you for—” She could not decide how to finish this. For guarding me? She stepped over to the doorway, but the woman was there before her, alarmingly quick for one so old, her arms stretched out to bar the way.

“I want to go out.” Creidhe's heart was pounding. “My friends, I need to speak to them.”

The crone shook her head, making the same gesture as before:
Wrap
your hair
. Of course, thought Creidhe, she could simply push her way past, but something in the dark, beady eyes made it clear that would not be a wise move. She had not forgotten those men with their assessing gaze and their spears. Creidhe retreated to the pallet, took the cloth, wrapped it around her head loosely. Was it really only days since she had worn her best blue linen with the border of silver braid, and danced at a wedding with silk ribbons in her hair?

“May I go now?” she asked quietly, doing her best to look demure and contrite, though a slow anger was building in her.

The crone did not reply, but gripped Creidhe's arms, turning her around. The old hands, hard as tree roots, shoved her hair up under the scarf, every bright thread out of sight, and fastened it in place with alarming bone pins drawn from the depths of a pocket. In the front, the scarf was tugged down, and stray wisps of hair pushed back under it. Creidhe stood silent, a flush of indignation rising to her cheeks. The words were on her lips,
Do you know whose daughter I am?
but this was a far island, a wild place of the utmost margins. Here they had never heard of the brave and noble warrior Eyvind who had made peace in the Light Isles, nor the wise and lovely Nessa who had sustained the hopes and identity of her people through the darkest time. To these folk, Creidhe and her companions were just travelers washed up in the wrong place: a nuisance. She must be grateful for what help was offered them. She was warm and dry, and had slept a little. And now the ancient one stepped aside from the doorway and let her out.

Creidhe crossed a small yard where scrawny chickens were foraging in the mud and, following the sound of voices, entered a larger hut. Men were gathered around a central hearth. Thorvald and Sam were eating. At least, Sam had a mutton bone in his hand, and his mouth full; there was a platter on the bench by Thorvald, but Creidhe saw from the way he looked, pallid, distant, that he still fought the crippling headache, and would be unable to contemplate food. She had learned to read him very well over the years since childhood. By now he would be near blinded by the pain but doing his best not to show any weakness in front of the small group of island men who had gathered to share this evening meal and take a look at the strangers suddenly arrived in their midst. And there was another thing; she'd thought of it when those three met them on the pathway from the shore. From now on, Thorvald would not be able to look at a man of middle years without thinking,
Are you my father? Are you Somerled?
By all the ancestors, this would be a tortured journey indeed if he insisted on their silence and maintained his own until he was quite sure. But that was Thorvald's way; he had never sought the straight and easy path.

On the crude hearth burned a small fire fueled by animal dung. Creidhe walked across to stand by it, deciding she would not be intimidated by the wild look of the folk gathered here, nor the fact that there was not a single woman among them. Perhaps this was merely a gathering place for fishermen; their real settlements were probably farther away, in more hospitable parts of the islands, hidden valleys, rolling grasslands like those of the Light Isles. She shivered, remembering the sheer cliffs, the pounding waves, the high, steep peaks they had seen from the
Sea Dove
. These men's closed faces, their guarded eyes, told of a life of struggle, an existence carved out in the face of the elements. All of a sudden, home seemed a very long way away. Maybe she was just a little frightened. This would not do at all; she was here to help Thorvald, not hold him back.

“Good evening.” She made her tone courteous and confident as she spread out her hands to warm them at the fire. “Thank you for providing us with shelter.”

There was a silence, as if she had said something either quite astonishing or entirely inappropriate. Then one man turned to Thorvald and muttered something about food and drink.

“You want something to eat, Creidhe?” Thorvald asked in the constrained voice the headache imposed on him.

Creidhe stared at the man who had spoken. “Thank you,” she said. “A small amount only. I've been ill.” Indeed, she felt the weakness in her legs, the dizziness in her head now.

“Here,” said Sam, moving along the bench to make room for her. “Sit down, you look washed out.” He glanced at the scarf wrapped around her head, but made no comment.

“Thank you.” She sat; the young man on the other side edged away like a nervous animal, and the one standing behind moved too, as if she would pass some malady on to them. Perhaps she smelled bad; lacking water for washing, there wasn't much to be done about that. Every man in the chamber was watching her; that strange expression was on all their faces, as if the smallest move she made were of intense interest to them. The older man, Einar, had ladled some meat from a stew pot into a bowl; he did not pass it to Creidhe, but gave it to Thorvald with a roll of the eyes in her direction.

“Here,” Thorvald said, putting it in her hands. His eyes defied her to mention the headache. She held her tongue. The stew was gray and beaded with fat, and there was nothing by way of a spoon, not even a hunk of bread to scoop with. Still they watched her.