Foxmask (18 page)

Then Jofrid screamed, and pushed, and briefly they all worked together, and the child's tiny head appeared, crowned with sticky, dark hair, the little face blue-white. Creidhe's heart lurched.

“Stop pushing!” she snapped.

“Cord's around its neck,” Frida observed flatly, peering close, touching a grimy finger to the small, closed features. “Wee bairn's stone dead.”

In the background the steady flow of words went on, a plea for mercy, a deathbed lament, who could tell?

“Don't say that! Don't touch him!” Creidhe felt her face flush, the tears welling in her eyes, and she felt the surge of utter rage. “Helga, make sure she doesn't push, it's vital. Jofrid, this might hurt a bit. Keep as still as you can. You've been very brave; just hold on a little longer.”

It must be done very quickly, before the next spasm seized Jofrid's belly and sent the infant's body violently forth, strangling him with the very cord that had nourished him, robbing him of life in the moment of birth. A pox on Frida. The infant was not dead; Creidhe would not allow it.

She sent up a silent prayer to whatever spirits might be prepared to aid her. Her hands steady, she placed one palm beneath the tiny skull for support, feeling the fragility, the tenuous mortality, and slipped her hand within the folds of Jofrid's body, searching for the cord, easing a finger beneath. Jofrid screamed, a shrill, animal noise of pain and fright.

“Don't push,” Helga said, her voice shaking. “Breathe slowly, Jofrid. You mustn't push.”

Quick now, one finger, two between cord and small neck, holding firm against the slippery coating of mucus and blood, ah, she had it now; and as Jofrid gasped and Helga soothed her with trembling voice, Creidhe slipped the cord over the child's head and freed him.

“Aaagh!” Jofrid expelled the air in her lungs in a shuddering rush, and with one last, groaning effort, the child was born. He lay, limp and blue, in Creidhe's hands.

“I told you,” Frida said.

“Stop it!” This time, astonishingly, it was Gudrun who spoke. “Hush your voice!”

They stood for a long moment, looking down on the newborn: a boy, small, perfect, utterly still.

“Where—?” Jofrid whispered. “Give—?”

Creidhe's cheeks were wet. She could not speak. This was no good; there was work yet to be done.

“Give him to me,” Helga said. She took the child; he hung from her hands, limp and unresponsive as a fish on the chopping block. Helga opened his mouth and stuck in her finger, clearing away the debris of birth.

“Pointless,” Frida muttered, but nobody was listening: all eyes were on the infant. Even the wind had stilled beyond the cottage walls.

Helga took hold of the tiny ankles and swung the boy upside down. The young man, Colm, sucked in his breath. This practice was common enough, to clear the lungs and start things right; but what youth of sixteen was ever witness to such women's business? Again Helga swung the infant, and a third time; there was no sign of life.

“Cursed,” Frida mumbled, and at that moment the small mouth stretched to reveal gums already turning from deathly blue to violet to pink, and a mewling cry cut across the lamplit chamber, a gasping, hiccupping proclamation of presence. Jofrid burst into noisy tears.

“Good,” Creidhe said, sniffing. “Wrap him warmly, he's very small. You did well, all of you.”

Sheer relief blotted out other things for a while. She supervised the delivery of the afterbirth, the washing, the changing of linen. She kept an eye on the child, now snuggled close to his mother and mumbling weakly against the breast; he would feed well in time, he was a little fighter. She made Jofrid drink some warm milk. She wondered, through a miasma of weariness, why Jofrid had not stopped crying; why Gudrun could not summon so much as a small attempt at a smile; why Helga, now busy cutting bread and cheese and pouring watery ale, still glanced nervously at door and windows every time a gust shook them. The wind was rising again. But it was all right now. Whether it was Breccan's prayers, or Creidhe's own skills, or the fact that, in the end, they had all worked together, the child was safely born and the threat was over.

She became aware that she was too tired to go on, and, since all was tidied to her satisfaction, she sat down at the table, food and drink in front of her. The others stood or sat around the room. Why were they so quiet? On the pallet Jofrid still sobbed softly, the tiny child held close against her. Gudrun sat by her side, stone-faced. On the other side Frida made a pair. With
such grim guardians, Creidhe thought wryly, perhaps any woman would be reduced to tears. Helga was cutting the last of the bread. The knife shook in her hand. Breccan and the boy seemed calm; they were eating with enthusiasm. Creidhe suspected these plainest of viands were a feast for them. The other one, Brother Niall, had partaken of neither food nor drink. He had hardly moved from his place in the shadows this whole time.

Creidhe was too tired to eat. Indeed, she could not help folding her arms on the table and laying her head down on them, just for a moment . . . She would get up soon and let Helga rest. . . .

It was quick: oh, so quick. A sudden shift in the wind, a sudden change in its voice; above its howling, the shouting of men outside, not words of bold challenge but cries of fear. The lamps flickered and went out, every one, plunging the room into darkness save for the small, struggling glow of the fire. Cold terror clutched at Creidhe's heart, and she half rose to her feet, not knowing what this was, what she could do, but seeing in the strange, half-lit eyes of the others not shock, not fear, but a terrible fatalism: an acceptance of the dark inevitable.

“What is it?” she whispered, but nobody answered. Brother Breccan was praying again, voice less steady than before, and, breathlessly, young Colm joined in, the two speaking the words together, not Latin this time but an older tongue,
Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison
. . .

The voices came. They were here, inside this hut, though door and shutters had held fast against the fierce onslaught of the wind. Such forces find their own way; they require no admittance. It was a cry, a song, an awesome, terrible music that played inside the head, ringing its harsh tunes on the very bones of the skull, vibrating in the ears, wresting sound from nose and mouth, pulsing in the very breath, wrenching its wild anthem from every corner of the listener's body, as if it would suck out the life force to feed it. It thrummed in the blood, it throbbed in the veins, it raced in the heart. Creidhe squeezed her eyes shut, though there was indeed nothing to be seen. She put her hands over her ears, but the song was still there, ripping at her spirit, shredding her will, seeking to steal away her very identity. She took a shuddering breath, held it a moment, let it out. One could not be the child of such parents as hers without learning courage.
Kyrie eleison . . . Christe eleison
. . .

“Begone!” Creidhe stood, hands still clutched over her ears, eyes open now on the darkness as her breath faltered, then steadied again. “By all the ancestors, by all that is good, begone from this place!” To expect obedience to such a command was foolish; she was no wise woman. Still, one owed it to
one's upbringing, to the love and wisdom of one's mother and father, at least to try.

The terrible sound ebbed and flowed, as if a malevolent force circled the darkened chamber. Creidhe thought there was a kind of laughter in it, a bitter, sorry laughter, and a lament of utter desolation, and a taunting, mocking cry, all at the same time. Around the room it traveled, once, twice, three times, and in a last, eldritch scream of shattering intensity, it seemed to whirl into the fire, up through the smoke hole and away. The fire sputtered and died; the darkness was complete.

For long moments nobody spoke. Even Jofrid was silent now. Then there was movement, and a little flicker: someone putting a taper to the smoldering embers that lay beneath the ashes. A lamp was lit. The light touched Brother Niall's white hair as he walked about the chamber, bringing fire to each small bowl of seal oil. His features were impassive.

Creidhe was cold. She was colder than she'd ever been, even crouched wet and wretched under the
Sea Dove
's decking after an endless day of voyaging. They were looking at Jofrid, all of them. Jofrid was not crying anymore. She sat on the bed, her face an ashen mask, her eyes empty. The babe lay on her lap, still warmly snuggled in his fine wool blanket. Nobody said anything.

They were the longest five steps Creidhe had ever walked: across to Jofrid's bed. She made herself look down. The boy lay still, small mouth no longer eager for milk; vague, infant eyes no longer searching to discern light and shadow; tiny, flower-like hands motionless now, paler than the linen on which they lay open. She did not need to check further to know that he was dead.

After that, all was confusion for a while. Creidhe did not weep. Indeed, she could not tell if what she felt was grief or fury or merely a cold recognition of failure. Her whole day's work, her whole night's effort had been futile from the start. There was hurt, most certainly. Whatever fell power had wrought this, why had it let her save the boy first, why grant her that small triumph only to snatch it away? No wonder Jofrid had not wanted the child born. They had merely waited, then taken him.

She sat, head in hands, and let the others do what must be done. Jofrid was conveyed to her own cottage, Helga by her side. Frida disappeared. Men came in, spoke with Gudrun and left, taking the hermits with them: even priests had to sleep. Creidhe was aware of Gudrun moving about, stacking platters, removing the straw that had been laid about the pallet, taking things
away. It was late; she should retire to bed, or it would be morning. She did not seem to be able to move. Gudrun had gone through to the northern end of the cottage, where her best stock was lodged for the winter; a sound of lowing, a clanking of buckets suggested she might be there a while. Creidhe felt the weight of weariness, the longing for home settle on her. By all the gods, how had she managed to get everything so wrong? She had been so sure she could help them. There was evil sorcery here, horrors beyond her worst nightmares.
Come back
, something cried within her, a voice she could not silence, though it shamed her.
Oh, please come back soon. I want to go home
.

“It is difficult.”

Creidhe started; she had believed herself alone, but it seemed Brother Niall had not left with the others. He stood now, grave in expression, facing her across the table.

“You weep; or would do, if you had the strength left. It is not so much the death of this child that grieves you, as your own failure to prevent it. That can be the hardest lesson in the world, to stand back and let the inevitable play itself out. To watch while others bungle the task you know you can do for them, and do perfectly. It is a lesson long in the learning. For some, it seems impossible not to act, not to strive. One sees what is right, what must be; how can one not attempt to make it so? And yet, in such a case as this, the action only makes things worse. A conundrum.”

Creidhe felt anger awaken once more. “I suppose you're going to tell me it's the will of God that child died and I should just accept it?” she challenged, and saw the corner of his mouth twitch, as if he found her amusing. “How dare you? What god could will it that Jofrid should lose all three of her children? What god decides a little boy's life should be snatched away almost before he has the chance to draw breath? Why would I be allowed to save him, and then—” Her words trailed away.

“As I said”—there was no judgment in Niall's voice—“it is your own pride that is damaged most here; you thought you could be a hero, could do what all these folk knew was impossible, and you failed. Now you really are crying. I suspect they tried to warn you, and you wouldn't listen.”

The tears came more quickly now; she rummaged for a handkerchief, sniffing. “They never told me; not what would happen. What was that, anyway? That wind, those voices?” Beneath her distress Creidhe felt a surge of gratitude; harsh he might be, but at least he was talking to her and making sense.

“Their enemy has been sorely wounded and strikes back in the only way
he knows,” Niall said, seating himself opposite her and folding his hands together on the stone table. “Asgrim's folk have never understood what it means to live here, an old place, a wild place. One does not disturb such a realm and walk away unscathed. On the surface the Unspoken seem much as we are; ordinary men and women. They speak our language; outwardly, they resemble us. But they are not the same. The first of our own race to journey here found an older people already in the islands, a people steeped in magic and possessed of powers beyond those known to our kind. The Unspoken come from a union of these two races. Unchecked, they are dangerous indeed. We do not know how they achieve this, the singing of charms so terrible they snatch the very breath from the body. We have not discovered how this uncanny music can reach us here on the Isle of Storms when the singers dwell across the water in the south, setting foot on our shore but rarely. All I know is that this is magic gone awry, a great power misused for lack of proper controls, for want of suitable guidance. The Unspoken have not always warred with Asgrim's tribe. The Long Knife people made an error, and now they pay for it with the lives of their newborn.”

“An error?” Creidhe was both repelled and fascinated. The hermit's voice had remained measured and calm; he seemed unaffected by the strange visitation and might just as well have been discussing the weather.

“Indeed. By a quirk of fate, something was stolen: an item of great value to the Unspoken. Until it is returned or replaced, these voices will be heard at each childbed, and the Long Knife people will be bound to the hunt. In the first they lose their future; each time the second runs its course, their tenuous grip on these islands loosens, for the hunt greatly depletes their numbers. A misguided people; their Ruler serves them poorly.”