Foxmask (39 page)

Keeper was back, somber-faced. He had something in his hand.

“Small shoes,” he said, coming to kneel by Creidhe and setting them on the ground. “Right for you, I think; you have little feet, little hands. Please wear them. A gift.”

She saw the way his fingers moved on the soft leather of the boots, most certainly a girl's boots, for they were indeed small and delicately made, the seams neat and strong, the skin supple and well kept. His hands seemed reluctant to let these go; they were precious to him.

“Are you sure?”

“Please. A gift. Tomorrow, if you are well, I will take you, show you, so you can understand that you are safe here with us. For that, you will need shoes. Try them.”

She slipped her feet in; the boots were a good fit, not as perfect as the other garments, for these had been made for a different girl, but certainly comfortable enough for walking. Creidhe began to think very hard indeed, to turn several possibilities over in her mind and reassemble them in an entirely different way.

“Thank you for the gift,” she said, brushing Keeper's hand with her own. She regretted that instantly; he started like a frightened animal, and she felt her own heart do a strange kind of somersault. “These are lovely. I'll be proud to wear them. You are generous with your gifts; I have none in return.”

He had moved to put the safe distance of the fire pit between them; he busied himself awhile with the fish, with laying on turf, with pouring water into a bowl for Small One. “You could . . .” he began, hesitant. “You could give . . . I should not ask . . .”

“You'd better go ahead,” Creidhe said dryly, imagining just what a young man in his situation might expect of a girl who had no worldly goods with which to pay for her supper, and knowing that was the very last thing Keeper was likely to ask her for.

“The web,” he said, “the story . . . He likes a story at bedtime. If we could look again . . .”

Once more his simplicity robbed her of words. She gazed at him across the fire, and he looked back at her, very solemn.

“It is too much to ask,” he said. “This is a magical thing you make, and secret. But we have seen our island in this story. To look again would be . . .”

“After supper then,” Creidhe said quietly. “A bedtime story is not such a bad idea.” She looked down at the little boots, scarcely worn. A child's boots, almost; lucky she had such small feet.

“You are crying again,” Keeper said in consternation. “Don't, please—”

“It's all right, it's nothing—” Creidhe tried to brush the sudden tears away, tried to halt their flow, but she could not; it was only now, seeing the shoes, so small, so lovingly preserved, that the reality of what had almost happened to her entered her heart in all its terror. “Oh gods, oh, I'm sorry—” She put her hands over her face.

She heard him come back around toward her, heard the rustle of the feathers on his garments, the soft touch of his feet on the earth. But it was Small One who reached her first, scrambling onto her lap, all hard little dogpaws and thrashing, hairy tail, and Small One's cold tongue she felt against her cheek, licking away the tears. Creidhe could not tell if she was laughing or crying, or both. Keeper sat down beside her, his thin features pale with concern, his deep eyes shadowed with anxiety. He lifted a long hand toward her face, but would not touch; his fingers hovered by her cheek, curving as if in echo of its shape. Creidhe's breath caught in her throat. The urge to put her own hand over his was strong; she had been a long time without gentleness. But she would not be so foolish. Without quite understanding why, she sensed she had the power to wreak havoc here, that this strong young man was a great deal more vulnerable than she was, even if it was she who was weeping now.

Small One helped by getting in the way; he had put his front paws on her shoulders and was washing her face thoroughly. The moment of danger was over.

“I'm all right,” Creidhe said, rising to her feet and setting Small One down by her skirts. “I'm sorry; I'm not usually a crying sort of girl. It was the shoes. You've been so kind to me; I think that was what started it off.”

“My fault?” Keeper had backed away a couple of steps: still too close for comfort. “I have upset you?”

“No, Keeper,” she said, drawing a deep breath. “Your kindness reminded me of home. That's why I was upset.”

“The priestess of the creatures? The man with a mark on his arm?”

“Yes. But they are far away, and I know I cannot reach them; there's no point in weeping over it. Perhaps we should rescue the fish; it must be suppertime.”

“There is a man with a mark on his arm in these islands,” Keeper said, watching her. “I knew him once, long ago.”

“Yes. I know.”

“You have met him?”

She nodded. “He is my friend's father. Thorvald's father. The scar revealed that: it is a mark of blood brotherhood. My own father bears its twin.
After I saw it, I knew who Brother Niall was; the way he spoke made it still clearer, though he never put the truth into plain words. But Thorvald doesn't know, not yet. He went away with Asgrim. Everything went wrong. Our whole voyage, you understand, the whole venture was for that purpose, so that Thorvald could find his father. Thorvald wanted this kept secret. After what has happened, I see no more point in secrets.”

“A kind man,” Keeper said quietly. “A lonely man. His whole world will change when he knows he has a son.” There was a terrible sorrow in his voice.

“Yes,” she said. “There could be great hurt in it, and great joy, I think. But they need me, and I am not there to help them.”

“No,” said Keeper. “You are here. Is this why you weep, because the Fool's Tide brought you to my island, and took you from your friend?”

Creidhe looked at him; the ancestors only knew what he could read in her eyes. “No,” she whispered, then cleared her throat. “Now,” she added in a good attempt at a normal tone, “I think we should eat that fish before it's spoiled. I could cook tomorrow, if you like. They say I'm quite good at it, given the right ingredients.”

Later, when the frugal meal was over and the three of them sat in the quiet of the summer half-night, Creidhe took out the Journey and spread it flat on the rocks by the fire. There was space, still, on the strip of linen for more work; the intricate pattern could grow and develop yet awhile. But the fabric would not roll on forever; the colored wools would come each to the end of its length, in time. There would be no such materials on the Isle of Clouds.

Creidhe looked across at Keeper, who sat on the ground by Small One, long legs crossed, his hands busy once more on the corded pattern of the knife hilt.

“It's ready,” she said. “And he looks tired.”

“You tell.” Keeper's voice was low. “Please.”

“Oh. But I'm not sure—”

“You tell as you wish. Many stories here.”

“Yes, there are,” Creidhe agreed, her fingers touching the small depiction of a man with a scarred arm, and thinking of another whose brand was twin to this. It had begun with those two, all of it: Eyvind and Somerled. When those small boys had taken a knife to their arms and made a vow of lifelong loyalty, who would have thought it might at length have led here, to the islands at the end of the ocean, where Eyvind's daughter had drifted in the
arms of the Fool's Tide, and Somerled's son still walked on into danger, blind to the truth she had discovered?

“Once upon a time,” Creidhe said, “there was a boy called Eyvind, who had always wanted to be a warrior. Not any old warrior, you understand, but a very particular kind . . .”

Not all of what she told was in the Journey, at least, not precisely and exactly. On the other hand, all of its essence was there: the look in her father's eyes, the wolf pelt she had shown on his broad shoulders, the two hounds that stood by him like guardians. The scar. At a certain point, Small One came up to her, more cautious than he had been when she wept, and climbed onto her knee where he settled, apparently intent on the images of the Journey as Creidhe touched one small part or another, and told the tale behind it. Later, she was aware that Keeper had set aside his work and moved in silence to sit at her feet, knees drawn up, arms around them, like a child. He, too, watched the images on the cloth as if they were alive. He was very still, and very close; if she had reached out a hand she could have touched his hair, hair dark as a crow's wing, matted and wild. There was a feather in it, shining green-blue, and a strand of dried weed.

The tale was close to its end. “That was how Eyvind became the greatest Wolfskin that ever was,” Creidhe said softly, “and learned that it was his destiny to be something quite different. In the Light Isles he learned that love, not war, is the heart and essence of a life well lived.” She was getting a very strange feeling; while her eyes told her the small presence on her knee still had a pointed muzzle, and doglike ears, and a hairy gray coat, what she could feel there in her lap was the form, the shape, the weight of a child, leaning relaxed against her, its head touching her breast, its legs dangling across her thigh. Even so, on countless evenings by lamplight, had her own small sister Ingigerd snuggled against her, listening to tales of bravery and magic. Creidhe caught her breath in astonishment. Could she believe what her hands touched, what her senses told her? It was impossible; logic said so, and yet her heart recognized the truth of it, a truth that was deeper than human understanding.

“So,” Keeper said, his voice oddly constrained, “the scar he bore was not merely a promise, but a mark of love.”

Creidhe had closed her eyes; she moved a hand cautiously to touch the small person who sat on her knee. Her fingers moved over a child's delicate neck, a neat, round skull, a mat of tangled hair that had evidently seen a comb no more often than Keeper's. She stroked the disheveled locks as gently as she could; she had felt the shock run through this frail being when she moved.

“Yes,” she said, “it was a mark of love, though neither knew it at the time. It bound them together always. It links them now, across the span of oceans, across the arch of years. The past follows us; we bear it in our bones, in our blood.” The child sighed, turning its head into her breast; she sensed it had put its thumb in its mouth and closed its eyes. One small hand had reached to grasp a fold of her shirt. Small One curled against her, drifting into sleep. Creidhe did not open her eyes. The wonder and terror of it gripped her: a sad, sad story, a terrible path for the two of them. “He must be six years old now,” she said quietly, “or nearly that.”

“One year, almost, when I took him.” Keeper's voice was so soft now, she could barely hear him, for all he sat so close. “Five times we have endured the hunt.”

Ingigerd was six. Ingigerd could hem a cloth and milk a goat and do up her own shoes. Ingigerd could run and swim and collect the eggs in a basket.

“He seems—very fragile, and easily frightened,” Creidhe ventured.

Keeper was silent. Possibly her words had sounded like criticism.

“Why doesn't he show himself?” she asked. “Even now, I can't see him—” She opened her eyes, looking down. “Oh,” she said, and heard the shaking of her own voice. Here on the Isle of Clouds, the impossible had indeed become reality.

“To be hunted is to be afraid.” Keeper stood up, moved away.

“I-I'm sorry,” Creidhe stammered, seeing the way his mouth had tightened. “I know I cannot even begin to understand how it is for you here, how difficult the life is, how hard it must be for you to keep him safe and well. It is a harsh place, and lonely. What about the other tribe? Do they help you?”

Keeper regarded her in silence. He stood in shadow, a tall, remote figure; long, pale face like a mask, with dark smudges for eyes. The feathers on his clothing stirred a little in the draft; all else about him was quite still. The child on her knee was asleep. His small form was clearly visible now, his limbs stick-thin, his face triangular and odd, but certainly human, his hair a miniature version of Keeper's wild locks. The clothing was the same, a motley construction of skins and feathers, though underneath, Creidhe could see the boy wore a garment of warm woolen stuff, tailored to his size as her own clothing was. His small shoes were fashioned from pieces of larger boots, sewn with strips of leather.

“He's a fine boy,” she said, managing a smile. “A lovely boy. I know you have looked after him well. I understand why he is—not like other children. Your sister's son?”

Keeper nodded, frowning. “You say the past follows us, that we bear it
with us. We are free of the past, Small One and I. We have our own names, our own place. Only one thing I carry forward: my promise to her, to keep him safe. The rest is set aside.” His hand moved to touch what he wore around his neck: a circle of plaited hair, old, faded. “One task I was given; that is my life now.”

Creidhe moved a hand to roll up the Journey; with the other she cradled the slight weight of the sleeping child. “I understand,” she said, “why you would not wish to acknowledge that you are Asgrim's son.”

“I am no man's son,” said Keeper. “And my brother is no man's son.” Something in his tone of voice was deeply chilling; Creidhe had not thought she could be afraid of him, but now she was not so sure. She wanted to ask,
What will happen when he grows up, what sort of future can there be for him here?
She was thinking again of Ingigerd, plump and healthy, bonny and clever, growing up amidst the lush pastures of the Light Isles, surrounded by love. Perhaps the only way to ask him was to put it in the Journey.

“This must be over some time,” was what she said. “The fighting, the voices, the hunt. Then maybe he will not be so frightened.”

“When all are dead, then it is over.” Keeper had an odd way with words: not, Creidhe thought, the speech of a man whose native tongue is other, but more the manner of one who has not been used to speaking much at all. She wondered, again, about the tribe who dwelt on the Isle of Clouds.