Foxmask (68 page)

“Creidhe!” She heard Sam's horrified shout, saw from the corner of her eye how two men of the tribe seized the fisherman before he could move toward her. Breccan looked across at her from where he tended to his fellow hermit, his eyes wide with shock.

“You can't do this, Creidhe,” he protested. “Perhaps you do not understand what will happen to you—”

“I understand,” she said flatly.

The elder had put down the foul implement he held; it lay on a smaller stone with others whose uses she did not want to guess—a long, serrated knife of pale metal; a heavy, short club; skewers of bone. He took two steps toward her and stared deep into her eyes. His long fingers came up to touch her bright hair, lingering over the silken strands; with his other hand he stroked her neck, where the pearly skin was exposed by the opening of the tunic Keeper had made for her. Somewhere behind her Sam snarled in helpless fury. Skapti took a step forward, his face like a thundercloud, and was halted by Thorvald's raised hand.

Another voice spoke, a voice rasping with pain, yet held in the tightest control.

“Creidhe . . .” Niall gasped, “not this way . . . I . . . I alone . . .”

“Hush.” It was Thorvald speaking, Thorvald's voice as she had ever longed to hear it, tender and open. That tone was not for her, but for his father. “Hush, now. All will be well. Brother—?” Thorvald turned to Breccan, and the Ulsterman took his place, supporting the wounded man. Creidhe held the elder's gaze; she could not yet look across to see what damage had already been done, but at least Niall still lived and was conscious. Perhaps, between them, the men might convey him to safety and healing. Perhaps there could be peace, and Thorvald would make something of his life.

“Do you accept this offer?” she asked the tall man calmly. “I am young and healthy. My mother bore five children safely. I and my sisters grew strong and well. Please let these men go unharmed. The war is over.”

There was silence: a silence like the moment when the tide changes and all hangs in the balance. She looked at Thorvald. Staring at her, he seemed stripped bare of any defenses. If the tribe accepted her offer, she could win him this peace; he had his father, and the future lay before him bright and new, vibrant with possibilities. His pathway had opened at last, clear and straight.

“Creidhe—” he began, and halted, as if his words choked him. Pride, and confusion, and deep sorrow could all be read in his eyes. “Creidhe . . .”

“It's all right, Thorvald.” She heard her own voice as a stranger's, small, cool and remote. “This is not your choice, it's mine.”

“No!” His voice was a harsh whisper, his hands clenched tight. “No . . .”

“Come,” said the elder, gesturing to the assembled folk, and two of the women walked forward to take Creidhe by the arms, apparently to march her away. Perhaps they would put her in a dark little hut, as they had Sula. Then, at night, the men would come. She registered the rank smell of the women's bodies, the rough, hard touch of their hands, the light in their eyes. For the tribe of the Unspoken, Creidhe was hope reborn.

“No!” Thorvald's tone had changed; this was a command. “No! You cannot take her.”

The women paused, holding Creidhe between them. She could see the path to the shore where the
Sea Dove
lay beached; sanctuary, escape. She would not think of that.

“Cannot?” the elder echoed. “You are four; we are many. We are not afraid to die, not for this. For this, we have waited many seasons.”

“You must not take her.” Thorvald stepped forward, facing the elder; his hand moved to his sword hilt. “There must be another way. Creidhe is . . .” He faltered, and a fierce flush came to his cheeks, sitting oddly with the authority of his manner. “She's mine,” he said simply. Creidhe stared at him. He was clever, there was no doubt of it; who else would have thought of using this argument, falsehood as it was? He was too clever for his own good.

The tall man glanced at the ritual stone where the Ulsterman sat by his fallen brother, wiping the blood from his sheet-white face. “One or the other,” he said. “You cannot take both. The gods are angry; you came where you do not belong, and made the ritual imperfect. But we will keep the man, if the woman is yours. The mother of Foxmask must come to us pure, untouched, unsullied. How else can we know her child is a true son of the tribe? If the sun and moon woman is your wife, then she cannot serve us. We will take this man she calls priest. He is brave: worthy. We must complete the ritual.”

“Then we will fight,” said Thorvald, drawing his sword, “and you will discover the power of four against many. I'll die before I let you touch either one of them again. Skapti?”

Beside him, Skapti's mouth stretched in a grin that sent folk scurrying backward; his grip on the spear shifted, and he changed all at once from a lumbering, lumpish giant to a thing of beauty, alive with the tense, quivering readiness of a stalking predator. Across the circle Sam wrestled with his captors, shouting; Breccan held Brother Niall in his arms and could not help, though his lips moved in prayer, and perhaps, when it came to it, that was his strongest weapon to aid them. Creidhe saw what was to come in a clear flash
of color, as if set down in neat, small stitches so the story would live on into a time when they themselves had faded from memory: a terrible, heroic stand, not four against many but, in truth, only two, Thorvald and Skapti back to back, fighting like wolves, like dragons, like battle heroes; Skapti and Thorvald falling in their blood while the others looked on helplessly; Thorvald hacked to death before their very eyes, Niall mutilated, the peace won at a cost beyond bearing. Wrong, all wrong: the ancestors were lying to her.

“No!” she screamed, wrenching away from the bony hands that restrained her. “No! This is not right, it can't be right, there has to be another way!” She stared wildly up into the sky, and a great cry came from deep in her belly, a shuddering wail of frustration and grief. Such a plea must surely be heard even by the gods themselves. It was a sound of primal pain. “Help us!” she screamed into the bright expanse above. Then she closed her eyes. The vibrant echo of her call hung in the air; around it, all was silent. No scrape of metal on metal, no footfall, no word now, no breath. Only the soughing of the wind, and the murmur of the sea.

And then, at last, the song. It crept to their ears like a sweet whisper of hope; it lodged in their heads like the voice of what was to come, bright with promise; it touched their hearts as a healing balm. The song fluted and chanted and tangled through the air, and birds fell silent before its loveliness. It was a little, simple thing; wordless, artless, yet its power was such that the folk of the Unspoken, every man and woman, sank to the ground, prostrate as if in the presence of a god. Sam, Thorvald, Skapti stood frozen. And Creidhe opened her eyes, gazing to the shoreward path.

A small, bedraggled figure stood there, legs and arms stick-thin; hair a tangled mess of dark strands dripping across his skinny shoulders. As she stared, transfixed, he shook himself as a dog does, and droplets flew all around him in a silvery spray. He came on, walking alone and steadily in his squelching wet shoes and his sodden, feathery garments, his delicate, triangular face pale and calm, his eyes like beacons, shining, confident and true. And still he sang, a chant sweet and wondrous and terrible in its power. As he came nearer, making a straight path between the assembled folk to the place where the elder lay by the stone in a posture of complete abasement, Small One's song changed, warming to a joy that filled the heart and brought tears to the eyes, and a smile transformed his features, a smile of such happiness it clutched at Creidhe's vitals. The child took two, three steps toward the ritual stone, and bent to raise the tall man gently to his knees, as if it were Small One who was the elder. Then the man, weeping, reached out, and Small One set his thin arms around the elder's neck and was enfolded in an embrace of
such tenderness one might have thought this was his own father. The long years of exile were over. Foxmask had come home.

Creidhe's heart was beating like a drum, her skin was clammy with sweat. The women had released her, prostrating themselves full length like the others. Now the folk of the Unspoken rose from the ground and moved in to cluster around the child and the man who held him in his arms. For a little, the intruders were quite forgotten. Creidhe elbowed her way to Breccan's side where he still sat supporting the white-haired man. There was a little space by them; Thorvald stood in a pose of readiness, sword in hand, and Skapti paced, brandishing the thrusting spear to ward off any who might venture too close. But none watched them now; every eye was on Foxmask, every ear tuned to the voice that still sang on, filling the air with the music of lives made fresh and paths once more true.

Creidhe bent close; it was the first clear sight she had had of the injured man. He was so ghost-white one might have thought him dead, save for the one dark, penetrating eye blazing stark with endurance. His tight mouth was framed by grooves of pain. He held himself quite silent. And where his left eye had been, there was a hideous, open wound, a gaping socket that welled with fresh blood and oozing gobbets of matter. Breccan's hands were shaking as he sought to stem the flow. To bind the wound would be futile without fresh linen or water or healing herbs.

Her father had spoken to her of Somerled's severe discipline, his astonishing self-control. This, however, went beyond anything she could have imagined. Niall could not quite regulate his breathing; still, he had not cried out, not once. Creidhe met that single eye, bright with pain, and said, “He'd be very proud of you. Will be, when I tell him. Not just for today, but for everything. You've kept your promise.”

She saw Niall's lips twitch in an attempt to acknowledge her words; he could not nod, would not speak, lest the effort cause him to scream aloud, or shed tears, or faint, and thus break what she suspected were terrible, self-imposed rules. Then his gaze went back to Thorvald, standing with weapon in hand, ready to defend to the death his father, his comrades, the oftignored companion of his childhood. There was such love in that look, Creidhe felt it even in her own numb and aching heart.

“We must get him to the boat and away to safety,” Breccan said. “I need bandages and salves, and herbs for the pain. Do you think they will let us go now?”

But Creidhe did not answer him, for at that moment the mob of folk surrounding the elder and the child parted, and the song died away in a scatter of
bright notes, and there was once again a deep, profound silence. She saw the elder set the child on the ground near the place where the implements of ritual were laid out in readiness. The stocky man with arms like tree limbs had taken up his ropes once more. Small One stood very still, eyes tranquil, hands relaxed by his sides. He was a child. How could he understand?

The elder turned toward Thorvald, facing the point of his sword unflinching.

“You must leave this shore,” the tall man said gravely, gesturing with a hand to encompass Thorvald, and Creidhe, and the two priests, as well as the looming figure of Skapti behind them. “Take this man with you and tend to his wound. He is very strong: worthy of the honor we accorded him. A priest indeed, full of power in body and spirit. We would have welcomed him, revered him. You must do no less, for this is a man forged by a life of darkness into a true weapon of light. You must be guided by him, for he is wise. As for ourselves, this is our day of healing and of joy, for our true son is returned, our dear one of the spirit, our own Foxmask. We receive him into our hearts and are made whole again. It lacks but the deep ritual, and for that, outsiders may not be present.” His eyes moved briefly to the skewers, the scoop, the club laid ready.

“Thank you.” Thorvald's voice was that of a leader. He sheathed his sword and gestured to Skapti, who lowered the spear perhaps a finger's breadth; the big warrior's expression was still ferocious with challenge. “We will leave straightaway. My father's injury is terrible; he needs care urgently.” There was a note of censure in the words.

The elder gazed at him unperturbed. “He is strong,” he said. “Now go.”

A glance across the circle, and Sam was released. They were free to leave. Skapti passed the spear to Sam and bent to take up Brother Niall in his arms. Thorvald began to lead the way toward the track.

“Creidhe?” Sam said gently. “It's over now. Time to go home.” And he put a hand on her shoulder, as if to guide her.

“No!” Creidhe exclaimed, shaking him off with some violence. “No! It can't be finished like this, I promised Keeper—” She darted across the sward in Sula's little boots and snatched the child up in her arms. There was a gasp of shock from the assembled folk; Thorvald was suddenly still, and Skapti halted, bearing the wounded priest. The elder's eyes were fixed on the child; it was clear that from now on, the choices the tribe made would be Foxmask's. The little face was clear and calm. The deep green eyes, changeable as the sea, looked into Creidhe's, and Small One put up a hand to touch her cheek.

“I know the manner of your ritual.” Creidhe spoke shakily, but pitched her voice so all could hear. “I understand the reasons for it. In order to tell his truths, to sing his songs, Foxmask must relinquish the sight of the world. Thus are opened the eyes of the spirit. To guide you on the right paths, the seer must cease to tread the flawed ways of man, and travel by visions and stars, by whispers and memories. But you must not damage this child. I could argue that he is small, frail and innocent. I could warn you that in seeking to prepare your seer for this role among you, you may simply end up killing him. But I know you will not heed such worldly truths, not from me. So I will let the seer himself speak for me. You heard his song today, as he stepped from the strong hands of the sea and came among you once more, full of love and wisdom, ready to give himself to your tribe as guide and wise one for the rest of his life. He loves you: that is clearly read in his eyes. He is already full of understanding, rich in knowledge of the patterns of the ancestors. Foxmask is only six years old, and yet his songs fill our hearts with healing hope. I heard him on the Isle of Clouds, where I dwelt by his side before I came here. His voice sang the moon across the sky; it opened pathways I had never dreamed were possible. You have heard him today. Who among you could doubt the joyous note of homecoming in his song? Who could question the wisdom in it, an understanding as far beyond our own as the stars are beyond the little lamps we light to keep away the darkness? I say to you, this child is already wise; at six years old, he is the true elder among you. His spirit shines bright; he is filled with the light of the ancestors.”