Foxmask (80 page)

In the end they compromised. While Thorvald and Orm held the boat in waist-deep water, using the oars to keep her from beaching, Skapti went over the side into the sea. Creidhe clambered over the rail, the bag on her back, the bundle under her arm. Skapti carried her to the shore, set her on the wet sand, and waded noisily back to the boat.

“Good-bye,” called Thorvald, but it seemed she did not hear him. She stood there a moment looking up the steep, rocky path toward the level ground far above. The bay was little more than a deep fissure in the cliff, the track a challenge to the fittest legs. There was no sign of life on the island save the birds that wheeled in the sky, filling the air with their echoing cries. Creidhe took a deep breath and began to climb.

She did turn, once, but it was not to wave him farewell. She set the bundle down and gestured sharply. The meaning was plain: turn the boat, sail away, get out of sight as you promised. They edged the
Swiftwing
back under oars; not out of sight, not yet, but far enough so that Creidhe turned again and resumed her climb. Thorvald had no intention of leaving until he had some idea, at least, that she would be safe.

As Creidhe neared the top of the path, a figure appeared above her. He was there in an instant, standing dark and still as a man made of stone. He bore a spear in his right hand, a bow over his shoulder, a quiver on his back. The breeze stirred the small feathers that decorated his clothing; it sent strands of hair across his fierce, gaunt features. A chill gripped Thorvald, a memory of death. He could scarcely breathe.

Creidhe halted, looking upward. She dropped the bedding on the track and opened her arms. As for Keeper, his utter stillness did not last beyond that moment. Casting the spear aside, flinging the bow to the ground, he covered the distance as fast as a running deer. He reached her and paused. Then he took one step forward, and they put their arms around each other, not passionately, not wildly, but in an enfolding of utmost gentleness, and it seemed to Thorvald that what he saw was indeed two parts of one self, come wondrously back together. There was a rightness about their still posture, the sense of a perfect fit: Keeper's head bowed over Creidhe's, her brow against his neck. Thorvald felt such a confusion within him that it made him sick and faint.
I'll never feel this again
, he thought, astonished.
This tumult of emotions, this rending of the heart: I'll never feel it again
. And he thought that, as he was to be a leader of men, perhaps this was just as well. But as a man, he felt the loss of it, for it was like the passing of springtime in all its turbulence and promise. Then he turned away, and barked an order, and they set sail for home.

“. . . they took him . . .” Keeper was whispering against her hair. “They took him . . . they took Small One away . . .”

“I know,” Creidhe said, feeling the drumming of his heart against her, savoring the sweet warmth of him. “He's safe, Keeper, he's well and happy. He went of his own choosing. They did not harm him. There was no maiming, no blinding.”

“You were there?” he asked her, astonished.

“I was there, and I stopped them. I thought you were dead, dear one. There was nobody else to help him.”

“I did wrong, Creidhe. Wrong. All this time . . .” He was growing agitated; she felt the trembling in every part of him.

“Hush,” Creidhe said. “We have many stories to tell before we make sense of it all. You acted from love, that's the only thing that matters. And so did he; why else did he stay here, save for love of you, his only family? Dear one, I've come a long way. Can we go home now?”

They climbed to the top of the track together, and he gathered his weapons and took the roll of bedding under his arm. Creidhe noticed a change in him; he was thinner, as she was, and his features harder somehow, as if he had aged far more than a year since last she saw him. His hair was different. It was combed neatly, and tied at the nape with a strip of leather. Only a few strands escaped to fall across his brow. She reached up to touch the dark locks at the temple, to brush the wisps from his eyes.

“You look—beautiful,” she told him. “I'm so glad you waited. I'm so glad, I can't find words for it.”

“How could I not wait?” Keeper whispered. “Such a vow as we made is forever. I would have waited until the end of time. Longer, if I could.”

They walked on. It became apparent to Creidhe that the path they took was not the one that led to the old shelter, the place where she had fallen to a skillfully hurled stone.

“Where are we going?” she asked him.

A sudden shyness crept into Keeper's voice. “I made you a house, as I promised,” he said. “A good house, warm and safe. Big enough for the three of us, though Small One is gone.”

Creidhe smiled. “I suppose we'll have a little son or daughter of our own, some time,” she said. “By next summer, if the ancestors look kindly on us. Our house will be full.”

That silenced him completely, but Creidhe did not miss the change in his eyes, the hesitant, sweet smile that curved his solemn mouth. This, she thought, would be a powerful step toward putting things right at last.

The house was set in a sheltered fold of land by a little stream. He'd been right; it was roomy and well made, with a roof of grass thatch held down by hanging rocks, and walls of shaped stones. Creidhe could see timbers here and there; these, perhaps, had once been part of a boat. There were two rooms; the larger held a central hearth where a small fire smoldered. There was a dry place for storing turf, and pegs for hanging clothes, and neat stone shelves. There was a broad sleeping platform big enough for two.

Creidhe exclaimed with delight. “It's wonderful! I love it! And I have just
the thing . . .” She motioned to him to set the bundle down on the platform. “Could you unfasten this, please? You may need to slit the binding with a knife; I think the knots have tightened . . .”

Nothing was wasted on the Isle of Clouds. Keeper did not cut the twine, but undid it with long, deft fingers. The contents of the bundle unrolled partly, a bright expanse of blue and red wool.

“It's exactly the right size,” Creidhe said, a lump in her throat as she watched the play of expressions on his face, as she saw memory alive in his liquid green eyes. “I must have made it for just this bed, all that time ago.”

Keeper unfolded the blanket fully. It covered the sleeping platform from side to side, from head to foot. His fingers moved over the fine weave, the vivid deep blue, the heart's-blood red, the intricate border of tiny trees and creatures.

“For me?” he breathed.

“For you. For my husband.”

It is not always the case that dreams come true. Indeed, more often they give us warped and twisted versions of the truth, showing us what we wish were so, or what we fear may be to come. It was not thus for Creidhe. When she awoke next morning on the Isle of Clouds, it was exactly as she had dreamed it over the loom, fashioning this lovely thing of colored wool, weaving her fair visions into her work. Almost exactly. The early sun crept through the doorway of Keeper's fine house, touching the blue blanket to vibrant, glowing life. She lay warm beneath it, her body languid and pliant, full of an aching sweetness. Her husband's arms were firm and strong around her, shielding her from all harm. And if he was not the man who had lain there in her dreams, no matter. He was her only love, her heart's desire. Without him, she would have spent her whole life incomplete. Who should lie with her under the blue blanket, but he?

She stirred against him, smiling, and felt his hand tighten in her hair, drawing her closer. His need for her was great; of the two, he had been hurt far more. She must tread softly, go slowly, and help him all she could. In time, perhaps he might be ready to venture forth, to try new pathways, to meet a wider circle. He had skills that unscrupulous men might seek to exploit; there were dangers to be faced that, as yet, barely had form. They needed time. Surely, if they lived their lives well, if they understood how blessed they were, the ancestors would grant them that.

I
n location, geography and terrain, the Lost Isles bear a close resemblance to the Faroes, a group of eighteen islands situated approximately halfway between Norway and Iceland. But
Foxmask
is not a novel about the Faroes. The setting and characters exist somewhere between history and mythology, and the Lost Isles themselves are part real, part imagined. The place names used in this book include loose translations of the actual names for various parts of the Faroes and pure inventions. For example, the Isle of Streams (Streymoy) and the Witch's Finger (Trøllkonufingur) are close to the existing Faroese names. I renamed many places in keeping with the nature of the story.

You can find the locations of the events in
Foxmask
on a map of the Faroes, though I have taken some creative liberties with the terrain and distances. The westernmost island of Mykines, which wears a semipermanent shawl of cloud, is the Isle of Clouds, and the inland lake of Sørvágsvatn with its precipice and waterfall, is Brightwater. Council Fjord is really Sørvágsfjørdur, and the town of Sørvágur marks the approximate location of Asgrim's encampment. Windswept Vágar has become the Isle of Storms, and Midvágur is Blood Bay. This village is still the scene of some of the bloodiest occurrences of the
grindadráp
, in which pods of pilot whales are herded to the beach for slaughter.

As for the Fool's Tide, these days a small ferry makes the trip from Vágar to Mykines regularly, excepting in the worst weather. The permanent population of Mykines, where Keeper built his wife a house, is fifteen hardy souls, along with large numbers of puffins, gannets and other birds. The island does indeed have just one rather tricky landing place. The sea crossing is rough, and I did the trip by helicopter, a common form of transport in
the Faroes. We passed over layered, rock-crowned peaks that still bore caps of snow in May. The strait between Vágar and Mykines is dangerous for small boats. It features in the old accounts of St. Brendan's voyage, and in Tim Severin's tale of its reenactment,
The Brendan Voyage
, as particularly difficult to navigate. Legends grow up easily around such perilous places; the stories of the Fool's Tide and the Seal Tribe are just such coded warnings, designed to keep fishermen out of harm's way.

The first book in this series,
Wolfskin
, dealt with a Viking voyage to Orkney and was in many respects based on real or possible history.
Foxmask
is a little different. We do know that the Faroes were settled by people from southern Norway and Orkney at around the time this book is set. It is also known that Irish monks made their way to these distant islands, very probably well before the Norse arrivals. It's an inhospitable realm, and was settled by the hardiest and most tenacious of people. The weather is extreme, the narrow channels between the islands dangerous, and the land marginal for farming. The fishing is unsurpassed. Written records of this early settlement are few and far between, with most accounts being set down hundreds of years after the fact.

So, how much of the story of
Foxmask
is true, or could be true, and how much is pure fantasy? The following are at least possible, or even probable: the existence of isolated hermitages on the islands and the voyages there of intrepid Christians such as Breccan; the presence of settlers like Asgrim and his Long Knife people, scratching a living from the sea and from their tenacious island sheep whose dreadlocked, multicolored descendants wander those hills today. The voyage of Thorvald, Sam and Creidhe in their fishing boat from Orkney is also possible, though it would have been a testing trip with such a small crew. Still, if St. Brendan could do it in a curragh of ox skins from the west coast of Ireland, they could do it in their sturdier craft, provided the weather was on their side.

The people of the Seal Tribe are based on a number of folkloric sources. The existence of such ocean creatures, neither benign nor inimical to man, just profoundly Other, is alluded to in the old tales of many island-dwelling races.

As for the Unspoken and their small seer, Foxmask, those spring purely from imagination. History does not tell us whether there were any folk dwelling in the Faroes prior to the coming of the Christians, but there could have been. I created a race in keeping with the highly challenging nature of that environment. Had they existed, I have no doubt their culture and beliefs would have been enmeshed with the forces of nature on which their survival depended.