Raven Flight (23 page)

“Good,” Tali said as the staff caught the floating wood and drew it in toward the rocks. “Steady; just hold it and let the water do the rest. That’s it.…”

We managed to get six pieces of wood in; the rest drifted beyond our reach. Six solid lengths of timber, dark and heavy with seawater. They had perhaps been part of a ship, some vessel that had foundered on a skerry like this one. We dragged our bounty up to the shelter.

“Too wet to burn,” Tali said, hands on hips as she examined the wood. Each piece was a handspan broad and about one good stride in length. “And it won’t dry out in this place. Besides, there’s nothing to get a fire started with, unless you feel like chopping off your hair.”

“My hair’s as wet as everything else,” I pointed out.

“So, no fire. But we can make these into a barrier to keep the worst of the wind out of our shelter. Two sets of three, tied in place—I have rope in my pack. We can anchor it around the rocks.”

“With maybe seaweed for caulking,” I suggested. “We could hammer it into a pulp and squash it into the gaps.”

“Mm-hm.” She was already getting out the coil of rope. “I’m not keen to cut this; we may need the full length some other time.”

“For cliff-scaling.”

“That’s a joke, I take it.”

“The best I can manage under the circumstances.”

After a moment she said, “You’re doing well, Neryn.”

“Thank you.” Her praise was rarely given, and all the more precious for that. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“We haven’t done it yet,” she said, hands busy with rope and boards. “Whatever it is. But yes, it’s easier when you’re not on your own.”

By the time the barrier was finished, I was yawning, worn out from the usual sleepless night. Tali went off to fish and I lay down in the shelter to rest. As I drifted off to sleep, it came to me that the Good Folk might not have abandoned us after all. The rock with a water-storing hollow had appeared after we made the best of the islet’s meager offerings. Those floating timbers might have been guided in our direction when we had shown we were prepared to hunker down and get on with surviving. Maybe the next thing would be a boat, and rescue. I fell asleep heartened, despite the cold.

I could not have been more wrong, for when I woke before dusk, it was to find myself alone. Our bags, our staves, our waterskins lay on the rocks beside me. But Tali was gone.

MORNING. THE WASH OF THE SEA, THE SCREAM of gulls. Three days now, and each waking the same. The quick glance around, expecting to see her long, lean form; the tattoos dark against her pale skin; her shrewd, mocking eyes. The return of memory like a leaden weight. The sick, hollow recognition that I was all alone.

I sat in my blankets, sheltered by the odd arrangement of boards and rope, the last thing she had done that day before she went off to fish and vanished. At first, when I’d found her gone, I’d panicked. I’d searched frantically, shouting her name until I had no voice left, clambering desperately to every corner of the skerry in case I’d missed some clue. And then I’d forced myself to think clearly. How likely was it that Tali, capable, strong Tali, had fallen into the sea and drowned without so much as a shout? This was part of the test. She’d been removed. While I was sleeping, the Hag had come and taken her away.

When that day had turned to night, I had done the
exercises she taught me, keeping my body warm in the long, lonely time of darkness. Bend, stretch, run on the spot. Squat, kick, rise. Attempt the Plank. Start over again. With gritted teeth and eyes streaming tears, I had kept on going. At last, worn out by exhaustion and sorrow, I had slept, and woken to an empty dawn.

And now here I was, three days later, still alone, still waiting.
Keep to the routine
, Tali would have said.
It gives you something to hold on to
. I made myself chew on a lump of raw fish, swallow a careful mouthful of water. My chest hurt, and it was hard to get the food and drink down.

Last night I had dreamed of Flint: Flint running, running as if death were snapping at his heels. His face ashen white, his eyes wild. An angry sky above, wind whipping his cloak. Someone with him, another man in dark clothing, trying to halt him, shouting, gesturing. Flint snarling a response and pushing on past.

There was no way to know if what I had seen was past, present, or future, or only a product of my own exhaustion. But I could not shake it from my mind. He was in trouble. Something had gone wrong.

No point in this; there were no answers. I got up, folded blankets and cloak, tidied the area as best I could. The air was full of salt spray, the rocks slippery underfoot. Heavy clouds massed overhead; rain was close.

There were raw, angry patches on my skin, and I itched everywhere. My clothing hung in filthy tatters.
Hope
, I muttered to myself.
Got to have hope
. I realized I had sat down again, in a daze, too weary to remember what I was
doing from one moment to the next. There was a longing in me to roll back into the damp bedding and shut my eyes to the world; to sleep until I woke no more. Something, some thread of awareness, kept me where I was, sitting with my arms around my knees, looking east toward Far Isle. Flint. Flint in trouble. How could I give up if he was out there somewhere, running from disaster?

Call for help, Neryn, before it’s too late. If you wait until you’re incapable, you’re a fool
. That voice was Tali’s. But surely it wasn’t as simple as that. There must be something I was missing, something I was supposed to learn from this. Must I show I could hold back until the very last extreme before using my gift? Or prove my common sense by using it before I was too weak to summon the will? Both were too simple. The Hag had sent me out here for a purpose. When I’d failed to do whatever it was she wanted me to do, she’d made things harder by taking Tali away. What wasn’t I seeing? What wasn’t I understanding?

The rain came, at first in scattered droplets, then in a steady drizzle, and finally in a great, thunderous downpour. There was no point at all in trying to shelter. The rain drowned everything. It was like a great fist hammering the rocks, a huge voice roaring its song of power. Nothing to do but sit helpless under its bruising strength. The ocean had never seemed so vast, my friends never so far away. My tears flowed warm against the icy chill of my skin.…

And that was it.
Be fluid as water
. The power of the call was not my power. It was the power of deep earth, of mutable fire and pure air. Here in the west, it was the mighty
power of water. The sea, the rain, the tears, the cold sweat on our bodies. Everywhere.

As if it only had been waiting for me to see the truth at last, the storm passed over and was gone. The air cleared. Pools lay in every hollow of the skerry; the clouds parted to let a ray of pale sunlight through, and the miniature lakes shone like mirrors of gold and bronze and silver. It wasn’t a call that was needed, it was a ritual. Or at the very least a prayer: an acknowledgment that my gift depended on the power of Alban, its lakes and mountains and forests, its caves and hilltops and secret places. A Caller’s magic lay, not in herself, but in the natural world; she must learn to let that magic flow through her.

I had seen my grandmother perform the seasonal rituals when I was young, though even then their practice had been outlawed. I could not remember the words she had used, but I did recall the basic pattern of it. I rose to my feet, dripping, and picked up my staff. I scraped my wet hair back from my face. Around me, moisture rose from the rocks in small clouds under the meager heat of the sun. My head felt strange; I hoped I would not faint before I reached the end.

Make a circle; pace it out; use the staff to point the way. At each quarter, stop and acknowledge the Guardian. “Hail, Lord of the North, Guardian of Earth.… Hail, White Lady, Guardian of Air.… Hail, Master of Shadows, Guardian of Fire.… Hail, Hag of the Isles, Guardian of Water.”

I must find words to show I had begun to understand
why the Hag had left me out here on my own. “I greet the spirits of this place, spirits of water and of stone. Hail to the ocean with its secret depths and its powerful surges; hail to the creatures who swim there, wrapped in its embrace, nourished by its life. Hail to the storm. Hail to the rain that falls on field and forest, bringing forth new life; that quenches the thirst of wanderer and bard, warrior and cottager, creature of field and woodland and high mountain.” The words were coming to me more freely now, half-remembered, half-invented. A pity it hurt so much to breathe. “Hail to the power of water. Hail to the patience that sees it shape stone; hail to the tenderness of a child’s tears, and to the delicate perfection of an icicle. The thunderous torrent; the still tarn on whose shining surface long-legged insects dance. May I be fluid in my understanding. May I shape myself to the task before me. May I learn the language of water.”

What was next? There should be a ritual fire; aromatic herbs, perhaps the sprinkling of mead or fresh water. All I could do was pour a little rainwater onto the stones by my feet. “For my ancestors,” I murmured. “For my family. For those lost on the journey. For my comrades. For everyone who fights for a better world. May I be guided. May I learn the wisdom of water.” There should be far more to it, but my legs would not hold me up any longer. I could hear the rasp of my breathing; it had sounded just like this when I had fallen so sick last autumn, coming up the Rush valley. “Let me be a vessel for the wisdom of water,” I whispered, then curled up under my sodden cloak and closed my eyes.

When I woke from a feverish half sleep, it was to find a tiny weed-wrapped bundle beside me. Opening it with shaking fingers, I found inside a little bannock, as warm and fresh as if it had just come off the fire. The smell was sunshine and kindness and well-wishing. It was hearth and home and comfort.

I resisted the urge to cram the food into my mouth, making myself savor each wondrous, buttery mouthful. I ate half. A quarter I rewrapped and stored away. The rest I broke into three small pieces, which I laid on the rocks above the shelter. “Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you for your help.” I could not find the strength to look about and see if whoever had left this gift was still on the skerry. I closed my eyes again.

Next time I woke there was a pillow under my head, and a small personage squatting close by, watching me with beady eyes. This was no gull, but a man-shaped being somewhat similar to Hawkbit. He was a being of the sea and the isles, with a long hooded coat of gray feathers, and hair like that of an island sheep, all twists and knots, woven through with strands of weed and little shells. I sat up and was overcome with coughing.

“Drink up, lassie,” the wee fellow said, and held out a tiny cup. “ ’Twill not harm ye. Herself would have ye strong and bright for the learnin’. The draft will soothe the throat and give ye heart.”

I drank. Whatever was in the cup, it flowed down my dry and aching throat with a honeyed ease, then spread a blessed warmth through my tight chest. Under the wee
man’s scrutiny I finished it all. “Thank you,” I said. I did indeed feel remarkably stronger.

“Aye,” my visitor said. “Ye’ll do. Eat up the bannock ye set by, she’ll be here soon.”

“She?” I rummaged for the leftover bannock, so carefully saved.

“Herself.”

No doubt, then, that the Hag was coming. So I had got it right at last; my makeshift ritual had worked. Unless she planned to ferry me halfway back to Far Isle, then drop me over the side. This had been a cruel test. And perhaps not entirely necessary, for when I had called the river being, what had been in my mind was the way that stream connected with its tributaries and springs and flowed down to join the great water of the loch. I had used the knowledge of water in my call. And with the Folk Below, my mind had been on the deep mysteries of earth. When I had used my gift, I had always been respectful.

I ate the last piece of bannock. I began to pack up my sodden, weather-stained belongings. I fought down rising anger.

“Ye’d be wantin’ tae mak yerself a bittie calmer,” the wee man advised, watching me. “Nae lassie argues wi’ Herself.”

Right, of course. The Hag was a Guardian; I needed her. Beside her, I was small and insignificant, a speck in the long history of Alban. If she’d done this, she must have had good reason for it. I was alive and unharmed; as far as I knew, Tali was safe. Provided the Hag was prepared to teach me now, I had no grounds for anger.

“I’m sorry,” I made myself say.

“Nae apology needed for me, lassie. Here, let me carry that for ye.”

“Can you tell me … is my friend safe, the one who was on the skerry with me? Where is she now?”

“The lassie wi’ the fightin’ eyes and the pretty patterns on her skin? She’s ower yon, wi’ Herself.” The wee man glanced toward Far Isle. “Or no’ wi’ her, precisely. She’s among the human folk, keepin’ herself busy wi’ this and that. She’ll be right glad tae see ye again. Dry your eyes, lassie, and hold your head high. I see the boatie comin’.”

I mopped my eyes with the rag he offered, but the tears kept flowing. Somehow the little man and I got the bags and the staves, the bundle of weaponry, and the sodden bedding down to the water’s edge, and there, approaching with stately balance, was the Hag’s elegant vessel, and in it her pale-haired figure sitting proud and straight. The selkie loomed behind her, weed-swathed. The wind was from the west, and yet the silken sails bellied out, carrying the boat toward us. She could conjure the weather, then. Waves, winds, tides, storms. How easy for her to pluck a woman from a rock in the sea while another slept.