Foxmask (36 page)

Thorvald waited. He saw the signs of uncertainty begin to appear, a slight change in the Ruler's eyes, a shifting of the hands on the table before him. Asgrim knew he could not do this without Thorvald's help. It was a gift; it was the opportunity for which Thorvald had been longing, despite himself. To accept it was to accept the price it had cost.

“We'll stay.” Sam's voice was muffled, but the words were clear enough. “We'll stay until the hunt's over. We'll wipe the scum off the Isle of Clouds, and then we'll go for the other ones. By Thor's hammer, if any of those animals that laid their hands on Creidhe survived this, they'll be lying in their own blood when I get the chance to come near them. You can count on us. Creidhe deserves no less.”

After that there was nothing more to be said. Asgrim offered them
sleeping space in his hut, and they declined. Hogni and Einar shepherded Sam back to the shelter, one on either side; there were no clenched fists or threatening gestures now. Once there, others were woken and ale produced; it was apparent they intended to drink long into the night and thus offer the fisherman a temporary oblivion. Thorvald did not linger there. Getting away seemed to be imperative right now, as far away from the others as he could, but it was night, and the paths were dangerous above the bay. All the same, he walked a fair distance by moonlight, until he found a small hollow below the clifftop where he could look back down and see the lamplight from the shelter, and the lesser light from the open doorway of Asgrim's hut, the looming form of Skapti standing outside, his shadow lying huge and strange across the uneven ground.

Thorvald sat and gazed over the dark sea. What was inside him was growing stronger, fiercer, clamoring to be let out; he forced control on it, for to be a true leader, one must first learn to master oneself. A real man does not scream his pain, does not rail at the stars, at the gods, at the evil of enemies or the frailty of friends. A real man is strong. Even alone at night on a clifftop in darkness, he does not put his heart on display. So he sat in silence, breathing as he had seen Creidhe do when he had upset her and she was trying hard not to cry: one, two, three in, one, two, three out. It seemed to work for him, or almost work; he managed to hold the sound in, to stifle what he knew would be an eldritch howling of grief, the cry of a wounded animal. Strange, though: he did not seem to be able to stop the tears that were running in a hot flood down his cheeks, tears whose origin he could not understand, for surely within him there was only emptiness.

Keeper had not expected a goddess to be washed up on his island. He saw the boat coming, saw and distrusted his eyes, keen as they were. From the watch point high on the hill, on a good day, it was possible to make out quite small things: the little whales dancing in the swell, a flock of terns sweeping like a silver banner over the Troll's Arch, smoke from the cottages at Council Fjord. He watched awhile, seeing the flash of gold, the draping of pale cloth across the dark skin covering of the boat. He tried to make sense of it. Then, when it became apparent the Fool's Tide was delivering this gift to his own island, Keeper went out to take possession of it.

At first, Small One had bounded ahead, glad of an expedition, for they had been a long time still, simply watching. Tide and wind had told Keeper it was not yet hunt time, but those days were coming soon. Not the smallest
sign must escape his observation, not the least clue, or he might not be ready for them. His spears waited, his missiles, his traps. But foremost among his weapons were his own ears and eyes, his fleetness of foot, and the island itself. They had spent many days watching, and Small One was growing restless.

So, he was first on the stones of the tiny inlet; first by the upturned boat with its cargo tangled limply in the ropes that twisted over the hull; first to stop short, then back away, staring. Keeper, too, was halted by something he could not name: a sense of turning, of changing, which was both wonder and dread. His fingers moved to touch the plaited circle around his neck, faded to the hue of dust; his eyes were on the limp figure that lay sprawled on the curragh. Her hair was darkened with water, tangled and wild; nonetheless, it lay across her face, her shoulders, down her back like a waterfall of sunlight. He swallowed. Sula was dead; she would never come back. He had seen her, little and gray-faced, like a shrunken mockery of his laughing, merry sister. This was someone else, someone who lay still and silent, pale hands twisted in the ropes, clothing sodden and dripping, and one narrow, white foot exposed below the hem of her woolen gown. She bore a small bag on her back; this, too, looked wet through. It was late in the day, the sun three fingers' breadth above the ocean. Could a goddess drown, or perish from cold? Keeper made himself move forward, past the spot where Small One stood trembling on the shore, right up to the dark form of the beached boat. He took his knife from his belt and began to cut, though he did it carefully: nothing could be wasted here, for they lived on what the sea gave them, and what the hunt left behind. He would use the ropes, the timbers, the tarred covering, everything.

At a certain point it became necessary to support the weight of that limp figure with his body, and Keeper realized she was a mortal woman. Not long after, the screening curtain of golden hair fell back from her face, and he discovered that she was wondrously fair, and still alive, but only just. He changed what he was doing then. Salvaging the boat could wait for morning; if the tide reclaimed it in the night, perhaps that was only as it should be. Of these unexpected gifts from the sea, it had become quite clear which was the most precious.

He called to Small One, “Quick! Blankets!” but Small One was being difficult, and had gone to ground among the rocks above the shore. That was not so surprising. When other folk came to their island it was always to hurt, to kill. They came with their iron-tipped spears, their forest of arrows and their angry eyes. Of course Small One was afraid. He could remember only
the years of the hunt, nothing of the time before. He had been barely one year old when Keeper brought him here, his mother's golden hair no more than a faint warmth in his infant mind. In this world, strangers meant terror, blood and death. So he cowered in the shadows, watching, as Keeper took the woman in his arms and carried her up to their safe place.

It was necessary to be quick. She was moon-pale, her breathing slow and uneven. Keeper felt the chill touch of her skin, observed that she was not shivering: she was close to giving in, then, allowing her spirit to slip away. Still, she breathed. He called to Small One again, but there was no answer. The other would come when he was hungry; there was nobody else to provide for him. Keeper moved with the efficiency of a man who has lived long alone and is used to finding solutions. He raked the embers, made up the fire in the pit within their little shelter. He fetched the blankets; they only had a few, and these were very threadbare now, but there was a store of other things, trophies of the hunt: cloaks, tunics, a jacket of sheepskin. After he got her warm enough, after she woke, he would delve deeper into the items he had laid away. Somewhere among them were two gowns of Sula's; why he had brought them here he did not know, save that once he had discovered she was dead, it had not seemed right to leave the smallest memory of her among those who had stolen her childhood, her innocence and, eventually, her life. He had her little shoes as well. He would offer those: make a gift of them. But not yet. He'd have to take those wet things off the woman, wrap her in the blankets and let her lie by the fire a while.

He knew, once he had undressed her, that she would not be able to wear his sister's clothes. Sula had been frail, slight, scarcely more than a child. This girl was . . . she was . . . his hands shaking, he laid her on a cloak spread by the fire, covered her with two more and then the blankets. He reached to brush the strands of sun-gold hair back from her pale brow. This girl was, quite simply, the loveliest thing he had ever seen in his life, or might hope to see. He sat by her a little, watching her face, willing a touch of rose into her cheeks, a flutter of awareness to her long lashes. She was a miracle of sweet curves and elegant planes, of white and pink and gold; a graceful, tantalizing, terrifying creature whose presence by his fireside filled his heart with a tumult of feelings and his body with a confusing mixture of pleasure and pain. It occurred to him that perhaps he had been right the first time: maybe she really was a goddess. What human woman could wreak such instant havoc simply by lying there?

The fire was glowing warm now. He could tell Small One was back; the light the flames cast picked out the two bright points of his eyes between the
rocks outside the hut. Small One was still frightened; he would not come back to himself until Keeper could convince him it was safe.

There were the wet clothes to deal with. He spread them out, a gown, an overtunic, a fine shift for underneath. All were ripped and damaged from the sea. He would find her something, make her something; he had become good at that, caring for Small One, who had come away with little. There was the bag she had worn on her shoulders, a precious thing to her, Keeper judged, or she would have shed it in the water. It was completely saturated.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Small One creep in, sidling to the far end of the fire pit. Keeper fetched the night's fish, ready in its wrapping of weed, and set it by the fire, knowing Small One would find reassurance in this familiar activity. He could not cook it yet, the flames were too high; but he must keep them thus to warm her, to bring her back. What he would do then, he could not imagine.

The bag: her things would be ruined. He unfastened the strap that held it and began to unpack the contents with careful fingers and lay them out to dry on a flat rock near the fire. Each seemed an object of wonder, secret and magical. A whalebone comb, carven with little sea creatures; there was still a thread of her bright hair in it. Shears made of iron, well sharpened, and a small, businesslike knife. He dried these thoroughly, knowing how quickly rust would dull and blunt them. Small One had moved closer and was watching intently; the iron made him flinch. Keeper, too, felt deep unease at the touch, the smell, but he had made himself grow used to handling this bane, since it was essential to their survival here. A length of strong cloth, which unfolded to show many small pockets holding bone needles, other delicate implements whose names he did not know, and skeins of colored wools, beautiful colors, the hues of his island: evening blue, night sky purple, sunrise gold, seal gray. The magic here was powerful indeed. He set them on the rock, arranged with care, light to dark, dawn to dusk to night. This little bag held a whole world: what was she?

There were other items here, useful ones: some clothing, a coiled rope, a flint, a jar firmly corked, which he did not open, a shallow vessel of soapstone and a length of wick. There had been herbs, too, in an oiled bag, but the bag had split and they were ruined. Keeper sat a while, simply looking at what lay before him. For a goddess, she had a very practical turn of mind; he could hardly have packed better himself. She lacked only a fishhook, he thought.

Small One came closer, nudged at Keeper's arm. His nose was cold.

“You're hungry? I know, I will cook the fish soon. Soon. When she wakes—”

Small One nudged again, making a little sound. He touched his nose to the bag, sniffing. And now that Keeper looked, he could see there was another compartment to it, a pocket on the outside, itself firmly tied with a length of string. One could not have imagined a receptacle that seemed so small could encompass so much. They unfastened it together, and Keeper drew out the roll of fine linen that had been tucked securely inside. It was very strange; where all else was wet through, as was only natural after such a sea journey, this felt completely dry, pale and clean. He made a space on the rock and slowly unrolled it.

For a long time he only stared, entranced into a deep silence, his eyes moving slowly along the intricate pattern of tiny images and vivid colors, a whole world of mystery and wonder revealed in complex fashioning of fine wool. He could see it moving, evolving, as if the tale it told, the truths it held, were ever-shifting, even as the heart and spirit of man or woman grows and changes and strives toward what is new. He thought that he might sit there forever, as the sun rose and fell above him and the seasons painted new colors on sea and sky, and still never quite see all of it. Her own tale was here, and others, for there was a man at the start of it, a fine warrior with yellow hair like hers, and a mark on his arm. There was a woman, a priestess he thought, for creatures floated in the air around her, an owl, an otter, a dog, and at her feet was a little child, her own Small One. The goddess herself was in this pattern, flying in the sky, touching the moon, her golden hair streaming out behind her. A boat, in a storm; the goddess and her companions were in it . . . and there, the Isle of Clouds . . .

He became aware, at some point, that Small One had decided it was safe at last and had climbed onto his knee in order to see better. They studied the magical web together. After a while, Keeper began to tell Small One the tale, as he saw it. It was important to use language, to make sure Small One could understand it, even though, so far, he had not seemed to master speech himself. Keeper was young and strong, but he would not always be young. What would become of Small One then? So Keeper tried, as often as he could, to impart to the one he guarded whatever might be useful: to make fire, to find shelter, to speak and be understood. It was not easy. What Small One knew, he knew deep in the bone. What he could do, nobody had needed to teach him. The other things, the skills a man required in order to survive, had so far eluded his grasp.

“Here is her father,” Keeper said in a whisper so as not to disturb his goddess, “see, a fine man with sun-colored hair, as she has. Here her mother, a wise woman; these creatures are her spirit friends, as the puffins and seals are ours. Here is her little brother—like you—but she had to leave him behind. See where she journeyed, far, far across the sea . . . much farther than we did . . . with two strong companions. One has hair as red as fire, the other is wheaten fair, perhaps her big brother. She came to the islands, but she was hurt, frightened . . . See here, the voices, the faces . . . they scared her, so she ran away . . .”