The Island House (27 page)

In a night of thick rain, when none of the brothers or sisters was outside the Abbey buildings, he’d hauled it back to his hut. There he’d slit the neck of a stolen cockerel in thanks; the blood sacrifice was to Loki the Shape Shifter, so that he would not be seen by Christ’s men.

Bear felt guilty about the bird—the poultry were Signy’s responsibility—but he asked the help of the God of Fire here too.
Let them not know about the chicken; let Signy be safe from their malice.

Perhaps it was Loki who inspired Bear that night for, as reparation, he decided to make her a gift.

It was the labor of all that winter and three seasons of the following year, but length by length Bear worked the whale bone into useful things, and some objects he made for their beauty alone.

In that first year as a maker, his fingers were clumsy. Unused to such delicate work, they had a hard time creating the forms he saw in his head. His tools, too, were crude—scrapers of flint he chipped to an edge, a knife blade stolen from the refectory—but gradually his shape-making skill increased.

The only light to work by was the small fire in his hut, and there were many failures from his first attempts, but the handle for a knife—a sea otter—at last pleased him. Soon other creatures hiding in the bone emerged—horses, hunting dogs, a bull. Smoothing them with sand hour by hour, he marveled at the beauty of the whale ivory, its translucence when he worked it, its purity.

And toward the end of the second year, when he thought his skill was adequate, he fashioned the tiny image of a ship in full sail—this was his gift to Signy, and as yet he had not given it to her. Rigidly enforced divisions between men and women on the island meant that they spoke little, and he did not want to bring trouble to his friend. Soon, however, he would find her. Soon. When the time was right.

“Signy. Over here!”

She was on her knees in the herb garden behind the kitchen picking comfrey for the Infirmarian.

Panicked, she looked around. “You should not be here, Bear. You know that.”

The boy grinned engagingly. “No one to see—I checked. They’re all still praying.”

Signy stood. Cruach was at her back, and light picked out the edges and folds of the black kirtle.

Bear paused; he did not like to see Signy dressed in black—she was not one of them and, besides, black was the color of the carrion crow’s plumage. But he smoothed his expression and sauntered toward her, not too fast, not too slow, his heart rising in his chest. In these last months his beard had grown, and he could feel that the soft bristles covered some of his scars. That gave him confidence.

“It is good to see you, Signy.”

“Hello, Bear.” She glanced at him shyly. “Should you not be plowing?” It was summer. The barley stubble had been burned in the fields, and seed would soon be sown for the winter crop.

Bear shook his head. “Finished. Bullock’s fed and watered too—I started early. They have nothing to reproach me with.”

Signy rearranged the leaves she’d gathered in her apron. She was nervous; so was he.

Bear held out his hand, fingers closed over the palm. “I’ve brought you something. A present.”

“For me?” Signy’s eyes shone, but she put her own hands behind her back as if to resist temptation.

Bear glanced away. Signy had grown up, and it hurt him to look at her. He wanted to touch her skin.

In the silence they could hear bees.

Bear swallowed. “Shall I show you?”

Hesitantly, Signy moved toward him. “If you like.”

They were standing so close he could smell her, lavender and fresh grass, and Bear was suddenly terrified. She might not like what he had made. “It’s not much.” The words came out rough, as if he were angry.

Signy’s eyes widened. She seemed hurt—and confused.

So was Bear. His heart jolted, but he opened his fingers, and on his palm lay the little ship, jaunty and full of spirit.

“You can use it for a cloak clasp or a brooch.”

Lightly, by accident, her fingers touched his palm as she turned the ship over; a slender pin fitted into a keeper on the reverse.

“I tried to write your name, too, but I don’t know all the runes.” He held the piece close to her eyes so she could see the detail.

Signy stared silently at what he had made.

“You do not like it.” Bear was shamed. He turned away.

Signy touched his wrist. “You are wrong. It is . . .” She paused. With great reverence she picked the little carving up.

“This is . . . It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and you made it for me.”

Relief was hope. Bear said, eagerly, “I made her to remind you. One day, we will leave this place again together.”

They were staring at each other. Bear’s throat and his gut were drum-tight, for he had said what was in his heart before he had known it.

Signy’s eyes clouded. She stepped away from him, a formal, graceful movement.

“I must finish my work. Thank you for the present, Bear. It shall be my treasure.”

“Wait! I want to show you this too.” Hastily he removed the knife from a small scabbard on his belt.

Signy’s eyes were always candid, and now they widened with awe. “This is just like a real otter. You are so clever, Bear. You really are.” She touched the edge of the blade. “But where did you get the iron?”

Anywhere else and Bear would have shouted out loud for the
pleasure of her compliment. In Signy’s presence, he shrugged. “From a candle sconce.” He grinned. “There was a flurry when they missed it, but no one suspected me.” Why would they? To the Christians, he was the Pagan, a brute with little feeling, just like an ox or a mule. “Brother Simon in the smithy helped me—he’s my friend; the haft is whale ivory, too, from the same piece that made the ship.”

Signy was troubled by this easy confession of a sin, but Bear trusted her. She would tell no one.

“Both pieces are very fine. Truly, Bear, you should be proud.”

Bear colored but said, impulsively, “This winter Simon will teach me to make charcoal too. The forge will burn hotter, and then we can make stronger iron. One day I will make swords—good ones that hold a proper edge.”

Signy touched the knife blade again, testing the edge. Her eyes were serious. “Why would you want a sword on Findnar? This is a place of peace.”

A place of peace?
Bear wanted to laugh, but that would upset his friend. Instead, he held the knife toward her. “Hold it, Signy, it’s very well balanced.”

She glanced at him, but did as he asked. Bear stood behind her, guiding her fingers along the otter’s body.

“The secret is the grip. See? Like this.” He rested the haft in the length of her palm and closed her fingers around the belly of the carving, guiding her thumb along the back. “It helps you to stab—the thumb held straight.”

She grinned. “Here we are in a monastery, and you’re telling me how to kill?” She laughed. She couldn’t help it. So did he.

The laughter died. Signy dropped her eyes from his.

Bear stood closer. “You might need to know one day.”

She did not immediately move away. “You should go, Bear. I have suffered too much penance already this month.” She half-smiled. “I try, I do, but Gunnhilde says I do not know how truly willful I am.”

Bear spat into a patch of garlic. “Willful? Strong-minded is what you are, and that saved you when we took the ship. Don’t let them twist the life out of you with their words, Signy. They will if you let them.”

She did not reply. She knelt again among the herbs.

He tried one last time. “You were not always like this—remember that, Signy. You are not one of them.”

She bent to her work with only a little wave as Bear strode from the infirmary garden.

But she followed him with her eyes, and the comfrey, forgotten, spilled out of her apron.

Bear troubled her, unsettled her dreams; she thought about him a great deal. Having had three sons, her mother would have understood, for she was wise in the ways of young men. But Signy could not talk to her mother, nor could she ask Gunnhilde’s advice, or even Idrun’s. They would both be shocked—nuns were always shocked about something.

But she could talk to her sister.

Sometimes, when Signy asked a question, Laenna answered not with a voice but with omens, or a sudden breeze, or the smell of flowers in winter. And there was the white owl. Signy sometimes asked the owl important questions if no one else answered her. He seemed to protect Laenna’s grave.

“Yes, I will ask for your advice, Sister, but what will you say to me?”

CHAPTER 19

S
HE WAS
running, fast as she could. He saw her! Hard to breathe. Gaining. He was gaining. She dodged. Gasped. He was close, breath on her neck.

She feinted. Not wide enough. His hand. Hard. Cold. Grabbed her arm. He laughed. The man laughed. Ax high. Flash and drop. Her head, he hit her . . .

A whistle. High pitched.
Someone must have left it on—the kettle.

No. It wasn’t the kettle. Someone was screaming. She was.

Freya sat up in one convulsive movement. Fingers pressed over her mouth. Chest heaving, she tried to stop the images.

“Freya?” A man’s voice, downstairs. “Are you all right?”

A sharp rap, and a rattle. The latch on the back door—it always shook. Another rap.

Freya reached over to the table beside the bed. Where was her watch? Where
was
it!
Christ! Past ten!

The knock again, less heavy. “Hello?”

Of course,
of course,
he knew she was in the house, he’d have heard the scream. But she’d locked the door.
Had she locked the door?

Disoriented, Freya put a hand to the back of her head. It hurt. Not
hurt,
blazed with pain.
Please, God, let this just be a headache . . .
She expected blood and broken bone because she
knew,
knew what had caused the cold-hot, black-red
agony.
Her mind flinched.

“Can you hear me?” His voice again.

“Who’s there?” She knew who it was. Why was he here?

Cold, plank floor, no socks; sweater on over pajamas. Shivering. That would stop soon; maybe the pain would too. Freya fumbled down the stairs.

“It’s me. Dan.”

“Just a minute.”

A deep breath. One more. And another. No shivers—just pain, a bit less. Still there though.

The back door was not locked, but he’d waited for an invitation. That was good. Polite. Why had she been so scared? Dan wasn’t an enemy. Was he?

“Hi, come in.” Freya held the door open.

He saw the pajamas and switched his glance to a point just beyond her left shoulder. He wasn’t embarrassed, but she might be. “I’ll not stop.”

Before she could ask, he hurried on. “I’ve brought your father’s cruiser back. Someone moored it in the harbor last night; it’s not been damaged. Good morning to you.”

“Wait.” Freya stepped closer; he stepped away. She did it again; so did he. It was comical, but not funny. “I’m not contagious, Dan.”

He stared at her. “Pardon me?”

She expelled a sigh. “Tea. You’re welcome to a cup, and you can tell me more.” She padded down the steps. He’d follow or he wouldn’t. Perhaps she cared. Actually, she did—he distracted her, and that was good.

Freya shoved the kettle beneath the spout. Six pumps, seven, eight. Why was she so weak? She clattered the kettle on top of the gas and twitched her hand away as if the sound hurt her fingers. The pain was still there at the back of her head. “Sorry I didn’t hear you at first. Thick walls, I suppose.” Hard to make polite conversation.

Dan was looking at her strangely. Of course. She sounded odd, but he sat down anyway at the far side of the table. Freya joined him on the opposite side as they waited for the kettle.

“I’ll get the milk.” She half-rose again.

He said, hastily, “No need. I drink it black.” He coughed.

“I’m very grateful to you for bringing the cruiser over. I could run you back to port.”