Seer of Sevenwaters Page 22

  Svala rose to her considerable height, towering over me where I knelt by the water. Her fists were clenched. She looked at me, then spat, precisely, on the cavern floor beside her feet. A sound issued from her, an explosion of fury and frustration.

  I felt somewhat as a child might on finding itself alone in a field with a horned bull. Her anger frightened me. We were far from the settlement and I no longer had Fang with me. But then, I had not discouraged her from coming with me. It was possible we both wanted the same thing: truth. I must try harder to understand.

  “A serpent,” I said, kneeling up and indicating the shape with my hands, next to the pool. “Mouth, bites, like this. Claws, like this.” I forced myself into a bizarre reenactment of the hideous scene—gods, I had seen this; in my first vision of Rodan’s fall I had seen a man taken by a sea monster—and saw instant recognition in Svala’s eyes. Disarmed in an instant, she squatted down next to me, watching in apparent fascination.

  Boat. How could I show a boat? Ah—the half-empty water skin. I pushed the stopper in firmly, then floated the skin along the pond, showing with my hands the rowers, the shore to which they were heading. As the cumbersome vessel passed Svala, she reached out to add her own part to the story, using her arm, her hand, her fingers to play the part of the monster. Snap! I take this man for my first bite. Snatch! I take this one now. And now this, and this . . . There was no longer any doubt that we had seen the same vision.

  I brought the vessel back to the side of the pond, beached it and left it, rising to my feet. “This place?” I asked her, motioning toward the little scene. “You, I, go this place?”

  She leapt up and seized my arms with both hands, nodding, smiling with an energy that was almost frenzied. At last! At last someone understands!

  “But why? Why, Svala? And where is it?” I swept my hand in a circle, then pointed north, south, east, west.

  Her arm rose with complete confidence. Due north. Due north? What lay there? The Orcades, destination of their original voyage, were to the northeast. I knew of no land at all to the north.

  “I wish you could explain why,” I said, more to myself than to my companion. “That might be the key to everything. If only you could tell me your story, Svala.”

  She put her arms around me, shocking me profoundly, for it was the last thing I had expected from her. I returned the gesture, saddened that I had not fully understood, and perhaps never would; concerned that what she seemed to want was a crazy thing, a thing that made no sense at all, even if I had been able to make it happen.

  Svala murmured something, not words, more of a singing sound, like a snatch of mournful chant. She was so much taller than I that in this embrace my cheek was against her heart, and in the moment of her singing I felt its message beating straight into me, the rhythm that of a great marching drum. Home! Home!

  Dear gods. Home? That island with not a scrap of anything growing on it, that rock beset by howling winds and mountainous seas? No one could survive in such a place. I tried to imagine Knut and Svala eking out a living in some isolated hut, scraping shellfish off the rocks and bolting their door at night while the monster swam about the bay. Impossible. I could not believe it. They could not have come from such a place. Besides, it was our reef the boat had been wrecked on, not that of a wild, far-off isle. It made no sense at all.

  “I’ll try to help,” I murmured, not knowing where to start. A place like that was surely home to nothing but sea creatures, and even those probably had the common sense to keep away lest they become the monster’s next meal. Perhaps the vision was entirely symbolic.

  We walked back toward the settlement. Fang was still nowhere to be seen, but halfway along the track we met Knut coming the other way. His face was pale, his jaw tight, his eyes furious. He strode up to us and took hold of Svala’s arm. She stood quiet in his grasp, eyes down.

  “Where you go?” He hurled the question at me. “I look—wife—everywhere.” A sweep of the arm.

  “We’ve been walking.” Every part of me was on edge.

  “Sorry,” Knut said, far too late for me to believe he meant it. He attempted a smile and achieved a grimace. “Worried. Wife . . . ” Lost for the right word, he tapped the side of his head. “Not safe wander here. I look all over.”

  “Knut,” I said with some hesitation, “where did you live before you came here? Where is your home, yours and Svala’s?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “No speak Irish good,” he said.

  “Never mind.” I wondered if he lost his rudimentary Irish when asked a question he did not want to answer. “I’ll go on ahead, then. Thank you for coming with me, Svala.”

  I went past them, and as I walked away I heard him speaking to her in a furious undertone. I wondered very much about the increasing talk that Knut might settle on the island. No doubt he would fit in well. He was, to all accounts, a warrior of great skill, and people seemed to like him. Since I would be leaving Inis Eala at the end of summer, the fact that I felt an instinctive distrust of the man was irrelevant. I did not think Svala could ever be happy here.

  Perhaps I should share today’s vision with Johnny. Or with someone else—Gull, Clodagh, Cathal? Should I talk to Knut properly, with Jouko or Kalev present to translate? Perhaps I should wait until I had a clearer idea of what those images had meant, the images that made no sense at all, for among the many faces on the stricken vessel there had been three I knew: Ardal, white as linen, his jaw set grimly; the young man I thought was his brother, Paul, pushing someone out of the way, seizing an oar, shouting orders. And Knut, rowing with the rest of them. Not a vision of the future or of a possible future. I had seen Paul’s drowned body here on the island; I had performed his burial rite. In the vision he had been alive, strong. He had been the one who took control, wresting order from chaos. The images had been of time past, imagined or real. If it was real, then when he had given Johnny his sketchy account of the voyage, Knut had only told half the story.

  ~Felix~

  I walk. From this side to that, from that side to this. I pause for breath, willing strength to my limbs. Then again, from this side to that side. Muirrin eyes me as she tends to a man’s knee, but makes no comment.

  Sibeal has gone to the seer’s cave, the place she spoke of, where she can find peace and set her thoughts in order. I think she is angry with me. She would have me tell what I have remembered, piece by piece. She cannot understand why I hold my silence. There is something hidden in my mind, something perilous. I think it has the power to wreak havoc here.

  The ill luck man. Too many have suffered because of me. To and fro I walk, to and fro, and with each pace I think of them: my father, who almost lost the Duke’s favor because I could not stop my tongue; my mother, who had two fine sons and now has none; my brother, who was the friend of my heart and the companion of my journey, and who is dead. I cannot stay here. Who is to say the shipwreck was not my fault, caused by some act of negligence that I have forgotten? Who is to say what disasters I may have caused in that lost time? I must leave this place without delay.

  Gull comes, and we go outside to sit on the bench in the garden.

  “No more walking for now,” he says, settling beside me. “Attempting too much too soon is asking for failure. Practice breathing. It is part of the cure. You nearly died, Ardal. Your body must learn to work again, and it cannot learn if you wear it out.”

  “This is too slow,” I grumble, knowing my wise friend deserves better for the time and care he gives me. I am not angry with Gull, only with my weak body.

  “If you want to find yourself back in bed for another turning of the moon, then by all means ignore my advice. You asked me to help you, Ardal. If I were training a man to fight again after a battle injury, I’d pace him just the way I’m pacing you.”

  I straighten my back. I attempt a few long breaths of the kind I’ve been shown, filling my chest slowly, stopping just before the worst of the pain will hit me. Afterward, I say, “I’m sorry.”

>   “That’s fine, provided you keep listening to good advice when it’s given. We’ll sit here a bit longer, and then we’ll try some work on your arms.”

  He makes me bend and stretch, and it tires me. I do as I’m told. Gull declares himself satisfied by my efforts. When he tells me it is time to go inside and lie down awhile, for my body needs frequent rest, I bite back the words that spring to my lips: There’s no time for rest! Truth to tell, my limbs ache, my chest hurts, I want the comfort of my bed more than anything. Almost anything.

  As I sit by Gull, wondering if I can summon the strength to climb the two steps to the back door, that door opens and Johnny and Cathal come out, the latter carrying a sizeable box bound with leather straps.

  “What’s this?” Gull asks.

  “We’d like a word with Ardal.” Johnny turns to me. “These are some of the items washed up after the wreck. We want you to look at them, see if they help jog your memory.” He glances at Gull. “Is now a good time? You could leave us awhile, if you like. Go and see Biddy.”

  Gull grins. “You think I’m neglecting my wife? I doubt she’ll want me under her feet when she’s busy in the kitchen.”

  Johnny returns the smile; he is not a particularly handsome man, but there is a gravity and balance in his features that compels the eye. The swirling raven tattoo only adds further distinction. “Go on,” he says. “We can manage here without you.”

  Cathal isn’t saying anything. He has placed the box on the seat beside me, and now unfastens the straps. When Gull is gone, he lifts the lid.

  “I’m happy to hear you are improving, Ardal,” says Johnny. “I know from Gull that your own efforts have played a part in your recovery.” He hesitates, then goes on. “You understand, I’m sure, how important it is for me to know about the vessel, the crew, the cargo, the purpose of the voyage, so I can inform the appropriate people about these losses. I dispatched a message to Ulfricsfjord some time ago, based on what Knut told me. But his knowledge is limited, and I can’t be sure my message went to the right quarter.”

  “Sibeal says you’re holding back information.” Cathal is far more blunt. I hear the hostility in his voice. “You must tell Johnny everything you can remember. Why you were on the ship, who else was with you, whose resources made the voyage possible. What brought you to Erin in the first place.”

  “Ardal,” Johnny says, “if you’ve recalled anything at all that may be relevant to what has occurred, you must tell me. Inis Eala is under my leadership. I am responsible for the welfare of its people and the safety of its community. While visitors are here, I ask of them the same standard of behavior I expect from every man and woman on this island. That includes telling the full truth.”

  Seated on the bench with the two of them standing in front of me, I feel somewhat at a disadvantage. I do not know how to answer Johnny. “I remember nothing of the wreck, or of the voyage,” I tell him, “except that my brother was there, and then a wave came over and washed me away.”

  “The voyage was to the Orcades, Knut told me. A promise of settlement for the crew, some of whom had wives with them. Some other purpose for yourself, your brother, and an older man who traveled with you.”

  “I remember nothing of that.” I meet his eyes, and hope he can see that on this matter I am indeed telling the truth.

  “We want you to look at the items in the box, Ardal,” Johnny says. “It seems to me they may relate to your mission in some way. I have a few theories, but I want your ideas before I put them to you.”

  I sense what he leaves unsaid. Otherwise you may latch on to whatever is most convenient, so you need not tell us the truth. “Very well,” I say. What was it Sibeal said they had found? Silks? The covers of a book?

  Cathal takes the things out one by one and lays them on the bench. The length of fabric is a shadow of what it was; the sea has turned its original rich violet to a faint red-blue, and salt crusts the delicate folds. The silver arm-rings and torc are tarnished, the pages of the great book are blank of calligraphy. The sea has drowned all its wisdom. It was once a book of tales, scribed in half-uncial, with tiny illustrations of creatures and flowers. A lovely thing. There are smaller items, trinkets for the Jarl’s wife and daughter: a flock of tiny bronze birds, a little coffer bound with silver and decorated with bright enamels, an elaborate finger-ring. I was there the day Eoghan chose that cloth. He said it would look fine on the Jarl’s daughter, she being of Norse blood and fair as a spring morning. I know the man who made the little bronze birds. I remember my brother’s delight when the prince showed us the book. Paul cannot read. Could not read. He smiled at the tiny foxes and owls and badgers, the fierce-eyed crow and the white pony.

  In my mind, Knut draws his finger across his neck. Shhhhk! Even as the memories of that time flood back—ah, Matha, wise councillor, it seems you, too, were lost to the sea—I say to Johnny, “I am most grateful for the kindness and care you have shown me. But I cannot tell you anything about these items.” I will not lie to him, and that is not a lie.

  “Let me put another question,” Johnny says levelly. “Sibeal believes you are a man of some education. Imagine these goods before they were damaged by the sea. For what purpose might such items be on a ship traveling from Ulfricsfjord to the Orcades, do you think? You can answer that question without the need to be specific.”

  “I am no trader.”

  Cathal reaches out, takes me by the arms and hauls me to my feet. He does not let go once I’m up. “Answer the question,” he says. In the quiet of that tone there is a menace that chills my heart.

  “Costly items,” I say. For a moment I consider telling them what I have just remembered: my time at Muredach’s court, my acquaintance with his son Eoghan, prince of Munster, the mission to the Jarl. Can there be anything there that would cause Knut to make his threats? I do not know. I cannot know. I remember nothing after I first stepped onto Freyja, save the storm, and Paul, and the wave. It is too great a risk. I hold Sibeal’s life in my hands. “I imagine they might have been a gift,” I say. “All seem of very fine quality. Such a gift might be made by a king or prince, an influential chieftain. The book suggests a monastic involvement, perhaps.”

  “Let him go, Cathal,” Johnny says, not raising his voice, and Cathal complies. My arms hurt where he held me. Why is he so hostile? “Have you any idea which king, prince or influential chieftain might choose to send such gifts to the Orcades, Ardal? Are you quite sure you have not seen them before?”

  “I am sure of very little.” Gods, those others—there were five others with us, Artan and Donn, Fiac and Demman, young Colm on his first sea voyage, all of us set out from Muredach’s court—were they on the ship when it foundered? All gone, all drowned? My knees stop supporting me and I slump back onto the bench, willing the two men to go away and leave me with my tangled thoughts.

  Perhaps I have turned white, for Johnny says, “No more for now. Pack the things up, Cathal. I want another word with Muirrin, then I’ll walk back over with you.” He goes into the infirmary.

  Cathal packs. It does not take long. Nobody comes. When he is done he moves to lean against the wall beside me. It is a casual pose, almost lounging. His eyes tell me quite a different story. This is a man I do not want as an enemy.

  “I have something to say to you.” Cathal is keeping his tone level. “I’ll say it quickly. I have family here on the island. I have a wife I love more than life itself, and a child yet unborn. If someone has sent you here, someone with ill intent toward me, know that I have the capacity to destroy you and that I will do so without hesitation. Sibeal’s fondness for you will make not a scrap of difference. Now tell me the truth, Ardal. On whose orders have you come here? What fell master set you in our midst to wreak your havoc on our dreams?”

  I am too surprised to respond. Cathal believes I was sent here to do him harm, to injure his loved ones? Why would he think that? I open my mouth to tell him his suspicions are nonsense, then close it again. While any part of my p
ast remains forgotten, I cannot know why I am on this island or for what purpose. Yes, I traveled north on a mission for the king of Munster. We bore betrothal gifts from his son to the daughter of the Orcadian Jarl, lovely things she never received. It was a peaceable mission, and my role in it merely that of interpreter. But until I can remember what went awry, what left us broken and sinking on the rocks off Inis Eala, I cannot assure Cathal that I am blameless. I cannot tell him anything. And I want to tell, not because he is formidable and I fear him, though that is true, but because I hear the sincerity in his voice, and the pain.

  The silence has drawn out. He is waiting, night-black eyes fixed on me. “I do not remember everything, Cathal,” I tell him. “If your enemy seeks you out, I think it unlikely he would use me as his agent.”

  “Unlikely.” His tone is flat. “That answer is inadequate, Ardal. I don’t trust a man who holds back information when he need not. You’ve remembered something. I see it in your eyes. It was there the moment I lifted those things out of the box. I can think of only one reason why you won’t talk, and I don’t like that reason. Why were you on the ship? Who sent you, and for what purpose?”

  I say nothing. I will Johnny to come back. A moment later, I hear his voice from within the infirmary, bidding Muirrin a courteous farewell. I breathe again.

  “If anything happens to Clodagh,” Cathal says in a furious undertone, “or to the child, I’ll make you talk, Ardal. I can do it, believe me. Another warning. You’d best step back from your friendship with Sibeal. She’s young, she saved your life under extraordinary circumstances, and she feels a bond of sorts, no doubt. It can’t be good for her to get involved with a man who won’t tell the truth. Whatever it is you’re doing, don’t embroil my wife’s young sister in it.”

  I swallow my rage. In a way, his attack is justified. “As soon as I am strong enough I will leave this place,” I said. “I wish you and your family nothing but good, Cathal. But don’t you see, I can’t—” My voice cracks; I am not yet as strong as I need to be. “Until I remember all of it, there is no certainty,” I say more quietly. “Not for you; not for me; not for anyone here. That’s the curse of the ill luck man.”