Seer of Sevenwaters Page 3

Knut went straight to his wife’s side, taking her hands, murmuring in Norse. She bowed her head. She did not speak.

  “She’s still very upset,” Muirrin said. “I haven’t been able to examine her, but I don’t believe she’s hurt. She’ll need time. Time alone with Knut, probably. Jouko, will you ask him what he thinks is best?”

  I knew wheaten-haired Jouko quite well from his visits to Sevenwaters. Johnny came to our home at least once a year, since he was my father’s heir, and he always brought some of his men with him. Jouko was not a Norseman, but spoke the language well. Now he translated for Knut, while Evan, tall and dark in his healer’s white robe, busied himself at the worktable.

  “Knut says that Svala does not speak. Not even when things are going well.”

  This was something of a shock.

  “Does he mean she is mute?” Muirrin asked Jouko. “Is she deaf as well?”

  “Not deaf, he says,” Jouko translated. “She understands his speech. But yes, she is mute. Even before this sad loss she was not quite like other women.”

  Knut had released his wife’s hands. She stood quiet by his side, her lovely face an impassive mask. The Norseman’s blue eyes had been bright with feeling as he spoke, his tone heartfelt. I thought how hard it was to be a man. The child had been his, too. His son. But he could not let go as she had, could not weep and grieve and rail at the gods, for he must be strong for her. He spoke in Norse, gesturing.

  “Knut says his wife will improve with time. She may find the presence of so many folk disturbing. If there is a place she can rest in quiet . . . Knut hopes Svala has not upset or offended you.” Jouko’s gaze went to Muirrin and then to me.

  “Not at all,” Muirrin said. “As for private quarters, tell Knut those are rare on Inis Eala. Maybe Biddy can arrange something. Jouko, will you explain to Knut who Sibeal is?”

  “Does he know that we have the bodies of nine drowned men here?” I asked.

  It seemed he did, and when Jouko explained that I was a druid, the Norseman gave me a respectful nod.

  “Knut,” I said directly to him, with Jouko’s translation following behind, “I will be saying some prayers over the dead very soon, and conducting a burial rite tomorrow. Would you be prepared to come with me and tell me their names? I know this will be hard for you. I will not ask Svala to come.” Gods, it would be an ordeal indeed, for surely every moment he looked on those drowned faces, he would see the face of his dead son.

  Knut’s mouth tightened as Jouko rendered my request into Norse, but he was quick enough to say he would go with me. “Wise woman,” he said in heavily accented Irish. “Prayer. Good.”

  Not long after, Johnny came to find us. I had retreated to my chamber to put on my gray robe, while in the infirmary proper Jouko was translating for Biddy—she had come to take Svala down to the dining hall for some food, and then to the married quarters to rest. Johnny had brought another Norse speaker, Kalev. He fell in step beside me as the four of us made our way to the net-mending hut. A sharp wind had come up, bringing the smell of the sea.

  The drowned had been laid out in two rows in the shelter of the shingle-roofed hut. While Johnny waited, I went quietly from one to the next with Knut beside me. The Norseman’s face was waxen white.

  “What is this man’s name?” I asked quietly. “And this one? What can you tell me about him, Knut?”

  I must remember each one, so tomorrow’s ritual would be without flaw, and the departed could move through the great gateway unimpeded. This man with russet hair was Svein Njalsson; this bearded youth was Thorolf Magnusson. This man went simply by the name of Ranulf.

  Knut added something to this last name, and Kalev translated: brother.

  I was shocked. “This man is Knut’s brother?” Gods, had there been whole families on board? The two men did share a certain squareness of the jaw, but the drowned man’s features were a ghastly simulacrum of the living one’s.

  Kalev asked a question. Knut replied.

  “No,” Kalev said in his accented Irish. Kalev came from a land of lakes and forests. I had heard some of his tales on my previous visit here, and they were different from ours, full of strange water entities and tall, pale trees. “Ranulf and Thorolf were brothers.”

  “Then we must lay them down side by side,” I said, wondering who would take the terrible news back to the mother of these dead seafarers. It might be years before she heard it. She might never know that her sons had drifted in distant waters and would lie forever among strangers. Kind strangers, certainly. I would make sure it was done with respect. But a man wants to go home, in the end.

  A big, black-bearded man: Mord Asgrimsson. A very young one with a terrible wound to his head: Starkad Thorkelsson. A broad-faced, burly fellow: Sam Gundarsson.

  We came to an older man, gray-bearded, who had been clad in a robe of good quality wool. The sea had treated him harshly; his skin was mottled yellow-white, his right temple bruised. Knut stood by him and shook his head.

  “He doesn’t know the name?” I asked my interpreter.

  It seemed not. “Not a crewman,” Kalev translated. “A passenger. Knut knows nothing about him.”

  “And what is this man’s name?”

  The last in line was of strapping build, youngish, brown-haired. I touched his chill hand, turning it to see that he bore what might have been a line of blisters on the swollen and discolored palm. Rowing for their lives, with nothing between them and death but the strength of their arms.

  “No name,” Knut said in Irish. “I not know.”

  I was surprised; of them all, this powerfully built young man looked most like a crewman. “Why not?” I said without thinking.

  Knut did not respond.

  “Kalev, ask Knut if this man was a crewman or a passenger.”

  “A passenger.” Kalev translated Knut’s response. “With the other man, yes. I know nothing about them. My job was to row, not ask questions.”

  I thought Johnny was going to make a comment, but he only nodded, keeping his own counsel. “Thank you, Knut,” he said, coming over to put a hand on the Norseman’s shoulder. “You’re a brave man. You and your wife will be looked after here. When she’s recovered from her ordeal we can arrange passage home for you. We need to speak about the voyage soon. With so many lost, there are messages I must send.”

  Knut’s lips quivered as Kalev rendered this speech into Norse. A tear rolled down his cheek. He put up a hand and dashed it away.

  “It’s all right to weep,” Johnny said quietly. “You’ve lost your son, so they tell me. You’ve lost your comrades. As for talking, it can wait until you’re ready. Come, let’s find you something to eat and drink. You’re among friends here, Knut.”

  I was suddenly on the verge of weeping myself. I felt exhausted, drained of all energy. So much sorrow. So much pain. And Svala . . . I did not know what to make of her. She was a mystery, a bundle of wild emotions not fully contained in the form of a beautiful woman. As the men headed off toward the dining hall, I returned to my little chamber. I took off my robe and lay down to rest, the rags and tatters of the day’s sad story making a tangled web in my mind. I closed my eyes, willing it away. Breath of the winds; dancing flame . . .

  I woke suddenly, my mouth dry and my heart pounding. Gazing at the runic markings on the wall, at first I could make no sense of them. Something was wrong. Somewhere, something was awry.

  I sat up and worked to calm my breathing. Awareness of time and place crept back to me. Had I dreamed? If so, I could recall none of it, only the panic it had left behind. I focused on the runes, seeing in them messages I had not intended when I wielded the charcoal. This was the nature and purpose of such characters—they provided a wealth of interpretations. Eoh. Yes, that was apt, since it could signify a staff of support in times of darkness, and this chamber had no doubt seen more than its share of those. Gyfu. Its wisdom was uncomfortable to face, an insight Ciarán believed I had yet to grasp: that spiritual growth must always come at a pric
e. You will not be ready until you understand the true worth of what you must relinquish. There had been compassion in his eyes as he’d said this. Maybe his own understanding of this particular truth had come at a high price. But he was wrong about me. I understood what the choice meant. I loved my family. My little brother was only four years old. Of course I knew what I was giving up.

  Eoh, Gyfu, Beorc, Ing. I had surrounded myself with signs of protection; I had sought to cleanse the little chamber of the sorrows of the past. All the same, something was wrong; I felt it in every part of my body. And now I was filled with the urge to act, but did not know what it was that called me.

  There were no windows in the chamber, but daylight showed under the door. Perhaps I had not slept long. I donned my blue gown and tunic over the shift I was wearing, brushed and re-plaited my hair, put on my shoes and headed out. Perhaps I had heard something in my sleep, some commotion that had set this unrest in me. But all seemed quiet now, though there were plenty of folk about. People were always busy here. In keeping with the philosophy of the original settlement founded by Johnny’s father, Bran, this was a place of hope and purpose. Working hard was one of the unspoken rules, and it applied to every man and woman on the island, from healer to druid, from warrior to teacher, from fisherman to cook.

  There were two sides to this coin. Inis Eala accepted the outsider. It had room for the dispossessed, the damaged, the rootless, provided a man was prepared to break free of what held him back and offer his absolute best. On the other hand, once admitted to the small community on the island, and to Johnny’s band of warriors in particular, a man got no second chances. Transgress the codes of Inis Eala, and a person would be sent away the moment a boat was free to transport him to the mainland.

  I had been here once before, two years ago. I had seen what happened to men when they came to the island: how they changed, growing hard and lean, their eyes becoming brighter and more peaceful. Here trust budded and flowered. Here wary, cautious men bloomed into fine teachers, loyal friends and, in some cases, loving husbands and fathers. For women came too, with their own reasons—seeking out kinsmen, looking for new opportunities, offering particular skills. Biddy, the cook, had come to the island after her first husband, a member of Bran’s original outlaw band, was killed in a terrible accident. The Painted Men had taken the widow in under the rules of comradeship. There were some complicated relationships in this community. Biddy and her second husband, Gull, were Evan’s parents, which made them parents-in-law to my sister Muirrin. Through Gull, a man from a hot southern land, the Sevenwaters family had acquired an exotic, dark-skinned branch.

  Whatever had disturbed my sleep, it was slow to depart. My body was tight with tension, my mind full of an urgency that had no just cause. I needed a fast walk. I judged by the light that there was still an hour or two before sunset. I would fetch a basket and complete the seaweed-gathering mission that had been interrupted earlier.

  The tide was coming in. Slate-dark clouds moved overhead, chased by the westerly breeze, but I judged it would not rain before nightfall. The plant Muirrin had mentioned went by the local name of mermaid’s tears. Dried, pulverized and mixed with certain other ingredients, it could be made into a tonic to strengthen the blood. There was a particular cove on the western shore of the island where I would likely find a fresh supply, she’d said. A basketful would be plenty.

  I took the path I had used earlier, before the wreck. Some distance beyond the point where I had turned back last time, the way branched, and I went by the westward track. I found myself walking quickly, almost running, and forced myself to slow. Beyond the level area where the Inis Eala community was housed the island terrain was steep and treacherous, more apt for goats than men and women, and it would be foolish to take any risks while I was out alone.

  At a high point I paused, making sure of my direction. There was a cave near the northwestern tip of the island, a place I intended to visit soon, for it was the source of the powerful protective net that lay over Inis Eala. The cavern had once housed a solitary member of our family who had been wise and good, but unable to mingle with other folk easily. It was a place of stillness, a home of old spirits. I would pray there; I would seek answers to the questions that troubled me. But not today, with time passing and the clouds gathering.

  I found the cove, descended and filled my basket with the slippery strands of seaweed. Beyond this point the terrain rose sharply. The track branched again, one path snaking westward along a narrowing ridge, the cliffs to either side broken by tumbles of fallen stones and earth, over which erratic ways might here and there be made down to the sea. There were seals on the rocks below, and the cliffs were alive with birds. This place was refuge for many wild creatures. It felt right that it had also become a home and haven for some of the wildest of men.

  I climbed back up to the path, then paused. Something still wrong. Something close at hand, holding me watchful, immobile, looking for the invisible, listening for the inaudible. The clouds massed above, heavy and dark. The sea sighed and shifted, a soft accompaniment to the high calls of the gulls. What was it that would not let me set my steps for home? My mind sought, stretched, found it . . . a thread, a breath, a flicker like a guttering flame, fading fast. There was another survivor. Somewhere out here in the dimming light, somewhere between tide and cliff face, a man lay close to death. But alive. Still alive.

  Gods, what to do now? Run for help and risk losing that faint trace, run and take a chance on the light being still good enough to find him when I got back, wherever the waves had deposited him in this crooked landscape of crack and chink and crashing seas? Run and hope the rain held off until I could return with men and ropes and lanterns? Or search now, on my own? He was close by. I felt it.

  No time. No choice. As I made my way out along the narrow, high neck of land, a part of me was running through all the sensible arguments—you’re too small to lift a man’s weight, the tide’s coming in, you didn’t even bring a cloak, what if you can’t reach him, what if . . . what if . . . I took no heed. Someone was alive out here. I must find him.

  The path grew narrower as it climbed, revealing dizzying drops to either side. Gulls wheeled above the rock stacks. There were white caps on the sea now. I could feel the wind’s bite through the wool of my gown. The sky was growing darker.

  “Where are you?” I muttered, hardly daring search my mind for the little spark of life I had sensed before, lest I find it gone forever. How could anyone have survived so long? “Breathe! Stay alive! I’m nearly there.”

  A gust caught me off guard and I teetered, fighting for balance. As I righted myself, heart pounding, I saw him. He lay far below me on a tiny strip of pebbles, sprawled out with his head toward the cliff face and the hungry tide lapping at his feet. Tattered dark clothing; tangled dark hair; a length of wood lying by his prone body. Perhaps it had helped buoy him until he made landfall on this unlikely shore. He looked limp, spent. So long in the water . . . He must be near death from cold and exhaustion.

  I climbed down, my mind repeating the same words over and over. Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead. The cliff was a nightmare of crumbling rock, of sudden crevices and uncertain ledges. I crept and sidled, slipped and slid, tearing my palms on the clumps of rough grass as I tried to control my wayward descent. I did not think too hard about what I was doing. If my instincts had drawn me here, I must be able to save him.

  I jumped the last few feet and landed with a crunch on the pebbles beside the man. A wave washed up to his knees, drenching the hem of my gown, then retreated. Manannán’s curse, this tide was coming in with unnatural speed. As I crouched beside the fallen seafarer, a small gathering of gulls squawked derisive comments from the rocks nearby. I eased the man’s head to the side, pushing his hair away so I could put my fingers to his neck, feeling for signs of life. Gods, he was cold! Under my fingers, a weak pulse beat. He was chalk white, save for dark bruising around the fast-closed eyes.

  “Up!” I sla
pped his cheek hard. “Help me!”

  Another wave; in no time at all, the sea would reach the foot of this cliff and be up over the rocks.

  “Wake up! You must help me!” I slapped him again. No response. Gritting my teeth, I tried to lift his upper body so I could get a grip around his chest, under the arms, and drag him up. Foolish. Some women might have done it, but I was of slight build. You are a druid, Sibeal. Use your wits. Find a solution.

  I scanned the rock face above us, searching for markers. There was the high tide point. Get the man onto the ledge just above it, and all I need do was keep him warm and wait for someone to come looking for me. As a plan it was somewhat lacking, but a definite improvement on waiting down here until we both drowned. I looked around the tiny strip of pebbles, seeking other answers, and my gaze fell on the length of wood I had noticed before. It had surely been part of the Norse ship, for carven along its elegant curve were runic signs, no doubt placed there to keep vessel and crew safe from harm. Today’s storm had been too strong for any protective talisman.

  Runes. Divination. Hidden meanings. From one wave to the next, I fixed my eyes on the carven symbols. “Manannán, send me wisdom,” I prayed. “You’ve brought him this far. You must mean him to survive. Show me how to do my part.”

  The next wave washed in. It moved the man forward on the strand and a sound came from him, a deep groan. The water retreated. It had scattered pebbles across the carven wood, touching Lagu, Nyd, Eh. Three runes, and only a heartbeat of time to interpret them. Water, tides. Inner strength. A problem to be solved, a tool to be found. I was too weak to lift a man, but the sea could do it for me. “Get up!” I shouted as the man stirred, shifting on the pebbles. “Quick!”

  He dragged himself up to his knees. I crouched beside him and lifted his arm over my shoulders. Let me be strong enough to hold him against the tide. Gods give me fortitude.

  “Hold on. When the next wave comes we’re going to stand up. Ready?”