Propolis

by Non Bramley

  ‘You bought a compass? Where did you get the money? I don’t think I’ve ever seen one.’

  ‘I’ve plenty of coin, so if there’s anything else we’ll need for a sea journey I can easily—’

  ‘A sea journey?’

  ‘Well, yes. I took the liberty of chartering a boat. We could ride but it’ll take weeks. Brother Olaf isn’t very happy in the saddle, and I’m a poor horseman. You don’t approve? You’ve been sleeping in a boat so I thought you wouldn’t object.’

  Mine was a clever millstone.

  I spent my last night back at the tavern, feeling slightly foolish, and in the morning woke to grey drizzle and a cold breeze.

  Asif and Olaf. Names that could have been taken straight from a folk tale. They even looked a little alike.

  Both had arrived at the quay before me and seemed easy in each other’s company, talking like old friends. I envied them that capacity to trust, I’m wary of everyone.

  Our boat was a sturdy little cog piloted by a grizzled Welshwoman and her sons.

  ‘So what do you think of him?’ Olaf said, as we watched Asif checking his list and hefting our copious baggage into the hold.

  ‘Asif? He’s brighter than I expected. But most of what I do is unteachable, Brother. I can’t be stopping to point out evidence and take him through a ten-point plan. I’m here to help your people, not some clever lad. If he gets in my way, I’ll move him.’

  ‘I’m very grateful to you,’ Olaf said, holding out his hand. It was as calloused as a pine cone.

  ‘You know your way around a boat?’ I said.

  ‘A ship. Yes, I was born at sea.’

  ‘So was I, probably. I was found drifting in an abandoned rowboat, just a babe in arms.’

  ‘They were terrible times back then, beasts at every turn. Are the stories about you true? Did you raise a saint and drive the monsters into the sea?’

  ‘You make me sound like Saint Patrick,’ I said, and smiled. ‘How long will we be out for?’

  ‘Two, maybe three days, if the weather holds. There’s a harbour at Tresgo; it’s the biggest of the islands. You’ll meet the head woman, Gudrun, there. It’s her poor nephew Petur that’s been murdered by the Huldufólk.’

  ‘And where do the elves live?’ I asked him, trying and failing to give appropriate gravitas to a question that seemed absurd.

  ‘You think it’s a fairy tale too? Well there’s truth in fairy tales; that’s why they’re repeated at the cradle for generations. The Huldufólk live on Piskelli island. We’ll pass it but I won’t moor up there. I’m not a fool.’

  Asif came towards us, staggering slightly as the heavy little ship rocked. ‘I bought this for you, Reeve. You’re giving me the chance to be truly useful and I’m grateful.’

  He handed me a dark blue garment and I held it up. It was a stiff-looking shirt, made before the fall from the look of it.

  ‘It’s old but will keep out the rain better than oiled leather. It has a hood here, look, and this fastening is remarkable, it binds together like the backbone of a snake.’

  He took hold of a rusted metal tab by the neck and ran it up and down. It made a faint buzz like a bee. Olaf looked at me with an amused expression and shrugged.

  ‘Asif, it’s a kind gesture but skin dries quicker than any cloth, especially in summer.’

  He looked crestfallen. ‘Would you try it? It was so hard to find. I don’t know your’ – he looked up at me – ‘measurements.’

  —I’m a big fucker. I know it, you know it. Don’t pussyfoot around.

  —Old age has made you fractious, Jude.

  —Well of course it bloody has, Levi. Old age is all irritation. Youth is irritating too; you just ache less.

  I held the slippery thing, watched by the captain’s sons. It was light, and warm, but I could already feel sweat slicking my palms. It was also noisy, it rustled like mice in a hayloft.

  ‘If I wear this everyone and everything will hear me coming. Think of this as your first lesson. Reeves must know how to be quiet,’ I said, handing it back and, somewhat as an afterthought, patting him on the shoulder.

  Asif spent the rest of the journey learning to be silent. He moved stealthily and ate making hardly a noise. He was a fast learner, but it’s disconcerting to see knowledge drunk up so thirstily. I felt like my words were being drawn from my head.

  —The things that have survived, pristine, from before the fall are always rubbish. Even in their own times they can’t have been fit for purpose or they’d have been used up and worn out long ago. I imagine the original owner putting the wretched thing away with a sigh, thinking of the money wasted on it.

  Ours was a prayerful boat. Sea journeys are dull if the weather’s docile and many times a day Olaf would say his rosary, passing the beads through his hard hands. Asif would study his compass and set out a prayer mat, filling the wind with sung-spoken words of extraordinary beauty.

  We spent the night on deck with coiled ropes for a pillow.

  ‘I miss my bed,’ Asif said. ‘Is there no cabin?’

  ‘The captain’s family are in it. This isn’t so bad.’

  ‘I’m used to a city, a bed, four walls and a roof.’

  ‘You were born in Eglwys?’

  ‘Yes, born and educated at the dame school.’

  ‘Family still living?’

  ‘My mother. My father died when I was young. He was a lot older.’

  ‘Won’t your mother miss you? We could be gone a while.’

  ‘I’ve three sisters. I don’t think they’ll notice I’m gone, except the place will be tidier. I earn my keep copying documents, mostly for the church.’

  ‘Ah, so that’s how Juliana found you.’

  I slept like a babe under a silver sky and woke at dawn. Asif was still asleep, curled on his side with his hand under his head. The little ship had been anchored all night, rolling in the blackness. It pitched less when the sail was hoisted and caught the wind with a snap, pushing us onwards.

  I spent my time watching the water ploughed by our prow, flexing like liquid glass. It was mesmerising.

  ‘I always feel closer to God at sea,’ Olaf said, joining me. ‘I’ll never see a desert, but I imagine a sea of sand can’t be that different to this … so clean, it clears the mind. Breakfast?’ He handed me a smoked fish on a wooden plate.

  I took the fish and stripped the head and backbone, offering Olaf flakes of the oily flesh. He shook his head and I tossed the bones over the side, where they were taken by a huge fish that appeared out of the black. What worlds must there be under the waves.

  ‘God sleeps in the rock, dreams in the plant, stirs in the animal and awakens in us,’ I said.

  ‘Beautiful words, and true. I feel awake at sea. Cities make me feel stupid,’ Olaf said.

  ‘Not my words I’m afraid. They’re eight hundred years old, and belong to a Muslim scholar, a clever man.’

  We never lost sight of land but followed the coast, sometimes closely so that I could see colonies of birds covering the cliffs, and sometimes distantly to avoid the rocks that were just dark patches in the green sea.

  My hair stiffened with salt and my scars itched.

  A storm blew in. It wasn’t an epic tempest, just a little squall that made the cog rear out of the water and slam back, buckling the knees from under you. It blew past and took the clouds with it and the sun beat down from a sky so blue it was almost black.

  ‘Piskelli,’ Olaf said, touching my arm and pointing to a small island. It looked unremarkable, except perhaps it was unusual for any salt-drenched place to be so lush. It was a foamy-green nub of land with no signs of life, supernatural or otherwise.

  ‘And Tresgo,’ he added, swinging his arm to point at a larger place, a stone’s throw from Piskelli and maybe half a mile from the dark rocked coast. ‘We’re here.’

  The wind played a game with us. Our captain cursed and tacked, and brought us in at an angle to the stiff breeze that dropped as soon as we reached th
e bay. I rowed Asif and Olaf to the shore in a battered plastic boat that I could pick up with one hand. Remarkable.

  There was no one waiting to greet us.

  Olaf pushed his hands through his hair. ‘This is terrible, Reeve … to show such little hospitality. I would have thought Gudrun would keep a lookout. It’s not like her.’ He was truly upset.

  ‘It’s no matter, Brother,’ I said, dragging the small boat up the beach, above the tideline.

  This little bay was beautiful – a stretch of clean, honey-brown sand overlooked by dark cliffs that some great catastrophe had twisted and stretched. A stream of fresh water fell from the highest point and snaked its way down to the sea. White birds clung to the cliff face to drink.

  We crunched our way over multitudes of tiny shells and followed a path upwards into hot sunlight. It was windless and very quiet. The parched headland, rabbit-nibbled and starred with speedwell, led to the fringes of a woodland of ash, beech, silver birch and spindly oak.

  Even under the scant tree canopy it was too hot. Asif walked beside me, frowning. It was irritating.

  ‘What’s wrong, lad?’ I offered him the last of the crowberries I’d gathered on the way. They were sour.

  ‘I’m trying to take note of where we are … our position, the placement of the trees, the plants. It’s too much.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Isn’t it necessary, to do what you do?’

  ‘I meant why is it too much?’

  —This was the first time in my life I’d ever felt miserly. Ask a clever tradesman for the secret of their trade and watch them scowl. There’s only so much skill in the world, and the more a pupil gains the less a teacher has to give. It’s a diminishing.

  ‘You’re trying to cram fact after fact into your head. They won’t stay where you put them. Just feel the place. Stop a moment.’

  He stood, looking wretched, and I put my hand over his eyes.

  ‘What can you feel?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What can you hear?’

  ‘I can hear you,’ he said.

  I sighed and took my hand from him, then closed my own eyes and breathed in deeply. ‘I can smell rosemary, laurel blossom, rhododendron and silver birch pollen. If they’re flourishing the earth isn’t good for wheat, they won’t be grain farmers here.’ I nodded. ‘That’s why I can hear cow bells, lots of them even though they’re faint. There’s woodsmoke. That means either a settlement or a charcoal burner. It’s probably not smoke from a charcoal stack as these woods aren’t coppiced. There’s good timber for firewood everywhere that’s not been gathered, so not a big population. The soil under my feet is dry, springy, not much rain for a while. Or we’re up high and the land will drop soon. This path isn’t well trodden, so the bay we came from isn’t much used. I think we’re on the less inhabited side of the island.’

  ‘She’s right,’ Olaf said. ‘We came in on the north side. Sigurd’s Town is on the south.’

  ‘A grand name for a fly speck,’ I said, suddenly wishing to God I could shake them both off.

  —Why was I so snappish? As soon as I set foot on the island my nerves began to fray.

  Olaf nodded and looked slightly hurt. ‘There’s only one settlement on Tresgo. Sigurd’s Town is home to fifty souls, so not big, no, not big. One less soul now with the loss of the child, please God there’s been no more deaths.’

  ‘Is Sigurd the head man?’ I asked.

  ‘He was. Died years ago. Now his widow runs things. Her son, Magnus, will take over in a few years; he’s still a boy. Gudrun’s a good woman but hard.’

  The wood thinned, then opened out on to a pasture where a few fat cows and many goats grazed, watched over by a young lad with hair the colour of egg yolks. He ran up and threw his arms around Brother Olaf’s waist, then caught sight of Asif and stood back bashfully. Olaf put his hand on the lad’s shoulder and they spoke a few words in their own language. He smiled as we set off again, waving to the lad over his shoulder.

  ‘He’s not a happy child. He has to stay and mind the beasts. There’s been no more deaths thank God in his grace.’

  The land dropped and fell steeply down to a harbour, the sun striking sparks on the water that were strong enough to hurt the eyes. Boats crowded at the quay, all well maintained, some upturned on the quayside receiving repairs.

  Nets hung on drying frames and I was surprised to see that the homes lining the quayside were painted in pale flower colours. Women and men stopped and turned to us, some called out to Olaf with white-toothed smiles.

  ‘Why do they paint their houses in those colours?’ Asif asked.

  ‘For beauty, and probably for pride. Looks like a little heaven, eh? And it was, and it was,’ Olaf said.

  The people of Sigurd’s Town were a handsome folk. Many were fair with pale blue eyes, but some were also dark, with copper skins and green amber eyes. All looked strong, healthy and merry. Olaf was greeted with joy, and also relief, as if he had broken a fever. Asif and I were treated with … what was it? Embarrassment? It was odd, and didn’t improve my temper.

  ‘I’ll translate for you,’ Olaf said, smiling tightly at my stony face as a young woman with pale brown hair gripped my hand and spoke urgently to me. ‘This is Briet Rannveigsdottir. She is the younger sister of Gudrun, it was her lad Petur who died. She asks if you will find the hidden man that murdered her child, and kill it.’

  Olaf spoke gently back to her, holding her two hands in his own, and the conversation and laughter faded.

  ‘Tell her I’ll first find out what’s happening here, then who’s to blame,’ I said. ‘Take me to Gudrun.’

  ‘Reeve,’ Asif said quietly as we were led away, ‘does this feel right to you? It all looks so … perfect.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Fat beasts, round-cheeked women and lots of children. How many families have so many little ones survive childhood? Why blame this one death on elves? There are more children here than adults. Perhaps they’re so unused to mourning children they’ve blamed it all on sprites?’

  ‘Asif, what would you say to me if I told you that the best way crack an egg was with a hammer?’

  He frowned with polite incomprehension.

  ‘There, that’s it. That’s the same look we were just given. Bringing us here is an overreaction on the good Brother’s behalf – I’d put money on it. It seems to me that the only folk who truly believe in an elf’s curse are the dead child’s mother and Olaf. I think grief has driven Briet Rannveigsdottir mad.’

  We followed Olaf along the quay and up a track, squeezed between two dwellings and sunken into the stony earth. It was steep and took us up to where a natural spring bubbled, its water clotted with yellow kingcups and greening lush fields that overlooked the village.

  Gudrun’s house was unpainted, dressed stone covered in lichens. It wasn’t large, in fact it was almost ostentatiously modest. There was a garden planted to root crops, and an orchard a little way beyond the house, the trees covered with small, unripe fruit. It was too neat, too perfect. There were no mouldering piles of rubbish or fetid stink from the tall privy house. Insects sprang from the grass and sparked light from their wings.

  We found Gudrun in the orchard, tending to a beehive.

  ‘She’s a master of the craft,’ Olaf said quietly. ‘Her honey is traded all along the coast.’

  Gudrun stood, head uncovered, and I watched her lift a frame from the hive, gently stroking the little brown bodies of the bees aside with a feather. She laid the frame in the long grass and carefully removed one or two bees that had become entangled in her hair that curled into corkscrews around her forehead.

  ‘So you did as you like as usual, Olaf Flat Nose,’ she said to the blushing priest. Her mouth thinned as she looked me up and down. ‘I think you are the church law come to save us from folk tales. I’m sorry, you have wasted your journey.’

  ‘So am I if that’s true,’ I said.

  ‘If you hurry you can take the boa
t back to where you came from.’ She replaced the lid of the hive with a heavy thump, picked up the frame and a knife from the lush grass and walked swiftly to the tall stone privy, She stepped inside but left the door wide open, and an open door is always an invitation to a Reeve.

  ‘Stay here,’ I said to Asif and the good Brother, and followed her inside.

  Not a privy house, but a workshop. No wonder it didn’t reek. Cool and dim and lit by a small, high window, this cramped little space was fragrant with the strange musk of honey.

  Jars of it, covered with waxed paper lids stood on high shelves that reached up to the roof. There was no chair, and just a rough board to work on, hinged to the wall.

  ‘We’re disturbing you, but this place has suffered the mysterious death of an otherwise healthy child. My name’s Jude of Calder, or Reeve if you prefer. I’ve been sent by the Archbishop to investigate the cause of his death.’

  ‘Children die, Jobe,’ she said, reaching up to fix a wooden shutter to the single, small window and making me temporarily blind in the new dimness.

  ‘Try Reeve,’ I said. ‘It may be easier for you.’

  ‘Can I be frank, Reeve?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You’re not welcome here.’

  ‘I came at Olaf’s invitation.’

  ‘The invitation of a man who doesn’t even live here, yes? I am sick of the church meddling in my people’s lives. Do you know why you’re here? You’re here because we have no church. Olaf follows me around bleating about it and I will not have it. There is a church on the mainland. Let those who wish to use it leave. If you go back to your head priests and say, “Oh yes, there are demons and fairies and monsters here,” and you tell my people that they are indeed plagued by the Huldufólk, hidden men that kill children, they will tear down their houses to build this church themselves.’

  ‘Would that be so bad?’