by Non Bramley
‘Do you know what happens the moment it’s built? Those that are not Christian will suddenly not be our people any more; they’ll be other, strange, foreign and bad and we will split and never come together again. I will not have it. The boy died. Children die. It is sad but you and I both know that it is life. His mother has forgotten how cruel life can be for the young and the old and the sick. Plenty makes children of us all.’
‘So you don’t believe in elves, Gudrun?’
‘The child died, Reeve, like children do.’
I nodded. ‘How old was he?’
Gudrun took the frame filled with white comb and ran her knife around the inner edge. The comb loosened and dropped on to her worktable with a solid thump.
‘Petur was twelve.’
She cut the comb into lumps and dropped them on to a metal tray, where they oozed.
‘He was your nephew?’
Gudrun nodded and placed the tray in a frame that angled down to a waiting bucket. Honey dripped.
‘Taste?’ she asked crossly, handing me a crumb of comb. I took it and sucked the sweetness from it.
‘It’s very good, perfumed with something.’
‘Lavender.’
‘Was Petur your sister’s only child?’
‘Gunnar The Bald and Briet have five more.’
‘Still, it must have been a terrible loss.’
Gudrun shrugged. ‘Ask his father.’
‘Were you there, when he fell sick?’
‘I was away on the mainland, with my children. There’s a fair at Tingale Abbey on Saint Petroc’s Day. I sell my honey and beeswax. It makes a good price. I only found out he was gone three days after he died.’
‘How long were you away?’
Her hand hovered over her work. ‘A week.’
‘A long time to sell a few jars of honey and candles.’
‘We buy our supplies for the year – cloth and thread. And I visit a friend.’ She said, looking me in the eye.
‘Their name?’
‘What business is it of yours?’
‘Fuck all,’ I said, and leant back against the wall.
She gave a humourless laugh and looked away. ‘His name’s John Pargetter. I’m not ashamed of it. I’m a widow, not dead.’
I had been right to send Olaf away.
We were interrupted by a tall, russet-haired boy.
‘My son, Magnus.’
I nodded to the lad, who looked bored. Behind his legs a little girl of six or seven peered at me and looked hungrily at the dripping honeycomb. I crouched down to smile at her.
‘I loved sweet things when I was young too,’ I said. ‘Still do.’
‘Here, Pia,’ Gudrun said, holding out a crumb of comb to the little girl, who took it and darted away.
‘Too old for sweets?’ I asked the lad.
‘My son has no taste for honey,’ his mother answered.
‘Gudrun, I’m not here to pry into your life, or to further the cause of a church. I’m here to make sure that Petur died of some unfortunate childhood disease. That should take me no longer than a week. After that I’ll leave you all in peace.’
‘No, you’ll leave us now. I will not have it.’
‘I will not leave. You’ll have to make me. You won’t succeed. Think of your position here. How will trying to force me out look to your grieving sister and kin?’
‘You believe that the boy died of disease?’
‘I do.’
‘You will state that publicly? You will tell your masters on the mainland?’
‘At the end of my investigations here, yes.’
She sighed. ‘A week then.’
I joined Asif in the orchard. He was watching the hives, fearfully.
‘Olaf’s gone ahead to arrange where we’re to sleep tonight,’ he said, batting at the buzzing things that flew too close.
‘Good. I need somewhere quiet to think. I’ve just agreed to bear false witness.’
Chapter Four
The people of Sigurd’s Town were good hosts. We were given a small cottage on the quayside that was far more comfortable than anything I’m used to. There were only two rooms, one above the other, but they were warm and bright. Asif and I slept that night in the upper chamber, I in a large bed built into an alcove and Asif in the truckle bed that was stored neatly underneath. The open window let in the scent of honeysuckle and the sound of the many bees that tended it. We were well fed too, if you like fish, the townspeople each bringing us a covered dish of fragrant stew and rough bread. We were given enough to feed ten and for the most part it was delicious.
When I lay down to sleep it was still light.
I woke early but Asif was already up.
‘I bought everything but soap,’ he said ruefully, rinsing his face and hands and reaching for a prettily embroidered linen napkin.
‘I’ll find us some soapwort, but in the meantime, try this.’ I sprinkled a pinch of ash from the hearth on to his wet palms. ‘Rub your hands together. Don’t get it near your eyes.’
Asif rubbed the grainy ash in his wet hands and looked at them with amazement. ‘They’re so clean they’re squeaking!’
‘Don’t use it too often. It’ll strip your skin.’
‘It must be an alkali,’ Asif said. ‘A substance that dissolves grease. I’ve just realised something – do you know what the word alkali means in Arabic?’
I shook my head.
‘It means wood ash. I’ve always wondered why.’ He beamed at me. ‘So what do we do today? What do we do first?’
‘We speak to people.’
‘And ask them …’
‘Whatever comes into my mind.’
He nodded. ‘Reeve, excuse me for mentioning this but I was there, in the church in Eglwys when you told the Archbishop that you had trouble with counting.’
‘I can do basic sums. I just don’t like the arithmetic that’s needed to take a tenth of a poor man’s crop for the church.’
‘Would you like to learn more? I could teach you.’
‘You like numbers?’
‘They’re a language, a beautiful language. I could perhaps show you what I mean in the evenings, when you have time. We’ve a week here and not much to entertain us. I’m used to a city; there’s nothing else to do here.’
I was growing to like the lad. Not for one moment did he feel uncomfortable sharing his nights so closely with a woman.
‘If I have time. Thank you.’
A grieving mother isn’t the best witness. They bleed and shudder at the pain of their loss. The real world is just a shadow; and they run to the past for comfort. I would instead find the dead child’s father, Gunnar, and tread carefully for now.
Olaf found us down at the harbour, pondering how to find Gunnar in this sea of strangers. Olaf pointed to a moored fishing boat. ‘See the ship with the red hull? That’s the Eldur Fluga, the Fire Fly. It’s Gunnar’s.’
‘He’s a fisherman then?’
‘No, not anymore, but if he’s not on the quay, that’s where he’ll be, mooning around. Fishing’s a dangerous trade. When Petur died Briet lost her mind a little. Poor woman’s convinced the rest of her family is going to die, one by one, and she won’t have Gunnar out of her sight. He’s scraping a living selling eggs and milk and he’s not happy about it. Hates the land.’
‘That must be hard.’
‘He loves her so much he’s willing to do it. He’s a good man. Took her on when many wouldn’t and he loved Petur like his own.’
‘He wasn’t the boy’s natural father?’
‘No. Gunnar settled here when Petur was not much more than a babe in arms. Briet’s man died in the first winter. She’s known far more than her fair share of loss. They were hard times then. Ah, there he is.’
Olaf called out a greeting to a man ladling milk from a battered churn into a waiting jug held by a plump young woman.
‘Does he speak English?’ Asif asked.
Olaf nodded. ‘Most have at least
a little. You can’t trade on the mainland without it.’
Gunnar was short and balding, his fair hair like a wiry crown. He flushed and rubbed the back of his neck, as if we’d caught him doing something ridiculous.
‘Gunnar, this is Jude of Calder, the Reeve sent to look into the death of your boy.’
Gunnar offered me a tired smile and held out his hand. ‘The good Bróðir knows my mind, Reeve.’
‘Can you tell me what happened to your son?’ I said.
‘I am not a rude man, but who are you? Why should I tell you anything about Petur?’
‘I’m sorry – it’s my job to ask questions of strangers.’
‘You’re raking up things that are best left alone. Just let us grieve, for God’s sake.’ He shot a wary look at Olaf and dropped his eyes.
‘Olaf, is there an ale house here?’
‘Margarit sells ale.’
‘Then go and buy me a jug. I’ll meet you there. Asif will pay.’
When they were safely out of earshot I turned back to Gunnar. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, and I’m aware that I’m not welcome here. Whatever you tell me goes no further. All I want is to make sure that no other child dies in the way that Petur did. I won’t cause you or your wife any more pain than I must. I’ll be careful.’
Gunnar rubbed his face and nodded, then spoke to the plump young woman who was avidly listening to every word. He handed her the ladle and motioned me to walk with him. Keeping his voice low. ‘My wife is not well. She has had her head filled with terrible stories. She just needs time to recover her senses. The death of our son has broken her.’
‘Did Olaf tell your wife these stories? Was it he who first blamed your son’s death on elves?’
‘You must understand, Reeve, we hear stories of the Huldufólk in the cradle. We grow up with the knowledge that they live next to us, in another world to us, but we don’t truly see them.’
‘It’s just a fairy story?’
‘No, it’s … they’re part of the map. When we look at the land we see where they live, and they live in stories, not here, but they still live. You won’t understand.’
‘So there was talk, maybe just thoughtless talk at first but your wife heard it and believed.’
‘She was very angry with Petur when he came home with the … thing – berries he’d collected on Piskelli. She told him the elves would be angry, but it’s just something we say. We mean it but we don’t mean it.’
‘When I was a child, one of the sisters at the abbey used to call out a warning before she threw dirty water out of the door, even when there was no one there. She did it so that the elves could get out of the way. She called them “little people”. If I was helping her scrub the floors she’d make me do it too, was horrified if I didn’t.’
‘Truly?’ Gunnar said.
‘Truly. How did Petur get to Piskelli? Did he take a boat? Were you with him?’
‘No need. At low tide you can walk between here and there. He didn’t take anything with him, just saw the place and took it into his head to explore. He was at that age when he was always hungry. Would make himself sick with too much sweet stuff. It must have been irresistible. He was small but he was growing. Would have been as tall and strong as you.’ His voice held such pride.
‘How did he die?’
Gunnar stopped and looked at his feet. I felt the cold, clammy horror of his despair.
‘He just fell down. He was talking, showing us the blackberries he’d collected, big and fat, very sweet. I tried them myself. We were teasing his mother, and he stood up and fell. Then he shook, all over, like he was cold, and we tried to cover him, I held him to warm him and he died in my arms. All I could hear was screaming and I wanted her to stop, to let him sleep, then he’d be better. She knew he was dead before I did. It was only when he, when he pissed himself that I knew. He hadn’t done that since he was a baby.’
‘My God,’ I said softly.
‘Don’t talk to my wife, Reeve. Don’t ask her any questions, please.’
I nodded and touched his arm briefly.
—Anger and grief are invigorating; sad acceptance saps the very life out of you. I’d been surrounded by the gentlest of souls for days, Levi. It made me careful and it was stifling. I felt the need to scratch and fuck and swear… shudder and shake the horror off.
‘Had Petur ever been sick before? Had he eaten anything that might have poisoned him?’
‘He had the usual childhood fevers. Broke his leg when he was seven, he liked to climb, was like a kitten. He wouldn’t have eaten anything he didn’t recognise; he wasn’t stupid. We’ve seen enough sheep burst their guts with eating poisonous green stuff.’
‘Then I think you’re right. I think that Petur died of something natural – maybe his heart, or something in his head. I won’t trouble your wife but I’ve one last question. You were not Petur’s natural father I think?’
‘No, Briet and her man were two of the very first to settle here. He died and I came three years later. We met and we’ve been together ever since.’
‘And you have five children together.’
‘We do, thank God.’
‘None of your other children were affected? None became ill around the same time as Petur? They’re all well?’
Gunnar smiled. ‘They’re as noisy and fractious as little sparrows. Reeve, if you intend to go to Piskelli, do it secretly. My wife’s convinced that all of our children will die, that the Huldufólk will punish us again and again. I think that if she knows you intend to insult them again it will kill her. Don’t add to our griefs.’
I found Olaf and Asif sitting on barrels outside an ordinary looking house, a covered jug beside them.
‘Shall we go in?’ I said, making for the door.
‘Margarit sells ale, but you have to drink it in your own house.’ Asif pointed at a green bough that hung from a hook over her door. ‘If the leaves are green, the ale’s fresh apparently; if they’re wilted, it’s stale, and cheap.’
‘A clever idea. Ale only keeps for a week. After that, it’s piss. Frankly, before that it’s piss too, but it’ll do. It’s too good a day to sit indoors. Where shall we go?’
Olaf took us to the place where he’d marked out the foundations for his church. It was a high spot, surrounded by gorse and broom and overlooking the harbour.
‘Won’t it catch the weather, in winter?’ I asked.
‘It’s never truly cold here. Even the winters are mild. It’s a blessed little spot.’
I sat on the warm ground and listened to the roar of bees that tended the yellow blossoms that surrounded us.
‘It smells so good here,’ I said, taking a small swig from the jug and passing it to Asif who shook his head.
—I remember, watching a bee tangle in one of the many webs that filled the gorse; watching a tiny spider contemplating the stinging, venomed, buzzing fury it had caught. If a spider can look worried, this one did. “Oh shit!” eh, my little friend? I took a piece of grass and helped the bee out of the web. It flew off and the spider set to, rebuilding its torn trap, hoping for a little less success next time.
‘It’s too hot for me,’ Olaf said, sitting down beside me. ‘I’m used to snow and ice. I burn like pork on a spit.’ He took a rag from his pocket, draped it over his head and took a long pull from the jug, sitting it between his knees. ‘Here, look at this,’ he said, offering me a package of soft linen. ‘Open it.’
Lying inside the cloth was a pectoral cross, made of chased and engraved yellow gold, a garnet glowing at its centre. It hung from a golden chain, each link intricately twisted into a figure of eight and heavy in my hand.
‘Beautiful work. Where did it come from?’
‘Tingale. It’s to beautify the church we’re building here. Right here,’ he said, patting the turf happily.
‘You have a goldsmith at Tingale?’
‘We do. Stephen Farrar. His work is the best in the country.’
‘It’s a lovely thing.
You’ll need to keep the door stoutly bolted if you’re going to display something of this worth.’
‘What better place for beauty than a church?’ he said simply.
The cross glittered in my hand. ‘Olaf, why am I here?’
He picked up a corner of the rag that covered his head and peered at me. ‘To clear out the elves on Piskelli. To stop them killing children. When are you going to do it?’
I stood and looked out over the calm blue sea towards Piskelli. It was green and silent, nothing stirred.
‘There’s nothing on Piskelli. There’s no elves.’
He got up to protest and I spoke over him. ‘No, I don’t mean that there aren’t very potent beliefs and stories that put them there, and maybe thinking they’re there is the same as them actually being there, in some ways at least. But I can’t chase thoughts. What do I do, take a net and a jar? How do you catch a story?’
‘But they killed the child!’ Olaf said.
‘No, I don’t believe they did. I don’t need a week. I’ll be leaving the day after tomorrow.’
‘And what will you tell the Archbishop?’
‘I’ll tell her that the child died of natural causes.’
‘Then you’re a fool. He won’t be the last. There’ll be more. They’ve not finished with us yet.’
Chapter Five
Children see more than we think. They can pick up the scent of anger or fear on the air, like fox cubs. It’s one of the tools God gave them to survive.
The children of Sigurd’s Town were easy to find. Is there anything noisier than children in the middle of a game? A group of around thirty were playing out on the sand flats that were carved into banks and channels by the tide. I sat for a while and watched them - watched a tall young man who I recognised as Gudrun’s son, Magnus, ordering the littler ones about and pushing lads close to his own age into the muddy channels. It looked good natured enough but there was a message here – Magnus was practising for when he wouldn’t just be king of the children.
What were they doing? Across a wide channel a red-haired boy and his companions were staggering in the muddy sand, carrying a succession of dark objects that they dropped at intervals with a splash. I walked towards them, shielding my eyes.
