Propolis

by Non Bramley

  Gudrun’s little workshop was untouched by fire, the door chained with rusty iron and padlocked. The wood around the door latch was stained with rust.

  ‘I nearly forgot,’ Olaf said, ‘there’s a broken oil lamp in the house,’ he said, taking shards of pottery, still dark with oil from his pocket.

  I took them. ‘Thank you. Doesn’t this look like a heavy lock for a workshop?’

  The padlock was old, and complicated, made before the fall.

  ‘Gudrun made sure it was known that she locked up these stores. Occasionally, she distilled a special honey and caraway spirit. Ferocious stuff and worth good money.’

  I tested the padlock. It was sound, and so broke the iron chain, grunting with the effort. I looked inside. All was neat. Jars of honey glowed – deep ruddy amber to pale gold. It was as though Gudrun had just left. A bee came through the small window and landed on the worktable.

  To shut the door behind me I had to close the stretched links of the securing chain with my teeth, the rusted metal flaking and brittle. I chipped a tooth.

  ‘There’s no need to lock the place up. No one but the family will come here now. That burned house is too terrible.’

  ‘I don’t want any looting. Pia and Magnus have little enough to live on, unless they sell the land. Gudrun’s tools and anything else of value should be sold. Are the bees worth money? I suppose someone will need to tend to the hives.’

  ‘I’ll ask Freyja to check them now and again but there’s hives all over the island and she’s an old woman. Do you truly think this wasn’t an accident?’

  ‘I know it, Brother. Olaf, when did Magnus’s father die?’

  ‘Eleven years ago.’

  ‘And Gudrun never remarried?’

  ‘No. Sigurd the Red was a Viking, merry and brave, no man could live up to him in her eyes.’

  ‘But Pia’s only seven so who’s her father?’

  ‘She’s an orphan, the child of a fisherman named Grindar. He perished at sea and Pia’s mother died bringing her into the world. Gudrun took the child in and loved her as much as her own.’

  ‘I know – she burned to save her. How long had you known Gudrun?’

  ‘I came here with the new settlers, eleven years ago. She was already here.’

  ‘So you met Sigurd too?’

  ‘No, he’d died a few weeks before. Lost at sea, he’d gone far out to find fish. We arrived just in time, the place was starving. They’d struggled on, isolated for three years. There had been a lot of deaths. The winters were very hard, very cold, they tell me.’

  ‘I thought that you said the winters are mild here?’

  ‘I did. They are,’ Olaf said, surprised at his own words. ‘That’s strange.’

  ‘Will Magnus be head man now?’

  ‘In name perhaps, he’s too young to tell grown men and women what to do.’

  ‘But they might do as he asks, especially if it’s something they want anyway?’

  ‘Yes, they’re a kind folk, they won’t want to cause him more grief, at least for a while. If he minds his manners he can grow into his place. Sigurd and Gudrun were respected enough for their son to have his chance. He’ll need to grow up fast.’

  ‘Magnus tells me he believes in elves. You may get your church yet.’

  ‘If this is what it costs then damn the place. I won’t have a holy church paid for with blood and fire.’

  I nodded. ‘That’s to your credit. Olaf, I’ve a favour to ask. Asif is a clever lad, very good with figures. I’d like to give him something to do for a few days, get him out from under my feet. Do you think he’d be allowed to teach the town’s children their numbers? Is there a need for that?’

  ‘We’re a trading town – there’s always a need for the knowledge of numbers.’ Olaf smiled. ‘I think it would be very welcome. Thank you.’

  —It’s a wise child that knows its own father, Levi. Blood lines are more of a tangle than a straight cord from the first to the last. There’s joy in that. We’re all connected through countless moments of lust, pushed on by a passion that’s as unrelenting as the force that drives green shoots through stone.

  Nothing of us will remain in the end. When the stars burn out and even time is over and done with there’ll be no one left who has your eyes, or the tilt of your mouth. Your words, your deeds, your memory, all gone. There’s joy in that too. Nothings lasts except joy. Your joy.

  —God’s gift is a parcel of time, Jude.

  It was the morning of my fifth day at Tresgo and the town baked in heat that was already fierce. Old timbers piled on the quay gave off the ghost of pine resin in the warmth and my blisters throbbed with that odd pain that’s almost an itch.

  That afternoon rain came in. I stood and watched it from my window. I could have lit the fire in the small grate but I’d seen enough of flames. It had grown a little cold and it was good. I needed to think. Who was the owner of the incriminating chain that had sealed Gudrun’s door and her death? Who would want Gudrun dead?

  I told Asif I’d volunteered his services as a teacher. He looked pleased, proud and annoyed at the same time.

  ‘Don’t you need me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But I can’t help you if I’m teaching children their tables.’

  ‘Yes, you can. The children are the key to all this. Listen to their chatter, get to know them. Report back anything you hear. Get them to trust you. Find out whatever you can about Petur, Pia and Magnus. Just watch.’

  Asif hesitated but eventually nodded, flashing me his strange solemn smile. ‘I’ve always thought I might be a good teacher. I can still give you a few lessons if you wish?’

  ‘No need. I’ve enough in my head,’ I said, drawing the chain that had sealed Gudrun’s door from my scrip. ‘Bring me some water would you, and a rag.’

  I dropped the chain into the proffered bowl and watched the water darken.

  ‘What is it?’ Asif asked.

  ‘The chain that sealed Gudrun’s door from the outside. I broke it when I kicked the door in. Polish it and tell me what you see.’

  ‘So it’s murder then?’ He took the now-silver chain from the water and dried it. ‘The links are … twisted. It has a catch just here, and it’s broken, of course. A broken necklace, an expensive one.’

  ‘Are there any marks on it?’

  Asif took the chain to the window. ‘No. Wait, yes. There’s initials, S and F. The owner?’

  ‘The maker. That chain was made by Stephen Farrar, gold and silversmith to the abbey at Tingale. That seals it, you won’t be teaching classes for a few days yet.’

  ‘I won’t?’

  ‘Asif, I need you to go on an errand for me.’

  ‘Of course.’

  I picked up the heavy chain. ‘Go to Tingale, ask around for Stephen Farrar and show this necklace to him. Ask him who it was made for.’

  Asif paused. ‘But will that tell you who murdered Gudrun? This could have been stolen from the true owner by whoever started the fire.’

  ‘It could, but it’s a place to start.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t need me here?’

  ‘I’ll be on Piskelli for the day, chasing invisible elves.’

  Asif smiled, nervously. ‘So you’re going?’

  ‘I’m going. I’m close to an answer, and I need some space to think. If nothing else, a few hours away from this place will clear my head.’

  ‘This is all such a tangle,’ Asif said, examining the necklace. ‘One child dead of an ordinary sickness and the head woman dead from fire. If it wasn’t for this bauble it would all be so work-a-day.’

  ‘It often happens. You turn up, chase one felon and another appears. Asif, don’t tell Stephen Farrar anything but that we found the necklace and want to return it. If he suspects that by naming his customer he’ll be incriminating them, and maybe even himself we’ll get nothing from him. Olaf will help you charter a boat to Tingale in the morning. You’ll be there and back in a day or so.’

&n
bsp; ‘Could be for a man or a woman.’ Asif said, fingering the thick links. ‘Why not just ask around the town, see if anyone’s lost it? No, I suppose we can’t do that.’

  ‘Expensive thing like this? I think you’ll find that everyone will have lost one just like it. You won’t get an honest answer. Everyone but the murderer will claim ownership. One more thing, and this is important so mark me. Don’t tell anyone what your errand is, not even Olaf. If you’re asked, say you’re buying books for the children to keep after we’re gone. Tell them I’ve allowed you to go, grudgingly. And when you get your answer from the silversmith keep it to yourself. Tell no one but me. No one.’

  ‘I won’t. Who do you think killed Gudrun?’

  That was the question. List them. Consider.

  Gunnar. Did Gunnar believe his sister-in-law had somehow been responsible for his son’s death? But Gudrun had been away from the island when Petur died, selling her honey on the mainland. How could she kill a child when she was miles away? Perhaps he was after her money? Gudrun’s home looked well cared for but not unduly prosperous, just how much coin could you make from honey, spirit and beeswax? Surely not enough to make her a target of envy and covetousness?

  —I curse the day we brought money back to the world, Jude. It is truly the root of all evil.

  —Money’s just a tool, a shield as well as a knife. If rough men come in the night to steal away your daughters, as is so common, a handful of silver will send them off satisfied … if you’re lucky. Silver is more portable than women. Silver won’t slide from under you and slit your throat in the night. Your sons and daughters may be weeping, but at least a few of you will live. A sensible father hands over his coin and bides his time. Justice will come. Silver comes with a sting in its tail – a successful bastard has to watch his back if his pockets jingle.

  Is money evil in coin form? Or is it raw, painful emotion? Offer it instead of love, passion, charity, mercy, youth and beauty and you’ll have it accepted as such. Large piles of it inspire respect and fear. It’s not perhaps the root, roots stay where they’re planted, it’s the fruit - tasty, tempting and easy to take from the weak and the foolish. Too much of it is poison.

  No, Gudrun was unlikely to be rich in silver, but Briet would inherit her sister’s land.

  On the face of it, this seemed the most likely motive for murder, but Gunnar was a fisherman, loved the sea and hated his farming life, why would he want more of it? He went to sea for days and could easily have moored at Tingale to buy the chain, but so could anyone have done over the last twelve months or more. That chain could have lain in a drawer for years, away from the elements, kept like new.

  Start again.

  Two deaths, one natural, one by design. Could they be connected somehow? The dead were nephew and aunt, so there was a blood tie, but in such a small community many people would be connected somewhere down the family tree. Who else would want Gudrun and Petur dead? Surely the intended victim of the fire couldn’t have been Magnus or little Pia. What could she have done in her small life to attract the attention of a murderer? Could Pia’s real father be Gudrun’s lover, John Pargetter? Perhaps John had a wife? Perhaps she was angry? Angry enough to lose an expensive necklace bought by a guilty husband? Angry enough to kill?

  ‘While you’re there, Asif, ask after a man named John Pargetter. See if his wife is still living with him. Don’t approach them – just watch.’

  I’d need to check if any stranger had been seen in Sigurd’s Town.

  Move on.

  Elves. Huldufólk. Elves don’t chain buildings shut and set the place afire, not in any folk tale I’d ever heard. Even if I believed in vengeful fairy folk, what possible motive could they have for killing Gudrun? It would surely be Briet, Gunnar and their children who’d be the objects of vengeance.

  Throw this nonsense away now, back into the world of stories. What next. Who next?

  Olaf. It had to be considered. Gudrun had been the only obstacle to the building of his longed-for church. A motive certainly, but he’d been with me when the house took fire. Could he have set the turf smouldering and raced back to his seat by the quay, pretending to have slumbered the hours away? Could he have bought this expensive trinket from Tingale’s silversmith? Yes, he could, but why would he tell me the name of the maker, a man who could identify the Brother? And why leave the broken chain at Gudrun’s door where I could so easily find it?

  I spent long hours by the window, watching the rain while my mind raced.

  Chapter Seven

  On the morning Asif left for Tingale the rain eased and the sun broke through black cloud, filling the world with colour and light. It was hot and wet, the air felt like a fever.

  Down on the quay I nodded to my apprentice as he stood unsteadily on the deck of the Fire Fly, the vessel that would take him to Tingale.

  ‘That’s Gunnar’s boat,’ I said to Olaf who was there to oversee the bartering over the price of the journey.

  ‘Yes, he jumped at the chance. You’ve made him very happy. Your money means he can be out on his beloved sea again.’

  I swore softly, cupped my hands and shouted to Asif. ‘Be back quickly. No loitering or you’ll feel the back of my hand, boy!’

  ‘Such harshness, Reeve. The lad’s buying books for the children, spending his own coin too.’

  ‘He’s a fool but at least he’s out from under my feet.’

  The plump young woman who’d been witness to my conversations with Gunnar, called out and waved to Olaf.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I asked him.

  ‘Anna Butter Neck, she’s married to a cripple but they’re as happy as songbirds,’ he said, waving back.

  ‘What happened to her man?’

  ‘Fell out of a tree. Broke his legs and they never healed right. They’re very poor.’

  ‘She doesn’t look it.’

  ‘We look after our own. They’ll never starve or go about in rags.’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘No. But I think they’re enough for each other.’

  ‘What’s her man’s name?’

  ‘Lief the Lame. Her grandfather lives in the woods. He’s a strange soul but he keeps them in firewood; they don’t freeze.’

  Anna had taken over Gunnar’s little business selling eggs and milk for the day, perhaps longer. The world, as far as Gunnar was concerned, had come right again. He must have talked his fearful wife around.

  ‘Olaf Flat Nose; Anna Butter Neck; Gunnar the Bald; Lief the Lame … it’s an odd way to name people, isn’t it?’ I said.

  ‘Not for us. We don’t have family names the way that you do. It’s our tradition that a boy is named after his father, so I am Olaf Olafsson, and a girl is named after her mother, so Anna is Anna Annasdottir. The firstborn’s usually given the same name as their parent, which means that in my village there were many, many Olaf Olafssons. We use nicknames to tell which Olaf we’re talking about.’ He smiled. ‘And I do have a very flat nose.’

  ‘What was Gudrun known as?’

  ‘Gudrun the Stinger,’ Olaf said. ‘Because of her bees, mostly because of her bees.’

  ‘And Briet?’

  Olaf looked uncomfortable. ‘It’s not kind. They call her Briet Mooncalf.’

  I’d already missed low tide, when the sands between Piskelli and Tresgo were exposed enough to walk the short distance between them. The next low tide would be that evening, too late for me. I would walk to Piskelli tomorrow and be back in time to meet Asif and hear his news. In the meantime I would think.

  I was irritable. I’d missed something – I knew it. Something in plain sight.

  I wandered down to the little beach, letting my feet go where they would. The children had found somewhere else to play, some other game to entertain them, or perhaps their parents were keeping them close? I watched the sea for a while, hoping to spot the red hull of the Fire Fly. There was no sign. The beach seemed very empty. I would walk the island, check for any place a stranger could have come to
shore and give my mind space to work uninterrupted by too much thought. Often, answers would hide from me in the deep, to flash on the surface and dive again into the dark where I’d have to fish for them.

  At the quay I bought bread from a smiling Anna, stored it in my scrip and left the town, walking west, up on to the headland and past the black remains of Gudrun’s house. I’d make myself a map of Tresgo and hope that it would show me the way.

  I filled my water flask from the spring, tipping out a dead bee that floated there, then walked around the ruined house. Just two windows, both small, not even as wide as the length of my forearm. Their wooden frames had burned, dropping shards of glass out into the wilting grass. Gudrun was too wide at the shoulder to have broken this window herself and escaped from the flames, even her slender frame wouldn’t fit, but she could have pushed Pia through. The fire must have taken hold in moments, too fast to do anything more than cower from the heat.

  Stop. Listen. The glass squeaks under my feet.

  I could hear the sea and the faint patter of left-over raindrops falling from the apple trees that surrounded me. The air smelt both sweet and sour, of green things and black ash.

  I was being watched, I was sure of it. I felt suddenly self-conscious, a sure sign. Bees droned around the hives.

  There, movement. I put my hand on my hammer.

  ‘You there, behind the tree. Come out,’ I said.

  It was a boy, a russet haired boy.

  ‘I know you, don’t I?’ I said, dropping my hand.

  The watcher was a handsome lad, tanned to the colour of wet sand. He was also scared.

  ‘I meant no harm.’

  ‘No harm done. What’s your name?’

  ‘I’m not in trouble?’

  ‘Not with me.’

  He smiled, quickly. Everything about him was quick, bright.

  ‘I’m Bjorn, Reeve. I didn’t mean to spy.’

  ‘No, that’s my job,’ I said, smiling back. ‘Why are you here, Bjorn?’

  ‘I’m looking for Magnus. I can’t find him.’

  ‘He’s missing?’

  ‘No, he’s just going off by himself, since his mamma died.’