by Non Bramley
‘You’re a good friend. I’m walking the island. I’ll keep an eye out.’
‘Can I come with you?’ he said.
‘If you like. You can lead the way. I’d make the most of your freedom, you may be at your lessons soon enough.’
Bjorn grimaced and made me laugh. ‘I won’t go. I’m too big. It’s for the little bairn. I’m a fisherman. I work with my fadir… my father,’ he struggled with the unfamiliar word and blushed, ‘on his boat, but he won’t let me come when he goes far.’
‘Your dad has his own boat?’
Bjorn shook his head. ‘He’s on the Eldur Fluga.’
‘The Fire Fly, with Gunnar?’
‘Yes, they’re both out today. Won’t be back till tonight, or maybe tomorrow.’
‘What’s your dad’s name?’
‘Halldor Thick Neck. My modir is Frida Good Eyes and my amma’s Freyja Dandelion.’
The last name made me smile; Freyja’s hair did indeed float around her head like a dandelion gone to seed.
‘Your granny’s Freyja? She’s very kind. She’s looking after Pia.’
‘Will Pia die?’ Bjorn asked.
‘Pray to God that she doesn’t,’ I said.
‘I know a prayer. Bróðir Olaf taught it to me. Will it work?’
Children ask the most difficult theological questions.
We walked along the coast and through fields of lowing cattle and goats, who made the most ridiculous sounds, like an old man hoisting himself out of a chair with a groan. The lush grass was still wet with rain. We found a cove, and a sea cave that dripped and echoed.
‘Can you beach a boat here, Bjorn?’
‘No. Rocks just under the water. Would tear the hull of anything that tried.’
‘Where could you make land, if you wanted to avoid the town?’
‘There’s a place on the other side that’s good for small boats. There’s nowhere else.’
‘Do you walk through a wood to get to it? Is there a waterfall there?’
‘That’s the place.’
‘Then I know it.’ It was the place I’d first made land almost a week ago.
‘You’ve been in lots of fights’ he said, admiring the mass of scars across my knuckles. ‘Look at this.’ He showed me his knee that was red and swollen. ‘I fell off a wall. Do you think I’ll get a scar?’ he said hopefully.
‘Definitely,’ I said, and he beamed.
We shared my bread, and I made a sketch of the little cove. Bjorn was fascinated and made me draw him too. I gave the sketch to him, a present for his mother. Apart from my size, my scars and my ability to make a likeness, everything else about me was a disappointment. He soon got bored with my company, and left me with a wave.
I followed the coastal path, it was dry and difficult to tread. Winter’s mud had turned into hard baked ridges and valleys so I walked alongside it, taking off my boots. Grass slid between my toes and daisies stroked. To my right the ground dropped away down to the sea. It was a long way down. I sat for a while and watched seabirds from above, their outstretched wings startlingly white against the slick dark rocks below. Fine sea-spray kissed me with coolness.
I found a little patch of soapwort and stuffed my scrip with it, digging down a little way to grub up some of the root too. I’d boil it up later. Asif would have his soap. The hot earth smelt like fruit cake.
Was it part of God’s plan I wonder to make this gentle little plant so useful to mankind? It seems a shame, to have an existence purely devoted to the needs of another more rapacious creature. I’ve heard men and women ask the creator for a sign – a sign that they’re doing the right thing, a sign that God exists. What if we’re surrounded by signs? Maybe we just don’t know how to read them? This wilting flower head with its dropping petals could be such a sign. I knelt before a humbly beautiful thing that gave of itself to help others. Our part of the bargain is to only take what we need. To take the whole plant would be a sin.
The path swung inland, past ruined farmsteads. The only folk I saw were children guarding livestock, and as I walked past a tumbledown barn a dog darted out and barked at me, trying to be ferocious, but was friendly enough when I crouched down to stroke his head.
‘Some guard dog you turned out to be,’ said a black-haired man from the doorway, looking down at the fawning dog. ‘You must be the Reeve.’
‘Jude,’ I said.
‘I won’t shake your hand if you don’t mind, I’m preparing some nasty stuff.’
‘In there?’ I asked him, looking at the sag-roofed barn.
‘In there. Come and have a look. My name’s Aaron.’
I followed him into dusty coolness, the dog trotting at my heels. It was a surprisingly lofty space, the beams hung with great drying bundles of green stuff. A small fire burned in a stonelined hearth, the smoke escaping through a hole in the soggy thatch. A great number of bottles and pots stood about, even around the small truckle bed.
Aaron picked up a basket of greenery and carried it to his worktable. ‘I’m making a preparation for the dropsy,’ he said. ‘Very good for heart problems but not a good idea if you’re healthy. And I’d say you’re healthy,’ he said, grinning.
‘Looks like foxglove leaves,’ I said, intrigued as he picked up a handful and ground them in a large pestle.
‘Yes, they are. From the second year’s growth. They’re more potent.’
‘Are you a doctor?’ I asked.
‘Used to be. I was a Brother of Tingale. Hold this steady for me, would you?’ he said, passing me a long-necked bottle and pouring in the green foxglove juices. ‘Thank you. I’ll just stopper it.’
‘I was a Sister at Calder Abbey six years ago. I don’t miss it.’
‘I do, but I fell in love and that was that.’
‘Surely your prior didn’t insist on celibacy?’
‘Good Lord, no. There’s too few of us to ban the breeding of children, my problem was the lady was already married.’
‘Ah. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. We had some happy times together. She’s dead now. It all feels like a dream … a hundred years ago.’
‘You wouldn’t happen to have any of that bee salve, would you?’ I said.
‘What’s the ailment?’
‘Burns.’
‘Show me.’
He wiped his hands and inspected the blisters on my legs and palms.
‘That looks painful,’ he said. ‘The best thing for it is propolis but as that’s been stolen, would you believe it, I’ll have to make do with coltsfoot.
‘You’ve had a thief in here?’
‘Yes. Three pots of propolis gone and I’m sure they were here until a few days ago. Some thieving shit who bought a preparation from me – for bugger-all money, I’ll just add – must have pocketed it while my back was turned.’
‘Does that happen a lot? Do you get kids in here stealing stuff?’
‘No, there’s nothing to tempt them. I’ve never had a theft before. This place might look chaotic,’ he said, ‘but I know exactly what I’ve got and where it is. It’s why I got the dog though. Better safe than sorry. She’s useless, bless her. Too sweet natured for a guard dog, aren’t you, Bess?’ he said, stroking the dog’s silky nose.
‘So nothing poisonous has ever gone missing?’
‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘The child, Petur. I think he could have been poisoned.’
‘Well it wasn’t by me if that’s what you’re asking. The child died from something inherited, some weak place in his head. Look.’
He pulled out a small metal box from under his bed. ‘There’s nothing left out in this workshop that could kill. It would just make you sick as a dog … and shit yourself for a week, that’s all. Anything truly dangerous is locked in here, and here’s the key.’
He opened his shirt, exposing a key that hung from a frayed hemp twine around his neck.
‘Open the box,’ I told him.
He looked at me quizzically, b
ut lifted the box on to the bed and took the key from his neck. ‘Am I being accused of something?’
‘Possibly. Open it.’
He shrugged and opened the box, listing the preparations held there. ‘This pot is belladonna; this is extract of deathcap; rhododendron tincture; laurel; this is hemlock; this is yew; bluebell; monkshood; and larkspur.’
‘Bluebells can kill?’
‘Oh, yes. They’ll stop you breathing. Mother nature’s been very bountiful when it comes to poisons. Luckily most fruits from poisonous plants are very bitter, if you’re wondering if Petur ate a handful of yew berries.’ He lifted out a small glass bottle filled with a clear liquid. ‘See how I seal these bottles with wax? If they’d been opened the seal would be broken.’
I picked up each small bottle. All were intact.
‘What’s that?’ I said, pointing to a small packet of waxed paper.
‘This is propolis in its raw form.’ He opened the packet and showed me a grainy brown substance. ‘It’s not poisonous – in fact, you can chew it. It’s good for sore throats, though it’ll stain your teeth brown. I make an excellent emollient from it – grind it and mix it with butter and lavender. I’ve locked this raw stuff away as it’s the last of it and I don’t want it stolen too. Satisfied?’
‘For the time being.’
‘How gracious you are. It seems that everywhere I go I have the knack of making friends,’ he said with a wry smile, rolling his eyes. ‘Do you trust me to salve your burns?’
I looked into his dark eyes and saw nothing reflected back but intelligence. ‘Yes.’
‘Well, thank you. Sit on the bed.’
He fetched a small jar from the shelf and carefully applied a green balm to my wounds. It tingled.
‘How on earth did you do this?’ he said, turning from me.
‘Gudrun’s house.’
‘What did she do, throw boiling water at you? She’s got an evil temper that woman.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘I’m always the last to get the news. People leave me alone except when they need medicining. Most of what I make gets sold on the mainland, when it’s not being stolen, that is. What’ve I missed?’
‘Gudrun’s dead, Aaron.’
‘What?’ He placed the small pot of coltsfoot on the edge of the table, where it fell and broke.
‘She burned to death when her house caught fire.’
‘Where was Pia?’ he said, putting his hand to his forehead as if he was checking for a fever.
‘In the house, but she didn’t burn. She’s sick, inhaled smoke. Freyja’s looking after her.’
‘And no one bloody told me,’ he said quietly. ‘I need to go.’ He locked the box, kicked it under the bed. ‘Out. I’m leaving, now.’ He glanced quickly over his supplies and selected a few, storing them in a canvas scrip. ‘She’s not burned you say, but she’s breathed in smoke?’
‘Yes, she won’t wake.’
‘I’m always the last to know, damn the bloody women!’ he said, opened the door and was gone.
I closed his door behind me, thoughtfully.
It was late afternoon when I came to the cove where I’d first set foot on Tresgo, just six days ago. Nothing stirred on the sand but a few solitary gulls. There was our rowboat, beached above the tideline and there was no other, no sign of a newcomer, no footprints in the sand or along the path that led up from the beach to the point where I now stood. The rain had washed all away.
I felt sun soaked; my mind… waiting. I was also very hungry and beginning to get that light headedness that I’m afflicted with when my stomach’s too empty. Still, there couldn’t be far to go now, I could see the wood on the horizon; the trunks of silver birch gilded in the low sun.
I walked on, into the wood, where I found a patch of wild strawberries and ate them by the handful. They were pulpy and tasteless. The wind hissed in the treetops. There was no life here – no squirrels scrabbling and leaping in the branches, no birds fluttering like falling leaves. It was alive but dead. I put my hand to my hammer, a foolish thing to do, what could want to harm me in a summer wood? I pitied anything that would try.
The sun was dropping now, throwing my shadow ahead of me. I heard the thump of metal against wood. An axe.
Ahead, an ancient, bent man pushed on the trunk of a thin oak, and felled it. I greeted him and offered to carry it back to town, if that was where he was headed. He fought a silent battle with his pride but in the end sense prevailed and I hoisted the timber on to my shoulder.
‘It’s the kids,’ he said wryly.
‘What is?’
‘Stole my firewood for a game. I found a whole cord of it out on the sandbanks. Sodden it was. Won’t burn now; too much salt. Still, it was only birch. Oak is better, I won’t burn beech, nasty stuff. It drops poison on to the ground, clears out the competition, even poisons its own young. What Godly thing does that?’
‘Your English is very good.’
‘I grew up on the Shetlands, left in a fishing boat when I was twelve. Met a girl in Snæland and married her. We all came here in the first boat, fourteen years ago now.
‘Is your family here in Sigurd’s Town?’
‘My granddaughter Anna is, and her husband. My son died in the first winter. Along with every other man except for Sigurd, all gone in months, but Sigurd, he was always a strong one. It was a town of women before the others came.’ He looked at me and smiled with thin lips. ‘Hard times.’
‘So you were there at the beginning. Were the winters very hard?
‘No, we are Snælandic. No winter can be harder than those we faced at home.’
‘So what killed your son?’
‘Sickness. His lungs gave out. He was a good boy. If he was alive I’d still have a hearth to sit by. My wife left for the mainland years ago. Anna’s a good girl but, they’re poor, so I live in the woods. I do well enough. Sell my firewood to the town. Lucky for me, most are too lazy to come up here and cut it themselves. Bloody thieving kids. Still, they’re young. They’ll learn.’
‘The children on this island live a charmed life,’ I said quietly.
We were losing the light when I said goodbye at the door of his wooden shack on the fringes of the woodland.
I quickened my pace down to the quay, looking forward to a meal and my soft bed. The Fire Fly was coming in, its crimson hull glowing in the last rays of the sun.
A few folk waited at the quayside. A white-haired man with his arms full of net called to his wife from deck as the Fire Fly drifted gently in, Gunnar piloting, and looking more joyful than when I had last seen him.
Little Bjorn saw me and waved, then spoke to his mother, showing her my drawing. She looked at it, and then at me, with something like suspicion. She placed her hand to his cheek and the lad swayed under her touch. Then he dropped, like someone had kicked the legs out from under him.
I heard the hollow crack as his head hit stone.
It took only a few strides to get to them. Bjorn’s head was bleeding, covering his mother’s lap in crimson where she cradled him as he shook and juddered. His father leapt the last few feet to the quay and stood over them, impotent with horror, his hands in his hair and calling his son’s name. Bjorn shrieked, jerked hideously and then lay still, darkening the stone with his own water.
I pulled the lad to me and listened to his chest, ignoring his mother who clawed at me. There was no heartbeat, no breath. I thumped his small body, trying to jerk his heart back into life but he had gone.
His father signalled his leaving to the sky with a bellow so full of pain that even the angels must have heard, must have wept.
What could have killed this child? Disease? Or poison? If it was poison I needed to get it out of him, if he was strong enough there might still be a chance.
I held my hand up. ‘Quiet. Be quiet!’
I thumped his chest again, fearing I might break his ribs, and listened. So faintly, Bjorn’s heart beat once, then again, the rhythm stuttering. Hi
s eyes fluttered.
‘I need to make him sick,’ I said to his mother and I stuck my fingers down his throat, he bit me as his stomach muscles spasmed. I turned him as he vomited, once, twice, the bile pouring out till he retched and nothing was produced but drool.
He was unconscious but he was alive, at least for now.
I lowered the boy back into his mother’s arms then trailed my fingers through the vomit that was spattered across the quayside. I smelt them. There was nothing here but half-digested bread. No green flakes of verdigris, no black specks of ergot, no remnants of berries or mushrooms. I tasted the child’s vomit. Nothing but bile, that odd bitter sweetness on my tongue.
I spat, and stood on weary legs, wiping the boy’s blood and vomit from my hands.
Piskelli glowed on the horizon, the only bright place in all this darkness.
Chapter Eight
‘Your boy!’ Bjorn’s father turned on Gunnar. ‘Your bastard boy did this!’ He pointed to Piskelli. ‘They’ve killed my son because of your bastard boy!’ He picked up a thick wooden plank and closed on Gunnar, who was standing with his mouth open, his fists clenched at his side. I believe he would have let Halldor stove in his head, only raising his hands to ward the larger man off. He made no move to defend himself.
‘Your bastard greedy boy!’ Halldor roared and raised the plank high just as I caught him by the shoulder and turned him, the wood hissing past Gunnar’s face. I kicked Halldor’s arm, then hooked my foot behind his knee. He fell hard on to his back, clutching at his arm.
‘You’ve broken it,’ he said with wonder, looking up.
‘It’s not broken, just numb. But I’ll break it if I must. Your son’s alive, Halldor, but sick.’
Gunnar took his friend in his arms and they rocked together.
Bjorn’s mother still sat with her boy in her lap, terrified to touch him in case it stopped his heart. She hung on my arm and whimpered as I picked the child up, carefully. He weighed nothing, his breath shallow.
I took him to his grandmother’s house, followed by a crowd.
