by Non Bramley
He was laid in the same bed as Pia, two sleeping children, like something from a fairytale. They would keep company together in life or death.
Halldor crouched by the bed, his son’s small hand in his.
Aaron stood in the shadows, his back against the wall. Ignored by all.
—It’s hard to have faith.
Looking down on the fading beauty of a child, God seems like such a fucking lackadaisical creator. Why make us and then wander off, muttering about sin and the ever watching eye? Surely God’s just a Peeping Tom, a voyeur.
I know, I know. If we lived in a world where God kept us all safe and shiny in a feather-lined box we’d be toys, pets, nothing more. The creator’s contrary refusal to slap us down keeps me in a job, but I’d much rather spend my days dreaming and drinking and fucking.
Sometimes I catch God’s whisper on the breeze and prick up my ears, like an animal sensing sweet rain, and I think, God, show yourself! Come on out with your hands where I can see them. Make the worst of us sinraddled bastards good through fear if you must. Could it really be any worse? I love my God, but I have never understood him.
So I build a wall with my faith and stand with my back against it. It makes me more than my poundage of muscle. There is nourishment in protecting the poor and vulnerable and I am always hungry.
I walk the wall. Cross it and die.
Gunnar was waiting outside, his friends and neighbours around him.
He pointed to Piskelli. ‘Kill them, we have to kill them! Leave now and kill them! Look at what they’ve done. What are we waiting for?’
No one moved. No one took a step.
‘We can’t,’ Anna said. ‘What if they hide from us? What then? What will they do to us if we come for them with knives? Other folk have children too. You have five more at home. It’s too much to risk.’
Gunnar looked tortured, then saw me. ‘Reeve, please, please! Go, kill them. Look what they’ve done!’
I sighed, weary with it, and put my hand on my hammer. ‘I don’t believe that any of this is the punishment of Huldufólk. That being said, if it will give you peace I’ll go, and if there’s any justice to be had there I’ll bring it. Listen to me now: While I’m gone you must keep your children close. They’re to eat nothing that isn’t prepared by your own hand, and you must all eat from the same dish, prepared at the same time. No berries from the woods, no mussels from the shore, no medicines or preparations. Frighten your children enough to mind you.’
I turned back to Gunnar. ‘You’re back early. Where’s Asif?’
‘He told us to return for him tomorrow. My wife, you see, she wants me home at night.’
I nodded, and searched for the grizzled head of Olaf. ‘Is Olaf here?’
‘I’m here,’ he said, moving forward.
‘When Asif returns tomorrow tell him to visit every house. You will all open your cupboards and store-houses for him.’
‘What’s he looking for?’ Olaf asked.
‘Dead rats.’
Olaf sighed and shrugged. ‘If you like, Reeve, if you like.’ Then he turned to the crowd. ‘We must build a church here now. It’s time. But Gudrun was wise. Those of you of other faiths must have your temples too. We’ll build together. We’ll build for all.’
I had one last task and it was something I was strangely loath to do.
‘Olaf, do you have a gaol here?’
He looked bewildered. ‘No, but we’ve locked the occasional drunk in the smokehouse to sleep it off.’
‘It’s secure?’
‘It’s right there,’ he said, pointing to a small, windowless stone hut.
I nodded. ‘Who here knows Aaron?’
‘Aaron the Stranger? We all do,’ Anna said. ‘Why?’
‘Do you like him, Anna?’
She thought about it, pursed her lips. ‘He keeps himself to himself. He makes medicines,’ she said, looking past me to the doctor.
Aaron stood in the doorway behind me.
I considered the stone hut. I knew what my duty was. Aaron had a great knowledge and easy access to poisons. I should drag him away and lock him up, until I could fathom the true cause of all this sickness. That hut would be a dark, stinking prison.
No.
‘Anna, the doctor will stay with you, watched over by your husband. He’s not to leave your house until I say so. You will guard him day and night. He will sleep in the same room, piss in the same pot and eat from the same bowl. Asif will give you coin for his keep. Do you agree to this?’
‘Well, yes, if I must,’ she said quietly.
‘Oh, for the love of God,’ Aaron said. ‘What authority do you think you have? No one here believes I’m poisoning their children, only you!’
I turned to him and he backed away, up the stairs. ‘I need to tend to the children!’
‘You have medicines that can help them?’
‘No, but they need watching.’
‘Freyja can do that. Come with me willingly now or I’ll carry you there. Your choice.’
In the end he did as he was told, docilely enough.
Olaf and I stripped Aaron’s workshop, pouring bottle upon bottle of liquid into the grass and burning the rest, the doctor’s dog trotting happily at our heels.
‘I’ll take her, just for now,’ Olaf said, stroking her ears.
That night I took the small case of poisons and buried it deep out on the sands. If my instincts about Aaron were right I would make sure he was compensated for the loss from my own pocket.
As I walked back through the dark town there was no laughter from the houses, no mothers calling their children. Stadur Sigurdar had closed its doors and bolted them.
On every threshold stood a bowl of cream or a fresh egg, a token to ameliorate the spite of the elves. Every lintel was hung with iron as blackness came up from the old earth and closed like a fist.
I dreamed of breaking glass.
Chapter Nine
How do you kill a creature that’s thrived for centuries, strong and vital, coiled around the mind? I felt a fool to even ask, and annoyed at this pointless venture that was drawing me away from Gudrun’s death, the only crime I could prove was murder. Still, a few hours and I could at least put an end to this fantasy of vengeful elves. When I returned Asif would have my answer, and at least one crime might be solved, one way or the other.
Olaf came to my lodgings early, so early stars still glimmered, but I was up, dressed and breaking my fast. I ate more than usual.
‘So how do you fight an elf?’ I asked.
‘In stories, elves are defeated by solving a riddle, or by offering them a gift. If you can’t kill them, they like gold and they can be bribed to leave,’ he said, offering me the golden cross that span on its chain. ‘Take it.’
‘But this is meant for your church?’ I said.
‘This is a better use for it.’
‘If I find any of these bloody elves and they accept the bribe, won’t you get into trouble? I imagine “I gave your expensive treasure to elves” won’t be a good enough explanation for your Prior.’
‘I don’t care,’ he said. ‘My Prior doesn’t believe in Huldufólk. Let him think I’ve stolen it. God knows my purpose.’
‘Fine, but that’s still not your biggest problem. When it’s found that you’re building not just a Christian church, but a place for all faiths you’ll be in deep trouble. You could be thrown out for good.’
‘God knows my purpose,’ he repeated. ‘A knife’s been put in this place and twisted. Surely it’s my job to help it heal?’
I shrugged. ‘Only if you stay here, only if you keep the doors open to all with your own hand. Your successor might not be so welcoming. Why not preach under an apple tree my friend? Good words don’t need a roof.’
I buckled my belt and picked up my hammer.
Stop.
Something glints in the dark behind my eyes. Grasp it. Hold it. It is a shell. Hear the sea. The wild tribe of children is playing out on the mud
flats. Sand blows and stings my cheek. There’s Pia, spinning and darting amongst the little ones. Older children stand aloof. Here is Bjorn, holding the hand of a shadow boy, Petur. Two children of the same size, same age. Two children born on the island at a time and in a place where only one man could possibly have fathered them. Bjorn calls to Magnus. He turns. See the resemblance. Russet-haired young warriors, half-brothers, children of a Viking.
Olaf, I said, quietly, ‘What did Petur look like?’
‘Red hair, middling build.’
‘And his eyes?’
‘Blue, very blue.’
I nodded, and the sound of the sea receded.
Someone was killing the children of Sigurd the Red.
‘The two boys, Bjorn and Petur, their father was Sigurd.’
Olaf was silent for so long I thought he hadn’t heard me. ‘I think so, yes.’
‘There was no other virile man on the island at the time of their conception. Am I right?’
He nodded miserably. ‘Yes.’
‘For Christ’s sake, why didn’t you tell me?’
‘What did it matter? It was so long ago.’
‘Are there any more? Any more children of Sigurd by women other than Gudrun?’
‘Yes, many, any child of twelve or thirteen has to be his. After the men died in that first winter Sigurd treated their wives like a harem. They were starving, widowed, what could they do? He was not a good man. I don’t even know if some of them were… forced. Not by violence, but there are other means. It was a blessing when he died. May God judge him as he deserved.’
‘And they all have the red hair and blue eyes of their father,’ I said. ‘While I’m away I want you to watch these red haired children, closely. And guard Magnus, try to keep him safe.’
‘He won’t like that.’
‘He may be next.’
‘But, elves don’t care who a boy’s parentage is Jude! I say again – and please listen to me this time – the source of all this evil is away on Piskelli island, not here. We’ve lived together for over a decade, there’s no one new here. Why would we suddenly start harming our young? Do you not think we know each other? This place is so small we’d know if one of us was suddenly sneaking… offering Sigurd’s children poisoned cakes… we would know in a heartbeat. The way you think baffles me.’
‘I’m going to your bloody island Olaf, be content with that,’ I said, but he had a point.
Anyone who could count, any woman who had been here in those first three winters would know the same truth. Gudrun must have known it, must have seen Bjorn and Petur every day, must have looked into their faces and seen her husband written there. Could that be a motive for her burning? That knowledge? No, it was knowledge shared, too many leaks in that pot. If Gudrun hadn’t perished before Bjorn’s sickness I would have named her as the most likely poisoner of her man’s by-blows, perhaps with the help of Aaron. She’d been a beauty. He could have visited her to buy propolis and been lured into her bed and her plans. No. The doctor liked women, but he wasn’t weak-minded.
Perhaps this wasn’t poison after all. What if, instead, a family sickness had passed down the father’s line, as Aaron had said?
I was barely listening as Olaf continued, his voice growing petulant.
‘Why would a fantastical poisoner of children decide to burn Gudrun to death too? Why? People aren’t invisible; they aren’t hidden. People can’t make children drop down dead and set fire to a house so secretly that no one sees or suspects a thing. Only elves as you call them could do that. You refuse to see the truth that’s in front of you! The Huldufólk want us dead!’
‘I hope you’re right, I really do. Because then I shall kill them all.’
Chapter Ten
On the morning of the seventh day I walked to Piskelli. It was low tide but the water still reached my knees. I took off my boots and slung them over a shoulder. Sand, and the occasional hidden sea creature oozed under my feet.
It was hot. It was always hot here. For the first few days it had been rather wonderful to exist in air that was as hot and dry as an oven. Today even the sea breeze was absent and back of my neck baked. I looked up, hoping to see cloud rolling in but there was nothing, just the violet sky of a perfect summer morning. I was starting to long for autumn. When you’re as big as myself heat is not your friend. What I like is the cold. I can go out in my shirtsleeves when all around me are shivering. Even then I radiate heat like a furnace.
The water slapped at my belly as I ploughed on and made me shiver.
Piskelli rose up ahead of me, a little hillock, covered in riotous greenery and set in a sea of liquid light. I’d no real conviction that I was about to step into a nest of elves but I could do little to solve Gudrun’s murder until Asif returned with my answer. With luck that answer would point to the source of both her death and the mystery ailment striking Sigurd’s children.
I had a day to chase fairies, to finally put this nonsense to rest. It’s a tiring thing, being beaten around the head with childish beliefs. I’d been called a fool for thinking rationally. I felt like the solemn queen in a hive of demented bees.
—When you love a child you learn how to lie. Parenthood is an exercise in subtlety, so we lie. We throw a blanket over the horror so that their eyes can see the shape of it but not the fangs. To tell them everything would harm them. To tell them not enough would harm them. Loving them too much hurts them, loving them too little makes them wither and die. It’s a relentless push and pull that makes the heart ache. Your child is precious clay to be formed, day after day. You’re a potter at the wheel, one slip and the vessel you’ve made will break and shatter as soon as it’s left your hands.
You would die for them. It’s not a choice, it’s bred in the bone. If they die before you don’t expect to live without months and years of cutting away at your own soul. You have to cut the roots out with a knife and you will bleed.
All that green looked deliciously cool and I quickened my pace. Christ it was hot. Sweat ran down my back. If I was truly alone on Piskelli I’d strip myself of every stitch of clothing.
The water grew shallow, and I made land on a sandy stretch, ridged here and there with long fingers of black rock. I stood and looked about me. There was less than a mile between this place and Sigurd’s Town but no sound travelled. I could see fishing boats moored at the quay and houses of sugary pink and blue. It was very quiet. I sat near a rock pool to dust sand from my feet and pull on my boots, hearing the tiny pops and crackles of limpets and sea snails.
That second sense that we all possess was adamant that I was the only soul in this place. I couldn’t feel anyone else. It’s hard to define that feeling but there was no heaviness of human emotion in the air. The only footprints in the sand were mine. A breeze picked up and the trees that fringed the beach rattled their leaves at me.
I left the shore by an animal track, plunging upwards into the treeline and flickering dimness. Trees and shrubs had grown together, leaving the ground below almost bare of life. I climbed over thick roots and branches. Beetles whirred through the air. I stood for a while, looked up through a break in the canopy and watched a pigeon gorging on fruit. The berries in its beak glowed in bright sun that didn’t filter down to where I stood. Dry leaves pattered with fruit dislodged by its probing beak.
I’d been climbing for some time when I stepped into a clearing. A tree had fallen and where the light came through a perfect little garden had grown. Dog roses and bindweed ringed a patch of grass studded with wild orchids, and here were animals. Rabbits, sparrows and mice had gathered here, blue butterflies opened their wings to the sun. It looked like a tiny welcoming party and they weren’t afraid. Leverets sniffed at my boots and I had to nudge them aside gently to pass through.
I climbed to the highest point but could see no further than a few paces in any direction. The trees were filled with shrieking birds that I couldn’t identify and they were tame. One hook beaked bird with jewel feathers settled on my
head and pulled at my hair till I waved it off. There could be no people here, why else would this creature be so unafraid?
I slid and stumbled down the far side of the island, bursting through the treeline and into a meadow, the grass as high as my waist. A hedgehog ambled along behind me, searching for worms. I didn’t even warrant a cursory look. More woodland stood ahead and I stopped to listen. Nothing. No crack of a woodsman’s axe, no sheep or goats bleating, no smell of woodsmoke. I felt like Adam at the beginning of the world. What a place, no wonder Petur had found its lure irresistible.
I walked on.
This little patch of woodland was more familiar, filled with ash, oak, beech and blackberries as long as my thumb that grew in such abundance that the ground beneath them was purple with fallen fruit. A woodmouse swung from a branch, gorging. ‘Good idea,’ I told it, and gathered a handful. I was just about eat when caution stopped me. This was a strange place with strange fruit. Still, the little woodmouse showed no signs of ill effects so I crammed my mouth with berries. They were glorious, sweet and perfumed.
I felt the pure strength of my legs as the land dropped again, would I ever tire here? Then, the ground under my feet changed, grew stony with gravel. There was an arch ahead and low wall, hung with swags of star shaped flowers that smelt of burnt honey, tinged with something that was almost feral. I walked through into a garden.
The gardener was long gone, the path ahead choked with weed and crowded with overhanging greenery. My nose told me that here were roses in their hundreds but who could tell where in the surging riot of blossom that reared up all around. Bees worked with furious intent.
Then, there was the fan bird, I have no other name for it. It gave a cry like a gull and shook its long, rattling tail, spreading the feathers out into a half circle filled with iridescent eyes. Some buzzing thing flew into my mouth. I had to spit it out on to my palm and blow gently to revive it. It wasn’t any kind of bug I recognised, its long curling snout reminding me of some sea creature.
I followed the fan bird through more ruined arches, through walls of jasmin and honeysuckle that dusted me with yellow pollen. I laughed at it all then and whooped when I came to a pool, deep and green and flashing with fish in the deep. Water lilies spread their leaves as wide as my outstretched arms and birds dipped to drink.
