Legends of Australian Fantasy

by Jack

  A moment later, Bluebell is at the door. ‘Father?’ she says.

  ‘Come in, Bluebell,’ Father says, taking the seat between Gudrun and Wylm. ‘It will be our first meal as a new family.’

  Bluebell’s eyes flicker like flame. She can barely keep her mouth from turning down. ‘I’m going to eat with the men,’ she says. ‘Sighere wants to discuss the march up to Is-hjarta.’

  There is a space of time — no longer than three seconds, though it feels longer — where tension infuses the room. Father locks eyes with Bluebell. It is a challenge, and he recognises this and, as a king, his chest expands ready to demand his will. The insult Bluebell offers is not only to him, but also to his new wife. But then he softens. Of course he understands Bluebell’s resistance; he understands everything about her and his partiality is legendary: he cannot help but forgive her everything. ‘Very well, Bluebell,’ he says, glancing away.

  She withdraws quickly, closing the door behind her. Gudrun studies her hands, blushing. Wylm gazes at the door with unsheathed hostility. My pulse quickens. Perhaps this is the stuff of any family disagreement, but for us it has the makings of much more significant conflict. I can see with my own eyes that one day Wylm will be a tall, strong man. The last thing a potential queen needs is a half-brother who hates her.

  ‘Let us eat,’ Father says brightly.

  And we do. We eat and talk, and I get to know Gudrun a little. Ivy asks me dozens of questions about babies, about Wengest, about life in Netelchester. Willow is quiet, almost shy, which makes me sad. The twins have been raised by my mother’s brother and his wife, far south, since birth. My father was grieving my mother’s death, Ash and I were too young to raise them, and Bluebell, frankly, would have made a mess of it. So they are our sisters, but they are also strangers. I have met them, perhaps, a dozen times.

  The evening wears on, and weariness infuses my poor bones. I need to lie down. Ash catches me yawning and says, ‘Time for bed, Rose? I am tired too. Would you come and share with me?’

  My blood tingles with ice. I cannot lie next to Ash all night: she may read my dreams. I shake my head. ‘No, I am fine. You go on ahead. I will wait for Bluebell.’ Even though Bluebell snores and her elbows invariably end up in my ribs.

  ‘I will share with you, Ash,’ Ivy says, springing to her feet. ‘Is there room for Willow too?’

  Ash looks pleased. ‘Of course. We may have to squeeze in, but three bodies are warmer than two.’

  I am falling asleep into my hands, but I stay while goodnights are said. Gudrun takes her leave, Wylm following. Father kisses her softly, murmurs something in her ear. I stand and stretch, peer out the door into the smoky hall for Bluebell. She is deep in conversation with Sighere.

  Father’s arm is around my waist. ‘You are tired, don’t wait for Bluebell.’

  But Bluebell has looked up, seen me. She lifts her hand in a gesture that says, wait just another short moment; I am coming. I smile.

  I turn to Father to say goodnight. I realise in a sudden hot rush that I am alone with him. It may be the only occasion for a long time. I form the question too quickly, and nearly stumble over it.

  ‘Yldra? Do you know her?’

  He flinches, almost imperceptibly, but it could be because of the abruptness of my question. ‘What name?’

  ‘Do you have a sister? Or a half-sister? Yldra?’

  Then he is shaking his head. ‘I have no sister, Rose. I know nobody of that name.’

  I want to say, ‘Are you sure?’ because I sense too polished a veneer on his answer. But if he hasn’t told me now, he won’t tell me later. That is the nature of secrets. They do not emerge on repeated questioning; rather they burrow deeper as more lies and denials are thrown on top of them.

  ‘I must sleep,’ I say, instead. ‘I must sleep for a hundred years, I am so tired.’

  ‘Yes, and the feast starts tomorrow.’ He leans down and kisses my forehead. ‘Goodnight, Rose.’

  I beckon for Bluebell, and we head for the bowerhouse.

  * * * *

  My father is blessed with a perfectly blue sky, perfectly warm day for his wedding feast. Everyone says it is a sign from the great mother. He throws open the doors to his hall so that the sunshine can slant in on the scrubbed wooden boards and fresh rushes. Winter is over. The ceremony itself took place in the state room earlier this morning, presided over by Byrta, who has been my father’s counsellor for nearly forty years. She delivered me and all my sisters, and buried my mother twelve years ago. Now solemnity is behind us, and the rest of the afternoon is given over to noisy carousing. The first full moon of the summer will rise tonight, and I have no doubt that my father’s retinue will be sleeping drunk on the grass under its glow.

  It is hard to be sad or anxious when all around me red and white streamers dance in the breeze. I feel light, as though my worries have drifted away a while, and I am determined not to dwell on them on this happy day. Ivy and Willow are sitting on a bench just outside the door, and I join them with a cup of spiced honey-wine and chat a little while. The smell of roasting pig rises from the hearth and circles the building, making stomachs rumble. Many of the townsfolk come up to the hall with gifts for my father and Gudrun — pots, baskets, charm dollies, cotton flowers, lucky stones — and I gather them with smiles and good wishes. My father and Gudrun move from group to group of friends and well-wishers. He barely takes his eyes from her face. Bluebell comes outside into the sunshine with two of our young cousins, who battle her with wooden swords until she pretends to be defeated and theatrically throws her long body onto the grass. Ash is safely inside with Byrta. All is well, for now.

  But then the day grows cooler, dimmer. Blue washes from the sky, shadows lengthen, the scent of damp earth rises. All at once, it is too cool to sit outside, and I am starving. The noise and chatter withdraws into the hall and the great doors are hefted shut, the shutters sealed and the fire stoked. I am one of the last to enter, because I want to see where Ash is sitting. So I can choose the furthest seat from her. I end up with my one of my distant uncles and his much younger wife. She is pregnant too, though barely out of childhood herself. She tells endless stories about women whose bodies were torn to pieces by childbirth, and how she hasn’t slept for fear since midwinter. I grit my teeth, stealing glances at the table where all my sisters are now congregated, eating and laughing. Ash catches my eyes, beckons. I pretend not to see her. My young companion rattles on, barely stopping to put food in her mouth. With the coming dark, the morbid company, and the growing noise, my sense of contentment frays around the edges and then begins to unravel. I am so tired. I want to go somewhere dark and quiet and close my eyes. And think about Heath, even if thinking about him makes me feel desperate and frightened.

  A warm hand on my shoulder. I look up, then flinch as though a snake has touched me. It is Ash.

  ‘Rose?’ she says, alarmed, pulling her hand back. In that brief touch, did she sense something? Did she read my thoughts?

  I am on my feet in a moment. ‘I ... Ash, I’m sorry. I’m not ...’I intend to tell her I’m unwell, that I have to go immediately, a lie that would not convince even a child. But in that same instant the doors to the hall burst open and a man is standing there, ragged and muddy, calling for the king.

  Ash turns; her eyes widen and seem to go black. The blood drains from her face.

  ‘Ash? What is it?’

  ‘They have underestimated the ice-men,’ she whispers.

  Father is on his feet. Bluebell is at his shoulder. A curious, frightened silence takes hold of the wedding feast.

  ‘My lord,’ the ragged stranger says, falling to his knees at my father’s feet. ‘I have ridden night and day to pass on some grave news. The raiders are already inside the border of Bradsey. They have burned six villages, all outposts of our allies. They spare nobody, not even children. We have left it too late to slow them down. We have ...’ He trails off, exhausted. ‘Forgive me, my horse could go no further. I have run near
ly all the way from Dunscir. They are butchers, my lord. Butchers.’

  Gudrun, her face lit by fire, sits at the table where a moment before she was a happy newlywed. I see she is terrified. Father said he would sit this campaign out, that it was a small matter, that he needed to be with his new wife and Bluebell needed her chance to lead the army alone. But now Gudrun thinks he will go away, and make her a widow again. She catches my eye, and I try to smile to offer her comfort. But I know precisely how she feels.

  ‘We will march tonight,’ Bluebell says to him, and it is not a question.

  Father strokes his beard. ‘We can be ready by —’

  ‘You are not coming.’

  Sighere, one of the war chiefs, joins them. ‘My lord,’ he says to Father, ‘Your wife sits there quaking; you have been married only a day.’

  Father looks from one of them to the other and, horribly, he looks old and confused. For the first time. My heart catches. Then he gathers his bearing and turns to the assembly, raising his hand. ‘Forgive me, my friends. I have a matter of state to attend to. Gudrun?’ He beckons her and she is under his arm in a second. Ash runs after them. They leave the hall, a hundred dull murmurs in their wake.

  * * * *

  I pace the confines of my bower while a greasy candle sputters next to the bed. I know Bluebell will come here before she leaves; her sword is still tucked under the lambswool on her side of the bed. Outside, the wedding feast continues, the revellers have spilled out of the hall under the full moon and the cloudless sky. I clutch my hands together as though to catch myself before I fall deeper and deeper into a dark place. It is really happening; Heath is really going to war. They are butchers. Morbid pictures have colonised my imagination. It is as though I can already feel the flush of searing heat, the hollowing out of my stomach, the unhingeing of my knees as I hear the news: Heath is dead, he has fallen to the raiders. All my nerves have come loose, I am helpless.

  The door slams open, letting in a blast of cool evening air. I jump. It is Bluebell. As though she hasn’t seen me, she strides to the bed and pulls out her sword. She is already dressed in mail, her helm pushed down over her head so that her broken nose is hidden and her mouth looks grim under the iron’s shadow.

  ‘Bluebell?’ I say.

  ‘It is decided,’ she replies, without looking up. ‘Father is not coming.’

  I notice that her hands shake.

  ‘Are you ... nervous?’ I ask.

  She freezes, catches me in her frost-blue gaze. ‘Oh, no, Rose,’ she says, slowly, passionately. ‘I am on fire.’

  She sheathes the sword and turns. I call out, ‘Wait.’

  ‘What is it?’ she says, still half-turned from me.

  ‘There is a man ... Wengest’s nephew. He will ride with you from Netelchester. You will know him because he is fair and has no beard.’ My heart is thundering. ‘He is special to Wengest — his favourite nephew — and I do hope that he ...’

  She is impatient. She cares little for Wengest, and even less for his beardless nephew. ‘I have only two eyes in my head, and they must look direct in front of me. I cannot look behind for a —’

  ‘His name is Heath.,’ I say quickly, softly. ‘And he is special to me.’

  A caught breath. She turns slowly, tilts her head almost imperceptibly to the left. She blinks slowly. ‘Rose?’

  Say nothing, say nothing. And yet, even as I scream these words in my head, my lips are moving and tears are spilling out of my eyes. My voice is thick, almost guttural. ‘He is the father of my child, sister.’

  The helm creates such shadows on Bluebell’s face that I cannot read her expression. Ugly regret clogs my throat. I have surely doomed Heath, myself, the peace between Ælmesse and Netelchester.

  Bluebell’s voice remains even, almost cold, but not unkind. She says, ‘Then I will protect him so that one day she may know him.’ And she is gone, the door clattering shut behind her. The gust helps drown the candle flame, and I am left standing in the dark, crying with relief and cursing myself for saying anything at all.

  * * * *

  It is morning, not yet warm. The sun still lingers behind the rocky hill and I am walking among the giants’ ruins above my father’s hall. I have not slept, I have only thought. So many thoughts that they all twisted up together and made no sense. The ruins are calm and white. Here and there, brave saplings struggle against the stone foundations. The spaces between fallen stones are brimming with leaves and twigs, and captured rain that has turned brown and rank. I find a fallen pillar and I sit down and slide onto my side, allowing my temple to touch the cool stone. Willing such coolness, such implacable and ancient calm, into my poor, tired brain.

  My eyes are closed, but there are random impressions of colours and shapes on my eyelids. I try to watch them, but my mind skips from one hot thought to another, shattering my focus.

  ‘Rose?’

  And my skin is alight again with fear. I jolt, sitting up and opening my eyes. Ash stands a few feet away, and she looks eight years old and worried that I might shout at her. But what does it matter anymore? I told Bluebell. I no longer have a secret to hide.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say to her, and my voice breaks and I begin to cry.

  Ash is next to me in an instant, and I press myself against her and my face twists with sobs. She rubs my back, rocks me as though I were a child and not a mother. And she says, ‘Rose, I already know. I’ve known all along.’

  The tears seem to fall forever.

  * * * *

  V. Hrethmonath

  Seven weeks have passed since Heath marched for Is-hjarta, and I know not whether he is alive or dead. Sometimes I believe it possible that I would sense if he had died. But I have no second sight; I have nothing but a desperate heart.

  And yet the fields bloom as though hope is everywhere. The first two full moons of the warm season have come and gone: red and yellow wildflowers stretch in every direction, tight buds curl on branches, and lambs chase their mothers as though slaughter’s shadow will never fall. Two nights ago, we held the hearth-month feast, to celebrate life’s renewal and the great mother’s benevolence. My belly has grown so full that it is an effort to put my feet on the floor in the morning. Wengest hasn’t been in my bed since I returned from Blicstowe. If I were to guess, I might say that he finds my swollen body distasteful. In truth, I am glad not to see him. I am less anxious when I am not always examining his expression for knowledge of my secrets.

  It is an hour before evening’s fall, and any moment I expect my sister Ash to arrive. I paced at the gatehouse for two hours this afternoon, until my ankles grew tired and fat. I lie in my bed now, waiting for the gate watchers to call me. I should have remembered that Ash is often late, that she has little concept of time and its passing.

  Ash will stay for three full moons; as a companion, an advisor, and to deliver my child. I have not spoken with her since she bid me farewell at my father’s hall, when her soft eyes reassured me that all my secrets were safe, that she loved me and did not judge me for what I have done.

  Faintly, I hear the signal from the gate. They have spotted Ash’s retinue in the distance. I struggle to sit, put both feet on the floor and heave. And I am up: a festival trick involving cows and coaxing. I take a breath and start to move, open my bower door and peer out.

  It has grown cold. I put my hand on the threshold and sag, admitting that I will not be walking to the gatehouse. I will not wait there for Ash, nor will I bound out to meet my sister. I will stay right here in the bowerhouse, where she will come before taking me to the hall for supper.

  As I turn to move back inside, I see on the stones a small wooden box. It is tucked up against the wall next to the door. I brace my back with my hand and bend to scoop it up. My name is written on it in charcoal. Black smudges transfer themselves to my fingers.

  Perhaps it is a gift from one of the villagers. I have been given many warm swaddles; though usually the giver sees me in person, wanting to speak and r
eceive a thank-you.

  I close out the late afternoon cool, and return to my bed with the box. I sit with my legs crossed in front of me, and pick open the knot on the string that holds the lid on. Inside is a clay figure of a woman, no bigger than my hand. She is roundly pregnant, and wears a tiny silver knife on a thin ribbon around her neck. I am part curious, part apprehensive. It is so strange. I turn her over to look for a mark, anything that would indicate who has sent her, where she has come from. But there is nothing. The knife is set with two very small gems, and I pull it close to my lace to examine them.

  When I touch the tiny silver blade, I feel the first cold bolt of magic. It races up my arms and through my shoulders, and in a gasping moment is spinning in my brain.