‘You try too hard,’ he said. ‘Go with it, like a leaf in the wind.’ He moved away to demonstrate. ‘Don't force. Allow.’
Even as she tried to note the position of arms and legs, what she saw was the litheness of his back, tautness in his buttocks. A ripple of foreign feeling surged up through her abdomen, like a spring tide. Her breath caught in her throat again.
‘Now you,’ he said, hair whipping across his eyes. ‘Show me.’
She took up the start position, raised her arms. Glancing down briefly, it was her breasts she saw, not her stance. Firm, youthful, much like Kaitlyn's in the cavern when Hanick had been aroused. The fisherman's response was still a mystery, bare skin commonplace. She assumed it was the cave, enclosed, clandestine, the forbidden encounter. An image flared in her head – Ruan's fingers deftly tying the sling to his thigh, the ends of thong slapping. Another surge stabbed through her belly, upwards from between her thighs. Weakness trembled through her muscles.
‘I can't do it,’ she said, dropping her arms.
‘Breathe.’ He came to her, tilted her chin, put a hand on her diaphragm. ‘Deep and steady. That's it.’ He moved behind, raised her arms to the start position then placed his hands over her hip bones. His touch felt like fire. ‘Breathing,’ he reminded, as hers became shallow again. ‘Fold here,’ he said, rocking her pelvis, ‘where the weight is. Balance is everything.’
When he stepped back, she ran, leapt upwards and folded for the spin. As her pelvis swung, wind fingering her skin, it remembered the pressure of his hands. Her abdominal muscles clenched. She wobbled, falling out of the air to land heavily on her back foot. A sharp pain jagged up through her heel. She stumbled, limping to a rock to sit. Pulling her foot up across her knee, she brushed the sand off. A shard of razor-shell was embedded in the flesh. Blood oozed round it.
Ruan flopped on his knees beside her. ‘Let me see.’ Cupping her foot in his hand, he gripped the end of broken shell between thumb and forefinger to ease it out.
‘Aahaa!’ she yelled, wincing. The flesh rose when he pulled, the spike of shell firmly fixed.
‘Wait.’ The druid ran to his clothes, raked his pouch for knife and flint.
Skaaha watched him twist a loose torch of dried grass, shielding it with his body as he sparked it alight. When the flame flared, he ran it along the blade before dousing it and returning to crouch, knife poised, in front of her. Light glinted again on small hairs on the back of his hand. Her limbs became water.
‘It needs cut out,’ he said.
‘Why did you burn the blade?’ Her voice thickened in her throat.
He glanced at her. ‘Fire cleanses.’ Turning his gaze to her foot, he gripped her ankle with his free hand, pressing his knee against hers. A flash of sensation ran up her calf and thigh, burning across her belly. He looked up again, as if he felt it too, a long, intense look, as if he gazed into her soul, eyes deep and dark, their faces so close he would know her breath shortened.
He can see inside your head. So Jiya had said. Heat flushed Skaaha's cheeks. Her foot throbbed with the warmth of his hand cradling it. Wind tossed the hair back off his neck. Below his ear, the small tattoo of manhood was druid – the cross-quartered wheel of life.
‘Watch the hills,’ he said, nodding towards Alba.
Vaguely disappointed, she did as instructed, trying to think of Eefay rising in one of the brochs that nestled in the valley opposite. There was a sharp stab into her heel, but she was ready and contained her reaction, no quick intake of breath to break the deep rhythm that controlled pain.
‘There,’ he said, showing her. ‘That's why it wouldn't come out.’ The sharp point of the shell was barbed on one side. He placed it on the rock to smash it.
‘I want it.’ She stopped him. A question rose in his eyes. ‘It hurt me so it's mine,’ she answered, before he spoke, holding out her hand. He put the shard in her palm. She scanned his face, amazed that it pleased her just to look at him.
‘Bathe the wound in the sea,’ he said brusquely. ‘We're done for today.’ Springing to his feet, he turned his back, raised his fist. ‘Hyaaa-aaaaa!’ he screamed, and belted down the beach into the waves without waiting for her to join him.
On the way home, dressed and limping a little, she tried to regain his attention. ‘We never do weapon training.’ She raised her voice so the wind wouldn't steal it. ‘I could bring swords.’
He shook his head. ‘I'm druid, Skaaha. We don't fight people’ – a brief glance towards her – ‘sickness and cruelty, troubling thoughts or feelings, but not people.’
‘Nechta asks if I'll come of age.’ It wasn't intended but blurted out, the only thought that formed into words. He didn't respond. ‘Maybe I will,’ she persisted. Still nothing. ‘Maybe I won't.’ He didn't speak. ‘Have you no advice?’
‘The choice is yours.’ They skirted the burial mound, approaching the village. ‘Take time to make it.’ A loaded cart sat outside the druid huts. ‘I'll go with Nechta to Tokavaig. Rest your foot. Bathe it in the sea. I'll leave a paste in case it needs binding.’ Before she could ask why he was going, he was gone into Nechta's lodge.
Skaaha hobbled on to the roundhouse, into her chamber. Dragging the curtain shut, she threw herself on the pallet, the bloodied shard of shell clenched in her palm. High in the thatch, the wind whoofed, creating puffs of dust. Let him go to Tokavaig. She wanted to be alone, to recreate those sensations, to understand what had happened to her on the beach.
When the priests were ready to leave, Skaaha stood lounging in the doorway. Ruan came over from the cart to put a pot of lotion in her hand.
‘I'm not a child,’ she said, disdaining it.
‘Flesh and blood, all the same,’ he replied, robes slapping his body.
That strange sensation rippled through her belly again. There was something different in the way he looked at her, a hesitation before he turned away. She didn't know what it was.
‘Live the day well, Nechta,’ she called when the cart pulled away. The wind snatched her breath.
‘Blessings on you, Skaaha,’ the old woman called back, ‘blessings on all of you.’ The crowding villagers waved; she'd been with them a long time. A few children ran behind till the cart reached the rise. Skaaha didn't wave, but she watched, moving to the shoreline where it might look like she'd gone to bathe her foot, if he turned round. Her hair tugged, skirts flapped. The cart climbed the hill path to the top, vanishing behind the trees. The wind howled like a wolf. Ruan did not look back.
The warriors arrived with the vernal equinox, the end of the sun's first quarter, when feasts marked the changes from child to youth. Their dues were paid in weapons. They brought seabird eggs to clear gambling debts, and frightening news. There had been raids in the north-west – a village burnt, men killed, women and girls taken – the first since before Kerrigen's time. Mara and her warriors stopped one boat that slipped past into Loch Bracadale, engaging the foreigners where they put ashore. Two of her women were killed, some injured. Most of the enemy escaped back to their ship. The men of Ardvasar were stepping up patrols.
‘So you'll be seeing more of us,’ Vass explained grimly at the evening meal in Erith's house. ‘We'll build you a warning stack up on the Loup, green for smoke.’
‘What about Jiya?’ Skaaha asked, alarmed. ‘She's with Suli. And Thum, he's training at Doon Beck. Is he all right?’ No one knew for certain. Suli might be anywhere, and Jiya with her. Thum was probably safe. They'd heard no reports of death or injury among novice warriors, or priests for that matter, but they could tell her the names of the two from Bracadale who died. Skaaha left them to their cups, wandering outside to be alone in the dark with her thoughts.
High above, a fat waxing moon ducked behind heavy cloud. She perched on a rock, dangling her bare foot in the shifting water. The short, neat cut healed well. Wind tugged her hair. If only a storm might whip up. Then they would all be safer. Raiders stayed in port while the sea raged. She heard feet on the rocks behind, ap
proaching, the muffled clink of weapons carried. The red-haired warrior, Fion, settled himself on the rock beside her, a horn of ale in his hand.
‘The dead warriors,’ he said, ‘they were friends of yours?’
She nodded. ‘Like foster-mothers,’ she realized.
‘They will be proud to have died in battle.’
That was true. All warriors hoped for a glorious death – to arrive a hero in the otherworld, their feats praised in ballad in this one.
‘We'll drink to them.’ He passed her the cup.
‘Death in glory,’ she toasted, and drank.
Fion's skill was the axe. Though younger than Ard, his shoulders were broad and bulky as the smith's. It was Fion who'd lifted her, one-handed, by her plait the day they first met. He, too, wore a plait, in his beard, into which were braided the ends of his long moustache. Amused had turned out to be his usual state. She passed the cup back.
‘The warrior, Thum,’ he asked, after drinking, ‘is he your man?’
‘He's my friend. I don't have a man.’
‘This is good.’ He smiled broadly. ‘I will be your man. Here’ – he offered the cup – ‘we'll drink to us.’
‘No, we won't.’ She drank anyway. ‘I'm not of age yet.’ This was hedging. She glanced at the gibbous moon. It was less than five quarters from Beltane, not three fortnights. No law compelled her to wait. She could do as she chose. Fion was a fine man. Warriors were rarely refused.
He leaned into her, pushed the fold of her bodice aside. His huge hand cupped her bare breast. ‘But you're ready to be a woman,’ he said, puzzled by her reluctance. ‘And will be more pleased by me than any three men here.’ The boast was a common one but, in his case, might be true.
His breath deepened as his hand stroked her breast, tension growing in his body. The effect pleased her, that she was the cause. His touch was warm, intimate and not unpleasant. Already her body arched of its own accord towards him. Her head tilted into the crook of his neck, nose rubbing the skin below his earlobe, nuzzling into the male scent of him.
‘You see?’ he murmured. ‘You want a man.’ His arm pressed round her back, drew her close. ‘I will teach you.’ Taking the beer horn from her, he drank it empty, laid it aside. Then he tilted her chin, and put his mouth on hers, the hairs of his moustache damp against her face. It was a strange thing to be kissed, his lips moving against hers, the pressure growing, hair tickling her cheek, breath mingling with the taste of ale. Urgency welled up from the pit of her stomach, wanting what she didn't yet know. His hand stroked her naked thigh, a touch that increased the ache in her for more. With it came something else.
‘No,’ she said, gripping his wrist to stop his hand moving, and drawing back. ‘I'm not ready.’
‘Ach, Skaaha,’ he groaned. ‘That was a fine night we were almost having.’
‘You'll have it with someone else,’ she consoled. ‘Kaitlyn would enjoy a change and Freya would even throw Hanick out of bed for you.’
‘A shrew or a wet rag,’ he complained. ‘You have fire in you. I would be the one to make it blaze.’
‘When I choose a man, it won't be by accident,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘I'll wait till Beltane.’
‘You'll only choose me then,’ he protested.
‘Maybe, or maybe somebody else.’
‘So I will fight for you.’
She leaned over, grabbed his plaited beard in her fist. ‘Do that,’ she dared, ‘and I'll blunt your axe.’
A deep groan issued from his throat. ‘That's wicked,’ he said, both appalled and impressed that she could think it. ‘And you the spawn of warrior and smith?’ He pressed for advantage, undaunted. ‘You wouldn't.’
‘Try me,’ she invited, letting go his beard, ‘but don't roll dice on it.’
15
‘Blood is not all,’ Ruan said. ‘Look at Jiya. Can you be sure?’
‘You were at Doon Beck.’ Suli leaned on her staff. ‘You saw her work out the consequences before she passed that cup, and of her choice.’ Despite their exertions, the high priest's voice was steady as ever. ‘A child, yet she put wisdom before desire. Surely you can do no less?’
Ruan hesitated, uncertain what his truth would be. ‘Not easily, not with her.’
‘What sacrifice is easy, especially if the reward is great?’ Her pale eyes were calm, as if he presented no risk. ‘You accepted the task.’
‘Four circles since,’ he protested. ‘Things change.’
‘And by doing so, remain constant.’ She inclined her head towards Tokavaig, lying between them and the bay, the sanctuary busy with injured from the raid. ‘She must be quite a beauty by now.’
‘She is,’ Ruan agreed. ‘But unaware of her grace, or the impact of her presence.’ The foreign ships had tested the water for the last sun. Now they probed the island's defences, and found them weak. ‘Which doesn't help,’ he added. ‘I am tormented.’ If he gave in to his own weakness, his task would fail.
‘Do as you will, Ruan, but do no harm.’ The old woman's staff smacked against his as he moved, just in time, to protect his shin. ‘That is the law.’
Smoke stacks were built on three hills behind Kylerhea, dry kindling to quickly catch flame blanketed by branches of green pine. The warriors left, returning south to continue patrolling the seaward coast. Skaaha stood with Ard, watching their longboat run before the sun to dwindle on the horizon.
When it became a distant speck in the waves, they still stood, gazing at nothing, for no apparent reason, as if reluctant to walk to the forge. A sea breeze tossed spume, tugged their clothes. Skaaha curled her bare toes round a crack in the damp rock, pressing the bulbs of bladder wrack that clung to it.
‘I'll come of age at Beltane,’ she said. No justification was needed, but the lack of immediate response compelled her to add one. ‘It's time I was a woman.’
Ard nodded, though he now seemed more interested in the hills of Glenelg across the water. ‘And this is your choice, or did Fion make it for you?’
‘I have the measure of Fion,’ she snorted. ‘Nobody chooses for me.’
He looked at her then, his usual scrutiny tinged with pride. ‘Good, that's how it should be.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You come of age once. Be sure the man who'll honour you deserves to.’ When her mouth opened with a question, he stopped it. ‘Talk to Erith. You can bring the water.’
Erith brimmed with excitement. ‘About time! We hoped it would be this sun. The council will meet. Wait till they hear in Torrin. We'll have to do some travelling. You don't just want the men here to choose from, unless you know. Do you know?’
Skaaha shook her head. ‘I should ask the women.’
‘We'll have a night for you,’ Erith laughed, anticipating. ‘Advice enough to make your head spin.’ She drew Skaaha conspiratorially into her chamber, away from the houseboy's ears. ‘Don't tell him I said so, but Ard's the best around here, which is no help to you. Fion would be good – believe his boasts – if you want him.’
‘I don't know.’ She could still feel his touch, desire for it rising then dying. ‘He wants me.’
‘Well, of course he does,’ Erith exclaimed. ‘Who wouldn't want to honour you?’ She gripped Skaaha's shoulders, ran her gaze over the girl's face and body. ‘Look at you. Think who you are! Just don't choose someone wet behind the ears.’ Delight lit her face. ‘Wait till the council hears.’ Putting an arm round Skaaha's shoulders, she squeezed tightly. ‘This will be the finest Beltane!’
Skaaha took the cauldron to the sea, bemused by what she'd set in motion. Tying her skirt up between her legs, she waded out till the water reached her knees. Peering down, she saw little bubbles attached to the fine hairs on her calves, sand ooze up between her toes. To avoid scooping any into the pot, she stepped sideways on to smooth rock, placing her feet carefully to avoid the sharp peaks of barnacles.
A crab scurried over her toes. Waves rippled past, caressing her skin. She closed her eyes, tried to conjure a lover's touch, lik
e the water, the waves, the pale warmth of sun in her face, on her throat. But it was easier to imagine her hands on him, gripping the ball of his shoulder, feeling the hardness of his chest. Hugging the empty cauldron close, she imagined hips pressed against her own.
‘Ho, Skaaha!’
The call broke the spell. Hanick rowed a small coracle towards her, coming in from the bay.
‘Did you catch much?’ she called back.
‘Enough,’ he said, jumping into the water to pull the boat past her, showing off the gleaming white bellies of fish, some still thrashing. ‘The best one got away.’
‘They always do,’ she grinned.
‘No’ – the young man would not be deprived of his story – ‘he was twice the size of these. I saw him go under the boat.’ He beached the coracle and waded back to her. ‘A real smart fish, went with the hook and pulled free. Here’ – he reached for the cauldron – ‘I'll get that for you.’ His hand touched against hers on the iron handle.
When she didn't immediately let go, he tilted his head, looking at her through a flop of fair hair. That time in the cavern rose between them, when his hand had covered hers. Skaaha let go, startled by a quite different discovery. He wasn't reacting to Kaitlyn now, or Freya who carried his child, but to her.
Hanick dipped the cauldron, carefully to avoid creatures and seaweed, and they waded back to the beached boat, him carrying water for her that she was well able to carry for herself.
‘You have fish to gut,’ she said, as they reached the grass. Taking the pot, she flashed him a smile. ‘But thank you.’ She walked away to the forge, smiling more widely now he couldn't see her face, knowing he watched her go. This becoming a woman held many pleasures, when a glance or a touch was all it took to make strong men weak with wanting. A sense of power swept through her. If it hadn't been for the weight of the cauldron, she might have skipped into the heat of the forge.
Inside, the smell of hot metal and clatter of iron turned her attention to work. Something nagged at the edge of her mind, like a forgotten line of poetry. She tied on her leather apron and went to study fish hooks. Gern made most of them. They were fiddly to work on, and in various sizes suitable to different fish, but all were the same – thin, deeply curved hooks with sharp, flattened points, the stem ending with a loop for tying them to gut. The forgotten words remembered themselves. That's why it wouldn't come out. Ruan's words on the beach.
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