Seer of Sevenwaters

by Juliet Marillier

  I took time to recover, using long-practiced techniques to calm myself. Gods, that had been so real! I would not try to interpret it now. I drank from my water skin. I listened to the cries of gulls beyond the opening in the cave roof, and the endless wash of the sea. I thought of the man brought to me by those chill waves. When my heart had ceased to hammer, when my breathing was slow and even, I asked my second question. Not, Will he survive? I did not want an answer to that; I needed hope.

  Thanks to Manannán’s mercy, I saved a man from the sea. What is it he needs most?

  I waited, keeping my mind open and empty. I breathed. The pool lay still before me, not a ripple on its glassy surface, now darkening under the sky of late afternoon.

  Start with a name. The words reached my mind as clearly as if they had been spoken aloud. Where my own reflection had been in the water, I now saw a man’s. He was a disheveled person with hair of every color from black to white, and a long, thin face, and eyes just like mine. He wore an ancient garment, tattered and torn, and in place of his left arm he had a swan’s wing. A man needs a name.

  Finbar. By all the gods. My instincts had been right; some part of him still lingered in this place where he had been almost content. Could I ask more, or would he vanish the moment I spoke?

  He must already have a name. I formed the words in my mind, but held myself silent. But he’s too weak to tell us what it is.

  You must choose a name for him. It is the first step.

  I nodded, my gaze held by the compelling eyes, my skin prickling at the utter strangeness of this. I did not know if I could ask any more; but oh, I had so much to say to him, so much I wanted to tell him . . . I must risk one thing, even if it meant I lost the image. There is a tiny boy at Sevenwaters now. Named after you. My brother. I think he will be a seer. You are loved still; held in highest esteem.

  A fleeting smile. The strange eyes were bright.

  Act swiftly, Sibeal. He needs your help. The water stirred. A shadow passed across the cavern, turning my skin to gooseflesh, and the image faded to nothing.

  I stayed in the cavern, pondering Finbar’s words, until the light told me it was time to return to the settlement. Fang would surely have gone home long ago. I put on my cloak and gathered my belongings. “Farewell,” I whispered. “Thank you.” But there was no answer. Still, Finbar was here. I felt his presence in the deep quiet of the stone, and in the dark stillness of the water, and in the gentle patch of sky. What had he meant? Choosing a name for a man who doubtless had a perfectly good one of his own seemed an odd thing to do, and hardly urgent. I stepped out of the cave and into the narrow, dark passageway. I could not forget that first vision, the crashing waves, the cruel hands, the screaming. Past or future? Fact or possibility?

  Fang was still waiting at the tunnel entry, hunkered down on the narrow path, shivering.

  “You poor thing.” I bent to stroke her, and she snapped at my fingers. “I’m sorry you had to wait in the cold,” I murmured, straightening, “but not sorry enough to let you bite me. Come on.”

  Once she realized we were heading for shelter and supper, the little dog scampered ahead, good temper restored. I walked briskly, and as I went I considered what name might suit a man hovering between life and death. I could think of no good reason to give him a name other than his own. A name could be a symbol, of course—it could denote some inner quality. On Inis Eala, names were especially important. That had started with Johnny’s father, Bran. Aunt Liadan had given him that name. Up until then he had gone only by his title of Chief. She had named him for the raven, since his body was decorated with an elaborate pattern based on that bird’s plumage. The band of outlaw mercenaries he had gathered around him all bore animal names: Gull, Spider, Snake and so on. These men were now the senior warriors of Inis Eala, with a special status in the community. I could not think what animal my man would be named for, even if that was appropriate in his case. He was too sick to show his true colors. What lingered of his real self was all in his eyes, eyes that were wary of questions, but thirsty for tales. Perhaps a name would give him strength until he was well enough to talk to us. That meant I should choose a name denoting courage.

  “What do you think, Fang?” I asked as we paused to rest on the way, I sitting on a rock beside the cliff path, the dog standing with ears pricked, watching a group of island sheep that grazed with confidence on the precipitous slope below us. “How about Conall? You’d like that one; it means ‘strong as a hound.’ Or maybe Ardal?”

  There was a small cove below us. From my vantage point I had a clear view of the wavelets washing in, the pale stones of the beach. There were larger rocks at the cliff’s foot, and in their shelter crouched a lone figure. She was barefoot, her gown dark to the knees with water. Shawl and cloak had been abandoned on the stones nearby. The sun was low in the sky; it touched her golden hair and illuminated her pale skin. Her hands were busy with something, and I saw a difference in her, as if here in this isolated place, alone with the sea and the sky, she had relaxed her guard.

  “We’re going down there,” I murmured to Fang.

  As I rose, the dog ran ahead down the steep path toward the cove. I followed more slowly, for the long day spent alone had turned my mood from storm to calm. Sunlight brushed the ocean with a patina of silver; beside me the grasses bent before the breeze, and the sheep conversed on the cliffs in gentle bleats, the ewes grazing below their young on the treacherous slope. No one could be despondent on such a day.

  Svala was absorbed in whatever she was doing. The dog and I were on the pebbly beach before she realized she was no longer alone. Crouched in place, she lifted her head and looked toward me, her body suddenly still.

  “I mean no harm,” I said, stopping where I was. Instinct made me crouch as well, so I would not be looking down at her. There was a distance of twelve paces between us; I would go no closer unless she showed signs of trust. Fang had halted by my side. A growl rumbled through her small body. “Hush, Fang,” I murmured, but the dog did not obey. “Svala, may I talk to you?” Oh, for a few words of Norse! A simple greeting would go a long way. What was that laid out in the stones before her? Fish bones? I had heard of entrails used in augury, bones, too. Those looked too small and too disordered for such a purpose. Svala’s pose had shifted. Now she resembled a creature on guard over something precious, a nest, a treasure.

  When I had talked to the man in the infirmary, I had done so in the belief that he understood at least part of what I was saying. It was different with Svala. Either she had no Irish at all, or she was shutting out what she did not want to hear. I gestured toward her—you—then put my hands over my eyes as if weeping—sad. Then I cupped my hands together and placed them over my heart. I feel your sorrow.

  She was so still; she was like a lovely thing carved in pale stone. But her eyes were not blank now. They were wide and clear, gray as the ocean under cloud, and they were turned on me with some understanding.

  I gestured again. You—me—then arms stretched toward her and curled into an embrace—friends?

  Above us on the cliff top, a ewe bleated a warning call to her lamb. Fang was off up the pathway, a blur of white. I waited, watching the woman, looking again at the material over which she crouched so protectively. Bones, yes. A welter of them, the ribs of one sizeable catch and of several smaller ones, an assortment of other bones, gleaming white in the sunlight. Picked clean of flesh. It was not the debris of a human meal, for nobody on the island would leave scraps on the shore like this, and besides, there was no sign of a fire. Perhaps gulls had pecked away the shreds of meat. Why had Svala gathered the remnants together?

  You—those—augury? This last was hard to illustrate. I placed a hand to my brow, as if to show thought, then repeated a gesture I had used once before with her, stretching out my arms to the sides, palms upwards. She showed no sign of comprehension.

  “Never mind,” I said, rising to my feet. “Just know that I am a friend, and I would like to help you
—”

  Svala had got up, too. She stretched out a hand toward me, with something on the palm. With the other hand she beckoned me closer. My heart lurched with surprise. Up on the cliff top, Fang was barking. I hoped she was not chasing sheep.

  “What is that?” I asked, taking slow steps toward Svala.

  No reply. As I came nearer, I saw that the small item she was holding out, offering me, was a morsel of fish. Raw fish. Be careful, Sibeal. This may be your only chance with her.

  Svala made a sound, not words, but a murmur of encouragement whose meaning I could guess. Take, share. This is for you.

  “Thank you,” I said, and accepted the fish. “Did you catch this yourself?” I tried to mime the meaning. There was no sign of fishing line or net, nothing at all but the barefoot woman and her pile of clean bones.

  Svala murmured again; it was almost like a song, a sad one full of liquid sounds. She performed her own mime for my benefit, and proved better at it than I, for I understood straightaway. Eat. Good. As I tried to absorb the strangeness of her request—eat a gobbet of raw fish?—I saw that her fingers were greasy, and that around her full-lipped mouth was a smear of oil. Those bones were not tools of augury. They were the remains of her meal.

  Strange indeed. What kind of place did this woman come from, that she ate like a wild creature? There was no choice; she had made a gesture of trust, and if I wanted her to accept my help, I could not rebuff that gesture.

  “Thank you, Svala,” I said. I took a deep breath and put the fish in my mouth, trying not to wince as I chewed. I hoped very much that what I was eating was freshly caught, and not something she had found washed up on the shore. It was slippery, stringy, a challenge to the teeth. It tasted of salt water and wildness. I swallowed it down. A pity I could not have slipped it surreptitiously to Fang, who would have considered it a treat. I bowed my head courteously in an attempt to convey gratitude. “You are generous to share. The last mouthful!” I indicated the bones, grateful that she had not presented me with a whole fish.

  Svala nodded. Then, abruptly, her hands came out again, this time to close around my upper arms. Gods, she was strong!

  “You’re hurting me,” I said, not letting my voice rise.

  In response, she turned me around so she was holding me from behind and began to walk me down toward the sea. I grappled with the possibility that she was quite mad, and that she was about to drown me. Out here, at the foot of the cliff, nobody would hear my screams. Fang, perhaps; but what could she do? By the time she fetched help I would be drifting out there, as limp and lifeless as those poor men we had buried. Breathe slowly, Sibeal. She shared her food with you. That was a sign of friendship.

  Now we were in the shallows. Svala released her hold and came to stand beside me with one hand on my shoulder. I stood still, though the sea was washing over my shoes and drenching the hem of my gown. An exercise in trust. She stretched her free arm out toward the horizon as if trying to catch hold of something out there, something longed for, something precious. Too far. Too far to reach. The look on her face made my heart falter; the tumult of feelings that coursed through me almost stopped my breath. Loss, bereavement, fury, despair, yearning . . . I closed my eyes, near-overwhelmed. Images came then: huge seas crashing; rocks looming, their forms those of monsters crouched to spring; dark kelp swirling in a thick mat. And sounds: men shouting, and over their desperate voices the calling of something else, a deep bellow of pain that gripped at my vitals. My heart juddered in my breast. I trembled with horror.

  A call from the cliff top: no eldritch thing, but the voice of a man. My eyes sprang open, and I half turned. Knut was coming down the path, striding faster than was quite safe on the steep slope. Svala did not turn, but I felt her body freeze. The animation drained from her features.

  “Are you all right?” I murmured, but she made no response. As her husband strode down the shore toward us, we waded back to dry land.

  Knut’s fair skin was flushed with embarrassment. Avoiding my eye, he came up to Svala, fished out a handkerchief and proceeded to wipe her mouth as if she were an infant that was still learning to feed itself. He spoke to her gently. I guessed he was telling her he’d been worried and was glad he had found her. His glance took in the pile of fish bones, his wife’s wet clothing, the garments she had abandoned on the rocks, her bare feet. It was plain that he wished I had not seen this.

  “Troubled you . . . regret, sorry,” he said to me in stumbling Irish. “My wife . . . disturbed.” His hand was firm around her arm. Svala stood quietly by him, head bowed, shoulders drooping.

  “No trouble.” It seemed he was mortified, ashamed of his wife. The red flush went all the way down his neck. And there, graven on a smooth stone and strung on a fraying strip of darkened hide, was something on which I could comment without any danger of making the situation still more awkward. I put my hand to my own neck and said, “I see you are wearing a rune. Eolh. Sometimes called the claw.” It was a powerful symbol of protection. If I had been a crewman on a oceangoing ship, I might have chosen the same sign.

  Knut’s tight jaw relaxed somewhat. “Eolh,” he echoed, tucking the charm back under his tunic. “Keep safe. From sea, storm.”

  “Knut . . . ” How could I say this without offending him? “Your wife—she offered me food. She did not upset me in any way. I believe she was trying to talk to me, to tell me something.”

  I tried not to speak across her, even though she could not understand my words. Her husband had treated her as if she were either a child or a half-wit. She was certainly no child; and after seeing her eyes unguarded, I was beginning to wonder if we had all underestimated her ability to think for herself.

  “No speak Irish good,” Knut said, then spoke to Svala in Norse, pointing to the clothing she had left on the rocks. He released his hold on her, and she moved over to collect her shawl and cloak, obedient as a chastened dog. It unnerved me to watch them, for so much about this felt wrong—her silent subservience, his obvious embarrassment. They were husband and wife, yet today there was nothing between them of the tender respect that I saw every day between my sisters and their husbands, or between Biddy and Gull, or indeed between my mother and father. Were Norse customs so different?

  “I must go now,” I muttered, waving vaguely toward the top of the path, where Fang could be seen investigating something under a stone. “I wish you well,” I said, looking over at Svala. But she was wrapping the shawl around her shoulders, her back to me, and did not turn.

  “You, not talk.” Knut put his fingers to his lips, pointed to me, indicated his wife with a sweep of the hand. “Not say.” He gestured in the general direction of the settlement. “Not say . . . Johnny . . . wife, here.”

  “I won’t tell anyone,” I said. I did not fully understand Knut’s motive, but it did seem best that this episode did not become the subject of gossip within the community. “No talk. No tell.”

  Knut managed a smile and a nod.

  “Farewell, then. Farewell, Svala.”

  I climbed up the path more briskly than was quite comfortable. At the top I whistled to Fang, then headed off toward the settlement without a backward glance.

  “And so,” I told my family, “I chose a name for him.”

  We were in the dining hall, where the Inis Eala community sat to supper at four long tables, in no particular order. Folk liked to mingle here. However, it was common for kin to sit together, and so here we were at the table nearest the cooking fire. Johnny sat with Gareth, who was his lover as well as his best friend and comrade in arms—this unusual arrangement was simply part of everyday life on Inis Eala, where folk were somewhat more tolerant than on the mainland. Clodagh and Cathal were here, along with Muirrin, Gull, Biddy’s son Sam and his wife, Brenna. Evan was in the infirmary where, I was told, our patient was still alive but no better. Biddy was occupied with supervising her assistants, who were coming to and fro with cauldrons of soup and platters of bread. She herself would eat later, whe
n she had ensured everyone else was adequately fed.

  I had given an abridged account of my day. A trip to the cave; quiet meditation; some insights gained, which I did not describe. A suggestion that I name the nameless survivor, at least until he started to talk to us. I made no mention of Finbar. I said nothing of my odd meeting with Knut and Svala. I had made a promise and would keep it. The two of them had come to supper well after me, and were sitting on the far side of the chamber next to Kalev. Svala had changed her gown and brushed her hair. I could not see if she had shoes on. Her eyes were downcast. She pushed the food around on her platter, but I did not see a morsel pass her lips. Knut was talking to the people seated around them, presumably exercising his few words of Irish. He had recovered from his embarrassment and was smiling; there was a ripple of laughter at his table. The only sign of unease was in his restless fingers, twisting and turning the amulet he wore around his neck.

  “A name would certainly be useful,” Muirrin said, “at least until we know what his real one is. He seems reluctant to give it; he must understand our simple requests for him to tell us, even if he knows no more than a word or two of Irish. What have you chosen, Sibeal?”

  “Ardal,” I said. “A man with so many challenges ahead of him needs a brave name.”

  There was a little silence around me as my family considered this, while at the other tables the clank of spoons on platters, the chink of goblets and the convivial talk went on. In fact, the place was not as noisy as usual; on the night of my arrival it had been hard to make oneself heard. Tonight was different. We were consuming the food that had been prepared to feed shipwreck survivors. It would be some days, I thought, before the community returned to its nightly round of after-supper songs and tales.