Seer of Sevenwaters

by Juliet Marillier

  I considered this remark. “You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”

  “I don’t mean it like that. I always admired you for it.”

  “But?” I had heard the reservation in her tone.

  “I don’t know. I just . . . well, I suppose I wonder if it’s entirely good for you to keep such control over your feelings. Feelings can be uncomfortable, but they’re part of being alive: joy and sorrow, excitement, fear, hurt. Imagine a story in which every character was in perfect control of himself all the time. It would be somewhat lacking, in my opinion.”

  I grimaced. “I’m beginning to suspect a conspiracy. Everywhere I turn, someone’s challenging my vocation, either by outlining the delights of marriage and motherhood, or by suggesting there’s something amiss because I don’t scream and shout when I’m upset.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Clodagh, believe me, I have plenty of doubts. About myself, about my future, about my suitability to follow the druid path. I have no doubt at all that the gods have called me, and that means I must do my best. As for self-control, I’ve been trained to maintain it, outwardly at least. Not showing emotion doesn’t mean you don’t feel it.” After a little I added, “Your story would be one in which every character was a druid, I suppose. In fact, people have been known to lose their tempers in the nemetons. You’d be surprised how heated the debate can get over the correct way to conduct a ritual.”

  We walked up a slight rise and paused. Below us lay a secluded hollow, a sudden surprise of many greens amidst the dun and gray of the island. A ring of hawthorns sheltered the grove of apple trees, which put me in mind of graceful women in verdant gowns, perhaps preparing to dance. Short gowns; the sheep had nibbled as high as they could stretch. It was a lovely place, full of calm and sweetness.

  “These trees give remarkably good fruit,” Clodagh said. “Crisp and juicy. You’ll be gone before this season’s crop ripens. The mushrooms are over on that side.”

  An impressive crop of broad, cream caps rose above the grass. I made Clodagh sit and rest while I picked, filling both baskets quickly.

  “How is Ardal doing?” she asked as she watched me work.

  “Better. Remembering one or two things. It seems his brother was on the ship, too. He is quite confused. I had to explain that if his brother was on board, he must have drowned. Ardal seemed to believe that was somehow his fault.”

  “Oh, so he’s remembered the wreck? What did he say?”

  I sat back on my heels, seeing Ardal’s shadowed eyes and tear-stained face. “I don’t think he remembers much. Just a wave coming over and swallowing them up. He said he couldn’t untie something, but he wouldn’t explain what. His mind jumps around, one moment in childhood, the next dealing with something recent. And he mixes old tales with real life.” Or perhaps it was that the old tales helped make sense of real life. “We did learn that he comes from Armorica, only he called it Breizh. A long way.”

  “They’ll go home quite soon, I suppose,” Clodagh said. “The three of them.”

  “Not for a while yet. Ardal can’t walk more than a few steps.”

  “Speaking of walking, we may as well head back. Biddy should be delighted with that harvest.”

  I helped Clodagh to her feet. “What’s she planning to do with them?”

  “Put some in a fish stew and string up the rest to dry,” Clodagh said, reaching for her basket. “Nothing’s wasted here. No, no, Sibeal, I can carry it. I’m not completely helpless.”

  “I’d never dare suggest such a thing,” I said, laughing. “But I wouldn’t want to risk Cathal’s displeasure by tiring you out. Shall we walk back the other way, round by the cliffs?”

  It was as we walked above the third cove that we saw her. She was on the beach below us, standing with hands on hips and legs apart, looking down at something. Along the shore, at around the tide line, stretched a winding shape of piled-up pebbles and coarse sand, decorated here and there with patches of weed or large shells. Its creator regarded it with concentration, her hair in wet strands over her shoulders and down her back. Under its meager concealment, Svala was stark naked.

  “What is she doing?” whispered Clodagh as we stood staring, paralyzed with shock. Summer it might be, but this was hardly a warm day. And there were men all over the island.

  “It’s a snake,” I murmured, taking a better look at Svala’s creation. “Look, she’s given it shell eyes, and—no, perhaps not a snake. It’s too fat, and it has legs. A dragon? She must be freezing. And anyone could come past and see her. We’ll have to go down and talk to her. Or maybe just I will go; that path looks rather steep.”

  “I’ll manage. We can leave the baskets here.”

  Partway down the path, I halted suddenly.

  “Watch out!” Clodagh was behind me. “I nearly walked into you.”

  “I saw something.” My eye had caught a slight movement, up on the cliffs at the other side of the bay, where bushes screened the path. A sheep? Whatever it had been, it was gone now. “I thought . . . For a moment, I thought it was a man. Someone hiding, watching her. But surely nobody would do that.”

  “Not if they heard Johnny’s speech to the new arrivals. It must have been a sheep.”

  We headed on down to the shore. Svala had heard us. She turned to watch us approach, making no attempt at all to cover herself up. Her clothing lay strewn on the ground, sand and pebbles scattered across it as if she had gone about her work of digging and building with single-minded concentration. As her gaze went from me to Clodagh and back to me, I wondered if she might flee like a wild creature, leaving her garments behind.

  “Don’t go too close,” I whispered to my sister. “Good morning, Svala,” I said, halting a few paces from the Norsewoman. “What have you made?” I gestured toward the sand creature. Now that we were close, I realized how big it was; she must have been here since sunrise.

  Svala regarded me for a few moments, then reached out her hand, beckoning me closer. She did not speak, but walked the full length of the creature, gesturing busily all the way, and as I followed her I thought I understood: See how bright his eyes are, how shining his skin. See his strong legs, his fearsome tail! And the teeth! Like a little child wanting its mother’s praise for something fashioned with painstaking care. The teeth were of pointed shells, and gave her dragon an expression somewhere between ferocious and comical.

  “Fine, very fine,” I said, nodding and smiling. “But you—cold.” I mimed shivering, wrapping my arms around myself. In fact, Svala showed no sign that she was either cold or embarrassed by being discovered naked. She stood beside me, a proud figure of a woman, breasts high and full, waist narrow, hips generous, the hair on her body of the same gold as her long tresses. Her skin was uniformly pale and unblemished, and there was not a goose bump on her. She did have a certain amount of coarse sand stuck to her here and there, and I wondered if she had been swimming before she began her labor of love.

  Behind us, Clodagh had gathered up Svala’s gown and was attempting to shake off the sand. The shawl that had lain beside it looked drenched. There was nothing else for Svala to put on.

  “You should get dressed.” I illustrated. “Cold. And men could see you.” I gestured to the top of the cliffs. “That path, men walk. See you, no clothes. Not good.”

  In response, Svala knelt down by the creature’s head, looking into the blank shell eyes. She crooned a little tuneless song.

  “Svala,” Clodagh said, coming up, “I will lend you my cloak. Here.” She untied it and held it out.

  “Best come back now,” I said. “Come with us. Or at least put your clothes on, so the men don’t see you like this.”

  She must have understood; our gestures were quite clear. Still, she made no move. The little song went on, rising and falling; it was perhaps a lullaby, perhaps a lament.

  “Your creature will be washed away when the tide comes in,” I said. “That is sad. So much work.” Her song held the sorrow of a child wh
en the sea swallows its creation. It was a goodbye.

  Svala rose to her feet, her eyes closed now as her song came to an end. She reached out, blind, and put her hand around my arm. My ears heard the child’s grief, and my eyes saw the magnificent woman, like a goddess from ancient story. But my heart felt, deep within, a terrible loss, a thing too wrenching ever to be expressed in words. My body was filled with her anguish. Dimly, I heard Clodagh cry out, and then I was on my knees on the sand, my hands to my head.

  It was Svala who helped me to my feet. I felt the strength in her arms, the power in her hands. And when I opened my eyes and looked into hers, I knew that what I had felt for a little, she felt every moment of every day. She wore her sorrow as she wore her own skin.

  I did not tell her that I understood. I knew nobody could, save perhaps someone who had experienced what she had. I tried to show her with my eyes, and with my hand on her shoulder, that I had felt something of her grief, and that I was a friend. After that, she let Clodagh help her on with the wet gown and slung the warm cloak casually around her shoulders. But she would not come home with us. Instead, she seated herself cross-legged by the sand creature’s head, laid her hand on its neck and stared out to sea.

  From the cliff top we looked back down. Svala sat motionless, as if keeping vigil. Perhaps she was waiting for the tide to come in.

  “Are you all right, Sibeal?” Clodagh asked. “For a moment down there I thought you were going to faint. You’re still very pale.”

  “I’m fine now.” The wave of feeling had ebbed quickly, leaving my heart numb. To hold so much within her . . . no wonder Svala seemed sometimes to exist in a different world from the rest of us.

  “We should tell someone about this,” Clodagh said as we walked on. “She’s like a small child, with no sense of danger. Let alone propriety.”

  “Mm.” If she wandered about without her clothes, Svala had the capacity to cause mayhem, especially with the Connacht men on the island. I tried to imagine telling Knut what we had seen and knew I could not do it, either directly or—still more embarrassing—through Jouko or Kalev. Faced with such a task, I was far more unwed young girl than wise druid. I was not even sure I could bring myself to broach the subject with Gull.

  “You can leave this to me, Sibeal,” Clodagh said. “I’ll speak to Cathal, he can pass it on to Johnny, and if Johnny thinks Knut should know, he’ll tell him. This adds to the urgent need to get them off the island.”

  “I have seen her behaving rather oddly before, but not like this. Last time . . . Knut came, and he dealt with it. But he seemed embarrassed by her, almost ashamed of her. It makes me wonder if even he understands.”

  “Understands what?”

  “I know Svala’s behavior is strange. But I don’t believe she’s out of her wits, Clodagh. When we were down there, just for a moment I felt the force of her grief, and it was overwhelming. I know she lost her son; I know how terrible that must be. But I wonder if something else lies in her past, something more than the shipwreck and her son’s death. I sense there’s a story that needs to be told, and that until it comes out, we won’t be able to help her.”

  “If there were, why wouldn’t Knut have told it? It’s not as if Svala can tell us in words.”

  It was a reasonable question. “Maybe it’s something only she knows about. Or Knut could know more than he’s chosen to tell.”

  “If you’re right,” Clodagh mused, “it could be tied up with Ardal. Perhaps when he regains his memory it will all come out, whatever it is.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You know what the men are saying, don’t you?” Clodagh gave me her basket to hold as we negotiated a stile. “That he has brought ill luck to the island. That wherever he goes, he casts a shadow.”

  “Ardal?” This shocked me. Cathal had not suggested the talk of portents and omens was associated with anyone in particular. “Why would they think that?”

  “I don’t know, Sibeal. Don’t sound so upset; it’s probably just idle talk. Maybe it was the odd way he was found, or the fact that he reached shore alive at all after such a long time in the water. The shipwreck unsettled everyone. Folk are edgy. It’s not just Cathal who wishes he had done more, it’s all of them. They don’t like to see men lost when there’s a chance to save them. If so many perished so quickly, they’re saying, why did that one man survive, especially after so long in the water? Then there was the freak storm that caused the wreck; there are plenty of theories about that.”

  “You mean people are saying it was Ardal’s presence on board that made the sea carry Freyja onto the rocks? What do they think he is, an evil spirit?”

  “They just think he brings bad luck, Sibeal. Don’t look so worried. They’ll realize soon enough that there’s no foundation for such superstitions.”

  ~Felix~

  She is troubled. Nothing outward; her voice is controlled, her features are grave and composed. But something disturbs her; I see it in her eyes.

  Gull is abed early after a long day of work. Tomorrow, Knut’s fight takes place. It has troubled me to see that man cross this chamber every day; that man with cold eyes. As he passes, he turns his gaze on me. Sometimes he greets me—Comrade, how are you?—but he need not speak for me to know his enmity. And still I cannot remember. They say he was a crewman. They say his wife was on board with him. And his son. Drowned. I remember nothing, nothing at all save Paul, and the knots, and the wave coming over. When the sea came, it took everything.

  Today I have worked again on regaining my strength. I can walk from bed to fireside and back with my hand on a man’s shoulder, or a woman’s, for balance. Seven steps each way. Gull made Sibeal demonstrate that she had the strength to support me before he agreed to retire for the night. I cannot yet go abroad. Those seven steps rob me of breath. I am like a child’s doll, a manikin stuffed with wool. Weak. Too weak to defend myself, save with words.

  Now, at last, I can speak to Sibeal alone.

  “What is in your thoughts, Sibeal?”

  She glances up at me, surprised. Her favorite place is on the mat before the hearth. I do not think it is the warmth she seeks, but visions in the flames. “I was considering whether to cast the runes again.”

  “What is the question you need answered?”

  The flames flicker in her eyes. “It doesn’t matter,” she says.

  “That cannot be true. Cast the runes for a trivial question? You are a druid. You would not do that.”

  She makes no answer for a while. Her words, when they come, are hesitant. “Some things may be better not shared.”

  “Sibeal, look at me.” She looks, taken aback by my tone. “Do you believe me unworthy of the truth?”

  She wraps her arms around herself as if, even there before the hearth, she is touched by a deep cold. “I can’t tell you this, Ardal. It is someone else’s secret.” After a moment she adds, “I haven’t lied to you, just held something back.”

  “You said your question did not matter. I do not think that can be true.”

  “In fact,” Sibeal says, and I see I have upset her, “if I cast the runes again tonight I would hardly know which question to choose. Several matters are exercising my mind, all equally troubling.”

  “Are all these matters better not shared?”

  She looks up at me. I feel a jolt to the heart; it is the same each time I look into her eyes. There is no one else in the world with such eyes. She does not answer my question.

  “Ah, well,” I say, “I can understand. I am no more than a piece of flotsam, washed up at random on your shore. I come clad only in the garments of today, with no mantle of history about me. I am a stranger even to myself. What right have I to demand truth from you? My every word might be a lie.”

  Sibeal smiles. “If I were given three guesses as to what you were before you came here, my first guess would be a student of philosophy.”

  I am in the library at St. Laorans. By all the saints, Felix, you astonish me with such an argume
nt, says Brother Bernez. Better not speak thus before others, for if your theories on the nature of deity should reach the ears of Duke Remont, you would bring down trouble not only on this old teacher, but on yourself and on all your family. Light falls through a colored window to gleam on his tonsured head, crowning him with jewels of cobalt and crimson. His eyes are kind. I’m serious, Felix, the old philosopher says. The days when one could put forth such ideas openly are gone. Under Remont’s rule, one does not challenge the teachings of the established faith. Your father could lose his position at court.

  I ask him, How can it be wrong to search for truth?

  “What is it, Ardal?” Sibeal’s voice brings me back. She has risen to her knees, her face white. “What do you see?”

  “I . . . ” It was there for a moment, so clear: the sun, the stone walls of the monastery, my wise friend . . . Your father could lose his position at court . . . But he did not. He did not, because I went away in time. I went, and Paul came with me.

  You can’t go on your own. Who’s going to keep you out of trouble if I’m not there?

  I don’t even know where I’m going, Paul. I might never come back.

  We’re brothers, remember? You don’t get rid of me so easily.

  “Are you all right?” Sibeal’s eyes are troubled. She puts her hand on my knee as she did once before, and its warmth is good.

  “I . . . ” It was so vivid, so real. A true memory, surely. Why can’t I remember what came after? “A philosopher,” I croak. “What would be your second guess?”

  She knows I need time. “A priest in training,” she says.

  “And your third?”

  Her smile quiets my thumping heart. It puts courage in my veins. “A poet,” says Sibeal.

  I breathe. My chest hurts; since the sea, all is not as it should be there. “Sibeal, you know that I remembered a little, before. About my brother. Memories from a long time ago.”