Her eyes lit at the first suggestion, a frown came with the second. She says something I can’t catch but her eyes pull me in.
‘Mead,’ she says. ‘Get me a honey cup, my honey.’ Then her face crumples in that way she has of collapsing into herself with humour.
‘Mead?’
She blinks twice. I pick up the half-empty cup of herb tea, whatever it was, seeing the fly in it now, and carry it out into the space where Mother is examining the pots and Donnag is studiously ignoring her.
‘She wants a cup of mead,’ I hand her the cup.
Mother spins around. ‘What?’
‘Danuta asked for mead. Do you know where I’ll find some, Donnag?’
Donnag gives a characteristic shrug that ends with a gesture towards a chest behind her left shoulder. I go and open it, but there’s nothing in it but empty flasks.
Mother has gone into Danuta’s room.
‘There might be some up there.’ Donnag points up the stairs.
‘Where?’
She shrugs. ‘Look about.’
I go up the stone staircase between the walls and emerge out onto the first floor. There’s a wooden chest right at the top of the stairs. I rummage in it, but it’s all fleeces and rugs. It’s dark up there, so I go back down for a tallow lamp, light it from the fire and return.
On one side there is curtained-off space. It’s Bael and Donnag’s. Opposite it a clutter of baskets and boxes is stacked up on the wattle floor. The prospect of finding anything among it is daunting, but I’m also curious as to what could be lurking in all those wicker and wooden containers. There is a lot of pottery lying around: some of it broken, but much of it intact and probably unused, by the look of it.
I start rummaging. Under a bundle of untreated fleeces, there are creels of fishing gear: nets and floats, bundles of sailcloth and hides, twine and sinew. It’s a lot of useful material for anyone with boats. There are two boxes of iron tools, perhaps for stone and wood-working, the signs of industrious activity. Nothing much like this seems to be happening here at present, but this pile of mallets, adzes and awls makes me realise that there have been people here at some previous time who made things. I shift a bundle of hide and two more baskets of rope. The next wooden box is more promising: it is filled with ceramic flasks stopped with leather. I pick one out. It is weighty enough to be worth investigating further. The box is too heavy to carry downstairs so I pull other bottles out of it. They are all full and made of two distinct types of pottery: one chunky and crude, the other more like the fine patterned work I see Donnag producing. I wonder if she made them and if so, who made the other. I remove one of each and push the box back where it came from. There are four or five such boxes and an oak cask, and between them a chest. Again, I have to shove hides aside to get to it. It has a metal clasp that is stiff, but after a bit of a struggle I manage to open it. As I lift the lid the clasp breaks off. The lid clatters closed. I am left with the bronze hasp in my hand and I feel awkward but now it’s done, I want to know what’s in the box.
‘What are you doing up there?’ Mother calls.
‘Snooping,’ a male voice says, just behind me.
I almost jump out of my skin.
It’s Bael. ‘Breaking into boxes that are none of her business. Thieving, I’ll warrant.’
His stench is there with him, his pale skin and hooded grey eyes, too close to look away from. His face is distorted by the damage to one eye and his mouth lifts on one side into a sneer. He is leaning against the wall between me and his chamber, dressed in his finery, as if he thinks he is handsome. Presumably he was in there all along. He’s not as near me, really, as I felt he was when he spoke, but he has a way of making me feel he is in my space.
‘I’m looking for mead. Danuta asked for mead.’
He nods and points to the bottles. ‘And there it is. You’ve found it.’
He doesn’t need to say what follows from that, to ask what else I’m looking for, to make me feel guilty.
‘There’s a lot of sailing gear here,’ I say.
‘Yes. Maybe you haven’t noticed there’s a big sea on the doorstep.’ His voice is lardy with sarcasm.
I pick up the bottles and lamp and step towards the staircase. He steps that way too. As I reach the top stair, he has closed on me. He grabs my wrist and pokes a finger under my chin so I look up at him.
‘Ugly creature, aren’t you?’
He snuffs out the lamp and clamps his hand on my left breast. Under his breath, he says, ‘Even ugly people fuck.’
I pull away from him, clutching the pottery flasks, my face blazing, breast burning. I’m down those stairs as fast as I possibly can be, and I know from the quizzical look on Mother’s face and Donnag’s scowl that they’re suspicious about what I was doing. There’s nowhere safe in this house at all, I realise, except perhaps Danuta’s bedside.
‘I found these.’ I put the bottles down beside Donnag. ‘Shall I open them?’ She gives a barely perceptible twitch and I look to my Mother, who nods. I need a knife to undo the sinew fastening of the nicer one. Once it’s off, I sniff the contents. It’s sharp and I don’t recognise it, but I don’t think it’s mead. My uncertainty must show on my face.
‘What is it?’ Mother says.
I hand her the bottle. She smells, then wrinkles her nose.
‘Horrible.’
Donnag speaks up. ‘My father calls it his elixir of life. It came from his house.’
Mother looks at Donnag in surprise. ‘Do you like it?’
Donnag shakes her head. Mother re-stoppers the bottle and places it back, closer to Donnag, as if to signal that it is her responsibility. Donnag appears completely uninterested.
‘Shall I put it back?’ I offer, although I don’t want to go back up there.
‘Open the other one first,’ Mother says.
I pick up the other bottle. It’s the more crudely made and I manage to untie its thong without cutting it. There’s a leather cover and inside it a wooden stopper that comes out with a pop.
It smells of honey. This is what we’re looking for. I nod and smile.
‘Where’s Danuta’s cup?’
I spot it beside the fire, put the mead down and take the cup outside to empty it.
FIN
The light is silver on the sea; a band of ripples shimmers, illuminated through a gap in the cloud. It is raining to the north, a mesh of grey, and the hills at the back are swathed in mist. I wonder what it means, this enclave of brightness beamed in from the sea. Waves murmur on the rocks below. A gannet soars, then dives like a knife plunged from the sky, throwing up a plume of white spray. I watch it surface and lift itself laboriously from the water and flap away and up in a curve, and I imagine it searching and searching for prey in the vast glittering ocean below. I want to fly away with it, to get some glimmer of a fish worth following.
I notice a sail on the horizon. It grows. Whoever they are, they’re not just passing.
I take Danuta’s cup inside and say, as nonchalantly as I can, ‘There’s a boat coming in.’
Mother takes the cup. ‘What sort of boat?’
I shrug. I have no answer to that question.
Donnag looks alarmed and rushes out. She is soon back, calling for Bael and asking him who it might be.
He storms down the stairs strapping a weapon on, shouting, ‘How would I know, woman?’ To Mother he says, ‘If this is more of your sort they’ll get the welcome they deserve.’
She simply gives him a cool stare.
I keep my eyes to myself, but once Danuta has her mead, I slip back outside to watch the approach. It’s Bradan. She is unmistakable once she’s close enough to see the height of the mast and the flag up above the main sail. Manigan calls it the gannet’s tail feather. I don’t know much about boats but I’ve always thought that was stupid. The sail is brown, there’s nothing of the gannet about the vessel at all. It’s just fancy words, like all of Manigan’s talk.
My feet stick to the gr
ound. I know I must tell Mother but I don’t want to. I try to will the boat away, but of course it doesn’t work. It keeps on, growing bigger as it gets closer. I can see that there are four men on it now. The sail is coming down. It is down.
I know how a caged animal feels.
Mother appears. I don’t have to tell her. ‘It’s Bradan.’ She is alight, or as lit as she ever gets. There’s something like a girl in her that comes to life whenever Manigan is nearby. It makes me sick. Mothers are not supposed to be childish. Should I be happy for her, that she is still in love with him when plenty of women her age are sick of their men? I can’t be. That is what I want for myself but it seems mawkish and stupid at her age. She rushes indoors. She’ll be trying to make herself look how she thinks he wants her to.
In fact, she is out again in no time. She was just getting a shawl. ‘Stay with Danuta,’ she says.
So I am to be ordered about now that Manigan is here, is that it? She runs off down to the shore where they’ll land. At the big rock she stands for a moment and looks out at the boat, and waves, and one of the men raises his arm in return. That’ll be him, watching for her.
Bael is down at the shore already. I don’t suppose he’ll give Manigan a particularly warm welcome. I rather wish I could overhear it.
I slip back into the broch and go in to see Danuta.
‘Is this her man coming?’
I nod.
‘You don’t look as pleased about it as she does.’
There’s no need to answer.
‘How’s your mead?’
‘Just the thing.’ She smiles that ancient smile. ‘Come here.’ She pats the covers. ‘What do you know of the ways of the Mother?’
I sit down beside her. I can see she is deadly serious.
‘Do you mean the ceremonies?’ I feel completely ignorant. She is looking at me with her tired, wise eyes.
‘Aye, the rituals are part of it. The stories are another. You lived with the Keepers. Did they teach you anything about the Sisterhood? The herbal lore?’
I shake my head. ‘All I know is what Mother showed me. We took part in the ceremonies for the seasons. I was the Spring Maiden one time and I watched at other times, when they let me, when they were calling in the ancestors. But I don’t really know anything.’
‘You know more than you know,’ she says. ‘Now her man is here, Rian will be busy. I am old. I need to pass on my knowledge before I die. Buia is too vague, I have given up trying to teach her. Your Mother could have been a leader, but she has her own path now. Donnag does not want to learn. She fears it. But you, I sense you could, if you want to, be one of the Sisterhood. You have an open mind. You have a good soul. You’re smart. You know the ogham. Think about it.’
The broch is quiet.
‘What do I have to think about?’
‘Whether you want to learn the mysteries of the Mother.’
‘Of course.’
‘It may be hard.’
‘So? Life is hard.’
She chuckles, patting my hand. ‘You’re old and wise for one so young.’
There are voices outside. It’s strange the way you can hear whatever is said just outside the door so clearly inside those thick walls. There’s that one spot where it happens. I can hear Manigan’s laugh and, ‘You’ve no idea how much I’ve longed for your cooking, my love.’ Not exactly secrets worth overhearing.
I mime a repetition of his words, and Danuta shakes her head.
‘It’s a great love that lasts like theirs, you know. She says he’s a good man.’
I feel a bit ashamed then, for being so bitter. ‘He doesn’t like me.’
‘You’re not his.’
‘Exactly. Rona is always better than me in every way.’ I pause. ‘He just appears and expects everything to stop for him, everyone to dance to his tune, everything to revolve around him and then he’s gone again. He’s hardly ever here and then when he is it’s as if he’s King.’
‘That’s not just him,’ Danuta nudges me. ‘That’s men in general.’ She has a wicked smile. ‘Don’t let him get to you. When he’s gone, I’ll teach you some of the women’s ways and you’ll never need to worry about men again.’
When he ducks in through the doorway I feel armoured somehow, and I manage to smile at him, and he is charming as he always is. Behind him there is a boy, no, a man, a pale-haired, slender young man. Manigan and Mother are almost dancing and she is introducing him to Danuta. The pale man lowers his head slightly.
‘Hello.’ His voice is deep, and soft as fleece. ‘I’m Fin.’
‘Soyea.’ I bob a welcome. ‘Come in. You are welcome.’
‘Thank you. I’d better bring things up from the shore. I’ll be back soon.’
He is turning to go.
‘Do you want some help?’ I say.
‘Come and see, if you like,’ he replies.
I follow him out, shoo the pigs around the back of the broch and shut them in their pen, then walk with him back to the shore, showing him the best route, as it isn’t obvious. There is such a network of little paths and awkward stones everywhere.
‘I love it here,’ he says. ‘The mountains, everything.’
‘You can’t really see them from here.’ I had almost forgotten about them. ‘But when I first came here, I thought this was the most beautiful landscape I’d ever seen.’
‘It is. When was that, when you first came?’
‘Just this spring.’
‘Is that right? I was going to ask how the winter was.’
‘No point.’
‘You seem at home here, as if you belong.’
I look round at him, surprised. How can I look like that when I have only been here a few weeks? His pale blue eyes are on me, and I daren’t meet them. I hurry on.
At the shore there is a mound of gear up above the high tide mark. A gull is trying to rip the top off a basket, which presumably contains fish or something that smells equally enticing. A strange little furry animal with a long tail is shrieking at it. It is on a long string, standing on a bundle of wet clothes and bedding beside a roll of brown hide and two huge tusks.
‘What’s that?’ I point at the animal.
‘My monkey.’ It has run to him and is climbing his leg. He unties its leash and scratches its head. ‘Down.’ It jumps to the ground. ‘Good monkey.’
It hides behind his leg and peeks out at me. It’s adorable.
‘A successful hunt,’ I say.
‘Did Manigan ever not have?’
Badger shouts something lewd from the boat. I wave back.
‘Don’t encourage him,’ Fin mutters. He chases the gull off and I pick up the basket. Then he crouches in front of the big bundle of wet gear, heaves it up onto his shoulders, grunts, and sets off back to the broch.
Badger is off the boat again, up to his knees in water, shortening the rope attached to a boulder on the shore. The tide has a long way to come in. He’ll be there a while.
‘Shall I bring you something to eat?’ I shout to him.
He gives me thumbs up and calls me an angel. I’ve always liked Badger. He’s funny and kind, and although he’s lewd and smelly, he means no harm.
Kino is lying on a flat patch of grass a little distance from the shore, apparently sleeping.
‘Is he all right?’ I call, pointing at him.
Badger indicates with his upturned hands that he has no idea.
I go over, put the basket down, and nudge him with my foot.
He grunts.
‘Are you all right?’ I say.
He opens his eyes and fixes them on me.
‘Booze. Grog. Hooch. Ale. Mead…’
‘What about it?’
‘Drink. Booze. Grog. Hooch…’ He repeats his litany. He is haggard and filthy. I leave him to his own devices. He will no doubt make it to the broch eventually in search of his heart’s desire.
I hurry after Fin. As I catch him up, I see how tall he is. He has big, tough boots of leather that
make his feet look huge at the end of his long, spindly legs, with their scraggy woollen leggings sticking out of an outsize leather coat. His feathery hair wisps up above the load on his back. He has no hat.
At the broch entrance he dumps his bundle and straightens up, then takes off his coat. The monkey immediately sits on it and he ties its leash to a post.
‘It’s warm.’ He smiles. Now his outer garment is a big woollen gansy. It must have been made for someone else, for although the sleeves are the right length, the chest is baggy and short. I can picture the man who should have been wearing it. He is shorter and chunkier than Fin.
He sees me looking at it. ‘Badger’s.’ He pulls the hem down, ineffectually. ‘I’d have frozen without it, but it doesn’t fit.’
I have an urge to make him something warm that does fit him, and I find myself trying out thoughts of what colours it could be, what pattern I could make it, whether I have some fabric already woven that I could use, or whether knitted wool would be the warmest thing. I want to make this stranger something snug and cosy. Why is that? I want him to touch the texture of a garment I have made for him. I want him to pull it over his head, let that soft hair flop down over it, those slim hips be kept warm. I stop myself. What am I thinking of? But as soon as I let go my attention, my mind is back there, wondering about how to clothe him properly. He looks like a big child, I say to myself, but when have I ever had any desire to make clothes for children? Never. This is something new.
PIGNUTS
I go inside to find some food to take to Badger. I butter a half-dozen bannocks and find a chunk of cheese. Mother and Manigan are with Danuta. Manigan is talking, as always. I interrupt him to offer him a bannock and to show Mother I am feeding the guests she is ignoring.
Danuta says, ‘Are the pignuts worth gathering yet, do you think? There are usually lots up the path to the Shaman’s cave. It would be a good treat for the sailors.’
Manigan agrees.
‘You might see some herbs worth drying.’ The old woman gives me a smile that must be meant to remind me of our earlier conversation. ‘Take my basket.’ She points to the corner.
The Lyre Dancers Page 7
