“You’re not ready,” she said. “You’re younger than you think, child. Go on, go home. They still need you there, and I can wait. I’m not so old yet.” And, as if to belie her own words, she smiled, awaking myriad wrinkles in her ancient, wise-eyed face.
One day as Nessa walked home along the weed-strewn shore, she saw a man sitting on the rocks, watching the sky. He had his back to her, but his identity was instantly plain from the way he sat. She did not need to see the bright yellow hair or the big axe on his back or the gray pelt he wore on his shoulders to know this. No other man she had ever seen could be so motionless, as if he were part of the very rock that supported him. Nessa passed well behind him, keeping as quiet as she could, but she wondered what he was thinking. He gazed up into the clouds as if he hoped to hear some voice there, or see some vision. He stared as if hungry for answers. It seemed to Nessa that he was not happy. Perhaps he did not like the islands. Maybe he was homesick for a wife or sweetheart. Well, his wait would be over soon enough if her uncle made the sensible choice. Autumn would come, and these men would sail their boats home, and all would be as it had been before. Nessa shivered as she passed him. It was not so, of course. You could never go back. She glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see the fellow still seated on the rocks unmoving. But now he was standing, watching her as she walked away toward the Whaleback. As quiet as she had been, still he had heard her footsteps above the roar of the sea, above the scream of the gulls. The man’s ears were as finely tuned as a night owl’s. She pulled her hood up over her head and walked on. Closer to the causeway were more of the Norsemen, three big warriors, and two of her uncle’s guards talking to them; it was some sort of deputation, maybe. As she scuttled past, one of them gave a piercing whistle of summons, and Nessa sensed, rather than saw, the yellow-haired man move away from the sea and back toward his companions. She fled across the narrow path to the Whaleback, and safety.
Engus invited the strangers to another feast before harvest began. This time the king allowed his nieces to sit at table, but Nessa would not. She hovered in the shadows, an unseen observer. She had spoken to her uncle, and he had listened gravely, but pointed out that her misgivings were not supported by evidence. So he had made his decision. But Nessa would not break bread with these folk; to do so seemed to her dangerous, and she would have no part of it. Tonight, Ulf’s wife sat there beside him, a girl with a very straight back and a regal carriage of the head. She was no blond giantess, but shapely, red-haired, and composed in her manner. On her other side sat the one called Somerled, and from the place where Nessa stood she could see how the hands of these two met and clasped beneath the table, out of folk’s sight.
“I have observed you over the summer,” Engus was saying. “You have worked hard, not stinting your efforts to aid those who needed help, and never transgressing the boundaries we established for good conduct. You have extended the hand of friendship, and shared what you had. Your good will has warmed us. We have welcomed your presence.”
Ulf inclined his head courteously.
“Still, such a decision is not lightly made,” said Engus. “We hold our land dear; it is a realm of deep beauty, rich in the bounty of earth and ocean. And it is old: old and powerful. We do not share it readily, for to do so is to risk what is beyond any price. It is a measure of the faith I hold in you, Lord Ulf, in your honesty and vision, that I decide thus. You may remain here, keeping the houses I gave you and building more as you require them. I will negotiate the purchase of land where it is owned; I will ensure your holdings can carry stock and yield good crops. I also offer the services of my stud bull, and ten good heifers to add to your own two. I’ll take my choice of the calves in spring.”
“We are indebted to you, my lord.” Ulf could not contain the smile that spread across his usually well-disciplined features. “This is welcome news indeed.”
A roar of approval greeted the translation of Engus’s words, accompanied by thumping of the table and raising of cups.
“There are certain conditions,” Engus went on, and the noise died down. “I require a pledge of peace. Your folk will respect my borders and my people. They will honor the land and its ancient signposts.”
“I give you my word,” said Ulf solemnly, “and my word is good. I speak for every Norseman here.”
“Understand well,” Engus went on, “that I am sole king of this land, and that while your kind live here, you will obey the laws of the Folk. I care not what gods you worship, what rituals you observe; that is your own choice, though no doubt Brother Tadhg here will try to change your ways. He works daily on our own recalcitrant minds to little avail. I offer a single warning, but one which must never be forgotten. These islands are full of ancient powers. You have seen the place of standing stones. These markers hold together the very fabric of the Light Isles. They are far older than the Folk; they were set there by hands whose bones were the very bones of the earth herself. There are other such places, other such signs. Interfere with them at your peril.”
“I understand,” said Ulf. “The stones are indeed wondrous. A man would be a fool not to recognize their importance.”
Engus nodded. “Then we are friends and allies from this day onward. Let this treaty be sworn with due ceremony in three days time. We shall meet at the Great Stone of Oaths, and there make our vow of peace and friendship under the eyes of the ancestors. Let all men here be present at that time.”
“In our homeland,” commented Ulf’s adviser, Olaf Sveinsson, with a frown, “such an oath must be ring-sworn; only then is it truly binding. A fine circle of gold, sacred to Odin or to Thor, allows the gods themselves to bear witness to the solemnity of such a promise.”
“A ring?” queried Engus. “If that is your custom, what I propose should satisfy you well. The place of our ritual will permit this vow to be doubly sacred, and doubly strong. When we meet for the swearing you will understand my meaning.”
Even so was it done. Nessa had the account of it from Kinart, for this oath was between men, and even the priestess of the Folk did not attend at such a swearing. Her cousin told her how, at the appointed time, the men of the islands had gathered around the sacred stone, which stood majestically alone in the fields close by the place of the greater and lesser circles, in that part of the land where lake shone under sky, where cloud lay drowned in water, where wind whistled around the ancient monoliths and sang across the buried chambers. In this place, margins met and blurred; the elements merged, and the ancestors whispered in the ear of any true son of the Folk. A vow made here, on the Great Stone of Oaths, was as binding as any promise might be. No man dared break such an oath.
The men from the snow lands marched up to join the islanders, led by the solemn Ulf and his brother, Somerled. There were the advisers, the men-at-arms, the wolfskin-clad guards. They took their places in the circle, and Ulf and Engus advanced to stand by the tall stone, a veritable giant pierced by a single, round hole: the mark of a god’s angry fist, one of the visitors had suggested, but Engus had explained calmly that it was an eye. Swear on this, and the ancestors would be watching you every moment to ensure you kept faith. It was also a passage, a portal between worlds. Thus, to make a promise this way meant you understood what these islands were, how they contained not just the human life that tilled their fields and fished their seas, but a deeper, more secret life, the life of earth, the spirit of the ancestors. Ulf had nodded gravely at Tadhg’s translation, saying nothing.
As to the ritual itself, it was quite simple, and all could see clearly how it satisfied the requirements of both Engus’s folk and Ulf’s. Both ring and stone were here present in one; the treaty would indeed be doubly sworn. Through the hole in the looming monolith, Ulf clasped the king’s hand, and each bowed his head. There was a silence, and then Engus’s voice rang out:
“Let not sword be raised, nor bow be drawn, nor fist be loosed in anger between my folk and yours!”
And Ulf repeated the vow, pleasing Engus’s men
mightily by using the tongue of the Folk. He did not yet understand this language, but was learning as quickly as he could, seeing the advantage of it. A flock of small birds flew overhead at the moment he spoke, circling once before they headed westward, and this was generally considered a good omen. A cheer went up from the men, and Engus came around to clasp Ulf by the shoulder, a smile transforming his bearded face. The agreement was made.
The barley was ripening toward harvest time, a fine crop this year. Ulf’s people were busy constructing their new dwelling houses, building stone walls, fashioning thatched roofs, coming to terms with the fact that they were staying. Those who were bound home for Rogaland were tending to the ships, getting them ready for another voyage. They had moved the vessels to a bay in the south, finding that place more suited to the mending and rebuilding work required. The local fisherfolk had been generous in the provision of accommodation and supplies. Brother Tadhg took his small satchel and his book of stories and returned to Holy Island, and he took Ulf with him to see the settlement the brothers had made in that unlikely place. Seals formed an escort as his frail craft bobbed away through the tide race.
With scythe and sickle, rake and pitchfork, the Folk began the harvest under fair skies. They had gathered perhaps half of the ripe grain before the sickness came. It crept up on them as subtly as a midsummer dusk, starting as a tickling cough, a dripping nose, a slight fever. First one man had it and recovered, then his brother took sick and worsened. Before seven days were gone he was laid in his grave, stone dead. It began to pass between them like a sudden fire, taking man, woman, and child without discrimination. It was like no plague the Folk had ever seen before, swift and deadly. Many remedies were tried; none worked. The harvest was abandoned, for within one cycle of the moon there were only two occupations for a man or woman not already dead or dying: tending the sick, and digging graves.
Amongst the newcomers, few succumbed and none died. Ulf’s wife, Lady Margaret, set her people to helping as best she could. But there was little that could be done in the face of such a scourge, and they had their own folk to tend to. Engus himself remained healthy; his son, Kinart, was briefly ill, but rallied soon. Others of the king’s household were not so lucky. Engus sent his men forth among the people to offer what aid they could; his men sickened and died. The farmhouses were shuttered. Within, lonely survivors wept in shadowed rooms. In the fields, sons buried their fathers; by cold hearths, mothers keened for lost children. Ulf’s men rescued the barley left standing in the fields and stored it away before rain came. That was a small mercy. He used his hunting dogs to seek out wandering stock, but they could not be everywhere. Sheep fell into gullies and starved; eagles stole autumn lambs.
Nessa knew little of this at the time, for she lay shivering and burning, trapped in feverish visions. She dreamed she was bound up in tight ropes and held near flames; she dreamed she was being chased by slavering monsters, and running through quicksand. She dreamed of skulls with empty eyes, dead husks whose features she recognized. She thought her mother was there, and then gone. The serving girl looked after her a while, and then she, too, was gone, and the only one around was Brother Tadhg, which was odd, because he had gone home. He was sponging her face with a cloth and making her drink water, but she didn’t want to, she was tired, she was so tired…
She was sick for a long time, and when at last her head came back to itself, the autumn was almost gone. She tried to get out of bed, but her legs gave way under her and she fell in a heap on the floor. There was nobody else in the girls’ quarters, nobody at all. And it was quiet: so quiet that for a moment of sheer terror she wondered if she were the only one left, of all of them. Then Tadhg came back and sat her on the bed, blanket-swathed, and made her drink soup. He would not talk to her until she had finished it all. Then, because Nessa refused to let him go without telling her what had happened, he gave her the truth. The sickness had taken almost half the Folk on the home island, and more than half the household on the Whaleback. They did not know about the other islands yet. The old woman, Rona, had survived, and had been venturing out with potions for the sick. Engus was well, and so was Kinart now. Indeed, Kinart had been quite a hero, helping maintain supplies of food to all the farms, and making a trip across to fetch Tadhg and Ulf. The Christians themselves had not escaped unscathed, for the two local lads who had joined them on Holy Island were both dead now, burned up by the sickness.
The account was as yet incomplete.
“My mother?” whispered Nessa.
A shadow passed over Tadhg’s calm features. “She has been gravely ill, my dear,” he told her gently. “Near death. She is past the worst now, but much weakened. When you are stronger, I will take you to see her.”
There was another silence. Nessa found that this time she did not have the will to ask. She closed her eyes, feeling slow tears begin to well as Tadhg’s quiet voice continued its litany of loss.
“Your sisters…your two sisters are both gone, Nessa. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that I must bring you this terrible news. Sometimes God wills it thus; he gathers the innocent and the good to be with him, to pass straight to that heavenly realm where all is light and grace. Now you feel only pain; you cannot see beyond the darkness of your own grief. In time, you will understand that they are in a better place, a place where there is no sadness.”
But Nessa pulled the blanket over her face and turned away from him, and would not be comforted. Anger burned like a small flame within her: anger at herself for being so weak and helpless she could not even get out of bed; her sisters had died right here and she had not even known, she hadn’t done a single thing to help them. Anger at Tadhg for his words that meant nothing, for his faith that was lies, all lies. Anger at her uncle, too. He had changed the way things were. He had welcomed strangers to the Light Isles, and made a new pattern. Then the sickness had come, and now the Folk were weakened and the cycle unbalanced. If Engus had left things as they were, maybe this would not have happened. No wonder she had felt uneasy, seeing those men with their big axes made welcome at her uncle’s table.
There was a little time, brief enough, when she let despair overwhelm her and sat weeping in the dark. But she forced herself to recover, for there was no longer any time to waste. She made herself eat, though all food tasted like sand. She made herself walk, though every part of her body felt limp as a hank of spun wool. She went to see her mother, who sat listless on a bench, hair uncombed, hands idle in her lap, staring out toward the sea. It became immediately apparent that Nessa herself must take some sort of charge here, young as she was. There were few serving folk left. Those who had not perished were away tending their own families in scattered farmhouse or cottage. Engus had gone to assess how many islanders remained, what stock had been let wander, what damage autumn storms had done to ill-guarded homes. Ulf had come with his big guards and made a formal offer of help, though all knew he was already doing as much as he could for them. Kinart was organizing a small group of fishermen to maintain supplies and bring boats up to safety before winter. That left Nessa to keep the pitiful remnant of Engus’s household in order, and she did. There was no time for the mysteries, no time for the women’s place.
By autumn’s end, the sickness had run its course, and the survivors were putting things to rights as best they could. There were one or two, like Nessa’s mother, who might never quite get over it. But life had to go on. There had been hard times before: harsh winters, cattle plagues, war with the tribes of the Caitt. The wisdom of the ancestors had enabled the Folk to endure such reversals. They would continue to survive. It was whispered that perhaps it was just as well Ulf and his snow giants had come when they did, since the Folk had lost so many good people this season. At least there would be strong men for plowing, in the spring.
As for Nessa, she was glad to be busy. It stopped her from thinking too much. When she thought, she grew very angry, so angry she had to go away from the settlement and stand alone at the western end of the Whaleb
ack, on the clifftop, letting the wind and the sea spray sting her skin and whip her long hair into a flag of defiance. Sometimes she would find herself screaming like a wild creature into the gale. Sometimes she wept. She never returned to the settlement until the signs of her anguish were quite erased from her features. There was a rain pool up there in which you could see an image of yourself. She knew that person in the water was someone different from the Nessa of last spring, who had walked the cliff paths and bright shores of the island and never dreamed her people’s lives could hold such pain. The creature who looked up at her now had the same gray eyes; her hair was still long and brown and wind-tangled. But she was paler and thinner, and her expression was quite changed. There was a sort of shadow in it, as if she had lost something, or perhaps had found something she didn’t want, but must keep forever.
Once she came across Tadhg standing quietly by the place where her folk were laid in the earth, so many, her sisters among them. There was a cairn over them, stones layered neatly. In time, a green turf blanket would soften it. Tadhg’s lips were moving. His hands held the plain wooden cross that he wore around his neck, and all of a sudden Nessa could not control her feelings.
“Stop it! Stop it!” she screamed, running at him and grabbing his hands so that the cross fell back against his robe, swinging on its rough cord. “They don’t want your prayers, they can’t hear your words of wisdom! These are lies anyway, all lies! Your faith is a web of falsehoods! If your god is so gentle and forgiving, if he loves the innocent and pure of heart, why did he let my sisters die?”
Tadhg did not reply at once. He stood quietly as she hit him with her two fists; he watched as she stepped away, clutching her arms around herself in an attempt to contain her fury. At last he said, “God is love, Nessa. He gathers your sisters to his heart, and heals all their suffering. They look down on you smiling. God loves all his children.”
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