Wolfskin

by Juliet Marillier

  There was a lengthy silence.

  “Nessa?” asked the old woman after a while. “What is it?”

  Nessa twisted her hands together. “What if you were really, really scared,” she said, “and you ran away somewhere hidden, somewhere you thought you would be safe, and then it turned out you weren’t safe at all, because someone gave you up, handed you over to your enemies? That would be a terrible betrayal.”

  Rona looked at her. “Him, scared?” she queried. “Did you see the size of him? Of course, he does have such bonny yellow hair. That might make a difference to you, I suppose.”

  “Of course it doesn’t! Such things mean nothing to me. But…but I don’t think I can do as you bid me.”

  “Give him up, you said. He’s not yours to give, child. There’s no betrayal if the fellow’s your enemy. That axe still reeks with the blood of those lads who were butchered not eight nights since. A lost man’s not the same as a stray dog, Nessa. Now get your cloak on, and off home with you before the fellow decides to wake up and add the two of us to his tally. You know what you have to do. Trust an old woman, will you?”

  Nessa unfastened her pack and rummaged for the scraps of bread. She put them on the ground by the dog. The creature sniffed them and wagged his tail. He looked at her. He looked across at the tower in the earth.

  “I have to go back in there,” Nessa said, “just for a moment. I’ll take some water for the other dog. Rona?”

  “What is it, child?”

  “You’ve been my teacher these ten years, the wisest mentor, the best of friends. You know I trust your judgment and follow your advice in all things. How else can I learn all I must know? But it’s different this time. I am really sure about this. Surer the more I think about it.”

  “You’re wrong,” Rona said flatly. “If you don’t tell, you act against all that is right and natural. It would be in defiance of the ancestors. The man must go. He has trespassed where he does not belong.”

  “Rona, I’m asking one favor from you. While I’m in there, I want you to look in the smoke and speak to them, to the ancestors. Ask them about this man. Read the signs. If they say you are right, if they say he’s a danger to us, then I promise I’ll go and tell my uncle. If not, then give me a little longer. Please?”

  “You always did have a stubborn streak,” Rona said. She moved closer to the fire, blew the embers to a rosy glow, then threw on a handful of half-dried seaweed from the crock she kept close for this purpose. Much could be seen in such a fire: visions, foretellings, past and present and future mixed and muddled. Only a wise woman could make any sense of it. Smoke rose into the cold air, pungent and thick. Rona closed her eyes and began to chant.

  Inside the tower the man had not stirred. Nessa divided the bread between the two hounds. The dog waited until his mate had finished her own share and most of his, then bolted down the scraps she had left for him. The bitch drained the water cup dry. Nessa went out again and fetched a bucket from Rona’s cottage. She filled it from the stream. Rona sat on, unseeing, by the fire, rocking to and fro, her chant accompanied by the murmuring of the water. Nessa fetched cloths and another blanket.

  Now the hounds were both lying close to the man, and he did seem a little warmer, though the febrile shivering still persisted. His clothing was damp right through; even his boots were soaked. How long had he been wandering without shelter? Didn’t these people know how to look after themselves? And he was filthy; he smelled worse than stable muck. But he was so big and heavy, and so deeply unconscious, that she could not even roll him over, let alone get him out of those wet things and into some dry ones. Not that it would be at all appropriate for her to attempt such a task. Still, the man was sick, hurt, perhaps afraid. Nessa remembered how he had stood and watched her on the beach, so still, so quiet. There was a certainty about this that could not be questioned. With the deep knowledge of a seer, she recognized that she had no choice but to help him.

  She wet a corner of one cloth and wiped his face. His cheeks were quite sunken, the eye sockets dark with exhaustion. There was something terribly wrong with him. Maybe he would die, and she would never know what it was. Maybe she should be telling his own folk that he was here, so they could come and help him. Perhaps that was what he would want. But they could not come here. If he died, it might be her fault for not fetching help. What was he hiding from? With gentle fingers, Nessa smoothed the hair back from his brow. The sun-gold locks were tangled and matted with dirt and sweat. It would be a battle to get a comb through. She filled the cup, dipped the fresh cloth in, and squeezed a few drops of water onto his cracked lips. There was no way to tell if he could feel it. She tried again, and thought maybe his lips moved just a little. Perhaps he swallowed, perhaps not. The dogs were watching her every move.

  After some time had passed, Nessa tucked the blankets close around the warrior once more as if he were a small child she was settling to sleep, and went back out to the fire. One dog shadowed her, one remained behind. Rona’s eyes were open now. The smoke had cleared. In place of the pot, a flat pan was on the coals, and two griddle cakes were browning.

  “I don’t like this,” said the wise woman bluntly.

  Nessa waited.

  “I don’t like it. It feels wrong.” Rona gnawed at her lip. “But I have to let you go your own way. That’s what the signs tell me.”

  A great tide of relief washed through Nessa.

  “So what are you going to do?” Rona asked a little testily.

  “Keep him warm. Get him to drink. Find out what’s wrong and try to help.”

  “Uh-huh. You know Engus won’t let you stay away. What about when you’re not here? What about that?”

  “I was hoping you might help me,” Nessa said quietly. “Do you think you would?”

  She had to coax Uncle Engus into letting her stay with Rona a while, even though he preferred her to be at home. There was a plausible excuse. The days were very short and the weather inclement; there were fewer and fewer times when light and low tide and calm came together, allowing her a safe walk to shore and back before dusk fell. And she must observe the rituals, since Rona was growing old and could not do everything herself. That was an argument no king could ignore. The Folk were in peril. Engus built an army and hoped for a treaty. Nessa told the mysteries, scattered the bones, and listened for the ancestors. Between the two of them, perhaps there was a chance of a future. If Engus saw a life for his niece that was not the solitary one of a wise woman, he did not mention it openly. He muttered sometimes about the chieftains of the Caitt and of Dalriada, and their sons. That was as far as it went, for now.

  She arrived with a bigger bundle than usual; Kinart had carried it along the shore for her. Now Kinart was heading back home, spear over his shoulder, dark eyes full of frustration, for Engus kept him close to the Whaleback, not wanting any more pointless losses. They must renegotiate the treaty. Soon the king would call Brother Tadhg back from Holy Island and send him to speak again to that man they were calling Horse-Master. But not quite yet. Even a holy man needs a rest sometimes.

  While she tended to the warrior, Nessa practiced the Norse tongue, preparing for the moment of his waking. She rehearsed possible things to say. Your axe is not lost, I have put it away safely. Or maybe, I am a priestess. I can help you. That sounded a little pompous. You are quite safe here; don’t be afraid. That was more like it. Rona asked what she was muttering, and added a few suggestions of her own, such as, Don’t kill me, I’m a good cook, or, What pretty yellow hair you have. Between the two of them, they managed to roll the young man over, and change most of the wet clothes for dry ones. Nessa had brought some of her uncle’s old things, the only ones that were anywhere near big enough. She washed the warrior’s own garments in the stream and dried them before Rona’s cottage hearth. The shaggy skin cloak she wiped down and hung on a line. It was very big: made from the pelt of a single huge animal. The fur caught the light and shimmered as if it were alive. It was a fierce and beaut
iful thing, a garment she knew held its own magic. What is this skin? Is it a part of you?

  It had been hard to take away the axe. The mists of unconsciousness wreathed him deep, yet still his fingers clung on, as if that weapon were his only anchor, his last link with what he held dear. Nessa had sat by his side a long time, watched solemnly by the two hounds, and she had stroked the fingers of his clutching fist as she might touch a nervous animal or a fretting child.

  “It’s all right. You can let go now. Let go, rest now. You are safe here. It’s all right.” Over and over she repeated such words of reassurance. There was a rightness to this, against all logic; she could feel it. As she sat there, she could sense the power of the place gathering around her, a dark, cradled power that slipped into her breathing and her voice, a healing force that moved her fingers, that flowed there like a soothing balm. It seemed to take forever. The little lamps burned steadily; Rona slipped in with a cup of water for her, and went out again in silence, a shadow woman. At last, the young man’s fingers began to loosen their grip, and his hand to relax, and Nessa was able to take the handle of the great axe herself and move it gently out of his grasp. The thing was so heavy she could barely support its weight. Imagine the strength he must have to carry this about and lift it over his head and…no, she would not think beyond that. Nessa wrapped the shining weapon in a cloth and laid it carefully in one of the alcoves set in the cairn’s inner walls. There were several of these little chambers. Rona said once, in a time before memory, they had held the bones of the ancestors. Nessa inclined her head in respect as she put the axe away, and beside it she laid a pattern of white stones: full moon, deep cave, owl mother, signs of protection. After that, she sat by his side a little longer, holding his hand, moving and stroking the cramped fingers. The warrior had nothing to cling to now, save herself. At last, she put the blankets over him again and went out.

  In the cottage, Rona was warming bere gruel over the hearth fire. There were reminders everywhere of their strange visitor: boots near the door, tunic and trousers spread over a bench, the great shining fur hung up in a corner, whispering in the winter draft.

  “He drank well today,” Nessa said, settling by the fire. “He seems to be able to swallow, for all this heavy sleep that’s on him. He just doesn’t seem to want to wake up.”

  “He’ll wake up all right, more’s the pity,” Rona grumbled, dropping a pinch of salt into the iron pot and giving the gruel a brisk stir. “That’s when your problems will really start. Still, at least he’ll be able to take a hand in cleaning himself, then. I never wanted bairns, too much bother entirely. I didn’t think I’d get a big one like this in my old age. Here, lassie, eat up. You look weary to death. Why does this matter so much?”

  Nessa shook her head. “I don’t know. But it does. All the signs are telling me that. It’s the way that must be taken, the way I must go.”

  “That’s what’s worrying me,” Rona said, dipping a horn spoon into her bowl. “I thought there was a path mapped out for you; I saw it clear from the first day you made your way in here and fashioned your wee pictures in stones. Now it’s looking as if maybe I was wrong.”

  “Nonsense,” said Nessa as a shiver went through her. “We’ll feed him up and get him moving, and he’ll go away back to his own folk. Then it’ll be just like it was before.”

  “Uh-huh.” It was plain from Rona’s tone that she believed this bold prediction no more than Nessa did herself. As they sat listening to the wind that howled outside, beating against the shutters, setting the roof weights knocking on the walls, both of them knew the future had changed the moment the warrior had stepped into the forbidden place. He had broken a pattern; he had altered not just his own path, but theirs as well.

  “If it weren’t for the ancestors,” Rona said, scraping the last of the gruel from her bowl, “I’d push him out of the nest, and you with him, and be my own woman again. But you can’t ignore the signs. What if he wakes at night?”

  “The dogs will warn me.”

  They finished their frugal supper. Nessa cleared the bowls away, wiped out the pot, damped down the fire. As the rising gale tore at the thatch and rattled at the door, they settled themselves for the night. By Nessa’s pallet, one dog slept, nose on paws. The other was in the ancient cairn, curled up by the sleeping warrior. It was clear they kept some kind of watch.

  That night Nessa dreamed of children, two boys climbing a tall tree, taller far than any of the stunted trees that grew on the islands, a tree such as existed only in stories or visions. She thought the boys were brothers, though one was dark as night, one fair as day. All the way up, one helped the other, stretching out a hand, showing the best place to balance, offering words of encouragement. They reached the top. There was a little platform there, and for a moment they perched side by side like a pair of owls, gazing out over a wide land of fertile fields and fair waterways. Then the dark lad gave the other a push in the back, and the fair one was suddenly hanging, clutching precariously by one hand, his fingers clinging to a slender branch that bent and creaked under his weight. Quick, quick, the other must seize him and haul him up; it was so far to the ground below, to fall was certain death. Now it was Nessa hanging there, and her fingers were slipping, and she was gasping, Help! Help me! The dark-haired boy leaned over and reached down, he was going to save her, and then, oh…then, she saw the little knife in his hand, and felt the slashing of it into the flesh of her arm, and looked up into a pair of eyes shadow-black, and a face quite devoid of any human feeling save mild curiosity. Oh, dear, said the boy, and then her fingers lost their grasp and she was falling, falling away down….

  Nessa sat up abruptly. A dream: a terrible dream, that was all it was. Her heart was thumping, her skin clammy. On the far side of the cottage, Rona snored gently under her coverlets. The dog was awake, ears pricked, its eyes on Nessa as she sat there in her nightrobe and woolen shawl. Now. Now was the time. Never mind that it was the middle of the night and there was a storm raging outside. The dream had been a sign. Shivering, she threw on her cloak and lit a lantern from the embers on the hearth.

  The moment she stepped outside, the lantern blew out. It was too dark to see the way; she clutched the long hair of the dog’s back and let the creature lead her. By the time she reached the tower in the earth and stumbled in through the passageway, her hair was in a wild tangle over her face, and her cloak was slipping off her shoulders. It was not quite dark inside the cairn; the tiny oil lamp she had set in an alcove when she left was still burning, for this earth-guarded place was far more sheltered than the cottage. Had not it stayed secure since the time of the first ancestors? The warrior had chosen his hiding place wisely.

  She had known he would be awake. He was sitting up and had drunk some of the water she had left there; he held the cup in his hand. In the lamplight, his strong features looked like a ghost’s, all white planes and shadows.

  Nessa had practiced what to say often enough. Now she lit her lantern from the lamp, and stood watching him for a moment. The words, when they came out, were not the ones she had prepared.

  “I had a–a nightmare. I was frightened. I thought you might be awake.”

  The man stared at her with his bright blue eyes. He must think she was crazy; she had to assemble her thoughts and try to sound as if she were in control.

  “Don’t drink too much at first,” she went on. “You’ve been a long time—” what was the word for unconscious, she had forgotten, “—a long time sleeping, not knowing; it is bad to drink too much, too quickly.”

  The man was still shivering. “Nightmare,” he said, and reached out toward her. There seemed no choice but to take the proffered hand and sit down beside him. She did not know if he was referring to himself or to her.

  “Yes, a bad one,” she agreed, wondering why she seemed unable to say any of the practical, sensible things. “It scared me. I was falling, he cut me and I was falling.”

  The man nodded. His hand was still around hers
, a very big hand, in keeping with the arms that had once wielded that war axe. It seemed he was not going to say any more.

  “Eyvi?” Nessa ventured after a while. “That’s your name, isn’t it?” She hoped she had remembered right. “Are you lost?”

  He glanced at her, and quickly away.

  Nessa tried again. “Is that your name?”

  The man gave a sort of half nod, as if he were not quite sure himself.

  “My name is Nessa. You are safe here. I will look after you.” There, at least she had got some of it out. This was strange indeed, to be sitting here by his side, letting him hold her hand as if it were she who needed comfort. She had never let a man do that before, and she did not intend to again. The two dogs settled down together in the blankets at the warrior’s feet. He had not asked about the axe.

  The young man leaned back against the stone wall and closed his eyes. His skin seemed almost transparent, the bones starkly prominent. It was a long time since he had eaten anything: too long.

  “You are hungry?” ventured Nessa. “I have bread, fish; I can fetch them. You are very weak. You have been many days without food.”

  He simply shook his head without opening his eyes; perhaps it was an effort to speak at all.

  “In the morning, then,” she said. “You must eat. You must get well.”

  He shook his head again, as if he barely understood. She was sure she had got the words right.

  “You want to go home?” she said. “Eat, rest, then go home?”

  “No,” he whispered, opening his eyes suddenly. “No!” The shivering began again, so violent now that he let go her hand and wrapped his arms around himself as if to try to force himself still. “Sorry,” he said through chattering teeth, and then yawned convulsively.

  “You must try to sleep,” Nessa said, motioning that he should lie down again. “It’s cold, I know. We could make a small fire in here tomorrow. Here, put this blanket around you, that’s it, and—”