The Gracekeepers

by Kirsty Logan

  She saw her mother in the future, old and starving, left to rot inside the crumbling walls of her house. She saw her mother now, fingers numb from cold, stroking the grace-feather and not understanding its meaning. She saw her mother then, approaching her with the knife, blade glinting white in the northern sun, trying to set her free.

  “Did you hear what I said?” he asked.

  “I’m listening,” said Callanish, and it was not a lie because she would listen to the next part. She scraped the blade for the last time, still half dreaming, then wiped Flitch’s scalp with the clean side of the cloth.

  “I said I can fix it.”

  “Fix what?” she asked.

  “You.”

  Flitch straightened his back and leaned in to Callanish, on his knees, on the deck. He took the razor out of her hand, placing it on the bench. He raised his hands as if to cup her face, as if to caress her cheek, as if to hold her steady for a kiss. Instead he slid his fingers behind her ears. He stroked her scars; the fat ragged lines like gills.

  “Little fish,” he said, and she could not breathe.

  —

  In the morning, Flitch pulled up the lobster creels. Dawn spread slabs of yellow-pink clouds across the sky. Callanish shivered as she drained water from the filter, put it on the lamp to boil, spooned coffee into bone cups. She watched Flitch from under her eyebrows. Each creel contained an enormous gray lobster, but when he went to take them out, they crumbled in his grasp.

  “Squid,” he murmured, more to himself than to Callanish. “They get in the cages. They suck out the flesh and leave the shell behind.”

  He opened the creels and tipped the corpses into the sea.

  —

  That night, Flitch and Callanish sat facing each other across the glowing lamp. It had not been a good day. Soon after midday a mist had drifted down around them, swallowing the wind and wrapping the boat in a damp blanket. Callanish reached for the lamp, ready to light it, but Flitch snatched it from her hands.

  “It’s a waste,” he said, “and it won’t make a difference anyway. The mist is too thick. The light will just reflect it back at us. We’ll have to wait it out.”

  And so they had spent the day inching forward through the murky sea, sails barely fluttering, Flitch with his hands white on the wheel, Callanish with her shoulders aching as she hunched over the compass. It was almost a relief when the day gave up and brought on the night. There was no sunset, just the gray mist deepening to blue.

  Finally Callanish was allowed to light the lamp, to put away the compass and take out a handful of dried fish and salt-jeweled seaweed, to say goodbye to the day when she had barely had a chance to greet it.

  They ate their dinner in the cloudy embrace of the mist, unable to see past the boat’s edge in any direction. Afterward, Flitch bent into the cabin and popped up again holding a bottle. He poured a finger-width into two cups and handed one to Callanish. She held it over the side of the boat, ready to tip it out.

  “This stuff isn’t safe,” she said.

  “What are you scared of, little fish? What could possibly scare you in the big bad ocean? You’ve got gills. You can swim away from danger.”

  “I’ve seen what happens when people drink too much of this. They lose control. Remember Odell? He could barely keep his graces alive, never mind himself.”

  Flitch shrugged, drained his cup, refilled it. “He drinks to forget his loneliness. We drink to bring it on more sweetly.”

  “I thought you didn’t get lonely.”

  “I don’t. Not now.”

  Callanish pulled her hand back and drained her cup. It burned on the way down; she gritted her teeth and took deep, salty breaths to stop it rising up again. She held out her empty cup to Flitch’s bottle, and then it was no longer empty.

  “I’m going to leave soon,” she said.

  “I know. But you’ll come back.”

  “Come back where? You’re nowhere, Flitch.”

  “I’m everywhere. But if we want to get to where you want to be, to your island, we can’t go like this.” He swept his hands around the edges of their circle of light, out toward the choking walls of the mist. “We’re blind and slow. But I can get us a ride on a bigger ship: a military vessel or a revival cruise. I can make it better, little fish. I can fix this.”

  “I don’t need you to fix me. Just—” Callanish tapped the rim of her cup against a creel-rope. “Just share your drink and your food. It’s all I need.”

  “From me?”

  “From anyone.”

  “I don’t think that’s true.” Flitch leaned forward and pulled her hand away from where she’d been rubbing at her scars. They felt raw, itchy, as if they were still healing. “I think you need more than that. I think you need me.”

  Callanish threw the contents of her cup into the sea. The stuff muddied her thoughts. It wasn’t worth the risk of the sea’s call. It made her conversations with Flitch emotional when they should be practical; heavy with sediment when they should be transparent.

  “What I need,” she said, “is to have my message delivered properly. The way you should have done it. The way I paid you to do. This, all of this—” she swooped her hands at the mist, then pointed at Flitch, “is because of you. If you’d done it right in the first place, if you’d seen her, really seen her, then I wouldn’t be here. If I could rely on you. If I could rely on anyone, then I…” Restless, she stood up, only to sit back down. There was nowhere to go. She wanted to pace, to think, to mark out the tinny slats of her porch with her bare feet, to focus her eyes on the distant touch of sky and sea. But there was only the mist and the boat and the weight of Flitch’s steady gaze.

  He watched her, tapping his teeth against the rim of his cup. He waited until she’d settled on the bench beside him before speaking. “Why do you want to go there?”

  “Because—” Callanish’s voice felt thicker than the mist. She swallowed, and it hurt. “I have to know.”

  He touched a fingertip to the scar behind her ear. “Isn’t this your answer?”

  She knocked his arm away, sliding along the bench so he couldn’t reach her. “No,” she said. “That’s nothing.”

  “Doesn’t seem like nothing to me.”

  “And what would you know, Flitch? What would you know about anything?”

  She could smell the alcohol on his tongue, but his hands and his gaze were steady. “I know you,” he said.

  “You don’t! You don’t know the first thing about me.”

  Flitch shrugged and refilled Callanish’s cup, holding it out to her. “Okay, little fish. You’re right, maybe I don’t. But I could.”

  He was wrong. She was sure of it. But he seemed sure too, so how could she say that her conviction was stronger than his? She’d seen that look of certainty before, and she had suffered for it.

  Callanish remembered that morning: pulling her gloves and slippers off once again, letting her bare feet almost touch the sea, the final snapping of her mother’s temper. You want the sea so much? she’d said, voice eerily calm. Then I shall give you the sea.

  Her mother had come toward her with the knife, her belly fat with child. You’re half fish already, she’d whispered, her voice as calm as a lullaby.

  And then the blade slinking behind her ears, so sharp it felt like nothing as her skin split. Soon her mother would have a real baby; why would she need her half-fish monster? Callanish barely even cried. It was such a small crime.

  Callanish had had options then, after the cutting. She could have chosen confession, and seen her mother rot on a prison boat, seen her baby sister born in a cell. She could have chosen revenge, and carved out matching gills for her mother. She could have chosen forgiveness, and lived there with her family forever. But instead she’d ignored her feelings; tamped them down into the soil until the whole house was unsteady, until she was ripe for mistakes, until she did something she could never undo and then years later had to run halfway across the world to a tin hut surrounded by
dying birds.

  “Do you think it’s a punishment?” she whispered. “To be a gracekeeper. To grieve every day.”

  “I don’t know. Is it?”

  “I had a sister,” she said. “She was three heartbeats old. My mother, Veryan, she wanted to give birth in the copse. At the World Tree. She needed me to help, and I tried to help. But I didn’t know what to do. I ran away. I left them alone. I could have got help, but I just hid. And my sister never got past three heartbeats.”

  Callanish was not sure whether she was speaking aloud, or only inside her head. “My father—he didn’t want to be the father of a dead child. His heart broke and he died. They died, both of them, because of me.”

  She took the bottle from Flitch’s hand. What did it matter if she got so drunk she fell into the water? The sea had caused her problems, and it could solve them all. “This life is a punishment,” she said, “and I deserve it.”

  15

  VERYAN

  Veryan remembered everything. Spring was the bestest and most important time to the gods, and as the most loved child on the island—she had never been told this officially, but she knew it, and never hesitated to inform her older sister, as long as their mother couldn’t hear—she was due to lead the procession. She had not led it last year, but that was because she was only nine. Now she was nineteen, and the procession was for her marriage. But no, a year later from nine made her ten, so she wouldn’t be married for a while yet. She remembered now. She remembered everything.

  Veryan filled the kettle and lifted it on to the cooker. Her hands shook. She looked down at them and they seemed strange to her: the skin softer, the joints stiffer, the hands of an old woman. But they could not be hers, because she was nineteen. No, she was nine. She was ten.

  She was sitting beside her mother and they were making oak-leaf masks. They had a good store of leaves: she and her sisters had been out every morning, shuffle-crouching through the copse, filling their skirts with fallen leaves. They started each school day with aching backs, but it was vital not to straighten up while in the copse, for danger of knocking or—gods!—breaking a branch. It wasn’t the island’s punishment they feared; the gods had more power than any man, and did not look kindly on such sins. But she and her sisters were good girls. They had nothing to fear.

  Veryan lit the fire under the kettle. Her shaking hand swayed into the flame, but she felt no pain. She dipped her finger into the kettle of cold water to soothe it, simply from habit. It would not do to have blistered fingers when she had the oak-leaf masks to sew. She looked around her house, but could not see any leaves. Her mother and her sisters were missing too. But her back ached, so she must have been gathering leaves in the copse, so it must be almost time for the procession. She was going to lead it this year, because it was her wedding.

  Her mother peered over at her sewing, then eased the leaves from her hands to straighten her stitches. She was good at sewing, but not as good as her mother. The gods could be angered by anything, even shoddy stitches. It was best to be careful. And everyone would see her mask when she was leading. She wanted it to be perfect. She’d collected the largest leaves she dared. Only the island elders were allowed the king leaves—their masks were one enormous leaf, while everyone else had to stitch together lots of smaller leaves. She could never be an elder, but perhaps she could be an elder’s wife one day, depending on her husband, and they were allowed masks made of two leaves. One day, she would have a mask like that.

  It was time. She was nineteen, she was nine, she was ten—it didn’t matter, nothing mattered except that she was leading the procession and it was her wedding day, her very own day. Behind her, the islanders had begun their chant: low and solemn at first.

  At Penhill Crags we tear his rags

  At Hunter’s Thorn we take his horn

  The fur cape was warm across her shoulders, the collar tickling her throat. It was lined with silk, the softest thing she’d ever felt. She wished that the fur and silk were sewn to her skin so that she could feel it every day. The candle was heavy but she held it as high as she could, not even flinching when the dollops of wax rolled down her hands. They hardened in creamy lines on her forearms, caking her wrists and itching her elbows.

  At Capplebank Stee we break his knee

  At Grasshill Beck we snap his neck

  She sneaked a glance behind. The line of islanders was lit up like flickering stars. Half of them held a lit branch as high as they could; the other half wielded flutes and tambourines, playing them in rhythm with the chants. She almost stumbled, enchanted by the sight of so much fire. The punishment for burning wood when it wasn’t for processions or official business was harsh, though deserved. Wood was holy, and must be burned carefully so that the sparks and smoke were sent up to the gods.

  She faced forward and stepped more carefully; the procession wasn’t even halfway around the island yet, and already her shoulders ached, and her hands felt raw, and her vision was narrowed by the oak-leaf mask. But it was her wedding, and she would not flinch. She lifted her candle and resumed the chant.

  At Wadham’s End he cannot fend

  At Grassgill End he’ll meet his end

  In the days of the great-great-greats, the land stretched out so far you could have walked it for weeks without a sniff of sea. That was the time of true processions: long gleeful snakes of people stretched across valleys and hills. Then the land shrank, and shrank, and shrank, until now everyone must march in circles, around the island and spiraling in to link hands and surround the copse at the center. By then their chant would not be low and solemn any more, but gleeful and loud, the words called at the tops of their voices to echo among the trees.

  At Wadham’s End he cannot fend

  At Grassgill End he’ll meet his end

  GODS, HEAR US.

  Their island might be small, but the gods knew the distance they covered in their hearts, and that was what mattered. The islanders showed their obedience. After their deaths, they would all have a seat at the table of the great forest feast.

  The kettle was shrieking. Veryan creaked to her feet and moved the boiling water off the flame. She tipped tea leaves into a bone cup and added water, and she only spilled a little bit so her hands couldn’t be that shaky after all. Perhaps she was tired after the exertions of the procession, or excited to begin it. It had either just finished or was just about to begin, she remembered that. She sat back and waited for her tea to cool.

  For the procession, the island was completely dark. There were no lights in any of the buildings and no lights at the dock. Damplings kept their distance during processions. It was safer for everyone. Damplings had wickedness deep within their bones, so deep it couldn’t be scraped or burned or cursed out, no matter how much the great-great-greats had tried. Given half a chance, damplings would steal landlocker babies, everyone knew that. They envy us: our traditions, our food sources, the power of our gods. Everyone dreams of a house on land, but most damplings will never have one. And that’s as it should be; they wouldn’t know the traditions, and might not perform the proper appeasements. They might break a branch, and then where would they be? Where would we all be?

  Around the copse, hands linked, the islanders increased their chant. Tambourines clashed and flutes shrilled. The rest of the song’s words were abandoned in favor of the final line, called over and over, rising to a shriek—and then it died. Her time had come. She was the most loved child, the most beautiful woman, the island’s bride. She had been chosen for this. She raised her candle, her forearms caked in wax, her blond hair gleaming across her fur cape. She made her voice as loud as the wind in a storm.

  So here’s a thought your teeth should clench

  All greenness comes to withering.

  The islanders picked up her lines, chorusing as she led them along the narrow path and into the heart of the copse. They pulled their arms in then, candles and burning branches tucked in to their bodies so that there was no chance of the trees catching
fire. Tomorrow, everyone would wake to welts and burns on their chests and faces, but they’d be glad of it. To be burned at a procession, to carry marks earned by protecting the sacred trees, was an honor.

  Veryan had drunk her tea too soon and burned her tongue. She wrapped her hands around the cup, knowing it was too hot and not caring. It was an honor to have burns. Heat cleansed. That reminded her—she got up to check her coal store, but sat back down. If she did not have enough, then what? There was so little left to trade. She had sealskins, and her father had told her just this morning that they could keep even a giant warm through the winter. Not that she remembered winter; perhaps it was something that people feared, though it never occurred. Veryan did not find it strange that her memories consisted only of spring and summer.

  All greenness comes to withering

  All greenness comes to withering

  The copse seemed to answer the islanders’ chant: it was green, and withered too. Their steps stirred up scents: leaf-mulch, overripe berries, the tang of new green leaves. They held their flames close.

  At the heart of the copse grew the World Tree, center of the whole archipelago. For the wedding, it had been set all about with the banquet tables and benches carved from the oldest and holiest oak. There was a place set for each one of the islanders, from the oldest to the youngest. The platters were of oak wood, as were the knives, and each place had a single item, covering the bounty of the whole world. She glanced around the table as the islanders took their places, setting their burning branches in bone-carved holsters around the edge of the clearing.

  She took her place at the end of the table, her platter laid with an entire roasted rabbit, and gazed at the feast in the glow of the flames: bone tubs of honey and mustard and rock salt; salads of nasturtium and nettle; bread as white as snow, made from fine-milled wheat and with a sugar-crunchy crust; more bread as brown as earth, peppered with seeds; turkeys roasted with butter and garlic, their combs fried crispy. In these days of lack, not all the items that grew on the earth could be found. Pomegranate, banana, lemon: these things could not be stored for long enough to trade to a northern archipelago. But the gods did not care for trade routes. Their punishments could be harsh. As a compromise, the missing items were still there in spirit, carved from sacred oak wood and placed on platters.