Foxmask

by Juliet Marillier

  Well, fate had delivered exactly what she wanted. Games tended to be noisy, and accompanied by a generous flow of ale. Nobody would notice her slipping away. She must trust Brona to hold her tongue until long after it was discovered she was missing. Brona knew she would be with Thorvald and why, and the general sort of direction they were going in. As long as Eyvind did not leap into a boat and head straight after them—always possible—then the voyage would unfold as it must. So she just had to creep out of Grim’s house, find the Sea Dove, get on board and hide, put up with a certain amount of discomfort until the right time came, and then . . . She would deal with that part of it when it happened, Creidhe told herself. She must put her fears to the back of her mind; that the weather would be bad, that the boat would sink, that they would sail on and on and never find their destination. She must set aside the guilt; she could not afford to picture her father furious, her mother frantic, Margaret grieving, Brona in trouble because of her. If she thought about these things, she might be tempted to change her mind. And that inner voice, the powerful, deep voice that was both part of her and at the same time outside her, was making it very clear that she must go on with this. She had made the decision. Thorvald needed her, and she would be there for him, as so often in the past her friend had been for her. She would be strong. As for the aftermath, she would deal with that when it came.

  Frightening, it was, he had to admit it, frightening and exhilarating, as the Sea Dove fought a precarious way northwestward, now sliding down to the dark trough of a wave, as if she would carry them relentlessly on into the very depths of this watery kingdom; now riding high, steeply rising over the peak of a monstrous surge that surely, surely she could not breast, surely they’d be smashed in splinters. Sam barked out terse instructions and Thorvald, tight-jawed in a strange blend of excitement and terror, obeyed them as best he could, fighting to keep the quivering boat on some sort of stable course, and realizing it had not been very wise to talk Sam out of taking a third man with them from Stensakir. The plan had been to sail as far as the Northern Isles and pick up a crewman or two who didn’t know either of them. That way they’d have sufficient numbers for the difficult bit. The trouble was, things were already more difficult than anything Thorvald had experienced. The sky was wild with shredded clouds; the sea was a fractious monster with a mind and a will there was no gainsaying. If it wanted to gobble them up, men, craft, provisions, it would do so as casually as a dog snatches a morsel dropped from the table.

  In truth, Thorvald loved it. The gale whipped all confusion from his mind; the ache in his back, the blisters on his palms, the constant struggle to keep firm footing emptied him of all but the will to stay alive just a little longer and not lose Sam’s fine boat for him. He was on a mission. It was good; today he was a man.

  Their course was somewhat farther westward than Thorvald had expected. Once out of the sheltered waters of the Light Isles they’d made good speed, for the wind had been favorable for a straight course to their destination. After a quick debate with himself, Sam had made the decision: they would head northwest, abandoning the plan to go by the Northern Isles and pick up one or two extra men, since that would add at least two days to the trip either way. Things were going well; they were managing. And the sooner they got there, Sam said, the sooner they’d be home again. He didn’t want his deckhand defecting in the absence of paid work; it would take him too long to train another. When they found these islands, Thorvald could talk to his mysterious father, Sam would do a spot of fishing, and then they’d come home. From half moon to full should see the trip accomplished and the two of them back where they should be.

  So it was straight out into open sea, with no more than guesswork to guide them. Sam did not use sunstones, since the Sea Dove fished solely in the coastal waters of the Light Isles, where cliff, dune and skerry were the only markers a man needed. But he watched the light and the clouds, and eyed the birds passing overhead on their wind-harried journeys, and as dusk fell Thorvald could see him squinting upward, working out what the patterns of sun and moon could tell him. It had grown calmer; for a while, Thorvald had wondered if they would both have to stay awake all night, clinging to line or thwart or steering oar as the sea clutched and released, heaved and subsided. But the gods had had enough of playing for now, and the Sea Dove settled, creaking, to a gently swaying movement. They lashed the steering oar in place and dragged a sea-anchor, heavy rope with a conical bag attached, to slow their progress. It might be possible for each to snatch a little sleep, while the other kept watch for reefs and skerries, whales and sundry creatures of the deep. Who knew what lurked in these untraveled waters? Somewhere to the west, perhaps not far at all, was the very rim of the world; a man might be swept over before he knew it, and find himself falling away into the true unknown. Perhaps, after all, they would not sleep.

  “Food,” grunted Sam, kneeling to retrieve a skin water-bottle and an oiled bag of provisions from the box where he’d stowed them. He was used to long days on the water; he and his hand were often out from before dawn until nearly sunset, and Sam was a big man with a big appetite. Salted mutton, flat bread baked hard, an egg or two boiled in the shell—his hens were laying again—under the circumstances, it was a feast. Sam leaned across to pass the water to Thorvald, and froze suddenly as if turned to stone.

  “What?” Thorvald queried, somewhat alarmed. “What is it?”

  “Shh,” hissed Sam, now staring intently at the pine decking between his feet. “Listen.”

  At first Thorvald could hear nothing beyond the constant creak of the boat’s timbers and the wash of the sea. But wait; perhaps there was something else, a sound like a faint moan or a sigh, and a sort of scrabbling noise, very small, down there under the boards.

  “Rats?” Thorvald suggested, brows raised.

  Sam, it appeared, had something other than vermin in mind. His broad, amiable features had turned pale, and now he was levering up the boards that lay loosely over the boat’s ribs to allow for easy adjustment of cargo or ballast. One short plank, two, three, and Thorvald, taken aback by the speed and intensity of his friend’s reaction, moved forward to peer down into the shadowy hull of the Sea Dove, near the bow. There was a smell; someone had been sick. And a sound, not the animal scrabbling now but a voice, a girl’s voice, shaky and weak. “Sam?”

  Without a word, the two men clambered down into the open hold between the fore and aft decks, where their load of provisions was stored; they scrambled over the crossbeams, moving sacks and bundles until they had made a narrow way through under the foredeck. Creidhe was crouched on the ballast stones behind the fish crates, in a hiding place that seemed scarcely big enough for a mouse. They hauled her out, Sam with a modicum of gentleness, Thorvald with hands that shook with fury.

  “What in the name of all the gods are you doing here?” he demanded. “How did you get on board? Odin’s bones, what will your father say?”

  “Not now,” Sam said. “She needs water, and we’d better light the lantern; it’ll be dark soon. There’s a flint down yonder in the small bag, and a bundle of dry tinder. Take care. A fire’s just what we don’t need.” His tone was level, held carefully so, Thorvald thought, not to further distress the filthy, cheese-pale, sniveling Creidhe. Distress, huh! He could scarcely believe she had done something so stupid. Why, by all the gods, why? It defied all common sense. She had put his whole venture at risk, as if she truly wanted him to fail. And what about her own safety? This was no place for a girl. What if she got hurt? What if she got sick? Creidhe was supposed to be his friend. Friends didn’t do things like this.

  His hands were still shaking as he made fire and lit the small enclosed oil lamp that had been stored just so, like all the rest of Sam’s gear. Now Sam was talking softly to Creidhe, getting her to drink water, wiping her face, making her stretch her cramped limbs. There were tears in her eyes, Thorvald could see the glint of them in the lamplight. Odin save him, what reason could a girl have for dreaming up such
a foolish trick? Especially a girl like Creidhe, with her fondness for trivial pastimes such as fine embroidery and fancy cooking. How could Sam be so placid about it? He should have come alone, thought Thorvald savagely. You couldn’t trust anyone, not even the people you thought understood you.

  Creidhe was calmer now, sipping water from the bottle, responding to Sam’s patience, stretching her arms and legs with a groan and sucking in lungfuls of fresh air. Gods, she looked terrible, her tunic all stained with vomit, her hair in a tangle and her face ghost-white in the lantern light. Her eyes had great shadowed circles around them.

  “What—” Thorvald began, but Sam silenced him with a gesture.

  “Food first, questions after,” the fisherman said, rummaging in the bag. “I should think they can hear my belly growling all the way back in Stensakir. Drink it slowly, Creidhe, just a bit at a time. You’d better try a mouthful of this bread too. Emptied your stomach pretty well from the looks of it. Come on, just a nibble or two. Feeling any better?”

  Creidhe gave a weak nod; she held the bread in her hand but seemed unable to do more than sit shivering, clutching the water bottle and sniffing from time to time. In silence Sam cut bread, sliced meat, shelled eggs, handed Thorvald a portion of each. Hungry as he was, Thorvald found it hard to eat. Finally he could hold back no longer.

  “Tell us, Creidhe. Give us your explanation. Don’t you understand how dangerous this is? Don’t you realize where we’re going?” He could hear the harshness in his own voice, though he was trying to keep it calm. Sam was looking at him with an expression that could not be described as friendly. “What reason could you possibly have for doing something like this? It’ll only make everything more difficult.”

  “You’re going to need me,” Creidhe said, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin in a way that was all too familiar. “I know it. You’ll need me before the end.” Her voice belied her attempt at confidence; it was very small, and wobbled.

  At that moment Thorvald knew that what had gripped him in the instant he heard and recognized her voice, down under the decking, was less fury and frustration than fear: fear for her, and for what it might cost her to be his friend. It was bad enough to have coerced Sam into coming, into risking himself and his fine boat. But to have Creidhe in peril, Creidhe whose world was all handicrafts and family and blithe sunny days, that was truly terrifying. It was as if his father’s hand, the hand that had turned all in the Light Isles to darkness in one terrible season, had somehow crept out to touch his son’s voyage; to turn it, too, to shadow. For a little, Thorvald could think of nothing to say.

  There was still no moon; the small lantern that Thorvald had hung carefully in the bow cast a circle of pale light just sufficient to show how tiny they were, men, woman, frail vessel, in the immensity of dark ocean that surrounded them.

  “Not used to this,” observed Sam. “Keeping her out on open sea at night, I mean. No sign of land, any direction, doesn’t feel right. Doesn’t feel comfortable.”

  “Yes, well, I don’t suppose it was comfort you expected when you agreed to come,” Thorvald snapped, unable to contain the conflict of feelings that was building inside him. “It’s a trip of high risks, a voyage into the unknown, not a—not some sort of family outing up the coast on a fine morning.”

  Sam did not respond to this. Indeed, it had not really been meant for him. Taking his time, he finished his meal, wiped his hands on his tunic, tidied away the loaf, the knife, the oiled wrappings. He moved across to adjust the lantern, and gazed into the sky a while. The stars were almost imperceptible; even so early in the spring, the nights were washed with the pale afterglow of the sun. Eventually Sam turned back to the others.

  “Well,” he said quietly, “no two ways about it, is there? Sunup, we put about and head straight back home.”

  “No!”

  It was as if one voice had spoken; Thorvald and Creidhe had rapped out the response in perfect, vehement unison.

  Sam blinked. “One good reason why not,” he said, regarding his companions mildly. “One each.”

  There was an extended pause while Thorvald, scowling, folded his arms and stared out across the heaving ocean, and Creidhe looked down at the water bottle as if it were an object of intense fascination.

  “Well?” queried Sam. “There aren’t any, are there?”

  “Ah,” said Thorvald, “that’s just where you’re wrong. I can see you’re concerned about Creidhe’s state of health, not to mention her safety. I have to say, bearing in mind how long we’ve been traveling and the force of that gale we encountered earlier, that I’d guess we’re a deal closer to our destination than we are to the Light Isles. Isn’t our first priority getting Creidhe to the nearest place of refuge?”

  Sam did not comment. “Creidhe?” he asked.

  “She has no good reason,” Thorvald said, before she could answer. “She shouldn’t be here. It’s as simple as that.”

  Creidhe cleared her throat. “I imagine you made him a promise,” she told Sam. “A good man keeps his promises.” She did not look at Thorvald.

  “I did,” said Sam, frowning. “Trouble is, your father’ll kill us if we don’t get you back safe. He’ll probably kill us even if we do. I really can’t understand why you’ve done this, Creidhe.”

  Her voice was firmer now. “I know you’re looking for Somerled. I know you’re heading for wherever he might have gone. I knew you wouldn’t let me come with you. But I needed to come. It’s not something I can explain very easily. It’s more of a feeling, a deep-down feeling. I know I have to be here.”

  “I can’t imagine why.” Thorvald’s tone was blunt. “You can’t sail, you can’t fight, you can’t help us in any way whatever. All you’ve done is put yourself in danger and upset your family.”

  “Isn’t that what you’ve done?” asked Creidhe quietly.

  There was another silence, during which Sam unrolled two blankets, put one around Creidhe’s shoulders and settled himself among the fish crates.

  “All right,” he said. “My boat, my choice. Only thing is, it’s the wind makes the choice for us at times like this. I’m going to sleep for a bit; the two of you can practice tearing each other to shreds all night if you want, as long as you keep your eyes open. Wake me when you want a rest, Thorvald. I’ll make a decision at first light.”

  Thorvald was to remember that night, later, as a strange lull in the storm of his journey. He recalled his confusion, the guilt and anger and fear warring within him. He remembered how serene Creidhe had seemed with the lamplight playing on her wan features; how, despite the need to creep to the side of the boat every so often and retch helplessly into the swell, she still regarded him with a calm gravity that annoyed him more than anything, since it told him she was far his superior in self-control. As for conversation, there was little of it. He did not trust himself to speak; she appeared to think further explanations unnecessary.

  For a while she slept, cheek pillowed on an arm, fair hair fanned out like strands of pale silk, and he watched her, wondering how he could possibly manage to keep her safe and still achieve his quest. His quest: it remained foremost in his mind, though another man might have turned for home without hesitation. Perhaps that was his father’s legacy, condemning him always to put his own interests first. Sam’s reaction to the crisis had been swift and kind. Thorvald was painfully aware that his own response had been somewhat lacking in compassion. Sam now slept the sleep of a man whose conscience was free from burdens, while Thorvald sat alone with the night and the ocean, pondering the way fate seemed determined to turn his steps astray and make him a misfit. Fate, he thought grimly, never passed up a chance to remind him he was his father’s son. Creidhe shivered, sighing in her sleep. It occurred to Thorvald that there had been a certain bravery in what she had done, wrong-headed though it was. There weren’t many girls he knew who could have stayed silent under the deck like that through such a rough passage, nor planned well enough to be there in the first place. Non
e, in fact. If they’d had to have a girl with them, Creidhe would have been the only possible choice. Absently he tucked the blanket over her and resumed his solitary watch. He prayed for an easterly wind.

  There was, indeed, no decision made but that of the gods themselves. In the darkness before dawn the gentle rocking of the Sea Dove became a harsher movement, the sea-anchor near useless against the insistent pull of the current. The wind came up, whipping a fine spray into every corner of the boat, drenching their clothes, their blankets, their stores. The Sea Dove’s timbers groaned and creaked; her sheets whined in protest. Sam gave directions, Thorvald obeyed them. Creidhe crouched down, doing her best to keep out of the way. They made a choice—speed over safety—for if Tadhg’s directions were right, this wind would bear them straight to their destination. They hoisted the sail. The gale drove them westward, or perhaps north of westward; the lowering clouds made it too dark to tell. Sam held the steering oar in a death grip, and the others clung like barnacles to whatever they could find. The expanse of sailcloth above them bellied out to within a hairs-breadth of tearing asunder; the mast bowed, its strength tested almost to the limit. It came to Thorvald that they had no control at all of the vessel’s course; the wind would bear them where it fancied. The best they could hope for was to turn the Sea Dove into the monstrous waves and keep her afloat until the storm abated. What chance had they of finding a small group of isles, about which they knew nothing save that they were somewhere northwest of the Light Isles? Beyond those islands, which might themselves be no more than a crazed man’s fevered imaginings, all knew there was nothing but empty water. It was as well the wind sought to snatch the very breath from their mouths, for what was in their minds was better not put into words. Best think only of the task in hand, staying on the boat, gathering themselves for the next impossible surge of water, and the next, and the one after, being ready for the sheeting, freezing rain when it came, somehow forcing the hands to fasten and unfasten the lines, shifting position to balance the Sea Dove and in between, praying with clenched teeth and narrowed eyes, straining to see some change in the elements, some small hint of mercy.