“Good night, Ash,” said Margaret.
FOUR
They call us; it is time.
Have they learned nothing?
Not holy cross nor cold iron can prevail against these shadows.
God grant me the gift of detachment.
MONK’S MARGIN NOTE
She managed to pretend. She didn’t cry; she didn’t beg them to stay, or at least not to leave her behind in the settlement with these strangers who, despite their efforts to make her welcome, continued to behave very oddly indeed. There were men standing guard all around Brightwater, and nobody would say why. There was a war; that was as much as she could get out of the women. Those men who did not guard the settlement had to go away. It was terrible to have to smile and clasp hands with Sam and Thorvald as they stood there with packs on their backs and staves in their hands, clad in thick outdoor gear that spoke of a long journey to come. It hurt to pretend she didn’t mind, to hold her tongue when everything in her was screaming, Take me with you, oh please!
There was a moment when Sam asked her gently if she was sure she’d be all right, and she came close to telling them how uneasy she was and pleading with them not to go. But she smiled again and said everything was fine. She knew they had to work for the wood they needed. The Ruler had explained to her that in a place like this there were always huts and boats that needed repair after storms, tracks to be strengthened, stock to be tended. Asgrim had seemed a courteous man, both authoritative and kindly. He had asked after her health and assured her she would be safe at Brightwater. It had been hard not to scrutinize him too closely, seeking signs of likeness to Thorvald. She had tried not to stare. As for conclusions, she had reached none. This might be Somerled and it might not. All in all, it seemed unlikely such a pleasant sort of man would have a catalog of evil deeds in his past. Since they were going away, it would be up to Thorvald now to find out one way or the other.
She managed her farewells and watched the long line of men snake its way up the track to the west, watched the bright auburn of Thorvald’s hair, a solitary note of color against the green-gray of the hillside, moving farther and farther away until he rounded a corner and was lost from view. There had been a light of challenge in his eyes; that was good. The bitterness of those last days in Hrossey was gone from his face and he was looking ahead. Surely it would not take them long to do their work and come back with the wood. To speak of her worries would only have delayed them, and she was here to help, not hinder. Besides, her concerns were probably baseless, just homesickness and the aftermath of what had happened that first morning on the cliff path. Often she tried to recapture the dream, closing her eyes, willing it back, but it was fading now to no more than a lovely half-memory. It had been like a voice, like singing, but only in her head; wordless, magical music that tugged at her, calling, crying, Here, I’m here! Sometimes she thought it had been more like hands reaching toward her, hands stretching out in love, or friendship, or need. Come, the hands were saying. Yet, as well, the hands were clasping that mist-shrouded island closely, surrounding it with a barrier of protection. She would have gone if she could, winging her way there on invisible pinions, bridging the gap with only a dream to hold her.
She had not spoken of what she felt, not even to Thorvald. She doubted she would have shared something so strange and powerful even with her own mother, her own sister. Now Thorvald and Sam were gone, and so was Asgrim the Ruler along with most of the men. The small force armed with throwing spears could be seen patrolling the pathways of Brightwater by day and standing guard at night, but all remained quiet.
Creidhe applied herself to embroidery. There was no exploring; the women had made that clear. A walk down to the lake was allowed, and up as far as the corner overlooking the walled vegetable patch, but no farther; she had tried one day and had found herself escorted back by two of those fellows with the spears. It was for her own safety, the women said. None of them went wandering.
The vision that haunted her, coming with clarity only in her dreams, found its place in the Journey. At first the women had been curious, crowding around to see. It was clear no seamstress here had the gift for such fine and detailed work. Creidhe was obliged to show them a little, unrolling the fabric a hand’s breadth to reveal the vibrant colors and meticulous detail, a pattern not at all in the mode of traditional craft with its mirror images, its formal motifs and regular borders, but an organic, evolving, ever-changing flow. They exclaimed, amazed, impressed, perhaps a little fearful: it was like nothing they had ever seen. One admired the tiny trees, one the creatures hiding in the foliage, one the figure of what seemed a girl flying, and the moon within her grasp. One reached to touch; Creidhe rolled her work up again, leaving only the empty part exposed. The dream, the vision, crept onto the cloth in wools of violet and dusk blue, soft green, moss and lichen shades, the gray of rocks under a wash of tide, the subtle hue of a seal’s pelt. The Journey moved on; it was as well she had packed her bag with ample supplies of needles and wool, for many days passed and she had need of occupation.
One could not sit at such demanding work all day. Early on, she had seen the others spinning and offered to help; this seemed to surprise them, but when it became evident she was more than capable at it, they found her a distaff and spindle and let her ply them in the communal work hut of a morning. She offered to cook; indeed, she ached to take charge in the kitchen and produce something more palatable than the endless diet of boiled fish and overcooked mutton. But Gudrun, in whose house Creidhe was staying, made it quite plain her guest should not dream of exerting herself in such a way. Creidhe must rest, eat well and recover from her illness. Protests that she was fine now fell on deaf ears. Creidhe grew restless. At home her days were filled with activity; she was always busy. The idleness made her uneasy, and she took to walking the allowable section of track four times over every morning, thinking miserably of her daily trips to Aunt Margaret’s and back, and how much she missed them. Poor Aunt Margaret; she would be so worried about Thorvald. As for Creidhe’s own family, she shuddered to imagine their distress, made worse by every one of these endless days that prolonged her absence. For the weather had turned foul, with sheeting rain and dense, lowering mists, and nobody seemed to be expecting the men back. Sometimes the women talked of this in undertones, nervously. Creidhe questioned them, but they were good at answers that told her nothing. She spun and sewed and waited.
There weren’t many children in the settlement. A couple of boys seemed to go to and fro a lot, bringing fish and eggs, and there was a lass of twelve or so with a terrible squint and a furtive, sidling manner, but not a babe or infant to be seen. Creidhe missed her small sister Ingigerd, and she missed Brona with her quick wit and ready smile. She could imagine how Brona would be feeling, knowing Sam had made this journey with Creidhe and waiting out day after day of no news.
One of the women was heavy with child; when her time came, and it could be no more than two full moons away, that would at least swell the numbers a little. Creidhe remarked on the matter to Gudrun and, as usual, got a response that told her nothing. She commented on it to the others and received blank stares. It was a challenge even to make conversation about the weather here, let alone broach more serious topics. She told the pregnant woman, Jofrid, of her own experience in midwifery, and offered her services should they be needed. Truth to tell, she hoped fervently that before this babe was ready to make its way into the world she would be heading for home again; who would have thought another voyage on the Sea Dove could seem so attractive? Jofrid nodded nervously as Creidhe told her of the twins she had delivered back in Hrossey, the breech births safely accomplished, the many straightforward cases, as Jofrid’s own would likely be, for she seemed young and sturdy, if disproportionately afraid.
“Is this your first child?” Creidhe asked her, certain the answer would be yes; it did take them like this sometimes, especially if their mothers were not at hand to reassure them. Jofrid shook her head, eyes down. Cr
eidhe looked at Gudrun; there had been no children at Jofrid’s skirts as they sat with their spinning, no babe on her back as she walked from hut to cottage.
“Her third.” Gudrun spoke matter-of-factly, her hands busy winding wool into a ball. “Lost two. If she holds on till summer she may keep this one.”
“Oh,” said Creidhe. “Oh, I’m sorry. As I said, I have delivered many babes; I can help—”
“We can always use another pair of hands, if it comes to it,” Gudrun said. She was one of those women whose age seems indeterminate; the hatchet features, thin, scraped-back hair and shrewd eyes were matched by a certain terseness of manner. “Of course, you may well be gone by then. Perhaps there’ll be no need for a hunt this season. We must pray Jofrid doesn’t come early to her time.”
Perhaps she was missing something, Creidhe thought. She framed her words carefully. “Tell me about the hunt. The men spoke of it too. What do they hunt? Are there deer or foxes here? Wolves?” She had never seen any of these creatures, but knew them from her father’s tales. Long ago in Norway, Eyvind had been unequaled as a hunter. “Or is it a whale hunt you’re talking about? I’ve heard that was common here, before the war.”
“You’ll find out if you stay here long enough,” Gudrun said. “We’ve lost husbands and brothers, sons and fathers to it over the years. Of course, this year may be different.”
“Why would it be different?” A sudden misgiving came over Creidhe as to the nature of the task Thorvald and Sam had been called to assist with.
“Let me plait your hair for you, Creidhe.” A woman named Helga, one of the friendlier of this dour bunch, came forward with a comb in one hand and a length of twine in the other. “Turn around for me—that’s it.”
With that the answers dried up. Nobody would speak further of the hunt, or of the absence of children, and Creidhe sat there thinking very hard as Helga combed out her hair and braided it up again. Creidhe’s long, fair locks were the object of much admiration among the women: not one of them had hair of such a hue or of such a glossy shine and thick abundance. Somber and silent as they were most of the time, they still delighted in combing and dressing it, almost as if she were some kind of toy they had previously been forbidden. She noticed, too, the offers to lend a favorite shawl, a best skirt, to provide her with what passed for delicacies here: fresh eel meat, wind-dried lamb. It was almost like being fattened up for market; not a comfortable feeling. She would have traded any of these things gladly for some honest talk. How she missed Thorvald and Sam. Boys might be somewhat blind at times, and lacking in subtlety, but at least you could get straight answers out of them. With any luck they would be back soon, for the moon had waxed and waned since they had marched away, and surely in that time they must have earned the price of a few lengths of driftwood.
The days passed. A pattern had established itself; she’d be up at dawn to walk the track through the settlement, with a pause at the westernmost point to scan the way up the steep hillside in case she might catch a glimpse of Thorvald and Sam coming back. After the walk she returned to Gudrun’s to be plied with breakfast, and then she joined the others for spinning. All spent the mornings working at such crafts, save for the few women who took small boats out on the lake for fish every day; odd, this, but with all the men away or on guard duty, essential. Creidhe was not invited on these expeditions. Later in the day, when the women went back to their cottages to prepare food or tend to animals, Creidhe would take out the Journey and let her mind float free as her fingers took up the complex tale, the intricate puzzle of images. At dusk Gudrun prepared another meal, watching her guest as every mouthful went from platter to lips, almost as if Creidhe were a sick child whom she feared to lose. It was hard to summon much enthusiasm for the food; the island cheese was of poor quality, lacking in flavor and unreliable in texture, and sometimes Creidhe felt she might kill for a loaf of fresh-baked bread. Grain was scarce here, such goods a feast-day luxury. After supper there was little to do but retire to a fitful sleep. They did not allow her to feed the stock or tend the straggling, untidy garden. They stopped her from cleaning fish, from scouring dishes, lest she spoil her hands.
With so little to fill her day, Creidhe determined to undertake one more task at least, and that was to supervise the last stages of Jofrid’s pregnancy and make quite sure this babe was delivered safe and well. She rehearsed in her mind the possible complications. A breech presentation: tricky but manageable, she’d look out for the signs and turn the babe in the womb before it settled in place. Twins: she did not think Jofrid bore more than a single babe but, just in case, she must make sure the other women knew how to help. Other complications that might occur: she practiced dealing with each in her mind. She would cope. Meanwhile she bullied Jofrid into drinking milk, eating fish and resting with her feet up in the afternoons, for all the woman’s protests that she had animals to feed. The others could do that for her, Creidhe told Jofrid firmly, at least from now until the child was safely delivered and taking the breast. Jofrid stared at her, face wan, saying nothing; sometimes Creidhe wondered if she was a little simple.
Gudrun, as the senior woman of the settlement, organized others to tend to Jofrid’s cow and calves and keep her hut tidy. All the same, Creidhe felt the weight of their stares, as if her efforts to help were in some way bizarre, inappropriate and doomed to failure. She squared her shoulders and got on with it. One had to do something.
It was late in the spring. Back home, lambing would be over and the days long and light. Here, it might almost have been winter still, for one never knew what the morning might bring: rain, sleet, storm, lowering cloud and eldritch mist were all common, yet from time to time the sun showed its face, as if to remind them of the season, and on the precipitous slopes above Brightwater ewes called to their wayward lambs. If there were indeed wolves or some other fierce creatures to hunt, it seemed they did not frequent these parts, for the sheep went their own way by day, untended by boys or dogs. The girl with the squint had geese and chickens to look after; the two lads disappeared each morning, returning before dusk with a haul of shellfish or eels or eggs of varying hues and sizes. They, it seemed, were allowed to wander where Creidhe was not. The rules were hard to understand. There was an expectation, still, that Creidhe would wear her headscarf out of doors, covering every strand of bright hair, yet the other women seemed subject to no such edict. She asked, and got no answers except that it was a rule and must be obeyed. In fact, the scarf was useful. In this place, one never knew when the heavens might open and rain pour down by the bucketful.
On such a morning of late spring storm, Jofrid’s pains began. It was early for her, dangerously early. They called Creidhe, not, she thought, from any confidence in her ability as a midwife, but because Jofrid had asked for her. The pregnant woman lay now on a pallet in Gudrun’s cottage, her eyes wide with fear, her brow pallid and dewed with sweat. Creidhe examined her, muttering reassuring words. The birthing was not yet advanced; surely the pain should not be troubling Jofrid so much? Briskly Creidhe bid her get up and walk around between the pangs; not only would it speed the process, it would take her mind off her belly for a little. Gudrun, more dour-faced than usual, if that were possible, set a kettle to boil and rummaged in a chest for cloths. Helga came in bearing a jug of milk and a round of coarse bread to be shared after the hard work ahead of them. Helga’s face was almost as anxious as Jofrid’s own. As she walked the expectant mother up and down the chamber, Creidhe looked across and saw men in the doorway, dressed warmly for travel, and beyond them, rain teeming down.
Gudrun went over to them and an urgent conversation took place in undertones.
At one point Gudrun looked back at Creidhe and asked, “How long?”
“She’s barely started. The child will not be born before dusk.” Of course, an infant could always take you by surprise, but Jofrid’s pains did not seem strong. It was far more of a concern that the child was coming now, at least a moon-cycle before its proper time. It w
ould likely be small and weak. Creidhe hoped Jofrid could shake off her unreasonable panic in order to deliver it safely, and that her milk would be copious. This child must survive; Creidhe had promised herself Jofrid would not lose yet another infant while she had the power to do something about it.
“Keep walking,” she urged as Jofrid paused, panting, after the mildest of spasms. “It will go more easily for you if you move about in this early stage, I promise you . . .”
In the entry, Gudrun still held conference with the men, their hushed voices now raised slightly. You must fetch him . . . track . . . impassable . . . not until tomorrow . . . what about her?
Then Gudrun said, “Without Asgrim here, this child is doomed.”
It did not make a lot of sense. The men left, the door was closed against the weather. They walked up and down, up and down.
“Why do you send for Asgrim?” Creidhe ventured. “Is he the baby’s father?” These women spoke little of personal matters; they were as tight-closed as limpets. She had learned that Helga’s man was called Skolli, and that he was a smith. She had discovered that Gudrun was a widow with grown sons. But Jofrid had never mentioned a husband; if she had one, he was certainly not at Brightwater. If the Ruler were indeed the husband of this frightened young woman, and the father of her lost babes, it seemed to Creidhe that tilted the balance still further against his being Somerled. Asgrim had seemed far too civil to be a murderer. A wife and child would render him too ordinary.
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