The Island House

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  “I know what you mean.” It was true, she understood being emotionally locked away.

  “And, after it happened . . .” Walter paused unhappily. “We were out there that night in The Holy Isle, as the paper said. Late, very late, coming back, but when the fish run in these times, you chase them even on New Year’s Eve.” He stared into the tea as if it could tell him what next to say. “I would have said I knew these waters, but that night the strait turned against us. The seas were high as this shed, and when the engine swamped, we were driven toward Findnar, toward the rock shoals at the end of your cove.” Walter closed his eyes. Mayday, Mayday. This is Holy Isle . . .

  “But we could not raise the lifeboat service, and Dan begged me to let her go, take our chances with the inflatable, but I would not do it. I thought she would come through.” He exhaled. “Michael heard us from the house, the signal got that far. He saw our lights too—red and green—so he knew we were straight ahead for the rocks. He tried to put out to help us. A foolish thing but brave.” He shook his head. “It was my fault, all of it.”

  Freya was numb. This was why the letter had not been finished. “Go on. I want to know.”

  Walter grasped Freya’s hands. “Be proud of your father, child, he did what few other men would or could have done that night. He found us, and slung a line though the sea was wild. Daniel caught the rope right enough, and I thought—just for a moment—it would work, that Michael would pull us away from the rocks. But The Holy Isle took a broadside—you have to understand how huge that sea was—then she rolled.” Walter was staring out into that night as the roar of the sea filled his head. “I was thrown free and came up, but hit my head. I blacked out. Daniel found me. He tried to get us to your father.” He swallowed painfully. “The boy had Michael’s rope still, and hand over hand he hauled us both. They got me onboard between them, and Michael tried to ride the surf back into the cove, Australian to the last.” He smiled faintly. “The cruiser swamped. Daniel had hold of me, and tried to hang on to your dad, too, but your father would have none of it. He pushed Dan away to save me. That I do remember, then I was swept from them both.” He dropped her hands. His eyes were bleak.

  Freya’s lips were stiff. It was hard to ask the question. “And?”

  Walter blinked. “We two were lucky, if you can call it that. I was dumped on the beach, not the rocks, and Daniel was washed into the cave. He was alive. Barely. But one leg had a corkscrew break—as it turned out—all the way up through both long bones, and his hip was shattered. He was lucky to escape amputation, they told me later in the hospital. The inflatable from The Holy Isle cast up on the beach too—that’s how I got him back to Port eventually.” He grimaced. The longest night of his life.

  Walter got up and put the mugs in the little sink. “Daniel cannot work as he used to—not at sea—and I’m getting too damn old. We’re still rebuilding The Holy Isle eight months later. I should have let her go.”

  For just one second, Freya glimpsed the old man waiting beneath the skin of Walter Boyne, defeated by time and sorrow.

  “We’ve got this, of course.” He gestured at the shed. “It keeps us going, has to, now that we cannot seriously fish for our living. But it’s a specialist market, wooden craft.”

  That must mean that times were lean. Freya asked, “What happened to my father?”

  Walter spoke slowly, remembering. “I found his cruiser four days after we lost your dad. It was strange . . .”

  Did she really want to know? Once told the truth, how would she banish the images in her head. Freya forced the question out. “What was?”

  Walter was staring past her—a long, long way. “The cruiser was beached in the cove. Undamaged. And your father lay beside it.” Walter Boyne, a private, proud man, was almost pleading as he said, “We had been searching all that time, and twice the Rescue from Ardleith wanted to call the search off because there’s a current, a strong one, which runs out past the end of Findnar and sweeps north. They thought it had taken him, but I knew they were wrong because the wind, that night, was pushing us south. They would not listen—not until the sea gave him back to us.”

  Walter’s voice roughened. “We are so sorry for your loss, child, me and Dan, so very sorry. But it comes out like anger with him because he thinks he failed your father, maybe that he deserves to be punished. Now here you are and he’s ashamed—as if he had sinned in some way. His mother was religious, and it’s in Dan’s bones though he’ll deny it. That was the only thing we fought about, Sally and me, what the priests put in that boy’s head. My son has nothing to atone for. I do.”

  Freya clenched her jaw. “I’m glad you told me. Thank you, Walter.” She stood, gathered her things, and walked away.

  Walter called out behind her, “Have you somewhere to go now, lass?” He meant, You should not be alone.

  She started to say Please don’t worry, but the anxious kindness of his tone stopped the platitude, half-formed. “Is there a library in Portsolly?”

  Walter allowed himself to exhale. The girl seemed composed. Did that ease the guilt? “Halfway between the harbor and the coast road, turn left into Tay Street. There’s a B and B on the corner, Tay Cottage.” He hurried in front of her to open the workshop door. “You’ll find the library in the shopping square.”

  On impulse Freya leaned forward and kissed Walter’s stubbled cheek. Surprised, he touched the spot.

  “It’s better to know, Walter. Thank you for all you both did.”

  Freya walked away quickly before he could see what she really felt. Desolation dug claws into the soft flesh of her heart.

  CHAPTER 9

  ON HER second day among the black-clad newcomers, Signy ran away and hid. It was not fear that made her hide, it was duty, for the customs of her people said a person must be buried as close to death as possible, and three days was too long. Signy was very frightened—an important obligation had been flouted, and that had consequences.

  But, Cruach, it was not my fault. Please, please understand. Would the Sun listen? And by what power could she ensure he did not leave the world tonight before Laenna’s soul was released and her body buried. If Cruach ignored her, Laenna would become a hungry ghost eternally unappeased. Another, unbearable tragedy.

  Help me, Cruach, give me strength. And guide me, show me where she is. Signy did not dare to pray aloud, or stand up to find her bearings in the long grass. She must not be caught searching the meadow, for if the angry man found her, he would not understand; he might stop her making the correct offerings, and that would be a disaster.

  And so Signy knelt, waiting for her prayer to be answered. Dutifully, she stared into Cruach’s hot face until her eyes burned.

  The morning was perfect and warm, and as her God climbed the sky, heat intensified, but still there was no sign. Signy grew dizzy; she had to close her eyes, for the power of the God was too strong. Oh, please, please, you must help us, Cruach. She knew the presumption was very great. One did not make demands of a God; it was dangerous.

  But the wind dropped to nothing and the grass became completely still—Cruach had sent the sign. Signy could hear insects swarming, louder and louder, and there was a smell the wind had taken before—the sweet reek of flesh as it corrupted. Signy swallowed; how could she thank Cruach for this? But she must . . .

  Signy could not look at the body—flies and ants had settled on Laenna wherever there was blood. Gasping tears away, the child covered her sister in a thick layer of grass and flowers—something, anything, to drive away the insects.

  Laenna had never been still in all her life, and it was impossible to think they would never quarrel again, never cry together, never laugh. And yet, there was no one else to do what now must be done for this silent, unmoving body—no shaman, no mourners. No family. But still the funerary rites must be performed, that was her duty.

  And so as Cruach tracked up and then down toward the long, pale evening, Signy toiled, grubbing at the hard summer ground with a part-burned p
iece of plank. Her sister must lie deep in the kind earth, too deep for animals to find her.

  “Soon, Laenna, soon, I promise you will be warm and safe, and when I am home, our parents will hear that you have been properly honored.” It helped to talk. “And I think the newcomers will leave Findnar soon. They cannot stay now, can they? This will be our island again, just as it was, and our family will return to you each summer. For you, Laenna, we will sacrifice honey; for you, eggs will be broken on the offering stone. Cruach will hear our prayers as He heard mine today, and He will shine down on your resting place. We shall not forget where you lie, I promise.”

  Offerings. Signy gulped back tears. She had nothing to pour on the earth of the grave—not even water—and there was no food to leave beside Laenna’s body for the long journey her soul must make. But then Signy remembered—before the raiders came, she had left a large piece of comb honey wrapped in leaves on the offering stone. Would Cruach understand if she took His tribute? She could gather gannets’ eggs also—Laenna was owed the eggs. Honey and eggs might be enough.

  The grave was finished, and Signy had decided.

  As long twilight began to fade and Cruach declined into the west, the Wanderer rose. Far below, small as an ant, a child could be seen in that last light.

  Closer, and the child was rolling another child’s body into a hole.

  Closer, and a small green packet was laid on the chest of the corpse with four speckled eggs as flowers and earth rained down, more and more, running through the hands of the living girl, falling like water as she called out her prayers.

  The stars wavered and grew sharp. And faintly, from far away, they heard the child speak to her Gods. She implored blessings for her sister’s soul passing now from one life through to the shadows of the next. At first the child’s voice was strong, but then it faltered as all light left the world and there came the sound of weeping.

  And if human grief is soon lost in the dark, the echo of Signy’s suffering endured in the air as Laenna’s grave was, at last, hallowed and her soul released.

  Day and night had no meaning for the boy. There was only thirst, and pain, and not enough water. He craved water. But one morning, sun splashed him from the east and that was how he knew—for the first time—that water had a face. A small dark girl was sitting close, very close, beside him; she had something in her hand, a beaker. She touched his mouth on the side that did not hurt, and, surprised, he opened his mouth. And then there was water on his tongue.

  The boy tasted the water. So sweet. He tried to reach up, he wanted more. He tried to speak. Please! Let there be more water.

  The eyes in the face of the water girl—dark, very large, like those of a deer—seemed filled with light. She was smiling as water filled his mouth again. Nodding eagerly, she held the beaker as he gulped.

  The girl glanced away. He heard her call someone—she used a word he did not know, Goonhelder. A name? He did not care. More. Please. Let me drink.

  There was an old woman, and the boy remembered her face. Why? He frowned, trying to catch an image from the other side of the dark. The woman was smiling, too, and she had a skin bag in her hands. The girl stood. No! Do not go. Do not take the water away . . .

  They both made soothing sounds, as if he were a dog or a horse. The girl knelt beside him again, and the beaker was full. He drank; that was all he cared about.

  Gunnhilde sighed as she watched the boy swallow—it was a touching sight, and she wiped grateful tears from her cheeks. The little girl moved her too—she helped the boy to drink with such care, and perhaps that made him happy though it was hard to know. On so many levels, the boy’s survival seemed a miracle; did she dare to hope that it was a sign of God’s favor returning to Findnar? Thank you, Lord, for guiding my hands. Your ways are wondrous to this, your humble servant. Of course, she had never given up—not even for one day—but credit where it was due. Without the girl, this recovery might have taken a great deal more time.

  “She might not know what I say, Brother, but she has an instinct for healing. The child understands suffering, and her devotion to this boy has been very clear. It is my belief the Lord is preparing the road for her to come to Him.”

  “Devotion?” Cuillin huffed. Every time he entered the shelter, the girl disappeared. He did not know why, but he was offended by her wariness. “I have never seen it.”

  “I assure you, Brother, it has been so. Will you hold this corner for me? I would like to beat the material.” Gunnhilde held up a large piece of embroidered cloth. Shocking though it was, a woolen altar covering had been pressed into service as a coverlet, and she, Signy, and Idrun—the remaining novice—shared it at night. However, since the morning had continued sunny after the boy’s dramatic recovery, the nun was determined to banish any lurking vermin.

  Seventeen days had passed since that terrible day—the Apocalypse was Gunnhilde’s name for it—and insect infestation would add to their torment in a way that seemed pointless given the larger catastrophe of their lives.

  Cuillin thought comforting already-corrupted flesh useless, for God required that suffering be endured, yet in the end he did what Gunnhilde asked, if only to make the nun see sense. “The girl is a Pagan, Sister. It worries me you allow her to spend so much time with you and the boy.”

  Gunnhilde applied a stick to the wool, and dust enveloped them both. “They are both Pagans, Brother. Perhaps it is God’s plan to bring them to Christ together and, before our Lord, I still say the girl has a good heart.”

  “If she has such a good heart, where is she now?” Cuillin peered into the shelter—the boy seemed to be sleeping, but the girl had disappeared.

  “Thank you, Brother.” Gunnhilde twitched the cloth from Cuillin’s hands and folded it. “I said she might go after helping the boy to drink.” Was there harm in such a small lie? “Do not concern yourself, she’ll return when she’s hungry.”

  Laenna’s grave was only a small mound, but through the days since she’d buried her sister, Signy had slowly covered it with a blanket of white pebbles. She’d carried them back from the beach in the skirt of her tunic when the newcomers sent her down to guard the salt-making fire or to gather seaweed. But to mark the grave for all time, she’d rolled a small boulder to the head with much effort. This was her sister’s pillow stone.

  In the last of the warm season, the meadow flowers had begun to seed. Each day Signy plucked more of the seed heads and scattered them in a widening circle around where Laenna lay. Motherwort, hound’s-tongue, sweet-smelling melilot, red valerian, and goldenrod. Digging the seeds in with a stick, she would often pray aloud, mostly to Cruach, but she invoked Tarannis, too, and, just to be sure, the Wanderer.

  “Do you see us, me and my sister? In your names, I ask these flowers to grow for her, and I ask all that is good in creation to remember Laenna for all time and note well where she lies.”

  Had Laenna died, had all these people died because her clan had not known about the Wanderer and therefore not appeased the star? Signy would not make that mistake again; she might not like all of the newcomers, but she did not want anyone else to die, especially not the boy. He was awake much more now, and he’d smiled at her today; he even seemed pleased when she fed him or tended to his body, though they’d both been embarrassed when she’d cleaned him like a baby this morning. Still, Signy hoped he liked her even a little bit, because boys were more fun to play with than girls. Her brothers mostly had been kind, but Laenna often made trouble for Signy and they’d fought a great deal—and now she was gone.

  Brother Cuillin shaded his eyes. He could see the native girl in the distance, and beyond her, the Pagan stones; it was a source of irritation, always, that they still stood, but other things were more important now.

  “She’s at that mound again.”

  He was working with Brother Simon and Brother Anselm. One by one they were collecting the stones of the chapel from where they lay among the grass.

  Simon had more natural compa
ssion than Cuillin. “She seems sorrowful each time she returns—perhaps someone she knows lies there. Help me, Brother.”

  Cuillin’s back was aching, though it was yet early. Steeling himself, he bent to grasp the lintel stone. For you, Lord. My pain is only a shadow of yours . . .

  Brother Anselm staggered past, his shoulders bowed beneath a yoke from which two buckets hung filled with stones. Tipping the load onto a growing pile, he trudged back toward the others.

  Cuillin admired his brother’s spirit—Anselm was patient, as stoic as a mule, though once he’d been the most accomplished illuminator in Findnar’s Scriptorium.

  “Two won’t shift that”—Anselm gestured to the lintel—“let me help.” He dropped the yoke from his shoulders.

  Cuillin knew his brother was right; another back, another pair of arms might make the task possible. What difference did it make if the stones were large or small—this was all God’s work. Gratefully, he intoned the sacred name. “Therefore in the name of Christ our Lord, one, two, heave!”

  In a line, the three monks hoisted the stone to their shoulders. Their legs trembled beneath the weight, since all three had led sedentary lives in the Scriptorium lettering sacred manuscripts before the raiders came, and yet now they stumbled on together. For Christ their master.

  “Here, drop it. Careful, carefully!” Cuillin took charge, and his brothers obeyed. He was troubled by this desire to lead, but he saw now that humility and obedience had always been hard for him. Even when he’d been sent north to Findnar from the Motherhouse at Whitby, Cuillin had dared to question his superiors. Why should he be ordered to this gull-haunted wilderness so many sea days away from the Motherhouse when there was so much to do in Whitby’s Scriptorium? But the Abbot had commanded, and Cuillin had obeyed—of course. Now, though he prayed often on his faults, there were few men left on the island, and the monks—and their few sisters also—seemed to look to him as the most senior of the surviving brothers. And he found himself consulting Gunnhilde more and more; perhaps they were falling, naturally, into the roles of Abbot and Abbess since they both had the example of the Motherhouse to mimic. Cuillin banished that beguiling, prideful thought and crossed himself as the three trudged back to raise yet another piece of stone.