The Island House

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  “Let us dedicate our labor to God, my brothers. With faith and His help we shall rebuild, together, His holy sanctuary on this island.”

  Brother Simon and Brother Anselm crossed themselves and nodded cautiously.

  God’s help was certainly required, for faith wilted at the thought of all the work to be done.

  From a distance, Signy watched the men. She sat down in the long grass so that they would not see her, for she did not want to help them. It seemed a stupid thing to do, taking stone from this place and putting it down there—what was the sense in that?

  She patted the pillow stone affectionately. “I think this God of theirs is very hard to please, Laenna. They should sacrifice something; then perhaps He’d help them a bit more.” She laid her mouth close against the white pebbles covering her sister’s chest and whispered, “But what should I do? Can you see me where you are? Tell me what to do. Please, Laenna, I want to go home.”

  “Signy, where are you?” Gunnhilde was calling.

  “Should I go to her, Laenna?” A brisk wind rushed past, bending the tall flowers that hid where she lay. Signy’s tunic fluttered, a flag in the grass.

  The old woman called out more strongly, “I see you, Signy! Come, I need your help—the goat.” She mimed milking.

  Signy sat up and waved. She understood more of what the woman said now, for every day she tried to use new words. The language of the newcomers was ungainly and sounded ugly, but she knew enough now to call the old woman by her real name, Goonhelda. It was hard to say, and unmusical, but Signy had taught the old woman her name also. She now knew the name of the other girl too—Eedrunn. That was less difficult, a little. Even the boy could say Signy now, and he was closer to the right pronunciation, though he made her laugh when he tried to say other words in the clan language. But Coolun, the angry man, spoke to her only as Gurl. A sound like a growl. He did not try to say her real name. But time passed more quickly around the fire each evening now because Goonhelda liked to teach and Signy liked to learn. That is, when the newcomers were not chanting; they still did so much chanting it was hard to get to sleep sometimes.

  “I’d better go, Laenna.” Signy kissed the pillow stone and stood up, her arms full of the poppies. She sauntered toward Gunnhilde.

  “Milk, Signy, yes?” Gunnhilde handed the child a leather bucket and pointed at the goat. Signy nodded—she didn’t much like milking, but she’d rather do that than other things.

  Their one surviving nanny was hobbled not far from the ruined chapel. She had an evil disposition, and it was clear she resented captivity after roaming free since the raid. A few days ago Signy had helped Coolun and Ansuum recapture the island’s few domestic animals, including the goat. She knew she had proved her worth because she could run faster than any of them, animals or men. And it was she who had brought the nanny back to the ruined settlement. Now the goat, a pregnant sow, and one of a pair of plow bullocks—the other had been slaughtered and eaten by the raiders—must be brought into the temporary byre at the other end of their shelter each night. This was another of Signy’s chores, and if Gunnhilde seemed not to like living so close to the animals because of the smell, Signy did not care; she was grateful for the extra warmth they brought.

  “Shall I take those? They’re pretty.” Gunnhilde pointed at the poppies in Signy’s arms; she mimed taking the flowers.

  Signy backed away and shook her head. She seemed alarmed.

  Gunnhilde smiled, determinedly. On some days communication was difficult. “When you’ve finished”—the nun mimed stripping teats again and picking up a full bucket—“come to me, please.” She pointed at the girl and then toward the shelter where they all slept.

  Signy nodded. She went over to the goat and sat down beside her. The nanny stared back and bleated. “Yes, I know. You don’t like me; well, I can’t help that. We just have to try to get on.” Signy wiped her hands on the grass; she’d make the milking last as long as she could . . .

  Some of the ceiling timbers of the nuns’ dormitory had survived the raid unburned. Any wood was precious and must be protected from the weather, so Cuillin and the other monks had worked hard to patch the old roof with bundles of heather weighed down with stones. Of course the thatch leaked, but it was better than being outside when it was cold, especially at night. The men also filled holes in the walls with clay, straw, and animal manure. Gathering dung from the byre was Signy’s morning work, and watching her expression as she worked the slop of mud, straw, and clay together with bare hands had been one of the boy’s chief entertainments as he recovered day by day. He’d even chuckled when, trying to scratch her nose, Signy had smeared muck across her face. She’d stuck her tongue out at him, and they’d both laughed.

  His face was a little better now. The green slime had bred maggots because Gunnhilde would not allow the old layer to be removed when she added more on top, and that horrified Signy. The boy hated the creatures moving on his skin, but Gunnhilde would not let Signy pick them off. Just today, the nun had finally wiped away the fermented poultice with all its squirming inhabitants.

  Signy had been impressed. The maggots had eaten the burned flesh from the damaged side, and though the boy’s face would never be perfect, there was new skin where the worst of the burns had been and some of the puckering was smoothed. She’d tried to tell the boy with smiles and gestures, and perhaps he under-stood—he’d smiled as if he did.

  Signy, her head against the flank of the goat, thought about the boy; she knew his name now, for he’d told her. Pointing to his chest he’d whispered it: Magni. He had not told the others, just her. Goonhelda was kind, but he did not like the men, and they did not like him. Everyone knew it was dangerous to tell enemies your real name. Signy understood, and she was flattered he’d trusted her to use his name well. Yes, she should not have liked Magni, but she did. He made her laugh and he was brave; or perhaps she just missed her brothers. Signy stared over at the soot-dark hovel where Magni was lying. He had spent so much time there alone and in pain; Nid would have hated that.

  A cold wind ruffled the poppies. Signy shivered. Winter was coming, and soon they would all be forced inside unless she could work out how to mend the coracle and run away back to her home. But the work would have to be done before the gales—if not, she would have to wait until spring. And where would she get the skins?

  The goat stamped impatiently and tried to pull against the hobble. Signy said, wrathfully, “If you spill this, I swear I’ll skin you.”

  The nanny tried to butt her. Sitting cross-legged on the ground, Signy rescued the precious bucket of milk, but only just.

  “Oh, all right, you.” Signy stood carefully. She had to juggle the milk and the flowers and prevent the nanny from running ahead to a patch of grass. “There, greedy one.” Fixing the hobble, Signy watched the goat tear at the forage. She knew she could not put off going back for much longer but, shading her eyes, she stared toward the God stones. Could she risk stealing just a little of the milk? Only a small offering, in return for safe passage home, and she could take some of the poppies to the altar too. Gods liked red things, everyone knew that—they were the next best things to blood and fire.

  “Signy.” Gunnhilde was waving at her.

  Signy waved without enthusiasm. Too late. She cradled the flowers as she trudged toward the old woman. The fire pit would have to do for the sacrifice. It was good to have Gods on your side, and they liked it if you were practical—if you tried to help yourself instead of just asking for favors all the time. She liked Brother Veedoor, the kitchen monk, because he was practical too. He had only the fire trench in the shelter to cook with, but he managed to make quite tasty food, and Signy admired that.

  Since he was nice to her, Signy showed Veedoor how to make a bird net. Netting was much more efficient than Veedoor’s method of spreading badly made birdlime around the buildings, hoping roosting birds would stick to it.

  Flax grew near the rushes at the edge of the marsh; having picked
and soaked a quantity for some days, Signy scraped the rotted matter away from the long fibers just as her mother had taught her. Twisted, the strong cords could be knotted into a net with small stones attached around the edge. Signy demonstrated how to make a throw, and Veedoor practiced diligently until he’d mastered the skill. He’d done well, too, smoking the first birds he caught. Plucked and gutted, they’d been hung in the rafters over the fire, and though they were tough, he’d saved a wing or two just for her, which Signy appreciated.

  Tomorrow she’d get him some eggs in thanks—he’d worked out how to roast them in the coals without the shells exploding. Signy liked roasted eggs, they were much nicer than raw.

  “There you are.” Goonhelda took the milk. “Bear looks happy to see you.” She nodded toward the boy; he was sitting up. “There is food if you will feed him, please.” Veedoor at the fire trench held up flatbread—not all the barley had been burned in the fields.

  Bear. Signy knew why the old woman called Magni by that name. The skin jerkin he had worn, the only thing that survived from his past, was made from bearskin; he’d had woolen trousers, too, but they’d been charred, and the old woman had cut the rags off before she set the bones of his legs.

  Perhaps, thought Signy, it is better to be known by the name of a great and fierce animal—the spirit will help Magni. And I can call him that too. It will be safer.

  On impulse, before she gave him the bread, Signy put several poppies in Bear’s hands. For you. She smiled and nodded, but he stared at her, confused.

  You do not know, and I cannot tell you. Signy backed away. Tonight, when everyone was asleep, she would sacrifice the rest of the red flowers in the fire trench and, as well as praying for a safe return home, she would ask Cruach that Bear’s healing might be complete and that he be given a happy life—perhaps even with his own family.

  But they are murderers! That was another voice in her head, and it was true. Was Bear a killer too?

  Bear did not understand Signy’s strange smile when she gave him the flowers or why, suddenly, her eyes darkened when she looked at him, almost as if she was scared. But he hoped she knew the gift made him happy.

  Seven times each day all of Findnar’s inhabitants, including Signy, stopped what they were doing when Cuillin struck a metal cauldron. One side was cracked, and it was no substitute for the bell taken by the raiders, but the discordant clank was loud enough to be heard all over the island.

  Clongk! Clongk! Clongk! It was the third summons of the day. Tierce. Was that what they called this one?

  Signy bent her head and rapidly crossed her chest, mumbling anything she could think of—the names of flowers, of the colors of the sky, the fish in the sea. She knew now that the newcomers were praying, just as she prayed to her Gods, but they did it so often, and that wasted a great deal of time.

  Standing together beside the now orderly piles of building stone, Cuillin and Gunnhilde finished reciting their prayers. The monk crossed himself and gestured toward the girl in the distance—the pose, at least, was pious. “So, Sister, do you think she prayed with us? Really prayed to our Lord?”

  Gunnhilde smiled affectionately. “Of course not, Brother. She has no real idea what any of this means, yet.”

  Cuillin frowned heavily. “You know she’ll run away the first chance she gets.”

  “But until we have another boat, there is no way to leave the island, Brother. Plainly it is God’s wish that we live together here, in peace, until that time. All of us.” Gunnhilde smiled at her brother. He was a most worthy man but utterly without humor or, it seemed, an understanding of natural human affection. She asked God to grace his heart with compassion.

  At that moment, Signy looked up and smiled like any ordinary child. The nun waved cheerily, and she whispered, for Cuillin’s benefit as much as hers, “You might be surprised, Brother. She will make the Lord proud one day, I’m sure of it. Bear as well.”

  The monk snorted but said nothing more. Gunnhilde was too partial. He, however, saw things clearly and had no time for the wavering mist of sentiment—it just confused things.

  He stared at the girl as she drew closer. A trick of the light seemed to crown her head with the ring of distant stones, and he stiffened with distaste.

  Heathens were like mongrel dogs, almost impossible to tame or train, and they always bit the hand that fed them when they had you fooled. Well, he was no fool, and he would not permit Gunnhilde to be savaged either.

  CHAPTER 10

  WALKING UP the steep street between white cottages, Freya recognized the small shopping area from the night of her arrival. There was a chemist, a hardware shop, an old-fashioned haberdasher, a butcher—charmingly described as “General Smallgoodsman and Purveyor of Quality Fare”—a fishmonger, and quite a large supermarket. That seemed a pity to Freya—so many old houses must have been cleared to make room.

  And there, in front of her, was the library—all colonnaded front and gilded lettering. Once, to judge from the size of this building, books had been taken very seriously in Portsolly.

  Briiiiiink! The bell on the library counter grated like that of an old-fashioned bicycle. A suitable noise, one to match ornate glass cabinets and oak tables laid out in rows. There were old-fashioned linoleum floor tiles, too, polished to a gleam, and signs saying SILENCE, IF YOU PLEASE written in the graphic style of another time. It felt eerily like the set of The 39 Steps.

  “Can I help?”

  Freya jumped. A woman with crisply bobbed hair had arrived behind the counter. Flat shoes and a tweed skirt, even a hand-knitted cardigan over a blouse with a Peter Pan collar—definitely a blouse, not a shirt—this was the librarian from central casting.

  Freya coughed—it was that or giggle. “Yes, thank you.” She smiled sweetly, and in her best I’ve-really-been-very-well-brought-up-please-ignore-the-scruffy-clothes voice, she said, “I’m on the hunt for some information.”

  A calm response but not warm. “Yes?”

  “Er, yes. Compline House on Findnar Island? I’d like to research its history, and that of the ruins as well.”

  “The Abbey.” A definitive statement.

  “Possibly.” Freya was becoming annoyed.

  The woman’s eyes were pale blue and cooler by the moment. “I think you will find the evidence points to that conclusion.”

  Freya’s smile stretched only so far. “I live on Findnar, that’s why I’m interested.”

  The librarian blinked. “Then you will be Michael Dane’s daughter.” A statement, not a question. She flicked a glance at the only other person in the room, a large woman trussed in too-tight tweed; she, too, was staring.

  Fresh gossip in the town tonight, that’s me. Freya hunched defensively. She dropped her voice. “Yes. I’m from Sydney. But I . . .” It was hard to put into words when it came to it. “As I said, I really just want to know more about Findnar—it’s so interesting.” And that, Freya Dane, is a cop-out.

  The librarian’s expression warmed by just the smallest amount. “Naturally, we have many books on the history of the whole area, including Findnar.” She pointed at a corner where a glass cabinet was set slightly apart. “Please be careful, however; many of the books in that section are old and valuable—and fragile too. Some may not be borrowed, of course.” It was said without emphasis; there was still that hint of disapproval.

  Freya returned service. “And you are?”

  The woman lifted her chin. “I am Katherine Wallace Mac-Allister, Portsolly’s chief librarian. And I had the pleasure to count myself a friend of your father’s for many years.”

  A friend of your father’s. Someone who was a part of Michael’s life here, the years in which Freya had had no presence.

  Katherine MacAllister’s expression softened at the distress Freya could not quite hide, and the girl saw the librarian was younger than she’d first thought. Close up, Katherine’s skin was unlined, and there was only a little gray in her hair—it was the manner that made her seem middle-aged,
and the clothes.

  “Would you like, that is . . .” Katherine’s tone was tentative.

  She wants to tell me about him, but Freya could not tolerate the compassion in the woman’s eyes. She spoke over the librarian. “Thank you for your help. I have all I need for the moment.”

  Freya’s table had too many books on it. Geology, history, theology, biography—even short-story anthologies—and each volume related to the far Northeast of Scotland as well as Findnar. It would be the work of months to absorb even some of the facts, but facts took Freya away from confusion, for a while.

  It all felt so familiar. Taking notes, organizing topics, grouping references for further study—she’d always liked research, liked grazing when she could not be sure what she wanted to find but trusted something to jump off the page.

  The library was a solid building and, absorbed in her work, Freya had not heard the rattle of rain on the windows. She looked up from her notes only when the street door blew open and then shut with a crash. A rubbish basket fell over in the gust. It rolled into a leg of her desk, strewing its contents around her feet; surreptitiously Freya picked up an apple core from the floor. Hers, it had strayed from the upturned bin. You weren’t supposed to eat in the library, several notices said so.

  Rubbing her eyes, she bent to tidy the debris and registered the library clock. “Bugger!” It was close to seven. She didn’t want to be caught on the open water of the strait at evening, not if more rough weather was on its way.