No one else knew, now, that he felt like that.
There had been happy times, too, in her father’s life. How do you carve happiness into a monument, or laughter? If Michael Dane had been an enigma, this piece of stone was mute about his complexity.
Freya turned away from her father’s grave clear-eyed. His body might be buried here, but his work was all that remained of his voice; perhaps that was the way she could speak with him again.
At the cemetery gate, she stopped and looked back. She lifted her hand in salute. Sleep well, Dad. I’ll be back.
No, she didn’t believe in the afterlife, but she’d try to understand what he’d wanted her to do.
It turned out there was a shop that sold camping equipment in Portsolly, and even though Freya did not relish using her single credit card, she treated herself to a fleece-lined hat, two pairs of gloves, a gas-cartridge camping light, and an extralarge flashlight. Apples, a few oranges, six eggs (she’d forgotten them before), fresh bread, bacon, a head of lettuce, tomatoes, and washing powder from the supermarket, and she was ready to go back to the island.
Trapped by the lights where the main street of Portsolly joined the coast road, a line of small cars was not going anywhere. One or two interested glances were cast Freya’s way as she hurried down the hill toward the harbor, but she was oblivious, focused on getting back to Findnar.
Nearly there now, nearly to where she’d left the little cruiser moored. The bright sea, the soft breeze with its tang, and the smell of kelp—all these real and natural things—filled Freya with relief after the complexity of the last twenty-four hours. She wanted to shout Thank you! when she saw the wharf, and just over there . . .
It was gone. Michael’s cruiser wasn’t there.
Freya stared. She must be mistaken—she must have just forgotten where she’d moored it. She hurried the length of the wharf, searching.
The harbor was busy with boats lining up behind the breakwater—small sailing craft, one or two bigger yachts, and even a three-masted ketch. The trawlers would have left at first light, but her boat was gone. Definitely. Confusion flashed to anger in one crisp second—the cruiser had been stolen.
There was a shout. “Freya!”
She turned. Walter was waving from the top of the workshop slipway.
She ran toward him. His expression changed as she got closer. “What’s wrong, lass?”
“Dad’s boat. It’s gone.”
He spoke over her. “Are you sure?” He craned to look past her shoulder.
“It’s disappeared, Walter. Really it has. I looked just now; someone’s taken it. Does Portsolly have a police station?”
Walter was as angry as she was. “It does, and we’ll get this sorted, don’t you worry.”
He barreled through the workshop door, calling out, “Daniel! Get off the phone.”
From the door of the office, Daniel stared at his father and then at Freya, a handset cradled between chin and shoulder.
“Hang on, won’t be a moment,” he said. The tone was cool.
Walter wasn’t having any. “Give me that.” He spoke into the phone as he snatched it from his son. “Call you back, Denny. Don’t let them give you rubbish—backsawn oak, that’s what we want.” He pressed the disconnect.
“I was halfway through the order, Dad.” Daniel spoke mildly, but he frowned at Freya.
She glowered right back—the nice girl had just taken a holiday.
Seeing the exchange, Walter quickly said, “Freya’s boat’s been stolen. Hello? Hello!”
He turned away. “I want to report a theft. Of a cruiser, and I’ve got a suspect for you . . . Right.” He glanced at Freya. “Yes. The owner’s with me now.” He put his hand over the receiver. “They want a statement. I can take you to the cop shop.”
She nodded. The bright day had just turned dark.
“I’ve had an idea.” Walter pulled the door of the police station closed as he and Freya left.
Not really listening, Freya nodded politely. She was exasperated and feeling sad. All she wanted was to get back to Findnar.
“You want to go to the island, right?”
She stopped in the street. “Yes, I do, and, Walter, I’ve been thinking too. Could I hire a dinghy from you? Just until the cops deal with this.”
But Walter spoke over her. “They’ll find Michael’s craft in a day or two, don’t you worry about that—Portsolly’s small. So we’ll take you back today, and soon as the cops locate the cruiser, we’ll tow it over. Meanwhile, when you want to come over to Port, just call; Boyne’s water taxi. Simple.”
Freya was torn. It was nice for the problem to be solved so easily, and she’d get a chance to talk to Walter, too, as they crossed the strait—maybe he could tell her more about Michael in his final months. But independence whispered a caution; she’d be beholden to the Boynes—more beholden. Did she want that?
“Never play poker, Freya.” Walter laughed. “Just like your dad. You don’t like favors. But this isn’t; this is neighbors and friends.”
Freya could feel the heat in her face. “You’ve been so good to me already and . . .” Embarrassed, she let the words die.
Walter chivied her on, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Morning’s wasting. Step out, lass.” He stabbed a number, and someone answered.
“Where are you? Good.” A quick look at Freya. “Yes. Down in two.”
The boats had thinned out by the time they walked to the working part of the harbor, and Freya saw, for the first time, the trawler that had caused Michael Dane’s death.
The Holy Isle was large and fine and brave. A scarlet hull, fresh white paint; she might have been new except that she wasn’t. She’d been a wreck, and they’d brought her back from the sea, brought her back to life. Freya’s vision blurred. It’s just a boat. Don’t be stupid.
Walter did not see her distress as he surged ahead toward the wharf. “Dan, where are you?”
And there was Daniel Boyne, standing on the deck staring down. Surly.
Freya snapped her eyes out to sea. Dear God, lend me patience.
“Freya wants to get over to the island, so we’ll use the runabout.” Tethered to the stern of the trawler was a large clinker-built dinghy, and the serious outboard motor said the craft was all about work.
Walter took charge; he bustled back to where Freya stood. “Let’s get your stuff onboard.”
More in command of herself, she surrendered the backpack gratefully; the weight of the books had carved trenches in her shoulders. “Thanks. I can manage the shopping.”
As he busied himself with checking fuel, Walter called over his shoulder, “Dan, help the girl.”
Daniel Boyne clambered down to stand beside Freya on the wharf. She tried not to notice how long it took.
He gestured at the bag from the camping store and the bags of groceries. “I’ll take those.”
Freya wanted to say, Don’t bother, but she didn’t. Silently, she allowed him to pick up the bags and watched as he limped toward the hull and stowed her possessions on the boards under the seats.
Walter was all focus. “Right. So, run Freya across the strait, Dan, and I’ll call Denny back about the order.”
“But I thought . . .” Freya started. I’d rather chew my arm off! Family training meant she couldn’t do it, couldn’t actually be rude. Not out loud.
Daniel seemed no happier than she felt. “Dad, there’s a great deal to do and—”
“And I’ll do it. See you in an hour.” Walter stumped off without a glance back.
The silence was embarrassing.
Freya broke it without enthusiasm. “Where would you like me to sit?” Scrupulously polite; Elizabeth would have been proud.
Daniel mumbled something.
Freya did not ask him what he’d said. With a gracious bob of the head, she clambered down to sit amidships murmuring, “Thank you,” trying to grease the wheels of politeness. The actual meaning of the word made no sense, for she felt no speci
es of gratitude to Daniel Boyne.
The radiant day had turned sullen. As they powered out into the strait, the sky was layers of pewter descending to ominous dark in the east. Smooth as oil and powerful, the sea heaved and flexed beneath the dinghy—these were the sinews and muscles of the deep. Building up strength for later, thought Freya.
Dan opened the throttle wider, and noise extinguished the possibility of conversation unless one of them wanted to shout. Freya didn’t, and neither, it seemed, did Dan. However, she felt the difference between this dinghy and her father’s cruiser. Michael’s boat was certainly serviceable, but this craft had a heft all its own for heading into the wind and, when she sneaked a glance at Dan, he seemed at ease steering the runabout. They crossed the open water without incident, though foam was beginning to blow from the wave caps.
Sweeping past the headland, Freya saw the cave mouth. She pointed and Dan nodded. Heading in, he choked the motor back until the dinghy wallowed in a trough between two large waves. He gestured for her to move aside. “I need to row us in. Safest way.” He pointed to her current seat between the rowlocks.
“Of course.”
With some difficulty, Freya clambered to the prow as Dan took her seat and shipped oars. The backpack was in the way and, impatient to catch the following sea, he picked it up to toss to her. “Here.”
Freya leaned forward hastily. “Don’t throw it.” She almost snatched it from his hands. “There are valuable books in here.” Oaf!
Dan said nothing. Hauling hard, first one hand, then the other, he allowed the crest of the wave behind to push the dinghy toward the cave at an angle. It was a nicely judged maneuver, and the little boat slid beneath the arch as if on a rail. At that moment, the rain came after them like bullets bouncing across the sea.
Freya was jittery and close to tears. It would be torture to wait out the weather in the cave with this man. She wanted to be warm and secure in the house, preferably locked in, but veils of gray were sweeping in from the open water, and she could see them lined up in rows as far as the horizon; there’d be no respite for some time.
Freya mustered her manners. “Thanks, Dan, very kind. I’ll put my stuff in the cart and be off.”
He shrugged. “You’ll get wet.” One oar feathered, and the dinghy nudged up to the quay. “Tie her up.”
That nettled Freya. “I was just going to.”
To show him that boats were her natural territory as much as his, she jumped to the quay, a neat hop. Tying the prow line securely, she turned to reach down for her things.
The dinghy rocked beneath Dan as he stood up with her pack.
“Careful!” And, of course, Freya wished she hadn’t said that.
He was offended. “I won’t drop it.” He held it up.
Freya took the pack with a tight smile. The flap was loose, and she could see Katherine’s present lying on top of the books. Fearful the bag had been splashed with seawater, she knelt and took the package out; inside the shopping bag were layers of tissue and a wadding of cotton wool, she peeled that back carefully.
Black stone stark in its white nest, the bone of Christ’s body was stained by the earth it had lain in—Katherine’s crucifix. There was no note.
Freya picked it up very carefully. That contorted body, this ruined face, was tragedy given form. So much pain. Her father had brought it out of the earth, but now Katherine had given it to her. How much this gift must have cost her. Freya’s eyes filled.
Putting the last bags on the quay, Dan tried not to see Freya’s distress. “That’s the last of them.”
She managed a nod as she fumbled rewrapping the crucifix.
Dan’s eyes softened, and he said mildly, “Here, let me.”
Freya snapped. She grabbed his hand just as it touched the bone figure.
And something happened.
Flames shone in his eyes, the reflection from some great burning. Screams. A monstrous howling. Agony. Terror. Somewhere a bell clamored.
There was a woman. Hair wild, face streaked with tears and blood, dressed in a ripped brown tunic, she struggled to hold a massive book above her head, as if to ward off a blow. A man stepped close; his sword had a red edge.
Freya clutched the crucifix. Physical pressure at the top of her skull, an immense pain, made her gasp. The air was charged; she could smell ozone, as if lightning had hit them both. She had to look at him. “Did you see?”
Dan stared at her. He shook his head.
“But . . .” Freya knew he was lying, his green face told her that. She was astonished. Not even angry.
Dan stood straighter, unraveled his spine joint by joint. “I’ll get back,” he said. He climbed into the stern of the dinghy and fired the outboard. He raised a hand but did not look back as he took the boat out into the strait.
Freya wanted him to go. When he waved, it felt like a hive of wasps moved into her head; it stung to think and it was hard to stand, but something lanced through the dark behind her eyes, the buzzing, burning shadow. Twice. Twice in one day she’d been . . . somewhere.
And now Daniel Boyne had been there too. Why?
CHAPTER 14
SHE WAS a very well-made boat, and she had good manners. As Signy scrambled from one side of the deck to the other on Bear’s orders, constantly pulling on the lines while he steered, the keel rode easily over a running sea. The moon had reached its zenith, and the silver road laid out before the prow was brighter than any beacon calling them home.
“I can see it. My village! Ow!” Signy fell between two rowing benches.
“Signy! Where are you?”
The child struggled up, smiling, and wiped blood from a cut over one eye. “Here I am.”
The moon caught her bright teeth, her happy grin, as she swayed and hopped over the obstacles toward him. But then she peered at the narrow mouth into her clan’s harbor.
“How shall we bring her in, Bear?”
The boy glanced at Signy’s worried face. He was calm, for her. “We’ll drop the sail off a bit—we only need enough belly to steer her by. It will be nice to sleep in a proper house tonight, won’t it?”
She grinned. “Oh, it will. My own bed, after a heap of rotten straw. It’s close to the fire too. My father built it for us, and it’s stuffed deep with heather and sheepskins. Me and Laenna, we share . . .”
Signy gulped. Her sister had another bed now. What would she tell their mother?
“Let out the sail.” Bear pointed. “A bit at a time.”
She nodded and darted to one side of the boat. Unlashed, the rope that held the sail ran across her palm, hot as fire.
“Good. Now the other side.” He did his best to sound confident.
But Signy knew Bear well after this last sorrowful year. He was anxious and trying not to show it. She caught the line quickly.
“Pull it in! More . . . That’s enough.”
But maybe it was not. The hull was still running hard, planing toward the harbor opening with an active following sea as Signy stared ahead. She swallowed. If they made it through, there was another obstacle, for rocks lay on either side. Easy enough to avoid in the day, night and moonlight changed everything. Something huge and black—the jagged tooth of a sea monster, wet and shining—reared up. “There!”
Bear saw what she saw.
“Steer!” He scrambled over the benches toward the taut sail. How much time did they have? The boat plunged toward the harbor’s entrance, and Bear could not loose the sail lines quickly enough.
“Laenna, help us!” Signy tried to hold the ship. She could hear Bear cursing, then flapping and snapping; the sail was loose.
But the sea carried them on.
Bear was beside her again, and it was enough, just, that they held the tiller on the steering oar together.
“How steep is the beach?” He spoke softly, transfixed by the land rushing toward them out of the dark—the zone where the earth met sea.
Signy shook her head. “It changes each winter. I don’t know
. . .”
Now they did. The keel tree grounded with a shuddering wallop, and the hull was flung sideways. Signy lost her hold, and the world swung away, out of her control.
“No!” Bear tried to catch Signy, tried to grab her as she fell, but he was not fast enough. He could only plunge after, trying to control his own descent into the black water.
“Bear!” She thought she’d said his name, but the sea filled her mouth and then the stern swung.
The steering oar, loosed from control, clipped Signy’s head, and dark swallowed her whole.
The moon found her because air was trapped in the folds of her tunic. Buoyed up, she was held half-suspended between the moving surface of the sea and its floor, fathoms deep.
The moon tracked over the floating girl, and Bear saw her face—white against black. He went down again, down to get her, like a cormorant. And grasped her wrist.
And though his own body was mortally weak, something—enough—was left of the strength that had held the ship. Lungs collapsing, blood in his mouth, he hauled her skyward, starward.
His head burst through to the air, and hers followed. If he could just get her to the shore, if he could only squeeze the sea from her chest, if . . .
Signy lay open-eyed on the surface of the water.
“Help her!” What God would hear him in the surf’s roar?
Time ceased. There were only the stars to see his despair as Bear struggled to the beach. Half-sitting in the shallows, he held Signy from behind, his arms clamped around that frail chest. He’d seen it done like this when men were hauled from the sea having fallen from one of Reimer’s ships.
Signy was too young to have breasts, but as Bear compressed her chest, he could feel ribs like little sticks beneath the skin.
“Breathe for me, Signy!” He was shouting at her, blind to everything but that calm, indifferent face.
Nothing. There was nothing.
Sobbing, Bear dragged Signy from the shallows and laid her on the hard sand, away from the waves. All he had was his own breath. Gasping air, he sealed his mouth over hers and blew. And again. Once more. Her mouth was soft and slack, her teeth a hard little barrier, but he would empty his life into her body if he exploded his own lungs to do it.
The Island House Page 13
