The Island House

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  Cuillin, appearances to the contrary, was not without pity, and yet he hardened his heart. For you, Lord, only for you is the stray lamb brought back to the fold with diligence. With manful effort, he achieved a reasonable tone. “No, dear Sister, you are wrong. Bear and Signy knew what they were doing. The boy, as the elder, might have led her astray, but they chose this evil path willingly. And if they were strong enough to take that ship . . .”

  Signy edged closer to Bear. Her understanding was not so good that she grasped the meaning of each word, but fast she knew, and also scourge. Big-eyed, she trembled as she knelt beside her friend. Bear saw the effect of Cuillin’s words on Signy, and he began to tremble also—with rage.

  “But, Brother, they returned the ship. They thought better of what they did and brought her back to us. And they came willingly, knowing they would be punished, when they could just have continued on. Surely that counts for something?”

  God’s warrior tried not to waver. “Perhaps our actions will seem cruel now, Sister, yet we are responsible for the souls of these children in all eternity. Through too much kindness, too much indulgence”—his gaze was implacable—“Satan came close to seizing them both. God’s intentions are clear, and by our chastisement of their bodies, the Evil One shall be banished from their hearts.”

  Cuillin bent to pull Signy to her feet, but Bear knocked the monk’s hand aside. Glaring into Cuillin’s eyes, he thrust his body in front of Signy. “I kill you.” Rage bloodied his voice, but his eyes were blank and wide—the stare of a man, not a boy.

  Cuillin recoiled; he signed a cross between himself and the minion of Satan he now saw. “Child of Hell!”

  “Brother. Brother!” Gunnhilde hurried forward. “They are just frightened and hungry and cold. Our Lord said, ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me’; He wants us to show them His light, not destroy it forever in their hearts.” She knew Cuillin would not forgive her, but she had to try.

  The Abbot was not, ordinarily, a cruel man, and in that moment he was given enough Grace to see the truth.

  Standing over the terrified girl, his fingers held like claws—the only weapons he had—Bear was just an exhausted boy protecting someone he cared for, and she was only a starving child.

  It was true, also, that they had returned the ship when they might, it seemed, so easily have sailed away forever. Had God, then, worked within them? Was this His message here?

  Cuillin took a step back. He hated administration, it was his own particular cross to bear, but that, too, was the Lord’s will, and last night, to defeat worldly pride in his elevation, he had flayed his back with the scourge to such a degree that he’d hardly slept. Dizzy with exhaustion, he pressed a hand to his eyes. “Very well, Sister, I shall pray that God guides me further in this matter. But you must know that the Lord’s instructions will be carried forward when it pleases Him to further enlighten me.”

  Gunnhilde snatched the monk’s hand and kissed it. “Bless you, dear Abbot Cuillin. Compassion is the quality of Christ—you walk in His sweet shadow with your mercy.”

  Cuillin waved his hand, dismissing them all. If he was to salvage any dignity from this fiasco, he must pray in solitude and ask God’s forgiveness for the weakness of his will.

  Whispering, the nun chivied the pair from the chapel. “Quickly, children, we must not disturb the Abbot’s prayers.”

  Signy did not really know what had happened, but her legs trembled and she was very frightened. Bear grabbed her hand. “I will not let him hurt you, Signy.” She had no time to reply as they were swept on toward the shelter.

  “Now, child, you cannot wear those clothes.” Gunnhilde pointed at the blood-red tunic—in itself an appalling color—for it exposed the girl’s arms. “Our new brothers and sisters have brought clothing with them, and there must be something . . .” Bending, she riffled the contents of a coffer and pulled out a black kirtle. “Let me see if this is too big.”

  “But, Sister, my mother made this.” Signy did not surrender her tunic easily, batting aside the old woman’s hands. But the nun managed to hold the black kirtle against the girl’s body. “Signy, you must stand still. The Abbot will be angry if he sees you improperly dressed.”

  The child’s eyes filled. There was no escape; this was what returning to Findnar meant. She managed to say, “If I may not wear them, will you look after my clothes? Please, Sister. They are all I have of my mother.”

  Gunnhilde sighed, but she understood. “Very well, I shall keep them among the habits. Do not look, boy.”

  Signy removed her red tunic as slowly as she could; she glanced at Bear as he turned his back—he had given up so much because she would not leave Laenna.

  But as the nun fussed, Bear dared to smile over his shoulder. It was a brave smile, one of absolution.

  Signy mouthed, “Thank you.”

  He nodded.

  But for Signy and for Bear, the comfort they truly sought, the love of a family, a place by the fire at the heart of their clans, was missing.

  And that night in separate places, huddled among the snoring members of their own sexes, both sobbed until they slept at last.

  “It still seems very strange to me, Laenna, the things they believe.”

  Signy rolled over, sucking a stem of grass. She was supposed to be herding the goats away from the cliff, but she’d hobbled the nannies close by, and their kids did not stray far from their mothers. It was hard to find time to talk to her sister among so many chores.

  “Take the Mass.” Seven seasons had passed since her return to the island, and it was spring again. Signy knew much more about the Christians now—she no longer called them newcomers—but she was still confused by some of the things they did each day. “You know, the sisters and brothers really do think they eat His flesh and drink His blood. The Jesus. It’s supposed to be magic, because all we see is bread and ale. What I want to know is why they can’t just put honey on the altar like everyone else?”

  It was a rhetorical question, and Signy knew why, because Gunnhilde had told her the story many times. And yet she still felt queasy when she thought of the way their God-person died. It seemed barbaric and odd that they liked to hear how much He had suffered.

  “But you don’t have to worry about any of that.” Signy patted her sister’s headstone. “I should get the goats back. I’ll come again tomorrow, when I can sneak off.”

  She stood up. She felt dizzy, and her belly griped. It was similar to the pain of eating too many hard apples, similar—but different.

  Signy looked down. She’d made herself a nest in the grass beside the grave, and there was blood where she’d been sitting—not much, but enough to tell her that childhood, today, had ended.

  It was a shock. She knew about the moontide, of course, everyone did, but there were always ceremonies, for in her family, and her clan, the first moontide of a girl was important.

  Light-headed, Signy slumped to her knees. “Laenna, I wish you were here—we could go to the stones together. You remember, don’t you? Our mother was so proud when it was your time.”

  Laenna’s first moontide had happened in the year before the disastrous raid, and all the women from their clan, and the female members of their own family, had rowed to Findnar with her to celebrate at the stones.

  That gathering had caused great trouble with the Christians, for they’d been angry about the nature of the Women’s Mysteries and rudely interrupted before Laenna’s ceremony was properly finished. If the men of the clan had been there, perhaps blood would truly have been spilled rather than celebrated. It was after that incident that clan members began to visit Findnar surreptitiously.

  “What should I do, Laenna?” Signy was being deferential to her older sister because she knew what must be done. At the rising of the next new moon, prayer should be offered at the stones, asking for long life and fertility. Something important needed to be sacrificed too—something red. It was the wrong season for berries, and even if she’d been able
to find any, they would not have been enough. Perhaps she should take the red tunic back and offer it to Cruach, though it upset her to think of giving the work of her mother’s hands to the stones.

  “And there will be no one to do the chants with me.” Loss stabbed Signy—this would have been such joyous news to give her mother, her aunts, and her female cousins.

  Tears dropped down Signy’s cheeks as she doubled over her tender belly. She must remember that the pain she felt was good, that it had a purpose.

  Signy raised her arms toward the sky. “I have lived nearly fourteen summers, and today I am a woman. I claim my place in the clan, a child no longer.”

  She dropped her arms and sniffed. Perhaps Gunnhilde would understand—she had no one else to talk to.

  The old woman looked anxious. “You are sure, Signy?”

  Signy nodded patiently. “Yes, Sister. I have my first moontide.”

  Gunnhilde’s eyes widened. “Hush! We do not speak of such things.” She hurried to a coffer against one wall of the nuns’ dormitory. “You will need these.” She offered Signy a bundle of rags. “You put them between your legs and then tie them around your waist—like a belt.” Embarrassed, the old woman fumbled the cloth into an approximate shape.

  The girl stared at her. “Thank you, Sister, but I wanted to ask about the pain and—” She stopped. Gunnhilde had placed a hand firmly across her mouth.

  “Signy, you cannot have been paying attention. I told you the story of Eve; it will answer all your questions.”

  “But the pain—I don’t remember that bit.” Signy was bewildered.

  Gunnhilde tried not to speak of such things, since the body was too easily the plaything of the Devil, but it was her duty as Novice Mistress to put her own feelings aside when she counseled her girls. “Let me remind you of what happened, Signy. Satan, in the guise of a serpent, tempted Eve with apples from the tree of knowledge. God had forbidden only this one thing to Adam and Eve, but Satan was very wily. He knew that our first mother as a woman was weak and foolish, and he convinced her to give in to temptation—and so she ate the apple. Then Eve persuaded Adam to eat the fruit, too, and God saw this disobedience. The pair, man and woman, were cast from the garden of Paradise together, and as punishment God decreed that women should bring forth their children in pain and suffering as penance.” Agitated, the old woman pointed at the rags in Signy’s hands. “Bleeding each month reminds us of the sin of all women. We must bear the pain in silence and subjection, for we betrayed mankind.”

  Signy frowned. “But, Sister, I am not Eve, and I have betrayed no one. The moontide is a good thing—it means I will have babies.”

  “Hush!” Gunnhilde glanced around the dormitory. It was empty—the other nuns would be assembling for Tierce. “I must go to the chapel.” As she spoke, the bell began. “I shall pray for you, child, and I shall ask our Lord that you gain a proper understanding, but you must not come to the church while you are bleeding, nor must you help in the kitchen. This time each month you are unclean.” The old nun signed a cross over Signy’s head and hurried away.

  Signy stared after Gunnhilde—living among the Christians was so strange, sometimes. What would have happened if she and Bear had journeyed on? Would her life have been happier? Whatever he said, his family might not have accepted her. On Findnar she was a servant and generally kindly treated; with his people she might have become a slave and still been a stranger among people who believed different things—other different things, it was true, but the raiders were fierce and violent. The Christians were not fierce, just severe.

  Laenna, you have to help. I’m so confused.

  Bear did not sleep among the brothers anymore. His living quarters were a crude hut he’d been permitted to construct next to the new animal byre. It was there, after Compline, that he spent his evenings in solitude, banished from the company of the monks. It was presumed that Bear slept the hours away in sloth, but that presumption was wrong.

  The winter after he and Signy returned to Findnar, the youth had found a whale rib on the sands of the cove. Cast up after a storm, it was almost twice as long as he was, and Bear covered it with sea wrack until he could remove it unseen.

  In a night of thick rain, when none of the brothers or sisters was outside the Abbey buildings, he’d hauled it back to his hut. There he’d slit the neck of a stolen cockerel in thanks; the blood sacrifice was to Loki the Shape Shifter, so that he would not be seen by Christ’s men.

  Bear felt guilty about the bird—the poultry were Signy’s responsibility—but he asked the help of the God of Fire here too. Let them not know about the chicken; let Signy be safe from their malice.

  Perhaps it was Loki who inspired Bear that night for, as reparation, he decided to make her a gift.

  It was the labor of all that winter and three seasons of the following year, but length by length Bear worked the whale bone into useful things, and some objects he made for their beauty alone.

  In that first year as a maker, his fingers were clumsy. Unused to such delicate work, they had a hard time creating the forms he saw in his head. His tools, too, were crude—scrapers of flint he chipped to an edge, a knife blade stolen from the refectory—but gradually his shape-making skill increased.

  The only light to work by was the small fire in his hut, and there were many failures from his first attempts, but the handle for a knife—a sea otter—at last pleased him. Soon other creatures hiding in the bone emerged—horses, hunting dogs, a bull. Smoothing them with sand hour by hour, he marveled at the beauty of the whale ivory, its translucence when he worked it, its purity.

  And toward the end of the second year, when he thought his skill was adequate, he fashioned the tiny image of a ship in full sail—this was his gift to Signy, and as yet he had not given it to her. Rigidly enforced divisions between men and women on the island meant that they spoke little, and he did not want to bring trouble to his friend. Soon, however, he would find her. Soon. When the time was right.

  “Signy. Over here!”

  She was on her knees in the herb garden behind the kitchen picking comfrey for the Infirmarian.

  Panicked, she looked around. “You should not be here, Bear. You know that.”

  The boy grinned engagingly. “No one to see—I checked. They’re all still praying.”

  Signy stood. Cruach was at her back, and light picked out the edges and folds of the black kirtle.

  Bear paused; he did not like to see Signy dressed in black—she was not one of them and, besides, black was the color of the carrion crow’s plumage. But he smoothed his expression and sauntered toward her, not too fast, not too slow, his heart rising in his chest. In these last months his beard had grown, and he could feel that the soft bristles covered some of his scars. That gave him confidence.

  “It is good to see you, Signy.”

  “Hello, Bear.” She glanced at him shyly. “Should you not be plowing?” It was summer. The barley stubble had been burned in the fields, and seed would soon be sown for the winter crop.

  Bear shook his head. “Finished. Bullock’s fed and watered too—I started early. They have nothing to reproach me with.”

  Signy rearranged the leaves she’d gathered in her apron. She was nervous; so was he.

  Bear held out his hand, fingers closed over the palm. “I’ve brought you something. A present.”

  “For me?” Signy’s eyes shone, but she put her own hands behind her back as if to resist temptation.

  Bear glanced away. Signy had grown up, and it hurt him to look at her. He wanted to touch her skin.

  In the silence they could hear bees.

  Bear swallowed. “Shall I show you?”

  Hesitantly, Signy moved toward him. “If you like.”

  They were standing so close he could smell her, lavender and fresh grass, and Bear was suddenly terrified. She might not like what he had made. “It’s not much.” The words came out rough, as if he were angry.

  Signy’s eyes widened. She
seemed hurt—and confused.

  So was Bear. His heart jolted, but he opened his fingers, and on his palm lay the little ship, jaunty and full of spirit.

  “You can use it for a cloak clasp or a brooch.”

  Lightly, by accident, her fingers touched his palm as she turned the ship over; a slender pin fitted into a keeper on the reverse.

  “I tried to write your name, too, but I don’t know all the runes.” He held the piece close to her eyes so she could see the detail.

  Signy stared silently at what he had made.

  “You do not like it.” Bear was shamed. He turned away.

  Signy touched his wrist. “You are wrong. It is . . .” She paused. With great reverence she picked the little carving up.

  “This is . . . It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and you made it for me.”

  Relief was hope. Bear said, eagerly, “I made her to remind you. One day, we will leave this place again together.”

  They were staring at each other. Bear’s throat and his gut were drum-tight, for he had said what was in his heart before he had known it.

  Signy’s eyes clouded. She stepped away from him, a formal, graceful movement.

  “I must finish my work. Thank you for the present, Bear. It shall be my treasure.”

  “Wait! I want to show you this too.” Hastily he removed the knife from a small scabbard on his belt.

  Signy’s eyes were always candid, and now they widened with awe. “This is just like a real otter. You are so clever, Bear. You really are.” She touched the edge of the blade. “But where did you get the iron?”

  Anywhere else and Bear would have shouted out loud for the pleasure of her compliment. In Signy’s presence, he shrugged. “From a candle sconce.” He grinned. “There was a flurry when they missed it, but no one suspected me.” Why would they? To the Christians, he was the Pagan, a brute with little feeling, just like an ox or a mule. “Brother Simon in the smithy helped me—he’s my friend; the haft is whale ivory, too, from the same piece that made the ship.”