The Island House

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  Signy was troubled by this easy confession of a sin, but Bear trusted her. She would tell no one.

  “Both pieces are very fine. Truly, Bear, you should be proud.”

  Bear colored but said, impulsively, “This winter Simon will teach me to make charcoal too. The forge will burn hotter, and then we can make stronger iron. One day I will make swords—good ones that hold a proper edge.”

  Signy touched the knife blade again, testing the edge. Her eyes were serious. “Why would you want a sword on Findnar? This is a place of peace.”

  A place of peace? Bear wanted to laugh, but that would upset his friend. Instead, he held the knife toward her. “Hold it, Signy, it’s very well balanced.”

  She glanced at him, but did as he asked. Bear stood behind her, guiding her fingers along the otter’s body.

  “The secret is the grip. See? Like this.” He rested the haft in the length of her palm and closed her fingers around the belly of the carving, guiding her thumb along the back. “It helps you to stab—the thumb held straight.”

  She grinned. “Here we are in a monastery, and you’re telling me how to kill?” She laughed. She couldn’t help it. So did he.

  The laughter died. Signy dropped her eyes from his.

  Bear stood closer. “You might need to know one day.”

  She did not immediately move away. “You should go, Bear. I have suffered too much penance already this month.” She half-smiled. “I try, I do, but Gunnhilde says I do not know how truly willful I am.”

  Bear spat into a patch of garlic. “Willful? Strong-minded is what you are, and that saved you when we took the ship. Don’t let them twist the life out of you with their words, Signy. They will if you let them.”

  She did not reply. She knelt again among the herbs.

  He tried one last time. “You were not always like this—remember that, Signy. You are not one of them.”

  She bent to her work with only a little wave as Bear strode from the infirmary garden.

  But she followed him with her eyes, and the comfrey, forgotten, spilled out of her apron.

  Bear troubled her, unsettled her dreams; she thought about him a great deal. Having had three sons, her mother would have understood, for she was wise in the ways of young men. But Signy could not talk to her mother, nor could she ask Gunnhilde’s advice, or even Idrun’s. They would both be shocked—nuns were always shocked about something.

  But she could talk to her sister.

  Sometimes, when Signy asked a question, Laenna answered not with a voice but with omens, or a sudden breeze, or the smell of flowers in winter. And there was the white owl. Signy sometimes asked the owl important questions if no one else answered her. He seemed to protect Laenna’s grave.

  “Yes, I will ask for your advice, Sister, but what will you say to me?”

  CHAPTER 19

  SHE WAS running, fast as she could. He saw her! Hard to breathe. Gaining. He was gaining. She dodged. Gasped. He was close, breath on her neck.

  She feinted. Not wide enough. His hand. Hard. Cold. Grabbed her arm. He laughed. The man laughed. Ax high. Flash and drop. Her head, he hit her . . .

  A whistle. High pitched. Someone must have left it on—the kettle.

  No. It wasn’t the kettle. Someone was screaming. She was.

  Freya sat up in one convulsive movement. Fingers pressed over her mouth. Chest heaving, she tried to stop the images.

  “Freya?” A man’s voice, downstairs. “Are you all right?”

  A sharp rap, and a rattle. The latch on the back door—it always shook. Another rap.

  Freya reached over to the table beside the bed. Where was her watch? Where was it! Christ! Past ten!

  The knock again, less heavy. “Hello?”

  Of course, of course, he knew she was in the house, he’d have heard the scream. But she’d locked the door. Had she locked the door?

  Disoriented, Freya put a hand to the back of her head. It hurt. Not hurt, blazed with pain. Please, God, let this just be a headache . . . She expected blood and broken bone because she knew, knew what had caused the cold-hot, black-red agony. Her mind flinched.

  “Can you hear me?” His voice again.

  “Who’s there?” She knew who it was. Why was he here?

  Cold, plank floor, no socks; sweater on over pajamas. Shivering. That would stop soon; maybe the pain would too. Freya fumbled down the stairs.

  “It’s me. Dan.”

  “Just a minute.”

  A deep breath. One more. And another. No shivers—just pain, a bit less. Still there though.

  The back door was not locked, but he’d waited for an invitation. That was good. Polite. Why had she been so scared? Dan wasn’t an enemy. Was he?

  “Hi, come in.” Freya held the door open.

  He saw the pajamas and switched his glance to a point just beyond her left shoulder. He wasn’t embarrassed, but she might be. “I’ll not stop.”

  Before she could ask, he hurried on. “I’ve brought your father’s cruiser back. Someone moored it in the harbor last night; it’s not been damaged. Good morning to you.”

  “Wait.” Freya stepped closer; he stepped away. She did it again; so did he. It was comical, but not funny. “I’m not contagious, Dan.”

  He stared at her. “Pardon me?”

  She expelled a sigh. “Tea. You’re welcome to a cup, and you can tell me more.” She padded down the steps. He’d follow or he wouldn’t. Perhaps she cared. Actually, she did—he distracted her, and that was good.

  Freya shoved the kettle beneath the spout. Six pumps, seven, eight. Why was she so weak? She clattered the kettle on top of the gas and twitched her hand away as if the sound hurt her fingers. The pain was still there at the back of her head. “Sorry I didn’t hear you at first. Thick walls, I suppose.” Hard to make polite conversation.

  Dan was looking at her strangely. Of course. She sounded odd, but he sat down anyway at the far side of the table. Freya joined him on the opposite side as they waited for the kettle.

  “I’ll get the milk.” She half-rose again.

  He said, hastily, “No need. I drink it black.” He coughed.

  “I’m very grateful to you for bringing the cruiser over. I could run you back to port.”

  He almost looked panicked. “No need. I towed the runabout.”

  Freya cleared her throat; words flowed like treacle between them. “So, do you have any idea who?”

  “Brought her back? No. Reckon it was kids on a joyride. I’ll tell the cops she’s been found if you like.” Dan said nothing about the text—he was still trying to work out what it meant.

  “Thanks, that would be good.” It was hard to imagine someone taking the portly little cruiser for a joyride. Freya blinked the thought away and fought not to close her eyes. She was tired, very tired.

  The kettle tried to yelp, sputtered and screamed, higher and higher. Freya leaped—anything to stop it—so did Dan. She fumbled the kettle from the hob, grabbed the teapot. To help her, he did too. The pot hit the slates. Red shards scattered.

  Hulls. Silent. Out of the dark. Rocking on oars. Shields. Ax edge, then another. More. Silver. Caught by the moon. Too many men. Soon they would land. The gate! Chanting. Prayers on the wind. Death. Too close.

  Sweating, they stared at each other. There was no getting used to this.

  Freya tried to stand. And failed. Tried again, staggering like a drunk. “Did you . . .”

  Dan went to help her—and stopped. He did not touch Freya; instead he bent and picked shattered china from the floor. “Dangerous. Where’s your rubbish?”

  She managed to point at the bin. Now she understood what reeling truly meant, for the room swung and pitched as she clutched the back of a chair.

  Dan dumped the shards in the bin. “I’ve left your dad’s boat at the mooring. I’d best be going.”

  Freya said nothing, and Dan swallowed, a slow grating of the larynx, as if he wanted to say more. Climbing the stairs to the back door took time.
He paused, lifted the latch with care, and closed the door once he was outside.

  Could she have stopped him? Freya did not know. She felt ashamed, as if she’d done something wrong.

  And that’s absurd! Filling a mug with scalding water, she jerked a tea bag up and down, then slumped into Michael’s chair, rubber-legged. Her hands shook as she dumped sugar, lots of sugar, into the tea, and the clamor of terror grew faint, fainter, as she drank.

  And then Freya noticed—the pain had gone. She touched the back of her skull. Nothing.

  And now?

  Now she had the cruiser back. She’d take flowers to Michael’s grave today. Then she’d ask questions.

  Motoring past the breakwater and into Portsolly’s harbor on water clear as glass, Freya tied the cruiser extra well to a bollard on the wharf. She resisted the urge to pat the superstructure; it was good to have her back, it really was.

  Portsolly was busy today, pulsing with a small rush of tourists. Like seagulls, they were eating well ahead of the journey south and squabbling, too, as they bought fish and chips and ice cream on the quay.

  Freya climbed the wharf steps and nodded at the blow-ins like a Portsolly native. She carried a bunch of meadow flowers picked on the island while the dew was still on the petals—they were pretty though she didn’t know their names. Pink, white, blue, and scarlet. On the top step she paused and just lightly touched the crucifix—it was hanging under her shirt. It seemed right, now, that she wore it. She did not know why.

  Beside the harbor, kids and gulls shrieked, competing with boat engines and the slap of water, but as Freya walked the steep streets heading toward the church, the babble of human existence faded and the lanes narrowed into empty silence.

  It was still a surprise, the church, even a second time—such a big building among the village houses. This time she skirted the portico and continued around to the cemetery at the back. The cliff reared above, catching the glint of a cool sun; it was a presence, that cliff, brooding and powerful.

  The gate to the graveyard screeched, and squealed again as she closed it. She crunched across the gravel toward Michael’s grave—and stopped. This was seriously annoying; she’d forgotten to bring a vase. Simon might have something, but they’d met only once and she’d never found it easy to impose, as Elizabeth would say. Besides, he might think this was a way to meet him again, and she didn’t want that; easier to walk to the shops and buy something.

  “Freya?” It was Simon. Standing on the far side of the gate, he seemed genuinely pleased to see her. “I heard the gate. Every time it opens, day or night, it howls like a soul in torment. That might be appropriate, but it drives me nuts.” He held up a can of lubricant. “Scream banishment.”

  Freya succumbed to the synchronicity. She said, lightly, “Who comes here at night, Simon the Sexton?”

  He chuckled. “You’d be surprised—bit of a lovers’ lane, this place. There’s others, too—drug dealers, their clients.” He sprayed the hinges as he talked, opening and closing the gate several times, sprayed some more. “Excellent—no more creak.”

  Freya glanced toward the clustered, pretty houses. “Drugs. Really? Portsolly seems so peaceful, sequestered from the problems of the world somehow.”

  Simon wiped away some grease. “Oh, kids get bored with nothing to do at night, and it’s hard to hide from prying eyes in a village if you don’t have a car—except here.”

  Freya could see what he meant; the graveyard was discreet, tucked away behind the convenient screen of its yew trees.

  “Simon, can I ask a favor? I didn’t want to bother you but, since you’re here . . .” She held up the flowers. “I need a vase; jam jar, anything would do.”

  “Follow me, Miss Dane.” Simon wheeled toward the church, and Freya tagged along, ignoring the shiver of dislike as she entered the building.

  Simon had camped in the nave on a blow-up mattress. His bedding was neatly folded, and he’d rigged up a one-pot camping stove. “Put the kettle on. I’ll just duck into the vestry and consult with the moderator.” He wiggled his eyebrows goofily.

  Freya giggled and became aware of how tense she really was. She called after him. “Thanks. No tea for me though, if you don’t mind—things to do.”

  “Suit yourself, fair maiden. I shall return.” Simon made a flourish as if he had a cloak and an imaginary mustache—a pantomime villain—before disappearing through a door near the altar dais.

  Freya’s phone warbled—the message tone—she’d turned it on at the harbor. Thumbing the voice-mail key, she heard her mother’s voice. Hello, darling. Won’t use up your battery. Ring when you can. Love a chat. Been thinking of you.

  Freya sighed. Me too, Mum. Me too . . .

  “Australia calling?”

  Freya jumped.

  Simon was standing beside her. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  She managed a strained smile. “Just a message from my mum.”

  “Which one would she like, then?” Simon waggled two vases, one of white porcelain, the other of brass. “These were shoved in a cupboard when the kirk packed up its panoply and departed.”

  “Er, the white one.”

  “White it shall be. By the way, I heard you got the cruiser back.”

  Freya was startled. “How did you know?”

  Simon said, cheerfully, “The newsagent. You’re a person of interest, being new and from so very far away.” He pronounced it verra. “But now, for the hire of this peerless object, there’s a price to be paid.” He offered her the vase.

  Freya smiled uncertainly. “Oh?”

  “A bargain, I promise you. After all, you are his daughter, and I’m sure he’d approve.” Respectfully, he waved toward the west door. “I’ve found something in the crypt. If I am right—and perhaps you can tell me—it kicks the dates back a long way. Only take a moment to look-see, I promise.”

  The strange feeling of a moment ago dispelled, and Freya was intrigued. She put the flowers down. “You said that little of the fabric of the church is original?”

  Ushering her toward a side aisle, Simon nodded. “As I said, lots of alterations over the centuries, and the church is supposed to have burned, partially, twice. Once when the whole town was sacked—the Frasers, I believe, out and about spring raiding—and once when the rector got drunk one Hogmanay Eve a long, long time ago.” Simon opened a low door. “It’s just down here.”

  “Sacked?” Freya stepped through into a passage not much wider than her shoulders. The ceiling was a long way above her head and the space badly lit; her heart lurched unpleasantly.

  Simon flicked on a light. “Oh, probably just a legend. Everyone claims to have been sacked around here, for the tourists. I loved all the legends as a kid, couldn’t get enough of men with swords and axes, all that stuff. Watch your step, by the way; there’s a short staircase just ahead.” The fluorescent lights cast shadows down Simon’s face; his eyes were deep holes and his mouth cruel. For one panicked moment, Freya was frightened.

  Simon touched her arm. Close up, the illusion vanished. His expression was anxious. “Are you okay?”

  She managed a deep breath. “I don’t much like tight spaces, or the dark. Claustrophobia, I suppose. It’s just recent; it never worried me before.” Before I came to Findnar.

  Simon was contrite, his eyes big and soft. “I am so sorry, Freya. No need to be brave.” He picked up her hand to lead her back to the church.

  Freya said, quickly, “Oh, we’ve come this far; besides, I’m curious.”

  “Only if you’re sure?”

  She nodded. Simon visibly relaxed. “It’s a much bigger space in the crypt, and there’s plenty of light, I promise.” He shuffled past her, but the passage was narrow and his body brushed against hers; there was a frisson of something, a definite frisson, but so different from what she experienced with Dan. This was actually pleasant.

  “Here, as advertised—bigger and better. What do you think?” The space before them seemed about th
e same size as the crossing of the church above, and much of it was roofed by intersecting vaults, massively groined. A number of dusty tenants remained in residence, including the effigy of a knight lying on a slab raised not much higher than the floor. He was clutching a shield and a sword, with a dog at his feet, but his face had been damaged. There were niche tombs from a later time lining the walls, and they, too, had been vandalized, much of the elaborate stone detail broken away.

  Simon shrugged. “Protestant reformers. Busy lads—they must have enjoyed their work. I just love fanatics, don’t you?” A shared grim laugh. “With the exception of our lone Crusader, you’ll see that none of the other graves is earlier than the fifteenth or sixteenth century—Buchans mostly. Local lairds.”

  Freya nodded, engrossed, as he rattled on. “But over here there’s something earlier, a good deal earlier, I suspect.”

  He was leading her toward the back of the crypt, and here the space was narrower and lower, the vaulted ceiling of the later period missing. Her breathing quickened.

  “It’s directly under the altar, so this was the place of greatest prestige in the crypt—to be buried, I mean. Have a look.”

  Simon was pointing at a stone box about the size of a packing case for a wall oven. “There’s no inscription on the exterior, but if you look inside . . .” He pushed against one side of the lid.

  Freya hurried to help him, and the top began to slide away. As it did, she saw bones among dust.

  Simon grunted with the effort. “Built to last.”

  The compression in Freya’s head was growing and grew tighter, but curiosity pushed discomfort away. She said slowly, “It looks like an ossuary. Not so surprising in a Christian church, I suppose, if a bit archaic.”

  Simon nodded as he reached down into the grave. “But then there’s this. Quite surprising, I think, considering where we are.” He held up a small bowl of age-green bronze.