The Island House

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  “I’m through!” She pulled back the bar. “It’s another void. Truly.”

  Time became water, dripping slow. They worked in careful relays. Chipping, levering, chipping again. Soon, Freya knew, only will would keep them upright.

  “Let me.” Dan took over. “I’ll try to hook the block out.” He inserted the head of the pick and pulled with both hands.

  The block came out, and brought the wall with it.

  Dan launched himself, pushing Freya backward, landing on her chest so hard, breath was driven from her lungs.

  “Freya!” Katherine rushed forward; she stumbled and nearly fell on the rubble. Dan had protected Freya’s head, but a falling block had caught him on the shoulder, and there was blood on his shirt.

  Gasping, Freya wriggled from underneath. “Are you all right?”

  She touched him, and her hand came away wet and red.

  Dan coughed. He tried to sit up and winced.

  Freya was shaking, hands over her eyes. Katherine pulled the girl into her arms and held her tight. “There, hush. Dan’s okay. You are too.”

  “Thank you, Katherine. I mean that.”

  The librarian nodded. Brushing dust from her face, she noticed Dan. He stared through the hole transfixed.

  Katherine touched Freya. Still dazed, she swiveled—and stared.

  The women helped one another to stand. In the breathing silence, Dan’s flashlight slowly showed them wonders.

  The ship was entire, almost as she had been when first brought to this place, though the stones placed under her keel had formed a cradle as the oak planks slumped. But her shape was clear, and the dragon’s head reared proudly, just as it had on the sea that still washed Findnar’s shores.

  The chamber of the tomb was large and so high, the corbeled roof was twice a tall man’s height and more above that snarling mask. Off to each side there were other openings—a series of smaller caverns half-glimpsed as light splashed like water over the walls.

  “It’s a tomb complex.” Freya’s voice shook.

  They went forward through the opening, one by one. The beam of the flashlight caressed the hull. It lingered on the oak of its planked sides, the round shields still resting against the flanks of the ship. The desiccated air had preserved the wood, but boiled leather, the covering of the shields, had rotted long ago.

  Freya stood on her toes. “I can’t see inside!” The sides of the vessel were too high.

  “Easy fixed.” Dan limped away and returned, clasping a block of stone. He put it down, trying not to wince.

  Freya was immediately worried. “Dan, I’m so sorry. You’re in pain; we should go upstairs and—”

  He put a finger to her lips. “Step up, Miss Dane.”

  She took his hand and gently kissed his fingers. “Katherine, you go first,” she said. But she was staring at Dan, and he at her.

  “No.” Katherine’s voice was firm. “Though I am grateful for the invitation.” Dignified. Holding up.

  Freya stretched out her hand. “Come on. You, too, Dan; all of us together.”

  Dan pulled another block forward. “Ready?”

  Freya nodded. At first, she could not make sense of what she saw; then, from beneath the bloom and felt of dust, color seeped from the deep past.

  “It’s cloth. There’s actual cloth! I think it’s a pall.” Freya was almost whispering; this was a holy moment.

  Dan held the flashlight steady. “There are bones underneath.” The light dimmed. “Come on.” He shook the flashlight—the glow flickered and intensified. “The battery’s giving out; we won’t have much time.”

  Freya leaned forward, trying not to touch the sides of the ship, trying not to breathe moisture into the air. “Two skeletons?”

  Katherine was finding it hard to speak. “Look. They’re still wearing clothes.”

  Freya’s voice cracked. “I wish Dad was here.”

  Katherine’s glance was fond. “He is here because you are.”

  Light, ever fainter, traveled on over occluded shapes—the hills and valleys of a secret landscape. Something glimmered. Dan pointed silently—a wide collar of gold lay beneath one of the skulls where bones had collapsed.

  “And the platter—look at the platter. It’s enormous, bigger than the Mildenhall find.” Katherine’s face was alight with joy and awe.

  “And what about that bowl? Has to be bronze.” Freya was lost in contemplation. The frieze of horses, nose to tail, had run in the dark for a thousand years with no one to see them.

  An enameled pommel glimmered. “Is that a sword?” Dan pointed.

  Taking the flashlight, Freya leaned closer. “My God—weapons, and they’re still absolutely recognizable.” The pommel had a sword blade attached, and there was an ax, two axes, and at least one battle helm.

  “I can’t wrap my head around this. Bronze I can understand, but for forged iron to have survived as anything more than rust, the air must have stayed dry. We must be deep under the hill behind the house.”

  The hit of terror was like deep, cold water. Freya couldn’t breathe; she was far beneath the surface of the earth.

  “What’s wrong?” Dan grabbed her hand.

  “I’ll be fine. It’s just . . .”

  “Claustrophobia—that’s what you called it last time.”

  The flashlight beam veered wildly.

  Simon Fettler. Dust danced like snow as a pallid line cut his body from the dark; outside the tunnel, light was rising. Dawn was close.

  Their visitor sauntered forward. “This looks interesting.”

  Dan tensed. “What brought you back, Fettler?”

  Simon smiled apologetically. “Oh, I just don’t like being left out.”

  Katherine’s eyes fired. “Told you he was nosy.” This was addressed to Dan, and not in a whisper.

  Freya said hastily, “Come and have a look if you like, Simon. Just, please, cover your mouth.”

  Standing beside Dan, the curve of Freya’s waist was a neat fit for his good hip. She felt his arm edge around her. “We need to seal the entrance very soon—the moisture in our breath is dangerous. And please don’t touch anything.”

  Simon asked politely. “Find something else?”

  Freya was nonplussed. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  Unseen, a long finger of sunlight crept along the tunnel behind them, gilding their backs and spilling along the walls of the tomb.

  Freya turned. She yelled, “Look! Look at the light!”

  The flare was intense as the heart of the sun beat into the burial chamber—brilliant, molten gold.

  Dazzled, the three did not notice what the fourth was doing.

  Simon Fettler was taking pictures.

  CHAPTER 47

  SOLWAER WAS angry, righteously angry. The girl was the cause.

  “Idorn!”

  Solwaer’s new chief carl—announced after the burial ceremony last night—had been waiting outside the tent because dawn was near. Relieved, he lifted the entry flap. He had not wanted to wake Solwaer, but they must be at the cliff top before light entered the passageway in the tomb, so there was little time. Stepping forward, the cheerful greeting died in his mouth. By rushlight he saw Signy crouched in a corner. Her shift had been torn from one shoulder and the pretty dress flung to the floor. There were bruises on her face, but a knife glittered in her fist. Bear’s knife.

  Solwaer glowered. “Dress me.”

  Idorn said nothing. What was there to say? Offering a clean linen shirt, he winced.

  There were slash marks scored across Solwaer’s trunk; they had bled, and his undershirt was stuck to the skin.

  “Do you want me to . . . ?” Idorn couldn’t bring himself to say, Should I wash the blood off?

  “No.” With one brutal movement, Solwaer ripped the garment over his head. Some of the surface cuts bled. He roared, rounding on the girl. “You did this!”

  And then something remarkable happened.

  Signy jumped up and spat directly int
o Solwaer’s eyes. “I curse you. My father curses you. My ancestors curse you.” Her eyes flamed with rage to match his.

  Solwaer, Lord of Portsol, shied back as if she’d hit him.

  Never was a man dressed so quickly.

  Idorn, nearly gibbering with what he’d seen—Solwaer would not forgive him for witnessing this humiliation—pulled the shirt, the tunic, the trews, the leggings, and the shoes onto his master as if by magic.

  Portsol’s Lord stalked to the tent’s opening. As he lifted the blanket, he turned. “Bind her. And a gag.” Perhaps he saw Idorn’s reluctance, so quickly suppressed, because he yelled, “Do it.”

  Only then did he look at Signy and smile. “Perhaps you will be a bride today, the bride of a dead man. But you already know what that’s like. A cold bed will be yours, Signy.” He’d forgotten that slaves had no names.

  She swallowed. “I will lie gladly with Bear in the tomb of my ancestors.”

  Solwaer snorted a laugh. “Ancestors? The monks threw their bones off the cliff, all of them. My orders. Oh, nothing to say?”

  Signy drained white.

  Solwaer strode forward, staring into her eyes. “And I shall choose where you lie. It will not be with him.” He wheeled. His finger stabbed Idorn’s chest. “She is not to kill herself. On your head.” He was gone in a whirl of plaid and sweat.

  All the fury leached away, and Signy became an empty thing.

  Idorn took a step toward her. He had to do this.

  The girl raised her head. She’d brought Bear’s knife to her throat and, as the tears she’d not shed during the last terrible hours became a torrent, her hand trembled. Idorn twitched the blade away and captured her bruised arms.

  Signy whispered, “Please, Idorn, do not let him win. Let me die.”

  He held her, almost as a lover would. “Hush, little Signy, hush. First we must dress and . . .”

  She slumped against him. “Will you give Bear the knife?”

  “The knife?” Idorn hedged. The carved hilt was handsome, and besides, the brothers were well supplied with treasure already. Bear did not need another knife.

  “It was the first thing he made. It is all I have to give since I shall not lie beside him.” She did not beg; that would have shamed Bear.

  Reluctantly, Idorn nodded. It was a little thing and a kindness. He tried to be gentle, too, as he bound her, but in the end, that was not possible. The ropes must be tight and the knots strong, though he did not think she would try to run away. Not now.

  It was done. Cruach bathed the faces of the brothers in his light for the last time as they lay among their splendor, the otter-handled knife close now to Bear’s hand. The monks were driven like animals by the overseers as, faster and faster, the two walls were built—the first inside the tunnel, the second at its mouth, the walls that would seal the grave for all time.

  The work, even with so many, would take the whole Midsummer Day to accomplish, since some of the monks were too weak to lift the largest stones, even when six or eight worked together. But Cuillin was tireless—by his example he led them.

  “For our Lord, my brothers, we bear this, for our God. Say after me, Our Father, which art in Heaven . . .”

  In this way the monks worked steadily, chanting prayers that took them into an otherworldly state in which hours passed like mere moments.

  They had almost finished when Cuillin stumbled and dropped a rock on the naked feet of a Portsol overseer. The whip of the agonized man caught the Abbot full across his face.

  As he fell in a red fog, Cuillin understood, at last, how it must have been for Bear—how much he must have suffered as a boy.

  And in that epiphany he saw, too, how he had broken that long-ago child’s soul. Bear had never allowed Christ to enter his heart, for he, Cuillin, had driven the boy’s natural love away into a dark, distorted place governed by rage and lust for the Pagan girl—pretty little Signy. The girl who should never have been a nun.

  And he, Cuillin, had unleashed a force that had destroyed them all.

  And there was worse than this.

  Bear had perished as an unredeemed, barbaric Pagan, his soul consigned to the Devil for all eternity, because of the pride of the man who should have been his spiritual father.

  He, false abbot, false priest corrupted by worldly pride, must now endure what was meted out by the savage Norse and that treacherous apostate Solwaer, because he had failed Bear and he had failed all those in his care. Atonement must be made for what he had done.

  On his knees at the closed-up entrance to the tomb, Cuillin called out, “Bear, Bear, can you hear me? Forgive me, dear child, in the name of Christ.”

  The monks trembled; under the power of the whip, their Abbot had become insane.

  But Cuillin had not finished. “I have sinned most grievously against you, Bear, and for this I accuse myself. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.” Cuillin knocked his brow on the rocks before the tomb, crying out the words most piteously as blood ran into his eyes.

  The brothers dropped the stones they were holding. Oblivious to the whips of the overseers, they knelt around their fallen leader, crying out as he did. If Cuillin collapsed beneath the weight of punishment, how could they endure what must be endured?

  Solwaer yelled at the overseers, “Stop them!”

  The Portsol men shrugged. They were three against thirty, and the monks had formed a human knot, linking arms together like some writhing, many-legged animal.

  “Edor!” Solwaer bellowed and kept bellowing until the leader of the Norse arrived.

  Edor was sullen from a mighty headache, a relic of the beer and the smoke. “What?” He saw the problem, and his eyes widened. The monks had gone mad.

  Solwaer pointed. “They have done all they’ll ever do.” He drew a finger across his throat. “It is time.”

  Reluctant to the end, Edor finally nodded. Yesterday some of the monks had been made to dig a pit beside the entrance to the tomb.

  Edor cheered up. If this was finally the end of the Findnar adventure, he could put to sea in his hulls. His hulls—that had a fine sound. He stared at Solwaer. “And the girl?” He mimed breasts and pointed toward the tent.

  There was another pit. This, smaller and deeper, had been dug in the innermost stone circle. The monks had lined the sides with stone.

  The Lord of Portsol flexed his shoulders; they pained him. “I agree, Edor. Yes.” He nodded without regret.

  The Norse leader pointed to the monks and then toward the pit that had been dug for them.

  The overseers looked at each other and then at the knot of howling madmen. Lunatics, it was said, are very strong.

  The men of Portsol and the Norse dragged the monks, flailing, to the pit, though it took many to accomplish this task. There they stripped them of their clothes; naked they would go into the earth as, naked, they had been born.

  But the girl was only a girl. She could not protest as she walked gagged and bound to her grave, pricked on by spearpoint; Solwaer had commanded it, though some muttered, saying it was best if her sacrifice, at least, was willing.

  “Brothers, our martyrdom is upon us. We die for Christ. Rejoice and be glad, for He will shortly welcome us to Paradise.” Cuillin knelt on the edge of the greater pit, hands decently covering his genitals. One by one the brothers knelt beside him as they began to sing.

  Their overseers were greatly relieved—the Abbot’s words and actions seemed to calm the monks. The raiders on the beach heard the chanting too. The sound was eerie, coming and going on the wind, the voices of ghosts. But soon the chant sputtered, grew less, less still, until, at last, only one voice sang on . . .

  Idorn stood behind his master as Signy was brought forward to the smaller pit. To Solwaer would belong the honor of signaling her burial, since she was his slave.

  But Solwaer was tired and, yes, even sad, for this process gave him no feeling of fulfillment or release. Standing above the grave that had been prepared for her, staring down upon he
r own grave goods—a little barley in a simple bowl waiting beside the opening in the earth—Signy seemed frail and small, shivering as the wind whipped at her pretty dress.

  Weary with this festival of death, Solwaer wanted it finished. “Edor, I will speak with my slave. As men say, it would be better if she was willing.” He signaled that the gag should be removed. “Signy, there is a chance you will not die today.”

  The girl spat the cloth from her mouth and stared at him steadily. She said nothing.

  “I ask one thing only. Take back the curse.” Solwaer was superstitious, but superstition was the sister of caution, and that was the secret of his many successes.

  For one unsettling moment Signy gazed at Portsol’s Lord. Then she said, “I have seen you break faith before.”

  The man found he rather liked her hard certainty, for she dared to bargain with him at the edge of death. An unusual woman. But she knew the truth about Grimor and about Bear, and all women gossiped, especially the ones with a grudge. “Raise the curse and you will see.”

  Before she looked into the pit at her feet, Signy smiled, and that was unnerving to all who stood there. “My father was a shaman.” Her eyes were glittering, bleak pools as she scanned the small crowd of men. “He taught his sons to follow him, but I learned well from his example also.” Her glance, a blade, peeled the skin of Solwaer’s soul. “You do not mean for me to live, Solwaer; this is a lie. For that I curse you again, sleeping and waking, in your walking out and in your returning.” She raised her voice. “You will never sleep without monsters in your bed and your mind, and you will die without children. With my death, you condemn them. No sons will follow you.” The last words were a gathering scream of power.

  Shaken, Solwaer pushed Signy to the ground, his foot on her neck. “Idorn!”

  Others rushed to help, for such defiance in a slave toward her master was unseemly.

  It was quick, since she was, finally, one girl and there were many men.

  And so they trussed her, tied her in the form she’d once had inside her mother, head to knees, as she went to her new, dark birth. And when she called out their names from inside her tomb, they placed earth on her and then a stone, a large stone marked with a cross. As it dropped and she felt that final weight, she screamed out, “I am Signy. Remember me.”