Finally, on the third night, the wind rose. Briah, now feverish herself, could only imagine the Gatherers coming for their souls and clutched Kamin closer to her, noticing how still and quiet he had become. “No, no, you can’t have him! Take me instead!” But that was nonsense, for if Briah died then Kamin would surely follow.
Then, there was a new sound, stronger even than the wind. It was the beautiful music of the merman, whose face Briah had only glimpsed once—but seen in her dreams many times after that. “Is this how it ends?” she whispered. “I guess it’s not so scary, with music like that to lead us to the next life.” She relaxed, with her arms around Kamin, and fell into a fevered sleep.
The music swirled around her, and from its heart there arose a man covered in scales of emerald. He had a tail like a fish, yet as Briah watched, he stepped out of his tail as if it were a pair of shoes, and came toward her, all the while singing the most joyful music. Then he set something down on the flat rock just outside the cave. Before Briah could move to see what it was, the creature approached and set a gentle hand on Kamin’s head. All it once, the boy’s skin cooled and his breathing grew steady and even. Then the green man moved toward Briah. She struggled to see his face in the swirling mist that hid it, and then she felt his lips brush hers, tasting like honey and fire…
Briah awoke the next morning to sunlight streaming into her cave. Her first thoughts were that it seemed far too ordinary to be the next life, and that surely sand wasn’t so scratchy—or so prone to getting into inconvenient places—anywhere but this world. Then she turned to Kamin with a cry of fear, only to find his fever had broken, just like in her dream. But he had lost so much flesh, and was as week as newborn puppy.
For that matter, so was Briah. She tried to stand, but lights danced before her eyes, and she collapsed in a heap by her dying fire. There was still water in the jar, and Briah gulped it down. Then she built up her fire, took a deep breath, and crawled to the entrance of her cave. She had to find food; their lives depended on it. Blaming herself for not leaving sooner was a waste of time so she didn’t bother. All she had to do was get to the shore, but why did it look so far away?
And then she saw it, on the flat rock in front of her cave: a fish. It was a tuna, bigger than Kamin was before he got sick. Fearing it was a trick of her hunger-crazed mind, Briah rose to her knees and fell forward, landing with both hands on the fish, fully expecting them to strike empty rock. Instead, scales greeted her touch, and firm flesh she had come to take for granted until recently. On closer inspection, Briah found the fish gutted and cleaned and ready for the fire—with one more surprise.
Inside the tuna was an equally delectable looking mackerel, and inside that was a trout, and inside that—a prawn. Like the feathers and flowers she had received, this banquet came from far away. Unlike those others, this could save her life and that of her son—or send them to a faerie land from which there was no return.
It was an easy choice. Briah dragged the fish into her cave and set it on the hot rocks to cook. Her only concern was that Kamin must eat some as well: if the food was going to send them someplace else, all that mattered was that they went there together. And while the meal was the finest she had ever eaten, it was clear to Briah by the time the last of it was gone—seven days later—that it was perfectly mortal.
Kamin, as healthy as if he had never been sick, scampered from the cave, eager to swim and climb and explore. Briah stared out at the ocean, wanting only to find the beautiful creature who had saved their lives. But the sea was silent and empty. As they walked along the beach, Briah found the shellfish beds full again, and knew without being told that when she took her net into the water, it would come back full of fish.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and then, “Thank you!” at the top of her lungs.
It was all she had to offer. For now.
****
Life resumed. Briah was careful to range farther in her sojourns for food, to put less pressure on a beach that so kindly fed her and her son. She put more effort into storing medicines, but after a time, as other concerns demanded her attention, stopped worrying. She didn’t feel immortal—quite the contrary—it was just that worrying about health seemed a waste of time. Someone, or something, was watching out for them, and to not trust it would have been rude. And possibly dangerous.
When storms kept them inside, Briah filled the time with projects, as she had the year before, and kept Kamin entertained with stories, and sometimes, by showing him the projects she worked on. Although too young to actually be of any help, Kamin seemed genuinely interested, and often tried to copy what his mother did.
“Look at you!” Briah cried one morning, as Kamin tried to poke a fish bone needle into the rabbit fur Briah had been sewing. “Barely into your second year, and you can walk and talk and work! Was any mother so blessed with such a son?”
Briah knew that many babies walked before their second year, and Kamin’s “talking” was just babble that had meaning only to her, and that it would be years before his “work” was really helpful. Still, as she looked around her snug little home and her strapping son, she felt a surge of pride.
No trace of her slave days remained. The luxurious blankets of fur and feather that covered her bed of sand and Kamin’s cradle were made here on this beach, and by her own hand. So was the comfortable, well-made clothing she wore, or lay neatly folded and stored in a basket and made fragrant with herbs. Other baskets, neatly arranged in the small space, held tools of shell and bone, eating utensils, and stored food. The copper pot that hung above the hearth was never empty, and the new water jug, which stood by the entrance, made only one trip to the spring each day necessary. Kamin was happy and healthy—and so was his mother.
“And I did all of this myself—well mostly,” said Briah, tasting the sweetness of power. Then she laughed. “It’s not like there’s much here that anyone would really envy.” She thought of powerful men like Lir and Agor—even Nisa and the fat merchant who had sold Briah to her. They surely wouldn’t see anything here worth boasting about. She tried to imagine that merchant here, while Briah offered him a bowl of clams in broth—and then mentioned the fortune of gold and copper she had so casually left in the sea. She doubled over laughing as she imagined his reaction, which included choking on his food, then falling over dead from shock.
No, those who were called wealthy and powerful in the outside world didn’t look much like Briah, but that never diminished her own feelings of wealth and power. She thought of Lir, surrounded by his furs and jewels and slaves; his golden drinking horn and the endless supply of imported wines and beers to fill it; the army of thugs he commanded. There were many men she knew who would envy all of that.
But Briah wondered if any man who truly knew Lir would envy him anything. Certainly not that poor, greedy fool who had been one of Lir’s stewards for a brief time. Briah remembered the night she stood with the kitchen maids, waiting on Lir’s many guests, while his newest acquisitions—a pair of twin girls about eight years old—fed him. It was a typically lavish feast with platters heaped with venison and capon, and delicate sauces made with mushrooms and exotic seasonings, and countless loaves of bread. The talk was merry and Lir seemed calm enough that the slaves sighed with relief, almost enough to draw a breath without fear.
Then a boy came from the kitchen with a dish of salt. Briah remembered it was made of silver and beautifully worked, for in the eastern woodlands, salt was rare and costly. It came only from one mine in the area, or—as Briah later learned—from the distant sea. Lir insisted that the salt for his table come only from the nearby mine, despite the fact that the chief who controlled it charged outrageous prices. So high, in fact, that sea salt was often cheaper.
Lir’s ambitious steward, thinking that no one could tell by tasting where salt came from, had purchased sea salt, lining his own pockets with what was saved. Strange, thought Briah. If she remembered correctly, Lir never even tasted it. He only smelled it, then f
lung it into the fire. He screamed for the steward, and when the frightened man confessed his deed, Lir ran him through with a spear right at the table. He didn’t even allow the servants to remove the body; just left the bloody corpse on the floor beside him and continued with the feast.
Agor, too, had had all the trappings of wealth and power, yet was just as rotted within. Was that what wealth did to normal people, or was it that only warped, ruthless people acquired that kind of wealth in the first place? Perhaps gold and jewels lost their luster after a time. Perhaps that was why people like Briah were so vulnerable to men like Lir and Agor. Objects grew boring; people could always be counted on for a reaction. Control of people could afford a pleasure that lasted—even if the people themselves didn’t.
Briah stopped her musings when she thought of that merchant—or anyone else—trying to make her a slave again, or trying to force their will in any way. Without her knowing, Briah’s hand went to the knife at her belt. It was just a piece of sharpened shell, good for slicing meat and chopping roots. But if need be, it would slice a man’s throat just as well.
Then Kamin crawled into her lap and began to nurse. She welcomed the interruption. There was no point in dwelling on evil she couldn’t understand. The only thing that mattered was that they were in her past. Briah was alive now, and so was Kamin. She wondered how many other former slaves could say that.
Kamin was nursing less these days. Although it would be another year before he was fully weaned, fish and eggs and broth were nourishing him almost as much as his mother’s milk. Briah tried to reckon time. She had come here just before the start of winter, and Kamin was born less than a moon later. It seemed to be winter already, yet the nights weren’t quite as long as when she first arrived. Briah had learned a lot by mapping the phases of the moon, but she was more interested in how they controlled the tides, and her own body, than what they told her about the passage of time.
“Back in my homeland, we would be celebrating the harvest festival, what they call Samhain here. But I would rather celebrate the day that marks your first year.” Birthdays were not genuinely cause for celebration, although the season of one’s birth was often considered a special time. “I was born early winter; you, late autumn. I was fifteen when I left Lir’s stronghold, with you inside me. Last year, after I gave birth to you, I passed my sixteenth winter. So I am sixteen years now—and will soon be seventeen.”
Seventeen years. A grown woman. Briah’s mother was nineteen when she gave birth to her only daughter—and she already had two sons. Briah wondered fleetingly if she would ever have another child. Not likely, without a man. And if she could remain safely hidden long enough, then she would never have to bend to a man’s will again.
“Of course, it’s not always bad. I know my mother enjoyed it, and my father never forced her. But I guess that kind of thing isn’t very common. And I won’t settle for anything less.” Briah laughed at herself. Where did she get such pride? Daring to tell the world what she would or would not accept?
“From a year of living my own life and forging my own destiny!” she answered. She had been having these thoughts more often of late, and the gods had not punished her. If anything they had rewarded her with health and plenty and a kind of healing that had happened so slowly and subtly she had hardly noticed it. Her life here was no less a miracle than the wonders of ancient times the shaman spoke of at festivals. If she had to forgo more children to keep this life, well then, that was a small price to pay.
Then Kamin began to choke on a piece of dried fish, pulling Briah from further thoughts. She quickly pushed one hand into his stomach, striking his back with the other. This brought up the fish—and the remaining contents of his stomach. After cleaning the mess and comforting her distressed son, Briah decided that one child might be just enough after all.
****
The days grew shorter and wetter, the sky and sea grayer and colder. Then one morning, quite unexpectedly, the sky dawned clear and red, and a warm breeze blew from the south. The day remained clear, yet Briah could not shake the feeling that the world was holding its breath.
She had too much to do to worry about strange weather, however. Fire was good for drying hides and fish, but sunlight was better, especially for hides. Briah staked out two rabbit furs and left them in the sun, then used the rest of the day to gather shellfish from the now clear tide pools, and even net a few perch. Kamin followed her, entertaining himself with the wonders that were always there to be found on the beach.
In the afternoon, Briah washed their clothes and blankets in the shallows and rinsed them in the stream. Kamin, who now walked most of the time, climbed the rocks, past where his mother hung the wash. Briah called him down, but Kamin’s favorite game was to make her chase him. “I’ll make you sleep in a wet blanket tonight!” she threatened as he scampered up the cliff, half laughing, half terrified that he would fall to his death. But Kamin, in addition to being fearless, possessed great balance—or perhaps great luck. Briah just had to trust the spirits of this place with her son’s safety, as in everything else.
The weather held, but the sky turned coppery, and the stillness became oppressive. The feeling of tension increased as night fell. Briah was not afraid, just curious and a little restless. After supper, mother and son climbed high up the cliff to watch the sunset. It was truly spectacular. When Briah stood and began to search for the evening star, she turned to the north, and saw fires lining the inland sky. Then the wind shifted and she heard the beat of drums and the chanting of distant voices, and knew that tonight was Samhain.
A time of thanksgiving and of remembering the dead. A time when the doors between the worlds could be opened.
And Briah, moved by a force that had been growing in her since her arrival here, felt the need for her own celebration. She swung Kamin onto her shoulders and went to the shore, seeking the seals as she always did for celebrations.
Tonight, however, the seals were nowhere to be found.
“Perhaps they are having their own celebration,” she said. “Well, then, Kamin, so shall we.” Briah felt a stab of loneliness as the thought of all the clans and villages who celebrated together, but she pushed the feeling away. “We are a tribe of two, and our worship is no less important than a tribe of one hundred times one hundred.”
Briah shed her clothes and took off Kamin’s wrap. Together, they waded into the water and just stood for awhile, feeling the waves pulsate around them, and listening to the sound of the sea. After a time, Briah began to speak.
“When I came to this place, I had nothing. My family, my tribe, my freedom, my body—all had been taken from me. Strangers had used me; hurt me in body and soul. My own gods had deserted me—or I them.
“Then I came here. This strange water that breathes like a living thing, pulses with its own heartbeat and changes color and mood has given me new life. When I was hungry, you fed me. When I was alone in the pain of labor, you lifted me up and soothed me. When I was lonely, you spoke to me. You have given me a home and a place to heal.
“I cannot claim to know the gods of this place, but I know this moving water is part of them, and I thank you. I do not know how you like to be worshiped, but in my heart I know that you, who took pity on a woman and an infant are gentle gods, who do not need the blood of sacrifice. I pray that the words of my heart are enough.”
Then Briah, feeling herself that the words were not enough, began to move in the water in a kind of dance. Kamin danced with her, and the waves danced with them both. From across the water came the beautiful, haunting song of the merman. Just barely, she could see him across the water, dancing above the waves. “Come dance with me!” she called. “On this night, if no other, let us be together! Let me see your face.”
His song became louder and more soulful, but the green man came no closer. All at once, Briah began to sing along with him, a wordless chant that echoed the cry of the sea, yet carried a note of human suffering and joy that the water lacked. The duet
was unlike anything she had heard before, but she had no doubt it carried something of the gods in it.
Trance-like, Briah sang and danced in the water, losing all track of time. Finally, exhausted, she collapsed on the sand beside Kamin, who was already sound asleep. Her dreams were filled with a dancing creature covered with emerald scales and a face she could not quite see, though she tried. He was not fish, nor man, yet something of both, and as Briah finally stopped trying to see his face, she decided he was surely as beautiful as his song. He led her to a strange land beneath the sea, where they danced for talking seals, who cheered for the pair and crowned them their king and queen.
But when she awoke at dawn, the dreams scattered, and Briah found herself alone on the cold gray beach, with sand in every crevice in her body. For a moment, everything was so still that Briah thought she had slipped out of normal time, into a world frozen between one moment and the next. Then a gull cried and the sky began to lighten, and her only thought was her of son.
“Kamin!” she called, startled by the way the rocks echoed his name. Briah stood. “Kamin!” She started for their cave, concern growing with each step, when she saw him, playing in the shallows with groups of young seals.
“So you’ve come back,” she said, petting the seals, and scooping her son onto her hip. The night before was only ragged memories. With the rising sun, everything was normal again.
CHAPTER 13
The second year on the beach passed much as the first,
Kamin grew from a baby into a toddler. He was strong and healthy, with a level of energy Briah would have found unbelievable, if she hadn’t spent so much time around babies when she was young. He was interested in everything, and never seemed to tire of the surf and sand.
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