He had come to be taught to write, yet most of his days were taken up with learning everything else – about stars or the sea or the light that had come, or the songs that spoke of the light and the stories the light had brought. He had to know what words meant before he could write them. They had to mean something before he could carve them in the sand. The first word he wrote was the name of the light, and when Innis made the marks he made them with slow reverence. Fian watched his face as he wrote, and he saw the love in his eyes, the devotion. This must be the starting point, the beginning. And Innis talked to him there too. On days of storm they crouched in a cave out of reach of the sea in one of the arms of rock that held the beach. Innis talked to him about how words had come to be; the stories of words and sounds. For he had spent two years at a monastery, a place where many hundreds of them were gathered. Fian could not think what many hundred meant; where he had grown up there was nothing more than a cluster of earth houses. It was the only place in the world he knew, this headland and its coves and skies. Innis took him to the top of the hill and showed him the hills to the north that were still dusted with snow, and he said the monastery lay even further away than those hills, in a beautiful valley where the wind never blew and where there were apples and horses. Fian did not know what apples or horses were, but the words were beautiful, and he spoke them softly and let them roll in his mouth. And Innis wrote them in the sand for him – apples and horses.
What was strangest was meeting his brothers again, the whole flock of children he had been part of. They did not quite know what to do with him now, and although his first instinct was to run with them – to jump over things and shout and chase – he waited and was not sure. They gazed at one another, he on his side and they on theirs, and then they ran without him. For a moment he missed them, wanted to run and call for them to wait for him, and in his mind that was what happened. But his feet did not move. When he looked again they were gone; there was no sound of them.
Sometimes he missed his mother. He dreamed he lay close in against her and when he wakened the stone was cold. He whimpered sometimes and huddled in to his own sadness, but it was worst during the nights. She did not come looking for him or ask for him, and he knew that, he felt it. She was there, on the northern edge of his new world – she had not gone, but she was a shadow now. He grew into the new shoes of his life and they fitted his feet, they became all he had and all he knew.
He wrote in the sand and learned words hungrily; he felt there would not be space in his head for the number of them and yet that was the miracle – the more he learned the more space there seemed to be. He wrote them and saw them, but always Innis made him write slowly, carefully. He had to be in each letter as it was written; he had to live each one, as surely as he had to live the words of each song as it was sung in the chapel.
Yet every night the sea came back and washed away every word he had written. That was part of the learning too, to let go.
‘For that is the story of all our lives, it is the one thing we cannot change. Everything we write in sand, and the sea will take it away. We cannot keep anything for ever. But you must still give with all your heart; you must not keep back because of that.’
The boy remembered his words when he watched the beauty of his drawings disappear one summer night. He had been alone on the beach and had drawn a tree, a rowan wind-bent and all stretched to one side, and among the branches he had carved things – harps and birds and half-hidden faces. And around the tree was curled a circle, a circle that was part of a letter itself. He went up to the top of the rocks to look down on what he had made and he felt a surge of pride, a beautiful warmth that flowed like honey through his whole being. And then the sea came and filled the first ridges of his circle, and then the tree itself was smudged. And he felt rising within him an anger that it had to be this way, and somehow he felt that anger was right, that anger and sadness.
When he lay down to sleep that night he thought of his picture and he remembered his father. He had not thought of him in a long time. There was nothing that could be done to bring things back, but did it not matter to grieve for them all the same?
*
He did not know if he believed in God. There were times he did – most of all when he swam in the sea. When the sea lifted him and he was held in the blue-green translucence, his breath caught by the cold, he had no doubt. He was held in the hands of the sea and everything was in balance, there were no questions. But it was the passing of things; it was that which troubled him. Why had his father not come home from the stack? Why had they not all returned safe? In the cruelty of death there seemed to be no God. He asked Innis endless questions; he asked and asked until the young man laughed and held his hand, told him it was enough. But he looked back at him and could not laugh, he could not have that rock of calm certainty or serenity. He wrestled with the sea and there was neither victory nor defeat, just exhaustion. Only when he swam did he feel the knots of doubt and anger washed away, for as long as he was held in the hands of the sea.
‘Am I a bad person, because I have so many questions?’ he asked Innis one day. They had retreated from the beach to the little cave because of the hugeness of the waves. Innis had lit a fire, tiny and blown from side to side, that warmed at least the rawness of their hands. They fed the flames chinks of dry things from the cave.
‘You are not a bad person because you ask,’ said Innis, and there in his voice as always was the thread of kindness. ‘Most people ask no questions. They have enough in this world to find food, to be warm, to find safety, to be loved.’
‘Does God love them too?’ Fian asked.
‘Yes, I believe he does. And I do not believe he loves you any more because you ask many questions, or any less because you ask difficult questions.’ His eyes twinkled and Fian sat in the shadows at the back of the cave, the words Innis had spoken like stones in his hand – trying to put them in an order he understood.
‘I do not comprehend everything,’ Innis said softly. ‘There is more I do not understand than I do. But I will not understand by worrying or by lying awake at night.’
Still Fian searched his face.
‘Imagine you were a tiny beetle crossing the floor of the cave,’ he said. There was one, hurrying away from the fire between the two of them. ‘You can know nothing of what the cave means, far less the sea out there. All that worries you is the fire and trying to escape it.’
He leaned forward towards Fian’s troubled eyes. ‘We are so small, Fian. We can only see such a small way ahead. But one day we will understand the cave and we will see the sea.’
It began to grow dark. They put out the fire and scrambled down the rocks to the beach. Fian did not know if what the monk had said had calmed him more than troubled him. The rain was sore on his face.
*
One night, one spring night, they sang not in the chapel but out on the limestone pavement. They sang there because the stars were falling; on every side there were bright trails of silver, little fires that shone a moment and were gone. A wind blew across the night, clear against their faces, but the beauty of the skies was too much – they had to behold it. It was a night you could see to the edges of the world; Fian turned all round and caught a hundred landfalls, each one of them crested with a sharp edge of snow. Even here on the tableland, a few footfalls above the sea, snow lay in the crevices and the stones were polished with ice.
‘What do you think it means?’ Fian whispered to Lua, looking right up into the blue-black night. A great white tail streaked down the sky.
‘I think we will find out what it means,’ Lua whispered back, bending to Fian’s ear. ‘I think tonight it means the world is special.’
It was almost midnight and still the boy did not feel tired. The dry wind blew around them, fierce, and as he held his head high he felt as though he was no longer standing but rather flying. The stars darted this way and that, and somehow he was among them, he flew with them. The monks sang on and on, their voice
s did not pause or break, and the words flowed through his head, carried him. He did not want this to end; he did not want to fall to earth again.
‘How would you like to wait up and watch the dawn?’
He was so far away in his own thoughts he did not properly hear Innis’ words at first. Nor did he realize that the others were drifting away now, still singing, departing to sleep. There were not so many stars now, just one or two, and they did not seem as bright as before. But still he was not tired; never in his life had he felt so awake. He turned and nodded, whispered his yes and looked back at the sky.
‘The night is long,’ Innis said, and the boy heard the edge of a smile in his voice. He said no more than that but led him over to a little knoll, a place to which Marua had always gone to pray. Marua who now could not speak; he who had given so much with his words.
They sat there, facing out west to sea as Marua had done, and still Fian’s face was turned upwards into the sky. He saw the strokes of the falling stars and all at once they made him think of all that he drew in the sand, the letters and pictures. It was on his lips to tell Innis and then he stopped; the words froze and he kept them to himself. But it was as though a giant hand was writing on the cloth of the sky. He thought of all the stories he had heard of God and imagined this as another, that once in the crossing of the wilderness they had looked up and read the letters that were drawn in the sky.
Then the last of the stars fell and the sky was as always. Those that remained did not shine, they did not crackle and fire as sometimes they did – it was as though the heavens had been breathed with them. That was how Fian thought of it, like frozen breath. He shivered then and Innis drew him closer, brought his cloak around the boy’s shoulder, and Fian was glad to lean close to him. The silence was neither long nor awkward; he knew in his heart he would remember this night for ever. His eyes grew heavier and he had to fight sleep, but the clear fierceness of the wind kept him awake. All at once Innis stirred beside him.
‘Shall we go and write on the beach?’
They were not the words of his teacher but rather those of a friend. The thought had come to him all at once, from nowhere. ‘Yes, all right.’
They would have run but everything shone with ice, it would have been madness. They went as fast as they could, together, against the wind, past the dwellings where the monks slept, out onto the path. The moon was like a piece of grazed ice in the sky, almost too bright to behold. Fian saw ahead of him the hills of the north, and he thought of the monastery where Innis had been, and he remembered apples and horses. Then they had started down the path to the shore and all of it was smooth and slippery. What they did was sheer lunacy, but that made it all the more wonderful to Fian. His heart hammered in the cage of his chest.
They came down onto the sand and it shone as clear as day. The tide was out; the waves broke and chased far below them.
‘Will we work together?’ Innis asked, and his voice was almost shy. For as long as Fian had been with them, the boy had copied and remembered what was written for him in the sand. Sometimes Innis had set Fian a task, had asked him to create a boat made from letters, or one single capital in the shape of a tree. But never had they worked together.
They drew a hall of men who sat at a long table. Around them in the air were mythical beasts. The men themselves and their table were perhaps in a strange ship that flew. Looking back, Fian could not remember who had thought of the idea; their imaginations had worked together to make the whole. And Fian was sure that the falling stars they had seen that night were part of the magic for what they drew.
He did not know afterwards how long they had been there on their knees under the white fire of the moonlight. Perhaps they were there all night, for when it was done at last and they crouched still in the sand he looked to one side, to the east, and a dark red stained the clouds – the first fire of dawn. And still they remained where they were, as the sea began to creep closer, the sea that would take their labour.
‘Would you like to work with a book?’ Innis asked, not turning to him and his voice soft. ‘They need a scribe in the new land, a scribe for the book they are making, and I can teach you no more. I have taught you all I know and they have asked if you would come.’
Fian looked at Innis and still his teacher did not turn to look at him. But he saw the paths of the tears on his face, lit silver in the last fierce brilliance of the night. And he nodded, he said yes, he was sure. But he did not know why his teacher cried.
*
Innis sat before the other monks. The flame burned beside the cross as always, brittle and flickering but never put out. The boy was not there. He slept; he had slept for almost twelve hours. The snow had come back, flakes of it the size of lambs’ feet. They came in flocks on the wind, came and went, leaving the pavement of limestone pattered with soft white.
‘You know why we have called you, Innis.’
He blinked. He knew and he did not know. He still found this place a struggle. It wasn’t like the monastery with its hundreds, the jostle and thrill of new learning, the books and the talk. This was a bare place; he loved them but their world was older, it moved more slowly and it asked far fewer questions. It was content with itself.
‘I suppose I know that it’s because of Fian.’
They nodded. He saw pieces of their faces in the light; pieces that shifted all the time. A frustration arose within him and he searched for words; he had to find and polish them before he uttered them.
‘You cannot go with him, Innis.’
The words spoken softly, and even then with a thread of kindness. But now that only served to frustrate him the more, and the awareness he had not been allowed to speak. He knew they thought he said too much, that he thought too much. They stood together against him.
‘And why may I not go with him?’
He would have said more but he stopped himself. Better this way, better than rage or grief. Keep your voice sharp – that was what he had been taught at the monastery. It was what he had taught Fian too, bless him, though how often did he forget with his torrent of questions?
‘Is that not what you told the boy when he learned his letters in the sand? That he had to learn to let go? Now it is time to practise the words, Innis.’
He opened his mouth to speak but a new voice prevented him.
‘There is another boy in the settlement who shows promise. We want you to begin to teach him. It is time.’
Now he did not know what to say. He felt helpless, even his anger had been taken from him. ‘May I say goodbye?’ he asked, his voice no more than a child’s.
‘No, Innis,’ they said, and the two words flowed together – certain, final.
*
Even the dog did not remember the boy. It growled when he came closer and Fian drew back his hand, frightened it might bite. Smells and noises tumbled through his head. In the darkness someone moved and swore; a man’s voice and then the crying of a baby. He bit on his lower lip, wondering if he should have come. He did not want to call; he wanted anything but that. Then all at once she was there and saw him, ten paces away in the grey of early morning, and he saw her eyes glitter over him. She waited.
‘I wanted to say goodbye. I’m going.’
Her eyes narrowed to flint. ‘You were gone a long time ago.’
She turned and went in to the darkness, was lost in the noise. But he heard her picking up a baby and softening its crying with her voice, and now he stumbled forward, never heeding the dog, and perhaps her name was on his lips, again and again. He was still twelve years old; he had had to grow up so fast.
And suddenly she was there again, the new baby cradled in her arms, and she had reached out to Fian and her face was wet. He held her and closed his eyes and remembered the day his father had not come home. She said things to him he did not properly hear but her voice was soft now, as sometimes it used to be, and that was enough.
The man appeared and he was wanting something and Fian found himself backi
ng away, found himself almost falling over the dog. When he turned there was no one there. He went, chasing down the path towards the shore where the boat was waiting. When he glanced round again there was neither sight nor sound of the place.
*
He knew they laughed at him. They were easy with the waves; they threw commands about, walked untroubled as the sea rolled beneath them. He hid and shivered. The land reared up and down, swung away to this side and that; sickness was green in his stomach. The more he felt it the merrier they seemed to be; as the wind rose on the open sea one of them began to sing. Another of them came and asked him something and he could only shake his head; uttering words was too much. Innis and the place of ghosts, his mother and home – all of them tumbled through his head like waves, the sudden awareness that he was leaving and did not know if he would return, if ever he would return. He looked away into the bottom of the boat where none of those things would be and still they were there; he cried miserably, tasted the salt of his own tears. And the boat heaved and fell, heaved and fell; the boat did not care for his grief and the man went on singing, though the rest of them were silent, they no longer called around him.
‘Drink that, boy – it’ll heal your sickness.’
One of them had crouched beside him; his voice was different from any he had heard before. He sat up and drank; the liquid burned the back of his throat. He said thank you and sank once more from the horror of the heaving sea. He closed his eyes and held his head in his hands. He counted, counted from one to a hundred and then began again. He breathed, deep in and deep out. He slept.
When he opened his eyes again he did not know if he had slept a half-hour or a half-day. The boat still lurched about him but he was able to look now; the sickness had gone. He leaned against the side, low, so that his head and nothing more was above the boat. They passed through fragments of islands, a broken scattering of sand-covered beaches and hills, rocks that tumbled with waterfalls, inlets of seals. Sunlight broke white and sore from a place in the side of the clouds; for a moment the sea was too bright and he had to look away. The man who had come with the bottle passed close by and he was able to thank him. He was better and the water was calmer; this was more sheltered and he was grateful, with all his heart he was grateful. And he thought how small things matter, how small things change everything.
The Well of the North Wind Page 2
