Seer of Sevenwaters (23 page)

“I am not untrained,” I say quietly. “I may not have your level of skill, but I have received good guidance in this, as in other learning. There was a . . . there was a Norseman in my own family, a scholar who taught me runic lore.”

“So you’ve remembered more,” Sibeal says. “Tell me.”

“Of the wreck, the voyage, of recent times I remember nothing. What is in my mind is a clatter of old bones, a shred or two of a distant past.” I hesitate. This is not quite true; and I have just challenged Sibeal to be more truthful. “I left home because my presence endangered others,” I tell her. “Paul came to watch over me, and he died. I bring misfortune, Sibeal. I bring ill luck. I will not draw you into that circle of shadow.”

Sibeal reaches out her hands and gathers the rods in. The clattering sound wakes Deiz, who jumps down from my knee. Sibeal begins to pack the rods away. “I never want to hear you say that again, about bringing ill luck.” Her voice is stern. “I will not believe that to be true of any man.”

“That is what Paul said.” I see him beside me on the deck of a ship, a trading boat, the crew not Norsemen but Gauls.
That’s rubbish, Felix. It’s just circumstances, that’s all. You do have a tendency to speak out when another man might find it prudent to hold his tongue, that’s true enough. But that doesn’t mean you carry some kind of cloak of doom with you.

“Then Paul was a wise man as well as a kind one.”

“And I killed him.”

I hear her draw a breath. “The sea killed him,” she says.

“I was too slow, too clumsy. I could not untie it . . . ” I shut my mouth on the words. His voice, his face, the rope around his ankles, the knots . . . the wave . . .

Calmly, Sibeal continues to replace the rods in their bag. “It happened so quickly,” she says in a murmur. “I was watching from the cliffs out there. My first full day on Inis Eala. It must have been chaos on the ship. I suppose people were trapped as everything broke up. And the waves were . . . of an unusual size.”

Save yourself, Felix.
It washes over me again. I close my eyes, lost in the darkness.

Later, when Sibeal is abed, I lie awake and watch the shifting shadows thrown by the banked-up fire. The last lamp is quenched, the last candle extinguished. I breathe. How long will it take for my body to be whole again, how many days, how many turnings of the tide before I am strong enough for this task, this unknown task the runes lay on me?

Deiz presses close against my side, sighing in her sleep. She trusts me. It is a small blessing; a dog forgives much. I wish I could pray. I wish I could believe in a benign deity, a good father who holds us safe and heals our wounds. I wish I could believe my brother has gone to a better place. But I lost my faith in that god long ago. I lost my trust when I saw men claim power for themselves in his name. There are other gods; other paths. In time, perhaps my feet will carry me onto a true way. Perhaps I will wander until I die. Perhaps I will die tomorrow, or the next day, or the next, on the end of Knut’s sword, all for a truth that I cannot remember.

CHAPTER 7

~Sibeal~

O
n the day of the challenges I rose early as usual and went out walking, accompanied by Fang. Muirrin, who had patched up hundreds of injured combatants during her years on the island, would stay in the infirmary with Ardal while the bouts were on, ready to tend to anyone who needed her. Her presence there had a twofold purpose; Evan judged Ardal still too unwell to be left on his own.

A great deal of interest had been sparked by Knut’s challenge to Cathal, and even more interest once it became known that Gull was training the challenger. This meant both Gull and Evan, along with almost the entire male population of Inis Eala, would be watching the two battle it out this morning. It meant a good audience for the earlier bouts, in which the Connacht men would demonstrate their skill. I wondered whether I might skip those and be present only for Cathal’s fight. Probably not; Clodagh would be keyed up already, needing me for support.

Fang had been behaving oddly all morning. She would scamper along for a while, then stop dead in her tracks, her whole body tense, her ears pricked. Once or twice this sudden alert was accompanied by a sound, not the customary low growl but a faint whimper. When I bent down to check if she had a thorn in her paw she snapped at me. I walked on, and in a while she was running along beside me as if there were nothing at all out of the ordinary.

“What is your story, little dog?” I asked her. “Another of those that can’t be told?”

She ignored me, but three more times before we came back to the settlement she did it again: the sudden halt, the still, alert pose, as if she had caught a scent she could not ignore. Once the low buildings of the settlement were in sight, Fang seemed to forget whatever it was, racing ahead of me toward the kitchen where Biddy could be relied upon to provide a bowl of tasty leftovers.

Despite the early hour, the dining hall was near full. Men made wagers, discussed strategies and techniques, debated the likely results of each bout. Women offered opinions and exchanged jests as to the relative prowess of their husbands, brothers or sweethearts. Knut was with Kalev at the far table, deep in conversation. If he had had second thoughts about his rash challenge, he showed no sign of unease. I did not see Svala.

There was a small island of quiet where my family sat. Cathal appeared to have finished his breakfast; Clodagh had barely touched hers. He looked as if his mind was elsewhere. She was pale. Gareth and Johnny conversed in murmurs, their attention only on each other. Sam and Brenna were eating their porridge in the purposeful manner of folk who have a full day’s work ahead of them.

I seated myself beside Gull and Evan. Biddy ladled porridge. A steaming bowlful appeared before me, and I realized I had no appetite at all. In my mind, a man was falling, falling from a great height . . . A wave arose, washing him from the rocks, seizing him in its grip, turning him upside down and around about . . . Jaws snatched him, tossing him high; blood filled the air in great drenching sprays . . .

“What’s wrong, Sibeal?” Evan’s murmur broke the vision, and I was at the table once more, my brother-in-law’s steadying hand on my arm.

Breathe. Breathe deeply.
“Nothing,” I said as my heart slowed.
Falling, falling down . . . faster and faster still . . .
“I’m a little tired, that’s all.”

“Best eat your breakfast,” Gull advised, starting on his own. “No wonder you’re tired. Up late talking, hmm?”

I felt an unwelcome blush warm my cheeks. How much of last night’s conversation had he heard? I was certain he’d been asleep when I checked. “Quite late, yes.” I took up my spoon.

“Up late talking?” Cathal was back from wherever his thoughts had led him. “Not to Gull, I gather. I hear your fellow’s recovering his memory.”

“Some.” I made myself swallow a spoonful of porridge. “It’s patchy.”

“So what is he?” Cathal asked. “A fighter, a priest, a craftsman, a scholar?”

“Not a fighter. And I think not a priest, though I did wonder about that. He seems to like debate.”

Clodagh gazed at me across the table. “No wonder you were up late talking, Sibeal. He sounds just your type.”

I grimaced at her in sisterly fashion.

“I hear he speaks very good Irish when he’s alone with you and Gull,” commented Johnny, who had been diverted from his conversation with Gareth. “One might suppose he has been in these parts awhile. Possibly his brother, too.”

“Where is this brother now?” asked Gareth.

“Drowned,” I said. “I think Ardal’s brother was one of those we laid to rest after the wreck. There was one among the dead who resembled him. Ardal remembered a wave coming and his brother being washed away. And something about knots, trying to unfasten knots . . . ” My voice faded as I realized my companions at the table were looking at something behind me. I turned my head to see Kalev standing there, waiting for me to finish. Beside him was Knut.

“I do not mean to interrupt, Sibeal,” Kalev said. “When you are finished, we wish to speak to Gull about this morning’s activities.”

But Knut’s light blue eyes were fixed on me. “The man remembers?” His look was like a sudden blade, making my heart thump in fright. Before I could say a word, he added, “He is better. Is good, yes?”

“Better than he was, certainly,” I said with hard-won steadiness. It was clear that nobody else had noticed anything unusual. Had I imagined that moment? “But still very sick.”

“You say brother?”

He understood more Irish than I realized. “It seems likely his brother was on the ship with him, yes. One of those we buried. One of the men whose names you did not know.”

Kalev translated this for Knut, then rendered the Norseman’s reply: “How much does the stranger remember? Has he told his tale?”

“He hasn’t said much. Most of what he remembers is from long ago, when he and Paul—his brother—were little boys. I suppose it will come back to him in bits and pieces over time. He’s still quite weak. Gull and I don’t want to push him too hard.”

Knut spoke again.

“Knut says that if the story comes out, perhaps Ardal will tell it to you, Sibeal.” A familiar blush colored Kalev’s cheeks as he spoke. “He has heard the two of you are very close.”

A pox on Knut! How dare he make such a suggestive remark in front of my family? I opened my mouth to answer, then shut it again. The best response was a dignified silence.

Gull rose to his feet. “We’ll have our little talk outside, boys.” He looked across at Cathal. “Should be a good bout.”

“May the best man win,” said Cathal lightly.

There was time to fill before the fighting started. Biddy, sensitive to Clodagh’s distracted mood, sent the two of us off to the root cellar to fetch vegetables. When that was done she set us to chopping while she plucked and gutted chickens. My knife moved steadily: red-gold circles of carrot like little suns, creamy slices of turnip, pungent, translucent slivers of onion. On Biddy’s side of the table a drift of feathers filled the air, a strange summer snow.

“Are you coming out to watch the fighting, Biddy?” Clodagh asked.

“I’ll venture over to see how the Norseman stands up against Cathal. If that man of mine works a miracle, I don’t want to have to tell him I missed it.”

The knife stilled in my hand.
A man falling, falling . . . blood on the stones. A scream cut off sharply. His head . . . oh gods, his head, where it had struck . . .
I sat down abruptly, my hands to my brow, mumbling something about feeling faint.

Clodagh brought me a cup of mead, a heady brew for so early in the morning. I gulped a mouthful down. My sister had seated herself beside me, her hand on my shoulder.

“What did you see, Sibeal?” Last time we had watched Cathal fight, she had been edgy. The closer it came to the time of her delivery, I thought, the more difficult it would be for Clodagh to see her husband in any danger.

“Nothing to worry about,” I said. “A snatch of Sight, that’s all.” Who was that falling man and why had I seen him?

Biddy had the chickens hanging up on strings as she worked on them. A bucket stood underneath to catch the entrails. I could not look at this without seeing the image again: a man’s head smashed on stone, the contents splattered, a feast for squawking gulls. “Excuse me,” I murmured and made a hasty exit into the kitchen garden, where I spewed up my meager breakfast in a corner. I felt suddenly cold and shaky.
I bring shadows. I bring ill luck.
I had told Ardal not to say such things, not even to think them. But I felt the chill. I felt the shadow. Whether he was right, and he had indeed brought a darkness with him to the island, or whether another force was at play among us, I felt its grip and was afraid.

I waited until I was reasonably composed before going back in.

“Better?” Clodagh scrutinized me.

“I’m fine. It was nothing.”

“Maybe you’d go and pick me a nice bunch of parsley, Sibeal,” said Biddy, wiping her brow with the back of her hand.

Clodagh made to get up and come with me, but I waved her back down. “I’ll do it,” I said. “You stay here and chat with Biddy.”

“All right, Sibeal.” The fact that she agreed without argument showed me how tired she was. But Clodagh had not changed so much. As I headed out, knife in hand, I heard her say, “I’ll pluck that other chicken for you, shall I?”

The day was growing warmer. I took my time wandering up the path of the walled garden, from the part near the kitchen door, with its straw-covered vegetable beds and orderly lines of stakes, to the area closer to the infirmary, where both culinary and medicinal herbs grew in profusion. Stone benches were set at this end, among the plants. It would be a good place for Ardal to sit out in the sun when he was stronger.

The herbs were looking especially well kept, thanks in part to the time I had spent trimming, staking and generally tending to everything. It was a form of meditation, one I especially enjoyed. With both hands in the earth and the scent of growth all around me, I felt the working of a powerful spirit, an essence that had no name, but was part of me, and at the same time part of these bushes of lavender and wormwood, and part of the sheep grazing on the cliff tops and the apple trees in the little grove and the pebbles in the coves of Inis Eala. Even now, crouching to take a few green leaves from one plant, a sprig or two from another, I whispered acknowledgment and blessing, and felt my heart grow calmer.
For this bounty, I thank you. For this gift, I am grateful.

It did not take long to gather enough for Biddy’s purposes. There would be time to slip into the infirmary and bid Ardal good morning before I went back. I hesitated, remembering last night. He had unsettled me. Perhaps I had done the same to him. Still, we were unlikely to have any awkward moments with Muirrin there.

Outside the back entrance to the infirmary, I halted. Voices came from behind the closed door, and their tone was disturbing. Silence followed, and I found that still more disturbing. I pushed open the door.

Ardal was lying in bed. Close beside him stood Knut, looking down at him. There was nothing at all untoward about the scene, yet a wash of emotions flooded through me as I approached: unease, resentment, a furious courage. And sheer terror. There was no telling which man held which feelings within him. Knut’s expression was all courtesy; Ardal’s face I could not see.

“Better,” Knut said, glancing in my direction, then indicating the other man. “Good. I go now.”

I found myself momentarily unable to speak. The tumult crowded out everything else.

“You watch?” Knut asked me. “Good fight, you watch?”

Ardal spat out some words of Norse. I had never heard such a tone from him. Knut stared at him a moment, then threw his head back and laughed. The front door opened, and there was Muirrin with a cloth-covered bowl in her hands. “Knut,” she said, surprised. “Why are you here?”

“See him,” Knut said, jerking his chin toward the bed. “I go now. Fight soon.” He directed a smile of sorts in my general direction, and was gone.

I found words. “I thought Evan said Ardal was too sick to be left on his own.” I could still feel the tension of that encounter, without any idea of what the two men had said to each other.

Muirrin put her bowl on the worktable. “I was only gone a moment, Sibeal. I have a man coming in shortly with a painfully swollen ankle. I couldn’t make up this poultice without a trip to the storeroom. And Ardal’s fine, as you see.”

There was no way to convey what I had felt on first entering the chamber. It was one thing to have the gift of Sight, to be open to the voices of the gods, to be attuned to visions, omens and portents. It was another to be a vessel into which poured, apparently at random, a volatile blend of other people’s love and hate, cowardice and courage, envy, greed and desire. One thing I had learned. Knut and Ardal together spelled peril.

“Sibeal.” Ardal’s whisper drew me to his bedside, where I sank down on the stool. “Don’t concern yourself about me. There’s no need.” But there was. I’d have had to be blind not to notice how pale he was. He took my hand, holding it tightly.