Seer of Sevenwaters (41 page)

Snake stepped onto the boat, holding the dog, and Felix took her in his arms. The howling stopped. Felix murmured something, resting his cheek against her head for a moment. She wriggled around to lick his face. Then Felix passed her back to Snake, who returned to the jetty. Fang began a forlorn whimpering. Snake held her firm.

“Sibeal, I think we’re ready,” Johnny said. “Will you say your prayer now?”

I glanced at Clodagh again. She stood perfectly composed, pale and still. I saw that there was still a bag in her hand.

“If we’re ready, yes,” I said, and turned to face the boat, the bay, the great ocean beyond. I lifted my arms. “May the gods of wind and waves look on this voyage with understanding. Manannán, let not your creatures harm us, nor storm and tempest wreck us. We go in peace, to make good what was done in error. We go to find men cruelly abandoned in a far place. May fair winds fill our sails, may we travel safe and swiftly, may we return all together with our mission achieved. May those we leave on shore be guarded and shielded from all harm. We ask your solemn blessing on
Liadan
and on all who sail in her.”

It was time. And here, as if summoned by my words, was Cathal, taking the bag casually from Clodagh’s hand, giving her a chaste kiss on the brow, walking with me across the jetty as if there had never been any doubt about his being part of this. He held my hand as I made the awkward jump required for a short-legged person to reach the boat, then boarded himself in one elegant stride. Gareth called a series of orders and the crew obeyed, one man moving to the steering oar, eight to the rowing oars, which were situated at either end of the boat. I went to stand beside Svala on the deck at the bow. We would have to go down in the hold soon enough, but it felt wrong to start a brave mission amidst the cargo.

The folk on the jetty grew smaller. The gap grew wider. Felix came to stand on my other side. The ghost of that other voyage lingered in his eyes. “It will be all right,” I said. “We can do this.”

Far sooner than I expected, we were leaving the bay and heading into open water. The crew shipped oars. They raised the sail.
Liadan
began to move up and down, up and down, and I wondered if I might be sick, and if so how long it would last. I wondered how far from Inis Eala we would need to go before Mac Dara could once again sense his son’s presence. Looking for Cathal, I saw him working with the rest of the crew, all orderly purpose.

Beside me, Svala was perfectly balanced against the increasing movement of the boat. She wasn’t even holding on. Her golden hair flew about in the wind, so bright it seemed the morning sun was trapped there.

Felix murmured something in his native tongue.

“What was that?” I asked.

“The great eagle lend you the shelter of his wings,” he said. “The wolves of the forest guard you from shadows. The creatures of the deep swim by your side. And may your courage bring you safely home again.”

“Is that an old blessing from Breizh?”

“A new one.”

Gareth shouted something I failed to catch.

“Time to move to the hold,” Felix said. “They’ll be wanting to make good use of the favorable wind. Let me help you down, Sibeal. If it’s any comfort, the sickness doesn’t last.”

~Felix~

Liadan
has some advantages: there is space in the hold for several men to rest among the baggage, while the women still maintain a corner of their own. And she has some disadvantages. The hold may be large, but it is open to the weather. Everything is damp, ourselves and our clothing included. The only shelter is under the boards of the fore and aft decks, and even there the wind bites. Sibeal is miserable: she sleeps a snatch at a time, waking to retch into a bucket, her face drawn and white. Gull tends to her as best he can. Svala is no nursemaid. She crouches among the bundles as she did on
Freyja
, watching as each man comes down to rest, and as each goes up on deck again. Her hands are restless, plucking at her gown, twisting her long hair.

I think of voyages past. Setting out from Breizh with Paul, a few silver pieces buying us passage to Britain with a trader, Paul’s brawn ensuring we were not relieved of the remaining contents of our purse along the way. That vessel was like this, a merchant boat, sturdily made, designed to go mainly by sail. Whatever happens, I suppose I will not need to row.

The trip from Britain to Erin, we made on a fishing boat. Paul helped with the nets. I studied the clouds, the intricate patterns of the waves, the harsh, musical sound of the language as the crew laughed and joked, balanced against the swell. That was a good journey; our hearts were high.

The last voyage:
Freyja
. I am trying not to think of that. I am trying not to remember the wave that took my brother away.

It is night. We sail on by the stars, heading for the place where the storm took
Freyja
, or as close to that place as Gareth can calculate. The men rest in shifts, a few hours’ sleep, a watch on deck. When Knut comes down, Svala backs further into her corner. She bows her head; her hair veils her face.

Sigurd comes to sit by me. He is the only man from Snake’s expedition to be sailing out on this voyage. He was chosen, I imagine, for his fluent Norse. Besides, he has neither wife nor children. He is about Johnny’s age, fair-skinned, blunt-featured, with the short-cropped hair favored by many of the Inis Eala warriors. The markings that decorate his brow and cheek put me in mind of a seal. “You’re from Armorica, yes?” he asks. “Which part?”

This is the warrior who had a countryman of mine as a friend. I remember the name: Corentin. “The region of Finistère,” I tell him. “In the far west.”

“Mm. Strange tales in those parts. Corentin was full of them. Monsters and transformations. You going back, after this?”

I shake my head. “I doubt it.”

“Got family there?”

“My parents.”

“Corentin and I used to talk about it.” Sigurd lies down with his hands behind his head, but he seems in the mood for conversation, not sleep. “We made plans, not that either of us thought we’d leave Johnny’s band, but there’s no harm in plans. I’d take him to see the north, snow and ice, bears and wolves. He’d take me to that realm of strange stones left by the ancients and islands that appear and disappear. Have you heard of that? There’s a bay he used to talk about, where there are over three hundred islands. He said that when folk try to count them, they always come up with a different number. We thought we’d get a little boat and keep exploring until we found every last one.” Sigurd grins. “Imagine what you might discover in a place like that. But Corentin had to go home in a hurry, and I couldn’t walk out on Johnny. I wish I knew how he got on; whether he managed to save his family holdings. He could be a big landowner now. He could have a wife and children. He could be dead.” The smile is gone.

I thought I did not want to talk about home. After all, this man is almost a stranger. But his manner disarms me. “Do you know where his family lives? What region?”

“Near that bay I mentioned, if that’s any help.”

I nod. It is close to home. “I know the place,” I tell him. “I hope your friend was able to secure his land. The region is beset by territorial disputes. In that, it is not unlike Erin. It is possible Corentin’s holdings lie within the overlordship of a certain nobleman, a person with much influence and little conscience. I hope he managed to stand up for what was rightly his.”

“Oh, he’d stand up for it all right,” says Sigurd grimly. “It’s whether he was cut down afterward that troubles me. There are moments when I wish for the gift of Sight.” He glances over at Sibeal, who is bent double, gasping, while Gull presses a cloth to her forehead. “But when I think about it, I wouldn’t want that. Could be more curse than blessing. A man wants to be free to make his own choices. That’s what I think, anyway.”

In the semidark I find myself smiling. There is no lamp down here; the risk from fire is too great. But the nights are never quite dark in summer, and we are heading northward. A lantern up on deck casts a slanting beam down into the hold, picking out Knut’s inimical eyes, Sibeal’s ghost-white face. “Sibeal would say she still has choices, even though she has a window on a possible future,” I tell him. “The Sight helps a person choose right. It doesn’t tell what will happen, only what could happen.”

“Mm.” Sigurd closes his eyes. “Fond of her, are you?”

I say what I must say. “She’s a druid. Destined for the life of the spirit.”

“That’s no answer.”

“It’s the best one I have,” I say.

Sigurd does not reply.
Liadan
’s progress has slowed; the wind has died down. Manannán, the sea god, cradles this frail vessel and its human cargo: the sure and the brave, the uncertain and the doubtful, the resentful and the furious. It is time to sleep.
You would like that plan,
I tell my brother.
A quest to find every last island. A little boat, the two of us rowing, a fantastic, crazy mission . . . Sweet dreams, Paul.
Sigurd’s breathing slows; he is already asleep. In the shadows Knut lies still, watching me through narrowed eyes.

The second night. Our progress has been slow, the conditions calm all day. Now it is overcast. The stars are in hiding, and we cannot go on. The sail comes down. We trail a sea anchor. Gareth orders most of the crew to rest. It is cold, wet and cramped in the hold, and my joints ache.

Sibeal has stopped being sick and is taking sips of water. Her eyes are sunken; her jaw is set with fierce determination. I make myself get up and stretch as Gull has taught me. A crewman named Garbh is in charge of rations: hard bread, cheese, strips of wind-dried mutton. I make myself useful fetching supplies for Gull, for Svala, for myself. At Gull’s suggestion, I soak my bread in water before eating. No nourishing soups on this voyage. Gull can provide herbal potions, but cannot brew any freshly until we make landfall and can light a fire. If I get sick, he may not be able to save me this time.

Svala will not eat. I have not seen her swallow so much as a mouthful.

“I don’t think she eats this kind of food, Felix,” Sibeal says. “If we could fish . . . ”

“No way to cook it,” says Gull. “More’s the pity.”

“She eats it raw.”

“Now, why don’t I find that surprising? Catches it with her bare hands, does she?”

Sibeal stares at Gull, taken aback. “Possibly,” she says.

“I expect someone has a hand line. We might try in the morning. Depends on the conditions. And on what Gareth decides to do.”

Neither Knut nor I can be a reliable guide to finding the serpent isle. I spent much of that voyage in the hold, and I know nothing about navigation. As for Knut, his wish to be elsewhere can be read in every part of his body. When Gareth asks for his advice, he answers briefly, giving as little as he can. I understand his fear.

Gareth has several means of path-finding: landmarks such as skerries and islands, the stars by night, and by day a sun stone such as the Norsemen use. Far from land, under cloudy skies, instinct is the only guide. He believes tomorrow will see us close to the spot where the tempest fell on
Freyja
. The uncertainty of it hangs over all of us. What if we sail northwest from that point for two days, three, and do not find the isle? Do we abandon the plan and turn for home? Sail on to the end of the world?

“Felix.” Sibeal has got up and come over to me, looking so frail the next roll of the boat might fell her. She seems transparent as fine glass. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. You look—” I stop myself from telling the truth: that I want to wrap her up and transport her safely home, right now. “You look as if you’re getting your sea legs,” I say.

“I hope so. I’m not much use to anyone with my head in a bucket. Maybe tomorrow Gareth will let us go on deck for a while.” She glances across at Svala, who is crouched in her corner, an awkward bundle of unease. “I’m sure she’d be happier up in the open air,” she adds in an undertone. “She hates being confined, and she hates being close to people.”

And she is afraid, I think, but do not say it. For the three of us,
Freyja
’s only survivors, this is that ill-fated voyage all over again. The creaking of the timbers, the endless rolling motion, the tang of sea air, the sound of rushing water, everything takes us back to our dark place. If Svala is frightened, it is with good cause.

Paul, I will be brave. I will be as brave as you were, my brother.

The third day. Tempers fray; we are all on edge. It is overcast. The sun stone is useless. The wind is a mere breath.

Sigurd catches a fish. Svala receives it with wary hands. She takes her prize to a dark corner of the hold, where she squats down and guards it. Eating, she turns her back to us. Her feast is soon gone.

Late in the day, Gareth calls me up on deck. Cloud blankets the sky from north to south, from east to west; if it does not lift, there will be another night at anchor. On every side the sea stretches to the horizon, an endless expanse of heaving gray water. No island; no reef; not the smallest skerry. The sky is empty of birds. We are alone.