The Island House (13 page)

“She might not know what I say, Brother, but she has an instinct for healing. The child understands suffering, and her devotion to this boy has been very clear. It is my belief the Lord is preparing the road for her to come to Him.”

“Devotion?” Cuillin huffed. Every time he entered the shelter, the girl disappeared. He did not know why, but he was offended by her wariness. “I have never seen it.”

“I assure you, Brother, it has been so. Will you hold this corner for me? I would like to beat the material.” Gunnhilde held up a large
piece of embroidered cloth. Shocking though it was, a woolen altar covering had been pressed into service as a coverlet, and she, Signy, and Idrun—the remaining novice—shared it at night. However, since the morning had continued sunny after the boy’s dramatic recovery, the nun was determined to banish any lurking vermin.

Seventeen days had passed since that terrible day—the Apocalypse was Gunnhilde’s name for it—and insect infestation would add to their torment in a way that seemed pointless given the larger catastrophe of their lives.

Cuillin thought comforting already-corrupted flesh useless, for God required that suffering be endured, yet in the end he did what Gunnhilde asked, if only to make the nun see sense. “The girl is a Pagan, Sister. It worries me you allow her to spend so much time with you and the boy.”

Gunnhilde applied a stick to the wool, and dust enveloped them both. “They are both Pagans, Brother. Perhaps it is God’s plan to bring them to Christ together and, before our Lord, I still say the girl has a good heart.”

“If she has such a good heart, where is she now?” Cuillin peered into the shelter—the boy seemed to be sleeping, but the girl had disappeared.

“Thank you, Brother.” Gunnhilde twitched the cloth from Cuillin’s hands and folded it. “I said she might go after helping the boy to drink.” Was there harm in such a small lie? “Do not concern yourself, she’ll return when she’s hungry.”

Laenna’s grave was only a small mound, but through the days since she’d buried her sister, Signy had slowly covered it with a blanket of white pebbles. She’d carried them back from the beach in the skirt of her tunic when the newcomers sent her down to guard the salt-making fire or to gather seaweed. But to mark the grave for all time, she’d rolled a small boulder to the head with much effort. This was her sister’s pillow stone.

In the last of the warm season, the meadow flowers had begun to seed. Each day Signy plucked more of the seed heads and scattered them in a widening circle around where Laenna lay. Motherwort, hound’s-tongue, sweet-smelling melilot, red valerian, and goldenrod. Digging the seeds in with a stick, she would often pray aloud, mostly to Cruach, but she invoked Tarannis, too, and, just to be sure, the Wanderer.

“Do you see us, me and my sister? In your names, I ask these flowers to grow for her, and I ask all that is good in creation to remember Laenna for all time and note well where she lies.”

Had Laenna died, had all these people died because her clan had not known about the Wanderer and therefore not appeased the star? Signy would not make that mistake again; she might not like all of the newcomers, but she did not want anyone else to die, especially not the boy. He was awake much more now, and he’d smiled at her today; he even seemed pleased when she fed him or tended to his body, though they’d both been embarrassed when she’d cleaned him like a baby this morning. Still, Signy hoped he liked her even a little bit, because boys were more fun to play with than girls. Her brothers mostly had been kind, but Laenna often made trouble for Signy and they’d fought a great deal—and now she was gone.

Brother Cuillin shaded his eyes. He could see the native girl in the distance, and beyond her, the Pagan stones; it was a source of irritation, always, that they still stood, but other things were more important now.

“She’s at that mound again.”

He was working with Brother Simon and Brother Anselm. One by one they were collecting the stones of the chapel from where they lay among the grass.

Simon had more natural compassion than Cuillin. “She seems sorrowful each time she returns—perhaps someone she knows lies there. Help me, Brother.”

Cuillin’s back was aching, though it was yet early. Steeling himself, he bent to grasp the lintel stone.
For you, Lord. My pain is only a shadow of yours . . .

Brother Anselm staggered past, his shoulders bowed beneath a yoke from which two buckets hung filled with stones. Tipping the load onto a growing pile, he trudged back toward the others.

Cuillin admired his brother’s spirit—Anselm was patient, as stoic as a mule, though once he’d been the most accomplished illuminator in Findnar’s Scriptorium.

“Two won’t shift that”—Anselm gestured to the lintel—“let me help.” He dropped the yoke from his shoulders.

Cuillin knew his brother was right; another back, another pair of arms might make the task possible. What difference did it make if the stones were large or small—this was all God’s work. Gratefully, he intoned the sacred name. “Therefore in the name of Christ our Lord, one, two, heave!”

In a line, the three monks hoisted the stone to their shoulders. Their legs trembled beneath the weight, since all three had led sedentary lives in the Scriptorium lettering sacred manuscripts before the raiders came, and yet now they stumbled on together. For Christ their master.

“Here, drop it. Careful, carefully!” Cuillin took charge, and his brothers obeyed. He was troubled by this desire to lead, but he saw now that humility and obedience had always been hard for him. Even when he’d been sent north to Findnar from the Motherhouse at Whitby, Cuillin had dared to question his superiors. Why should he be ordered to this gull-haunted wilderness so many sea days away from the Motherhouse when there was so much to do in Whitby’s Scriptorium? But the Abbot had commanded, and Cuillin had obeyed—of course. Now, though he prayed often on his faults, there were few men left on the island, and the monks—and their few sisters also—seemed to look to him as the most senior of the surviving brothers. And he found himself consulting Gunnhilde more and more; perhaps they were falling,
naturally, into the roles of Abbot and Abbess since they both had the example of the Motherhouse to mimic. Cuillin banished that beguiling, prideful thought and crossed himself as the three trudged back to raise yet another piece of stone.

“Let us dedicate our labor to God, my brothers. With faith and His help we shall rebuild, together, His holy sanctuary on this island.”

Brother Simon and Brother Anselm crossed themselves and nodded cautiously.

God’s help was certainly required, for faith wilted at the thought of all the work to be done.

From a distance, Signy watched the men. She sat down in the long grass so that they would not see her, for she did not want to help them. It seemed a stupid thing to do, taking stone from
this
place and putting it down
there
—what was the sense in that?

She patted the pillow stone affectionately. “I think this God of theirs is very hard to please, Laenna. They should sacrifice something; then perhaps He’d help them a bit more.” She laid her mouth close against the white pebbles covering her sister’s chest and whispered, “But what should I do? Can you see me where you are? Tell me what to do. Please, Laenna, I want to go home.”

“Signy, where are you?” Gunnhilde was calling.

“Should I go to her, Laenna?” A brisk wind rushed past, bending the tall flowers that hid where she lay. Signy’s tunic fluttered, a flag in the grass.

The old woman called out more strongly, “I see you, Signy! Come, I need your help—the goat.” She mimed milking.

Signy sat up and waved. She understood more of what the woman said now, for every day she tried to use new words. The language of the newcomers was ungainly and sounded ugly, but she knew enough now to call the old woman by her real name,
Goonhelda.
It was hard to say, and unmusical, but Signy had
taught the old woman her name also. She now knew the name of the other girl too—
Eedrunn.
That was less difficult, a little. Even the boy could say
Signy
now, and he was closer to the right pronunciation, though he made her laugh when he tried to say other words in the clan language. But
Coolun,
the angry man, spoke to her only as
Gurl.
A sound like a growl. He did not try to say her real name. But time passed more quickly around the fire each evening now because Goonhelda liked to teach and Signy liked to learn. That is, when the newcomers were not chanting; they still did so much chanting it was hard to get to sleep sometimes.

“I’d better go, Laenna.” Signy kissed the pillow stone and stood up, her arms full of the poppies. She sauntered toward Gunnhilde.

“Milk, Signy, yes?” Gunnhilde handed the child a leather bucket and pointed at the goat. Signy nodded—she didn’t much like milking, but she’d rather do that than other things.

Their one surviving nanny was hobbled not far from the ruined chapel. She had an evil disposition, and it was clear she resented captivity after roaming free since the raid. A few days ago Signy had helped
Coolun
and
Ansuum
recapture the island’s few domestic animals, including the goat. She knew she had proved her worth because she could run faster than any of them, animals or men. And it was she who had brought the nanny back to the ruined settlement. Now the goat, a pregnant sow, and one of a pair of plow bullocks—the other had been slaughtered and eaten by the raiders—must be brought into the temporary byre at the other end of their shelter each night. This was another of Signy’s chores, and if Gunnhilde seemed not to like living so close to the animals because of the smell, Signy did not care; she was grateful for the extra warmth they brought.

“Shall I take those? They’re pretty.” Gunnhilde pointed at the poppies in Signy’s arms; she mimed taking the flowers.

Signy backed away and shook her head. She seemed alarmed.

Gunnhilde smiled, determinedly. On some days communication
was difficult. “When you’ve finished”—the nun mimed stripping teats again and picking up a full bucket—“come to me, please.” She pointed at the girl and then toward the shelter where they all slept.

Signy nodded. She went over to the goat and sat down beside her. The nanny stared back and bleated. “Yes, I know. You don’t like me; well, I can’t help that. We just have to try to get on.” Signy wiped her hands on the grass; she’d make the milking last as long as she could . . .