The Strange Maid (42 page)

“You’ll bore a hole in me with that look,” he mutters.

“I don’t need a hole there to see what you’re made of.”

He lowers his eyes and whispers poetry from
The Song of Beowulf:
“And, gold-adorned, the queen stepped forth.”

I hold his hand and lean my head on his shoulder for the rest of the drive.

TWENTY-SIX

THE CITY OF
the dead spreads out around me, marble glowing like pieces of the moon fallen to earth. I sit cross-legged, facing a woman with black hair in two thick braids down either side of her face, hollow cheeks, a smile carved to hold laughter.

We speak of family and the old television I watched with my mother and father on those rare weekends when they decided satisfaction meant snuggling under blankets just the three of us, when we never got dressed or even brushed our teeth, but only ate sugar toast and the most activity was tickle torture during commercial breaks. I tell the woman those were the times I first felt wild, when I shrieked and cried for relief but begged them not to stop. She says her first encounter with madness was at a wedding, a night made brilliant by bonfires and drums.

I tell her,
I’m waiting for you on an island.

And she says,
I’m coming.

It’s sunlight that wakes me, warming my face.

Grass tickles my hands and cheek. I sit up. The sun is high. I fell asleep on the scraggly grass mound on the northwest edge of Fort Massadchuset. Salty sea air ruffles the wisps of hair around my face and I wince into the light.

We arrived last night after midnight, under a low, oblong moon, and it was only the UV lights we’d torn off the semi that let us find the long boardwalk reaching out from the narrow island into the sea where we could tie the trawler off. Red Stripe had to climb over the boat and plop into the water. I rode on his shoulder as he struggled up the steep sand bank in the darkness toward the fort. Cold ocean soaked my jeans and I was crusted with pale sand by the time we made it to the brick wall and around to the only entrance to the fort. The berserkers were there, affixing the UV spotlights in ways that gave us light but didn’t bar Red Stripe from the arched doorway. The sally port, Rathi called it, unable to hide his admiration for the construction. All I saw were bricks.

I took Red Stripe through the three-meter brick tunnel into the inner courtyard and trudged back down the long dock to help the rest unload all our supplies. And Ned, of course. Sharkman led him by a slipknot noose around his neck. It pinched my heart to see it, knowing what I knew, but I allowed it to happen and climbed up the narrow turret stairs to the grassy roof of the fort with a spear and handheld light to keep watch in case she was right behind us.

After an hour or so my eyes burned for sleep as I scanned the black waves and shoreline for any oddities, and Soren relieved me. I curled up right there to dream.

Now in the daylight I can see the whole of the fort and island and can’t imagine a more perfect place.

It’s probably three or four kilometers from tip to tip, curved toward the mainland like a young moon, all white sand and rough green grass and inner saltwater bogs. No trees, no tall dunes that a greater mountain troll might use for shelter or shield. We control the fort, the only permanent structure other than the boardwalk connecting the sides of the island and the flat wooden patio with its falling-down picnic tables and old restroom facilities.

The fort itself is a great circle of concrete and brick, sunk down in to the ocean floor at the inner edge of the island. Rathi told me on the ship last night it was built to protect the mainland against the Anglish during the War of 1812 but not completed until the rebel army took control during the Thralls’ War. It had thirteen cannons at one point, and you can still count the crumbled mounting platforms. I stand on one of the grass embrasures and could walk the entire perimeter if I wished. Down in the half-circle parade ground the Mad Eagles have set up a large baby-blue tarp up on tall poles next to one of the three turret stairs. Soren perches on a folding stool under its shade, sipping coffee and watching the three berserkers work out. The folding chairs lean against a brick furnace with a small hearth and chimney.

Red Stripe shelters below me, under one of the brick archways lining the parade, and Sharkman tied Ned up in a sublevel storage room rather like a cave.

A soft yell draws my attention back to the Mad Eagles. They stand in a line in the center of the grassy parade grounds, working out. As I watch, they cry out again in a single voice, moving in unison through a series of defensive postures. Their swords shine in the sun.

I slide down the steep grass embrasure and land on the brick footpath that runs around the inner circumference of cannon mounts. There’s a more modern metal rail, filthy with salt and rust, to keep tourists from pitching over into the inside.

Even the seven of us should be able to hold this place against the troll mother, especially if we have warning from Red Stripe. But he’s given no indication yet that he’s aware of anything the rest of us aren’t, and so we can’t rely on him. As I go carefully down the dark turret stairs, the sense of my dream rushes back to me. The woman in Valkyrie braids who spoke with a smile of the Alfather’s madness. The sense that we were old friends; the comfort between us had been gentle and warm. And yet, I know in my heart it was a dream of the troll mother. I told her where to find me.

I join Soren under the mess tarp. He silently points to a package of toothbrushes sitting on the plastic folding table, and then to the ten-gallon water jug hanging from one of the poles. He doesn’t take his eyes off the Mad Eagles. “The toilets outside don’t flush, but Thebes and I made a compost on the other side of the building first thing.”

Not looking forward to that, I quickly brush, counting out the supplies piled beneath and atop the table. There’s boxes of protein bars, a bag of oranges, a cooler, honey sodas, and bottles of wine. Toilet paper. I rub at the flaking salt still clinging to my skin from my swim, wondering if we’ll be here long enough that I have to worry about tampons. I grab some of the toilet paper and head out of the fort, down the creaky boardwalk to the facilities. Outside the fort, the sun glares off the white sands and tightens the salt on my skin. I’ve got to change out of these clothes.

When I return, I use my tank top and the hanging water bottle to scrub my face, then ask where my stuff is. Soren points to one of the guardhouses. “You’re in there, and Rathi and I are sharing the other. Unferth is still tied up in that powder magazine. The Mad Eagles sent tents up in the casemates with Red Stripe.”

It’s a good thing he points to the low black arch leading down off the parade grass when he mentions
powder magazine
and to the proud brick arches that completely surround the rest of the parade when he says
casemates.

I thank him and head into the casemates: the hallway of linked chambers underneath the circle of cannon mounts. Green slime stains the corners of their vaulted brick ceilings, and a thin white layer of sand and salt streaks everything, even the slate floor. In the cool shadows Red Stripe is hunkered down, back to the bright parade ground. His spine and shoulders are calcified, but I see his arm moving slowly as he traces the cracks between the bricks. His eyes turn to me when I approach and scratch behind his ear. “There, Red Stripe,” I say. He grunts contentedly.

The guardhouse walls where I find my suitcase and sleeping bag were whitewashed at some point; a naked wooden checkout counter and a few sagging shelves mark how it was a bookstore once. I strip and dig out jeans and one of the Mad Eagles T-shirts that have become a staple of my wardrobe.

When I emerge back into the sun the Mad Eagles have circled up into a complicated battle-ring, and there’s Soren still drinking coffee. No sign of Rathi.

I pick my way barefoot across the meadow and then pad down the concrete stairs into the blackness of the powder magazine. Ned lounges against the crumbling wall with his hands tied together. He eyes the berserker logo just visible on my shirt. “Do as the Romans do?” he asks lightly.

“I can find one for you, if you’re jealous.”

He shrugs one shoulder as it if matters not at all, wincing at the light behind me. “Am I free to leave this cage, Signy?”

I crouch to untie his hands. “Unless you’d rather I bring you a chamber pot. We’ve got toothbrushes and water and TP at the mess.” As I turn away, I toss back over my shoulder, “Probably no hot chocolate, though.”

Sun and humidity curl the wisps of hair escaping from my messy braids. I join Soren, accept a tin mug of hideous camp coffee, and pretend not to watch Unferth harvest morning necessities from the table and stroll out the fort. His limp is bad, likely from being bound on a cold stone floor all night. But his shoulders seem relaxed, and just before he vanishes I see him glance up at the sky. Maybe he’s relieved to have told his story. He held on to it for so long.

I undo my braids and use my fingers to untangle them, thinking of Ned’s fingers on my scalp, and I watch Soren watch the Mad Eagles move through a complicated series of defensive postures. “Why don’t you join them?”

“I’m not one of them.”

“Neither am I, but I’ve worked out with them.”

“It’s different.”

“Sharkman makes it different, you mean.”

“No.” He glances at them again, not bothering to hide the confused longing. “I’ve never been good with other berserkers. And now that I denied Odin, most of them hold it against me. You saw, back at the base. He didn’t even want to let me in the gate.”

Abandoning my hair, I smack his shoulder. “Let’s go, then.”

He hesitates for only a moment.

We warm up quickly, with the system he showed me in empty hotel weight rooms, and by the time Unferth is rooting around in the mess to make more coffee, we’re sparring with two of the Mad Eagles’ practice spears.

Though I know Soren goes easy on me, I sink into the rhythm and feel I’m doing well, until the Mad Eagles gather to watch. Darius folds his arms over his chest and Thebes crouches like a mountain beside him. Sharkman glares hot daggers at Soren, and Ned brings his tin cup of coffee nearer. I try to ignore the audience, but the moment Unferth drinks he sneers and spits it onto the ground, then overturns his cup. I laugh and Soren disarms me, shaking his head at my lack of attention.

In the ensuing quiet, tension draws us all together as Unferth stands there free and casual.

I grab up my spear from the ground and toss it at him. He drops his cup to catch it, and I take Soren’s spear, lifting it in challenge. Unferth lowers his chin and smiles. I rush to find my footing, forgetting everything else.

I attack wildly. He slows me down with careful blocks, wielding his weapon like a troll-spear. The jar of spears colliding shakes up my arms and I use my feet to hold the butt in place, dodge, place the spear again, dive through his defense, and shove instead of whipping it about to get in a lighter hit. Unferth staggers but goes low and pushes me back with a hard angle against my waist.

The sun beats down. It’s been two months since I fought this style, and Unferth knocks me down again and again, but I turn fast and am on my feet before he can pin me. Little flashes of surprise on his face fill me with satisfaction, no matter how often I hit dirt. Practicing with Soren has helped tremendously.

Finally, when he knocks me to the ground, I stay there, breathe hard, and stretch my hands and feet out as far as I can. My shirt sticks to me and my scalp itches, my head spins and the tips of my fingers throb with my pulse. But the air rushing in and out of my lungs is clean, dragging all the darkness out of me. It finds each crevasse, every fold inside where doubts hide, and tears them out.

Unferth crouches over me, the spear tilted against his shoulder, and says, “Have you gone soft while I was away?”

“Away?”
I sneer at him, but it turns into a laugh.

His annoyance melts as he watches me smile, and my insides seem to evaporate in a burst of bubbles. He holds down his hand and I take it, letting him pull me up against him. We part slowly, as friends, and I know the Mad Eagles will see it, will understand as far as I’m concerned he’s part of our team.

Darius begins to speak, but Sharkman turns fast and gets right in Soren’s face. “Our turn,
berserker.
”