Seer of Sevenwaters

  “You were sitting there a considerable while. We can leave soon, I think.” His gaze had moved to the shore, where the party that had gone along the water’s edge could be seen returning, spears in hand. If they had found drowned men, they were not bringing them back. “He’ll rest those fellows next. We must leave soon or we risk being caught up among the crags after nightfall.” He glanced skyward. “We’re far north. At this time of year we won’t have true dark, but the place is full of pitfalls. We’d be fools to climb in the half-light. And if we find these fellows, we may have to carry them back.”

  “Cathal,” I said.

  “Mm?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Any time. I’ll have a word with Gareth, see if we can move things along.” He hesitated. “Felix was a fine man, Sibeal. Some time, you’ll want your moment to scream and shout and cry your rage to the sky. It’s hard to hold it all in. Even if you’re a druid, I suppose.”

  “I thought I could. I thought I could deal with anything.”

  “Nobody’s as strong as that,” he said.

  And then we were walking, climbing, edging our way across precipitous slopes, traversing cracks that opened on subterranean shadow, scrambling up small mountains of broken boulders. Following instinct; my instinct. Nobody knew where to go. Felix had stayed on Freyja for his whole visit to the serpent isle, tending to a sick man. Knut had been on the shore, close to the point where they’d beached the vessel; he had seen only the general direction in which Paul’s party had first headed, and that was the path we took now.

  I’d intended to try once more with Svala, in the hope that she might tell us where to search. But the look on her face had warned me not to come close. She was angry, frustrated, poised on the verge of some violent action, I was sure of it. I need not touch her to feel it. Her urgency was twin to mine, but without a better understanding I could not help her.

  We were a party of eight. If there were indeed three survivors, as Cathal’s vision had indicated, and if none was fit enough to return on foot, we would leave some men there and come back for help. Gareth had not been prepared to send more than eight, and I understood his reasons. The group that stayed behind must keep watch not only over Liadan but also over the unpredictable Svala and the white-faced, shivering, tethered Knut.

  Besides, the monster was still out there in the waters of the bay. From time to time it rose just enough to reveal a glint of brilliant scales, the curve of its back, the claws of one great forelimb before it sank again beneath the water. Waiting. Svala and the creature were both waiting. Now that I had challenged the gods, now that I had, more or less, told them I was disappointed in them, perhaps I would never again have the ability to read Svala’s thoughts. Perhaps I would never find out what she had lost and so desperately wanted back. What might she do if she believed I had failed her? Beneath my sorrow, my shock, my need to get the mission done, fear lay like a cold hard stone.

  The pace was fast, even when adjusted to accommodate my shorter legs. Cathal led the party. Sigurd was the only other among our number whom I knew at all well. Nobody wasted time on talk. The men advanced, grim-faced, getting on with the job that had to be done. All were armed. I had seen Svala looking at the axes and cudgels and knives. Her eyes had narrowed as the other party came back along the shore with spears in hand, spears that would have been used against the serpent had it struck. It seemed to me fighting a creature of such size would be entirely futile. Still, I understood why they would try. In that moment at Liadan’s rail, I would have leapt in to save Felix, even though I knew I was not strong enough to rescue him, or even to survive the attempt. Sometimes the only choice was to fight.

  Time passed. Liadan and her crew had long ago dropped out of our sight, and we were moving along a ridge high above the bay. At a certain point Cathal called a halt and ordered us to rest our legs. A water skin was passed around, and I drank gratefully of its brackish contents. Sigurd and Cathal were talking together, scanning the island all around, looking for possible paths through terrain that seemed devoid of any softness, for it was all rock and scree, with not a scrap of green.

  “Sibeal?” Cathal lifted his brows. “There’s no sign of a path. Whatever we decide, the going will be at snail’s pace, and the day is passing. What do your instincts tell you?”

  I stood up to get a good look around. My instincts were pulling me in the least likely direction, toward a set of tower-like pinnacles surmounting a vertiginous rock stack to the west. On this unlikely castle roosted many birds. The air above it was alive with wheeling shapes. From where we stood we could not see the stack’s base, only its jagged crown.

  “There,” I said.

  “You’re joking.” Sigurd looked at the place, looked at me again. “You’re serious.”

  “It’s a fair distance,” Cathal observed. “Are you sure, Sibeal? I’d judge we’ve barely time to get there and back before it’s too dark. Wouldn’t it make more sense to continue in this direction, following the natural curve of the bay?”

  “I think we should go that way.” The feeling inside me was powerful, drawing me westward. Nearly there, Felix. We’ll find them for you.

  “Very well,” said Cathal. “Men!”

  A few of them glanced at me when he explained where we were going; it did indeed seem the least promising direction to take. But they were professionals, and within a short time we were making a cautious way toward the place. My feet hurt, and I wished I had kept my stockings on. I could feel blisters forming. The closer we came to the cliffs, the more uneven was the ground. It was all too easy to imagine cracks opening under our feet, or slabs of solid rock shearing off to crumble into the sea far below. As we came down from our vantage point the rock stack was less visible, its oddly pointed peak often the only part showing above the cliff edge. Gulls screamed in the air above us, perhaps warning us away from their nests.

  And yet, in its starkness, its myriad shades of gray on gray, the place was beautiful. Here, sky met sea as if the two were one. Here, where all was harsh and clean and barren, there was a curious peace. It was a hermit’s place, a place of prayer, a place of deep and eternal power. Beneath my feet I sensed the heartbeat of an ancient god. I glanced at Cathal, who was walking beside me, and when he looked back I saw the same awareness in his eyes. I remembered that he was descended from the Sea People.

  A long walk, and difficult. Nearer the cliffs, the ground was broken by jagged holes that opened to a subterranean realm of cavern and tunnel, a nightmare honeycomb. Here, for the first time on the island, we saw lichens and mosses growing on the rocks, tiny, creeping things that clung and cowered under the force of the elements. The wind had turned to a vigorous westerly that whipped color into our faces and robbed us of breath. We came down a pockmarked slope and saw another first: some yards to the north of us, a deep ravine split the rocks. Down the inmost face of this chasm splashed a delicate waterfall. We could not see its source, likely a spring higher up the hillside, but along its channel small plants grew, making a startling ribbon of green in the relentless gray. Birds chirped and hopped and danced above this watercourse, not the gulls and gannets and great sea birds we had seen elsewhere, but smaller ones, some no larger than a wren. I wondered at their survival in this far-off place. They must be under the protection of a benign spirit.

  “Your instincts are sound, Sibeal,” Cathal said. “This may be the only source of fresh water on the island. And we’ve seen already that there are caves, unwelcoming as they appear. If those men are still alive, this does seem a likely area.”

  “It’s far from the landing place,” observed Sigurd. “If they came all the way over here, they cannot have been in much hope of prompt rescue.”

  We fell silent. Perhaps, I thought, they had been in no hope at all. But how could a man survive without hope?

  “Perhaps we should call,” one of the crewmen, Oschu, suggested. “That’s if you really believe they might be here somewhere.”

  “It can’t h
urt,” Cathal said. “Sibeal, do you still want to go toward the rock stack? That would take us perilously close to the edge of the cliffs. Why don’t we head for the stream? Maybe there’s a way down through that ravine, and we can at least refill our water skins.”

  I nodded. The compulsion that had drawn me westward was gone. Either I’d been wrong, or we had come far enough already.

  We reached the lip of the chasm and gathered on a patch of level ground. It was possible to see, just, how a man might make his way down to a lower point, if not right to the foot. The ravine was so narrow and uneven that I could not see the point where it opened to the sea. But there could be no benign anchorage down below, only a storm-battered cliff face and a ledge or two where seals might snatch brief rest.

  Higher up the abyss, where the blanket of green foliage softened the stones, there were hollows in the rock face. They were too small to be called caves; I saw none big enough to provide good shelter even for one man. All the same, in storm and cold I would far rather be here than in the bay or out on the hillside. There was an odd charm about this place. It was as if a goddess with a warm heart had laid her hand on this one corner of the stark isle. After that, no doubt she had departed for gentler climes.

  “Anyone there?” shouted Sigurd, startling me so badly that I nearly fell. “Hallooo!” Then he called something in Norse.

  His ringing voice started up a chorus of echoes. A small army of birds flew upward, then settled again, only to be shaken anew by Cathal’s cry: “Men from the Freyja! Where are you? Call out to us, comrades!”

  The echoes died away. There was only the washing of the waves, the sighing of the west wind, the peeping cries of the birds. And . . .

  “Did you hear that?” I whispered, not believing it. “Shh! There it is again.”

  A cry. Undoubtedly, an answering call from somewhere below us in the ravine.

  “Here! We’re here!”

  I stood frozen. His voice. Felix’s voice. I must be dreaming.

  “Down here!”

  The rescue party muttered various oaths, then moved into orderly activity, retrieving ropes from bundles, slinging bags on their backs, gathering what I now saw were the parts of a stretcher on which an injured man might be carried. I couldn’t move. I could hardly trust myself to think. It couldn’t be. Grief and loss had finally sent me out of my wits. And yet . . . and yet . . .

  “Sibeal,” said Cathal, “was there a man among the Freyja’s crew with an Armorican accent?”

  Fighting the mad hope in my heart, for it was impossible, I opened my mouth to say no, only two brothers, and they were both dead. Before I could speak, another voice came. “Sigurd, is that you? Get a move on, will you? We’ve got three injured men here and it’ll be dark soon!”

  The face of every hardened warrior was instantly illuminated with a smile.

  “By all that’s holy,” someone said, then shouted, “Gull! How in the name of the gods did you get down there? We thought you were done for!”

  “Stop wasting time and get on with it, Berchan! Bring everything with you. There’s an easier way out, but the two of us can’t get these fellows through on our own.”

  My heart had stopped; or that was how it felt. “Gull!” I called, and my voice was an old woman’s, cracked and tremulous. Let it be true. Let me not have heard wrong. “Is Felix there with you?”

  I waited for the longest moment of my life.

  “Sibeal! Sibeal, are you up there?”

  The greatest gift. A gasping sob racked through me. Did not you once promise you would do anything, anything at all, if he could survive? Now, possessed by joy, I would not consider how devious the gods could be. “Felix!” I screamed, entirely heedless of my audience.

  They sent the lightly built Berchan down first. A series of narrow ledges did provide a path of sorts into the chasm, though it was hardly safe even with the rope Cathal fixed at the top. When Berchan reached the others, he secured the bottom end of the rope to provide a handhold of sorts. I suspected this was mainly for my benefit. At another time I would have needed all my reserves of courage to tackle such a climb. Now, joy crowded out fear. Never mind how; never mind why. He was alive. Felix was alive. After all, the gods had smiled on us.

  I climbed down with the confidence of a spider traversing a strand of filament. Sigurd was just below me, ready to arrest a fall, but I did not need him. We reached a ledge, and from the ledge an opening led into a cavern, and just inside the opening stood Felix, wet, bedraggled and beaming with delight. Behind him the shadowy space was full of activity, but I had no eyes for that. I threw my arms around him, and his came around me, and the world vanished for the space of a few breaths. I’m home again, I thought. Home. And even as I savored the joy of the moment I thought, This is what Svala wanted. This is what she was expecting when we reached the island. She lost the one she loved, and she thought she was coming back to him. I know how she felt on Inis Eala, as if she were so broken she could never be mended. And I know how she thought she would feel when she came to the serpent isle. She expected to feel the way I feel now: healed, whole, brimming with happiness.

  We could not stay here forever, holding each other and getting in everyone’s way. Time was running short and there were things to be done. We moved back, making way for the last men to enter the cave with the pieces for the stretcher. What had seemed a sizeable space became quickly crowded.

  “I am so happy to see you,” Felix whispered in my ear. “My heart sings with it, Sibeal. But I must help here—as you see, we have men to bring out of this place.”

  “You’re alive,” I choked. “You’re not drowned. How can that be?”

  Gull was kneeling by a man who lay against the wall, covered by what looked like a big, rough blanket. The man was emaciated, his features hollowed by privation, but his eyes were bright with hope. So wasted was he that I could not guess his age—he could have been twenty or fifty. Of the other two survivors, one was very young, the other a man in his twenties. They were rake-thin, with sores on their faces and their hands and feet all cuts and grazes, but both were standing and making an attempt to greet the rescuers.

  “We were carried swiftly along the bay, mostly underwater,” Gull said in answer to my question. “This place is full of strange currents. When we first surfaced, Felix managed to grab hold of me, but there was no getting to shore. We were pulled around that curve of the bay, far beyond sight of the rest of you. The current was fierce. The strongest swimmer couldn’t make headway against it. I did wonder if that thing, that creature, was somehow making it—that’s a sheltered inlet, after all, not some wild river. Eventually we were washed, not onto the shore as we’d hoped, but into a kind of tunnel, an underground passage. We thought we were dead all over again—it was dark and the place was half full of water. There was a ledge to one side, but we couldn’t get up on it. After a while the ground rose, the water grew shallower, and we stepped out onto rocks. Since there was no going back, we went on. There was an opening or two overhead—you’ll have seen what a maze of passages this place is—so we could find our way, more or less. When we came out, here we were. These fellows thought they were seeing ghosts.”

  “Dagda’s britches,” said Cathal. “That’s the least plausible story I’ve heard in years, Gull.”

  Felix was coughing. It hurt me to hear him. It took me back to those nights in the infirmary, when I lay awake listening to him struggle and begged the gods to let him live for one more day.

  “Cathal,” said Gull, “we must get these fellows out of here as soon as we can. I don’t want them spending another night without proper attention, and I can’t give them that without my healer’s supplies. We can’t get Thorgrim here up the ravine, but we can go out through the tunnel.”

  Cathal gave him a direct sort of look. “Didn’t you say part of it was underwater?”

  “The fellows tell me there’s a big tidal flow here. Judging by what they’ve said, if we go soon we’ll be out before it starts
to rise again. I reckon it’ll be knee deep at most when we get to the other end, and we should be able to make our way back to Liadan around the edge of the bay.” When Cathal did not immediately reply, Gull added, “Unless you want to go back the way you came, and leave us here until tomorrow.”

  Felix’s coughing fit had passed. In the quiet of the cave, the wheeze of his breath was like wheat stalks rustling in the wind. Everyone could see the look on Thorgrim’s face, a naked longing to be safe again, warm and dry and tended to by kindly hands.

  “The creature.” It was the young boy who spoke now, a lad of perhaps fifteen. “The monster. Is it still there?”

  “It is, Colm,” Felix said. “But these men won’t run away. They’ll stand and defend you if it comes again. And there’s a boat waiting, a sturdy boat with a crew well able to take you home.”

  The boy was trying his best not to weep. His jaw trembled. “It took Artan,” he said. “Before we found this place. It took Demman. It took one of the Norsemen. It ate them up right before our eyes.”

  “We know, son.” Gull’s voice was very quiet. “You told us. And we’re here to get you away before any more are lost. Cathal, if we’re doing it we need to move.”

  I was reminded, again, of what people said about Johnny’s men: that they were the best of the best. They worked with no fuss, assembling the stretcher, moving the sick man onto it with strong but careful hands, deciding who would carry it and who would help the two men who could walk. Few words were exchanged; every man knew exactly what he was doing. I waited quietly, watching them. This small cave had been home to hunger, cold, loneliness and fear. It had seen men near death; men desperate for survival in a world turned hostile. There was no fire here. There was nothing to burn. How in the name of the gods had they survived the harsh northern nights? Where had they found hope?

  I glanced around me as the men began moving through the back of the cave and into the tunnel. There was very little in the chamber. A stone with a natural depression in it might perhaps have been used to collect water. Spray from the waterfall, maybe, or rain. In a corner lay a heap of empty shells; they had foraged for food, then, on the rocks nearby. Perhaps they had stolen an egg or two from the gulls’ nests. If they had stayed in the cave, they would have starved. I wondered what had happened to the other man, the one who was not taken by the creature. Perhaps he had died of despair. The place stank; the men had performed all their bodily functions here, and it smelled not only of that, but of sickness and defeat. I must say a prayer as I left, or the sad shadow of its human tenants would linger on.