Wolfskin

  She settled herself on the flat stones above the dark water. She cast her mind back a long time, to a day when small Nessa had been watching the seals on the shore and thinking about the lonely fisherman who had built the tower in the earth.

  “Rona,” she’d asked, “how could you call the Seal Tribe? If you wanted to talk to them, how could you make them hear you?”

  “That depends,” Rona had replied guardedly. “Such folk don’t just come when you want them. They’re not at the beck and call of the human kind, and they never will be.”

  “So you’ve never—?”

  “Ah,” Rona had answered, “I didn’t say that. For you and me, it’s a bit different. You’ll find out, as you study the mysteries. They start to hear you, and recognize what you are, and then you begin to hear them. These old ones, the sea people, the earth folk, they understand our part is to preserve the heart of the islands, Nessa. We all want that. One day you’ll be casting your circle, and you’ll look westward to invoke the powers of the ocean, and the people of the Seal Tribe will be there watching you. And there is a way to call them, if you’ve a desperate need.”

  “What way?” At nine years old, Nessa had not been sure of what a desperate need might be, but she was always eager to learn whatever the wise woman had to tell.

  “You must sit by the water in a place you know they love, and you must shed seven tears into the sea. Then ask them to help you.”

  “Does it work?”

  “I don’t know,” Rona had said dryly. “Let’s hope we never have to put it to the test.”

  The time had come now. Seven tears, no more, no less. It was not hard to weep. Think not of the deaths of her uncle and Kinart and all the fine men of the Folk, not of the Kin Stone laid low, nor of her mother’s slow fading and the fever that had snatched her sisters away before she could say good-bye. Think not of the women of the Whaleback, captive and frightened. Think not of Rona wandering off into the wilderness alone so that Eyvind might go on to confront the friend who was his enemy. Think not of Eyvind giving himself up so Nessa would be safe, nor of what he might be enduring now. Oh, no: think only of last night, think of the look on his face, his smile like a flash of sunshine, the touch of his hands on her body, so gentle, so careful for all the passion that made his breathing falter and his blue eyes darken. Think of the way their bodies moved together, as if they were two halves of one wondrous whole; remember the secret darkness of their longing and the shattering brightness of their fulfillment. Even now her body ached with it. Think only of the unthinkable sweetness of that, and of how much she had to lose if she failed. Think of that and weep. One, two, three…seven…now cover the eyes with sudden hands, lest a whole flood of tears drop to the cold sea, and this charm be undone before ever it was made.

  She sat silent thus, palms over her face, head bowed, with no room in her thoughts for anything but him. Yet all around her the magic flowed, ancient and true, for this was not just for woman and man, for the bond between them; it was for the Folk, for the islands, for life itself. Seated there, blind and weeping, Nessa felt the power of it deep in the bone, flooding the heart, filling the spirit with brightness, and knew she had never been more priestess than she was in this moment.

  She opened her eyes to Guard’s barking. There were five of them seated on the rocks around her, women and yet not-women, fragile, wild sea creatures with eyes all liquid darkness and hair draping their white shoulders like fronded leaves, gray, blue, green as the deep below the swell. Their bodies were naked and wet, pale skin pearled with droplets as if they had but a moment ago emerged from the ocean’s chill embrace. Perhaps what lay on the sandy beach beyond them was merely a drift of dark weed; perhaps it was sealskins set neatly down until their owners should need them again. Guard was hysterical, running up and down the shore, squandering the last of his flagging strength in a frantic warning.

  “Hush now, Guard, good boy.” Nessa rose and walked back to the little cave, and they followed on their narrow white feet. They settled in a circle around the wolfskin, and long-fingered hands reached out immediately to touch the bones, to stroke and examine. They seemed to speak one to another, but their voices made notes, not words: a deep, antiphonal humming that told their understanding of what Nessa had prepared here. With pointed finger, with nod or shrug, with little notes of song, they proceeded to show her how the task must be done. Shreds of dark matter adhered to the bones, near the joints; these must be cleaned away, and the long, pale shafts polished. A handful of sand, shreds of dry seaweed, she must rub harder, harder, this was to be a thing of beauty, pure and bright as the moon itself. This took time. As each bone was judged ready, it was laid out in place, flat on the wolf pelt, so the shape of what must be made could be seen. Shin bones, thigh bones for the frame: these must be trimmed, pared, shaped with Nessa’s little knife. Once or twice, the sea women were not satisfied with her efforts. They would not use the knife, but took up the bones and set their teeth to them with precision, gnawing a hollow, grinding a curve more precisely. The joints must be a perfect fit, matching as sweetly as the timbers of that great vessel that had borne Ulf, the far-seeker, safe across the ocean to the islands of his destiny. They watched her intently, shining eyes fixed on every fumbling attempt to hold the sliding pieces in place, attention sharp on every cautious shaving away of a tiny shard so that the instrument would be perfect in form and function. Later, they chewed weed into long strips for bindings, passing her the dark, wet strands, showing her cunning knots, clever twists. These wrappings would tighten as they dried, giving strength to the frame.

  The day passed swiftly; the sun bathed this small patch of western shore in deep gold, lighting the faces of Nessa’s companions to a translucent glow. A note of urgency had crept into their voices now, the pattern of their speech-song conveying a clear message: Hurry! The sun moves lower. Make haste, or it will be too late!

  Pegs, little pegs of finger bone. Notches almost too small to see. So small, her hands were shaking, she must concentrate, she must slow down. She must keep her mind only on the task of making, and put those other images out of her mind: Eyvind hurt, Eyvind fighting and falling again.

  “There must be time,” she murmured to herself. “I’ll light a fire, I’ll work all night. In the morning, I’ll find a horse at one of the farms, I’ll ride there as swiftly as I can. He’s only been captive one day. They must have some sort of hearing, these things take time…Tomorrow, tomorrow must be soon enough.”

  Even as she spoke she saw the look in the sea women’s wide eyes, and heard the tone of their wordless voices, and recognized what they were trying to tell her. One raised a delicate hand, gesturing toward the sun, and ululated a warning. Another pointed to the cliff path, to Nessa herself, and to Guard, who now slept with eyes half-open at the rear of the shallow cave, twitching and trembling. The sea woman used her hands to show running, running. She pointed eastward, her hum rising to a kind of scream, which rang from her mouth and nose, a braying danger call like the voice of a war trumpet. There was no mistaking the message. Finish it and go now. Now. Tomorrow is too late.

  They began to work alongside her; it seemed they had decided she could not finish in time, not on her own. Their thin, pale fingers plucked the hair from the tumble of discarded bone and began to twist and weave it together with a speed and dexterity that made Nessa stare in wonderment, until one hissed at her, motioning to the harp frame where the small holes still lacked their pegs. These finger bones were so little, and it was getting dark. She had made the holes as neatly as she could, not easy with a knife better suited to the casting of ritual circles than such a delicate and precise task. She fitted one peg, working hard to keep her hands steady as the sky darkened and the sun turned red, sinking until it was a finger breadth above the slate gray of the western sea. She eased another into place.

  “I must make fire,” she said, hoping they might understand. “I can’t see to do such fine work. It’s almost dark, and there are four more
of these to fit, and then the strings. Must I go there by night? Is that what you mean?”

  The only answer was wordless, incomprehensible. One of the sea women held the frame upright, two others were still fashioning strings, and there were two down on the sand now, crouching over something they were making. Nessa fitted the next peg.

  “You should tell me the truth,” she said, fumbling to find another of the tiny bones, to trim the end narrower while she could still see. “If I don’t get there before morning, will Eyvind die? How can I get there? How can I go up this path in the dark, with—” She looked at the thing she had made, so delicate, so fragile. She looked at the wolfskin, bulky, heavy, but not to be left behind. Guard whimpered in his sleep; he was exhausted and hurt. “I don’t think I can do it,” Nessa whispered. Oh, Eyvi, how can I do it? She reached to slip the peg into place, but it was too wide and would not fit, and now the sun sank abruptly, and all at once it was too dark to see, too dark to calculate the fine adjustment necessary, to shave off the smallest fragment of bone so this could fit snugly but still be turned. I can’t do it.

  The sea woman suddenly let go of the harp, and Nessa’s hands shot out to keep it from falling. A thrill ran through her, a ripple of power that made every corner of her body tingle with a terrible awareness. In that moment, she felt what this was. As yet it had no strings, no voice, yet she sensed the magic hidden in the graceful frame, the energy concealed in the elegant small shape. I am…I am… Its voice hovered on the edge of hearing, urgent to come forth. Oh, it would speak all right; it would tell a tale to freeze men’s hearts and set tears of shame in their eyes, it would make them shiver and quail with its song. This harp would bring truth to the tyrant’s hall. It would save the Folk. It would save Eyvind, if only she could bear it forth in time.

  There was a certain amount of dispute as to where Eyvind might be held securely until all was prepared for a formal hearing. Erlend and Holgar recommended some form of shackles, and a bolted door. Somerled thought such precautions unnecessary. After all, Eyvind had demanded a fair hearing. Now that he was getting one, why would he take the trouble to escape? Hadn’t he given himself up with no more than a token struggle?

  A compromise was reached: hobbles for the ankles, locked securely, but the hands left free, since the prisoner’s wrists were red raw from the tight bonds he had worn during his march north. The chamber where they placed him seemed new. Eyvind thought it purpose-built for captives such as himself, for the door was an iron grille, heavily bolted. There was a high, small window in the stone wall; none but vole or finch might escape this cell. A straw-filled sack and a bucket provided the sole furnishings. Guards paced the hallway beyond the door, not Grim, not Holgar, not Erlend, but others, men who did not know their prisoner well. Perhaps Somerled thought that safer. Or maybe the Wolfskins did not like to see their old comrade sunk so low. He had seen the unease on their faces, the confusion in their eyes. Now, he was not only a traitor, he was something worse: a coward.

  For Somerled was right, as usual. Eyvind would not attempt an escape, though as soon they’d brought him in here, he had instinctively sized up door and bolts and guards to weigh the chances. For a Wolfskin, this was a natural reaction. But he would not try, even though he suspected Somerled’s idea of what constituted a fair hearing would differ markedly from his own. If he broke out and fled, he would be pursued. Somerled could not afford to have him abroad spreading dangerous truths. And if they hunted for him, they would find Nessa. That could not be allowed to happen. He was not so much of a fool as to believe there could be a future in these isles for him, even though she had lain in his arms one whole, sweet night. She had a place here as priestess, as leader. As for himself, it seemed he had earned the scorn of all who had once admired and loved him. There was nothing to do but go on in the manner of a warrior, with what strength and dignity he could muster. He would face death as the wolf did, steadfast to the very moment of darkness.

  Time passed. The guard changed and changed again. Someone brought food and drink. Eyvind wasn’t hungry, but he ate it anyway, simply for something to do. The silence, the shadows sharpened his awareness of the pain in his wrists, the trembling in his hands, the weak, numb feeling in his legs. He made himself move about within the tight confines of the cell, bending, stretching, always hampered by the shackles. He tried to imagine what the hearing would be like, what Somerled would say, and how a man such as himself might counter the arguments of such an expert law speaker.

  The light from outside suggested late afternoon or early evening. Eyvind sat on his straw pallet, concentrating hard, making sure he could remember all the details of Ulf’s death, and what had been said during that day on High Island. The blood…the dead eye…the knots…Somerled’s voice, shrill with shock…He was jolted back to the present by a hoarse whisper from the door. Grim stood beyond the grille, flaxen hair, bristling beard, anxious eyes.

  “Eyvind!” he hissed. “Wake up, man!”

  Eyvind rose and moved forward. He said nothing.

  “Listen,” whispered Grim, mouth close to the narrow bars of the door. “Shouldn’t be here, haven’t got long. Might be able to get you out. You game for it?”

  Eyvind could not help himself, his heart thumped, his blood surged with hope. A friend, freedom, a chance to live—gods, how he wanted that!

  “How?” he murmured.

  “Suppertime, little diversion, one of us slips the bolt. End of the hallway, there’s a yard, and a couple of old nags. Up to you then. We’d keep them busy, give you a fighting chance. Better than nothing. What do you say?”

  “I can’t.” There was no choice; he had known that all along.

  “What!”

  “I can’t. I have to face him; have to tell my side of the story. But thanks. I thought I had no friends left here.”

  “Huh.” Grim’s eyes flicked one way and the other, watching for the returning guards. “We don’t think much of what you’ve done. That doesn’t mean we want you dead. Why not? Why not get away? You’ve about as much chance against him,” he jerked his head in the general direction of the hall, “as a naked babe against an armed warrior. None, that is. Better to die a free man, surely.”

  “I can’t. Someone has to tell the truth, and it looks as if I’m the only possibility. Grim?”

  “What?”

  “Where’s Eirik? I sent him a message, a while ago. Why isn’t he here?”

  Grim scowled. “Don’t know. Seen nothing of the pair of them, him and Thord, since long before we took the Whaleback. Busy with the ship, I should think. Nearly time to sail. Still, this isn’t like him. Eyvind—”

  Grim broke off as footsteps sounded along the hallway: the guards returning. “You sure?” he hissed.

  Eyvind nodded. Inexplicably, there seemed to be tears in his eyes, and he turned away so his old comrade could not see this sign of weakness. He had to be strong: strong, clever, and calm, like Somerled. The arguments, the facts; he would go over them once more, make sure he would be able to relate them clearly, even with Somerled looking right at him, ready to pounce on any flaws. He sat down again on the straw pallet and tried to concentrate, but his mind seemed to have stopped cooperating. The images he saw in the shadowy cell were not of the voyage to High Island, the climb, the mist, the desperate search and sickening discovery. Instead, he saw the forest above Hammarsby and two boys walking along a narrow path under tall firs. They went soft-footed, knives and spears ready for the hunt, moving together in a silence of complete understanding. One felt pride: He’s good at this now, and I taught him. What the other felt, there was no telling. He saw them younger, in the red light of a winter dawn on the frozen lake, one unsteady on his new skates, the other supporting with kind words and strong arms. He saw himself with crudely splinted leg, face white as chalk, staggering down the rocky hillside, and a small, fierce-eyed Somerled struggling to keep him upright. The grim jaw, the scowling determination of that exhausted child set him apart; surely, Eyvind thought,
such single-minded courage had destined Somerled for greatness. And he had indeed become a king, just as the seer had foretold.

  But…this travesty based on murder, cruelty and lies, this mockery of a true monarch’s rule, surely it was not this the cat woman had spoken of? Even he, stupid, muddled Eyvind, whose only skill was with sword and axe, could have done a better job as leader here. For all his cleverness, Somerled had got everything wrong. They must be made to see that. He would make them see it. Eyvind lay down and closed his eyes. Without rest, he had no hope of keeping his wits about him when the time came. Sleep safely, Bright Star. My hand in yours.

  Sometime in the darkness Eyvind was woken by voices and the flare of torches, and the sound of bolts being scraped open. It seemed to be time to move. Erlend and Holgar conveyed him out to the hall, his feet still hobbled. Neither said a word, nor did they lay hands on him this time, but walked on either side as if uncertain which they were, warders or bodyguards.

  The hall was alive with lamplight and movement and the buzz of anticipatory voices. They ushered Eyvind to the center, facing the table at which Somerled sat, flanked by the men who had been his brother’s advisers, and by some who had been elevated by the new chieftain’s favor. The captain of the knarr was there: the knarr on which a man called Firehead had died. On every side of the long chamber, men sat on benches or stood in small groups, talking among themselves; the place was packed as full as a temple at the time of sacrifice. No white goat this time, only a man. Eyvind’s thoughts spun in a way he much disliked, but could not halt. And Somerled has learned to use the knife; I taught him myself. He blinked and straightened his shoulders. There must be no sign of weakness. Keep still, stand upright, set a guard on eyes and tongue that they betray no secrets, tell no more than was strictly necessary.