Wolfskin

  Eyvind was not standing alone this time. He had a lad on either side, and his arms around their shoulders. At his feet the two dogs stood, guardians, companions, messengers—who knew what they were, in truth? Close by, seven of her own men, clad in island colors, sky blue, sea green, blood red, stood in a watchful group. And Grim was there: a surprise defection, this, which had not pleased Magnus at all, but he had made the most of it, seeing this most hard-bitten of warriors would not change his mind again. One of the young men from Sandy Island seemed to be glancing at Gunhild rather often, and Gunhild’s pink cheeks were positively glowing. Time, Nessa begged again. It is not so much to ask for.

  “Make time.” Rona had come up beside her, and spoke in a manner Nessa had grown used to over the years. Rona could not read minds, exactly; she simply seemed to know things without needing to be told. Maybe that was the Sight, maybe just an old woman’s acute powers of observation. “For him, especially. Take him away a while; space and quiet, he needs now. Time to grieve and time to be comforted. You can give him that, and take some for yourself as well.”

  “But—” Nessa hardly knew where to start, there were so many objections to this. So much to do, so few of them to manage it: stock to be tended, boats repaired, dykes mended so the tender grain, planted almost too late to be guided by the season’s rhythm, might not now be mown too early by hungry sheep or wandering cow or foraging hare. They must divide responsibilities and set to work. And she must travel to the outer islands to visit her people there and reassure them. How could she take time?

  “He seems strong,” Rona said quietly. “Already they gather around him. He will continue to grow; whatever challenges the world sets him, he will meet bravely. But he’s still a very young man, Nessa, and he has bid the last of his family farewell today. You, who have lost so much, know how that feels. Take time for each other. Trust us; we’ll get on with things until you’re ready to come back.”

  Thus it was that, on a day when the sky was a cloudless warm blue and the sweet grasses of the Light Isles were dotted with flowers of many hues—blush pink, sun yellow, dusky violet—Eyvind and Nessa made their way on foot, each bearing a small pack, up to the west and along the shore near the Whaleback to a place where a burned-out cottage now stood half-rebuilt, and a low opening between stones led to a chamber a little girl had once named the tower in the earth. There they unpacked what they had brought, and Eyvind made a fire where Rona had once baked fish wrapped in weed, while Nessa fetched fresh water and set her provisions neatly at hand. Neither of them spoke much; the frequent meeting of blue eyes and gray, the touch and clasp of hands in passing, the brushing of body against body as they walked said more than any words could signify. In this quiet place there was a whole world of sounds: the wash of waves on the westernmost shore, the high passing cries of seabirds and the closer, reedier voices of pipit and meadowlark, the distant lowing of cattle and the small anxious cries of lambs, all these were part of it, and yet, beneath and beyond the signs of habitation there was an immense silence, a vast, open emptiness in which the mind might drift, searching for answers, and find there were no answers, there was no ending—only a journey to be taken, a pathway to be followed. One could do it well or badly; every man and woman had that choice.

  “Well,” Eyvind said, sitting back on his heels as the fire settled into a darkly glowing mass crowned with licking flames. “What next?” He looked at her, eyes fire-bright, and she looked back smiling.

  “A walk,” she told him, reaching out her hand.

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t sound so crestfallen. Not very far. Only up to the clifftop, there to the south. Do you remember?”

  Eyvind nodded. “You promised,” he said. “Or wished, if not promised. You said we’d go there in springtime. Then, it seemed impossible that would ever come to pass, for one reason or another. We are so blessed, I hardly dare look beyond tomorrow, lest it all change before my eyes.”

  “It will change anyway,” Nessa said. “The trick is changing with it, I think. Shall we walk?”

  There is a place, just below that highest rise of the cliffs south of the Whaleback, where the narrow pathway spreads into a shallow bowl, a cup in which a man and a woman may sit in safety as if supported by the hand of Bone Mother herself, and look out to the west across the trackless ocean that leads to world’s end. Below this small shelter, the cliffs fall away to a rocky shoreline. On this sheer face, generations of birds have nested over the seasons, rearing their young in the teeth of the wind, fighting for space on the narrow ledges, gliding and soaring on their endless journeys to pluck the sea’s bounty. Their diving, intricate dance weaves magic about the place; their harsh voices cry an ancient, many-threaded chant of survival.

  Nessa and Eyvind sat there as the sun passed to the west; as the bright blue of afternoon began to fade to violet and gray, and the shadows changed. They did not embrace, not yet, for all the tide of longing that had filled them, rising and rising, since the very moment they had left the settlement to set out on this journey. Simply, Eyvind put one arm around Nessa’s shoulders, and his other hand laced its fingers in hers. Warmth shared; memories awakened. The sky changed, dimmed; the birds were quieter now.

  “I expected too much of him, at the end,” Eyvind said, staring out over the darkening sea. “More than any man could give.”

  “Perhaps he will prove you wrong.”

  He glanced at her. “You don’t believe that, do you?”

  Nessa shivered. “I don’t know. And I will not look in the fire for that answer. You opened another pathway for him. What happens now is his choice, not yours.”

  “This was not done cleanly. I should have known better.”

  “You are a man, not a god. Perhaps time will give you answers. Now, I’m getting cold. And I want to cook supper before it’s quite dark. Shall we go?”

  “Supper sounds good. But can you better Rona’s onion broth?”

  Nessa grinned as, hand in hand, they began to pick their way back down the cliff path. “I would not attempt such a feat. But I’ve an excellent line in flatcakes flavored with dried mushrooms and herbs. The last time I gave you those, you fed them to the dog, I seem to remember. This time I expect better of you.”

  “I hope not to disappoint you,” he said quietly.

  Nessa felt a hot blush rise to her cheeks. She realized he was entirely serious. “Unlikely, I should think,” she told him, understanding that whatever he achieved, however he was loved and recognized, he would always expect more of himself: would always consider himself in some ways wanting. That was Somerled’s doing.

  She had not thought it would be possible to eat; the yearning ache in her body and a strange nervousness seemed enough to rob her of any appetite for food. But the walk had changed that. Eyvind stirred up the fire while Nessa shaped the dough she had prepared in the morning, adding a pinch or two of this and that from the depths of her pack. Once the flatcakes were cooking in the iron pan, and Eyvind had set a warm cup of herbal brew between her cold hands, she found she was able to sit quietly, enjoying the savory scent of the mushrooms and the sizzling of hot butter, and look across at him with a smile that banished any awkwardness.

  “We have a little longer, this time,” she said. “A luxury, to be alone. We must make the most of it.”

  Eyvind did not smile, but there was a warmth in his eyes, a steadiness that did not quite conceal the shadow of desire. “So, you intend to take me on many walks?”

  “I keep my promises,” Nessa told him, lifting flatcakes onto a platter. “Visiting the beach at dawn is one of them. I want you to see the colors. And we must go to the Whaleback, later. I need to stand by the Kin Stone and tell my uncle about you; explain to him, and to the ancestors, what we will do here. I could not do that at the time of the burial rites. It is something for just the two of us.”

  Eyvind bowed his head. “You honor me in this,” he said quietly.

  “Yes. But you should understand, it is usual f
or the royal women of our people to take husbands outside the Folk. Men of Saxony and Dalriada have fathered our kings. Thus the line is kept strong, and kinsmen away from each other’s throats.”

  “Your uncle would not have wished such a husband for you, surely.”

  “My uncle was a man like your chieftain, Ulf, and like yourself, Eyvi. He judged people by their own worth before he considered their lineage. I must hope our sons grow to be leaders of equal wisdom.”

  “Sons?”

  “If the ancestors will it. A daughter first, though.” She laid a hand on her flat belly; as yet there was no sign at all.

  “You will keep me very busy, then, with one pastime or another,” Eyvind said.

  “With one pastime or another,” Nessa agreed gravely. They were silent a moment, and then, suddenly, both broke into laughter. He put his food down and moved across to wrap his arms around her; she laid her brow against his shoulder, still chuckling at how foolishly solemn they had become, and felt his hands on her hair, stroking, and his mouth against her temple, not laughing now.

  “I don’t think I can wait any longer, my dove,” he breathed. “But if you are not ready, then—”

  “Shh,” Nessa said, stepping back. “Damp down the fire, here—” She moved to rake the ashes in, to set the pot to one side. Careful habits are not forgotten, even in such moments. “I see it is almost dark; we must light our lamp and settle for sleep, I think. And it’s getting cold. How fortunate I have brought some blankets. Will you come with me, dear one?”

  So, leading him by the hand, she made it quite natural as they crept through the low entry into the tower in the earth. Eyvind set the lamp in an alcove; Nessa spread blankets on the earthen floor. Time out of time: each moment a precious gift. His fingers were careful, unfastening the small hooks at the front of her gown. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek; the light touch of his hands through the thin wool of her bodice was somewhere between delight and torment. Her fingers moved to touch the butter-yellow hair where it curled behind his ears. Her heart seemed to be thumping quite hard, doing a wild dance all its own.

  “I’m sorry,” Eyvind whispered. “My hands have become very clumsy all of a sudden.”

  “Shall I help?”

  It did not take long to unfasten bodice and skirt, to let both slip to the floor, so that she stood before him in her fine-woven shift. She could hardly bear the look in his eyes, and yet she could not tear her gaze away. That a man could feel such need for her was astonishing; it filled her heart with joy and terror, and found something in her own body that strained to meet and answer it.

  “Turn around,” Eyvind said, and when she obeyed, startled, he untied the ribbon that bound her long plait, and ran his fingers through the dark, silken strands until her hair fell like a soft curtain across her shoulders and down below her waist. Then she undressed him in his turn, an awkward task in view of his height. There was a certain difficulty with the trousers, which had both of them helpless with laughter again. They found a solution quickly, and the laughter ceased, for their long-denied need rose in them fast. Last of all, Eyvind bent to take the hem of Nessa’s shift between his fingers, and drew it upward, and she lifted her arms so that the fine garment could be shed entirely, leaving her naked in the lamplight save for the cloak of her long hair.

  “My Bright Star,” Eyvind said shakily, “I would stand here and simply gaze at you, for such loveliness can surely be found nowhere else in the world. But I find such restraint is beyond me at this moment—will you—?” Nonetheless, he held back, as always demanding of himself more than might be expected of any other man.

  She took a step forward, rose on tiptoe and kissed him; the whole length of her body was abruptly against his own, flesh to flesh. Restraint, then, became an impossibility for both of them. They had waited a long time for this, and the urgency of it was no less than last time, when each had felt death hovering near. Eyvind came close, for a little while, to forgetting what Signe had taught him and surrendering himself too early to the flood of desire, the dark urge to completion. But this was Nessa, who had captured his heart and freed his spirit, and he did not forget. So they came together in laughter and longing, and moved together in passionate joy, and in the end, reached together a blinding, shattering moment of fulfillment, which left them weeping and trembling in each other’s arms.

  “Did I hurt you?” Eyvind whispered, easing his arm so she could rest her head more comfortably on his shoulder, and drawing the blanket up over her.

  “You could never hurt me, Eyvi,” she breathed against his sweat-dampened skin. “Never. You should not need to ask me such a thing.”

  They lay awhile in silence then, overwhelmed by what was between them, the fierceness of it, the strength that was both wonder and terror. If such a bond were ever broken, how could one hope to survive it?

  The lamp burned steadily. Eyvind fell asleep with his legs entwined in Nessa’s and his arm across her, his fingers twisted in her hair. His breathing was slow and peaceful; there would be no dark dreams tonight. Nessa lay wakeful awhile, watching the shadows as they stirred and shivered in the secret space of the ancient cairn. And although the two of them were alone in that deep place, it came to her that they were not truly alone, for through the narrow entry, and again through the tiny opening in the roof, a faint blue light came and went in regular sequence, as if outside in the darkness a dance took place, a ritual of greeting, of welcome. And from the shore, over the endless roar of the western ocean came a sound of voices, wordless, fluid, singing recognition, a hymn of sisterhood telling of a bond deeper than blood. As for the dark voice of the earth, that remained silent, and perhaps would forever. Nessa had made her choice. For everything, there is a price to be paid.

  Nessa closed her eyes. Eyvind moved in his sleep, tightening his arm around her; she could feel his heartbeat against her cheek, steady and strong. Later he would wake, and they would laugh and whisper and make magic together in the darkness. It was a miracle, surely, that out of such bitter losses, such depth of sorrow, could come transcendent joy. Are you strong enough to lose all you have, and still go on? It seemed she had been, and for that, the ancestors had granted her a gift that was truly beyond price. Smiling, Nessa drifted into sleep.

  The little boat bobbed onward across the dark sea, escorted by gulls and seals. Somerled’s expression was blank; it told nothing of what was in his mind as the wind and the swell bore him ever farther into the realm where great whales breach and dive in the spray, and long-armed creatures slither and move in the ocean’s tides like tangles of creeping sea wrack. On such a journey, a man has time for thinking. There was the exile itself, a sentence cruel in its kindness, a decree both curse and redemption. There was the irony of it, that his long-sought prize had been snatched from him by the very man who had once believed in his vision when all others scoffed in scorn. Somerled’s bitter laughter flew up to blend with the harsh voices of the seabirds. Eyvind some kind of leader? The Wolfskin a father of kings? He could no longer say his friend would never surprise him. There was a sort of amusement to be found in that. And there were tears, here where nobody could witness them; he bowed his head and let them fall into the pitiless surge of the ocean, salt on salt. He had loved Eyvind, and Eyvind had betrayed him. He had loved Eyvind, and Eyvind had saved him. Which was the truth?

  Westward, ever westward, the small boat moved, passing on to the edge of the world. Dusk came, and dolphins danced at the bows. Night came, and stars awoke in a vast blackness of sky, such a sky as can be seen only when a man is alone on a midnight watch. Somerled gazed at them, and waited. What was to be done but wait? Sometime, this voyage would have its ending.

  Historical Note

  Orkney’s history exists in the very bone of the islands. Culture overlays culture: Neolithic houses, chambered cairns, and stone circles, Bronze Age burial cists, Iron Age brochs lying cheek by jowl with remnants of later settlement by those elusive and independent people, th
e Picts, whose most stunning legacy is their symbol stones. After them came the Vikings, and with their arrival, the rapid establishment of a Norse culture in the islands. By A.D. 880 Orkney had become a Norse earldom ruled by Rognvald of More.

  The Orkneyinga Saga, written by an Icelandic chronicler around A.D. 1200, tells the story of Norse settlement in Orkney. Prior to that, we have only the archaeological remains and passing references from sources of varying reliability. The Saga tells us nothing of the people who lived in the islands prior to the Norse arrival. It is likely they bore the blood of both Iron Age ancestors and more recent Celtic immigrants. The archaeological evidence points to a Pictish-style culture. Their kings owed a token allegiance to the Pictish kings of Caithness, but geographic isolation gave them a certain degree of independence.