Foxmask

  “What?” she asked him. “What is it? Didn’t you believe I could perform such an everyday task? I do this all the time at home.”

  Keeper nodded; the smile had faded, but still he watched her. “I had thought others might wait on you,” he said diffidently.

  “They might, I suppose,” said Creidhe, “if I asked them to. We have a lot of men and women who work in our household. But I love cooking, just as I love weaving and embroidery and teaching children. I do such work because I think it is important; because it is a joy.”

  Keeper nodded. “Such tasks lie at the heart of our existence,” he said.

  Creidhe felt a flush rise to her cheeks, echoing some warmth deep within her. It was most disconcerting to hear this feral young man putting her own most private thoughts into words. “Yes,” she said, cutting the fish into smaller pieces. “Such work binds folk together; gives them something to hold onto; makes many pieces into one fine whole. Like a good soup, where the sea and the garden and the fields offer up their best and you put it together with thanks and with loving hands, and make something new of it to share with the people you care about. Or a song.” She glanced at Small One who now sat, blanket-wrapped, by the fire. “His song comes from earth and air and flame; from the depths of the ocean and the moon and stars. His is a greater gift than those we ordinary folk can offer. He opens our minds to the voices of the ancient things. I never thought to hear that. Not from a little child.”

  Silence fell between them. Creidhe put the fish in the pan with a splash of the seal oil he had in a jar, and set it on the coals at the edge of the fire. “You need breakfast today,” she remarked, studying Keeper’s gaunt features, his pallor, his shadowed eyes. Perhaps he had smiled, for a moment; nonetheless, the hunt was close. She still couldn’t believe what he must do. “Small One too. I’d like to put a bit more flesh on him. If I were at home I’d feed him cheese, porridge, vegetables.”

  Keeper did not reply. The fire spat and sizzled as drops of rain fell down through the smoke-hole in the roof. Outside the hut, the mist was so close not a single landmark could be seen. On such a day the Isle of Clouds, with its precipitous terrain, its cliffs and fissures, was a place where only a fool would walk abroad.

  “I intend no criticism, Keeper,” Creidhe said. “I know you cannot provide such food for him here.”

  “He is thin. Weak. I know this.”

  “He’s healthy enough. What choice do you have?”

  “Sometimes their boats carry provisions,” Keeper said. “Bread, meat, cheese. That can be stolen. If I can, I will do so this time.”

  “Oh, don’t,” Creidhe said hastily,” don’t take any extra risks, please—”

  Now he was regarding her very closely indeed. “This is what I do,” he told her, sounding puzzled.

  “I would be very unhappy,” Creidhe explained carefully, “if you put yourself in any greater peril just because I said the child needed more to eat. As it is, I’ll be worrying about you every moment until all this is over. Please be as careful as you can.”

  “You should not be afraid. You will not be left to care for him on your own. Five times I have done this already; I have become expert at it.”

  “It’s not being left to look after Small One that’s worrying me. It’s you. Don’t you ever think you may get hurt, that you may be captured or killed? You spoke to me before of accidents, of illness; clearly you have considered those possibilities. This is far more dangerous. You put yourself at terrible risk.”

  “I think of it, yes. Beforehand only. Once it begins there is no room in my mind for such concerns. I will not be killed. This follows a pattern, every year the same. I know the pattern. I am ready for whatever they do.”

  She said nothing, merely put out her hand and curled her fingers around his. After a moment his other hand came over, rested on hers. The touch sent a thrill through her; her heart quickened.

  “I am of no significance, save as his guardian,” Keeper said. “Only he is important, his safety, his well-being. And now, yours.” He spoke matter-of-factly. At the same time his thumb moved against her wrist, tentative, gentle, as if to give her a different message, one he would not put into words.

  “The thing is,” said Creidhe, finding it suddenly difficult to match his calm tone, “you may say you don’t matter. But you can’t stop other people worrying about you, not just because they depend on you, but because you mean something to them. Small One loves you. You are his family; you are his world, Keeper. He does not see you simply as guardian and provider. For him you are father and mother, brother and dearest friend.”

  “And you?” he said in a whisper.

  “I don’t know.” Creidhe’s voice was scarcely stronger. “After all, I’ve only been here a few days . . .” Nonetheless, somewhere inside her was a truth she feared greatly to recognize, a truth that had something to do with Thorvald, and something to do with the bond she had seen between her parents, still powerful and true after so many years, and a lot to do with accepting that the girl who had left the shores of the Light Isles in a quest to help a friend was gone now, replaced by a woman with entirely different needs and entirely different expectations. How could she have changed so much, so quickly?

  “I should not have spoken thus,” Keeper said tightly, withdrawing his hand. “I have been a long time away from others. Forgive me if I have forgotten what is right. Of course you do not wish to be here. Of course you wish to be at home with this father, the golden-haired warrior; with this mother, the far-seeing priestess. With your sisters, and your fine companions. There you have everything; here is nothing. Please forgive my hasty words.”

  Creidhe felt again that chill, the cold breath of what was to come. In all those years since he had taken the child away, she realized, Keeper had never once considered himself save as Small One’s guardian. The promise he had made to Sula had been all his existence. And now, after so long, it had changed. She had changed it; had disturbed the balance of his life. What could she say to him? That she felt a bond here that was stronger, fiercer, more compelling than any she had known before? How could she put that into words? What words were adequate for such a turmoil in the heart, such dark tides in the flesh? It was ridiculous; a practical girl, the kind who never forgot to take a knife and a flint and a comb when she went traveling, did not allow such surges of feeling to sweep away all her common sense.

  Keeper had risen to his feet and moved to the entry, where he stood looking out into the morning mist. It was as if the whole island were drenched in tears.

  “I could say many things to you.” Creidhe found her voice, though she faltered over the words. “So many things a whole day would not hold them all; a whole night would not allow them all to be spoken. I will not tell them this morning. After the hunt perhaps there will be time, and I can make a start. There’s only one thing I will say now. It doesn’t seem to make any difference that I’ve only just come here, that I don’t really belong here, that I’ve known you and Small One so short a time. Common sense plays no part in this. I felt the call of this island long before I first set foot in Brightwater, a call that was ancient and powerful beyond my wildest imaginings. Something brought me here. And now I must tell you that while you are out there, I will hold you in my heart every moment. My fear for you is not as guardian and provider, but as a man I have come greatly to admire, a man of unbelievable courage, of wondrous strength and kindness. I’ve never met anyone like you before. So, your hurt will be my hurt. If you were killed, it would be . . . it would change the rest of my life, Keeper. It would change who I am. That’s all I can say.” Her voice was wobbling; she struggled to maintain control. “And this fish seems to be cooked. We should eat; it’s best to follow the patterns of the day, even at such times.”

  Later in the morning the mist cleared and Keeper took her up the steep crag, guiding her on a path he seemed to know, though to Creidhe no track at all was visible. Small One scampered about; one might almost wish he would remain
in this other form, for as creature, not child, he seemed a great deal more self-sufficient. Nonetheless, Creidhe was acutely aware that he was a child, a boy of six, born of a very young and undoubtedly human mother. The transformations were a kind of disguise that sometimes proved convenient, but that was all. Small One could not be asked to put on one semblance or another. In this, he was his own master.

  “Don’t look down,” said Keeper, striding up the hill before her. His mood had altered completely since their earlier exchange; he had a spring in his step, a light in his eyes. It occurred to Creidhe that this change might perhaps be attributed to something she had said. This both pleased and alarmed her. “Wait until we reach the top.”

  Creidhe’s energy was all in matching his pace; looking was the least of her concerns. Her legs ached. Small One circled her, then bounded ahead.

  “Not far now,” said Keeper, not in the least out of breath. “Here, take my hand.” And when it became clear to him that he had tired her, that she was struggling to keep up but would not tell him so, he said simply, “Come,” and picked her up in his arms as if she were no more of a burden than Small One might be. Creidhe had no choice but to put both arms around his neck and her head against his shoulder. She was not at all sure how she felt about this; confused was probably the best way of describing the flood of sensations such closeness awoke in her. Once Keeper held her, his pace quickened; it became clear that he had, after all, been slowing his steps to accommodate her. Now they moved up the steep path with astonishing speed; the additional weight was apparently nothing to him, and he traversed the precipitous, rocky slope with never a foot set awry. Small One clambered, jumped, wriggled; barked, once, at some newly discovered creature under a stone. The sun peeped out between the clouds, brilliant gold-white, and they reached the top of the hill.

  “Close your eyes a moment,” said Keeper, setting Creidhe carefully on her feet again, facing him. His hands were around her arms; she had hers on his shoulders, and it was suddenly difficult to breathe, though he was the one who had just run up the crag, not she. “Now turn around; don’t look until I say.”

  Creidhe obeyed, feeling his hands lightly around her waist now as he placed her before him, facing outward.

  “Now,” he said. “Open your eyes. Is not this the loveliest sight in the world? We stand here at the end of man’s journeying; we look back from the edge of his farthest voyaging. I love this place, Creidhe. It is the meeting of earth and sky, the resting point of oceans. From where we stand, all stretches out. If I had a song such as Small One carries within him, I would sing it here for the winds to carry to the corners of the earth.”

  Creidhe nodded; she had no words. They looked east toward the Lost Isles; the tall, stark shapes of the islands seemed to drift in swathes of mist today, like places that existed only in legend or in ancient memory. The sea washed about them, silver, slate-gray, fierce deep green, changeable as a living creature, with more moods than there were pebbles on the shore. Above them the sun shone, bathing the bare rocks of the hilltop in pale light, touching Creidhe’s hair to glittering gold. Westward, the other way, they could see the long slope down, the last, wave-struck holm where puffin and gannet crossed and crossed again on the wind, and beyond, the wild ocean path to the end of the world. That way lay realms of ice, pods of great whales, monsters and maelstroms. That would be an adventure such as only a madman or a visionary might essay.

  It may have been a long time they stood and gazed, or not so long. Deep inside her Creidhe felt that strange sense of rightness, the deep certainty of time and place that comes but seldom in man’s cluttered existence. But she was not unaware of the more immediate situation, which perhaps she should have taken steps to avoid: the fact that Keeper’s arms had crept around her from behind and now crossed themselves firmly over her chest, holding her close; the fact that she was leaning back, so that the whole length of her body touched his. His mouth was against her hair; her hands rested over his as if they belonged nowhere but there. This closeness filled her with sensations both wondrous and heady; this was no dream, no vision or imagining, but real and strong, awakening every corner of her body to vibrant life. She did not move; he stood still as stone. Each sensed, perhaps, that for them there would not be many such moments of utter content.

  Eventually Keeper said, “The boats—look over toward Council Fjord. They have gathered the boats near the western end, ready to sail at dawn on the day the water stills. Can you see?”

  She narrowed her eyes; the sea was bright in the high summer sunlight, and it was a long way.

  “Seven, eight . . . I count nine of their small craft,” Keeper said. “And another: a boat I have not seen before. It is larger and sturdier than theirs.”

  Creidhe could not see a single one; perhaps living wild sharpened the senses. Nonetheless, her heart sank. Some things, one did not need to see to understand. “Sam’s boat,” she said. “The Sea Dove. What else could it be?”

  Keeper’s arms disengaged themselves; he stepped away from her, shading his eyes with his hand, gazing across the Fool’s Tide. “A fishing vessel, I would guess,” he said. “This could carry many men. Asgrim has seized it, perhaps, to aid his venture.”

  Creidhe said nothing; the conflict of feelings within her made words impossible.

  “You think not?” Keeper’s tone was sharp. “You think your companions fight alongside the Ruler, willing participants in the hunt? Did you not say these men were not warriors?”

  “I don’t know what to think. Sam would not easily give up the Sea Dove. I hope no ill has befallen them. Why would they come here? That would be so wrong. Even Thorvald would not do such a foolish thing, surely.”

  Keeper looked at her, eyes shadowed, jaw tight. “They come for you,” he said.

  It had been in the back of her own mind, though she would not speak it; the very thought aroused such delight and pain, such elation and horror, she thought she could not encompass it without running mad. Common sense, she told herself. Apply common sense. “I don’t think so,” she managed. “How could Thorvald know I am here? Surely they believe I drowned; there was one of Asgrim’s men watching from the shore when I overturned the boat. They should have gone home. I thought they would go home.” Her voice was shaking. Thorvald still here, so close, just over the water and about to sail for this very shore: what could possibly compel him to make such a choice? And Keeper was here beside her, Keeper with his strong hands and his lean, fine body; Keeper with his shy words and his wonderful smile; Keeper with his traps and his tricks and his formidable array of weapons, about to face up to all of them, to all of the warriors that eight, nine, ten fine boats could carry . . . Thorvald and Keeper . . . Somewhere in her thoughts, the Journey unfolded, and she could see what must be next, and her very spirit shrank from it.

  “There is no doubt in my mind,” Keeper said flatly. “He comes to fetch you home. What else? He knows that you still live. He need not see the proof; he knows it in his heart.” His tone was bleak, the voice of a man who is accustomed to loneliness.

  “I shouldn’t think so,” Creidhe told him. The brightness and beauty of time and place had turned to shadows around her. “Thorvald tends to act according to the intellect; he disregards feelings usually.” Still, he had come to the Lost Isles. What had that been if not a desperate quest to mend a broken heart?

  Keeper had his back to her, studying the distant boats that she could not see.

  “If your friend comes for Small One,” he said, “I will kill him.”

  There was no answer to that. The doglike creature stood by Keeper’s side now, small, untidy, its pointed ears scarcely level with his knees, it was such a little, scrawny thing. Beyond the two of them sky and sea and glittering brightness stretched away and away, a wondrous swathe of light and shadow, a picture of eternity. Surely the ancestors had laid a special hand on this place, marking it out, keeping it safe; surely that hand stretched, too, over the man she saw before her and the child he loved
so fiercely. Surely, surely they must be safe. Creidhe would not believe the images she saw in her mind, the images that clamored to be put into wool and linen, to be woven into the Journey: the pictures she would not let herself create. As for Thorvald, he had always made his own decisions, and he must take his chances.

  “Come,” Keeper said abruptly. “We will go back. Can you walk down?”

  “Of course.”

  He did not take her hand now, but went ahead without offering to help her. Something in the set of his shoulders and the look on his face kept her silent all the way down to the shelter. It was only when they were back inside that she asked him, “Weren’t you going to show me the hiding place? I’d better know where it is, hadn’t I? It can’t be very long now.”

  Keeper was not even attempting his usual routine, raking out the coals, setting water to heat. He stood leaning against the rock wall, staring ahead of him, mouth set in a line. It was Creidhe who moved the pot onto the fire and tended to the child.

  “I hope,” she said carefully, “that you haven’t suddenly decided you can’t trust me. I won’t deny that I am upset about what you saw, and about what you said. I fear very much for Thorvald. For Thorvald and Sam. They are old friends, and I don’t want them hurt. I miss my family; I did not sail all the way to the Lost Isles thinking I might never go home again. Those things are true, and you need to understand that.” She sat back on her heels by the fire, looking up at him. He had not moved; he would not meet her eyes. “But despite those things, I meant what I said before. All of it. And I give you my solemn promise that I will hide with Small One during the hunt, and make no noise, and guard him as best I can. If Thorvald comes here looking for me while the hunt is on, then I suppose he will sail away again without me. That’s just the way it is. I would not give Small One up to Asgrim’s men, Keeper, not now I know what the Unspoken intend for him. I am deeply hurt that you would believe that of me, even for a moment.”