Foxmask (49 page)

Sam nodded. “For your father, yes. And for Creidhe.”

“And for myself. I don't see how I can do otherwise. As for afterward, we must go home, of course. What else could we do? I hope your deckhand is still waiting for you in Stensakir.”

“As to that,” said Sam, “I have a volunteer who's all too keen to find a new home away from all this, and honest work to go with it: young Knut. But all in good time. We've our battle to fight, two battles, really; one with this tribe on the Isle of Clouds, and another with the sea. Can't really say I'm looking forward to either.”

“Are you afraid?” Thorvald asked.

“Not of the sailing part; that'll be hard, but I'm pretty sure the
Sea Dove
can handle it. The fighting part's a different matter. What about you?”

Thorvald considered this. “I'm not afraid of the hunt,” he said slowly. “I don't think I'm afraid of dying either; my life is not such a wondrous thing, after all. But the thought of failure terrifies me, Sam. We cannot lose this time. I must ensure the men come through this. I must take Foxmask. That's
what matters: to capture the seer and win peace for these people. That is what I must do. Until I have achieved it, I cannot think of home.”

On the Isle of Clouds a fine mist hung low in the air, blotting out the landscape, drenching rock, bush and grass. The wet did not stop Keeper from fishing; he went out early, as soon as the sky was light enough, and came back dripping, with a string of fine haddock in his hand. Small One had been out, too, in his doglike form; now he shook himself vigorously, sending droplets spraying all around the small shelter.

Keeper put down the fish, took up a sack laid close at hand and rubbed his disheveled hair to some semblance of dryness. It stood up from his head in wild confusion. His clothing steamed before the fire that Creidhe had rekindled.

“Only a few days now,” he remarked. “Three, four maybe. When the sky clears, I will show you where you must hide, you and Small One, when they come.”

“Oh,” said Creidhe. This was real; one could not pretend otherwise. “Not here then?”

Keeper looked at her, eyes somber. “Here is not safe,” he said. “Too open, too easy to find. I will move you to another place and leave you there. Two days they will be on the island; the night between, they stand offshore in their boats. For that time, I cannot come back to you. You must stay hidden and quiet. It is hard for Small One. Better this season, because you are here.”

“Oh.” There seemed to be no more to say. She imagined the child, confined, mute and afraid, to some place of hiding all alone. Waiting for his brother to come back. Waiting to see if he would ever come back.

“What is it?” Keeper asked, squatting down beside her and starting to prepare the fish. “Are you afraid? If you stay hidden there is nothing to fear. Small One will be good. I have taught him what he must do. I would not leave you so long, but there is no other way. I cannot risk leading them back to him. Or to you, Creidhe.”

She nodded, feeling the awful inevitability of it all, that crushing sense of doom she could not shake off, however hard she tried to apply common sense to the situation.

“Let me do that, since you caught them,” she said, for there was no doubt practical activities such as cooking were a powerful help in such moments of doubt.

“As you wish.” He passed the knife, watched as she continued the process with small, well-practiced hands. When she glanced up she saw that he was smiling, a smile of such disarming sweetness it made her heart turn over.

“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.