Gods and Warriors (14 page)

“Thank you, Spirit,” Hylas said quietly.

Spirit swam around him, then put his nose to the plank and gave it a gentle shove.

At last Hylas understood. The dolphin hadn’t been trying to throw him off the plank. He’d been trying to push him toward land.

After that, things were much better. Hylas knew not to be frightened, and Spirit knew not to push too hard. He even seemed to know when Hylas needed a rest, and would circle, softly blowing, until Hylas was ready to go on.

But at last Hylas was too exhausted even to stay on the plank. He felt himself sliding off into the Sea, and knew he didn’t have the strength to climb back on. Spirit seemed to know it too, because he swam underneath Hylas, as if offering to carry him on his back. Without even thinking about it, Hylas took hold of the dolphin’s fin with both
hands—taking care to ensure that the dagger didn’t touch the soft gray hide—and Spirit began to pull him smoothly toward land.

It came closer with startling speed. Through a blur of exhaustion, Hylas made out a high ridge shaped like a boar’s back, and dark red cliffs streaked with bird droppings. He thought he heard the gutteral cries of cormorants, and something else, just beyond the edge of understanding: a faint, uncanny, gurgling singing.

A breeze shivered the Sea, smoothing the waves in great dark patches, like the footprints of some vast unseen being. Spirit swam past a headland, and Hylas glimpsed the shadowy mouth of a cave. From within he caught snatches of that weird, echoing song. What
was
this place?

The words of the dying Keftian drifted back to him.
The Fin People will take you to their island… the fish that fly and the caves that sing… The hills that walk and the trees of bronze…

Then all that was forgotten as Spirit carried him into a wide, calm bay where wavelets lapped a beach of white pebbles and the water was a bright, sunlit blue.

His foot struck sand.
Sand.
With a moan of relief, he let go of Spirit and sank into a patch of slippery purple seaweed. Crawling clear of the waves, he collapsed on the shore.

The last thing he heard before he passed out was the
pfft
of Spirit softly blowing as he swam up and down in the shallows.

P
irra had never seen a bird swim, actually
swim,
underwater. It was black with green eyes. Was it a magic bird because it lived on this island, or did lots of birds swim underwater, and nobody had told her?

Enviously, she watched it surface with a fish in its beak and gulp it down. Her belly growled. It was a day and a night since the fisherman had abandoned her here with only a waterskin and a couple of dried mullet. Since then she’d eaten nothing but a handful of dusty sage.

On Keftiu she’d never had to think about food. When she was hungry, she simply clapped her hands and a slave would bring whatever she wanted: delicious little fried cheese balls rolled in sesame seeds; roast octopus stuffed with sorrel; fig cakes smothered in crushed walnuts and honey.

But here. There were fish in the rock pools, but whenever she leaned over, they vanished. She’d never expected fish to move so fast. She’d only seen them in paintings or in a dish.

The island didn’t want her. Seabirds screamed at her,
and sharp stones hurt her feet. The Sea heaved endlessly in and out of her narrow little inlet, splashing her with spray that stung her burned cheek; but she didn’t dare camp in the big bay on the other side of the headland. She had to stay hidden, in case her mother or the Crows came after her. She missed Userref, although he probably didn’t miss her, as she must have gotten him into so much trouble by running away. She hated being so helpless and so scared. She had no sandals or cloak, which meant no shade by day and no warmth at night; and no idea how to wake up a fire. Sleeping in the open was frightening, with all the noises. The sky was immense and the stars glared down at her. Alarming shadows flitted across them that might be birds or bats—or worse. There was a cave where she went to refill her waterskin, but nothing could have made her sleep down there. Caves led to the underworld. You entered at your peril.

Shortly after the fisherman had abandoned her, a storm had blown up. Miserably, she’d sheltered under a juniper tree, getting soaked. Then she’d experienced what every Keftian dreads: The ground had begun to shake. Cowering under her tree, she’d begged the Earthshaker to stop. Was He angry because she was here, where she didn’t belong?

The shaking hadn’t lasted long, but she’d lain awake all night, waiting for the Bull Beneath the Sea to start stamping again. At dawn she’d thrown her earrings into the shallows
as an offering, uneasily aware that she should have done this earlier.

She shouldn’t be on this island; it was all wrong. She’d told the fisherman to take her to Keftiu, but he’d said it was too far, and despite her protests he’d set her down here. He’d been scared and in a hurry to get away. She hadn’t known why until the next morning, when she’d recognized the shape of the ridge from a hundred Keftian paintings.

The fisherman had left her on the Island of the Goddess.

On Keftiu they told tales of the people who’d lived here in the old times. It was said that they’d grown proud, and angered the gods. Then they’d vanished, never to be seen again. Now the island was a deserted, sacred place, haunted by the ghosts of the Vanished Ones. Only priestesses came here from time to time, to make sacrifices, and perform secret rites to propitiate the Goddess…

The Sun rose higher, and Pirra got hungrier and hungrier. At last she decided to risk a venture into the bay. When the fisherman’s boat had first drawn near the island, she’d spotted a shipwreck farther down the coast. Maybe there she would find something to eat.

Her mind shied away from what would happen if she didn’t. Cliffs barred the way inland; as far as she could tell, she was confined to the inlet, the bay, and the point on which the ship had been wrecked.

After a scratchy, midge-ridden climb, she reached the
top of the headland. Panting and streaming sweat, she stared down at the sweeping arc of the bay.

There was a body on the beach.

Pirra dropped to a crouch and dodged behind a boulder.

The body lay on its front with the foam licking at its heels. Probably some drowned sailor washed up by the storm.

Pirra thought fast. Robbing the dead would be horrible.
But…
It was wearing a tunic. She could use that to keep herself warm at night. And wasn’t that a knife at its side?

At the back of her mind lurked an even more appalling idea. She needed food.
Could
she eat a person? Raw?

Summoning her courage, she took another look.

The body was gone.

For one dreadful moment she pictured a corpse creeping up behind her. Then she spotted it farther down the beach.

It wasn’t a corpse; it was a boy, stumbling over the pebbles. With a jolt, she recognized him. It was the Lykonian peasant who’d stared at her the night she’d burned her cheek. His hair was oddly lighter than before, but it was definitely him: the same narrow eyes and straight nose that made an unbroken line with his forehead.

Her heart began to pound. The Crows were after this boy. They said he’d tried to kill Thestor’s son. Pirra had a shrewd idea that that wasn’t true, just an excuse they’d told Userref to fob him off. But still. This boy was
dangerous.
And he was trudging straight for her end of the bay.

Heart pounding, she shrank behind the boulder.

The crunch of pebbles as he came nearer. Silence. He’d stopped at the foot of the headland.

Scarcely daring to move, she peered around the boulder and down the slope.

He was directly below her. There was seaweed in his strange, sandy hair, and his tunic was ragged and salt-stained. His wiry limbs were covered in bruises, and there was an angry wound on his upper arm. In his fist he clutched a large bronze knife. Pirra held her breath.

The boy started to climb.

No,
she told him silently,
not up here!

He seemed to think better of it and dropped down again. He wandered back along the beach.

Shakily, Pirra breathed out.

She watched him go to the foot of the cliffs, where he found a stick and started digging a hole. Why? Then he left that and plodded to the shallows, where he found a plank drifting on the foam. Hauling it up the beach to a clump of boulders, he propped it against them. He fetched more driftwood. Oh, no. He was building a shelter—not twenty paces from where she hid.

The morning wore on, and still Pirra watched. The boy finished the shelter with thorn branches laid on the driftwood. Then he found a flattish piece of wood and cut a notch in it with his knife. Now what was he up to? Puzzled, Pirra watched him sit down and steady the wood
with one foot, then take a stick and stand it upright in the notch. He rubbed it rapidly between his palms. He went on doing this, working his hands up and down the stick. Suddenly Pirra spotted a wisp of smoke. Still working the stick, the boy bent over and blew softly.
A flame.
He added bits of dried grass, then small twigs, then whole branches. Soon he had a fire briskly blazing.

Pirra was astonished—and annoyed. This grimy Lykonian peasant had managed something she couldn’t. She’d been outdone by a goatherd.

In consternation she watched him whittle three sticks to points, then deftly tie them with twisted grass to one end of a piece of driftwood, to make a three-pronged spear. After that he went down to the rocks and crouched.

He struck fast, and stood up with a small fish wriggling on the end of his spear. He ate it raw, which made Pirra feel sick. Then he speared two more fish and set them to roast over the fire.

By now it was well into the afternoon, and she was giddy with hunger. The boy ate every scrap of roast fish except for the heads, which he placed a few paces from his shelter—she guessed that was some kind of uncouth sacrifice—and added a few peelings of skin from his sunburned shoulders, which she thought was absolutely disgusting.

Returning to the hole he’d dug earlier, he scooped out water in his cupped hand, and greedily drank. Pirra realized that it must have seeped up from the ground, which was why he’d dug the hole. That was clever, but there
didn’t seem to be much of it. At least when it came to this, she’d done better than him; he hadn’t found the underground stream in the cave.

Having speared two more fish and put them in the embers, he dragged a mound of dried seaweed into his shelter and crawled inside.

Dusk came on. The smell of baked fish drifted on the breeze. Pirra couldn’t bear it. She forgot the danger. She forgot everything except the smell of that fish.

Stealthily, she crept down the slope. As she drew nearer, she heard whiffling coming from the shelter. Good. Fast asleep.

Through the quivering heat she spotted a blackened fish tail jutting from the ashes. Silently, she picked up a stick to poke it free.

A hand shot out of the shelter and grabbed her wrist.