Seer of Sevenwaters by Juliet Marillier
“You’re a lucky girl, Fang,” I murmured, scratching her behind the ears. A subterranean growl rumbled through her small form, and I drew my fingers away. Fang’s moods were legendary, as changeable as spring weather. “You fell on your feet, from the sound of it.”
Snake was away, along with a party of fifteen men, undertaking a mission for a chieftain in the south. They had taken the largest of the Inis Eala boats, which made today’s rescue effort slower than it might have been. Johnny’s boat was halfway back now. Four men were rowing, my cousin among them, while Evan was in the stern, his arm around a man swathed in a big cloak. Only one. And now another of the island boats had turned for home. The crew had raised a rudimentary sail. I could not see whether this vessel carried survivors. The others maintained their pattern, searching.
I slowed my breathing, calming my wayward thoughts. I tried to set aside those anguished voices. I told myself that the rescue effort had got under way quickly, that the crew of such a ship would be fit, capable men, that many would be saved. More folk were heading down to the shore now, carrying stretchers, blankets. Johnny’s boat came in to the jetty. Johnny threw a rope to Cathal, who secured the craft. The man in the cloak was helped onto the jetty. He refused a stretcher and began to climb the path with Evan on one side and Cathal on the other. The survivor was a strong-looking person of middle height, squarely built, with hair that would be fair when dry. His skin was ashen, and despite the courage that saw him attempt the path on foot, he was plainly exhausted.
They were almost at the top of the pathway when the second boat came in. The fair-haired man turned his head to look, started violently and began shouting. He seemed intent on hurling himself headlong down the path, but the combined strength of Evan and Cathal held him back.
There was a survivor on this boat, too, and it was a woman. She appeared deeply shocked, her eyes huge, her face gray-blue with cold and exhaustion. When she was helped from the boat to the jetty, her knees buckled and she collapsed onto the boards. A woman on a Norse ship. So perhaps this had not been a voyage to raid and plunder, but one of trading or searching for a place to settle. Had there been other women out there in the cold sea? Little children drowning? This woman looked as if she had gazed on hell.
Clodagh helped her up. The survivor was much taller than my sister; equal in height to most of the men down there. A blanket concealed much of her form. For a moment she looked straight up the hill toward my perch among the rocks, and a sudden sharp pain went through me, like a knife in the heart. Even as I gasped with the shock of it, the woman dropped her gaze and the pain was gone.
The fair-haired man would not go a step further until they brought the woman to the top of the path. When she reached him, he took her hands in his and kissed her on either cheek. She stood stiffly, staring through him. I thought she hardly knew where she was.
The two of them were escorted away, but I did not move. The piercing pain had unnerved me, and it was some time before my heart slowed to its usual pace. Even then, I stayed where I was. It seemed important to keep watch until the last of the little boats came home. Fang crouched by my feet, reassuring in her small warmth. I prayed. “Danu cradle you gently in her arms . . . Morrigan lead you through the gateway . . . Sleep, dear ones, sleep softly . . . ” I hoped I was wrong about the children. What had that woman seen, to turn her face to stone?
When the last boat was tying up at the jetty, Johnny came to find me. The search was over. The stretchers had been used to bear seven dead men up the path to level ground. Two more limp forms lay in this final vessel.
“Sibeal,” my cousin said, seating himself on the rocks beside me. “Still keeping vigil?” At his voice, Fang rolled instantly onto her back. Johnny rubbed her belly absently. His tattooed features were grim.
“Only eleven, counting the woman,” I said. “It must have needed far more to man a ship that size. So many lost . . . Will the currents bring them back to this shore, Johnny? Or will they drift with the weed and the fish until there is nothing left of them?”
“The waves may wash some in here. We’ll keep a watch in the likeliest places. Sibeal, we must conduct some kind of funeral rite. The two we rescued are too distressed to say much as yet, though I’m hoping the man—his name’s Knut—may be ready to talk to us later today. Some of us have enough Norse to conduct a conversation, and this fellow knows a word or two of Irish.”
“What about the woman?”
“Her name’s Svala. Knut’s wife, if I understood him right. She’s deeply shocked. I haven’t heard her say a word so far. It seems the gods were watching over the two of them. I’d imagine a vessel of that size needs a crew of forty or more. They were gone so quickly.”
“Clodagh suspected Mac Dara’s hand in it.”
“Perhaps.” Johnny was noncommittal.
“A Norse warrior is buried in a boat. Or a grave in the shape of a boat. I can conduct a ritual for them, something simple. Knut and Svala might add prayers of their own. When do you want to do it?”
Johnny was a leader of men. Though still young, he headed the community of Inis Eala and its school of warcraft. He was skilled at reading people. “Something’s troubling you, Sibeal,” he said now. “Something beyond being witness to what’s unfolded here today.”
“I’m all right.” I would not confess to him that a very small part of me was still disturbed that Ciarán had insisted I come here to spend the summer with my sisters before I made my final pledge as a druid. That I could hold on to such a personal concern in the face of today’s tragedy was selfish. “I’ll be ready to help as soon as you’ve decided where and when to conduct the ritual. I did not expect to be performing a druid’s duties here so quickly. Are they all men, the drowned ones you brought in?”
Johnny nodded. “As one would expect on such a vessel. It seems quite odd that Svala was among them. If this was a voyage of settlement there should have been more women, surely.”
“They may have been first to drown.”
“We’ll find out in due course. I won’t tax the survivors with questions yet. Come.” He rose and held out his hand. “You need food, warmth and company. I’m under orders to see you’re well looked after during your stay with us.”
I took his arm and we walked toward the dining hall. “Whose orders?” I asked.
“Ciarán’s. Didn’t you wonder what was in that message he gave you to bring me?”
I grimaced. “I’d assumed it was something complicated and strategic, not an order to make sure I ate properly and got plenty of sleep.”
My cousin smiled. “There was some of both in it, to tell the truth. I understand he’s coming here in person to collect you at the end of summer.”
A whole summer. Why had Ciarán thought it necessary to send me away for so long? I was ready to make my promise now; I had been ready for some time. True, sometimes the thoughts and feelings of others did crowd into my mind, as if I were a receptacle for anything too powerful for their own selves to encompass. But in the nemetons, as a druid, I could work on controlling that. I could learn to make it a gift, not a burden. Here on Inis Eala all I would be doing over the summer was wait. Wait until it was time to go back to Sevenwaters; wait until it was time to fulfill my vocation at last. I had known since I was six years old that the life of the spirit was my destiny. I had known since the first time the Lady of the Forest had appeared to me, a majestic, blue-cloaked figure manifesting before me unsought by a still pool under the oaks. She had recognized me as a seer; she had offered me her grave counsel. What did Ciarán think I would do here at Inis Eala? Fall in love with some strapping young warrior and allow my life to veer off its long-intended course? I would never let that happen.
“Sibeal?”
I snapped out of my reverie. “Yes, Ciarán is planning to come here and escort me home. He wants to talk to Cathal.”
“Mm-hm. I’m glad you’re here, at any rate. Not only because this far-flung part of the family likes to see you, but also b
“I’m not quite a druid yet,” I said. “But I’ll do my best.”
There were folk in the dining hall, not laughing and talking as they usually did over their meals, but seated in subdued silence. The pots of soup and loaves of fresh-baked bread that might have fed a small army of survivors were a mute testament to the lives lost. Johnny spoke to one or two people—mostly senior members of the island community, those who had been at Inis Eala since his father’s time—then came over to tell me the burial rite would take place at dusk next day, if I agreed. It would take some time to choose a suitable spot, excavate the hard island soil, then place stones in the rough shape of a boat.
“It’s a while for the dead to lie waiting,” I said. “I should say some prayers over them when they’ve been laid out.”
“Thank you, Sibeal. That would be welcome. They’ve been taken to the net-mending shed.”
“I should speak to the survivors first. I’m hoping Knut will give me the names of the dead. They should be spoken aloud, if not now, then certainly as part of tomorrow’s ritual. Where are Knut and Svala? In the infirmary?”
“They’ll still be there, yes. Our healers are checking what damage they’ve sustained. You’ll find Jouko with them; he’s translating for Muirrin and Evan. Sibeal, go carefully with Knut. He seems calm and composed, but these fellows were his crewmates, perhaps friends. Looking on their drowned faces will be hard for him. He speaks very little Irish. Jouko will help you.”
For the duration of my stay on the island, I was in fact sleeping in the infirmary. There was scant privacy on Inis Eala, where single women slept in one communal area and single men in another, with a partitioned building for married couples. Only those with children had their own quarters. In recognition of my status as a druid and my personal need for quiet, I had been given a chamber of my own, a narrow space at one end of the building that more usually housed patients who must for one reason or another be isolated. The first time I had stepped inside this small chamber I had felt the sorrow there, and the kindness. The place was screened from the infirmary proper by a sacking curtain, and had its own door to the outside so it was possible to come in and out—for instance, to visit the privy—without walking across the main chamber. Before sleeping last night, I had marked protective runes on the walls with charcoal. It seemed they had been well chosen, for no bad dreams had visited my slumber. My druidic robe was hanging on a peg there. I would need to change before I said prayers for the fallen.
I took one step inside the infirmary door and halted, staring. I had walked into a silence so charged with unease that it made my skin prickle. Svala stood by the far wall, clad in an assortment of wet garments, a shirt, a pair of men’s trousers. Her long hair hung over her shoulders and down to her knees. Her eyes were fixed on Muirrin, who stood three paces from her with a cloth in her hands. Every part of Svala was tense; my body felt her urgent need for flight. Before I could say a word Muirrin took a step toward the Norsewoman, and a sound came from Svala that made the hairs on my neck stand on end, a growling noise from deep in the throat, as if she would launch herself at my sister to rend and bite. Muirrin retreated, her face turning pale.
I cleared my throat, unsure if either had seen me come in. Svala’s gaze was instantly on me, and my head began to throb. Danu aid me, what was this?
“Sibeal!” The relief in Muirrin’s voice was unmistakable. “I was just . . . ” She came over to draw me aside, speaking in a murmur. “I can’t even get her to take off her wet things. It’s as if she wants to attack me. She’s cold and shocked; I need to get her warm. She won’t let me near her.”
“I thought Evan and Jouko were here. And Knut.” The place was empty save for the two women.
“I sent them out into the garden so Svala could wash and change. I have some things of Biddy’s here for her to put on. We got Knut to explain to her before the men went out. I thought maybe if she was alone with me . . . ” She lowered her voice still further. “Something really terrible happened, Sibeal. Their son, Knut’s and Svala’s, only four years old . . . he was with them on the boat. Knut told us. She must be out of her mind with grief. She hasn’t spoken a word. Sibeal, will you try to talk to her?”
Without turning toward her, I knew Svala was staring at me. I felt the power of her gaze; I felt her sorrow as I had felt the terror of those folk drowning out on the bay. A little child, the same age as my brother, Finbar. The thought of it made my heart clench tight. “I can’t speak Norse,” I said, knowing this was something I must attempt. A job for a druid.
“You’ll surely do better than I did,” Muirrin said. “At least she’s looking at you as if she sees you.”
I approached Svala. She was far taller than I, with the kind of figure that would draw men’s eyes and make wives jealous. Her face was strong, the cheekbones high, the nose proud, the mouth well-shaped and full. Her hair was drying in the warmth from the infirmary fire; its natural shade would be sun-gold. Her eyes were the gray of a winter sea. Right now there was a disturbing blankness about those fine features. Perhaps, when the shipwreck had claimed her son, it had also washed away some vital part of her. She followed my every step as I came closer. The tumult of feelings that came from her was disturbing: grief, loss, fury, confusion. I struggled to hold it all. I breathed in a well-practiced pattern, calming myself. “Is she injured?” I asked Muirrin.
“She won’t let me examine her. There are no obvious signs of physical hurt. At this point, if we can get her out of her wet clothes and into these dry ones I’ll be happy.”
I halted three paces from Svala, holding her gaze. Gods, my head hurt! “Svala,” I said quietly, “I am a druid, a wise woman.” I inclined my head to her, indicating respect and greeting, then stretched out my arms to the sides, palms up, and closed my eyes, trying to suggest priestess or prayer. “I am sorry for your loss. But now . . . you must be cold.” I mimed shivering, then pretended to put on clothing. Slipping a gown over my head, smoothing the skirt down. Wrapping a shawl around my shoulders. Stepping into slippers. “Let us help you,” I said.
Something stirred on her face. For a moment there was a kind of recognition in the lovely eyes. Her hands moved, graceful as fronds of weed stirred by the current, copying my gestures.
I smiled, nodded, even as my head threatened to split apart with the pain. “Yes,” I said. “Dry clothes, nice and warm.” I took a step closer, thinking to help her with the fastenings, and she shrank away, her hands going up before her as if to ward me off. Her fingers curled, claw-like. “I won’t hurt you.” It was hard to keep my voice steady. I wondered if the men were within easy call.
“Like this, see?” Muirrin spoke from behind me, and when I turned my head I saw that she was demonstrating, removing her own shawl, untying her big linen apron, laying each garment on the work bench in turn. I proceeded to do the same, hoping it would not be necessary to strip naked.
“You, too,” I said, setting my shawl on a bench and pointing to Svala.
Her hands moved again, plucking at her neck, tearing at the ties of her shirt. She made a sound like a creature in pain, a deep moan of anguish or frustration.
“Danu preserve us,” muttered Muirrin. “I’m wishing now I hadn’t sent Knut out. It might have been better to leave him to deal with this.”
Now Svala was ripping at her shirt as if suddenly she could not wait to take it off. She wrenched it over her head, revealing a pale, perfect body underneath, then tore off her trousers and threw them across the chamber with some violence. She stood before us clad only in the garment of her long hair, and fixed us with a glare of challenge.
“Good,” said my sister with admirable calm. “Now dry yourself and put these on.”
Sv
“Here, this is for you.”
Svala shied away like a nervous horse.
“For you to wear.” I started to put the gown over my own head, showing her—it would have swamped my much slighter figure. “Please,” I said. Stepping forward, I put it in her hands.
We touched for the merest moment before she pulled away, seizing the garment, but for that moment I felt not only her grief, but something else. No! Wrong! Wrong! Her thoughts were like a monstrous, crashing wave. They were like the scourge of an icy wind. I closed my eyes, praying that I could stay on my feet and capable until this was over.
“Sibeal, are you all right?” Muirrin’s astute gaze was on me. My sister, the healer.
“A slight headache. I’ll be fine.” I was a druid. I would be strong. I would not let this overwhelm me.
Svala donned the gown haphazardly. It was as if shock had robbed her of the ability to perform the simplest tasks. She slung the shawl over one shoulder.
Muirrin went to the back door; I heard her calling the men. I picked up the towel and moved to gather Svala’s discarded garments. Before I had taken two steps she was beside me, her hand closing tight around my arm. I froze. There was no need for her to speak. That touch screamed Help! Help me!
Any more of this and I would be insensible on the floor. My head was pounding. My legs felt like jelly. The back door creaked open, the grip on my arm was gone, and as the three men came in I moved to the bench and sank down on it. The tide of emotion retreated. I breathed, repeating a snatch of lore in my mind. Breath of the winds; dancing flame; peace of the earth; song of the waves. Calm. I would be calm.