Sevenwaters: Seer Of Sevenwaters Part 24

Far sooner than I expected, we were leaving the bay and heading into open water. The crew shipped oars. They raised the sail. Liadan began to move up and down, up and down, and I wondered if I might be sick, and if so how long it would last. I wondered how far from Inis Eala we would need to go before Mac Dara could once again sense his son's presence. Looking for Cathal, I saw him working with the rest of the crew, all orderly purpose.

Beside me, Svala was perfectly balanced against the increasing movement of the boat. She wasn't even holding on. Her golden hair flew about in the wind, so bright it seemed the morning sun was trapped there.

Felix murmured something in his native tongue.

"What was that?" I asked.

"The great eagle lend you the shelter of his wings," he said. "The wolves of the forest guard you from shadows. The creatures of the deep swim by your side. And may your courage bring you safely home again."

"Is that an old blessing from Breizh?"

"A new one."

Gareth shouted something I failed to catch.

"Time to move to the hold," Felix said. "They'll be wanting to make good use of the favorable wind. Let me help you down, Sibeal. If it's any comfort, the sickness doesn't last."

*Felix*

Liadan has some advantages: there is s.p.a.ce in the hold for several men to rest among the baggage, while the women still maintain a corner of their own. And she has some disadvantages. The hold may be large, but it is open to the weather. Everything is damp, ourselves and our clothing included. The only shelter is under the boards of the fore and aft decks, and even there the wind bites. Sibeal is miserable: she sleeps a s.n.a.t.c.h at a time, waking to retch into a bucket, her face drawn and white. Gull tends to her as best he can. Svala is no nursemaid. She crouches among the bundles as she did on Freyja, watching as each man comes down to rest, and as each goes up on deck again. Her hands are restless, plucking at her gown, twisting her long hair.

I think of voyages past. Setting out from Breizh with Paul, a few silver pieces buying us pa.s.sage to Britain with a trader, Paul's brawn ensuring we were not relieved of the remaining contents of our purse along the way. That vessel was like this, a merchant boat, st.u.r.dily made, designed to go mainly by sail. Whatever happens, I suppose I will not need to row.

The trip from Britain to Erin, we made on a fishing boat. Paul helped with the nets. I studied the clouds, the intricate patterns of the waves, the harsh, musical sound of the language as the crew laughed and joked, balanced against the swell. That was a good journey; our hearts were high.

The last voyage: Freyja. I am trying not to think of that. I am trying not to remember the wave that took my brother away.

It is night. We sail on by the stars, heading for the place where the storm took Freyja, or as close to that place as Gareth can calculate. The men rest in shifts, a few hours' sleep, a watch on deck. When Knut comes down, Svala backs further into her corner. She bows her head; her hair veils her face.

Sigurd comes to sit by me. He is the only man from Snake's expedition to be sailing out on this voyage. He was chosen, I imagine, for his fluent Norse. Besides, he has neither wife nor children. He is about Johnny's age, fair-skinned, blunt-featured, with the short-cropped hair favored by many of the Inis Eala warriors. The markings that decorate his brow and cheek put me in mind of a seal. "You're from Armorica, yes?" he asks. "Which part?"

This is the warrior who had a countryman of mine as a friend. I remember the name: Corentin. "The region of Finistere," I tell him. "In the far west."

"Mm. Strange tales in those parts. Corentin was full of them. Monsters and transformations. You going back, after this?"

I shake my head. "I doubt it."

"Got family there?"

"My parents."

"Corentin and I used to talk about it." Sigurd lies down with his hands behind his head, but he seems in the mood for conversation, not sleep. "We made plans, not that either of us thought we'd leave Johnny's band, but there's no harm in plans. I'd take him to see the north, snow and ice, bears and wolves. He'd take me to that realm of strange stones left by the ancients and islands that appear and disappear. Have you heard of that? There's a bay he used to talk about, where there are over three hundred islands. He said that when folk try to count them, they always come up with a different number. We thought we'd get a little boat and keep exploring until we found every last one." Sigurd grins. "Imagine what you might discover in a place like that. But Corentin had to go home in a hurry, and I couldn't walk out on Johnny. I wish I knew how he got on; whether he managed to save his family holdings. He could be a big landowner now. He could have a wife and children. He could be dead." The smile is gone.

I thought I did not want to talk about home. After all, this man is almost a stranger. But his manner disarms me. "Do you know where his family lives? What region?"

"Near that bay I mentioned, if that's any help."

I nod. It is close to home. "I know the place," I tell him. "I hope your friend was able to secure his land. The region is beset by territorial disputes. In that, it is not unlike Erin. It is possible Corentin's holdings lie within the overlordship of a certain n.o.bleman, a person with much influence and little conscience. I hope he managed to stand up for what was rightly his."

"Oh, he'd stand up for it all right," says Sigurd grimly. "It's whether he was cut down afterward that troubles me. There are moments when I wish for the gift of Sight." He glances over at Sibeal, who is bent double, gasping, while Gull presses a cloth to her forehead. "But when I think about it, I wouldn't want that. Could be more curse than blessing. A man wants to be free to make his own choices. That's what I think, anyway."

In the semidark I find myself smiling. There is no lamp down here; the risk from fire is too great. But the nights are never quite dark in summer, and we are heading northward. A lantern up on deck casts a slanting beam down into the hold, picking out Knut's inimical eyes, Sibeal's ghost-white face. "Sibeal would say she still has choices, even though she has a window on a possible future," I tell him. "The Sight helps a person choose right. It doesn't tell what will happen, only what could happen."

"Mm." Sigurd closes his eyes. "Fond of her, are you?"

I say what I must say. "She's a druid. Destined for the life of the spirit."

"That's no answer."

"It's the best one I have," I say.

Sigurd does not reply. Liadan's progress has slowed; the wind has died down. Manannan, the sea G.o.d, cradles this frail vessel and its human cargo: the sure and the brave, the uncertain and the doubtful, the resentful and the furious. It is time to sleep. You would like that plan, I tell my brother. A quest to find every last island. A little boat, the two of us rowing, a fantastic, crazy mission . . . Sweet dreams, Paul. Sigurd's breathing slows; he is already asleep. In the shadows Knut lies still, watching me through narrowed eyes.

The second night. Our progress has been slow, the conditions calm all day. Now it is overcast. The stars are in hiding, and we cannot go on. The sail comes down. We trail a sea anchor. Gareth orders most of the crew to rest. It is cold, wet and cramped in the hold, and my joints ache.

Sibeal has stopped being sick and is taking sips of water. Her eyes are sunken; her jaw is set with fierce determination. I make myself get up and stretch as Gull has taught me. A crewman named Garbh is in charge of rations: hard bread, cheese, strips of wind-dried mutton. I make myself useful fetching supplies for Gull, for Svala, for myself. At Gull's suggestion, I soak my bread in water before eating. No nourishing soups on this voyage. Gull can provide herbal potions, but cannot brew any freshly until we make landfall and can light a fire. If I get sick, he may not be able to save me this time.

Svala will not eat. I have not seen her swallow so much as a mouthful.

"I don't think she eats this kind of food, Felix," Sibeal says. "If we could fish . . . "

"No way to cook it," says Gull. "More's the pity."

"She eats it raw."

"Now, why don't I find that surprising? Catches it with her bare hands, does she?"

Sibeal stares at Gull, taken aback. "Possibly," she says.

"I expect someone has a hand line. We might try in the morning. Depends on the conditions. And on what Gareth decides to do."

Neither Knut nor I can be a reliable guide to finding the serpent isle. I spent much of that voyage in the hold, and I know nothing about navigation. As for Knut, his wish to be elsewhere can be read in every part of his body. When Gareth asks for his advice, he answers briefly, giving as little as he can. I understand his fear.

Gareth has several means of path-finding: landmarks such as skerries and islands, the stars by night, and by day a sun stone such as the Nors.e.m.e.n use. Far from land, under cloudy skies, instinct is the only guide. He believes tomorrow will see us close to the spot where the tempest fell on Freyja. The uncertainty of it hangs over all of us. What if we sail northwest from that point for two days, three, and do not find the isle? Do we abandon the plan and turn for home? Sail on to the end of the world?

"Felix." Sibeal has got up and come over to me, looking so frail the next roll of the boat might fell her. She seems transparent as fine gla.s.s. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. You look-" I stop myself from telling the truth: that I want to wrap her up and transport her safely home, right now. "You look as if you're getting your sea legs," I say.

"I hope so. I'm not much use to anyone with my head in a bucket. Maybe tomorrow Gareth will let us go on deck for a while." She glances across at Svala, who is crouched in her corner, an awkward bundle of unease. "I'm sure she'd be happier up in the open air," she adds in an undertone. "She hates being confined, and she hates being close to people."

And she is afraid, I think, but do not say it. For the three of us, Freyja's only survivors, this is that ill-fated voyage all over again. The creaking of the timbers, the endless rolling motion, the tang of sea air, the sound of rushing water, everything takes us back to our dark place. If Svala is frightened, it is with good cause.

Paul, I will be brave. I will be as brave as you were, my brother.

The third day. Tempers fray; we are all on edge. It is overcast. The sun stone is useless. The wind is a mere breath.

Sigurd catches a fish. Svala receives it with wary hands. She takes her prize to a dark corner of the hold, where she squats down and guards it. Eating, she turns her back to us. Her feast is soon gone.

Late in the day, Gareth calls me up on deck. Cloud blankets the sky from north to south, from east to west; if it does not lift, there will be another night at anchor. On every side the sea stretches to the horizon, an endless expanse of heaving gray water. No island; no reef; not the smallest skerry. The sky is empty of birds. We are alone.

I lean beside Gareth at the rail.

"We're near the place, aren't we?" I ask him. "The spot where Freyja was taken?"

"As close as we'll get with little more than guesswork to go by." Gareth sounds somewhat dour. "What do your instincts tell you, Felix? Does it seem right? Can you remember any signs, anything at all we might use to help us find a way?"

I wish I could help him. "My instincts would be a poor guide. As I said, I was down in the hold for the best part of Freyja's voyage. What will you do?"

"This breeze feels like a southeasterly to me, and it's gradually rising. But I won't go on until I can be more sure of the direction. Pray for clear skies."

By night, in the hold, I overhear Knut telling Sigurd that I am the ill luck man, and that this wild and crazy voyage has been born entirely of my madness. My goal is to get everyone killed, he says. My ambition is to exact vengeance for my brother's death and my own inadequacies. Sigurd listens without comment, then changes the subject to fishing.

When Gareth comes down, he and Cathal argue in lowered voices. Cathal believes that if the wind strengthens we should head in the direction we believe is northwest, even if the clouds make our tools of navigation useless. Gareth disagrees. Cathal sounds edgy, his tone full of the need to go, to move, to get this job done. Gareth's is the voice of reason: our captain's voice. Cathal goes up to take his watch with nothing settled. Glancing across the hold, I see that Sibeal is awake, sitting up with her eyes closed and her hands in her lap, a blanket loosely around her shoulders. I wait until she is finished: a long time. A poem forms in my mind as I watch her, a poem I will never speak aloud.

She returns, blinking, stretching, the veil of that other world slow to lift from her features. I am ready with a water skin.

"Here. Drink."

She smiles. "Thank you, Felix."

We speak in whispers; around us many are sleeping. I have found it hard to sleep on board the boat. While I no longer suffer from seasickness, I cannot lie here without feeling the immense power that lies beneath our fragile cradle. I cannot close my eyes without seeing the wave come over. With every breath I take, I feel the water's chill embrace, carrying me away.

I do not ask Sibeal what she has seen. I wait for her to tell me.

"We'll find the place," she says. "I'm certain of it." Nothing of what came to her in meditation; nothing of whether the G.o.ds still smile on our endeavor. She wears her contained expression, the look suited to the enactment of a ritual. I wonder if she has seen disaster and wants to spare me. "Best sleep now," she says. "Rest well, Felix." She looks over at Svala, whose eyes are on the two of us, watching, watching. Sibeal mimes sleep, resting her head on folded hands. "Good night, Svala."

But as Sibeal and I lie down, a discreet distance apart, Svala makes no move, save to turn her gaze up through the opening toward the starless sky. I close my eyes and wait for the wave to come.

There is no need for further dispute between Gareth and Cathal. The choice is made for them. In the darkness a strange fierce wind rises, and suddenly we are all wide-awake. No need for the guidance of stars or sun. It is the same wind, blowing to the northwest; I know it in my bones. Something severs the rope that holds our sea anchor. With commendable calm, Gareth orders the crew to hoist the sail. We must ride before the storm or become a sc.r.a.p of flotsam, helpless under the buffeting of the waves. Liadan's joints creak and groan. Above us, on deck, crewmen exchange shouts as they fight to get her under some measure of control. The seas are rising. Spray dances high above the rail, splashing into the hold and drenching us.

Gareth calls Knut up on deck; in such conditions, every able crewman on board must be put to work. Knut obeys. I am forced to recognize how brave he is. Once he is out of sight, something changes in Svala. Or has the storm done this? Her eyes are bright, her back straight, her head held proudly. She stands up and moves toward the opening as if she, too, would haul herself up there into the wild wind and the ocean spray.

"No, Svala!" Gull has to raise his voice to be heard over the gathering storm. "Sibeal, tell her it's not safe."

Sibeal staggers over to Svala, takes her arm, says something I do not hear. Svala seems to understand either words or touch, for she comes back and sits down, but there is a restless energy in every part of her. She could be a different woman. As for me, I am glad we have this crew, this captain. If the men of Inis Eala cannot stand fast against the storm, I think n.o.body can.

I am not sure I believe in the sea G.o.d, but I pray to him: Keep Sibeal safe, at least. I go to sit by her and hold her hand. Who cares about propriety? On her other side is Gull, calm and quiet. As the sky lightens to a tentative dawn we hurtle through monstrous seas, our sail bellying, on a path straight for the serpent isle.

CHAPTER 12.

*Sibeal*

We sailed on before the storm. The pace was unrelenting. Keeping Liadan on a steady course and in one piece became the only thing that mattered. Days and nights pa.s.sed in a blur. A man would climb down, white-faced and shaking with exhaustion, to s.n.a.t.c.h brief rest; another would struggle up to take his place on deck. They lay down and were instantly asleep, inert as felled trees. Gull told stories to the rest of us to help the time pa.s.s, but even he could not go on forever. The memory of death shadowed Felix's eyes.

As a druid I was trained to endure. I made body and mind quiet; I slowed my breath. My thinking shrank to the kernel of a nut, the petal of a flower, a single blade of gra.s.s. Night followed day. A small part of me was aware of the purposeful, grim-faced men, the violently rocking ship, the waves washing over, the white face of Felix beside me.

On the third night I dreamed of violent struggle, of screams and clawing fingers. I woke abruptly to a hand on my shoulder, and swam up to full consciousness to see Cathal crouched beside me. It was morning. Through the opening above the hold, the sky was a clear light blue.

"What is it, Cathal?"

"We need to talk."

I sat up. Gull and Felix were both awake, seated not far from me. Felix had dark circles under his eyes. And Svala-what was wrong? She was standing awkwardly, her hands up in front of her, and . . .

"She's tied up!" I exclaimed in horror. Was this real, or was I still dreaming? Svala's wrists were bound together with a rope, and a length of it tethered her to the timbers of the hold's interior. No wonder Felix looked as if he'd seen a ghost. "What happened?" I demanded, struggling to rise. My legs were cramped from my uneasy sleep. "Who has done this?" I must release Svala right now.

"Leave her, Sibeal." Gull reached out a hand to hold me back. "Captain's orders. You slept through it all, but last night she got up on deck while the ship was under full sail. I was down below, but Gareth said she caused chaos up there so he ordered the men to bring her back to the hold and restrain her. She fought off four crewmen. Did a lot of damage. I've been kept busy attending to scratches and bruises. Believe me, Sibeal, Gareth had no choice."

This was wrong, utterly wrong. It made a mockery of the mission; it was akin to caging a beautiful sea bird. And I couldn't bear that look on Felix's face, the look that told me he was remembering Paul; I couldn't bear it a moment longer. "How can you be so calm about it, Gull?" I burst out. "I don't care what she did! She's frightened-just look at her!" Svala was pulling against the ropes with some violence. A raw bracelet of damaged flesh encircled each wrist. A whimpering came from her, the hoa.r.s.e, defeated sound of someone who has raged and wept all night long. "I'll set her free myself if none of you is prepared to do it!"

I was moving toward her when Felix's arm came around my shoulders, holding me, halting me. "Sibeal," he murmured in my ear. "I know how you feel. Wait."

His touch slowed my hammering heart. His steady voice told me I had been on the brink of behaving in a manner not befitting a druid. Perhaps there was another way to do this, a better way. "I can keep her calm," I said, looking at Cathal. "Please ask Gareth if I can untie her bonds. She has a link with me. She'll listen to me."

"No, Sibeal, I won't ask him. You didn't see her. No seafaring man wants to risk a madwoman on his vessel. And that was what she was, laughing, singing, screaming, climbing in the rigging, leaning over the side with waves like mountains crashing all around. What if there had been a reef? The crew were so distracted that we'd have sunk with all hands. I won't ask Gareth, and I won't untie her. And you won't either. In a matter like this, you don't go against the captain's orders."

A slap in the face. My authority as a druid counted for nothing. I stood silent beside Felix. To restrain Svala was to mock the G.o.ds. My chest ached with the wrongness of it. Standing beside Felix, with his body touching mine, I felt his pain. How could he be so stoic about this?

"What was it you came down to say?" Gull asked Cathal.

"We can't sustain this pace much longer," Cathal said flatly. "The toll on men and boat is too great. I'm starting to have doubts about the course. Could we have sailed right past the place?" He looked at Felix.

"I can't tell you," Felix said. "The conditions feel the same, the wind, the seas, the light. This part of the journey was shorter for Freyja. But you must allow for a different vessel, almost certainly a different starting point, the speed of the wind, and . . . " His voice faded away.

"That is the question. Is this an ordinary storm, a phenomenon that is perhaps quite common to this particular place? Or is it something more? What great hand stirs the seas? Whose fell breath drives Liadan onward?"