The Island House (31 page)

But Cuillin’s words rolled over her and filled up her head with clamor. Signy grew more and more anxious, and then came pain. It ripped her, gripped her, as if a dog or a wolf had her in its teeth. And she could not think or pray it away.

Signy was the last of the lay servants to leave as the religious processed from the chapel after the service.

Gunnhilde had been waiting for her. She beckoned. “Are you well, child?” The nun was worried. Signy had seemed almost joyous in these last weeks, a considerable change, but this morning she was pale and sweating. As one of the most senior nuns, and mother of the novices, Gunnhilde was bound to watch for signs of disease among the women, especially since winter was coming and they would all be living so close to one another.

“Thank you, Sister, I need nothing,” Signy answered. But her pace increased as she hurried toward the women’s sleeping quarters.

Gunnhilde frowned. “Child, wait.”

A direct order must be obeyed; Signy stopped.

Panting a little, the nun joined her. “Walk with me, dear child. Let us admire the work of our diligent brothers.” Gunnhilde waved toward the half-roofed cloister being constructed along an outer wall of the expanded chapel.

“I am sure our Lord is grateful, as we are, for all that is done to beautify this Abbey in His honor.” Gunnhilde smiled at Signy, but her eyes were watchful.

The girl tried to respond, but the pain in her belly pulsed to the beat of her heart.

Gunnhilde was alarmed by Signy’s pallor. “You are not well.” She put her hand on the girl’s forehead. “No fever, that is something, but do you know the nature of your affliction, daughter?”

Signy swallowed painfully; her mouth was dry. “No, Sister, but I am frightened.” Perhaps this was not a complete lie. Her mind, and now her body, was tormented.

The nun nodded. “I see how it is—your spirit quails after
Abbot Cuillin’s homily.” Signy flinched. Gunnhilde nodded and clasped the girl’s cold hand. “To overcome our own nature is God’s test. Draw on His love, have faith that He
will
answer your prayers and bring you safe home to His sweet Presence after this time of trial.”

Home.
Signy shook her head. Her voice cracked. “No. He could not love me, I am not deserving.”

Gunnhilde said earnestly, “But this is the burden we all carry. He knows we are imperfect, but as a loving Father, He strengthens us so that we may do our best to avoid temptation.”

Temptation.
The word opened like a wound in Signy’s heart. “You do not understand, Sister.” She broke away and almost ran from the cloister.

Gunnhilde let the girl go. She sighed. For some, herself included, the journey toward God’s Grace was a very hard road.

“Are you there, Signy?”

The evening was troubled by sharp rain as the light died, but Bear did not care. He had hurried to the stones, hoping to find Signy. If she did not come, he would leave two black pebbles inside her hiding place—a private signal, one to say he had been there and one to ask if they could try to meet again tomorrow evening—the second day of the week after the Sabbath. The stone circle was the safest place on the island to meet, for the religious thought it cursed and would not willingly go there.

“Signy?”

Bear stood still, peering through the gloom. He shivered. The wind was annoying, and soon it would be night. He had so hoped that this evening . . .

Somewhere close by, he heard keening; the hair on Bear’s forearms stood up as he moved closer to the sound, for he did not know if it was human.

He found Signy huddled behind the offering stone, out of the
wind. She made a small bundle with arms clasped around her knees, and she had been crying for so long her eyes were swollen to slits. He knelt beside her. Rage filled his chest with red bile; someone had caused Signy to suffer. That person would pay, richly. “What have they done to you?”

“No!” She pulled away from him.

Bear sat back. “No?” He was puzzled. It was almost, in that moment, as if she hated him; his heart began to speed.

He tried again. “Tell me.”

But Signy shook her head. She moved away from his touch. She did not want him.

In that moment Bear might have howled like a wolf, but he did not. He was a man now; she had made him that.

“Would you like me to go?” His voice, at least, was steady.

“Yes,” a fierce whisper.

Ice touched Bear’s heart. He would not plead. He was halfway across the inner circle of stones before he heard her call.

“Bear, come back.”

He kept walking.

“Please. Wait, Bear.” Like a night spirit, Signy ran, a darker shape in the gloom. She reached him before he had quite left the stones. She knew she must draw him back. “Come into the circle.” Signy did not touch Bear, instead she beckoned. Scarlet-eyed from grief, her face was chalk pale.

Bear yearned to reach forward, yearned to enfold and comfort her, but he said, with stiff pride, “If that is what you want.”

Wearily, Signy nodded. “I am sorry. Will you return with me?”

He swallowed. “Signy, I do not know what is wrong but . . .”

She ignored the plea he had not meant to utter. Head down, she walked to the offering stone. Her step was heavy.

The moon had slid up from beneath the world. It was rising through a wrack of wind-driven cloud, and there was enough light to see Signy place her hand on the offering stone. “Put your hand on mine.”

Bear did as she had bidden. He was chilled by her expression.

“Do you swear to me that we are one?” Her eyes were dark holes.

He tried again. “Oh, Signy, you do not have to ask.”

“Swear!” Signy seemed much taller, her head against the driven moon.

And Bear remembered she was a shaman’s daughter. He said, slowly, “Yes. I swear; in the eyes of my Gods and yours, we are one.”

Signy’s cold hand trembled beneath his. “Give me your knife.”

The reek of strangeness was sudden and powerful. Bear knew what was coming, and terror gripped his chest, but he observed his hand, the one not covering Signy’s, remove the otter-handled blade from its pouch and watched as she took it from him.

“This is what we must do. First I will cut your wrist, then you will cut mine.” Signy held the blade to the sky and made three circles around the moon; then she pointed the knife at his eyes.

“I shall tie our wrists together, and we shall see which Gods have the most power on Findnar.” Her voice was calm and her face serene. And blank as a mask.

Bear forced himself to speak. “I think you are ill.”

But Signy shook her head and spoke to him patiently. “We need to do this, Bear. Hold out your arm.”

He had honed the blade and did not fear to be cut with it; if Signy was quick there would be little pain. But the thought of slicing her tender skin brought acid to his throat. He hesitated.

“Your arm!” The voice of a priestess. Was that where Signy’s new power came from?

Bear did as she bid him, and felt nothing as the edge was drawn across his wrist, not even when the line of dark blood began to drip.

She offered her wrist to him. “Do it.”

And so he did. A clean cut even though the stars wheeled above his head.

Blood, their mingled blood, dripped on the offering stone as Signy bound Bear’s wrist to hers with the belt from her kirtle. She was humming from deep in her chest, a sound that built in power, a sound he could feel in the stone beneath their hands, and then her chant began.

Bear did not know all of the meaning, but he understood one thing, Signy was waiting for judgment.

And then the words changed; she was reciting the Paternoster in the Christian language.

“What are you doing?” He was spooked. The night wind had risen, but it seemed to blow outside the circle of stone, and they were at the center of an unseen force.

“I am asking the question.” Signy was sweating. Her eyes were lightless.

“What question?” The skin beneath the hair on his scalp puckered.

“Which God will save our child.”

“Child.” Bear faltered. “Our child.”

“Yes.” A breath that was almost a howl.

“But . . . this is good. For us both. Oh, Signy, don’t you see? We must leave Findnar. You cannot stay here, not carrying a baby. The rest is bad dreams, that is all. You are frightened.” His wrist, streaming blood, had begun to hurt badly.

Signy said nothing. Eyes closed, she was praying to Mary now, muttering the name over and over. Suddenly she convulsed. Falling to her knees, Signy sobbed from the pit of her being. “The child of our sin will not stay in my body. Mary has abandoned me; they have all abandoned me.”

Bear unbound their wrists, ripping at the bonds. He pulled the distraught girl into his arms.

“Fight this, Signy. Please fight this.”

But blood flowed from Signy’s body, and in bitter pain the legacy of Eve, their daughter, was lost.

CHAPTER 21

G
ULLS WHEELED
and called, lost and plaintive. Dan’s fingers clamped to Freya’s as if they had fused, though she pulled, trying to take her hands away.

A surge slapped
The Holy Isle
and fled along her flanks—the tide was turning.

Freya chanced a glance at Dan. His eyes were undefended. She knew that look—he’d been seared, flayed by feeling. She swallowed. “Come to the island, Dan. Tonight.”

The invitation shocked them both.

Freya hurried on. “We need to be there, on Findnar, for any of this to make sense, I truly believe that. And Katherine MacAllister’s coming over too—she was my father’s friend. More than that.” Freya hardly noticed that acknowledgment. “You’ll be quite safe, I promise.”
Why trivialize this?
She willed her breathing to slow.

Dan let Freya’s hands go, first one and then the other. “A chaperone?” The beginning of a smile. He grabbed a corner of the engine housing and hauled himself up, favoring his twisted leg.

Freya did not try to help, but she stood also. “I have to go.” She clambered down the ladder, more careful this time.

As she hurried away, he called out, “Why?”

“Katherine’s got a stall; I said I’d help pack up. Cruiser’s moored back at the public quay.” Freya didn’t repeat the invitation. If he wanted to come to Findnar, he’d be there on the dock.
Michael’s boat rocked gently at its mooring as Katherine and Freya arrived.
He’s not here.

“What time did you say we would go, Freya?”

Freya stared at her watch; she’d been so certain. “Around now.”

“Hello.” Dan—he’d sauntered up behind them. “Where shall I put this?” He eased the pack off his shoulders.

A jolt hit Freya. If Dan got in the cruiser, there was no going back to normal, not ever.
Whatever normal is.
She was sure he knew it, too, for all the self-possession. “In the locker if it’ll fit. Maybe you’d take us over there, Dan? You know the strait better than I do.”

He nodded and handed Freya’s shopping bags down as she climbed into the hull.

Katherine said, brightly, “Maybe this will fit too.” She held out an overnight bag. “I’ll cast off, shall I?”

Freya could feel the heat as she blushed. “I am so sorry, Katherine. Do you two know each other?”

The librarian smiled kindly. “Of course we do.”

Dan actually grinned when he caught Freya’s eye.

“Should have guessed—not even three degrees of separation in Portsolly.” Freya stood to one side as Dan made his awkward way to the cabin and fired the motor.

The journey across Fuil Bay was peaceful. As the day began its long decline, the sky turned from topaz to shining pink, and silver clouds sailed out of the west like vast swans. Conversation was spasmodic but cheerful over the noise of the motor, and even Dan seemed relaxed.

“After September, the sea will hold you on the island as it pleases. Much safer you winter in Portsolly.” Dan raised his voice as the hull slammed into a wave.

“Who says I like safe?” Freya grinned over her shoulder, but Dan was staring at her, willing her to hear him. Glib words died in her mouth. No one had ever looked at her like that—he wanted to protect her. She tried to smile.
It’s okay. I’m scared enough for
both of us.
And yet, as they drew closer to her father’s island, her island, she had never felt so alive. As if her life had become almost unbearably vivid, each sense peeled back and utterly open. If she could only reach out, she might see into the heart of . . . what?