fishing line or net, nothing at all but the barefoot woman and her pile of clean bones.
Svala murmured again; it was almost like a song, a sad one full of liquid sounds. She performed her own mime for my benefit, and proved better at it than I, for I understood straightaway. Eat. Good. As I tried to absorb the strangeness of her request—eat a gobbet of raw fish?—I saw that her fingers were greasy, and that around her full-lipped mouth was a smear of oil. Those bones were not tools of augury. They were the remains of her meal.
Strange indeed. What kind of place did this woman come from, that she ate like a wild creature? There was no choice; she had made a gesture of trust, and if I wanted her to accept my help, I could not rebuff that gesture.
“Thank you, Svala,” I said. I took a deep breath and put the fish in my mouth, trying not to wince as I chewed. I hoped very much that what I was eating was freshly caught, and not something she had found washed up on the shore. It was slippery, stringy, a challenge to the teeth. It tasted of salt water and wildness. I swallowed it down. A pity I could not have slipped it surreptitiously to Fang, who would have considered it a treat. I bowed my head courteously in an attempt to convey gratitude. “You are generous to share. The last mouthful!” I indicated the bones, grateful that she had not presented me with a whole fish.
Svala nodded. Then, abruptly, her hands came out again, this time to close around my upper arms. Gods, she was strong!
“You’re hurting me,” I said, not letting my voice rise.
In response, she turned me around so she was holding me from behind and began to walk me down toward the sea. I grappled with the possibility that she was quite mad, and that she was about to drown me. Out here, at the foot of the cliff, nobody would hear my screams. Fang, perhaps; but what could she do? By the time she fetched help I would be drifting out there, as limp and lifeless as those poor men we had buried. Breathe slowly, Sibeal. She shared her food with you. That was a sign of friendship.
Now we were in the shallows. Svala released her hold and came to stand beside me with one hand on my shoulder. I stood still, though the sea was washing over my shoes and drenching the hem of my gown. An exercise in trust. She stretched her free arm out toward the horizon as if trying to catch hold of something out there, something longed for, something precious. Too far. Too far to reach. The look on her face made my heart falter; the tumult of feelings that coursed through me almost stopped my breath. Loss, bereavement, fury, despair, yearning . . . I closed my eyes, near-overwhelmed. Images came then: huge seas crashing; rocks looming, their forms those of monsters crouched to spring; dark kelp swirling in a thick mat. And sounds: men shouting, and over their desperate voices the calling of something else, a deep bellow of pain that gripped at my vitals. My heart juddered in my breast. I trembled with horror.
A call from the cliff top: no eldritch thing, but the voice of a man. My eyes sprang open, and I half turned. Knut was coming down the path, striding faster than was quite safe on the steep slope. Svala did not turn, but I felt her body freeze. The animation drained from her features.
“Are you all right?” I murmured, but she made no response. As her husband strode down the shore toward us, we waded back to dry land.
Knut’s fair skin was flushed with embarrassment. Avoiding my eye, he came up to Svala, fished out a handkerchief and proceeded to wipe her mouth as if she were an infant that was still learning to feed itself. He spoke to her gently. I guessed he was telling her he’d been worried and was glad he had found her. His glance took in the pile of fish bones, his wife’s wet clothing, the garments she had abandoned on the rocks, her bare feet. It was plain that he wished I had not seen this.
“Troubled you . . . regret, sorry,” he said to me in
Svala murmured again; it was almost like a song, a sad one full of liquid sounds. She performed her own mime for my benefit, and proved better at it than I, for I understood straightaway. Eat. Good. As I tried to absorb the strangeness of her request—eat a gobbet of raw fish?—I saw that her fingers were greasy, and that around her full-lipped mouth was a smear of oil. Those bones were not tools of augury. They were the remains of her meal.
Strange indeed. What kind of place did this woman come from, that she ate like a wild creature? There was no choice; she had made a gesture of trust, and if I wanted her to accept my help, I could not rebuff that gesture.
“Thank you, Svala,” I said. I took a deep breath and put the fish in my mouth, trying not to wince as I chewed. I hoped very much that what I was eating was freshly caught, and not something she had found washed up on the shore. It was slippery, stringy, a challenge to the teeth. It tasted of salt water and wildness. I swallowed it down. A pity I could not have slipped it surreptitiously to Fang, who would have considered it a treat. I bowed my head courteously in an attempt to convey gratitude. “You are generous to share. The last mouthful!” I indicated the bones, grateful that she had not presented me with a whole fish.
Svala nodded. Then, abruptly, her hands came out again, this time to close around my upper arms. Gods, she was strong!
“You’re hurting me,” I said, not letting my voice rise.
In response, she turned me around so she was holding me from behind and began to walk me down toward the sea. I grappled with the possibility that she was quite mad, and that she was about to drown me. Out here, at the foot of the cliff, nobody would hear my screams. Fang, perhaps; but what could she do? By the time she fetched help I would be drifting out there, as limp and lifeless as those poor men we had buried. Breathe slowly, Sibeal. She shared her food with you. That was a sign of friendship.
Now we were in the shallows. Svala released her hold and came to stand beside me with one hand on my shoulder. I stood still, though the sea was washing over my shoes and drenching the hem of my gown. An exercise in trust. She stretched her free arm out toward the horizon as if trying to catch hold of something out there, something longed for, something precious. Too far. Too far to reach. The look on her face made my heart falter; the tumult of feelings that coursed through me almost stopped my breath. Loss, bereavement, fury, despair, yearning . . . I closed my eyes, near-overwhelmed. Images came then: huge seas crashing; rocks looming, their forms those of monsters crouched to spring; dark kelp swirling in a thick mat. And sounds: men shouting, and over their desperate voices the calling of something else, a deep bellow of pain that gripped at my vitals. My heart juddered in my breast. I trembled with horror.
A call from the cliff top: no eldritch thing, but the voice of a man. My eyes sprang open, and I half turned. Knut was coming down the path, striding faster than was quite safe on the steep slope. Svala did not turn, but I felt her body freeze. The animation drained from her features.
“Are you all right?” I murmured, but she made no response. As her husband strode down the shore toward us, we waded back to dry land.
Knut’s fair skin was flushed with embarrassment. Avoiding my eye, he came up to Svala, fished out a handkerchief and proceeded to wipe her mouth as if she were an infant that was still learning to feed itself. He spoke to her gently. I guessed he was telling her he’d been worried and was glad he had found her. His glance took in the pile of fish bones, his wife’s wet clothing, the garments she had abandoned on the rocks, her bare feet. It was plain that he wished I had not seen this.
“Troubled you . . . regret, sorry,” he said to me in
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