Seer of Sevenwaters by Juliet Marillier Page B

stumbling Irish. “My wife . . . disturbed.” His hand was firm around her arm. Svala stood quietly by him, head bowed, shoulders drooping.
    “No trouble.” It seemed he was mortified, ashamed of his wife. The red flush went all the way down his neck. And there, graven on a smooth stone and strung on a fraying strip of darkened hide, was something on which I could comment without any danger of making the situation still more awkward. I put my hand to my own neck and said, “I see you are wearing a rune. Eolh. Sometimes called the claw.” It was a powerful symbol of protection. If I had been a crewman on a oceangoing ship, I might have chosen the same sign.
    Knut’s tight jaw relaxed somewhat. “ Eolh ,” he echoed, tucking the charm back under his tunic. “Keep safe. From sea, storm.”
    “Knut . . . ” How could I say this without offending him? “Your wife—she offered me food. She did not upset me in any way. I believe she was trying to talk to me, to tell me something.”
    I tried not to speak across her, even though she could not understand my words. Her husband had treated her as if she were either a child or a half-wit. She was certainly no child; and after seeing her eyes unguarded, I was beginning to wonder if we had all underestimated her ability to think for herself.
    “No speak Irish good,” Knut said, then spoke to Svala in Norse, pointing to the clothing she had left on the rocks. He released his hold on her, and she moved over to collect her shawl and cloak, obedient as a chastened dog. It unnerved me to watch them, for so much about this felt wrong—her silent subservience, his obvious embarrassment. They were husband and wife, yet today there was nothing between them of the tender respect that I saw every day between my sisters and their husbands, or between Biddy and Gull, or indeed between my mother and father. Were Norse customs so different?
    “I must go now,” I muttered, waving vaguely toward the top of the path, where Fang could be seen investigating something under a stone. “I wish you well,” I said, looking over at Svala. But she was wrapping the shawl around her shoulders, her back to me, and did not turn.
    “You, not talk.” Knut put his fingers to his lips, pointed to me, indicated his wife with a sweep of the hand. “Not say.” He gestured in the general direction of the settlement. “Not say . . . Johnny . . . wife, here.”
    “I won’t tell anyone,” I said. I did not fully understand Knut’s motive, but it did seem best that this episode did not become the subject of gossip within the community. “No talk. No tell.”
    Knut managed a smile and a nod.
    “Farewell, then. Farewell, Svala.”
    I climbed up the path more briskly than was quite comfortable. At the top I whistled to Fang, then headed off toward the settlement without a backward glance.

    “And so,” I told my family, “I chose a name for him.”
    We were in the dining hall, where the Inis Eala community sat to supper at four long tables, in no particular order. Folk liked to mingle here. However, it was common for kin to sit together, and so here we were at the table nearest the cooking fire. Johnny sat with Gareth, who was his lover as well as his best friend and comrade in arms—this unusual arrangement was simply part of everyday life on Inis Eala, where folk were somewhat more tolerant than on the mainland. Clodagh and Cathal were here, along with Muirrin, Gull, Biddy’s son Sam and his wife, Brenna. Evan was in the infirmary where, I was told, our patient was still alive but no better. Biddy was occupied with supervising her assistants, who were coming to and fro with cauldrons of soup and platters of bread. She herself would eat later, when she had ensured everyone else was adequately fed.
    I had given an abridged account of my day. A trip to the cave; quiet meditation; some insights gained, which I did not describe. A suggestion that I name the nameless survivor, at least until he started