The Island House by Posie Graeme-evans Page A

sedentary lives in the Scriptorium lettering sacred manuscripts before the raiders came, and yet now they stumbled on together. For Christ their master.
    “Here, drop it. Careful, carefully!” Cuillin took charge, and his brothers obeyed. He was troubled by this desire to lead, but he saw now that humility and obedience had always been hard for him. Even when he’d been sent north to Findnar from the Motherhouse at Whitby, Cuillin had dared to question his superiors. Why should he be ordered to this gull-haunted wilderness so many sea days away from the Motherhouse when there was so much to do in Whitby’s Scriptorium? But the Abbot had commanded, and Cuillin had obeyed—of course. Now, though he prayed often on his faults, there were few men left on the island, and the monks—and their few sisters also—seemed to look to him as the most senior of the surviving brothers. And he found himself consulting Gunnhilde more and more; perhaps they were falling,naturally, into the roles of Abbot and Abbess since they both had the example of the Motherhouse to mimic. Cuillin banished that beguiling, prideful thought and crossed himself as the three trudged back to raise yet another piece of stone.
    “Let us dedicate our labor to God, my brothers. With faith and His help we shall rebuild, together, His holy sanctuary on this island.”
    Brother Simon and Brother Anselm crossed themselves and nodded cautiously.
    God’s help was certainly required, for faith wilted at the thought of all the work to be done.
     

    From a distance, Signy watched the men. She sat down in the long grass so that they would not see her, for she did not want to help them. It seemed a stupid thing to do, taking stone from this place and putting it down there —what was the sense in that?
    She patted the pillow stone affectionately. “I think this God of theirs is very hard to please, Laenna. They should sacrifice something; then perhaps He’d help them a bit more.” She laid her mouth close against the white pebbles covering her sister’s chest and whispered, “But what should I do? Can you see me where you are? Tell me what to do. Please, Laenna, I want to go home.”
    “Signy, where are you?” Gunnhilde was calling.
    “Should I go to her, Laenna?” A brisk wind rushed past, bending the tall flowers that hid where she lay. Signy’s tunic fluttered, a flag in the grass.
    The old woman called out more strongly, “I see you, Signy! Come, I need your help—the goat.” She mimed milking.
    Signy sat up and waved. She understood more of what the woman said now, for every day she tried to use new words. The language of the newcomers was ungainly and sounded ugly, but she knew enough now to call the old woman by her real name, Goonhelda. It was hard to say, and unmusical, but Signy hadtaught the old woman her name also. She now knew the name of the other girl too— Eedrunn. That was less difficult, a little. Even the boy could say Signy now, and he was closer to the right pronunciation, though he made her laugh when he tried to say other words in the clan language. But Coolun, the angry man, spoke to her only as Gurl. A sound like a growl. He did not try to say her real name. But time passed more quickly around the fire each evening now because Goonhelda liked to teach and Signy liked to learn. That is, when the newcomers were not chanting; they still did so much chanting it was hard to get to sleep sometimes.
    “I’d better go, Laenna.” Signy kissed the pillow stone and stood up, her arms full of the poppies. She sauntered toward Gunnhilde.
    “Milk, Signy, yes?” Gunnhilde handed the child a leather bucket and pointed at the goat. Signy nodded—she didn’t much like milking, but she’d rather do that than other things.
    Their one surviving nanny was hobbled not far from the ruined chapel. She had an evil disposition, and it was clear she resented captivity after roaming free since the raid. A few days ago Signy had helped Coolun and