The Island House by Posie Graeme-evans Page B

Ansuum recapture the island’s few domestic animals, including the goat. She knew she had proved her worth because she could run faster than any of them, animals or men. And it was she who had brought the nanny back to the ruined settlement. Now the goat, a pregnant sow, and one of a pair of plow bullocks—the other had been slaughtered and eaten by the raiders—must be brought into the temporary byre at the other end of their shelter each night. This was another of Signy’s chores, and if Gunnhilde seemed not to like living so close to the animals because of the smell, Signy did not care; she was grateful for the extra warmth they brought.
    “Shall I take those? They’re pretty.” Gunnhilde pointed at the poppies in Signy’s arms; she mimed taking the flowers.
    Signy backed away and shook her head. She seemed alarmed.
    Gunnhilde smiled, determinedly. On some days communicationwas difficult. “When you’ve finished”—the nun mimed stripping teats again and picking up a full bucket—“come to me, please.” She pointed at the girl and then toward the shelter where they all slept.
    Signy nodded. She went over to the goat and sat down beside her. The nanny stared back and bleated. “Yes, I know. You don’t like me; well, I can’t help that. We just have to try to get on.” Signy wiped her hands on the grass; she’d make the milking last as long as she could . . .
     

    Some of the ceiling timbers of the nuns’ dormitory had survived the raid unburned. Any wood was precious and must be protected from the weather, so Cuillin and the other monks had worked hard to patch the old roof with bundles of heather weighed down with stones. Of course the thatch leaked, but it was better than being outside when it was cold, especially at night. The men also filled holes in the walls with clay, straw, and animal manure. Gathering dung from the byre was Signy’s morning work, and watching her expression as she worked the slop of mud, straw, and clay together with bare hands had been one of the boy’s chief entertainments as he recovered day by day. He’d even chuckled when, trying to scratch her nose, Signy had smeared muck across her face. She’d stuck her tongue out at him, and they’d both laughed.
    His face was a little better now. The green slime had bred maggots because Gunnhilde would not allow the old layer to be removed when she added more on top, and that horrified Signy. The boy hated the creatures moving on his skin, but Gunnhilde would not let Signy pick them off. Just today, the nun had finally wiped away the fermented poultice with all its squirming inhabitants.
    Signy had been impressed. The maggots had eaten the burned flesh from the damaged side, and though the boy’s face would never be perfect, there was new skin where the worst of the burnshad been and some of the puckering was smoothed. She’d tried to tell the boy with smiles and gestures, and perhaps he under-stood—he’d smiled as if he did.
    Signy, her head against the flank of the goat, thought about the boy; she knew his name now, for he’d told her. Pointing to his chest he’d whispered it: Magni. He had not told the others, just her. Goonhelda was kind, but he did not like the men, and they did not like him. Everyone knew it was dangerous to tell enemies your real name. Signy understood, and she was flattered he’d trusted her to use his name well. Yes, she should not have liked Magni, but she did. He made her laugh and he was brave; or perhaps she just missed her brothers. Signy stared over at the soot-dark hovel where Magni was lying. He had spent so much time there alone and in pain; Nid would have hated that.
    A cold wind ruffled the poppies. Signy shivered. Winter was coming, and soon they would all be forced inside unless she could work out how to mend the coracle and run away back to her home. But the work would have to be done before the gales—if not, she would have to wait until spring. And where would she get the