The Island House (18 page)

Home. Signy’s eyes blurred. Perhaps Tarannis, God of Storms, would accept her tears as a sacrifice and they would be safe in his domain. But then she thought of Laenna; this island had taken much from her and from her family; perhaps it was time to trust the sea and not the land. “I am ready, Bear. Tell me what to do.”

The tide, the rushing, full-moon tide, was higher on the beach with each volley of waves, and for the first time as he glanced at Signy—stick arms, stick legs, standing so uncertainly in the
shallows—Bear felt doubt. He squashed it; too late now, they were committed. “Right,” he said. “After I’m onboard, you free the rope when I say so. You’ll have to climb up quick, but I’ll hold her with the steering oar. Then we row—that’ll get us out of the bay and into open water.”

The prow of the ship tossed like a horse’s head at the sea’s nudging, but Bear judged the moment well. A bigger wave and the vessel was floating, free from the sand and, as she dipped, head pulled down by the mooring rope, Bear jumped for the neck and, with a scrambling swing, was over the side. Nearly winded as the prow reared up again, he pulled the rope taut while he hopped across the rowing benches.

“Now!” Bear had the tiller in both hands and began to pull in the direction opposite to the tide’s drag. Muscles half the size of a man’s held that flexing hull as Signy, straining hard, shoved and shoved, and burrowed beneath the rock to free the rope.

Bear yelled over the slap of waves, the clatter of shingle in the wash. “Signy, hurry!”

“I’m trying, I’m nearly . . . there!”

The rock tilted into the hole Signy had scrabbled, and freed the line. She grabbed the last hank as it snaked away, burning her palms. With her arms nearly jerked from delicate sockets, the power of the restive craft and the waves pulled the child at a stumbling run toward the sea.

“Jump. Now!”

Easy to say and much, much harder to do, Signy mistimed her leap and fell, belly-flat into the shallows. The shock of cold water closed her eyes and mouth, but grim strength, the power to hold on, hauled her body against the water’s weight, and she surfaced, coughing.

So how did Signy do it? How did she climb the side of the bucking hull and find her way across the rowing benches to the stern?

Bear could only think about that afterward, and when he asked the question, she did not answer.

For now the girl jumped into his sight, more sea spirit than mortal, streaming water and seaweed, and joined him at the steering post. Holding the tiller, they heaved together, shivering, joints cracking, hauling to turn the ship toward the open sea.

The tide helped, and so did the wind, reversing off the land where before it had been rising from the strait.

Then Bear did a mad thing. “Hold the tiller. I’ll row.”

Signy nodded. Why would she question when there was nothing else to be done?

Swooping to a bench in the middle of the vessel, Bear found an oar and shipped it. Made from spruce, it was three times his length and more, though light.

He dropped the blade in the running sea, back bent and straining against the obstinate water. Years spent watching his brother and the war band told Bear what to do: dip and heave the blade back, dip and heave.

Teeth clenched as she tried to hold the hull, Signy saw what Bear was doing—he was pivoting the vessel, on one oar, and turning the prow toward the mouth of the bay. There was open water in front now as the beach fell away behind—receding, receding—and it began to seem possible. But how to steer and row at the same time, with just two?

Signy called out, “Calm water over there!”

Bear nodded, shouted back, “She’ll wallow and we’ll set the sail—just a bit more . . . not far.”

Two exhausted children, but Tarannis was their friend, for perhaps it was he who guided them to flat water. And in that pool on the surface of the sea, the hull rocked like a cradle as Bear pulled in his oar and called, “Hold her steady. I’ll manage the sail.”

Hold her steady.
Signy nodded and managed to do what was asked.

Bear looked up. The sail must be freed from the boom and then tied off to the sides of the hull, and he must judge exactly how much air should be allowed into the belly of the cloth—that was
the tricky part. He wet one finger and held it up, turning his head toward the floating moon as it rose, and then to where the sun had left the world. “The wind remains offshore. Gods be praised for this, at least.”

Signy nodded. Her arms trembled holding the tiller, and she could feel the ship swing away from her grasp; then she got the inspiration.

Leaving the oar—Bear saw and shouted at her, “Signy? Signy, go back!”—she returned with a coil of rope. Slipping a loop of walrus leather over the tiller’s end, she pulled it taut and fed the other end through a metal ring, tying it off as tightly as she could. And then she scrambled toward the boy with the ruined face and the bright, bright eyes.

“It will work better with two.”

Bear smiled at her, happy. “It always does.”

Despite the fear, despite the pain, he was joyous. This was his proper place, a ship at sea. He climbed the mast as he would a tree, right to the boom—Signy gasped as he swayed above—and unlashed the sail, tie by tie.

It dropped cleanly, and Signy had caught the sheet on one side as he slid to the deck again. Bear grabbed the rope on the other and ran it through an iron ring.

By day the cloth would have been gaudy—brave red and yellow stripes—but the moon leached the color away. On this night, the red was black and the yellow gray, but the sail was so new—like the rest of the ship—there was no wear on it, not even one patch.

Signy smiled and gathered the sail sheet in her hand. She loved seeing Bear so happy.

He shouted out, “So on my word, we haul.”

She nodded.

“Now!”

In unison, one on each side, the boy and the girl pulled in the sail. Air filled the cloth with a crack, and it curved out above in a glorious, pregnant curve—ells and ells of heavy, woven wool, still
smelling of sheep’s lanolin, strained in the wind, carrying them home.

“We’ll see her fly now!” Bear had his lines caught and tied away in less than five breaths. He turned to help Signy, but she had done the same and was standing there, smiling.

“Yours are sea people too?”

She nodded happily. “But we never had anything as fine as this.”

“Then we shall steer her together.”

Signy looked up into the drum-skin sail and felt the power of the sea surge through the keel tree beneath their feet. While Bear took the tiller, she freed the steering oar and turned her face toward the island as it slipped away behind them.

“Sleep well, Laenna.” She raised both arms in farewell to her sister.

Then she smiled and reached out her hand to Bear.

He took it. “Home?”

She nodded. “Home.”

And they held the tiller together as they looked out toward the moon-road beyond the mouth of the bay.

CHAPTER 13

P
ORTSOLLY WAS
a small place, and it had few obvious landmarks within the town, but one of them was the spire of the church. For centuries, fishing boats had navigated to harbor safely once the spire appeared over the horizon. And at night, a lantern burned there to guide stragglers caught out at sea. For most of that time, too, the building had stood by itself and looked directly out to the strait, secure on its own spur of rising ground. But then, over the hundreds of years since it was consecrated, the village had crept closer until, at last, the church was locked tight among smaller buildings. Now it was the focal point, the center of a nest of narrow streets. Only the spire, a finger pointed directly at God, pierced the sky above the roofs like an admonition.

But of what?
wondered Freya as she stood outside the somber building. Did she imagine the church had a secretive air? It was built from the same granite as Compline House. The local stone. And, though supremely hard, it was weathered by the salt wind. Some stones had flaked into curious patterns, too, as if granite had a grain, like timber.

“Frost damage.”

Freya jumped. The voice came from above, and she looked up, shading her eyes.

A man was perched on the steeple, his harness fastened to the very top of the spire. He was enjoying her confusion. “The crazing of the stone, it’s frost damage.” He rappelled down and landed beside her with breezy efficiency.

The stranger had thick, rope-blond hair that curled well past
his collar. Innocent brown eyes, a wide grin and white teeth were additional assets. “And, I know what you’re thinking. How come there’s frost, this close to the sea?”

Freya found she was smiling. The way he spoke was droll—and it wasn’t just the beguiling Scots accent.

“That’s not what I was thinking, actually.”

“No?”

She shook her head. “I was wondering what you were doing.” She gestured toward the steeple.

“Oh, just checking the structure and the cladding—there are stone tiles up there. They’re not in bad shape, but some will need renewing.” The man unclipped the harness and stepped out of the straps.

“Oh. You’re a steeplejack?”

He grinned. “No. Guess again.”

“Very Rumpelstiltskin. Anyway, I don’t know anything about frost. I’m from Sydney.”

“An Outlander! Excellent. It will be my privilege and pleasure to show you the sights, starting here. This kirk now, is an outstanding example of early Romanesque. My name’s Simon, by the way, Simon Fettler. And you are?”

Slick as an otter fresh from the sea, Simon Fettler.

She laughed. “Freya Dane,” she said and held out her hand.

He took it and held it and smilingly bowed. “I am pleased indeed to meet
you,
Freya Dane. But let me show you something you’ll never have seen in Australia.” Simon placed one light hand beneath Freya’s elbow and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, steered her toward the portico.

She let him sweep her along solely because he had such great timing—and he made her laugh.

“Now this is just my private theory, but having bought the place—”

Freya stopped. “
You
bought it?”

“Certainly. You seem confused. Do I not appear holy enough to
dwell within the tabernacle of the Lord?” Simon allowed himself to look hurt.

She giggled. “I can’t comment. Besides, I’d heard you were an architect, not a priest, and that the church had been deconsecrated.”

“Well, so I am an architect. But do not mock or be so quick to judge, Freya Dane. They come in all shapes and sizes—so I am told—the clerical gentlemen. In here.”

Simon ducked beneath the lintel of the porch. Like Freya’s back door on Findnar, it had been built for shorter people. Pulling open an iron-bound door, he bowed her inside.

“I always liked this building, even as a kid. It’s not especially large, and it will keep me more than poor with the work that needs doing, but I find the space handsome.”

Freya did not, for the interior was grim, as Katherine had said, and dark. She said, politely, “It will certainly make an unusual house.”

He nodded happily. “It will indeed—just needs more light, that’s all. Glass was sparingly used in early churches, of course—the expense, and then the taxes. That’s why there are so few windows.”

They both looked up. A modest clerestory ran around the walls beneath the roof, and wan daylight struggled through, a cool green.

Like living under the sea,
thought Freya. She shivered.

He strode ahead, chatting happily. “Perhaps I shall put a stone lantern into the roof like St. Paul’s—but smaller, you get the idea.”

He’s right,
Freya thought.
I shouldn’t judge. He must be able to see the possibilities of this building.
She relaxed, content to listen as he ran on about his plans. She was never this at ease with strangers, and it was a nice feeling. He
was
attractive too—open and warm and funny—that was a change. Her last boyfriend had been a brooder and self-obsessed, not to mention passive-aggressive. And yes, there was a glint when he flicked her a glance. Freya decided she liked being glinted at.

Simon stopped; he was staring at her—plainly she was expected
to comment. She said, quickly, “So, will your renovations be allowed through council?”

He shrugged. “Och, it is a listed building certainly, but the interior has been altered before, many times. No strangers, these stones, to being moved about a bit, and they don’t care, they’ll outlast us all.” He patted a wall as if it were a restive horse. “You see, Freya—do you think me bold, appropriating your name?” That naughty glint again.

She waved airily; it was so good to lighten up. “Not at all—appropriate away.”

Simon’s grin widened, and he swept his arm in a generous arc. “Early buildings are a passion of mine, you see. And I know from research that some of the fabric of this church
is
authentic—and very old indeed—but how much? That’s the question and a very good one. I’ve made a practice out of restoring old structures, some almost ruins. I enjoy the work. And it’s always a challenge.”