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Authors: Juliet Marillier
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explained the problem. “And vegetables. Beans, carrot, beet, turnip, whatever we have in store or in the garden. Biddy can make a soup, everything mashed up, easy to swallow.”
“Just vegetables?” Muirrin sounded sceptical.
“I’ve seen it work before,” Gull said, and my heart lifted. “It takes some time. The trick is keeping him alive until his innards start doing their job again. One of us will need to be here, making sure he’s warm, seeing that he’s propped up and can breathe, keeping his spirits up. You might help with that, Sibeal. Druids are full of good stories. A few of those wouldn’t go amiss.”
“I’ll be happy to help,” I told him, astonished by the way his practical speech had buoyed my spirits.
“I’d like to hear his story,” Gull said. “This fellow’s. Johnny has a party of folk out searching the coves around the island, seeing what might be washed up, and some of the things they’re bringing in are a bit of a surprise.”
“What things?” Muirrin asked.
“Costly things. An oak box with metal bands around it; a book with a jeweled cover; lengths of fabric, perhaps silk. Ruined now, of course. Makes me wonder if someone was bearing gifts. Maybe there was a party of emissaries on board. Sounds as if Knut doesn’t know much.”
“There were three men he couldn’t name,” I said. “This one and two of the dead.”
“Ah well, the full tale will come out in time, I suppose,” Gull said, stifling a yawn. “Poor fellow. Knut, I mean. As for his wife, she seems half-destroyed by grief. Biddy said nobody in the married quarters got much rest last night, with Svala’s crying. Makes the prospect of sleeping up here for a while almost enticing.”
By day’s end the wind had died down, but the sea washed in with relentless ferocity, carving out the cliffs, scraping away the pebbly beaches, reminding us of the power that had taken so many lives in a heartbeat. The clouds hung above, massy and dark as the sun sank lower. Johnny had decided we would not wait for the late summer dusk, but would conduct the ceremony as soon as all was prepared.
Torches had been set around the chosen area, where a boat-shaped hollow had been dug out, marked with a double line of stones. We formed a solemn procession. First walked two of the tallest men on the island, one bearing a sword and shield, the other a spear. Behind them followed the fallen, each carried on a stretcher by two of Johnny’s warriors. I came next in my hooded robe. I had plaited my hair and pinned it up, and in my hands I carried a shallow bowl containing herbs to be burned on the brazier we had placed by the burial site. The men and women of the island followed me. I had thought Svala might not come, but there she was, walking beside her husband, her golden hair loose, her lovely eyes quite blank.
Gull had stayed in the infirmary and one or two folk were tending to stock or infants, but almost the entire island community stood hushed around the burial site. The dead were laid in two rows, and the warriors who had led the procession placed spear, shield and sword down between the fallen. Knut had explained to us that a Norseman is laid to rest with his weapons by his side, as a recognition of his manhood—a fighting man, in particular, needed to go armed into the afterlife. As the sea had taken all these men had, the Inis Eala community had provided these shared items.
Now I stepped forward to scatter my herbs into the fire and begin my prayers. I did not perform a full druidic ritual, but tried to convey with simple words and gestures a wish that the gods, whichever of them looked kindly on us at this moment, would usher the drowned sailors safely to whatever awaited them next. The Norse, as I understood it, believed that men who died bravely in battle were elevated to the realm of the immortals, where they would feast eternally by the side of their warrior deity. Possibly the same fate was expected for a ship’s crew
“Just vegetables?” Muirrin sounded sceptical.
“I’ve seen it work before,” Gull said, and my heart lifted. “It takes some time. The trick is keeping him alive until his innards start doing their job again. One of us will need to be here, making sure he’s warm, seeing that he’s propped up and can breathe, keeping his spirits up. You might help with that, Sibeal. Druids are full of good stories. A few of those wouldn’t go amiss.”
“I’ll be happy to help,” I told him, astonished by the way his practical speech had buoyed my spirits.
“I’d like to hear his story,” Gull said. “This fellow’s. Johnny has a party of folk out searching the coves around the island, seeing what might be washed up, and some of the things they’re bringing in are a bit of a surprise.”
“What things?” Muirrin asked.
“Costly things. An oak box with metal bands around it; a book with a jeweled cover; lengths of fabric, perhaps silk. Ruined now, of course. Makes me wonder if someone was bearing gifts. Maybe there was a party of emissaries on board. Sounds as if Knut doesn’t know much.”
“There were three men he couldn’t name,” I said. “This one and two of the dead.”
“Ah well, the full tale will come out in time, I suppose,” Gull said, stifling a yawn. “Poor fellow. Knut, I mean. As for his wife, she seems half-destroyed by grief. Biddy said nobody in the married quarters got much rest last night, with Svala’s crying. Makes the prospect of sleeping up here for a while almost enticing.”
By day’s end the wind had died down, but the sea washed in with relentless ferocity, carving out the cliffs, scraping away the pebbly beaches, reminding us of the power that had taken so many lives in a heartbeat. The clouds hung above, massy and dark as the sun sank lower. Johnny had decided we would not wait for the late summer dusk, but would conduct the ceremony as soon as all was prepared.
Torches had been set around the chosen area, where a boat-shaped hollow had been dug out, marked with a double line of stones. We formed a solemn procession. First walked two of the tallest men on the island, one bearing a sword and shield, the other a spear. Behind them followed the fallen, each carried on a stretcher by two of Johnny’s warriors. I came next in my hooded robe. I had plaited my hair and pinned it up, and in my hands I carried a shallow bowl containing herbs to be burned on the brazier we had placed by the burial site. The men and women of the island followed me. I had thought Svala might not come, but there she was, walking beside her husband, her golden hair loose, her lovely eyes quite blank.
Gull had stayed in the infirmary and one or two folk were tending to stock or infants, but almost the entire island community stood hushed around the burial site. The dead were laid in two rows, and the warriors who had led the procession placed spear, shield and sword down between the fallen. Knut had explained to us that a Norseman is laid to rest with his weapons by his side, as a recognition of his manhood—a fighting man, in particular, needed to go armed into the afterlife. As the sea had taken all these men had, the Inis Eala community had provided these shared items.
Now I stepped forward to scatter my herbs into the fire and begin my prayers. I did not perform a full druidic ritual, but tried to convey with simple words and gestures a wish that the gods, whichever of them looked kindly on us at this moment, would usher the drowned sailors safely to whatever awaited them next. The Norse, as I understood it, believed that men who died bravely in battle were elevated to the realm of the immortals, where they would feast eternally by the side of their warrior deity. Possibly the same fate was expected for a ship’s crew
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