Read Online The Falcons of Fire and Ice by Karen Maitland - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karen Maitland
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day we would leave this cave and climb up again to the light. We would run across the grassy plains, and slide across the frozen lake, and scramble over the sharp black rocks to reach the mountain where we were born. One day, we said … one day. We promised each other.
Our mother brought us to this cave when we were both seven years old. That is the age at which the gift of second sight awakens in a child. I remember thinking how vast it was. First the descent through the slit in the rock, narrow as a woman’s crack, hidden from any mortal view unless you knew it was there. Then we climbed down and down over ledges and boulders into the darkness below and all the time the sound of rushing water grew louder, and the heat more intense.
Finally we stood on the wide flat floor of the cave, bigger even than our cottage above the river of ice. The rocks were warm against our bare feet. At the far end of the cave a deep, clear pool of hot water bubbled up from an underground river far below. It streamed out into a second cave where narrow tunnels crushed and squeezed the water until somewhere far off, or so we were told, it finally thundered out of the rock and into the light.
Valdis and I were terrified of that pool of steaming water when first our mother brought us here. We feared that some great beast lay at the bottom of it, a dragon or monster, which would rise out of it while we slept and devour us. We tried to take it in turns to sleep, but in the end we both slept. The cave was too warm, the sound of the water too intoxicating to resist sleep for long. But now I am alone with that pool. Now there is no one to keep watch over me, sleeping or waking.
For fifty years there has always been the two us. We were twins, constant companions, day and night, sleeping and waking. Not even lovers could know the closeness we felt. I used to look at people who were alone and wonder what it must be like to have only your thoughts for company, hear only your own heartbeat in the night, feel only your own breath in the darkness. My sister was as close to me as my soul is to my body, and I can’t conceive of life without her.
I knew we would die one day, every mortal dies, but I had thought we would die together. It didn’t seem possible that one of us could go on living when the other was gone. In truth I can’t even be certain that I do live. I feel numb inside as if my thoughts are frozen, my tears petrified as ice, and yet my body can still feel the heat of the water gushing through this cave. My eyes can still see the flames of the pitch torch burning on the rock wall and the glowing ruby embers of my little cooking fire. My ears can still hear the wind whistling over the slit in the rock high above, far out of my sight, playing the hole like a child plays the pipes. How can these things be when Valdis is dead?
When she first brought us to this cave, our mother gave us little pallets stuffed with eiderdown to rest on, baskets of dried fish and whale meat, smoked mutton and sweet dried berries. She gave us lamps filled with fish oil and torches dipped in pitch. We had water aplenty in our underground lake.
The blacksmith who bolted the chains deep into the rock wall was kind to us. He took great care to ensure that when he fastened the chains to the iron hoops about our waists they were long enough to let us walk to the water, even to allow us to bathe if we wished, but we were too afraid to enter that pool. He returned several times over those first few years to fit us with new hoops as we grew to womanhood, but we were never to see our mother again, not after that day she brought us here. And that was the last time we ever saw the sun or the moon.
Others came, of course, bringing food and oil for our lamps, gifts of clothes or spring flowers. Everyone who comes brings an offering to us. They lay them out for our inspection and then they ask us their questions.
‘My red mare is missing, where should I look for her?’
‘My
Our mother brought us to this cave when we were both seven years old. That is the age at which the gift of second sight awakens in a child. I remember thinking how vast it was. First the descent through the slit in the rock, narrow as a woman’s crack, hidden from any mortal view unless you knew it was there. Then we climbed down and down over ledges and boulders into the darkness below and all the time the sound of rushing water grew louder, and the heat more intense.
Finally we stood on the wide flat floor of the cave, bigger even than our cottage above the river of ice. The rocks were warm against our bare feet. At the far end of the cave a deep, clear pool of hot water bubbled up from an underground river far below. It streamed out into a second cave where narrow tunnels crushed and squeezed the water until somewhere far off, or so we were told, it finally thundered out of the rock and into the light.
Valdis and I were terrified of that pool of steaming water when first our mother brought us here. We feared that some great beast lay at the bottom of it, a dragon or monster, which would rise out of it while we slept and devour us. We tried to take it in turns to sleep, but in the end we both slept. The cave was too warm, the sound of the water too intoxicating to resist sleep for long. But now I am alone with that pool. Now there is no one to keep watch over me, sleeping or waking.
For fifty years there has always been the two us. We were twins, constant companions, day and night, sleeping and waking. Not even lovers could know the closeness we felt. I used to look at people who were alone and wonder what it must be like to have only your thoughts for company, hear only your own heartbeat in the night, feel only your own breath in the darkness. My sister was as close to me as my soul is to my body, and I can’t conceive of life without her.
I knew we would die one day, every mortal dies, but I had thought we would die together. It didn’t seem possible that one of us could go on living when the other was gone. In truth I can’t even be certain that I do live. I feel numb inside as if my thoughts are frozen, my tears petrified as ice, and yet my body can still feel the heat of the water gushing through this cave. My eyes can still see the flames of the pitch torch burning on the rock wall and the glowing ruby embers of my little cooking fire. My ears can still hear the wind whistling over the slit in the rock high above, far out of my sight, playing the hole like a child plays the pipes. How can these things be when Valdis is dead?
When she first brought us to this cave, our mother gave us little pallets stuffed with eiderdown to rest on, baskets of dried fish and whale meat, smoked mutton and sweet dried berries. She gave us lamps filled with fish oil and torches dipped in pitch. We had water aplenty in our underground lake.
The blacksmith who bolted the chains deep into the rock wall was kind to us. He took great care to ensure that when he fastened the chains to the iron hoops about our waists they were long enough to let us walk to the water, even to allow us to bathe if we wished, but we were too afraid to enter that pool. He returned several times over those first few years to fit us with new hoops as we grew to womanhood, but we were never to see our mother again, not after that day she brought us here. And that was the last time we ever saw the sun or the moon.
Others came, of course, bringing food and oil for our lamps, gifts of clothes or spring flowers. Everyone who comes brings an offering to us. They lay them out for our inspection and then they ask us their questions.
‘My red mare is missing, where should I look for her?’
‘My
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