Even Gunnolf had kept his distance. Whatever we’d been to one another, whatever we’d shared, it had not been built upon love.
Eirik’s amulet nestled still in the hollow of my throat. If I saw him again, in the next life, I’d swear my love and my regret; anger and resentment had brought bitter pleasure. I’d been fated neither for marriage nor the security of devotion.
The tide was almost fully in, and none had come to deliver me. The waters stretched from this place, across the great waste to the land of my birth, and I was solitary, in the shadow of the grey night.
I prayed to my old God and then to Freya, Frigg and Fjorgyn: the female gods. If they had no ear for my suffering then none would.
Would they punish Faline as I was being punished? We each had our sins. She’d acted from jealousy—from desiring what lay out of reach. Her grudge had long simmered, stored away until her spite could be indulged. Even in her wickedness I pitied her, for she’d find no contentment.
The clouds drifted over the moon, obscuring what little light was to be had. It was quiet, as if Svolvaen had melted far away. I was alone with the lap and splash of waves against the fishing boats, gently rocking in their moorings on either side of the pier. I thought back to what Astrid had told me—that Asta’s restless spirit walked. No one wished to be outside, even to watch the final breaths of a witch, as the water claimed her life.
If Asta wished revenge, it was done, for my life could now be measured in gasping breaths. I tipped my chin and closed my eyes as the black waves stroked my lips, theirs the last caress upon my skin.
And then, something swept my leg—the smooth glide of a fish, or a feathering of seaweed. It skimmed silken against my arm, brushing lightly upon my wrists where the rope bound them, and passed around my waist. My body slipped beneath the water as the bonds loosened, and I tasted the briny sea. Kicking my legs brought me to the surface, gasping for air, with my heart pounding.
I knew not who, or what, had intervened. Some creature sent by the gods or their own divine hands reaching to save me. I could not think—only rejoice that the chance had been given for me to live!
My skirts were heavy as I swam, my shoulders stiff and my chilled body leaden, but force of will drove me onwards, towards the shore. The push of the waves helped bring me to the shallows until my knees scraped shingle. I dragged myself beyond the movement of the water, glad to feel the hard pebbles beneath me and the brisk nip of the night air.
There was barely a sigh of wind, the world quiet but for the breaking waves and a far owl calling. I was exhausted to my bones yet my heart beat in exhilaration, for I was alive.
I could not remain thus for long. One thing was certain—that I must take action. I might present myself to Gunnolf and all Svolvaen as having escaped the tide’s reach. The gods had saved me, proving my innocence. Yet, I feared the malevolence of Faline and Bodil. They wouldn’t rest until their spite was sated, and they’d have no trouble finding ears. The seeds of doubt had been sown, even among those who’d shared my friendship.
I needed time to plan and a place of safety from which to do so. My first thought was of Astrid; she, I could trust. Alongside Torhilde, she’d spoken for me when so many were ready to believe ill. She’d hide me if I asked, but this I would not do. How could I place her in such a position?
High on the shingle was Helka’s little boat—the one in which she’d taken me sailing through the fjord. How long ago that day seemed, when I’d thrilled to speed with the wind and shared her delight in the success of our fishing. I remembered her showing me the cave—her own special place, where the ledge ran flat and deep.
Might I manage the vessel alone, with the oars rather than the sail? The moon’s slender crescent was in my favour, breaking only momentarily through the cloud. None was likely to see me, even were they to look out. I couldn’t delay; the fishermen would soon arrive, setting out on their day’s work.
The pebbles shifted under my feet, loud to my ear and louder still as they tumbled before the boat. I hauled it by the bow, down the slope to the water’s edge. Every part of my body ached but I made jerking progress. Finally, I was wading out, holding the boat’s edge, light-headed with relief on feeling it float free.
My sodden skirts slapped the deck as I tumbled in. I caught my knee hard on the edge of the seat to the stern, cursing a good oath to control my tears. The sail had been rolled away but the oars were still inside, and I wasted no time in fitting them to the locks. The sooner I left the shore behind, the safer I’d feel. There would be time, later, to rest and to think; for now, I needed to send the boat through the water, taking myself away from Svolvaen, and danger. It was a struggle to breach the waves, tilting the blade to the right angle, but I was soon taking longer strokes, letting the boat glide onwards, with the great cliffs rising on either side.
I was shaken, weary and anxious but an old part of myself was awakening—the girl who’d climbed the tallest trees and swum in forest pools, who’d hunted rabbits and spun her own fate. If I were to survive, I’d need to be brave, and resourceful.
The moon appeared again, illuminating the sheer face of the crags. I was further along than I’d realized, moving parallel with the escarpment. Stilling the oars, I looked for an opening, wide and low and jagged either side—Helka’s cave. I dipped the oars again, taking care not to drift close. Perhaps I’d gone too far. I might so easily have missed what I sought, in the faint, silvered light.
And then I saw it—the distinctive opening in the cliff and the narrow passageway through which I must pass. Another moment and I’d be level, relying on my oars to guide me, risking the little wooden boat on the jutting rocks.
I felt the swell rising as I approached, the upward surge as it pushed into the inlet, lifting the boat and tossing me towards the unyielding stone. I reached out my oar, endeavouring to push myself away, but the force of the waves was too violent. There was a judder as the bow connected, an alarming scrape and grind of buckling planks. I braced with a single oar, only to see it splinter and snap. Unthinkingly, I did the same with my hands, crying out as my palms scraped upon limpets. The boat swayed beneath me, spinning to rasp upon the opposing rocks. I whimpered as the hull creaked, waiting for a crack of rupture which would sink me. Water was about my ankles, the boat tilting. Grasping for the remaining oar, I pushed again off the rock and, with all my might, moving its blade desperately from one side of the boat to the other, propelled myself toward the cave’s shelter.
26
Even as the sun rose high the next day, it remained cold within the cavern. I was drawn to the furthest ledge in pursuit of warmth, of some touch of daylight. Watching the surf swelling and surging beneath, I sheltered unseen. Only one would guess I was here, and for her I waited. Helka would know what to say, what to do. She, I felt certain, would take my part.
What could I do but wait? The boat had been damaged badly, sinking beneath me as I scrambled out. With the dawn’s thin light, I found it had disappeared altogether. Only the splintered oar remained, its fragments floating out of reach.
I’d found Helka’s provisions—leather pouches of water, cheese and smoked ham. The cave’s cool interior had preserved them well and how good they tasted, filling my mouth not just with flavour but with their solidity, with the pleasure of eating. I made myself chew slowly, passing each piece over my tongue. I didn’t know how long I’d need them to last. Even eaten sparingly, they dwindled quickly.
Lying on my belly, I caught a sliver of shattered oar from the water, thinking I’d use it to prise limpets as the birds did with their beaks, but the wood was already too soft to be of use. Eventually, I found a shell, the cast-off casing of a mollusc long-dead, the inside smooth. It was a better tool, affording me several tiny mouthfuls, but those soft creatures clung tenacious to the rocks. In desperation, I smashed until my knuckles bled.
Scraping slimed algae and pliant seaweed from the rocks, my nails tore ragged. I pressed my mouth where my fingers were inept, tugging with my teeth, eager for any nourishment. Each swallow made me only thirstier, my mouth brine-soaked, parched dry amidst so much water. I was steeped in the sea, the stinging spray penetrating not just my clothes but my skin and my eyes, its touch a torment to my cracked lips.
I fell to licking from the damp walls, my tongue raw against the rough formation of the stone, seeking respite from the salt, needing fresh water. Time dripped as slowly as that thin trickle upon which I depended. It dripped in the long darkness and through the muted day, falling like those beads of moisture on the rock.
I eyed the gulls soaring beyond the entrance of the cavern, wondering how they would taste, imagining the satisfaction of their flesh in my belly. None came near. It seemed more likely that they’d pick my bones than I theirs.
Nights passed in the cavern’s embrace. I curled upon the gnawing ache of hunger, shivering, hiding my face in the crook of my elbow, wrapped in sweat despite the cold. The world had reduced to this damp place of stone and sea, to rock and water and the chill inside my bones.
