I sat in my blankets, sheltered by the odd arrangement of boards and rope, the last thing she had done that day before she went off to fish and vanished. At first, when I’d found her gone, I’d panicked. I’d searched frantically, shouting her name until I had no voice left, clambering desperately to every corner of the skerry in case I’d missed some clue. And then I’d forced myself to think clearly. How likely was it that Tali, capable, strong Tali, had fallen into the sea and drowned without so much as a shout? This was part of the test. She’d been removed. While I was sleeping, the Hag had come and taken her away.
When that day had turned to night, I had done the exercises she taught me, keeping my body warm in the long, lonely time of darkness. Bend, stretch, run on the spot. Squat, kick, rise. Attempt the Plank. Start over again. With gritted teeth and eyes streaming tears, I had kept on going. At last, worn out by exhaustion and sorrow, I had slept, and woken to an empty dawn.
And now here I was, three days later, still alone, still waiting. Keep to the routine, Tali would have said. It gives you something to hold on to. I made myself chew on a lump of raw fish, swallow a careful mouthful of water. My chest hurt, and it was hard to get the food and drink down.
Last night I had dreamed of Flint: Flint running, running as if death were snapping at his heels. His face ashen white, his eyes wild. An angry sky above, wind whipping his cloak. Someone with him, another man in dark clothing, trying to halt him, shouting, gesturing. Flint snarling a response and pushing on past.
There was no way to know if what I had seen was past, present, or future, or only a product of my own exhaustion. But I could not shake it from my mind. He was in trouble. Something had gone wrong.
No point in this; there were no answers. I got up, folded blankets and cloak, tidied the area as best I could. The air was full of salt spray, the rocks slippery underfoot. Heavy clouds massed overhead; rain was close.
There were raw, angry patches on my skin, and I itched everywhere. My clothing hung in filthy tatters. Hope, I muttered to myself. Got to have hope. I realized I had sat down again, in a daze, too weary to remember what I was doing from one moment to the next. There was a longing in me to roll back into the damp bedding and shut my eyes to the world; to sleep until I woke no more. Something, some thread of awareness, kept me where I was, sitting with my arms around my knees, looking east toward Far Isle. Flint. Flint in trouble. How could I give up if he was out there somewhere, running from disaster?
Call for help, Neryn, before it’s too late. If you wait until you’re incapable, you’re a fool. That voice was Tali’s. But surely it wasn’t as simple as that. There must be something I was missing, something I was supposed to learn from this. Must I show I could hold back until the very last extreme before using my gift? Or prove my common sense by using it before I was too weak to summon the will? Both were too simple. The Hag had sent me out here for a purpose. When I’d failed to do whatever it was she wanted me to do, she’d made things harder by taking Tali away. What wasn’t I seeing? What wasn’t I understanding?
The rain came, at first in scattered droplets, then in a steady drizzle, and finally in a great, thunderous downpour. There was no point at all in trying to shelter. The rain drowned everything. It was like a great fist hammering the rocks, a huge voice roaring its song of power. Nothing to do but sit helpless under its bruising strength. The ocean had never seemed so vast, my friends never so far away. My tears flowed warm against the icy chill of my skin.…
And that was it. Be fluid as water. The power of the call was not my power. It was the power of deep earth, of mutable fire and pure air. Here in the west, it was the mighty power of water. The sea, the rain, the tears, the cold sweat on our bodies. Everywhere.
As if it only had been waiting for me to see the truth at last, the storm passed over and was gone. The air cleared. Pools lay in every hollow of the skerry; the clouds parted to let a ray of pale sunlight through, and the miniature lakes shone like mirrors of gold and bronze and silver. It wasn’t a call that was needed, it was a ritual. Or at the very least a prayer: an acknowledgment that my gift depended on the power of Alban, its lakes and mountains and forests, its caves and hilltops and secret places. A Caller’s magic lay, not in herself, but in the natural world; she must learn to let that magic flow through her.
I had seen my grandmother perform the seasonal rituals when I was young, though even then their practice had been outlawed. I could not remember the words she had used, but I did recall the basic pattern of it. I rose to my feet, dripping, and picked up my staff. I scraped my wet hair back from my face. Around me, moisture rose from the rocks in small clouds under the meager heat of the sun. My head felt strange; I hoped I would not faint before I reached the end.
Make a circle; pace it out; use the staff to point the way. At each quarter, stop and acknowledge the Guardian. “Hail, Lord of the North, Guardian of Earth.… Hail, White Lady, Guardian of Air.… Hail, Master of Shadows, Guardian of Fire.… Hail, Hag of the Isles, Guardian of Water.”
I must find words to show I had begun to understand why the Hag had left me out here on my own. “I greet the spirits of this place, spirits of water and of stone. Hail to the ocean with its secret depths and its powerful surges; hail to the creatures who swim there, wrapped in its embrace, nourished by its life. Hail to the storm. Hail to the rain that falls on field and forest, bringing forth new life; that quenches the thirst of wanderer and bard, warrior and cottager, creature of field and woodland and high mountain.” The words were coming to me more freely now, half-remembered, half-invented. A pity it hurt so much to breathe. “Hail to the power of water. Hail to the patience that sees it shape stone; hail to the tenderness of a child’s tears, and to the delicate perfection of an icicle. The thunderous torrent; the still tarn on whose shining surface long-legged insects dance. May I be fluid in my understanding. May I shape myself to the task before me. May I learn the language of water.”
What was next? There should be a ritual fire; aromatic herbs, perhaps the sprinkling of mead or fresh water. All I could do was pour a little rainwater onto the stones by my feet. “For my ancestors,” I murmured. “For my family. For those lost on the journey. For my comrades. For everyone who fights for a better world. May I be guided. May I learn the wisdom of water.” There should be far more to it, but my legs would not hold me up any longer. I could hear the rasp of my breathing; it had sounded just like this when I had fallen so sick last autumn, coming up the Rush valley. “Let me be a vessel for the wisdom of water,” I whispered, then curled up under my sodden cloak and closed my eyes.
When I woke from a feverish half sleep, it was to find a tiny weed-wrapped bundle beside me. Opening it with shaking fingers, I found inside a little bannock, as warm and fresh as if it had just come off the fire. The smell was sunshine and kindness and well-wishing. It was hearth and home and comfort.
I resisted the urge to cram the food into my mouth, making myself savor each wondrous, buttery mouthful. I ate half. A quarter I rewrapped and stored away. The rest I broke into three small pieces, which I laid on the rocks above the shelter. “Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you for your help.” I could not find the strength to look about and see if whoever had left this gift was still on the skerry. I closed my eyes again.
Next time I woke there was a pillow under my head, and a small personage squatting close by, watching me with beady eyes. This was no gull, but a man-shaped being somewhat similar to Hawkbit. He was a being of the sea and the isles, with a long hooded coat of gray feathers, and hair like that of an island sheep, all twists and knots, woven through with strands of weed and little shells. I sat up and was overcome with coughing.
“Drink up, lassie,” the wee fellow said, and held out a tiny cup. “ ’Twill not harm ye. Herself would have ye strong and bright for the learnin’. The draft will soothe the throat and give ye heart.”
I drank. Whatever was in the cup, it flowed down my dry and aching throat with a honeyed ease, then spread a
blessed warmth through my tight chest. Under the wee man’s scrutiny I finished it all. “Thank you,” I said. I did indeed feel remarkably stronger.
“Aye,” my visitor said. “Ye’ll do. Eat up the bannock ye set by, she’ll be here soon.”
“She?” I rummaged for the leftover bannock, so carefully saved.
“Herself.”
No doubt, then, that the Hag was coming. So I had got it right at last; my makeshift ritual had worked. Unless she planned to ferry me halfway back to Far Isle, then drop me over the side. This had been a cruel test. And perhaps not entirely necessary, for when I had called the river being, what had been in my mind was the way that stream connected with its tributaries and springs and flowed down to join the great water of the loch. I had used the knowledge of water in my call. And with the Folk Below, my mind had been on the deep mysteries of earth. When I had used my gift, I had always been respectful.
I ate the last piece of bannock. I began to pack up my sodden, weather-stained belongings. I fought down rising anger.
“Ye’d be wantin’ tae mak yerself a bittie calmer,” the wee man advised, watching me. “Nae lassie argues wi’ Herself.”
Right, of course. The Hag was a Guardian; I needed her. Beside her, I was small and insignificant, a speck in the long history of Alban. If she’d done this, she must have had good reason for it. I was alive and unharmed; as far as I knew, Tali was safe. Provided the Hag was prepared to teach me now, I had no grounds for anger.
“I’m sorry,” I made myself say.
“Nae apology needed for me, lassie. Here, let me carry that for ye.”
“Can you tell me … is my friend safe, the one who was on the skerry with me? Where is she now?”
“The lassie wi’ the fightin’ eyes and the pretty patterns on her skin? She’s ower yon, wi’ Herself.” The wee man glanced toward Far Isle. “Or no’ wi’ her, precisely. She’s among the human folk, keepin’ herself busy wi’ this and that. She’ll be right glad tae see ye again. Dry your eyes, lassie, and hold your head high. I see the boatie comin’.”
I mopped my eyes with the rag he offered, but the tears kept flowing. Somehow the little man and I got the bags and the staves, the bundle of weaponry, and the sodden bedding down to the water’s edge, and there, approaching with stately balance, was the Hag’s elegant vessel, and in it her pale-haired figure sitting proud and straight. The selkie loomed behind her, weed-swathed. The wind was from the west, and yet the silken sails bellied out, carrying the boat toward us. She could conjure the weather, then. Waves, winds, tides, storms. How easy for her to pluck a woman from a rock in the sea while another slept.
I schooled my features, trying to breathe deeply. My chest was still tight, though the potion had helped. I waited without a word while the vessel drew in next to the rocks. In a blur of movement the selkie was out and beside me, and my belongings were in the boat. The wee man put up a hand to help me balance; I stepped aboard and seated myself in the bow. The small one seemed in no hurry to hop over himself.
“Are you not coming with us?” I asked.
“Ach, no, I’ve ma ain wee boatie.” He pointed, and now I saw a tiny coracle of wattle and skins bobbing on the waves a little farther along, apparently held there by the same magic that allowed this larger vessel to maintain its position without rope or anchor.
The selkie slid into the sea, graceful despite his bulk. I did not see the moment of changing. With a twist and a roll, he plunged deep and was gone. The little man scrambled into his frail slip of a boat, picked up a paddle, and bobbed out to sea. The waves slapped and rushed at the skerry; farther out, the swell was monstrous.
“Grand wee boatman,” observed the Hag. As the tiny craft was lost to view in the heaving waters, the westerly caught our sails and we headed back toward Far Isle. “Now, let’s have a look at you.” Her gaze was very direct. Perhaps she saw right inside my mind to the tangle of relief and resentment there. I met her stare, holding my head high. I had not endured all those lonely days for nothing. Weary as I was, I did not plan to crumple in exhausted defeat.
“You’re not happy,” she said.
“For a while, when you took Tali away, I thought she had drowned. I know you must have had your reasons for subjecting us to this test. But … what you did … it did not seem altogether right.”
The Hag spread her hands, palms up. “You came to find me. You sought learning. Have you learned nothing from this experience?”
Breathe, Neryn. Count to five before you answer. “I learned that a Caller does not possess any magic of her own. She is a … a channel, a conduit for the power that exists in nature.” I could not help adding, “But deep down I knew that already. I feel it every time I use my gift.”
The Hag made no comment, only kept her gaze on me, deep and penetrating. Perhaps she expected some other answer.
“I’m not sure why it was necessary to do this,” I said. “It seemed somewhat … cruel.”
The Hag smiled. “You thought, perhaps, that a hag might be tiny and bent, toothless and frail, happy to drop gems of kindly wisdom in your lap as you fed her sippets of bread dipped in watered mead? Was that it?”
I recalled making the soup up on the cliff top and thinking it might be soothing to an old woman’s stomach. “I am not such a fool as to underestimate any of the Guardians,” I said. “I fear and respect you. I understand what power you can wield if you choose. I will be deeply grateful if you agree to teach me.” Since she seemed to be listening attentively, I went on. “I believe you already know something of my story. A messenger told Tali and me where to find our friend with his boat, ready to cross to the isles; the same messenger was on the cliff top when you came up to meet us. It does seem that word of our mission has come west and that you are prepared to help. You may know, then, that I have lost many of those dear to me. That the rebels are my family now. That I have friends among the Good Folk, trusted and true friends. You know, perhaps, that I have spent years fending for myself and evading the notice of the king’s men.” I paused.
“Go on.”
“Tests of strength, tests of courage, tests of knowledge and wisdom, all of those I accept as preparation for the path that lies before me. When I met the Master of Shadows, I showed him that I met the requirements for training as a Caller. He accepted that I had demonstrated the seven virtues. This time on the skerry …”
A silence, then, “Go on. Cruel, I think you said.”
A sudden wave of weariness came over me. “I have a question,” I said.
“Aye?” She was leaning forward now, as if this mattered where the rest of it had been of little significance.
“Were you displeased with me?” I asked. “Angry that I had used my canny gift several times already, without any proper training? If you were only waiting for me to recognize the power of water, and my own powerlessness, why did you need to spirit Tali away?”
“Angry? No. You have used your gift more sparingly than you might have done. Learning to hold back is important. Birds brought me the tale of your encounter by a ford, when you summoned one of my river folk. On that occasion you acted with due respect. A clumsy call, perhaps, but made in the right spirit.”
“You haven’t answered the question: why?”
The Hag lifted her hand, and the boat came to a sudden halt. We rocked on the waves, halfway between the skerry and Far Isle.
“What do you think I will do next?” asked the Hag, her shimmering pale locks blowing around her strong face. “Tell me. Say exactly what is in your mind.”
“Drop me overboard for daring to challenge you?”
She stared at me a few moments, her eyes a swirl of blue and green and every shade between, night and day, sea and sky, pelt of seal and shining fish scales. Then she threw her head back and roared with laughter. “No wonder the Master of Shadows was so taken with you,” she spluttered. “You may look like a gust of wind would snap you, but you’ve remarkable strength of mind, and you have endurance. You’ll be
needing both if you’re to take the path of a Caller. As for tossing you over the side, if I did that, Himself would only lift you back in again. See, he keeps pace with us.” She pointed, and I saw beneath the waves the selkie circling the boat, a graceful, mysterious shadow. “Then he would chide me for treating you too harshly. Besides, I’d have folk to answer to if I happened to lose you on the way; they’ve been pestering me for your return as it is.”
They? Who was there, apart from Tali?
“Neryn,” the Hag said, and her voice was different now, more solemn, but also warmer. “You are safe. You will soon be well again. Perhaps the test seemed unduly hard. But a Caller is a rare thing; we must be sure you are strong enough to do this. Strong enough to learn; brave enough to endure the losses this path will mean. I saw how hard it was for you to bid your man farewell. At the end, you may indeed be all alone. If that is unbearable, if you cannot do without your friends, if you cannot go on without love and support and comradeship, then best you give this up now, before you travel farther down the path. Weigh it up, lassie. It’s indeed a hard road.”
Fresh tears stung my eyes. I blinked them back. I would not let the first note of kindness reduce me to a weeping child again. “I know it’s hard. All of us understand that.” I drew a steadying breath and squared my shoulders under my filthy, wet clothing. “I want to learn. I hope you will teach me, and when I am ready, send me on to the Lord of the North. Even if it means losses and heartbreak, this is something I have to do. For Alban. For those already lost and ruined and broken. For all of us.”
“Mm-hm. You make a good wee speech. What if I told you we would start learning now, right away? What if learning meant going back out to that skerry and sitting there another five days, ten days, twenty days, with only a knife and a fishing line for company?”
I will not cry. I will not be angry. “If that will teach me to be a better Caller, then I will do it,” I made myself say. My tone was perhaps less than placatory, but it was the best I could manage under the circumstances.