Silently, Argo began to move across the creek. She turned, listed, caught the stronger current, and began to run towards the sea.
Behind us, the woods became crowded with fast-moving shapes, still slick from the river crossing—their tentative invasion—loping towards us. We were a good way downstream when these strange creatures formed up along the shore, watching us depart. They were not all hounds. I saw goats and wild pigs, bulls and bird-faced animals that did not belong in Urtha’s world. And they did not gleam bronze. They were fashioned from polished wood.
Jason was right. He knew who had come to occupy Ghostland. I had seen all the signs, hints that had been obvious from the moment the hostels had begun to reappear. I had simply not put them together.
But how had it been achieved?
What was the Beast Island’s great inventor doing so far from his warm-ocean home, many days’ sail from Greek Land, and so many centuries after his disappearance?
Mielikki drew me from the chaos of my thoughts: a simple whisper.
“Argo will take you to where the answer lies. To the island itself. But she is reluctant. The sea journey will not be difficult. It will be a hardship when you arrive at the shores and have to find the right haven. Take one of the dri’dakon with you. There is one that is out of place.”
I waited quietly, attempting to place the word. “Wood and spirit,” I sensed: a very old word. Then I grasped what she meant: one of the oak effigies that lay scattered among the woods of the Coritani.
Mielikki’s voice came again, suddenly more urgent, warning me: “Someone is coming who has need of you. She is running, frightened and fawnlike. We must wait for her. Accept her. Then you must enter the Spirit of the Ship again. Encourage your own little creation to confront her past, and to journey back in time. This will be hard.”
Very hard indeed, was my sour thought. My “own little creation”—Argo herself—was probably as vulnerable as was I to the strains of reaching from one time into another, of taking on such enchantment.
The longer I spent in Alba, the older I seemed to get. Ageing was wearying, and I was not used to it, and I did not like it.
And I was about to be aged further, though only by the return to my life of enthusiasm and the fire of youth. It was Niiv who was pursuing us. Could there be any doubt about it? I could not think of anyone better able than the Northland nymph to cross from the world of the dead to the world of the warm-blooded. Pure desire, pure determination, would have propelled her across Nantosuelta even in the shadow of those bronze monstrosities and their cruel ways of defending and abducting those who broke the borders that they guarded.
Argo was in control, her crew in confusion. We cleaned the mud from our bodies and clothes and trusted to the ship’s intentions. Kymon, Colcu, and the kryptoii sorted out what provisions we had, made sense of the ropes, the torn sail, the splintered oars, made space for living as well as voyaging. Urtha and Talienze kept a wary eye on each other, standing at the prow of the ship. The three Argonauts of old sat huddled and grim-eyed, still in the dream, not yet with us.
A woman’s scream from the forest, a trumpet shrill of high anger, brought us all to our feet. It was a screech worthy of Medusa’s when she had seen the blade, wielded by Perseus, that—too late to avoid—would strike her off at the neck: a howl of desperation; a lung-powered, throat-scarring plea to stop.
Argo became motionless in the water, defying the flood. We crossed to the rail, and the forest was ripped apart by Niiv as she strode towards us, furious and breathless, clearing a path by use of charm. Her dark hair was plastered to her face. Her eyes were wide, defying exhaustion; mouth grim, muttering. She was muttering, Bastards, bastards … Why couldn’t they have waited? Bastards …
She was on the point of collapse. She had certainly run on enchantment rather than natural energy. She clutched a small leather sack at her side, holding it for grim life. Strands of briar and ivy were caught in the wool of her simple black dress. And she was barefoot!
Her feet had seemed clad in red shoes. But it was her own blood that caked her, dried and thicker than leather.
She waded out into the river, stumbled, lost her footing, and started to splash. She cursed fit for a champion. She found her balance again and swam towards us, her eyes fixed on mine, her face telling of irritation.
“Throw up the bag!” I shouted down.
“Just help me up! Why couldn’t you have waited?”
Bollullos and I hauled her aboard. She snatched herself away from my consoling touch and went to where Jason was watching us. She sat down beside him—still muttering—and started to wring the water from her hair and clothes. She was talking to Jason, quietly animated, but after a moment, when she had received no response, she peered at him more closely. She ceased her chatter and leaned back, frowning, disturbed by what she had come to realise.
The ship had already slipped her invisible moorings and drifted quickly back into the stream.
We got three of the horses on board, not without difficulty, and each small animal was made to lie down, to be tended by one of the boys. Argo felt very crowded. We put out four oars and kept the ship in centre stream; they were needed only when the river curved sharply and we needed to avoid the mud banks. We found what comfort we could in the cramped hull; no one spoke.
Niiv, after a while, moved away from Jason and found a small space in the prow, where she huddled down, still damp, still clutching her simple possessions. She was in a very strange mood, but used her left foot to tickle the flaring nostrils of the horse that lay, with its kryptoii handler, just in front of her. The beast snorted and seemed amused, and a moment’s brightness flashed over the Northland girl.
The smile evaporated as I crept round to crouch beside her.
“Go away. I need to sleep. And I’ll catch my death of fever in these damp clothes.”
“What have you got in the sack?” I asked her.
“Nothing that concerns you,” she replied with a scowl.
“If you’ve food in the sack, it concerns us all. Hand it over.”
She swore softly, opened the leather bag, and drew out fruit, dried pig meat, and mouldy, hard oatcakes. She tossed these meagre items at me then drew the cord tight again.
“What else have you got in the bag?”
“Nothing! Nothing that concerns you.”
“If you have magic in there, objects … talismans, anything like that—”
“Nothing like that.” She tapped her head pointedly, her eyes wide with annoyance again. “Everything’s here. Or left behind in my home, below the snow, looked after by Old Forest Lady. Leave me alone.”
“You have something in the sack.”
“What do you want me to do? Produce a dead swan, swing it round my head, and watch it fly away? Leave me alone. There’s only one thing in here, and it’s personal. And if you look—if you look—,” she challenged me, threatened me, “then you’re a worse lover than I ever realised.”
She hunched up over the bag, cold, wet, and under the influence of pique, muttering away, something like, “… which isn’t saying much … old men … no stamina … minds always on other things…”
But I took a look anyway, stole a glance, smiling all the time. There was a small copper disc in the sack, and that was all. It had no meaning, told me nothing, conveyed nothing, engaged with no emotion, natural or charmed. It was just a souvenir, I imagined.
“Did you look?” she asked suddenly, catching me off guard.
“You asked me not to.”
“So you didn’t look.”
“No.”
She sighed. She had mellowed. “What liars we both are. You just got older by one grey hair.” Her glance at me was sad yet fond. “It doesn’t stop me loving you.”
“You’ve got older too,” I replied. “Around the eyes, around the mouth.”
“It wasn’t easy, crossing that river,” she said very quietly. “And other things…”
“What other things?”<
br />
“Never mind. Nothing that concerns you.”
She lay down then, curling up and drifting into sleep, the bag with its cold, empty disc clutched to her breast.
“You seem to think that nothing ever concerns me.”
“I’m sure it does,” she murmured cryptically. “When it suits you. Before it’s time to move on.”
She seemed to be asleep, but I knew she was awake. I sat by her for a long time, watching her. I was forced to move only when a horse started to nip my feet.
* * *
As we drifted down the river, I spent a while thinking about Daidalos.
In the long-gone I had heard him referred to on many occasions. The stories of his creations were carried by mariners along all the coasts of all the known lands of his time.
He had created creatures of bronze and stone, and the labyrinths to which the likes of Tairon—a labyrinth hunter—were dispatched, to explore the inner realm and bring back their vision—or not to come back at all! (Tairon was one of those: he had become lost in labyrinthine time, else he would not have been here, in Urtha’s world.)
Daidalos had also learned how to animate oak, the sacred tree. He could fashion the wood into almost living creatures. He had learned the craft at one of the sanctuaries in Greek Land. Indeed, the kings of the people who had inhabited Greek Land during this time had paid well for such strange and entertaining products of that otherworldly man.
Now, some part of him was in Ghostland.
The rising of Urskumug, and others of the Oldest Animals, didn’t sit well with the skills of Daidalos, however. And yet—the events must certainly have been linked. Who controlled the Oldest Animals? Was there a second Shaper of the land at work?
Argo was taking us to the island—Beast Island, Maze Island—the place had so many names. Mino’ana was another. And Crete.
To Crete, then. To find a forgotten past.
* * *
After a while—a day or more—we arrived at the river jetties that serviced the stronghold of Vortingoros, beyond the forest, huge on its hill in the distance, outlined with the flames of watch-fires. It was night by now, and several men stood guard at the landing places, leaning on their shields, shadowy in the torchlight. They called to each other as we approached, a horn was sounded, and there was a scramble of activity, but when Urtha hailed them, they settled down and even helped us to tie up.
Two small ships were moored here already, both traders. One was from Greek Land. Her crew sat huddled in the shadows, watching us suspiciously. She had traded wine and honey, by all the signs. Several clay jars were still stacked on the narrow wharf. This was a long way upriver to have come for so meagre an exchange, but she was perhaps part of a bigger convoy. Vortingoros had a second stronghold that watched the estuary.
We let the horses off here, intending that they be looked after until our return. It had become clear that it was impractical to sail with them. But we ended up trading two, one with the Greeklanders for preserved fruits, wine, and healing herbs.
The other vessel was a Northlander, shallow and wide, its deck covered by a tent of stitched hides. She was trading dried meat and skins, and we bargained a second horse for two barrels of deer meat and hides enough to make a shelter from the rain. Argo was in a poor state of repair for the moment.
These provisions would have to suffice until we could find an easy haven on the southern shores.
Fourteen in number, then, and five of us boys. Not enough to row Argo if hard rowing would be needed.
Argo whispered, through her goddess, “Hurry. Don’t delay. It is a long journey, longer than you realise.”
Before dawn, when the ship was quiet and even the old Argonauts seemed to be resting, I went ashore, passing through the riverside defences and prowling the forest for the wooden effigies of the Coritani that had been left here, so long ago. They were scarce now. The living had returned, or the dead had passed by, on their way to Ghostland, and released their images from their carved and frozen duty. Only a handful remained, crouched, spears held firmly, resting on their shields. They were all empty of the ghost—except for one, and I found him, crouched well apart from the others. It was the image of a man called Segomos. It took a small exercising of charm to find this out.
I was growing greyer by the day!
“I know you can move, because I know who created you.”
The light was beginning to illuminate the east. The woods were frantic with birds, noisy with activity and song. The day freshened the air, quickened the blood. The oak surface of the statue began to gleam, the jutting head casting a deep shadow on the armoured breast. A whisper of human memory remained in the deeper grain of the carving.
“Talk to me,” I urged the effigy. “I know you can. I know who made you.”
After a while the wooden sheen seemed to fade, the hardwood softened. The figure seemed to settle back, the spear lowering, the shield moving to one side. His face turned to look at me, nose wrinkling above the heavy moustache, eyes narrowing.
“Where am I?” Segomos asked.
“Dead. Dead and lost.”
“I’d thought as much. I dream of living, but I never leave the dream. I was in a hot place, fighting furiously. It was a good day, a savage encounter. I was one of thousands. We were facing a gorge, with the sea to our left. The Hot Gates. I remember thinking: These are the Hot Gates … but the sea is to our left. I remember the sea swell, the salt air, the gull shadow, the fine, fierce, forcing march forward, the full-on attack, the fistfighting, shield-pushing, the dismembering progress, the blood smell, the glazed-eyed look that signals triumph, the grip that weakens, the blood-splattering moan of fear-filled final fury, and then … the swallowing feel, the crushed feel, lung-bursting, the pain-loaded numbing, dream-drifting, the drift into darkness.”
Again the wooden eyes took in my gaze. “But why am I lost?”
“I can’t answer that. You died in Greek Land. Others died there and have come home. For some reason you didn’t.”
“I’d hardly known about the place before I went there.”
“You were not alone in that.”
“But where am I? Where is my heart?”
There was a sudden moment of despair in the wooden voice. The trapped spirit of the man who had gone to raid the oracle at Delphi was struggling to retrieve a memory that other gods than his had decided to retain. He would never know his fate. He was caught in the tidal zone, neither open sea nor on land. He would founder there forever, drawn down by the mud of the nothing-place.
“Help me understand,” the crouched warrior whispered. “Can you help me understand?”
“I will get you back if I can. Not alive, not for your family … but back … back to the proper crossing place to the Realm of the Shadows of Heroes. To do so, you must come with me now, come aboard Argo.”
“I will never live again,” Segomos said mournfully.
“No. That time for you is gone. A Greeklander’s sword saw to that; and a Greekland priest who dragged you from the Morrigan’s crow-gathering and Bathaab’s bone-scouring to service his own shrine.”
I knew enough of Greek Land to know that this was most likely the case. The remains of Segomos were probably encased in marble. His hide would have been tanned and worn as priest’s clothing.
“We’ll bring you back. I promise. And you will cross Nantosuelta to the Island of your choice. Everyone you love will join you there, not all at once, but in time.”
“Did they come with us? Soul-gatherer, bone-scavenger? Was the Moirigan there? The scald? The screech? Were they there?”
“They were there. They did their best.”
“Then why was I left behind?”
“I don’t know,” I repeated patiently. “Help me if you will, and I’ll help you back.”
The shard of Segomos’s mind that remained changed from mournful to puzzled. Help you? he seemed to be asking. How can I help you?
It was a question I couldn’t answer. Argo seemed
to think he was important. Perhaps Segomos would not be able to help at all. But I wanted him with us when we arrived at the Shaper’s Island.
Segomos rose to his feet. The sound was like a tree bending slowly in the wind. He cast aside his shield and spear. I led him to Argo. We threw down a ramp for him, and when he was on board he went to a secure place in the prow, away from the glowering effigy of Mielikki, crouched down, curled up, his arms crossed over his chest, head bowed towards the glowering face at the stern. He became a part of the hull, though he gleamed, an echo of invention, where Argo was dull with wear and stained with salt and bitumen.
It was time to leave Alba again, time to embrace the wider world. We were underprovisioned and undercrewed, but the river would be with us until the sea, and then we would use the strong winds that played along the coast and recruit along the way when we reached the milder, gentler climate of the south. Our only fear was attack by mercenaries, ship-pillagers who lay in wait in deep coves, watching for traders.
But we would have the small Greeklander ship for company, and her crew were keen-eyed and knew the dangerous routes. The earlier mistrust had been banished after the trade, and we would sail with her and her four companion vessels, waiting, we now learned, at the mouth of the channel, back to the Southern Sea, where they would make harbour to take on fish and oil and oranges. Trading networks were complex; they always had been; I had never bothered to give them much thought.
We would be a small fleet, then, and there was protection in numbers.
But it was time to leave Alba: and I was sad at the thought, because I was certain that I would never return here. Though Niiv was with me, she was burning out like the fiery ember she was. Medea was behind me, no doubt planning her own next move, now that one of her sons was dead, and the other lost in a Ghostland of his own. If our paths were to cross again—something I deeply wished for—I hoped it would be after Niiv had gone. The girl had already lost her fury and stood beside me, quiet and concentrating, watching as the river slipped behind us, saying her own farewell to Taurovinda and the life she had known there.