Jed gave a little whine and crept closer, pushing his rough black-patched head against Dillon’s arm. Dillon ignored him. ‘Her name is Joyeuse, Finn. Joyeuse, the Joyful Sword. For she takes joy only in killing.’
Finn could not look away, fascinated and horrified. He was smiling, his hands stroking the sword’s coiled hilt, stroking, stroking. Then he looked up at her again and she saw his eyes were bright with tears. ‘So ye see why I dread battle, Finn. I never want to draw her again, though she quivers under my hand like a woman. She quivers now, scenting blood. She smells the fear o’ battle.’
Finn’s hand crept within her pocket, where the elven cat slept curled on a small black parcel of silk. As her fingers brushed the magical cloak, her skin prickled and stung. ‘Happen the gifts we chose that day in the Tower o’ Two Moons were no’ so wisely chosen,’ she said.
Dillon gave a bitter laugh. ‘Happen no’. At least for me. Did ye no’ choose the MacRuraich war-horn, that called up the ghosts o’ your clan? That worked out for the best, at least, even though it’s no’ a horn ye’d want to be blowing every day.’
Finn’s fingers brushed back and forth along the silk, electricity darting up her nerves. She almost told Dillon that she still had the cloak of invisibility, that the longing to wear it sometimes almost overcame her, even though she had no need of hiding within its magical folds. She wanted to tell him how cold it made her feel, inside and out, how remote, severed from the rest of the world. If he had looked at her and smiled, or rapped out one of his orders like he used to, she would have told him. But he was stroking his sword again, that peculiar half-smile on his lips, and she said nothing.
That afternoon the sea serpent was sighted again, following their wake. Although all the sailors hung over the stern of the ship, they could see nothing and most relaxed, sure they would lose the sea serpent again. A double watch was called that night, however, the ship kept straining under a full load of sails despite the blackness of the night. In the morning all could see the sea serpent in the distance, and by noon the ship was being rocked by the great waves it threw up with the speed of its motion. Finn climbed up into the rigging again to get a better view. Even though she had seen the monster through the spyglass before, she was shocked at the size of it. It was large enough to coil around the ship three times, cracking the timbers asunder with a gentle squeeze of its coils. If it reared up out of the water it would have towered over the topgallant mast, taller by far than any tree Finn had ever seen.
By late afternoon the ship was floundering in enormous waves that broke over the bow and swept across the decks in a fury of white swirling foam. The helmsman was lashed to the wheel, and all the sailors had ropes knotted around their waists so that if they were swept overboard, they could be hauled back up to safety. All hands were on deck, fighting to keep the ship from keeling over. It was an odd experience, to have the sky so fair and blue, the breeze so warm and steady, and the ship thrown about like a leaf in a rapid. Finn was flung to her knees, unable to keep her footing on the wet deck, and only managing to keep from being thrown down into the angry sea by her terror-strong grip on the ropes. Ignoring the pain in her bleeding palms, she fought her way to the forecastle where Enit sat in her chair, drenched to the skin, her hair plastered to her skull. Dide, Jay and Ashlin had tied themselves to the foremast, all three holding their musical instruments high to avoid them being ruined by the water. Dide had his battered old guitar, all hung with ribbons, Jay had his viola with the handle carved in the shape of a blindfolded woman, and Ashlin had his wooden flute.
Captain Tobias and the first mate, Arvin the Just, were both up in the forecastle with them, shouting angrily at Enit. Bran clung beside Finn, her white face streaked with tears, her lip red with blood where she had bitten it.
‘Sing, for God’s sake, sing!’ the captain cried. ‘Do ye wish us all to die?’
Finn could hear a strange, melodic whistling that swelled on all sides, rising up to a taunting shriek, echoing eerily all around. Then suddenly the sea serpent reared up next to the ship, its throat and belly silvery-pale, its golden-green back spotted with purple. A Fairgean warrior rode its neck, a long, wickedly sharp trident in his hand, and all about the ship more Fairgean rode astride the slimy-green shoulders of horse-eels. Finn stared about terrified, as webbed hands reached out to seize any dangling rope that should help them swarm over the railing. Many of those ropes were attached to sailors, who shouted in fear as they were dragged towards the bulwark. They drew their daggers and tried to fight off the sea-faeries, who were all armed with cruel-looking tridents.
‘Sing, auld woman!’ the first mate shouted. ‘Sing, else I’ll cut your throat myself.’
Enit took a deep, shuddering breath, opened her mouth and began to sing.
Pure, sweet, melodic, her voice soared over the crash of waves, the shouts and screams of the sailors, the slap of the sails and the ear-piercing whistles of the Fairgean. Crouching against the bulwark, clinging to the ropes, Finn felt a stab of pure joy. She felt rather than saw the look Dide and Jay exchanged, a look of surprise and amazed comprehension. They braced themselves against the foremast and began to play.
All over the ship sailors stopped what they were doing and turned to stare. The ship plunged on, its sails flapping wildly, no-one running to haul on the ropes or tighten the tackle. The helmsman let the wheel spin, entranced. The Fairgean paused in their climb up the ropes, turning their sleek black heads to listen. Even the sea serpent seemed to listen, swaying from side to side, while the tumult of waves slowly subsided.
Deep as the throb of the ocean, passionate as the whisper of a lover, tender as a mother’s lullaby, warm as the blaze of a winter fire, the viola’s contralto voice wove crimson ribbons of sound through the silver gauze of Enit’s song. The fragile lilt of the flute, the warm rhythm of the guitar, Dide’s strong, young voice, all gave the music depth and harmony, but it was these two voices, the haunting ethereal sound of the old woman’s voice and the passionate strength of the viola’s song, that cast a spell over all who heard.
Finn realised there were tears on her cheeks. She was almost overwhelmed with feelings of love and tenderness. She reached out her hand and caught Bran’s, and the cousins clung to each other, sobbing and trying to speak, to explain. All over the ship men were weeping or laughing or singing, many caught up in rough embraces, or pounding each other on the back. Dillon was kneeling, both arms around his shaggy hound, tears pouring down his cheeks. The Fairgean were whistling and crooning in accompaniment, their strange alien faces alight with emotion, their slim, scaled bodies swaying in time to the music.
Hugging Bran as hard as she could, Finn rested her tear-wet face on her cousin’s shoulder. Through the haze of her tears, she saw the captain and the first mate were both weeping and smiling, shaking hands as if they could not bear to let go. Enit’s voice quivered with the intensity of her emotion, the music soared and swooped till it seemed the whole ship was spun in silver light. Weeping and laughing, the three musicians played as if they were possessed, and together the four wrought a spell of such power that all who listened fell to their knees, lifting up their faces in rapture. Human and Fairgean knelt together, choking with feelings too deep and powerful for words, while webbed hands met and grasped unwebbed.
At last the song quivered into silence. Enit fell forward in her chair, only the ropes keeping her from falling. Ashlin too slumped down, the flute falling from his hand, his eyes rolling back in his head. Dide dashed the tears from his face and looked triumphantly at Jay, who stood tall and proud and exultant, the viola and bow raised high.
‘Ye have heard today the song o’ love,’ Dide said, his voice still thrumming with power. ‘Do no’ forget.’
An awed silence hung over the ship and then he was answered, with shouts and whistles and bursts of song. Hats were flung up into the air, and men and Fairgean once again embraced. The sea serpent rubbed its head affectionately against the prow, coiling its golden-green leng
th along the whole length of the ship.
One of the Fairgean strode along the deck and stood facing Dide, his hand making an elaborate obeisance as he bowed. His black hair hung down his bare back like a wet silk cloak and he wore a single black pearl on his breast. Although he had two legs like a man, his smooth, scaled skin had a sheen like that of no human, and his wrists and ankles were braceleted with flowing fins. He wore nothing but a skirt of seaweed ornately decorated with shells and twists of coral. ‘We … will … no’ forget,’ he answered in halting tones. ‘Will … ye … be true?’
‘We will be true,’ Dide answered, awe and amazement on his face.
The Fairgean saluted him, then gave a high whistle. All the Fairgean on board ran to the railing and dived over into the water, and the sea serpent sank away beneath the waves. The Fairgean with the black pearl looked back up to Dide.
‘We … will … be true,’ he repeated. Then he too dived over the bulwark, his whole body curving in a perfect, graceful arc. He plunged into the sea and surfaced again some distance away, his hand raised high.
The next day dawned bright and fair. Finn leant over the rail and stared down at the Fairgean who swam along the side of the ship, whistling and crooning and cavorting through the waves for their amusement. Often they leapt high out of the water, their muscular silver tails curving gracefully beneath them, their black hair flowing liquidly behind them. The sailors threw them salted fish and the Fairgean threw fresh fish back, causing one old seaman to say, ‘Och, I wish they’d swim along wi’ us always; it be much easier than throwing out a line in the hope o’ a bite!’
By sunset most of the Fairgean had dropped behind, following the warrior with the black pearl as he rode his sea serpent back towards the islands. The Speedwell was alone on the open sea.
For the next twelve days the little caravel sped along the coast of Clachan, blessed with steady winds and clear skies. In all that time Enit and Ashlin lay as if dead, their breathing fast and shallow, their foreheads fevered.
‘It be the sorcery sickness,’ Dide said, his face creased with fatigue and anxiety. ‘Enit be too auld for the casting o’ such a spell and Ashlin too young.’
‘Will they get better?’
‘I hope so.’ Dide leant his head against his hand. ‘I must say I feel sick and weary myself. Never have I sung such a spell.’
‘Nor I,’ Jay said, exultation still ringing through his voice though he too looked drawn and tired. ‘There be a deal o’ power in that viola. I felt it thrumming all through me.’
‘We all heard it,’ Dide said, grasping his friend’s shoulder. ‘And it were no’ all the viola, my fiddler. Indeed your Talent is bright!’
Enit woke on the twelfth day after the singing of the song of love, and Ashlin three days later. Both were thin and wasted, the old woman looking as if a breeze would snap her in two. The Speedwell had left the coast far behind, for they were now off the coast of Arran, a stretch treacherous with shifting sands and notorious for its resident monster, the harlequin-hydra. Many of the sailors took great delight in telling spooky tales of this uile-bheist to frighten the younger members of the crew. The harlequin-hydra was responsible for more shipwrecks than any other natural or magical phenomenon, they said. It was a sea snake with a thousand heads. If one was lopped off, another two would grow. It came out of nowhere, rising from, the deep to strangle a ship in its rainbow-striped coils, devouring its crew and smashing the ship till nothing was left but a few stray timbers.
‘Ye thought that sea serpent was a monster, but it be naught but a pussycat compared to the harlequin-hydra,’ they warned.
Finn was glad they sailed far to the south of the coast of Arran.
One afternoon a few days after Ashlin had woken, Finn lay on the deck of the forecastle, playing trictrac with the young piper. It was a warm, fair day and all the sailors not on duty were resting on the decks, playing cards or dice, or sewing up their ragged clothes. Dide was strumming his guitar and amusing the sailors with a song about a sailor on shore:
‘Come all ye roaring lads that delight in seaman’s fare,
Come listen awhile to my song,
For when Jack comes on shore, wi’ his gold and silver store,
There’s none can get rid o’ it so soon.
The first thing Jack demands is the fiddle in his hands,
a wee dram and a bonny lass wi’ flashing eyes,
And Jack Tar’s as happy as he can be,
Aye, Jack Tar’s as happy as he can be, away from the rolling sea.’
Dillon was eating some dried bellfruit, his spare hand playing with Jed’s silky black ears, while Jay talked about musical theory with Enit, who sat in her chair throwing stale bread to the sea birds. The air all about the forecastle was white with their wings and their raucous shrieks almost drowned out Dide’s merry voice.
Even Donald had left his galley to enjoy the warm sunshine, dangling a fishing line over the bulwark in the hope of catching some fish for their supper. Only Bran did not share the general air of ease and comfort, for she paced the forecastle, looking anxiously out to the horizon, a heavy line between her brows.
‘Got fleas in your drawers?’ Finn asked lazily, looking up from the board. ‘Ye’re as restless as a hen on a hot griddle.’
Bran flushed and shook her head. ‘I smell a storm coming,’ she answered. ‘It makes me feel very uneasy. I fear it be a bad one.’
Ashlin looked about at the calm sea, the blue sky. He was thinner than ever, the knuckles of his hands very prominent. ‘Are ye sure?’ he asked. ‘I canna see a cloud anywhere.’
Bran moved her shoulders uncomfortably. ‘I canna explain it, I just ken a bad storm is coming.’
The sailors nearby scoffed at her, but Finn flared up in her defence. ‘Bran be no porridge-head!’ she cried. ‘He can always tell when a storm is coming!’
‘Happen we’d best tell the captain,’ Enit said.
‘Och, as if the captain’ll listen to a laddiekin like Bran,’ one of the sailors mocked. ‘The lad’s never even been to sea afore and has no more hair on his chin than a lass.’
‘I’ll wager ye a week’s rations o’ grog that he will!’ Finn said, scrambling to her feet.
‘Done!’ the sailor responded, though one of his friends said curiously, ‘Can the lad whistle the wind, then?’
Bran shook her head, flushing redder than ever. ‘I was born in Siantan though,’ she admitted. ‘Even the youngest goose-girl kens how to knot her apron string for a fine day there.’
A few of the sailors nodded wisely, though the one who had taken up the bet folded his arms stubbornly as Finn and Bran made their way down to the captain’s cabin. ‘Ye had best be careful he do no’ have ye keel-hauled for brazen impudence,’ he called after them.
Ignoring him, Finn clambered down the ladder, Goblin slinking close by her heels. ‘Do ye think we ought?’ Bran said, but Finn pulled her along, saying: ‘If ye smell a storm, Bran, happen the captain should ken, do ye no’ think so? Are ye no’ the NicSian?’
‘Ssssshhhh!’ Bran hissed but Finn only laughed, rapping boldly on the cabin door.
In answer to the shout from within, she answered respectfully, ‘It be Finn and Bran, sir, sorry to be disturbing ye.’
‘Come along in then,’ he answered and Finn pushed the door open and stepped inside, dragging Bran in beside her.
Captain Tobias and the navigator Alphonsus the Sure was bending over a table piled high with maps and charts. Arvin and the second mate were playing chess at a smaller table drawn up between two comfortable leather chairs. There was a silver pitcher of wine and a tray of silver goblets on the table, and a finely woven carpet on the floor. If it had not been for the small round windows and the swaying of the floor, it would have been easy to think they were in a room in a rich merchant’s house, not on a ship.
Looking about the luxurious cabin with interest, Finn told the captain what Bran had said. The navigator frowned and Arvin the Just’s grim mou
th compressed until it was a mere crack in his granite-hard face, but the captain nodded and said rather shortly, ‘Thank ye for the tip, lads, we’ll keep a close eye out, as always.’
‘But do ye no’ think …’ Finn began but he frowned and turned away from them. The second mate heaved himself to his feet and showed them the door.
‘But sir!’ Finn cried, only to have a large, firm hand push her none too gently out the door. It was shut in her indignant face and she turned to Bran and made a face.
‘Och well,’ her cousin said philosophically. ‘Happen we should batten down the hatches ourselves.’
They climbed back up onto the deck, to be met by much jeering and mockery from the sailors, which they did their best to ignore. ‘Just ye wait, ye lamb-brained louts! Ye’ll be sorry!’ was Finn’s only comment, and this was met with much raucous laughter.
Above the full-bellied white sails the sky arched, pure and blue. Finn scowled at Bran, and climbed up into the rigging with Goblin, shading her eyes against the bright sun with her hand. She stayed up there for an hour, swaying in perfect rhythm with the wind. At last she came down and ate her ration of bread and salted herring in sulky silence, then took her watch with the others, refusing to answer their teasing.
Slowly, imperceptibly, the sky hazed over. The wind died, and the sea was the colour of beaten copper in the hot glare of the setting sun. The sails hung limp from the yardarm. Finn climbed up to the forecastle to join the others staring out at the sullen horizon, the colour of bruised plums. Far away they saw a sudden glare of lightning and then heard the low grumble of thunder.
‘Them clouds look bad,’ one of the sailors said. ‘Happen we should tell the captain …’