He brought her to a cave whose mouth yawned like that of a whale carved in the rock. He entered it without hesitation, the darkness almost immediately swallowing him whole.
“It is very dark in there,” she cried, reluctant to follow. He answered immediately.
“I do not need the light . . . but I will make a fire, and you can rest there, near the opening.”
She sank down obediently, peering into the depths, trying to find him, but the darkness was complete. She waited, anxious, weary, but comforted by the sounds that emerged.
Mere moments later, twin flames bloomed, one from a torch that protruded from the cave wall, another from the pit that lay deeper in the cave. Hod stood beneath the torch, his staff set aside, and he called her name.
“Ghisla, is the light sufficient?”
“Yes.”
“Come inside, then. I will feed you.”
The interior of the cave was as big as the home she’d lived in with her family. Bigger, if the tunnels that led off the sides opened into additional rooms. She would not be exploring them today. Skins lined the walls and the floor, and shelves filled with baskets and jars rose on every side. It was like no cave she’d ever seen before. A table with carved legs and four chairs was pushed to the side. Another table, long and narrow, was lined with candles and sundry things, and yet another was bare but for a row of knives.
“Sit at the table. It won’t take me long,” he instructed.
Hod unwrapped some meat from a waxy skin and cut a chunk of bread from a loaf in a cloth beside it. He had cheese and wine and honey too, and he set everything in front of her before he pulled out another chair and sat down.
“Please. Eat,” he said, and she pounced on the offering.
She had eaten more than her share—half of the meat and more than half of the bread—when she stopped long enough to observe the boy across from her. He did not eat like her brothers. He ate carefully, neatly, chewing with his mouth closed and his elbows tucked to his sides.
She remembered belatedly that he was only blind . . . not deaf . . . and the happy noises she’d been making had most definitely been noted. She covered her mouth over an indelicate burp and set down her empty goblet. She waited for him to finish, keeping her eyes averted. He seemed to know when she was staring.
Now that her eyes had adjusted, she could see what appeared to be a bedroom through an arch to her right. A mattress on a wooden frame, fat and firm-looking, peeked out from beneath a giant pile of furs. Pillows encased in silk were stacked on top.
“Can I sleep there?” she whispered, trusting Hod would know of what she spoke.
“No. Arwin would not like that,” Hod said. “But do not worry. I will make you a nest near the fire.”
“A nest?” The words made her think of the rats that lived in the ship’s hold. She did not want to sleep in a nest.
“It is what Arwin says I do when I prepare to sleep. I like everything just so. Anything else makes me feel like I’m floating away.”
“Will you sleep by the fire too?” She wasn’t sure how she felt about sleeping in his presence. She wasn’t certain how she felt about sleeping alone either.
“I do not need to sleep now . . . but I have my own chamber. I will not be far.”
He made a small circle of rocks and inside them placed a stack of furs as high as her knees. He covered it all with a wool blanket that smelled surprisingly clean—like cedar and salt air—and invited her to lie down.
She didn’t question his rock circle or the marks he drew on their surfaces with a blackened stick from the fire. It was a simple circle with an arrow protruding out from above and below. It did not alarm her; it made her feel protected. She whispered her thanks, closed her eyes, and within seconds was asleep.
She floated for a very long time, back in the ocean but no longer cold, drifting back to her home, back to the time before, to people who existed only in her dreams.
She was thirsty. So thirsty. Her mouth was a crater filled with dust, and she coughed as she sought to fill her lungs. Her tongue lolled against the back of her throat—stiff and dry and useless. She rolled to the side and coughed again, gasping, and her tongue fell through her lips and lay against the pillow. But she could breathe. At least she could breathe, and she panted thankfully, her eyes still closed, gathering her strength to move again. She needed water. Gilly had brought water from the well just last night and filled the cup beside her bed. Or the night before. She could not remember now.
“That one is alive. What should we do?” The voice was afraid and the sound was muffled, like he held a hand over his mouth.
“Do not touch her. Do not touch anything. She will soon be dead.”
Were they talking about her?
The voices retreated, and Ghisla fought to open her eyes.
“Mother?” she whispered, but the word was no more than a moan. Then she remembered.
Mother was sick. Father was sick. Peder and Morgana and Abner were sick too. She remembered that now. They were all so sick. But Gilly . . . Gilly was not sick. Gilly had brought her water.
She tried to say his name, but her tongue lay heavy against her teeth. She pushed herself up, swaying under the weight of her head and the resistance in her limbs. The water was there, and she drank gratefully, though it dribbled out the sides of her mouth and ran down the front of her shift. It was not cold and it tasted odd—like it had sat in the cup too long.
Someone had started a fire. She felt the heat at her back and the smoke in her lungs. The wood was too wet. She could smell the damp.
“Gilly?” She could see his boots just beyond the foot of her bed. He’d slept thus for nights on end. She braced herself and rose on teetering legs. He had tried to care for them all. Poor Gilly. She would bring him her cup.
He’d pulled a blanket over his shoulders and shoved a pillow under his head, but he was not asleep. He stared up at her with glassy disinterest, not answering, not responding, not moving at all. A fly landed on his eye and he didn’t even blink.
The fire had escaped the grate. It was crawling up the wall between the rooms.
“Gilly . . . we have to go,” she whispered. The fly on his face was joined by another, but the smoke billowed and the flies flew toward the open door.
She reached for Gilly’s boots and began dragging him across the floor. His boots came loose with a wet swoosh, and she staggered back, still clutching them as she fell to the floor. She might have screamed, but the fire had begun to roll above her, popping and spitting, and she stared up at the ceiling, waiting to be consumed. Suddenly, a man was there, hoisting her up and dragging her from the room.
He set her beside the well, but he took Gilly’s boots and threw them back toward the flames, an offering to the beast that had consumed her home. Other figures—more soldiers—flickered in the orange glow of the waning day. Red skies were mother’s favorite.
But it was not the sun that made the heavens burn.
The soldiers were setting the village on fire.
Cottages and fields, barns, and wagons. Animals. People.
People were piled one atop the other, a teetering pyre of flesh and bone. They too were set ablaze.
Ghisla pushed herself up, coughing and groaning, and took two steps toward the house before her legs refused to carry her and she fell again. A long blade tickled her nose, but she could not find the strength to move or the will to open her eyes.