The Island House by Posie Graeme-evans Read Free Book Online

island of Findnar.
    Dr. Dane, formerly an archaeologist, had died trying to assist a fishing vessel named The Holy Isle and its crew of two: Walter Boyne, fifty-seven, and his son, Daniel Boyne, thirty-one, fishermen, both of Portsolly.
    The details blurred as Freya absorbed the facts. Walter Boyne had been there when it happened.
    And he’d said nothing to her.

CHAPTER 6

     
     
     
    S IGNY WAS starving. She stumbled as she walked the line where hard sand met shingle in the cove. She had to go back to the Abbey, to the killing ground; she must find Laenna’s body and bury it. After that, she would look for food; there would be gannets’ eggs, if nothing else. Then she would go home. She would find a way.
    The last, steep turn in the cliff track nearly defeated the child. Just a few more steps, only a few, two more, one . . .
    Signy collapsed on the grass as the sky whirled above her and settled to a high, blue bowl.
    It was a warm day, quiet except for birdsong and the distant mutter and slump of the sea—perfect. But there was smoke in the air, an acrid tang.
    Signy stared at the sun. “Help me, Cruach. Please.” She knelt in the grass, holding up her hands to the white disk above her head. “Make my sister be alive. Make this all a dream.”
    A breeze lifted hair from her eyes, gentle as a mother’s hand. “Ma, oh, Ma. How can I tell you?” Signy thought there were no more tears, but they came from somewhere as delayed shock punched her down and she saw, once more, her sister’s crushed head.
    “Poor little thing. Hush now, you’re not alone. Hush . . .”
    Signy froze. Perhaps the hand on her shoulder was kind, but like an animal she curled in on herself.
    Let the blow be fast. I won’t feel it if it’s fast.
    “I can help you.” A woman’s voice.
    Signy opened her eyes. Only a little.
    Soft, crumpled skin was framed in white linen; or it had been white once, but now the cloth was filthy. Robes of black wool hid the dirt better.
    The smiling woman held out her hands. “There, see? I am a friend.”
    Instinct beat fear. Signy wrapped herself around the stranger instantly, twig arms stronger than any vine.
    “What’s that?”
    A man spoke.
    Signy buried her head in the woman’s belly, quivering.
    “Hush, Brother. She’s just a child, badly frightened.”
    The man muttered, “Aren’t we all?” He cleared his throat. “One of ours, Sister? I do not recognize her.”
    “No, Brother Cuillin. I do not know where she is from.”
    What were they saying? It was the same gabble all the newcomers spoke; Signy dared to open her eyes. The man was staring at her—his eyes were bleak. He was about the same age as the woman.
    “A heathen child. Local. Has to be unless she came with the raiders. No good to us either way.”
    Why was his voice so harsh? The man seemed angry. Signy buried her head again, shaking—it was hard not to cry.
    The nun, Sister Gunnhilde, put a finger to her lips. “Hush, Brother, you’ve scared her. At least she’s alive.”
    Cuillin sighed. He was too tired to be offended. To help Gunnhilde, he bent to lift Signy, but the girl screamed when he touched her.
    Gunnhilde put her arms around the child. “I’ll do it, Brother. There, girl, no one will hurt you.” She pulled Signy onto her hip and walked beside the monk toward the ruins of the Abbey.
    Signy hid her head in Gunnhilde’s neck. She did not want to see what the world looked like, not yet.
    The adults murmured together as they walked. “How many of the community are left, Brother?”
    The monk shook his head. Like Gunnhilde, his eyes were red from smoke and grief. “No more than a handful. Besides me, two brothers from the Scriptorium, Anselm and Simon, and only one of the novices; he hid in the combe.”
    Gunnhilde nodded. The combe was a small wooded valley beneath the Pagan stone circle, a sensible place to hide. “I saw Brother Vidor from the kitchen earlier, and one of my novices managed to run away