Midwinterblood Read online

  “Pardon?” says Eric, but Merle does not reply. He turns to see Tor standing behind him.

  “You got here quickly,” Eric says bluntly.

  “I strolled up from the Cross House,” Tor replies. “You forget, it is a small island. It doesn’t take so very long to get anywhere. Even on foot, and even for an old man, as I am.”

  Again, Eric wonders how old Tor is. How old anyone really is on Blessed.

  “I have some business to discuss with Merle,” Tor says, smiling.

  He waits. Fixing Eric with his one good eye.

  “Oh, of course,” Eric stammers, and nods. “Well, I must get going. See you later.” His eyes are on Merle alone as he says this, hoping for some reaction from her.

  For the briefest of moments there is a look of such trembling intensity on her face, and in that moment, he realizes he was wrong. He looks at her lips and her eyes, the curve of her eyebrow, and realizes that she is beautiful.

  “Bye, Eric,” she says.

  He nods, backs away, and cycles off.

  I found you.

  Was there some deeper meaning behind what she said?

  He wants to believe there is.

  Eight

  Eric explores late into the afternoon.

  He finds nothing, at least, nothing that he is looking for.

  The orchids, or a production facility maybe, a homespun lab of some sort. He supposes he will know it when he sees it. That’s how it is in his job, and he has always quietly thought to himself that that is why he has been successful in his work. That, and something less easy to admit, that maybe he is never satisfied. Neither in life, or work, nor in love—he always wants more. It has made him a good journalist, this desire in him to search for more, but although he knows it deep inside, he has never admitted to himself that this same thing has left him alone, with a heart that nervously beats for fear of never finding. But something just clicks when he’s on the right track of a story, something just clicks. Like something clicked when he saw Merle’s face.

  * * *

  He finds himself back at the Cross House, and pulls out the map again, trying to decide where to look next.

  It is getting late, but that does not matter, because it will not get dark. The flower moon is rising above the hill. He studies the map that Tor gave him.

  It looks hand drawn, but he can see it is printed, and there’s a title and a price on the back of it. There is something about it that nags at him, but he’s finding it so hard to think. He wonders if he’s getting ill; it’s twice now that his mind has felt like this. Cloudy.

  With an effort, his head clears, and into his memory comes the image of the map of Blessed, the one that he’d saved on his device.

  He realizes that the map in front of him is not the same as the one he had recorded back at the office.

  That one had two halves, a very distinct shape, like the two wings of a butterfly, though the western half slightly smaller, giving it a lopsided look. The two halves were joined by a narrow strip of land.

  Eric looks at the paper map in his hand. Only the eastern half of the island is printed. Half the island is missing.

  Now why, he thinks, would they print a map of only half the island?

  That would be stupid. Unless, unless, unless you wanted to keep half of it secret.

  He knows he’s on to something.

  And he knows his journalist’s mind is working well, when he immediately makes another connection.

  That path, up the hill, last night.

  It was a path that went nowhere, or at least, seemed to.

  The path was somewhere off Crossway. He turns his bike, and begins to pedal.

  Nine

  He is halfway up the short but ridiculously steep hill when he stops, for two reasons. First, the slope is just too steep to cycle up, even standing on the pedals in lowest gear. His thighs scream at him to stop, but there’s something else. This exertion on the bike makes him think about the cycling he has done so far that day.

  He remembers freewheeling all the way to the quay. And then he remembers coming back again, but he can’t remember cycling very hard to do so. In fact, he’s pretty sure he freewheeled much of the way back. If not all the way. He thinks about all the other places he’s been to and now that he comes to think of it, he cannot remember actually having to push the pedals at all, anywhere, not until he came to this ludicrous hill. It doesn’t make sense, and for a second he wonders if this is all some extended dream.

  The only other possibility is that the bike is possessed.

  He looks down at it, then shakes his head.

  “Well, well,” he says, giving up trying to understand. “So it is.”

  Bending his head low he pushes the bike to the top of the hill, near to the point where he’d scrambled up to the outcrop the night before. He leans the bike by the rock, and then starts to explore. The path, such as it is, seems to stop right by the bush.

  It is a dense thicket, shrubs and trees, and low ground coverage. He tries to lift a branch and force his way in, but it is hard going.

  The branches push back at him with thorny spines, and he thinks that even a barbed-wire fence would be easier to deal with. A branch whips him in the face and he’s angry. Putting his head down, heedless of the pain, he shoves through the bushes.

  He lands on his hands and knees, in a tiny clearer space.

  There is a face looking at him, right in front of his nose. Only it’s not a face. He’s looking at a rock, upon which is painted two blue dots, each surrounded by a white circle, like eyes. Now he looks closely, he sees that the dots are painted on either side of a protrusion of the rock, making it look like a primitive creature of stone, a lizard or a dragon, with an eye facing each way.

  His gaze drifts into the woodland, and he almost jumps when, a little way off, he sees another of the rock faces, with just one eye this time, looking sideways.

  He hears voices, and freezes.

  Looking back through the undergrowth, he can make out figures standing by the bike. Two or three people. He cannot make out what they’re saying; they speak quietly, but then he sees their legs moving from the path to his lookout point, up on the outcrop.

  He decides that he doesn’t want to get caught here, and taking his chance, pushes his way quickly back, which, it turns out, is easier than forcing his way in.

  Glancing to his left, he grabs the bike, and he’s freewheeling fast before they have a chance to return to the path.

  At the bottom of the hill, he turns right and finds himself outside the Cross House.

  He looks at his watch, and it’s late, but he decides he’s too tired to care about offending Tor.

  He leans his bike at the gate, and walks up the path. It’s another hot evening and the windows are open. He’s about to knock on the door when he hears voices coming from inside. Raised voices.

  He hesitates, then slips around the side of the house, on a veranda that runs around the corner.

  He stands by the kitchen window, trying not to look as if he’s spying, in case anyone sees him.

  He hears Tor’s voice, and another that he thinks is Henrik. There are female voices, too. Maya and Jane presumably. And is that Merle?

  Yes, he’s sure of it.

  “We will do everything as we always do.”

  That’s Tor. The man he thinks is Henrik speaks next.

  “But will it do any good? We have tried for so long!”

  “We will do everything as we always do,” Tor repeats. He sounds angry. “We will do as our ancestors did.”

  There is a confusion of voices then, everyone talking at once.

  Then Merle says, “I agree with Henrik. We ought to try something different.”

  A pause. Then Tor again, more softly.

  “Merle, my child. You are speaking of things you do not understand. You are our treasure. You are the youngest of us, and for that alone, we treasure you and respect you. But you do not know all there is to know.”


  The youngest of us?

  Eric remembers that he’s seen no children on the island. Not one. And Merle, a young woman, certainly is the youngest person he has seen since his arrival.

  “You do not know everything!” Tor repeats.

  “And do you?”

  He can hear Merle’s sudden defiance, and he can feel the terrible rage that springs into Tor right there and then.

  “Enough! I have spoken. I am the Ward of Blessed Island, and I have spoken. You all have your duties. See that you do them, and do them well. Now go!”

  Again a babble of voices, and then Tor must have beaten the table or the floor, for there is a loud bang, and silence is restored.

  Tor’s voice comes again, but so deep and so low that Eric cannot decipher his words.

  He’s had enough, and walking quickly around to the front of the house, he knocks, and without waiting to be invited, opens the door and walks in.

  He almost bumps into Merle, who is in the hallway.

  She opens her mouth in surprise, but before she can speak, Tor appears in the doorway.

  “Do you usually enter people’s houses without being invited, Mr. Seven?”

  His voice is steady and firm, there is none of the anger Eric has just heard.

  “I … No, I…” He stops, tries again. “I heard raised voices. I came to see if everything is all right.”

  Tor pauses.

  “That is thoughtful of you, but we are quite well.”

  “You have been so kind to me,” Eric says, smoothly. “It was the least I could do.”

  “But I think you are mistaken,” Tor says. “Quite well. You are well, Merle, are you not?”

  Merle nods. Without a trace of worry or fear she smiles at Tor.

  “Yes, very well, Ward. Very well.”

  “So there. You see. There is nothing to concern yourself about. Merle, you had better get on home.”

  Without another word, without looking at either of them, Merle leaves, slipping through the front door and closing it behind her. Eric watches her disappear through the doorway, noticing her height. She is tall; he hadn’t noticed that before.

  “Now, Eric. How is your article coming along? You’ve had a long day.”

  Eric is caught, not knowing what to do. Having stormed to Merle’s rescue, he now finds himself being offered another cup of tea by the enemy.

  He follows Tor into the living room, and vaguely notices that the others have melted away into the evening. He sees the comfortable old sofa, and suddenly feels very tired again.

  “Tea?” asks Tor.

  Eric looks at Tor. “Yes, please.”

  “Milk?”

  “Oh, no, thanks,” says Eric. “You were right, it’s much better without.”

  Tor nods, and backs off into the kitchen. “I’m so glad you agree,” he says.

  When he comes back, he watches quietly as Eric drinks the tea. Tiredness washes over him, but somehow the bitter taste of the tea makes it a pleasurable feeling.

  All he has to do, all he has to do now, he thinks, is make the short journey home, and then he can sleep.

  Ten

  Eric sleeps late.

  It’s the curtains, the blinds, he tells himself.

  “Nothing to wake me up,” he says.

  He decides to set an alarm for the next morning, not remembering his device is dead, nor that his charger is missing.

  He showers, for a long time, then goes downstairs to eat another huge and delicious breakfast. At the back of his mind is a vague thought, a mere feeling, like an itch that wants to be scratched. But it’s so faint, and he’s soon able to ignore it. There are firm fresh raspberries in a bowl on the table. He takes a mouthful, then a few mouthfuls more, until the whole bowl is finished.

  He sits back, and sighs happily.

  Only then does he see a short handwritten note leaning against a vase of flowers in the center of the table.

  It’s a lovely day for a swim. The south pier is the best.

  He picks the note up, slowly.

  “So it is!” he says.

  After breakfast he rolls up a towel from the bathroom and sets off, to the south.

  As far as he can remember, he hasn’t been to the far south of the island yet, and it doesn’t even occur to him why he can’t remember if he has or not. Nor does he realize that he has lost track of time, though he arrived only a few days ago.

  Homeway twists and turns past more colorful houses, until he reaches a junction, where a tiny wooden sign points the way to the pier. He follows this smaller path for a few minutes more, and then he sees the sea in front of him.

  It’s beautiful. It’s so beautiful, it takes his breath away. It’s not spectacular, it’s not jaw dropping, it’s simply a lovely sight that makes the heart glad that such places exist. The grays and browns of the rocks, the trees and the wild grass, the sea, waiting for him, and only for him; the place is utterly deserted, he can see neither people nor houses.

  He goes down to the pier and, taking his shoes off, sits with his feet in the water for a while, then undresses and slides into the water, swimming far out away from the jetty.

  He turns and looks at the island, and feels that little itch at the back of his head again. He swims closer to the pier, ducking underwater for long spells.

  Suddenly, as he surfaces, someone is there in the water with him, an arm’s length away.

  All he sees at first is a splash as they dive in, but moments later, a head and shoulders break the surface in a tumble of water.

  It’s Merle. Her wet hair is drawn back, and down her neck.

  Neither of them say anything, and as Eric treads water, Merle edges closer.

  There’s that gently intense look on her face again, that’s something he does remember, something that is pushing through the clouds in his mind.

  She reaches out a hand, treading water, and their fingertips meet.

  She whispers, just loud enough to be heard over the shushing of the waves.

  “I followed you.”

  Eric hesitates for a moment, wondering, but then he’s laughing, and Merle is, too.

  “You.”

  They swim together, far out to sea.

  They duck under the surface, twisting and turning, hand in hand where they can, and gliding through the deep, Eric’s lips brush her neck, just once. Finally they come up for air. And when they do, they do so laughing.

  “This is ridiculous!” shouts Eric, and Merle shrugs, and smiles, as if to say, so what?

  Eric tries again.

  “Have we done this before?” he calls.

  Merle is a few strokes away. He pulls his way over to her, and tries again.

  “Have we done this before?”

  Merle shrugs again.

  “I feel like we’ve done this before,” he says, intently. “But a long time ago. A very long time ago.”

  She’s gone, under the water again.

  Eric thinks about his life, something he usually avoids, because it has not always been an easy one. He wonders if a few moments of utter and total joy can be worth a lifetime of struggle.

  Maybe, he thinks. Maybe, if they’re the right moments.

  * * *

  They swim some more, and finally, exhausted, climb onto the rocks to dry in the warm sun.

  Eric turns and holds Merle’s hands. He looks at his hands, a little older than hers. He looks at her younger ones. What if it were the other way around? What if his were the younger hands? Would it matter?

  He asks himself why this hand, is his hand. Could it have been someone else’s? And why is that her hand? Does it matter? And what if she were different? No, he thinks, as these strange and somehow foolish questions roll around in his head. No, it wouldn’t matter. Even if she were different, she would still be she.

  “This is ridiculous,” he says again, and she sits up, and gently takes his head between her hands.

  “Why?” she says. “Why is it? Why is it any more ridiculous than a thousand
things? That the earth spins around the sun, that water can eat a mountain away, that a salmon can swim a thousand miles across the ocean to find the very stream it was born in. It’s not ridiculous. It’s just … how it is.”

  Suddenly she fumbles in her clothes, spread on the rocks, and finds a watch.

  “I have to go.”

  “But, stay…”

  “I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head.

  She will not be persuaded otherwise, and Eric watches her clothe her naked skin and then, like a dream that drifts out of reach on waking, she is gone.

  * * *

  He dozes on the rocks, the sense of Merle around and inside him, seeing her slender limbs, smelling the salt in her hair, imagining that the warmth of the sunshine is her hands on his skin. He realizes that for the first time in a very long time, his heart is beating slowly and calmly. Peacefully.

  * * *

  He wakes some time later, with that itch once more.

  Something starts to rise to the top of his mind.

  He walks home, trying to get ahold of it, whatever it is. He’s sure that it’s something he’s supposed to be doing.

  As he enters the house, he thinks he hears the back door, the kitchen door, shut.

  He shrugs.

  Maybe just the door slamming in the wind, though he doesn’t get as far as noticing that there is no wind.

  He hangs his towel over the balustrade to dry in the sun, and comes back into the kitchen, where he sees that someone has left him a jar of that tea, and he decides the best thing to do is have a drink, to think about whatever it is he’s supposed to be thinking about.

  He brews the tea, not really noticing that it has a slightly different taste, that it has become a little stronger.

  And so he drinks, and the forgetting begins again.

  Eleven

  The days pass.

  The island is so beautiful, Eric thinks, every day as he wakes up, and every night as he goes to sleep. He’s had Tor bring him some more of that tea in a tall glass jar, and he’s quite proud of the little ritual he has created for himself every evening.

  * * *

  The days pass.

  The sun burns strongly; the summer is young and fresh, the leaves and the grass bright, and vivid.