Her own laughter clattered. “Why, you know what I am,” she retorted. “Here is naught really new. . . is there?”
Eyjan rose, took Niels by the shoulder, whispered into the tangled blond locks that hid his ears. He gasped. Tauno found his feet. He and Hauau locked eyes. “You will treat her kindly,” he said, fingers on the haft of his knife.
Nights were lengthening and darkening as summer wore on, but this one was clear, countlessly starry, ample light for Faerie vision. Herning sailed before a breeze that made the channel blink with wavelets. It rustled and gurgled along the bows; now and then an edge of sail flapped, a block rattled, a timber creakedsmall sounds, lost in the hush-until Hauau roared in the forepeak.
Later he came forth beside Ingeborg, to stand looking outward. Tauno had the helm, Eyjan was in the crow’s nest, but neither paid them any open heed. “I thank ye, lass,” the selkie said humbly.
“You did that already,” the woman replied, with a nod at the darkness under the foredeck.
“I canna do it again?”
“No need. A bargain is a bargain.” He continued to gaze across the water. His grip closed hard on the rail. “Ye dinna like me at all?”
“I meant not that,” she protested. Inch by inch, she moved a hand until it lay across his. “You’re our rescuer and, yes, you are better to me than many I remember. But we are of, well, sundered kin, mortal and, and other. What closeness can ever be between us?”
“I’ve watched your een upon Tauno.”
In haste, Ingeborg asked, “Why didn’t you try Eyjan? She’s beautiful where I’m plain, she’s of your halfworld, and I think she might enjoy-not that I regret, Hauau, sweet.”
“Ye’ll grow used tae the smell,” he promised bitterly.
“But why will you have me?”
He stood long mute. Finally he turned to her, fists clenched, and said: “Because ye be in truth a woman and nae fay.”
She raised her glance toward his. The stiffness began to leave her body. “My folk slew yours,” she said as if in confessional.
“That was hundreds 0’ years agone. We’re well-nigh forgotten on land, and the auld grudge wi’ us. I dwell in peace, afar on Sule Skerry-wind, waves, gulls the ainly speakers, limpets and barnacles the ainly neighbors-at peace, save for storm and shark, whilst winter follows winter—but sometimes it grows dreegh, d’ye ken?”
“Bare rock, bare sea, sky without Heaven. . . . Oh, Hauau!” Ingeborg laid her cheek on his breast. He stroked her with clumsy care.
“But why have you not sought elsewhere?” she wondered after his heart had tolled threescore slow beats.
“I did when younger, wide aboot, and many’s the kittle thing I did see. But by and large, wha’ Faerie people I met wad ha’ small part 0’ me. They saw me as ugly and looked na deeper, for tae them, naught lies below the skin.”
Ingeborg lifted her head. “That’s not true. Not of every halfworlder, at least. Tauno- Tauno and Eyjan—”
“Aye, so it do seem. ’Tis good o’them tae provide for their sister. Natheless. . . in humans like you is more. I canna name it. A warmth, a, a way 0’ loving. . . is it that ye know ye maun dee and therefore cleave tegither the wee span ye hae, or is it a spark 0’ eternity. . . a soul? I dinna ken. I know nobbut that in some men, and in more women, I hae felt it, like a fire on a cauld night. . . . Ye hae it, Ingeborg, bright and strong as e’er I cheered mysel’ by. Reckon yoursel’ lucky in your sorrows, for that ye can love as much as ye do.”
“I?” she asked, astounded. “A whore? No, you’re wrong. What can you tell about mankind?”
“More than ye might think,” he said gravely. “Frae time tae time I hae entered your world, and not always been cast right oot; for though I be bad tae see and smell, I’m a strong, steady worker. Hoo else might I hae learned the tongue or the sailor’s craft? I’ve had feres amang men, and certain women hae made me welcome in their hames, and a few-can ye believe?—a very few hae gi’en me love.”
“I see why they would,” she breathed.
Pain twisted his visage. “Na wedded love. Hoo could a monster like me hae a kirkly wedding? ’Tis been but for short whiles. Langer amang men, aye; we’d make voyage after voyage. In the end I maun leave them too, O’coorse, syne they were growing old and I na. Tens o’years wad pass on my skerry ere I had courage tae seek out mortals again. ’Twas langer yet if there had been a woman’s kiss.”
“Must I too hurt you, then?” Ingeborg stood on tiptoe and drew his neck downward. Mouth met mouth.
“’Twill be worth it, dear,” he said. “Wha’ dreams I’ll weave in the clouds, wha’ songs the wind will sing 0’ ye! And every calm, starlit night will bring back this, till the day 0’ my weird,”
“But you will be so alone,”
He tried to ease her: “ ‘Tis as well, When my death comes, ’twill be because 0’ a woman.”
She stood back. “What?”
“Och, naught.” He pointed aft. “See hoo shining wheels the Wain 0’ Carl,”
“No, Hauau,” she urged, and shivered beneath the cloak she had cast over her before leaving the forepeak. “Say forth, I beg you.” She paused; he gnawed his lip. “We’ll be, . . mates, . . for this journey. I’ve seen more witchiness of late than I dare dwell upon. Another mystery, that may touch me—” He sighed, shook his head, and answered, “Nay, na ye, Ingeborg, fear na that. I. . . by mysel’ the most 0’ my life, brooding over the deeps. , . hae gained a measure 0’ the second sight. I foreknow summat 0’ my fate.”
“And?”
“The hour will come when a mortal woman bears me a son; and later I will tak’ him awa’ wi’ me, lest they bum him for a demon’s get; and she’ll wed a man wha’ shall slay us both,”
“No, no, no,”
He folded his arms, “I’m na afeared. Sad for the bairn, aye. Yet in those days Faerie will be a last thin glimmer ere it fades oot fore’ er. Thus I can believe ’tis a mercy for him; and myself, I’ll be at one wi’ the waters.”
Ingeborg wept, quite quietly, under the stars. He did not venture to touch her,
“I am barren,” she gulped.
He nodded. “I know full well ye’re nae my doom. Your ain fate—” His teeth snapped air, After a moment: “Ye’re weary frae all ye hae suffered. Come, let me tak’ ye below tae sleep.”
It was still dark when the hourglass called time for a change of watch, though dawn was not far off, The crew had agreed that two Faerie folk should always be on duty at night, and laid out a scheme of shifts, On this occasion Hauau took over steering and Tauno went aloft.
Eyjan, freed, swung lithely down a hatch to the quarters rigged in the hold. Enough light for her came from the constellations framed in that opening; had the hatch been on, she could have found her way by touch, odor, a mermaid’s sense of direction and place. Niels and Ingeborg slumbered on pallets side by side, he stretched out, she curled like an infant; an arm across her eyes. Eyjan squatted beside the youth, stroked his hair, said low into his ear: “Come, sluggard. It’s our time now.”
“Oh. . . oh.” He jerked to wakefulness. Before he could speak aloud, she stopped his lips with hers.
“Softly,” she cautioned. “Disturb not that poor woman. Here, I’ll guide you.” She took his hand. Rapturous, he followed her to ladder and deck.
Westward the stars glittered, but eastward a horned moon had risen and the sky beneath was turning argent. The sea shimmered ever more bright; Eyjan stood -forth against shadow as if a lamp glowed cool from within her. Wind had freshened, it strummed on the rigging and bellied out the sail, Herning heeled over a bit, aquiver. Waves whooshed.
Niels halted. “Eyjan,” he cried, “you’re too fair, your beauty burns me.”
“Soft, soft,” she said, with a hasty glance up the mast. “This way, to the forepeak.” She danced ahead, he bumbled after.