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  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Warrior Daughter

  Janet Paisley is the author of five poetry collections, two of short fiction, a novella and numerous plays, radio, TV and film scripts. Accolades include a prestigious Creative Scotland Award (Not for Glory, short stories), the Peggy Ramsay Memorial Award (Refuge, a play) and a BAFTA nomination (Long Haul, a short film). Her first novel, White Rose Rebel, is available from Penguin.

  Warrior Daughter

  JANET PAISLEY

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  www.penguin.com

  First published 2009

  1

  Copyright © Janet Paisley, 2009

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  ISBN: 978-0-14-191684-2

  For my friends warriors all

  especially Betty who fought manic depression and lost

  Sweet darkness, velvet blood

  from which you came, as night

  will cup you again, again

  move you outward into light;

  a brilliance to be danced in

  is life. Your staggering steps

  will grow to trust this earth;

  it meets both sure and unsure feet.

  That shifting pain will shape

  the edges that define you.

  Know the body that confines

  is a new kind of freedom

  to find the fullness of you.

  Move through yourself. See,

  the future is with child

  and needs your labouring.

  Be done with pasts, walk away.

  I'll watch. I'll guard your back,

  blinded by my own time. Go forward

  from the shadows mothers cast.

  – From Words for my Daughter

  Dark of the Moon

  1

  Fog, blue-white like mother's milk, and she was running through it. Each small, naked foot splashed down into the slowing suck of boggy ground and slurped out again, turn by rapid turn. Far behind, a dog howled, holding its long mournful note unbroken except for quick intakes of breath. The slow beat of the great drum sounded, dulled by the dankness. Boom… boom… boom… Mewling followed much closer, a thin, protesting wail accompanied by the slap-slap of fast, squelching steps.

  ‘Skaa-haaa! Don't go!’

  Skaaha wasn't going. She was running, feet skelping through the dense fog of a dark night, running towards the sea. If she ran hard enough, it couldn't catch her, wouldn't be. She would run till the sea reached her chest, forcing her to swim. Then she would swim until her arms ached, till water filled her mouth and flooded her ears and the seals came to mock. The sea would solve it, washing everything away.

  ‘Wait for me,’ the peevish voice behind craiked again.

  Skaaha stopped and spun round, ribcage heaving, heart drumming on bone, chest full of thick, white fog. Hair clung to her hot neck and forehead, dripping. Water drops clogged her nostrils. Born in the dark of a Ghost moon, she had lived through forty-five seasons since her birth – eleven circles of the sun. She was Skaaha, the shadow, from the tribe of Danu, daughter of – her fists clenched – daughter of Kerrigen, queen of warriors, and she would not be chased.

  ‘Stop following me,’ she shrieked. Her shouted breath barely parted the mist. Mud oozed up through her toes. Now she'd stopped running, she could hear the sea at her back, waves still surging ashore as if nothing had changed.

  The shifting, milky cloud in front of her darkened with the shape of her younger sister, who pelted out of it and into her.

  ‘Where're you going?’ Eefay grasped Skaaha's sodden dress. ‘Can I come?’

  ‘No!’ Skaaha pushed her away. ‘Go home!’

  The smaller girl held on. She was nine seasons younger, half a head shorter, and tenacious. ‘I might get lost,’ she whined.

  ‘Good.’ Skaaha pushed again, harder. ‘Go away!’

  Eefay stumbled. As she fell, her grip on Skaaha's sleeve brought her sister, staggering, down on top of her. ‘I'll tell on you,’ the little girl squealed, letting go Skaaha's dress to grab handfuls of her sister's long, wet hair.

  ‘Tell?’ Skaaha grunted at the sharp tugs. ‘Who will you tell?’ With her head yanked close against Eefay's, she scrabbled for purchase in the bog, hands and knees sinking into water on either side of the little girl's writhing body. ‘The Shee will get you first!’ She grasped her sister's pinkies, slippery with wet, bending them back to force loose the fingers that tore her hair. ‘They're watching,’ she hissed. ‘Can't you smell them? Can you hear them? They'll come for you soon as I get away!’

  Eefay sunk her teeth into her sister's arm, biting down hard through the thin cloth of her sleeve. As Skaaha stopped pulling her fingers, she punched her face then clawed at her hair again. ‘It's you they'll get,’ she yelled. ‘They'll smell your blood!’

  It was true. Blood ran from Skaaha's nose. She could feel it. With her head twisted awkwardly to one side due to Eefay's grip on her hair, it trickled over her cheek.

  ‘I'll get you for this,’ she threatened. She wasn't afraid of the Shee, who rose from their ancient burial mounds to walk the night, but she would not be beaten.

  ‘First blood!’ Eefay protested. ‘You've got to yield!’ though she twisted her fingers tighter in Skaaha's hair in case her sister tried to hit back.

  ‘Not to you.’ Skaaha grabbed Eefay's ear and tugged hard. ‘Never to you.’

  There was a soft snort behind them, a gasp of breath blown out. Fear widened Eefay's eyes. Her fingers went limp. Hair released, Skaaha turned towards the sound. Not three strides away, a shaggy horse stood in the fog. A human head dangled at its side, severed at the neck. It was a man's head, tied by its long, tangled hair, the eye sockets empty holes. On the horse's back a warrior sat motionless, weapons slung at her waist, face impassive, looking down at the two girls. There was a blue spiral tattooed on to her left cheek. Water dripped from her furs. A hoof squished into the ground next to her mount, a second horse.

  Skaaha rolled off the top of her sister, glancing around. Another horse, another warrior, and another, and another. They were encircled. Skaaha stood, feet sinking in the slough, staring up at the lead rider. Beside her, Eefay scrambled upright and moved in close. Feeling the pressure at her side, Skaaha put an arm round Eefay's shoulder. She was only little and would need her big sister's protection.

  Now that both
were standing, the spiral warrior tightened her one-fisted grip on the horse's reins, eyes unreadable, as they should be.

  ‘Bring them,’ she said.

  The dozen horses around them all moved at once. Skaaha was plucked into the air and, as Eefay slid from her grasp, was hauled up in front of one of the women. The horse's easy stride didn't falter in the marshy ground, though the warrior shifted her seat to accommodate the girl. Damp fur pressed against Skaaha's face. She hadn't run far enough, fast enough, hadn't reached the sea. Now it was too late. Everything she knew had ended.

  The soft ground under the horse became firm as they began the ride up the gentle slope away from the shore. The only warrior who'd spoken, Mara, led the way. The plodding hooves of the other horses followed behind, taking them back towards the beating drum, towards the howling dog. Around the bay, other, more distant dogs had joined in, ululating like Ban Shee, calling each other through the fog. Skaaha felt nothing now, nothing except how wet and cold she was. She wiped the thin trickle of blood from her nose with her sleeve. In case the move was mistaken for tearfulness, she glanced up at the rider whose arms were round each side of her, guiding the horse by the reins, following Mara. It was Jiya who had her, Jiya, who always smiled but who wasn't smiling now.

  ‘I didn't know what to do,’ Skaaha said.

  ‘The druids know. It's what they're for.’

  That was the wrong answer, but Skaaha's thoughts wouldn't string together, and she could find no words to question with. Between the deep, slow drumbeats, above the howling dogs, the rhythm of hand drums broke through the fog. Faintly, she could hear voices harmonizing the song of celebration. Dark shapes loomed, became fences, paddocks, the roof of the farm roundhouse at the hill-foot. Boom… The horses plodded on up the slope, past the mound on which the drummer beat out the call.

  Boom… The curved stone wall of the broch reared above them, feathered with mist, its thatch roof rubbed out in the whiteness. Boom… Behind it, on the next rise, hidden by fog, sat Doon Mor, the great broch, home of the warriors. But it was the smaller Doon Beck they rode to, home of the warrior queen Kerrigen and her daughters, Skaaha's home, the home she had run from such a short time ago, the home that would not be hers for much longer.

  The heavy wooden door stood open, the hallway lamps already lit. In the doorway, a hunting dog waited, watching, a huge beast who seldom barked, and then only at enemies. It was the bitch that howled, Kerrigen's bitch, from the walled cell inside. Seeing the riders come, her mate loped into the broch, wriggled in beside her, and began to yowl in unison, joining the chorus from brochs around the bay. The slow drum spoke to the tribe of Danu. The hounds' eerie keening would pass from dog to dog around the island. No one from any tribe would doubt what it meant.

  The group of riders rode straight in through the doorway, ducking low over their mounts to avoid the stone lintels. The hollow, circular walls of Doon Beck were three strides thick, high as seven warriors stood on each other's shoulders. Inside, the earth floor of the stockroom was circled with pens that held Kerrigen's cattle, sheep, goats and pigs during the night. Despite the clatter of hooves on hard-packed, rocky ground, the drums and song were louder here, penetrating down through the wooden ceiling from the living quarters above. With a twist of Jiya's arm, Skaaha was slid off the horse, the warrior's sword and spear thrust into her arms. Weapons were not allowed into living quarters where drink might be taken.

  Automatically, Skaaha followed Mara to the storeroom, where the woman shrugged off her sodden bearskin and gave it to the door-keeper. The old man turned away to hang the coat on an antler hook. Bent with age and muttering, he moved slowly, but still Mara had to nudge Skaaha to remind her to hand over the weapons when he came back. As she held them out, his watery eyes met hers.

  ‘A god is leaving us,’ he mumbled, still talking to himself, ‘when sky comes down to grieve.’

  ‘Grieve?’ Mara scorned. ‘Do you not hear rejoicing?’

  ‘Druids!’ The door-keeper spat out the word as if it were gristle. ‘They know everything, and nothing.’ To Skaaha's bewilderment, he bent lower than his normal stoop and spoke into her ear. ‘Mind your mother,’ he urged, ‘and speak up.’

  ‘She didn't ask your advice!’ Mara snapped, tugging her away, pushing past horses, to the doorway on to the stairs.

  Skaaha couldn't think what the door-keeper meant. Following the painted warrior up the smooth stone steps between the thick walls, she remembered only one thing – the look on her mother's face when she saw it last, just before she ran. It was the look of the dead, of eyes without the light of life in them, of skin grey and bloodless, the bluish lips. She did not want to see it again.

  But there was nowhere to run now. Eefay was behind her, followed by the rest of the warriors. There were thirteen of them, the most feared band of horsewomen in all the islands of Bride. Eleven of them came up the stairs behind her sister. Mara, the chapter's second-in-command, strode on ahead. The thirteenth – Kerrigen, their queen, her mother – lay in the room to which they were going.

  On the landing, where the lamplight stuttered in the heated, smoky air, Mara stopped, turned and grasped her hand, squeezing it briefly. The gesture hit like a blow in the pit of Skaaha's stomach. Mara was Kerrigen's rival, ruthless and without pity. She'd never shown any kindness before. Skaaha's throat thickened as the warrior ushered her through the doorway first.

  The great room was too warm, its circular wooden floor covered with sheep- and goatskins, a small peat fire glowing in the hearth. On the far side, a group of druids in ceremonial robes played their hand drums and sang the song of rebirth. They had arrived daily for the last week, expecting this. The rhythm of the drums, struck with bone, was rousing. The chanted, joyful song celebrated the baby born in the otherworld, a birth made possible by the arrival there of Kerrigen's soul.

  Skaaha stopped next the fire but she glanced beyond the druids to her mother's chamber. The woven check curtain was drawn shut. A small, cold hand slid into hers. It was Eefay, who'd come in behind her. The curtain across their mother's chamber twitched. Skaaha gripped Eefay's hand tightly, but it was only Tosk, her mother's druid, who emerged to greet them. As he crossed the floor, Skaaha wondered if it was true that he floated. His feet weren't visible under his robes and he moved smoothly, without the up and down motions of walking.

  ‘There's nothing to be afraid of,’ he said as he reached her.

  Skaaha stared at him. He appeared to speak without moving his lips too. She'd never noticed this before – his mouth was hidden by his long moustache and grey beard – but she was sure he had lips and that he moved them to talk, so he probably had feet too. Did having feet rule out floating? She frowned – first the door-keeper, now Tosk. No man should speak unless he was addressed, even a priest.

  ‘I'm not afraid,’ she lied. ‘I wanted to go to the sea.’

  He nodded, as if he understood. ‘Kerrigen has gone to the otherworld,’ he said, to both of them, ‘to live a new life there.’

  His voice was gentle, his words irritating. She wasn't druid, but she knew her lessons. Time turned a circle: night became day then night; seasons came round repeatedly; the moon grew from dark to full to dark; and life also waxed, waned and waxed again. Death and birth were doorways that all living things passed through as they shifted back and forth between worlds, born in one as they died in the other, both worlds the same. While the great wheel turned, life followed life followed life.

  But that wasn't what her mother believed. Kerrigen kept the old faith, believing in a spirit-life, not in reincarnation. When the flesh left her bones, her spirit would join the ancestral afterlife, where she could watch over and guide the living, once the final sacrifice was made. The lump that had threatened when Mara squeezed her hand filled Skaaha's throat. This was what the door-keeper meant. She must speak up.

  ‘Kerrigen will go to the ancestors,’ she mumbled.

  Tosk smiled, but it wasn't a real smile. It was the kind of smile grow
n-ups used on small children, the smile of the wise to the foolish. She frowned harder because she had nothing to say, and he turned away as someone else emerged from her mother's chamber. Eefay drew her wet hand out of Skaaha's.

  ‘Donal!’ she shrieked, and ran to the tall, blond warrior who crouched, arms held out to swing her up.

  Skaaha, her mother's warriors ranged behind her, stood stock still, watching the two of them. Eefay's father must have arrived after she'd run away. The chill inside her grew. Here was the next great change, laughing and hugging her sister. Eefay did not need her now. She, Skaaha, was alone, with no one to protect, and no one to protect her. Mara nudged her from behind, but she couldn't think of the words she should speak. One of the druids, a young novice who had no beard, detached himself from the group, filled a drinking horn from the cauldron that hung over the fire and brought it to her.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘You must be cold.’

  The broch was never cold, even mid-winter, when the charcoal-pit heated the hollow walls. Although it wasn't lit in summer, the blood-heat of beasts below still warmed the floor at night and the single peat in the hearth made the room hot. Her clothes steamed. But the inside of her body was chill as the frozen falls in winter, so she took the cup and swallowed a mouthful of the warm liquid. It was beech cordial, sweet and fiery, and it loosened her tongue.

  ‘We're pleased to see you, Donal,’ she said to Eefay's father. Her mother had divorced the man many suns ago, and went away when he visited to tutor the warriors and see his daughter. This was not his time to be here. He must have been sent for, after the accident.

  ‘Your mother was a god among warriors,’ he answered, courteously, ‘but she drove too fast.’

  ‘She likes to win,’ Skaaha said, remembering how Mara baited Kerrigen.

  ‘Even the eagles won't race against me,’ the second-in-command had taunted. No one dared laugh.