She can’t sleep either, so much of our time is spent planning how we will get Cesare away from the island without anyone noticing. I still can’t decide what to do. If I go, I will be leaving Con alone. She tells me she will return to Kirkwall, that she will work in the hospital there. She tells me she has befriended Bess Croy, who also wants to work in the hospital after the prisoners have left.
‘What about him?’ I ask.
Her jaw tightens, but her eyes are clear. ‘I will stay away from him,’ she says, even though we both know that in a place as small as Kirkwall, that won’t be possible.
In the chapel, Cesare says to me, ‘I will escape alone. If you want to stay with your sister, I will go first. You can follow soon.’ His expression is pained as he says this, but I know he means it.
And I think of how this war has shown everyone’s true nature.
I imagine Cesare on the boat alone, sailing through the rough autumn waters, and then I think of our parents setting sail in the dark, never to return. And I know that my decision was made long ago, when I picked up a wind-whirled piece of card and gave it to a man I didn’t know.
The question is, how we will get away without being noticed. We need a distraction.
On the first day of September – five days after Angus held me up against the forge wall by my throat – Cesare knocks quietly on the bothy door in a quick pattern of five raps, which we’d all agreed on, so we would know it was him.
I’m lying on the bed, but Con gets up to answer.
Cesare’s cheeks are flushed from the walk up the hill, and there’s a tension around his eyes.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘Major Bates says we are having a feast. For . . . Michaelmas?’
‘But Michaelmas isn’t until the end of September.’ Con frowns.
‘He says we will not be here then. The barriers will be finished and we will all be gone. But now there is much spare food to use and he wants to celebrate the chapel and barriers also. He will bring people from Kirkwall.’
My mind whirls. People from Kirkwall . . . That will mean Angus. My stomach drops. But with all the disruption, people coming and going from the island . . .
‘This is our chance to escape,’ I say. ‘When is the feast?’
Cesare hesitates. ‘Tomorrow,’ he says.
I look at Con. She’s trying to smile but her eyes have filled with tears.
‘It’s good you don’t have many things,’ she says. ‘Packing will be quick.’
I pull her in close. ‘Thank you,’ I whisper.
The next day dawns grey and bleak. September is the time of Gore Vellye, the autumn tumult, when the weather turns vicious and the sea batters the land. Tales tell us it is the time of the battle between the Sea Mither and the monster Teran. Every spring, the Sea Mither battles the vicious Teran and imprisons him at the bottom of the ocean. But each autumn he rises again and banishes her. Then he begins his six-month winter tyranny: he buffets and pounds the islands, and pauses only to listen to the gurgling cries of drowning sailors.
It is a year to the day since our parents disappeared.
I don’t mention it and neither does Con, but her face is anxious and, when she thinks I’m not looking, she wipes tears from her eyes. There is little time to grieve, though: we rise at dawn to stuff clothes and food into a bag. Con makes some dry oat biscuits and wraps them in greased paper – enough for Cesare as well as me: he won’t be able to take food with him from the camp without arousing suspicion.
After we have fed the chickens, Con disappears behind the bothy and I hear the scraping sound of her digging. I remember all those months ago, when I’d heard a similar sound after the night of fog.
I don’t look at her when she returns: I don’t want to pry. But she places a small material bag in my hand. It contains something cold, which jangles lightly, like far-off bells. I go to open it, but she places her hands on mine.
‘Don’t,’ she says.
‘What is it?’
‘Something I don’t need any more. I’d like you to throw it into the sea, somewhere far away from here.’
I nod and tuck it into my pocket.
As she turns away, I murmur, ‘I didn’t ever blame you.’
And I don’t know whether I mean I didn’t blame her for our parents, or for Angus, or for the life we had to build here. I don’t know if it’s true. Perhaps I did blame her sometimes. Perhaps I thought her guilty or weak or frustrating. Perhaps I thought she’d brought all this upon herself and had dragged me into it too.
But I don’t blame her now. Now, finally, I understand.
People start arriving from Kirkwall just before midday. We watch them setting off from the far shore; some walk along the barriers as far as they can, then decide that the gap in the centre is still too big and they must take their boats. The sea is whipping up a fury and the route across is nearly impassable. As soon as the barriers are finished, that won’t matter. For thousands of years, this island has been cut off, private, cursed. Now those old tales are dying out.
The faces of the Orcadians in the boat are eager, expectant. Some of their owners point across at the chapel on the hill, and the place where Con and I are standing. We have positioned ourselves here intentionally. So much of today’s success will depend upon us being seen.
Angus MacLeod must be among the people in the boats – he wouldn’t miss this. Standing on the hill, letting him look at me, but unable to see him,
