Jouko translates for Knut. Another tongue; not my own, though I understand it well. Jouko and the third man wait by the door, talking quietly together, while Knut comes over to my pallet and sits down, his pose that of a comrade come to make kind enquiries. “I hope you are feeling better, my friend,” he says. His tone is amiable, but his smile chills me.

I want to close my eyes, to will him away, but his gaze holds me. A friend? I think not. There is death in this man’s eyes.

Knut’s voice drops to a murmur. “They say you’ve lost your memory. They say you can hardly put two words together. Maybe that’s true and maybe not. But understand this. Speak one word about what happened, one single word, and sshhhk—” He draws a finger across his throat in unmistakable illustration. He has his back to the others. “Just so we’re clear.”

I cannot remain silent in the face of this. “How dare you threaten me?” I say, using the same tongue. But what I intend as a defiant challenge comes out as a feeble whisper. The others go on talking; my protest has carried no further than Knut’s ears.

He laughs at me. He makes it the chuckle of a man seeking to lift a wounded comrade’s spirits. “Fool,” he murmurs. “You’ll hold your tongue if you set any value on your wretched life.” He rises to his feet. “I’m glad to see you looking so much brighter, comrade.” His tone is hearty now. “They’re looking after you well.”

Jouko translates this for Muirrin’s benefit.

“He tires easily,” she says. “The effects of long immersion in seawater, the cold, the shock of the whole thing—it’s taken a heavy toll. You’d best leave us now.”

I let my lids fall over my eyes. The door opens, shuts. Muirrin is busy with something over at her worktable. I lie still. It is a long time before my heart slows. I read a message in that man’s cold eyes. How unfortunate that you did not die.

I sleep and dream. A cart comes down the track by the farm. I’m picking berries. The basket is woven with a pattern of sunflowers. I’m not tall enough to reach the best fruit. As I stand on tiptoes, stretching up, I hear the carter’s shout and a strange, squealing noise cut off sharply. I run, but Noz is already dead. Dead in the road. Stupid dog, says the man. Went right under the wheels. You all right, lad? I wake with my face all tears, my fingers reaching to touch the little dog that breathes gently by my side. The little dog that is not black, but pure white.

~Sibeal~