A Navigation of Hate by Joshua Grasso
Of all the things I’ve lost, I miss my books the most. The consolation of other people’s words, reading them over and over until they slowly become your own. I once had an entire library, more words than I could possibly read in a lifetime. And now I have a lifetime to spend without them. I, Drifa Thorfinn’s-Daughter, exiled to a nameless island, left with a single word to my name: revenge.
When I was a girl, I would sneak into my Papa’s study and open volumes at random, marveling at the dazzling woodcuts and looping script. I begged him to teach me what they all meant, though he refused said I was meant for better things than books. So I asked him: what things? If you can tell me one thing that rivals ideas, thoughts, memories, dead speech brought back to life, I’ll accept your verdict and get married to whomever you like. Even the apoplectic duke who drools whenever we meet and would pay richly for my hand.
My education started at once.
I soon learned most of the known languages and a few that had passed out of thought. It was no secret that I could speak better than most—even Papa, who wouldn’t admit it. Though I could see his admiration, even feel it when he kissed me goodnight.
I eventually took to writing myself. In private, of course, since as an author I would only be mocked (or worse). I wrote poetry, philosophy, chronicles, spells—it all poured from my brain in torrents, unstoppable, like spring floods from the mountain. Of course, I had to destroy them. They would ruin me for polite society, Papa warned me; they might even ruin him. So I stored them up in my memory, waiting for the day I had enough time to transcribe them in a dozen gilt volumes to display in my study.
I’m sitting in my study now: a narrow cave beside an oak tree several leagues from the southern coast. I’ve been here a little over two years, which would make me nineteen, or close to it. Day by day, I lose entire pages of memory, pages becoming chapters, chapters becoming my life. I even forget why I tried to save them. Childish twaddle about love and eternal life. Love. I would trade love and eternity both for a feather bed and a flagon of wine. When I do sleep, it’s dark and dreamless, never so much as a whisper of love. Though often of revenge.
I spend each day traveling the island looking for food and ingredients for spellcraft. I’m trying to make up for lost time; time spent waiting for him. For the first week I just sat on the beach, eyes fixed on the horizon, tormenting myself with the thought, is that a boat? Is that speck—that smudge—the first sign of his return? Every trick of the light, every mounting cloudbank showed me his face. Yet he never came. It took me the entire first year to accept that. To convince myself he never would.
I spent the next few months plotting my end. It pains me to recall my childish weakness for a man who ill-deserved my affection; who doesn’t even remember my name. I wanted to drown myself. I exposed myself to the wind and cold like a newborn. Yet I always faltered before the brink. I knew, somehow, that it was my lot to survive this. Otherwise, everything I had risked in my life, all those sacrifices, would be more than wasted; they would be despised. Every man would point to my bones and say, you see, daughter, what happens to women who delve into witchcraft and magic? Knowledge is the mark of a whore.
My cave, once a shelter of necessity, has become my residence of choice. I have luxuries, a space for dining, a cellar, and even a room for my bed, fashioned from the remains of the boat. I spent months cultivating the fish and berries of the island, learning what to eat, what to avoid (my stomach bears the bitter scars of that school). Once I began to regain my strength my thoughts returned to him, my beloved, who became less beloved every day. I had to repeat it to myself, over and over until it became as nourishing as air or water: he’s not coming for you. He never was. I began to see him enfolded in the arms some girl, the one who replaced me, his brothers looking on, laughing. I still remember their names: Hlodvir, Harald, Hallad. I’ve killed them a thousand times in my dreams.
Who is she, I wonder? Had he loved her all along? I remember our last night together, when we met in the woods and made love, greedily, knowing it would be the last time until our reunion (in life or death, as it may be). The look in his eyes wasn’t one of malice or betrayal. He wept for me. He grabbed me desperately, possessively; then held me like I was the most fragile creation under the banner of heaven. I still remember the brush of his beard against my neck, the earthy smell of his chest — bitter yet sweeter than the most fragrant summer night.
“You won’t be scared, Drifa?” he asked me.
“I’m always scared,” I admitted. “But at least this way, together, we still have hope. And that’s more than I would have without you.”
“I’m never far away, despite what it looks like. And I alone know where to find you. They never will.”
“And you’re sure they’ll go through with it?”
“You saw the letter,” he said, nodding darkly. “My brothers haven’t an ounce of sense or imagination between them. The one thing they share is fear. Fear of the unknown…fear of you.”
“Because I’m a witch?”
“Because you ask questions,” he said, kissing my head. “I hope one day we can find the answers. But not here, not in this world. We’ll find another.”
I admit I was carried away by it all: his assurance, his plan, our love. To save me, he bribed a merchant to smuggle me to an island, uninhabited, far from the trade routes. There I would wait a few weeks, no more, until he could hoodwink his brothers and make off with a vessel. Then we would flee together and make our fortunes in another land, under different names. We had spent the entire day poring through old books to find just the right ones: I would be Griselda; he, Antonio. That’s the very name I carved on the rock when I first made land. His true name is a curse and a secret. It will be the final ingredient of the spell.
***
The days become cloudy, but not the day I arrived: that remains in perfect relief, every detail like a spell I’ve rehearsed since childhood. I remember the passage was stormy, the merchant unsure. He feared trying to make landfall. I would have to swim for it, he wouldn’t wait any longer. I suspected a trap; there was no better way to kill me. We struggled and I managed to pull him over the side. The water-grip snatched him and hurled him against the rocks to his doom. I was luckier, so to speak; the boat was smashed to pieces, but I clutched to the debris and made a harrowing journey to shore. Of course I lost everything: food, clothing, gold, and all of Papa’s books.
Initially, that’s what terrified me the most: the books were meant to sustain me; not only the spells, but the words. I was to read them and imagine Papa with me. I roamed the shore like a madwoman searching for anything that might have washed ashore. Eventually I found some of my clothing, several pieces of the boat, even a bag of seed (which wouldn’t grow). I would be doomed to a sightless, wordless existence. Luckily, I had honed my mind to a cunning sharpness. I remembered many spells that kept me alive, kindled fires without wood, ensnared animals, hastened sleep. I even remembered a spell my father refused to teach me that I studied myself, in the dark hours, in secret. An unholy spell, which I promised myself I would never use, but would tuck away, as a desperate last resort. If only I had glimpsed desperation then as I know it now; I would have memorized a dozen such spells and never suffered a moment’s regret.
Once cast, the spell will bring him here for our long-delayed reunion. He will fall to his knees, begging my forgiveness, vowing he never forgot me; of course not, I’ll tell him, for I never for a single moment forgot you. And then, when he’s safely in my arms, I’ll murder him on my island. And here he will remain, his bones rotting in the cave while I sail home to complete my revenge.
I dream of it often, I admit. Sometimes I’m more forgiving than others; sometimes I lower the knife and let him speak. Of course he had his reasons. Of course he always meant to return. Only the boat foundered; the merchant betrayed him; his brothers found out; the dowry was too great; his bride too comely, her lips too sweet.
Unfortunately, I have so little to work with. Every ingredient has to be snatched, dug up, discovered, murdered. Even the runes will be difficult to write without the permanent ink of spellcraft. Lines in the dirt will blow away, and etchings in stone are stiff and clumsy. Only the sound of his laughter keeps me going, the thought of watching him squirm and claw his way to forgiveness with his dying breath. I want him to know that I haven’t forgotten him, that even though he’s lost my love he’s earned my hate. And I’ll hate him forever, constantly, like the stars that blaze in the night leading men across the seas to their lovers’ arms.
It’s not that I grudge him the right to fall in love again. I simply resent the fact that even now, as I sit in this earthen cell, there are lovers in the world who wake up together, who have never known a moment’s separation. I resent the fact that I’ve spent my summers in exile, watching my beauty fade and my life ebb to nothing while he…I can only imagine. I wasn’t meant to die here, to feel like this. Papa groomed me to be his successor, to carry on his secrets and experiments. I gave that up without a word of explanation. All so a man could exile me to an island without books, friends, or enough cinquefoil to cast a spell.
I wonder if Papa’s still alive. He might have survived my betrayal, knowing that I could never be happy in his world, wedged between malice and matrimony. But my absence…that would kill him. It was heartless to abandon him without a word, too cowardly to face him and speak the truth. That I, who was meant for greater things, had fallen in love like a common girl, with an all-too-common man.
I remember he once told me, “you’ll be tempted by love, by the sweet words of men, but it’s like the mirror of your face in the ice. Clear and beautiful, until it cracks and you plunge straight through.”
Had he never loved my mother, then? He rarely spoke of her, but she existed in the silence between us, especially as we drew apart. That’s why I never believed him, and in some ways continue to doubt his words. But I am drowning, Papa; I am freezing in the dark. So I cling to my revenge as the one thing that can protect me. I’m so close to completing the spell, but even I can’t search every bush and hillock on the island. I still need you, Papa. Not just your books, but your kindness, your wisdom. Sometimes I can barely remember the way you spoke to me in private. But I suppose that was a different girl, lost on an even more distant and deserted island.
I found footprints on the northwest shore. I generally avoid it, since nothing grows there, and it’s where I first made landfall, a cursed place. But something willed me, whether a sound or deep premonition. I sometimes see things, usually distant ships, or a figure in the moonbeam’s shadow. I’ve even seen him—but just once, and he melted in my embrace before I could kill him. But these were real. I bent down and examined them, tracing the size of the foot (much larger than mine) and its track and gait (moving fast toward the interior, away from my cave). I began toying with the idea that I’m not alone, that someone even more unfortunate than me has washed up on the island.
Unless…have they been here all along? I’ve never seen any signs of habitation, no fires or smoke. But I sometimes feel a presence. The ghosts of former inhabitants, or perhaps other doomed lovers such as myself. Surely I can’t be the only person who exiled themselves and lived to regret it? Or the only one who survived?
I still consider that, sometimes...that he’s here, too. Maybe he did follow me to the island, only to nurse a broken leg to starvation? Surely I would have found him by now, or at least heard his lament through the wail of wind and water? Unless, like the cinquefoil, our paths lay hidden from one another? That destiny wove its darkness between us?
I surprise myself when I flinch at the thought. Because I hope it’s not true. I cling to the idea that he betrayed me; that his brothers (or another woman, or his fickle nature) swayed his heart. I want my revenge, not love; not the remains of his body. Then I would have to repent, and bury my wounds, and find a way to live without hope—and I fear that would kill me.
I sharpen my blade against a rock, one of the few things that survived the crossing. Will I have the heart to do it? To kill him if I find him alive—or bury him when I find what remains? If only I had a spell to steel my purpose. But that, like most other spells, requires things I can’t possibly find on the island. I’ll have to dig it up deep within myself. I’ve failed everyone else in my life. I can’t fail my revenge.
***
And there he was. Heoden, giving orders to a servant while consulted a map of the island. At first I almost didn’t recognize him, as he had grown older, his hair whiter, his beard long. There was also a heaviness in his gait, a sense that he had suffered over the months and years of my absence. Good, but it’s not enough. He had so much more to learn.
I imagined he came here to cover up the evidence, to find my remains before my father did. For my father would come looking, or had, I’m sure of it. Too many questions had been asked, and he realized my bones could still betray him; or worse, my words, if someone found me alive.
I hid behind an outcropping, watching him, waiting for the servant to wander off. Heoden crouched on the sand, head in his hands, exhausted. The water washed over his feet, scattering sea foam in its wake. He reached down and bathed his hands in it, cupping entire handfuls over his head. A word escaped his lips, maybe no more than a wearied exclamation. I crept closer, almost ready to reveal myself; but not yet.
I felt the blade grow heavier in my grasp. It would take more than my revenge to kill him. I would have to cut out my remaining hope first, the hope that he still loved me, that he would throw himself at my feet, my name on his lips. I might even let him kiss me. But not even a kiss could slake my revenge.
His head cocked, hearing my approach. I cried out, almost dropped the blade as I stumbled backwards. It wasn’t too late; I could still run away, let him live, keep my illusions. Maybe I wasn’t ready to face them. Because I could only kill him once, and then I would have nothing, no more dreams of revenge. And what was I—who could I be—without them?
He turned to face me, though his eyes looked through me, never fixed on my own.
“Drifa?” he said, and it was a question.
He said it three times, each time less sure of himself. I dropped the blade, stepped forward, raising my hand in salute. I’m here, see me, my beloved. I never stopped waiting for your return.
But he suddenly turned away, his brow furrowed. The sea swept over his legs again, more gently this time, as if politely calling him away. He didn’t answer its call, nor answer my own, as I repeated his name several times, louder and louder.
His servant came running, heeding his master’s call.
“Did you find something, sir?”
“What? Oh—no, nothing. I was just tired, dreaming,” he said, shaking his head. “After so many years, you start to see things. And how many times have we been to this island?”
“At least twenty times, sir, over the years. But not as often as the Western Isles. Ever since we found that boat…”
“Yes, I was so sure of it then. But she’s not here, is she?” he asked, scooping up a pile of sand, letting it sift through his fingers. “Nothing I can touch, or hold, or take away. Nothing to tell her I never stopped looking for her. That I never forgot.”
“I’m sure she knows, sir…I’m sure she can see you. The dead never blame the living. They know we suffer far more than they do,” the servant smiled.
“The wound is still fresh,” he nodded, as the servant helped him up. “But one day, I know I’ll find something. I feel we’re so close, closer than ever before. Don’t you?”
“If you feel it, it must be true,” he said, bowing his head.
I watched them saunter off, returning to their boat on the eastern shore of the island. When they were gone, I knelt in the impression he left behind, now filled with seawater. I couldn’t feel its chill, the way it once chilled my bones. Nor did its saltiness sting my lips. There was only the calmness of the setting sun, the stillness of the air around me. The feeling of buoyancy as I was slowly washed away.
THE END