Free The Tale of Oriel by Cynthia Voigt Page A

where the brown hair hung down over the shoulders of the dark cloak.
    It took him a time to understand, again, what it was not to have any name.
    It took another time, more waves rolling up, to understand that he had no idea what it would be like to live without fear at his elbow, warning him, keeping him safe, keeping him frightened. Fear was stones in his mouth, their grey dry gritty taste, and stones a weight in his stomach, and stones pressing down on his heart so he couldn’t breathe. In a world where everything changed, the sky and the sea and even sometimes the land, and especially the mood of the sixth Damall, and even the faces of the boys changed as the older boys were tied at hands and ankles and taken to be sold—
    In that world, only fear was the same one day as it had been the day before, and would be the next day. It was fear of seeing sails on the water, sails that drew closer and became recognizable as the Damall’s boats, that governed him now, even though he had made an escape from the island.
    He couldn’t watch patiently, as Griff did. If they were to be pursued, and captured, and taken back—
    He couldn’t sit and wait. He walked off the rock and down along the water’s edge. Stones cut at the soles of his boots. He looked up at the stone cliffs. He looked across to where Griff sat watching the water. He looked out over the empty sea.
    Without their boat, this island would be a sentence of death. The high cliffs were too smooth to climb. The water was too shallow and stony for fish; there was no sand or mud for burrowing skals to live in; no blue-black skals clung to the rocks here, because the sea ran too strongly for seaweed to attach itself. No food, no water, no escape—this island could be a killing place.
    He crossed the beach to the cliffs. When he looked up from their base, they seemed to sway over his head, they seemed about to fall over onto him. Almost dizzy, he reached out to the stone.
    There were letters cut into the stone. His fingers felt them, and now he knew what to look for he could see them clearly, lines cut deep into solid rock and worn by weather. The letters formed words. The words were names, he thought, two of them close together while the other three were separated, each one alone.
    The two together were cut more deeply into the stone. They might have been carved with a knife, he decided, whereas the others were hacked roughly. A rough solitary name was under his hand. SANDO, he read, and then another solitary name, MILLAR, and then—its initial C as ragged as a scream—CORBEL. These names were at different heights and the letters differently shaped; these three must have come to the island at different times.
    The two names together, cut more narrowly, worn more smoothly, one above the other, were two who had been together, he thought. ORIEL, he read, and BERYL.
    He wondered—his fingertips tracing the O, the sun warm on his back—which names had been first carved, and how long ago, and if those made at a later time had been inspired by the sight of the earlier. Then he thought, he must be more weary than he guessed, not to recognize the gift.
    BERYL and ORIEL, weathered yet clear. He knew beryl, and he ran back to where Griff sat, looking seawards.
    â€œI found names carved in the cliff face,” he said. “As if people were maybe shipwrecked here. From a long time ago, but there’s no way of knowing how long, but—look—” He reached up under his shirt and his fingers worked their way down into the strip of cloth he had wound around and around his waist, concealed by both trousers and shirt. “There were two names together, Oriel and Beryl and—see?” He brought out what he had carried hidden among the windings of cloth, and unwrapped it.
    The green stone lay in the palm of his hand. Shafts of light seemed to lead the eye into its green heart.
    â€œYou can hold it if you want