the family’s senior woman and senior man. For all her complaints about it, Zesi seemed filled with energy by the burden of her dual role.
But Ana became aware that the priest hadn’t replied.
‘I did wonder,’ Jurgi said slowly, ‘if Ana might be the one to bear Mama Sunta’s bones to the midden.’
‘I’m capable of doing it,’ Zesi said. ‘And I’m older.’
‘Of course you are capable. But custom doesn’t dictate that the oldest should do this.’
Zesi sounded sceptical. ‘Then what does custom dictate?’
‘That whoever was the last companion of the dead should be chosen. Ana, Sunta was with you on the night of your blood tide. You should be with her now.’
Ana knew that Zesi didn’t like to be away from the centre of things. But after a long pause Zesi said, ‘Fine. That’s fitting. I’ve got plenty to do anyhow.’ She stood, unwinding her long legs, and grudgingly kissed the top of Ana’s head. ‘Say goodnight to Mama Sunta for me.’
So it was decided.
The next morning, just before dawn, the priest called again at the Seven Houses. Glimpsed through the flap of Ana’s house, he was a silent, spectral figure, with his deer-skull mask hanging eerily at his neck and his charm bag slung at his waist, a fold of ancient seal hide.
Ana had barely slept. The thought of what she must do today filled her with dread. Perhaps that was the owl within her, battling with her spirit. But she slid off her pallet, pulled on her skin boots, and wrapped her winter sealskin cloak over her shoulders.
She glanced around the dark house. Gall was asleep, flat out on his pallet, face down, mouth open, nose squashed out of shape, snoring. The hair sprouted thickly on his bare back, and in the dim light of the fire Ana saw an infestation of bugs stirring through that greasy forest.
Zesi was awake, however; Ana saw her eyes bright in the firelight.
And Shade rolled out of bed. She saw that he had his boots and cloak ready by the side of his pallet.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Coming with you,’ he whispered back. ‘To the midden.’
‘Oh, no, you’re not.’ She glared at the priest, beyond the door flap. ‘Is this your doing, Jurgi?’
The priest spread his hands. ‘We need somebody to dig. Shade said he’d do it. Would you rather do it yourself?’
‘Please,’ Shade said. ‘I knew Sunta too.’
Jurgi beckoned. ‘We’ll discuss this outside. Don’t wake the others.’
But of course, once they got outside, all three bundled up in their winter cloaks, and Jurgi had handed Shade his shovel made of a deer’s shoulder bone, there was no point debating it any more. Ana stomped away, with bad grace.
The laying-out platform was set up on a dune matted with marram grass. It was a frame of precious driftwood, taller than a person, long enough for three adults to be laid end to end - or several infants.
The priest and Shade stood by while Ana climbed a step up to the platform. Here was Mama Sunta, a bundle of ragged deerskin and bones and bits of flesh. At least there was no sign of the growth that had eaten her from within. The bones were cold and shone with dew.
From this slight elevation, Ana looked around. It was still not yet dawn; the sky was a high grey-blue, scattered with cloud. The air was very cold, and the dew was heavy. Mama Sunta had lived out her whole long life in this place, and Ana saw traces of Sunta’s long life and her work wherever she looked. From here the Seven Houses were all visible, and Sunta’s own home was a mound of kelp thatch the deep green of the sea. The ground between the houses was thoroughly trampled. On the landward side, downwind from the prevailing breezes, was a waste pit and racks where early-season fish were drying. Sunta had always been the best cook. A rubbish tip was full of broken tools and bits of old bone and stone, hide and cloth. Sunta had always emphasised to the children that nothing was ever discarded here, just put aside until it came in handy. A space trampled flat and stained with old blood was used for butchery, and in a smaller area nearby stone was worked. Both places had been barred to the children by Sunta, for fear of their bare feet tearing on flint shards or bone scraps.
A dormouse scuttled past Ana’s feet, fresh out of its hibernation, busy already, early