She Wolf

by Dan Smith

  The sea faded, and the valley filled with swirling flakes of snow that danced in the ever-changing wind. Unable to see more than a short distance in front of her, Ylva pressed on and on. She kept close to the shore, afraid she would lose her way and end up walking in circles. She didn’t even look back, searching for the wolves. There was nothing she could do about them. All she could do was keep moving.

  When she thought she was nearing the village, she veered away from the sea, heading further inland. For a while she wondered if it had been a mistake to lose the beach as a point of reference, but finally a dark shape appeared out of the storm like a ghost ship from a misty sea. Coming closer, she made out what she guessed was the village wall, and felt a sudden and overwhelming sense of relief. Safety was within reach; a place to be warm and comfortable.

  But Ylva’s relief began to slip away when she passed an ancient, decaying cart. And when she entered the open village gates, she saw that the deep snow along the paths between the huts was untouched. To her left, one side of the town was just a silhouette in the storm, but to her right, it was evident where the weather had taken its toll on the wooden buildings, and no one had made any attempt to repair them. Every inch of ground was thick with snow. Roofs were broken, shutters were cracked, wooden walls were rotten away. It dawned on her that this was not an occupied village.

  Seatun was abandoned.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ She spoke to the wind as her heart sank. ‘You let me think there were people here.’ She turned on the spot, frustration building. An overwhelming sense of hopelessness settled in her hollow stomach. She had come so far. Survived so much. She had struggled to this place with the promise of hope flickering inside her. But now she saw the truth of Seatun.

  ‘There’s no one here. There hasn’t been anyone here for years.’ She turned her face to the sky. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? You let me think . . .’ But she was too frustrated to speak. Her throat was constricted. She clenched her jaw and squeezed her eyes shut. Seatun wasn’t a safe haven. Seatun wasn’t a place to find help or hope. Seatun was just a convenient place to meet; a forgotten place where no one would ever think to search for her. And when she stared out towards the sea, with the wind in her face, she knew what must have happened to Seatun.

  The bay was a perfect place for Viking raiders to draw their boats ashore. They would have taken everything, and killed everyone.

  When she had composed herself, Ylva turned to look back the way she had come, as if she could look through the storm, the mountains, the trees, all the way to where Cathryn lay beneath a mound of stones in Barghest Caves.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me? You could’ve told me.’

  Freezing cold, standing in the middle of an abandoned town, Ylva’s disappointment and despair threatened to overcome her. She was tempted to sit down in the snow and let nature take her.

  No. You still have to keep your promise to Mother. You have to stay alive. There’s no other option. You have to avenge us.

  Thinking the words, imagining Geri using them, Ylva longed for him to be with her. Every fibre in her body ached to see him, to hold him again. He always kept her strong when she needed him. And as she stood gathering her resolve, making herself strong, Ylva realized she was not alone in Seatun.

  A dark and ghostly shape was moving close by, blurred by the storm.

  As soon as she saw it, everything was forgotten. All that mattered now was the shape; a shape that was too tall to be a wolf.

  Freki squirmed, trying to escape, but Ylva ignored him. She kept her eyes on the blurred silhouette and raised her axe, coiling herself ready to strike as the figure loomed closer. Lean and dark, almost indistinguishable beneath his cloak, the boy stopped no more than a few paces away from her.

  ‘It’s you.’ Ylva kept her axe ready but stayed where she was.

  Bron held a bow in his hands. The supple wood was curved, the string was pulled back, and an arrow was aimed directly at Ylva’s heart.

  ‘Point that thing somewhere else.’ Ylva lowered her weapon. ‘We need to get inside. There are wolves following me.’

  The boy stared at her for a long while, then shifted his eyes to glance into the storm.

  ‘Cathryn’s gone,’ Ylva said. ‘She fell on her knife and . . .’ She dropped her arm. ‘She’s gone.’

  Bron kept the bow pointed at Ylva. It was as if the storm had frozen him solid right where he stood.

  ‘We have to get inside,’ Ylva said again.

  Bron grunted once, then lowered the bow and moved past her, heading deeper into Seatun. Ylva followed a few paces behind, walking among the houses towards a pair of larger buildings that were set back from the others.

  The boy led Ylva to the smith’s workshop and went inside. The dim, dark room had a bare dirt floor and smelt like wood and dust and fire. A small amount of grey light filtered through the shutters on either side at the back – just enough for Ylva to see that whoever worked here had left all their belongings behind. Horseshoes hung from nails hammered into the roof beams, criss-crossed with cobwebs that fluttered in the draught. A worktable was strewn with blackened, dust-laden tools. More hung from hooks, creaking as they swung in the wind that fingered through the cracks in the walls. A pair of old saddles lay slumped in one corner like dead beasts. Beside them was a collection of barrels – some cut in half and full of stagnant water.

  There was a crude bed of straw and fur close to the stone forge in the centre of the back wall, suggesting that Bron had been here a while already.

  ‘We need a fire.’ Ylva approached the forge. ‘I’ll make one in here.’

  The boy shook his head. He touched two fingers to his eyes and pointed them away towards the wall.

  ‘You think someone will see?’

  Bron nodded.

  ‘No one can see anything in this storm, and we need a fire or we’ll freeze to death.’ There were still remnants of charred wood and ash in the furnace, but they were cold and long dead. Beside it, the supply of wood and charcoal was dusty and strung with cobwebs.

  Ylva put Freki down to let him investigate the room as she built the fire. She used a splash of lamp oil she found in a barrel, and within minutes the wood was roaring. She fed it with charcoal to help it burn hotter, and busied herself lighting some of the lamps she found hanging from nails on the pillars that supported the roof. As she waited for the warmth to fill the room, she sat on the stone forge surround, wrapped her arms around herself, and watched Freki sniffing about the room.

  Bron sat on the opposite side of the forge, but Ylva couldn’t bring herself to look at him.

  ‘I tried to stop the bleeding, but she had a fever,’ she said after a while.

  Pain contorted the boy’s face as he forced a whispered word from his lips. ‘Where?’

  It took Ylva by surprise. She hadn’t expected him to speak. ‘Barghest Caves. I buried her there.’

  Bron stood up. He turned and made for the door.

  ‘Wait,’ Ylva called after him. ‘Where are you going?’

  Bron ignored her and pulled the door open. As soon as he did, the wind blasted into the workshop, bringing the snow with it.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Ylva secured Freki’s leash to stop him from escaping the workshop, then went after Bron. She moved slowly. Her whole body was aching and stiff from her fall to the valley floor, so Bron was already in the stable next door when she caught up with him. His chestnut horse was in one of the stalls, and he was about to lift a saddle over its back, so Ylva grabbed his cloak and pulled him hard.

  Bron dropped the saddle and glared at her. He pointed a thumb at his chest then at the horse before pointing outside.

  ‘You’re going to take the horse out in this storm?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You want to go to the cave? Is that where you’re going? To do what? It’s half a day’s ride in good weather, but now? With a horse that’s tired and hungry? It’s too far. And there are wolves out there. A whole pack of t
hem.’

  Bron stooped to pick up the saddle, so Ylva grabbed his cloak again. ‘You’ll never make it,’ she said.

  The boy pulled against her.

  ‘I won’t let you.’

  Bron shoved Ylva hard, trying to push her away, but she held on to his cloak and they both went down into the stale straw. Bron fell on top of her, his full weight pushing her down so that Ylva couldn’t breathe. Her face was smothered by Bron’s cloak and she struggled beneath him, freeing her arms and reaching up to beat at his back, scratch at the side of his head. She kicked her feet and brought her knees up to hurt him. ‘I won’t let you!’ she shouted. ‘I won’t let you leave me!’

  Bron pushed away from her, fighting off her flailing attack. He fell sideways and Ylva took advantage of the moment, spinning around and climbing on top of him. She sat astride his chest, and raised her fists to hit him, but before she could land a single blow, Bron reached up and put the blade of his knife against her throat.

  Ylva stopped.

  She looked down into the boy’s eyes. ‘You want to kill me? Then do it. Kill me and let this all be finished. Make it all go away.’

  But Ylva’s cloak had loosened during their struggle. Bron had pulled her scarf away, and now his expression softened as he stared at what she had been hiding beneath the wool.

  A narrow ring of crude, black iron was fastened around her neck. A slave collar that rubbed her skin raw.

  As soon as Ylva understood that he had seen it, she looked away.

  Bron lowered the knife and let his hand fall to the floor.

  35

  Friend

  Ylva and Bron kept to opposite sides of the workshop, as if a great sea flowed between them. Bron stayed by his bed, close to the furnace, while Ylva rested her aching back against a tree stump with a battered anvil on top of it.

  Bron knew she was a slave – that she was wearing an iron collar – but she had adjusted the scarf to cover it anyway. She didn’t want him to look at it.

  The pup bustled about the room with his nose to the ground, pleased not to be squashed inside Ylva’s cloak any more. He sniffed every corner, investigated every shadow, then went around to check them all again. Finally, he settled beneath the worktable, close to where Ylva was sitting.

  The longer Ylva looked at him, the more he faded into the gloom. His black fur camouflaged him in the darkness beneath the table, and unless Ylva blinked, he began to look like nothing more than a dark blur staring out at her with mismatched eyes.

  ‘Cathryn wanted me to kill him and leave him with his dead mother.’ Ylva didn’t look at Bron when she spoke to him. ‘She understood why I didn’t, though. She saw why.’

  Ylva extended her hand towards the pup. ‘It’s not just because they killed my dog. It’s not that. I know Freki can’t replace him. It’s because, in a way, he’s like me, and . . . and Cathryn said we deserved each other. She said it was because we’re both as wild as each other. Even with a collar. But I’m no wilder than you, Bron. Probably not even as wild as you. So he’s like you too.’

  The pup sniffed the air and inched forward, bringing his nose closer. He stayed that way for a moment, then shoved his nose into Ylva’s hand and put out his tongue to lick her palm.

  ‘She told me to leave her.’ Ylva looked over at Bron and their eyes met. ‘In the caves. We stopped there for two nights and I cleaned the wound, put some moss on it, but I couldn’t stop the fever. That’s when she said I should leave her, but I couldn’t, so I stayed with her until she was gone.’ Ylva chewed the inside of her cheek. ‘I think she was a good person. I liked her.’

  Bron sighed. There was a deep change in his expression, and when he looked away, Ylva lowered her eyes to the pup and ran her hand over his head.

  On the opposite side of the workshop, Bron got to his feet. He came to stand in front of Ylva and look down at her sitting against the tree stump. He paused, then turned to the table and rummaged through the dusty tools, sending spiders scuttling for cover. When he found what he was looking for, he crouched in front of Ylva and reached out to move her scarf. Ylva put up her hands to resist, so Bron stopped and showed her what he had taken from the table.

  Understanding what he was going to do, Ylva allowed him to remove the scarf, and she watched his eyes as he lifted the metal shears and cut through the fastening at the front of her collar. It took all his strength, but when it was done, he placed the shears on the floor beside him and took the collar from around Ylva’s neck. He held it out for her to take.

  ‘They didn’t always make us wear them.’ She let it hang open in her fingers. ‘Our owner wasn’t even all that bad. Much better than some of the others. I played with his children, ate with his family. He never beat or sacrificed his slaves, but no one should own another person, should they? And even when I wasn’t wearing this –’ she threw the collar to one side – ‘I still had this.’ Ylva pulled the neck of her tunic across to show Bron the blue mark tattooed on the front of her left shoulder.

  ‘Mother told me it means “fehu”,’ she said. ‘Cattle. My owner put it there when I was born. To show I was his property.’

  Bron put the scarf back around Ylva’s neck and pulled her cloak tight. He gave her a sad smile and put the index finger of each hand together as if they were hooking one another.

  ‘Friend,’ he said.

  When Bron sat down in front of her, Ylva asked him, ‘Did you already know? About that?’ She looked at the iron collar lying on the floor.

  Bron nodded. He put both hands on the right side of his face, palms open, and tilted his head.

  ‘You saw it when I was sleeping? In the trader’s hut? So you always knew?’

  He nodded again.

  ‘I didn’t want anyone to know. Mother said it was dangerous. Runaway slaves get beaten. People do horrible things to them and . . .’ She put a hand into her hair and tugged on it. She couldn’t believe they had known all this time. It made her feel foolish. But there was also a sense of weight lifting from her shoulders. At least for now, she didn’t need to lie any more. Not to Bron, anyway. She had nothing to hide from him now, and nothing to fear from him. He was her friend.

  ‘Why did you come to England?’ His voice was quiet and hoarse.

  ‘Our owner said this place belonged to the Danes now.’ Ylva took her hand from her hair and put it to her neck, where the skin was free from the iron collar. ‘Someone told him there was good farmland, but he shouldn’t have crossed the sea in winter. Not when the waves are bigger than mountains. We were blown off course, and when we landed, we were attacked before we even escaped the beach. Saxons murdered everyone. I suppose they must hate Vikings.’ She closed her eyes at the memory of it. Slaves she had known all her life were killed that day. Her owner, too, his wife and children, other men and women from their village. None of them had deserved to die like that; not even her owner. ‘The sea and the sand were red with blood,’ she said. ‘So much blood.’

  Telling her story, saying the words out loud, was like rubbing ointment on a deep wound. It didn’t heal the injury, but it softened the pain, and tears of grief threatened to come. But Ylva bit them back. This was not the time. Her tears would have to wait.

  ‘Mother and I escaped into the forest with Geri, and when the Saxons were gone, we went back to take whatever they’d left, anything we could use, but there wasn’t much more than a knife and a loaf of bread. And then we set off to find . . . I don’t know. Something better.’ She chewed her lips and looked through her hair at Bron. ‘We didn’t find anything better, though, did we? And now I’m like you. Alone.’

  ‘No,’ Bron whispered. ‘We’re not alone.’

  36

  The Call of the Wild

  Outside, the wind picked up, blowing through the ghostly village. And in that emptiness, a single wolf howled once. It was not distant, as it had been in the forest; this sound was loud and close, and there was no doubt it had come from somewhere in the village.

  The pup took
to his feet in Ylva’s lap. His ears pricked up and he stood stock-still. A quiet growl rumbled in his throat before he lost his courage and leapt down to disappear under the workbench. Ylva stayed where she was, hardly daring to breathe, but the village remained quiet. The only sound was the wind whistling through the cracks in the walls, and the gentle squeak and rattle of tools swinging from their fixings.

  Bron looked up at her. He shaped two fingers into an upward ‘V’, like the ears of an animal.

  ‘Wolf,’ Ylva said.

  Bron nodded.

  Ylva drew her axe and went to the door. She tested it was locked, then scanned the room to see if there were any places where the wolves might get in. ‘They came last night,’ she said. ‘To the cave. They took my horse, and now they’ve followed me here. What do they want? Are they hungry?’

  Bron made the sign for wolf again. Then he put his fingers to his mouth before pointing at Ylva and himself while shaking his head.

  ‘Wolves don’t eat people?’ Ylva guessed. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Well they want something. We have to check the walls.’ Some of the wood was weather-worn and rotten right through, so Ylva lifted one of the lamps from its nail and made her way around the workshop, testing the boards. She held the light close to look for weak spots, and pushed her weight against each one in turn. ‘Help me.’

  Bron checked the door, just as Ylva had done. Then he took another lamp and began to test the walls, working his way around the room in the opposite direction.

  When Ylva came to the window on the left side of the back wall, she secured the shutter before making her way past the forge towards the window on the other side.

  She put her face close to cracks in the shutter and held the lamp high. She looked out into the swirling white of the snowstorm blowing through the silent village. ‘I see something.’

  Bron hung his lamp back on its nail and grabbed his bow. He drew an arrow from the quiver and came to Ylva’s side in time to see a dark shape sweep past the window. He glanced at Ylva and pointed two fingers upwards, like ears.