‘Why yes,’ said Hal drily. ‘As it happens, I do. Don’t you?’
Ridley made a low frustrated growl. ‘I bloody well don’t want to – but, yes, I do. Or I’m beginning to – I don’t disbelieve it, let’s say. I can’t find any reason to. That bruise was no fake, nor the fall. The bushes’re all smashed there, a bit of cliff came with him – lucky he didn’t break his neck. And if he hadn’t fallen chummy might’ve broken it for him.’
‘Aye,’ said Harshaw, puffing his way back up the path. ‘Somebody bigger than him? Who’re we lookin’ for now – Boris bloody Karloff?’
‘Maybe. Whoever it is, they’ve obviously got it in for the dig. I’ll arrange some extra security, but you’d better tighten up your own arrangements too, Prof.’
‘I will, believe me –’ Hal shivered. ‘Can we talk about that indoors? I’m freezing, and it’s raining again –’
‘It’s not, you know,’ said Harshaw, shining his torch beam out into the dark. Small specks glittered and danced. ‘It’s snowing.’
CHAPTER FOUR
THE WIND whined along the winding streets of the little town and twisted around its rooftops. The houses were huddled stacks of greyness, relieved only by the occasional speck of gold escaping between drawn curtains; sunset had drained the bright colours from their walls and paintwork, the red from their rooftiles. To Jay Colby, looking down the steep coils of Hill Street, it seemed as if time had faded with the daylight, as if Saitheby’s past and present hung suspended in a brief moment of shadow. Soon the streetlights would come on and reassert the twentieth century, but for now they were still thinking about it, sullen red smears in the gloom that might have been reflections from cooking fires, a forge, the embers of a ritual balefire on the hills. For now he could see himself stalking down an older street, between rows of wattle and plank walls on stone foundations, tramping down muddy board steps or rough cobbles, a long sword slapping against his thigh, in time with the soft rippling ring of his mail-shirt –
The chill wind sliced painfully across his bruised face. His sinuses ached and began to run, and he hesitated to sniff too hard in case he started his nose bleeding again. He shivered, and pulled up the fur-lined collar of his expensive bomber jacket. He was feeling light-headed and slightly sick; a full day’s grilling by the police had undone any improvement brought about by the night in hospital. Not that they’d worked him over, except verbally; it was their goddam asshole stupidity that had got him so worked up, their mindless moronic obsession with the idea that he – he, of all people – could possibly have been the one who’d –
Anger and humiliation knotted his muscles, and he shuddered again, feeling the aches return in his bruised back and ribs. Me, of all people! Sweet friggin’ Jesus, how many times do I have to tell you I was trying to friggin’ catch them! And if I had – He smiled grimly, despite the bruise, and slipped back into his favourite fantasy. How would they have dealt with these wrecking bastards, these vandals, grave-robbers, secret murderers – how would the Norsemen have treated crappy scum like that? If he’d been born one of them – not those farmer types who’d let the old faith slip, but the later ones, the warriors who’d reconquered the place in the days of Erik – then he’d have known what to do. No warrior’s death for them – the snake-pits, burning, chaining them to a skerry for the tide to take care of … Back came the sickness and the mass of wincing pains, and he snarled. A pair of passing teenyboppers actually giggled. His favourite fantasies held little comfort for him tonight.
And he’d have to face the boys like this, with the bruise on his face like the brand of a contemptuous slap. What would they think, that cocky asshole Kingfield, dumbo Ashe? Ten to one they’d know all about the fuzz, too – where would that leave him, in their eyes? Maybe too low, too close to their own level. And that could be dangerous. More than once he’d had to whip them into line, stop them making stupid jokes or coarse corruptions of things he knew were vitally important, sacred. He’d left his mark on one or two – easy, like taming animals. That was all they were; put on a good enough show, play natural leader of the pack, and they’d never question it, just roll over and wave their little legs in the air. But let the act slip, the mask drop, and what then? In nature, the pack could be merciless. And while he could whip any one of them, maybe any two, could he take them all at once? Not the way he felt now. The hospital guys had said nothing was broken, but there were other things breakable besides bones, things as slow and hard to heal. He’d have to stop off at the doss and pick up his bike, whether he felt well enough to ride it or not. Tonight was important – crucial. He’d have to bluff it out, distract them – lay on something special, some entertainment. Toss them a girl, maybe – but it wasn’t so long since the last time, and it could cause more cop trouble if she turned squeamish. Something better …
Paul Harvey stared dubiously down at the so-called hamburger in front of him. The plate was oval, the rest of it barely filled by a spoonful of tinned peas and an inadequate scoop of frozen chips. Over these the burger, overflowing its inadequate bun, was leaking greyish grease; more flowed out as he nervously dug in his fork. In the first mouthful greasiness seemed to be the main distinction between burger and bun. No bloody wonder the cafe was empty! Still, it was cheap, warm and bright, an oasis in a gloomy twilit desert; the only decent pubs had all seemed too crowded and too expensive. The cash saved eating here would let him go to the pub with the rest tomorrow evening. But that thought somehow didn’t cheer him up; in an odd way he almost felt more comfortable here, on his own, than in among the crowd of diggers. They all seemed to know each other too well, to have things to talk about he couldn’t latch on to, private jokes he couldn’t understand. He was the latest arrival, probably the last: there was nobody else who’d come this late, and nobody else his own age. Should that matter? He couldn’t quite see why. He didn’t feel like a child, they didn’t seem to be treating him like one – and yet he couldn’t fit in on their level. Jess, for example – he really disliked her, she always seemed to be turning her razor-sharp tongue on him and he couldn’t keep up with it. There were some unattached girls, as he’d hoped there would be, but all in their twenties; if he made a play for one, even one of the plain ones, she’d be bound to laugh at him, or go all big-sisterly – which would just about be worse. The people he got on best with, oddly enough, seemed to be the older ones – Neville, and Harry, even Hal in his rather distant way. The thought almost choked him on his burger. God, was he looking for father-figures or something? It certainly didn’t feel that way. There was Jay, after all – no ancient, and he was easy enough to get on with, whatever some others said. But after hours, of course, he seldom hung around with the diggers. And Pru – she was definitely okay, but she was always letting herself be messed about by that scrote Wilf, God alone knew why. If she ever saw through Jackson, he might just have a chance there … If.
The crash of the door, bell tinkling, and a burst of raucous laughter made him jump. He groaned inwardly as he saw two oafish biker types saunter in, swinging crash-helmets, and squeeze in behind the big table opposite. The surly middle-aged woman behind the counter turned even surlier at the sight of them. Before the door had shut itself it was flung back again, and a whole crew of them streamed in, leathers squeaking and boots clomping, carrying a stink of sweat and oil and cheap cigarettes. And last of all, to Paul’s surprise, came Jay Colby.
So these were his famous friends! Paul had seen them only once before, anonymous menacing shapes surging along the main street on deafening, smoky bikes. Now, dismounted, he found them a lot less impressive; they were mostly ordinary local yobbos, and substandard ones at that, paler, weaker specimens than their contemporaries from the farms or the fishing boats. Only two came anywhere near Colby’s size, a great rawboned thug with a skinhead crop and small lifeless eyes, and a fat ox-like character with a doughy, stupid face fringed with unkempt red hair; the American, undoing his sleek racing-style helmet, literally towered over them all.
Colby was just slumping down in the last chair when he registered Paul, shrinking back into his corner. All he did was wave and smile before shouting to the woman for ten large coffees and every doughnut in the place. Paul smiled and returned the wave, then tried to look genuinely interested in what remained of his hamburger and not to stare at Colby’s bruise. Gossip about last night’s events had filtered through even to Paul, and he was impressed by the way Jay had gone haring off after those maniacs; imagining himself in that position, he decided he’d have tiptoed away and called the cops. Perfectly sensible, and yet the thought made him uncomfortable, inadequate somehow; he wished he could be brave rather than sensible – or did he?
The bikers were in a rowdy mood, hurling obscure insults at each other, and an uncomfortable feeling began to grow on Paul that some of the row might be aimed at him. He fought down an urge to leave hurriedly, abandoning his dinner; they’d know he was afraid of them then, and he’d learnt how school bullies reacted to that, the hard way. Still – he cast a quick, nervous glance at the door, and caught Colby’s eye. The big American mouthed something he couldn’t hear, then rounded on his friends and growled ‘Shaddap!’ They subsided, but Colby still got up, strolled over and perched on his table.
‘Hi! What you eatin’ there – Jesus, not one of Ma Ashe’s burgers, that’s playin’ with fire!’
‘It’s okay,’ said Paul defensively, forcing himself to swallow a last slimy mouthful. ‘Keeps me going –’
‘Yeah!’ grunted Colby, with a wealth of meaning, ‘they tend to. Worse than Mexico, this place – you could catch the Viking Twostep, Erik’s Revenge. What on earth makes you eat in a hole like this, anyhow?’
‘Oh, couldn’t be bothered cooking, got a bit bored with the pub,’ Paul mumbled. ‘And all the decent cafes crawling with tourists –’
‘Yeah, always are on Odd Dance days,’ agreed Colby. ‘God knows why, it’s about as entertaining as senior citizens’ disco night.’
‘Not real folk-dancing at all, is it?’ Paul agreed. ‘Ye Olde Tea-Shoppe stuff –’
‘Ye Olde Crap!’ laughed the American. Then he stopped, looked round at the sullen knot of bikers, and thought for a moment. ‘Wasn’t always that way, though. Times were it was real, religious, meaningful …’
Paul nodded. ‘Yes, I read something about that …’
‘Aw, you mean all the Victorian guys, Cecil Sharp and the rest? Okay, but they were just speculatin’ – I know.’
‘How’d you mean, Jay? You’ve found out something new? While you were doing your thesis?’
‘Thesis? Shit, no – in a thesis you tell them exactly what they expect to hear! You take my advice, don’t try anything too original in yours – wait till you’ve got it, then they can’t touch you.’
‘I’ll have enough trouble getting my first degree …’
‘You? Hell, no, forget it, guy like you can walk through that same’s me. The secret’s being interested – really livin’ your subject, see? And you’re the type okay. All this, the dig, it isn’t just a big giggle or cheap holiday or degree experience or another rung up the ladder or whatever – you care. It means something to you, what we’re comin’ up with – bringing the old world back to life. The whole Norse thing – the dragon ships, the swords, the myths, gods, giants, heroes –’
‘Maybe. I did expect more of the dig people to feel that way –’
‘They sure as hell should, but they don’t. Jeesus, look at Jackson, what’s he care? He’d be just as happy diggin’ up gold potatoes –’
‘But Hal cares, doesn’t he?’
Colby’s face clouded. ‘Once he did, I guess. Now he’s so goddam established, he’s dried out – knows his stuff okay, but like the pages of a book. Putting flesh back on it, tits, balls, the rest, that’d scare him. There’re things I’ve come up with I’d never want to tell him – but I’d tell you. Such as a real, genuine ritual that’s as old as that boat out there –’ Colby’s voice had dropped to a murmur, and there was a frosty glint in his eyes. ‘That might just interest you, right?’
‘You mean – something Viking? Christ, Jay, that’s impossible –’
‘Sshh,’ said Colby quietly. ‘Hush up, for now. Come meet the boys.’
Paul suddenly liked that idea a lot less, but he’d look a prize idiot if he refused. He got up and followed Colby awkwardly over. Colby waved at him. ‘Hey now, you guys – this is Paul here, friend of mine from the dig. Good guy. Paul, that’s Billy on the end, Rat, Charlie Boot, the Hog –’ The nicknames were pathetic, shadows of toughness that fooled nobody. Paul wondered if he was supposed to shake hands or something, but nobody offered; they waved or grinned idiotically, mumbled ‘Hi!’ amiably enough. Colby left the ox and the thug till last. ‘And on this end here Joe Ashe – yeah, this is his ma’s place, why else you think we’d risk it – and Steve Kingfield.’ Paul noticed they were the only two he’d given surnames. Ashe grunted something into his ragged beard, Kingfield just looked at him with dead eyes as if he was something the cat dragged in.
‘Take a seat, Paul,’ said Colby, looking round at the counter; the woman had retired to the kitchen behind and was angrily clattering pots and pans. ‘See, what I was telling you – it was through Joe here I found out about it. Just when I came here, last year – I’d gone down to the season’s first Odd-Dance performance, wasn’t thrilled but Harry’d told me it was a good place to pull tourist chicks. Caught Joe hangin’ round my wheels, we got to talking, smoked a little something. I was puttin’ down the dance, and he told me he knew the real one and the special place for it. Came down in the family, right, Joe?’
Ashe glared suspiciously at Paul and said nothing. Colby leaned across and prodded him hard in his beer belly, and he looked sullenly down at the stained tabletop. ‘Aye, well. Me grandpa, soom of ’is mates, they used to go oop there for luck fishin’. Took me once, when I were just a nipper, made me learn t’words ’n’ all. Steve’s pa were there ’n’ all, Hog’s uncle, Boots’ grandpa – they made us all learn ’n’ swear never to tell. But they’re all dead now. Us, we did it a couple of times, for fun like, but didn’t reckon much on it. Not till Jay coom along.’
‘Yeah, he mentioned he an’ his friends still had a go sometimes. Didn’t think much of it at first, till he told me a few of the details and I could piece together what it genuinely was. Paul, it was real! Guess you can imagine how I felt –’
‘Real? How d’you mean, real?’
Colby’s eyes blazed under his heavy brows. ‘It was the Odin rite! The ancient ritual of worship to the god! The ritual they used at the Fern Farm temple, more’n a thousand years after it was destroyed – real, live and damn near intact! Now d’you understand?’
All Paul could do was goggle. ‘You mean – people round here still worshipped –’
‘Hell, no! They didn’t know, they’d forgotten. These boys’d never heard of Odin till I told them.’ Colby rapped a long finger on the table. ‘See, the way I see it is, it must’ve been some of the local pagans going on worshipping the old gods in secret – probably ’cause they were afraid the harvests and the fish catch would fail, we know that’s how the Norsemen saw things. Then later their descendants forgot the actual god behind it all, just kept it up as a fertility ritual – or to spite the Church. Maybe in the Middle Ages or whenever they thought it was witchcraft, devil worship, I don’t know. I do know they had a hell of a witch scare in these parts later on.’
Paul shook his head, with an incredulous half laugh. ‘But – Christ, Jay, it’s just not possible! It couldn’t really have gone on that long, could it?’
There was an angry rumble from the bikers. ‘Easy, boys,’ soothed Colby. ‘He’s only asking. Sure it could, Paul. You’ve been reading about the other dances round here – country’s lousy with ’em, isn’t it? Well, what’ve they all got in common?’
Paul shrugged. ‘Lots of things – steps, patterns, chants – they all use swords –’
‘Right!’ s
napped Colby. ‘And they damn near all have kind of a ritual beheading, don’t they? Makes it likely they were pagan rites once, too, doesn’t it?’
‘Well – yes. But there’s nothing secret about them, they’re out in the open –’
‘Sure. Which is why they don’t look like much any more. The Christian Church got to them, it sanitised them, castrated them. Ever seen that old Anglo-Saxon cross in the Scotch churchyard? It’s been out in the wind an’ weather all these centuries, it’s almost worn away, you can’t read the inscription. But the ones like it that got buried in the ground, they’re still pretty clear. That’s the way it is with the dance – believe me. Sure, something was bound to leak out from time to time – so you got the witch trials. And I guess somebody in Victorian, Edwardian times blabbed to some collector or other. But either he didn’t know very much, or the collector was too goddam ignorant to see what he had, he just forced it into the strait-jacket of the local sword-dance style. Saitheby had to have a local dance, it had to be like all the others, right? Very Victorian. But even that version’s got a little somethin’ extra, hasn’t it? Guess that’s why it’s so popular with the tourists. And meanwhile the real dance just went on.’
‘But you say its meaning got forgotten –’
‘More like blurred. There’s a chant that went with it, sounds just like nonsense rhymes now, but anyone who knew Old Norse could still pick out the words. There’re all kinds of things in it, words, acts, that didn’t mean a thing to these guys, but they hit me like a ton of bricks. See, all anybody’s ever found about the ritual is a few fragments in the sagas, the Eddas, other sources. An’ now here was the whole damn thing on a plate – just a bit covered in dirt, like any find. Wipe away the dirt, and – Jeesus, I went wild! I had to see it, take part – and when I did –’ He shrugged. ‘That was it. I knew. The boys, they’d just done it for fun, ’cause it was somethin’ secret. An’ the place was good for takin’ chicks, right?’ The bikers guffawed knowingly.
The Ice King Page 9
