She was pointing at me.
I shouldn’t have moved. I should have stayed motionless and waited to see if she had, but I didn’t. I let out a small gasp before covering my mouth with a hand. The noise, though soft, only confirmed their suspicions. Within seconds, the camp was swarming. The bear lay forgotten on the ground, skinned and still, while the giants scrambled towards me in a frenzy. Forced to sacrifice cover for speed, I stood and turned, ready to bolt in the opposite direction as fast as my shaking legs could carry me. I tried to run, tried to force my body away, but instead I lost my footing on the slick rocks around me and plunged to the earth.
My head swiped against a stone on the way down, and before I knew it, there was only darkness.
Chapter 21
Crackling fire. Heavy grunts. The clatter of what sounded like…
Bones.
Long, thick bones surrounded me, tied together to form a sort of makeshift cage. They were just close enough together that I couldn’t fit through the cracks, but far enough apart that I could see the rest of the camp. The bear roasted over the fire, turned every now and then by the smallest of the jōt. The high walls of the rocky den bore down, glistening in places where falling water had frozen. Sunset was fast approaching. The sky, or what little I could see of it, glowed a dark orange, offering only minimal light here on the floor of the den.
I shifted my weight, causing a raucous crunch of bones beneath me. A handful of eyes turned sharply in my direction – each one the same slate grey of the stone. One of the giants, the female who had first spotted me, stood and lumbered over, reaching out a hand to shake the cage. I froze, terrified into silence as the bones rattled in warning. Her sheer height looming over me, so close and monstrous, brought tears to my eyes. When she was satisfied that I would make no more noise, she returned to the others.
I sat perfectly still, terror prickling my skin.
This was it. I was living one of the worst possible scenarios I’d imagined, one of the many ways to die here in the mountains. This was just like what had happened to Stína’s grandfather, although I wouldn’t likely end up so well. He’d got free in a stroke of luck, whereas I… Well, there wasn’t much hope of that.
My throat tightened and my eyes burned. I stared into the flames, imagining I was back in the village at one of the bonfires, listening to a story about a dragon made of ice or invisible house elves who would come in with snowstorms to keep the fires going. I might tell one, too, about the stars, or an adventure finding a cave with Ivar.
Ivar.
His face filled my vision, disorderly tawny hair and eyes that could smile even when his mouth didn’t. I stared at him in my mind, holding the gaze of those sea-storm-blue eyes for as long as I could until the vision began to fade. The thought of never seeing that face again, never again seeing the way he looked at me, like he truly saw me and everything that I was and wanted to be, was a kind of pain I wasn’t built to bear.
I’d tried, and at least I could die with that certainty. I’d left the village to get help, knowing the risks. Knowing what could happen. Perhaps, though hope was small, someone else from the village would try. Perhaps Ivar would follow me to the mountains and finish what I wasn’t able to. Perhaps someone else would save Skane. This treacherous and wonderful island would mean enough to someone to risk everything they had to save it.
The evening grew ever darker. I strained to look up and see my stars, but they were blotted out by the walls of the den and the smoke from the fire. Even without being able to see them, I kept staring. They were up there, somewhere, and somehow just knowing that helped to instil a peace in my heart that made thoughts of my forthcoming death a little easier to deal with.
In the distance, a wolf let out a long, lonely howl. The sound and the ensuing echoes made my skin prickle, but the giants didn’t seem to take notice. Their lack of interest in such a frightening sound only worked to remind me that they were the ones to be feared, here in the mountains. I was a captive of the highest in command, of the creatures at the pinnacle of the predator chain.
At length, one of the giants deemed the bear to be finished, and they removed it from the spit. Their eating of it did not seem to be governed by any sort of order. They pulled and tore and argued until there was nothing left but bloodied bones. I forced my eyes away, nauseated by the carnage that to them was no more than a standard meal. Even without looking, the sounds were inescapable as they picked away at every last bit of meat. It took them only minutes to finish the thing, and afterwards, it was obvious that the bear hadn’t been enough. They poked around at the pile of bones, grunted every now and then, and one even made a show of rubbing its belly.
If the jōt were still hungry, and the bear was gone…
I swallowed, almost forgetting how to breathe.
One of the giants turned to stare at me, a knowing gleam in its large eye. No. Not me. It stood and moved towards me, grunting to the others who nodded enthusiastically, rising and tripping over the bear’s carcass as they made their way towards my cage. I shrank away as far from them as I could go, my back pressed against the bony confines made from the skeleton of the Goddess knows what.
“No,” I said aloud, shaking my head as though it would make any difference to them. “No, no, no.”
One of the giants licked their lips, and in one far too easy motion, broke apart my cage. It splintered into a hundred pieces, shards raining down on to the ground. On an impulse, I leaped up and made to run under their legs. Perhaps if I was small enough and fast enough I could outsmart and outrun them, then disappear into the night and hide in a tree until morning. I saw all of it in a flash, all of the possibilities of surviving tonight, of making it out of this damned den alive.
But a large, roughened hand closed around me before I’d made it more than a few metres. I fought against it, kicking and pushing and screaming to get free, but it was far too strong and I was far too small. I shrank into a ball and shut my eyes as the world spun around me, the fire coming ever closer.
This was how it would end. After seventeen years of daily reminders of my failures, of scorn and aversion for having inadvertently ended the life of my mother, I would die failing to save my village. Sobs shook my body and I covered my face with my arms. I didn’t want to see the flames. Didn’t want to see my death. If this was how it would come, let it come while I closed my eyes and thought of those I’d left behind.
Something cold brushed against my arm on the way up to my face. I sat upright in the giant’s hand, as they seemed to be deliberating over something through the use of grunts and hand motions. My knife. They’d forgotten to remove my knife: it offered just enough of a distraction for me to escape.
In a swift motion, I pulled the knife from my belt and plunged it into the giant’s hand. It roared in surprise and pain, and dropped me. The world blurred and spun as I fell, and when I hit the ground, all the air burst from my lungs. I fought to take in a breath, but it was as if my body had forgotten how to work. Odd gasping sounds came from my throat as I forced small bits of air back into my desperate lungs.
Overhead, silhouetted against the glow of the large bonfire, the giant whom I’d injured raised a great fist that would, any second now, come crashing down. I couldn’t yet breathe enough to even roll away, so I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t see the motion that would end my life. In the midst of my panic, I again thought of Ivar’s face, let it hang in my mind so it would be the last thing I’d remember. The last thing I’d see. Something about seeing his face this time – the last time – awoke in me an emotion I’d never felt. A feeling I didn’t recognize. Unfamiliar as it was, it flooded me with a warmth that made these last few seconds just a bit more bearable.
Silence.
All sound in the den had ceased. I opened my eyes to find the giant still standing there, fist raised to crush me, but it was looking away into the night. I could feel it listening, ears straining.
Song notes rose in the darkness, frightening and enchan
ting all at once.
I’d heard those notes before, while walking through the forest with Ri. It was much closer this time, hovering somewhere just outside the den. Although … I realized all at once that it wasn’t just one voice. There were several joining together, surrounding the den. The giants began to draw nearer to one another, almost as if they were…
Frightened.
What would frighten the jōt?
Something white shot out of the dark and wrapped itself around the giant’s fist. It roared in anger and clawed at the stuff, but it wouldn’t move. The others began to run around frantically, covering their heads and howling so deeply it shook the earth. For a moment, I was stunned into quiet stillness. None of the events going on around me seemed to make sense, and yet, in the background of my shock, I knew I didn’t have the time to understand it. I leaped to my feet and searched for the exit to the den.
The notes had stopped, but without waiting to see if the giants were collecting themselves, I bolted for the opening. Thundering footsteps followed me, but I didn’t turn to look. I willed my legs to move faster than they’d ever moved before. I ran and ran and ran, yet the footsteps behind me only grew closer and louder. If I could just get into those trees and surround myself with darkness, I could disappear.
So close. So close.
Something yanked my arm, pulling me sideways into a snowbank.
Then all was silent.
Chapter 22
It was Ivar’s turn on the watch. They’d established it after the heads came back in the boat, for it undoubtedly meant the Ør were out there, waiting somewhere offshore. Waiting for what, though? Other ships to arrive? Weapons to finish being made? The wives’ cries could still be heard when Ivar passed by their houses. Albrekt’s wife had been one of the women on the beach when the boat had washed ashore. What she must be feeling, after seeing her husband’s severed head tied to a boat, Ivar couldn’t begin to imagine. Trying to understand such a pain that wasn’t his felt as though it were bordering on disrespectful.
And then there was Móri. Sigvard had offered to be the one to tell his mother and father, but Ivar had done it, instead. Perhaps out of a sense of duty, perhaps out of guilt. It was difficult to tell. Ever since they’d returned from the fight, his heart felt so heavy it might stop working altogether. His throat constricted every time he saw the boy’s face in his mind. At night he had nightmares where he saw it happen all over again. He tried to sleep as little as possible, but had to succumb eventually.
Fresh snow lay on the rocks around him, and though he tried to keep from thinking of it, it was everywhere he looked. When the storm swept in, Ósa would have still been on the plain, about halfway across, if she’d been making good time. There was no cover out there, Gregor had said. Nowhere to seek shelter. Though he’d worked to fight through all manner of hopelessness and disapproval about her choice to go, since the storm, even he’d lost hope. In a way, giving up felt like sentencing her, like condemning her to die out there alone, frozen. But perhaps it had already happened. Perhaps this very moment, Ósa no longer drew breath.
That meant so much. It meant he’d lost his closest friend, his companion since childhood. The only person in Skane whom he could picture as a companion for the rest of his life. He could keep up his appearance, look hopeful for those around him, but his heart had given up. Hoping felt foolish. Soon, these waves would continue to crash, this sun would continue to rise, and his people would no longer be here. What would it look like when they’d gone? How changed would this landscape be? The Ør would set up their kind here, build whatever homes they lived in, hunt whatever food they ate, and spread their brutal existence around the whole of this cursed island.
The sun was about to set. The ocean was cast in a dull, deep blue colour, and far in the distance, the first star sparked into view. After the first, more and more seemed to follow its example, springing to life in the growing darkness. No sails, yet. Just sea and sky and stars. Right now, it was still beautiful, still as he’d always known it.
“That star,” Ósa would say of the first one. “That belongs to the knife of the Warrior.” She was always talking about the stars, ever since she was a child. He’d asked her why, asked her many times where her fascination with them came from, and she always had a different answer.
“Because I don’t know what they are.”
“Because they tell a story, and one we can never know the beginning or the end of.”
“Because they symbolize that, even when the world is shrouded in darkness, there can still be light.”
He picked up a handful of snow and let it fall back on to the rock. There can still be light.
It felt almost cruel to think the words, cruel to think of continuing this fight without her, after everything she’d given for it. Everything she’d sacrificed. But it would be wrong and unfair to give up on it now. To make her death be in vain. Even without Ósa, there could still be light in Skane. They could follow her example, stand up and give their all.
He stood and threw a fistful of the snow out into the water. “You won’t have died for nothing,” he whispered, and the wind carried his words away. It blew to the northwest, and he turned to stare in that direction, wishing the wind could carry his words all the way to wherever her body lay and whisper them in her ear.
Something overhead, a shadow, made him look up. A bird was circling down, down, down, towards him.
Uxi.
It was that owl she’d loved so dearly. She’d mothered it for ages, feeding it and mending its wounds just because it was in her nature. He’d told her it was foolish, that the poor thing would die anyway, but that was the thing about Ósa, as her journey was evidence of: she did things others thought were irrational or reckless. She did them, and most often, she succeeded, managing to somehow still retain her gentleness and grace. The owl had survived, and now it followed her around like a shadow. Surely it had followed her on her journey. So why was it here?
It landed on a dead shrub stuck between two rocks, something tied to its ankle. His heart pounded as he slowly reached for it, afraid to chase it away. The owl didn’t move, only stared at him with wide, round eyes. He carefully untied the string and unfolded the scrap of paper.
I have reached the mountains.
He fell backwards on to the rock, tears welling in his eyes. Blind happiness soon gave way to a million different thoughts. She’d made it. Against all odds, she’d reached those damned mountains on her own. And with her, she’d carried the hope and future of Skane, all the way across the plain. She’d proved the villagers wrong. Proved that she could do what others thought was impossible. And despite the dark events of the past few days, despite the red lights and the Ør and Ósa’s father sending her off alone, Ivar smiled. There was something about her, a fire, a will to survive that could not easily be quenched. Eldór was cold, harsh, always preparing her for survival. And now, at last, seventeen years as his daughter had paid off.
He folded the paper and tucked it gently into his pocket, but when he returned his eyes to the horizon, his movements froze.
Set against the darkening sky was the sight they’d all be waiting for, all been dreading and anticipating and imagining since learning about what was to come.
Sails. So many sails, spreading from left to right, as far as the eye could see. More sails than there were villagers in the whole of Skane. With Ósa rested hope, life, a chance at a future. And with those sails came torture, death, and the beginning of the end.
Chapter 23
I counted in my mind, buried with no way to tell up from down.
One, two, three, four, five.
All was silent.
Nothing was coming for us.
Six, seven, eight, nine, ten.
Stillness.
When I’d reached twenty, I dared to move. Pulling myself in the direction I could best guess was upward, my head emerged from the snowbank. Someone sat beside me, their head cocked unnaturally, staring at me.
They didn’t move. I couldn’t even detect their chest rising and falling with breath.
My first instinct was to move, to run, but there were giants nearby, and this … person, this creature, had pulled me to safety. Shouldn’t that be a sign of friendliness? My heart wanted to say yes, but my mind whispered no. The creature sat there, so unmoving and seemingly not alive. I noticed Ri, then, standing untied a little way away.
“Who are you?” I whispered the words, terrified to let the jōt hear me yet too curious not to.
The figure didn’t answer, but tilted its head even more. I couldn’t see eyes, yet I could feel their stare. In all the stories of the mountains, I’d never heard of people residing here. Never heard stories of life beyond the jōt and the bears and wolves and predators. But this thing in white was distinctly human-shaped, with arms and legs and a head like my own.
I repeated my question. “Who are you?”
A sound came from the figure’s face, then, one that both curdled my blood and triggered familiarity. It was singing, the same singing I’d heard through the trees. I couldn’t see a mouth, and its head didn’t move, but the sound came from it, I was certain. Slowly, it stood, rising above me. Movement around us caught my attention. I turned to look, and my mouth fell open.
There were more of them, at least ten, all singing and rising out of the snow, undaunted by the near presence of the jōt.
In a way, I’d been right, I thought. The snow had been singing.
I stood as well, almost entirely surrounded. For a moment, we all stood silently, staring at one another. Save for slight variations in height and a difference in the chest where I could differentiate men and the women, they were all identical. White wraps from head to toe, slender bodies, tilted heads. In a way, they reminded me of curious children, trying to understand something they’d never seen.
A Shiver of Snow and Sky Page 14
