They Came On Viking Ships

by Jackie French

  Hekja nodded. She lifted the pup carefully, and kissed his nose. ‘Come on, Riki Snarfari, my little Snarf. You’re going to get better now. We’re going home.’ She carried Snarf out into the fresh, cold air and ran back to the hut by the shore.

  * * *

  4 A stone bowl used for grinding grain.

  5 small stream

  Chapter 4

  THE PROBLEM OF FOOD

  That night Hekja slept on her bracken bed with Snarf beside her. She kept him warm with her cowhide cover, and when the pup whimpered she held him closer until he forgot about the pain.

  The next morning she changed the bandages. The pup whined, especially when she pulled the herbs off and then put on more. But when she had finished he snuggled close, as though grateful for her warmth.

  Her ma peered through the door. She’d been dragging the wood plough through the rocky soil outside the hut so they could plant the spring kale and barley seed. Normally Hekja would have helped, but today she was staying close to Snarf.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘I think he’s stronger,’ said Hekja hopefully. ‘Aren’t you, Snarf?’

  ‘Arf arf!’ said the puppy weakly. Hekja laughed. ‘He knows his name!’

  Her ma smiled. ‘Riki Snarfari! What a name for a pup like that! You should call him Cuddles, or Wimperwail.’

  Hekja shook her head stubbornly. ‘Tikka says his name is Riki Snarfari. She says it’s a True Name and that he’ll be useful.’

  Her ma opened her mouth to speak, then saw the happiness on Hekja’s face, and shut it again. Happiness came too rarely to the hut on the shore since their men had died. So she said instead, ‘You need to feed him something.’

  Hekja nodded. She put the puppy on her lap, and held a handful of warm barley mash up to his nose. Snarf whined, and held his nose away.

  ‘He won’t eat,’ said Hekja despairingly.

  ‘He’s too small, perhaps,’ said her ma. ‘He’s forgotten how to lap, if he ever knew it. Here.’ She lifted Snarf’s chin with one hand and gently edged the tips of two fingers in his mouth. A trickle of the barley mash was down his throat before he realised. ‘My gran showed me that for a poorly calf,’ said Hekja’s ma. ‘You try it.’

  Snarf swallowed a few mouthfuls, then seemed to realise what was happening. He shut his jaws and tried to squirm away.

  Hekja’s ma shook her head. ‘Dogs like meat,’ she said quietly.

  Hekja said nothing. The hut had no smoked legs of meat hanging from its rafters. Even fish was precious.

  Then a shadow darkened the door.

  ‘How is the pup doing?’ It was the voice of the chief’s son, Bran.

  Hekja had caught him looking at her lately, when he thought she wasn’t looking. Sometimes she looked at him as well. Nothing could ever come of it, she knew, even if she had been old enough to think of marriage. A chief’s son should marry another chief’s daughter, who could bring a herd of cattle and a year’s worth of cheeses to her husband.

  ‘He won’t eat,’ said Hekja worriedly. ‘And we don’t have any meat to give him.’

  Bran shrugged. ‘Too bad,’ he said carelessly. Then the light came through the door again and he was gone.

  Snarf slept after that, with Hekja’s hands stroking him, and her lap to keep him warm, while her ma went back to dig the barley field. Hekja was just trying to get the pup to take the barley sludge again when Bran reappeared. He thrust something through the door.

  ‘Here. See if he’ll eat that,’ he said. He was gone before Hekja could thank him.

  Hekja looked at what he’d brought. It was a badger, limp and bloody.

  Suddenly the pup lifted up his head. ‘Arf!’ he announced weakly.

  Hekja laughed. ‘You like the smell of badger meat, do you! Thank you!’ she called to Bran. But there was no reply.

  Hekja’s ma cooked the badger with the barley, to make the meat go further. Hekja trickled the mush into Snarf’s mouth, as she had done before. The pup ate reluctantly at first, and then began to gobble, as though he had realised he was hungry. Afterwards Hekja held him on her knee and scratched behind his ear, but carefully, so as not to disturb his wounds. And while she scratched she sang.

  It was a song her father had taught her, and that his father had sung too, mending the fishing nets or at the summer feast. The villagers had said Pa’s voice was so beautiful, even the seals came to shore to hear it. This was the first time Hekja had sung since he died.

  ‘Wind on the river,

  Wind on the sea,

  There the wind rests,

  and my love rests with me.’

  Her ma smiled as she ground the barley in the quern for the night’s barley cake. Then suddenly Snarf lifted up his nose.

  ‘Hooooooooowwwwwwwl!!!!!’

  Hekja’s ma laughed. ‘He’s saying, “No, this is how you sing properly!”’

  Hekja looked down at the pup. He was so small, and so earnest. She bent down to rub her nose on his. But by now the pup was nearly asleep.

  Bran brought meat every few days after that. Hekja knew he must spend all his nights up on the great mountain, setting his snares for her, as well as going fishing with the men each day. But he just handed the bloody lumps to her through the door, as though the gift was nothing, and mumbled something, then was gone. One day there was hare and then a squirrel, and sometimes a puffin or a cod head or even scraps of venison from the chief’s table.

  Snarf grew stronger day by day. He ate barley cake now too, with cheese and sour butter and smoked fish, the same food that Hekja and her mother ate.

  Before long he was well enough to limp after Hekja as she collected shellfish or seaweed, his fat belly almost dragging on the ground; nosing at the fish guts by the barrels that were dug into the pebbly shore and used to smoke the fish; bouncing at the waves; or digging in the village compost heap, stinking of rotten kale stems and dung.

  When Hekja and her ma scratched the stony soil with their driftwood plough Snarf barked to keep the birds from the barley seed, or bounded round them while they dug the peat and spread it out to dry so it would burn.

  And day by day Snarf’s leg got better, so he hardly limped at all, except when he was tired.

  Sometimes Hekja felt the chief’s eyes upon her, as she threw driftwood for Snarf to chase on the stony shore. Snarf might limp, and his face was scarred, but he was still a valuable dog, worth three sacks of barley at least, or a cow.

  But Snarf was Hekja’s now.

  The days grew longer. The men went after gulls’ eggs, and this time no one fell from the cliffs as Hekja’s father had, to lie crippled till he died. There were eggs enough for everyone, even for the hut on the shore. For weeks the whole village smelt of egg farts, and Snarf’s belly looked round as an egg itself.

  And then it was summer, the longer days eating up the night, the midges biting every bit of skin they could find. Above the village the great mountain turned from white to brown and then to green.

  It was time to take the cattle up to pasture.

  Chapter 5

  UP THE GREAT MOUNTAIN

  Taking the cattle to pasture was a task for the girls of the village. The men and boys fished or hunted, or mended the fishing nets, and cut the turf for burning. The women dried the fish in long flapping lines outside the round, stone huts, or smoked them; they planted the barley and the kale in the rocky soil, then ground the grain to flour for the barley cakes, made the barley beer6 and collected shellfish and driftwood along the shore.

  Every summer the village girls took the shaggy high-horned cattle up the mountain to get fat on fresh new grass. The girls milked the cows and made the butter and the cheese, while the bull calves got fat enough to be butchered at the end of summer, so their meat could be salted to eat through winter. The cows had calved two moons before and been put to the bull again, so they would calve next year too, but the bull stayed in the chief’s enclosure, so it was just the cows and calves who were to climb the great mountain.
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  Twice each moon the women made the journey up the mountain to bring the girls fish and barley cakes and check the goings on, and to collect the soft new cheese and carry it back down to the village to press it, and bury the butter in the cold, wet soil by the stream, so it would still be fresh to eat in winter when the cows no longer gave their milk.

  Not all the village girls went a-milking. Some were too young, and a couple of the girls that had gone last year were married now, with barley fields of their own to tend—one even had a baby on her hip. This was the first year that Hekja was to go. She had twelve summers now, and would be the youngest of them all.

  The whole village gathered to see them off, the chief and all the men and boys, including Bran, staring at Hekja then pretending that he wasn’t. The cows were all garlanded with wild flowers, though the calves kept chewing off the flowers.

  The cows mooed, to keep the calves in line. They could smell the new grass up the mountain side, and remembered the taste of it from the year before. They’d been eating dry grass, kale stems and seaweed through the winter. Their calves had caught their excitement and were lowing too, with Snarf leaping round them all and snapping at their heels, as though he knew he was the only dog going up the mountain, while the chief’s dogs stayed behind.

  No other girl in the village had a dog. Dogs were for men.

  The women carried the wooden pails for the milk, the butter paddles and the cheese cloths. The girls carried their bundles, barley cakes and dried fish and cowhide blankets to keep them warm, for even summer nights were cold up on the mountain. There were Raina and Reena, the chief’s two daughters and the oldest of the girls, Janna from the hut beyond the bay, Banna, Hekja’s best friend who lived in a hut nearby, and Hekja.

  Hekja’s ma had only one cow, with its calf at foot, while the chief had ten, but the village would share the cheese and butter out, a certain amount for each cow you owned, with extra for the families of the girls who’d looked after the cows up on the mountain. This year Hekja’s ma would share her extra portion with Tikka, to repay her for looking after Snarf.

  The clouds scattered across the sky, and out at sea the rain squalls sped across the islands as the procession headed up the great mountain with Snarf bounding ahead of them all. He was half grown now, with the long legs of his mother, and a coat as shaggy as a cow’s.

  The cows were slow and the calves kept trying to suckle their mothers, but the air was sweet with summer so no one was in any hurry. Finally they reached the mountain meadows and the sheiling7 where the girls would sleep and keep the milk cool. It was no bigger than the huts down by the shore; of stone with a dirt floor, but no fireplace, as there was no wood to burn up here on the mountain.

  While the girls laid down their bundles, the women set up the buckets and the butter paddles, then cut turfs to mend the holes in the roof. Then the girls began to gather bracken for their beds, and the watercress that grew in the spring by the sheiling for their lunch.

  Once they had finished they sat on the grass and ate the barley bread and cheese with watercress, and the chief’s wife and daughters ate smoked beef too. Some of the women were tearful—it was the first time their daughters would be away. But the girls were exultant. After four summers of milking you were judged a woman, and could marry, with some of the cheeses you made up on the mountain for your dowry.

  Snarf sat on Hekja’s ma’s lap—or as much of him as he could fit—and ate some of her barley bread, spitting out the watercress, and licking away the tears that she was trying to hide.

  Then it was time for the women to go.

  The girls hugged their mothers. Hekja hugged her ma extra hard and watched her till she was well down the mountain. The other women had husbands and other family to go back to, but Hekja’s ma had no one else. Even her cow was on the mountain.

  ‘Take care,’ whispered Hekja’s ma.

  Hekja nodded. ‘I will. You take care too.’

  Her mother smiled. ‘What can happen to me down in the village?’ But her look was one of longing as she gazed at Hekja, and touched her cheek for one last time. ‘Take care of her, Riki Snarfari,’ she instructed Snarf.

  ‘Arf,’ said Snarf, sitting on Hekja’s foot, and panting. He’d already rolled in fresh cow dung, and looked proud of his new smell.

  ‘See?’ said Hekja. ‘He understands!’ But her ma just smiled, and bit her lip, then followed the other women down the path.

  Hekja stood watching her, till the path twisted and she was out of sight. Then she turned back to the sheiling.

  The other girls were already inside, setting out their bedding. Raina and Reena took charge, as the chief’s daughters. Reena pointed to the back of the hut, furthest from the draught of the door. ‘We’ll sleep there,’ she said.

  ‘And you’ll sleep there,’ Raina said to Hekja, pointing to the windy spot by the entrance. The chief’s daughters weren’t fond of Hekja for their brother liked her far too much, and her dress was ragged hide, not woven wool like theirs.

  ‘And the dog can sleep outside,’ said Reena. ‘What’s he doing here anyway?’

  Hekja said nothing, just set her chin in the stubborn way her ma said was just like her father, when he meant to do something but didn’t care to argue about it. She was quite happy to sleep by the door, and when the girls were asleep Snarf could slip in beside her, just as he did at home.

  The cows wandered around, remembering the meadow from the year before, and showing their calves the best spots to graze. The rocky mountain slope gleamed in the last of the sunlight and the clouds raced across the sky like they were chasing hares.

  Hekja smiled in spite of the chief’s daughters. You could see the whole world from up here, she thought, the islands scattered across the sea and the line where the waves met the sky. And she had Snarf too. What did it matter what Raina and Reena said?

  It was time for milking. The cows were rounded up, tired after their walk. There was not much milk tonight, as the calves had been drinking when they felt like it. Tomorrow the girls would keep the calves away from the cows during the day, so they’d eat the soft new grass instead of sucking at their mothers, and the milk supply would be better.

  The girls put the buckets of milk in the hut for the cream to rise, but kept one bucketful for their dinner. It was rich milk tonight too, with all the cream still in it.

  They sat on the cool grass as the last of the sunlight drained away across the sea. The chief’s daughters drank first, then passed the bucket around, each girl drinking her fill. Hekja was the last, then she passed the bucket to Snarf. He’d just got his tongue into the milk when someone snatched the bucket away.

  It was Reena. ‘The milk is not for dogs!’

  ‘I’ll wash the bucket clean over in the spring,’ said Hekja mildly. ‘Snarf can have half my share.’

  ‘Why should we share the milk with your dog?’ said Janna angrily. ‘If the chief’s daughters don’t have a dog, why should you?’

  Janna, too, had been casting glances at Bran, down in the village.

  ‘He stinks,’ said Raina.

  ‘It’s a good smell! It’s a dog smell!’ said Hekja hotly. She grabbed Snarf and hugged him close to her. Snarf licked her face happily and grinned at the girls, his long tongue hanging out.

  ‘He stinks of cow shush,’ said Raina.

  ‘And fish guts,’ said Reena.

  Hekja said nothing. It was true. Snarf had been nosing in the compost heap just that morning.

  ‘Arf!’ said Snarf, looking at the girls with whiskery friendliness and licking his milk moustache.

  It didn’t work. ‘Let him hunt his own food,’ said Reena.

  ‘But he’s lame!’ pleaded Hekja. ‘And he’s still too young to hunt!’ It hadn’t occurred to her that the girls on the mountain wouldn’t share with Snarf as she and her mother had done.

  Reena shrugged. ‘Then he’s not worth his keep,’ she said.

  Hekja looked at Banna, her friend, hoping for support. But
Banna just looked at the grass. She liked Hekja, but she didn’t want to annoy the others either.

  Hekja bit her lip, then fumbled in her bundle for her barley bread and cheese. ‘Here, boy,’ she whispered.

  Snarf gulped the bread and cheese in two large bites, then looked for more. Hekja shook her head, and tried to ignore the hunger clawing at her stomach.

  The starlight lit the mountain cliffs with silver as they went to bed. Hekja listened to the talk slowly cease, and the girls’ breathing soften.

  ‘Snarf!’ she whispered.

  He had been just around the corner, sitting puzzled in the dark. He stretched out beside her, and licked her face, scratched his ear twice where a grass seed was prickling, then laid his paws on his nose.

  Hekja lay awake. It was strange to lie in a new place, the familiar sound of waves lapping on the pebbles replaced with the noises of the other girls sleeping, and the cows mooing in the night.

  How could Snarf learn to hunt, with no one to show him how, and one lame leg? He wasn’t even fully grown.

  Perhaps she could sneak him some of the milk tomorrow. If he was just a little hungry he might decide to hunt himself. But if he ate nothing he’d be too weak to hunt…

  Hekja woke as soon as the light brightened about the mountain. Snarf was awake already, sniffing around the cow meadow to find the smelliest cow pat to roll in.

  Hekja tiptoed out, then whistled softly. Snarf bounded up to her, licking her face and pulling at the sleeve of her dress. Hekja pulled it back. ‘Snarf! No! No time for tug games now! You have to go find some breakfast!’

  Snarf sat back and cocked his head at her. ‘Arf?’ he enquired.

  ‘You have to learn to hunt! Please, Snarf!’ cried Hekja desperately.

  ‘Arf.’ Snarf lost interest. He began to scratch at the grass seed again.

  Hekja sighed. It was no use. Snarf did things when he wanted to. She crossed quietly over to the spring and washed her face. Snarf splashed beside her, then decided it was too cold, and shook himself vigorously.