Land of the Silver Dragon

by Alys Clare

He was ready. He had a light pack containing food and drink on his back, and a staff in his hand. He stood just inside the door, trying to still the rapid beating of his heart. This is for Lassair, he told himself firmly. She may be in peril, and only I am aware of it. The sooner I raise the alarm, the sooner we can set about finding where she is and what has happened to her.

  He threw open the stout door and stepped out into the sunshine.

  He reached Aelf Fen as the sun was setting. He had made good time, given a ride for much of the way by a trio of jolly farmers’ wives returning home from market. It had surprised him that the journey had been so easy; it would, indeed, have been enjoyable, he thought as he walked the last few miles to the village, had it not been for his abiding concern for Lassair and the guilt that was now gnawing at him. He should have realized sooner that she had been gone for too long. A couple of days or so, she had said. He knew her well enough now to realize that she did not break her word. Yet so wrapped up had he been that he had allowed almost two weeks to go by. If, as he was increasingly fearing, someone had taken her away, then she could be almost anywhere by now. She could even be ...

  Stop.

  He drew a long breath, deliberately stilling his thoughts. There would be time enough to face that if it happened. Coming to a halt on the edge of the village, he closed his eyes and turned his concentration inwards, searching for the life force that was Lassair. Where are you, child? he asked silently. Are you still with those of us who dwell in this world?

  After a while, he began to smile. Opening his eyes, he grasped his staff and, ignoring the blisters on both heels, strode on into Aelf Fen.

  Far away, journeying on down the length of a sunny land that jutted out into the Central Sea like a booted leg, Rollo Guiscard drew his horse to an abrupt stop, his mind filled with sudden, sharp anxiety.

  Lassair.

  He had felt a dark cloud hovering in his mind for some time now. It had taken shape quite quickly, and, whenever he had been able to take the time without risking his own safety, he had sent his thoughts hunting for her. Periodically he would remove from his wrist the beautiful plaited leather bracelet she had given him, sometimes holding it tightly in one hand, sometimes pressing it to his breast.

  He loved her. Had loved her since he had met her, and, as he had got to know her better, the love had grown. Early the previous summer, they had at last become lovers. Almost a year had passed, but he recalled every moment of their brief and enchanted time together. As far as he was concerned, they were bonded now. He hadn’t needed the little handfasting ceremony she had performed, touching though it had been, to bind himself to her.

  His horse shifted under him, made anxious, perhaps, by his unease. He reached down and patted the gelding’s neck. He was a young horse, and Rollo had been riding him for only six months or so; horse and rider were still in the process of becoming acquainted.

  With a sigh, Rollo tightened his knees on his horse’s sides and they moved on. There was no question of turning back, no matter how much he might long to. He was travelling south in response to a command that he could not refuse. Besides, if what he felt was true, and Lassair was in danger, then he was much too far away to rush to her aid.

  He kicked the gelding to a trot, then a canter. Needing both hands on the reins, he tucked the plaited wristband away beneath his tunic. Right over his heart.

  ‘Be safe, Lassair,’ he muttered.

  Then, firmly, single-mindedly, he turned his thoughts to what awaited him at his destination.

  The Land of the Silver Dragon.

  Silently, I repeated the words to myself. The land was fast approaching, and I could make out white-covered mountains rising up behind a dark-coloured coastal strip. Here and there, rivers ran down into the sea, winding their way through low hills. As we drew nearer, I saw isolated farmsteads, usually consisting of one long structure and a few outbuildings. There did not seem to be any towns or villages; not even a hamlet or two ...

  I concentrated on the farmsteads. This place was inhabited, at least, I told myself, even if there were no settlements such as I knew in my homeland. It was a profound relief, to realize I was going to be among other people. Here and there, I noticed smoke rising from the farmsteads, and I spotted herds of sheep and even some cows. On a narrow strip of shore, I saw a small hut, its roof steeply pitched and apparently covered in turf. Outside it, three men and a boy were busy with fishing lines. The boy waved a friendly hand at us.

  We had approached from the south, and now we were sailing north-westwards, following the curving line of the coast. We were close to land now, and suddenly two of the crew pushed past me and, with respectful bows, approached the dragon head rearing high above the prow. To my great surprise, they unfastened some hidden catch and the head came away in their hands. Reverently they wrapped it in the cloth that Olaf was holding out, and presented it to Einar, who stowed it away in what appeared to be a purpose-built space.

  Olaf must have noticed my wide-eyed stare. He came to stand beside me, and, leaning down, murmured, ‘Malice-striker is an entity of the sea, where he rules in power and majesty. We remove his image as we draw near to land, lest we offend the benign earth spirits.’

  I nodded dumbly. I did not dare think too much about that. Then, suddenly, I heard Gurdyman’s voice in my head: The dragon was a creature of the sea and drew his power from the water element. Approaching land, the figurehead had to be removed.

  It was unreasonable, but somehow I felt immensely comforted. Not just because of the vivid moment of memory, but because someone from my real life, someone from my home, had known and told me of something in this current, alarming new world in which I found myself.

  The sail was furled, and now the crew sat at the oars. The coast came nearer, and I saw that we were rounding a headland jutting out westwards into the sea. We turned into a wide bay, around which the low-lying coastal plain was cupped in a semicircle of mountains, forming a dramatic backdrop to the pastoral scene. Several small settlements dotted the plain, widely spaced.

  We were clearly heading for a wooden jetty, roughly halfway along the bay. We were still in deep water; looking over the ship’s side, I could make out the sea bed, a long way down. I turned back to the jetty, and now saw that a group of people stood on it. One of them raised a hand, and called out something. Einar answered, his voice loud and deep as he pitched it so as to be heard over on the jetty.

  We were, it seemed, expected. ‘How did they know we were coming?’ I whispered to Olaf, standing close beside me.

  He smiled. ‘The first lookout would have spotted us at dawn,’ he replied. ‘Ever since, successive watchers have reported our progress.’

  ‘Reported?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘Sometimes messages are relayed by beacon fire. Sometimes a man will simply get on his horse and pass the word on in person.’

  Slowly I nodded. Einar must, I reflected, be a man of some importance in this land, to merit such a homecoming.

  We were near enough now for me to make out the individuals who formed the group on the jetty. There were seven adults and three children, including a babe in arms. The adults appeared to have grouped themselves around a central figure, and I found my eyes drawn to him.

  He was tall and broad, with a head of flowing silvery-white hair and a beard to match. A wide moustache curled above his mouth, its long ends twisting out from his face as if they had a life of their own. He was surely an old man, yet he stood straight and proud, his shoulders huge under the fur-trimmed cloak. In one hand he held a staff, but, even before I had seen him move, I was quite sure it was a symbol of authority and not a walking aid. For authority radiated from him; as if someone was yelling the words aloud, the whole scene and all the people in it seemed to proclaim: This is our chieftain.

  With an effort, I turned away from his commanding face and looked at the men and women who flanked him. There were two tall men, resembling Einar both in looks and in the self-assured way they stood, and
surely his brothers? I stared at the one on the chieftain’s right, for, fleetingly, his expression had reminded me of someone ... But it was gone, and there was far too much else to worry about for me to try to pursue it. Each brother stood with a woman, presumably his wife; one was willow-slender, her hair white-blonde, and the other – the one with a baby in her arms – was short and plump, with a cheerful face and apple cheeks. The man beside her bent down and said something that amused her, and I heard her merry laughter coming out to meet me over the water.

  Beside this group, standing slightly apart, were two other women, possibly mother and daughter, or mistress and servant. The elder one wore a dark, concealing veil.

  It looked as if a welcoming party awaited us. Moreover, they appeared to have dressed in their best, for every one of them wore flowing wool garments, tunics and heavy cloaks, for, although the sun shone out of a clear, pale blue sky, the air was chilly and a spiteful wind blew. The garments were unsoiled by sweat, mud or the usual marks of toil. Long, bright hair shone in the sunshine as if freshly brushed; even the children had clean faces. With dismay, I looked down at myself. My gown was filthy, stained with everything from sea water – a lot of that – to sour milk. I stank, for I hadn’t washed in getting on for a fortnight. I had been using my trusty bucket for my bodily functions – the crew had been discreet, and pretended not to notice – and I felt stale, rumpled and foul. I put up my hands to my hair, twisting it up and securing it beneath my cap. The cap had originally been white, and I dreaded to think what it must look like now.

  Olaf nudged me. He must have observed my distress, for he said, ‘Do not worry! Nobody expects us to look clean and fresh after being at sea for so long. Soon you will have the opportunity to wash.’

  I nodded an acknowledgement. Washing my body would be a start, but I had no clean garments with me; not even a change of linen. Would I have to run around naked while my laundered clothes dried? I’d freeze, surely, never mind the question of modesty. I smothered a slightly hysterical laugh.

  The men at the oars were rowing cautiously now. At a word from Einar, at the steering oar, they raised their oars out of the water and laid them down inside the gunwales. Einar had judged it to perfection: Malice-striker had just enough way to nudge up against the jetty, bumping gently against its wooden supports. The young man up in the bows leapt on to the jetty, his bare feet clumping on the boards, and quickly secured the rope he held to a post. From the stern, Einar threw a second rope, and the youth ran back just in time to catch it.

  Even as the boy was tying it, Einar stepped ashore, straight into the open arms of the chieftain in the fur-trimmed cloak. They embraced, and then the older man broke away. Glancing at me, he asked something, his voice too quiet for me to hear. Einar, too, looked at me, then nodded and made a quiet reply. I shivered in sudden fear. Would it start, now? Would these huge men take me away and persuade me to tell them what they believed I knew?

  Einar was coming back to the ship. He called out a series of orders – quite incomprehensible to me – and, working alongside his crew, set about the apparently numerous tasks that have to be completed when a ship reaches port. Not sure what to do, I stood by myself; Olaf had gone to see to whatever tasks were his responsibility.

  I sensed eyes on me, and risked a glance towards the jetty. It was a mistake: everyone was looking at me. I dropped my head, ashamed to meet their eyes.

  I heard a quick burst of chatter – someone sounded quite cross – and then a baby’s cry, quickly soothed. There was a thump as one of the group jumped down on to the deck. I sensed someone very close to me.

  I looked up, into the round, light brown eyes of the woman who had held the baby. Her arms were empty now and, looking swiftly, I saw that the infant was now cradled by one of the big men. The woman reached out and took my cold hands in her warm ones.

  ‘I am Thyra,’ she said slowly. ‘I am elder son’s wife. I ...’ She paused, frowning, then smiled again as she found the word she sought. ‘I greet you,’ she said. ‘Welcome. Welcome to our land of Iceland!’

  Iceland. I had heard of it, but it was a land of mystery, on the edge of the world where the ice reigned.

  I was in Iceland?

  The shock affected me deeply, and I was hardly aware of being helped ashore. My legs, having grown accustomed to the movement of the ship, did not work, and I stumbled and would have fallen, except for the quick, strong hand of one of the tall men.

  The big chieftain led the way and, in twos and threes, we followed him up the track that wound away from the jetty. We crossed a stretch of pebbly shore – I saw strange stones that appeared almost black, and some other substance that looked sort of crumbly – and passed a big wooden rack, hung with gutted fish slowly drying in the sharp wind. Then we headed off over short, wiry grass. I saw a flock of sheep, in a meadow surrounded by low, roughly built walls of jagged stone. A small herd of cows in another field came across to look at us.

  We walked on, the chieftain setting a brisk pace. As I had thought, he had no need of the support of his staff, which he swung by his side in an almost casual way. Presently, we reached the summit of a long, gentle slope. Looking down into the shallow valley on the far side, I saw within it, on a slight rise, a long, low building covered with turf. Crouched close to the ground, its roof was steeply pitched, punctuated by two large smoke holes. From the vantage point of being slightly above it, I could see that it was made up of two similar structures set together, from the rear of which protruded smaller wings. It was vast: you could have fitted my family’s home within it five or six times, and that wasn’t counting the rear wings.

  The plump woman, who had reclaimed her baby for the walk, was beside me. ‘That is the Jorund longhouse,’ she said, a happy smile creasing her face. ‘It was built by the forefathers when first they came to this land, seven generations ago. It is our home.’ Then, with an encouraging nod, she urged me to follow the rest of the group down into the valley.

  From somewhere, the women of the household had acquired hot water. Lots of it. I imagined a big fire burning, pots and pans set over the heat. I stood in the latrine room, and, behind the doors that closed it off from the passage leading into the main house, took off my stinking garments. One of the women – a young serving maid with a shy smile – instantly took them from me. In answer to my instinctive protest, she mimed washing. She was going to launder my clothes? I was aghast at the thought. It would be an unpleasant task, and I would far rather have done it myself. With a shake of her head, as if she understood my protest, she smiled again and hurried away.

  Thyra and her companion – a girl of about ten – gave me a washcloth and a hard block of soap. Dirty as I was, I used it sparingly, for it was harsh. I had some soapwort leaves in my satchel; given the opportunity, I would boil some and prepare some of the gentle, foaming liquid that my people use for washing. Not that I was complaining about what they were offering me. Never before had I bathed in such generous amounts of hot water.

  When at last I had finished, Thyra handed me a length of cloth to dry myself. Emerging from a vigorous rubbing of my hair, I saw that she was holding out garments for me. There was a fine linen under gown, and, to go over it, a long, pleated shift of soft wool, beautifully woven in a pattern of light and dark brown, highlighted with bands of cream. Over that, fastened to it just below the shoulders with two small silver brooches, went a long apron that hung down front and back, entirely covering the gown. It was a little like the scapular that my sister Elfritha wears over her habit, and, I guessed, served the same purpose of keeping the gown clean.

  My hair was still damp, so I combed it out, twisted it in a knot and fastened it at the back of my head. Normally I would have covered it with one of my white caps, but the only one I had with me was probably even now being given a thorough wash by the little serving girl. The women of this house went bareheaded, and I would have to do the same.

  Suddenly I remembered my shawl. When Elfritha gave it to me, she said i
t was to remind me of home and a sister who loved me. Hurriedly I opened my satchel and took it out, then draped it over the pleated shift. Elfritha had dyed the soft lambs’ wool with shades of green, and the subtle colours looked well with the muted shades of the shift.

  Thyra’s eyes widened with interest. She took a fold of the shawl in her fingers, nodding in appreciation at the quality. Then, standing back to look at me, she said, ‘Good. Very good!’

  Then, beckoning to me, she turned and led the way along the short passage to the main house.

  I heard the voices and the laughter even as we emerged from the passage. In front of us was the entrance room, with the building’s big, wooden door standing ajar. To our right was a wooden partition, and in it were double doors. Thyra opened them and led the way into the main hall.

  A long fire pit extended down the middle of the room, and on either side of it were benches. Some were occupied, but in general the people in the hall were on their feet, busy with food preparation. It looked as if the household were getting ready for a big feast. Several vast pots hung over the fire pit, suspended on chains from heavy iron tripods, and, at a work table close by, a group of women with their sleeves rolled up kneaded, rolled, chopped and stirred. One looked up at me and gave me a grin.

  At the far end of the fire, on a raised platform, was set a throne-like chair and several more, lower, chairs. The man in the fur-trimmed cloak sat on the throne. On his right sat the man I believed was Thyra’s husband. On his left sat Einar. Another man sat beside Thyra’s husband, talking quietly to the slim woman with white-blonde hair. Next to Einar sat a broad-shouldered, strong-looking woman with reddish-fair hair woven in a thick plait. Her light eyes were fixed on me. I could not read her expression; it was as if she had deliberately smoothed out her features so as not to give any clue to her thoughts.

  Thyra took my hand and led me up to the dais. I made myself meet the eyes of the man in the cloak.

  After a very long moment, he spoke. In a deep, resonant voice, he said, ‘Well met, Lassair.’ He knew my name. ‘I am Thorfinn Ofnirsson, this is my farmstead, and these are my kinfolk.’ He pointed to his right. ‘My elder son Jorund, Jorund’s wife Thyra –’ he indicated the woman beside me, his wide mouth stretching in a quick smile – ‘my daughter Asa and her husband, Njal.’ He turned to his left. ‘My second son Einar you have already met. Beside him sits my second daughter, Freydis.’ Now he raised his arms, spreading them to include the rest of the men, women and children in his hall. ‘These, too, are my people; my blood kin and those who serve us.’ He paused, staring down at me from the dais. ‘Come and sit beside me,’ he commanded. ‘You must—’