Asa barreled into her so roughly that Wenda fell backward onto the sand. That brought one of the ravens flapping to the scene, screaming indignation.
“What are you doing?” Asa’s scream overpowered the bird’s. “You’ve ruined everything!” Hastily she peered into the bags. The supply was down to one green-tinged mutton loin and a few splintered fishes.
From her disheveled position Wenda whined. “I was sending food for your whale. You don’t expect him to come for nothing, do you?”
Asa clenched her fists as a foul oath sputtered on her lips. She stamped the sand, stamped it a second time, and spun around in utter fury. Then, depositing a glare as harsh as a blow on the old woman—who dared to blink in feigned innocence—she sprang onto Rune’s back. Her fingers laced his mane and her heels pummeled his sides and they bolted away.
FIMTÁN
Jorgen lowered his end of the wide, rough-hewn plank to the ground, opened his fingers, and let it drop with a rigid thud. The body carried upon it slid toward him so that the shrouded head just kissed his boots. This gesture of obeisance, even after the fact, moved him slightly. How different things might have been. If only she’d recognized his talents while she yet breathed, their lives might have intertwined to mutual benefit. Tantalizing possibilities, as heady as mead, tickled his senses, until he noticed Ketil waiting dumbly at the other end of the plank.
“What are you staring at?” he scolded. That startled Ketil into dropping the plank with a bang and stumbling backward. Jorgen set his heel against the head’s crown and pushed, trying to shove the bundled body back into place. The neck, not yet stiffened, lolled from beneath the pressure and his boot slipped off. No surprise. Even in death the woman was spineless. Rolling his eyes, he walked to the other end and elbowed the useless cripple out of the way. He bent down and jerked the remains squarely onto the board.
“They smell of cheese,” Ketil whispered into his ear. A wide-eyed child in an old man’s body, he stood transfixed by the row of bundles, seemingly fearful that his least stray movement would cause the nearest to tumble atop him. “Who’d have thought?”
Cheese? How could one possibly identify cheese from this rotting assault on the senses? The man was a fool—a cripple and a fool—and Jorgen rose abruptly to deliver his most withering glare. “You must go now. I have the ritual to perform.” Ketil only too happily backed through the doorway, stumbling as he spun, and hurried away with the glazed look of a frightened hare. His hobbling gait sent crackling fractures across the path’s muddy skim of ice.
Jorgen moved to the doorway to watch Ketil’s departure. He rubbed his dripping nose and winced when the heel of his hand met his swollen lip. The split flesh had been throbbing for two days, persistently and maddeningly recalling his struggle in the other byre. For all of those two days he’d firmly held the memories at bay. Now, allowing himself to remember that night increased the pain and sent it worming its way through his insides.
What had happened to her? One after another, dramatic story lines uncoiled in his mind. She and her horse had tumbled over a cliff: He visualized his own arm reaching down to pull her to safety; he felt her nestle against his chest, the heat of her small body soaking into his. In another calamitous scenario she’d fallen sick and wandered alone and feverish through the mountain forests, lost. This one gnawed holes of worry in his belly, especially with icy rain pounding the earth and cold winds tearing through the trees.
Why hadn’t she understood his plans for her? Why had she challenged him with such impudence? It was all so infuriating.
To ease his stomachache he dug through his pouch for the last of the angelica roots. Touching them brought forth another memory: He’d collected them last summer at the damp edge of the outfield where he’d been watching her. Her copper hair had fallen loose from its braid that day, and the wind, with a familiar hand, had lifted it from her shoulders and spun it across her cheek and made her laugh.
Working the spongy root between his teeth, he thought about that laugh. It was a rarity, impulsive and infectious. She’d shared it with few others, and never with him. A bitter taste filled his mouth. The root’s usual soothing warmth failed to materialize, and he swallowed the pulpy fragments without any faith that they could dull his ache.
Where was she?
If he could just get a rope around one of those wretched horses, he could ride out looking for her. He’d be able to find her and save her; he’d make her understand. And his skin warmed with the vision of the two of them returning astride, her arms locked around his waist in a grateful embrace. Reflexively he closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. Truth be known, that was the least satisfying of his fantasies, because he’d never thrown a leg over the back of a horse.
He heard the maddening creatures now—though he still couldn’t see them—crunching their careless way among the trees, noisily paying him no heed. They skirted the settlement’s clearing continually, looking for her but leery of him and any others he sent to coax them in. They taunted him, they did.
He laced his fingers, turned them inside out, and stretched them to the breaking point, focusing his anger. One day soon he’d see their butchered bodies roasting over a fire. This he vowed. Their bodies and that of that runty old dun horse too, the one that had struck at him so purposefully and painfully—if the bony thing was even still alive, and if it dared to return. All three horses that defied him would eventually get what they deserved, and so would she, for that matter, and that would teach her to run off.
Yet … all the while that his blood was churning thicker and hotter, he heard a delicate voice in his mind crying, Help me! Help me! He searched through his pouch for another of the angelica roots, but they were gone. He pressed a fist to his stomach and sagged against the doorframe, thankful at least for the cold air buffeting his face.
In the stark wintry light the longhouse sat solid and secure, an anchored haven amid the wildly angular mountains at its back. The smoke rising from the roof hole was snatched away by the wind, but the sod roof itself, its silver turf shivering, appeared intact. Only a few leaks inside required someone’s attention; a particularly annoying one had pinpointed his own mattress, but that was no longer a concern. He’d abandoned it. He watched spare drops steadily patter the door-slab, painting it a shiny ocean color. Above the door, just under the overhanging fringe, was a drooping pine bough. A frivolous ornamentation, fairly fresh and girlishly cheerful, yet it soothed him. The pine tree outlasted the worst of winters, ever green, and so would he.
He inhaled the freshly cleansed air with new spirit. The clan was his now, finally and entirely. Its spineless leader was drowned; his spineless wife was dead. Things would be different. They were, in fact, already different. Only last night, when the woman’s breathing had rattled to an end beside the fire, and the others had gathered around in silence, he’d slipped into the bed-closet once shared by her and her husband. As his heart thumped excitement, he’d lowered himself onto the straw mattress, fully aware that his shoulders and hips oh-so-naturally filled the hollows left by the chieftain. And, lying on that chieftain’s mattress in the dark, what visions he’d had! Certain places, he’d learned from his father, held invisible power that could, with immense concentration and unusual skill, be donned like a cloak. This room was one of those places, and behind his closed eyes swirled more intoxicating colors than any he’d experienced.
It was a bold move, even he would admit to that, but one a true leader made without hesitation. Through the wooden wall he’d heard their murmurings, and he’d opened his eyes once when the door creaked ajar to find Tora observing him with her slitted green eyes. Always before she’d looked upon him with barely concealed disfavor, as did the other stupid women, but now her eyes showed new consideration. To add to his intoxication he believed that if he only crooked a finger and gestured, Tora would come to him. But it wasn’t her he wanted.
The next morning, this selfsame morning, he’d made certain to arise before any of them and
to arrange himself beside the prone body of the chieftain’s wife. He’d sat there fiddling with his bear tooth amulet, waiting for the others to discover him in ritual attendance, when he’d noticed the woman’s finger twitch. The insufferable creature was still alive! At death’s door she was turning and threatening him with a wagging finger! He had had no choice then but to lean through the darkness and lay his hands upon her more forcefully, one across her mouth and the other across her nose. When he’d pinched the nostrils together, she hadn’t even struggled. She was weak; they were all weak.
For some time he masked her bony face with his hands and prayed rather vaguely that the afterlife would welcome her. His prayers were unfocused because his thoughts were springing about the room, marking all that was now his; eagerly his eyes followed. Whenever his gaze returned to the task his hands performed, he assured himself it was in the best interests of the clan. What he did was no different, really, than when the weakest animals were slaughtered at summer’s end because there was only enough food to support the strong.
As he slumped against the doorframe, his thumb stroked the knobby hilt of the old sword he wore. It was a cast-off, its dull blade heavily pitted and, in fact, snapped short. But it still threatened; he saw its worth in the faces of the surviving clan members. When they’d awakened and found him at the dead woman’s side with the shortened sword belted at his waist, he’d noted the looks they’d exchanged and his chest swelled. As it did now. It had taken most of a lifetime, but he was finally getting the respect he deserved. No longer was he a collared dog performing tricks, but a leader, a bold leader, one who didn’t hesitate to mete out punishment as needed. Thidrick could cradle his ear and wail in his mother’s lap the rest of the day if he liked, but he’d learned the consequences of touching this sword.
Yes, the clan was his. Things were and would be different. Tonight he’d ease any doubts about his leadership with the small cask of beer he’d discovered in the bed-closet. He’d stop their questions with a story of how Odin, a god both mercurial and merciful, swallowed weak leaders upon stormy seas. It’s what gods did.
SEXTÁN
The sun had just dipped behind the green-black mountains when Asa and Rune came upon the familiar sight of her clan’s fishing huts and the row of upturned boats, long unused.
Almost home now, and what did she have to show for her rash venture? A rope of kelp, a chunk of meat, some fish. A bounty, considering the barren storeroom. She’d be welcomed. But a nagging sense of failure shadowed her. What, really, had changed?
Rune angled his face away from the gust that blasted the shore, and she wriggled her legs beneath the bags, seeking the warmth of his body. The evening sky glowed a luminous white, like an eggshell held against fire, though bands of rippled clouds, each edged a fierce orange, threatened.
Then there was Jorgen. Her scabbed lip burned at his name. Her bruised shoulder throbbed. She felt her jaw tighten. What had he told the others about her disappearance? Lies, no doubt—lies that had needlessly worried her mother. Wenda was right. She was only a little girl who’d run off in the night, abandoning her clan. A fool.
Another gust lifted Rune’s mane and whipped her own hair across her face. In its whistling she detected a faint, mournful call. Human? Animal? She halted him, cupping her hands to both ears to listen. There it was again, coming from the forest that rose above them, and filled with such fear that her heart squeezed. She should help.
But she was so close to home and the wind was growing ever stronger. The weather was changing. Closing her eyes, hoping not to hear it, she waited. Rune pawed the crunching sand. Surf splashed the rocks and receded, gurgling. Teasing gusts hummed and faded.
Nothing.
Relieved, she bumped Rune’s sides, urging him on, when the wail sounded again. Her eye swung toward a tumble of boulders and brush fringing a high stand of pines. It came from a calf, she was certain, and her mind raced to make sense of that. Had their heavily pregnant cow gotten out of the byre? And if so, what was she doing this far from the settlement? The call repeated, too pitiful to ignore, and she nudged Rune away from the shore, allowing him to pick an upward passage between and around the rocks, decaying logs, and dense stands of brush. It was difficult going, especially with the fading light and their weaving approach. When it seemed they must be steps from discovering the poor creature, two ravens scrambled past, flapping and squawking. She grimaced. Wenda’s ravens, no doubt. Were they following her? And what mischief were they up to now?
Rune plowed blindly through another thicket of tangled brush and emerged in a concealed clearing and nearly on top of the clan’s lone cow. Listlessly nosing through a brown mat of pine needles, she barely flicked an ear at their arrival. Her newborn calf, all angular bones and rumpled hair, fretted at her side. He butted the slack udder with his wet nose, let out a mournful bawl as he danced sideways, and tried again, all the while swishing his tail in anxious jerks.
The calf was alive and well! Their herd had doubled! A fiery determination to protect the pair hurried Asa from Rune’s back. She dragged the ropy kelp from his shoulders and piled it beneath the hungry cow. As she straightened, an unnaturally bright fleck of white on the other side of the clearing caught her eye. Another calf? The cow must have been carrying twins. Their herd had tripled! Mindful of the slippery mountainside, she hurried over to examine the speckled newborn sleeping in an awkward heap.
Shock trampled her excitement. Not only was the calf already dead, it had no eyes. Its bloody sockets gaped blindly at the world. That could be the work of ravens. They’d been known to kill young animals by the most horrible practice of pecking out their eyes. Still … stark images flashed through her mind: the sightless fish suspended outside Wenda’s cave, the woman’s own hollow eye cavity. Wenda’s pointed questions echoed: What would you do to rescue your clan? Would you give up an eye? An uncomfortable ripple along her spine suggested a connection. She’d not escaped Wenda yet.
A loud kra! made her flinch, and one of the ravens swooped past to land on the calf’s carcass, triumphant. Immediately it began pecking at the empty socket, teasing away a stringy piece of flesh and gobbling it down. That emboldened the second raven to join in.
How dare they? This defenseless calf had been her clan’s future. She screamed and lunged, sending them into hasty flight, then stood over the calf protectively. At the very least there’d be some meat in the cooking pot tonight.
But first she needed to get the cow and her surviving calf into the safety of the byre. How could someone have been so careless as to leave the door open? That was Jorgen’s doing, no doubt, and as disquieting recollections invaded her, she detected a noise in the forest and froze. Rune’s ears pricked. Silently she moved to his side, ready to jump on his back and return to the open shore where they could gallop. A twig broke, some dried leaves crackled, and Rune gave a loud whinny. Answering whinnies ricocheted through the trees. Her father’s horses! More good news.
And hard on that joy: fear. Jorgen wanted to kill them, especially Rune. She had to face him, she knew, but Rune didn’t. For now he’d be safer in the forest. As fast as she could, she unknotted the rope and let the bags fall. Amongst the trees, unseen hooves pawed anxiously at the earth. Rune whinnied again and the echoing calls returned.
Gently she laid her hand on his wounds; their slight stickiness left only a faint webbing of red on her palm. “Be careful,” she whispered, and slapped his rump, sending him off. He bounded a few strides upward, then came to a halt to look over his shoulder. From beneath his shaggy black forelock his eyes questioned. “It’s all right.” She flung her arms in the air. “Go.” Bunching his haunches, he clambered eagerly up the rocky incline, nickering between grunts. When he disappeared into the forest, such an overwhelming sense of loss swept her that she had to close her eyes and turn away.
The damp winds surging up the slope carried the smell of wood smoke and a promise of warmth. Night was near, and it was time to get the cow and her calf to safe
ty. Time to get under a roof herself.
Freeing the rope from the bags, she looped it around the cow’s thin neck, careful not to let it cut into the dangling flap at her throat. She gave a gentle tug, which the cow blatantly ignored. She tugged harder, but the cow continued nosing the kelp. Her calf, meanwhile, having found a teat with milk, was suckling hungrily, pausing on occasion to butt his mother’s flank for more.
She sighed in frustration. Horses were so much more agreeable than cows. How was she going to goad these two toward the byre? To add to her distress, a dank gloom was creeping across the clearing and the not-too-distant hiss of rain sounded high above. There was no time to waste. She choked up on the rope with both hands, leaned into her heels, and pulled hard. The cow twisted her head obstinately, not budging. Rain suddenly engulfed the mountain with a deafening roar. Muddy rivulets began churning down the slope, soaking her boots. She gave one more hard tug, lost her balance, and fell. Gravel bit her hand as soppy earth soaked her skirt.
That was it. Exasperated, she yanked the rope from the cow, hoisted the dead calf onto her shoulders, managed to grab the bags, and, stumbling under the soggy burden of her increasingly clingy clothes, made her way down from the forest and homeward. The cow and her calf would have to fend for themselves until morning. She was cold and tired, and now drenched as well, and she wanted to sleep under a roof. And she wanted to see her mother.
That guilty desire pushed her even faster through the deluge: She’d been away too long; she’d tarried with the animals too long. The fevered pronouncement Wenda had made upon their meeting—that her mother was already dead—tormented her mind. She tried drowning it in mumbled prayers to Freyja, her mother’s favorite goddess, and hurried on.
Out of breath, her legs spongy, she reached the settlement. The rain eased, and a few glittery stars poked through a twilight sky mottled with drifting gray clouds. Everywhere water roared across the earth to rejoin the sea. She was more than ready to rejoin her clan. Readjusting her load and kicking at the sopping hem of her cloak, she trudged down the last rise.
Raven Speak (9781442402492) Page 11
