by Tim Leach
‘Yes,’ Gunnar replied. ‘I swung at you.’
Björn let his head fall, his eyes returning to his brother. ‘Will you kill me? I cannot live with this shame.’
Gunnar turned from him. ‘Would the law let me kill him?’ Gunnar said – matter-of-factly, as he might have asked about the pattern of the tides or the borders of a grazing ground. At first I thought he was speaking to me, but he looked beyond me, to where Olaf stood at the edge of the hide, his mouth slightly agape.
Olaf hesitated before he answered. ‘Have you been wounded?’ he said.
‘No.’
‘Then no,’ Olaf said. ‘Perhaps when he had a weapon in his hand, but now…’
‘That is settled,’ Gunnar said, not waiting for the chieftain to finish. ‘I will not break the law for you, Björn.’ He wiped the blood carefully from the sword. Then: ‘We all learn to live in shame.’
‘It is over,’ Olaf said. ‘Let all witness it. It is no crime to kill a man in the holmgang.’
‘And what of him?’ I said, speaking of Björn. ‘He broke the code of the duel.’
‘He has lost another brother. Do you not think that payment enough?’
‘And her?’ Gunnar said. ‘What of Vigdis?’
‘A woman’s words mean nothing to the law. It is no crime to speak as she did.’
‘The law has fed well today,’ Gunnar said, his lips curled with disgust. He at last stepped from the hide, the blood still wet upon him, and I saw all those there take a half-step back, as if he were some monster from the old times. I wondered if that was how the stories would speak of him in the centuries to come. If they would speak of him at all.
The others stepped back and parted before him, and he made his way to the edge of the island, sword still in his hand. Before he walked down to the river he turned back, levelled that blade at the swollen belly of Vigdis.
‘I cannot kill you,’ he said. ‘But I pray that you have a son. Perhaps then I will settle my debt.’
‘You are a murderer,’ she said.
‘No,’ he said, by way of correction. ‘I am a killer.’
And that is how he earned his name. That is how they shall always know him. Gunnar the Killer.
*
The others went south. Back to the plain at the heart of the Althing, bearing the body and the news as well. Only Gunnar and I lingered behind, in view of that island which had seen so much killing.
We washed the blood from ourselves as best we could, watching it redden the waters for a moment before it eddied downstream, but our efforts were of little use. For months afterward I would find some black fragment beneath my fingernails and wonder if it might be some dried drop of blood from that day; some dark smear upon my tunic, and wonder whether it came from the earth or from a man.
Gunnar and I did not speak for a long time. Stripped naked and scouring the blood from our bodies with sand, rubbing stones against our sodden clothing to work out the gore, dressing and lying on the stones in the sun and waiting for the heat to dry us out – all was done in silence. Only the sound of the wandering water, the occasional snort and whicker from the black horse that was the cause of that duel. Our bloody prize.
At last, Gunnar said: ‘Once more I have killed the wrong man.’
He began to tremble and I thought at first he was shaking from the cold, for his clothes were still wet. When the shaking grew stronger, I thought it might be some sudden palsy, a curse from the gods for the blood he had spilt. It took me longer than it should to realise that he had begun to weep.
I held him then, as I might have held a child. It was a shameful thing he did, but I suppose that he had earned that sadness. I tried to forgive him his tears.
‘You could have killed the right one,’ I said. ‘He asked you to.’
‘Björn knew that I would not do it. But he wanted to be seen to ask.’ He pushed me away and got to his feet. ‘I wish I had not killed his brother. It was needless.’
‘The duel was your doing.’
‘I know. I wanted to kill him, at first. But when he spoke…’ He looked at me and hesitated. ‘Have you ever killed a man?’
‘I killed Erik.’
He waved a hand at me. ‘Before him.’
‘No,’ I said, and he looked at me in disbelief, as though I had told him that I had never lain with a woman. ‘Who was the first man that you killed?’ I asked.
‘I cannot remember,’ he said.
A killer for as long as he could remember, unable to recall a time before he had been a taker of life. I thought of him as he must have been when it had first happened: a boy who had lied about his age, tricking his way on to the longship of one captain or another. Shivering and vomiting on his first voyage to the west, shamed by the mocking laughter of the other men. In his first battle he would have been kept at the back behind those more skilled or experienced or eager for death, unable to see the fighting, only to hear it.
His first kill would have been finishing a wounded man: some Saxon warrior lying on the ground, wrapped up in his own entrails, whose last sight in the world was a pale-faced boy kneeling beside him, knife in hand. Or it might have been some helpless priest who fell at Gunnar’s knees during the looting, begging for a mercy that could not come. Perhaps that was why he had forgotten the killing. Perhaps it had been a shameful thing.
‘What shall we do now?’ I said.
He turned to the west, where the endless sun guided a way across the land.
‘Let us go home,’ he said.
*
He insisted that I ride the horse. He would not listen to my protests; having killed for it, he almost seemed to fear to touch it.
No doubt it should have been a miserable journey, and no doubt both of us should have spent it looking on the ruins of our lives. I would soon be an outlaw, exiled from my home, perhaps forever. He was hopelessly caught in the feud; for the rest of his life, he would have to watch for those who would come seeking revenge.
Yet I remember days spent singing songs as we walked and rode, and whenever we saw a farm we would shy around it, stopping only to trade for bread and ale when we had to. It was one of the blessed summers, rainless and clear-skied, that seems like it cannot end.
I wish that it had not. When we came at last to the hill that overlooked Gunnar’s farm, we knew that we were returning to the world of the feud.
‘Do you think they know?’ I asked him.
He stared down at the smoke that rose from the house.
‘She will know,’ he said. ‘Perhaps she has not told the children. But soon they will know too.’
‘Do you want to wait? We can stay here as long as you want.’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘We will go now. There is nothing else to do.’
I had thought we would return to anger or to tears. Perhaps Gunnar had, too, for he trod as carefully to his own front door as a man approaching bandit country. But when he stepped through the door into that welcoming darkness, Dalla stood and clasped him by the shoulder, handed him a cup of water and spoke as though she were a chieftain giving orders.
‘Sit and rest,’ she said. ‘Soon we shall have much to do. You shall need your rest.’
And so we sat without a word, and in spite of it all I saw a small smile playing over Gunnar’s lips. We should not have been surprised. She was a woman of the feuds, a warrior’s wife.
It was the children who had changed. No doubt their mother had tried to tell them of the feud, and no doubt they could not understand. They came forward at first, almost to the point of embracing us, and then they shied away from us, huddling in the shadows.
It is a painful thing, to see children run from you. I slipped from my bench and knelt upon the floor, held out my hand to Kari.
‘I have a good story to tell you. Of duels and betrayals. Of exile and of vengeance. You have always liked such stories before. Why should this be any different?’
Uncertain, he looked to his father.
‘There is tro
uble coming, my son,’ said Gunnar.
‘Will there be killing?
‘I hope not. But it may come to that.’ Gunnar lifted his chin, looked questioningly down at his boy. ‘Will you fight beside us, if it comes to that?’
Kari smiled then and nodded.
‘The cub has fangs,’ Dalla said.
‘Good. He shall need them.’ Gunnar stood.
The boy turned to me. ‘You will fight with us, Kjaran?’
‘I cannot stay.’
Dalla, who had gone to tend the cooking fire, went still. She put her hand against the timber of that house, her fingers tracing along the whorls of the wood. I could see her eyes glittering in the darkness as she looked at me.
‘Where is it that you go?’
‘I am to be an outlaw. Ragnar shall take me from this island.’
She turned her head from me to Gunnar, and returned her eyes to me. ‘You take a heavy burden, Kjaran. I shall not forget this.’
A moment of silence that I could not find the words to break. Then Gunnar clapped his hands.
‘Come, Kari,’ he said. ‘I brought home a gift for you. All of you, come with me.’
Out in the light once more, and looking upon Gunnar’s land I could almost forget the feud. How could any man come to a place like this and think of bloodshed? A simple farm, crops hard fought from stubborn soil. The only sounds that of running water, the occasional faint creak of a few trees against the wind.
Yet I had only to look further to see the feud with my own eyes. The fold of land that marked the borders of Vigdis’s home. The distant coil of smoke that rose from the house of Björn. We were all so close together – nothing but a few miles apart. For when the valley is at peace, one may look through it and see every friend one has in the world. In the time of feud, a man must look on the home of the man who has killed his brother every day as he works his fields and tends his herds. Every day he is reminded of his shame, his dishonour. How can there be peace in such a land? What amount of silver, paid to settle a feud, can hope to buy away that shame?
The horse, new come to this place, only seemed to fix that image more truly. Tied to one of the outbuildings, tall and black and brilliant, the sun on its flanks. No beast of labour, but certainly not one of war. A treasure in flesh, a gift of love, and at the sight of it Kari forgot to pretend to be a man. He was a boy once more, reaching out shyly to take his father’s hand in thanks, in love. Then his sister spoke.
‘A red horse, a red horse!’
I felt the cold touch of a god upon my shoulder. ‘The horse is black, child.’
‘Have you lost your wits?’ Gunnar snapped.
She stammered. ‘It is red to me,’ she said, not yet wise enough to lie.
We said nothing for a time.
‘A trick of the light,’ I said at last, when I saw that no other would break the silence.
‘Yes,’ Dalla said. ‘A trick of the light.’ But her voice was hollow and I could see the clouding of her eyes. Perhaps she knew what her daughter saw. Perhaps she saw it too. ‘And what do we do now?’ she said to Gunnar.
He did not take his eyes from the horse. ‘We will hold a feast,’ he said. ‘For Winter’s Nights. To say farewell to our friend, and to see who will not be afraid to stand beside us.’
‘There is much to consider.’
‘Yes. But there is something else we must do first. Come with me, Kjaran.’
‘Where are we going?’
He did not answer, he simply pointed up to the outcrops above us, back to the high ground. I knew then what he intended.
*
‘Where will they come from, do you think?’ I said, once we had both caught our breath.
Gunnar’s eyes passed over the shape of the land, looking at it with his raider’s eyes, searching for weaknesses. ‘Not from the hills. They would be exposed as they approach, slowed in retreat.’
‘It will be from the stream, then. The sound of the water will cover their approach. Low ground to conceal them.’
‘You have a good eye. But they can do better. And keep their feet dry.’ He extended an arm, mimicking the flow of the ground with the palm of his hand. ‘It will be from the ground to the east of the river.’
I looked to where he gestured and I saw it then, as clear as a vision from the gods – the future, or the possibility of a future, at least. A band of armed men, moving in the darkness, no moon in the sky above them. Creeping along the undulating terrain to the east of the river, using the rolling ground to conceal themselves. Each with a hand on the shoulder of the man in front to guide the way, as if they were a band of blinded killers, hunting by sound and scent. They would come through the few trees and fall upon the house from the south. The striking of a spark, the lighting of a torch. And then fire. After the fire, the killing.
‘And they can retreat along the riverbed,’ I said. ‘Afterwards.’
‘That is right.’ His lips twitched; proud of me, perhaps, for learning from him.
‘When will they come?’
‘Perhaps they will come scouting soon. But it is too soon for the killing. It will take them time to gather enough men. Time for us – for me – to gather men of my own.’
‘They may not come at all.’
‘Do you really believe that?’
‘How many will stand by you in the feud?’
‘Not enough.’
I did not answer, and looked again at the land below. My eyes fell once more on that scattering of trees – not forest, barely even a copse. There had been great forests in this land once, but almost all were gone now, cut and burned and they would not grow back again. Those few thin trees were a wealth in wood for an Icelander. I had seen Gunnar sit by the fire at night, listening to the creaking of the wind against the wood, and smiling like a wealthy man looking upon a horde of gold.
‘We will cut those down,’ I said. ‘They will give them cover when they come.’
‘A shame to lose the trees. I had hoped to see a forest there one day, when my beard was grey.’ He sighed. ‘But you are right.’
‘The forest would never grow back.’
‘It would not?’
‘No others have.’
Movement caught my eye. It was Kari and the horse, the boy leading it by the bridle, not yet daring to ride it, circling again and again around the long house. From time to time he would pause, place his hand on the horse’s nose or curl his fingers into its mane, showing the patient love that only a child has.
Gunnar scratched at his beard to hide his smile, but I knew that it was there.
‘I told him that he was not to take the horse beyond the cattle shed,’ he said, ‘but I see he has found a way around my command. I expect he will be out there all day.’
‘They may kill me as an outlaw, and kill you in the feud in a year. But we cannot change what has been done. And for now, your boy has a horse and he smiles.’
He cocked his head, baffled.
‘Poet’s talk,’ I said. ‘Forgive me.’
‘I do not understand when you speak in this way.’ He touched me on the shoulder, briefly. ‘But still, I like to listen.’
‘I suppose you must listen while you can. You will soon be rid of me.’
‘When will you leave?’
‘A fortnight. A few days longer, perhaps, if I am willing to take a chance on the tides. But it would be a pitiful death, would it not? Sitting in a port, outlawed as I waited for the wind to change.’
‘I would stand against them, if it came to that.’
‘You would fight the entire island? That is what it would come to.’
‘I would try.’
I looked away, for there was something in his eyes that I did not like to look upon. A kind of madness that I had no name for.
‘Come. We must go back down. There is much to be done. I will help you all I can. But we do not have much time.’
‘No. We do not.’ He turned away, out towards the sea. We could see it, but not hear it
at this distance. Any whispered wisdom it might have had for us, it could not reach us. ‘And there is something else for us to plan, before you go.’
‘And what is that?’
He looked on me once more, his smile as sudden and brilliant as dawn upon the water. ‘A celebration, of course.’
12
It was an early harvest we had that year. A harvest of wood, weapons, promises. For those in the feud, the long days of midsummer are the hardest months, the most dangerous. It is the killer’s season, and it offers no respite.
We worked every hour the day gave us: cutting the trees and stripping the wood, gathering stones to build a palisade around the farm. Most days I spent working side by side with Dalla, her dress hitched high and sleeves rolled up, as strong as any man. The children helped as much as they could, and Gunnar too, but he had other matters to attend to. Travelling from one farm to another, bearing wood, ale, meat, silver. Offering gifts, promising a celebration, asking for their oaths in return, to stand beside him when the time came. And at night, we prepared for the feast.
We spoke together of who we would invite, casting our minds back over the years, trying to remember all of those men who might owe us the debt of friendship. For Gunnar had few kin on the island, and I none at all. We thought of men we had traded with years before, exchanged stories with, those who had sheltered me in winters past, whom I thought might be keen to fight. We collected those names by night, repeated them together again and again like prayer, and in the days Gunnar would go to them and ask for their help.
Sometimes he came back with promises, and sometimes even with company, men who came to look at the farm and pledge their loyalty in front of Gunnar’s family. But there were not many of them: a pair of brothers who Gunnar had once made a gift to; an old fisherman who liked to hear me sing; Dalla’s brother from the north. And too many of those who did come had that doubting look to them that I could not trust. They ate the meat and drank the ale, promised they would return for the feast, boasted of how keen they were for the fighting to begin. But I am a poet, and know a poor performer when I see one.
Once, as we discussed who else we might ask to our harvest feast, I dared to speak a more familiar name.
