The Smile of the Wolf

by Tim Leach

  An hour passed and I felt Gunnar’s hand grip mine a little tighter, as if it were a sword hilt and he were facing fearful odds on the battlefield. It seemed as though the worst of our dreams had come to pass. That all of his restless wanderings had been for nothing, all the pledges of allegiance empty.

  But then we heard a drum begin to beat.

  Distant, steady, unmistakable, and coming towards us. A shiver of joy passed through me as I heard the drum joined by another, and another. And then there was fire on the horizon. The torches and the music coming towards us.

  We had no instrument to answer them but our voices. We howled like wolves, baying at the moon, calling them to gather around. And they came, ten families from across the Salmon River Valley, men and women and children all together, drunk and laughing, come to join us for the feast.

  What manner of men they were. Those like Narfi Thorkelsson, who cared not for honour or kinship, longing only for the glory of a fight against greater numbers. Desperate men such as Odd the Fox, who had no hope of winning favour with a chieftain and were willing to stake their loyalty to a warrior like Gunnar. Reluctant men like Kormac Bersisson, called upon by the debts of blood to join us against his better judgement. These were those we had to stand beside us in the feud.

  Since the killing I had forgotten what it was to feel a kinship to any man but Gunnar. Now I felt the strength that only comes from a gathering of warriors. Let me be outnumbered and doomed to die, but so long as I still have a good man standing on every side, I know that I will feel no fear. I will go to death content. For the people of my country do not fear death. We only fear that we will die alone.

  *

  I remember many things of that night. Narfi and Gunnar speaking together, then suddenly furiously grappling with one another, pausing to talk calmly for a moment, and then wrestling once more, as others looked on and laughed. The children running wild around us, forming and breaking and wheeling like flocks of birds in the sky. The women talking together, some having not spoken in years in spite of living but a few miles apart, lost in the labyrinths of their homes. Though I looked and looked again, hoping anew each time, I did not see Sigrid amongst them.

  We talked for hours, on every subject except that of the feud. We sang our throats hoarse; I spoke my poetry; we laughed and cursed together. But to my memory, it was as if the whole night passed in silence, like a wordless prayer. I remember no words that were spoken.

  I remember being filled with a sudden restless energy, and saw, too, Kari standing hesitant on the edge of the circle. I gave chase, lumbering after him, rolling my shoulder up into a hunchback and twisting my face. He ran from me, laughing, and I heard the others jeering and laughing at me in equal measure.

  Perhaps they thought it a shameful thing, to play a child’s games when one was a man. But perhaps they too wanted to forget as I did, to live fully within the game or the song, if only for a moment. If only ours was an island of children, we might know peace. For children feud – of course they do, quarrelling with more eagerness than any warrior. But they know how to forgive. And it seems that as we grow old, and learn of honour, that quality is what we lose.

  Later, those who lived close began to stumble towards their homes, still laughing and singing. Others went to the longhouse to sleep wherever they could find a place on the floor, their children lying outside, piled together like sleeping beasts, immune to the noise and night air. We threw blankets over them and let them be.

  I went out into the air, and I saw Dalla saying farewell to Kormac Bersisson and his kin.

  ‘I did not think to see you here, Kormac,’ she said.

  ‘I did not think to be coming.’ Kormac scratched the back of his head and looked down at the son who stood beside him. ‘But your husband is a brave man, even though he is unlucky. Perhaps there is better fortune in your future.’

  ‘Let us hope so.’

  And he was away then, into the darkness. Only Dalla and I remained.

  ‘I did not think that anyone would come here,’ she said, her eyes bright.

  ‘You have more friends than you thought.’

  ‘We have nothing to offer them.’

  ‘Only honour, the promise of blood. For some that is enough.’

  ‘True,’ she said. Her foot scratched at the ground. ‘You will go tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I am glad you saw this. A little hope, before you go.’

  ‘There is much hope here. If the men stay loyal, there is little for you to fear.’

  ‘They will still outnumber us.’

  ‘But they will fight on your ground. You must merely watch and wait.’

  ‘Wait for what? For Björn and Vigdis to grow old and die?’

  ‘Wait for me to come back. Let them grow bored and stupid. I will come back and I will settle this feud.’

  ‘We will settle it together,’ she said.

  ‘Aye. We will settle it together.’

  She grinned at this – not the awful warrior’s smile I had seen before, that greets death as a boon companion. For a moment I think that she forgot all thought of killing.

  Then she looked out in the darkness and the smile froze upon her face.

  ‘What do you see?’

  ‘There is someone out there,’ she said, her voice flat, her body still.

  I followed her gaze, but I could see nothing in the darkness. ‘Where? I cannot see.’

  ‘Do not move. We cannot let them know.’

  ‘Björn and the others?’

  ‘I cannot tell. Wait.’

  Her eyes hunted through the darkness, one hand drifting to the knife at her side. I waited – for the command to run or fight, for an arrow or a spear from the darkness.

  She said: ‘We have nothing to fear.’

  ‘Who is out there?’

  She laughed. ‘You still cannot tell?’

  ‘No,’ I said, for she spent most of her life in the dark of the longhouse and her eyes were better than mine at night. But I saw it then: a moment of motion, grey cloth catching under the light of the half-moon. I knew what was out there, then, and I gave chase without a word, Dalla’s laughter following me into the night.

  *

  There are stories my father used to tell me, about the hidden people. Women whom one can see but not touch, beautiful and terrible, leading men into the darkness, into the sea and over high cliffs. And there were times, on that night of the feast, that I thought I might be chasing such a creature.

  That winter I had hunted a ghost in the night, only to find it to be a man. Now I pursued a woman; would she truly be a ghost this time?

  Many times I almost caught her, but she was quick and saw better in the dark than I did. Many times I thought I had lost her, only to hear a silvery laugh echoing back at me that I chased after once again, through the fields and rivers, the remnants of the woodland.

  I could tell no pattern to where she took me, though we never ventured beyond sight of the farm, the fires of the feast always nearby. She seemed to be leading me no place in particular, for I retrod the same ground many times in pursuit of her: again and again we passed through the cut-down remnants of Gunnar’s wood, the shallow waters of the river, the broken stones on the high ground that marked the borders of Gunnar’s land.

  It was only when I stood still for a moment to catch my breath and saw her pause in the distance to wait for me that I at last understood the rules of the game.

  I turned my back to her and walked towards a turning of the river, where the hills on each side might grant us some measure of privacy. I put my hand on the ground; the grass was wet and I laid my cloak down upon it. I sat on the ground and waited.

  I saw her at the top of the hill, but she did not come to me at once. She moved slowly, pausing every so often to see if I would lose my patience and give chase once more. She was testing me, but I remained still. I knew what it was that she wanted.

  She did not want to be caught. She wanted to catch me.
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  She walked upstream towards me and knelt upon my cloak. We looked at each other, she close enough to me that even in the half-light I could see the mark of the fey in her eyes. I still could not quite believe that it was her. I reached out, to truly know, and a moment later felt her lips against my palm.

  We stood for that moment together, listening to the whispering river. I could see her trembling a little – a quiver in her shoulders, a tremble in her hand. But her eyes were clear and a smile danced across her lips.

  ‘I could not wait,’ Sigrid said.

  And there, in the darkness, we found each other.

  15

  After, she lay on her side, her head turned from me, and I watched as she let one hand trail in the waters of the river beside us.

  ‘I could not come to the feast,’ she said.

  ‘Olaf forbade it,’ I replied, coiling a strand of her hair around my finger.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But you came here tonight.’

  ‘Of course.’ I reached out from the cloak to where my belt lay. I drew my knife and cut away a lock of hair.

  She rolled back to face me then, and in the darkness I could see the white of her rolling eyes. ‘Of course, a poet would do such a thing.’

  I kissed her. ‘You must go back. There is not much night left. Olaf will be angry if he finds you away. I must go away tomorrow. But I will have this to remember you by.’

  ‘And what will I have? I want no token part of you. I shall have all of you or nothing.’ She stood from the cloak, naked and unashamed. She washed in the river and dressed, and when we stood together once more, she touched the two silver arm-rings that I wore. ‘One of these buys you a place on a ship. The other buys us a place at a farm, when you return.’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘You will come back?’

  ‘Yes. I will come back.’

  She dropped her head, and so if there were tears I could not see them. She was as proud as any warrior.

  I watched her go, a shadow in the darkness, and I tried to mark her in my mind – every word, every touch that she had gifted to me. They would be all my company in exile. Within me, the aching hope that she would wait for me.

  I wandered back towards the farm, uncaring for anything else. For I was young and foolish, and I loved. Yet it did not last long. The beating of five hundred heartbeats, perhaps. The time it took for the moon to sink only a fraction in the sky. However long it took to lay eyes upon the farm and to see that the torches were out.

  Perhaps, I thought, they had simply burned out of their own accord – there might be no more to it than that. Yet some instinct made me come forward as quietly as I could, waiting for the wind before I moved, watching and listening as if I were a hunter close to the wolf, not a man returning to his home. Some wrongness seemed to seep from that place, though I could not say what it was.

  I drew closer and saw that the door was open, swinging and creaking softly in the wind. There was no light from within. They have put out the cooking fire, I thought, and a coldness stole through me.

  It looked abandoned, like one of those farms emptied by disease and roamed by haunts. As if some strange witchcraft had passed out in the dale, and Sigrid and I had lain together for half a hundred years. But then the wind blew hard, caught the door and almost swung it closed, and a pale hand stole out of the darkness and held the door open. There was still someone inside.

  I drew the axe from my belt, crept closer to the wall. I felt it with my free hand, searching for the places where I might place my hands and feet. I tried to remember when I had helped build this wall, what stones I had chosen and what order I had laid them in. My poet’s memory served me well; it had been a hot day three weeks before when I placed those stones. My lack of craft was my undoing, for as I came down the other side my foot struck loose a poorly placed rock.

  It danced and chattered across the wall, rapping out a soft alarm call. I crouched down, hoping that I had not been heard. A whistle came to me from the doorway: the tune of a song that I had sung that night, of Odin and the Poet’s Mead. I whistled back the same set of notes.

  ‘Kjaran?’ It was Gunnar’s voice, coming from the doorway.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come inside. Quickly.’

  I ran across the open ground, expecting at any moment the thrum of a bowstring, the whistle of a thrown spear. But I was through the door, Gunnar’s hand on my back.

  ‘What—?’ I said, but Gunnar grabbed my arm and put his finger to his lips. I stood in silence and waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.

  When they had, I wondered if some madness had stolen over Gunnar, for I could see nothing awry. The guests were asleep, lying on the ground in every part of the room. The children had all been brought inside, but they slept too, exhausted and content. I saw no sign of wounds on anyone; no one save for Gunnar and his family were still awake.

  But Freydis was crying, sitting in her mother’s lap and sobbing against her, as Dalla bounced the child on her lap. And Kari not quite weeping, but blinking back his tears, his mouth agape.

  ‘I thought that you might have been ambushed,’ Gunnar said. ‘I would have come out, but I could not leave them alone.’

  ‘I do not understand,’ I said. ‘What has happened?’

  Gunnar did not reply. He pointed outside.

  I saw nothing at first. The remnants of the feast, the ground marked by many feet. The barn, the hitching posts, the stockade – all was as it should be. Then the wind came once more and I saw a strand of rope dancing in the wind. One end knotted to the hitching post, the other wandering freely.

  ‘The horse is gone,’ I said.

  ‘Kari woke me. He says he heard men speaking, the sound of the horse crying out. When he came out, it was gone.’

  ‘It could have broken its tether.’

  Gunnar snorted in disgust. ‘Do you really believe that?’

  ‘We must see for ourselves.’

  ‘I will go with you,’ Kari said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I will go!’

  Gunnar struck him – a measured, backhanded slap. ‘I told you, no. Do not make me say so again.’

  Dalla pulled the boy close against her, and her daughter too. I could not meet her gaze, and so I took up a shield and looked to Gunnar. He nodded to me and we stepped out into the dark, our shields held high.

  Out there in the summer night the land seemed alive with motion. My eyes made a nightmare of it all. A startled bird rising from the moor became an arrow flying towards us. A lumbering sheep, for a moment, changed to a man hunched over and walking on all fours. We walked amongst monsters in the darkness.

  ‘I wish it were winter,’ I said.

  ‘I do not,’ Gunnar replied. ‘I have always wanted to die in summer.’

  I crouched beside the hitching post and in the blue half-light I tried to read the story of the ground. There were so many footsteps of men and horses that it seemed a hopeless task. But I studied the tracks like a priest reading an omen, listening for a voice from the gods that might guide us on the way.

  ‘What do you think?’ I said.

  He ran his finger over the clean cut in the rope. ‘He did not break his tether.’

  ‘You believe that they are still out there?’

  He looked at me. ‘Oh, that I know for certain. But we must still go searching for them. I’ll not hide in my home like a coward.’

  ‘I do not think they will fight us. If they wanted to kill me, they have but to wait a few days. They want to scare us.’

  ‘Then we shall not be scared. But keep your shield up. They may have an archer with them.’ He shook his head. ‘I wish we had armour.’

  ‘I have never worn mail. I would move like a fat old man.’

  He laughed and I took what comfort I could at the sound. Even if we had the light of day and a horse of our own to search on, we would have had little chance of finding a runaway horse – and none at all if it had been stol
en. But there was nothing to do but try. To wander in the dark, stumbling over rock and tussock, the weight of the shield burning in my arm, mouth dry as a stone. To wander into whatever trap might be laid for us, for the sake of honour and nothing more.

  We circled the farm, always keeping it in sight on our left. Gunnar insisted on walking on the outside, his unprotected right side exposed to the open countryside and whoever might be waiting there. I listened for the whispering sound of footsteps in the darkness, the creaking of an unseasoned spear, the accidental rap of a blade against a shield.

  ‘Wait.’

  I raised my shield when Gunnar spoke, and laid my back against his.

  ‘I heard something,’ he said.

  We stood and listened. I heard nothing except the wind against distant trees, Gunnar’s steady breaths in and out. Yet I could feel his sweat-sodden tunic pressed damp against my shoulders. It seemed he could feel fear after all.

  ‘What did you hear?’ I asked.

  ‘Laughter.’

  We waited, and I do not know how long we listened for, waiting for the sound to come once more. But it did not and we slowly resumed our circle.

  We returned to where we had begun and saw no sign of men or of the missing horse. There had been no trail that I could read upon the ground. The creature had vanished.

  ‘Does that satisfy your honour?’ I said.

  He nodded, exhausted. ‘Yes. Daylight will reveal the rest.’

  Imagine a warrior waiting for a battle, knowing that the morning will bring his death. Yet the sun rises and, as he readies his arms, he is told a truce has been struck and there will be no battle that day. Or a man condemned to die at the order of some foreign tyrant, readying himself to be sent to the headsman’s block and given a coward’s death, only to find himself pardoned at the last moment. That was how I felt as we came back to that farmhouse.

  Perhaps I would have met my death well, having known the woman I loved that night. But in that moment I knew it could not be true. I felt no peace, no readiness for death. For mine was a greedy love.