by Tim Leach
His men soon scattered to attend to their own matters: visiting the traders at the docks, looking in on old friends, visiting new loves. Ragnar and I alone made our way to the docks.
He was so nervous and uncertain on land, tripping and hurrying like a clumsy child as he made his way down the rocky path to the sea. Yet the moment he laid his hand to the hull of the ship, smiling like a shy lover, he seemed to right himself: set his feet and stand tall, a man born to be upon the water.
No doubt his life would have been ended a long time before in one quarrel or another had he not shown such courage on the sea. For the people of Iceland hate nothing more than a coward, fear nothing more than the open water in a storm. For Ragnar, a man inverted, they held a kind of wary respect. For I had heard the stories: of waves that seemed like mountain ranges, of lightning dancing across the sky and thunder striking men deaf. Of the bravest warriors shaming themselves with fear, and there was Ragnar at the tiller, entirely unafraid, guiding his ship without loss through the worst of storms.
‘How does she look?’ I asked him. ‘I know nothing of ships.’
‘My shipwright has taken good care of her,’ he replied. ‘We should go tonight.’
I hesitated. ‘I had thought we would leave in the morning.’
‘Why wait? The tide will be with us, and the wind too.’
‘Where do we sail to?’
He looked at me and grinned. ‘Where do you want to go?’
‘Too great a privilege for me to choose. A mere passenger.’
‘It matters little to me. There is trade wherever we go.’
I did not answer for a time. ‘I will not choose,’ I said.
‘Why not?’
‘If I asked you whether I should cut off your hands or pluck out your eyes, what would you answer?’
He went pale at my words. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘It is one thing to choose a journey. Quite another to have it forced upon you.’ He ran his hands over the hull once again.
‘I have always wandered across the land. Perhaps you can teach me what it is to wander the sea as well.’
‘I have never cared much for the land. The men may tolerate me, but I know what they say: no woman would choose a coward for a husband. It is a lonely place for me. And out on the water I am not alone. I am not a coward.’
‘Your body is a coward. Your mind is not. I know that of you and I have not even seen you on the sea.’
‘It is kind of you to say so. Very kind.’ He blinked and looked away. ‘I will come and find you, when it is time to go. You should say goodbye.’
‘Goodbye? Goodbye to who?’
‘To the island, of course.’
*
I wandered alone, picking my way across the rocky paths and listening to the calling of the gulls until I had made my way to the end of the land. It seemed a fitting place to say goodbye.
The sea was not empty in front of me. There was one islet in the water; local stories spoke of it as a boulder thrown at a witch. I sat down and wrapped my cloak tight around myself, for a cold, sharp wind came from the sea. I looked out across the open ocean. I looked towards the west.
There were stories of untouched lands out there. I did not know if I believed them. For all I knew the ocean I saw was empty, perhaps even endless. Unless the songs were true and out there somewhere lay the serpent that encircled the world. I looked on the ocean and found that I was afraid of it.
No, not of it. But of what it meant, what lay upon it, and beyond it. Of countries that were not this one, of people who were not my own. Of losing my home. Of exile.
I tried to think of all the wonders that I might see. Great cities, the courts of mighty kings. Forests where the trees stretched high above the heads of men and went on as far as the eye could see. I had sung of so many places, yet I had known nothing but this island. Known long winters and brief summers, known farms and never a city, the sea but never a desert. Now I would have the chance to see the world beyond.
I looked back on the mountains, snow-touched and towering above the pale hills. I thought of the long winter ahead, the men who waited to kill me, their longing for blood, that feeling that is more than a little like love.
I heard the footsteps on the path and saw Ragnar walking towards me. Light-footed and happy, and I knew from his smile that it was time to go. That he could not wait to set out to sea, to be in the only place that he felt as a home.
He looked on me and I saw the smile fall from his face.
*
The oars beat the water, the sail spread like the war banner of some great giant. The sea slapped the hull and the wood moaned like a lover.
That is what I saw and heard, as I watched the ship go.
I remained on that same rocky outcrop, looking out on that same little islet, as the ship was loaded, cut its ties and went out to sea. Time and time again I saw Ragnar look towards me as he paced the deck of his ship, but I did not meet his eyes. And I did not move from that place until the ship was far out on the water.
As I stood, for a moment I felt horror at what I had done. Felt the urge to run to the dock and dive in the water, to cry out for them to wait, to take me with them. But I would have to be one of those shape-shifters who can take the form of seal or fish to catch them now. Already they were drawing close to the horizon. Already it was too late.
It was a passing sensation, like a cold breeze that blows once and crawls across the skin and then is felt no more. After that I did not feel fear, though I knew it would come in time. I felt nothing at all.
I traded the first silver ring I had for food that would not spoil. I paused for only a moment before I handed over the second, the one that Gunnar had given to me, for a strong horse. I was going to a place where silver and gold meant nothing. Only iron and flesh had value for me now.
I do not know if those tradesman knew who I was or the sentence that was about to be passed. That today I could trade with them like any other man, but tomorrow I would be an outlaw. Perhaps they were men of the sea like Ragnar, who knew nothing of the feuds of landlocked men. Perhaps they thought that I must be taking some later ship, that I was buying supplies for the voyage itself. Or perhaps they simply did not care.
I rode out from Borg and headed to the east. I knew they would come for me soon.
Outlaw
17
It was on the fifth day that I saw them. Black dots on the horizon, small enough that I thought them some trick of the light at first. But the truth was clear, soon enough. Riders in pursuit.
I had thought they would come sooner. No doubt they had believed that I would run, that I would not be fool enough to stay as an outlaw. Word must have reached them from Borg that I had not taken my place on the ship. That the sun had set on my last day as a free man.
Those five days had been days of peace. I still had enough food, and had yet to shame myself by stealing from a shepherd’s shieling. I travelled in the day, singing my songs to keep myself company. I slept at night with my head against the flank of my horse, soothed by the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the heavy beat of his heart. For one last time I could be a happy traveller, could fool myself that I still had some kind of freedom.
On the day that I woke and saw those figures on the horizon, I set my heels to the sides of my horse. The chase began in earnest.
Many were the times that I thought I had lost them. I sought the valleys and narrow defiles to hide from their sight, pushed my horse as hard as I could. If the day of my exile had been but a month later, perhaps I might have succeeded. I could have travelled by night and hid in the day, and they never would have been able to follow me. But the late summer days were still long, the nights too short. I could not travel as fast as a free man, for I had to pick my way round the borders of every farm that I rode through, or take to the rocky, unpeopled terrain that slowed me down. Any man I saw might know me for what I was. Any man I saw might choose to kill me.
On some days I managed to get away from
my pursuers for a time. A hard morning’s ride, an unseen valley with branching pathways, and those figures on the horizon would vanish for a time. Whatever tracker they had convinced to join them, he knew his trade well. If there was an evening where I could no longer see them, inevitably that next morning I would rise to see those shapes on the horizon once more. And my horse was beginning to tire.
How long would they follow me? How far would they go? They were men with farms, families, a winter to prepare for. Would they be willing to risk all of that to hunt down an outlaw?
All depended on who was with them, how strong their loyalty was. Björn would lead them, Snorri at his side, and those kinsmen he had rallied for the chase. There would be others there, tempted by something other than revenge and kinship. Some bought with silver to join the band, and there would always be those who hunted for the pleasure of killing. Half-tamed men who longed to murder, and who would take up arms in pursuit of any outlaw, no matter who that man might be.
My hope was the mountains, the winter, ice and snow and stone the only allies who might come to help me. And so I made my way towards the heart of our island, a tomb of ice and snow where no man could live for long.
I pressed on towards the mountains, praying for the snow to fall.
*
I could not say on what day it was that I came upon the river. A week after I had begun to run, perhaps it was more, for already the days ran into one another and I slept little.
It was angry, fast-flowing, high rocky banks on either side. Impassable for much of its length, though I knew where it could be forded. For I had come this way long ago, as I came up from the south to the west. Further south, there was a turn in the river where it grew slow and a brave man might force his horse through before the cold stole his strength. I could only hope that my followers did not know of that place.
I found it, that place where the river turned shallow. I had crossed it six years before, fleeing a part of the country that I could no longer call home. Now I crossed it again, running again, and turned my horse towards the north.
The mountains grew tall in front of me and I dozed in my saddle as I rode, for the sun was warm and the air still.
‘Kjaran.’
I shuddered at the sound, thinking it a word from a dream.
‘Kjaran!’
My name repeated. I lifted my tired head, looked across the river. They were there: a dozen men on horseback, the warband that pursued me.
I sat upright, reaching for the sword at my side, the taste of iron in my mouth. Yet they were on the other side of the river. A little more than a bowshot away, but it would take them half a day’s hard riding to reach me. I could not quite believe: it seemed impossible for danger to be so close, yet so far away.
It was Björn who had called to me, and now he did not seem to know what it was that he should say next. One goes on the hunt to kill a murderer, not a tired rider half-asleep in his saddle. Björn rode one of the largest horses I had ever seen, yet it was as though he were riding a colt, so small did it seem under him. He was not quite as tall as Hrolf the Walker, the great Viking whom no horse could bear, but there was something absurd in seeing his heels almost clip the ground as he rode.
They drew up on the banks and I saw one of them look down into the water to see if it might be crossed. I knew that a roaring torrent would greet him that no man could hope to swim through alive, sharp wet stones that no man could climb.
‘Come here, Kjaran,’ Björn said. ‘Let us speak.’
I saw no bow amongst them, but I came forward carefully. One of them might have a good arm and a spear to hand, and they did not need to strike me to kill me. They had merely to wound my horse and they would have me soon enough. And so I did not come to the bank as they did – merely came close enough to speak.
Yet still, we did not talk for a time. Merely stared at each other, while they drew no closer and I drew no further away, the only sounds the water and the wind. I had the thought, the mad, hopeful thought, that somehow we might both stay there. Found a settlement on each side of the river, ever watchful, unable to harm one another. That we would grow old looking across the divided land.
‘You go north, then,’ Björn said. ‘You think to go around the mountains?’
‘That is right,’ I replied. I looked beyond him, to the men who followed him. ‘How far will you go for another man’s feud?’ I said, and I saw Ketil Hakonsson there with them. ‘I am sorry to see you here, Ketil. I thought you a better man than this.’
Ketil shook his head. ‘You should not have stayed, Kjaran. Why did you not go when you could?’
I made no reply. I was not certain that I could have answered him.
‘A shameful thing, to run like this,’ Björn said.
‘A shameful thing,’ I said, ‘to hunt one man with a dozen.’
‘We should not speak with him,’ said Ketil.
Björn turned to him, his face red with anger. ‘I will speak if I want to!’
Ketil shook his head and looked at the ground. ‘We should not speak with him.’
‘He is right,’ I said. ‘We should not speak. Go home. There is no honour in this.’
‘No,’ Björn said. ‘But there is revenge.’ He turned to the warband. ‘I would speak with him alone. I would speak with the man who killed my brother.’
The others turned their horses and rode away. Björn dismounted, drew his hand-axe and knife and laid them upon the ground.
He came to the bank open-handed. ‘Let us speak. I have no weapon.’
‘You still have your sword.’
He spat on the ground. ‘You think I will throw that at you?’
I tugged on my horse’s reins, turned him away, and touched my heels to his flanks.
‘I want to speak to you about Gunnar.’
I should have kept riding. I should have spoken with him no further. But already I had stilled my horse and he knew that his words had found a mark. And so I swung down and walked to the bank.
‘What would you say to me?’
‘Vigdis told me the truth,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You lied at the Althing. I know it was not you who killed my brother.’
I hesitated. ‘Then why hunt me?’
‘You played your part. There is no mercy for such as you. But I will kill Gunnar.’
‘You may kill me. If it comes to that, so be it. But you cannot stand against Gunnar. And I may not die so easily.’
I half-drew my sword, Gunnar’s sword, enough so that he could see the colour of the metal, the familiar marks on the blade. He tossed back his head, as if struck by the sight of it, and I wondered if he feared it. It had killed two of his brothers. Perhaps he still believed in fate, and curses.
‘You shall die upon this sword as well, I think,’ I said.
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘You still think you will die like a warrior, like a poet. That you will die well. When we catch you, you will be torn to pieces like a hunted animal.’
‘Perhaps. But Gunnar will avenge my death.’
‘No. He will not.’
He turned from me – disappointed, I thought. I do not know what he wanted from me, but I had not given it to him. As he walked away, I searched for something more that I might say. Some words that might put aside his hate or inspire fear. But I could not find them.
I took to my own horse, rode north, and every so often I looked over my shoulder to watch them ride south towards the ford, to watch them disappear from view.
By the morning, they were in sight once more.
*
It was time, then, to take my chance. To break free of my pursuers or die in the attempt.
For weeks they had pursued me and we had barely stirred our horses beyond a walk. At the end of a battle, when men are too tired to run, I have heard there are many such chases. Walking men stumbling after other walking men, dragging one foot in front of the other. For the pursuit of men on horseback is no
t settled through galloping speed, but mere persistence. A horse that stumbles and breaks a leg or throws its rider into the rocks – these are the things that may end a chase across the land.
But that morning I broke with that tradition. I put my heels to the horse and we tore across the land.
When I looked back, I saw the figures on the horizon recede a little. They too stirred their horses, but they were content to lose a little ground, knowing that I was riding a tired horse too hard. No doubt they thought that I had panicked, that they had merely to wait for my horse to be exhausted. I had no second horse and no man would trade a mount to an outlaw. They would wait and have me soon enough. But they did not understand my purpose.
I rode like that until I was at the base of the mountains, until I was stood beneath some great, nameless piece of stone – who would waste time giving names to such things?
I swung down from the saddle and my horse seemed to gasp in relief. His head bowed, spitting gobbets of rank phlegm to the ground, the sweat rolling off his hide like waves in the swell. In the last few miles he had favoured one leg, and now I saw that he could barely stand on it. Yet still he stood: brave as he was, he would not go to ground unless I gave him leave.
I put my head to his, embraced his neck with my arms. I felt him lean forward, lean against me, like a weary old man leaning on his son, as though he hoped that I might be able to take some of his weight.
‘Thank you,’ I said. I took my knife and opened his throat and let him go to the ground. I held him as he died.
*
I had no time to butcher him properly. I took only the quick cuts across the top of the back, wrapped the bloody meat in cloth. Then I was away, running up the scree as fast as I could, the loose stones biting my feet. Three times I fell, striking skin from my palms, digging in my knees and elbows to stop myself from sliding further. A wrench of the knee, a breaking of bone – either of these would ruin me, leave me helpless for my followers. But I had to take the chance. I could not be caught on that slope.
