The Smile of the Wolf

by Tim Leach

  ‘You have not yet spoken of Gunnar,’ I said.

  He gave a little sigh, a soft breath of regret. ‘No. I have not.’

  ‘Send your son into the fields,’ I said. ‘He should not be here for these words.’

  ‘I do not think I will,’ he said.

  ‘I had not thought you so shameless,’ I said. ‘But I should have expected nothing more from a man like you.’

  ‘That may be so.’ There was a little shame in his voice, I thought. But it was not enough. ‘I do not think it is words alone that you mean to give me.’

  All was still. All was ready. I concentrated on my breath – in and out, in and out, in and out. Never had that air tasted sweeter to me, when I did not know how many tastes of it remained.

  Then a rapping at the door. The moment gone, a spell broken. A strange look on Kormac’s face: fear and relief both. Who was it that had come to this place in the middle of the day?

  I should have run then. Towards the back door, past the barrels of whey and salted fish, out towards the light. The son would have his knife between my ribs if he were not lame or dumb, but it was a greater chance than if I were to remain. Yet I sat there, compelled to stillness by some strange force. A binding spell, though whether it was a curse spun by some witch or by my own heart I could not tell.

  The door swung open and there came no band of men to end my life, no solitary enemy to cut my throat. A woman stood there – a woman I had not seen in many years.

  Vigdis. The one who had begun the feud.

  *

  We stared at one another for a time, her cold black eyes not leaving mine.

  ‘You come alone?’ Kormac said to her.

  ‘Of course,’ she replied, and sat beside the fire.

  ‘I did not know he was coming. You must believe me. I have not said—’

  ‘It does not matter,’ she said. ‘Do not worry, Kormac.’ She inclined her head to me. ‘I did not think to see you again.’

  ‘I knew that I would see you.’

  ‘Did your god give you a vision? I have heard that of the skalds.’

  ‘Something like that,’ I said.

  ‘Did your god give you a vision of Gunnar? Of the way he died?’

  ‘No. But I know what was done there.’

  ‘I am glad of it.’

  ‘Does your child live?’

  ‘He does.’ She lifted her head. ‘He is almost three now. Strong, like his father.’

  ‘You have a son, then. Good.’

  Her hands went still.

  ‘Where do you stay at night, Kjaran? Tell me that. There is no harm in it.’

  ‘I shall not tell you that. I have some friends yet.’

  ‘But not here.’ She lifted the cup to her lips, holding it in both hands like a child. ‘You would like to kill me, I think,’ she said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘You spoke the words, but it was not you that did the killing. Others bear the shame of that.’

  ‘But Björn?’ She lifted a finger towards Kormac. ‘And this man?’

  I made no answer. She nodded, satisfied. ‘It is as I thought,’ she said.

  ‘Will you tell me why?’

  She cocked her head. ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘Why you have brought about this feud.’

  ‘I have done no killing.’

  ‘No. But there were so many times when peace might have been made. And every time you have spoken the words to break that peace. I wonder why that is.’

  She considered this and I watched the firelight play across her skin: the shadow of the fire dancing over her cheeks, the elegant movement of her hands, the hollow of her throat. She truly was a beautiful woman. But not enough to die for. To kill for.

  ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘I will not give you that. You will die ignorant.’

  ‘I may die,’ I said, ‘but I shall know that, before I die.’

  ‘I shall not see you again,’ she said.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she allowed. ‘But I am not sorry,’ she said. ‘Remember that.’ She stood, smoothing her skirts with her hands. She looked on Kormac and said: ‘You know what must be done now.’

  She was gone then, back into the light of the world, and we listened to the sound of hooves beating against the wet ground.

  ‘I wish you had not come here,’ Kormac said.

  ‘You would kill a guest in your own house?’

  ‘You are not a guest. You should not have come.’

  ‘I should not be surprised. You have done some coward’s killing already.’

  ‘I had no part in what was done to Gunnar. That was Björn’s sport.’

  ‘That is not what I mean. I know what was done to Gunnar’s wife. His daughter.’

  His face went white with shame. ‘You cannot know,’ he said. ‘None would tell you that.’

  ‘And yet still I know it.’

  He trembled for a moment, then stilled himself and looked at his son. ‘What are you doing here, Kjaran?’

  ‘I think you know why already.’

  He looked on me, his mouth agape. And then, a little sigh of relief. ‘You came here to die?’

  I drew my hands beneath my cloak and I leaned my head forward towards the fire. The way I have heard that condemned men in distant lands kneel before an executioner.

  ‘I have lived long enough,’ I said.

  And at the edge of my vision, I saw his son’s hand go to the knife on his belt.

  ‘Tell me one thing,’ I said.

  ‘What is that?’

  I saw his son move closer still.

  ‘Why did you turn against Gunnar?’

  ‘You truly wish to know?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His eyes slid to his son. ‘He thought himself better than the rest of us,’ he said – slowly, grudgingly, but his words had the taste of truth. ‘He thought that because he had a good hand with a sword and a taste for killing, that he was the greater man. All he had was that little plot of land, that herd of wormy sheep. No kin, no favour with his chieftain. And yet he thought he could do without the rest of us.’

  I did not dare to close my eyes, but that was all that I wanted – to block away the world for a moment, to think myself dreaming. I do not know what it was that I had hoped for. That Kormac had been bought with silver or the promise of honour. Now that I had the petty truth, I wished that I had not heard him.

  ‘You are right,’ I said. ‘He was a fool, to think that he could live without such things.’

  The son was closer still. But I still had time to speak again.

  ‘He was right in his own way,’ I said. ‘He was a better man than you.’ And with that I lifted my hand, my good hand, from within my cloak.

  Kormac was ready for me, stepping up and stepping back to escape a blade, his hand going to the weapon at his side. But he sought to escape a blade that was not there. I did not bring iron in my hand, but a heavy handful of leaves, still wet from the rain the night before. I cast them upon the fire and in a moment the longhouse was filled with smoke.

  A hand grasped at my cloak, pulling me towards the point of a blade. But my cloak was unclasped and slipped from my back, and I was into the smoke, my hand over my mouth, my eyes closed. I listened.

  The others were gasping, retching, stumbling. I sought Kormac through sound, through touch, as I have heard blind old men seek revenge at the end of their lives, their trembling hands searching in the dark for a throat, an eye, a beating heart to still. So it was that I went into the smoke, reaching forward with my maimed left hand until I felt it touch his chest. For it was my right hand that carried the knife.

  Three times the blade went in and twice it came out again, for on the third stroke some trap of bone closed about it and held it there. I was away then, counting my steps back towards the door. I could hear his son moving in the smoke, circling the fire, crying out for his father. But he realised too late that I had made for the door.


  I was into the blinding daylight, the smoke pursuing me like a vengeful spirit, my eyes streaming, sucking at the fresh air as a desert traveller drinks water. I looked back over my shoulder as I ran, for I thought that Bjarni would pursue me, that he would follow me out to fight and die beneath the open sky. But he did not. As I ran from the longhouse I heard the sound of a blade falling to the ground behind me, and a keening wail rose up, a son for his father, just as the softest snow began to fall.

  31

  What sign was it, this summer snowfall? For the clouds had come in from the sea, but they did not bear rain. The white was falling thick about me as I ran and scrambled from the killing house, back across the dale to Ragnar’s homestead. What god spoke this way? The White Christ or the old gods I had left behind? Was it to cover my escape or to reveal my tracks, to leave no place for a killer to hide?

  In that moment, I cared not. For the killer’s joy burned like a fever, and how I had lived so long without it I did not know.

  Now I understood the longing that Gunnar had felt, and I could not understand how he had tried to give it up, to trade the killing for a farmer’s life. What a thing it was, to try and put up your sword, once you have known such a terrible joy. At that moment I loved him more than I ever had before. And I loved his son, for that was all that was left of my friend.

  I took a long time to return to Ragnar’s home. I circled around the high lands, waiting and watching for any sign of pursuit, for I could take no chance of being followed. Every so often I stopped to plunge my hands into the snow, leaving it red behind me, wiping away the killer’s sign that I bore. It was only when I was certain that no pursuer would find me that I made my way towards the coast, back to Ragnar’s longhouse.

  I did not knock, but threw the door open and made my way inside. I could feel the smile upon my face, but I could not rid myself of it. As I entered, I found Ragnar and Sigrid speaking in close conference by the fire; Sigrid looked up at me and I could see the fear in her eyes.

  ‘It is not my blood,’ I said. ‘I am not hurt.’ For my hands were clean, but my clothes were still marked with gore.

  She walked to me, put her hands to my face, held my gaze. I could not breathe for a moment, the ache in me was so strong. Yet I saw that I was mistaken. There was no tenderness in her touch, no affection. She meant only to be sure of my attention.

  ‘Thorvaldur has gone,’ she said. ‘He has taken Kari with him.’

  That cold touch upon my skin once again – the mocking warning of a god.

  ‘Tell me what you mean,’ I said, ‘as quickly as you can.’

  It was Ragnar who spoke now. ‘I went out to the captains and sailors. To try to get some sense of the talk in the valley. What Björn and his kin might be doing. I… I wanted to help.’ He hesitated. ‘Vigdis has been riding all across the valley today. And it seems that Björn will go tonight, with the turning of the tide.’

  For a moment I could not breathe. ‘Where?’ I asked.

  ‘The north coast, near Kambsnes. He has a ship waiting for him there.’

  ‘Surely no man will sail in this storm.’

  ‘The wind is true and this storm will pass soon enough. It has to.’ He swallowed. ‘Thorvaldur said that it would be a coward’s curse to wait. That they would ambush Björn as he made his way to the ship.’

  ‘How many will go with Björn?’

  ‘I do not know. His brother. A few more men as well, I would have thought.’

  ‘Why did you not stop them?’

  Sigrid spoke now. ‘You invite a wolf into our home and ask if we shall stop him for you?’

  Ragnar smiled sadly. ‘I am sorry, Kjaran; I wish I could have stopped them.’ He licked his lips. ‘He called me a… coward.’

  The word hung in the air – a killing word. A man or a woman needs magic to bring bloodshed. There are words that need no sorcery to make a killing inevitable: speak them and men will die. I saw Sigrid’s lips go white with fury, her hands twitch as though they longed to close about a weapon.

  ‘I will have to fight him, won’t I?’ said Ragnar. ‘To challenge him to the holmgang.’ He looked down at his sailor’s hands. I wondered when was the last time he had held a weapon. ‘I know what I am. But I cannot have it said.’

  ‘No,’ I said. Within me, I felt the killing joy change to something different. The cold, measured sense of revenge. ‘If it comes to that, I will fight him for you. I think, perhaps, that is what he wants. How long ago did they leave?’

  ‘An hour. They took horses.’

  ‘I must have one too.’

  ‘They took our two best. But take Snorri. He is old, half-lame. But he may get you there in time.’

  A lie – a kind, hopeful lie, but a lie all the same. I took a spear from the corner of the room, felt the weight of it. An axe and shield lay there as well and I took them too. Kari had taken his father’s sword with him.

  They did not speak to me as I gathered my arms. They could not even look at me, nor I at them. At the edge of my vision, I saw her take his hand in hers and hold it close, and I shut my eyes against the sight. They are glad to be rid of me, I thought. And I cannot blame them for it.

  Yet when at the door, I heard a voice calling to me.

  ‘Kjaran, wait.’

  I turned and looked on Sigrid. She glanced back at Ragnar, sat by the fire in the longhouse.

  ‘Will you return?’ she said to me.

  ‘I do not think so.’ I looked down at my hand, my good hand, and I saw that it did not tremble. ‘I will see Gunnar again. And I shall save his son. And that will be enough.’ As I spoke the words I thought of that burrowing embrace Kari had given me that morning. Had he known then? Had he sought to say farewell, but had not found the words?

  ‘Are you afraid?’

  ‘No.’ I met her gaze. ‘It is an easy thing to go to death, and to know it will bring joy to one that you love.’

  She said nothing for a moment. Then: ‘That is not true. For I did love you, once.’

  ‘But not now.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And never again.’

  ‘I do not think so. But I did love you once. Truly, with all that I am. And perhaps that may mean something to you.’

  ‘It does.’

  I took in the flaxen colour of her hair. The whetstone edge of her jaw, those eyes with the touch of green at the centre. The way her hips had felt against my hands on that one night so long ago. I remembered it all then, and knew that I would not forget.

  *

  I was weary before I began. The killing lust had left me and I felt only the longing to rest – to lay down my head and close my eyes and let the killing be over for one day at least.

  One last ride to the battle, I told myself. One more time and then it shall be done. Then there will be nothing but rest.

  How would they have thought, those men who hunted men? What paths would they have taken? In places the snow had settled and I found horse tracks there. This was strange country to Thorvaldur, but he had Kari to guide him and none knew better the hidden places of this land than a boy. I struck north, past the beach where Gunnar and I had found the whale, and for a moment, amidst the storm-tossed surf, I thought I saw a figure there, raising a hand in greeting to me.

  Wait, I told him. I shall come to you soon.

  There was Laugar to the north; perhaps Björn and his men would stop at the hot spring before they set sail. And then they would go to the west, towards the mooring beyond Kambsnes. To climb the hill and look upon the Salmon River Valley one more time before they took to the sea.

  I found the horses wandering free at the base of the hill. Cast to roam as they wanted, for their riders did not expect to need them again. There upon the ground, the marks of feet in the mud and slush: those of a man, those of a boy. Like a father and a son, walking together. And I scrambled up after them, binding my shield to my maimed hand as I ran, twining the strands of leather and cloth together.

  Atop the hill now
, a burning fire in my lungs, a hate in my heart. There, ahead, a figure lying upon the ground. So still that I might have mistook him for a twisted tree root in the shape of a man, a patterned rock playing tricks upon my eyes, a murdered man left unburied. But my eyes did not lie. Thorvaldur lay upon the ground, his hand upon a spear, his eyes on the valley beyond.

  I came forward, one foot before the other, my shield before me, as soft as I could walk. A shift of weight and the shaft of the spear was resting on top of my shoulder, saving my strength for the throw. For all my caution, he heard me coming.

  ‘Kjaran,’ said Thorvaldur as he turned his head to face me. If he felt any concern at my levelled spear, his face did not reveal it. ‘Kari said that you would come. That you would find us. I did not believe it.’

  ‘Where is the boy?’

  ‘Not a boy any more, but a man. For he will fight with us in the feud. That is what you wanted, is it not? That is why you gave him back his father’s sword.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He is close. He is where he should be.’

  ‘I shall kill you,’ I said.

  ‘Perhaps. But it will do you little good.’ He pointed down. ‘Look there.’

  In the valley below I saw Kari standing tall. One hand resting atop the shield that was propped up beside him, the tip of the sword in his belt dragging against the earth, for he was not tall enough for it to hang true. He wore a black tunic: the colour of killing. There was no mistaking what he intended.

  He saw me then, through the curtain of snow. He smiled at me and waved and was a boy once more.

  I wanted to call to him. To tell him to run, to hide. To forgive me. But the words caught in my throat, for I saw, around a turn in the valley, beyond the sight of Kari below, a group of men approaching. I heard the wicker of their horses, the distant familiar chatter. I could not hear the words, but even at that distance I recognised some of their voices. The men who had hunted me through another storm. Björn, his brothers, and those who stood beside them.

  I went to ground and lowered my head, feeling the wet grass against my forehead, like a cooling touch against a fever. When I looked up once more, I saw Thorvaldur with his hands held up, palms to the sky. He tilted his head and he smiled.