by Anna Ciddor
That night Oddo noticed his mother counting a few grains of barley out of the sack and hiding them away in a soapstone jar. At supper she gave herself only half a serving. When Oddo tried to take less too, his mother fussed at him, and piled his plate even higher. He felt guilty when he broke off a crumb of bread and cheese for the Little Folk, but he couldn’t let them starve. Even though he never saw them, he was sure it was the Little Folk who were eating the offerings he left. No mouse or bird or any other creature could leave footprints like those. And once he’d found a broken string of tiny beads scattered in the snow.
After supper, Sigrid busied herself with weaving and Bolverk settled down to whittle prongs for a new wooden rake. With the crumbs of bread and cheese concealed in his hand, Oddo slipped outside. He stood shivering in the middle of the yard, casting his eyes in all directions, searching for a sign. Was that the twinkle of a tiny lamp, or was it just a star reflected in the snow?
Ever since Thora had told him of the Little Folk, Oddo had been longing to meet them. Now that he knew about them living under the ground, he refused to dig the earth or hoe the fields, however much his father stormed at him. Thora said the Little Folk flew into rages if spellworkers, who should have known better, disturbed their homes. And even though she insisted the Little Folk never let anyone catch sight of them, Oddo believed that one day he would manage to meet them and make friends.
It wasn’t going to be tonight, though. He watched till he was nearly frozen, but he never glimpsed so much as the flutter of a cloak or the twinkle of a toe.
Next morning Bolverk noticed the meagreness of the porridge in Sigrid’s bowl.
‘I won’t have you starving yourself,’ he growled, ‘to fill the belly of that gluttonous swine!’ He thumped his fist on the table. ‘I’ll find another way!’ He rose to his feet and headed for the door.
As he pulled the hangings aside, a drizzle of sleet blew into the room. Sigrid hurried towards him with his warm fur cloak, but as she started to pin it around his shoulders he snatched it from her hands and gave a hoot of triumph.
‘That’s it!’ he cried. ‘Fur! That’s what we can use for taxes.’ He pointed at the furs covering the bed and sleeping benches. ‘We’ve plenty of furs. Walrus, bear, seal, fox . . . They should keep His Highness happy!’
‘But . . .’ Sigrid looked at him in bewilderment. ‘We use those furs.’
‘So? I’ll get some more, woman. I’ll go north and hunt!’ He turned to Oddo. ‘Well, son, do you think you’re man enough to come on a hunt with me?’
Oddo stared at his father. Hunting! He’d never shot an arrow in his life.
‘Here.’ Bolverk stumped to the wall where his bow and quiver of arrows hung. ‘Let’s see what you can do.’ But when Oddo rushed across the room and stood next to his father, the great bow towered over his head.
‘Hmmph,’ said Bolverk. ‘I think you’re a bit on the short side for this one. We’ll have to make you a smaller bow. Come on.’
In the shed, Bolverk headed for a pile of branches stacked in the corner. ‘Yew branches,’ he muttered. ‘Brought them back last time I went to market. Should be well seasoned by now.’ He thrust one into Oddo’s hand and lifted the lid of the tool chest.‘Hold the lamp higher, boy, can’t see a thing!’ he bellowed.
Sigrid hurried to clear the table as they stomped back indoors laden with branches and tools.
‘Right,’ said Bolverk, handing Oddo a knife. ‘Scrape off the bark and make yourself a bow. And don’t go making a mess of it. Can’t get any of that yew wood round here.’
Oddo eyed the long, sharp blade of the knife.
‘Make sure you follow the grain!’ warned his father, settling down with some birch twigs to shape the arrow shafts. ‘If you go against the grain, your bow will snap!’
Peeling off the bark was easy, but when Oddo reached the sapwood he scraped carefully, tiny bit by tiny bit, constantly comparing with his father’s bow.
Hours later, bow and arrows were finished. The arrows were fletched with glossy eagle feathers and tipped with real iron. Last of all, Bolverk strung the bow with a twine of flax.
‘Right,’ he said, handing the bow to Oddo. ‘Let’s see how good a shot you make!’
It was freezing outside, hard to believe that winter was coming to an end. Oddo clenched his teeth to stop them chattering as he listened to Bolverk’s instructions. At last he was told to pick up his bow and aim across the yard at the wall of the dairy. His hands were so numb, he fumbled and dropped the arrow. Bolverk gave an exasperated snort. Flustered, Oddo rushed his first shot, forgetting to take his time to draw and aim. The arrow flopped at Bolverk’s feet, just a few paces away.
‘You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said!’ Bolverk bellowed, kicking the arrow. ‘Stand straight, hold your arrow straight. Look where you’re aiming! And . . . take . . . your . . . time!’ His last words were slow and emphatic.
Then he threw up his arms. ‘You can work it out for yourself !’ And he stumped off towards the house.
Oddo was tempted to give in. The idea of going inside and curling up by the heat of the fire was very enticing. He looked up at the sky.
‘Give me a bit of sunshine,’ he coaxed.
As he fitted his arrow to the bowstring, a weak ray of sun broke through the heavy cloud. Slowly he drew back the string till his fist was against his jaw. He sighted along his arm and loosed the arrow. This time it soared across the yard, hitting the wall, bang in the centre, with a satisfying thunk!
‘Yes!’ cried Oddo. He swung around with a grin of triumph, hoping his father had stopped to watch, but Bolverk was already inside.
Disappointed, Oddo crossed the yard to retrieve his arrow. The sun was beating down warmly now and the ice underfoot was turning slushy. He splashed back and took aim again.
Hairydog came out to watch and barked every time he loosed an arrow. She galloped across the yard and tried to use her teeth to pull the arrows out of the wall, but they were sunk too deep.
When Bolverk finally returned, Oddo’s fingers were rubbed raw from drawing the bowstring and his left arm was covered with bruises from the rebound.
Bolverk cocked an eyebrow at the sun.
‘That your doing?’ he asked.
Oddo nodded warily, but Bolverk didn’t complain. He was studying the notches all over the dairy wall. ‘I think you’ve done enough damage to that wall!’ he said. ‘Let’s see what you can do with a proper target.’
He took up the spade that was leaning against the barn, carried it to the far side of the yard and jammed it, handle-side down, in a soft ridge of snow.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Aim at that!’
‘But I’ll ruin it if I hit it!’ cried Oddo.
Bolverk snorted. ‘No chance of that!’ he said. He took up a watching stance, feet apart, arms crossed.
Oddo felt himself grow nervous again. Hairydog was jumping and yipping with excitement.
‘Sshh, Hairydog, let me concentrate,’ said Oddo.
The dog stood very still; her hair bristled and her long nose jutted towards the target. Oddo took a deep breath and raised his bow. As he drew back the string, the pain in his fingers reminded him of all the practising he’d done. He pretended the shovel was just a spot on the wall like the targets he’d been setting himself all afternoon. He felt himself grow calm. He held his breath . . . and fired.
He didn’t feel the twang of the bowstring hitting his bruised arm. He didn’t hear Hairydog’s bark of triumph as she leapt forward. All Oddo saw was the arrow soaring through the air, straight and true, and hitting that small square of wood, smack in the centre. The spade snapped in two and the pieces fell to the ground.
Oddo looked at his father.
Bolverk was staring with open mouth. Then he gave a great roar and threw his arm round Oddo’s shoulder.
‘That’s my son!’ he trumpeted. ‘That’s my son! Tomorrow we’ll go on a real hunt! Tomorrow you’ll become a man!’
4
The hunt
When Oddo woke, the room was dark and cold. No lamps were lit and the firepit held only feeble embers.
‘Get a move on,’ rumbled Bolverk. ‘They’ll be waiting for us.’ He lifted a stick of charred wood from the firepit. ‘Here, blacken your face with this.’
Oddo started shivering as soon as he climbed out of bed.
‘You’re frozen!’ cried Sigrid.
‘N-n-no. I’m j-j-just excited,’ Oddo declared, worried she’d stop him from going out.
Sigrid wrapped a cloak around him, and handed him a pair of his father’s boots stuffed with straw.
‘The straw will keep your feet warm,’ she said.
‘Stop babying him,’ Bolverk growled.
Oddo slung his quiver across his shoulder and picked up his bow. Sigrid slipped a lump of yesterday’s bread into his free hand. Bolverk strode out of the room and Oddo hurried after him, stumbling in the oversized boots.
The sun was just rising as they joined the group at the edge of the wood.
‘Here’s Bolverk,’ called a voice.
‘Who’s that tagging after him?’ asked Ulf, but he winked as he spoke.
Oddo grinned and held up his bow.
‘Today I’m hunting too!’ he announced.
The others clapped him on the back.
‘A hunter! A man!’ they said.
Oddo glowed with pride.
‘So are we ready?’ demanded Ulf.
‘What about Grimmr, is he coming?’
‘Nay, he likes to hunt on his own. Doesn’t like sharing his kill.’
‘Grimmr the Greedy!’ said someone, and they all laughed.
But as soon as they entered the wood, everyone fell silent. Ulf was leading, a flaming torch in his hand. Oddo tried to move quietly, walking on tiptoe, but his straw-filled shoes rustled noisily. Bolverk glowered at him.
The hunters fanned out and crept forward, listening intently. Suddenly, they heard the howl of a wolf. Everyone froze. Ulf held the torch up high to check the direction of the wind. The flame flickered to the right. Ulf motioned all the men to move downwind, then stamped on the torch to put out the flame. The hunters glided out of sight among the trees. Bolverk took Oddo’s arm and guided him behind a juniper bush.
‘Now don’t move and don’t make a sound,’ he hissed. ‘And no magic!’ he added. He hunkered down and pulled an arrow from his quiver.
The wolf howled again, and Oddo jumped as another howl sounded from the birch trees just beside them.
‘That’s Farmer Ulf pretending,’ whispered Bolverk. ‘He’s challenging the real wolf.’
There was a pattering of paws and a grey shape appeared between the trees. Oddo had never seen a wolf so close before. It was huge – almost as tall as he was. It had a long nose, like Hairydog’s, and it swung its head from side to side, ears twitching.
Ulf howled again, and the real wolf bared its teeth and gave a long, low growl. Its eyes were menacing, cold and green, but when Oddo looked into their depths, he suddenly knew what the animal was feeling. He knew this wolf was the lord of its pack. He knew it was guarding its territory, that it had come, confident in its power, to warn off the strange wolf straying on its land. Now it was sensing danger. Looking proud and fierce, it stood its ground, but the hairs bristled on its neck, and Oddo could feel the fear that was filling its heart.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bolverk rise to his feet and lift his bow.
‘NO!’ screamed Oddo.
He tried to run, yelling and waving his arms. But his oversized boots tangled together and sent him sprawling to the ground. He heard the zing of arrows whistle past and lifted his eyes, expecting to see the wolf lying dead in front of him. But there was no body. The creature was loping off among the trees, one lone arrow dangling from its leg.
Oddo scrambled to his feet and turned to face the hunters, arms spread wide, to stop them firing again. There were roars of anger, Bolverk’s loudest of all, as the huntsmen lowered their bows.
Oddo took one look at their furious faces, then turned and fled into the wood.
5
A plea for help
The sun was shining, the crab-apple trees were blushing pink and the first leaves were greening the bare branches of the rowan trees.
Thora, basket in hand, was gathering ingredients for the first fresh salad of the year. All around her willow warblers and redwings darted about, singing happily, but Thora moped along with bowed head and heavy heart.
‘The Gula Thing is only weeks away,’ she reminded herself miserably, ‘and I still haven’t worked out how to pay our taxes.’
Every night she lay sleepless, tossing from side to side, hearing again and again her father’s confident pronouncement:
‘Well, as luck would have it, we have one person in our midst who is skilled in practical matters. Thora will find a way to pay the Sheriff!’
Thora had glowed with pride when she heard those words. She’d thought her family only noticed the things she didn’t get right. She didn’t think they even tasted her cooking or noticed the cleaning and mending she tried to do.
‘Of course I’ll find a way to pay our taxes!’ she’d promised. As long as she could remember, everyone around her had relied on magic to solve all their problems: they used runestones for healing, magic herbs for protection, and spell-woven cloths to save them from danger. Even her best friend, Oddo, used magic to solve his problems. Now, at last, there was something that couldn’t be fixed with magic, and she was the one who was going to do it!
Weeks had passed since then, though, and try as she might, she didn’t see how she was going to manage it. The season was too early for growing vegetables or herbs in her garden. She didn’t have a sheep she could shear, or cows she could milk . . . She shook her head woefully.
The whole family was relying on her, and if she didn’t find a solution, they’d be thrown out of their home! Father and Arni would have to join the King’s army. And the King would probably force the rest of them to be his servants. For a fleeting instant, the idea of her snooty sister Astrid fetching and carrying for other people was rather appealing . . . But no, it wasn’t worth the pain to all the rest of them. It would have been better if the King had wanted magical gifts after all!
Thora spied some new fronds of bracken poking through last season’s fallen leaves. As she stooped to pick them, she heard a frantic voice calling ‘Thora! Thora!’
A wild boy with a blackened face came racing towards her. Rags streamed from his shoulders, and huge boots flapped on his feet. He fell on his knees and grabbed her arm, knocking the basket with all its carefully gathered leaves out of her grasp. Suddenly she recognised who it was.
‘Oddo!’ she cried. ‘What are you doing?’
He clung to her hand, panting for breath. Dried tears streaked his sooty cheeks.
‘You’ve got . . . to help,’ he panted. ‘There’s a wolf.’ He pointed behind him towards the depths of the wood. ‘With an arrow. In its leg.’
‘Is it chasing you?’ she cried.
‘No!’ Oddo shook his head. ‘They tried to kill it! A great . . . big . . . glorious wolf.’
Thora stared at him.
‘And you stopped them?’ she breathed.
Oddo nodded, looking at her with wide, scared eyes.
‘Oh, Oddo.’ She sank down on the ground beside him. ‘You’re going to be in big trouble.’
‘I know. But it doesn’t matter about me.’ Oddo’s voice was fierce and urgent. He had his breath back now. ‘We have to help the wolf. We can’t leave it running around with an arrow stuck in its leg!’
‘What do you want me to do?’ said Thora. ‘You’re the one who can talk to animals.’
‘Yes, but you’re the one who knows how to heal!’ cried Oddo. ‘You’ve got to do something to make it better.’
Thora stared at him.
‘Oddo, we’re not talking about a cute little pet lamb here! This is a wild animal, probably
berserk with pain. I can’t just trot up to it and rub herbs all over its sore leg!’
Oddo gripped her hands so hard his nails dug into her flesh.
‘You’ve got to!’ he pleaded. ‘No one else will!’
6
The wounded wolf
In the storehouse, Thora considered her shelves of herbs and spices. Some of the chickweed and nettle she’d gathered and dried last summer would be useful. What else? She eyed the packet of myrrh. It came from somewhere far, far away and she’d bought it on her trip to the market. Should she use up some of the precious beads of sap on a wolf? Oddo was hovering behind her, watching tensely. Well, maybe just one drop.
Indoors, there was already a crowd around the firepit. Astrid was boiling up some lichen to make a purple dye for the cloth she was weaving. Granny had come across the fresh leaves Thora had picked for supper and was turning them into a magical potion. Edith was helping both of them.
Thora put her herbs to simmer in a cauldron and sat down to wait. Oddo kicked off his funny big boots, then pulled the shredded cloak from his shoulders. He began to pace around, fidgeting impatiently. Thora looked at the discarded cloak.
‘Hey, that’s just what I need to make the poultice,’ she said. ‘See if you can tear it into strips.’
When the herbal mixture was reduced to a dark, gooey paste, Thora scraped it into a soapstone jar. She packed the potion, the bandages and a bag of water into her basket, and they set off for the wood. Oddo walked with his eyes cast down, scouring the ground for any sign that could lead them to the wounded wolf.
At last he saw it, a spot of blood on the snow.
‘Look!’ he pointed. But the trail was hard to follow. Most of the snow had melted, except in a few shadowy patches.
‘This is impossible!’ Thora complained. ‘We’ll never–’
‘Sshh!’
Oddo was crouching low. Thora edged towards him and followed his gaze.
A huge grey wolf lay on a bed of rotting leaves, with one hind leg, pierced by an arrow, stretched out awkwardly. Every now and then it lifted its head to lick around the wound, then fell back, whimpering.
