I imagine him all white with blood smeared across his face fur from eating a human. My stomach turns.
“Who wants to drink blood?” says Beorn.
I flinch. It’s as though he’s heard my thoughts.
Beorn takes a flask from a pouch that hangs off his belt. He holds it up so the firelight flickers on it. The silver is as shiny as the host bowl for communion in our church back in Eire.
Øg makes an appreciative gurgle and reaches both hands toward the flask. Everyone laughs. I wince. I want to snatch Øg from Randolf’s lap. He should be sitting with me. I’m the one who saved his life, after all. It was Randolf who meant to throw him to the pigs. Øg practically lived in my arms for months, except when Gunhild nursed him or he napped. But today, because I was off getting the mussels with Thorkild, Randolf took over his care. Randolf is a thief.
“This feast was good enough for a god,” says Beorn, “so . . .”
“That’s because you’re a god,” interrupts Gunhild. Little Gudrun on her lap nods happily at her mother’s words.
“True. You look like Ægir himself,” says Thorsten.
I know about Ægir. He’s a sea giant or a god or something important like that. But in our nightly stories, he’s the one who gives the parties, not the one the parties are thrown for.
“I’m no Ægir.” Beorn smiles ruefully. “I have no goddess wife, no nine maiden daughters, alas. My family consists of my dog. And I’m grateful for the luck that brought him to me.” He jerks his chin toward the dog Vigi, curled near a post. “But I have this flask of blood, and it’s a way to repay you for such a fabulous feast.” He waves that silver flask around. “If you drink blood, you become strong. As strong as . . .” Beorn raises his eyebrows and looks around.
“A troll,” says Åse. “As strong as a troll.”
Beorn smiles in a superior way. “Exactly. Strong as trolls, with their tusks and claws and lizard tails.” He moves his hands as he talks, making his pointer fingers curve out and down from his mouth, so I figure out tusks are long teeth. And I already knew trolls were special giants, but now I know what they look like. “But this . . .” Beorn taps the side of the flask. “This is not ordinary blood. This blood does much more than what ordinary blood does. Can you guess what kind of blood it is?”
“Bear.” It’s Thorkild. I bet he’s right.
“Wrong.” Beorn looks around. “Any other guesses?”
“Wolf.”
“Reindeer.”
“Walrus.”
More guesses are coming out of everyone’s mouth and I don’t know half the animals they’re naming—they can’t be animals from around here, because I’ve learned the name of every animal I’ve seen so far. But it doesn’t matter, because Beorn keeps shaking his head no.
“Dragon,” shouts Randolf.
Beorn jumps around and stabs his finger at her. “Right!”
Randolf smiles at Beorn in delight.
Beorn smiles too. “Clearly you’re a person who understands we may meet a dragon at any turn, in any cave, under any wave. You’re a person of discernment.”
Randolf blushes.
I look around quickly. But the others don’t seem to notice. How is it that no one realizes Randolf doesn’t behave like men do? And what about how small Randolf is? Size alone should make them suspicious. Even Thorsten, who’s barely fourteen, towers over Randolf. And Randolf doesn’t have a hint of a beard. And Randolf wears that huge cloak—even on the warmest days. They should figure out Randolf’s hiding something under that cloak. They shouldn’t just let Randolf sit there with Øg, my Øg, on that lap. I glare at Randolf.
Randolf looks at me, then quickly down. My eyes told her she’s acting girly.
I look away. Randolf is right. If they figure out she is a woman, they might figure out Øg is her baby. Then not only is Randolf’s secret out—with whatever consequences that carries—but no one will think Øg is the terror born of the elf, which is what he and I are supposed to be, which is why we weren’t thrown out at the very start. No one feeds an extra mouth for nothing; they feed us because they fear what would happen if they didn’t.
But I’m growing bigger. Somehow I didn’t grow all spring or summer. This autumn, though, I’ve started to. My head comes up to the brown blotch on my favorite cow’s horn now. It isn’t a lot—she’s a short cow—but it’s something. Pretty soon they’ll have to notice. And Øg, well, that egg of a baby has turned into the sweetest little giggler anyone ever knew. It’s ridiculous that his name means “terror” in Norse.
We’re in danger—Randolf and Øg and me.
Gunhild touches me on the shoulder. “Alfhild,” she says softly. “Didn’t you hear me?” She uses my new name. Thorkild came home today and told everyone I was to be called Alfhild from now on.
Gunhild’s holding the silver flask out toward me. Clearly it’s been going around the room. And everyone whose hands it has already passed through is now talking about how different they feel—stronger, wiser. The dragon’s blood has an instantaneous effect.
Dragons here are different from dragons back in Eire. Norse dragons are huge serpents, and instead of protecting the world, they cause horrendous problems. But their blood is good. I remember a story about a man named Sigurd who kills a dragon named Fafnir and saves his blood in a trench. Then he bathes in it—and that makes him invulnerable, except for one of his shoulders, where a leaf stuck, so the dragon’s blood didn’t touch it—a big mistake later, of course. Anyway, Sigurd drinks the blood, and that makes him able to understand the language of birds. And he roasts and eats the dragon heart, and that makes him able to see the future.
Maybe dragon blood doesn’t do the same thing to everyone. But no matter what, it makes you better than you were. I look at Beorn. Where did this man find a dragon? How did he dare to confront it? But no one else asks, so I hold my tongue. It doesn’t matter anyway. All that matters is the power of the blood. I take the flask and bring it to my lips, but Gunhild stays my hand. “Just dip in a finger and lick it, like everyone else.”
I do. Then I pass the flask along. The blood is thick. It coats my fingertip. I lick half of it, then I walk over to Randolf and Øg and put my finger in Øg’s mouth. Obediently he sucks it clean. I knew he would; Øg sucks anything clean.
Am I different now? Did the dragon blood work? I hug myself and rub my arms.
The flask finally returns to Beorn, and he closes it and puts it away. “Now you’re all dragon-strong, so listen close to my dragon tale.” And he’s practically singing now, telling the story of a young and brave king named Frotho. “Frotho needed money to pay for his country’s battles—for it costs a lot to build ships and arm the brave men who sail them.”
As Beorn describes each weapon and every step of building a ship, his audience nods in agreement, nudging one another knowingly. I wonder if any of them has ever been on a real ship. This farm seems to be their world.
“One day King Frotho overheard a farmer singing about an island where no one lived but dragons. And one of those dragons kept a magnificent treasure in his lair, deep in a mountainside.”
Beorn describes that treasure, and all of us are oohing and aahing, even me. Thora fingers her brooches as though imagining them much more elaborate. Gunhild clinks her bracelets together. Even Åse touches her arm ring.
“King Frotho immediately decided to go to the island and claim that treasure. The farmer tried to dissuade Frotho from going to the Island of the Dragons.” Beorn points at us. “Wouldn’t you?”
And we all agree, the farmer is sensible, yes yes, King Frotho should listen to him.
“Indeed. And I bet you’re envisioning an ordinary dragon. But the dragon that guarded that treasure was no ordinary dragon. His flickering tongue ended in three points, his teeth were sharper than razors, his tail could coil around you, around and around and around, and squeeze out your last breath.” Beorn pauses. “And if all that failed . . .” His voice is quiet now, and we strain to hear. “
. . . he could spew poison from his mouth. That poison blinded you . . . then drove you insane . . . then killed you . . . all so slowly that you screamed for someone to stab you in the heart.”
I hear the swallows of the people around me as my own ears pop.
“But Frotho was determined, and he sailed to the island. Ah, you’re groaning.” Beorn points at each of us. “But you knew he would do that, you knew he had to take the challenge. He sailed all alone, of course . . .” Of course? It’s not “of course” at all. It’s crazy to go alone into that den of dragons. “. . . for he wouldn’t endanger his men.” And we all gasp at Frotho’s honor. “Frotho entered the dragon’s cave quiet as your most secret thought. He drew his sword and brought it down hard on the dragon’s back. But no sword could pierce that thick hide.” We wait, openmouthed, aghast as the possibilities. “The dragon’s wrath was now awakened, and he stretched to his full height and glowered down at Frotho.” Beorn looks around at us. “And that’s when Frotho spied the creamy spot on his underbelly, the weak point of any dragon, and he plunged in the sword.” Everyone leans back in relief as Beorn tells about Frotho hauling away the dragon’s treasure and going home wealthier than ever.
They’re drinking beer now, the very beer I helped Thora make from the early barley harvest, before we planted the rye. Everyone’s swilling it down except Øg and Åse and little Gudrun and me. The four of us curl up on our berth built into the wall, wrapped in one another’s arms and covered with hides. The steady, hot breath of my companions warms my neck and back. But I can’t sleep.
The treasure belonged to the dragon. Didn’t it? So Frotho was just a wicked Viking, not a hero at all. Unless the dragon had stolen the treasure from someone else. In the story of Sigurd, the man who killed the dragon Fafnir and bathed in his blood and drank it, Sigurd also was after the dragon’s treasure—which Fafnir has stolen in the first place, so that wasn’t so bad. But no one tonight asked about how the dragon got his treasure. That wasn’t part of the story. It was as though just being a dragon was enough to justify robbing and killing it.
I shiver. Could they find a way to justify doing something awful to me and Øg? No one has threatened us. But no one really likes us either. And winter is coming. Thora already pickled herring and eels in salt water, and everyone’s been drying salmon and plums for the long months ahead. And, alas for us but lucky for her, Gunhild is with child again. Resources will be scarce soon. Øg and I are extra.
They’re hospitable to Beorn; he brought things to trade, after all.
Øg and I are empty-handed. No. I wriggle around and manage to pull Øg into a tight hug. We can’t be thrown out now. We’d die on our own.
We have to work our way into their favor no matter what, until my family finds me.
CHAPTER SIX
They’re killing animals today, because we won’t have enough food around in winter to feed them all. Their meat will be dried, and we’ll chew on it in winter’s harshest months. It’s not winter yet by any means. But everyone says the rains are coming—which is strange to me, because it seems to rain here most of the time, just as in Eire. But apparently it’s soon going to rain and not stop, just rain, rain, rain for two or three months. And it’s best to dry the meat in the sun—so we have to do it while there are still sunny days ahead.
Besides, Beorn is here—we have to take advantage of that. Thorkild and Thorsten need him to help with the slaughtering, because Thora’s husband, Karl, fell from an apple tree and twisted his back, so he’s trying to mend. The animals—two goats and a cow—have to be skinned and gutted and cut into quarters before the women can slice thin pieces to hang from the racks Thorsten built. It takes lifting and lugging.
They’re also killing a pig today, but not to dry. Pigs have a lot of fat, and fat goes rancid if you dry the meat. So last week we collected apples from the two trees behind the barn and squashed some to ferment into vinegar. The pork will be pickled in that vinegar.
It doesn’t really bother me that the goats and that pig will die. The animals have been left outside since spring, day and night, like they do in Eire, except there it’s year round. That means there have been no jobs in tending most of them, and that means I haven’t really come to know them well, not like I knew all our animals back home. Besides, I’m no baby. I’m nearly nine. I understand how life works. I understand that some have to die in order for all the others to live.
Killing that cow, though, that’s different. The cows are milked twice a day, and once my hand healed, I proved to be the best at milking. It’s not that I have especially strong hands—I don’t. Nor that I have some special technique with my hands—I don’t. It’s that I talk with the cows. I whisper in their ears. I rub them in the direction their hair whorls, and I put my eye right up to theirs and blink. I scratch them under the chin and call them by name. They didn’t have names before and they sort of still don’t, since no one knows their names except me, because I’m the one who named them. They’re happy around me, and they give their milk freely to me. I can fill a bucket higher and faster than anyone.
The cow that’s going to die is Ciaran. My sweet little friend Ciaran. She’s old now, and there are two milkers younger than her and a new girl calf who seems strong and promises to contribute a lot eventually. Ciaran gives hardly any milk these days. After I first heard them talking about how useless she was, I started pouring milk from the other cows’ buckets into hers. But Thorsten caught me doing it and told. Besides, even if Ciaran was producing more, she’s the oldest, and they all prefer goat and sheep milk to cow milk anyway. So I couldn’t save her. She’s doomed.
When they asked me to gather the animals for killing and put them in the barn to wait their turn, I refused. I won’t have any part in it. Thorkild looked angry at first, but then he flapped me away with his hand, saying I was more trouble than I was worth.
I went cold at those words—he says them too often—but I looked around and it seemed no one else had heard them. I don’t want his attitude toward me to spread. They have to keep me until my family finds me. I rub the scar on my palm; they have to keep me and Øg both. In the meantime, I must make myself tolerable.
Still, I won’t help kill the cow Ciaran. I won’t watch the slaughter. So I’ve volunteered to help Randolf gather the honey today, despite the fact that I don’t like her one bit. No one volunteers to gather honey because it’s a nasty job; it’s easy to get stung. When we get back, I’ll hand the brimming honey pot to Thora, and she’ll remember I’m a value to the farm and maybe even Thorkild will notice.
I don’t want Øg to watch the killing either, so I’m bundling him along with us.
The three of us are swathed head to foot in woolen strips, to keep out the bees. Øg rides on my shoulders—which is getting harder for me, because he’s growing fast. But when Randolf offered to carry him, I snatched him quick and swung him up. I have to hold on to his chubby legs with both hands so he doesn’t fall off backward.
Randolf carries a pot of smoking pine needles in one hand and an empty pot in the other. A knife tucks into her belt on one side, and from the other side hangs the pouch I prepared with a toy for Øg.
The bees live in hollowed-out logs way at the other end of the meadow. We march around the cabbage patch and through the grazing animals. I wonder if these ones know how lucky they are today. Will they miss their companions? Out in the meadows it must be easy for them to lose track of one another. Maybe they won’t even realize there are fewer of them.
When we’re still a sensible distance away from the hives, I set Øg on the ground. Randolf puts down the pots and digs around in the pouch. She takes out a smooth crescent of something white and brown that looks like horn but it’s solid, not hollow, and hands it to Øg, who immediately gums it.
I didn’t put that crescent thing in the pouch. “Give him the doll,” I say.
“He likes this toy.”
“He has two hands—he can hold the doll in the other hand.”
“Don’t be stubborn, Alfhild. He’ll be perfectly fine like he is.”
“I take care of him more than you do.”
Randolf looks away and purses her lips. But she takes the bone doll out and holds it toward Øg, who quickly tries to shove it in his mouth alongside the crescent.
“See?” I say. “He likes it.”
“He likes the other better.”
“What have you got against little Gudrun’s doll?”
“Nothing. It’s just . . .” Randolf puts her hands on her hips. “The antler’s mine. It was my toy as a baby. I brought it with me.”
That crescent is part of an antler? Deer in Eire don’t have antlers anywhere near that thick. I’ve seen deer here—they’re not enormous. One variety is tiny. But the deer that grew that antler must have been enormous. “Where did you come from, Randolf?”
“It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago.” She rolls the wool swathing back from her hands, so she’s bare from above the wrist to her fingertips. “Let’s get to work.”
“But your hands will get stung.”
“With the cloth on, I’d be too clumsy. I’d upset the bees and get stung a lot worse. Move slowly.” She lifts a swath of cloth from around my neck to across my mouth. “Don’t let them sense your breath or they’ll sting you bad.” She covers her own mouth.
For a moment I think of turning back. But this family loves honey nearly as much as Irish people do. And Irish people adore it. My brother Nuada tells a tale about King Lir long ago. His wicked wife turned her stepchildren into swans, and the girl, Fionnuala, cried all the time, remembering the wonderful mead made from golden honey and crushed hazelnuts. Everyone loves honey. So if I do this today, they’ll all be grateful. I raise the cloth so it covers my nose as well.
We go to the logs on stealthy feet. Randolf swings the pot with the smoking pine needles around the holes. Then she hands it to me and nods. So I swing it just like she did. I swing and swing, walking from hole to hole. The bees gradually seem to realize something’s up. They go on alert. They crawl around the brown, dripping honeycombs, eating like mad. They gorge themselves. I wonder if there will be any left for us at all. And the whole while, I have to keep swinging the smoldering pot. My arm aches.
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