Wolfskin

by Juliet Marillier

  “Better tell him.” Rona glanced at Nessa. “Better break the news that he won’t have his bonny wee nursemaid much longer. Fellow’ll have to get used to the old crone. And me to him, worse luck. Still, at least he’s walking. That’s a blessing.”

  Nessa opened her mouth and shut it again. It was hard to choose the words.

  “I’ll tell him later.”

  “What are you saying?” His eyes were open now; she had forgotten how blue they were, summer-sky blue, spring-flower blue. “What is the old woman saying?”

  “Tell him now,” Rona said sharply. “He’s a grown man, not a child, and he’s where he doesn’t belong.”

  “Eyvi.” Nessa’s tone was hesitant. She cleared her throat. “I have to go home in a few days. Three days. I’m needed there, my mother is sick. Rona will look after you.”

  There was a silence.

  “I don’t live here all the time,” she added. “I have stayed because you came. But I can’t stay anymore. Rona is old. She’ll help all she can, but you’ll have to help too.”

  “Where?” was all he said.

  “Where what?”

  “Where is home? Where are you going?”

  “Up there.” She pointed northward. “Not far. I will come to see you when I can. It depends on the tide and…and other things.”

  Rona was wrapping the fish in seaweed; she laid the neat, tight parcel in the embers. There was a hissing; steam rose.

  “You live on the Whaleback?”

  Nessa nodded.

  “What’s that he says?” asked Rona sourly.

  “Nothing much. I have told him.”

  “Tell him he needs to practice walking to the privy and back, and washing his own dishes. That’d be a good start.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said she will look after you,” Nessa told him. “And she is glad you are stronger, because she’s an old woman and can’t do everything.”

  “She cannot talk to me as you do, nor I to her,” he said quietly. “I must leave here, I see that. I am a burden, fit for nothing. I can walk now. I will go.” He set his jaw; she could tell he was trying to still the trembling.

  “Where do you want to go?” she asked him. “Back to your friends? Home to the snow lands?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” His voice was flat; his hands were clenched together as he tried to conceal the shaking. “There is nowhere for me to go. Not like this. But I will go from here; it is not safe for you, not safe for her to shelter me.”

  “Right,” Nessa said, giving him a direct sort of look. “In the middle of winter, with your ribs poking out from starvation, and your whole self shivering from cold, and your head full of dark visions, you’re going to walk off across the fields to nowhere. You expect me to agree to that, do you?”

  “You are…angry with me?” he asked, turning the blue eyes straight at her. “I do not mean to offend you. It would be quicker that way, I think. Easier.”

  Nessa shivered.

  “What’s he saying?” Rona was breaking up the leftover flatcakes, poking at the fish with a little knife.

  “I think he’s telling me, quite politely, that he’ll just wander off into the hills and die, and make your life easier.”

  “Stupid man!” Rona turned on the young warrior, letting flow a torrent of words he could not understand. “How dare you throw this girl’s kindness back in her teeth like that? Have you any idea what she’s done for you? Can’t you see the smudges under her eyes, can’t you see how tired she is from running around after you? Shame on you! I don’t care what’s wrong with you, it matters nothing to me if you live or die, but she matters, she’s like a daughter to me and if you hurt her, you’ll have me to answer to, young fellow. Nessa’s my treasure. And she’s a priestess, by the way. Just remember that.” She jabbed the knife into the fish; juices sizzled out onto the hot coals.

  The warrior was staring open-mouthed. “What is she saying?”

  “She’s angry with you for giving up.”

  “There was more than that. Something about you. You and me. Why is she so angry?”

  Nessa felt herself blushing. “She reminds you that I am her student, a priestess as she is. She mentions that I am looking a little tired, and suggests you do as I tell you, so my efforts will not be wasted. She’s not really angry; it’s just her way.”

  He did not reply, but sat looking into the fire a while. Rona fetched a platter from the cottage, a jug of ale, three cups.

  “When will you come back?” he asked, after a long silence. “How soon?”

  “As soon as I can. And we have three days. If the weather stays fine, we might try walking a little farther. We might talk, as well. If you are ready.”

  But he wouldn’t talk, and he couldn’t walk, not far anyway. The constant tremor in the body made every movement difficult. He forced himself as far as the privy, as far as the fire, but each short journey seemed to drain every morsel of strength he could find in himself. He tried to eat, but managed no more than a small child’s portion; his broad features were skin and bone, the eyes full of shadows. Nessa saw how he tried to conceal the trembling, by gripping his cup tightly, by folding his arms, by leaning against the wall with his hands behind him. Time passed, and she dreaded the moment when she must leave, for it seemed impossible that the two of them could manage this without her, that the warrior would choose to stay, believing himself a burden, a doomed man: that the wise woman would tolerate his weakness, his large presence disturbing the peace and sanctity of her domain.

  “Doesn’t know how to help himself,” Rona sniffed as she went about her work. “Well, he’s a man. What would you expect?”

  He must start talking, Nessa thought. Without that, she could not really help him. There was something about Thor, a god she had heard of from Tadhg, and something about the wolfskin. What had he said? That Thor did not call him anymore: that Thor was disgusted. That was at the root of it. She asked him to tell about Thor, but he would not. “It doesn’t matter.” He said that a lot. So she tried a different approach. You would not help me if you knew what I have done. Very well, he should tell her that, and see if she shared his opinion. She asked him straight out, was he at Ramsbeck? Was that what he meant when he spoke of the axe, and the blood? But he would not answer, merely closed his eyes and put his hands over them again. And when she thought about it, these two things did not go together at all. If you wanted to hear Thor’s call, that meant you wanted to be a warrior, to fight battles, to kill. If you had killed, and the memory of it hurt so much you could not even begin to speak of it here, in this safe place, to a…to a friend, then…then maybe that was your problem. You thought you knew what you wanted, what you wanted more than anything, and suddenly everything got mixed up, and right became wrong, and no wonder you thought you were lost.

  And there were the dreams. She knew some of the dreams, but there were more; he saw them before his eyes, even when he was awake and the cold winter sun was shining. Nessa knew that from his face, which she had learned to read well. He had to speak of these things or he would wander in that lonely place forever. If he did not begin to talk before she went home, he might well stumble out of this small haven as he had said he would and end up dying alone, cold and frightened somewhere in the valleys east of the Whaleback, or staggering off some clifftop led by his dark visions. He had talked to her before, that first night, when he had not known if she were woman or spirit. That had been a time apart, somehow outside the ordinary. Was that the key?

  Rona would not be happy. It was fortunate, then, that although Rona woke early, she was a sound sleeper. There was a night, a day, a night before Kinart would come back; low tide would be soon after winter’s late sunrise.

  Her cousin’s fresh fish were all gone, so Nessa cooked a barley broth and they drank it by the outside fire. She made a futile attempt to teach each of them a few words in the other’s language. Rona snapped that she couldn’t be bothered with such things; if the foreigners
chose to walk into other people’s lands the least they could do was learn to talk properly. The young man looked at Nessa and said nothing at all. He was doing that more and more, and it unsettled her.

  They slept, the dogs in the cairn with their warrior, the two women in the cottage. Nessa had instructed herself to wake when night was at its darkest, and she did. Then it was the cloak, the boots, the lantern, the short walk through the night to the tower in the earth. He had better not misunderstand her purpose, or this could be difficult.

  His lamp was lit; he sat much as he had the first time, blanket across his knees, arms held around himself, eyes open but, she thought, unseeing. Nessa said nothing. The tiny fire still glowed on the hearth they had built below that opening in the roof; above, a single star twinkled against a scrap of dark sky. She settled herself by the hearth, blew on the remnants of the fire, added a handful of dried bracken, a piece or two of dried cow dung. She waited. This time she would be sparing with her questions.

  “You came back,” he said, as if he had not seen her since that first night. “I didn’t think you would come. Did you dream again?”

  Nessa shook her head.

  “I have dreams,” he went on. “Always the same, but they get mixed up, jumbled. I’m not very clever. I can’t understand them.”

  She nodded, not speaking.

  “Nessa, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where I can go. Not like this. My brother is here, I trust him. But I could not let him see me thus, so helpless, so useless.”

  “Where is your brother?” she asked softly.

  “In the south. At Hafnarvagr, guarding the ships. He’s going home in spring.”

  She looked for something in his eyes, anything that might tell her which way to go. But they were shadowed, revealing nothing.

  “Have you more family, or just the one brother?”

  “Two sisters, two brothers. I am the youngest. My father died in battle, long ago. My mother still lives. Back at home.”

  “Where is home?”

  “A place called Hammarsby.”

  “Is that a settlement? An island?”

  “A farm. It’s not like here; there are many, many trees, tall trees of different kinds, and mountains which dwarf those on High Island. It can be very cold, but not like this place. The winter snows close the longhouse in; ice hardens the lakes. We had good times there. But…”

  “But?”

  “That was not what we wanted, Eirik and I. We wanted to be Thor’s men, and we are. Were. I am not much of a warrior now, as you see. I am no longer fit even to be a farmer like my brother, Karl. I once despised him for making such a choice. Now I am a far lesser man than he is, incapable of such hard labor, handling stock, cutting wood, guarding his family and folk. This…this,” he held out a hand, watching the way it shivered and trembled, “if this does not stop, I will be fit for nothing at all, Nessa. Why won’t it stop?”

  “It will stop,” she said fiercely. “It must. I can see deeper than that, Eyvi. I see how strong you are. This is just a matter of looking, and finding your way. I think you must understand that it is a different way from the one you expected. I want you to tell me about Thor. How can a god make such terrible demands of his followers? How can he ask you to risk so much for him?”

  He frowned. “It is a challenge: a bright banner. What is a man without courage? When the god calls, a Wolfskin changes. His heart beats Thor’s song, his eyes see only the red haze of Thor’s anger, his body is entirely obedient to Thor’s will. It is like a dance. It is like a prayer. It is the true manifestation of bravery. There is nothing else like that. There is no other calling to equal it. We live short lives, and think nothing of it. Our deaths are glorious; Thor rewards us in keeping with our loyalty.”

  “I see,” said Nessa after a little. “But…”

  “But what?”

  “Maybe I have misunderstood. This is very much a man’s god, and I am not a man. Still, I don’t think what you tell me can be quite right.”

  He made no answer.

  “First, the man Hakon, the one who was burned by your own people. You said he was a Wolfskin like yourself. But he wasn’t a warrior, not anymore. He married, he had a child, he was farming Ara’s fields. For him, another path opened up, and he chose it willingly.”

  “That was different. Hakon was sick, his hearing was going. He could not continue.”

  “Then there is your brother. Eirik, is that his name? Not fighting with your chieftain’s men, not taking arms against my—against King Engus, but somewhere in the south, waiting to take ship for home. Yet he, too, is a Wolfskin.”

  “He has a woman, he has children back in Hammarsby. Eirik surprised me. But perhaps it becomes more difficult to go on, if a man allows himself that.”

  “What about you, Eyvi? Have you thought that, if Thor has ceased to call you to battle, it may be for a reason?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. What reason could there be, save that my weakness sickens him?”

  His jaw was set very grim; she did not like the look in his eyes. Instead of going on, she filled a little pan with water and set it on the fire, fetched dried herbs from the alcove, sprinkled them in. The axe was still there, laid away. He had never asked for it, nor his fine sword. The water bubbled to a boil; she poured the tea into two cups. This mixture was for calm and clarity.

  “I had another dream,” she said. “It was a dream about a man who was very good at playing games, a man who was so clever he could make up his own rules as he went along, and nobody else could understand them. A man who always had to be first; who always had to win. Did you have this dream, too?”

  He bowed his head.

  “I tried to play, but I couldn’t,” she went on. “And he said something like, “Don’t worry if you’re not clever enough, I’ll play for the two of us.” I’ve wondered about that dream, and the other one, because it seemed as if the boy who pushed me down, and the man, were the same. You don’t have another brother, do you?”

  He choked on his tea.

  “Tell me, Eyvi.” She had sworn to herself that she would not sit close, would not touch him this time, but now she moved over to his side and took his hand in hers. “Tell me.” She could feel the place above his wrist where that long scar began, scoring his arm like a brand of ownership. When he spoke, what he said was not at all what she expected.

  “I heard a story once, a terrible story. I have never forgotten it. It was the first time, the first night I met Ulf, and…Hakon told it, a tale about two men who swore an oath of loyalty, and what it meant for them. One fellow was named Niall, the other Brynjolf, a warrior. They met one night…”

  It was a long and tragic tale. Now that he had begun, the words flowed fast, and she had to concentrate hard to follow. It was a story to make you curse and weep and rage in frustration at man’s folly. He came to the end: Niall the poet, old, alone and filled with a deep sorrow that crept into every verse he made, that shadowed every song he crafted. The girl, Thora, dead in her youth and innocence. The warrior, Brynjolf, living out his span, never knowing the terrible blight he had set on his loyal friend’s life.

  “That is a truly sad tale,” Nessa said. “It is so wrong, so wrong.”

  “When Hakon told it, I felt the same. Yet every man there applauded Niall’s loyalty. Every man believed he had done the right thing. A blood oath is a solemn promise; the man to whom you swear it becomes your brother. More than a brother. How can a man break such a vow?”

  She must go delicately here. “A man can make a vow to a god, or a vow to another man. Or to a woman: a marriage is a kind of promise. But it seems to me there is something deeper that must be able to transcend such oaths. Things never stay the same, Eyvi. People change. Paths change. You cannot know, when you are young, what life will hold for you as a grown man or woman. I don’t think I would ever swear a vow such as Niall swore, because I would have to break it if it compelled me to act wrongly, to act out of accordance with what my heart
told me I should do. It seems to me that there is always a choice, there must be. No blood oath could make me act cruelly, or falsely, or in defiance of natural laws, no matter how solemnly it was sworn. And, Eyvi?”

  He looked at her, eyes somber.

  “It takes a stronger man, a more courageous man, to walk that path of truth than it does to adhere blindly to a promise. There is more than one kind of courage. This is the harder kind.”

  “Nessa.”

  “Yes?”

  “I know nothing but war. I was always first: first to attack, first to undertake a dangerous mission, first to attempt a challenge. I could win any fight, take on any enemy. But I have always been quite stupid in other ways, slow to understand, ignorant of matters of law and argument, often lost for words. I cannot read charts, I cannot make verses, I cannot converse with men of learning. Without my strength, without my will for battle, what good am I to anyone? My friend…he tried to teach me runes once, he was quite patient about it. But all I could ever learn was my own name.”

  “Show me,” Nessa said. “Here, on the earth.”

  He let go her hand and began to make markings on the ground with his forefinger. He was concentrating hard, the tip of his tongue between his teeth, eyes narrowed, all his attention on the task. Nessa watched in silence. His hand, moving to fashion neat upright lines, little branches to left and right, was not shaking at all.

  “There,” he said. “It’s not very good, but I think I have it right. Eyvind. That was all I was able to learn.”

  “Eyvind,” she echoed. “A fine name. A name for a leader, a hero. I’ve been saying it wrong all this time. Why didn’t you tell me?” She glanced up from the writing and was surprised to see a strange expression on his face, the ghost of a smile.

  “I like the other name,” he said. “It is…it is between you and me, special, not part of those other things. I like to hear you say it.”

  Nessa was unable to find words for a reply. She studied the markings again.

  “You said mine is a leader’s name,” he said. “It cannot be so. I am no leader. I have had but one chance, and I took it willingly, confident that I would succeed. In a way, I suppose I did, for we fulfilled our mission exactly as our chieftain ordered. But it was…it was a dark thing. Terribly wrong. It was not a battle, but a bloody massacre. I cannot blame the man who sent me there. I was responsible.”