Arrowhead

by Ruth Eastham

  “Not far now,” said Skuli. He trod off, weaving between the buckled ice statues.

  “It’s cold.” Jack’s voice echoed off the ice walls as he followed. He struggled to control his breathing. Pressure compacts the ice and turns it blue… The words reeled through his head, over and over, forcing him on. Ice can stay in a glacier for more than a thousand years…

  Skuli had stopped and was crouched in the half-light. His breath formed swirling clouds as he spoke, making the space between them seem smaller.

  “He’s here,” he said.

  “What do you mean he?” Jack took a step forward. Then he stopped. Gaped. All his other thoughts, his fear of the ice and the cold, forgotten.

  There was a boy. Slumped against a wall of ice.

  Dead.

  4

  DEAD BOY

  The cave stood near the sea, protected by secret spells.

  Beowulf

  Jack stared at the dead boy in front of him.

  He was wearing woollen trousers and a knee-length tunic with long sleeves. Round him was a thick cloak trimmed with animal fur, fastened on one shoulder with a brooch. He wore a helmet with a strip of metal over his nose, and there was a thick blond braid of hair down each side of the face.

  Jack edged nearer, studying his face. The skin was a waxy grey-blue, speckled with ice. A scar on his forehead. The mouth bulged a little, swollen. And the eyes were open, staring back as if any second he might move and talk. But the most unnerving thing was…

  “See what I mean?” Skuli hissed.

  Shock rippled through Jack’s body. It was like looking at himself in a mirror, but knowing the person staring back wasn’t him. The same-shaped face; the same green eyes. It was like looking at his twin.

  Jack’s hand reached out towards the boy, then drew back, fingers tingling, as if there’d been a faint crackle of static in the air.

  Skuli flapped his arms about wildly. “It’s spooky. I thought he was you at first. That you’d got trapped down here.” He crouched next to Jack. “That’s where the arrowhead was.” He pointed at one of the boy’s hands propped against the ice, the fingers spread and hooked around an empty hollow. When Jack peered closer, he saw a dark patch on the palm, the same shape as the arrowhead.

  Jack struggled with his disbelief. “But how did he get here?”

  “Well, his leg looks pretty messed up.” Skuli clenched his teeth. “Look at the funny angle – the bone’s virtually coming out from the skin.”

  Jack stared at the boy’s twisted leg; the jagged tear through the trousers; the bloodstains.

  A loud creaking above them made them glance up. Melt water dripped on Jack’s forehead. But his eyes were soon drawn back to the body. “He was probably dead as soon as he hit the ground,” he said, feeling comforted by the idea. Otherwise what? A slow, agonizing death down here all alone? That didn’t bear thinking about.

  Skuli shook his head. “No. He was alive. For a bit anyway.”

  Jack’s raised voice echoed round the cave. “And how can you know that?!”

  “He had time,” said Skuli quietly. “To write a message.”

  “Write what?” said Jack, his voice catching.

  Skuli directed his torch at the ice wall behind the body.

  “That.”

  Jack’s mouth fell open. There were grooves etched in the ice. Lines too regular to have been formed naturally. Lines like the ones he’d seen on the arrowhead. The boy’s raised hand was right where the last one petered out.

  “Runes!” Skuli said in an excited whisper. “I’ve no idea what they say though.” He took a tattered notepad from a pocket and flipped it open. Jack saw symbols scribbled in biro. “I copied them all in here.”

  There was a sharp creaking sound and they both looked up, Skuli’s forehead creasing into a frown. Jack noticed how buckled the walls were; there were cracks big enough to slide his hand into.

  The echoes and the strangeness of the chamber were getting to him again. He kicked the heel of his trainer into the frozen ground, but couldn’t feel his toes. The wind was wailing down the icy gullies and channels, and shadows flapped round them.

  He found himself being drawn closer to the body. It had to be hundreds and hundreds of years old but still looked so fresh. What did all this mean – the arrowhead, the runes? The crazy coincidence of him and this boy looking so alike? He stared into the green eyes, and the boy stared back, and before he realized what he was doing, he reached out a hand…

  Visions sparked through Jack’s mind. He saw the boy, hunched, holding the arrowhead, carving runes into a wall of white. Then time seemed to spin back and he saw the boy hanging from an ice cliff, a man’s face looking down at him.

  Time spun back even further and Jack felt his eyes roll like he was passing out. There were fleeting images of trees falling, houses smashing, people running…

  And then, through rising flames, there was that same man’s face, leaping in the trembling air.

  He heard the warning shriek of birds.

  The face had been fleeting, but the look burnt into Jack’s memory as he fell. The man’s cruel sneer. His scarred lips.

  And then, nothing.

  5

  THE WARNING IN THE RUNES

  A thousand winters they waited there.

  For all that heritage huge, that gold…

  was bound by a spell.

  Beowulf

  Jack opened his eyes and blinked, slowly focusing on Skuli’s pale face. His body was cramped up. His back was freezing. He felt at his head with a trembling hand.

  Skuli gave him a worried smile. “It was like you were having a fit or something. You all right?”

  Jack tasted blood in his mouth. He must have bitten his tongue. He let Skuli help him up.

  But the touch of the boy’s hand… What Jack had seen… He swallowed. It was impossible, of course. He must have been hallucinating. Something to do with the lack of oxygen down here, or weird gases released from the ice. There was bound to be something about it in one of Mum’s medical books.

  “He’s called Tor.” The words tumbled out before Jack could stop them. Don’t be crazy! How could he know something like that? But it was there in his head; something he knew without hesitation. Like he’d always known.

  “Tor,” repeated Skuli, and there was a light in his eyes, as if reflected by something metallic.

  “I froze to death,” said Jack.

  “What?”

  “I mean…” Why had he said that? Early-stage hypothermia, probably, or the result of a bang to the head.

  “He fell,” said Jack slowly. “There was someone after him. Someone who wanted the arrowhead.”

  Skuli stared at him. “How do you know?”

  “I saw him…” Jack struggled. “It was like…” How was this going to sound? Jack took a deep breath. He tried to find the right words.

  “It was like I was him.”

  Skuli must think he was insane. He wouldn’t blame him if he did. But he didn’t show it, just nodded slowly and held Jack’s arm to steady his shaking.

  They gazed at the body and the marks on the ice wall.

  “He used the arrowhead,” said Jack. “He must have been going through hell, what with his leg…” He stopped and peered at the runes. It was as if the lines were coming into focus from far away; unchanged on the wall in front of him, but changing in his mind. Being sorted into meaning.

  He traced over the first ones with a finger.

  “Beware this cursed arrowhead,” he muttered.

  Skuli looked at him, wide-eyed. “You can read them?”

  Jack snatched his hand back. “Course not!”

  He could, though. He stood there, his thoughts bubbling with confusion, the cold biting into him and making it hard to think. He knew what the runes s
aid. The same way he’d known the boy’s name. No explanation. No question. He just knew.

  Skuli eyed Jack closely. “What do they say then?” His dark hair flopped into his big trusting eyes.

  Jack shook his head.

  “Jack,” said Skuli quietly. “So something weird’s happening. We don’t understand it, and we’re scared by it… But you have to go on. Read them.”

  Jack bit his lip. He looked at the runes and let his breathing even out; a special bold power that felt good. Again there was that coming into focus; that sorting into meaning, until the runes and what they said were fused, one and the same.

  “Beware this cursed arrowhead.”

  Jack traced over more letters. “Beware the four plagues.”

  He heard Skuli catch his breath. “Four plagues!” he cut in. “Just like in my grandma’s poem! Go on!”

  Jack’s concentration was slipping. “Seek another way to send the arrowhead back.” His energy seemed to be draining away as he studied the runes. He picked out a string of letters and sounded it out. “ís dahl. Ice Valley.”

  “Isdal! People have lived here since Viking times,” said Skuli. He tried to laugh. “But this warning – it’s from hundreds of years ago. We can’t be in any danger now.”

  There was another creaking sound from above, and Jack was sure he felt the ground tremble. A cluster of icicles quivered and then went still.

  Skuli swallowed. “What do those say?” He pointed to a line of runes higher up. “Tor made the lines much deeper,” he said breathlessly. “ You see that?”

  Jack strained to make the letters out. “I can’t exactly translate them … but I know what they’re for. Protection.”

  Protection from what? This is crazy!

  “You mean, a kind of magic?” Skuli said.

  “No, not magic.” Jack struggled to find the right word. This is real life, not Harry Potter. “Something ancient … from far back.”

  “Well, if they’re protection runes, Jack,” said Skuli slowly, “we’re in trouble. ’Cos they’re melting.”

  It was true. There was a wet gloss across the runes, and water dribbled down from them. How could they be melting? It was so cold in here; well below zero. Jack eyed a crack that ran right up the wall.

  Something tugged at his memory. He fumbled to take the arrowhead out of his pocket. The metal was still warm; the heat prickled his cold skin. He squinted at the runes engraved around the edge, then held it up next to the protection runes. Water immediately trickled down the ice wall, erasing parts of the letters below.

  “Some of those protection runes are the same as the runes on the arrowhead!” Skuli lowered his voice to a whisper. “They must be extra important. What do they say?”

  Jack’s head ached. The runes were blurry now; he was only able to read fragments. He stared hard at the arrowhead and tried again, and at last he had it. “Air. Water. Earth. Fire.”

  Skuli stared at him, then recited hesitantly:

  “The death gold brings four deadly plagues:

  Air, Water, Earth and Fire.

  The gold it must be buried deep,

  Or else will life expire.”

  A horrible panic clawed at Jack. A panic he couldn’t explain. He sprang at Skuli. “When did you take the arrow­head out of the cave?”

  “What?” Skuli stuttered. “I don’t remember exactly, but—”

  “You have to tell me – when!”

  “Only yesterday!”

  “We have to put it back!”

  Jack grabbed the dead boy’s hand and pressed the arrowhead into the raw wound on the palm, trying to close the rigid fingers round it, trying. But there was a strange resistance, like two north poles on magnets repelling, gold and skin swerving apart as he tried to push them together.

  Too late. Whispers flapped inside his head. Too late.

  “Can’t.” Jack stood there with the arrowhead, panting. Curse. Plagues. Death… His head throbbed.

  “Can’t?” Skuli’s eyes were round.

  Get a grip, Jack! He put the arrowhead back in his pocket. “Why haven’t you told anyone about all this, Skuli?” He viciously snapped an icicle and threw it down so it smashed. “People should know. Archaeologists or whoever.”

  “I know, I should have,” Skuli said. “But you don’t disturb someone’s grave, do you? And once people know about this place, that’ll be it. We’ll never be allowed back in here!”

  Jack gazed at the Viking boy, and the boy gazed back, his eyes like pieces of green glass. His throat tightened as he thought about how Tor had died with nobody to help him.

  He had a fleeting image of his dad, walking towards the frozen lake…

  He closed his eyes and turned away from the body. “I’ve got to get out.” He started back the way they’d come, zigzagging between the warped columns and jagged slabs of ice. Was it his imagination, or were those cracks in the wall spreading?

  “But, Jack, what if it’s true?” Skuli was following behind. “What if there is a curse? What if the town’s in danger? I took the arrowhead – so I’d be to blame!”

  Jack reached the tunnel they’d slid down and grabbed at the glassy surface, trying to get a hold. Above was an oval of powder-blue sky. How were they going to climb back up there?

  Skuli appeared at his side. “You keep this.” He pushed the notepad containing the runes into Jack’s hand. “See if you can read more later.”

  Jack shoved the pad into his pocket with the arrowhead. “Let’s get out,” he said, his voice louder than he’d intended in the echoey cave.

  Skuli fished around and lifted up an end of red rope. “It’s the same one we used to climb down. It goes all the way along the tunnel. Hold the rope and put your feet in the holes, see?”

  “Thank god.” Jack looked up the long white slope to the gap of sky. Fleetingly, a dark bird flew across it.

  “Friend or foe, the daemon birds?” muttered Skuli absentmindedly. “I took the arrowhead, Jack!” he said again. “I have to make things right!”

  There was the distant groan of shifting ice, making the tunnel vibrate. “Worry about that later.” Jack grabbed the rope and climbed, jamming the tips of his boots into the footholds.

  “Promise you’ll help me!” Skuli called from behind.

  “I promise! Now, come on!”

  Jack pulled himself up the shaft, gritting his teeth with the effort. Skuli’s voice spiralled up to him in a white cloud. “A promise can’t be broken.”

  Jack kept climbing. If only promises were that simple.

  I’ll always be here for you, Jack, his dad had said once.

  Jack struggled up the last few metres, then heaved himself gasping from the hole, before reaching to help Skuli.

  And as they climbed down the rocks and away from the glacier, Jack was filled with a strange kind of ache. Like a part of him was still there in the cave, buried and trapped and waiting, underneath the ice.

  6

  SOMETHING IN THE AIR

  There were exceptional flashes of lightning, and fiery dragons were seen flying the air.

  Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, AD 793

  “Evening, warrior.” Gramps saluted with a butter knife as Jack came into the kafé, a warm cave smelling of hot coffee and freshly baked cakes.

  “Jack, love!” his gran called, balancing on a chair to pin a coloured paper chain to the wall. It wobbled in the misty draught from the door as Jack banged it shut. There was a bark and a scuffling of claws on the wooden floor and a white shape bounded forward.

  “Sno! Come here, boy!” Jack held out his hand to his dog, ready for the usual welcome of licks and paws scrambling against his knees. But Sno stopped suddenly. He just stood there all hunched up in the middle of the floor, his husky fur bristled. Then he let out a low growl and slunk under a table.

 
“Sno?” Jack clicked his fingers, but the dog stayed put. What had got into him? Instinctively Jack’s hand went to his pocket. He felt the arrowhead there, heavy and warm.

  “And, hello, holidays!” said Gran, getting off the chair. “Not that it feels anything like midsummer!” She gave an exaggerated shiver and threw a piece of wood into the stove. “Sit down, love, and I’ll fetch you something before customers arrive.”

  “How’s Mum been today?” asked Jack quickly.

  “She’s been doing her pottery all day,” said Gran, getting out a plate. “She’s sleeping, so I wouldn’t disturb her just now, my sweet.”

  Jack went to sit at a table by the window. He watched Skuli cross the murky street and disappear down the steps to his house. In his mind he saw his friend’s worried face. “I have to put it right. Promise me, Jack. Promise you’ll help me.”

  The sky was strangely dark. At this time of year, this far north, it was light nearly all the time. Even at night it never properly went black, just a deep shade of blue until the sun rose again. But now towers of cloud were building as though a storm was coming. Whatever they decided to do next, thought Jack, it was going to have to wait until morning.

  “Nasty things, schools, Jack!” said Gramps with a wink. “Follow my advice and bunk off at every opportunity!”

  “So he can turn out like you, Gramps?” said Gran as she put a steaming plate of waffles in front of Jack. “Not a good idea!”

  Gramps blew her a kiss, then flicked on the wall telly with the remote while Gran went back to the counter to serve some people who’d just come in, talking and laughing loudly.

  Jack picked at the corner of his waffles. A gust of wind rattled the glass and the lights flickered a moment. A plague of air.

  He shook his head. He couldn’t help thinking about the things he’d seen when he touched the body in the cave. Tor carving the runes. Tor hanging from the ice cliff, that sneering face looking down.