by Ruth Eastham
Then the figure was in the room.
At the foot of the bed.
Jack pressed himself against the wall. He gaped in terror, his stomach twisting with recognition.
Tor.
Standing silent. Expressionless.
Pinning Jack with his empty gaze.
Tor raised one hand, slowly, as if it was a painful gesture. He uncurled his fingers and held up his palm, and Jack cried out as he saw the blackened outline of rotted flesh; the shape of the arrowhead scorched deep into the skin.
And then Tor was retreating. Fading through the wood of the closed door, leaving only a faint, lingering whisper in Jack’s head. THE TRUTH
The truth about what? Jack rushed to the window and saw Tor down in the street, moving slowly away, but stopping briefly to look up at him.
THE TRUTH, said the runes on the windowpane. The words turned over and over in Jack’s mind as he pulled on his jacket. His hands shook so much that he was hardly able to do up the zip. He found his woolly hat and a head torch, flung open the door and rushed down the steps, headlong into the gusting wind.
8
THE STANDING STONE
And shadowy creatures came gliding forth … night darkening over all.
Beowulf
Just keep up, thought Jack. Keep your nerve.
The wind blew hard in his face, making his eyes water and turning the dark street into a blur. Tor moved ahead, never slowing down, sometimes seeming to drift over the ground rather than walk on it; sometimes merging with the wooden buildings he passed. Thin clouds swept fast across the ash-blue sky. A dark shape came hurtling down; a roof tile, smashing on the pavement. Jack flinched but did not stop.
He found himself climbing the winding lane up the hill towards the church. Behind him the waves slapped the boulders on the shore of the bay, and, turning, he saw water spray up on to the buildings closest to the sea wall.
On he went. Now Tor was at the church, moving between the headstones of the graveyard. Jack followed, twisting between the angels and scrolls and stone skulls.
Tor’s pace became more urgent. The wind caught at his outline, pulling it into wispy threads. Now and then he disappeared altogether, before reappearing further away. Jack struggled to keep up.
Tor reached the cluster of spindly trees at the far end of the graveyard, the same way Skuli had taken Jack to the glacier. Jack pushed his way through the dense, sharp branches. The leaves shivered as the wind hissed through them. He felt his way along the overgrown wall. He was out of breath and hot, despite the cold air. He got to the rusty gate with its bars and spikes, and found it swinging open.
He went through, twisting to avoid the thorny stems, and there was Tor, one hand resting on the overgrown standing stone, his back to Jack, totally still.
With a sharp intake of breath, Jack stopped. Slowly Tor turned to look at him. Jack couldn’t take his eyes off the Viking boy’s face: its closeness to his own, its shifting transparent sheen…
Tor mouthed something, and although no sound came out, Jack heard the words in his mind, sounding out in a heavy, halting way, as if with great effort and pain…
It has begun.
Send the arrowhead back… Save Isdal.
Rescue me from the ice.
And as Jack watched, Tor’s face was changing, rippling like the broken surface of a lake, shifting and fading…
Beware – my – brother.
And then he was opening his mouth wider, wider, and Jack shrank back, staring at the bloody stub where Tor’s tongue should have been.
And then he was gone.
Jack stumbled to his knees. “Tor?” His voice rang out into the empty air. He got up and staggered in a circle, looking in every direction. “Tor?”
But Tor was gone, leaving only that same faint, lingering whisper.
The truth. The truth.
The words pulsed through Jack’s head. Why had Tor led him here? Heart pounding, he stepped towards the standing stone. He rubbed at a patch of lichens and pulled twists of old ivy. He put on his head torch and let the light spill over the murky surface as he tugged and scraped at the centuries-old crust. His fingers were going numb through his gloves. He tried to hack the layers off with a stone, but the ancient moss was dried on, set like cement.
Jack remembered the arrowhead.
He took out the blade and reached up to slice into the pitted surface near the top. The arrowhead glinted. The skin of moss and lichens came away easily, uncovering the stone below.
And then he saw.
Carvings.
He continued with the arrowhead. At the tip of the standing stone – the unmistakeable shape of the Brennbjerg mountain appeared, but with vast forests stretching round its base where there were buildings now.
“Isdal,” Jack muttered. “From the past.”
Houses dotted the shore of the bay, and instead of fishing boats, there were boats with dragon heads: longboats; the kind the Vikings had.
He found runes and ran his fingers along their grooves, able to read them…
AIR.
More carvings, etched into the stone.
A tree being ripped out by its roots. People fighting to stay upright in the wind; arms raised; mouths gaping in horrified circles. A woman falling from a house. A man lying dead under a toppled tree.
WATER.
Jack scraped more quickly.
Lashing rain. Surging waves. Smashed boats. Smashed houses. People swept away. Half-rotted bodies, washed from their graves.
EARTH.
People running. Crushed by falling rocks. Swallowed by great cracks.
Air. Water. Earth… Jack sat back on his heels, breathing hard, trying to take in what he was seeing. Had all this terrible stuff really happened? Or was it all just some made-up story; some far-fetched myth?
He ran the arrowhead across the stone again. More runes appeared. Lines and lines of them. He read aloud, his voice faltering.
“The survivors of the Great Plagues raise this stone in memory of their dead kin.
“Njáll Halldórsson… Hermundr Njállsson… Geira Eiríksdottir…”
The arrowhead peeled away the coating and more names; Jack struggling to read them as the meanings of the runes began to blur…
“Rannveig Koðránsdottir… Manni Anundsson… Otkatla Mannisdottir…”
Dozens of them. The names morphing back into incomprehensible runes as he scanned over them. A list of the dead, like you got on war memorials.
Jack swallowed. The standing stone was a memorial stone.
Realization hit.
Centuries ago the plagues had already struck Isdal. Hadn’t Petter said as much? A thousand years ago … a good portion of the town’s population was wiped out.
Tor had shown him as well, hadn’t he – the first time Jack had touched him? Those fleeting images of trees falling, houses smashing, people running. Tor had been there; he’d seen the plagues happen!
Jack hesitated, then scratched fast at the last area of stone.
FIRE, said the runes; and underneath… The razor-sharp gold started to take off the surface of the stone itself. What kind of gold did that? But no matter how much Jack scoured, there were no pictures. Nothing.
Jack put the arrowhead shakily away and ran his hand over the blank surface. The town hadn’t been totally wiped out. He knew that much. The last plague had been stopped somehow, before everyone was killed. But how?
Jack scrutinized the standing stone again. There was something else he noticed now. He peered closer.
In each scene there were extra figures in the background; people with weapons; clubs and axes. Even children. They seemed to be attacking each other. There were bodies on the ground, being trampled. Bodies hanging from trees.
But why would people start hurting each other
in the middle of the plagues?
The wind tugged at Jack’s jacket. He remembered the way the kids had treated Skuli. Lukas with that rock.
It has begun.
Save Isdal.
Faint thoughts filtered into his head; ones that weren’t his own. He stood very still, forcing his anxious mind to relax, letting the thoughts come; past latching on to present. The truth that Tor had brought him here to show.
The plagues were going to happen again.
Just like they had before.
Jack’s chest tightened as he looked at the people falling, drowning, being crushed; then at the uncarved section of the standing stone, ominously empty.
He had to get to Skuli!
Send the arrowhead back.
He scrambled out of the gate, through the tangled trees and back through the graveyard with its grimacing stone skulls. The church bell struck, echoing, grating clangs. Birds cawed harshly to each other.
Jack sensed a movement in the bushes close to him, and he skidded to a stop. A pair of eyes stared out.
“Sno! Come here, boy!”
Jack shoved one hand in his pocket and caged his fingers round the arrowhead. “It’s OK.” He crouched and held out his other hand. “It’s still me, boy. I’m still your Jack.”
Slowly, with more coaxing, the dog edged forward, eventually allowing Jack to stroke his muzzle; and with a small, nervous whimper from Sno, the two of them ran on together.
The church bell struck three … four … five… Jack stumbled on the loose gravel of the lane, dodging between the gateposts and on to the main street.
Send the arrowhead back.
Back where? Not to the ice cave. He’d already tried that. Besides, the glacier was melting fast. That wasn’t a solution. It’d only be a matter of time before the gold got washed out, wherever they put it. No, back in the ice – that wasn’t an option.
Flames over water. A midnight sun. What did that mean? There was only one day a year when Isdal got the midnight sun. The summer solstice. And that was tomorrow night. But the rest?
Rescue me from the ice.
That part of Tor’s message had been clear enough. The first thing was to get him out. Out of an ice cave that could collapse any time.
Jack sprinted down the street as the church bell rang on: eight … nine … ten.
Jack got to Skuli’s and went down the steps to the door in one jump.
“Skuli!” he called, slapping the door with his palm.
No reply.
“Skuli!” He banged the door with his fist.
A line of light appeared along the bottom of the door, which swung open a crack. Skuli, fully dressed, bleary-eyed, peered out. “Jack?”
“Let me in!” Jack pushed his way past Skuli and closed the door. He found himself in a kind of hallway with more stairs beyond, leading down. “We have to get Tor’s body out of the cave before it collapses!” he said. “Right now!”
Skuli’s eyes widened.
“I saw Tor!” blurted Jack. “He led me to a standing stone by the graveyard. The plagues happened in Isdal before – and they’re going to happen again!”
Skuli stood there in the hallway, wobbling slightly, his face suddenly very pale.
“I’ll tell you more on the way. You know mountain rescue stuff, right?” said Jack. “We have to get Tor out, that’s all I know for sure.”
Skuli’s eyes were huge with amazement. He nodded slowly, then started pulling on his boots. “We’ll need equipment,” he said, his fingers trembling as he tied his laces. “It won’t be easy. Tor’s metres down.”
Jack reached for the door handle and glanced at his watch. “Seven minutes past ten.” His mind whirred. “What do we need? Rope…”
“Ice axes and crampons,” said Skuli, zipping up his jacket. “And a body stretcher – you know, the kind rescue teams use. Dad keeps everything in our big shed round the back.”
“Let’s go then.”
Skuli grabbed his coat from its hook. “I remembered where Gran’s book is,” he said, tugging at the sleeves. “The one with the ballad in it.” He started back down the stairs. “It might tell us…”
Jack held Skuli’s arm. “Never mind that now!” He thought about the cracks in the cave and the melting ice. “We need to get going!” He pulled open the door and they stepped out into the night.
“We can do this, Jack, can’t we?” Skuli’s voice rang over the gusting wind, thrilled and hopeful.
“I promised you, didn’t I? That I’d help you put things right?”
We’re getting Tor out. The enormity of it pressed at Jack’s chest; the weight of what they had to do. But there were prickles of excitement mixed in with the dread.
We’re getting you out, Tor.
If only the ice would hold till then.
THE ANCIENT
BALLAD OF ISDAL
In ancient times in a far-off land
Where battles were lost and won,
The Norse gods gathered in a mighty hall
And our story is begun.
A glowing hall protected by
A flawless roof of gold,
Leaves of gleaming arrowheads,
A glory to behold.
But in this hall of warriors
One held a traitor’s mark,
And from the roof a gold leaf stole
And escaped o’er Bifrost’s arc.
How the gods in the hall lament
Thief and arrowhead.
The great god Odin, fury filled,
Cursed Midgard where he’d fled.
And so four deadly plagues were sent,
Air, Water, Earth and Fire.
And the gold it must be buried deep,
Else will all life expire.
Oh Yggdrasil, oh tree of life
Your first leaf it did fall,
The winter of the gods began
In Valhalla’s holy hall.
And Ragnorak will come at last
And end the Norse gods’ reign,
And all the leaves of Yggdrasil
Will fall as golden rain.
So will the arrowhead bring four plagues
And feed men’s worst desires,
For by plague fire can the gold return
To Asgard’s hallowed shire.
But a single other way there is
To set the cursed gold free:
On a death boat under midnight sun,
Through the toil of warriors three.
There surely be another way
To send the arrowhead home.
Carried by warrior true of heart
On a blazing death boat lone.
When fire, air, water, earth unite
In the light of a midnight sun,
The curse is broke; the gold is freed,
The evil is undone.
Daemon birds, a spell shall weave
To…
Excerpt
Tenth century, origin unknown
Trouble is coming to the man who … loads himself with pledges.
Habakkuk 2:6
9
BACK TO THE GLACIER
And Tor did fall to his icy doom,
and the traitor thus was smashed.
The Saga of Vekell
Jack and Skuli hurried along the street, carrying the equipment on their backs. Patches of mist lingered round the houses, and stretched in viscous strands towards the church on its hilltop with its gape-mouthed dragons. The Brennbjerg mountain rose up beyond, huge and brooding against the blue-steel sky, trapping the town against the sea. Hidden from view, somewhere ahead of them, Jack felt the presence of the glacier, melting and cracking.
The wind was stronger now. It came in hard gu
sts. Bins have been overturned, and rubbish came swirling past, making Sno snap and bark. A white shirt pulled off a washing line swept by them like a ghost.
“The plague of air,” said Skuli, his rucksack bulging on his back. His teeth chattered. “This is the start of it, Jack, isn’t it?”
Jack clawed at his shoulder where a loop of the body stretcher was rubbing. If this wind got much worse it was bound to make the cave more unstable. To stop himself thinking about it, he ran through the equipment list in his head. One collapsible body stretcher. An extra coil of rope. Two ice axes. Two pairs of spiky crampons for the bottom of their boots. A harness. Two head torches. Two pairs of thick leather gloves…
On Church Lane, the bunting had ripped loose and twitched like whips overhead. All that was left of the Festival poster on the lamppost was a ragged corner and the words GO BACK.
“Got the arrowhead safe?” Skuli asked, and Jack put a hand to his chest pocket, feeling the gold over his heart: a dead weight, surprisingly heavy for such a small object.
Doubt pricked at Jack. “Do you think we’re strong enough to pull Tor out?”
“It’ll need the both of us,” called Skuli. “We’ll use a belay system with the rope that’s already there. Figure-of-eight rethread knots. There’s a granite rock we can use as our anchor point.”
Jack nodded, clueless. He just had to hope it all made sense when they got there.
They reached the graveyard. Sharp twigs rained down on them from the battered trees and grit flew up from the path and stung Jack’s eyes. As they pushed the secret gate, the wind slammed it shut on them. They rammed it hard with their shoulders to get it open.
Skuli stopped to stare at the standing stone, at the stark images of the plagues, but Jack pulled at his rucksack to urge him on, remembering Tor’s words. Rescue me from the ice.
