Ralf looked stricken and, dropping the pitchfork, loped across the yard and disappeared under the archway. Inge grimaced slightly and yanked more feathers out of the increasingly denuded bird.
“The sooner you’re in the pot the better for us all,” she said to the lifeless head that bobbed around on her knees, as a freezing gust of wind lifted the feathers up towards the leaden sky. Inge surveyed the dull heaviness of the clouds and concluded more snow was possible before the day was through. A thaw had come three weeks back, and then a further freeze. “Will this winter never end?” she grumbled to the chicken.
The boy hung the two rabbits from a low branch of a twisted old tree and made his way across the snow towards the dark-grey stones, standing like huge sentinels in private conversation, each topped with a slight crusting of snow, like so many moody old men. The Judge Circle of tall stones had stood forever. Possibly built by the frost giants, according to his mother, although she smiled when she said so. No one really knew how the standing stones, arranged in a rough circle, had come to be at the base of Torsberg, the hill rising at the far end of the clearing. The jagged rocks of the hilltop could, in a certain light, look like a vast hammer smashed into the crest or, some said, a kneeling giant.
Both their farmhouse, the bridge over the river and the small town two miles beyond could be seen from its peak. Down by the Circle, Håkan’s view was circumscribed by the forest of birch trees that crept towards the stones but never reached them, held back by some troll magic, he didn’t doubt.
The snow had been disturbed around the stones. Someone had ridden a horse there not long ago, for the tracks were fresh, as was the dung that hadn’t yet frozen solid. Whoever had trespassed had ridden completely around the Circle without entering it. The snow encircled by the stones themselves was unblemished and glowed a dull white, reflective of the ash grey sky above.
Håkan pulled his gloves tight and carefully gripped one of the tallest of the stones, much taller than the height of a tall man, but one that he could climb. His felt boots were not designed for rock-climbing and he eased them against the fissures to ensure a good grip. He didn’t fancy falling. Gaining the top he stood, flexing his knees and swaying slightly. The air, so still until a few moments earlier, now had a slight breeze. His breath drifted away in front of him; the highest branches of the birches waved to each other slowly; a clump of snow tumbled from a branch nearby. Otherwise the silence held.
This was where the boy had appeared, if boy he was. He’d appeared and just as quickly, disappeared.
Håkan had been standing very still, watching a boar who’d emerged from the trees on the far side of the clearing. It snorted around but didn’t detect him, as the wind carried the pig’s boarish stink across to where Håkan clutched his bow, arrow notched and half drawn. The boar did see the strange boy as he walked within the stone circle. It snorted and lowered its head. The boy, dressed in the oddest clothes Håkan had ever seen, looked at the boar and then towards him. He took another step and promptly vanished. But not entirely, for his tracks remained in the snow. When Håkan looked again the boar had also gone but he could still be heard crashing through the undergrowth.
Håkan surveyed the area carefully. No troll boy today, just the tracks from the horse and rider. He could now see where some man had dismounted for a while and relieved himself in the snow. Håkan shook his head to clear both mysteries, and surveyed the other ten stones. Each one would take a small army to lift. He doubted their wagon would be sturdy enough to carry the weight of the smallest, even if it could be pulled out of the frozen ground. In fact, the stone he stood on would be longer than the wagon, and that was only the bit he could see above the ground.
He checked the snow behind him. His bow and arrows leant against the next rock, well out of the way. He didn’t wish to land on those. He took a breath, feeling the chill burn across his teeth. He positioned his feet and extended his arms, as he had been taught. Turning his face towards the clouds, that seemed but a hand’s breadth above Torsberg, he bent his knees, fell backwards slowly and then jumped sharply. Keeping his body extended he made a graceful arc, turning completely in the air and landing on his feet, facing the tall stone on which he’d stood moments before. His feet punched into the crisp snow. He wiggled his boots to free them. Heart racing and grinning to himself, he collected his bow and arrows and set off to pick up the rabbits. In half an hour it would be dark and he wanted to be home well before then.
Inge had just completed pulling out the final feathers when the door to the kitchen burst open. She heard the cook say something and a man’s voice raised in anger. Pettersson swept out through the back door, ignoring Inge, and shouted for his horse. It took Ralf a few moments before he led out the dappled grey.
“Bring it here, boy, and look sharp about it, I don’t have all day.”
Pettersson stood on the small landing that extended from the kitchen door, the stairs descending to one side.
“ ‘s Blood, mind, girl,” he said, forcing Inge to take a couple of steps down, while he swung his leg onto his waiting mount. He turned the horse without a word of thanks to Ralf, and trotted towards the archway. As he passed through, an arrow embedded itself in the wooden doorpost. If he heard he made no sign.
“That was very, very naughty,” said Inge to Eira, as the girl strolled over to retrieve the arrow.
“No, he was very, very rude,” said Eira, “and I’m a good shot. He was in no danger.”
Kaleb Pettersson
The thick broth made from chicken and potatoes filled the room with welcome aromas. Håkan’s mother, Signy, led them in a prayer of thanksgiving. She sat next to his father’s empty chair; his place was laid as was the place of his older brother.
“They could return any time,” his mother often said. And he hoped the words carried as much truth as the assurance with which she said them. A letter received three weeks back had spoken of a skirmish, but neither man had been injured.
“They are doing the Lord’s work and He will protect them,” Signy had said, but she had also brushed away a tear.
Candlelight and the substantial fire bathed their faces with rippling light. Above the fireplace, the huge broadsword from Håkan’s great-grandfather’s time acted as a reminder that the Ekland family were not just gentlemen farmers. A pitcher of small beer and a plate of salted herring accompanied the bread and the soup.
Inge, with her ample bosom and close-set eyes, hovered near the door. Her blonde hair more or less managed to stay within her bonnet. She’d been with them now for two years and helped out in the kitchens. Fifteen, and quite pretty, she’d be married soon, and word amongst the servants suggested the apothecary’s son in the village had his eye on her. Signy had been happy to give work to one of her crofter’s daughters; a large household needed plenty of willing hands. Håkan didn’t like her much. She’d twisted his ear more than once and he frequently spotted a scowl on her face if caught unawares.
“You may tell the cook the broth is excellent, Inge,” said Signy. “There should be enough for all of you too. The hen seemed hefty to me when Gregor caught her.”
“Yes, Mistress,” said Inge, bobbing slightly but still managing to look petulant.
“Off you go then. We’ll call you if we need you.”
When the door had closed, Signy sighed and pushed the platter of bread towards the two children.
“Eat well. This winter seems set to last right into summer. I’m glad your traps worked fine, Håkan. The two coneys will make a welcome change once they’ve hung a bit. The leg of lamb in the outhouse is all but finished now, and smells ripe even to me. It may be time to let the dogs take it.” Håkan’s mother took a cloth from her lap and wiped the grease from her lips, before cutting a thick trencher of bread.
“Our neighbour called today and it wasn’t pretty.”
Håkan looked up sharply.
“Pettersson?”
“Yes, Kaleb Pettersson himself, dressed in all his velvet glory, and full of all
his papist certainties.”
“What did he want, Mother?” asked Eira.
“He wanted what he’ll not get,” said Signy, laying down her knife and putting her hands flat on either side of her bowl. “Your father’s land has been in his family for generations and it’s special. Our hill and our Circle, they are sacred and for safe keeping.”
“But he can’t just take the land can he, Mother?” Håkan’s younger sister pushed her chin out and her eyes blazed.
“No, Eira, he cannot, for the land is ours, even if worked by our crofter, Bengt. Mr Pettersson claims he has papers showing the land is in dispute. Papers from generations back. He says he will go to the Bishop and also will petition the King. He offered me a significant sum in gold if I would accept his papers as legitimate.”
“But what does he want that land for?” asked Håkan, his stomach tightening. “It’s no good for crops and Bengt and his son can barely scrape a living from the birches and brooms.”
Signy nodded, the candlelight being kind to the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Outside the wind had picked up and moaned its way around the farmhouse. A log settled in the fireplace releasing a cloud of sparks.
“He won’t say, of course, but it’s the Circle and Torsberg Hill he wants. It’s as well not to enquire too closely why, in my opinion. Certainly not to do the Lord’s work.” Signy looked at her children in turn. She banged her fist softly on the table several times.
“Well he won’t get it, not while I have breath in my body,” she said.
“We cannot do anything till Father returns, can we, Mother?” said Håkan.
Signy sighed and checked that the door remained closed. In a softer voice she said, “Pettersson’s uncle is close to the Danish king and I think he plans to use that connection now our family has shown clearly where it owes allegiance.”
“I thought Father said that, as Swedes, we owe allegiance only to God and Sweden,” said Håkan.
“That’s true, and your father and I are one in this as you know. But it is sedition to speak against the King, and we must all have a care.” She looked again to where the thick wooden door remained closed. “Power lies with people like Pettersson who are more Danish than the Danes themselves.”
“But if Lennart and Father succeed—”
“Hush, child,” said Signy to Håkan, “as far as anyone is concerned they are away trading. We know different but it’s not wise to speak of this where we may be overheard. Now, young lady, it’s time for bed. The sandman will be looking for you.”
“But—”
“No buts, Eira, you’ve finished your food and beer and it’s dark now. Take a candle to light your way. And remember that what we have spoken of here is only for us. These are far from easy times.”
After a little more pouting and prevarication, Eira left for her bed.
Håkan and his mother sat in silence for some moments. A fresh log on the fire hissed and sputtered and the wind rattled the shutters. The cat landed at the end of the table making them both start.
“Down, Charcoal,” said Håkan to the black cat, who took no notice and explored a particularly insistent bit of fur on its hind leg. A blast of wind sent smoke into the room for a moment.
“Chimney needs cleaning,” said Håkan’s mother.
Håkan stared at the flames as they danced and fluttered. For a moment he thought he’d almost seen an animal stare back at him. He rubbed his eyes.
“The Circle must never be in the hands of such as Pettersson,” said Signy. “The Circle and Torsberg have been in the Ekland family for as long as we have records. Your father does not say much about it, but his mother, God rest her soul, told me that both are a sacred trust and important in ways today’s churchmen don’t appreciate.”
Håkan swirled the remains of the small beer around in his beaker.
“Mother…” he started, and then paused.
Signy looked at her son and said nothing. Håkan took a deep breath.
“Mother, I’ve seen things. Heard things.”
Still Signy did not speak.
“I’m not sure what. Whether it be troll or devil or winter madness.” Håkan looked at his mother, who nodded, unsmiling, her pale-grey eyes deep and unreadable.
Håkan described seeing the boar and the boy, and how this strangely dressed lad had appeared and disappeared within the Circle.
“The second time I just found tracks, Mother. Tracks that started of a sudden within the pure snow of the Circle and ended a few paces later. I cannot see how anything human could have made those.”
“Why didn’t you tell me of this earlier?”
“I wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the devil or my imagining.”
“Did you tell the priest at confession?”
Håkan looked at his mother and shrugged.
“I’d nothing to confess. I doubt the priest would have understood. He told me once our circle of stones was built by evil people long since fled this Christian country.”
Signy studied her son’s face for a bit and then the play of flames in the fireplace. She compressed her lips and nodded.
“You wait here, child,” said his mother. “I’ll be back in a moment. There is something that now I must share with you.”
The Drum Prophesy
The wind had completely dropped and the house held its breath. Even the flames in the fireplace glowed and wavered with less urgency than before. Outside an owl hooted, seeking prey that scuttled around the barns and outhouses. A creak sounded from the stairs and moments later Signy returned with a lamp in one hand and a wooden box in the other. When seated once more, she took a small key from around her neck and opened the box.
She withdrew a piece of parchment, yellow and slightly cracked, and unfolded it. Around its edges were little figures depicting men and women, with a moon’s face at the top and a spiky sun at the bottom. Arising from the sun a snake or road worked its way up towards some text and a stylised hill with three trees. Near the bottom, two boys or small men confronted a bear.
“Your uncle painted this drum after a vision he had.”
“My uncle? Stefan?”
“No, not Stefan or Goran. They are your father’s brothers. No, my brother.”
Håkan shuddered as though an angel had walked over his grave. He shook his head.
“Your brother? But you were – sorry, are – an only child, Mother. Aren’t you? Grandfather always said how you made up for lack of sons.”
“Yes, he did. He loved me and never let me feel unwanted. For he truly loved my mother, your nana, Livli. He went against many conventions to marry her.”
“I know. Which is why we all have Sami blood. But she only had one child didn’t she? Which is why grandfather said—”
“No. She had a son from her first marriage. He’s called Garral. His father was killed in a whaling accident. Your grandmother had to face the world alone and pregnant at fifteen. Think about that. That’s Inge’s age, just two years older than you.”
“So what happened?” asked Håkan, spearing a bit of pickled herring on his knife tip.
“My father lived in a settlement near Livli’s village. He traded with Livli’s people. Livli struggled to raise Garral without a husband. But she had two great gifts, one obvious and one less so. Your grandmother’s first great gift was her beauty. We all get our pale-blue eyes from her and skin that goes hazel in the sunshine, when we finally get some.” Signy smiled and sipped some beer, dabbing her mouth again with a cloth.
Håkan nodded. He, Lennart and Eira all had grey-blue eyes that could even appear dusty green in certain lights. A contrast to their father’s brown eyes.
“What was her other gift?”
“It’s the one I share and the one I think you may have too. It’s a certain way of seeing things. Seeing more than is right there, more than can be touched. My mother would say she could see the music of the gods behind the beauties of nature.”
“The gods? Surely, a Christian—”
>
“Yes. Your grandmother raised me Christian as I’ve raised you. And rightly so. But in the lands of the night lights, where the sky fills with wondrous colour, the old gods have never been completely forgotten, and the ancient pathways have never been completely blotted out. I, and she, can see the hidden power in plants. That’s how I can use them to heal, just as she taught me.”
Håkan nodded. He loved the barn where Signy dried her herbs and prepared her salves from berries and roots. People came from all over to receive her healing. And Brother Niels, who took care of the health of the Cistercians in the monastery outside the village, was a frequent visitor and family friend. They would talk for hours about the properties of certain leaves and the healing value of poisons when used in tiny amounts.
“And I think you can see, too,” added his mother.
“What do you mean?”
“It is not by chance you spend so much time at the Circle. And it is not by chance that you’ve seen an apparition there.”
“I go there to practice my tumbling. You know that Mother. The deep grass breaks my fall if I make an error and the snow does the same in winter, unless it’s frozen solid.”
“Yes. Your tumbling,” said Signy, with a faraway look in her eyes. “I’m not sure whether to be grateful that we gave shelter for so long to those travelling players and vagabonds—”
“They weren’t vagabonds!”
“I tease you, my dear. No, they were not. Many an interesting talk I had with the leader of their band, and many an interesting tale he told Matts and me. And I loved their skill with balance and falling, juggling and singing. I’m more than happy they awoke in you a love for the pipes. And the leader had the healing gift as well and much valuable knowledge. But throwing yourself off rocks has never brought me calm.”
“But what of this parchment, Mother?” said Håkan, pointing with his knife.
“Your uncle, my half-brother Garral, has the far sight as well. In him it has a different quality. He won’t speak of it. He says to do so is to squander its power. He cannot command it. Even among his kinfolk some considered him mad. Some said he would become a great holy man. All he wanted was to hunt whales like his father. But the visions would fall on him at times and he’s known as a great drum creator.”
Time Knot Page 5
