by Ken Hagan
‘Shit, Olaf! How could you know? Were you there? Just because the shout went against us in the law-field, it doesn’t mean that we are guilty!’
‘I know for a fact,’ shouts the crofter-man. ‘I know it because Snorri told me.’
‘That proves you are a liar. Snorri wasn’t with us. He stayed behind on the strand. He stayed with Cuin and Lar to look after the drove.’
‘Yes, young master, he didn’t go to the fold, but Snorri told Olaf how to set the blaze, how to start it with wood spirit — it’s what ironsmiths use at the forge. That’s why Asgrim’s men couldn’t put out the fire.’
*
We arrive at Dugdale to find that Sigi has arrived before us. He took advantage of a break in the weather and came down last night under a clear moon. He says they had an easy time of it on the east riding; that they had no need to be up-fell for another day.
A fire lit and a smell of grog. Young Bjorn, who is only twelve years old, can barely keep to his feet; he is the worse for drink. No sign of Father and his round-up from Gjother fell, and no word yet from Klep’s men or the drove of blackies from Laxvik.
When our two herdings, mine and Sigi’s, come together, excitement spreads through the flock — a noise of mawing sheep and a clinkering of wether-bells sounds contentedly over the stubble fields, where the summer hay was cut. We separate the yearling rams and chase them beyond the gorse thickets. Young rams will fight, maul, scrape horns, run about, but they won’t wander far. They will keep a scent of the herd in their nostrils.
On my say-so, we push the ewes and wethers into the top field, on the other side of the flooded dykes. We can do a rough count there. It leaves the bottom fields free, with good stubble to fodder on, when Klep’s men turn up with the blackies.
Ulph makes much of his story, telling Lar and Sigi how he risked his life to save the wether from a sticky end at the bottom of the ghyll. Young Bjorn stands with mouth gaping, taking in every word. Pilson is older than Bjorn and used to shepherds’ tales. ‘I’m glad you weren’t with us, Ulph,’ he says, laughing, ‘if we’d had you on our riding, we would still be up there chasing sheep.’
‘What about you, Olaf?’ asks Lar, ‘how did you get that bruise on your brow? Have you any tales to tell?’
The crofter-man steals a guilty glance at me. ‘It’s nothing,’ he replies, ‘just a scratch from the horns.’
Near evening and it is young Bjorn, with his osprey eyes, who sees a lone figure running down the fell. Whoever it is, the man’s been on the west riding — he must be one of ours, one of Father’s men. He is in a hurry, taking the short way down, following the water course, a sheer-falling beck.
Sigi on impulse takes to his legs. He hurls himself over the flooded dyke and hurtles down the bottom fields to where the man will reach the foot of the beck. The rest of us follow. By the shape of the man’s gait in the dusk — his hopping as a man does on bare feet — we can make out that the runner is Snorri Harelip. Snorri sees us coming, hears our voices, stops and waits, hunkers like a man breathless, fighting for air.
‘Where’s Da?’ cries Sigi, as soon as he is in shouting distance. His words echo coldly from the wet stones at the foot of the beck.
‘That’s why I’ve come,’ replies Snorri, panting, still catching his breath.
‘What is it, man?’ asks Ulph.
Snorri is in tears. ‘Damn the furnace, damn the boots, damn the bung.’ We all stare, while old harelip finds the words. ‘Master ailing bad. Him not giving up. No! Master wants to stay up-fell till job be done.’
Chapter 31
It was too overcast — too dangerous without a moon — to send help last night to Gjother fell. By first light, the earliest possible start, Lar and Olaf began their ascent up-fell with Snorri. They will finish the round-up and bring Father down from the west riding. Not long after, Sigi and I set off, riding east towards Osvik, taking the two Grisedale lads with us on foot, and leaving Ulph on his own at Dugdale meadows to safeguard the flock. We will go as far as Finn’s woods, and wait at the pass.
Klep’s men should have been with us at Dugdale. They are a day overdue, but that is to be expected, moving two hundred sheep in short daylight. Our plan is to meet them and their drove at the pass — saving half a day — agree a tally for the blackies and return at all speed with our new stock to Dugdale. We will have done this before Father returns from Gjother fell. We have to get him home. The sooner he is in our sisters’ care the better.
*
‘What do you mean,’ shouts Sigi. He shoves one of Klep’s drovers to the ground. ‘What do you mean coming with only half the stock that was agreed? Look at them! I have never seen such scraggy sheep! Where are the blackies?’
I have to drag my brother off. Pilson helps the drover to his feet. The man dusts off, while young Bjorn looks on bemused, holding the reins of our horses, not knowing whether to laugh or scowl.
I try to keep a civil voice. ‘Not one of these is a full black. We were promised two hundred, all blackies. You turn up with barely a hundred, mixed breed, brown and white. What’s going on? It is not like your master to go back on his word.’
‘I do as I am told,’ protests the drover. ‘Don’t say that I have told you, but our guothie has fallen out with them up at Vorgha fell.’
‘What’s that got to do with us?’
‘Klep has to buy from the Vorgha men. Hals won’t part with his sheep for less than his asking price. It is common knowledge the blackies are needed to settle with Leif, so Hals saw his chance to demand more.’
‘And Klep won’t pay?’
‘That’s it, but don’t say you heard from me.’
‘We will not accept them,’ says Sigi. ‘It doesn’t matter what we heard or where we heard it. Drive them back to Laxvik.’
‘Sorry, young master,’ replies the drover, ‘we can’t take your word on that.’
My brother grits his teeth. ‘Who are you to defy me?’
‘We have been told to deliver the wethers to Dugdale and give Klep’s message to Leif the Tall, to him and none other.’
‘What was the message?’ I ask.
‘Klepjarn means to keep his promise. These are on loan, wool on the hoof for this season and next, two years’ shearings, yours for free — and all at Klep’s expense. By next winter-fall a full handover will be made, all blackies. Our guothie will ride over to yours, day after tomorrow. He will speak to your Father, put everything to rights.’
‘He had better not show his face,’ snaps Sigi. ‘Klep is not welcome at our hall. As for these wethers, it is pointless driving them to Dugdale. They are an insult to my father. He won’t accept them. He will turn you on your heels.’
‘Like as not,’ replies the drover, ‘but if we go back and don’t do as we are bidden, there will be hell to pay with Klepjarn, and a flogging in it for us.’
A smile on Sigi’s face. ‘Do it, then,’ he says to the man. ‘Deliver the insult — suits me fine.’ My brother takes the reins off Bjorn and climbs on the grey. ‘Mount up, Kregin, come with me.’
‘Where to?’ I reply. Bjorn hands me the reins for Srelni. The sorrel senses something untoward; starts kicking his heels. Pilson takes the bridle. He helps steady the horse. ‘Where are we going, brother?’
‘To Klepjarns-stead,’ he replies, ‘to have it out with that bastard Klep,’
‘No Sigi, Father won’t want this.’
‘Maybe he won’t,’ replies Sigi, ‘but this time I am going to settle it my way.’
‘Sigi, let’s go back to Dugdale, we need to talk it over.’
‘No, Kregin,’ says Sigi, giving me an angry look, ‘I will not make that mistake again. I am going — with, or without you. It’s my chance to put things right!’
Young Bjorn runs to him. ‘Take me with you,’ says the lad. Sigi’s answer is to lean down and pull Bjorn behind him on the horse. They set off at a fair tolt, the horse’s grey tail in the air. Pilson, without a word, runs down after them into Finn’s woods
.
Chapter 32
Olaf is not a man to rely on, but the news from him is all we have. After the killing of Bane Morfinson at Laxvik, it seems that Sigi fled with Pilson and Bjorn to Grisedale. The two Grisedale lads know their home-fells like the back of their hands. They have my brother safe and sound, holed up in a cave somewhere above the tarn. According to Olaf, Sigi has meat and fire, furs and shelter. Pilson brings him grog. Pilson and Bjorn sit with him most nights.
‘They have fetched him a game-board,’ said Olaf, pulling a face. ‘Your brother can play at hneff — and cheat to his heart’s content.’
I was tempted to repay the crofter-man for his insult, but how can you lay a hand on the man who has returned your brother’s horse? Sigi had asked Bjorn to bring the horse home from Grisedale — he couldn’t keep it up-fell for the winter — and to pass on the message to his family that he was safe. As luck would have it, Bjorn was met by Olaf on the bridle-way above Finn’s woods. Olaf offered to lead the horse back to Osvellir, saving Bjorn a half-day’s ride, and in return for his ‘kindness’, he made the young lad spill out all he knew of Sigi — not least how to find the cave.
We are in Bjorn’s debt for the help he has given Sigi at Grisedale and for the return of the horse as far as Osvik, but he should never have let slip the whereabouts of Sigi to a blabbermouth like Olaf — though at the moment that is the least of our worries.
Chapter 33
From what we understand, this time from Karghyll who braved the ferry to bring Father the news, my brother’s challenge to Bane was put fair and square and in front of witnesses. Morfin’s son could have refused. He didn’t need to bite the ‘bait’. It wasn’t up to him to defend his father-in-law Klep over the blackies, but he agreed to combat. He took on Sigi and paid with his life. Apparently, the fight was over in the blink of an eye. They had no sooner knocked irons than Bane lunged too far with his axe and lost his footing. Sigi didn’t miss the easy chance to press home his blade.
Of course, as the man from Skogurdale said, no one will believe the duel was fought over sheep. It is clear-as-day that Sigi seized the excuse of the ‘blackies’ to avenge what Bera had suffered at the hands of Bane. According to Karghyll, the question on everyone’s lips is a simple point of law: was Klep’s broken word on the sheep enough to justify a call for blood?
Even for Father, who knows blood-law inside-out, the issue is not clear-cut. The fear is that “first blood” has been spilled by Sigi. Any hot-head who chooses is free to go after him in turn, anyone with axe to grind, score to settle, or silver to gain. Under blood-law, Morfin is the injured party, and as Bane’s father, he has first right of redress. But Klep and Gunnar also have claims on the death of close kin.
‘Father,’ I ask, ‘under law, can all three call for blood?’
I got a long lecture from him of “ifs” and “buts” on the law, which left me confused. The more I tried to pin him down, the more evasive his answers became. ‘Blood justice will have to take its course,’ he said, ‘like a river finds its way to the sea.’
‘But there must be simple right and wrong.’
‘Is there right and wrong in a river?’ was his puzzling reply.
*
Had it been left to me, I wouldn’t have set out for Grisedale. If Sigi is not for coming home — if he chooses to hide all winter in the fells — no coaxing from Lar or me will make him change his mind. But how could we refuse our sisters?
For their sake, we have to give it a try. Bera had been at me, chipping away quietly, from the moment Olaf led Sigi’s horse into the yard. Svena has not stopped pleading with Lar — it’s no secret the girl has the hots for Sigi — and even Haldis has worked herself up into a rage. I have never seen her so pale with anger.
‘We can’t leave him there,’ she said, shaking her walking-stick in my direction. For Haldis it was as good as settled. She had packed victuals and fleeces, and filled two bags with grog. Svena had not wept openly till then, but immediately, on hearing my agreement to go, her tears ran raw and true. ‘You must go with him, Lar. Kregin can’t go on his own.’
‘Please, brother,’ this the last word to me from Bera, ‘you have to make Sigi come home. He should be here, safe with us!’
*
With the horses standing ready, I am called to the bunk so that Father can whisper a blessing before I set off. He groans from pain when he turns to me, I feel his tears on my cheek. ‘Tell Sigi to stay where he is till Vali’s day. Better he doesn’t show his face till then. He must give me time to put things right.’
*
Lar and I have left our horses on low ground at Osvik steading. A horse can be a burden on the fell at this time of year. The last thing we want, if we are hit by bad weather, is to worry for the horses’ safety. We will press on to Grisedale on foot, taking a steep path over the ridges — Lar’s idea to save time.
We have packed snow-shoes. White-out blizzards may be only days away. We have willow canes to test for depth of snow in case we encounter drifts on the way down. With a bit of luck we will be with Sigi before nightfall, sat in his lair, sipping hot grog by a warm fire. All my earlier misgivings are gone. I can’t wait to tell him of Father’s plan.
Chapter 34
Inside the cave our fire burns bright; outside a moonless night too frosty for snow. From the cavernous innards of the mountain ice-cold air brushes past our faces, shaking the flames, casting our restless shadows on walls of stone. I am bitter-cold to the core, my neck in a chill sweat; on my shoulders, two fleeces — Sigi’s and mine. Mutton and grog are in plentiful supply at the fire, but neither meat nor grog has warmed my insides. The fire gives off no heat, no matter how close I sit. My cheeks are wet, stung by the flames. The tips of my fingers, numb from binding the corpse, are tingling-sore from being held too near the blaze.
Tomorrow we will bring the body home. Once my sisters have seen what Mord did to Sigi, they will understand my resolve — there can be no rest till I have re-paid our brother’s killer like-for-like. Father will urge against it, he will dismiss all talk of my going after Mord, but his reasoning won’t deflect me from my purpose. This is no time for reason. Why should we be bound by force of law, while Mord gets away with murder?
I have wrapped Sigi in the sheep-pelts that Pilson fetched for me. My brother’s remains are at the mouth of the cave where it is dry and cold. My eyes are drawn to the body — a misshapen heap of old pelts lost in darkness outside the reach of firelight. Darkness and night, and a hastily wrapped shroud may hide the work of Mord’s axe — but not from me. Before I bound Sigi’s body, I had memorised every rip and pluck of his serk, every break of bone and flesh suffered under combat; I had stared, unblinking, at the final telling blow, and at the gouging disfigurements inflicted on my brother’s back after he was dead.
The Grisedale lads stood by at the shore and watched as I washed Sigi’s blood-torn body in tarn-water, splinted his leg above and below the knee, and tied a stiff kerchief of bast at the throat to keep the jagged axe-wound from gaping asunder — it was a murderous side-blow to the neck that severed my brother from life.
*
‘It will be tough on the girls to see him like that,’ says Lar, as we sit close to the fire. ‘Sigi’s corpse is two days old — as it is. We will have to tie him to a sledge and pull him over the fell to Osvik. Think of the rubbing and shaking. What will the body be like when we get him to Osvellir?’
‘My sisters have a right to see him,’ I reply coldly, ‘and your Svena,’ I add pointedly, ‘she has a right too. The girls will clean him, dress him in fine breeches. He must be laid under at his grandfather’s cairn. Father will want that.’
‘What about Sigi himself?’ says young Bjorn. ‘Shouldn’t his wishes count for something?’
‘How can a dead man have wishes?’ asks Pilson tetchily. But after another swig from the bag Pilson’s mood lightens. ‘If Sigi could speak to us, he would demand a re-match. He would say: “Give me another go at Mord. Next
time, you will see, I will nail him.” ’
Bjorn bursts into laughter. ‘You mean like throwing a double on the dice, count three spaces on the game-board, and disappear off Grisedale fell?’
‘Be serious, you two,’ says Lar. ‘Look at Sigi, wrapped in old pelts, broken; defeated; cut to pieces at the hands of Mord. If it were your body, and your family, is this how you would wish to be remembered?’
Bjorn sways drunkenly, almost falls over, as he grabs a flaming brand off the fire.
‘Let Sigi speak!’ shrieks the lad. ‘I say it should be Sigi who tells us what he wants.’
‘Sit down, lad,’ says Pilson, dodging sparks from the flame, ‘don’t be a damned fool, stop waving that fire about.’
Bjorn stands his ground, shakes the brand defiantly. In a sudden impulse, part drunken jest, part boyish adulation, he mimics how Sigi might have ‘sounded off’ during a game of hneff. ‘Send me on the waters. Let me reach the nether world at the bottom of the tarn.’
We have a good laugh at his nonsense.
‘It can be done,’ says Pilson thoughtfully. ‘We can build a raft and launch your brother’s body from the shore. It won’t take long to cobble a few timbers together.’
Lar fixes his eyes on me. ‘We will do it, if it’s what you want. You only have to say the word.’
*
‘Alive. Alive. I tell you, he is alive!’ Words, repeated over and over, echoing past my ears. A dream. The voice wakens me. Bjorn, mucking around? Or my brother speaking? The voice throws me into confusion.
Lar is awake, tending the fire. He drops firewood at his feet and runs into the daylight, stumbling past Pilson. Pilson sits up with a start, head still under the furs.
‘Sigi is alive.’ It is Bjorn who is shouting. A shouted echo from the cave throws shivers up my spine. ‘Come and see,’ says Bjorn tearfully. ‘He is moving, I tell you.’
Lar, Bjorn, Pilson and me, the four of us stand over the motionless shroud.
