by Ken Hagan
‘Bjorn, you little turd,’ yells Pilson, his face ashen. ‘You gave us a shock.’
‘I saw his hand move,’ the lad protests, ‘I saw his fingers open.’
The willow bark that I had twisted around the shroud has worked loose, leaving Sigi’s right arm free of the pelts — arm and hand have turned hoar-frozen in the icy air.
Lar grins ear to ear. ‘Frost plays tricks with the body. I have seen it before with a horse found dead on the fell. Frozen blood swells inside the hide and twitches the limbs as if they are alive.’
‘I know what I saw,’ says Bjorn. ‘He was alive.’ The lad runs from the cave in panic.
Bjorn won’t go back, he won’t go near the cave. I have told Pilson to lay off the lad, not to be hard on him. He sits shivering on the edge of the shore, whittling dowels and pegs, watching in silence, as we build the raft.
My hands are numb, and yet I have a glow inside, almost cheerful. It’s good to be doing something, doing a task with others, and doing it well. Pebbles on the sunless shore glisten black with frost; ice-cold mists hide the peaks; wind ruffles the waters of the tarn; the waves wrinkle — grey as the fells, sullen as the skies.
Lar cleans a shaft of birch wood for the mast, the stoutest he could find among wood gathered for the fire. He will cut a cleat near the top from which to hang his small version of a cross-yard. It is Pilson’s idea to use Sigi’s fleece as a makeshift sail to catch the wind. I hand it over grudgingly.
With the snow holding off, we won’t need snow-canes for the walk down-fell. Pilson makes use of the canes to brace out Sigi’s fleece. When he is done, the fleece is held open, like a scarecrow in a field, hanging square on the cross-yard.
Bjorn watches as I shave lengths of birch with my axe, and make grooves for withies that will bind the logs into one flat hull. I have skimmed the dowels he made — one end sharp, one end tapered — so that the logwood, joined snug by dowels, will not ship water.
‘Where did you learn this?’
‘From my brother.’
‘From Sigi?’
‘No. From an older brother, years ago.’
‘Did he not come with you to the ice lands?’
Pilson interrupts and chides him for asking. ‘Get on and light the brands. What’s keeping you, Bjorn? Stop jawing like a girl.’
*
The raft is on the water, and Sigi’s body is on the raft. The mast stands only head-height, its base wedged by Lar into a scaled-down block, no bigger than a man’s foot. I have freed my brother’s head from the pelts, combed his beard and hair with my wet fingers, and arranged things as he would have wanted. His face is open to the wind, his broken limb and the splint out of sight.
Under and over the body, kindling first and dry wood chopped small, ready to set alight. Above Sigi’s head the fleece flutters like a scarecrow. Bjorn has two brands of fire at the ready flaring low, and now, fanned to bright-red in the fell wind, sparks from the brands fall and fizzle on frosted pebbles at the edge of the water.
Lar and I wade out with the raft till water spills over our boots. Behind us, Pilson lifts it clear of stones in the shallows, but heaves too hard. We lose some kindling over the side.
‘Steady,’ shouts Lar.
‘Do it now, Bjorn,’ shouts Pilson. ‘Now! Put your brands on the pyre. Thor’s sake, Bjorn, do it before the raft floats out too far.’
‘No, wait; hold it, Bjorn! Not yet!’ I don’t recognise the roar of my own voice.
Lar holds the raft while I put a knee on the bow-end where the mast is. Under my weight the logs sink in the water. I lean over Sigi’s face. My breath steams on his cheeks, softens the frost on his beard. From under my serk I have taken the hornlet of nails — the last traces of my first father. I set charm and chain loosely at my brother’s chin. I daren’t disturb his neck, or the axe-wound will gape asunder.
No one hears the words I whisper in my brother’s ear.
Chapter 35
Svena is to have Sigi’s child. There can be no doubt that the child is his. Yesterday, on the day I returned with my tragic story from Grisedale, the truth flushed into the open. It could not have stayed hidden, held in check amid the flood of family grief. Svena had been bursting to tell her secret for weeks — she had already confided in Bera. With the shock of losing Sigi, and the fright of her child being born fatherless, she couldn’t contain herself; she blurted it out in a fit of tears as soon as broth was served.
Father listened from the bunk, kept dipping his broth; said not a word. Lar gave a side-look at his sister, as if to say, ‘I told you how it would end — you wouldn’t listen.’
As for Haldis, floored as she was on hearing of Sigi’s death, I expected her to hit the roof, blame Svena for leading Sigi astray; throw the girl out of the house and send her in shame to the barn.
But no. Haldis gave the girl a motherly kiss on the brow, and wrapping her in her big arms, she said quietly, ‘Sigi’s bairn! Never mind, child, we will take good care of you and his little one.’
Last night at bedtime, while I was letting Snorri out by the gable door, he grabbed me by the arm; he had called in for a brief word with Father, to pay his respects in the hall. ‘Young master,’ he said, ‘us would rather have died than your brother. There be no pangs like this, since poor Bera’s mother died.’ And in a parting whisper. ‘I told your father about the fire — the fire up by Long-fiord — he had to be told!’
Father is confined to his bunk. The only time he can summon the will to leave it is when he asks me to carry him to his seat in the shithouse. His spirits have sunk. Trivial things get under his skin, adding an edge to his voice not there before. He will call in frustration from the bunk, knocking the bed panel if he doesn’t command instant attention. The gable door is kept open all day, even with an Os wind blowing, so that his orders can be heard in the yard. He has us running to barn and fold, to field and shore, often without purpose.
‘I won’t have it,’ he says suddenly to Haldis. The three of us are alone in the hall. ‘I won’t have the work held up by moping and mourning. Sigi’s death was a cruel thing to bear, but enough is enough. It is slaughter-month. You ought to be busy outside.’
Haldis glares at him, a look more of sadness than anger. On goes the apron over her shoulders, the old ragged one that she wears in the yard. My sister smoothes the apron over her hips, and pulls chain and spit to the fire; she pulls a pot off the hearth, dusts ash off the stones, and moves a crock that doesn’t need to be moved.
‘What are you up to, daughter? The hearth can wait. The wethers, have you decided? How many for the cull? Get Bera to oversee the dipping. I want them brine-washed before slaughter — like we always do — on the shore. Bera will make sure it is done right.’
‘I will see to it, Da,’ she says.
‘And where has Ulph got to? How long does it take to mend a wall?
*
Father’s body is burning hot, I pull down his breeches to the knees, settle him bare-ass on the wooden seat over the drain. A draught is blowing through the flush-hole under the seat, and father draws the fleece close to him.
I turn to him, on the way out, as I am closing the shithouse door. ‘Do you want me to light the tallow? It’s murky in here.’
‘Don’t waste a candle,’ says he, ‘I will get used to the dark.’
‘Will you be long?’
‘As long as it takes.’ He forces a smile. ‘Don’t go. It is time we had a talk.’ My father’s voice is plaintive, insistent. ‘You will make the crossing to Suthyre?’
‘Certainly, it is not before time.’
‘Be back before evening. Don’t miss the tide.’
‘I will have her with you before the day is out. She will soon fix that leg of yours.’
‘It’s not mother Hethrun I want. Salves are no use for this. The last thing I need is her fussing over me.’
‘Why send me to fetch her, if you won’t accept help?’
Father takes a deep breath and shiver
s, his hands shake from cold. I take off my fleece, body-hot, and lay it over his shoulders. ‘It’s not the kerling I want,’ he says, ‘it’s your Uncle Cuin. He must come. Bring him at once, Kregin. This time, don’t take no for an answer.’
‘I doubt if he will come. He has set his will against it. You know how stubborn he is.’
‘He will come. Tell him I am dying!’
‘I won’t say that!’
‘I don’t care what you say. Just get him back to Osvellir.’
‘I will bring him, if that’s what you want.’
‘Uncle’s place is here: with me; - with you! A guothie needs a solid man at his side. Quick, lift me up. I’m catching my death of cold.’
Chapter 36
As the tide carries our boat round the spit at north shore, Cuin and I catch sight of our slaughter sheep being driven on the strand, and with them, a lone figure, Bera in white furs, Father’s crook in her hand.
Old mutton-wethers need a strong hand, a firm crook on their curly horns to make them take notice after running free for five seasons on the fells. These are woolbacks chosen by Haldis for tomorrow’s cull. They are winter-combed — half-shorn — so that, after the kill, their skins will carry fleece. Unaware of their fate, they settle down to muzzle seaweed at the water’s edge, and dry off in the Os wind.
Bera watches us drift shore-wards on the flow tide. While we are stepping out of the boat to haul it up the beach, she throws down the crook, runs out to us, skirts hitched to her knees, splashing into the cold shallows. She grabs hold of Cuin and throws her welcoming arms around his neck.
*
Father won’t allow the bandages to be taken from his leg, let alone use the powders sent from Hethrun, and there is a stench from his bedding, a terrible reek, worse than rotting sulphur, a smell rank and cold. Uncle stays with him. Father chases the rest of us away. They talk in whispers.
At dusk, when I come from the barn, Father is asleep. Cuin still with him, gazing intently into the bunk, waiting for Father to wake. All is quiet in the hall, the fire crackling with fresh wood, a dinting of pot-irons on the hearth, Haldis moving her pan from the spit, a brisk rubbing of her hands on the oily apron, followed, a moment later, by a click on the latch from the shithouse door.
Bera and Svena are on the women’s bench, without light, sewing by touch at each end of a quilt. Lar and me sit by the hearth, playing at chequerboard, throwing dice on a squared piece of rag given us by Bera, to muffle the sound. Father wakes with a start.
‘Lar,’ he asks, ‘where’s Lar? Ah, there you are. Get the horses ready, yours and Cuin’s, no time to lose. You will ride through the night and get to Klepjarns-stead. You have to be there by first light, you and Cuin-rua.’
Lar without a word makes for the door. I am up and after him.
‘No, Kregin, stay with me. I might need you to carry me you-know-where.’
‘It is for the best,’ says Cuin, gripping my shoulder. ‘We can manage without you.’ I send a questioning look at Father but he stares past me.
‘Blackies, do you hear me, Uncle — the full count of what we are owed — delivered by Klep himself, and no one else.’
‘Leave it to me, guothie,’ says Cuin, ‘I won’t let you down.’
‘If that is done, if Klep doesn’t quibble — if he delivers on the nail — there can be no cause for reprisals. He has my assurance — no more blood need be shed.’
Chapter 37
It is raining. Dusk has fallen early, and outside in the yard a fire blows in the Os wind. Flames from the fire throw off a night-like glow, though it is barely past mid-day. Haldis has two cauldrons on the fire, one bubbling with fat to render suet from mutton carcases, the other filled to the brim with water to boil blood-puddings and offal. With the slaughter count high this year, and meat in good supply, our boiled offal will be stored underground as winter feed for the hounds.
Svena is trimming carcases on a deal table. The dogs are loose in the yard, snapping for bones. Svena takes no notice of their yelping; she works quickly with knife and cleaver, dumping bones at her feet, over their waiting noses, without lifting her head from the task. Her bulge is showing. Her face has a rounded motherly glow in the light of the fire. Beside her, Bera grinds oatmeal and barley to mix with blood for the puddings. Haldis presides over the mixing-tub. She lifts handfuls of slop — blood from last week’s cull, thickened with oatmeal and barley — squeezes the pudding mixture into belly-skins and plunges them in boiling water. She does it with a heavy hand. Splashes overspill the rim of the water-pot and fizzle into smoking fat — fat from the suet-pot spits back at the water, as if one cauldron reeks and rants in defiance of the other.
Haldis turns to curse the hounds; she screws up her face and complains of being short of help. With our sister in such a foul mood, no one will remind her that it was she who sent the milk-girls away early. Haldis tries to catch my eye, but I know better than return that look. I retrace my steps into the barn. I find the whetstone where I left it, hold the axe to my knees and sharpen the cutting-edge — it might be dulled after a morning’s butchery.
My sister follows me into the barn; stands lop-sided on her lame leg, blocking my light, her fore-arms black with blood from the mixing tub. ‘Kregin,’ she says, ‘promise me; promise you won’t do as he asks.’
‘Why do you doubt me?’
‘I don’t doubt you but I know that if you make a promise — to Father or anyone — you will be as good as your word.’
‘I will wait for Cuin’s return before deciding, before doing anything. If it is good news about the sheep, we must do as Father says.’
‘Guothie Klep won’t keep his word on the blackies. He’s nobody’s fool. He won’t bring the sheep himself. He won’t send them either.’
‘Cuin has a knack of persuading people . . .’
‘Uncle will be chased from his door. Klep will rub our noses in it, make no mistake. By now, all Laxvik will have heard that Father is dying. It gives Klep and his son-in-law a chance to ruin us.’
I run my finger down the blade. The Raven’s axe, once so big to carry, feels small in my hands. The blade had no need of being sharpened — it is one that keeps its edge.
*
On hearing my footstep at the door, Father calls. I run straight to him in my winter wraps. He grips my arm. The effort of turning on the bed is too much for him and he waits to catch his breath.
‘Tell me again,’ he gasps out the words, ‘tell me what we spoke of this morning, so that I know you have it fixed in your mind.’
I wipe the spittle from his beard, keeping my voice hushed, though no one is with us in the empty hall. ‘We ride north with the horses, once winter is over, after first melt-water.’
‘Speak up.’
‘Lar and I will set off as soon as the fells are passable.’
‘And at Long-fiord?’
‘I will meet with Asgrim Jarlson.’
‘Go on.’
‘Compensation will be made for the fire, the penalty paid in silver marks, full settlement as required by the verdict.’
‘Full settlement, of course, and what else?’
‘I am to tell him that you have uncovered the truth about the fire. We have nabbed the man who burned down his forge.’
‘And you will name the offender?’
‘I will name him.’
‘You will tell him what we propose to do — to mete out justice?’
I hesitate. ‘Does our punishment need to be so harsh? Will you not think again?’
‘No, Kregin. We must come down hard on Ulph. It is what a man like Asgrim will expect.’
‘But Asgrim will have horses from us and compensation for the fire. He will have the penalty paid in full. Does that not go far enough?’
‘The horses are not compensation — they are proof of good faith. Lar must pick the best we have.’
‘Like you say — we won’t sell Asgrim short.’
‘You will have Asgrim’s attention; y
ou will have paid what we owe, you bring him justice, the plain truth about the fire, and a gift of horses — what next?’
Fidgeting, I pull off my head-warmer and itch through my hair. ‘How can I speak with Asgrim on equal terms? He is a priest-man, in years and standing he is far above my head, and I don’t have your way with words.’
‘Just spit out your thoughts. The words will come.’
‘If I do that, Father, my thoughts will betray me. The truth is: I hate his son to death.’
‘The truth is less important that what people want to believe. Keep your words simple. Build fact on fact: Asgrim will take in your every word.’
‘What if he won’t listen?’
‘It will suit him to listen. Believe me, son, this is the right way of arranging things. With you married to Idgar’s daughter, Asgrim will know his son is safe from reprisal.’
‘Asgrim will see it as weakness.’
‘What does it matter, as long as he accepts your word and mine?’
‘I keep thinking of Sigi. It is as if my marriage to Helga will be bought with his blood. And Father, what of Haldis and Bera? They will hate me for doing it.’
‘They won’t, if what you do has my blessing. You will be doing it for their sake, for the family, acting in our interest.’
‘In my own interest, more like.’
‘If it makes you do what’s right for your sisters and me, I will settle for that.’
Chapter 38
After dark, with the girls a-bed, Snorri and I are in the hall, sharing a pot at the hearth. A cry comes from Father in his sleep, a cry muffled behind the panel of his bunk. Another cry, but this time more distinct, more his normal voice.
‘Outside!’ is the shout from the bunk. ‘Take me from this stench. Can no one hear me?’
‘What’s up,’ says Haldis in the darkness. ‘What’s Da on about?’ The others are awake. Bera is first to run barefoot into the firelight. Now Haldis and Svena have climbed out of the women’s bunk. Haldis is bleary-eyed as she lights her tallow candle from the hearth and goes to listen at Father’s shutter.
