The Book of Bera

by Suzie Wilde

  Bera knelt on the thick furs. Should she take off her own clothes? His? He wasn’t doing much to help. Unused to mead, she fumbled with her new brooches and held the bundle of material near her eyes, trying to see the pin-catch.

  Hefnir moved the taper closer and peered at her flushed face. ‘Fancy that. This is your first time, isn’t it?’

  ‘That tallow stinks.’

  He gave her a knowing look and snuffed the small flame with thumb and finger. ‘Suits me. You’re more like a boy. Still, it’s been a few weeks since...’ He pulled down his trousers. The cloth brushed against her face.

  ‘Should I...?’

  He clamped his lips on hers. He was rough this time and Bera tasted the rust of blood. She pulled away, afraid again.

  ‘I’ll slow down,’ he said, thickly, but couldn’t.

  Bera closed her eyes, desperate to have it over. Hefnir yanked her clothes up under her chin, which throttled her. Even in the dark, she hated being so shamed. He deftly nudged her legs apart with his knees and pushed. It was a shock and hurt with a particular strangeness. Hefnir began to thrust; his face a blank. There was no pleasure in it – she didn’t think her body would thump about so much – but Bera was grateful that nature accommodated it, leaving her mind free. But not for long. Hefnir gave a slight sigh, fell off, smacked her nose with his arm and began to snore.

  Bera wondered if he had been fully awake for any of it. She pulled down her clothes. She wanted to wash but had no idea where to go and no means of lighting the taper, even if she could find it. So she undressed down to her shift, pulled as many furs over her as she could reach and put up with the stickiness.

  Was that all it was?

  She was sore but also altered. As the indignity and disappointment waned, a dim pride warmed her. She hadn’t wanted to grow up so fast but now Bera knew and was known; she was like every woman that had ever been born. There was unexpected comfort in being mortal and fully grown, smelling of the sea.

  4

  Bera could not get to sleep. Every time she dozed, Hefnir shifted and woke her again. No one had ever slept so close to her; perhaps her mother, but too long ago to remember. Time passed. There were sawing snores and the creaks and crackles of a longhouse she wasn’t used to. Bera pulled a blanket up to her nose in an attempt to get warm. It didn’t even smell like home. Her skern stroked the hair off her forehead and placed a sharp fingernail in the exact centre.

  Watch and remember.

  The vision was more real than the billet around her: a toddler with white-blond hair at the door of the longhouse peeping outside. She could taste his thoughts. He was excited but afraid. He fell back inside as a trole entered and towered over him, grinning with a toothless mouth.

  Bera moaned, sharing the child’s terror, and pushed away her skern’s hand.

  ‘No more!’

  It’s important. Watch and remember.

  She let her skern continue.

  The mood had changed. This was no trole but a human monster, hiding something behind his back: a wooden horse. He held it out to the child, who grinned and clapped his hands. It wobbled on its wheels when he sat on it and he fell over, laughing. The monster picked him up, with mottled black arms. Why did it not scare the child anymore? Then a surge of unreserved love when a woman came in and kissed them both. She was very beautiful. Her sky-blue cloak was held in place by two silver brooches.

  ‘Was that Hefnir’s son?’

  The past, dearie. I can give it but never see it. But remember this in the future.

  ‘I’ll never sleep now!’

  Bera tried to name the kind of love and failed; then wept for the lack of it in her own life.

  Next morning Hefnir went out early, which suited Bera. She lay for a while, trying to recapture the dream the skern had shown her. Instead she became aware of wetness and wondered what was happening. Her shift was rusty. Blood. She rummaged in her wedding chest and found her monthly rags.

  At first she feared he had damaged her but then she reckoned up the days and realised it was her normal courses slightly early. Not a mother after the first bout, luckily. Except she already was a mother of sorts and it made her angry. Was she to have no choice in life, ever? Folk said there were plants that Vallas used to keep themselves pure. Bera had taught herself how to make healing salves, so she determined to try out local plants and even if she fell with child, this would purge her of it. She would refuse to have anything to do with ... whatever Hefnir’s son was called. Little swine. A worm of shame began in her stomach, as she was sure the child in the dream was him with his dead mother. Bera had never known a love like that so why should she pity him? He obviously hated her and she disliked their forced relationship as much as he did.

  Jealousy will get you nowhere.

  ‘I am not jealous.’

  You should be kind to the motherless waif.

  ‘Go away.’

  You’re afraid no one will ever love you like that.

  She screwed her shift into a bundle and marched into the hall.

  Thralls were busy. Bera asked a woman with a pail where she could wash her clothes. The woman frowned, took Bera’s bloodstained shift and briskly gave it to another thrall. Then she led the way to the hot tub, every bone in her spine rebuking Bera for being a poor mistress.

  She left before Bera could ask where the family latrine was, which she needed first. So she followed the stench.

  It took her to a slurry pond beside a midden where some pigs were snuffling. It occurred to Bera that you could always smell other folk’s heaps but never your own and she wondered if she would ever not notice this one.

  A deep channel led up to a small rise between the longhouse and the home pasture, where she found the latrine. Bera reckoned it could hold ten at a sitting, to keep Hefnir safe from enemies. She wondered if torches would keep Drorghers away in dark winter days.

  Inside, a few hens clucked in the dimness. It was a good roost. Bera sat on one of the long rails and her eyes adjusted. There were other folk in there, at the far end. The smallest had a shock of hair that was lit by a glimmer coming through a slat. Bera swore under her breath. The boy got up, hoisted his trousers and started towards her. The old woman with him tried to catch his arm but he ignored her.

  He stopped some way away and gave her a level stare.

  ‘Papa says I have to call you Mother from now on.’ He looked as pleased at the idea as she was.

  ‘I don’t care if you do or if you don’t.’

  ‘Yes you do. You’ve wormed your way in.’

  ‘I was snatched, you little runt. I’d rather die than be mother to you!’

  ‘My real mother is dead and I hate you! I’ll never call you Mother, ever, ever, ever!’

  He stormed off, banging the door behind him, leaving Bera alone in a twilight full of hostile eyes. They built latrines big for group protection because a person alone in one was at their most defenceless. It gave her an idea. To be successful, though, first, she would need a better weapon – and to gain some standing in Seabost.

  Respect in Seabost proved harder to win than at home. There, her father was the important figure thanks to his boat-building skills and her mother retained a high Valla reputation. Although Bera felt the weight of it, at least the inheritance gave her some standing. Here, as a new wife, and a second wife at that, Bera was like some small trinket Hefnir had slipped into a pocket.

  It didn’t help that no one properly feared the things they feared at home: Drorghers unheard of, troles and boggelmen things used to scare ‘bairns’ into better behaviour. Even skerns were only needed to get safely through to the Great Hall after death. So she couldn’t protect them or impress with her bravery.

  Plain healing was all she could do. Bera found some familiar plants, made salves and took them round to Hefnir’s tenants, who couldn’t refuse. Fate arranged a baby boy to be born and Bera eased the mother’s pains with a brew. The boy thrived. The following week a child came to get Bera to help their
mother. When they arrived at the hut, Bera was shocked to see so many scraps on the midden. Here, the rootling pigs grew fat on what kept folk from starving at home.

  Inside, she could smell that the woman was not dying of hunger.

  ‘We tried Dellingr,’ her husband said, ‘but he said she was beyond iron.’

  ‘Your smith?’ It put her in mind of her father’s particular clenching of nails to save lives at sea. ‘I can speed her passing, if you want.’

  The man bit his knuckles and went outside.

  Bera took the cooking pot from the fire and brewed a strong mash of sleeping herbs. Was it wrong to let the woman slip painlessly away? She could see the skern, drifting closer. It would be soon, whatever she did.

  ‘Have some of this.’ Bera held out a spoon.

  ‘Pain,’ she croaked. Her skern wreathed her head and smoothed her features.

  ‘Your skern has come.’

  ‘I feel him now.’ She smiled and in that instant Bera saw the two become one.

  There had been no need of her brew. She was careful to throw the mash onto the fire. It wouldn’t do to kill anything.

  The man was outside with a few neighbours, red-eyed but standing strong. Bera told him it had been a peaceful end and refused the coin he held in his big fist. But he explained it was his duty and opened his hand. No coin, but a shiny brown egg. Bera was moved and took it. It seemed a good custom.

  She thanked him. ‘I’ve heard about Dellingr before.’

  ‘Our blacksmith? He’s skilled in the old ways.’

  Perhaps he would understand Valla ways. One person who might help.

  A woman said, ‘He does right by us. Don’t charge if he can bundle the price up with Hefnir’s sharpenings.’

  A man nudged her.

  ‘Only saying.’

  ‘Where is the forge?’ Bera asked.

  The dead woman’s husband looked worried. ‘You’ll not take it out on him, what that old biddy told you?’

  The nudger did it harder. ‘See? You should keep your mouth shut!’

  Bera had to speak loudly. ‘I’ll thank him for his care.’

  The husband agreed. ‘He’s been good since he were a lad.’

  ‘His family all were,’ said the biddy. ‘All the men, leastways. Blacksmiths, handed down, father to son.’

  Like mother to daughter. ‘So he lives… ?’

  ‘They’ve lived time out of mind up on the Rise, over by the crossroads.’

  Bera was full of excitement. Meeting someone with some skill was good enough. But a kind blacksmith might have a knife she could buy.

  A week or so passed before Bera’s chance to visit Dellingr came. Every time she turned round, Thorvald was there. It maddened her. Then, one day, he and Hefnir were off on business. Bera quickly parcelled up some knives. A thrall tried to take them but she resisted and set off for the crossroads.

  She had been told the forge was further on again, under the rune stone’s protection and to keep the fire away from the other huts. It was a long walk from the jetties.

  A dog appeared at her heels, snuffling at the parcel and grinning up at her.

  ‘No food in here, Rakki,’ she said. ‘Is the brat with you?’

  He was, but she refused to hurry and give him the impression she cared.

  When they met, his words coiled up in frost-smoke. ‘We’re going puffin hunting.’

  ‘It’s the wrong time of year.’

  ‘How would you know?’ The boy held out his hand and Rakki went to him, gazing adoringly.

  Bera felt a stab of jealousy. ‘Dogs are supposed to be good judges of character.’

  ‘Rakki is. He hates you. He was probably going to bite you.’

  Bera marched off but he kept alongside. Why didn’t he leave her alone?

  ‘Where are you going?’ he demanded.

  ‘Wherever you’re not.’

  ‘Does my father know?’

  ‘It’s not his business.’

  ‘He owns you.’

  She swung round and slapped him on the cheek. It left red finger-marks and he was suddenly a young, motherless child again and Bera was ashamed.

  ‘Heggi… I…’

  He ran off, Rakki bounding beside him, barking. How dare he go before she could apologise? Good riddance. Let him fall off a cliff, as long as the dog was all right.

  Bera felt shock at the creature she was becoming. Well, folk here were cruel. She blamed it all on Seabost. She started to pull off her blue cloak, then changed her mind. A little brutality would give her the courage to kill. She put on a grim face and made for a line of smoke rising straight up into the pale sky until it smudged and vanished. The forge.

  A leather-aproned shape blocked the dark doorway.

  ‘Never thought to see you up here,’ said the smith. ‘Is it urgent?’ His voice was calm, low and husky with smoke. Bera wanted to get him outside and see what such a man would look like.

  ‘It will wait till you’re ready.’

  He ducked under the lintel and came out to a nearby block of granite. It was the man who had smiled at her at the wedding feast. Seeing him again, Bera understood her impatience to get to the forge. He placed the field tools he carried on a large stone, took one and placed it in a groove, ready to hone its edge.

  Bera brushed the rime off a tree stump and sat. She watched him work, liking the dexterity of his black and scarred hands as he sharpened each tool. Strong, capable hands, the sort you could trust. The stone had a line of carved runes, blacksmith words, she supposed. She did not want to break Dellingr’s intent silence and liked the fact he didn’t worry at her like the folk at home. His untroubled strength made her long to tell him about her loneliness but she had no right to receive his comfort. He would also think it was madness, when she lived amongst so many. She found she wanted his good opinion, like a father. Not like Ottar, but a good father that was proud of her. Although he looked much younger than her father, or even Hefnir.

  When he finished the job he turned. His eyes were keen as a sea eagle’s, and they made her feel properly looked at for the first time ever. It wasn’t entirely pleasant and she squirmed. Had he seen deep inside the desire for revenge? Would he understand a blood debt? Certainly – but he would also say it was a man’s duty.

  ‘Must be important, you coming.’

  ‘What?’

  Dellingr gestured at the bundle. Bera got up and gave it to him.

  He took out a knife and rubbed his thumb over its blade. ‘Won’t take long. You want to wait inside?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m warm enough.’

  He began grinding.

  While he worked, Bera struggled to find the right words.

  In the end, she blurted it. ‘Have you got a sword I could buy?’

  He gave her another uncomfortable look. ‘Did Hefnir not give you his father’s sword at the marriage?’

  ‘You were there. Did you see him do it?’ Her nervousness made it sharper than she meant.

  Dellingr rasped his face with his hand. There was a long crease in his cheek that would have been hidden by a full beard. It made him look strong.

  ‘I suppose Heggi’s got the one he gave... before.’

  ‘Hefnir’s first wife. What happened to her?’ she asked.

  A lad darted out of the forge and picked up the field tools. A bellows-boy. He might have been young but his thin face, dried out and blackened by heat, was old. Rough sacking made do as a tunic, torn and stippled with singe marks. He set off down the slope.

  Dellingr called after him. ‘Make sure he pays you today.’

  ‘I heard you charge Hefnir.’

  ‘This one takes advantage of that.’

  ‘I wasn’t complaining, anyway.’

  He spoke slowly, weighing his words. ‘I do have a sword but it was given to me by Hefnir in payment. It wouldn’t be right to give it to any woman, let alone his wife. If you’re saying he wants it for you...’

  ‘No, he—’

  No
one must know she had a sword, so she wouldn’t be suspected of killing Thorvald. Except Dellingr, of course. Could she trust him to say nothing? Not yet.

  ‘Tell him to ask me himself.’

  She smiled. ‘You’re right. I’ll speak to Hefnir. Are they finished?’

  Dellingr returned to the knives. He polished the blades, wrapped them into their cloth and handed the bundle to her. His eyes were the exact colour of the sea that morning.

  ‘Sea-riders did it, on a raid. Right in front of Hefnir. He was overpowered. He told us they made him watch while they butchered his wife, then carted off her body.’

  Bera gasped.

  ‘I thought maybe you’d heard different,’ he said. ‘And now you’ve got Heggi—’

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  She shoved some coins into Dellingr’s hands and set off blindly, making for the post marking the crossroads through a veil of hot blood and smoke. Then a face, Hefnir’s, showing... rage? Or what? Her skern’s visions unfolded like a dream, but this was sudden, like an animal’s night-kill in a bolt of lightning. Although the half-vision puzzled her, Bera was glad that Dellingr might have brought it about.

  Poor Heggi. She vowed to keep her temper, no matter how much the child provoked her. And perhaps grief could bind Hefnir and her together?

  Before she reached the crossroads she heard hoof beats. It was Hefnir and Thorvald, coming from the direction of the forest. They were racing their horses, laughing and yelling. It shocked her that the man she pitied seemed unaffected by his loss. It must be Thorvald’s fault. Bera directed a flash of anger to make him fall off his horse but nothing happened.

  The men stopped smiling when they noticed her. Hefnir reined in his horse and trotted over. Bera remembered what she was carrying and threw down the incriminating bundle of knives as if it burned her.

  ‘Have you come from the smithy, wife?’

  ‘My name is Bera.’

  Thorvald sniggered and wiped away the drool from his misshapen mouth.

  Hefnir stroked his horse’s mane. ‘Why did you not send a thrall?’