The Book of Bera

by Suzie Wilde

  He handed her the milking stool. ‘They’ve seen the sails. Your husband’s coming home. So now he can keep an eye on you.’

  It explained her edginess. She liked the thought that her growing Valla skills sensed Thorvald’s return. Now she had to carry out her plan. She took out the Serpent King’s dagger. It felt cold in her hands and when she put her thumb to the blade it nicked her. A drop of blood bloomed but she did not suck it away – it felt like poison.

  ‘Don’t say a word about bad omens,’ she said.

  Serpent blood is serpent venom.

  ‘You’re as bad as the ancestors. What’s venom?’

  Poison. And those words they say at the threshold: remember them.

  ‘I don’t know what they mean!’

  My point entirely.

  Back inside, Sigrid pulled her shawl tighter and stalked off like an outraged hen when she saw her. Bera remembered her anger and vowed to suppress it. She regretted ever causing hurt and dealing with Thorvald was a way of making amends. If she did it quickly she might return to being kind. Until then, no one would suspect a killer if she faked kindness. She kept back a beaker of milk for Heggi, who liked to drink it fresh.

  Bera made some soft cheese with the remainder. It was a pity that there wasn’t enough salt left to make butter and she hoped they had some on board. She wondered what injuries they might have suffered. Maybe a sea-rider had killed Thorvald. No, that was cowardly. She had to do it herself or Bjorn wouldn’t rest. Or was it that she wouldn’t let Bjorn rest? Ottar was satisfied he had collected the blood debt. Was it her way of making her guilt less by forcing herself to kill?

  ‘Ottar!’ shouted Heggi from the byre. ‘Papa’s home! I’ve seen him!’

  He dashed in with Rakki at his heels, both of them grinning. Until he saw Bera.

  ‘Wipe your feet,’ she said.

  ‘Where’s Ottar?’

  Bera placed the milk out of danger. ‘Counting barrels.’

  ‘Rakki knew. He kept looking out to sea and then their sails came.’

  ‘You missed your meal.’

  Heggi slumped down onto a whalebone stool. ‘It was important to properly greet our kin.’

  Was he saying she didn’t?

  Bera mocked him with a bow. ‘I present fresh milk for you, sir.’

  ‘Is it Feima’s?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Is there any meat?’

  ‘Have cheese till we see what your father has brought.’

  The boy ate messily and Rakki waited under the table for scraps. Bera pretended not to notice and carried on with the cheesemaking. She felt shy about Hefnir’s return and she worried he would be a stranger. After all, she was changed. She wished he could stay in one place, doing a solid job for folk. For his family. Like Dellingr. She pushed the hurt of his marrying his sweetheart away. If only she and Bjorn had loved each other since childhood.

  Bera shook her head. She never wanted Bjorn that way. The fact was that she was an outsider in a rushed marriage arranged for everyone’s sake but her own. She got busy to stop fooling herself.

  She put the utensils ready for the thralls and ordered fresh boughs and herbs to be strewn; sent someone to help Ottar cart the mead to the hall and make sure he didn’t drink it; told Sigrid to kill enough chickens and to get the reindeer down to the mead hall, ready for the feast, and ignored her satisfied complaint about doing everything.

  A thrall ran in to say the boat was alongside.

  Bera was helped into her best clothes, the ones she wore on her bride day, because her fingers were clumsy with nerves. She couldn’t remember what her husband even looked like.

  Hefnir’s face was cold and wet and he smelt different. His beard had grown and he was wearing a new cloak with an unfamiliar design on it. She felt embarrassed and awkward, almost like the first time. Perhaps he noticed, for he told Thorvald to leave them alone and take Heggi with him. Bera was grateful; she would deal with Thorvald later.

  When Hefnir kissed her, he tasted foreign, too. They hardly spoke two words together. But he remembered the places she liked to be touched and her young body was easily reawakened and when they lay together afterwards it did not feel so strange.

  Later, he helped her dress.

  ‘I missed you, Bera.’

  His simple words rang true and pleased her. Perhaps this was a new start for them both. Perhaps she could win him away from Thorvald.

  ‘I was lonely.’

  ‘Why? You have your kin and you’re mistress of the house.’

  She had shown him a weakness and he had not been tender. No one understood her. She snatched up her brooches.

  ‘Here, let me.’

  ‘I can manage.’

  He brushed her hands away and pinned up her dress. She heard the scratch of hard skin against the cloth.

  ‘When everything’s off the boat, there are some presents for you. Some shearling boots, a new necklace.’

  ‘I have my necklace.’ She touched the beads and met her skern’s hand. He held on, tight. Was it a warning?

  Hefnir picked up his clothes. ‘Well. I shall go to the bath hut and try to look like your husband again.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you have done that first?’

  ‘Some things can’t wait.’ He bent to pick up his tunic.

  There was a shiny pink scar on his shoulder.

  ‘What’s that?’

  He put a finger to it. ‘It’s gone now.’

  ‘I didn’t see it before.’

  He pulled on his tunic. ‘It’s new.’

  ‘I’ll make a healing salve for you.’

  ‘A monk put on some herbs.’

  Did he not trust her skill? ‘And why would a monk do that for you?’

  ‘Because Thorvald would have skewered him otherwise.’

  Heggi was allowed to stay up when he declared he was a man now. The old woman who used to look after him was no longer seen and Sigrid let him do as he pleased. She had gone to her billet, leaving him dozing, sprawled like a young deer across his father’s lap. Then he woke with new energy and racketed about the longhouse with Rakki yipping beside him. Bera’s head ached with his desire to be noticed: a child again, when it suited.

  Thorvald caught him. ‘That’s my ale you’ve spilled, Helhound.’

  He held him upside down and Heggi squealed with delight. Getting what he wanted, as usual.

  Bera caught hold of Rakki, wanting to stroke him, but he pulled away. ‘Put Heggi down, Thorvald. He’ll be sick.’

  Thorvald pretended to stagger. ‘He’s grown.’

  ‘Not too big to be carried by his papa.’ Hefnir took the child off.

  ‘Were there bears, Papa?’

  ‘You’re still going to bed.’

  ‘Dragonboats? Did Thorvald kill any sea-riders?’

  A mumbled reply.

  Bera rebraided her hair and sensed Thorvald watching her.

  He suddenly leaned across and seized her wrist. ‘Have you told Sigrid?’

  ‘And have her look at you every moment and be hurt?’

  ‘Yet she carries the death of her son with strength.’

  ‘Don’t dare tell me about Sigrid! She’ll be stronger once I’ve killed you.’

  ‘Don’t threaten me, dwarf-child.’

  Bera spat at him. She burst out of the longhouse and kept running across the pasture until she reached the latrines. Luckily no one else was inside. She sat on the rail but there was not even a physical relief. She could have split him open there and then if only she had her dagger to hand.

  Whistle and ride.

  Her skern sat on the opposite rail, swinging his skinny legs.

  ‘I came out here to be alone.’

  No, you were running away.

  ‘Go away!’

  Let Fate arrange Thorvald’s death. You have no sword skill and far too much anger to be a killer. And you’re scared. So leave him alone, sweetheart. We’re not ready to die yet.

  ‘It’s not dying I fear, I.
..’

  Her skern whistled a reedy lament.

  Of course she feared death and hated all endings, even saying goodbye. But there was no point staying alive if living meant this unending fear and guilt. She closed her eyes and silently vowed again to kill Thorvald – right here.

  And here was a perfect place for Drorghers. On the way to the latrine she had been too angry to think of them. When she killed Thorvald she must make sure his skern joined him, otherwise his power as a Drorgher would be terrible. For now, her scalp prickling, she slowly checked every corner. It was clear, so she set off, but on the open stretch before the longhouse, she sensed movement at the edge of her sight. When she looked, there was nothing. Whenever she moved forward, it shadowed her; when she turned her head, nothing. She ran.

  Hefnir was back, huddled with Thorvald. She sensed they wanted her to go to her billet. Bera listened for a moment but it was only a tedious listing of goods.

  She interrupted. ‘I hope you brought some salt.’

  ‘It cost more again this time. I bought more honey. Whole skeps.’

  ‘With the bees still in them?’

  Hefnir laughed. ‘Can you hear them buzzing? No, beekeepers soak the skeps to drown the bees.’

  ‘I don’t like to think of them all dead.’

  Thorvald got up and stretched. ‘He won’t like it, Hefnir.’

  ‘You and I get equal shares, Thorvald, but he gets the same as the crew.’

  ‘He wants more and makes threats.’

  ‘He’s always making threats. We take all the risks. And he can’t scare me with his serp—’ Hefnir glanced at her.

  ‘Who makes threats?’ Bera asked, although she had guessed.

  ‘A farmer.’

  It was a lie. The listing was suddenly less tedious.

  Bera tried not to look at Thorvald. She had not renewed the tapers and the firelight lit only the good side of his face but she stared at his scar as though at a spider. She longed to brag about the Serpent King’s assault and have Thorvald begin to respect her – dwarf-child! – but then Hefnir might doubt her honour. Even if he blamed only the Serpent, he would have to fight him and his war band. And keeping Thorvald off guard was a good thing. She would have to gain respect another way.

  ‘Folk use me to judge now. There were a couple of fights and I made the wrongdoers clean the stockfish racks.’

  Thorvald guffawed. ‘Scary!’

  Hefnir kicked him good-naturedly. ‘Has Heggi behaved?’

  Pride made Bera want to hide their dislike. ‘He feels the same way about animals as I do.’

  ‘But?’

  Her voice had given her away, as usual. ‘He’s always at the boatyard, or off on the boat Ottar built for him. He says he loves Feima but I’m the one who looks after her. All he does is drink her milk!’

  She sounded as jealous as she felt. Luckily, Hefnir thought it was only about the cow, not boats. He mustn’t know she had been out fishing.

  ‘Good thing you like animals so much, then.’

  Bera could not help yawning.

  Hefnir came over and lifted her to her feet. ‘Off to bed, shrimp. It will be a long day tomorrow, what with unloading all our goods and the feast.’

  ‘Are you coming soon?’

  ‘We have a lot to sort out before tomorrow,’ Hefnir said.

  He sat down near Thorvald and filled both their ale horns.

  She was dismissed. Once she had got rid of Thorvald she would become Hefnir’s loyal wife and trusted ally.

  Hefnir kept Thorvald busy the next day. Bera got on with her own duties and made up some worming pills for the sheep.

  Hefnir finally came home to escort them to the mead hall. He ordered a thrall to find Heggi and bring him at once. Bera asked him why it was so important but he did the blank thing. He was too good at making her feel stupid, or even invisible. Occasionally there was warmth, even humour. The trouble was, she never knew which Hefnir she would get.

  At the hall they were met with a smell of roast meat that instantly made Bera’s mouth spill. She hastily wiped her lips, hoping no one had noticed. The reindeer was on the largest spit, being slowly turned by sweaty youths with burning faces. Bera felt sick at the memory of the reindeer’s slit throat and the steady drip of thickening blood. It was the fat that dripped onto the flames with a hiss. Its greasy smoke hung in the air instead of rising upwards into the darkness where freshly butchered meat was hanging. Various pots and cauldrons were slung over the fire on chains and curls of steam rose into the air, already heavy with sweat and mead. Firebrands flamed on the walls and the blaze of the great central hearth fire pushed the shadows into the farthest corners.

  Red-faced men stood in groups, drinking. They smacked each other’s backs, punched chests and shouted competitive stories of heroic raids. They ignored the children, who charged amongst them playing bully-bully, with all the village dogs barking and sparring as they ran.

  Hefnir stood by the spit and showed no surprise at seeing reindeer roasting.

  Thorvald came over to report. ‘We’re unloaded and most of it stowed. All the mead’s over there now, with Ottar.’

  ‘I’ll make sure others have a chance to drink it,’ Bera said. She wanted to ask Sigrid if she had told Hefnir about the reindeer.

  When folk saw that Hefnir had arrived they broke into a song to welcome home a warrior. Bera liked it when children went swimming or flying round the hall like the creatures they praised. But three lines especially struck her:

  The lone eagle-screech

  Whets the heartstone on the iron anvil

  Of the whale roads, across the Ice-Rimmed Sea.

  She loved the meaning and the shape of the words in her mind, like a wave rushing onto the shore, and looked for Dellingr to see if he was pleased to have a blacksmith’s due. He was laughing with Thorvald and it enraged Bera to see it.

  Thorvald toasted, ‘To Hefnir!’

  Bera’s silent toast was to Thorvald: ‘May you die tonight.’ She crossed her fingers and then despised herself for cowardice.

  Horns were upended to show they were empty and there were noisy demands for more. Bera hurried to the back of the hall, where she found a mountain of barrels. Hefnir had gone further than usual, though not as far as somewhere called the Black Sea. Folk talked about dried fruits and spices, which Bera had never tasted. One day, Hefnir would take her and be amazed at her boat skills and make all the blood debt struggle worthwhile. One day, with Thorvald dead, he would need her.

  She filled two large jugs with mead and told Sigrid to go home for more and walked with her to the door.

  ‘Before you go – who ordered the reindeer to be roasted?’

  Sigrid winked at her. ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t let on. I told Thorvald someone left it.’

  ‘What did you tell him for?’ Bera was scared of any advantage he might gain.

  ‘He can get Hefnir to see sense if there’s trouble. There won’t be: he said one of the farmers must have left it as a tribute.’

  Dellingr arrived and Sigrid greeted the woman behind him like a friend. Bera resented their easiness. Sigrid seized the baby, smothering it in kisses and making silly noises in its face. Then she passed it to Bera, who flung it back to its mother as if it was on fire.

  Sigrid laughed. ‘Don’t mind her, Asa. Bera – this is Asa that I was telling you about. And her older daughter.’

  Bera was conscious of Dellingr’s nearness and her smile felt like a blade of ice.

  Asa nodded briefly then swept in as if she were chief guest, followed by the girl, and settled in a prominent corner. Folk fussed over her, playing with the baby. Bera hated the woman’s smugness and the way she took a breast out so everyone could marvel at how much milk she had. Well, so did house cows.

  Sigrid patted her arm. ‘Aren’t they a fine little family? She’s given him a boy and a girl now.’

  ‘As opposed to me I suppose!’

  Sigrid looked sad. ‘No, Bera. As opposed to me.’
r />   Bera went outside. She slapped her nasty cruel face and then went back in and forced herself to look happy and generous: playing the hostess, filling drinking horns and bowls and swapping banter all round the hall. Folk laughed at her quick wit and then she came back to Dellingr.

  ‘You’re as pale as a ghost owl,’ he said.

  He saw everything. She longed to tell him about the Serpent King, and be protected and loved. Be excused for becoming so hard. Instead, she made do with the comfort of his hand steadying hers as she poured his drink.

  He beamed at her. ‘I wish the same for you and Hefnir.’

  ‘Same as what?’

  ‘Our boy. I’m that proud.’ He gazed across at his wife and child.

  He hadn’t seen at all. Bera wanted to slap him, to make him hurt as much as her. Well, perhaps she could make him as jealous. She went straight to Hefnir, determined to make him kiss her in public.

  He raised a new chalice that glowed in the hall’s gloom like a small sun. ‘To the Abbot,’ he said, with a meaning Bera tried to read.

  ‘To the Abbot,’ echoed Thorvald. ‘And the rest of his hoard.’

  His mouth looked particularly grotesque tonight. Perhaps the scar-heal was tightening, because more gum was showing: blood red against yellow teeth. Mead dribbled from the snagged lips and ran down his chin.

  Most of this stuff is raided. Poor defenceless monks.

  Her skern touched her brow and Bera had a vision of swords cleaving bald heads. Other men were making signs on their chests, like big hammer signs, before being stabbed. Screams. She felt sick at the splatter.

  ‘What are monks?’ she asked Hefnir.

  He gestured to Thorvald. ‘Heggi’s here.’

  ‘Then I’ll start.’ Thorvald set off for the hearth fire.

  ‘Don’t ignore me! My skern showed me violence and says they are defenceless. Is it true?’

  ‘Go and stand with Thorvald.’

  ‘Why?’

  Hefnir raised the chalice to someone across the hall and went to join the group. He would never spoil his mood by answering an annoying question. Bera had no choice but to join Thorvald, where the fire began scorching her dress at the back. She stood as close to him as she could bear, to make him a fire screen. Heggi was on the other side, his face sullen under uncommonly tidy hair. He would not meet her eyes so she guessed he knew what was coming.