The Book of Bera

by Suzie Wilde

  ‘So now it needs a wash as well as stitching.’ Sigrid groaned as she bent to pick it up. ‘I suppose I’ll have to mend it later.’

  Bera crossed the room at speed and snatched it from her. ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘You’ve ripped it now.’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Yes, you have.’

  ‘Where? Where is it ripped?’

  Sigrid went to take it and Bera twisted away from her, holding it above her head. She ran. Suddenly they were chasing round and round the fire like a pair of children. Then a thrall came in and Bera stopped to straighten her dress and take charge again. Sigrid made faces at her behind the thrall’s back and she fought hard not to giggle.

  The man took an age replacing the billet hangings and Bera returned to her sewing while he worked. When the man had finished she put down her work.

  ‘Shall we let our hair down?’ she said.

  Sigrid grinned. ‘Like we’re unmarried!’

  Bera turned her back so that Sigrid could unbraid her hair. Sigrid ran her fingers through it to get rid of caffles and then combed it until Bera’s whole body tingled with pleasure. Reluctantly, she allowed Sigrid to stop and do her own hair. They put garlands on each other and stood back to admire them.

  ‘You should have looked like this on your bride day,’ said Sigrid.

  ‘And look at you. You’re down to only fifty layers of clothes!’

  Sigrid cuffed her.

  ‘I mean it, Sigrid. There’s a woman under there! Not an old one, either. You’ll have no trouble finding someone to kiss you. Remember how it’s done?’

  Sigrid moved away and Bera was tearful with remorse. ‘Oh, Sigrid, I’m sorry. Losing your husband and then Bjorn...’ Bera wished she could tell her that she would make Thorvald die in agony for causing such hurt.

  Sigrid’s face was raw. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Out. Come on.’

  Bera was caught in a few playful skirmishes but men were not too drunk to forget who she was. Then Sigrid vanished, leaving her feeling vulnerable on her own. If only she had Dellingr to protect her. She went looking for him and had not gone far when a pair of rough-skinned hands closed over her eyes, smelling of woodsmoke and mead.

  ‘Hefnir!’ she said, and was glad.

  ‘How many times have you been kissed?’ he asked, then did so himself.

  ‘Too many times to reckon.’

  ‘Have another, then.’ This time he kissed her as if he meant it.

  ‘Did you see Sigrid? I lost her.’

  ‘I told her to keep Heggi at home,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, let the lad have a bit of fun.’ She sounded like her father.

  ‘So, is he at home?’

  Bera crossed her fingers. ‘He might be.’

  ‘I heard there’s a group of young fools going to sit up all night waiting for the dead to speak. I’m not having him mixed up in all that pigswill.’

  ‘Pigswill like Valla skills?’

  Hefnir’s long kiss stopped her speaking. He announced he was off to find Thorvald.

  ‘Egill says he’s the Lord of Misrule or some such and has ordered me and Thorvald to drink as much mead as we can to bless the village.’

  Egill must be trying to help by getting Thorvald drunk. Bera let Hefnir go. She was keen to start looking for the plants she needed but they had to be picked when the moon was at the very point of waning. Heggi would be staying close to Dellingr’s daughter, so, until then, Bera could innocently see the smith and check on the boy, as she ought to. Folk were gathered at the fires, so she set off in the direction of the smoke.

  The last few cows were being driven between the two fires, to cleanse them. There were shouts and screams from the watching crowd and terrified bellowing and grunting from the animals. Women wanting a husband stood at the biggest fire. They tucked in their garments while they waited their turn then screamed as they leapt the flames. One woman burned her foot and hopped about clutching it until she fell.

  ‘You’ll be married to Hel!’ another woman shrieked and pushed her over. The others laughed so much that they collapsed on top of them.

  When Bera reached Dellingr he told her he was waiting for his wife to jump.

  ‘Have you seen Heggi?’

  ‘He’s with my girl and the rest of them. They watched the goats going through, then went off that way.’ He pointed towards the racks.

  ‘So why is Asa jumping the fire? She has you.’

  He laughed. ‘She reckons it’ll give us the ten bairns she promised!’

  That hurt.

  Dellingr chuckled with pride and shared the joke with his neighbours. She waited to see if he would talk to her again but it was only to say he was off to get more mead. On the way he greeted a man who clapped him on his back. It was Thorvald! Was he watching her?

  Bera slid away to look for Heggi. The earth-force rose up through the soles of her feet. The old ways would be visible if her mother was there to point them out: dragon paths coiling up into the mountains. She felt a sudden oddity of nature: a woman barren by choice; a mother only by an oath no one believed in. A motherless child herself.

  Bera’s solitary path brought her to the racks. Inside them, a circle of lit skulls surrounded a slight figure. There was a smell of roasting vegetables and Bera blinked. The skulls were wrinkled and shrunken turnips, cut into grotesque faces, with tapers inside.

  Egill turned to look at her. Her eyes loomed in the darkness. Bera was suddenly afraid and wanted to leave.

  Egill gestured around her. ‘Been waiting. Made this for you.’

  ‘What is it, Egill?’

  ‘Special place to see the dead. Potent. In Iraland, it used to be a ring of skulls.’

  Bera couldn’t resist. She might see her mother. Or Bjorn, come to tell her how Thorvald was to be killed and then the act would not be hers alone. She sat cross-legged next to Egill, who gave her a rowan circlet. Bera’s stomach was churning with excitement. She shut her eyes, making a wish, hardly daring to open them.

  Then she did.

  10

  Her mother gazed back at her.

  Eyes, deep and dark as scrying pools, under a sweep of eyebrow; a bruised smudge under the eye. Pain. This was already scored in Bera’s mind – but behind it was a young face, a distant happiness.

  At first Bera struggled to remember all the important questions she had never been able to ask but then it was enough to love and feel totally loved in return. Memories poured through her, long forgotten: making up silly songs, picking berries, milking a cow, tending a wound. Being kind. Infinite tenderness passed through a simple shape in the air. ‘Feel no guilt.’ So when her skern settled at her back, she was whole. As it was in the beginning.

  Time passed.

  She was gently rocking.

  Let her go now. Return to the living.

  Bera heard it distantly, like a wave breaking on a shore. She would not part from her mother again, ever.

  Bera. Let her go.

  Anger scorched through her and her mother blurred and vanished. Bera threw herself to the ground, hit the earth with her fists and sobbed.

  ‘No! I want her back!’

  You sense her with you, don’t you? When you’re afraid? Well, so she is and so am I. Always here. When everything else is gone, there is Love.

  ‘How would you know? I hate you!’

  The skern said something that she couldn’t hear above her wailing. She wanted to scream with the pain of it. ‘Everything’s always taken away from me! Anything I’ve ever loved.’

  And then other arms had her and it was Egill, her friend, who was crying for her own loss. They shared the same pain and that was a comfort of sorts.

  ‘Who was it, Bera? Who did you see?’

  ‘Mama.’

  Losing her mother a second time made her think of Heggi and how callously she had treated him – a boy who had seen his mother killed by sea-riders.

  ‘I’ll never be as go
od a mother. She was perfect.’

  ‘No one is.’

  Sigrid had said as much. But Valla blood ran in Bera’s veins: the same power; the same passion. There was to be an end of guilt, so an end of blame.

  ‘Did she warn you about using your skills?’

  ‘She said not to be guilty about anything.’

  ‘Did she mean killing?’ Egill stared at the skull lanterns. ‘Other ways to be strong, Bera. Have mercy.’

  Something in Bera responded to the word, but it was not for her. The raw grief at losing her mother again reminded her of what Sigrid had lost. She owed it to her to go through with it. Then her father would be proud of her bravery.

  Poisoning wasn’t brave.

  She pushed the thought away and got to her feet.

  Egill stayed where she was. ‘Shame your mother gave no knowledge.’

  ‘I’m getting my baskets. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ How to explain what she did give? It was like being one person, like cleaving to her skern.

  On the way home, Bera met a bedraggled group of youngsters carrying torches. Bringing up the rear was Heggi with his dog at his side. His hair was caffled with bits of leaf and twig, his clothes were filthy, as was his face, but he was lit up with pleasure.

  Bera wanted to hug him; to make amends. ‘Heggi, I’m so—’

  ‘We stayed up all night!’ His eyes were wide. ‘It was the best thing. We dropped the rowan circlet in the pool and everyone thought it was lost but I dived in and found it. And then we had a meal and then we threw squid.’

  ‘Squid?’

  He looked at Dellingr’s girl and giggled. ‘Egill told us. You catch a squid and throw it over your shoulder and the ink squirt makes a rune of the person you most love.’

  Bera did not need to ask whose rune Heggi had seen.

  She yawned. ‘Come on. We can get our heads down before work starts.’

  They left the others and walked on.

  Heggi paused when they reached the latrine. ‘I suppose you’ll tell Papa I was out all night?’

  ‘He probably already knows.’

  ‘But if he doesn’t?’

  Bera wanted to share her experience with him. ‘I looked through a rowan circlet and saw my mother.’ She expected him to be sad, envious, curious; anything they could talk about.

  He laughed and the chance was gone. ‘I forgot! Feima had her calf. I shall call her Dotta.’

  ‘Very good. A daughter.’ She felt sadder still.

  After a latrine visit, Bera put Heggi to bed. Both of them crept, dreading waking Hefnir. Heggi snuggled against Rakki and fell asleep at once. All was quiet as she fetched her baskets from the pantry.

  A woman’s voice murmured, coming from the men’s side. Bera was going to slip away but remembered she was mistress and decided to find out who it was and scold her. But that would be like snooping again. She shot out, grabbed a torch and made for the river before she was seen.

  Moonlight bleached the landscape. The torch was to keep things away, not for light, in case the river was outside the protection. Bera searched for the plants she needed, hoping that the rain had brought them on. She came across some elf-nettle and picked a few stems, being careful not to get stung. Broadwort usually grew close by. At last she found some, picked off the few remaining leaves and laid them carefully in the basket, not to bruise them. Those were for healing. Seabost women used a mash of the similar lugwort. Judging by the fishermen’s scars it did not work very well but if anyone looked in this basket, they would recognise the leaves as wholesome.

  Now for the others, which were not.

  Bera moved closer to the river. She held on to her mother’s bead and asked her to help choose the most deadly. The odd chill of the glass was like ice-nip.

  A twig snapped.

  She waited for more noises but all was quiet. Surely it couldn’t be a Drorgher, not here amongst the rowans. Ottar always said the monster that will kill you makes no noise and her scalp had no warning prickle. She walked on.

  And yet she was afraid. The icy bead was some kind of warning and Bera felt stalked, as if a predator were herding her, closing for the kill. The river was loud, so she slanted sideways to get a line of old trees to muffle the noise. When the rustling came again, she heard it distinctly.

  Bera put down the basket and turned to confront her fears.

  A deer came out from between the rowan trees. It lowered its head to graze, scented Bera and flicked away with a crackle of undergrowth. Stillness. A ghost owl glided across the clearing, turning its head to scrutinise her. Its golden eyes were menacing but it was seeking smaller prey.

  Nothing else moved.

  Bera picked up her basket and passed through the glade. Here, the river was a surging melody, a clear song of water cascading out to sea to join the wild, deep music of the whale roads. How she yearned to have already dealt with Thorvald and be off on a boat, travelling with them.

  She got on with hunting at the water’s edge and found one shrivelled plant, the innocent-sounding milk mallow. She crouched down and picked it. A shudder of revulsion, not her own, made her retch. Was her mother warning her? The hairs on the back of her neck rose.

  She sprang up, looking all round. ‘Show yourself.’ She wished her voice sounded stronger.

  There was rustling behind her. A darker shadow moved under the trees and this time a man stepped out.

  Her knees almost gave way with shock. It was the man these leaves were meant for.

  ‘What are you doing here, Thorvald?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Following me.’

  He stood, relaxed and balanced, in a sword-wielder’s stance.

  ‘A dog should follow its master. Go back to Hefnir,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not safe to go walking alone in the dark.’

  Bera took deeper breaths. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Have you nothing to fear from the Serpent King?’

  ‘I don’t know. Have I? He’s your friend.’

  She waited for the next thrust and parry.

  ‘You can put your plant knife away,’ he said. ‘Much good it’d do against a sword.’

  ‘So I should fear you, then? I’ve seen what you can do with it.’

  ‘You can thank the Serpent for that and all.’

  ‘You killed Bjorn, he didn’t.’

  Another pause. Bjorn’s death was an unbridgeable chasm.

  ‘Brightening, you called it,’ he said.

  ‘So?’ She was trembling.

  ‘Time to put grievances to rest.’

  ‘By killing the offender?’

  ‘By forgiving.’

  Bera could never forgive him. ‘Why were you hiding?’

  ‘Why scare you if there’s no need?’

  ‘You don’t scare me.’

  ‘Don’t I?’ His jagged mouth yawned.

  ‘Who sent you?’

  It was the first time he had to think about his answer. ‘Hefnir. He told me to keep you safe.’

  ‘Then I shall carry on collecting what I need.’

  Thorvald was right about the Serpent, so it was reassuring to have him there as long as he kept his distance. It gave her malicious pleasure to have him see the very plants that would kill him, as he was too stupid to know them. But when she reached for a bough of bogthorn and Thorvald helped her, she flinched with guilt and he quickly moved away. All the way home he kept his distance, watching her back. He was a solid presence and much as she disliked it, she began to see why Hefnir valued him as his second. If only he had not killed Bjorn.

  ‘What did you mean about the Serpent killing Bjorn?’ she asked. ‘He wasn’t there.’

  ‘He doesn’t have to be there to make things go bad.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Thorvald looked at her, straight. ‘You never believe anything I say.’

  ‘Try me.’ She put down her basket and folded her arms.

  ‘Sea-riders came in a war fleet and torched some houses. The S
erpent let them, to frighten us into paying him more to keep them away in future. Only they took more than he reckoned so he fought them and this time he’s claiming blood money.’

  ‘And Bjorn?’

  ‘I was full of battle-madness. First in the Marsh Lands, then the raid. That boy shouldn’t have charged me. Your hand moves faster than thought: it has to.’

  She was shocked by the raw anguish on his ruined face. She turned away and left him, before pity could soften her.

  Pity already had. Bera watched Thorvald safely into his billet, full of indecision. Would her planned poisoning be worse than his unthinking act? The blood debt had been accepted by Ottar, which weighed the scales down further on Thorvald’s side. And yet... surely her mother and skern would have forbidden her if it was so wrong? Or was it, like everything else, a lesson she had to learn for herself? The feeling of revulsion remained but she decided it was sheer cowardice and got started.

  She pounded the leaves in a bowl and stirred in honey, standing at the byre doorway so the moon’s waning would make the brew more potent. There was a flicker as a figure ran past the outbuildings. Any thrall heading for the pastures would cross the clear ground up to the latrine. No one appeared.

  When Bera finished, she went to one of the outhouses to hide the poisonous mash until mealtime. She was leaden with tiredness but this debt must be paid, soon now. Inside, there was a smell of old apples and something less wholesome. The most secret place would be further in, where a low door looked like an inner store.

  She tried the handle.

  Something dark reared up on the other side.

  A Drorgher? This must be where she had sensed it before. Nothing would make her open that door onto pitch blackness. The ice-grip of her mother’s bead had been a warning of this, and her revulsion. Thorvald had muddled it and exhausted her power to fight.

  Some yearning seeped from the evil behind the door that was more than the need to steal a skern. Bera shoved the mash under some apple boxes and ran to her billet.

  She undressed, slid into bed and cuddled up to Hefnir’s warm, solid, human back. He grunted and flopped over, so that she was squashed under his heavy shoulder.