Gudrun jumped up. “I’ll make some, Ralf. But keep talking!”
“This is the stuff of a fine saga,” said old Eirik in a voice quivering with excitement. His bowl of groute was going cold and he had dropped his spoon.
“You’ve got to make a poem about this, Grandpa,” Hilde encouraged him. Eirik slapped his knee. “I will. What a story – what a story! A new land, with no people in it! Go on, my son.”
“But there were people.” Ralf spoke through a mouthful of oatcake. “Lots of people! Villages, with houses made from the bark of trees… What a wonderful place! The rivers full of trout and salmon. Beavers and reindeer in the woods. How I wished you were all with me. We decided to call it Wood Land, and the days just slipped by…”
He jumped to his feet. “But why spoil a good story by rushing at it? This should last us for many nights. Not another word now!” His eyes twinkled at their disappointed faces.
“Just one more thing,” begged Hilde. “These people – what were they like?”
“Brown faces!” declared Ralf dramatically. “Brown all over, like smoked oak. And black hair – black as jet. With feathers in it.”
“Ohhh!” wailed Hilde. “I can’t wait. You have to tell us more!”
“Tonight,” Ralf promised. “Now I want to go and look all round the farm – check the sheep – visit the cow – look at the fences. I want to feel I’m really home. I want to get down to some good solid work.”
Peer glanced up. Perhaps this was his chance. “Ralf,” he said shyly. “You don’t happen to want a boy, do you?”
“Oh yes, Pa!” said Hilde quickly. “Can’t Peer live with us?”
Ralf looked quizzically at Peer. “A boy?” he said, turning the words over in his mouth as though seeing how they tasted. “A boy? No, I can’t really say that I need a boy. I’ve got Hilde, you see, and the twins growing up, and it’s a small place – no, I don’t really need a boy.”
“Ralf!” cried Gudrun reproachfully, while Peer bit his lip. But Ralf was still talking. “So, I don’t need a boy, as such,” he went on. “But Peer Ulfsson, who went after the twins – Peer Ulfsson, who stood by Hilde and helped her – Peer Ulfsson, who offered to stay in Troll Fell to rescue Sigurd – I think we certainly need him!”
Hilde cheered. Peer blushed scarlet. Ralf took Peer by the shoulders and shook him gently.
“It’s not for the work you can do, my lad,” he said, “though I’m sure you’ll be useful. It’s not because we need you – it’s because we want you.”
Peer tried to speak. To his horror, he felt his eyes filling with tears. Gudrun put her arms around him, and he was glad to hide his head against her apron.
“You belong with us now, and we’re proud of you,” she said briskly. “Yes, and you too!” she nodded to Loki, who gave a surprised sneeze. Peer managed a shaky laugh and went to fuss Loki till he had control of himself again.
“That’s a good little dog,” Ralf approved. “Smart and loyal. We’ll train him into a fine sheepdog, won’t we, Alf?” Alf gave his master an adoring look. And as Ralf reached down his old coat and headed for the door, Alf followed him like an extra shadow.
Peer watched Ralf go out and then reached for a cloak himself. He was happier than he could have imagined, but he was not yet quite comfortable just sitting there chatting. And there was something he needed to do.
“Where are you going?” asked Hilde.
“To the mill,” said Peer quietly.
“I suppose it belongs to you now,” said Hilde in surprise. “Does it?”
“I don’t know,” said Peer, startled. “But there’s animals there. Someone has to feed the sheep…”
“Shall I come?”
Peer hesitated. He really wanted to go alone, or his idea might not work. Still, it was only fair to tell them about it.
“You see,” he stammered, “there’s the Nis.”
Hilde put a hand to her mouth. “The poor Nis! I’d forgotten about it. Nobody lives at the mill now, do they?”
“So I wondered,” said Peer, “if it might like to come here. Would that be all right, Gudrun?”
“Goodness,” said Gudrun. “I suppose so. Is it well behaved?”
Peer thought. “Well, not very. But I think it would be if we treated it nicely. With Baldur and Grim it wasn’t.”
“That’s no surprise,” Gudrun sniffed. “Very well, Peer, you can try. But mind you tell it to be good!”
Warmly wrapped in a thick cloak, Peer set off down the valley. It wasn’t snowing, but the wind was keen and the skies were grey. He tramped down through the wood till he came in sight of the mill.
So much had happened since he had been there. But he saw the broken ice on the millpond, frozen over again but still visible as the spot where Grendel had gone through. Was it really only two nights ago?
In the yard the penned sheep were bleating hungrily. He pushed open the barn door to fetch their hay, and stepped into a starburst of black feathers.
Peer squinted into the rafters and saw the huddled shapes of his chickens. He counted them. All nine were there, but not the black cockerel. There were feathers everywhere, and a strong smell of fox. The hens had clearly had a terrible experience.
“Hmmm!” said Peer. He scattered grain on the floor. “Come down and eat, you silly things. I’ll come for you tomorrow, with a basket, and take you somewhere safe.” Repentant, humbled, the hens scrambled from the rafters and began picking away gratefully.
Peer fed the sheep and oxen, and tossed a few armfuls of hay to Bristles and the sow, though he could hardly bear to look at them for being reminded of his uncles. Maybe Bjørn or Arne would like to have them, he thought.
Finally he ventured into the mill. The fire had long gone out. The wreckage of the millstone still lay where it had fallen on the splintered wooden chest. There was no sound.
“Nis?” called Peer quietly. “Are you there?” He looked around, hoping to see a small shadow flit from beam to beam, or catch the gleam of its eyes. There was no sound.
“Nis?”
It was growing dark. The short day was done. Peer backed out of the cold and lonely mill, wondering with a sigh where the Nis had gone. He stood for a moment looking thoughtfully into the yard. Did all this really belong to him now? It wasn’t something he was ready to think about. The pile of snow that the Nis had pushed off the barn roof still lay in the yard, and he remembered the dogfight with a shudder.
It was then that he heard a light sound. A white fox came skipping into the yard. It was playing games in the snow, chasing its tail, running in rings, dashing about. Peer watched, enchanted. So this was the culprit, probably back for a few more hens! He resolved to make sure the barn door was firmly shut.
He blinked. There seemed to be a little whirlwind blowing about the yard – a little, swirling column of snow, playing with the fox. He rubbed his eyes. Or was it a little, wispy grey creature with big hands and feet?
“Nis?” he called. Something ran across the yard kicking spurts of snow from its heels. The fox sat down and turned its sharp, laughing face towards him. Something jumped on to the mill roof, and a chunk of snow flumped off the eaves on to his head and shoulders, and went down his neck.
Peer yelped and wriggled, and a cross little voice muttered above his head: “They all forgets the poor Nis!”
“Nis!” said Peer firmly and kindly. “I haven’t forgotten you. Listen. You don’t have to stay in the cold mill. I’m living at Ralf Eiriksson’s farm now. Please come too! There’ll be hot groute with butter every day, I promise!”
He heard no reply. But the wispy little wind whirled itself on to the fox’s back, and the white fox straightened out and went streaking out of the yard and over the wooden bridge.
Peer followed its tracks in the snow all the way home, grinning to himself.
Hilde greeted him at the farmhouse door. “Suppertime!” she called. “And it’s a funny thing, but the floor seems to have swept itself in the last half-hour
, and the logs have stacked themselves neatly, and it didn’t take half as long for the kettle to boil. I think your Nis has come home!”
Gudrun peeped over her shoulder. “It’s a marvellous help, Peer. I hope it stays. What do you say it likes to eat?” And she poured out a full bowl of groute, carefully stirring in the butter, and set it on the warm hearthstone. As a final touch, she spooned in some honey.
From then on, the Nis was positively spoilt.
That evening, and for many more to come, they listened spellbound to one another’s stories. Peer and Hilde had much to tell of the wonders they had seen under Troll Fell. Eirik spun the tale of how he and Gudrun had struggled down to the fjord, of their despair at finding the village deserted, and their joy at discovering the longship. He made such a good job of it that Gudrun herself shook her head and declared, while they laughed at her, “What an adventure!”
But the best and newest story of all was Ralf ’s. With his arm round Gudrun and the little ones on his knee he told them more and more about the green forests at the other end of the world, of the dark-haired people who spoke a strange language, of the bright feathers in their hair, of their bark houses built deep in the woods. And he told of the long journey home.
“Will you ever go back?” asked Hilde curiously. Gudrun clutched Ralf ’s hand, shaking her head. Ralf paused a long moment and sighed.
“East, west; home’s best,” he said at last. “But who knows? It’s a wonderful land out there, Hilde. A wonderful land.”
Part Two
Chapter 19
What Happened on the Shore
THE BOAT DANCED ungracefully in from the fishing grounds. Her crew, a man and a boy, reached steadily back and forth, working their two pairs of oars through the choppy water. Out beyond the islands, the wind tore a long yellow rift in the clouds and the setting sun blinked through in stormy brilliance.
Dazzled, the boy missed his stroke. The oars sliced through air instead of water, and he flew backwards off his seat into a tangle of nets and a slithery heap of fat, bright fish.
“Resting?” teased his friend Bjørn. “Had enough for one day?”
Peer laughed, then gasped as spray slapped his face. He scrambled up with dripping hair, snatching for the loose oars.
“Bad weather’s coming,” said Bjørn. The breeze stiffened, carrying cold points of rain. “But we’ll get home before it catches us.”
“You will,” Peer said. “I’ll get soaked on my way up the hill.”
“Stay with us,” offered Bjørn. “Kersten would love to see you. You can earn your supper by admiring the baby.” He glanced around, smiling at Peer’s sudden silence. “Come on. Surely you’re used to babies, up at the farm? How old is little Eirik now? About a year? He’s a fine little fellow, isn’t he? It’s sad his grandpa never saw him.”
“Yes… although actually,” said Peer, “he might have lost patience with the noise. Dear old Eirik, he was always grumbling, ‘A poet needs peace and quiet!’ Little Eirik screams such a lot. Babies! I never knew they were so much trouble.”
“Ours is a good little soul,” Bjørn said proudly. “Never cries.”
“So how is Kersten?” Peer asked, his eye on the shore. Bjørn pulled a couple of hard strokes on one oar to straighten up. “Fine, thanks.” The boat shot in on the back of a breaking wave, and Peer sprang out into a welter of froth and seaweed. Bjørn followed and together they ran the boat higher up the stony beach.
“A grand day’s work,” Bjørn said. Reaching into the boat, he hooked his fingers into the gills of a heavy, shining cod and hefted it in his blunt, capable hands. “Plenty of eating on that one. Take it with you.” He handed it to Peer, long strands of sea-stiffened fair hair blowing across his face. “Or will you stay?”
“I’ll stay,” Peer decided. “They won’t worry. They know I’m with you.” Absurdly, he hugged the fish, smiling. Three years ago he’d been a friendless orphan, and he could still hardly believe that he had a family now, who cared about him.
“Good choice!” said Bjørn. “Kersten can fry that fish, then, and we’ll have it with lots of warm bread and hot sizzling butter. Hungry?”
“Starving.” Peer licked his lips.
“Go on ahead while I finish up. Off with you! Here comes the wet.”
Cold rain swept in from the sea as Peer dashed across the clattering shingle, dodging boulders and jumping over inlets where the tide swirled and sloshed. It was fun, pitting himself against the weather. Soon he came to the channel where the stream ran down to the sea. Beside it, the path to the village wound up through the sand dunes. Rain hissed through the long wiry grass. He slowed to a plod, looking forward to sitting snugly by the fire while Kersten cooked.
Footsteps thudded on the path. In a flurry of flying hair and swirling cloak, a woman ran headlong out of the mist and slammed into him. Peer dropped the fish, and the woman grabbed him, struggling for balance. He tried to push her off and his hands tangled in her wet hair. Her hood fell back.
“Kersten!” Peer’s voice rose in cold fright. “What’s wrong?”
She clutched him fiercely. “Is Gudrun still breast-feeding?”
Peer gaped. “What?”
She shook his arm angrily. “Is Gudrun still suckling her baby?” She threw back a fold of her huge cloak. It flapped heavily in the wind, slapping his legs like wet hide. In the crook of her arm, wrapped in a lambskin —
Her baby? Peer blinked in horror. She thrust it into his arms; he had to take it before she dropped it.
“Take her to Gudrun – Gudrun can feed her —”
“Kersten,” Peer croaked. “What’s happened? Where are you going?”
She looked at him with eyes like dark holes. “Home.” Then she was past him, the cloak dragging after her. He snatched for it. Sleek wet fur tugged through his fingers. “Kersten! Stop!”
She ran down the path, and he began to run too, but the baby jolting in his arms slowed him to long desperate strides.
“Kersten!” His feet skated on wet grass, sank into pockets of soft sand. She was on the beach now, running straight for the water. He could never catch her. Peer skidded to a crazy halt. He saw Bjørn bending over the boat, doing something with the nets. Peer filled his lungs and bellowed, “Bjørn!” at the top of his voice. He pointed.
Bjørn turned, staring. Then he flung himself forwards, pounding across the beach to intercept Kersten. And Kersten stopped. She threw herself flat, and the wet sealskin cloak billowed over her, hiding her from head to foot. Underneath it, she continued to move, in heavy lolloping jumps. She must be crawling, drawing the skin cloak closely around her. She rolled. Waves rushed up and sucked her into the water. Trapped in those encumbering folds, she would drown.
“Kersten!” Peer screamed. The body in the water twisted, lithe and muscular, and plunged forward into the next grey wave.
Bjørn was racing for his boat. He hurled himself on it, driving it down the shingle into the water, wrenching the bows around to point into the waves.
“Bjørn!” Peer cried into the wind. Spray filled his mouth with salt. He stammered and spat. “Your baby – your baby!”
Bjørn jumped into the boat. The oars rattled out and he dug them into the water with savage strokes, twisting to scan the sea. Peer heard him shout, his voice cracking, “Kersten! Kersten, come back…” The boat reared over lines of white breakers, and was swallowed by rain and darkness.
Peer stared. A sleek head bobbed in the water. He ran forward in wild hope. It was gone. Then he saw another – and another, rising and falling with the swell. Swift dark bodies swept easily between wave and wave.
“Seals!” he whispered.
In his arm the baby stirred, arching its back and thrusting thin fists into the rain. Its eyes were tight shut, but it moved its head as if seeking something to suck. Soon it would be hungry. Soon it would cry.
Peer’s teeth chattered. Clumsily he tried to arrange its wrappings, dragging the blanket over its arms. It seemed
tiny, much younger than little Eirik up at the farm. Was it a boy or a girl? He couldn’t remember. It felt like ice. Didn’t babies die if they got too cold?
Gudrun, he thought. I’ve got to get it to Gudrun. Kersten said.
Holding the baby stiffly across his chest, he trudged up the path through the dunes. The sound of the sea was muffled, and he left the spray behind, but the keen rain followed, soaking his shoulders and arms, trickling down his back. The first house in the village was Bjørn’s. The door stood wide open. Peer hesitated, then stepped quickly in. He pushed the door shut, shivering.
The fire was out. The dark house smelt of cold, bitter ashes. Angry tears pricked Peer’s eyelids. He remembered Kersten’s warmth and gaiety and good cooking. Whatever had gone wrong?
He blundered across the room and cracked his shins on something wooden that moved. It swung back and hit him again, and he put a hand out to still it. A cradle.
Thankfully, Peer lowered the baby into the cradle. Now what? He tried to think. Did anyone else in the village have a young baby? No. Gudrun was the only person who could feed it. But what will Bjørn think if he comes home and the baby’s gone? Should I wait for him? But he might capsize, he might never come home at all…
Peer crushed down rising panic. When he does come, he’ll be cold, he told himself. I should light the fire.
He knew where Bjørn kept his strike-a-light and a box of dry wood-shavings, but in the dark he knocked the box to the floor and had to feel about for the knob of flint and the wedge of cold iron. He struck flint and iron together, showering sparks. The wood-shavings caught. When the fire was burning steadily, he got stiffly to his feet and looked around.
The house had only one room, and little furniture. The firelight gleamed here on a polished wooden bowl, there on a thin-bladed sickle hanging on the wall. In a corner stood Bjørn and Kersten’s bed, the blankets neatly folded. Peer felt like an intruder. And there was nothing to show why Kersten had suddenly rushed out of the house, carrying her baby.
West of the Moon Page 14
