West of the Moon

by Katherine Langrish

  With a shout, the nearest man let go his oars. The moonlight lit his blond hair and stocky frame: it was Bjørn. Twisting, he grappled with the creature. An eye-blink later, the faering turned over, flinging them all into the sea.

  Hilde struggled with the sail. It came down higgledypiggledy. The boat drifted, pitching. With nightmare urgency, Peer ran out the oars, fighting to keep the stern to the waves. Hilde was leaning out, stretching a spare oar to someone in the water. Peer threw his weight sideways. With a shuddering lurch, a man toppled over the side and fell on to the bottom boards, coughing water. It was Ralf.

  His weight lent ballast to the boat. It became easier to handle. In the bows, Hilde raked out with her oar. The prow sliced through a wave, and Peer was wet to the waist. He cried out with the shock, but somehow the wave ran past, and the boat rode up again.

  Ralf pulled himself up. He helped Hilde drag her oar back in, with someone clinging to the blade. It was Arne, gasping for air. Two, saved from the sea! Peer heaved again on the oars, his back and arms aching with the strain. But where’s Bjørn? Where’s Bjørn?

  How far away the others seemed: Ralf, Hilde, Arne, shouting, coughing, choking, trying to tidy away the yard and the loose sail, leaning over the side to search for Bjørn. Wrapped in his lonely task – lift, reach, pull! – Peer glanced up past the crooked yard to the masthead. Dawn was coming. The sea gleamed a cold grey, broken by dark skerries and white breakers.

  That was when he saw another boat, keeping pace with them across the dim water. A black sail reeled against the sky, and the crew – how could the crew sit so still? Stiff as a row of ninepins, their faces turned away.

  The draug boat...

  He only saw it for a moment. Then a fresh rainstorm swept between and blinded him. Something knocked against the hull and went whirling past. A face glimmered through the water.

  Fingers gripped at the boat’s side, and then, as Peer watched in horror, unclenched and slid stiffly under. Everyone shouted at once. And Ralf, roaring, cast himself half overboard, Hilde clinging to his legs. The boat canted horribly. Peer dropped the oars and leaned out the other way. Arne was doing the same. They almost went over themselves as the vessel righted – and Ralf was hauling Bjørn out of the sea: Bjørn, his face white and blue, his hair streaming with water, his arms lolling. Ralf laid him gently down on his side. A broken-off harpoon was embedded in his right shoulder.

  Chapter 40

  New Beginnings

  “I DON’T WANT to say much about it.” Bjørn told them. Sitting in Ralf ’s chair next day, his shoulder bandaged, he looked white and tired, but peaceful. “The faering lurched, and I thought we’d struck. I turned, and there was the black seal grinning at me. I grabbed him, and the boat went over. We sank together, into the cold – throttling, strangling each other. He drove the harpoon into me. It barely hurt; I was numb. It hurts now!” He eased his shoulder, grimacing. “He left me. I was done for. I could see things, glimmering green – drifting wreckage, and twisting sea-worms questing about for drowned sailors, and the long weeds swaying from the rocks. Then something brushed past me in the gloom, another seal. It circled, nuzzling around me, pushing me up to the surface. I saw the boat go past, and I reached for the side. That’s all I remember.”

  “That seal was Kersten,” said Hilde certainly. “You see, she did care for you.”

  “She did,” said Bjørn sadly. Arne leaned forward and gripped his brother’s hand. “Hilde’s dream saved us,” he said.

  Peer gave him a dark look. His own muscles felt as though they would tear every time he moved, and he didn’t like the warm, admiring glance Arne cast on Hilde.

  “Peer and Hilde both saved us,” said Bjørn, as though he knew what Peer was thinking. His face cracked into a broad grin. “Though it’ll be a long time before Harald forgives you for stealing his precious boat.”

  “That Harald,” sniffed Gudrun. “Sour as last week’s milk. Oh, hush, Eirik!” She joggled Eirik, who appeared to be cutting a tooth. He snivelled on her shoulder, wailing, “Man! Man!” in between sobs.

  “What’s wrong with this child?” cried Gudrun in desperation. “Whoever heard of wanting a lubber for a nursemaid?”

  “Put him down,” Ralf suggested. “Let the Nis look after him.”

  Gudrun turned. “And where are you two going?” Caught sneaking out, the twins turned innocent faces towards their mother.

  “To see the mill,” said Sigurd. “To see if there’s anything left.”

  “Not now.”

  “But that’s not fair! We didn’t get to see it burning —”

  “Ssh!” Hilde whispered to them. “Peer’s upset about it.”

  “But he set fire to the mill himself!” Sigurd objected. “Why should he be upset?”

  “Because —”

  “Hilde, leave it,” said Peer loudly. “I’m not upset, and it doesn’t matter. None of it matters!” He flung out of the house with Loki at his heels, banging the door behind him.

  A grey drizzle hung over the farm. Peer splashed through the mud to the empty cowshed and sat on a pile of straw, cuddling Loki for company, furious with himself and the world. It’s just you and me again, he thought, rubbing Loki’s ears. The mill was gone. Uncle Baldur was gone, too, but in a strange way that didn’t make Peer feel better.

  What do I do now? Go back to helping Ralf – hanging around Hilde? Arne’s back; she won’t even notice me.

  He considered Arne gloomily. It was obvious that Hilde would like him. Tall, broad shouldered, with brown skin and blue eyes. That long white-blond hair that looked untidy on Bjørn looked sort of – heroic, on Arne. Heroic. Arne looks like a hero. Of course, I look like a heron.

  He bit his fingers. So many stupid mistakes; no wonder Hilde couldn’t take him seriously. Hiding from Uncle Baldur! Falling into the pond with Ran! What a clown!

  He went to stand in the doorway, under the eaves of the shed, watching the raindrops collect and drip from the ragged edge of the thatch. After a while, because nobody came after him, and there was nothing better to do, he went back to the house.

  And Hilde was using his comb, running it smoothly through her long fair hair. She looked up. “I never thanked you for this.”

  “It’s not much,” he told her.

  “Not much? It’s beautiful! You’re so clever, Peer.” She added casually, “People would pay good money for combs like this.”

  “They certainly would,” Gudrun agreed. “You could make anything,” Hilde went on. “You could be a boat-builder, like your father!”

  “There’s a thought,” said Bjørn. He had Ran on his knee. “I’ll have to build a new faering. Could use a hand from a fellow who knows what he’s doing.”

  Peer stared at them suspiciously. So they’d guessed what he’d been thinking. And they’d been talking about him, and trying to find ways of making him feel better, and in fact… in fact, it was working. He did feel better.

  “That’s not a bad idea,” he said, amazed. He thought about it. A boat builder like Father. Yes. It was as if his father was there, sitting in the warm family circle, watching him with quiet pride. He touched his father’s ring, turning it gently on his finger.

  Hilde grinned. “I told you so. You were never cut out to be a miller.”

  For a second, that stung. Peer opened his mouth to snap – but he began to laugh instead. He picked up Sigrid and swung her round. “You’re so right! I’ll be a boat builder. I’ll build my own boats, and everyone will want them.”

  “Build one for me,” Sigrid giggled.

  “I will! And it will have a neck like a swan, and gilded wings and silken cushions, and the Emperor of the Southlands will hear of it and come courting you.”

  “What a useless sort of boat,” said Sigurd.

  “All right, for you I’ll build a warship, Sigurd, with a striped sail and a fierce dragonhead, and you can go off in it, fighting and raiding.”

  Sigurd gave him a pitying look. “No. I shall be a fa
rmer.”

  “And what sort of boat will you build for me?” asked Hilde.

  Peer turned to her. “A boat that will carry two,” he said, and was pleased to see her redden and look away. Arne’s eyebrows went up thoughtfully. Gudrun’s lips twitched.

  “And the babies?” clamoured Sigrid. “What about Eirik and Ran?”

  “Eirik needs a washtub, not a boat,” Peer laughed. “As for Ran, well, I don’t quite know. Shall I ask her?” He hoisted her out of Bjørn’s arms and tickled her. “Any ideas, you?” he teased – and was rewarded with the widest, merriest, most infectious smile he’d ever seen. He found himself grinning breathlessly back at her gleaming red gums and crinkled nose.

  “Look at her!” gasped Hilde. “Ran’s smiling!”

  “She’s smiling!”

  They crowded round to see, chattering excitedly, while Ran looked from face to face, beaming at them as if they were the most wonderful people in the world.

  “You got her to smile. Well done, Peer!” Hilde banged him on the back, and he shook his head. “But I didn’t do anything. I suppose she was just – ready.”

  “She can smile and she can cry! She’s not a seal baby any more, is she, Ma?” Sigrid said.

  Gudrun’s eyes were wet, and she leaned on Bjørn’s good shoulder. “This is a day of marvels, to be sure. A day of new beginnings. Bjørn, my dear boy, I think it’s time we changed her name. We’ll call her ‘Elli’ from now on, the name you wanted.”

  “Elli,” said Sigrid softly. “Elli, my little sister.”

  Part Three

  Chapter 41

  Far Away in Vinland

  THE MIST PERSONS are busy, crouching on wave-splashed rocks out in the gulf, blowing chilly whiteness over the sea. Their breath rolls over the beach, over the boggy meadowlands near the river mouth, and far up the valley into the dark woods.

  A birch-bark canoe comes whirling downriver through the fog. Kneeling in the prow, Kwimu braces a long pole like a lance, ready to fend off rocks. Each bend, each stretch of rapids comes as a surprise. Even the banks are hard to see.

  The river humps its back like an animal. The canoe shoots over the hump and goes arrowing into a narrow gorge, where tall cliffs squeeze the water into a mad downhill dash. Spray splashes in, and Fox, curled against Kwimu’s knees, shakes an irritated head. Fox hates getting wet.

  A rock! Kwimu jabs the pole, and the canoe swerves lightly away. It hurtles down a sleek slope and goes bouncing into roaring white water at the bottom. Again and again Kwimu flicks out the pole, striking here and there, turning the canoe between the rocks. Sometimes a whirlpool catches them, but Kwimu’s father Sinumkw, kneeling behind him, gives a mighty thrust with his paddle and sends them shooting on.

  A bend in the river. More rocks. Kwimu throws back his wet hair, every muscle tense. They dart down, hugging the base of the cliff where the water is cold and deep. The wet, grainy stone drips, and the mist writhes in weird shapes. There’s a splash and an echo, and it’s not just the paddle. The canoe tilts, veers. Fox springs up snarling, showing his white teeth and black gums, and for a heartbeat a thin muddy hand clutches at the prow. A head plastered with wet hair rises from the water. It winks at Kwimu with an expression of sullen glee, and ducks under.

  “Look what you’re doing!” Sinumkw shouts, and they’re snatched into the next stretch of rapids.

  The gorge widens, the cliffs drop back, and the canoe spills out into calm water flowing between high banks covered with trees. On either side, the grey-robed forest rises, fading into mist.

  Kwimu twists around. “Did you see?” he bursts. “Did you see the Water Person – the Grabber-from-Beneath?”

  Sinumkw frowns. “I saw nothing but the rocks and the rapids.”

  “He was there,” Kwimu insists. “Fox saw him too.”

  His father nods. “Maybe. But if you’d taken your eyes off the water for a moment longer, we’d have capsized. So his trick didn’t work. Anyway, well done! That’s the worst stretch over. And we’ll land here, I think.”

  He drives his paddle into the water. The canoe pivots towards the shore.

  “But I thought we were going right down to the sea. Can’t we go on in the canoe? It’s so much quicker than walking,” Kwimu pleads as they lift the canoe out of the water.

  “Speed isn’t everything,” says his father. “Just look around. Who’s been cutting trees here?”

  Piles of lopped branches lie in the undergrowth. The bank is littered with chips of yellow wood. Sinumkw picks one up. “These aren’t fresh. This was done moons ago, before the winter.”

  “Who would need so many trees?” Kwimu asks. His scalp prickles. There are Other Persons in the woods. Sometimes, in lonely parts of the forest, hunters hear the sound of an axe, chopping – and a tree comes crashing down, though no one is visible.

  But his father is thinking along practical lines. “See here. They rolled the trunks into the river to float downstream. It could be enemies: the Kwetejk, perhaps. What if they’ve built a stockade at the river mouth, in just the spot we want to use?”

  Kwimu thinks with a shiver of their fierce rivals from the north-west woods. “What shall we do?”

  His father shrugs. “This is why we came, n’kwis, ahead of everyone else, to find the best place for the summer camp, and to look out for danger. Imagine if the whole clan was with us now – grandmothers, babies and all! No. We’ll circle into the woods and climb the bluffs above the river. We can look down on the bay from there.” He turns, setting off on a long uphill slant into the forest.

  Kwimu follows. The encircling fog fills the woods with secrets. The trees are looming giants that drip and tiptoe and creak and murmur. But if there was danger, Fox would sense it; Fox would warn them. Reassured, Kwimu strokes Fox’s cold fur and hurries after his father.

  Snow lingers under the hemlocks and firs, and the buds on the birches aren’t open yet. The forest is black, white and grey. A dozen paces ahead, Sinumkw climbs through swirls and pockets of vapour like a ghost passing through world after world.

  The woods are full of mysteries…

  Grandmother said that, yesterday evening, her bright eyes blinking in her soft wrinkled face. Kwimu thinks of her now, as he trudges uphill under the dripping trees. He sees her in his head, like a little partridge with bright plumage, wrapped in her big beaver-fur cloak with the coloured quillwork glinting in the firelight. She’s tiny, but so strong. And she has the Sight. Everyone listens when she speaks.

  Long ago, in the time of the Old Ones…

  All the stories begin like this.

  …in the old days, two brothers go hunting. And they find a deep ditch, too wide to jump. A strange, smooth ditch, scoured out of sticky red mud, twisting along between the trees. The track of a Horned Serpent: a jipijka’m track.

  And this track is full of power.

  One of the brothers climbs into the ditch to see what sort of thing made it. Aha!

  His body changes. It bloats and swells and pulls out like an earthworm, growing longer and longer. His eyes widen and blaze, and two horns sprout from his head. He fills the ditch from top to bottom, he raises his head and hisses at his brother, he slithers away like a snake. The track leads into the lake. He plunges deep into the water, and no one ever sees him again.

  The woods are full of mysteries...

  In spite of his thick moose-hide robes, Kwimu is cold. Why did Grandmother tell that story? What does it mean? Everywhere he looks he sees omens. Layers of fungus like thick lips. A rotten log like a corpse rolled up in birch bark.

  Can anything good happen on such a day?

  The slope steepens, broken by small ravines where icy creeks hurry down to join the river. There are voices in the creeks, Kwimu is sure, voices that squabble and bicker. Perhaps it’s the Spreaders, the nasty little people who peg you to the ground if you fall asleep by the stream-side.

  They cross one creek near a waterfall. Spray has coated the boulders with ice, and the pool boi
ls and froths like a black kettle. What if a huge head crowned with twiggy horns emerged from the water, snaking towards them on a long slimy neck? In this haunted fog, anything is possible.

  It grows lighter. Kwimu follows his father along a knobbly headland that juts out from the forest into the white nothingness of the mist. He feels giddy, as if walking out into the Sky World. Down below, he knows there’s a fine gravel beach and grasslands beside the river. The bay: their summer home, where the women will gather shellfish, and the men and boys take canoes out past the sand bars and over deep water to the islands, to fish and to gather birds’ eggs. Right now none of that is visible. A mother-of-pearl sun peers through the haze.

  All is quiet. But the mist tastes of smoke, sweet dry smoke floating up from below.

  Fox growls. His fur bristles, full of prickling, warning life. Kwimu and his father exchange anxious looks.

  They hunker down in the wet bushes, ill at ease. Smoke means people, but a friendly camp should be noisy with dogs, children, women chattering. Why the silence? If only the mist would clear. Kwimu begins to think he can hear muffled voices. Men talking – or arguing, for the sound becomes louder and sharper.

  An appalling scream tears through the fog. Kwimu grabs his father. The scream soars into hysteria, and breaks into a series of sharp, yipping howls like a mad wolf. The morning erupts in shouts of anger and alarm, and a ring-ding, hard-edged clashing. Flocks of birds clatter up from the forest.

  As if their wings are fanning it away, the mist thins and vanishes. At last Kwimu and Sinumkw see what is going on below them, down by the river mouth.

  The earth has been flayed. Scars of bare red soil show where the turf has been lifted. Two lumpy sod houses have been thrown up on a rising crescent of ground between the edge of the forest and the sea. They look like burrows, for the grass grows right over them, though smoke rises from holes in the tops. Between these houses – these burrows – men are swarming.