Kin (Helga Finnsdottir)

by Kristjansson, Snorri

  ‘Don’t fill the boy’s head with nonsense,’ Agla remonstrated. ‘Ormar is probably starving hungry and freezing cold and soaking wet right now – and I certainly hope he’s doing his best to stay out of the way of spears and axes.’

  ‘Vikings get spears and axes too?’ Bragi’s eyes were wide open in awe.

  ‘They sure do,’ Karl said, grinning. ‘Tomorrow I’ll teach you to fight. But we’ll start with a beating stick.’

  The boy was out of his seat in a blink. ‘Mum! Mum! Uncle Karl is going to teach me to fight! With a stick! A – a – a beety stick!’

  ‘Is he, now?’ Runa’s voice was cold.

  ‘Yes! Can I, Mum? Can I? Can I?’

  Runa, thin-lipped, walked over to where Karl was sitting. She leaned over and whispered in his ear.

  ‘But the boy needs to—’ Karl began.

  Lightning-quick, Runa caught his wrist in her hand and slammed it on the table, leaning on it with all her weight, as she continued to whisper. Moments later, her point made, she retreated, smiling. Karl watched her move off, discreetly rubbing the soreness out of his wrist under the table.

  ‘Of course you can,’ she said to her son. ‘I was just explaining some things to Uncle Karl about young boys and stories and how I know where he sleeps.’

  ‘Hooray!’ Bragi said, diverted almost immediately by the spoonful of stew she held out to him.

  A bellowed laugh from the other end of the table interrupted their exchange and they both stared at the old man, who sat, all smiles, with a frowning Sigrun in his lap.

  ‘It’s not funny!’ the little girl said again.

  ‘No – no, you’re right – that’s exactly what the fox says. Now go and get yourself some of your gramma’s good stew, yes?’ Big hands gripped under Sigrun’s arms and Unnthor rose quickly, sweeping her way up in the air, much to her squealing delight, before setting her down gently on the ground. The little girl scar­pered to her grandmother immediately, hands outstretched for a bowl.

  *

  Gytha and Helga stepped inside, and Hildigunnur beckoned them over and ladled out the hearty stew. A heaped pile of dirty bowls told the tale of a meal well received. ‘Did the fresh air do you good?’ she asked, looking searchingly at Gytha.

  ‘It did,’ the girl said. For a moment her lower lip quivered, but then the mask was back on.

  ‘Good,’ Hildigunnur said.

  Helga leaned in and whispered, ‘I think I saw more people coming.’ She watched her mother scan the interior of the longhouse. Bragi and Sigrun had abandoned their meals to play with the bag of old bones Hildigunnur had got out ready for their arrival; they were ensconced in a corner, deeply immersed in some complicated game of farmyard management. Volund had drifted silently in their direction and was watching wistfully from a distance. The three brothers had gathered together and Bjorn was in the middle of telling another long, involved story; the wives, ignoring their exuberant menfolk, were still at the table, exchanging their own less brash and boastful stories. Einar and Jaki were nowhere to be seen, likely slipped out to see to the beasts.

  Hildigunnur sighed. ‘That’d be Jorunn, then.’ She shook herself, as if to shake off her mood, and winked at Helga. ‘Right, daughter of mine. I hope one day you get a family of your own. I wouldn’t want you to miss out on all the joys.’

  She turned around and cried loudly, ‘Everyone – get up! We have visitors at the gate and this time they’re not taking us unawares. We’re going to go and meet them. All of us.’

  Chapter 4

  Jorunn

  When they left the longhouse, the first thing that drew Helga’s eye was the flame, leaping hungrily at the rapidly darkening sky from high above the gate. Jaki was standing beneath the mounted torch; the flickering firelight caught on all the angles of his face.

  Shadow of a different man. The idea danced in front of Helga’s eyes, but as soon as she could focus on it the light shifted and he was back again: friendly old Jaki, just as normal. Unnthor walked up to him, little Sigrun sitting proudly on her granddad’s shoulders, and took up his own place by the gate. Side by side, Unnthor and Jaki looked like brothers. Helga caught a flurry of words as Sigrun tried to explain to them both why birds liked flying instead of walking.

  The families took up position on either flank, like warriors. In the twilight they could just make out the shadowy figures of two riders making their way slowly towards the farm.

  ‘Get a move on, girl,’ Bjorn shouted. ‘Aslak’s growing a beard waiting for you!’

  ‘Shut up, you lumbering meat-sack,’ a woman’s voice shouted back. ‘That’s not happening any time soon!’

  Karl smiled. ‘So it doesn’t look like marriage has softened our beloved sister.’

  ‘She always had a mouth on her,’ Bjorn agreed.

  Beside Helga, Einar muttered something, too quietly for her to hear. ‘What did you say?’ she whispered.

  ‘Nothing,’ Einar said, rolling his shoulders slowly, working out the tension. ‘Nothing,’ he repeated.

  The riders were obviously in no hurry as they rode their horses at a walk towards the farm. Helga had instantly picked out Jorunn, even from a distance: straight-backed and slim, her figure was almost identical to Hildigunnur’s. A long auburn braid hung down past her breast. The man next to her was of average height and build. The firelight caught on keen eyes that scanned the assembled people, but he held his tongue as he and his wife dismounted smoothly.

  ‘Welcome, daughter,’ Unnthor said. ‘It makes my old heart proud to see you.’ He looked at Sigmar. ‘You’re welcome too, Sigmar: you are no less of a son to me than this lot—’ He gestured to Karl, Bjorn and Aslak.

  ‘Thank you, Unnthor,’ Sigmar said. ‘I should have visited your house sooner.’

  ‘That you should,’ Unnthor said. ‘Now, come along. There’s food.’

  The family walked towards the longhouse, but Helga noticed Einar was hanging back.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she said, once they were out of earshot, but Einar was shaking his head.

  ‘Nothing,’ he muttered, refusing to meet her eye.

  ‘Well then,’ she said, grabbing him by the elbow, ‘come on then. You don’t want to stand alone out here like a boil on a horse’s arse.’ She could feel a little bit of pull, but then he gave in and let himself be led towards the light coming from the longhouse door.

  When they entered, Jorunn was already comfortably ensconced by her father’s side and chattering away.

  ‘—we’re heading south afterwards. But we wanted a good break here, give me a little time off from Sigmar driving us onwards all the time,’ she added with a smirk.

  ‘Fair enough,’ Unnthor rumbled. ‘What about food – your mother’s stew is rich and warming – or have you eaten already?’

  ‘We ate on the road,’ she admitted with an apologetic look at her mother.

  ‘Good – so settle down, then. We were about to put the children to bed – just like we used to do with you, remember?’

  Inside, the long table had already been folded up and placed up against one wall, and the families had arrayed themselves in a large semicircle. Karl, Agla and Gytha sat together by their beds, Karl and Agla chatting quietly while she re-braided Gytha’s bright hair. Aslak was sitting next to Runa, although she had her back to him and was bent over two small forms. Bjorn sat alone on the other side of the long room.

  Hildigunnur had pulled up a chair and placed herself in the middle of the half-circle. At her side Unnthor was relaxed and comfortable in his great carven chieftain’s seat.

  ‘I wanna hear the story,’ Bragi protested sleepily, cocooned in his blanket.

  ‘Shush and listen, then,’ Runa said.

  Helga led Einar over to the corner by the workbench, where they pulled up stools. She caught Gytha glancing in their direction, just for a moment, but didn’t
react. People see things differently.

  ‘Right,’ Hildigunnur said. ‘You lot take up quite a bit more space than you used to,’ she added, grinning.

  Behind her, Thyri snuck in, Volund in tow, and walked over to Bjorn. She leaned in and whispered something that made him nod.

  ‘But you always used to like a good story. This one is about brothers and honour.’

  ‘Story,’ a high voice piped up behind Aslak, and he turned with a smile to quieten his daughter.

  Finally, peace settled on the longhouse.

  Hildigunnur cleared her throat. ‘Back in the time of kings and the age of heroes, one man rose above the others in valour and prowess. His name was Starkadr, and none was his match. He had a sworn brother, Vikar Haraldsson, who was raised by his father’s murderer. Vikar swore vengeance, and Starkadr helped him become the King of Agder and the Western Fjords. He and Starkadr fought many battles, and none surpassed Starkadr in the arts of war. Then, one day—’

  ‘There was a monster!’ Bragi piped up.

  ‘Shush,’ Runa said, ‘that’s not this story. Listen well, because you need to hear this.’

  ‘—one day,’ Hildigunnur continued, as if nothing had happened, ‘they were sailing when the wind left Vikar’s sails. Their god-speaker was an old man named Himli. He read the bones, throwing them again and again, but the darned things kept saying that the king must be sacrificed. When the men revolted, Starkadr stood between his king and a whole ship full of raiders and said they’d need to take him first. When no one did, Vikar said they should row to shore and decide upon the will of the gods at home.

  ‘The night before they settled Vikar’s fate, Starkadr’s foster-father, a man named Grani Horsehair, took him for a long walk. He led Starkadr across a bridge that shimmered in many shades of grey in the moonlight and arrived at a secret council, where Grani threw off his hood and turned out to be Odin in disguise.’ Hildigunnur winked at Helga. ‘The All-seeing praised Starkadr for his loyalty and bestowed many gifts upon him – and Odin also decreed that Starkadr should live for the duration of three lifetimes and have three-fold fortune in each one of them. The warrior got riches beyond belief, guaranteed victory in battle with the best weapons, respect from people in power – and the gift of skaldic poetry to go with it.’

  Helga heard the murmurs of affirmation echo around the longhouse; it was right that the gods reward the good and loyal.

  But Hildigunnur hadn’t finished. ‘So, when he heard Odin had elevated Starkadr to a place almost as high as the gods themselves, Thor became furiously jealous,’ she went on; there was an edge to her voice now. ‘He cursed Starkadr, now his own brother: Thor compelled him to commit a horrible crime for every lifetime he lived, banished him from fatherhood and put a geas on him: that every time Starkadr took ownership of a house, a farm or any bit of land, it would be ruined and destroyed within a week.

  ‘But Thor was not done: Starkadr would feel that his fortune was never enough; he should never go through battle without the most painful of wounds, he would be hated by commoners, and he would always forget the poems he spoke.

  ‘So, blessed and cursed by the gods, Starkadr walked the earth for thrice sixty years after that, the most fortunate and the most unfortunate Viking that ever there was. He could never live for long in one place. He lost all his friends to death – and he had to endure lesser skalds reciting his works as their own. He would have lived to this day if Thor hadn’t made him an offer: that he kill his best friend’s grandson with a magical spear. The moment Vikar’s son’s son died, the Viking who couldn’t die would find peace. In the end, Starkadr the Mighty was a pawn of the gods, and he lost who he was.’

  She looked each of her children in the eyes before she finished. ‘So remember,’ she said, putting the full weight of her gaze behind her words, ‘Thor was poisoned by jealousy and there was no honour in what he did to Starkadr. Who you are is not to be measured in wealth or fear, but in the weight of your name. You are the children of Unnthor Reginsson, and I command you to hold his name high with your deeds.’

  The low-burning fire cast a reddish glow along the floor of the longhouse; the people were little more than shadowed outlines. Helga watched as the biggest of the shapes stirred.

  ‘Time for bed,’ Bjorn rumbled as he rose, and Thyri got up and pulled a sleepy Volund to his feet. Muttered goodnights followed them out the door. Karl’s family made their way to the far corner of the house and settled onto their beds and soon all Helga could hear was slow, rhythmic breathing, interspersed with gentle snores.

  But her mother’s voice still rang in her ears: He was a pawn of the gods, and he lost who he was.

  Sleep did not come quickly to her.

  Chapter 5

  Preparation

  The first rays of the morning sun crept over the hill, giving colour and life to the half-light and turning the trees around the field from grey to green. Shuffling backwards, Helga dragged her broken plough-blade through the grass, all the while staring at her bent knees and the mark she was making.

  ‘Aaand – stop!’ Einar commanded.

  She did as ordered. ‘This is heavy,’ she said, rubbing her aching arms. ‘Why aren’t you doing this bit?’

  ‘Someone has to watch the line. Now, turn to your right.’ He pointed helpfully, ignoring her scowl.

  She looked down at her feet then at the straight line between her and Einar, grunted, and twisted the plough-blade. ‘Like this?’

  ‘Good – now drag it in that direction until I say so.’ He pointed to his left.

  ‘You’re enjoying this,’ Helga muttered as the ground at last started giving way to the blade, a line forming between her retreating footsteps.

  ‘Stop and turn!’

  She did as she was told, dragging the line back towards Einar. When she got to where he was standing and joined the third line to the first, she was sweating. ‘What is this for?’ she asked, catching her breath.

  ‘Don’t you remember the last one?’

  ‘Let’s assume I don’t,’ she said, sharper than she’d intended.

  ‘Oh,’ Einar said, ‘that’s right, we said. That was eleven summers ago now. Sorry. Anyway, this is for the stone throw.’ He gestured at the long triangle Helga had drawn on the ground. ‘The one who throws the furthest wins, but they have to stay inside the lines. Then they’ll go to the next stage, over there’ – he pointed to where a knee-high barrier had been erected in front of three targets, the closest twenty yards away, the furthest a hundred – ‘to chuck axes and spears, then it’s bow and arrow.’

  ‘All on the same day?!’

  ‘Then there’s the foot-race.’ Einar was on a roll now. ‘They’ll go down that way’ – he gestured airily towards the north end of the field, where a stake had been driven into the ground – ‘round the stake and over to the next’ – another stake, driven into the ground to the far east of the field – ‘then down past the third and home.’

  ‘And then they’re done?’

  ‘Oh no.’ Einar grinned. ‘The old bear insists that there’s going to be a game of Tafl too, but he didn’t say any more than that.’

  Helga frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘He has his reasons, probably,’ Einar said. ‘He usually does.’ In the distance they could hear the roll and clatter of a cart. ‘Oh shit! I forgot! The stones—’

  ‘Which stones?’

  Jaki came into view, leading a horse and cart at a slow walk half a mile down the path. Einar looked around, head swivelling. ‘Where’s the axe?’

  Helga stopped and thought, retracing their steps. ‘Over there,’ she said, ‘where we left our food.’ The axe was propped up against a long log just perfect for sitting on for a bite of lunch. It’s good to know what’s important in life, she thought to herself and smiled.

  Einar walked over to the big axe and hefted it. ‘Good,’ he said t
o no one in particular. Then, with a mighty swing, he brought the blade down on the trunk, twisting it on impact and sending a sliver of wood flying as the blade sliced into the wood. His strong arms yanked it free immediately and sent it airborne again and again, the edge of the axe biting ever deeper into the wood. Helga watched the muscles in Einar’s back knotting and releasing, knotting and releasing, as he swung the axe again and again in a visual song of strength and rhythm. Soon enough, a four-foot-long portion of the trunk fell off, sharpened at one end, flat at the other. Einar inched a toe under the log and kicked it to one side, then moved up and started again.

  Helga turned, half listening to the rhythmic sound of metal thwacking into wood, and looked for Jaki. The old man was closing in on them, but he was taking his time, leading the horse gently towards the site. When he saw her, he waved, and the cart rumbled on, coming to a halt just as Einar delivered the final blow.

  ‘Are you just finishing this now, boy?’ Jaki said.

  ‘Forgot, Father. Sorry. I’ve spent most of my time trying to get Helga to work.’

  ‘What?’ Helga spluttered. ‘You have not, you sheep’s arse!’

  Einar grinned. ‘She can be terribly difficult sometimes.’

  ‘Oh, go talk to someone who wants to listen to you,’ Helga said. Then she paused to think. ‘No – wait. That’s no one.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Jaki said, ‘I know which one of you is a lazy bum.’

  Einar picked up one of the logs. It was all he could do to wrap his arms around it. ‘Where do you want them?’

  Jaki looked around. ‘Good work, both of you,’ he said. ‘This is all where it should be. We’ll drop the stones over there.’ He pointed to the centre of the field.

  With Helga following, Einar lugged his log to the spot Jaki had nominated. And while his father led the horse over, Einar turned the piece in his hands and drove it down into the ground until the stump formed a nice, stable circular platform. He measured it by his hip, then put all of his weight on it.