Kin (Helga Finnsdottir)

by Kristjansson, Snorri

  He smiled. ‘I believe you – in fact, I can almost smell it. And the way Karl is behaving—’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘That he was so badly in debt.’

  The Swede smiled. ‘A bladesmith from down south tried to use some of it as a trading chip.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Jorunn said.

  ‘Because you’d have made me use it,’ Sigmar said.

  Jorunn paused at this. ‘. . . I suppose,’ she conceded. Then she smiled. ‘You’re soft, Husband,’ she said.

  Sigmar slid off the rock and walked towards her. ‘In all this fresh air? With all this . . . nature?’ He pulled her close. ‘I think you will find I am not.’

  Jorunn reached behind him, and in a flash her husband was on his knees, whimpering through gritted teeth, his hand bent at a very uncomfortable angle. ‘Good,’ she hissed. ‘Don’t think with your dick – don’t forget why we’re here – and don’t let my brothers goad you into stupid man games.’

  Even on his knees, Sigmar could still manage a grin. ‘You are truly the daughter of Riverside,’ he said.

  ‘And don’t you forget it,’ Jorunn said, mirroring his smile as she leaned down to kiss him, hard.

  *

  Gytha’s mother had not said a single word once they were past the gate. They’d got out of bed at sun-up, inched past her snoring father and dressed in silence. Her mother had grabbed two hand-baskets as she went out. In the yard they’d found Hildigunnur, busy ­splitting logs into sticks for kindling. Gytha had watched her mother exchange not much more than ten words with the old woman, who pointed down the road and gestured some. Agla just glared at her and gestured with her head that she should move, and so she did, following her for what felt like nearly half the morning already, until her mother suddenly turned sharply to the left and led the way off the path and into a copse full of strongly scented berry bushes.

  Now Gytha watched as her mother got down on her knees and reached into the bush for a ripe cluster of blackberries hidden behind the already stripped branches. Suddenly she yelped and yanked her hand back, shoving her finger in her mouth and sucking furiously.

  The question tumbled out before she could stop it. ‘Mum . . . is it true?’

  ‘What?’ Agla snapped, staring down at the ground.

  ‘Is Father—? Do we—?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Agla said. ‘I don’t bloody know.’ She turned around and stared at Gytha, unblinking, as she rose from her crouch. ‘I hope it isn’t.’

  Gytha smiled weakly. ‘It’s probably all lies.’

  Agla held her gaze for a moment that felt like it would last for months. ‘What do you know?’

  ‘Nothing! Nothing,’ Gytha said. ‘Probably less than you do.’

  Standing right in front of her, Agla took a deep breath to centre herself, then another, and another. ‘Good,’ she said, finally. ‘And if you do find something out, you come and tell me, right?’

  ‘Of course, Mum,’ Gytha said. ‘I wouldn’t let you suffer just because Father’s been unreasonable.’

  Agla eyed her suspiciously, but moments later she was back on her knees in front of the bush. ‘Help me with this, then,’ she snapped. ‘Here, hold this branch out of the way . . .’

  Behind her Gytha rolled her eyes as she got down on her knees. ‘It’ll take us for ever to walk back,’ she whined. ‘Why didn’t we take the horses?’

  ‘They’re his horses,’ came the terse reply. ‘He doesn’t have to lend them.’

  ‘Why didn’t you ask him last night? About everything?’

  ‘They’re his answers. He can keep ’em if he wants.’

  ‘But why didn’t you—?’

  Agla turned towards her daughter, and to her shock, Gytha was facing a broken woman. ‘Because I’m his wife,’ she whispered. ‘I’m his. He owns me – he owns you. And if he decides I’m more trouble than I’m worth – what then? He can throw me out and I’ll have nothing. The only way I get to keep anything to my name is when he dies, and he’s not doing that anytime soon.’

  She breathed deep and tried a smile. ‘So I live, and he lives, and we go back to where we live and we don’t come back to this stupid farm for another decade, if ever.’ She took a step towards her daughter and placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘You’ll find a good man to marry, I’ll make sure of it. Someone you like. And just like that, you’ll be gone, and none of this will be yours to worry about. I’ll keep your father under control. I’ve managed so far.’

  Gytha’s lip trembled. ‘I just wanted to see Uppsala, Mum – just once.’

  She smiled again, more brightly this time. ‘You have to learn that it’s not just the question, but when you ask it. We’ll see what we can do,’ she said, winking at her daughter. ‘Now shut up, dearest Daughter, and get to picking blackberries. It helps to pass the time.’

  Gytha smiled at her mother and they started again, plucking the sweet, juicy morsels from between the vicious thorns.

  *

  Unnthor wiped the sweat from his brow and leaned on his hoe. He had dug out a square patch twice the size of the farmyard, but the rest of the land stretched away to all sides, untamed and overgrown. The ground that dipped just past the new barn was covered by a dense line of trees.

  ‘Father,’ Aslak called, coming up the hill from the direction of the longhouse.

  He raised a meaty arm in greeting.

  His youngest son was slim but he carried a big spade over his shoulder. As soon as he arrived, he set to digging, turning the earth over and letting it fall, ready for his father’s hoe to remove the rocks. They fell into a silent rhythm, working companionably together.

  After a long while, Unnthor spoke. ‘You didn’t get to speak last night, Son. The idiots saw to that.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Aslak said.

  ‘Good. We need at least one calm head in the family.’

  ‘Mother’s pretty calm.’

  ‘Besides your mother. We won’t be around to mop up their messes for ever, you know.’

  Aslak smiled. ‘You’ll be here long after we’re gone,’ he said.

  ‘Well then,’ Unnthor said with more than a hint of a smile, ‘tell me of your farm.’

  He sighed. ‘What is there to tell? We scrape by, and Runa’s sick of it. She wants me to be stronger, meaner. More ambitious.’ He slumped. ‘I am a constant disappointment to her.’

  ‘The truth is, anyone but the gods would be, Son,’ Unnthor rumbled. ‘She’s a hard taskmaster and no mistake. But the children love her.’

  At this, Aslak’s face lit up and he said enthusiastically, ‘She is, she’s great with them, and they’re great with – with everything. My family – I have a family, Father: a family. And that’s the most important thing.’

  ‘Family is important,’ Unnthor agreed, hoe smashing into the ground.

  Aslak followed up with a vicious stab of the shovel. ‘That’s the only thing, I think, that might turn me into the man she wants. If someone were to threaten my family.’

  Grunting with the effort, he succeeded in pulling the shovel out of the ground, only to find that Unnthor was looking at him strangely, hoe on the ground, held firmly in his grip.

  ‘You would too, wouldn’t you?’ the old man said, looking his youngest son up and down.

  Aslak stopped and looked his father in the eye. ‘Yes,’ he said without flinching. ‘Yes, I would.’

  After a long moment, Unnthor grinned. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘It’s a poor excuse for a man who doesn’t take care of his family. Let’s go back to your troubles at the farm, though. What needs to be better?’

  ‘Hm,’ Aslak said, leaning on the spade and thinking. ‘A ram with some life in him. Two dogs to train to keep the sheep off the vegetables. A better horse, while I’m dreaming.’

 
; ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Unnthor said. ‘Your old nag was half-dead last year. Is that all, Son?’

  Aslak shrugged. ‘I can put in a shift – you don’t survive at River­side if you can’t, do you?’ He laughed. ‘But starting your own from scratch is harder.’

  ‘I know,’ Unnthor said. ‘I had a hand, so I think it only fair that you have a hand too.’

  Aslak looked at him, blinking. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We’ll make sure your ram comes this summer, along with two dogs and a horse. If I’m lucky, I’ll try to get you a couple of ewes as well.’

  The young man stared at his father. ‘Wh—? Wh—? What? But Father, that’s going to cost a fortune!’

  Unnthor just grinned. ‘There will be a way. The gods will smile upon you. Now, close your mouth and get to work!’

  Speechless, Aslak grabbed his shovel and attacked the earth, wondering at what point he would wake up.

  *

  By the stream, Helga set to work on the last of the bowls. Einar had disappeared, gone off to tend to the horses, maybe, leaving her alone with her thoughts and the song of running water. She thought of the cold, dark hatred in Karl’s eyes as he looked at his siblings, the tooth-gnashing anger of the man, and shuddered despite the summer sun. He was a nasty piece of work, and she couldn’t help but imagine what his father must have been like when he was out raiding. The uneasy sensation that had filled her for the last day or so felt like a great load sitting on her. She absentmindedly reached up by her collarbone and caught the leather thong between her thumb and forefinger, rubbing it slowly as her fingers travelled down to the rune-stone that hung suspended by her heart. It felt smooth, strangely soft – and oddly warm.

  She glanced up from the river just as Bjorn emerged from the longhouse. The big man took two long steps away from the door, but then he turned to face it, and Helga couldn’t quite see who he was talking to or make out the words, but there was something strange about his stance. Although he was frozen in the middle of walking away, his eyes were downcast and he seemed to be listening intently. There was nothing of the usual liveliness about him.

  Finally, he nodded and walked off towards the woods. Helga watched him leave, the frown deepening on her forehead. The rune-stone felt heavy against her breastbone. ‘Right, girl: those bowls won’t wash themselves,’ she muttered in a more than passable imitation of Hildigunnur’s voice as she set to scrubbing. But she couldn’t quite stop herself from glancing up occasionally to see if Bjorn’s conversation partner would leave after him. Who had he been talking to? Why had he looked so like someone being told off? She finished drying the bowls and wrapped them up in Hildigunnur’s cloth to keep them clean. She’d have to go and see for herself.

  She hustled towards the door, struggling a bit with the makeshift bag, opened it carefully and peeked in.

  Empty. Empty as it could be—

  —except for Karl, who was sitting in his father’s big chair, whittling away at a lump of wood.

  ‘Oh – were you—?’

  He looked up at her. ‘Was I what? Sneaking about?’

  Helga felt the colour rush to her cheeks. ‘Nothing,’ she muttered, making her way to Hildigunnur’s end. She heaved the bag up onto the workbench, harder than she had intended, and winced as the bowls clacked together.

  ‘Let me help you.’ She froze. In the cool dark of the longhouse, she could feel the heat of him behind her, really, really close. His arm brushed her side as he reached past her. It was warm and solid. ‘I still know where everything goes, I hope. They don’t like to change things.’ Karl gently eased her grip on the knot holding the bag together and reached for a bowl.

  The words didn’t come, but she felt her skin contract and pull away from him, twisting her body as it tugged at the muscles to avoid touching him as he reached down to put the bowl away.

  ‘. . . it’s fine,’ she stuttered finally.

  Kneeling by her side, he looked up at her, a mischievous glint in his eye. The pendant around his neck drew her gaze as the silver caught the light. ‘Fine is the right word for it,’ he said. He rose, not five inches away from her, and looked at her. Her breath caught in her throat as he leaned in, slowly. She turned her head, but not quick enough to miss the hungry look. Not quick enough to miss that his hand was moving up towards her.

  ‘Helga!’ Hildigunnur’s voice came from the main door. ‘Are you in there, girl?’ Karl just smirked as he moved away, making sure she saw him licking her lips, tasting the smell of her fear in the air. He ducked towards the smaller door and disappeared just as Hildigunnur came in through the main door. ‘There you are! You’re taking for ever!’

  Helga started quickly stacking the bowls. ‘I’m sorry,’ she managed before a wave of nausea, discomfort and fear washed through her, followed by a bigger wave of anger. How dare he? In his father’s house? In my house? She bit back the fury and blinked.

  ‘Don’t worry, we have the day,’ her mother said from across the hall. ‘They’re all out anyway.’

  A couple of tears escaped, but the lump in her throat didn’t go. She swallowed, once, twice – now, breathe – and it was gone. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘All of them.’

  ‘Seeing them last night made me think,’ Hildigunnur said, ‘family is important, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Helga said, working hard to distract herself with the mugs.

  ‘And it is important to have peace in a family,’ Hildigunnur continued.

  ‘Yes,’ Helga said. Keep talking, please. Just a little longer. She clenched her fist and tried to let the sting of nails digging into palms clear her head. ‘Where did Agla go?’ she managed.

  ‘She needed to walk off some feelings, I reckon. I pointed her and Gytha to the berries.’

  Helga folded up the cloth. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘They should be all right now.’

  ‘Don’t really care,’ Hildigunnur said. ‘I just couldn’t stand her face.’ Despite herself, Helga chuckled. ‘It looked like a hoof,’ her mother added. ‘Off the back foot, too.’

  ‘And Thyri?’

  ‘Bjorn took his folks out for a walk, I gather,’ Hildigunnur said, which made Helga frown. So the big man had somehow avoided her as well? So what had the brothers been talking about? And why had Bjorn looked so downcast? He’d been willing to go toe to toe with Karl only last night.

  ‘Are you about done over there?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ Helga said, strapping on a smile and turning to face her mother.

  *

  Up by the new barn Unnthor whittled away at the arrows with quick, sure strokes. The spot he’d chosen was sun-kissed and shielded from the wind. The tree stump he’d placed by the wall for just such an occasion was well worn and the old man relaxed into his seat. By his left leg sat a pile of straight arrows, already finished; by his feet was a growing pile of wood shavings.

  When Karl rounded the corner he had to squint against the brightness. ‘Well met,’ he said.

  ‘Well met,’ Unnthor said, putting down the arrow and laying the whittling knife on his lap.

  ‘I would like to ask your forgiveness,’ Karl said, looking down at his feet.

  For a while, Unnthor didn’t speak. Then, ‘What do you want, Karl?’

  ‘I reckon Aslak and Bjorn will talk to Mother, if they haven’t already. My darling sister will come to you, because she always has, and I thought I should do the same. I only want what I deserve,’ Karl said.

  Unnthor snorted. ‘Oh, I reckon you’re guaranteed to get that.’

  If he noticed the edge in his father’s words, he did not give any signs of it. ‘That’s good to hear. Excellent. Tell me again, Father: the treasure—’

  ‘There is no treasure.’

  ‘The stories say there is.’

  ‘The stories lie.’

  ‘Havard Greybeard said there was.’

&n
bsp; Unnthor looked at Karl. When he spoke, his voice was ice-cold. ‘Where did you hear that name?’

  It was just a little contraction of the lower lip, but on Karl’s face it was the grin of a wolf. ‘Do you remember him?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ Unnthor snapped.

  ‘He says he sailed with you for years.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He says you had a sea-chest.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And he says you sat on it harder and harder the longer you stayed on the boat, and that you’d let no one near it.’

  ‘That’s a lie,’ Unnthor said.

  Karl just looked at him, one eyebrow creeping up to complete the grin. ‘See, Father, I don’t think it is. I think there is a treasure buried somewhere here, and I think you’ll give me what I am ­entitled to. I go home, buy off the debts, you don’t get ill-spoken-­of in your precious valley and your darling granddaughter doesn’t get married to the next passing black-skin merchant with a sack of gold and a taste for flesh.’

  Unnthor rose. ‘Are you threatening me?’ he growled, but Karl stood his ground.

  ‘Not at all. Just give me what’s mine and I’ll be away.’

  The old man looked at Karl, and his shoulders sank. ‘I can’t believe you would use your own daughter for such a bargain.’ He sighed.

  ‘If you’d been a proper father I wouldn’t have had to.’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ Unnthor muttered, ‘but you’ll have to wait until tomorrow. We’ll see off the rest of the family and settle matters before you leave.’

  ‘Thank you, Father. You are truly a wise man,’ Karl said. With the merest hint of a wink, he turned and walked off.

  Unnthor watched him go. Then he looked at the knife in his hands and very carefully resumed whittling.

  *

  The sun was nearing the horizon when the first of the guests returned. Helga heard the dogs barking and peeked around the corner of the longhouse, where Hildigunnur had set her to splitting firewood while she went to see to the butchering for the night’s feast.

  Einar was opening the gate for Agla and Gytha, and Helga noticed that side by side and from a distance, mother and daughter looked almost identical – just as Hildigunnur and Jorunn did. Helga thought about her own height, how she was little more than elbows and knees, and how she looked nothing like anyone on the farm. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ she muttered. ‘There’s more to kin than blood.’ She ducked back behind the woodshed and wished she believed it.