Heroes of the Valley (3 page)

'Shaping a beard is a down-valley tradition,' Brodir advised him. 'In these parts it has long been thought unmanly.'

'But everyone apart from you does it.'

'Oh well,
they
follow your father, and
he
is influenced by dear Astrid, who comes from Erlend's House, down among the Loops, where people's hair is so light-rooted it often blows off in the sea winds. It makes little difference if
they
clip and preen.'

Beard aside, Brodir was unlike Halli's father in so many ways it was hard to imagine they had blood kinship at all. Where Arnkel was big-boned, Brodir was slight (though inclined to an ale-paunch around the belly), with a somewhat pudgy, ill-formed face ('Onund's stock again' was Katla's verdict). Arnkel radiated a ponderous authority, but Brodir had none whatsoever and seemed the happier for it. Despite being a second son, he had never taken possession of one of the smaller farms dotted among the lands of Svein's House. It was said that in his youth he had travelled far along the valley; now he remained at the old hall. working in the fields among the men, and drinking with them after dark. Most evenings he was consequently raucous, humorous and abrasive. Occasionally he absented himself on his horse, Brawler, and disappeared for days, returning wild-eyed with stories of what he'd seen.

And it was the stories that Halli loved him for above all.

On summer evenings, while Brodir was sober, and the westering sun still warmed the bench outside the hall, they sat together looking up towards the southern ridge and talked. Then Halli heard of the rich lands of the Loops, where the river was languorous, and the cows and farmers both grew fat; he heard of the estuary beyond, where the Houses were built on great stone levees so that during the floods of spring they seemed to float upon the water, chimneys gently smoking, like scattered boats or islands. He heard too of the higher tributaries, where the valley petered out among places of waterfall and tumbled stone, where grass gave over to slate and no animals lived except the chits and chaffinches.

But always Brodir returned at last to the greatest of the Twelve Houses – Svein's; to its leaders, the Arbiters and Lawgivers, to their feuds and love affairs and the positions of their cairns upon the hill. And above all, he told of Svein himself, of his countless startling adventures, of his escapades upon the moors when it was still permitted to go there, and of the great Battle of the Rock, when he and the lesser heroes held out against the Trows and drove them from the valley to the heights.

'See his cairn up there?' Brodir would say, pointing with his cup. 'Well, it's more like a mound now, I suppose, with all the grass upon it. All the heroes were buried like that, up on the ridge above their Houses. Know how they positioned him inside?'

'No, Uncle.'

'Sitting on a stone seat, facing towards the moors, with his sword upright in his hand. Know why?'

'To scare the Trows.'

'Yes, and keep them scared. It's worked too.'

'Are there cairns
all
along the valley? Not just here?'

'From Riversmouth to High Stones, both sides. We all follow the heroes and reinforce the boundary like good children. There are as many piles of stones above the valley as there are leaves on a summer tree, and each pile sits atop a forgotten son or daughter of a House.'

'I will one day be like Svein,' Halli said stoutly, 'and do great deeds that are long remembered. Though I do not much want to end up on the hill.'

Brodir sat back on the bench. 'You will find such deeds are difficult now. Where are the swords? Under the cairns or rusting on the walls! We are none of us allowed to be like Svein any more . . .' He took a long draught of ale. 'Save perhaps in our early deaths. All us Sveinssons die young. But no doubt your mother has told you this.'

'She has not.'

'Oh, and she a great one for the histories! So she did not tell you of my elder brother Leif – what happened to him?'

'No.'

'Ah . . .' He looked contemplatively at his cup.

'
Uncle
. . .'

'Eaten by wolves up-valley, aged sixteen.' Brodir pulled at his nose and sniffed. 'It had been a hard winter for the wolves, and proved harder still for Leif. The attack happened on Gestsson land, but the pack had come down from the Trow moors, so our family could not prove negligence . . . So it goes. Then there was Bjorn in the previous generation . . .'

'Wolves?'

'Bear. A single swipe while picking cloudberries up by Skafti's boulder. Mind you, that was better than
his
father, Flosi, your great-grandfather. A sad demise.'

'How, Uncle? How?'

'Bee sting. Swelled to the most appalling size . . . Not one for the ballads, if truth be known . . . Cheer up, boy! Do not fear – these are unusual deaths.'

'I am glad to hear it.'

'Yes, most of us die of overindulgence.' He raised his cup and tapped it. 'Too much of this. We're fated that way.'

Halli swung his legs back and forth beneath the bench. 'Not me, Uncle.'

'Your grandfather Thorir said exactly that. But he died even so – at your parents' wedding as a matter of fact.'

'Of drink?'

'In a way. He fell down the well while hunting for the pisshouse. Well, it is a gloomy outlook. I think I will go to the keg for another draught to cheer me. But you. my boy, should go to bed.'

For Halli in his early youth, bedtime was the most intimate moment of the day, when he could mull on events and what he had learned. He lay beneath his woollen blanket, staring up at the window at the end of the cot, through which the stars shone cold over the dark slabs of the mountains, and listened to the hum of voices from the hall, where his parents conducted the evening arbitrations. When Katla came in to snuff the light, he would question her on whatever was on his mind.

'Tell me of the Trows, Katla.'

The room would be dark, save for the flickering candle on the shelf. Each wrinkle in the nurse's face stood out like a furrow on a winter field; she was a carving from some black-grained wood. Her words drifted in and out of his sleep-fogged mind.

'Ah, the Trows . . . Their faces are dark as the mud under stones . . . They smell of graves and they hide from the sun . . . They wait inside the hill for an unwary soul to stray too high upon its slopes. Then they will
spring
! Set one foot beyond those cairns, Halli, and they will rise up and pull you screaming into the earth . . . Well, I expect you are growing cosy now. I shall blow the candle out . . . What was that, boy?'

'Have you ever seen a Trow, Katla?'

'No, thank Svein!'

'Oh . . . Is there anything wicked you
have
seen?'

'Never! At my age I consider it a miracle and a blessing to have been so spared. But note that my safety does not stem from good fortune alone. No, I have always carried strong charms on my person to ward off evil of all kinds. I scatter flowers on the cairns of my parents every spring; I leave offerings by the weeping willows to placate the wheer-folk. In addition, I avoid apple trees at noon, keep my eyes averted from the pointing shadows of the cairns, and never, ever relieve myself near a stream or berry bush for fear of offending its fairy resident. So you can see for yourself it is as much good sense and preparedness as anything. And if you wish to live long, you will follow my example. Not another word, dear Halli! This candle must go out.'

It is not to be thought that Halli was a retiring, unassuming child; indeed, from the first, he was unusually confident and overbearing. But he knew when to be silent. Day on day, year on year, he listened quietly to the tales of Svein's House. And every night, as certainly as if played out upon his mother's darting loom, the threads of each story were woven into his life and dreams.

S
VEIN'S QUALITIES WERE EVIDENT
from the first. As a child he was stronger than any man, capable of breaking a bullock's neck in an arm-lock. He was proud and passionate too, and, if his temper got the better of him, very hard to manage. Once he threw an insolent servant over a haystack; after that, when the anger was on him, he went out hunting Trows. When he was no older than you, he carried one of their claws home in his thigh after a fight out in the fields. The Trow had dragged him so deep into the earth that his armpits were filled with mud, but Svein caught hold of a tree root and held on all night till the sun rose over the Snag. Then the Trow's power was sapped and Svein broke free. He found the claw in his leg when he got home. 'I was lucky,' he said. 'That was a young one, not at full strength.'

No, I don't know where the claw is now. Don't ask so many questions.

At fourteen Halli remained short, broad and bandy in the leg. Though only two years from full manhood, he was little over half the height of his brother Leif, while his head reached Gudny's shoulders only when he stood on tiptoe.

However, he had the luck of good health. He remained untouched by black creep, sow's fever, dank mottle or any of the dozen other maladies that were endemic to the upper valley. This hardiness was aligned to a certain vitality of spirit, which manifested itself in every thought and action, and which chafed at the daily restrictions of the House.

Most of Svein's people were taciturn and patient, weathered inside and out by exposure to the mountain seasons. For them the long, slow rhythms of farm and field held sway; they tended the animals, grew crops and practised their crafts just as their parents had done. Despite their status, Arnkel and Astrid made no exception for themselves or their children and threw themselves into every chore, but it was noticed by all that Halli had little interest in following their example.

'Anyone see Halli today?' Arnkel growled as the men gathered in the yard, hot and straw-strewn, for their day's-end ale. 'He did not work my field.'

'Nor mine,' Leif said. 'He should have been helping the women rake hay.'

Bolli the bread-maker came waddling across the flagstones.

'I'll tell you exactly where he was! Back here, stealing my oatcakes!'

'You caught him at it?'

'I as good as saw him! As I laboured at my oven, I heard a horrid screeching outside my door. I hurried out to find a cat tied by the tail to the door latch; it took me much effort to work the string loose. When I returned inside, what did I see? A hook on the end of a pole retreating through my window, with five fine cakes impaled upon its point! I ran to the window – but too late! The villain was gone.'

Arnkel scowled. 'You're sure this was Halli?'

'Who else would it be?'

A murmur of weary agreement rose amongst the men. 'All year it has been like this!' Grim the smith said. 'A series of jokes and thefts and escapades at the expense of others! He contrives one after the other with the speed of one possessed.'

Unn the tanner nodded. 'My goat stolen and tethered up beside the crags! Do you recall it? He said he wished to lure a wolf !'

'What about those snares he left in the orchard?' Leif said. 'Allegedly so that he could "catch an imp". Who did he catch instead? Me! My ankles throb even now!'

'Remember those thistles wedged inside the privy?'

'My leggings hung upon the flagpole!'

'No punishment seems to bother him. He is impervious to threats!'

Arnkel's brother Brodir had been listening in silence. Now he put down his cup and wiped his hand across his ragged beard. 'You take it all too seriously,' he said. 'Where is the harm in any of this? The boy is imaginative and bored, that's all. He wants adventure – a little stimulation.'

'Oh, stimulation I can help him with,' Arnkel said. 'Someone find Halli and bring him to me.'

Despite repeated beatings, complaints about Halli's behaviour continued through the summer. In desperation Arnkel put his son in the daily care of Eyjolf, head servant of the House.

One evening, when Katla was pulling the nightshirt over Halli's head, he was summoned into the hall. His father, who had just finished the day's arbitrations, sat in his Law Seat, his horse-strap in his hand. Halli blinked at it, and then at Eyjolf grinning beside the dais.

'Halli,' Arnkel said slowly, 'Eyjolf seeks arbitration on your behaviour today.'

Halli stared bleakly about him. The hall was empty; golden light drifted through the western window and glinted on the hero's treasures. The fire had not been lit and the air was growing chill. The Seat next to his father's was empty.

'Shouldn't Mother be here, if it's an arbitration?'

Arnkel's face darkened. 'I feel sure I can make this judgement without her help. No detailed knowledge of the Law will be necessary to comprehend your deeds. So then, Eyjolf – make your charge.'

The head servant was almost as old as Katla. Stooped, cadaverous and of somewhat sour disposition, he looked on Halli without affection. 'Great Arnkel, as you requested I have been putting Halli to good constructive work, mainly in the latrines, the middens and the tanning vats. For three days he has been giving me the run-around, vexing me with impudence. At last, today, as I took him to muck out the stables, he gave me the slip and ran into the servants' quarters. As I followed, a set of booby traps waylaid me. I was tripped by a concealed wire, spread-eagled by butter on the flagstones, frightened by a makeshift ghost hidden round a corner, and finally, when I tottered into my own small room, soundly drenched by a bucket of slops balanced on the open door. I was forced to duck my head repeatedly in the horse trough, to the amusement of people in the yard. Then, when I looked up, what did I see? Halli smirking down at me from atop the roof of Grim's forge! He claimed to be watching the ridge for signs of Trows.'

As he pronounced the final word, Eyjolf made a complex series of careful signs. Halli, who had been listening with a show of unconcern, took a sudden interest.

'What are you doing, old Eyjolf ? Does every entrance to your body have to be protected when you talk of Trows?'

'Insolent child! I am stoppering myself against their unclean power. Be silent! Arnkel, it took me an age to get him down from that roof. He might have fallen and broken his neck, which would have been a shame for you, if not for me. These are the facts, and the truth of it. I request arbitration and a thrashing for Halli.'

Arnkel spoke in the deep tones he used as Arbiter. 'Halli,' he said, 'this is a grim catalogue. It sorrows me that you should display, in such short order, wanton disrespect to a valued servant, disregard for your own safety, and blithe irreverence to the supernatural dangers that surround us. Do you have anything to say?'

Halli nodded. 'Father, I draw attention to Eyjolf 's misconduct. He has neglected to mention that he gave his solemn word not to report any of this to you. In return for his oath I climbed down from the roof promptly and spent the whole day mucking out the stables.'

Halli's father scratched at his beard. 'Maybe, but that does not negate your crimes.'

'Those are easily answered,' Halli said. 'As to my own wellbeing, I was in no danger. I am as spry as a goat, as you have often observed. I made no damage to the fabric of Grim's roof. My interest in the Trows is born from a desire to more fully comprehend the dangers that beset us and is not in the least irreverent. As for my disrespect to Eyjolf, it appears well-founded, since he is an oath-breaker and should be strung up by the heels from the flag-mast in the yard.'

At this Eyjolf made a shrill interjection, but Halli's father shushed him.

Arnkel tapped the horse-strap with his fingers and stared at his son. 'Halli, your argument is tenuous, but since it hinges on a question of personal honour I feel I have to pause. Above all things we must maintain the honour of ourselves and of our House, and this extends to bargains made between men. Eyjolf, did you in fact agree to keep quiet about events today?'

The old man huffed and blew and sucked in his cheeks but had to admit it was so.

'Then in all conscience I cannot beat Halli in this instance.'

'Thank you, Father! Will Eyjolf be punished for his lack of faith?'

'His disappointment in your acquittal will suffice. See how his face sags. Wait! Do not leave so readily. I have said I will not punish you, but I have not yet finished.'

Halli paused on his way to the door. 'Oh?'

'It is clear that you are bored of your tasks here,' Arnkel said. 'Very well, I have another for you. The near flock needs moving to the high pastures above the House for the last few weeks of summer. Do you know the spot? It is a lonely place, close to the boundary where the Trows walk at night. There is danger of wolves too, even this season. To protect the flock a shepherd must be quick-witted and nimble, brave and enterprising . . . But you rejoice in such qualities, do you not?' Arnkel smiled thinly at his son. 'Who knows? Perhaps you will at last see a Trow.'

Halli hesitated, then shrugged as if the matter were of no consequence. 'Shall I be back for the Gathering?'

'I will send someone for you in good time. Not another word! You may go.'

The high pasture was little more than an hour's walk from Svein's House if a certain winding track were used to scale the ridge, but its location felt considerably more remote. It was a place of boulders, clefts and deep blue shadow, where the only sounds were the breeze and birdsong. The sheep wandered near and far, growing fat on grass and sedge. Halli found a ruined stone hut on a grass spur in the centre of the pasture; he camped there, eating cloudberries, drinking goat's milk and taking water from a spring. Every few days a boy brought up cheese, bread, fruits and meat. Otherwise he was alone.

Not for anything would Halli have admitted to his father any nervousness at the prospect of his solitude, but that nervousness existed, for the line of cairns loomed close upon the skyline.

Across the top end of the pasture a stone wall had been built, straddling the contour of the hill. It was there to prevent the sheep straying close to the summit of the ridge, where the cairns were. It was there to prevent people straying too. Halli stood at the wall often, gazing up towards the tooth-shaped stacks of stone that were just visible on the hump of the hill. Some were tall and thin, some broad, others sloughed or crooked. Each one hid the body of an ancestor; all were there to help Svein guard the boundary against the wicked Trows. Even in full sunlight they remained dark, a sombre, watchful presence; on grey days their proximity cast a pall on Halli's mood. In late afternoons, he was careful lest their long low shadows should touch him and he was Trow-stricken.

Each night he lay in the hut's black silence, nostrils filled with the smell of earth and the sour wool of his blanket, and imagined the Trows shuffling on the moors above, straining against the boundary, hungry for his flesh . . . At such times the boundary seemed scant protection. He whispered thanks to the ancestors for their vigilance and hid his head until sleep came.

If Halli's nights were troublesome, the days were pleasant and eased the frustrations of his heart. For the first time that he could remember he was free to do as he saw fit. No one gave him orders; no one beat him. His parents' disapproving eyes were far away. He was not required to carry out dull jobs in House or field.

Instead, he lay in the grass and dreamed great deeds – those that Svein had accomplished in the distant past, and those that
he
one day intended to perform.

While the sheep grazed peaceably, Halli would survey the scene below, following the brown-green slabs of Svein's fields as they fell towards the valley's central fold, where he had never been. Here, he knew, the great road ran beside the river, away east to the cataracts and beyond. On the opposite side of the river, the wooded slopes rose steeply. These belonged to Rurik's House. He could see smoke from its chimneys sometimes, hanging over distant trees. Rurik's ridge, like Svein's, was topped with cairns; beyond hung the grey slopes and white crests of the mountains, part of the great unbroken wall that swung round north, west and south, hemming in the valley.

Long ago, great Svein had explored all this. Sword in hand, he had journeyed up and down the valley from High Stones to the sea, fighting Trows, killing outlaws, gaining renown . . . Each morning Halli would gaze towards the rising sun, to the jagged silhouette of the Snag, the granite spur that hid the lower valley. One day he too would go that way – below the Snag, down through the gorge, in search of adventure – just as Svein had done.

In the meantime, he had some sheep to tend to.

Halli had nothing against the sheep, a hardy mountain breed with black faces and wiry wool. Most of the time they took care of themselves. Once a yearling lamb fell into a crack between two boulders and had to be pulled free. On another occasion a ewe broke a foreleg in a tumble from a crag – Halli fashioned a crude splint from a wood stave and the fabric of his tunic, and sent her hobbling on her way. But as the weeks went by, their company began to pall and Halli grew tired of his duties. He spent more and more time staring uphill – towards the cairns.