The Dead Man's Doll (3 page)

Wulfstan propped his hands on his hips, and his bisonhide cape flapped around him like giant wings. He'd turned the curly brown hair inside for warmth. “What have you heard?”

William started to tremble. Every slave aboard had been informed that this was a very important voyage, and they had no business asking questions about where they were going or why. The tidbits of story that William knew might get him in trouble. “I—I…”

“Tell me, and with no fancifulness.”

“S-sir, people say she is a Prophetess. A witch who can control the weather.”

Wulfstan expelled an annoyed breath. “All you need to know about her is that she is a prisoner who has been exiled from England.”

“But, Master, why do we need three ships to carry one woman into exile? The Danish King, Sweyn the Forkbeard, is probably attacking England as we speak. Tales say she was the Forkbeard's personal witch. What if…” He halted when Wulfstan's dark eyes flared in anger, or maybe fear.

“What else?”

William suddenly felt very small and vulnerable. He was likely in for the beating of his life. “Well, Master, they say she was captured during the St. Brice Day massacre of the Danelaw, when King Aethelred ordered the slaying of all the Danes in English Territory. I guess her daughter was killed when they—”

The woman whirled around, and a burst of lightning crackled across the sky behind her. As the flashes shimmered through her hair, her head seemed shrouded with white fire. “My daughter is
not
dead!” she said in heavily accented English.

William scuttled backward, trying to flee, but his master grabbed him by the collar and dragged him back.

Wulfstan said, “Sorry, mum. He's an ignorant boy. I'm happy to hear the girl is alive. She's two, isn't she?”

The Prophetess looked away, but not before William saw the tears in her eyes. It stunned him that she'd spoken at all. She had been almost utterly silent the entire journey, just saying “thank you” when someone spoon-fed her, or tipped a cup to her lips to drink. The witch grasped the prow scroll with chained hands as the ship rode up on a big swell and plunged down the other side. The heavy chain around her waist clattered, locked as it was to an iron ring on the hull. A precaution that had proven wise, for on their fourth day at sea, she'd let out a bloodcurdling wail and cast herself overboard. It had been a small matter to yank her back up like a wriggling fish.

“What of her husband?” William quietly asked, too low for her to overhear with the roar of waves and wind. “I heard he was fighting with Pallig's forces when they attacked England. King Aethelred must have hung him by now.”

As though her legs had gone weak, the witch sank to her knees, braced her forehead against the prow, and her shoulders heaved with sobs.

“
If
I knew what you were talking about, William, I would answer, but I don't. Understand?”

“Yes, Master.”

William stared at the Prophetess. Her long hair blew around her like white silk. Now that he'd had a chance to see her up close, his fear had faded. Clearly she was nothing but a broken young woman; all the tales of her pagan magical powers were lies. If not so, by now she would have cast her chains asunder and killed them all with a wave of her hand. And, anyway, what could she do out here at sea? If she killed them all, there'd be no one left to sail the ship. It would sink to the bottom, carrying her with it. She must realize that.

Wulfstan said, “Very well, I'm off for a bite to eat. I'll return shortly.”

“Yes, Master.”

William watched him walk away, then turned back to examine the witch. Apparently her husband and daughter were dead. Once they'd delivered her into exile, she had no family to come looking for her. Word of that had best not get around the ship. She was chained constantly. He'd already heard several members of the crew discussing how easy it would be to gag her and ravish her while the master slept. Then they'd threaten to kill her if she blabbed about it. Though the master had given strict orders that any man caught touching her would be heaved overboard, some lout would likely attempt it before journey's end. After all, men were men.

He nervously licked his lips and forced himself to think of other things. In the distance, the storm had grown violent, as though the rage of the old Norse gods still lived and breathed out here at sea.

***

The Call filled Madyrut with wild longings for things she did not understand, and so she followed it onward through the bitter night. At times, it sounded like a chorus of yips and barks and herds of bull elk bugling all at once. It was dreadfully beautiful. Her heart ached as though it would shatter from the weight of it, but she kept going. When the sky overhead became black as death, and she couldn't see the way any longer, she halted to sleep in the soft beds of moss that grew in the deepest parts of the forest. Upon waking, she listened again, listened until she heard the faint echo out in the trees.

On the sixth day, the Call grew so faint that she heard other things. Behind her. Small soft steps shished in the leaves, steps like those of a terrified child desperately trying to track her through the trees. Madyrut slipped behind a boulder to watch her back trail, but the forest had gone so dark, she could see almost nothing. She heard what sounded like swift breathing, but it could have just been the movements of the forest as night settled over the world. The Call came again, almost too low to hear, and she panicked and charged after it. She knew in her heart that if the animals who stood at the foot of the bridge stopped calling her, she would be lost forever.

On the eighth day, she could run no longer. She slumped down beneath an old chestnut tree and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

As the storm rolled in, the dusk turned bleak and cold. Asson, shivering, used his digging stick to pry up another chunk of dirt, then bent down to examine what he'd unearthed. Gausep slid over to sit beside him. Wind flailed the forest before shrieking away down the coastline.

“What is it?”

Asson tilted his head uncertainly. “A deerhide.”

About three hand-lengths beneath the soil, the deerhide lay stretched out. Brown fur still outlined the edges. The hide looked new, as though the deer had been skinned yesterday.

“Let's see what's beneath it, shall we?”

“Better not,” Gausep warned. “She's in there.”

Asson studied the boy. Gausep had his head tilted to the breeze, listening to something.

“Who is? Madyrut?”

Gausep shook his head, as though frustrated by Asson's silly questions, and fixed his strange eyes on the hide. “Her mother didn't have a body.”

While Asson considered what that might mean, he carefully pulled up the hide. Clods of dirt cascaded back into the hole, partly covering the grave that had been hidden beneath. Frowning, Asson sat back and blinked at it. One carved eye, painted brown and white, seemed to be staring up at him. An entire outfit dressed the carved figurine of the child: a small yellow dress, and thick moosehide moccasins. It was an eerie sort of grave, with a wooden body, painted black hair, and cheeks stained with red ochre. Now, Asson understood why she'd run away. She didn't want to be locked in this wooden body. Had her grieving mother believed that Madyrut's lost soul would be drawn to it? Maybe sleep in it? Had she planned to keep the statue close forever, to hold it at night, and set it by the fire to talk to during the day?

Dirt from the dislodged deerhide obscured most of the grave. Asson bent forward to brush it away.

“Why are her ears so big?” Gausep asked.

“Her mother thought they were big. They weren't.”

A smell, like a filthy old lodge, long abandoned, wafted from the grave. But nothing human. No scent of decayed flesh or old blood. Nothing of warmth or love, no evidence of precious toys or a little girl's cherished bracelets or seed bead necklaces.

Gausep wrinkled his nose. “Ghost dust.”

Asson smoothed his fingers over the figurine's small face, brushing away the soil.

“Why did you do that?” Gausep said and recoiled. “She felt that.”

“Did she?” Asson looked up at the tree, expecting to see some sort of response.

“Her cheeks are redder. Look.” Gausep pointed. “She was warm under the earth, but now she's getting cold.”

It was probably Asson's imagination, but the red ochre on the cheeks did seem brighter. The light must have changed as the storm moved in. Out over the ocean, a lightning-slashed, gray veil of snow fell. Odd this time of year, to see lightning.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Creaks and groans sawed the air when the spreading branches of the chestnut whipped back and forth. “Madyrut? What is this?” he asked the ghost in the tree.

No answer. Not even weeping.

Gausep bit his lip, watching the painted figurine for long moments. “I want to hold her. She's afraid, and she needs someone to keep her warm.”

Asson gave the boy a long look. “She not in here, Gausep. She's in the tree…” His gaze was drawn upward. “Isn't she?” A tingle shot through his veins.

“Let's build a fire, Elder. I want to see all the lost things buried in holes in the ground.”

***

The sound of muffled voices woke Wulfstan the Tall. When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the woolen tent stretched over his head, then the snow falling through the lamp-lit darkness beyond. Great God, this voyage was madness. Once they'd stranded the Prophetess, he'd have to put ashore somewhere, find shelter for his crew, and pray they could last until spring thaw. He'd no idea what the other two ships accompanying them would do. He prayed their captains would listen to reason, for none of them would ever make it back to England now. That was certain.

After rubbing fists into his tired eyes, Wulfstan lifted his head to look down the length of the knorr. Four men had gathered around the Prophetess. He couldn't see them very well through the snow, but he thought he heard the woman crying.

“Here, now! What are you doing there?” He threw back his hides and fought the rocking ship to hurry forward.

The exiled Prophetess sat beside the prow with her head hanging and her chained hands in her lap. Her wrists were bleeding, as though she'd been struggling against the chains.

As he approached, Wulfstan's slaves gave him wide-eyed looks. “Get away from her! Why aren't you at your oar positions?”

“Master, the sea got so rough we feared she'd been swept into the water. We came to make certain her chains were secure.”

“It took four of you to do that?”

The men shrugged and cast knowing glances at each other. Young William the Weak stood off to the side wearing a frightened expression. “William? What happened here?”

The youth avoided his eyes. “Just as Richard said, sir. As the storm grew worse, we became concerned for her safety.”

Wulfstan gave the youth the evil eye. “Get back to your oar positions! If I catch any of you near her again, I'll cast the whole lot of you into the sea.” Of course, with the storm, he couldn't do that. He needed each and every man.

Men scuttled away to pick up their oars and start rowing, but he noted the secret smirks they shared.

Wulfstan crouched before the woman. The hood of her fox-skin cape had fallen back, and her ivory hair was coated with snow. He pulled her hood up again and brushed the snow from her shoulders. “Tell me what happened, Prophetess. Did they harm you?”

She gave him a miserable glance and looked out at the frothing sea and waves. The storm had actually started to break up. Broad patches of star-strewn sky gleamed amid the clouds.

Wulfstan said, “Well, take heart. The seabirds and the patterns of the swells tell me that we should make landfall around dawn.”

Her head fell forward, and he wasn't sure if she had laughed or sobbed. She'd be alone in Vinland, which some called the Land of the One-Legged, a legendary place populated by uniped trolls with no knowledge of iron. Though he feared his own fate over the next few months, he would not exchange places with her for all the gold in England.

Wulfstan rose to his feet. “As soon as we find a suitable place, we'll put you ashore quick as we can, and you'll be free of us.”

She had a strangely deep voice for a woman. “But you, Master Wulfstan, will not be free of me.”

***

Gausep abruptly dropped the white scraper into the grave and leapt to his feet. Moonlight had just broken through the clouds, and a glittering wash of silver painted the ocean.

Asson lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the campfire's gleam. “What is it? Do you see something?”

The hole they'd been digging around the carved figurine had grown large enough to hold an adult body, but they'd found no bones or belongings. Just a cold piece of wood wearing a yellow dress. The single brown-and-white eye continued to watch Asson as though waiting for him to understand something.

“It's time to go.”

“Go? But it's still dark. Why don't you wait until morning? I don't want you to get lost.” The boy trotted a short distance away, and Asson lunged to his feet. “Gausep, come and sit down by the fire! I'll take you home after dawn.”

Gausep turned. His eyes were bright and golden, filled with firelight. “It won't do any good. They're all gone.”

“What do you mean?” Asson walked over to where the boy stood, just beyond where the surf rolled across the shore.

“They're all gone,” Gausep said with tears in his voice. “All of them.” He weakly waved a hand to the south.

Wind Woman flattened Asson's coat across his chest, and once again, he smelled smoke. He turned and flared his nostrils while he searched the vista. Waves crashed upon the rocky shore, creating a curving white strip for as far south as he could see. As the clouds ebbed and flowed across the face of the moon, his brows drew together. What was that? It looked like heaps of timbers stacked along the beach. Crisscrossing timbers. Were they the source of the smoke? Bonfires? It took him a moment to realize that they had once, not long ago, been lodges.