West of the Moon (30 page)

Where's the child?

Sidling up the roof like a crab.

At least he's pulled his foot in – no, don't go near the ridge!

As if he hears, the child sinks down just below the ridge, but he keeps popping up his head and peering over. Kwimu bites his lip in agony.
Stop doing that, they'll see you!

The chief gives another order. The child on the roof understands: he flattens himself again: and the men troop back to the houses and empty them. Everything is carried out. They stagger down to the river under bundles of furs, and heave them into the belly of the second Horned Serpent, the big one with the eagle's beak. They bring out gear, pots, sacks, weapons. Shouting, they load up with timber from a pile near the beach. “They're leaving!” Kwimu says with a gasp of relief. “They're going away!”

Sinumkw makes a brushing movement with his hand:
quiet
. He watches the scene below with a hunter's intensity.

At last, all is ready. A small, fat canoe collects the chieftain and his golden son –
they
don't have to wade through the freezing water. The chieftain hoists himself aboard the big Serpent, but his son is ferried to the smaller vessel, and leaps aboard. Kwimu shades his eyes. The boy strides up and down, pouring something out of a big pot. He upends the pot, shakes out the last drops, and tosses it overboard. With an arm twined around the Horned Serpent's painted neck, he catches a rope that uncoils through the air from the bigger vessel. He knots it at the base of the neck, and jumps into the waiting canoe. In moments, he's back with his father.

The men lift out long, thin paddles. Slowly the Horned Serpent turns away from the shore, swinging with the current till it's pointing out to sea.

Kwimu has never seen paddling like this before, with all the men facing the wrong way. How can they see where to go? But it seems to work. The red and black
jipijka'm
crawls away out of the river, loaded with furs and timber, towing its companion behind it – the red Serpent of the Dead.

They're going, and they haven't found the child. Does he know he's safe? Kwimu glances down at the roof.

The child is sitting up, staring.

Get down, get down – they might still see you…

But the child gets slowly to his feet. He stands on the rooftop in full view of the river. He lifts both arms, and starts to wave and scream. He's dancing on the roof, yelling in a shrill voice.

“He mocks his enemies!” says Sinumkw in deep appreciation.

But Kwimu isn't so sure. He's got a cold feeling that if he could understand, the child might be screaming, “Come back, come back! Don't leave me!”

But the two vessels are leaving the river, heading into the hazy waters of the bay. Something else now: they're casting off the rope. A feather of fire flies through the air, curving into the red Serpent. A moment later, flames splutter fiercely up.

“Oil,” Sinumkw nods. “They poured in oil to make it burn.”

Kwimu can actually hear it, crackling like a hundred spits. Black smoke pours up in a tall column. The red serpent body seems writhing in flames.

Down below, the child is scrambling off the roof. He drops the last few feet and goes racing over the ravaged grasslands towards the beach.

“Let's get him!” Kwimu turns to Sinumkw. “Please,
Nujj
…”

“No.”

“Oh, please,
Nujj
. He's only little, and he's brave…”

“A bear cub is little and brave,” says his father, “and if you take one for a pet, it will grow up into a big bear and claw your arm off.”

Kwimu swallows. “I know… but can we leave him to die?” “
They
have.” Sinumkw nods towards the bay. “He's not one of the People, Kwimu. Not one of us.”

“But you like him,” says Kwimu desperately. “You laughed at the way he tricked the warriors. See – Fox approves!” Fox twists his head and licks Kwimu's hand to encourage him. Kwimu's words come from deep inside him, like a spring of water that has to bubble out. “He might become your son, Nujj. My brother.”

Sinumkw looks at him. He sighs. “Well. We can try. Perhaps the cub is young enough to tame. Don't be surprised if he bites you.”

The slope ahead is too steep to descend. They turn back into the woods to find another way down. Kwimu looks back once more at the burning vessel, and is in time to see it tip up and slide neatly under the water. The snarling serpent head vanishes last, and nothing is left except for drifting smoke fading against the sky.

The other
jipijka'm
is already out of the bay and turning up the gulf towards the open sea: and from this distance it looks more like a serpent than ever – a living serpent, swimming quietly away through the haze.

Down on the shingle, nine-year-old Ottar, young son of Thorolf the Seafarer, stands knee-deep in the cold waves. Tears pour down his cheeks. He's orphaned, desperate, stranded in this horrible place on the wrong side of the world. He hears a shout from the beach behind him. He turns, his heart leaping in wild, unbelieving hope. Somehow it's going to be all right – it's been a bad dream or an even worse joke – and he won't even be angry. He'll run to whoever it is, and cling to them, and sob until the sobbing turns into laughter.

And then he sees. His mouth goes dry. Coming towards him on the rising ground between him and the houses are two terrible figures. Their long hair is as black as pitch, and tied with coloured strings. Their clothes are daubed with magic signs. Furs dangle from their belts. They are both carrying bows. But the frightening thing – the really frightening thing about them – is that you can't see their expressions at all. Half of their faces are covered in black paint, the other half in red. Their eyes glitter white and black.

“Skraelings!” Ottar whispers. “Dirty Skraelings!”

He prepares to die.

T
HE GREEN SEA
slopped around Peer Ulfsson's waist, and rose to his chest. “Yow!” he yelled. As the wave plunged past, he bent to look through the water.

There! He saw it: the hammer he'd dropped. His fingers closed on the handle as the next wave swept past his ears and knocked him over. He rolled backwards in a freezing froth of bubbles and sand and struggled up, spluttering but brandishing the hammer in triumph.

“Got it!”

“So I see.” Bjørn's face was one wide grin. “If you'd tied it to your wrist like I told you, you wouldn't have had to do that. Get dressed: you look like a plucked chicken.”

Peer laughed through chattering teeth. He dragged his discarded jerkin over his head, fighting wet arms through the sleeves. It fell in warm folds almost to his knees, and he hugged his arms across his chest. “Aaah, that's better. I'll leave my breeches till I've dried off a bit… Who's shouting? What's wrong?”

Bjørn stiffened, shading his eyes to look down the fjord. “It's Harald. He's seen a ship. Yes – there's a strange ship coming.”

Peer jumped up on the new jetty and joined Bjørn at the unfinished end, where the last few planks waited to be nailed down. Out where the shining fjord met the pale spring sky he saw a large, reddish sail, square-on, and the thin line of an upthrust prow like the neck of a snail. A big ship running into Trollsvik before the wind.

“Who is it?”

Bjørn didn't take his eyes off the ship. “I don't know the sail. Could be raiders. Best not take chances. Run for help, Peer. Tell everyone you can.”

A lonely little village like Trollsvik could expect no mercy from a shipful of Viking raiders. Peer turned without argument, and saw people hurrying across the beach. “Look, Harald's raised the alarm already. Here he comes, with Snorri and Einar…”

“Hey, Harald!” Bjørn bawled at the top of his voice. “Whose ship is that?”

A bandy-legged man with straggling grey hair raised an arm in reply as he puffed across the shingle and climbed painfully on to the jetty.

“No idea,” he wheezed. “You don't know it, either?”

“Not me,” said Bjørn. Peer looked at the ship – already much closer – then back at the little crowd. Most of the men had snatched up some kind of weapon. Snorri One-Eye carried a pitchfork, and old Thorkell came hobbling along with a hoe. Einar had a harpoon. Snorri's fierce, grey-haired wife Gerd came limping after him over the stones, clutching a wicked-looking knife. Even Einar's two little boys had begun piling up big round stones to throw at the visitors. Peer wondered if he should join them. Then he realised he was holding a weapon already. His hammer.

He hefted it. It was long-handled and heavy. When he swung it, it seemed to pull his hand after it. As if it wanted to strike.
Could I really hit anyone with this?
He imagined smashing it into someone's head, and sucked a wincing breath.

The neighbours were arguing.

“No fear!” yelled Gerd, lowering her knife. “See the dragonhead? That's Thorolf 's ship, the old
Long Serpent
that Ralf Eiriksson sailed on.”

“It never is,” Snorri turned on his wife. “Thorolf 's been gone two years now, went off to Vinland.”

“So what?” Gerd was undaunted. “He can come back, can't he?”

“Fool of a woman,” Snorri shouted. “That's not his ship, I say! This one's as broad in the beam as you are – the
Long Serpent
was narrower —”

“That isn't the
Long Serpent
,” Peer put in. “I should know. My father helped to build her.”

“This looks like a trader,” Einar said. “Built for cargo, not war.”

“That's all very well, Einar. Plenty of traders turn into raiders when it suits them – doesn't mean her crew won't fight.”

“What do you think, Bjørn?” asked Peer in a low voice. “Will we have to fight?”

Bjørn gave him a glance, half-humorous, half-sympathetic. “I don't know. Let's put on a good show and hope they're friendly.”

Peer tensed his shoulders and took a good grip on the hammer. The ship was so close now that he could see the stains on the ochre-red sail. The hull was painted in faded red and black stripes. A man stood in the bows, just behind the upward swoop of its tall dragon-neck.

We could be fighting in a few minutes. I might die…
And with a jump of his heart he thought of Hilde, up at the farm on Troll Fell. What if he never saw her again? And who would warn her – who would tell her, if these men were dangerous?

There was a flurry of activity on board. Down came the sail in vast folds. Out came the oars to row her in. The villagers bunched like sheep.

The man in the bows cupped a hand round his mouth and yelled, “Bjørn!”

Bjørn threw his head up. “Arne!” he shouted back. “Is that you?”

Arne, Bjørn's brother! The villagers broke into relieved, lively chatter. Peer unclenched stiff fingers from the haft of his hammer. He wouldn't need it as a weapon after all: he could go back to knocking in nails.

Could he have used it? Would he be any good in a fight? The word
coward
brushed across his mind. With a shrug that was half a shudder, he dismissed the idea. It didn't matter now.

“The ship's called
Water Snake
,” Arne shouted across the narrowing gap of water. “Gunnar Ingolfsson's the skipper. He wants to meet Ralf Eiriksson.”

“Who's this Gunnar? Why does he want Ralf?” Peer wondered, as the ship closed on the jetty.

“Gunnar Ingolfsson?” Bjørn snapped his fingers. “He's the man Thorolf took on as a partner, a couple of years ago. A sea rover, a bit of a Viking. He and Thorolf sailed off to Vinland together in two ships. So why's he here, and why's Arne with him?”

Peer shrugged. He wasn't curious about Arne.

“Vinland? Vinland?” muttered Einar. “Where's that?”

“The land beyond the sunset,” Peer said eagerly, and Snorri added, “Remember? When Ralf and Thorolf found a new land all covered in forests…”

“I know that,” Einar huffed, “but I thought they called it Woodland.”

“They did!” Snorri waved a triumphant finger. “But other ships went there and found vines. Vines, Vinland, see? This Gunnar must be making a second trip. I've heard you can bring back a fortune in timber and furs and grapes. I've got half a mind to go myself.”

“Ho, yes,” scoffed Einar. “And how would you know what a grape looks like? Ever seen one?”

“Arne's a wild one,” Bjørn said to Peer. “What's he done with his fishing boat? Sold it? He's crazy.”

“He always wanted to go a-Viking,” Peer pointed out. Bjørn grinned suddenly. “That's why I say he's crazy!”
And that's why Hilde likes him
, thought Peer. He wished he could do something exciting or brave.

The big ship came nudging up to the jetty. Seven or eight men were busy on board, lifting the oars in, collecting their gear. Arne threw a rope up to Bjørn. “Nice new jetty,” he called, laughing. “Did you build it for us? It's good, this'll be easier for Astrid.”

“Astrid?”

“The skipper's wife.”

Everyone stared. Peer got a glimpse of a girl in a blue cloak, huddled under an awning which had been rigged up behind the mast. Arne climbed on to the jetty and wrung Bjørn's hand. He clapped Peer on the shoulder and said, “Fancy a voyage to Vinland?” before turning to offer a helping hand to the girl, who was clutching some kind of pouch or bag. A giant of a fellow with a shock of almost white fair hair tried to boost her up from the ship.

Peer watched scornfully.
Hilde wouldn't need helping out of a boat. She'd just kilt up her dress and jump out, laughing!

Hilde, Hilde! She teased Peer, bossed him about, and drove him crazy. Last spring, he'd made the mistake of impulsively kissing her, and she'd laughed at him. He hadn't dared to do it since, except in dreams.

One day
, he swore to himself,
one day when the time is right, I'll go to Hilde and ask her… or perhaps I'll say…

No, I'll tell her: ‘We just belong together.'

But would she agree? “Hey! You!”

Lost in thought, Peer didn't notice the voice hailing him from the ship.

“You there – Barelegs!”

“Peer!” Einar jogged him in the ribs. “The young lord's talking to you.”

“What?” Peer woke up. Had he heard what he thought he'd heard?

“He means you,” Einar chortled, pointing. “Anyone else around here with no breeches on?”

Barelegs?
Peer turned round and met the light, cold gaze of a boy his own age – seventeen or so, wearing a dark chequered cloak wrapped around his shoulders and pinned with a large silver brooch. Because the jetty was higher than the ship, his head was currently at about Peer's waist level, but this disadvantage didn't seem to bother him. He tilted up a tanned face as smooth as a girl's, but wider in the jaw, heavier across the brow. Loose golden hair fell about his shoulders and cascaded in a wind-whipped tangle halfway down his back.

But his eyes… they reminded Peer of something. Einar once had a dangerous dog with eyes like that, odd milky blue eyes,
wolf eyes
, he'd called them.

The boy snapped his fingers. “Are you deaf? I told you to help my father up on to the jetty. He's not well.” And he took the elbow of a man standing beside him. This must be the skipper, the famous Gunnar Ingolfsson. His eyes were the same pale blue as his son's, but the rims were slack, and the flesh under them was pouchy and stained. Impatiently, he stretched up his hand. Gold arm-rings slid back to his elbow.

And then Peer saw with a shock that Gunnar's other hand was gone. The left arm swung short; the wrist was a clumsily cobbled-together stump of puckered flesh with a weeping red core.
One hand, look, only one hand…
the whisper ran through the crowd as Gunnar seized Peer's arm, trod hard on the ship's gunwale and pulled himself on to the jetty with a grunt of effort. He let go of Peer without a word, and turned immediately to join his wife.

The boy sprang up after him. “That's better, Barelegs,” he said to Peer.

“My name's not Barelegs,” said Peer, his temper rising.

“No?” The boy's eyebrows went up, and he glanced deliberately around at the villagers. “Does he actually own a pair of breeches?”

Einar snorted, Gerd giggled, and Einar's eldest boy made things worse by shouting out, “Yes, he does, and they're over there!”

There was a burst of laughter. Peer went red.

The boy smiled at Peer. “Now why did you have to take those trousers off in such a hurry? Were you caught short? Did our big ship scare you that much, Barelegs?”

Completely forgetting the hammer in his hand, Peer struck out. The boy twisted like a cat, there was a swirl of cloak and a rasping sound. Something flashed into the air. With a shout, Bjørn grabbed Peer's arm, forcing it down. He wrenched the hammer away and hurled it on to the beach.

Peer rubbed his numbed fingers. “I'm s-sorry,” he stammered to Bjørn. “I lost my – I wouldn't have hurt him —”

“No,” said Bjørn in a savage undertone, “you'd have been gutted.” And he nodded at the boy, who stood watching Peer with dancing eyes, holding a long steel-edged sword at a casual slant.

Peer had never actually seen a sword before. Nobody in the village was rich enough to have one. Patterns seemed to play and move on the flat steel surface. The frighteningly sharp edges had been honed to fresh silver.

That could cut my arm off.

In sudden silence the villagers gaped, their grins wearing off like old paint. The sailors from the ship edged together, watchful, glancing at their leader, Gunnar. The tall girl, Gunnar's wife, looked on with cool eyes, as if nothing surprised her.

Then the boy pushed the sword back into its sheath. He tossed his hair back and said in a light, amused way, “He started it.”

“And who are you?” demanded Bjørn.

The boy waited for a second, and Gunnar interrupted. “He's my son, Harald Gunnarsson, my first-born.” His voice was gruff, thick with pride. “My young lion, eh, Harald?” Affectionately he cuffed the boy with his sound right hand. “Look at him, pretty as a girl, no wonder they call him ‘Harald Silkenhair'. But don't be fooled. See this?” He lifted his left arm to show the missing fist, and turned slowly around, grinning at the villagers. “Seen it? All had a good look?” His voice changed to a snarl. “But the man who did it lost his
head
, and it was my boy here who took it off him.”

There was scattered applause. “A brave lad, to defend his father!”

“A fine young hero. And so handsome, too!” Gerd clasped her knobbly hands.

“But a little too quick with his tongue, perhaps,” said Bjørn drily.

Gunnar hesitated. Then he burst out laughing. “All right,” he coughed, “all right. We can't let the young dogs bark too loudly, can we? Harald – and you, what's your name – Peer? No more quarrelling. Shake hands.”

“Yes, father,” said Harald sweetly. He held out his hand. Peer eyed him without taking it. His heart beat in his throat and his mouth was sour with tension, as he met Harald's bright gaze.

Harald grinned unpleasantly. “Come on, Barelegs. Can't you take a joke?”

Peer nearly burst. He turned his back and shouldered his way along the jetty, leaving Bjørn and the others to deal with the newcomers. Down on the shingle, he pulled on his breeches while Einar's little boys peeped at him round the posts of the jetty, giggling and whispering, “Barelegs, Barelegs.” He pretended not to hear, but it was the sort of name that stuck. He would never live it down.

Bjørn called to him. “Arne's taking Gunnar up to Ralf 's farm. Why don't you go with them? It'll be sunset soon, anyway.”