West of the Moon (46 page)

The warriors yelled – a crash of approval. “
Heh!
”

“‘Let us give it to them.'”

“
Heh!
”

“‘We will go to the Place of Ghosts.'”

“
Heh!
”

Ottar's face was sharp and glowing. “‘We will pull down their houses and leave not one alive.'”

“
Heh!
”

“And he says – yes! He says we'll rip off the scalp of the boy with the long golden hair and dry it in the smoke, and Kiunik and Tia'm will take it with them on their journey! Hooray!”

“
Heh! Heh! Heh!
” the young men roared. Kwimu stepped forward with a shallow birchbark bowl. Sinumkw dipped his fingers in and brought them out covered with thick red pigment. Deliberately, ceremoniously, he smeared it over his face.

“War!” Ottar whispered. “
Heh!
” shouted Kwimu. He too dipped in his hand and dragged red fingers across his face.

“
Heh!
” shrieked Ottar.

Even Peer felt the surge of excitement. Harald, the bully with the sword – if he could see what was coming to him!

“
Hey! Hey!
” he yelled in unison with the other young men. Everyone was crowding to redden their faces. Peer found himself waiting in line. The pat-pat-pat of a drum started up – a stick knocking on a thick roll of birchbark. The men began a dance step, heads high, arms held out with clenched fists. They sang and stamped.

Kwimu's eyes were hot and bright; his face was taut under the disfiguring pigment. He held out the bowl to Peer. There wasn't much left, but Peer scooped some out and touched it to his face.

The young men swept him into the dance. It wasn't difficult – a step forward and a step back. Stamp, step, round and round. Stamp, step, round and round. Stamp…

What
had Sinumkw said?
We will pull down their houses and leave not one alive?

He staggered out of the dance and crouched on the fir boughs that lined the floor, taking deep breaths. Ottar danced past, and Peer thrust out a foot to trip him.

“What's that for?” the boy cried angrily.

“Wait, Ottar – it's important.” Peer grabbed his arm as Ottar tried to pull away. “What are we thinking? We can't do this. We can't attack the houses.”

“Why not?” demanded Ottar. “Harald deserves to die!”

“But what about the others? The girls? My friend Hilde, and her friend Astrid? And —”
And Tjørvi and Arne
, he was about to say, who didn't even sail with Gunnar before.
And Magnus and Floki and Halfdan – I don't want any of them to die…

He looked into Ottar's indifferent face and realised that to him, they would be only a string of names.

“I expect you can save the women,” Ottar said. “We can ask Sinumkw, if you like. About the others, I don't care. They didn't care about Kiunik, did they? Or Pa?”

“What if they surrender?” Peer demanded.

Ottar stared. “Harald and Gunnar won't surrender! And I don't want them to. They killed my pa, and I want them to die!” He wrenched himself free and whirled off into the dance, singing.

Peer rubbed his face, wiping his red fingers on the fresh green fir branches, and looked at the dancing men with sudden loathing. What was all this singing about? Who were these people – these
Skraelings
, who danced and sang about going to war?

Someone touched his arm. It was Nukumij – Grandmother. She sat down beside him and pointed to his face and then at the dancers. She shook her head, and made an eloquent gesture, which took in the war dance, the fire, the sad figure of Plawej with her woeful, besmeared face.

Peer thought he understood.
Killing people
, she seemed to say,
is such a terrible thing that we have to work ourselves up to it
. Making a ceremony out of it – did that make it better? Better than Harald's casual killings?

These weren't people who disregarded life. Those beavers he and Kwimu had trapped – every scrap would be used: the meat, the fur, even the chisel teeth. Then the bones would be placed respectfully in running water, so the dogs couldn't chew them. Far in the woods, Ottar told him, was the wigwam of the Man Who Brings Back Animals. He would sing his song of power to bring the bones to life, so there would always be beavers for the people to hunt.

That was what they believed.

Harald Silkenhair had killed two young men with no ceremony at all, and left their bodies lying.

Why should Sinumkw care about Magnus or Tjørvi? Why should anybody care about someone else whom they'd never met?

But I care. I'm in the middle. I know them all. Probably Harald deserves it. But nobody else does. I can't let them die.

He groaned, and Grandmother reached out and took his hand. Her fingers were a bunch of slender bones covered in wrinkled brown skin. His own were pale in comparison, even after a summer out of doors, stained with red streaks. She squeezed gently and let go. They sat quietly together.

Ottar flung himself down beside them, flushed and panting.

“Hear them singing?” he asked. “Want to know what it means?

“Death I make, singing.

Heh! Ey!

Bones I break, singing. Heh! Ey!

Death I make, singing!”

S
INUMKW CALLED A
halt in an open glade, a tilted clearing on a hill shoulder, facing east towards the sea. A wind sharp as a skinning knife sliced between the trees, ruffling the black fur of pines and spruce, moaning through the skeletal arms of oaks, chestnuts and maples.

Peer looked at the war band. Nearly fifty men had set out from the village for the two-day walk to the shore. All wore red on their faces. All were wrapped in thick clothes against the cold: double layers of beaver robes, long leggings and hide boots. All moved easily over the snow on wide, flat snowshoes, which they tied to their feet.

“There's no shelter here,” he said in a low voice to Ottar. Ottar had insisted on coming. The young men treated him as a favoured little brother with a right to be here.

“There soon will be,” said Ottar confidently. “Like this!” He kicked off one of his snowshoes and started using it as a shovel to scoop a hollow from the snow. Kwimu and Peer joined in, flinging out snow to make a hole four feet deep and seven or eight feet across. All the men were digging shelters. They broke branches from the fir trees and threw them in to layer the bottoms of the holes with a springy criss-cross. Larger boughs partly roofed the shelters. And soon, small fires were spiralling upwards.

The shelter had a cosy feel, like a snow nest. The wind sped by overhead but couldn't reach them. Peer leaned back on the branches, fed Loki a strip of dried meat, and, chewing on one himself, stretched out his feet to the fire.

While the other young men chatted, checking their bows, axes and clubs, Peer worried about tomorrow. He'd volunteered to carry Sinumkw's declaration of war. Anything could happen in an attack. Sinumkw had agreed not to harm the girls, but Hilde would certainly defend herself, and then what? This gave him a chance to explain to her what was going on. But it meant walking openly into the house.

Grimly he foresaw how his news would be received.
Even if Harald doesn't skewer me straight off, Gunnar won't let the girls leave. He won't trust me, and he certainly won't trust the “Skraelings”, and he'll never give up Harald.

They'd be killed in the end, of course – eight men against fifty. But their steel-edged weapons would do some damage first. He pictured Kwimu or Ottar sliced down by Harald's sword. Blood spreading in the snow. Death and injuries and pain and misery. What was the point?

The stars looked like frost crystals in the black sky. In the light of the small fire, the young men's painted faces glowed a startling, fearsome red. Some had cut their hair short, or shaved it right off to leave a single long lock falling from the crown. But their expressions were thoughtful as they talked together. He wished he could join in. These could be friends – if they weren't going to war against his other friends.

Ottar turned to Peer. “Do you believe in Valhalla, Peer? Where do you think we go to when we die? Kwimu says the People walk along the Ghost Road to the Land of Souls. Look, you can see it up there.”

Kwimu pointed upwards. A-glimmer above the trees was the line of the Milky Way, spangled and studded with stars. A royal road for the feet of the dead. Peer's breath caught.

“I don't know,” he answered. “My father used to say we cross over a bridge.”

“It looks like a bridge, doesn't it?” said Ottar, staring up. “I hope it's the same one. Wherever Kwimu goes, I want to go there too.”

Crossing a bridge… floating away down a dark river… Perhaps all the journeys ended at the same bourne. Peer thought of his father and was comforted.

Shadowy snowflakes whirled into the fire like moths. Peer's breath smoked. The wind wailed. Or was it a wolf or some other animal, crying?

Kwimu sat up, listening. He took off the fox-skin pouch, which usually dangled from his belt. It had the face and paws and tail all attached, and Peer had sometimes seen him playing with it, stroking it and pretending to make it pounce. Now Kwimu scrambled lithely out of the shelter and disappeared into the snow. He came back almost immediately, without the pouch, and lay down. The others followed suit.

“What's that about?” Peer whispered.

Ottar yawned. “It's all right. He's leaving Fox on a tree branch not far away. To warn us of danger.”

“Fox? You mean his
pouch?
”

Ottar scowled. “It's his
tioml.
His power. You don't notice much, Peer. Haven't you seen how it comes alive?”

“But…” Peer shut his mouth. He wasn't sure of anything. And about midnight, after the fires had gone out, they were woken by a yapping bark from close above. Loki stirred and grumbled.

On the cold wind came a distant howl, a lonely, hungry sound. It drew nearer. Beside him, Peer saw Ottar's eyes gleam wide.

Out of the woods, into the clearing, a moose came leaping in an arc of snow – running for its life. Peer rose to see better. It lifted over the shelter in a single bound, kicked a freezing dust of powder snow into his hair, and galloped into the trees. After it something came rushing, with crashing of undergrowth and explosive cracks of branches. It must be enormous to make such a noise. Wolves? Bears? Impossible.
Here it comes, and it's big. It's very big
—

“Down! Get down!” Ottar hissed. In disbelief Peer saw the tops of the pine trees shiver and sway apart. He sat down hard. It was overhead – a striding shadow against the stars – a yell that threw them to the ground – a double shock of mighty footsteps leaping over them.

It was gone. The woods swallowed it. An odd, musky smell blew back on the wind.

And a small animal slunk light-footed over the edge of the snow shelter, dashed to Kwimu and disappeared under his cloak.

In the eerie snowlight, men poured from the dugouts like ants from disturbed anthills. Peer too scrambled up into the cold. Ottar dragged him over to a great shapeless treadmark stamped into the snow on the very edge of one of the other shelters. They grouped around it, excited and afraid.

“
Jenu
,” Peer heard. “
Jenu
…” He turned to see Kwimu standing sombrely, staring into the trees. The fox pouch hung limp from his belt, dark-eyed and grinning.

“What was it?” Peer asked quietly.

“A sort of – ice giant.” Ottar's teeth rattled. “That's the s-second time I've seen one. I'll t-tell you about it – but not out here.”

With the dawn, they clambered out of their snow holes. It was a bad omen for the day ahead. Peer hoped they might give up and go back to the village. But his companions were strapping on their snowshoes and setting off, and with a heavy heart he knelt to do the same. As Kwimu bent beside him, Peer got a good look at the fox pouch. Whatever it had done in the night, it was definitely not alive now. The eyes were made of little black shells.

And the day passed in trudging along slanting hillsides, under the lee of rocky ridges and over open tracts where fire had swept through the woods and the charred treestumps poked through the snow like black teeth. Peer couldn't recognise anything from his autumn journey. Apart from their own passing – the creak of the snowshoes, and the swish of robes – the woods were silent. Snow spread endlessly under the trees till the woods looked like a white cavern held up by dark pillars. His eyes ached from the whiteness, and his ears ached from the lack of sound.

In the blue dusk, they descended one last slope. At the bottom, snow curled over the banks of a river, frozen over except for black cores and sink-holes out in the middle where the ice was still treacherous. Following the bank, they came to frozen marshlands where the wind swept the snow like dust before a broom. Beyond the marshlands, Peer heard the pounding of the sea.

Serpent's Bay! It looked different. Ottar pushed alongside, staring. “What have they done?” he said hoarsely. “They've pulled down our old house.” Only Gunnar's house was left. Peer stared hungrily at it. Hilde was there. So close!

The sky was clear and very cold. In the south west a fingernail moon clung, setting into the trees. Sinumkw led the war party silently along the edge of the wood, leaving the frozen flats to their left, till they came to the spot where in summer the brook rushed down the slope. Now it was a white cascade of leaping ice.

From here, with Thorolf 's house gone, there was a clear view to Gunnar's. Sinumkw signed his men to stop. It was a good position, uphill from the house, and camouflaged against the trees.

Ottar shivered – with old memories, Peer thought, not with cold. Kwimu put an arm around him. Sinumkw turned to Peer. Peer couldn't read his face under the dark war paint, but his eyes gleamed. Ottar translated. “Sinumkw says, ‘Now do what you came for. Carry our challenge. Tell them who they killed and why we have come.' And he says if you can get the girls out, do it before the moon sets. That's when we'll attack.”

“It's mighty cold tonight,” said Arne to Hilde. He wiped the last of the broth from his bowl with a lump of bread. “It will be a long winter.”

“I know,” said Hilde, rousing herself with an effort.

Astrid sat on the floor close to the hearth, mending clothes in the firelight. At the other end of the fire, Harald sprawled moodily in his father's chair, a low trestle table in front of him. He ignored his food, playing with his knife, twiddling it on its point and catching it before it fell over. The rest of the men were eating silently, heads down. Sometimes one of them coughed, or nudged his neighbour to pass the bread. Floki had a bad cold, and sniffed steadily – juicy, bubbling sniffs. “Can't you stop doing that?” Magnus grumbled. No one else spoke.

Somewhere in the rafters, Hilde supposed, the Nis perched, swinging a leg and watching them. If it wasn't dying of boredom.

Arne watched her. He cleared his throat. “It would be easier, maybe, if we two could help each other.”

She turned drearily. “What do you mean?”

“Peer's not coming back, Hilde,” Arne said quietly. “Not after all this time. I know you were fond of him – but aren't you fond of me, too? If you'll marry me, I'll take care of you. I won't let you worry about anything.”

Hilde felt a twisting sensation inside her chest, as though he had taken her heart in both his hands and wrung it out. She met his clear blue eyes and remembered Astrid's words:
Arne's quite ordinary.
It was true. Nice, yes, but ordinary. She wondered why it taken her so long to notice.

“Of course I like you, Arne, but you can't ‘take care' of me.”

“I'd like to try.”

“You don't understand.” She closed her eyes and saw, as if by flashes of lightning, pictures against the darkness. Peer on the ship, gripping her arm and dashing off to deal with the Nis. Peer telling Harald the lie about the seagull. Peer facing Harald down not once, but many times, armed only with his wits, and, finally, with a burned dragonhead. She opened her eyes. Dammed-up tears spilled out. “Peer never tried to take care of me. He just took it for granted we'd do things together. You say you'd look after me. But in all this time, the only person who's stood up to Harald – the only person brave enough – has been Peer. And I miss him – so much.”

Arne rubbed his eyes. On the back of his wrist Hilde saw the scar where he'd turned aside Harald's harpoon. “I'm sorry,” she added. “But it's no good, Arne. Don't ask me.”

“I see it's no good asking you now,” said Arne. “I spoke too soon. Don't worry, I'll wait.”

Though he looked sorry for her, she sensed he was confident that she'd change her mind. She began to protest, and fell silent. What was the use? Maybe he was right. Maybe Astrid was right. If the person you wanted died, you just had to accept it and move on. Didn't you?

No
, she thought passionately.
No!

“Floki,” said Harald in a cutting voice. “Will you stop that revolting sniffing? You sound like a pig.”

A ripple went down the room – men lifting their heads and then deciding not to look. Floki smeared his nose with the back of his hand. “Sorry,” he muttered, and sniffed again almost at once.

“Gods!” Harald stared at him in disgust. “You're like a human water clock. We ought to stand you in a corner and keep time by the drips.”

Now that
, thought Hilde, is the sort of remark that used to make Floki giggle.
See how he likes it when it happens to him.

This time there were no smothered chuckles. The men ate on steadily, pretending not to notice. There'd been a lot of this lately: everyone tiptoeing around, afraid of setting Harald off. Since Gunnar died his moods had become dangerously unpredictable and his mocking tongue was sharper than ever.

Floki, who had been struggling not to sniff, gave up the battle. “
Sssnnnfff!
”

Harald heaved a cold sigh. “Someone should make a poem about you, Floki. Though I wonder if anyone could do you justice. Let's see.
Indoors, Floki's nose drips into the pot. Outside, it sprouts an icicle of snot.
” He showed his teeth. “How's that? Not bad, I feel, on the spur of the moment.”

“I've got a cold,” Floki muttered. “I can't help it.”

“I know that, Floki,” Harald said soothingly. “I know you can't help it.” Floki's worried forehead cleared, but Harald wasn't finished. “But tell me something. Is there anything you can help?”

Floki looked this way and that. “Answer the question,” said Harald pleasantly. “You look like a pig, you sound like a pig. Granted. But do you have to be as stupid as one? Do you have to be a bandy-legged, red-faced, useless idiot?”

Floki tried to grin, but there were tears in his eyes. Magnus growled, “Come on, Harald, stop picking on the lad. Like he told you, he can't help having a cold.”

“Ah!” Harald's blue eyes flicked to Magnus. “Magnus, rushing in to look after Floki, as usual.” He spun his knife and caught it. “You should be in petticoats. You fuss over him like an old woman, don't you? Why is that, Magnus?”