Heroes of the Valley (4 page)

No one he knew had ever seen a Trow. No one could tell him anything about them. How many of them were there? What did they eat, with humans out of reach? What would the moor look like, over the brow of the hill? Would he see their burrow holes, the bones of their past victims?

Halli had many questions, but he never thought to approach the cairns.

At one end of the pasture, perhaps in the gales of the previous winter, a section of the guard wall had fallen down. Its stones littered the long grass over a wide area. On his arrival Halli had realized that he should attempt to rebuild it, and had in fact made an attempt to do so, but had discovered the job to be arduous and backbreaking. He soon gave up, and since the sheep never ventured to that end of the meadow anyway, he quickly forgot about the matter.

The weeks passed. One afternoon, when the first tints of brown and amber were showing in the trees of the valley far below, Halli woke from a doze to discover that the flock, with ovine caprice, had for the first time migrated to the far end of the field. No fewer than eight sheep had strayed across the scattered stones of the fallen wall and were cropping the grass on the far side.

Uttering an exclamation of dismay, Halli seized his stick and hurried across the field. Shouting, waving, gesticulating, he drove the main flock away from the tumbled stretch; one of the stray sheep jumped back over the stones to join them, but the other seven made no move.

Halli returned to the hole in the wall and, making a protective gesture – much as he had seen Eyjolf do – scrambled over the stones onto the forbidden slope.

The seven sheep regarded him narrowly from various positions near and far.

Halli employed all his shepherd's wiles. He moved slowly so as not to frighten the strays; he made a series of soothing chirrups in his throat; he kept the stick low, motioning gently in the direction of the wall as he circled round to drive them steadily, subtly, inexorably towards the hole.

As one, the sheep bolted in seven different directions across the hill.

Halli cursed and swore; he charged after the nearest sheep and succeeded only in driving it another few yards up the slope. Scampering at another, he slipped, lost his balance and tumbled head over heels to land upside-down upon a muddy tussock. Such was the pattern of the afternoon.

After a long time and much exertion Halli had managed to coerce six of the sheep back through the hole. He was mud-stained, sweating and out of breath; his stick had snapped in two.

One sheep only remained.

She was a young ewe, skittish and swift, and she had climbed higher up the slope than any of the others. She was almost at the cairns.

Halli took a deep breath, moistened his lips and began to climb, angling his path so as to approach the ewe tail-on. He kept a weather eye on the nearest cairns – tumbledown columns of mossy rock showing stark against the sky. Luck was with him in one sense: it was a cloudy day and the cairns projected no shadows. But the ewe was wary, turning and starting at every gust of wind. She saw him when he was still six feet from her.

Halli stopped dead. The sheep gazed at him. She was in the lee of a cairn, right on the boundary of the valley, cropping the long grass that grew around the ancient stones. Behind her he glimpsed a green expanse – the high moors, where the heroes had walked long ago, and only the Trows lived now. His mouth was dry, his eyes staring. He saw no movement; heard nothing but the wind.

Slowly, slowly, Halli tore up a long clutch of grass. Slowly he held it out towards the ewe. Slowly he backed away, with a smile of supplication.

The ewe turned her head, cropped grass. She was no longer looking in Halli's direction.

Halli hesitated. Then he made a desperate lunge.

The ewe's legs kicked: she was away, past the cairn, onto the moors.

Halli fell to his knees, tears breaking in his eyes. He watched the ewe dance away across the grass. She came to rest again, not far distant. Not far – but she was out of reach now. Gone. He could not follow her.

A few feet from him, the cairn rose dark and silent. If he had stretched out a hand he could have touched it. The thought made the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

Stumbling, gasping, he backed away down the slope towards the safety of the wall.

For the rest of the day he watched the skyline, but the ewe did not reappear. Dusk came; Halli crouched uneasily in the darkness of his hut. Sometime in the depths of the night he heard a high-pitched screaming, a sound of animal terror and pain. It ceased abruptly. Halli stared into blackness, every muscle cringing; he did not sleep until dawn.

Next morning he climbed the slope again and, from a wary distance, looked beyond the cairns.

The ewe was gone, but here and there, scattered in an outflung arc, he saw red and tattered strips of wool, a bloody raggedness on the ground.

W
HEN EGIL LIKENED
Svein's old mother to a she-toad, Svein soon got to hear about it. He set straight off to Egil's hall and nailed a wolf pelt to the door. Egil came rushing out.

'What's this? A challenge? Where do you want to fight?'

'Right here, or anywhere, it's your decision.'

'We'll do it on Dove Crag.'

Up on high they wrestled, each trying to push the other off. Svein was confident; his iron limbs had never failed him. But Egil matched his strength. The sun went down, the sun came up; there they were, still locked together. Neither would budge. They were fixed so still that birds began roosting on their heads.

'They'll be nesting here soon,' said Svein. 'That one's brought a twig.'

'One of yours is laying an egg.'

With that they parleyed and became blood-kinsmen. Years later, they stood together at the Battle of the Rock.

'It was the Trows for sure,' Uncle Brodir said. 'They only emerge at night. Why do you doubt it?'

Halli shook his head. 'I did not say I doubted it, just . . . What do they eat most of the time, when no boys or sheep come their way?'

Uncle Brodir cuffed him good-naturedly around the head. 'As always, you ask too many questions. Here is one in return. You're sure
you
did not pass the cairns?'

'No, Uncle. Certainly not!'

'Good. Because that would bring ruin upon us all, or so the stories have it. Now then, forget the ewe. Tell your father she broke her neck in a fall. We cannot move the flock tonight. Let's build up the fire. I have fresh meat with me.'

A day after the loss of the sheep, Halli had seen Brodir, beard resplendent, stout staff in one hand, clambering up the hill to bring him home. They had made a joyful greeting.

Brodir said: 'Your exile has done you good. I have never seen you look so hale and sinewy. No doubt you will cause even more trouble when you return home.'

'Have I been missed?' Halli said.

'Not hugely, save for Katla and me. The rest seem to struggle on without you.'

With a sigh, Halli rearranged the branches of the fire. 'What is the news?'

'Little enough. Your parents grow harassed at the proximity of the Gathering.'

'I am not too late for it, then? I was growing fearful.'

'It is seven days away, and the House struggles to be ready. Low Meadow has been cleared and the grass scythed. The first booths have been constructed. Your brother Leif oversees preparations; he struts around in his cloak like a pompous goose, giving orders that everyone ignores. Meanwhile Gudny spends hours in her room preening before the mirror; she hopes to attract the notice of eligible men from down-valley Houses. So: you have missed nothing. Except that Eyjolf suffers a strange malady. Each morning his cheeks are red and swollen, and itchy like an imp-kiss. He has tried numerous remedies, but the problem persists.'

'He might check inside his pillow,' Halli said blandly. 'Perhaps someone put a strand of poison ivy there.'

Brodir chuckled. 'Ah. Perhaps! I will leave him to discover it for himself.'

The meal was good and the companionship better. Brodir produced a wine sack and Halli shared it eagerly. As the unsteady warmth coursed through him, he listened to Brodir telling of Svein's adventures on the moors, of his killing of dragons, of his three journeys to the Trow king's hall. As always the tales thrilled his heart; but tonight they hung heavy on it too.

At last he said bitterly: 'Uncle, is it wrong to wish myself dead and buried with the heroes in their cairns? I would have been happier to live in their time, long ago, when a man could seek his fortune in the manner he saw fit. Today there's no opportunity to do anything. Even the Trows are out of bounds.'

Brodir grunted. 'Audacity was a virtue then. It is not so now. The women of the Council see to that. Mind you, even in Svein's time the heroes were considered reckless. They became respectable only through death.'

'Death would be preferable to what my parents have planned for me!' Halli kicked a boot out savagely and sent a branch hissing deeper into the fire. 'Father has told me more than once: I must apply myself to farming, learn every skill. Then, when I am numb with boredom, I shall be given a hovel of my own to manage till my hair goes grey and my life winks out! He didn't put it in quite those terms, admittedly.'

Brodir's teeth glinted in the firelight. He took a sip of wine and patted Halli on the shoulder. 'The thing is, boy,' he said, 'we are younger sons, you and I, and that makes us surplus to requirements. We do not inherit, like Arnkel has and that idiot Leif is bound to. Nor do we marry easily, as Gudny will, if anyone can stomach her cool nature. What are we to do? Where can we go? The boundary is set upon the ridges and the impassable ocean waits at river's end. Small wonder we are troublesome in our youth.'

Halli looked up at his uncle. 'You were as bad as me?'

'Oh, I was far worse.' Brodir chuckled. 'Far worse. You cannot guess.'

Halli waited hopefully, but Brodir said no more. 'I will follow your example,' Halli said, as soberly as he could. 'I will travel the valley and see the world! And to hell with what my father thinks.'

'The valley isn't as big as you suppose. Leastways, your exploration will soon be done. Eleven lesser Houses you'll find, all populated by dunces, scoundrels and shysters. The seagirt ones are the worst: blond-haired villains to a man. Only one good House and that's Svein's.' Brodir spat into the fire. 'You'll be back here soon enough. In the meantime do not judge your father harshly. He has responsibilities to his people, and has Astrid on his back. He means well for you.'

'Even so, I wish I was free of his hopes and intentions.' Halli's face felt hot; he threw himself back from the fire to lie in the soft, cold grass, gazing up at the stars.

When Halli arrived back at the House he found a great crowd working in the yard. After his month alone he was momentarily dazed by the intensity of noise and movement. His mother passed, carrying a basket piled high with coloured cloth. She set it down on the ground and hugged him briefly. 'Welcome, my son. Good to have you back. I will hear your account another time. Now, listen well. The Gathering is almost upon us and we are not yet ready! There is much to be done and you must work as hard as anyone. Be aware there is no time for tricks, frolics, deceitfulness or any other form of nonsense, on pain of direst penalty. Do you understand me?'

'Yes, Mother.'

'Very well. Run along to Grim; he needs help carrying griddles to the meadow.'

There was palpable excitement in the air and Halli shared it. For the first time in his memory, the Autumn Gathering was coming to Svein's House, and it promised wonders that he had never seen. Soon the near meadows would witness the arrival of almost four hundred people, a number he could hardly comprehend. They would accommodate the representatives of all eleven other Houses – their leading families and tradespeople, their servants, horses, carts and chattels, together with those from lesser farms. There would be feasting, storytelling, the thrill of horse fights, wrestling and trials of strength; the Council would meet to debate the latest legal cases . . . Halli thrilled at the possibilities. For once he would not feel trapped, cut off – he would see the whole valley without setting foot from home.

For two days he worked as hard as anyone, constructing the trade booths that would fringe the meadow. He held the posts steady while the men hammered them into the soft ground; he carried blocks of turf from the drying rooms and laid them out, row upon row, to form walls between the posts. He helped dig roasting pits and fix griddles into position; he gathered hay and straw for the visitors' animals.

On the third day the House was decorated. Svein's colours swung proudly from the flagpole in the yard; from every roof flags of black and silver flapped like seabirds. Threads of bunting lay upon the Trow wall; a great tent had been erected outside the hall, filled with ale casks ready to be broached. Trestle tables were set around, groaning with skins, cloths, bone implements and whistles and other produce of the House. By evening, all neared readiness; people's efforts slowed. Leif strode vigorously about, resplendent in his silver cape, bestowing heavy compliments.

Halli grew tired of work; he gathered several like-minded children together in an alley behind the tannery.

'Who wants a game?' he asked. 'Dead Crows or the Battle of the Rock?'

The battle was chosen, as it usually was. Halli said he would be Svein.

'Shouldn't you be a Trow?' Ketil, Grim's son, asked. 'It would make things seem more real.'

Halli scowled. 'Who here is Sveinsson amongst us?
I
shall be Svein.'

Ketil, Sturla and Kugi, the squint-eyed youth who cleaned the piggery. were voted Trows. They were given broken sickles to represent their slashing claws. For helmets, Halli and the heroes used rusting buckets stolen from the smithy; for swords they took wood snags from the stables. The great battle was fought on a stretch of Trow wall that had more or less collapsed, forming a scree of ancient stones, turfed and mossy. Upon the rock the heroes stood abreast, uttering wise, defiant comments. The Trow horde burst up from below, roaring and screaming. Birds flew from the roofs of Svein's House; cows started in the meadows. The women working in the tannery cursed and gesticulated. Battle was joined amid a hail of sticks and fists.

Leif Sveinsson strode over from the yard, cape flapping. He watched the fight with a baleful eye. After a few moments his presence was detected; with abrupt finality the battle quietened. A few desultory coughs and gasps, then silence.

'This is a fine sight!' Leif said slowly. 'The Gathering is almost upon us, and here are you urchins playing like dogs on a bone heap! Eyjolf and I have a hundred chores we can give you before dark. If you don't step to it, I'll lock you in the lumber rooms for the duration of the fair!'

Leif was eighteen, a big man, burly and thick-necked. He had the trick of keeping his head a trifle lowered, like a bull's, and staring abruptly up from under his brows, as if only self-restraint prevented him from acting with sudden appalling passion. The children were daunted and ashen-faced.

Halli spoke from the top of the Trow wall. 'It wasn't long ago, brother, that you enjoyed these games yourself ! Come and join in! I'll lend you my helmet.'

Leif stepped closer. 'Do you ardently wish for a clouting, Halli?'

'No.'

'Then I suggest you remember my seniority and age.' Leif drew himself up, chest swelling; he had his finest tunic on, tight black leggings, a pair of polished boots. 'As one who will one day lead this House, I have responsibilities to maintain. I have no time for rolling in the dirt.'

'That's not what Gudrun the goat-girl told me,' Halli said casually. 'She said when you left her hut last night you were covered in straw.'

Several noises coincided then: the laughter of the others, Leif 's roar of wrath, the scrabbling of Halli's boots upon the Trow wall as he attempted to escape. But his legs were short and his brother's long. The outcome was swift and painful.

Leif nodded grimly. 'Let that be a lesson to you all. I have a quick way with cheek like that. Now – here are your tasks . . .' Standing astride the Trow wall, he issued orders to the children down below.

Behind him, Halli dabbed silently at the blood running from his nose. Then he wiped his face with his sleeve to remove the blood and tears, stood, took careful aim, and kicked Leif squarely in the centre of his buttocks.

With a high-pitched wail Leif toppled from the wall, arms flapping like a bird. Below was an extensive dunghill. The fall was just long enough for Leif to roll forward in mid-air so that he met the brown soil of the mound headfirst.

An emphatic squelch: Leif 's head, shoulders, upper arms and midriff disappeared from view. His legs stuck straight up, gyrating oddly; his silver cloak settled gently upon the dank slope of the mound.

The gasp of horror from the assembled children gave way to pop-eyed wonder.

Halli said: 'Look how deep he's gone! I wouldn't have guessed it was so soft.'

Kugi the sty-boy raised a hand. 'I just added a fresh barrow load.'

'That would explain it. But how on earth does he remain so upright? Look at his legs a-waving! It is quite athletic. He should do this at the fair.'

As they watched, however, the legs dropped down, the back bent swiftly; Leif was now in a kneeling position, head and shoulders still buried in the muck. His hands pushed, his muscles strained; with a protracted popping noise, his upper half emerged in a shower of debris. A violent stench spread rapidly.

As one, the children began edging towards the nearest cottage doors and alleys.

Halli thought it time to descend silently from the wall.

Hesitantly, precariously, Leif got to his feet, his boots slipping and sloughing in the mire. His back was to them; his cape hung lank and limp. Slowly he turned; with awful deliberation he raised his caked and matted head and gazed upon them. For an instant everyone froze; he held them all transfixed.