Raven Speak (9781442402492) (14 page)

For all her wildly variant moods, Wenda yet held a fascination. Of course Asa was wary of her now; she'd very nearly been murdered by her, hadn't she?

Or had she? She distinctly remembered smacking the stone entry to the cave. But had she been held over the fjord's lip? Or had her imagination made more of the tussle—no, not even that, only a jostle, really—than was true? The woman spoke in such riddles that recalling the subject or order of conversations was difficult.
What are you afraid of?
came back to her.
What are you afraid of?
If Wenda had really threatened to kill her, though, why was she still alive?

That slowed her step. Had she conjured demons out of shadows, maliciousness out of a frown? Wenda had given shelter to both her and Rune; she'd fed them, and now here she was sending her own food stores back to Asa's clan. It was all good, all good. Until the one eye rolled to white and …

No, she wasn't going to ponder that.

The tern's two-syllable call sounded again, directly above her now, and she tilted her head excitedly to see … a raven. One of Wenda's ravens, by the looks of it. The huge black bird teetered on an exposed root, balancing against the updrafts. Seeing her watching, he lifted his shoulders and made the false call again.

She'd been tricked! For a moment Asa stood motionless, her chest rising and falling, heat coursing through her blood. Then,
in one violent move she pitched the shell at the bird. It smugly lifted into flight, not the least alarmed. It flew northward and she marked its diminishing silhouette until it dipped beyond a prominent bluff. Rune and Wenda had not yet caught up so, after heaving a few stones into the ocean for good measure, Asa resolutely walked back to meet the pair.

That took longer than expected because she ended up retracing every one of her tracks. What had kept them? Rounding the last promontory, prepared to urge them to their feet, she couldn't believe what she saw: Wenda was tossing the dried meats into the ocean! Stunned, Asa watched her reach into one of the bags, lug out a chunk, and, teetering slightly with the effort, fling it into the air. The meat plunked into the sea with the weight of a rock.

“No! Stop that!” she cried as she broke into a run. The woman had to have heard her; Rune lifted his head. But Wenda continued pulling the meats and dried fishes from the bags and methodically sailing them over the water.

Asa barreled into her so roughly that Wenda fell backward onto the sand. That brought one of the ravens flapping to the scene, screaming indignation.

“What are you doing?” Asa's scream overpowered the bird's. “You've ruined everything!” Hastily she peered into the bags. The supply was down to one green-tinged mutton loin and a few splintered fishes.

From her disheveled position Wenda whined. “I was sending
food for your whale. You don't expect him to come for nothing, do you?”

Asa clenched her fists as a foul oath sputtered on her lips. She stamped the sand, stamped it a second time, and spun around in utter fury. Then, depositing a glare as harsh as a blow on the old woman—who dared to blink in feigned innocence—she sprang onto Rune's back. Her fingers laced his mane and her heels pummeled his sides and they bolted away.

Jorgen lowered his end of the wide, rough-hewn plank to the ground, opened his fingers, and let it drop with a rigid thud. The body carried upon it slid toward him so that the shrouded head just kissed his boots. This gesture of obeisance, even after the fact, moved him slightly. How different things might have been. If only she'd recognized his talents while she yet breathed, their lives might have intertwined to mutual benefit. Tantalizing possibilities, as heady as mead, tickled his senses, until he noticed Ketil waiting dumbly at the other end of the plank.

“What are you staring at?” he scolded. That startled Ketil into dropping the plank with a bang and stumbling backward. Jorgen set his heel against the head's crown and pushed, trying to shove the bundled body back into place. The neck, not yet stiffened, lolled from beneath the pressure and his boot slipped off. No surprise. Even in death the woman was spineless. Rolling his eyes, he walked to the other end and elbowed the useless cripple out of the way. He bent down and jerked the remains squarely onto the board.

“They smell of cheese,” Ketil whispered into his ear. A
wide-eyed child in an old man's body, he stood transfixed by the row of bundles, seemingly fearful that his least stray movement would cause the nearest to tumble atop him. “Who'd have thought?”

Cheese? How could one possibly identify cheese from this rotting assault on the senses? The man was a fool—a cripple and a fool—and Jorgen rose abruptly to deliver his most withering glare. “You must go now. I have the ritual to perform.” Ketil only too happily backed through the doorway, stumbling as he spun, and hurried away with the glazed look of a frightened hare. His hobbling gait sent crackling fractures across the path's muddy skim of ice.

Jorgen moved to the doorway to watch Ketil's departure. He rubbed his dripping nose and winced when the heel of his hand met his swollen lip. The split flesh had been throbbing for two days, persistently and maddeningly recalling his struggle in the other byre. For all of those two days he'd firmly held the memories at bay. Now, allowing himself to remember that night increased the pain and sent it worming its way through his insides.

What had happened to her? One after another, dramatic story lines uncoiled in his mind. She and her horse had tumbled over a cliff: He visualized his own arm reaching down to pull her to safety; he felt her nestle against his chest, the heat of her small body soaking into his. In another calamitous scenario she'd fallen sick and wandered alone and feverish through the mountain forests, lost. This one gnawed holes of worry in his belly, especially with icy
rain pounding the earth and cold winds tearing through the trees.

Why hadn't she understood his plans for her? Why had she challenged him with such impudence? It was all so infuriating.

To ease his stomachache he dug through his pouch for the last of the angelica roots. Touching them brought forth another memory: He'd collected them last summer at the damp edge of the outfield where he'd been watching her. Her copper hair had fallen loose from its braid that day, and the wind, with a familiar hand, had lifted it from her shoulders and spun it across her cheek and made her laugh.

Working the spongy root between his teeth, he thought about that laugh. It was a rarity, impulsive and infectious. She'd shared it with few others, and never with him. A bitter taste filled his mouth. The root's usual soothing warmth failed to materialize, and he swallowed the pulpy fragments without any faith that they could dull his ache.

Where was she?

If he could just get a rope around one of those wretched horses, he could ride out looking for her. He'd be able to find her and save her; he'd make her understand. And his skin warmed with the vision of the two of them returning astride, her arms locked around his waist in a grateful embrace. Reflexively he closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. Truth be known, that was the least satisfying of his fantasies, because he'd never thrown a leg over the back of a horse.

He heard the maddening creatures now—though he still
couldn't see them—crunching their careless way among the trees, noisily paying him no heed. They skirted the settlement's clearing continually, looking for her but leery of him and any others he sent to coax them in. They taunted him, they did.

He laced his fingers, turned them inside out, and stretched them to the breaking point, focusing his anger. One day soon he'd see their butchered bodies roasting over a fire. This he vowed. Their bodies and that of that runty old dun horse too, the one that had struck at him so purposefully and painfully—if the bony thing was even still alive, and if it dared to return. All three horses that defied him would eventually get what they deserved, and so would she, for that matter, and that would teach her to run off.

Yet … all the while that his blood was churning thicker and hotter, he heard a delicate voice in his mind crying,
Help me! Help me!
He searched through his pouch for another of the angelica roots, but they were gone. He pressed a fist to his stomach and sagged against the doorframe, thankful at least for the cold air buffeting his face.

In the stark wintry light the longhouse sat solid and secure, an anchored haven amid the wildly angular mountains at its back. The smoke rising from the roof hole was snatched away by the wind, but the sod roof itself, its silver turf shivering, appeared intact. Only a few leaks inside required someone's attention; a particularly annoying one had pinpointed his own mattress, but that was no longer a concern. He'd abandoned it. He watched spare drops steadily patter the door-slab, painting it a shiny ocean
color. Above the door, just under the overhanging fringe, was a drooping pine bough. A frivolous ornamentation, fairly fresh and girlishly cheerful, yet it soothed him. The pine tree outlasted the worst of winters, ever green, and so would he.

He inhaled the freshly cleansed air with new spirit. The clan was his now, finally and entirely. Its spineless leader was drowned; his spineless wife was dead. Things would be different. They were, in fact, already different. Only last night, when the woman's breathing had rattled to an end beside the fire, and the others had gathered around in silence, he'd slipped into the bed-closet once shared by her and her husband. As his heart thumped excitement, he'd lowered himself onto the straw mattress, fully aware that his shoulders and hips oh-so-naturally filled the hollows left by the chieftain. And, lying on that chieftain's mattress in the dark, what visions he'd had! Certain places, he'd learned from his father, held invisible power that could, with immense concentration and unusual skill, be donned like a cloak. This room was one of those places, and behind his closed eyes swirled more intoxicating colors than any he'd experienced.

It was a bold move, even he would admit to that, but one a true leader made without hesitation. Through the wooden wall he'd heard their murmurings, and he'd opened his eyes once when the door creaked ajar to find Tora observing him with her slitted green eyes. Always before she'd looked upon him with barely concealed disfavor, as did the other stupid women, but now her eyes showed new consideration. To add to his intoxication he
believed that if he only crooked a finger and gestured, Tora would come to him. But it wasn't her he wanted.

The next morning, this selfsame morning, he'd made certain to arise before any of them and to arrange himself beside the prone body of the chieftain's wife. He'd sat there fiddling with his bear tooth amulet, waiting for the others to discover him in ritual attendance, when he'd noticed the woman's finger twitch. The insufferable creature was still alive! At death's door she was turning and threatening him with a wagging finger! He had had no choice then but to lean through the darkness and lay his hands upon her more forcefully, one across her mouth and the other across her nose. When he'd pinched the nostrils together, she hadn't even struggled. She was weak; they were all weak.

For some time he masked her bony face with his hands and prayed rather vaguely that the afterlife would welcome her. His prayers were unfocused because his thoughts were springing about the room, marking all that was now his; eagerly his eyes followed. Whenever his gaze returned to the task his hands performed, he assured himself it was in the best interests of the clan. What he did was no different, really, than when the weakest animals were slaughtered at summer's end because there was only enough food to support the strong.

As he slumped against the doorframe, his thumb stroked the knobby hilt of the old sword he wore. It was a cast-off, its dull blade heavily pitted and, in fact, snapped short. But it still threatened; he saw its worth in the faces of the surviving clan
members. When they'd awakened and found him at the dead woman's side with the shortened sword belted at his waist, he'd noted the looks they'd exchanged and his chest swelled. As it did now. It had taken most of a lifetime, but he was finally getting the respect he deserved. No longer was he a collared dog performing tricks, but a leader, a bold leader, one who didn't hesitate to mete out punishment as needed. Thidrick could cradle his ear and wail in his mother's lap the rest of the day if he liked, but he'd learned the consequences of touching this sword.

Yes, the clan was his. Things were and would be different. Tonight he'd ease any doubts about his leadership with the small cask of beer he'd discovered in the bed-closet. He'd stop their questions with a story of how Odin, a god both mercurial and merciful, swallowed weak leaders upon stormy seas. It's what gods did.

The sun had just dipped behind the green-black mountains when Asa and Rune came upon the familiar sight of her clan's fishing huts and the row of upturned boats, long unused.

Almost home now, and what did she have to show for her rash venture? A rope of kelp, a chunk of meat, some fish. A bounty, considering the barren storeroom. She'd be welcomed. But a nagging sense of failure shadowed her. What, really, had changed?

Rune angled his face away from the gust that blasted the shore, and she wriggled her legs beneath the bags, seeking the warmth of his body. The evening sky glowed a luminous white, like an eggshell held against fire, though bands of rippled clouds, each edged a fierce orange, threatened.

Then there was Jorgen. Her scabbed lip burned at his name. Her bruised shoulder throbbed. She felt her jaw tighten. What had he told the others about her disappearance? Lies, no doubt—lies that had needlessly worried her mother. Wenda was right. She was only a little girl who'd run off in the night, abandoning her clan. A fool.

Another gust lifted Rune's mane and whipped her own hair across her face. In its whistling she detected a faint, mournful call. Human? Animal? She halted him, cupping her hands to both ears to listen. There it was again, coming from the forest that rose above them, and filled with such fear that her heart squeezed. She should help.