West of the Moon (36 page)

“East of the sun,” Hilde corrected him.

“Ah, but we're sailing west —”

“Would you like to know where we are, Hilde?”

It was Arne, and Hilde turned, startled. He took her elbow, detaching her from Peer, and pointed to the northwest, where some vague clouds lay above the horizon. “See those clouds? That's where the Faroe Islands are, the Islands of Sheep. We'll be passing them later.”

“Land,” breathed Hilde. “I'm already missing it.”

“We won't be setting foot there,” Arne laughed. “Just passing by, on our way west.” He gave her one of his wide smiles. His beard was already growing through; the glittering stubble gave him a raffish, attractive air. He put a foot up against the side timbers and leaned there.

Several white gulls with long black-tipped wings had appeared out of nowhere and were flying above the ship. Arne said to Hilde, “See those gulls? That's a sure sign we're not far from land. Maybe it was one of those, screaming last night.”

Hilde flicked a glance at Peer – and the grey surface of the sea shattered. Out shot three, four, five dark, curving bodies, and plunged back in wings of spray. Arne's pose slipped, and he grabbed at the gunwale to steady himself. There was a shout from Magnus at the tiller. Harald raced along the starboard side, shoving Peer out of his way.

“Dolphins!” Hilde leaned out over the side. “Look at them go!”

The dolphins were travelling faster than the ship, springing out of the water again on the starboard quarter.

Something like a long black needle flashed out from
Water Snake's
bows and sank into the waves. “Missed,” came a disappointed yell. Harald leaned over the side, hauling in the line and retrieving his dripping harpoon.

“He threw a harpoon!” Hilde cried.

Astrid picked her way over the deck, dainty as a disapproving cat. “He just likes killing things.” She eyed Harald. He was laughing, and his long golden hair hung loose to his waist.

“I'm out of practice,” he said to the two girls.

“Yes, Harald, we noticed,” said Astrid sweetly.

“I think I grazed one, though.”

“Why did you do it?” Hilde demanded. Harald gave her an impertinent grin. “Sweetheart, when I'm at sea, I take every chance to amuse myself.” He examined the tip of his harpoon. “Can you see any blood?” He waved it under her nose, and laughed again as she drew back.

“Fool,” said Peer, not quite under his breath.

Harald jabbed the harpoon at Peer. “Did I hear you speak?” He jabbed again, and Peer had to twist aside to avoid the point. “What did you say to me, Barelegs?”

“If you must know,” began Peer, breathless —

“Yes, I must. I must!” With blank, bright eyes Harald sliced the harpoon towards him. Peer tried to dodge again, but there was nowhere to go. “Stop it!” screamed Hilde, and Arne's arm flew out to deflect the stroke. A heartbeat later, Arne was gripping his forearm tightly and cursing. Bright blood ran liberally between his fingers and dripped on to the deck.

“Arne!” Hilde gasped.

Harald stepped back one dancing pace, lowering the harpoon. “Sorry, my friend. You shouldn't have got in the way.”

“Shame on you!” Astrid spat like a wildcat. She raised her voice, “Gunnar, see what Harald's done! Look what's he's done to Arne!”

Harald glared and threw the harpoon down. Gunnar came striding over. His eyebrows curled together in a thick frown, but all he said was, “Can you use the hand? Good. Take him away, Astrid, and tie that up.”

“It's only a cut.” Arne looked up at Peer, standing shocked by the suddenness of it all. “Get out of my way! Just clear off and keep out of trouble,” he burst out in a hard, exasperated voice, adding softly, “This was a good trip till you came on it.”

Peer went without a word, ducking under the sail. When Hilde came to tell him that Arne's wound was only a long deep scratch, he turned away in silence. She stared at him. “What's the matter with you? Arne saved your skin, and you haven't even thanked him.” She marched off.

Peer was too angry to care.
He doesn't want my thanks. He doesn't even like me. I was trying to stand up for you…
He waited for Hilde to come back, so that they could talk properly, but she didn't.

In the mid-afternoon, the low shapes of mountains became visible along the northern horizon, greyish scarps and knobs, dark or faint, some near, some further away. Peer began to come out of his self-imposed isolation. He looked around. Floki, Magnus, Halfdan and Big Tjørvi were sitting under the taut arc of the sail, throwing dice and talking.

“Are those the Islands of Sheep?” Peer called.

“That's right.” Tjørvi got up and leaned on the rail beside Peer, looking northwards. “Bare, bleak places. Nary a tree to shelter under, but good enough for sheep. Narrow waters and dangerous currents.”

“You've been there?”

“I'm
from
there,” said Tjørvi quietly. “That's home. Got a wife there, and a little daughter. Haven't been back for years. Always meaning to; never make it. Maybe next time…”

Many more seabirds were now flying alongside the ship. One of them swooped past and scanned Peer with its fierce, yellow-rimmed eye. “How they stare,” said Halfdan, looking up at the gracefully wheeling birds.

“Gulls are strange things,” Tjørvi rumbled. “Have you seen them turning and circling over the place where a boat's gone down? And that's because they're tracking the drift of drowned corpses on the seabed.”

“Is that so?” Halfdan shivered. Floki said, “I've heard how the souls of dead sailors put on the form of seagulls, and go flying after their shipmates, a-crying and a-calling…” They all turned their heads to look at Peer.

“Was that really a gull last night?” Tjørvi asked.

Peer hesitated. He didn't want to reinforce the fears about ghosts. But he couldn't afford to have news of the Nis reaching Harald. “It seemed just an ordinary bird,” he said lamely.

“Ordinary?” Magnus growled. “It didn't sound like one.” Remembering the Nis's screams, Peer couldn't blame him for thinking so.

“It'll be back, you'll see,” said Floki with a mournful shudder. “The skipper knows. Did you see the look on his face?”

“Will you shut up, Floki,” said Magnus. “I've told you before.” But he sounded irresolute, as if his heart wasn't in it, and this time Floki was unabashed.

“Now wait a minute, boys.” Tjørvi glanced around and put the question Peer was longing to ask. “If there's really a ghost, whose is it?”

Magnus got to his feet. “I'm out of this.” He glanced at Floki, who sat stubbornly where he was. Halfdan looked at his feet.

“Don't tell 'em,” said Magnus. “I'm warning you, all right? Just don't say.” He marched off. Floki licked his lips. “I'll name no names,” he muttered. “It'd be asking for trouble, naming a ghost. But there was a man the skipper killed…”

“It was young Harald finished him off,” Halfdan put in sombrely.

Erlend
, thought Peer.

“And he cursed him as he lay dying. I wasn't close enough to hear him myself, but Magnus was. Magnus heard the curse. He said —” Floki's voice dropped to a hoarse whisper: “‘
A cold life and a cold death to you, Gunnar. A cold wife and a cold bed. Look out for me when you close your eyes. For I'll follow you wherever you go and bring you to a cold grave.'
And he'd have cursed Harald too, Magnus says, but Harald was too quick for him. He dealt him the death blow.”

Though he knew that what they'd heard last night was no ghost, but only the Nis, Peer was glad of the sunlight on his face, and the bright spray blowing.

“And it's working, isn't it?” added Floki. “That Astrid – she's a cold piece, all right.”

“If I'd ha' thought a ghost was following this ship, I'd never have joined,” said Tjørvi heavily, chewing at his thumb.

Peer said guiltily, “Where did you join the ship, Tjørvi?”

“In Hammerhaven, lad, like your friend Arne.”

Peer couldn't help himself. “He's not my friend. Not any more.”

The three men stared at him. “Arne stopped a harpoon on its way to you,” said Halfdan. “And you say he's not your friend?”

“Yes, but —” Peer went hot to his ears.

“Anyone's a friend that stands up for you against Harald,” said Tjørvi decisively. “He's not one to cross.”

“Right,” Halfdan agreed. “You never know where you are with Harald.”

“He's a natural-born fighter,” Floki said with pride.

Peer was quiet. The men went on talking about Harald with a mixture of horror and admiration. As usual, Floki's tongue chattered most freely, dropping
Magnus says
into almost every sentence. Magnus had started out as one of Gunnar's farmhands in Westfold, and knew lots about Harald. At nine years old Harald had almost killed another boy, a playfellow who'd tripped him in a ball game, by pounding his head with a rock. At twelve years his mother, Vardis, had given him his first sword. He'd killed a man with it before his thirteenth birthday. Since his mother died, he'd accompanied his father on all his voyages. It was said he was a berserker, who lost all control when he fought.

“A berserker?” Peer's skin crawled.

Berserkers could fall into a kind of mad fury. They would howl like wild beasts and hurl themselves screaming at anyone in their way. A warrior who went berserk would have terrible strength.

“Magnus says Harald's mother fed him raw wolf-meat, to make him strong,” Floki whispered, wriggling with gruesome delight. “So when the fit's on him, he's as wild as a wolf. We've seen it, haven't we, Halfdan? We've heard him howling. Enough to scare you to death!” He laughed suddenly, stupidly. “Didn't they all run!”

“Shut up.” Halfdan looked half angry, half sick. “Magnus is right, Floki. You talk too much.” He got up and moved restlessly away. Floki stuck out his bottom lip like a child.

“I'd follow Harald anywhere,” he said defiantly. “Magnus is Gunnar's man, but I'm Harald's. I'd like to put my hands between his and swear to serve him. That's what real warriors do!”

“Floki, Floki!” Tjørvi suddenly burst out laughing. He put out a big hand and ruffled Floki's tight curls. “You don't want to be a warrior, son, believe me. Stick to being a sailor.” Floki's rough, red face flushed even redder. He went off in a huff, leaving Tjørvi and Peer alone.

“I'd better be more careful,” said Peer gloomily. “Gunnar doesn't think much of me. Harald hates me, and he's a berserker. Floki thinks Harald's wonderful. Arne's angry with me…”

“Angry?” said Tjørvi. “Angry's nothing.”

“I used to like Arne,” Peer cried, out of a sore heart. “I —” He remembered how he'd admired Arne when he first met him years ago. Arne and Bjørn had seemed like heroes to him, brave enough to stand up to his bullying uncles when no one else dared. “If he won't be friends with me, what can I do?”

Tjørvi looked shrewdly at Peer. “No wonder they say women on board ships is unlucky. It's that young lass that's causing all the trouble, isn't it? And is she fond of you?”

“I don't think she knows,” said Peer.

“Ask her and be done with it,” said Tjørvi.

B
UT
P
EER DIDN'T
take Tjørvi's advice. Hilde's sunny nature made her a favourite with the entire crew. If ever he found himself alone with her, someone always pushed in, and it wasn't just Arne. Everyone wanted to talk to Hilde, or sit beside her. And so he put it off.
When the voyage is over
, he thought,
when we strike land. That's when I'll tell her how I feel.

Days passed, and the crew of the
Water Snake
grew used to the hard boards under them, the cold air always around them, the long waves rolling under the ship. They were resigned to eating cold food and drinking stale water. On bright days they were grateful for the strength of the sun warming their aching limbs. On wet days, the lucky ones donned supple capes of fine oiled leather. Those who had none wrapped themselves up in double layers of wool, and blew on their cold red hands.

There were no more fights. Peer didn't speak to Harald and Arne, even at mealtimes. Once or twice he saw Arne watching him with an odd expression, half sorry, half annoyed. But if Arne wanted to say something, he could. Peer wouldn't be the one to begin.

The Nis adapted surprisingly well to life on board. The mast and rigging became its playground, and there were all sorts of nooks and crannies where it could hide. The apple barrel in the hold was one of its favourites, but it often curled up with Loki in a patch of sunshine, hidden from view behind the coil of the anchor rope. If anyone approached, it shot for cover. The men thought there was a big rat on board.

Late one evening, Peer was in the bows, keeping ice watch. They'd passed a big iceberg at around sunset – a scary thing like a chunk of white mountain that remained in sight for an hour or more, turning to warm amber and blue shadow, and finally to a dark tooth against the south-eastern horizon.

It was a warning they couldn't ignore. So Peer stood through the long twilight, straining for the tell-tale gleam of looming ice-castles, and listening to the Nis bouncing about in the shrouds. Now it was sitting in the cross trees at the top of the mast, thin legs dangling, wispy hair blowing in the north wind – just visible against a patch of sky where a few stars burned.

Peer was hungry. He hoped Hilde would bring him his evening meal, but was disappointed to see Astrid. She handed over his food, and then didn't go, but leaned against the steep curve of the prow and looked up at the masthead.

“There it sits,” she said, and her fingers drummed on the rail. “There it sits, and it won't speak to me.”

“The Nis?” Peer asked through a mouthful of crumbling oatcake. He'd forgotten that Astrid could see it. “Why should it speak to you? You're lucky it hasn't tried to pay you back.”

“It wouldn't dare,” said Astrid coolly, and it occurred to him that she was probably right. There was something about Astrid that would make even the Nis think twice.

She moved closer to him. “It would talk to me if
you
asked it. Why don't you call it? Ask it to come down.”

“Why should I?” Peer neither liked nor trusted Astrid, and saw no reason why he should do anything for her. “Besides, someone might hear.”

“They won't,” said Astrid. “They're all listening to Hilde, telling about your adventures under Troll Fell.” She put a slim hand on his shoulder. “It's a shame you're up here by yourself, especially when it's your story too.”

Peer couldn't help secretly agreeing. He imagined the gathering back there on the afterdeck, Hilde's animated face, her hands gesturing as she told the story.

“Do ask the Nis to come down,” Astrid wheedled. “I'd like to make friends with it. And look! Here's its little red cap. It'll want that back.”

She opened her hand and showed him the tiny cap, dark in the darkness against her white fingers. It was true that the Nis would be glad to have it back. And where had she found it? Probably inside her goatskin bag.

“All right,” Peer said gruffly. “I'll try, but I don't know if it'll come.”

He chirruped gently, and saw the Nis's humped outline go tall and thin as it sat up like an alarmed squirrel and looked around.

“It's only me,” Peer called. “And Astrid,” he added, in case the Nis thought he was trying to deceive it. “She wants to say sorry to you. Come on down.”

He didn't truly think the Nis would come. However, it skipped on to the forestay and slid cleverly down. Astrid jumped, as if half afraid, then stretched out a coaxing hand.

The Nis grabbed the cap from her fingers and crammed it on its head. It made a rude noise with its lips, and jumped away to crouch on the iron fluke of the anchor, fiddling with something it held in its skinny lap, and chanting some odd-sounding gibberish:

“Half hitch, clove hitch, bowline, sheep-shank.

Sheet bend, double sheet, reef knot, splice.”

Peer leaned over. “Whatever are you doing?”

“Practising knots,” squeaked the Nis. Its fingers flickered like spider legs. “Make a little hole,” it muttered to itself. “
Out
pops the rabbit,
round
the tree it goes, and back into the hole again.” It held up a piece of looped string in triumph. “See! Bowline.” It undid it busily and tried another. “Reef knot!” It held out the end. “The harder you pull, the tighter it gets,” it explained importantly. “Pull!”

Peer pulled, and the knot slid apart. “That was a slip knot,” he said.

The Nis snatched the string back. “
Over
here and
under
there… No,
round
here and over
there
… Pull!” Peer tweaked, and the knot came apart again. The Nis scrunched the string up. “I could do it before,” it said crossly.

Astrid laughed. “Why are you learning knots?” she asked. The Nis wouldn't answer, but Peer guessed. “They're all knots that sailors use. The Nis is turning into a real seafarer!”

Astrid caught on fast. “Goodness, yes. Why, I'm terrible at knots. I'm nothing but a landlubber. However did you learn so quickly?”

The Nis could not resist flattery. Flicking her a sideways glance, it said with shy pride, “I watches, and I listens, and I sees Magnus showing Floki. And I thinks to myself,
I am a ship nis now, I must learn the things that sailors know.
”

“How clever,” Astrid praised. The Nis swaggered its thin shoulders, spitting a tiny white speck over the side in uncanny imitation of Magnus. “I knows all the right words, too,” it bragged. “
Ahoy there! Haul, me boys! Lee side! Luff!
”

“That's wonderful.” Peer's voice shook.

The Nis nodded complacently. “Now I must go up to the mast head, like I does every night, and keep look out. Every evening I goes
aloft
” – it looked sharply to see if they had noticed the nautical term – “I goes aloft and I can see lots from up there, and I keeps a good look out for icebergs, Peer Ulfsson, so no need to worry. And I looks for storms, too, and rocks, and sea-serpentses and whales…” Its voice trailed off as it sprang for the forestay and scampered up hand over hand.

Peer and Astrid caught each other's eye.

“Well! It's forgiven me,” said Astrid.

“Maybe,” said Peer. “Just keep buttering it up.”

“You're fond of it, aren't you?”

“Of course I am.” Peer discovered that he also felt very proud of the way the Nis was coping with its sudden uprooting from everything it had ever known. “I think it's doing better than I am,” he added soberly.

“You're a nice person, Peer,” said Astrid softly. “Why doesn't Hilde notice?”

Peer stiffened. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Yes you do.” A gleam of mischief came into Astrid's eyes. “I expect I could help. Shall I?”

“No!”

“You're afraid of me, aren't you?” she teased. “Why? A handsome boy like you shouldn't be afraid of girls.”

Peer was blushing so hard, he was glad of the darkness. Astrid stepped closer. Before he knew what she was going to do, she slid one hand up over his neck and kissed his cheek. “There! Now you can say a girl's kissed you.”

“Astrid!” Peer felt his whole skin scalding. “You'd better go,” he said furiously. “What if someone —”

“What if someone sees us?” Astrid made her eyes go big. “Oh, yes, Gunnar would kill you, wouldn't he?” She laughed. “Don't worry, Peer, you're safe with me. I won't frighten you any more. I like you. I really do. And I can't say that about many people.”

Her voice was half sad, half mocking. Peer remembered what Hilde had told him, about the young man Astrid had loved.
Erlend
. The name rose to his lips, but he bit it back. He looked at Astrid. She was staring at the stars, her white skin luminous against the darkness of the vast sail. Did she know the story of Erlend's curse? He pitied her.

“Hilde told me your secret,” he said gently.

“What secret?”

She rapped it out so sharply, Peer wished he had said nothing. “About – having to marry Gunnar, and then Harald killing Erlend,” he stammered.

“That!” To his amazement, she sounded relieved. After a moment she said, “Well, it was dreadful. But I'm married to Gunnar now. I don't think about it any more.” She was suddenly in a hurry, pulling her cloak around her. “Gunnar will miss me. I'd better go.” And she whisked away, stumbling over the curved wooden ribs of the ship's side.

Peer's hand went to his cheek, and he rubbed the spot where she'd kissed him. Did she love Gunnar? Had she loved Erlend? He couldn't make her out at all.

“Floki!” Magnus yelled next morning as a line came apart in his hands. He waved the loose end under Floki's nose. “Call yourself a sailor? That was a slip knot. Came undone as soon as I pulled on it, you – you landsman, you!”

Floki examined the line as though it could tell him what had gone wrong. “I'm sure I did it right,” he grumbled.

“Never mind who did what. Pull that sail in!” bellowed Gunnar. The corner of the sail had blown free and had to be recaptured. All day, knots came mysteriously loose, or undone, or were found re-tied in the wrong way, until Gunnar was diven nearly crazy, cursing his crew for a nest of unhandy landlubbers. Peer began to fear fights would break out again – but luckily, after a day of turmoil, the Nis finally got all the knots figured out, and peace was restored. Floki muttered that
Water Snake
was an unlucky ship. When Magnus heard, he threatened to throw Floki overboard.

A few days later, just after daybreak, Peer heard an excited shout from Halfdan in the bows: “Land ahead! There's old Blueshirt! Greenland, me boys!”

Everyone who was free rushed forwards. Peer was holding the starboard brace and couldn't join them, but by shading his eyes and leaning out over the side, he caught a glimpse of it: a jag of bluish-white on the iron horizon.

Gunnar ordered Magnus, on the tiller, to alter course south of west. It was a freezing cold morning, the wind gusting almost dead north. As those white, unfriendly mountains drew nearer, snow began to scud down the wind. The horizon in all directions vanished. Grey snowflakes plastered themselves against the sail and whirled away again. The wind piled the sea into great ridges, and the ship reared and plunged over them like a frightened horse.

“Reef!” Gunnar screamed. They shortened sail. Peer sat jammed against the starboard side, hanging on to the sheet and the braces. The waves rushed at the ship, foam spilling greedily down their fronts. He could see forward, under the sail, the dark neck of the dragonhead with seas bursting around it. Then hail rattled across the deckboards, knocking against his skull like elfin hammers.

Someone shook his shoulder. Arne, shouting into his ear.
Something – the steering oar?
“Broken,” Arne bawled. Peer cawed his way to the stern, where Magnus waved a splintered peg-leg of wood – the remains of the tiller. A wave had wrenched it out of his grasp, twisting the steering oar upwards and snapping the tiller like a stick of firewood. Peer clung to the side. The steering oar was lifting and falling uselessly in the waves. “It's not broken,” he yelled. “The withy's snapped.”

The withy – the rope that pinned the steering oar against the ship – had gone. Only a broad leather strap kept the oar from floating away as the ship tossed and dropped at the mercy of wind and waves.

Gunnar appeared out of the gale. He put his face close to Peer's. “Can – you – fix – it?” He bellowed each word separately.

“Not in this weather,” Peer shouted back. He was afraid Gunnar would argue, but Gunnar nodded as though this was what he'd expected, and disappeared again.

“Get me a line,” Peer yelled. The steering oar was a heavy blade of oak as long as a man, scything about in the strong waves, capable of breaking an arm or crushing a hand between it and the ship. Magnus brought a length of cord which Peer knotted around the end, so that the oar couldn't wash away when he loosed the leather strap. “When it comes free, haul!”

Magnus nodded. At Peer's other side, Harald leaned over the gunwale.

“Now!”

They grabbed for the oar. Magnus heaved on the line. Peer caught the middle of the oar and was nearly tugged overboard by the deadweight as the ship rolled and the water sucked away. For a second he stared into boiling froth and evil, licking swirls, then the water rose to engulf him, but the oar rose with it, and together Harald and he dragged it over the side and fell to the deck boards with the oar on top of them. Magnus lifted it clear.

Soaked and breathless, arms nearly torn from their sockets, Peer and Harald exchanged glances. Harald was gasping, his hair plastered to his face in rat-tails. He bared his teeth in a savage smile of triumph, and Peer found himself grinning back as savagely. Harald pulled Peer to his feet, and clapped him on the arm.