Wolfskin (3 page)

 

It was as well the longhouse at Hammarsby was spacious and comfortably appointed. A large party made its way there, arriving just before the wind began to howl in earnest, and the first swirling eddies of snow to descend. The nobleman Ulf and his richly dressed companions, the two Wolfskins and a number of other folk of the Jarl's household gathered at Ingi's home. The wind chased Eyvind in the small back doorway; he had arrived somewhat later than the others, after staying behind to make sure the fire was safely quenched and the temple shuttered against the storm. The instant he came inside he saw the boy standing in the shadows by the wall, arms folded around himself. There was nobody else in sight; they would all be gathered close to the hearth's warmth. Eyvind spoke politely, since he could hardly pretend the strange lad was not there.

“Thor's hammer, what a wind! My name's Eyvind. You're welcome here.”

The boy gave a stiff nod.

Eyvind tried again. “Looks like you'll be staying with us a few days. There'll be heavy snow tonight; you'd never get out, even on skis.”

There was a short pause. Then the boy said, “Why did it scream?”

Now it was Eyvind's turn to stare. “What?” he asked after a moment.

“The goat. Why did it scream?”

What sort of question was that? “I—because the sacrifice wasn't done properly,” Eyvind said. “It screamed because the knife slipped. It was hurt and frightened.”

The boy nodded gravely. “I see,” he said.

Eyvind drew a deep breath. “Come on,” he said, “it's warmer by the fire, and the others are there, my brother and Hakon, and the guests. My brother is Eirik. He's a Wolfskin.” There was a satisfaction in telling people this.

“I know,” said the boy. “Eirik Hallvardsson. And there's another brother, Karl, who is not a Wolfskin. Your mother is Ingi, a widow. Your father died in battle.”

Eyvind looked at him. “How do you know that?” he asked.

“If I'm to stay here until the summer, I must be well prepared,” the boy said flatly. “It's foolish not to find out all you can.”

Eyvind was mute.

“Your brother didn't tell you,” said the boy. “I see that. I have a brother too, one who has an inclination to build ships and sail off to islands full of savages. He doesn't want me. I'm to stay here and learn what other boys do with their time. You're supposed to teach me.”

Eyvind gaped. If this was the favor his brother had spoken of, it was pretty one-sided. The boy was pale and scrawny; he looked as if he'd never held a sword or a bow in his life, he spoke so strangely you could hardly understand what he meant, and he stared all the time. What was Eirik thinking?

“I'm not going to say sorry.” The boy was looking at the floor now, his voice a little uneven. “It wasn't my idea.”

There was a brief silence. “It's all right,” Eyvind said with an effort. “It's rather a surprise, that's all. Do you know how to fight?”

The boy shook his head. “Not the sort of fight you mean, with knives or fists.”

“What other kind is there?” Eyvind asked, puzzled.

There was the faintest trace of a smile on the boy's thin lips. “Maybe that's what I'm supposed to teach you,” he said.

False courage
, thought Eyvind. It must be very hard, frightening even, if you were a weakling and a bit simple in the head, and had no sort of skills at all, to be dumped in a strange household with the kinsfolk of a Wolfskin. No wonder the lad pretended to some sort of secret knowledge; no wonder he tried to look superior.

“Don't worry,” Eyvind said magnanimously. “I'll look after you. Don't worry about anything.” He put out a hand, and the boy clasped it for an instant and let go. He wasn't smiling, not exactly, but at least that blank stare was gone. His hand was cold as a frozen fish.

“Come on,” Eyvind urged. “I'm for a warm fire and a drink of ale.” He led the way past the sleeping quarters, which opened to left and right of the central passageway. Though it was growing dark, none of the household was yet abed. The days were short, the time after sundown spent in tales by the hearth, and in what crafts could be plied indoors by the light of seal-oil lamps. Ingi and her daughters were noted for their embroidery; Karl carved goblets and candleholders and cunning small creatures from pale soapstone. Solveig's husband Bjarni was scratching away on his pattern board, making designs which by daylight he would transform into clasps and rings and brooches of intricate silverwork. Helga's husband was away, for the hard winter meant a swift passage by ice roads to the great trading fairs in Kaupang and far-off Birka. In summer, he would take ship for ports still more distant, traveling far east. At Novgorod you could get spices and silks from the hot southern lands, fine honey, Arab silver, and slaves. Ingi herself had a thrall-woman with jutting cheekbones and dark, slanting eyes, who shivered through the winter, wrapped in heavy shawls. This exotic slave had two small children; curiously, neither resembled Oksana herself. Indeed, with their wide blue eyes and golden hair, these infants could have been part of Ingi's own family.

Faces turned toward the boys as they emerged from the hallway, Eyvind leading, the other behind like a smaller shadow.

“Ah,” said Eirik with a look in his eyes that mingled relief and apology, “you found Somerled, then.”

Eyvind nodded, and went to sit on the worn sheepskins that covered the floor by the hearth. The boy hovered, hesitant. Somerled. So that was his name. Eyvind glanced up, jerked his head a little. Noiselessly, the boy moved to settle cross-legged at his side.

“Good,” whispered Eyvind. “There's nothing to be afraid of.”

Ulf had told no tales at the feasting. He seemed a cautious sort of man, dark-bearded, neat-featured, and watchful. But in the quiet of the home hearth, as the family sat about the fire with ale cups in hand, he seemed to relax, and began to talk. It then became evident that Ulf was a man with a mission. He wanted to build a ship: not an ordinary longship, but a vessel such as no man had seen before in all of Norway. And in it he intended to
journey where no man of Norway had yet traveled; he would sail to a place that might be real, or that might be no more than fable. With his soft voice and the glow in his dark eyes, he drew them all into his dream.

“There is a land out in the western sea,” he told them, “a land my father heard tell of from a man he met at the markets in Birka, beyond the eastern mountains in the land of the Svear. This fellow had traveled far, from wild Pictland southward through Britain, by sea to the Frankish realms and north to Saxony. From there he took ship to the Baltic markets with his precious cargo: boards set with jewels and fine enamelwork, which once housed books in a temple of the Christian faith. The books themselves were discarded, but the bindings were indeed things of wonder, and would make this man rich if he were not slaughtered in the darkness first for what he carried. He had made a long journey. Pictland is a bleak territory, inhabited by wild people. But from its northern shores, said this traveler, far out in the trackless ocean, can be reached a place of warm sea currents, of verdant islands and sheltered waterways, a realm of peaceful bays and gentle grazing lands. The crossing is dangerous from those parts in the vessels they use, simple skin curraghs for the most part. It is a longer path from Rogaland, but not so long that it could not be done, if a ship were built strongly enough to withstand the journey. The news of such a place inspired my father. He yearned to travel there. That he was prevented from pursuing it is a lifelong regret for him.”

“You plan to undertake an expedition to those parts yourself, my lord?” Karl asked politely.

Ulf gave a rueful smile. “I make it plain enough, I suppose, that I have inherited my father's obsession. Such a venture would be fraught with risk. But one day I will do it.”

“You'd need a fine boat,” Eyvind said, hoping he did not speak out of turn. “If it's a rough crossing from that southern shore, it could be a rougher one from Rogaland, all the way. It's a brave man who would voyage beyond the skerry-guard, straight out into open seas: into the unknown.”

The Jarl's kinsman looked at him with sudden interest. “I'll build a boat, lad,” he said quietly. “She'll be a queen among vessels, sleek, graceful, the equal of any of our shore-raiding ships for speed and maneuverability, but strong enough for a long voyage in open water. I'll gather the best shipwrights in all Norway to work for me, and when the boat is ready, the finest warriors in all Norway will travel with me. I'll see that land while I'm still young, and if it pleases me, I'll take a piece of it in my father's name.”

The eyes of every man in the hall had kindled with enthusiasm, for when Ulf spoke of this dream there was something in his face, his voice, his bearing that seized the spirit and quickened the heart. It was plain this soft-spoken, reserved man was that rare phenomenon: a true leader.

“It'd cost you an arm and a leg,” Eirik observed. “Ships, crew, supplies.”

“You doubt my ability to carry this out?” Ulf's expression was suddenly grim.

“Indeed no,” Eirik said calmly. “I do not. But even a Wolfskin likes to know what he's getting into.”

Ulf smiled. “Ah,” he said, “I have one taker, then.”

“Two.” Hakon spoke from his place on the nobleman's other side. “You are a man of vision, my lord. A new horizon, an unknown land: what warrior could fail to be drawn by that? I will go, if you'll have me.”

Ulf nodded. “I hope Magnus may be prepared to support us, and to release you both. It won't be tomorrow, my friends, or next season. As you say, there must be resources for such an undertaking. I need time. Still, I see the great ship in my mind, her sails full-bellied in the east wind, her prow dragon-crested; I taste the salt air of that place even now.”

“The expedition is a fine prospect and stirring to the spirit,” Eirik said. “Good farming land is scarce enough here; a man with many sons leaves scant portions. There's more than one likely lad who would jump at the chance to settle in such a place, if it's indeed as verdant and sheltered as you say. You'll find plenty of takers before you go, I think.”

“As to that,” said Ulf, “I winnow my wheat once, twice, three times before I make my bread, for I am slow to trust. I will not sink all my resources in such a venture to have it end with a knife in the back.”

“Wisely spoken.” To everyone's surprise, it was the boy Somerled who spoke. “My brother is a man with a curse on him; he needs to be rather more cautious than most.”

Ulf was regarding his brother with a look of distaste. “Enough, Somerled,” he said. “We will not speak of that here at this peaceful hearth.”

“It's a good curse.” The boy went on as if Ulf had not spoken. “A kind of riddle. I like riddles. It goes like this:

There was silence. It was plain to all that Ulf had not wanted this spoken aloud.

“A strange verse indeed,” Karl said after a little. “What does it mean?”

“As to that,” Ulf said soberly, rising to his feet, “it seems nonsense. If a man is neither on land nor water, where can he be? Flying like an albatross? An old woman spoke such a verse over me when I was in the cradle, that is all. Folk make much of it, but it seems to me a man must live his life without always looking over his shoulder. If some strange fate overtakes me and proves these words true, so be it. I will not live in fear of them. Indeed, I would prefer to forget them.” He frowned at Somerled.

After that, the talk turned to safer matters, and soon enough it was bedtime. Because Somerled was a nobleman's brother, and a visitor, the two lads who shared Eyvind's small sleeping area had to move, and Somerled was given their space. It meant there was more room, which Eyvind appreciated. He was growing taller; his toes were making holes in his boots and his wrists stuck out of his shirtsleeves. Somerled was small, and slept neatly, rolled tight in a blanket, still as if dead. On the other hand, he had a gift for banishing other people's sleep. That first night, just as Eyvind, comfortably tired from the long day's work and warmed by the strong ale, hovered on the verge of slumber, Somerled asked another question.

“Do you think she screamed?” he inquired.

Eyvind's eyes snapped open. “What? Who?” he asked testily.

“You know. That girl, Thora. Do you think she screamed, when she started to burn?”

“Leave it, will you?” growled Eyvind, too annoyed to think of good manners. He had almost managed to forget the story of Niall and Brynjolf in the warmth and fellowship of the longhouse. Now it came back to him in all its painful and confusing detail.

“I should think she did,” Somerled said tranquilly, answering his own question. “I wonder what Niall felt when he heard the singing change. I wonder how it takes you, that moment when everything turns to shadows.”

Eyvind pulled his blanket over his head and stuck his fingers in his ears. But Somerled was finished; before you could count to fifty he was snoring peacefully. It was Eyvind who tossed and turned, his mind flooded with dark images.