He watched his uncle look down at the knife in his hand, watched him slide it back in its sheath.
“You are lucky, Toki. The Gods love you, and you are lucky,” he summed. “I think you will not live long, because of it.”
Sidroc awoke late next morning, groggy from the draught of dried cowslip root his aunt had made him drink. But he had slept, with the moist, linen-wrapped poultice covering half his face. He swung his legs from his alcove and stood, feeling his buzzing head to be twice its size.
Everything from the neck up hurt. Talking was difficult and chewing impossible. Moving his mouth moved his cheek, that cheek now split open. Signe gave him milk to drink, and hot broth to sip. He moved from alcove to kitchen yard to work table. He was weak from hunger and loss of blood and sat on the bench with his shoulders slumped. Seating himself, he knocked his shin against the trestle, that shin that Toki had kicked a few days ago when they had fought about Gunnborga. It was still sore. The hurt his cousin caused him then was so small in comparison. Sidroc’s lip twisted a moment, almost in laughter.
He had not seen Toki since last night, and knew he would be about his chores, chores that he need perform for both of them. Signe made him another poultice, which he must lie down to use. He did not want to return to his alcove and climbed instead on the table. At least here he was outdoors. Despite the hardness of the surface he fell into sleep.
In the afternoon Signe studied the wound again. When she had lifted the poultice the gash was weeping, not the slightly yellowish, clear liquid of a healthy wound, but an ill-smelling pus.
She shook her head slightly as she spoke to him. “I must open it, my boy, and search out the evil in it.” She bit her lip. “’Twill only be the worse, if I cannot get it clean now.”
She warmed vinegar. With Ebbe pouring, Signe placed her pointing fingers on either side of the gash, and pulled. The warm vinegar drizzled down upon it. The stinging was such that Sidroc drove his fingernails into the worn wood of the table, so hard did he clutch its edges.
Tears were running from the sides of his eyes. When they finished he sat up. His tunic was wet from his sweat and the vinegar that had run through the towelling they had laid there. His aunt was fighting her own tears, but had Ebbe take her keys and bring him a swallow of mead.
“It will heal now,” she promised, though her voice was unsteady with her fears. She swallowed back her next words, those she would have said for a common wound to arm or leg once the fester had been chased from it. He would not be as good as new. Her son had spoiled Sidroc’s face, forever. Boys hurt each other in play or in fighting, but this went far beyond. She had not served her brother Hrald as she should have, by raising a son who could do this.
Her nephew nodded to her. He was quiet by nature, but had said almost nothing since he had returned. It hurt him to speak, she knew. With his damp hair and thin face he looked pale and even gaunt. He looked too as if he had aged overnight, like a child stolen by faeries and then restored to his rightful folk. Some boyishness had been bled out of him, she knew. He would not return fully to who and what he had been.
Later in the afternoon Toki came up to him. Sidroc had moved about the kitchen yard, but was sitting now at the work table at which he had spent much of his day. His hands were lying upon the surface of it, fingers splayed, and he was looking down at them.
Toki slowed, and stopped on the other side of the table. They were alone. Sidroc waited a moment, then raised his face to him.
Toki regarded him. He had seen the ugliness of the cut the day before. Now, though Sidroc’s face was less distorted by swelling, it looked the worse. He saw the truth of what he had done.
He thought of last night, with Yrling. He thought of his shame in begging and crying and peeing. His jaw moved; he swallowed. Then he spoke.
“I am adding more brush to the fire pile,” Toki said. He shrugged toward the barn, beyond which lay the waiting pile.
It was a call for Sidroc to join him.
He rose, walked with Toki past the barn. His cousin had dragged a mass of old hazel cuttings to one side. Together the boys began prodding and weaving them into the framework of logs and branches.
It took them some time to push them all in. When they had done they stood side by side, looking on the pile.
“Why did you do it,” Sidroc asked, in a low voice. He had not turned to look at his cousin. His voice sounded odd, and every word he formed gave his wound another twinge. Still, he went on.
“You tried to kill me. You were aiming for my throat.”
It took Toki a long while to answer. “You made me mad.”
Now Sidroc faced him. He stared at Toki, with his unblinking blue eyes, smooth cheeks, firm and stubborn chin. He stared so long that Toki’s own gaze faltered. The bright blue eyes shifted, and then dropped under the force of Sidroc’s stare.
For the second time in as many days, Sidroc turned and walked away from him.
Chapter the Twelfth: Fire
MID-SUMMER and its feast and fire came two days later. It was not a large gathering; farms were far-flung in these parts, but three or four of them nearby took turns hosting this ritual welcome to Summer, and fare-well to the growing light of the Sun.
Their nearest neighbour, who Gunnborga’s mother had wed, had come, with his new wife and daughter, and his three children, all of which were within three or four years of Sidroc and Toki. The old couple to the East of Ful and Signe’s farm were also there; they were quite alone, with daughters wed, but distant. A fourth family was a large one, with a range of hearty maids and youths, all at or nearing marriageable age; and these always had friends with them. All in all there were some forty-odd folk to cook for, though all families would make contribution to the tables in way of a side of smoky bacon, a crock or two of ale, or trays of freshly griddled and tender buckwheat cakes.
The food was of the simplest, but Signe and Ebbe tried to make good show of it. The domed oven had been kept fired, loaf after loaf of rye and wheaten bread pulled from its glowing mouth. The largest cauldron bubbled with a browis of millet, dried spotted beans, new carrots and peas, into which a fresh green sauce of parsley, thyme, and clary was stirred. Herbed cheeses, their curds washed and salted, sat in thick-walled pots. With the many long hours of sunlight, the hens were laying at their height, and honey-sweetened custards of beaten eggs and rich cream proclaimed this. Puddings of stale and shredded bread were mixed with more eggs and cream, dotted over with dried cherries and plums, and baked long in covered pans in the hottest of ashes. And the mead crock was brought out, as was a full cask of ale, the first mellowed by a year’s storage in the cool spring house, the second freshly brewed, and made pleasantly bitter with ground-ivy.
Other than the needful caring for the farm beasts, which must be done Winter and Summer, holiday or no, work was set aside. It was preparation enough to carry every trestle and table out by the kitchen yard and its waiting food, to make more make-shift, from doubled boards which had recently known the adze, setting these upon saw-horses; and then roll short lengths of sawn tree trunks near, upon which more planks might be set to serve as benches.
There would be music, that of horn and drum and chimes, six-stringed harp and pipe, and singing too. Every such gathering would have at least one man, young or old, who knew the timeworn songs, and sometimes those who could make one anew. Dancing demanded music, and there would be dancing. When the fire was lit at noon, youths and maids, children and their grand-sires joined hands, to step around it in rhythmic motion. They mimicked the course across the Heavens of the great and life-bearing Sun, without which no plant could grow, no animal live nor thrive. As the music quickened, driven by beating drum or the rattling of hand-held chimes or brazen cymbals, the dancers would break their holds, pair off in smaller groups of six or eight, four or two. With laughing faces and hands slippery from sweat some would dance until they dropped, exhausted in the grasses they trampled. Even this returned life to the Eart
h. Every seed-head crushed under foot was given the chance to swell and sprout, push its way up to light, air and the needful Sun.
The meal would be ladled up, the ale casks tapped, and spoons raised to hungry mouths. As the day wore on young folk might walk or take sport with ball-games, bow and arrows, or other tests of skill. Their elders sat and talked, sharing news of crops or kin, or pushed amber and stone game pieces on scored wooden boards to capture the King’s men.
All the time the fire burned. When first lit, in the bright light of high noon, its flame could be felt but not seen. As the sky paled and then dimmed the great logs at the base of the fire-pile showed their red and orange cores to those who came to stand about them. New logs might be flung on, young men making a contest of a perfect hit of the heavier ones. Benches were carried to encircle the flames; the young flocked to them, their elders staying within earshot back by the cooking rings. It was then that those of wooing age came into their own. Children were banished, or more often fell asleep, yawning, on blankets laid on the ground for them, to be carried away by mothers and fathers. To be allowed to stay up and greet the dawn was a privilege all children looked forward to, but few could meet.
It was this that Gunnborga looked forward to, and had been promised she might try. When she arrived early in the day with her mother and step-family she fairly ran to the pile. She saw it was even greater than when she had been here; Toki and Sidroc had indeed been busy.
She glimpsed the boys when she had jumped down from the waggon. They were making up benches from smoothed planks, setting them down alongside the long tables already groaning with food.
She saw Sidroc, bending over and shifting a round of tree-trunk that served as bench base. She went to him, a smile on her pretty lips. She wore an over-gown of yellow, which her mother told her made her look a flower.
Sidroc had loosened his braids so that his hair swung over his face. When he straightened up the dark brown hair flew away from his cheek. He had not seen her arrive, and now she stood before him.
Gunnborga looked up at him. She made a soft sound, an intake of breath. He watched her smile crumple. Her mouth twisted as if in pain, or growing fear. Her lips quavered, trying to regain her smile. She could not. Then she turned from him.
Late next morning Sidroc went to the alcove where his aunt and uncle slept. Most of the remains of the feast had been cleared away, and he was alone in the house as he went there. Under their box bed was a narrow chest of wood which he knew his aunt never locked. He pulled it out and opened it. What he sought was there, lying on the top, a round disc of smooth and flat copper. Polished with salt and vinegar it gave a good, if golden, reflection of those who looked into it. It was marred with tarnish now; Signe did not often use it. He rubbed at it with his tunic sleeve, and carried it near the front door.
He opened the door, held the mirror up, and beheld his face. He too saw the truth of it.
His left cheek was split by a jagged rip, from eye to chin. It was all he saw.
He knew that from now on this would be the first thing folk saw when they looked at his face, the first and lasting thing.
Chapter the Thirteenth: Two Gifts
The Year 862
SIDROC and Toki had been sent to the farm of their elderly neighbour, to escort her to her nephew’s house. Åfrid was newly widowed, and Ful had bought her farm. Both boys were sent, but only Sidroc arrived. They set out on foot, their new spears in their hands, but less than half way there, Toki left him.
“I will give you silver if you take the old hag by yourself,” Toki posed. “Two aurar.”
The trip would last nearly all day, what with driving the old woman’s waggon to her nephew’s inland farm, and the return home, on foot.
Sidroc considered. He had taken a fair amount of silver off his cousin in the past, not only to cover for missed deeds such as this, but over dice games.
“Where will you go instead?” Sidroc returned.
“Gunnborga’s. Her step-brothers have that new colt.”
“And you want to show off, riding it.”
Toki laughed.
Sidroc shrugged in return. He ran his left hand through his hair, and glanced up at the heavens. It was early in Spring, and a steady and cool wind was blowing in a sky scudded with grey clouds.
“Go then,” he answered. He had no desire to go to Gunnborga’s farm, even if he were free from the task at hand. And Toki was little help when his mind was elsewhere. He would rather be alone, and give himself up to his thoughts than deal with Toki’s shirking protests.
They paused long enough for Toki to pull the coins from his belt and pass them to his cousin. Sidroc was holding both spears as Toki fumbled in the leathern pouch that held his dwindling store.
“So you have no need to look upon your future home?” Sidroc asked, after he had slipped the silver in his own purse. He grinned.
Toki screwed up his face. “My home?”
“Why do you think Ful has bought Åfrid’s farm? I think he means it to be your home, when you wed.”
Toki scowled, telling Sidroc this had not occurred to him. Toki rarely thought ahead.
“I will no more farm than you can fly,” Toki proclaimed. “And I will claim a huge hall in the land of the Angles as my home – none other.”
This made his cousin laugh. “The Saxons will not welcome you with open arms.”
“Nej. Yrling has shown that. But of the three of us, my hall will be the best.”
“We will see. I know I will be richest.” Here Sidroc gestured toward the purse Toki had just helped fill.
It was Toki’s turn to shrug. “I will be back by dusk, and wait for you at the crossing so we return together.”
“Make sure you are there,” Sidroc warned. “I take your silver and do your work, but will not lie for you.”
Toki made a face, and both boys laughed. They did so as differently as they themselves were. Toki laughed carelessly; Sidroc with knowing awareness.
Two years had passed since Toki’s knife thrust. These were two years in which Sidroc must continue to live and work with his cousin, each and every day. Toki’s family was the only one Sidroc had, the only folk he could live with. He had no choice, and nowhere else to go. If Fate had decreed it, he must accept it.
They parted, and Sidroc moved forward alone along the track. It was mostly open land, but not good pasture; the soil was sandy here, proof that once the sea had lapped the ridges he walked over. The gently rolling ground gave interest to the walk; most of Jutland was flat as the kitchen yard’s griddle pan. For a moment he thought of Hlaupari, and how he would have liked such a walk. He gave his head a shake, pushing down a pang at the dog’s memory.
Sidroc’s hair was loose, he often now wore it that way. He rarely cut it, and it was long, a brown no lighter for all the time he spent outdoors. The hair fell and blew over his face, at times over his left cheek, screening for a moment the deep and ugly scar upon it.
He liked walking this landscape, liked a day free from the repetition of his chores, and most of all liked the way his spear felt in his hand as he lightly gripped it at his right side. With the point of his knife he had cut his sign into the ash shaft he held, the rune Sigel the first letter of his name. It meant victory, and the Sun, a sign of power. The rune cut named the spear as his own. His uncle was teaching him how to use it, but the spear already felt a part of him.
He neared Åfrid’s farm. The bristle of its thatched roofs declared long years since they had been attended to, and the greening pastures were empty. Ful had already come and taken her cow and few sheep. The door to her snug house was closed, and he guessed, locked; the place had about it a silent and desolate air. Entering the work yards he saw around the end of the house a small waggon, standing horseless, but well-filled with goods. A horse, white-whiskered with age, stood in harness to one side, cropping at the long grass springing up alongside the barn wall. Some things were still on the ground at the
waggon’s iron-rimmed wheels, and the woman herself moved spryly about it as she loaded her final items.
He had slight recollection of her from past Mid-Summer fires and other feasts; she and her husband, being alone, had never hosted here, but were guests at the farms of others, sitting and talking with those as aged as they. Now her mouth crinkled into a smile when she straightened up and saw him. Her eyes smiled as well, small eyes of greyish hue.
“I am Åfrid,” she greeted. He nodded at her, set the spear against the barn wall, and began lifting and fitting the final baskets and crocks onto the waggon bed. There was already a great deal she had stowed, including her loom, which she had pulled the pegs on and reduced to a series of long and smooth pieces of wood. She might be old, but she was full of vigour, and had a lively snappiness about her. He glanced at her with some respect, seeing how much she had done by herself.
Åfrid was reedy as a gnawed bone, her wrists and fingers thin and blue-veined, yet her face was round, almost childlike despite the maze of wrinkles lining it. That face reminded him of an apple after long storage in the root cellar, shriveled and shrunken, but still sound. Her hair was long and caught up in a grey plait, surprisingly thick, and her head wrap was of a bright green shade, almost matching the darker green of her over-gown. She had what he knew to be a fine set of bronze brooches on its shoulder straps, large ovals, well-embossed; the kind a man gives his bride the day after they are wed, and he briefly wondered if she had worn them that long.
“My hens,” she said, after they had backed the horse into the traces and buckled him in. She pulled open a small sack in the waggon, and dropped a handful of grain into a dented basin. She rattled it, calling to her fowl in a sing-song tone. They flocked to her, clucking and pushing, their speckled wings partly outstretched. It was easy to catch them up and place them in the wicker cage awaiting them. Sidroc lashed it atop all else in the waggon.
Åfrid looked about her, pushing a stray strand of colourless hair back under her head wrap. She made for the house.
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