“Corban Loosestrife, you have done me great service, and I know you are honest. Your sons are my right arm, and for their sake also I will believe what you say about this. Tell me what happened.”
Corban said, “I didn’t kill him. I could have, I was watching him. But this killed him.” He held out the arrow.
Skull-Grim took it and passed it to the man next to him, and the arrow went from hand to hand along the table to Sweyn, and no one spoke. But as each man looked at the arrow, he lifted his head, and turned and stared in one direction, and by the time the arrow came to Sweyn, everybody in the hall was looking at Palnatoki.
Sweyn took the arrow, and he went pale. His head swiveled toward his foster-father. Palnatoki got up out of the high seat, backing away from them all; as if their looks drove him off like daggers.
“It’s true,” he said. From the darkness behind him his own men came, bringing him a cloak, and he shrugged into it. “I am not ashamed of it. I left my ships down at the mouth of the fjord to fool him and came down here alone. I found him by following the wizard. I knew that was why the wizard was here, the first time I saw him back in Hedeby.” As he spoke he was moving toward the door, and his men with him. Nobody moved to stop him. The crowded servants near the door parted to let him by. “Why else would she have—would the Lady have called him out of the west, except for Bluetooth? I followed him until he led me to the King. My aim was off, or I’d have got him through the head. I’m out of practice. You all know what right I have to this—how he wronged me, long ago.” He stopped, standing with his back to the door.
Sweyn said quietly, “It was all for your revenge, then, not for me. All that you did.” He raised his fist and brought it down hard on the table. “Go. If you see me again, have a sword in your hand, or a bow, if that suits you better.”
Palnatoki stood tall and thin in the doorway. He said, “I am going. But I won’t stay gone.” He went out the door, and his men after him.
Corban sat down on the bench again. The whole room buzzed around him with talk, only Skull-Grim sitting there silent, staring at the door, his great head sunk down between his shoulders. Corban got up and went away from the table and out through the small door in the rear of the hall. No one stopped him.
He walked out across the open ground of the village, the noise and bustle of the hall fading behind him, until he could feel her frail warm web around him. His mind churned.
He could not stay clear of it, he was guilty still—he had not killed the King, but he had drawn his death to him. He wondered if Palnatoki was right—if behind all this was the Lady of Hedeby—and remembered the shark, rising from the sea like a messenger, calling him back here. Or was she also just a piece of it? Of what?
He felt bound and hobbled, wrapped around with the bloody ropes of these people’s ambitions. Suddenly he longed with his whole soul for the island, for the clear air and the wild wind, and the emptiness.
“Pap!”
He wheeled, and in the depth of the black longing a surge of happiness ran through him like a charge of light. Warm around him she stirred, glad. He shouted their names, and through the dark they rushed on him, whooping, and he flung his arms out and around them, losing himself in his sons’ love.
C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - T H R E E
“Pap,” Conn said again. “You can’t go back. There’s nothing there anymore, I told you. Main—”
Grown man, hero that he was, he could not speak about his mother. Corban smiled, and slapped his arm, steadily amazed at him, this son he had somehow made, this warrior, with his fine shirt and sprouting beard and blazing gray eyes, and the power he had over all these other men. This stranger.
“For you, everything is here,” Corban said. “You belong here, this is your place, now, you and Raef—” He looked around at his sister’s son, standing beside him, almost a head taller than he was. “You’ve got this King now, and all his works to do, and the heads and arms to do it with. And you don’t need me for that. And I am going home.”
He did not say that every day he felt the need more to get her back there, where she belonged, a panicky itch along all his nerves, every day more urgent
“He’ll be a great King,” Conn said, looking down the beach, where Sweyn was coming along after them, hanging back to talk to other men as he passed.
“He’ll be a King,” Corban said. “I don’t get on well with kings, they are unlucky for me. There’s Eelmouth coming,”
“He wanted to kill you once,” Conn said. “Why are you sailing with him?”
“That’s all over,” Corban said. “And we’re both going to Jorvik.” He turned to them, and put his hands on their shoulders, thinking he should say something, give them some golden words they could carry on with them forever. There were no words. Instead they curled their arms around him, and all three stood together, close, not even looking at each other, linked.
Corban at last stood back, and raised his eyes to their faces.
“I’ll see your sisters in Jorvik. Remember them, they’re still yours to care for.”
“Arre loves them,” Raef said. He had taken a long wound across his forehead in the battle, healing into a ridge of scab.
“Yes,” Conn said roughly. “So do I. I’ll watch over them, Pap.” His eyes shone, watery, regarding his father. “We’ll never see you again.”
Corban thought that was so, but he could not say it; he said, “That happens as it happens, doesn’t it.” Then Sweyn walked up to them, jovial, hung one arm on Conn’s shoulder, and faced Corban.
“So. You are going. You know that I would much like to have you here, for your counsel and your deep thinking.”
Corban laughed. Sweyn had also changed since he had seen him last, his red-gold beard growing long, his face grooved with new lines, his eyes more guarded, even when he smiled. Shielding his own deep thinking. Corban did not think Palnatoki would have walked out of the hall, that night, if Sweyn had not allowed it.
He said, “Such counsel as I could give you, I think you would quickly tire of. I’m leaving you my boys, anyway.”
“You are,” Sweyn said. “I need them both. I must go around the kingdom now, and lay all Denmark under me, and I will have Conn and Raef both by my side, whatever that requires.” He took a step forward toward Corban, one hand out. “They have told me of your island, and the trouble there—I will give you ships and men to rebuild what you had there. Only ask.”
Corban said, “Thank you. I think you have enough to do here. I’m going alone.”
Conn began to weep, and came like a child into his father’s arms. Corban’s throat filled so that he could not breathe; he felt Benna move around them, and he got back for a moment those old days, when they had been the only people, and the world around them perfect and true. He felt the other men around them like a wall. When he and Conn could let one another go, Raef was next. He gripped Corban hard; he said,, under his breath, “I love you. I love you.”
Corban wrapped his arms around him. “I’ll find your mother.”
“Tell her that also,” Raef said. He blinked, clear-eyed, his lashes damp. “Benna, also.” He blinked again.
Corban let him go, and slung his packs into the dragonfly. He had stocked the ship with new sails and water casks, and had gotten an awning, foreseeing a need for it, Sweyn in the first flush of his kingliness willing to give him anything he asked for. Many of the ships had already pulled away from the Limfjord shore; Skull-Grim had gone that morning, and now Eelmouth came walking along the stony beach, a sea chest on his shoulder, his crew along after him.
He stopped by Sweyn. “Good fighting, King. Call me, if you need any more help.”
Sweyn laughed. “Come to me, should your present captain ever let you go.”
Eelmouth gave a shrug. “That may happen.” His gaze strayed out onto the water. “When did that ship come in?”
“This morning,” Sweyn said.
“Looks like one of Hakon’s.”
“W
ell, it is,” Sweyn said, and smiled.
“Where is he?”
“He’s gone back to Norway. He sends that he met some force of Germans, down by Hedeby, who were trying to overrun the Danewirk, and beat them back, very bloodily, he says, thus saving us all. He’s no more Christian, he says; he’s killed the horse to prove it, and we are even now.”
Sweyn’s smile widened. His blue eyes glittered;
very amused.
Eelmouth said, “Are you?”
“Not really,” Sweyn said.
Corban snorted. “The more you eat, King, the hungrier you
get. He will be no easy take.” He shook Sweyn’s hand, and Conn and Raef went to help him float the dragonfly. “Eelmouth! Which way?”
“West!” Eelmouth shouted. “We’ll see if I can remember how he did it.”
“West,” Corban said, and climbed into the ship and reached for his oars. He stroked off into the deeper water. On the bank behind him his sons stood, getting smaller and smaller. He bent his back to another stroke, the little ship lively around him.
Conn stood to his knees in the water, watching his father row away; his heart hurt. He said, “Will he make it home?”
Raef, behind him, cleared his throat. His voice was unsteady.
“I don’t know. I can’t feel that far.”
Out first of all the leaving ships, the dragonfly was a mere dot on the water. Abruptly the red and white sail bloomed over it. Conn tore his eyes away, turned toward the beach, and waded ashore, Raef beside him.
Raef said, “What are we going to do now?”
“You heard Sweyn.”
“Sweyn, yes. But us.” Raef was watching him steadily. The scab across his forehead made him look tilted. His cheeks were wet.
Conn gathered himself; he felt odd, new, a little tender, as if he had just hatched from some old constricting shell. No Corban here to tell him what to do. No Corban to please or displease. He swelled, suddenly larger, ready for anything. He could do whatever he wanted now. All he had to do was to find out what that was.
“Sweyn’s giving us a ship,” he said. “Let’s start hustling up a crew.” He laughed, exultant, and strode off down the beach. The spring sun was high and bright in Jorvik. Arre went down the street from shop to shop, buying here and there, and everywhere talking to her friends. Aelfu trailed along after her, leading Miru by the hand.
They had just all come from the church, where after the Mass Arre had spoken to Oswald the Archbishop about the image of the Virgin Mother she had promised as part of her penance. Oswald had taken to this with unusual warmth. They had walked a while around the church, talking of it, the man more and more convinced that he had thought of it himself.
The work now lacked only a workman. He had charged her to find one. She meant to have someone as good at drawing as Benna, and she knew that would be hard, but there was no hurry. She could enjoy the prospect as she enjoyed the sunshine of the late spring day, and the gossip of her friends, and the two little girls trailing after her, whom she was stuffing with honeybuns.
They walked down the side of the Coppergate, toward the big oak tree, and she stopped to smooth Aelfu’s hair out of her eyes and put Miru’s shoe back on. Kneeling there by the two girls, she looked up the street and saw Corban.
She froze. She had heard that morning some ships had come from Denmark, with news of a great battle, and a new King, but she had not considered that he might come, too. She stood, putting her arms around the girls; her first wicked selfish thought was that he would take them away from her. Her second was a rush of grief for him, who had nothing now.
He saw her, and he called her name. He crossed the street toward her. He looked the same, square and strong, the red and blue cloak wrapped around his waist, his sleeves rolled up, his beard wind-tangled. She wondered how to greet him, but then Aelfu tore roughly out of her grasp.
“No! You can’t come back now!” The child rushed forward, not to greet her father, but to scream strange words at him. “I like it here now. You left us and went with him and I hate you! I hate you!” She turned, her face contorted, squirting tears, and bolted up the street.
Corban stood, his mouth open, watching her go; he looked suddenly haggard. He turned his hollow-eyed gaze to Arre, and shook his head. He came the last few steps to her, his feet dragging; he squatted down suddenly, face to face with Miru, and touched his fingertips to the child’s cheek. She had hold of Arre’s skirt, and when he reached out to her she shrank away from him, pulling the folds of cloth around her, hiding.
Corban stood up. Arre said, “I’m sorry.” She put her hand on Miru, buried in her skirts. “Come stay with us a while, they will remember you.”
Corban shook his head. “I’m leaving. I’m going back to the island.” His face settled. She saw how that purpose carried him; he was halfway gone already. Maybe that was what Aelfu had meant, with her screaming, that he would leave them again.
He looked deep into her face. “Take care of them, Arre.”
“I will:’ she said. “They’re like my own already. You won’t stay just a little while?”
“I have to go back,” he said. He reached out and took hold of her hand. “Thank you.” Bending down, he put a kiss on her forehead, and then he turned and went away down the Coppergate.
Arre’s forehead burned; for a moment, dizzy, she saw him walking down toward another river, through other trees, in some strange outlandish place. She shook her head, breathless and dizzy.
Down by her side, Miru’s sticky hand crept into hers. Drawn back again, Arre looked down, and the child raised her eyes to her, her forehead wrinkled. “Ama? Who that?”
Arre lifted her eyes, and watched him go out down to the river, and she was thinking of Benna, that he had taken Benna away, that she had died in the wilderness because of him and his otherness. Tears blurred her vision, and when she had wiped her eyes he was gone. She stooped and picked Miru up. “Just someone who knew you once,” she said. “Now let’s go find Aelfu.”
Corban sailed first to Iceland, with some trading ships, and there took on more supplies. In a market on a windy coastal bluff he heard talk of newfound lands to the west, and a man trying to start a settlement there. He listened fearfully to the talk until he realized their new land was well north of his island.
He set sail again, and went on, heading southwest. The days went one after the other. He sat thinking of the island, how it looked in the heat of the summer, with all the grasses and the blooming flowers, how it would be when they got there.
He knew he had to reach the island quickly. Benna slept almost all the time now. Even in dreams she slept in his arms. He gave her memories, but they did not make her stronger.
They made her happy. Whenever she roused herself, snuggling against him, she was happy.
For a while he thought over and over of Aelfu, what she had screamed at him, how she had run away. It was Benna she had screamed at, and yet Benna seemed untouched, while the child’s rage burned him to the heart. He remembered sitting with her on his lap while the fireflies glinted under the trees and Benna told a story of wizards and warriors in a fantastical city called Hedeby. His arms ached for the warmth of the child, her close-nestling trust.
He longed for that moment when everything had seemed whole and good, and bound to last forever.
A storm blew up, and he rigged the awning and set a dragging anchor. The rain passed. The dragonfly sailed on over the broad swells of the ocean. One morning he woke up to find the little ship floating in the middle of a great herd of whales, black bulges lying on the water. One barnacled head rose up right beside the ship to stare at him. When the beast dove, the flukes of its tail blotted out the sun for a moment and the splash carried the ship up over the next wave.
Aelfu faded away behind him, back with her brothers, back in that other world. Better that way anyway, he thought, and somewhere deep in his mind Benna nudged him. She had thought so all along.
He thought forward no
w. He thought of home again, the island, their house there. Everything she had made there. He fell to trying to remember every image she had made. He thought of the house, how as he built the house what she had drawn became true. The power in her seemed to run through his arms into the walls of the house. Into the dragonfly itself, later, which she also drew, countless times, bringing it steadily into the world.
Nobody knew but him what she was. Nobody would ever know. Yet she had made their world. What would happen to her when he got her back to the island, he did not know. He dreamt she came back to him. He dreamt also she disappeared and he lost her forever.
He lay awake one night, staring the stars into shapes, and a burst of falling stars rained down on him, one after the other for a long while, some bright and some small. It amazed him to see them squiggle suddenly out of nothing and then blaze away to nothing again. He wondered if there were some meaning to it, some intent, some message.
He thought the meaning was the thing itself, but then he caught himself wondering what that meant.
One gray morning a low barren shore appeared on the western horizon. He sailed on to the south, following the coast, the days bright and the nights very cold. Gradually the nights grew warmer. The shore along the western horizon turned green and soft. He went steadily on, until at last he raised a shore he recognized, a headland with trees along the edge, and a long row of sand dunes.
He rounded the treacherous bars at the tip of the great cape, his heart singing now, and Benna more awake, eager, seeming stronger. Below the cape, the land fell away, and he followed the broken coastline around into the west. On a fine noonday with the tide slack, the vast waterland opened up before him, island after island floating like clouds on the blue water of the bay. He waited for the tide to make and went up the narrows, to the tip of the big island, and brought his ship ashore there.
His legs trembled, feeble. He climbed out of the ship and went up the slope, through grass to his waist. Everything was overgrown in brambles and weeds. He nearly fell over the ruins of a stone wall, buried in the green riot. He stood looking around him, astonished. His house was fallen apart. The thatch had sunken in and the walls were sagging. The storehouse was buried under a mound of berry vines; her garden had vanished into the wild overgrowing weeds. The whole place was going back as fast as it could to what it had been before he came.
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