The Soul Thief

by Cecelia Holland

  “Too much. Cut it in half, that’s plenty. Then I’ll bring you meat.” He straightened; the boys were still watching them. He spoke to them in a long rattle of words. Corban laid the bit down on a stone by his knee, drew his belt knife, and sawed the coin in half. The cut edge was brighter than the rest.

  Grod said, “I told them you are a prince from beyond the sea and we took the boat away from pirates, killing many.”

  Corban gave him the half piece. “That’s not smart—maybe they’re kin of those people.”

  “No no no. They hate the Cymry. That’s why we have to keep telling them we aren’t.” Grod took the bit and went away.

  Corban was still hungry but the bread made him feel much better. He sat there ignoring the boys, drinking from the jug. The boys clustered together in front of him, their eyes thoughtful. The boldest, not the biggest, a half-naked black-haired boy, came a step forward and pointed to the boat and said something, rising at the end into a question.

  Corban shrugged, shook his head, spread his hands to show he didn’t understand. The black-haired boy came another step closer and squatted down, watching him steadily; he licked his lips. Corban could see he was trying to find a way to talk to him. He smiled, and the boy smiled back, brushing away his thick black hair.

  Grod came back; he had a dish of meat in his hand, and a piece of a savory pie. Corban said, “What does he want? We should get out of here.”

  “Don’t be so jittery,” Grod said. “Eat this.”

  “Don’t you want any?”

  “I’ve eaten. Here.”

  Corban took the food. Grod stood with his hands on his hips, throwing his puny chest out, and looking down his long nose at the boys. He said something, and the black-haired boy, ducking his head humbly, answered and pointed to the boat and to Corban. It seemed to Corban now that he could make out some words: one word that sounded over and over could have been boat. With his belly full and his feet on dry land, he felt much better about everything.

  Grod spoke at length to the boys, and then turned. “I told them we defeated the pirates in a huge battle out to sea, and everybody was killed but us and so we came here.”

  “Oh, well,” Corban said. “Tell them whole packs of lies, I don’t care.” He wiped his mouth.

  The black-haired boy’s face was wistful. He spoke again, trying once more to speak directly to Corban, and Corban smiled at him and nodded at Grod. The boy gave Grod a sideways glance.

  “He likes the boat,” Grod said.

  “Tell him he can have it, then,” Corban said. “We have no use for it any more.”

  Grod’s jaw dropped open, and he goggled at him. “What kind of fool are you, anyway? You’d just give it to him?”

  “What use is it to me?” Corban said. Suddenly this felt like a good way to get rid of it all: the fight, the boat, the bad feeling. He faced the boy and said the word he thought meant boat and pointed to him. In his own language, he said, “It’s yours. Take it.”

  Grod said, “Don’t be a fool! You could sell it to somebody!”

  The boy bounded forward, his face shining. Corban pointed to the boat again and nodded, and the boy let out a shriek of delight. Grod began to protest, shaking his head, arguing with the boy, and Corban got him by the arm and pulled him off.

  “Leave him alone. Let him have the boat. You said Jorvik was overland from here. What are we going to do, sail it on dry land?” He turned, scanning the higher ground above the shore where thick tangles of brush grew, and some old crooked trees, their leaves gone for the winter. That reminded him that it would be cold tonight. “Let’s go find someplace to sleep.”

  Grod moaned. “You’re mad, Corban. We could have gotten something valuable for the boat.”

  Corban snorted at him. “You’re always trying to get something.” The boy was still standing there, balancing on his toes, his face flaming with desire and eagerness, and Corban said the boat word again and pointed to the boat and to him, and nodded. The boy sprang toward the boat and the other boys, whooping, joined him; circling the boat, they gripped it by the gunwales and bore it away in a rush toward the river. Corban laughed.

  Grod said, “I don’t know why I am staying with you. You’re a madman, giving away everything we own. You’ll never get anywhere if you give everything away. I thought you were cleverer than that but I guess I was wrong.”

  “You’re staying with me because you want what I have,” Corban said, and jingled the sleeve full of silver at him. He walked away, not bothering to see if Grod would come after him, up across the shore toward the brushy slope. The food in his belly felt good, and he knew Grod would come along. In fact Grod trotted along beside him.

  “It’s a long way to Jorvik. We could have gotten more silver.”

  “Boys don’t have silver,” Corban said. “Boys have nothing. Now they have something, that’s good, leave it at that.” He climbed the bank, going into the edge of the wood, and began looking for something to build a shelter with. The wind was rising, rustling the brush and banging the dry limbs of the trees together; soon it would be dark. The more he thought about giving the boat away the better he felt about it.

  Grod was still grumbling. “This is why you need me with you. You are an innocent.”

  They gathered branches and built a lean-to, and started a little fire. The cold wind prowled up the river and set its teeth into Corban’s bones. He huddled close to the fire, thinking of sending Grod out for more food; the sun was going down, and he was getting hungry again. Then suddenly the black-haired boy appeared, running up the beach toward him.

  The boy’s face shone; his black eyes snapped. He stopped in front of the little shelter and held out his arms, full of heavy cloth. He said a long string of words, put the cloth down, backed up a step, and made an awkward bow.

  Grod said, “Well, that’s fine.”

  “What?” Corban said.

  “He says he sees you need a cloak, and he needs the boat, and so this is fair.”

  Corban grunted. He stepped forward around the fire and picked up the mass of cloth. He remembered other words he thought he understood, and said them. “Thank you.” The cloak was old and worn, but very heavy and thick, big enough to wrap around him for a blanket, and supple as a braid of woman’s hair. Red color ran one way of it, and blue the other.

  He said, again, “Thank you,” and the boy nodded, smiling. Corban put his hand out, and the boy came forward and shook his hand. Then, with a jump and a skip of his skinny legs, he was running away.

  Grod said, “Sometimes you are just lucky, Corban.”

  Corban shook the cloak out and wrapped it around him. “I hope so,” he said. He sat down again by the fire, no longer cold.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Grod had not been this way in a long while—he had forgotten how many years—but he still knew the road to Jorvik. He led Corban inland from the river, following the beaten road eastward, first along the tree-shaded riverbank, and through a village; at the mill in the village several men were hauling the wheel up out of the race, to keep it safe through the worst of the winter storms.

  Corban had spent the other half of the cut penny for more bread, and they slept that night beside the road, and ate of the flat round loaves and drank the river water. Halfway through the night a burst of rain swept over them; they crawled into the shelter of a tree but in the morning they were both drenched.

  Grod felt the damp and the cold in his knees. He had lived soft in Dublin and now was paying for it. The burning pain in his knees made him grumpy and he told Corban how silly and stupid he was to think they were ever going to find his sister. Corban only walked along, not looking at him. Grod wondered if he even heard him.

  All the next day they walked along, climbing the road steadily into the hills, now and then passing other travelers, and slept again in the open. The day following, just before sundown, they saw a great farmstead, set back off the road, and went cautiously toward it, to beg some food and shelter.

/>   A wall of brush and earth surrounded the farmstead. The double wooden gate stood open; as they came up to it, the sound drifted out of many voices chanting, long drawn-out words in another language.

  Grod said, relieved, “It’s a monastery. We’ll get a welcome here.”

  “A monastery,” Corban said. “There was one such near where I lived, but it was not like this.”

  They went in through the gate, and came directly before a church with a bell tower; the slow eerie music of the chanting drifted out the open doors. A lay porter came yawning up from just inside the gate, waved to them to stay where they were, and went off toward the church. Grod and Corban stood uncertainly there in the gateyard, listening to the clear voices of the monks in the church, and looking around them.

  Corban said, “The monastery at home was just a crowd of little huts. This is a very great place.”

  “You know nothing,” Grod said. “There were such in Ireland once but the Vikings took it all.”

  Corban was looking all around them, his eyes probing. Low-voiced, he said, “Maybe we should leave. I don’t think we belong here.”

  “Ssssh!” Grod said, and cast a look around them. “They’ll take us in, here, it’s part of their duty. Don’t be a great fool, now. If they ask you if you are a Christian, say yes.”

  Right away, looking around beyond the church, he had noticed the storehouses built against the inside of the wall, the sacks of wool piled outside as if there were no more room within for all this wealth. Off behind the hall was a long three-sided building; along the open front the rumps of oxen showed, and a plow with a huge curved iron blade was drawn up in the shelter of the overhanging eave. The church was stoutly made, and large, and the other buildings as well, strong and well-kept. They would have bread here in plenty, and a warm dry place to sleep.

  The service was soon over. Another monk came to them, very courteous, and took them to the guest house, brought them a cup of beer there, and invited them to dinner in the refectory. As he took them to the sleeping room he asked them a few questions, too—who they were, where they had come from, where they were going—which seemed easy enough to Grod. Corban of course said nothing, having no dansker. Grod let the monk know Corban was a bit of a fool.

  He himself, he let the monk know, was not a fool at all, but a wide-traveled man, and very rich and well-known in his own country; even, perhaps, a prince, but traveling humbly, to avoid thieves.

  When they went over to the refectory and sat down, the monastery’s only guests, the abbot himself came in and sat with them. He was a younger man than Grod had expected, his hair bristling around his tonsure, and a red glow high in his cheeks. Sitting across the table from them with his hands clasped before him, he hardly let them get a first bite of the mutton and bread before he began to question them again.

  “You told my young fellow you are from Gardarik? I have scarcely heard of that place. What prince is there?”

  “Igor Olafson, when I left, a man’s whole lifetime ago.”

  “Is he the Emperor’s man?”

  Grod’s chest swelled, and he stuck his chin out. “My prince bows to no one, not even to Miklagard, which is the center of the world.”

  “Miklagard!” The abbot lifted his head, his eyes shining. “We speak of different emperors—your homeland is farther even than I thought. Where you come from, then, are you Christian men?”

  Grod cleared his throat, and made the sign of the cross. “In God’s holy name, I am.”

  The abbot’s eyes narrowed, although he smiled still. He raised his left hand, on which a carved seal ring gleamed, to touch his shaven chin. “God’s holy name be praised. In Gardarik, do they customarily make the sign of the cross backward?”

  “Unh—” Grod hastily did the sign the other way, but the abbot was turning to Corban.

  “And you, are you also come from far across the world?”

  Corban was eating, his elbows on the table, and his jaws grinding away. He shrugged, his gaze drifting toward Grod. “He is Irish,” Grod said. “He cannot speak the dansk tongue, not a word. He is very dull of mind.”

  The abbot’s gaze remained on Corban, and he spoke Irish. “Blessed Ireland is full of saints. Are you a Christian man?”

  Grod rammed his elbow into Corban’s side, hoping he would remember what to say. Corban glanced at him and back to the abbot. “Christ was my father’s god. But my father is dead, and Christ did not save him.”

  Grod hissed his breath out; the boy would not learn. But the abbot’s smile only broadened. “Not that you know, anyway. Can you see into the next world?”

  Corban sat up straighter. “No, that I cannot. But when the Vikings came to our farmstead no god stood between their swords and my family.”

  The abbot nodded. “God have mercy on them.”

  “When?” The word burst from Corban, and his whole upper body jerked forward, his hands rising. “When will this mercy come for them?”

  “Only God sees enough to know,” the abbot said. To Grod’s relief none of this pagan talk seemed to bother him. He was, Grod thought, looking over his well-kept hands, his fine woolen robe, a worldly man for a monk. “And would you then follow the Viking gods?”

  Corban let out an oath. “I would die first.”

  The abbot nodded, looking pleased. He said, “Then you are on the road to Christ. May you make the right decision before you meet your father again. My young fellow said you are going to Jorvik—there you may find some need of God’s love.”

  Grod said, “Is Eric Haraldsson the King there still?”

  “Yes, he is still king. There is none to cast him out, and Jorvik, you know, has long preferred a dansker king, when they can get one.”

  “Eric was king there before, though, and he could not hold it.”

  “Yes, indeed, I see you know the situation there well. It’s true, as you say, Aethelstan called him to be King in Jorvik, when the men in Norway threw him out, but when Aethelstan died and Edmund came to the throne, we saw Eric cast out of Jorvik also. But now that our good King Edmund is dead, and all we have is our not-so-good King Edred, here comes Fairhair’s son, Eric of the Bloody Ax, to try on Jorvik’s crown again.”

  Grod scratched his jaw. In Dublin he had kept himself neatly shaven, like this monk, but now his beard was growing out, and it itched. “What about the priest in Jorvik? That Archbishop. He stood mightily against the King, always, and spoke out in councils. Him it was who sought out Eric in the first place, I had heard.”

  The abbot leaned on the table. It occurred to Grod that he enjoyed this worldly talk for its own sake. “Wulfstan the Archbishop is locked up in Jedburh, where he can do no harm, as Edred thinks. It seems to me Wulfstan could do him some good, if he were set free to counter Eric, but Edred pays little heed to any churchman’s advice, and much heed to men who whisper against Wulfstan. As for the other powers hereabouts, the King of Scots is old and tired, and the Orkney Earl is busy in the northern islands, and so Eric Haraldsson goes where he wishes and does as he wants.”

  “Does he keep order?”

  The abbot snorted. “Order is not what Bloodaxe is interested in. He lives for plunder and ease. I have heard many a story of some thievery or other, there and on the road to there, and casual murders done, and I know getting in the gate of Jorvik can be a matter of considerable risk. The road to Jorvik is always risky. You should travel in company. Unfortunately no one else is here right now. Perhaps you should wait.”

  Corban said, “Do you know anything of the slave market there?”

  The abbot crossed himself. “God have mercy on those captive souls. What interest have you in slave markets?”

  “I am looking for my sister, who was stolen away when the Vikings attacked my farm.”

  “God help you find her.” The abbot nodded. “The slave markets in Jorvik are very busy. I shall pray for your sister. And for you.”

  “I need no prayers,” Corban said.

  The abbot’s smile widened aga
in, his eyes direct and bright. “Well, you shall have them anyway. Now, eat all you wish, I see you are weary. Thank you for your talk.” He rose and left them there.

  Grod leaned toward Corban. “Will you learn? Be Christian here. It smoothes the way.”

  Corban was reaching for another piece of bread. “You talk too much,” he said. Grod opened his mouth, to argue more, and Corban stuck a piece of bread into it. “Now, use your mouth for its better purpose, Grod. I didn’t see that lying got you much at all.”

  They went on the next day, still following the river, now small and thin. The monks had given them some bread to take along with them, and two handsful of apples, but Corban began to wish he had his sling again. The world was slowing down, cooling into winter, and although he kept watch for tracks and droppings of animals, he saw few. The food they had would not last them more than a few days. He began looking also for nut trees.

  They went over the river on a little wooden bridge that creaked under their footsteps, and climbed higher into the hills.

  Grod, as he walked, delivered himself of some advice. “You should tell people here you are Christian. Christ is very strong here, and you may need some of his help. And these people here will treat you better.

  “Of course,” he went on, pensively, “that will change in Jorvik.”

  “That priest knew you were lying,” Corban said. “I don’t think it does much good to lie. The god would know you are lying.”

  “I’ve gotten out of practice, is all,” Grod said. “Being around a great fool like yourself, on whom the pretty art of lying well is utterly wasted.”

  Corban thought this was so. He remembered that he had not cared much about the truth, before his family died. Now it seemed to him that he had better be more careful of it; if he started lying, the way Grod did, he could get lost. He could forget what was really true.

  He said, “Jorvik sounds very bad.”

  Grod harumphed at him. They were trudging up a steep part of the road. “All Viking cities are hard places. Dublin was not so easy. You were lucky there. Jorvik is much bigger and Eric Bloodaxe is an evil man.”