Leif forced a smile. ‘Would you like it? It will not make many harpoon heads, but . . .’
‘You must keep it yourself,’ replied Qasapi. ‘A sky-stone is a gift, and you should treasure it.’
‘Pah!’ Leif made as if to lob it away, but Ivar spoke for the first time that day.
‘No!’ he whispered from the sling on Jorund’s back. ‘Give it to me. I will look after it.’
Leif shoved it at him, then turned and bounded away, clearly hoping to discover something more interesting.
‘I want to get down,’ said Ivar, watching him. ‘I want to run, too.’
‘I know,’ said Jorund kindly. ‘And you shall in the summer, when the weather grows warm and your leg becomes stronger.’
‘I mean today,’ said Ivar, uncharacteristically firm. ‘I want to run today.’
‘Oh, let him down,’ said Brand irritably. ‘He will soon come snivelling back to you, crying that it hurts. And we will be here for a while, anyway. We need to check another seven empty traps yet, and then discuss why the foxes fail to jump into them.’
Ivar took no notice of Brand’s sour temper as his father unbuckled the sling that held him. In truth, Jorund was grateful for the respite, because although the boy was little more than skin and bone, he was still seven years old and no age to be carried. Qasapi helped him, then watched as the boy took several tentative steps, the sky-stone clutched firmly in his hand.
‘It is not running, but it is a start,’ the Skraeling remarked to Jorund.
Jorund nodded but said nothing. He always found Ivar’s pitiful attempts to walk difficult to watch. Why had he not been blessed with two strong sons? The village could not support anyone who was unable to work, but who still consumed valuable resources, and it was only a matter of time before someone like Brand said so. He sensed the man had been on the verge of making an announcement that winter, and might have done had Qasapi not arrived with gifts of meat.
Pushing bitter thoughts from his mind, Jorund turned his attention to his traps, and stared in stunned belief when the next one he inspected contained a beautiful white fox. Its pelt was perfect, and would fetch a good price from the traders – perhaps enough to buy a new axe. And the trap after that contained not one but two animals. He could scarcely believe his eyes! He leaped to his feet, to shout the news to the others, but the words died in his throat.
A bear was suddenly among them, arriving so fast that even Qasapi did not see it coming. Jorund had always been shocked by the terrifying speed of the creatures, and he barely had time to reach for his sword before it attacked Brand and Aron, claws and teeth slashing, and its savage growls terrible to hear.
Aron screamed as the bear’s fangs fastened around his head – bears killed seals by crushing their skulls, and this one clearly intended to make short work of the human it had caught. Brand swung his sword at the creature, but panic made him careless and his glancing blow on its shoulder merely served to enrage it. The bear whipped around, and a casual swipe of a talon-laden paw knocked him clean off his feet. As he raced to their rescue, Jorund could see a good deal of blood and knew the wounds were serious, if not fatal.
He reached the bear and raised his sword. It was enormous, and when it growled he could smell its fetid breath. It lunged at him, and the blow he aimed with his sword went wide. He could hear Ivar screaming his terror and Leif howling at him to kill it. But that was easier said than done – one slash of a paw could disembowel a man, not to mention break his bones. He had to stay out of its reach and make sure that, when he did strike, his blow would kill – if it only injured, he would be a dead man for certain.
Then Qasapi arrived. He held a spear, and lobbed it with all his might. Jorund braced himself to take advantage of the bear’s distraction, hoping that the wound would slow it down sufficiently to allow him to finish it. If not, the animal would be even more dangerous. The spear hit the bear’s head, and Jorund felt his hopes shatter – bear skulls were thick and hard, and even the sharpest of spears would only glance off them.
Thus he was startled when the bear uttered a curious kind of whimper and fell on its side. Cautiously, he edged towards it, sword held ready, and saw the spear had gone through the bear’s eye and entered the brain behind. Death had been instant. He turned to the hunter in awe.
Qasapi looked just as astonished. ‘I was aiming for its chest,’ he explained with a bemused shrug. ‘With two men down, it was too dangerous to try anything else.’
But it was no time to congratulate him. Jorund turned quickly to Brand and Aron, steeling himself for sights he knew were going to be grisly. Aron’s eyes were closed and his face was waxen; Brand was groaning.
‘We must carry them home as quickly as possible,’ he said to Qasapi. ‘Forget the pelts. We will collect them tomorrow.’
‘They will not be here tomorrow,’ warned Qasapi. ‘The land is hungry this time of year.’
Jorund knew it, but it could not be helped. All the elation he had felt about his luck changing evaporated as he concentrated on how he and Qasapi were to carry two large men all the way to Brattahli∂. Was Leif strong enough to tote Ivar? Could they manage their weapons, too? It would be suicide to cross the land without them, but there was a limit to what they could take.
‘Hold my sky-stone,’ whispered Ivar to the moaning Brand. ‘It made me feel strong. Perhaps it will help you, too.’
Brand shoved it and the boy away with an aggressive sweep of his hand. ‘I am dying,’ he gasped. ‘You have your wish, Jorund. You brought me out here in the hope that some accident would befall me. Well, it has. You will not have my advice any more.’
‘You are not dying,’ said Jorund firmly. But he could tell from the bluish sheen to Brand’s face that something was badly amiss. Would he survive the journey home? Would the scent of his blood attract other predators, meaning they would all die trying to help him?
‘My belly is slashed open,’ whispered Brand. ‘I feel my innards spilling hot and wet inside my clothes. Finish it, Jorund. Kill me, because I cannot bear this pain. Then you can carry my brother home. I heard his skull crack when the bear bit it, so he will not survive me for long, but do your best for him.’
‘My skull is not cracked,’ said Aron. Jorund twisted around in surprise. Aron was standing behind him, and although there was blood on his head it was no more than a smear. ‘There was an agony in my head, but Ivar made me hold the sky-stone, and it disappeared.’
‘It is true,’ said Ivar, standing proudly beside him. He knelt and, ignoring Brand’s protests, pushed the stone into his hand. ‘You hold it, too. Then you will find your innards are all where they are meant to be.’
‘I saw the bear’s jaws close,’ said Jorund uncertainly. He peered at Aron’s head. ‘Yet there is barely a mark on you. A few scratches, perhaps, but I have had worse from Ivar’s cat.’
‘The bear was young,’ said Qasapi with another shrug. ‘Its jaws were not large enough to go around Aron’s head, so instead of crushing his skull the teeth must have glanced off. He is very lucky – few escape such determined attacks.’
Jorund turned back to Brand and began to undo his clothing so he could inspect the damage caused by the claws. Then he stopped, embarrassed. The area around Brand’s belly was certainly hot and wet, but it had nothing to do with blood.
‘Fear,’ said Qasapi, inspecting the mess dispassionately. ‘It can do that to a man.’
‘I was not afraid!’ shouted Brand, mortified. He scrambled to his feet. ‘I was slashed! I felt the claws tear through my clothes.’
‘Your clothes are torn,’ acknowledged Qasapi, while Jorund shook his head in disbelief that both men should have had such narrow escapes. ‘But there are no wounds, not even a scratch.’
‘It was the sky-stone,’ said Ivar, taking it from Brand and clutching it hard. ‘It made them well again, just as it made me strong.’
‘Perhaps it did,’ said Qasapi, while the others regarded the boy uncertainly. ‘But we have
work to do here. We have a bear and three foxes to skin, and meat to prepare.’
‘Bear meat?’ asked Brand in distaste.
Qasapi smiled beatifically. ‘Why not? The land has made us a gift, and it would be rude not to accept it. We shall take as much as we can carry. But we must hurry: I feel a storm coming.’
The storm raced in from the north as they struggled back to Brattahli∂. Three foxes and a bear were more than Jorund had ever hoped to find, and his heart sang with joy. Leif carried the weapons, while the men staggered under heavy burdens of fur and meat, and – perhaps best of all – Ivar walked by Jorund’s side and never once complained that he was tired or that his leg hurt.
The clouds began to gather, thick, black and driven by a fierce wind. Jorund wondered more than once whether they should abandon their spoils and run for home. But the storm held off, and it was only as they pushed through the door to their house that the first flurries of snow began to fall. Perhaps it was yet another sign that the run of bad luck was over, and that the village’s fortunes were about to change.
Sigrid cried when she saw Ivar on his feet, and declared his cure a miracle. Together, mother and son went to lay the sky-stone on the altar in the church. Leif, a natural storyteller, was eager to tell everyone about their adventures, and the whole village gathered to eat roasted bear and to listen. They laughed when he described Brand’s declarations of imminent death, and Jorund winced – had Leif been older, he might have had the wisdom to omit that particular detail. Brand glowered and slouched out; Jorund sighed, knowing there would be trouble later.
It came sooner than he expected. The following morning Brand approached him, several cronies at his heels. All were burly, powerful young men who were bored and restless living as farmers in Brattahli∂. Jorund was not surprised that Brand’s dreams appealed to them: most boasted Erik the Red as an ancestor, a man who had been banished from his own country for being a murderous troublemaker. It was unreasonable to expect all his descendants to be satisfied with the sedate life of agriculture.
‘We are going,’ Brand announced without preamble. ‘You cannot stop us, so do not try. We are taking everything we own, plus the boat, and we are heading south. When the traders arrive at the place they call the Western Settlement, we shall go with them to Engla lande.’
‘No,’ said Jorund firmly. ‘We need you – we cannot plant the crops without you. Would you abandon us here to starve?’
‘Anyone who does not want to share your fate can come with us,’ said Brand. ‘They all have a choice, and so do you.’
Suddenly, Jorund was tired of doing battle with Brand. They probably could manage without the men who had elected to leave. It would not be easy, but if their luck really had changed, then perhaps it would not be as difficult as he feared. But Jorund did not think he could face another winter of constant recriminations, such as the one he had just endured.
‘Very well,’ he said, seeing the surprise in Brand’s eyes at his abrupt capitulation. ‘But do not set out yet. Wait until the weather warms, and there is less ice in the sea. It will be safer for—’
‘And give you months in which to dissuade us?’ demanded Brand. ‘I do not think so! We are going today – we have the boat ready. And we are taking the sky-stone. You have no need of it here, and we can sell it to buy new livestock to get us started in Engla lande.’
Jorund frowned. ‘Sell it?’
Brand leaned close towards him. ‘You saw what it did yesterday – it cured your crippled son, and then it healed Aron and me of grievous wounds. There are abbeys and priories that would pay a fortune for such a prize.’
‘It cured no one,’ said Jorund. ‘Ivar claimed it did, but he is a child and does not know what he is talking about. His leg healed because winter is over, and he – like all of us – feels better for it. And you and Aron were never wounded in the first place. The bear’s teeth glanced off Aron’s head, while your clothes protected you from its claws.’
‘Then you will not mind us having it,’ said Brand. ‘If it is just a worthless scrap of stone.’
‘I do not, but it is not mine to give. It belongs to Leif, so you must ask him—’
‘I will take it now,’ said Brand, pushing past him and marching inside the chapel. ‘Tell him it is payment for you keeping us here all this time. We would have gone years ago, if you had not forced us to stay.’
He emerged a few moments later with the sky-stone in his hand. Jorund fingered his sword, but he could not hope to fight Brand and six others single-handed. Unfortunately, Ivar and Leif arrived at that moment. Ivar saw what Brand held, and raced forward.
‘No!’ he shouted, distressed. ‘Put it back! It is sacred and belongs on the altar.’
‘I gave it to Ivar,’ said Leif, gazing defiantly at Brand. ‘That means it is his, and you have no right to touch it. Put it back, like he says.’
‘Control your brats,’ said Brand coldly to Jorund, aware that people were gathering to watch and listen. Several were smirking at the way Leif was laying down the law to his elders. ‘They cannot talk to me this way.’
He started to walk towards his friends, but Ivar grabbed his hand to prise the fingers open. Brand swatted him away like a fly. Before Jorund could stop him, Leif leaped at Brand and punched him in the chest. More outraged than hurt, Brand hit Leif so hard that he flew through the air and struck the side of the church. He lay still, and suddenly there was absolute silence.
Stomach lurching, Jorund ran towards Leif and rested a shaking hand against his neck, although he could tell by the way the child had fallen that his neck was broken.
‘Leif!’ he whispered, cradling the limp form in stunned disbelief. Next to him, Ivar began to cry.
‘He should not have touched me,’ declared Brand, eyes darting around nervously. ‘This is your fault. You should not have let him—’
With a roar of fury, Jorund staggered to his feet, sword in his hand, and launched himself at Brand. Brand was tall and strong, and Jorund had never known whether he would be able to best him, but such thoughts were far from his mind as he attacked his son’s killer. Brand stumbled away, shocked by the ferocity of the attack, and Aron darted forward to help him. Someone shouted that two against one was unfair, and another weapon was drawn. Then Brand’s friends joined the affray, and the air was full of furious voices and clashing steel. The ground underfoot grew slippery with blood.
Jorund ignored it all, seeing only the hated face in front of him – the man who was determined to spoil the harmony of his village, and who had murdered his beloved son. He did not see Sigrid slide a dagger into Aron’s back, or hear Ivar screaming for everyone to stop. Brand was looking frightened, but the man’s cowardice acted as a spur, causing Jorund to respond with a series of vicious swipes, one of which caught him just above the ear. It was a killing blow, and Brand toppled to the ground.
Once Brand and Aron were down, the skirmish quickly ended. The bloodlust drained from Jorund, leaving in its place a sense of sick shame. Thirteen men lay dead, some of them Brand’s would-be deserters, and some men who had rallied to Jorund’s side. Panting hard, he gazed around him and wondered how he had allowed such a situation to come to pass. What sort of leader was he, to draw weapons against his people?
‘It does not work,’ wept Ivar, and Jorund saw he was trying to press the sky-stone into his brother’s hand. ‘It will not make him sit up.’
‘Why would it?’ Jorund demanded harshly. ‘It is only a piece of iron. But Brand will have his wish. We will leave Brattahli∂ today – he said the ship is ready.’
‘Today?’ asked one of the villagers, startled. ‘But we cannot! You said yourself that the weather is not yet warm enough for long journeys.’
‘We will go to the Western Settlement,’ Jorund replied. ‘It is a big place; they will find a corner for us. Release the animals and gather warm clothes. There is nothing for us here.’
‘But what about the dead?’ asked Sigrid, shocked. ‘Wild animals wi
ll come and—’
‘Leave them,’ ordered Jorund, resolutely turning his back on the slaughter. ‘Let the land have them. It is what it wanted, after all.’
Twenty years later
‘I am not sure this is a good idea,’ muttered Jorund, standing next to Ivar as the prow of the boat nosed up the memory-laden waterway towards Brattahli∂. ‘It was hard living here – Brand was right to encourage us to leave.’
‘Our people never liked the Western Settlement,’ replied Ivar. Since his lame leg had been cured, he had grown into a tall, strong man; Jorund thought it a pity that he had announced a calling to become a monk, when he would have made a fine warrior. ‘They are all pleased to be coming home.’
‘Then let us hope they are not disappointed,’ said Jorund.
‘They will not be,’ declared Ivar with great conviction. ‘They have been homesick ever since we left. And there is not a soul among them who thinks Brand was right, even if they do remember him. Besides, the green lights were bright in the sky again this year. It is right to come here now.’
Jorund said nothing, but his stomach lurched when the boat’s keel scraped on the beach and it was time to disembark. All around, his people were scrambling overboard, calling to each other in unbridled delight as they recognized familiar landmarks. Wordlessly, Jorund and Ivar walked towards the village, leaving the others to unload the supplies. When they drew close to the church, Jorund stopped.
‘I cannot go any further,’ he whispered. ‘We left the dead unburied . . .’
‘But Qasapi did not,’ said Ivar. ‘He sent word to say that he and his people had covered them decently with stones. We shall bury them in the cemetery later, and that will mark an end to the business. This is a good place, and our people will prosper here.’
‘I wish you were staying,’ said Jorund unhappily. ‘We will all miss you. Are you sure you want to go to Iceland and become a monk? I have heard they keep you inside all day, reading and praying.’
Ivar smiled. ‘It is all arranged, Father, and I must follow my promise to God.’
The Sacred Stone Page 2