New Found Land

by John Christopher

  She led them to a ridge half a mile from the village, overlooking a saucer-shaped hollow. The toboggan was meant for two but would take three. They made several runs, producing a progressively faster track as the snow compacted.

  Suddenly Lundiga said she would not go on the next run, and before Brad could say anything, Simon said he would skip it, too. Brad shrugged and got down on the sled, immediately launching himself down the slope. He wound up with a fancy twist at the bottom, scattering a cloud of snow. He started back up with the sled.

  Simon said: “You’re looking prettier than ever today, Lundiga.”

  It wasn’t a particularly stylish compliment, but his command of Latin did not extend to stylishness, and if it had, Lundiga, speaking only the barbarous Latin of the Vikings, probably wouldn’t have appreciated it. He did his best to improve things by gazing earnestly into her eyes, and was disconcerted to find them brimming with tears. He was even more taken aback when she burst into loud sobs. He put a comforting arm round her, and she did not shake it off.

  Brad, hauling the toboggan up the last bit of slope, said accusingly: “What have you been doing to her?”

  “Nothing.”

  Brad’s look was sceptical.

  “No, really, nothing!”

  Lundiga detached herself but did not move away. Surveying them through tears, she said: “You must go.”

  “Go?” Simon stared at her. “Go where?”

  “Away from here. From the island.”

  “But why?”

  Simon’s acquaintance with the opposite sex was a limited one, but it had taught him that avowals need not always be taken at face value. Go away might mean come closer. He took her hand, and said: “I’m not going anywhere.”

  She looked at him, then turned to Brad.

  “You asked me once about how it was my people came here, and I said I did not know. That was not true, Bradus.”

  He said: “I wondered at the time. There’s always some story or legend, even if it’s not very accurate.”

  “It was because of you Romans. A long time ago—more than thirty generations.”

  She paused. “My people were part of the empire. We spoke the language of the empire, obeyed the emperor’s commands. But in the northern mountains there were those of our race who had not submitted to the Romans. They had many children and not enough food. They came south, and called on my people to rise against the Romans. Our ancestors joined with them, and together they won a great battle against the Roman army. But the emperor had other armies. In the next battle, our ancestors were defeated, with great slaughter.”

  She paused again, and Brad said to Simon in English: “More than thirty generations. That would make it about the time the Viking expeditions started in our world. In this one, the Danes had been Romanized, and Rome itself was still powerful. So if the Norwegians and Swedes moved south, and called on the Romanized Danes to join them . . . It makes sense.”

  Lundiga said: “I do not understand your words.”

  In Latin, Brad said: “It doesn’t matter. What happened—after your people’s army was defeated?”

  “Roman soldiers entered our land, pursuing those who had fled. They not only killed men, but tortured and murdered women and children. They burned towns and villages, the people along with the houses.”

  “Very Roman,” Brad commented. “They did the same after Boudicca’s revolt. They were always more cruel towards those who had been Romanized. In their eyes it was a special kind of treachery to revolt against Roman rule.”

  “In one town,” Lundiga said, “hearing what the Romans had done in other places, the people took their longships and set sail. There were stories of a land called Thule that lay far off in the great ocean, beyond Britain. They did not know if the stories were true, but chose the perils of the sea rather than the merciless ferocity of the Romans. Four longships sailed, and three were lost. The fourth found safe landing here.

  “For many generations my people prospered on this island, and were happy. In the last hundred years it has been harder. We have less of everything: ships, huts, food. And children. The present is dark, the future darker still.”

  Simon said: “But your people seem cheerful enough. And they talk of good times to come. They say Odin is going to help them, after the winter feast.”

  She began to cry again.

  In a strange, wary voice, Brad said: “Just what is this stuff about Odin, and the winter feast, and the eagles?”

  “We have a legend, passed down from the early days. It spoke of hard times to come, very hard, and said they would not pass until Romans came to the island.”

  “Well,” Simon said, “that’s all right, isn’t it? Here we are.”

  She stared miserably at them. “The legend said the Romans would come—to be a sacrifice to Odin at the winter feast. After that, Odin will bring good times again.”

  Simon could not believe what he was hearing. He said: “But the flying eagles . . .”

  “I remember now,” Brad said. “It’s something that’s been at the back of my mind, but I didn’t make the connection. A very old form of Scandinavian ritual killing. The eagles don’t fly: they simply spread their wings. What that means, precisely, is that someone cuts the victims’ chests open, and slowly bends the ribs outwards till they look like wings. It was called the bloody eagle.”

  He looked at Lundiga.

  “And we are to be the eagles?”

  4

  BOS SWORE, AND WENT ON swearing for a long time.

  Curtius was incredulous. He demanded: “Are you certain of this?”

  “Sure enough,” Brad said.

  “But what reason would the girl have for telling you? By doing so, she betrays her people.”

  Bos said impatiently: “There is no problem there. Have you not seen young Simonus here making eyes at her? The Sabine women preferred the Roman husbands who had snatched them to the fathers who had nurtured them. And I think what she said is true. They laughed when I asked about the eagles, and there was something about that laugh I now remember. When I was a child and the Romans took my village, my mother pleaded for my father’s life. The centurion laughed like that, before he ran him through.”

  Curtius’s swarthy face had been darkening as Bos spoke. He said: “Did I call them children? They are treacherous curs. Let us go at once and kill them.”

  “Four of us,” Simon said, “against roughly a hundred? I don’t like the odds.”

  “For all their horned helmets and axes,” Curtius said contemptuously, “they are more women than warriors. Indeed, I believe their women might fight better.”

  Brad said: “You could be right about that. Which would make the odds around two hundred to four. Curtius, we have to be sensible. We’ve had the good luck to be warned in advance. We can take advantage of that.”

  “Wait till tonight, then,” Bos suggested. “They will get drunk in the hall, as they always do. That is the time to fall on them and hack them to pieces.”

  Curtius nodded reluctantly. “Perhaps I can wait till tonight.”

  Simon said: “Are you both mad? They’d probably fight better for being drunk. And there are the women, as Brad said. Killing them isn’t important, anyway. Getting clear of the island is.”

  Curtius looked obstinate, but Bos asked: “What do you say we should do?”

  “The winter feast,” Brad said, “takes place at the full moon. The moon’s half full now, so we have time to make preparations. Our best plan obviously is to escape by night in one of the longships. There are things we’ll need, like food and water for the voyage. We must choose the right moment.”

  “How soon?” Bos asked.

  “Not right now, certainly. We want a clear night.”

  The weather had been dull for days, with a sharp east wind and low cloud. Curtius said: “What if there is no clear night before the feast?”

  “Then we’ll have to take a chance on getting away in the dark. But it’ll be a lot easier with
a moon.”

  “And there’s the question,” Simon put in, “of when Lundiga can get away.”

  Curtius scowled at him. “We do not take the girl.”

  Simon said: “Without her warning us we’d be heading for a nasty death. Of course she’s coming.”

  “She is one of them,” Curtius said, “and therefore not to be trusted.”

  Bos said: “What you say is right, Simonus. But she will be better off here, with her own people.”

  “Lundiga betrayed her people when she warned us,” Brad said, “as Curtius pointed out. If we disappear, they’ll be pretty sure it’s because we found out what they had planned. And since she’s been with Simonus and me so much they’re bound to suspect her of telling us. We have to take her.”

  Curtius shook his head. “I say leave her.”

  Bos looked troubled. “I like the girl. And she has done us a favour beyond price. If you think she would be in danger . . .”

  “Right,” Simon said. “That’s three to one. Lundiga comes with us.”

  Curtius said in disgust: “I would still rather go out there now and kill them all.”

  • • •

  They spoke to Lundiga next morning. Simon said: “We’ll let you know when we’ve fixed the time for going. The safest way will be for you to slip away and join up with us on the quayside.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “Oh, no.”

  “What do you mean—no?”

  “I told you because I could not bear that you should be killed. But I could not go away with you. That is not proper.”

  She spoke with a flat certainty Simon recognized. Surprise was succeeded by exasperation.

  “What’s proper got to do with it? You must get out of here.”

  Her yellow hair swung with the shake of her head. “I cannot.”

  Brad took up the argument. “Simonus is right. What would happen if your people knew you’d warned us?”

  She said simply: “My father would kill me with his own hands.”

  “There you are! And they’ll know someone told us. They’ll guess it was you.”

  She looked at Brad with unhappy eyes, but said after a moment: “It is not proper.”

  Simon had a moment of fury. She really was pigheaded to the point of dumbness. He raised his voice.

  “It’s your life we’re talking about. You have to come.”

  “No.” Her mother was heading in their direction. “I must go.”

  Later Simon said: “We’ll take her by force if necessary.”

  “I can see us doing that,” Brad said, “—carrying her kicking and screaming down to the longships. At least, I can just about imagine you or Bos trying it. I doubt I could lift her.”

  “When it came to the point, she might not resist.”

  “On the other hand, she might, and it would only take one yell to have them on our necks. She sleeps in her parents’ hut. How do you feel about getting her out at dead of night, without waking anyone else?”

  “We can’t just leave her to be slaughtered.”

  “She may not be. They can never be certain, unless she tells them. And she is Wulfgar’s daughter.”

  “That wouldn’t save her—she said so.”

  “Anyway, they can’t be sure. We might have overheard something one of the Vikings said. Or figured things out from their laughing when Bos said he’d seen no eagles.”

  “You don’t really believe that.”

  “I believe we have to face facts. There’s no way of taking her except voluntarily, and so far she’s determined not to come. We can keep trying to persuade her.” He grinned. “You’re probably better qualified for that job.”

  Simon did his best. He worried at first that the change in the weather might come before his persuasive powers had time to take effect, but days of cloud succeeded one another unremittingly, while on the other hand Lundiga seemed to grow stubborner as time went by.

  One morning they woke to find a blizzard sweeping in from the west. It snowed all day, and as night came with snow still falling, Simon realized that the invisible moon would be three-quarters full. The moment was approaching when they would have to take their chance without moonlight. And without Lundiga.

  Next day the snow had ceased, and the clouds were breaking; patches of sunlight made the whiteness dazzle. Bos and Curtius were jubilant, seeing this as the signal to go. When Simon argued for giving it another day, Curtius said: “Another day may mean another blizzard. It must be tonight.”

  Brad said: “He is right, you know. We can’t afford to wait.”

  Bos said: “It is true, Simonus. I am sorry for the girl, but she must take her own chances now.”

  • • •

  Lundiga was clearing snow from the paths with the rest of the women, but they managed to get her on her own. Simon explained that they would be leaving that night. She listened in silence, leaning on a broad wooden shovel. He spoke urgently, though with no real hope of convincing her. “You must come with us, Lundiga. Please!”

  She was silent.

  Brad said: “We’d better not stay long talking. It’s something that could be remembered tomorrow, and make things trickier for her.”

  Simon said: “Lundiga . . .”

  “It is not proper.” She paused. “But there are some things which cannot be denied. I said I could not bear the thought of you being killed, but it was not just that. All my life I have lived among my people and known no others. When you came here, I saw you as outlanders and, worse, as Romans. Even when I smiled at you, I remembered what your ancestors had done to mine. But my heart has changed as I have come to know you better—one of you, in particular.”

  Her look fastened on Brad. “I have thought about it through many wakeful nights, and I know what I must do because my heart commands it. I cannot bear the thought of losing you, Bradus. Since you must go, I shall go with you.”

  • • •

  Before supper that evening Bos slipped away; on a reconnaissance, he said. Brad urged him not to do anything suspicious, a warning which the big man treated with amiable contempt. He turned the point against Brad later when Brad suggested he and Curtius ought to cut down on their drinking after supper, so as to keep clearer heads.

  “That really would be suspicious, eh Curtius? Don’t worry, lad. A man who has been schooled on wine can outdrink any of these ale swillers and stay cold sober.”

  When at last they went back to the hut, the night sky was bright with starlight and the incandescence of a moon close to full. They allowed an hour before setting out again, their footsteps crunching on the packed snow. The things they needed for the voyage had been hidden beneath rubbish in one of the abandoned huts. It was not far from there to the chief’s hut. From a distance, Bos gave the owl hoot which was the signal to Lundiga.

  It sounded exactly like an owl; if she were asleep it would scarcely wake her. And they were committed now; could not wait. Bos hooted again and, after a few moments, turned to them, shaking his head. But at that moment Lundiga slipped out of the shadows.

  They had earmarked Wulfgar’s own longship for the enterprise. As they made their way down the hill, they could see its dragon head swaying against the moonlit waters of the bay. The noise of their footsteps on the snow seemed very loud, and Simon was glad when they were clear of the village. Despite the cold, he was sweating.

  When they were no more than fifty yards from the quay, there was a sudden outburst of wild screeching behind them. Simon glanced back quickly. The din was emanating from the chief’s hut, or rather from a figure just outside it: Lundiga’s mother.

  Even at this distance the sound was shattering; up among the huts it must have been ear-piercing. Viking men came running out.

  Curtius spoke sharply. “Into the boat! I’ll cast off.”

  His voice carried the authority of a Roman centurion, and they did not argue. The quay was a narrow wooden structure, raised on piles and connected with the shore by a rickety causeway. They clattered over
it. Lundiga seemed to hesitate, and Bos picked her up as though she were a baby and dropped her into the longship; then he and Simon and Brad followed. Curtius was wrestling with the rope that secured the ship to its mooring pole.

  “Axe it!” Bos shouted.

  Curtius swung his axe violently. The deck beneath them shuddered from the impact, but the rope failed to part. He swung a second time, and a third. By now the Vikings were charging down the slope and very close.

  An end of rope dropped loose on the deck and Bos shouted to Curtius to jump. Simon was in the prow and could see across the quay to the galloping Vikings. One was in advance of the rest: Wulfgar, barefooted and without his helmet but brandishing his axe, bellowing incoherent threats. Curtius too could see him. He uttered a growl which swelled to a roar of anger.

  Brad shouted: “You fool, Curtius! Never mind about him. Jump!”

  Instead of doing so, Curtius leapt back and stood blocking the causeway. Wulfgar came at him, and they swung their axes. There was a howl of pain from Wulfgar, of triumph from Curtius, and the Viking went down. But as he did, he grappled with the Roman, holding him.

  Lundiga gave a great howl of anguish at the sight and made for the side of the ship. Simon grabbed her but could not hold her; it took Bos’s strength to prevent her leaping off. The ship was already drifting away: there was a widening gap of water between them and the quay.

  They watched helplessly as the pack of Vikings crowded forward and Curtius sank under their assault. For a moment or two he was invisible, but then amazingly rose again out of the melee, his axe arm flailing. A figure toppled from the causeway and splashed into the water. But the rest were all round him, and a couple had got between him and the quay.

  Bos said in a low voice: “We can do nothing.”

  He grabbed an oar and jabbed it hard against the next ship in line: the gap of water widened.

  “Man the oars,” Bos shouted.

  As he took an oar, Simon saw two axe blows strike Curtius simultaneously; he dropped again, and this time there could be no getting up. At least he had got the battle he had been pining for and the death he would have chosen. There was no more time for reflection. Simon concentrated on rowing.