Land of the Silver Dragon

by Alys Clare

  Someone.

  A mist had fallen, obscuring the moonlight. Presently, a tall, broad figure loomed up out of the darkness.

  Thorfinn said, ‘So now you know.’

  I nodded. ‘Yes,’ I whispered. Then, the tangle of my thoughts straightened itself out a little and I said, ‘You knew too?’ He had to; why else had all this happened?

  ‘I did,’ he admitted. ‘Not until many years after the child, your father, was born. She sent word, you see. Ships sailed by my kinsmen regularly visited the fens, as indeed they still do, and it was not hard for her to find someone kindly and discreet who knew where to find me and could take a message. Once she knew I would not come back to claim her and my son, she felt it was the right thing to do.’

  ‘Why would you not come back?’ I was weeping again.

  ‘I was married, with a growing family of my own. She knew that – knew, too, that I could not abandon them.’

  ‘You could have just visited!’ I cried. ‘Didn’t you want to see your son? Couldn’t you have spared just a few days – a few hours, even – to see what he was like?’

  Thorfinn sighed. ‘It would have been too painful for both Cordeilla and for me,’ he said heavily. ‘But, as to not wishing to see him, I have regretted every single day of my life that I was not able to.’

  I knew he spoke the truth; the naked emotion in his voice came from his heart.

  He could not see his son, my father, even now; the resemblance between them would be clear, for those with eyes to see it. In a flash I recalled those moments back in Iceland when I had experienced a sense of familiarity about Thorfinn. I understood now why they had happened: in some subtle way, in some deep place inside my head far from conscious thought, Thorfinn reminded me of my father.

  He might not be able to see his son, but there was something I could offer. Looking at him with a smile, I said, ‘Do you mind getting a bit wet?’

  I stood back and let him go on to her alone. It was a moment of intense privacy, and I didn’t think he’d want anyone with him.

  From a distance of a few paces, I watched as, at long last, my grandfather knelt on the ground and, head bowed, joined his spirit once again with that of the woman he had loved and lost.

  Back on the mainland once more, I thought I should quickly get Thorfinn back to warmth and comfort. He was well wrapped, but he was wet to the thighs, and I didn’t think it could be good for him. Somewhere, there must be a bed waiting for him; Einar and his crewmen could not be far away.

  But my grandfather had other ideas.

  Ignoring my protests, he took a firm hold of my arm and led me away from the village, down to a slight rise on the southern edge of the bulge that is Aelf Fen. We drew to a halt, and he pointed out over the restless water.

  I followed the line of his outstretched arm. I saw a sleek longship: a dramatic, dark shape against the silvery, moonlit water. She was moving away, slowly and carefully, her swift power reined in, for her crew would be all too aware that they rowed in shallow, unknown and possibly treacherous marshland waters.

  Even moving at walking pace, it was clear what she was. A true Norse longship, with shields along the gunwales and a fierce serpent figurehead, she was truly magnificent.

  She was all but indistinguishable from the ship of my vision.

  ‘Malice-striker,’ I whispered.

  Thorfinn gave a grunt. There was pain in the sound. ‘No, but Skuli’s ship is very like my own craft, as she was in her prime,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘I’ve seen your ship,’ I reminded him softly. I had seen both the living ship, with the inner sight of vision, and also what remained of Thorfinn’s Malice-striker, on a faraway shore in Iceland.

  It was here, though, in the fens – almost on this very spot – that I had seen the dream ship. There was magic about tonight, too, as there had been then, and such a thing seemed not only possible but entirely probable.

  Thorfinn turned to me, about to speak, but I did not let him. ‘I don’t mean the skeleton ship on the shore in your homeland,’ I said softly. ‘I meant my dream vision.’

  And, at last, I told him what I had seen.

  He listened, accepting my quiet words, as I had known he would, with a nod. ‘I sailed here, long ago,’ he murmured. ‘As you now know.’ The shadow of a grin creased his face. ‘You probably caught a whisper of the shade of that earlier time, for, as with all things, it is still here to see for those who look with the right eyes.’

  I looked out over the water again, aware that Thorfinn, beside me, was doing the same. Skuli’s ship was gaining speed. He was going, away from me, out of my life. Without the stone for which he had risked so much and caused such a sum of trouble, grief and pain.

  ‘Where is he going?’ I asked in a hushed voice. ‘Is he heading for those fearsome rapids, where his grandfather –’ who must have been Thorfinn’s uncle, I thought suddenly, my mind reeling; his mother’s brother – ‘met his death?’

  For some time, Thorfinn did not answer. After a while, and it sounded more as if he were intoning a chant than speaking, he said, ‘They will sail out into the North Sea, then into the great river network that forges its way through the vast continent over there to the south and the east; the route that leads from the Varyani to the Greeks.’

  I did not know what he meant. ‘From the Gulf of Finland up the River Neva, through Lake Ladoga, the River Volkhov,’ he sang, ‘on, on, passing out of the northern forests and emerging on to the steppes; by portage to the Dneiper, and on to the great power centre of Kiev, where men of all shapes and hues come to buy and sell. But that is not the end of the voyage, for it goes still on, on, across the Black Sea until at last, if the gods smile on them, they will reach their journey’s end.’

  I did not ask where that was. I did not want to break the spell, and, anyway, I believed I already knew.

  But my grandfather told me anyway.

  ‘Skuli and his crew are going to Miklagard.’

  NINETEEN

  It was wonderful to spend a couple of days in Aelf Fen with my family, just happy to be together, unharmed and safe, as we all put the drama of the past few days and weeks behind us. As people do when they have emerged on the sunny side of bad events, we kept repeating things that had happened, even though most of us knew every last detail by then. It is the way, I believe, that we assimilate traumatic happenings and put them firmly behind us.

  My own favourite bit was the description of my mother and her pan. I just wish I’d been there to see it.

  I tried, as much as I could, to remain in the shadows and just watch and listen to everyone else having fun. I just wasn’t in the mood for merrymaking. For one thing, I was having to keep several things secret. My parents and my brothers didn’t know about how I’d been abducted by Einar and spirited off to Iceland. Nobody had told them. They thought I’d been in Cambridge with Gurdyman the whole time, and I saw no reason to alter that. If I now revealed the truth, I’d have to explain, and I really didn’t want to do that.

  Besides, I was now occasionally experiencing the disturbing feeling that something else was going to happen.

  No matter how hard I tried to tell myself it was nothing more than the after-effect of all the excitement, I could not quite make myself believe it.

  In addition, I had to keep from my beloved father the fact that Thorfinn and his son were very closely related to him: about as close as you can be, in Thorfinn’s case. If I told them about Iceland, I’d have to explain why Thorfinn had been so eager to meet me, and to have me mix with my kinsfolk and experience a small taste of what their life was like on that extraordinary island so far away to the north.

  I did wonder if my father suspected the truth. The story I told was that the Norsemen knew the shining stone had been left in the keeping of a woman called Cordeilla who lived at Aelf Fen, and had sought me out to help them find it because they knew I was Cordeilla’s granddaughter. The family appeared to believe it, but once or twice I looked up to find my fat
her watching me with an expression on his face that suggested he knew I was holding something back, and that by doing so I had hurt him.

  I found that all but unendurable.

  The trouble was, it wasn’t my secret to tell. His mother, whom he had both loved and respected, had slept with another man, and my father was the result. If Cordeilla had chosen not to tell him, I did not think it was up to me to reveal the truth.

  The reasoning was sound. It didn’t make it any easier.

  The other factor in my not being terribly enthusiastic about the celebrations was that I was missing Thorfinn. I had watched Malice-striker sail away, and the big, broad-shouldered figure that I knew to be Thorfinn remained standing in the stern until, blinded by tears, I could no longer make him out.

  The only person in the village who knew what Thorfinn and I really were to each other, and why it was so hard to see him go, was Hrype. For a variety of reasons, I didn’t feel I could go and cry on his shoulder.

  Therefore it was with considerable relief that, on the morning of the third day, I announced I was going back to Cambridge. It might have been my imagination, but I thought my father’s farewell hug was tighter than usual. As I hugged him back, I whispered to him that I loved him.

  I do hope he knew it was true.

  Gurdyman greeted me with a smile and a hot meal. As soon as I set eyes on him, I felt a huge stab of guilt: just how long, I wondered, had he been worrying about me?

  He didn’t look like a man who’d been tearing his hair and pacing the midnight hours away, though, and I berated myself for exaggerating my self-importance. He’d probably been so preoccupied with his work and his experiments that he hadn’t even missed me.

  Sitting in the courtyard, gobbling down the (excellent) food, I felt his gaze on me and dropped my head, embarrassed, hoping he didn’t perceive the turbulence of my thoughts.

  He did. I felt a cool hand on my shoulder, and he said softly, ‘Hrype sent word when you returned to the village. I gather there have been further dramas, but your presence back here with me suggests they are now over.’

  I looked up at him. ‘They are,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘Finish your meal,’ he said calmly, ‘then you shall tell me all about it.’

  It was he, in fact, who began the narration. He said, as I was gathering myself to begin, ‘A moment, Lassair.’

  Something in his tone alerted me. I looked at him closely, and saw an odd expression on his face. If it didn’t seem so unlikely, I’d have said he felt guilty.

  ‘I know something of what has been happening,’ he said, staring down at his hands folded in his lap. ‘Rather a lot, in fact; Hrype has told me much.’ Now he met my eyes, and his emotion was all too clear. He was guilty, and he was also in some anguish. ‘I – we – owe you an apology, Lassair. Hrype and I knew about your treasure, and, although we had no idea precisely what it was, we knew it was of value to a mariner such as Skuli. Hrype learned of his existence, and we knew – or, I should say, we guessed – that it was he who had come searching for it.’

  They knew? In my amazement, I could only manage one word: ‘How?’

  ‘Concerning Skuli,’ Gurdyman said, ‘Hrype, as I dare say you know, has mysterious contacts in many places, not a few of which are on the coast. I imagine that gossip concerning a man such as Skuli would spread among the Norse mariners and those with whom they trade, and Hrype is very good at uncovering what he wants to know. Concerning matters closer to your own kin –’ now his tone became grave – ‘your grandmother Cordeilla confided the secret of your father’s parentage to Hrype as she was dying, as now you will be aware. Hrype knew, too, that some precious object had been left in her care by her lover, and he guessed that it had been entrusted to Edild, although he never discussed it with her. Our guilt,’ he went on, ‘Hrype’s and mine, is because, had we explained to Edild that danger threatened, in the shape of a very forceful and slightly deranged giant determined at any cost to get his hands on the treasure, then it is highly likely she would have shared her part of the secret with Hrype. Had that been so, you would not have been abducted and put in such danger.’

  I felt deep pity for him. It was quite clear his guilt was eating into him. I could see two objections to what he had just said, and, pausing briefly to arrange my thoughts, I voiced them.

  ‘There is no need for guilt,’ I said, trying to keep my voice calm. ‘For one thing, there’s no reason why Hrype and my aunt pooling their information would have stopped any of what happened subsequently. Unless you’re suggesting that Hrype should simply have given Skuli the stone, then he’d still have gone on the rampage while he searched for it. We could, I suppose, have warned the households he ransacked and the people he killed and hurt, although we’d have had to know exactly where he was going to look.’

  I drew a breath, then said, ‘The second thing is personal to me.’ I hesitated. Was this really the moment for levity, when two women were dead and the toll of death and maiming might very well have been a lot worse? Oh, I thought, why not? ‘Dear Gurdyman,’ I said softly, ‘I have, as I dare say you know, been to Iceland and back. Believe me, I would not have missed that for the world.’

  His eyes rounded. ‘You enjoyed it?’ he said, his incredulity making his voice almost a squeak. ‘All the way across those furious, icy seas in an open boat, and an uncertain welcome when you got there?’

  ‘But I thought you ...’ I’d been about to say that I thought he’d told me he had travelled extensively in his youth, so surely he would understand. Something in his face, however, warned me not to. Perhaps the contrast between the free-roving spirit he had been when young, and the old man living his life within his own four walls as he was now, was something of which he preferred not to be reminded.

  ‘I loved being on board Malice-striker,’ I assured him instead, ‘once I’d got over the seasickness. And my welcome in Iceland could not have been warmer.’

  ‘Well, they are, after all, your kinsfolk,’ Gurdyman muttered. He risked a small smile, then a larger one. ‘You really are not angry with us? With Hrype and me, who should have entrusted you with what we suspected?’

  ‘No,’ I said very firmly. ‘Not in the least.’

  Now he was beaming. ‘In that case –’ he leaned forward and poured chilled white wine into our cups – ‘tell me the whole story.’

  He must have been bursting with impatience to see the shining stone, probably from the moment I walked into the twisty-turny house, but he restrained himself. It was only when I had finished my tale that he said in a whisper, ‘May I be allowed to see this magical object?’

  I went to fetch it from where I had stowed it, with my satchel, up in my attic room. I laid it on the table in the courtyard, and slowly, reverently – half, I admit, reluctantly – unwrapped the sacking.

  As the sun’s rays fell upon it, the shining stone shot out a great flash of gold. Gurdyman made an odd sound – a sort of gasp – and instinctively drew back. Then, his eyes wide with wonder, he leaned forward and very gently touched the smooth, glassy surface with the very tips of his fingers.

  I waited. I could see he was deep in thought – lost in it, indeed – and I did not want to interrupt.

  Finally, after what seemed a very long time, he said softly, ‘Cover it now, Lassair, if you would.’

  I did as he asked.

  He sat looking at the sacking, so intently that it was as if his eyes were trying to penetrate through to the stone. Then he drew a shaky breath and said, ‘Remind me where this came from.’

  I closed my eyes, the better to remember how Freydis had described that strange land where Thorkel acquired the stone. It helps, I find, that I’m training to be a bard, for my memory seems to be developing the facility to recall bits of other people’s narratives. Especially the dramatic parts.

  ‘Thorkel sailed to the land behind the sun,’ I said, eyes still shut, ‘driven by a prophecy that he would cross the endless seas and come to a land of liquid gold. He describ
ed this land to his crewmen, telling them it was a place of brilliant light and colour, where they worshipped strange spirits under a sun so hot that men’s skins turned brown, and where the fierce, hungry gods had to be appeased with the blood of the people.’ I opened my eyes. ‘I don’t know where that land is,’ I admitted. ‘Nobody in Iceland actually said, although Hrype said it was in the west.’

  And, I could have added, I had been hoping and praying ever since hearing the story that somebody else would elucidate; somebody, in fact, who was now sitting across the table from me.

  As if he knew exactly what I was thinking, Gurdyman smiled. Then he reached over to his work table and picked up a large rolled parchment. Even as he untied the ribbon that held it in its roll, I knew what it was.

  I waited while he spread it out.

  It was the map I had seen before, but now it was twice as big, for another whole section had been stuck to its left-hand side. I leaned forward, trying to take it all in at once.

  Gurdyman was pointing at a dot about halfway across the new section, high up towards the parchment’s upper edge. ‘This represents Iceland, where you have lately voyaged,’ he said. I nodded encouragingly, eager to hear more. ‘Here –’ his finger moved left and up a little – ‘is Greenland, although men say it is covered in ice and snow, and there is little green to be seen. Here is Helluland –’ he had moved left again – ‘and here Markland, and, below it, Vinland.’ Now he moved down and a little to the right.

  The names that Hrype mentioned, I thought, remembering. I stared at where Gurdyman was pointing. The wavy line that I knew represented the edge of the land ambled on down the page, moving generally left, but there were no details and no more carefully written words.

  Feeling my spirits sink in disappointment, I looked up at him and said, ‘Is that it? Is that all?’

  ‘All?’ I heard him echo, with an ironic laugh. ‘Lassair, if you only knew the toil, the head-scratching, the quill-biting and the pain it has taken to work it out this far!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said instantly, ‘I didn’t mean to diminish your achievement. It’s just that ...’ I stopped. Just that I was hoping to see exactly where Thorkel went ashore and returned to his ship a changed man sounded hopelessly optimistic and rather naive, so I kept it to myself.