Plan for the Worst

by Jodi Taylor

  I ran, zigzagging – as if that would help. And then I stumbled because the ground was suddenly rough and uneven. I must have left the flat grassy plateau of our campsite and now I was somewhere near the woods that encircled it. Whether this was good or bad I had no idea. On the one hand, plenty of places to hide. On the other, plenty of trees to smack into.

  I opened my mouth to shout for Leon or Markham and then closed it again. Did I want to give away my position? Surely someone from our campsite must be looking for me by now. Or would they? Leon would think I was in the pod. Those in the pod would think I was with Leon. And even when it was discovered I wasn’t with either, they’d all think I was in the thunderbox. It could be some time before I was missed. Should I shout and risk it?

  No. Whatever was out there could get to me much more quickly than any of my colleagues.

  I dropped to the ground, crouched, and had a bit of a think. In the words of the song – should I stay or should I go? Someone or something could be heading towards me at this very moment. I should move. Not very far. Certainly not far enough to lose our campsite. Or fall into an icy, fast-flowing river in the dark. Now I remembered Matthew’s warning to stay away from the river. I really have got to start listening to him – he obviously knows what he’s talking about.

  I couldn’t help thinking that if there was someone out there and they had night-vision goggles then I was sunk. Because I didn’t have any of that. I didn’t even have a torch. Because we weren’t supposed to go wandering off in the dark. As I was doing.

  It was time to circle back to our campsite and safety. I wheeled about and jogged back the way I’d come. This would take me back to the campsite and TB2. Also towards whatever might be lurking in the darkness, but I’d deal with that when the time came.

  It came sooner than I thought. I ran into something hard, thought I’d made it back to TB2 and discovered it was a bloody tree. Where the hell was I? I was way off course. I’d run in completely the wrong direction. I rebounded off the tree, staggered, put my foot in some sort of hole or depression and fell down. Bloody bollocking hell. Why does nothing ever go right for me? And then I thought, no – stay here. You’re safe and comparatively hidden. Stay quiet and work out what’s going on.

  Good idea. I let my head fall back and just as I did so, behind me, in the dark, a twig snapped.

  I didn’t jump out of my skin this time. I did the other thing. I froze. The traditional response of a small mammal to an unknown peril in the dark. I lay, rigid, straining my eyes to pierce the darkness. Everything was dark with darker blobs I assumed were other trees. Nothing was moving. There was only the sound of the wind in the leaves.

  I lay absolutely still apart from my hammering heart, ready to move at a moment’s notice. I held my breath, listening for snuffling, snorting, or the sounds of something pushing through the trees.

  Was there really someone out there? Was someone watching me as I lay blind in the darkness? Or had it been just the night breeze tickling my ears? Doubt set in. This site was supposed to be unpopulated. Was I allowing my very well-documented paranoia to get the better of me? Was this yet another version of me lying awake at night imagining Clive Ronan coming up the stairs? Or hiding, bogeyman-like, under the bed?

  On the whole, I was inclined to go for paranoia as the most likely option because I was still alive. Ronan wasn’t the gloating type. He didn’t play with his victims. He certainly wouldn’t be chasing me around the woods whispering in my ear. In fact, no one knew better than he that I wasn’t a little girl. He’d just kill me and walk away whistling. So not Ronan, then. Just paranoia. Well, that was a relief.

  I’d lain here long enough. Definitely time to get back to the safety of TB2. But I wasn’t taking any chances.

  Ian Guthrie trained me. He’s retired now, but he taught me a lot about Outdoor Survival. He once even managed to get me on one of his outdoor exercises. Typically, nothing in my training ever touched on how to avoid a sinister game of hide and seek in the dark, though. Historian escape strategies consist mostly of running like hell.

  The wood was dark. The trees grew closely together. There was little undergrowth in which to hide but, on the other hand, nothing to rustle and give away my position. I trod slowly and carefully, ghosting from trunk to trunk, listening. Always listening.

  After a while, my heart slowed. My breathing settled. All my senses were heightened. I could feel the rough bark beneath my fingertips, the faint breeze on my cheek, hear the whisper of leaves.

  And then the bloody moon came out.

  I was standing in a deep patch of shade at the time. No skill on my part, sadly – I was just lucky. I froze. The only things moving were my eyes, shifting from side to side. I could see tree trunks and their shadows. But then, over there – was that a shadow and no corresponding tree? I couldn’t help it – doubt crept back in. There was something not quite right in this graphic black and silver landscape.

  The secret in these situations is not to hold your breath. Holding your breath makes your heart thump. Well, it makes my heart thump, anyway. And, of course, after a minute or two, you faint. So I didn’t hold my breath. I didn’t do anything except wait.

  If there was something there, it was playing exactly the same game as me. It was waiting for me to move. To make a mistake.

  Clouds flitted across the moon. Trees creaked above my head. I kept my weight on both feet, ready to push off at a moment’s notice should I have to. A long, long time passed. And then I had a thought. A treacherous thought. The shadow hadn’t moved. It lay on the ground, thick and black and inhumanly still. Was it possible that something awful was happening back at our campsite while I stood here like an idiot waiting for a tree stump to make the first move? And how on earth would I explain to Leon or Markham that I’d spent the greater part of the evening hiding from a shadow?

  Actually, I never found out. Not for one moment taking my eyes from the dark shape in front of me, I took a cautious step to the left. Nothing happened. And then another. I edged very carefully around a fat-trunked tree and still nothing happened. Encouraged, I began to move further to my left. And then the ground gave way beneath me. I twisted my foot quite badly, lost my balance, tumbled head over heels and slammed into soft soil. Rolling over, I struggled to my knees and found myself looking at a dragon.

  4

  Sometimes something so startling, so disorienting, so utterly bewildering happens that our brains are completely unable to process the information our eyes are sending them. Something like that was happening now. I forgot to move. Forgot to take cover. Forgot to try to escape. I just stared.

  There was lots of good news. I hadn’t fallen off a cliff – I’d simply rolled down a steep bank. Apart from a twisted foot, I hadn’t injured myself. And I’d found the river – inadvertently, yes, but nevertheless here it was and all I had to do was follow it back to our campsite and Leon – who was probably not the happiest person on the planet at this moment.

  On the other hand – there was the dragon. Which was more good news, actually, because there’s nothing like unexpectedly encountering a dragon to relegate your previous concerns re any sinister strangers creeping around in the shadows to complete obscurity.

  I stood up slowly. Very slowly. I didn’t want to frighten it into doing something stupid.

  The moonlight carved a wavering white path across the river and there it was, caught motionless in its beam. There was the great curving neck, the tiny head, the fierce eyes. Stark black and white in the moonlight, it stared down at me. The river parted and flowed past as it swayed gently in the current, creaking slightly at its moorings.

  Right. OK. There was a dragon and it was a big bugger but, believe it or not, not my biggest problem at the moment. Because at this precise moment my biggest problem was the dozen or so well-armed giants standing around a small fire, weapons in their hands, and regarding me with nearly as much astonish
ment as I was regarding them.

  Everyone looked at everyone else. I’d disturbed them at some sort of meal. Bowls and spoons lay where they had been dropped. The little fire crackled merrily. And still we all stared.

  There was a movement above us. Among the trees. Somehow, I must warn them there might be something out there. I speak a few languages and I suspected none of them were about to be of any use at all. I pointed dramatically back the way I’d come and said, ‘Danger.’ In English. Well, why not? At least one of us here would be able to understand me. And it was the tone of voice that was important. I said urgently, ‘Danger. Danger,’ and made stabbing gestures into the trees.

  I was wasting my time. They were already moving. At a grunt from the man I assumed to be their leader, the two nearest men scrambled up the bank and disappeared into the shadows in one direction, followed by two more in another. The rest gathered in a tight ring around the fire facing outwards. And presumably the dragon would eat anyone approaching from the river.

  I watched anxiously. I wasn’t too sure whether I was any better off here. My status had yet to be defined. Prisoner? Guest? Potential murder victim? The evening’s entertainment? Although I doubted that last one. I’m not as young as I was. These days the only way I can stop traffic is by standing in the middle of the road. On the other hand, these guys had the look of men who hadn’t seen a woman for years.

  My heart was still pounding away and now for a completely different reason. I had only the light of the moon and their campfire, but if there’s one group of people in all the world it’s impossible to mistake . . .

  Brace yourselves.

  I was looking at Vikings. Thousands and thousands of miles from where they should be. There was no way I could be seeing this. I was on the wrong side of the continent that would one day be North America and I was looking at Vikings.

  What were they doing here? How could they be here, on the western side of America? How did they get here? What did they want? And probably the question I should have led with – what would they do to me?

  I braced myself for all sorts of violent cinematic Viking clichés, and they took the wind completely out of my sails by feeding me. A bit of an anti-climax, I know.

  The four men had returned, shaking their heads. If there had been anyone or anything lurking around, sensibly they weren’t lurking now. Slowly, swords and axes were laid down again, men reseated themselves – although I noticed two remained standing, just in case, presumably – and resumed their meal. A man picked up a bowl, spooned something from a pot standing at the edge of the fire and passed it to me.

  We’ve all heard the tales of Viking ferocity. Indeed, the word Viking means ‘raider’, but I think sometimes we forget they were an ordered and structured society, and vital to their society was the tradition of hospitality. Rules were important for both the host and the guest.

  A guest must be led to the fire and made comfortable. Food must be provided. The guest must be gracious and appreciative. Courtesy and respect must be shown at all times. By both sides. A hearth guest was sacred. Unless these guys had been away from home for so long that they were lost to the basic rules of their fathers, I was safe. You didn’t murder your guest and your guest didn’t murder you. They were safe from me, as well. They shunted up to make room around the fire. Not without an anxious glance or two at the surrounding woodland, I sat down. Someone passed me a wooden spoon. The chances were that it had already been used by someone else but I had more to worry about than oral herpes. I nodded my thanks and got stuck in.

  Bloody porridge. Yes, I know, it’s good for you. It lowers cholesterol. It’s high in fibre. It tastes like wet cardboard. Unless you have Caledonian ancestry, of course, in which case you fall upon it with cries of appreciation and enjoyment and then ask for more.

  I took a mouthful, swallowed carefully and nodded at the man I guessed was their chief. He wore a torque and some sort of arm ring. I doubted they’d have Latin so I stuck to English, putting my trust in my tone of voice and body language.

  ‘Mm. Sir, I thank you for your hospitality tonight and your gracious bounty.’

  He got the message, inclining his head and rumbling something I didn’t catch. Not only did his voice seem to emanate from deep within his chest but it then had to fight its way through a lifetime’s beard growth. I listened for familiar words or sentence structure but there was nothing I recognised.

  They watched me eat. I think my clothing was causing comment. I was in woodland camouflage – combats, T-shirt and woolly pully. Whether it was the design, the colours, or the trousers, I wasn’t quite sure. My boots came in for some scrutiny as well. I’m proud of my boots. I’ve had them a long time and they and I have kicked the living shit out of any number of people. I always think my boots give me credibility in an uncertain world.

  I didn’t stare back because it’s rude, so I didn’t watch them watching me, but I did peer at them through my eyelashes as I consumed the bowl of porridge with wonderfully simulated enjoyment.

  The chief, a really big man – as opposed to just the ordinarily big ones – gestured at his men around the fire, then at his boat and then back down the river. He was telling me they’d come upriver on their boat.

  Everyone looked expectantly at me. There not being a gesture equivalent to five thousand miles and one thousand years away, I put down my spoon and gestured upriver. They nodded wisely then the chief pointed at each man individually, then they all looked at me again.

  I was dubious. If I said there were only nine of us, would they see us as easy meat? If I said there were twenty of us, would they regard us as a challenge or a threat? In the end I went with the truth and held up nine fingers and pointed upriver again.

  They nodded again but no one looked particularly panic-stricken. Well, they might have, but studying the postage-stamp sized piece of face visible between their hair, their eyebrows and their beards, I rather thought not.

  And that pretty much concluded the sparkling dialogue for the evening.

  There were about eleven of them as far as I could see. Unless there were more on the ship or in the woods that were hidden for some reason. They wore tunics – some were sleeveless, some had linen undershirts – and trousers. It was too dark to make out any colours, but all their gear looked old and well used. As, frankly, did they. Their hair was long and fell way past their shoulders, and their beards were practically felted. For any beard owners out there – not a good look, guys. I must remember to have a word with proud beard owner Mr Roberts. If I lived that long.

  They were all armed and as befitted life in a strange place, every man ensured his weapon was easily to hand, managing to be both relaxed and vigilant at the same time.

  I glanced over to the longship, securely moored midstream. Interesting. So they didn’t beach their boat at night; they left it safely in midstream in case of trouble and waded ashore. But then they ate onshore, so they weren’t expecting that much trouble.

  I finished eating and scraped my bowl clean, as was only polite. Then I got to my feet, limped to the river’s edge and washed both the bowl and the spoon, which seemed to cause some amusement. Shaking them dry, I returned to the fire and, with a bow, offered them back to the chief.

  He gestured with his head to another man who took them from me.

  I remained standing, wondering what to do next. I should go. Leon would be frantic. I stepped back from the fire, meaning to risk the woods, follow the river and work my way back to our campsite. At once they all stirred, shaking their heads and gesturing for me to sit down again. I hesitated, unsure whether I was better off down here or out there.

  The decision was taken from me. With a surprisingly graceful gesture, the chief indicated I should sit again. There were eleven of them and I was one small historian and there were countless perils out there. Snakes, bears and wolves, certainly. And until I got up, I hadn’t realised how muc
h my foot hurt. Decision made. I sat down again, warming my hands at the fire because the night had grown chilly.

  We sat, staring into the flames. A million stars hung in the sky. One by one, my hosts stretched out, pulling cloaks or blankets around them. I had nothing and I was cold but I wouldn’t have slept anyway.

  I watched two men – on guard duty, clearly – walk around the camp, disappear into the trees occasionally, meet up again, lean on their spears and talk quietly and then do it all again. There were nightly noises and the river gurgling past but otherwise all was peaceful and quiet. Occasionally one would tend the fire. After a couple of hours, they were relieved and the whole process started all over again. Finally, just as the sky was beginning to lighten in the east, they put more wood on the fire and refilled the magic porridge pot. The portions were larger for breakfast. Presumably because they had a day’s rowing ahead of them.

  The rising sun allowed me to study them more closely. I have to say they were a battered-looking lot. Their clothes, possibly quite brightly coloured a long time ago, were now sun- and sea-faded to an indeterminate grey colour. Everything was grey, including the boat. The paint had long since gone from the dragon prow. And from many of the shields that hung along the sides. Even the furled sail, once red- and white-striped, was now just a faint brown and cream.

  Looking around, everything was old and much repaired. They’d been travelling for a long time. A very long time. Where had they come from? And where could they possibly be going? The whole thing was a complete mystery. There are no records of these men – whoever they were. Nothing in the History books, no stories, no legends. It must have taken a mighty voyage to get them here – you’d have thought the sagas would have been full of their adventures.

  Unless they never got home. So obvious when you think about it. They never got home. They died here, unknown and unrecorded and no one ever knew of their achievements. Until now.