“Lots of nasty corners for the dirt to hide in,” said Gudrun.
Then, again doing just what Gudrun told her, Mouse made a small amount of bread dough with the herb stew from the pot and a little oat flour. Gudrun was able to help press this dough straight onto her wound. A clean cloth to cover it.
“We’re done,” said Gudrun.
“Don’t we . . . you have to say some magic?” asked Mouse.
“No. That’s it. Same again tomorrow.”
Mouse started to leave.
“Mouse,” Gudrun said, stopping her.
“What is it?”
“Tell me something,” Gudrun said. Sif was not the only one who had thought about what had happened just before Gudrun’s accident.
“How did you open the box?” she asked.
Mouse said nothing.
“Horn tried to open it. He got me to try to open it. No one could open it until you just lifted the lid. How?”
But Mouse shook her head. “I must go. You must rest.”
“How?” asked Gudrun again.
“I don’t know,” Mouse said, and left.
24
Mouse. Olaf and Herda. Sif. All of them and many others ran from their brochs the moment they heard the cry. More soon joined them, including Freya.
“Stranger coming!”
It was true. A tall, thin, white-haired man had just walked openly into the center of the cluster of brochs. There was something slung over his shoulders. Then he stumbled and fell. He slumped to the ground, and his burden tumbled to the turf and rolled a foot or so.
“Sigurd!” cried Mouse.
She ran to him. Freya knelt down beside him, too.
Olaf took a step forward, then hesitated. He looked to the sky.
“Sigurd?” mouthed Freya.
Mouse felt his chest with her tiny hand. “He’s breathing!”
“Thank you,” said Olaf under his breath. He strode over to where his son lay and scooped him off the springy turf.
“Where’s Horn?” he barked at the people standing around.
No one answered.
“Well, until he shows up, lock that man in the grain barn.”
He nodded at the white-haired man, who hadn’t moved since he’d fallen, then he carried Sigurd inside. Only Mouse saw the tear roll down Olaf ’s rough cheek. She smiled.
There was a moment when no one did anything. Then Freya stood.
“You heard what Olaf said,” she murmured, and followed her husband. Mouse watched as a couple of men carried the stranger into the grain barn. Then she hurried after Freya.
25
Ragnald. The man with the white hair and the black palms. He was a mystery from the start, and he stayed that way.
His hair had gone white from the frost, he said, and the frost had blackened his palms. He’d been traveling for years, through the cold lands of the north, slowly coming south. And he knew about the box. He said that it was his and that it contained magic of all sorts. (Except we knew it was empty.)
I don’t know which of this was true, nor does it matter much now.
26
Sigurd was unconscious. The man with white hair was not.
“Hey!” he called from the grain barn. “Let me out!”
Someone was sent to find Horn.
“I won’t hurt you! Won’t you even talk to me?”
After a while Horn came out to see what was going on. He staggered a little, as if he’d been drinking.
“Well, where is he?”
“In the barn, Horn,” one of his men said.
“Well, get him out. Let’s see him. Have your weapons ready, mind.”
Mouse, who had come to the door of the broch to watch, didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as she saw Horn’s finest warriors gird their loins, and their swords, in the face of a single stranger.
The man stepped out cautiously. He looked around him, and he looked different. The villagers, almost all light brown or blond haired, had never seen pure white hair before. And he was nearly a foot taller than their tallest man.
He looked from one face to another, then approached Horn, apparently having worked out that he was the leader.
“Mighty Chief, I mean no harm, I simply—”
“No farther, stranger!”
Horn drew his own sword but remembered too late that he had broken Cold Lightning on the box. He waved the stump at the man, pretending it was what he had meant to do. Mouse saw Herda shaking his head grimly. At least there was the strong Thorbjorn, with his smith’s hammer, standing nearby.
“My noble lord,” the man tried again, “I am a simple traveler; I mean no harm.”
“What is your name, stranger? Where are you from?”
“From the south. A city far to the south. Skerry. No doubt a lord as great as yourself will have heard of it?”
Horn swayed on his feet a little.
“Of course,” he said after a moment.
“Great Lord, my name is Ragnald. I am a simple traveler and was caught in a shipwreck not far down the shore from here.”
He paused. Mouse watched as Horn and Ragnald sized each other up. Surely the stranger could tell Horn was drunk?
“My noble lord, I mean no harm. I found the boy—”
“The boy!” Horn said suddenly, finding something he could threaten the man with. “What did you do to the boy? You would harm one of my people?”
He took an unsteady, though menacing, step toward Ragnald. He was still waving his sword stump.
“No,” said Ragnald, “I found him. Indeed, I saved him. Why would I bring him back here if I meant him ill? Your Lordship is wise to mistrust a stranger,” he added quickly.
Horn thought about this.
“What,” he said eventually, “are you doing here?”
For the first time the newcomer was short of words.
“I . . . am a . . . an entertainer,” he said after a pause. “Yes! I have entertained many people in many lands, across all the seas and islands. The poor and the weak, the rich and the strong. Great rulers, like yourself. I have traveled far, and often I have exchanged a story or two for a bed. And now I find myself here. . . .”
He smiled at Horn, but showing utmost respect.
“I see,” said Horn uncertainly.
“I don’t see,” said a voice from behind Mouse. Olaf pushed past her and strode out into the center of things. Murmurs spread through the crowd.
Olaf walked right up to Ragnald, until his face was just a foot away from the white-haired man’s.
“My boy is lying hurt in there,” said Olaf. “He will not wake. Just what happened? Tell me that!”
But Horn regained his grip.
“Olaf ! Get away! I am in charge here! Or would you like to take our friend’s place in the grain?”
Some of Horn’s men closed around Olaf a little. He laughed at them, but he did as he was told.
Horn turned back to the stranger. “You. Rag . . . ?”
“Ragnald, my lord.”
“Ragnald. What kind of entertainer are you?”
“I am sorry to say that at present I am a very poor entertainer, for everything I need is contained in a box. A very special wooden box. I lost it when I was cast ashore. Have you, by any chance, seen such a thing?”
The man gestured with his hands as he spoke. Now the shape they held, invisibly, was the box. Then he shrugged, his black palms up. As the people saw them they drew breath, wondering what disease or experience had caused this bizarre disfigurement.
There was a long silence. People stared at Horn. Horn stared at his people.
“No,” he said. “No, we have found nothing like that.”
The man studied Horn’s face for a moment longer than perhaps he should have, but after a moment more he spoke.
“Then I am a very poor entertainer indeed, for the box contains magics of all kinds, and without it I am nothing.”
27
I can remember that I woke screaming.
&nb
sp; In my head I was back at the beach.
I remember Mother came over and held me; Father crouched at the foot of my bed, staring at me. I can see myself now as the boy I was then, shivering with fear. How quickly I was to grow up!
“Shhh,” said my mother. “Shhh, my boy.”
After a while I stopped screaming. The beach seemed a little farther away, the beach with the black horses bearing down on me. . . .
“What is it, Sig?” asked Mouse.
She sat by me, waiting quietly.
And so I told them all about the horses. I was ashamed because I’d been running away, and they knew that. It remained unspoken.
One moment I had been walking along the beach. Strangely, I had heard nothing until I turned and saw the stampede of black horses about to trample me into the sand.
“Horses!” exclaimed Freya.
“Where did they come from?” asked Olaf.
I shook my head.
“And that man was riding them?” asked Father.
“Which man?” I replied. I didn’t know who he was talking about. “There was no one. Just the horses—no, wait. I did see a face, just once. I remember being lifted up.”
“Then the stranger is a good man,” said my mother. “He brought you back to us! Olaf, you must thank him.”
Father nodded. I learned later how he had challenged Ragnald, but that was a good thing about my father. He was honest and could admit to his mistakes.
“Yes,” he agreed. “I have a lot to thank him for.”
Then Father put out his huge hand and held mine with it.
I felt foolish and small, but deeply loved.
I looked at Mouse, who had a peculiar look on her face. Only for a moment, and then it was gone.
“Horses?” she said quietly.
28
“Tell me what is going on, Mouse,” said Gudrun.
Mouse had tended to the Wisewoman’s wounds many times now. An uneasy friendship had developed between them. Gudrun was grateful for the careful way Mouse followed her instructions. This time Mouse had remembered how to make the poultice perfectly, without any help from the Wisewoman. She placed it gently on Gudrun’s wound.
“You see?” said Gudrun.
“Yes. It’s much better already.”
“No, Mouse. I mean do you see what you can do? I’d only have to teach you.”
Mouse said nothing, just smiled. She still didn’t trust Gudrun, didn’t understand her motives. In a way they were quite alike. Both of them stood a little outside the village in general. Mouse because she was a foundling, Gudrun because of her calling. The villagers respected Gudrun because of her importance to them; they were also afraid of her. Their attitude toward Mouse was not so different. Mouse felt this instinctively but also knew that the person Gudrun had most contact with was someone to be feared. Horn.
“Wouldn’t you like to know the things I can do?” asked Gudrun.
Mouse shrugged, and smiled again.
“If only I could do what you can do,” said Gudrun.
Mouse stopped smiling. She didn’t want to think about that at the moment. It hadn’t kept Sigurd out of trouble or helped find him.
“So what’s going on?”
“That man. Ragnald. He says he found Sigurd lying on the beach.”
“What does Sigurd say?” asked Gudrun.
“He doesn’t remember much, and he’s still sleeping a lot. I don’t know what happened to him. He says he was run down by horses. Black horses.”
“Black horses?” repeated Gudrun slowly. She, too, had heard the legend. “There aren’t many horses around here. We’re lucky enough to have Skinfax.”
“But Gudrun, that’s not all. He has white hair and black palms. And the box! You know, that—”
“Yes,” said Gudrun. The thought of the box reminded her of her accident. She winced. “What of it?”
“The box is his!”
Gudrun seemed unmoved by this. “Has Horn given it back to him?”
“No,” said Mouse. “That’s a strange thing. Horn pretended we didn’t have it.”
Gudrun laughed.
“And the stranger said it contains his magic tricks,” Mouse continued. “He says he is an entertainer, but we know the box is empty, and yet Horn has let this pass. He seems to like the stranger.”
Gudrun was silent for a while. She managed to pull herself up in her bed without too much pain.
“Has Horn done anything about Cold Lightning yet?”
“Thorbjorn says it can’t be mended. He must forge a new sword.”
“That will hurt him,” said Gudrun, meaning Horn. “That sword has been passed from one Lawspeaker to the next for generations. No new sword will be the same.”
Mouse nodded. True, she thought. Things were not the same. There was a subtle shift taking place. People were talking about Horn behind his back quite openly. The nucleus of his henchmen was closing around him, and he had even taken the stranger, Ragnald, into his broch on more than one occasion. It was undeniable that many of the Storn were beginning to show their mistrust of Horn.
“Mouse,” said Gudrun, “there’s one more thing—you’ll have to help give the Spell-making tonight.”
“No. I can’t,” said Mouse automatically. The thought of sitting in front of the whole tribe made her feel sick. The thought of sitting near the fire pit still made her feel uneasy. “I couldn’t.”
“Yes, you can. I can’t speak loud enough. I’ll get them to carry me to the great broch. I’ll whisper to you, and you can recite the lines to everyone.”
Mouse shivered and looked at Gudrun.
“You’ll do it,” said Gudrun. “You must do as I say. Horn has told you that, hasn’t he?”
29
“Sig. I have to give the Spell-making tonight.”
Mouse.
I’d been sitting, feeling sorry for myself. Feeling stupid for running away. I had got nowhere, and I felt I was still going nowhere. I had spent the day digging up shriveled potatoes. And I remember thinking then that things were bad not just for me. The fishing was worse than ever; the crops were failing.
I was sitting on one of the grassy banks behind the great broch, watching the sea. Mouse came over.
“I have to give the Spell-making,” she said.
I nodded.
“I know,” I said.
“Who told you?”
“Ragnald.”
“Ragnald!” she said. “How did he know?”
I shook my head.
“Horn seems to like him,” I ventured.
“He scares me, Sig,” she said. “There’s something about him that scares me.”
“He saved my life, Mouse,” I said. “Doesn’t that count for something?”
I said this, but I felt something of her fear, too. He was strange. But I seemed to have won the point with Mouse.
“Yes, of course it does,” she said. “Don’t be angry with me. I’m just worried.”
“About the Spell-making?” I asked.
“Hmm,” she said. “The Spell-making.”
So that was it.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. In fact, you’ll be wonderful. You’re going to be something special, Mouse. With your skill, your mind.”
“No,” said Mouse, and she shook her head. “I don’t want to.”
“Yes,” I said. “You will. While I go on finding seaweed and growing potatoes.”
She put her hand on my arm.
“Sigurd,” she said, but I was not in the mood to listen.
“I’m going inside,” I said.
I left.
As I ducked under the low doorway of the broch I saw that Sif had been watching all this. She scowled at me.
For once I failed to ignore her.
“What?” I said aggressively.
“Troubles?” she said slyly.
“None of your concern.”
“Perhaps I can help?”
She seemed to be playing a game. I shouldn’t
have said what I said next, but I was too angry to care.
“The only thing you can do is tell your father to sort this village out before we starve.”
“How dare you!” she said.
“It’s nothing but the truth!” I answered. “Tell me it isn’t true. Tell me we’re not in trouble.”
She was silent. Amazingly, she looked worried.
“Is it really bad?” she asked, as if she’d never thought about it before.
Expecting another of her tricks, I paused for a moment. But I could see no game this time.
“I don’t know,” I told her honestly, “but if it goes on like this, we’ll starve before summer’s here. Your father gave a whole bucketful of grain to Skinfax the other day. I saw him.”
Again she seemed dumbfounded, almost shocked. So unlike the Sif I was used to.
“We’re eating too much of the grain,” she agreed. “But Skinfax must eat.”
“He’ll end up eating that horse,” I said bitterly.
I left.
30
Again Mouse found herself in the center of the great broch. She was not in trouble, but she was more scared than when Horn had raised his sword above her head. For this time she had to speak in front of the whole tribe of the Storn.
She looked around. With most of the light in the broch coming from the fire beside her, she noticed that it was actually quite difficult to see all the faces staring at her. Those at the front were clear enough, however.
There was Horn, glaring. Mouse looked away. She knew she had Gudrun to thank for this—Horn was simply tolerating his Wisewoman’s decision. Mouse was not surprised when she saw Ragnald, the white stranger, sitting near Horn. Ragnald had been keeping Horn amused with tales of his travels as an entertainer, and Horn had elevated the stranger to a position of privilege.
Mouse had not seen Ragnald do any entertaining herself.
She saw Freya, who mouthed something at her, she couldn’t tell what, though she knew what she meant. She was wishing her well. Next to Freya sat Olaf. She couldn’t see Sigurd. He had to be here, though, because the whole tribe had to be.
The Dark Horse Page 5