Raven Speak (9781442402492)

by Wilson, Diane Lee

  Tora made a small show of having to maneuver the heavy door closed all by her groaning self, then returned to the fire, pointedly not offering a seat. The woman could certainly hold a grudge.

  “You’ve not seen me for many a winter, but you know me, as I knew Jorgen’s father.” Distrust showed on their ashen faces, distrust mixed with fear, especially on those of the four children. The young boy lying in his mother’s lap seemed especially frightened, and she guessed that was due mostly to her empty eye socket. Well, she was not a pretty sight anymore, but the women had aged too, and she had to search from one to the next for a familiar feature. Standing shakily beside his straw mattress, one hand still gripping a half-hidden knife, was old Ketil. He recognized her.

  “How is your leg, Ketil?”

  “Like the wolf’s got it in his teeth, Wenda.” That was Ketil: always grumbling. “You’re welcome to our fire.”

  The chieftain’s seat on the far side of the hearth remained empty, as did the skald’s. Best not to hesitate. She confidently picked her way among the mattresses and discarded utensils and lowered herself into the skald’s place. At once a warmth unrelated to the fire oozed through her joints, offsetting the clan’s unspoken disquiet. Her beloved used to sit here. Those had been such happy times. She’d help weave some more.

  Casting sighs of annoyance, Tora peered into a cooking pot, stabbed a small slice of mutton, and deposited it onto a plate. To that she added a meager ladling of cooked barley and signaled for it to be passed. “We’re missing some of ours,” she announced. “Besides the men off to sea, there’s a girl of fourteen winters, the chieftain’s daughter, about as willful as the wind. She came back from some foolish venture only to pass one night and disappear again.”

  Tora caught her hiding a smile as she sniffed the mutton. “Yes, it’s yours,” Tora snapped. “And we thank you.” Then she went on. “The other person we’re missing is Jorgen the Younger, gone two days now. Maybe you know something?”

  Best to be blunt. “Your Jorgen is dead.”

  “How?” Ketil asked.

  “That’s for later,” she replied, taking command—temporarily at least. “It comes closer to the tail of the story.”

  A glance at the empty faces showed no reaction to the news about Jorgen. She realized that this wasn’t because his death was welcomed, but because it was expected. Death had become routine to these poor people. Any one of us could be next, they seemed to be thinking.

  So who had mounted the pine bough?

  “As for Asa”—and she paused to monitor their surprise at her naming the missing girl, again stifling a smile—“she’s finding her way.”

  She turned to Tora. The woman carried her self-anointed authority with ease—flawed by selfishness, yes, but such was her nature. Smart of Jorgen to have utilized her. “Do you have butchering knives?”

  She received a perfunctory nod. “Why?”

  Information, yes. Explanation, no. “Get them out, along with the whetstone. You’ll need to have them sharpened.”

  The softly hissing fire marked time as the two stared at each other and the rest of the clan watched. It became obvious to everyone that Tora wasn’t taking orders. Astrid rose. “I’ll get them.”

  “What are we going to carve up?” Tora sneered. “The mutton’s nearly gone and the storeroom’s empty.”

  Wenda straightened her shoulders and answered in a voice that nearly boomed. “A whale.”

  Ketil’s jaw fell open. “Have you found a beached whale then? In truth?”

  “I’ve not found him, but you will—soon. Now get to sharpening those knives.” She gestured with an insistence that set most—but not all—hands to working.

  “But what about Asa?” Gunnvor asked. “What is it you know about her?”

  How much should she tell? She fluttered her hands at those still idle. “And gather some baskets, too, some big ones.” When she pinned her one eye on Tora and delivered its solemn, expectant blink, even that stubborn woman finally shuffled off to work.

  “Now,” she said, slapping her knees and working to recall the tricks of a good skald, “let me tell you a story about a girl with hair the color of copper, a girl who was no ordinary child. A young woman who came to do extraordinary things.”

  TUTTUGU OK SJAU

  A thin, high-pitched whine bored through Asa’s torpor. She forced her eyelids, incredibly sticky and sore, open just far enough to discover the rocks teeming with tiny, winged insects. Thousands of legs and slight bodies surrounded her, all engaged in an excited dance. Confused, she blinked hard and rolled her eyes upward. The creatures were congregating around her wrist—odd that she couldn’t feel them—and the underside of the dislodged boulder. They were preparing to feast on her dead hand! Instinctively she tried to pull free, but of course couldn’t. How long before they gnawed their fill and doubled back, came spilling down her arm, and crawled over her and into her? With all the strength she could muster, she lifted her free arm to shoo them away. They scattered momentarily, as weightless as blown ash, and resettled. Again she waved them away. They returned. It was no use. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about them.

  From somewhere in the sky behind her, a heavy swoosh-swoosh announced the return of the ravens. Had they been watching all this time, just waiting for her to stir? Irritated, she opened her eyes and watched them alight in their same places and immediately resume their cacophonous duet. As on the previous day, the larger bird gurgled and chattered while the smaller one shook its head with excitement and hopped sideways and back on the rocky lip. Then it flapped to a boulder below and looked up, obviously hopeful she would follow.

  “I’m snagged,” she managed to croak, “in case your beady eyes haven’t noticed.” Her scratchy throat made her sound like an old, old woman.

  In a direct series of hops and winged leaps, the raven returned to her side. It found a perch so close to her face that when it parted its beak to scold with a jarring kra-a-ck she could see its black tongue spasm. It cocked its head and studied her with such intensity, such purpose, that she grew a little panicked. Was it preparing now to peck out her eyes? She covered her face, watching the bird from under her elbow. If it so much as leaned in her direction, she was going to grab it by the neck and bash its body against the rocks. The other bird set to shrieking at once, and with such alarm it must have understood her thoughts.

  Swallowing with great difficulty, she muttered from beneath her protective elbow. “Well, if you’re both so smart, why don’t you fly off and find Wenda? Bring her here to help me.”

  The smaller bird lifted off the rock and repeated its pattern of flapping onto a lower boulder, then another and another. Near the bottom, it looked up at her.

  This was ridiculous. “I can’t follow you!”

  Rebuffed, the bird spread its wings and flapped up the coast. She watched its image shrink until, far in the distance, it landed on an enormous rock. Only a tiny black silhouette now, the raven amused itself by hopping from one end to the other, leaping into the air and coming down, spinning, and all the while yelling and yodeling in agitated raven speak. Unmoved, she watched the performance. The gusts picked up the strident calls, braided and unbraided the notes, and rushed the fragments across the bluffs where they teased the larger raven into response. His calls came sharp and loud, the demanding kr-r-rucks and gronks so eerily like commands that she looked up. He’d become another creature entirely: His plumage, bristling like stalks of black wheat, doubled his size, feathery horns arose from his head, and his eyes rolled to white as he bobbed and screamed like some disembodied spirit. What was happening?

  Such racket seemed destined to draw birds from all over, but none appeared. And then, as if by mutual signal, the clamor ceased. The coast and Asa’s tethered roost on the bluff fell extraordinarily quiet. Gooseflesh prickled her arms. This time when she looked up, the raven was casually preening its feathers, now folded smooth. It lifted a claw to scratch its cheek, then paused to calmly retu
rn her stare. The wind whipped through her hair, the ocean tide surged in and out, and the day stretched on.

  Until a percussive sound like metal upon metal came from far up the beach. The monotonous hammering arrived as regularly as her heartbeat. The nearer raven listened with keen interest. It didn’t seem possible for a bird to make such a noise, but it was indeed the raven up the coast calling in a rhythmic monotone. The annoying ping-ping-ping pounded in Asa’s skull until she thought she’d scream. Every fiber in her being wished to boot that bird off its rock, and she shook her fist in its direction. Just then the rock, as if performing her will, jerked with such force that the raven flapped into the air. It circled and landed. The rock writhed, flinging the bird again, and the fog vanished from her head. It wasn’t a rock; it was the whale! The whale had returned!

  Summoned from memory, happy cries drifted down the beach as they had two summers ago, when her clan had discovered that other beached whale. The men—including her father—had carried their sharpened knives high, laughing and boasting of the ferocity of their blades. The boys had competed in carrying woven baskets heavy with meat back to the longhouse. Her mother—and at that a familiar musty fragrance, achingly comforting, tickled her nose—her mother and the other women had scurried to bring pots of water to a boil, to scoop out salt and unwrap spices. Astrid had attacked the storeroom, sweeping with such vigor she’d not even noticed the clumps of fallen turf settled atop her head scarf.

  The imaginary laughter faded as the murmuring waves reclaimed their beach. How long had it been since she’d heard that sort of laughter among her clan? This winter had been so harsh, first with the endless rains and then the unceasing cold and the sickness. They needed this whale; they needed the sustenance it could provide, and they needed the hope it would bring. She had to tell them.

  Only she couldn’t. Her crushed hand, anchored to the useless rope that was her arm, had her securely attached to this cliff.

  She needed to cut that rope.

  Stop. Cut off her hand? Could she even manage such a feat? How much would it hurt? And how would she ever ride Rune? No, it would be too painful, and she’d be left a cripple, a charcoal-chewer sitting beside the hearth, unable to contribute to the clan’s needs, and thus despised. She just had to wait a little longer. Someone could yet find her.

  But how much longer would the whale remain? It had vanished once. The next tide could float it away. Or worse, it could die and rot on the shore, a horrendous waste. And she’d die in eyesight of it, a rotting waste herself. No, she’d not even be in sight of it, because these cursed birds would have her eyes pecked out before she took her last breath!

  She gave the near one a good glare. Her breath was coming fast now, balanced as she was at the precipice of something very big, something frightening. If she spent any time at all thinking about it, the fear would overtake her and she’d never edge this close again.

  She pulled out Wenda’s knife and tentatively drew it across her arm, as close to the wrist as possible. Nothing but a pink line. She pressed harder and this time brought forth a sliver of bright red along with a gasp. The pain was too much! And with a blade so dull she’d barely get through flesh, never mind bone. Furious, she hammered the knife’s butt against her forearm.

  That reminded her of stabbing Jorgen. Her stomach twisted, as it did each time she reconjured the shock of plunging the knife point into him, of feeling the jolt as blade struck human bone.

  She needed another tool. Quelling her stomach’s distress, she cast around for a rock, a sharp one, within her limited reach. Spying a possibility, she snatched it up and brought it down hard on her wrist. Nifelhel, that hurt! Again and again she slammed it into her wrist, and the pain fired along her arm and ravaged her shoulder. She refused to acknowledge it. It wasn’t her own arm she was attacking; it was a torturous binding, a stubborn rope that had her trapped on this cliff when she needed to be leading her clan to the whale.

  While she labored she became aware that the other raven had returned. They were both watching her, though she didn’t pause to look up. This wasn’t their concern.

  For some reason the muffled thuds lured Wenda’s words from memory and sent them circling through her mind. You want a whale? What would you trade for it? The words faded in and out, grew strong, and solidified into a chant, urging her to greater effort. What would you trade for it? What would you trade for it? Methodically she pounded. Something cracked, a bone hopefully, and blood trickled down her elbow. She kept smashing, moving as if in a hypnotic dream, not thinking, not questioning.

  It won’t cost you an eye, but rescuing your clan may demand something equally dear.

  Her wrist was a bloody mess, but far from broken. The rock wasn’t going to be enough. It wasn’t big enough; she wasn’t strong enough. What would you trade? What would you trade? The chant prodded her to a frenzy. She had to think of something; she couldn’t stop. If she stopped now, she’d … No! She wasn’t stopping until she was finished.

  All right, she couldn’t break her arm by pounding it; she needed to snap the bones, snap them the way she broke kindling over her knee. Only she didn’t have that kind of leverage. Unless … weighing the rock in her hand, she pondered the possibility: If she could wedge the rock under her wrist just right, use it like her pointy knee, she could maybe twist her arm with enough pull to bring it down hard and sudden across the rock, and maybe her bones would snap. Instantly she set to work.

  Shoving the rock underneath her mangled wrist bloodied her good hand. She didn’t bother to wipe it, just grasped her forearm, sank as low as she could, then sprang up and, as she came down, threw all her weight against her arm.

  The bone snapped. She felt it at once, a clean, searing pain. Sweat beaded her brow; she could feel that, too. And the chill breeze across her parched lips. Gingerly, she felt along her arm. There was a telltale bulge, but she was still tethered to the boulder. Gritting her teeth, she crouched, sprang, and yanked. Nothing happened except that more pain surged through her body. She leaped again, and this time another bone cracked. She felt her arm sag at an unnatural angle from her hand, attached now only by skin and sinew.

  Sweat ran down her cheek, traced her jaw, and trickled along her neck and chest. Her throat burned with her panting. She had no idea how much time had passed. The sun hung cold and motionless in the empty sky. The gray-green ocean surged and receded, uncaring. She squinted up the shoreline. Was the whale still there? It was.

  Her legs trembled; she was so tired. But eager to be finished, eager to be free, she took up the knife again. It wasn’t her arm, or any arm, really; this thing in front of her was nothing more than a useless, frayed rope that needed to be severed completely.

  Eyeing the narrowest part of her wrist, she attacked. That, she discovered, was like trying to hack through seaweed with a spoon; though she pressed with all her might, the sinews were too tough. She couldn’t do it. The cruel fact of the matter was that she’d gotten this far and yet she wasn’t going to get free. The insects—and the ravens, too—would have their feast after all.

  Blinded by anger, she lifted the knife in the air and slammed the point into her wrist. It plunged in with hardly any feeling whatsoever and she continued her work, sweat streaming from her face. Her breathing came in pinched gasps. Time and again the staggering pain swallowed her into blackness, and each time she awoke, the knife had clattered free of her hand.

  Each instance was a struggle to remember where she was and what she had to do, but then she’d manage to retrieve the knife and return to her stabbing and tearing. When her arm—her good arm, anyway, and there was a strange thought, she’d always speak of her good arm now—grew weak, she rested, slumping against the rock, savoring the cold against her sweaty cheek, gazing up the beach at the whale like it was a prize. What would you trade? What would you trade? The mystifying words urged her on, and though her stomach upended in protest, she clenched her jaw and returned to her labor.

  When her arm finall
y fell free, the pain that had stopped at her shoulder sent probing hot fingers racing through her chest to squeeze the air from her lungs. Already light-headed, she fought for breath. At once she turned from the grotesque sight of her mangled remnant of a wrist disappearing beneath the boulder. Insects swarmed hungrily, and she cradled the remainder of her arm. A wave of dizziness rocked her, and she let herself fall back against the bluff to keep from pitching forward into air. With her lone hand she worked her way beneath her dress and wriggled out of her underskirt. Icy winds licked her bare skin, but she didn’t shiver. As best as she could, she wound the linen garment around her stumpy arm, wadding it tight against the profuse bleeding. That took all her energy, and she leaned against the bluff for another respite. She still had so far to go. How was she going to manage the rest of her descent with only one arm?

  The ocean gusts continued to assail her. Their chill was welcomed now. It kept her sharp and attuned to the precarious task of a difficult descent. She moved slowly, careful to press her body to the bluff as she slid across each rock. As much as she tried to protect her throbbing limb, she seemed to knock it at every turn, and more than once she cried out before cradling it closer and continuing.

  The ravens accompanied her; why, she didn’t know. They swooped lazily through the air, their calls alternately joyous and then, when she moaned, alarmed. In a distant sort of way they provided comfort. When she neared the bottom, their chortles and trills got lost among the rushing surf and a persistent buzzing in her head. And an excited nicker.

  A what? A nauseating fog clouded her mind. She blinked, forcing herself to stay alert. The familiar sound came again, from somewhere below. Leaning tight against the cliff, double-checking her balance, she dared to peer downward.

  There on the shore, ears pricked in her direction, waited Rune.

  TUTTUGU OK ÁTTA

  Oh, it felt good! The warm current at the base of his furry coat. The smell of him, sweet and clean, peppered with sand, his breath grassy. She crumpled against his shoulder, aching to close her eyes until the middle of summer, at least. Dimly she felt his lips nuzzling concern along her head and neck. But sleep’s soothing blanket was already wrapping her. The ocean was filling her ears with its whispers. She could allow herself a rest … just a short one … until …