by Colin Harvey
You felt the world receding; the last words you heard before falling back to the scattered world of the subconscious were Bera's: "I suppose we probably still love Ragnar for who he was, rather than who he's become. That's why we tolerate his behaviour."
Then the silent abyss swallowed you up.
Until the next time, you vowed.
EIGHT
Ragnar
Ragnar noted with grim satisfaction that the figure of the utlander no longer limped as he strode along the ridge above Ragnar, but devoured the cloud-wrapped fells with long strides. The alien had finally lost the stick, the last reminder of his weeks-long convalescence.
On the high ground, the snow had settled, while on the lower-lying fields, it was taking longer and longer to melt in the occasional bouts of sunshine; soon it would cover the ground in a wafer-thin blanket of white.
Behind them Gudmundir completed the triangle of shepherds. While it needed three of them to drive the flock home, only one man needed to stay with them while they were out on the summer grazing. Gudmundir – Gummi – lived out on the slopes in the summer under a havalifugil-skin tent that was lighter than canvas but far tougher. During the winter the shepherds, Thralls all, moved back to the house; this year it would be even more crowded with one more mouth to feed but Ragnar was convinced that Allman would not only earn his keep, but repay the debt he owed for his care.
As the days after Allman's arrival became weeks, Ragnar took dour satisfaction in seeing his hairless labourer pacing the hills and valleys with the returning sheep, straining at the bonds of what was obviously his prison. Ragnar could cope with Allman's resentment and grudgingly accepted that the dark-skinned man worked without complaint, even in conditions that taxed the toughest Isheimuri. Bera's doe-eyed reproaches were harder to bear, and made Ragnar angry because the Gothi had no answer to them.
With a start Ragnar realised that the flock was drifting toward a bog. "Drive the sheep closer!" he bawled. Allman didn't understand the system of whistles and waves that the others tried to teach him, or pretended not to. But on Ragnar's bellow he drove the sheep toward Ragnar and his dog, so that they would clear the edge of the bog. As the flock climbed again, the rustling of the long grass marking their passage, they funnelled across the shallowest part of the stream that fed it, which was too deep and fast-flowing further up the hill to ford there.
It took them half an hour of ducking backward and forward, Ragnar's dog splashing into the water and leaping out again like a mad thing, to get the flock across the stream. A snow shower overtook them, dotting the air with tiny flakes that stuck to Ragnar's lip and tasted crisp against his tongue, and spotted the long grass that was already yellowing with white.
The Terraformers had avoided genetic engineering wherever possible. "We're men, not changelings," one Former had said on the Oracle, but they had tweaked both grass and sheep to withstand the toxins, in the case of the sheep by simply excreting them. Glowing blue sheep-shit had proved oddly fascinating to Allman when he first saw it, but who understood the ways of aliens?
Once Ragnar thought he saw shadows in the mist, and wondered whether the trolls were growing bolder again. They hunted in packs like snolfurs. Pack rats, Ragnar thought. It had been a couple of years since they had driven the last invaders off.
Once they had forded the stream, it was only a halfhour's walk in the increasingly heavy rain up a steep slope, and they crested a ridge. There they could gaze at Skorradalur squatting in the rain.
Ragnar's knees ached as they descended the steep slopes toward the farmstead. The turbines were turning well, he noticed. It was principle that made Ragnar's Grandpappi insist that they diversify their energy sources. The Oracle claimed that Man had drained even the supposedly limitless geothermal springs of Old Iceland, and while Isheimur would keep them in steam for centuries to come, the Isheimuri had no desire to repeat the follies of history.
Then he saw the mill at the end of the line, next to the ballista, and Ragnar grunted in surprise at the same time as Karl said, "Is that windmill supposed to have stopped?"
"No," Ragnar said. "Bastard thing's seized up. Orn should've fixed that." That there was a long ladder resting against the side of the tower implied that Ragnar's tenant was trying to.
When they had driven the sheep into the pens inside the barn, Ragnar and Karl entered the yard where Orn the Strong was wiping his hands on a cloth. "I can't fix it," Orn said, before Ragnar could speak.
"Bugger," Ragnar said. "We'll have to call out a roving mechanic in the spring." One more example of the colony's falling back before the march of stagnation irritated Ragnar.
"It'll cost a bloody fortune in food or labour," Orn said. "Why don't we just leave it as it is?" He fell silent before Ragnar's glare.
"Do you know what the problem is?"
"I think a cog in the yaw drive has seized," Orn said. "I've taken it off-line, 'cause it'll only face one way. If the wind gets too strong from t'other direction, it'll wreck it completely." Orn sighed. "Knowing what it is and fixing it are two different things."
"Come on," Karl said. "Let's both of us take a look." He gazed at Ragnar, silently asking permission.
Ragnar shrugged. "If you think that you can fix it, go ahead. But secure the sheep first."
Ragnar spent the afternoon going through some of his outstanding cases. He and the other forty local Gothis met briefly three times a year, at the Spring, Winter and Bride Fairs. And at the Summer Fair, he journeyed onto the Althing, when serious and important disputes were resolved, including appeals against existing judgements.
Ragnar believed that the provision of competitive "governmental" services was Isheimuri society's greatest strength: the fear of losing clients to rivals checked inefficiency and abuse of power. Isheimuri law owed its resilience and flexibility to decoupling authority from geography. Long-term feuds were difficult without the twin poisons of hereditary title and domain. Difficult, but not impossible.
Ragnar's job was made easier by the Oracle. He could occasionally chat to the other Gothis, although they were so rarely indoors that the "chats" were usually voicemail replies. It was a patchy system made worse by distance and mountains. What they would do if that patchwork ever wore through wasn't something Ragnar liked to contemplate.
He'd left a few messages about Allman with his counterparts, warning them that some sort of travelling seer was in the area, and asking who – if anyone – already knew of him. So far, all answers had been negative. It had had one positive side-effect, pre-warning them that Allman was a trouble-maker.
Ragnar didn't want the utlander going elsewhere to complain. If Allman was dissatisfied with Ragnar's decisions, he could – were he a freeman – switch to a different Gothi without having to move away from Skorradalur; chieftain or client could freely terminate their arrangement, so in theory Karl could swear allegiance to another Gothi. That his status was uncertain was both a complication and a possible bonus. Allman was legally outside the law as far as Ragnar was concerned, so while he had no obligations other than debts, nor did he have any rights. Ragnar had put a roof over the man's head, his people had shared his food with the utlander, and he wasn't going to let Allman follow Bera's example by shaming him by running off with his debt unpaid – even if that debt had been calculated by Ragnar.
Sod him. The bastard was going to stay and pay for that food and shelter the only way that he could, by working. There was always more work than there were hands available, and Allman's presence might make the difference between the community prospering or just surviving.
Ragnar put away the file he'd started on Steinar Onundsson, having already left a few messages with the other Gothis, asking if they'd had any trouble with Steinar. Ragnar would start gently, but over the winter he'd step up the whispering campaign and in the spring, he'd rally support and challenge Steinar to a duel at the Spring Fair to settle the dispute – one way or another.
He heard laughter and shouts outside, and saw Allman wipi
ng his hands on a cloth while Orn clapped him on the shoulder.
Ragnar's spirits lifted when he saw Allman talking to Arnbjorn, who had returned with more sheep from the fells. Walking outside he said mock-sternly, "Arnbjorn Ragnarsson, what are you doing chatting like a washerwoman when there's work to be done?"
Arnbjorn hesitated. Ragnar realised with a pang that his son was checking the older man's mood and grinned to show he was happy. Arnbjorn relaxed. "I've been taking lessons from you in how to spend my days," he said, hugging his father. As they separated, Arnbjorn jerked his thumb at Allman. "I hear our new hand has helped Orn fix the turbine."
"Indeed." Ragnar raised his eyebrows.
"Orn fixed it, I just helped." Allman's unmanly humility made Ragnar want to slap him, even as the Gothi assessed whether the alien's downplaying his help played into Ragnar's hands.
"Piece of metal had rusted off and fallen into the cog," Orn said. "But to actually get to it, we needed to lift the whole damned motor. Two or three men could have done it, but two or three couldn't have climbed into that little space, stood there and lifted it up. No, Karl made the difference. Come on, Ragnar'll give you the rest of the afternoon off – won't you, Gothi?"
Arnbjorn muttered in Ragnar's ear, "And we can have a couple of beers to celebrate getting the big flock off Klanting Fell. We made good time."
"You did," Ragnar said. "I wasn't expecting you back until tomorrow. What did you do, fly them down here?"
Arnbjorn chuckled. "Yeah, we drove the sheep hard. Having the extra man helped. I'm glad you talked Orn into lending him to us."
"That's why I'm not bothered by Orn borrowing the utlander." Ragnar jerked his thumb at Allman. Though Orn needn't have praised him quite so much.
The afternoon grew hazier with each beer they downed.
Ragnar thought afterward that he heard Bera's voice coming from the Oracle room. "You tell it your search parameters. 'Technology plus Terraformers plus interstellar communications.' Wait for the results. Hmm, not good. Seventeen responses."
"This is like something from the Stone Age," Allman complained. "What if you try other parameters?" Ragnar didn't catch what was said next because it was drowned out by shouts from the kitchen. Bloody women and their squabbling!
"What's that – a shrine to the south?" Allman said.
"Oh, that's the Winter Song," Bera replied. She recited:
"And when the Gods left Isheimur,
They cast a bolt from the sky.
The winter that followed was as bleak.
As the heart of a harlot."
"There's something about a possible location," Allman said, "on one of the responses." He groaned. "Two thousand kilometres!"
"That," Bera said, "is where you pointed to on the map. Or Loki did. You confuse me."
"I did?" Karl said.
Whatever Ragnar had been going to say next, either to summon Allman or shout at the kitchen to quit their squabbling, Arnbjorn drove all thoughts of it from his mind with a foaming tankard of peat beer.
There was another fragment, perhaps either imagined or dreamed, Ragnar wasn't sure afterward. It was the utlander walking past, head bowed. It made Ragnar happy to see all hope fled, but angry, too. "I'd never give up," Ragnar shouted to Arnbjorn. "Bigger the odds, more I like 'em. A man should fight to the death, like a berserk."
"You tell 'em, Pappi," Arnbjorn slurred.
Ragnar awoke groggy, with a raging thirst and a hangover, something he didn't normally suffer from.
Arnbjorn and Asgerd were wrapped in each other's arms with the youngest of their three children, toddler George wedged between them.
Ragnar gradually became aware of raised voices, drifting from the kitchen.
He stomped toward the source of the row.
In the kitchen, Thorir – who was clearly still drunk – and Hilda stood on one side, while Bera glared at them from the other, Allman beside her. Everyone was talking at once.
Ragnar bellowed, "Quiet!"
The kitchen fell silent. Ragnar looked at them all in turn. Allman met his gaze levelly; Bera shrank back; Thorir dropped his gaze, while Hilda lifted her chin slightly. Ragnar said, "It's like a convocation of scolds in here. What's caused this?"
Hilda said, "Karl's cleaning of the pans was unacceptable. When I told him so, Bera saw fit to interfere."
"Because the dirt on the pans isn't new. It's been ground in for forever!" Bera said.
"It doesn't matter." Allman pretended to act as peacemaker – having started it all, Ragnar guessed.
"It's not your place to say what matters here, boy." Ragnar smiled inwardly at the flush that stained the stranger's dark face.
"It's not Karl that's the problem," Hilda said, and Ragnar saw the way that she glanced at the stranger.
Not you too. Does he ooze pheromones?
They were all starved of novelty. Ragnar had heard them begging the utlander to tell them about his home, and for all his supposed reluctance, Allman had seduced them with tales of cities floating in the clouds above hell-worlds.
Then Ragnar caught Hilda's defiant look and the way she stood between him and her idiot husband. Oho! You don't just fancy the alien, then? This was Hilda's way of getting back at him for his supposed harshness toward Thorir. For a moment, Ragnar had a crazy vision of how much better the utlander would be as a son-inlaw, but squashed it. "What do you suggest?"
"I'll supervise them more closely," Hilda said, "and maybe make them work apart." Though Hilda liked to queen it over the others as eldest child, she had no actual authority. Putting these two under her supervision would legitimise her claim.
She was braced for a row, he could tell, from the way that her nostrils flared.
"I'll think about it," he said, wrong-footing her. "But meanwhile, keep the noise down, all of you. You're setting the children a bad example of how to behave."
But the next few days saw no relaxation of the internecine warfare between the women; Ragnar knew that Hilda disliked Bera, and now perhaps envied Bera her closeness to Allman. Whether the jealously was justified, Ragnar wasn't sure – Bera and Allman seemed to be just friends – but whatever the reason, Hilda bullied Bera relentlessly.
The conflict obviously played into Thorbjorg's hands as well. She teased the unskilled and untrained Allman relentlessly about how much more women's work he did than the other men, to the extent that Ragnar almost wanted the utlander to slap her into respect. Ragnar grew even angrier with the alien for the sheeplike way he took Thorbjorg's taunting. Especially when it provoked Bera into sniping at Thorbjorg, which in turn earned Allman even greater scorn from Thorbjorg for needing a woman's protection.
Sometimes Ragnar wondered what the utlander had done to provoke Thorbjorg. Had she offered herself to him, and been turned down? Whatever it was, Thorbjorg and Hilda seemed unable to leave Allman alone.
It was enough to offer Ragnar the excuse he secretly wanted to ignore his administrative duties and join the other men on the fells. The trouble with that was that he wasn't as young as the others; so either his head ached from the bickering in the house, or his legs ached from walking the hills.
Then one morning Thorir nearly lost several sheep in a bog.
They were bringing in the last flock, racing against another storm, lightning flickering on the horizon, creeping closer. The flock had ranged furthest, and was one of the biggest, so it needed all the men to help the two shepherds who guarded it. Orn and Bjarney and their men who had already returned had joined with Ragnar, Arnbjorn, Thorir and even Allman in striding up to the fells. Only Yngi had stayed behind to attend to his chores, and the sight of him gazing forlornly after them had pierced Ragnar's heart. That's why you should never look back.
Once again Thorir somehow managed to end up as point, nearest the bog, and once again the mutton-head had shown why he shouldn't be allowed near anything that could break or die.
Even as the lightning of the impending storm flickered in the distance, they heard the bleating
, and the utlander raced into the bog, and grabbed the nearest of the two sheep by the scruff of the neck. But within seconds, the animal's frantic struggles – the very opposite of what it should do to survive the mud – had taken them both under. Only one hand remained waving above the mud. Without bothering to vent his spleen on the hapless Thorir, Ragnar held out a branch from a blasted tree and swung it so that it slapped against Allman's palm.
Allman grabbed the branch.
"Help me get him out!" Ragnar bellowed.
Strong hands took the branch and pulled on it. For a few seconds nothing happened, and Ragnar feared that the alien's lungs had filled. Another part of his mind noticed that the storm was coming closer, faster, and he knew that they wouldn't have long before they had to decide whether to fight the bog or flee the lightning.