Demon of Scattery

by Poul Anderson

  “I told everybody to stay clear of those windows,” groaned Halldor. He could well-nigh see before him a heavy rock, gathering speed as it fell a hundred feet, smashing through iron and bone till brains spurted and a man crumpled…

  Egil overhauled him as he was about to climb from the fifth to the sixth floor. Behind shaggy red beard, below sea-leathered skin, the skipper of Reginleif shivered, swallowed, and could hardly speak: “Halldor, a stone struck Ranulf, your son. It stove in his helmet and—He breathes yet, but—”

  It was eerie, thought a part of Halldor, that he did not feel at once what had happened. To turn and clamber back down was only a thing he did, like drawing breath. Deep wounds are slow to give pain.

  He did stop caring what became of the monks. It would have been wise to keep some, at least, to question and to sell if they were healthy. As was, without him to forbid, the vikings slew them all.

  II

  BRIGIT WATCHED THE CONFRONTATION between monks and Lochlannach and saw how Halldor directed the construction of a ladder. She could do naught to help her countrymen. The strangers were too strong; well had she learned that. Instead she stole to the stone chapel, to seek there what solace she might. Days since she had stood in a sanctuary—

  The chapel was cool and dim, and the scent of incense from Easter Mass yet hung in the air. The altar had been stripped of its treasures, she saw, and only a small oil lamp lit the gloom. She knelt on the earthen floor.

  Outside she heard screams as the monks were slaughtered. She clasped her hands and bowed her head. “Oh great Lord God,” she began. But since her capture her prayers were empty. Naught save her pride, now, kept her alive while Ranulf and his friends used her: her cursed pride and her ability to dream her mind elsewhere. Her body was bruised and battered, but her soul stayed untouched. Or so she must believe.

  A figure in the doorway blocked the light. Brigit looked up. Had they come at last to kill her? How she would welcome martyrdom.

  The man before her bore no weapons; he carried a body in his arms. Its features were bloodstained, but it wore Ranulf’s armor.

  For a moment Brigit was glad. A youth driven to prove his manhood, Ranulf was a cruel master. And he spoke no word of Gaelic, nor did his friends. She had fallen to the mercy of beasts. Perhaps Ranulf would die, or was already dead. No, such a thought was unchristian.

  Then she saw who held the boy, and she snapped after breath. Halldor, captain of the lead ship—Ranulf’s father! Twisted and terrible was his face, narrowed his deep-blue eyes. He carried his son as if the weight were an infant’s.

  “Your monks did this,” he said in Gaelic. He strode toward the altar.

  “Clear that table.”

  Wordless, Brigit moved the wine and water cruets, a crucifix, and a bookstand. God forgive me, she cried into the emptiness.

  Halldor laid his son out on the altar cloth and pulled off the dented helmet. Dark blood spilled from the wound. Ranulf yet breathed, Brigit saw, but slowly, as if death crouched on his chest. His skull was dented beneath his helm.

  One of Halldor’s men stepped forward and examined the wound. He pulled back Ranulf’s eyelids, shook his head, and said something in Norse.

  Halldor’s reply was short. The other man spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. Halldor stood looking down at his son. Brigit saw tension in his shoulders. Even if he is a barbarian, he is also a father, and he grieves. Then, with practicality: The procedure would be difficult, and nothing is sure. But the old Abbess showed me a way, and if the son survives the father should be grateful.

  Decision came, and with it, strength. She stepped forward. “I was trained in leechcraft.”

  Halldor’s eyes were full of misery. He looked at her and raised his hand.

  She drew back, expecting a blow. Instead he let his arm fall. It dangled useless at his side. “Then do what you can, woman,” he answered. “If Ranulf dies, so do you.”

  If it’s death I wished for, I’ve a fair chance to get my boon. But for the first time in days Brigit felt hope. “Dear God, guide my hands.”

  Her medicine bag—her lés—had been left behind, destroyed when the vikings sacked her convent, but surely the monks had numbered a leech among them. Whoever he was he would have no further use for his tools.

  She explained her needs to Halldor, who told one of his men—one with a smattering of Gaelic—to go with her. Halldor himself kept watch over his son, while she went searching under guard of the Lochlannach.

  She found it in the empty scriptorium, hanging from a peg near where the leather satchels would have been in peaceful times. The books, of course, had been carried to the tower, but in the confusion the lés was overlooked. She asked the Norseman who accompanied her if the tomes were already burned. No, came the halting answer. Halldor said not to.

  On her way back she tried not to look at the round tower. At least the monks had died quickly, and earned the martyr’s crown.

  Dear God, if I save Halldor’s son with Your help, perhaps he and his men will come to the True Faith. She hurried to the chapel.

  Ranulf’s breathing was slower, and he snored far back in his throat. “I will need better light,” she told Halldor. He barked an order. A man bore the oil lamp nearer. Halldor himself held it close to Ranulf’s head.

  Brigit pulled back the boy’s eyelids. The pupils were unequal, the left one large and black. She beckoned the lamp closer. The pupil did not shrink.

  She pressed her lips together. Likely Ranulf would die, and she would soon follow him. “The skull is broken,” she told Halldor, “and bone presses on his brain. There is much bleeding, you see. I will need to cut and tie.”

  “What will you require?”

  “Light, and a strong man to hold it, who will not become ill.” Even brave men often quailed at the sight of surgery. “And clean hot water, in two washed vessels. The other tools I have here.” The lés held the sharp knife, the bone-saw, healing plants with which to pack the wound, the needles and thread—everything she needed save luck and the blessing of God.

  Halldor gave directions in his alien tongue; his followers scurried to do his bidding. While she waited, Brigit prayed. “Our Father…” But when she closed her eyes, instead of God she saw only Conaill, her earthly father.

  Conaill, in his bluff way, had been fond of his baseborn daughter. Had he not sent her to be fostered by his aunt the abbess? In this time of war, if Conaill was yet alive, he might have been captured, might even be a slave himself. Brigit heard the men bring in the water.

  There were two, both friends of Ranulf’s, men who had also used her for their pleasure. They glowered, ashamed to do women’s work, doubly ashamed to serve their captive. If I save Halldor’s son, I’ll no longer be molested by those churls, Brigit thought. And if I do not, I die. She permitted herself a haughty gesture. The two brought the basins closer.

  The water steamed in the cool air. First she should wash the wound.

  She needed a strip of clean cloth, and looked down at her own clothing.

  Pure it once had been, but today the rough homespun was ragged and bore streaks from the many times she’d been tumbled in the dirt.

  Ranulf’s blood pooled wider on the white altar cloth. Parts of the holy linen yet were clean. “I’ll be needing a knife,” she told Halldor. She saw how he tensed. Knives she had in the lés, but they were short, and she wished to keep them sharp. He did not trust her, then. Perhaps he thought she’d slay herself—or him? Ranulf’s breathing grew slower. She had no time for games. “Would you have me heal your son? Give me your knife, then!” she snapped. Halldor reached to his waist, loosed the sheath, and handed his dagger over.

  It was heavy in her hand, and the blade gleamed sharp. She studied it in the lamplight. Halldor was watching. God forgive me, she thought, and slit the altar cloth. Her strong hands ripped it the rest of the way.

  She dipped the cloth into the steaming water and sponged Ranulf’s head. When she dipped the cloth again the wate
r reddened.

  Best to work quickly. Brigit washed her hands and the surgical implements in the second basin, and dried herself on the altar cloth. First cut a flap of skin, leaving one edge attached, and expose the bone. With the small sharp knife she scraped the flesh back. The splinters beneath showed red and white; blood oozed between them. She recalled how carefully she must pick out each sliver. To do so would leave a gaping hole in the skull—time to worry about that later—but while it healed something must protect the naked brain. As she worked she spoke. “I will be needing—” She thought. Wood? No, it should be pliable, and curved. ” A piece of leather, the size of a man’s palm. Tough leather, clean. Have it boiled. Boil it until I call for it.”

  Again Halldor spoke; another of Ranulf’s friends went forth.

  Blood oozed faster, then spurted. “More light,” Brigit said. Halldor held the lamp closer; she glanced up and saw his face was pale. A blood vessel there, and large. With a piece of thread she tied it off. The pumping stopped. She took a deep breath and dipped her gory hands into the water. She’d never seen such a serious wound. More often than not these patients soon died. The bleeding had slowed to an ooze. With needle and thread she stitched up the skin, using not the running stitch for garments but a knotted, tied-off stitch that could later be removed—if there was a later. Now that the bone was gone, the skin could expand and leave room for bleeding. She sat back examining her handiwork. Halldor yet held the light, though his arm shook.

  She had done her best. Was it imagination, or was Ranulf’s breathing less labored? A final task remained. “Might I have the piece of leather now?” As she spoke she tore strips from the altar cloth. She swathed Ranulf’s head with several layers of bandage; in the last layer she included the leather shield.

  The last sunlight had faded. The chapel’s single window looked out on night. Dear God, bless my work. Her knees buckled. Halldor set down the lamp and caught her.

  Brigit and Halldor sat up with Ranulf, watching. In the uneasy flame-glow his face looked almost like a small boy’s. The down on his cheeks was nigh-invisible, and his mouth lay relaxed. She looked at Halldor. Yes, behind Halldor’s broken nose and thick, close-cropped beard, she saw a part of the same face. She thought of Ranulf’s cruelty and shivered. His father had not touched her—not at the time of her capture, nor later, though she rode in his longship.

  She rose and drew nearer her patient. His breathing had quickened, and his skin was flushed. The burning! So often did it follow surgery. At his wrist, the pulse too was fast.

  Outside the door it was not far to the riverbank, but Halldor’s eyes forbade her to leave. She found a vessel of holy water and tore a strip from her dress. No need here for cleanliness, and what modesty was left her?

  She sponged Ranulf’s face and wrists, and settled back to wait.

  Though Halldor had brought in his bedroll, neither of them lay down that night. Brigit, leaned against the wall, her knees drawn up to her chin, dozed from time to time. Her dreams were jumbled: God the Father, Conaill, and Halldor wore the same countenance.

  When the first rays of morning crept through the chapel door, Ranulf moved, but only his left side. As the sun climbed higher he opened his eyes and tried to mumble a few words. His tongue was thick, and he could not be understood, even by his father. Brigit stopped Halldor from giving him mead. Instead she held a clean water-soaked rag to his lips.

  When his eyes focussed enough that he could recognize her, he turned his head aside, but then he saw Halldor and lay quiet. “He needs water,”

  Brigit said. “He will choke, lying flat. If you can raise his head and shoulders—” Halldor complied. Brigit pressed a water-bottle to Ranulf’s mouth.

  Helpless, he soiled himself, and she cared for him as if he were an infant. She’d helped swaddle her baby brother, after all, when her mother died in childbed. And she smiled. This man had beaten and humiliated her. Who was now the weak one?

  She gathered the rags and garments to wash them, and looked to Halldor for permission. He nodded. “My son lives,” he said. “You are safe, and I will so instruct my men.” His hands shook. Purple marks underscored his eyes.

  III

  WHEN HALLDOR TROD FORTH INTO morning, he found the vikings well encamped, some in the tiny huts which had housed the monks, some in tents nearby. Cookfires burned, lookouts stood posted, men who were not otherwise busy sat cleaning and sharpening their gear, save for those with naught better to do than loaf or toss knucklebones or, elsewhere on the island, romp through a wild game of stickball. Egil and Sigurd had been hard at work, setting things to rights. Along with everything else, Halldor’s own sea chest had been brought into the chapel and his sleeping bag unrolled on the floor. There he would stay, beside Ranulf his son.

  The day was clear. A few white clouds were adrift on mild breezes.

  Sunbeams from the east brightened them, broke in sparkles on the river, turned woodland crowns along its banks green-gold. The shouts of the ball players rang merrily, the smoke gave a bite to each lungful he drew, a flight of crows passed by with homely voices. All that he marked might bode well.

  Egil drew nigh. “How goes it?” he asked softly. He and Halldor had been friends a long while.

  “There’s hope for him.”

  “Wonderful! Seeing that wound, I’d never have awaited—”

  “No, nor I. They’ve knowledge we don’t, the Westmen.” Halldor stared outward, gathering words. “Their books here shall not be harmed. Nor shall the Irishwoman. Nor shall anyone lay hand on her against her will.

  Who does those things will answer heavily to me. Pass that word among the crews.”

  “Even if Ranulf dies?”

  Halldor nodded. “I did wrong to threaten her with death should that happen. I was overwrought. Whatever his weird is, how could she stay it?

  But she’s striven to save him who made booty of her. That was well done.”

  For an eyeblink it was as if she stood before him as at first, when Ranulf dragged her back to the blazing convent after he and a half dozen more had tupped her out in the field. Tall, slender, skin fair and freckled above strong bones, hair close-cropped in nunnish wise but shining otter-brown, she kept her shoulders straight in the muddied habit; and her eyes held the color and cold of a midwinter dusk. Later, on shipboard, that gray had softened the barest bit as he felt a little kindliness—Ranulf had just finished with her in the forepeak—and asked whence she came. Maybe it was because he knew her tongue, making her more than a dumb beast.

  She’d told him she was the leman-child of a chieftain. That must be the one to the north, somewhat inland. The raiders had not attacked his holdings, being too eager to get on to the Shannon…

  Egil shrugged. “As you wish. Better help make it known yourself, that she’s under your ward. Meanwhile, what should we be doing?” With no way to foretell what would befall, the skippers had not deemed it worthwhile to lay out much of a plan.

  The weariness slipped from Halldor. He’d often enough gone sleepless at sea; now he could stop grieving over his son, at least for a short span, and get on with tasks that needed him. “What would you say?” he asked.

  “I’ve not been thinking about it as I should.”

  “Well, we’d better get the Papas buried before they begin to stink, and other such chores, but none of that will take long. Already the men grow restless. Best we send a crew to scout the mainland today; but let them come back early with something to offer the gods. Else no few among our bold warriors will fear ghosts this night. Tomorrow we should start reaving in earnest.”

  None of Egil’s words surprised Halldor, but that was good in itself.

  “You’ve a shrewd head on you, old fellow,” he said. A tingling went through him. “I’ll lead the first search, and the sacrifice afterward.”

  Though he himself feared no dead monks, nevertheless— For Ranulf and his mending.. For my house. What else brought me here but the need of my house?

  He came bac
k near sundown and hastened to the chapel. “How is he?”

  “Resting,” Brigit answered, and showed him. Ranulf slept quietly on the altar, beneath an image of White Christ nailed to the cross. She had gotten him into a monastic robe, which was a loose garment, and rolled another up to be a pillow and spread a third across him for a blanket. He saw that she’d laid a few more down—as far from his sleeping bag as might be—for her own bed. He wondered how that might feel, to lie among the clothes of her slain landsmen.

  His thought went away in a rush of gladness. Ranulf lived, Ranulf lived!

  At once he remembered that he must give Thor what he had promised, and soon. “Keep watch—” he began.

  “I’d not be leaving here, save to empty yon pot,” she told him coolly.

  “Too many barbarians about.” That was bold of her, as worn and hollow-eyed and alone as she was.

  “If any harms you, he dies, and they know it.”

  Halldor blurted. In haste: “But do stand by my boy. We… this evening we hold a meal you’d not partake of. I’ll have some flatbread and stockfish brought you.”

  Her look sought the one on the cross. “I thank you,” she whispered, not to the man.

  Halldor brushed a hand across Ranulf’s brow, turned, and left. Later he saw her watching from the door. Was she curious? If so, he liked that too.

  During the day, while he and his followers ranged the nearby mainland, Egil and Sigurd had seen to making ready on Scattery. Below the round tower now rested a boulder they had dragged from somewhere else, to be an altar; there was even a sign chiseled into the stone, the Wheel of the sun and the thunder-wagon. On top lay Halldor’s hammer from his ship, short-hafted, heavy-headed. Also to hand were a knife, a bowl, and a swatch of wands from the island trees. Before the altar stood tethered the horse he had found on a man-empty farm and brought back in Sea Bear: a shaggy brown pony, shivering and rolling its eyes in bewilderment.

  Nearby, fire crackled beneath a kettle where water had begun to seethe.