by Ruth Eastham
The wind was fiercer the more they climbed, slapping gusts that made their eyes water and slowed them right down. Small rocks showered down from the surrounding slopes. They stopped talking; it took all Jack’s concentration just to keep on the track without being pushed to the edge. Sno followed, head down, his fur ruffling into spikes.
Jack heard the muffled church bells strike midnight, the clangs almost drowned out by the air wailing between the rocks. Already dawn was coming. He looked up at the strange sky, the clouds in lines like dark rib bones, dawn light glowing coldly between them.
He turned off his torch. Tonight the sun only went down for a short time, and tomorrow night it wouldn’t go down at all, just sit on the horizon before rising again – and whatever it was they had to do would have to be done by then.
The path wound higher, and their boots spat stones as they scrambled up the slope. Had that been a movement above them? Jack peered nervously, but saw nothing. Sheets of lightning flashed between the clouds, and thunder growled ominously under the screech of the wind.
They got to the banks of the melt river where the track flattened and widened, and they tried to pick up speed.
“We’ll need to send the stretcher through the ice tunnel,” shouted Jack.
Skuli nodded. “Then slide down ourselves and strap Tor on,” he called back. “But once he’s out, where will we hide him?”
“By the standing stone somewhere?”
There was no vegetation now, only rock. The melt river flowed faster, tumbling and crashing. The air was sharp with cold, and every step was an effort, struggling against the wind.
Then they turned a bend and there it was. Towering up ahead, the glacier with its cracked blue face and gashes of grey dirt. Jack looked at the shimmering ice, so still in the stormy blue night, as if waiting. This moment might have been a thousand years ago as easily as now.
“That doesn’t look good,” said Skuli. There was a web of fresh cracks across the front of the glacier. It seemed to be melting faster than ever, despite the biting wind.
Jack looked at the ice and shuddered; then he dipped under the safety barrier. “Let’s get the stretcher to the hole.”
They climbed the tumble of rocks up towards the granite platform. Jack followed Skuli, pausing to wait for tiny lulls in the wind to heave himself up, then pressed close to the rocks to wait as the wind snapped at his back, trying to tug him down. Sno circled and barked below.
They arrived, panting, at the hole and its slanting tunnel, the fractured glacier looming over them.
Jack slipped the stretcher off his back and watched Skuli open it out and click it into place to make a rigid frame. Immediately the wind caught the stretcher underneath and lifted it off the ground. Jack had to spring forward and lie along it to keep it from being blown away.
A fist-sized lump of ice tumbled from higher up the glacier, sprinkling them with shards. Jack heard Sno howl.
Skuli didn’t look happy. “It should be just me who takes the risk!” he said. “It was me who took the arrowhead, not you!”
“Skuli—”
“You might not get out.”
Jack held his arm. Tried to smile. “I’ll be OK.” But the smile felt like a crack in his face. “It’ll need the both of us to get Tor on to the stretcher and carry him through the cave.”
Skuli bit his lip, then nodded. Jack helped him push the stretcher into the hole and it disappeared over the edge and slid away.
Jack made to go next, but then he stopped.
Skuli looked at him. “Shall I go first?”
Jack shook his head. “Give me a second.”
Get going, Jack Tomassen. It’s only ice. There’s no time.
The pegged red rope was writhing in the wind. Jack grabbed hold of it. He took a long, deep breath as if he was a swimmer about to go under water.
Then he took a step. Down. Back down into the icy hole.
10
INTO THE ABYSS
It is whirled from the vault of heaven… and then melts into water.
THE ANGLO-SAXON RUNIC POEM.
Hurry, Jack told himself as he crossed the ice cave, the empty body stretcher balanced on one shoulder. He heard Skuli’s quick breathing behind him as they dodged round frozen columns and overhead icicles. Get Tor, then get out fast.
He gazed up at the fractures in the roof, wider now, scattering thick rods of murky light across the cave. He could still hear the wind, clawing at the cracks as if it was something alive, trying to find a way in. And everywhere around him was the sighing of the ice, and the relentless drip of melting. Thin, fast trickles of water slipped over the walls, like veins over blue flesh. His heart rattled against his ribs. He felt the cave pressing round him like a prison. Hurry. Hurry.
They reached Tor, and Jack knelt by the slumped body, laying the stretcher flat. He looked into the face so like his own. His fingers hovered by Tor’s arm, but when he touched him this time there were no visions, only a strong ripple of emotion. Danger. Fear.
Skuli crouched near the stretcher, wiping water off his face. “Tighten the straps like this,” he demonstrated. “Then check the tension.”
Jack nodded and together they opened the bright orange straps wide, getting ready to lay the body on the stretcher.
With the push of the glacier over hundreds of years, how come the cave hadn’t broken apart before now? Jack wondered as he tugged at a strap. It had to be because of the protection runes. He glanced up at their melting smears. Soon there wouldn’t be anything left of them.
Skuli took a firm hold of Tor’s legs. “Ready?”
Jack clasped the arms, cradled Tor’s head against his chest.
“One, two, three!”
Then Tor was inside the stretcher and they were fastening the straps, pulling them tight and getting ready to lift.
Jack went first, gasping with the effort. He held his end of the stretcher behind him, picking a careful, looping route back to the tunnel. He found the rucksack they’d left there, and the blood-red rope dangling down.
All around them was an ominous creaking, like the strain on the hull of some huge ship slowly breaking apart on rocks.
“Put the stretcher down,” Skuli panted. He tied the loose end of the rope to the head end of the stretcher and tugged the knot tight. “It’ll be much more slippy going up this time. Remember how much faster we came down?” He looked grim. “Did you feel those places where the tunnel’s cracking?” He took the ice axes and crampons out of the rucksack and helped Jack tie the metal spikes to the bottom of his boots. “Hold the axe as you’re climbing, and if you feel yourself sliding you can whack it into the slope and get a better hold. I’ll go first to show you.”
Jack stepped up into the footholds after Skuli, one hand on the rope, one holding the axe, his sharp crampons holding him against the slick surface. The wind wailed above and cold air spiralled down at him. Loose flakes of frost drifted into his eyes from the sides of Skuli’s boots.
Jack saw the hole ahead and its gap of sky. After a while he saw Skuli hoisting himself out. He urged himself towards the hole, but here the tunnel was buckled, with cracks running over the surface, and his legs twisted awkwardly as he tried to find a grip. He had a stabbing memory of the lake on their farm back in Northumberland. White trees. Dark birds against a blue sky. His dad’s face under broken ice.
With a short cry, Jack heaved himself up. At last the wind pulled at his hair, and as his head surfaced the force of it made him gulp for breath.
He scrambled out of the hole and saw Skuli at work with the red rope, untying it from the metal peg. Jack helped him fight the wind to heave some of the slack and knot a section round Skuli’s hips. The air was alive, whipping their voices away as soon as they spoke.
“Need an anchor point,” Skuli mouthed and tied the end of the rope round a jutting rock,
securing it with another tight knot. He fitted a pair of leather gloves over his wool ones and gestured to Jack to do the same, showing him where to hold the rope. “Braced stance!” he shouted, and the two of them sat on the edge of the hole, legs bent and heels dug into rocky clefts.
And they pulled. Hand over hand, taking the rope in, together in one fluid movement. Jack felt the tension in the rope; the friction between the ice and the stretcher. He imagined Tor edging his way up the sloping tunnel.
The wind was savage. It came at them in bites. Jack’s eyes streamed with cold. But they were bringing Tor out!
But then he began to worry. What if they hadn’t strapped the body tightly enough? What if the tunnel cracked on the way up? Would they be able to hold the full weight of the stretcher? What if the line snagged or snapped? Jack watched the red rope slide over the icy granite. He willed the stretcher upwards. Stared intently down the gloomy tunnel…
Yes! The bright orange top of the stretcher came into view. “Nearly,” Jack yelled. “Keep it going!” The stretcher shifted towards them. He saw Tor’s body strain against the straps… It edged higher… And then it stopped.
Jack looked at Skuli in alarm. They tightened their grip and heaved, but no matter how hard they pulled, it wouldn’t budge. Skuli pointed a finger and Jack saw the rope above the stretcher was wedged in a crack of ice a couple of metres below them.
“Can you climb down the footholds and free it?” Skuli shouted anxiously near his ear. “Use the axe. I’ve got to keep on the main line. Here’s the harness. I’ll tie you on the spare rope just in case.”
In case of what? Jack got his legs through the harness and Skuli attached the extra rope, looping it across himself then knotting the other end round a second anchor rock. He crouched back in position and gave Jack a nod, and Jack stepped backwards into the footholds.
He got to the stuck bit of rope and thumped at the hard cleft of ice that was trapping it. But the rope only sank deeper. He tried kicking. He eased round and chipped at the ice with his axe. Don’t cut the rope, he told himself. Whatever you do, Jack Tomassen, don’t do that.
He saw Skuli looking down at him, hunched in the brunt of the wind. He tightened his clammy fingers on the handle of the axe and brought it down hard. Sharp silver shards flew at his face. A piece of the rope came free. He hit again, then again, and the rest of it twanged loose.
“Pull!” Jack yelled, giving the thumbs up. Skuli’s face creased with effort. The stretcher inched higher, so close now that Jack could touch the top edge with his boot. “Yes!” he hollered, starting to climb back up to the mouth of the hole. “I’m coming to help!”
And that’s when Jack saw them. Two birds falling across the gap of sky, their wings closed tight, their claws stretched. And as he was stopped, paused those few seconds to stare, he heard it. A noise like tearing metal that set his teeth on edge.
The air was suddenly very still. The ravens shrieked and circled closer.
A cracking thud detonated somewhere under Jack’s feet, and the sloping ground of the tunnel he’d been about to step on to gave way. Instinctively he struck out with the ice axe, leaping sideways, hooking the curved wall. The blade wedged there and he clung to its handle. His feet scrambled desperately for a hold, finding only the thinnest of ledges to balance on. A chunk of rock hurtled past and a smashing sound came from a long way down.
Jack’s chest was pressed against ice, his pulse roaring in his ears. He turned his head round and down to see – eyes wide – the tumbled tunnel and the stretcher dangling freely over a plummeting abyss.
“Jack!” gasped Skuli. His face was a glaze of sweat as the rope and the anchor took the strain. “Climb up. Use the axe. I’ll hold your rope.”
But if I fall, thought Jack, will Skuli be able to hold both me and the stretcher?
“Tor first!” Jack yelled. “Go on! ”
The stretcher juddered up, painfully slowly. Jack saw the muscles in Skuli’s neck bulge with effort. How he was managing it alone, Jack didn’t know. Up past Jack came Tor, his staring green eyes meeting Jack’s … up to the lip of the hole. Jack caught his breath. Out…
Tor
was
out.
Jack’s chest shuddered. He shuffled a foot experimentally on the ledge. It seemed to be solid. He tightened the loop of the ice axe round his wrist, his next movements unfolding in slow motion in his head. He moved his foot again, managed to kick a toe-hole, managed a step up. He eased the axe from the ice and got ready for another small step…
The ice exploded under him.
Jack pitched forward, driving hard with the axe, the air spinning and splintering. He saw the powdery snow round the blade flaking and tearing and coming away. He gripped the handle in his clenched fist but his hand was slipping. His feet kicked for a hold but there was none. Only empty space.
…And he was falling, falling like Tor had fallen, plunging and spinning, the cold stripping away his breath.
Rushing ice and rushing air, then something hard against his head.
Then, nothing.
Tor grips the front of the boat, stares across the heaving waves from the dragon’s head. He reaches a hand up the carved neck, feeling the cross-shaped split in the dragon’s eye.
Another hand catches him hard on the side of the face. “Ready to prove yourself, little brother?”
Vekell is by his ear, a mocking lilt in his voice. Excitement too. Tor feels it rippling through the group of men waiting on the deck. Dawn light catches their swords; the gleam of their metal helmets; their small smiles of anticipation.
Vekell strikes him again, harder this time. “Warriors never show weakness, remember that.” Tor can smell the sickly sweetness of mead on his breath. “You are the son of a chief. You will do honour to your clan or I’ll cut out your tongue!”
Tor studies his proud brother. The tunic edged with emerald snakes, the rich earth colours of his fur cloak, and the domed helmet inlaid with snarling, bright silver wolves. Plaits tied with strings of sharp animal teeth. He’s used to his threats.
Tor nods and turns away. His eyes search the twilight; the coastline rising and falling through the ebbing mist. He scoops up the ship’s cat and strokes its bristling fur. He’ll show Vekell! How proud his father will be with the gold he is going to bring back. It is bound to lift him from his sickness.
Tor thinks of the victory feasts he has been to. The treasures and stories the men returned with. He feels a pang of sadness. If only his father could be here with them now.
A shape appears on the blurred headland. Tor cranes forward, feeling his heartbeat quicken. A great stone building. A flower-shaped window glows with a pale light. A tower with turrets like horns. Dark birds circling. Tor hears the closeness of the men’s breathing. Their urge to kill.
Unarmed coward monks, thinks Tor. With their puny one-god worship. They’d deserve everything they got. Wouldn’t they?
The boat approaches the shore noiselessly through the dark water and advances until the sand holds it. One of the men sends down the heavy iron anchor, unhooking it from its snake-shaped clasp, and its chain grates across the deck. The men surge forward, but Vekell stops them with a raised hand. There is a murmur of angry questions.
Tor hears Vekell mutter. “Something not right.”
But the men are impatient. “New plan of attack?” one growls.
Vekell looks a little longer, then shakes his head. He drops his fist like a stone and the men splash down into the water and spill across the beach. Swiftly they stream up and over the low cliff and Tor follows, stumbling in his haste. His palms slap the freezing water. There is the stench of seaweed. Shells crush under his boots. He scrambles up a slippery gash in the cliff.
A burial ground. Tor runs through it, twisting past the grey stone slabs and strange winged figures. A coarse cry cuts the air. A scream. The sound of me
tal on metal. More screams.
I’m missing out ! Tor thinks. Hurry. Hurry.
Sounds of smashing. Shapes flit past columned doorways. Which way? The mist is thick here. Heavy as a death shroud.
Tor holds up his axe. He runs through a gloomy courtyard and dips under a doorway engraved with skulls.
He slows to a stop. The hall is deserted. The thick stone walls muffle the yells and screams from outside. Tables and stools stand in rows. Along one side are painted wood statues the size of real men. Shafts of dawn light make reddish patches on the floor. Tor hears a bell clang a warning.
He holds his axe tight. There is a movement at the far end of the hall. A pool of candlelight. A lone monk crouched over a table.
Tor slowly draws his sword. Throat dry, he steps nearer. The monk is writing slowly with a feather quill, mumbling under his breath. Now and again he dips the nib into a small clay pot. His fingertips are stained black with ink. He seems oblivious to what is going on outside.
Tor creeps closer, strangely fascinated by the beauty of his work, by the elegant lines of lettering edged all round with silver leaf. By the way the candle catches gold, blue, bright red… He shakes himself and raises his sword to strike…
The wick of the candle spits and the monk looks up at him. Their eyes lock. Tor hesitates.
The monk springs up. Before he can react, Tor feels a blow of full force on his face and is knocked back.
The man has a sword. He makes deft slashes through the air. The point slices Tor’s forehead and he tastes blood. Monks don’t fight back! His axe is slammed from his hand. His sword crashes down on the stone floor, a ragged stub.
Tor turns and runs, the monk close behind. Out of a side door on to the open meadow. All around him, men are fighting. Dying. One of his clan staggers past, a dark red line across his back; another is knocked to his knees and an axe blade hacks down at his skull. A monk’s chest is sliced open. A Norse man writhes, impaled on the spike of a crucifix.