by Ruth Eastham
There it was again. Tip-tap. Tip-tap.
“It could be the kids!” hissed Emma. “Maybe they’ve worked out where we are!”
The tapping got louder. The door banged against its frame. Then, before they could move, it flew open, knocking over the chest of drawers that held it shut, sweeping the room with a gust of freezing rain…
But the doorway was empty. Jack rushed up the stairs to slam it closed. Heart hammering, he peered out at the drenched street, but he couldn’t see anyone there. He slid the bolts across, pushed the drawers back in place.
“I thought it was a beak tapping,” said Emma with a shaky laugh when Jack came back down. “It was just as you were reading that line about the ravens. I’ve really got the jitters. It was just the rain!”
Just the rain? thought Jack. He picked at his coat and teased something out from the fabric. A feather. A downy, black feather.
He forced his mind back to the ballad. Sno lay at his feet, head resting on his paws, staring up the stairs, ears huge.
“Daemon birds, a spell shall weave
To calm the elders’ hate,
And with blood runes will mark the Three
To protect them from their fate.
“That fits what happened in the kafé!” Jack broke off. “I saw ravens outside. Remember, Skuli? When the adults started getting really nasty, it was the ravens that made them sick. They were at the window, scratching at the glass and stuff!”
Skuli nodded hard. “Imagine if the grown-ups were left to wander round acting as mean as the kids!”
Emma looked confused. “But if the ravens are that helpful, then why don’t they make those crazy kids ill as well?”
Jack skimmed ahead. “Maybe here’s your answer,” he said.
“Elders to fevered sleep shall fall
Through the daemon ravens’ power,
But the ravens’ power is then made weak
And the Youngers’ hate grows fire.
Jack got to his feet and started pacing about. “But it still doesn’t explain what these ravens are all about and why we’re the only sane ones!”
Skuli took the book and read on:
“Three warriors alone remain
When children murderers be,
To break the arrowhead’s deadly curse
To set the boat to sea.”
“Warriors?” said Emma, shaking her head. “Hang on,” said Skuli. “There’s a bit more.”
“Friend or foe, the daemon birds?
Did they take the Norse boy’s life?
Or do they have some higher aim,
A fitting sacrifice?
“No idea what that means,” he said, “but that’s it. The last page is missing, look.”
“So the boat,” said Emma impatiently, “what about the boat?”
Jack stopped pacing and looked at them. “Steal one from the harbour?”
“Steal one?” Emma didn’t look impressed.
“Well, we could say we’re just borrowing it,” said Skuli, “but I don’t think we’re going to be able to give it back – unless the owner doesn’t mind floating about on burnt lumps of wood.”
Jack laughed and Emma looked at him sternly.
“We could use my dad’s boat,” said Skuli, uncertainly. “If it was between that and Ragnorak, I think he’d be OK about it.”
“So Vikings had funerals in clapped-out fishing boats, did they?” shot back Emma.
Jack and Skuli exchanged uncomfortable glances.
Emma shook her head at them. “I didn’t read anything in the ballad about using a boat called For Cod’s Sake with wonky planks and peeling paint! Haven’t really thought this one through, have you?”
“Emma’s right, Jack.” said Skuli. “It can’t be just any boat! It has to be a proper Viking boat or it might not get Tor to Valhalla with the arrowhead.”
Jack’s face went hot. “But where are we going to get a proper Viking boat before midnight tonight?” he said. “It’s impossible!” He saw Emma’s mouth twitch. A small smile of triumph. “What?”
Skuli was grinning too now, like something had just dawned on him.
“Come on, guys!” Jack said. “What’s going on?”
“We need a boat like this one I made earlier,” said Skuli. He took a model boat off a shelf with a flourish and waggled it in front of Jack.
Emma nodded and gave a lopsided smirk. “Bit small for Tor though, don’t you think?”
Jack turned the boat in his hands, playing along with the joke, whatever it was. Glee radiated from his friends’ faces and it was infectious. “Pretty good work, Skuli,” he said. “You’re not just an origami master then!”
“Ah, that’s just a replica,” said Skuli. “The real thing’s in the Isdal Museum.”
Emma’s grin widened. “And that’s the boat we’re going to steal!”
Excitement prickled Jack’s skin. “You’re kidding, right? I heard Petter – it’s a priceless national artefact!”
Emma laughed. “Course it is! It’s the genuine article!”
Jack stared at them. Skuli’s eyes shone.
“It’s there and waiting!” said Emma. “Ready for the Festival. Ready to be launched as the midnight sun sets and everything. It happens every year.” She gave a twirl. “You said you wanted to steal a boat. Why not do it in style?”
“But Petter won’t just let us wheel his prize boat out and burn it to a crisp, will he?” said Jack.
“He’ll be in his sickbed by now,” said Skuli. “Just like the rest – he won’t have any idea what’s going on.”
“Maybe it’s the boat’s destiny,” said Emma, all serious again, her voice dropped to a whisper. “Ever thought of that? Maybe that was why it was found here; why it waited in the ground all those centuries. Why now; right before the night of the midnight sun? Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?”
Jack looked at the model boat in his hands, its elegantly curving hull and its dragon’s-head prow. His heart beat faster. The boat’s destiny. Our destiny… As if breaking the law mattered now anyway. He thought of Mum and Gran and Gramps lying ill, the kids loose on the streets. There weren’t any more laws.
“We need to get to the museum,” he said, and they hurried to the bottom of the steps. “We’ll have to find a way to break in and then…”
Jack paused, holding his breath, hand raised for the others to stop. It was there again. That tapping sound outside the door. Only this time louder.
Tip-tap. Tip-tap. Not like rain. More like…
Before Jack could react, the door crashed open with a blast of icy rain and he lurched back with a cry. The room was filled with whirring wings; slicing claws. Two huge ravens swooped. Emma gasped, covering her head; Skuli swiped his arms desperately. Sno bit at the air in a frenzy.
Demon ravens. Demon ravens.
There was a searing pain on Jack’s arm as his skin was slashed. He cried out as black wings dropped towards him again, sharp beaks wide and shrieking. The ravens’ talons tore at his flesh and he heard Skuli and Emma scream.
Sno barked wildly, leaping and snapping, then lunged, stretching his body upwards. Jack saw his bared teeth, heard his jaws crunch…
The room swirled. Jack’s vision went hazy. Grey shadows grew and spread and pressed down on him…
Down…
Down the spiral steps runs Tor, his face tight with drying blood. Down and down and down. Candles burn in alcoves and grey shadows swing wildly over the curving walls.
A door, studded with black spikes. He rattles the handle, but it is locked. A dead end.
The silence is thick and heavy like earth. Then quick footsteps echo from above. He listens to them getting louder and stands tensed to fight.
“Find the key.”
Tor spins round. The muffled voic
e on the other side of the door calls out in Norse again. “Above the door plinth, behind the skull stone. Hurry!”
Tor stretches up. Finds the stone; lifts down a key. Feels for the lock and twists the key with both hands.
“Quickly,” comes the voice.
Tor heaves the door open. Darts through. Drags it shut as the monk comes into view and lunges with his sword. He swipes at the bolt. Feels the shudder as metal strikes wood. The key! he thinks. It is still on the other side of the door, he dropped it in his haste.
From the shadows someone shouts an angry command and the banging on the door stops, and footsteps retreat upwards.
Tor’s eyes adjust to the candlelit murk, looking for something to use as a weapon. He peers through the smoke coiling up from incense sticks. Runes are etched into the circular stone walls, and strings of small bones, bird skulls, claws, glossy feathers hang down beside them.
The outline of a figure moves forward. Another monk in a sackcloth robe. His hair clings to his scalp like white cobwebs. Dark eyes stare from his deeply grooved face as he walks, leaning on a stick.
“Tor,” he says. There is no harshness in his voice, only compassion and a great sadness. “So it is time,” he continues, as if to himself.
“How do you know my name?” Tor says. “How do you speak my tongue?”
“You are wounded,” the old man says. He dips a cloth in a basin of water and gently cleans the blood from Tor’s forehead with frail fingers, then rubs an ointment over the wound.
“Why are you helping me?” falters Tor. “I’m not one of you.”
“No?” The old monk points at a gold object on the table. “Take it,” he says.
This old monk must be mad, thinks Tor. That’s why he is kept locked down here with his bird bones.
“I choose to be locked here,” says the monk, as if reading his thoughts. “I am the gold’s keeper. Take it!” He watches Tor intently.
Tor hesitates. Candles throw nets of shadows on to the walls. He lifts the arrowhead and gazes at it, at its brilliant sheen, at the delicate patterns curving across its surface; the twisting line fusing so you couldn’t see the start and you couldn’t see the end…
“It is stolen gold,” the old man whispers, his voice catching. “Cursed gold.”
The arrowhead sits in the hollow of Tor’s hand; it fits his palm exactly. And all at once he knows that everything the monk speaks is true.
“The arrowhead has deep and terrible powers,” the monk continues. “Men will kill to possess it. It twists their natures. And if not contained it will unleash untold destruction. Plagues of the elements: air, water, earth and fire.”
The old monk breaks into a rasping cough, then moves slowly to touch the stone wall. “This underground sanctuary dulls the arrowhead’s force. I am one of a holy order charged to safeguard it.”
“But the attack!” cries Tor, tearing his eyes away from the gold, remembering the bodies littering the grass. “The brothers of my clan!”
The old monk lays a hand gently on his shoulder. “Many of my brothers are also slain today.”
Tor hears a soft clicking caw and shrinks back.
Perched in an alcove, amidst the bones, there are two huge ravens.
The old monk takes a sharp breath. “They have appeared again,” he says uneasily.
No earthly bird could be so huge, thinks Tor. “What are they?”
“Do you not recognize them?” the old monk says. “They are servants of your god, Odin. Your god of hanged men.”
Huginn and Muninn? How can this be? Tor’s back presses against cold stone. “Why are they here?” he stammers.
“I do not know their purpose,” the old monk says. “The ravens have their own plan perhaps. One that is not Odin’s. They have powers too. But the ravens’ power is not without limits and …” – he stops, stares into their faces as if in some secret communication – “… perhaps …” – he shuffles closer to Tor, glancing at the birds as if for confirmation, a glimmer of hope in his age-ravaged face – “… perhaps you will be the one to return the arrowhead.”
One of the birds runs a sharp, black beak through its feathers.
“Tor.” The monk leans heavily on his stick, his breath trembling. “You must promise to be the arrowhead’s guardian.”
Tor shakes his head, tries to hand the arrowhead back, but the monk’s look pins him. “You must agree, but freely. A forced promise is no promise.”
Ravens and monk are motionless, all three watching him.
Tor’s fingers close around the arrowhead. The gold feels strangely warm against his skin, strangely heavy, and as he holds it, whispered words trickle through his mind. Send the arrowhead back. Flames over water. A midnight sun…
There is the noise of a key in a lock and before Tor can react the door bursts open and a man storms into the room.
“Vekell!” Tor shouts. Instinctively he hides the arrowhead in his sleeve.
The ravens vanish.
Tor sees the old monk hurl a dagger, grazing Vekell’s shoulder, but the tall man lurches at him, punching him to the ground, then stands over the monk, an axe raised in his hand.
“Vekell! Stop!” Tor holds his brother’s arm, trying to wrestle the weapon from him, but is knocked savagely away, crashing against the stone wall, scattering bird bones. He struggles to his feet. “Vekell! Listen! Stop!”
Tor sees his brother’s axe swing. Blood sprays from the monk’s chest as he falls.
Tor scrambles to the monk’s side. Blood trickles from the corner of the old man’s mouth as he speaks, so quietly that only Tor can hear. “Promise! The plagues will be set in motion! Ten centuries have passed; this sanctuary is spent. Find another. Bury it deep. Until the right time comes. Promise!”
Tor sees the old monk struggle to breathe; under him spreads a dark red pool. “Yes,” he whispers. “I promise.”
A small smile touches the old monk’s lips. Then he strains forward towards Tor’s ear, clutching at his arm. “But know this. He who kills me steals not only my life but…” There is blood on the old monk’s teeth. “A–growing–power–to–control–others.” Then his dark eyes glaze and his shattered chest goes still.
Vekell stands over the body. He prods it with the stained edge of the blade and turns it over with his foot. Then he drags Tor up by the throat. “Why did you defy me?” He punches him hard in the ribs and drags him out of the room and up the spiralling staircase. Tor’s feet scramble on the stone steps. Up and up and out into the open.
The sky growls with thunder. Flames curl from the flower window of the monastery. “All dead!” Vekell cries with choked sobs as they pass the trail of bodies, monks and Norsemen, and make for the shore. “All our clan brothers dead! What happened? What kind of monks are these!”
Tor feels a stab of pity for his brother. “It’s not your fault.”
But Vekell is not listening. He is rummaging round the bodies of the monks, flinging anything of value into a sack: jewelled beads, a silver chalice… Tor clutches at the arrowhead, unpleasantly warm against his skin. But he can feel it slipping from his sleeve… And before he can stop it, the gold has fallen to the floor.
Vekell stoops to seize it. “What’s this?” He steps back from Tor to look. The surface glistens, light and dark and darker.
“You thought you would hide it from me, did you?” Vekell slaps Tor full in the face. His eyes widen wildly. “All dead!” he roars, voice cracking, face twisting. The arrowhead is cutting through his hand as he grasps it. Lines of blood drip from his wrists. But he doesn’t seem to care. “All dead! Our clan will judge me! They will not honour me as chief when Father dies!” He grips Tor’s shoulders. “You must not tell what happened here!” The arrowhead reflects light across Vekell’s eyes. “You will not tell!”
Tor twists free and scrambles away through the dirt, but he
is caught and hauled to his feet. Vekell holds the back of Tor’s neck and brings the arrowhead close to his mouth.
“No!” Tor punches at Vekell’s chest. “Stop!”
Vekell looms over him. “Like secrets, don’t you, little brother?” He clamps Tor’s jaw in his fist.
There is a deafening crash as part of the monastery roof collapses. Sparks fly up from the ruined timber.
“This will help you to keep secrets!” Vekell grabs Tor’s face, squeezes to prise open the teeth.
Tor tries to scream. He feels the blade in his mouth, metal against teeth, warm gold against his tongue.
“You made me do this!” says Vekell, drawing back. “You were the one who turned brother against brother with your deceit!”
Tor’s mouth fills with blood. He tries to speak, but cannot. He is dizzy with the pain. His vision goes hazy. Grey shadows grow and spread and press on to him… There is the sound of water crashing onto rocks… Bury it, a frail voice calls in his mind. Bury it deep!
He sees a blur of black smoke spread over the roof of the monastery. Ash is swept like ragged feathers from the walls of the tower on a strange new breeze. Then two dark birds rise from its turrets. Two dark birds fly out over the crashing water.
14
PROTECTION RUNES
Power against the enemy who travels over the earth.
The Nine Herbs Charm
Jack woke up, the visions melting away. The arrowhead! He bolted up and scrambled to check his pocket. It was still there; still warm.
“The door was bolted,” Skuli muttered. He was propped against the wall, his sleeves hanging in bloody shreds. Emma gave a low moan; the arms of her jacket were also torn to rags.
Jack stared at the mess of overturned chairs, scattered glass and blood. A wreath of smoke spiralled from a dead candle. The rain lashed on the windows and small trickles of water ran down the steps from under the door.
He sat down heavily. Sno rested his head on Jack’s knees and he stroked his muzzle. There was something trapped between the dog’s teeth. Jack pulled out a ragged black feather. “I think he got one of them,” he said with an effort. He remembered the crunching sound, the snap of bone.