Arrowhead

by Ruth Eastham

  Emma eased off her jacket, wincing.

  Jack rolled up his sleeves and hobbled to the sink. He put his forearms under the tap, turned it on and drew his breath in sharply as the icy water hit his skin. He flexed his fingers over the red-streaked basin, then splashed water on his face and bent his head to drink some. He looked again at the raw marks, then paused, peering more closely. The cuts were clotting so quickly … and they weren’t random scratches…

  “Clean the blood off!” he cried to the others.

  They clustered round the basin, flinching as they peeled the ruined fabric from their wounds. Then, huddling close to the candlelight, they stared at their arms.

  “They’re runes!” gasped Emma. “The same on each of us!”

  “The same as the ones in the ice cave,” Jack said.

  “Protection runes!” Skuli cried, eyes wide.

  “The ravens must think we need protecting,” Jack said quietly.

  He took a deep breath, then told them about his vision, about the old monk giving Tor the arrowhead and what he had said about the ravens.

  “Hang on!” Skuli scrambled to find the ballad. “The raven pair… And with runes of blood will mark the Three to protect them from their fate.”

  Jack thought suddenly about the power cut. He remembered what Gramps had said about the cables being clawed through. If it hadn’t been for that first blackout he never would have been able to follow Tor to the standing stone without being seen.

  “And when I was coming out of the ice cave, Skuli,” Jack said, when he’d told his friends his theory. “I saw the ravens and that prevented me from stepping on the weak ice! I still fell, but if I hadn’t stopped to look at the birds…”

  “That probably saved you,” nodded Skuli.

  “The ravens are definitely helping us!” said Jack.

  “But why?” said Emma.

  Skuli took a breath. “Cos we’re the Three.”

  Jack and Emma both let out a laugh of disbelief.

  “Think about it,” persisted Skuli. “The arrowhead cut us, remember? Me when I first found it. Jack the first time he held it. Then Emma in the fight.”

  “Yes!” exclaimed Emma. “That’s exactly when I started feeling normal again!”

  “True,” said Jack, frowning. “But the arrowhead cut Lukas as well, and he still wants to hang us.”

  “But it cut us three first,” said Skuli. “And remember how the marks just disappeared?”

  Jack fingered his arm. Something strange was happening to the raven scratches too. Already they were scabbing over, sealing on to the flesh in hard red-purple lines. He watched in fascination as the marks moulded with his skin and became scars.

  Skuli picked up the ballad book from the floor and leafed quickly back through the pages. “Three warriors alone remain,” he read, “when children murderers be. We’re the Three, whether we like it or not.”

  “The question is,” said Emma, running a hand over the scars on her arm, “how much of a protection are these runes going to be against those kids?”

  “Let’s find out.” Jack jumped to his feet. “Got spare clothes, Skuli? And waterproofs? The darker the better. We need to go to the museum and get the boat on to the water.”

  “The suspension footbridge,” said Skuli, rushing to pull clothes from a wardrobe. “That’s the only way to and from the museum.”

  Jack checked his watch. “We’ve less than nine hours until midnight. Sno, you’re staying here.”

  “But if the ravens have the power to put adults to sleep,” said Emma, grabbing clothes from the pile Skuli had dumped in front of them, “why do they need us at all? Why not just carry the arrowhead back to Valhalla themselves?”

  “Maybe they can’t,” said Jack, pushing his head through the neck of a sweater. “Maybe that’s not the way Odin wants it done. He’s their master. Their power’s got limits too, right?” He held up the scrawny feather that had been in Sno’s mouth. “That’s why they can’t make the kids sick.” He remembered the old monk’s words suddenly. They have their own plan perhaps. One that is not Odin’s.

  “Ready?” said Skuli, from inside the hood of his coat.

  The rain swept on to Jack as he opened the door. Back hunched, he stepped out, the others close behind.

  The drops lashed down. Low, dark clouds made the afternoon seem like night, draining the colour from the street. Jack slipped round the side of buildings, beckoning the others to follow. Water poured from a broken gutter and small streams swirled round their ankles. Wet seeped into Jack’s boots.

  “The second plague,” Skuli mouthed at him.

  Jack felt a tight knot in his chest as they hurried on. Then he drew sharply to a stop. The window of the grocery store was smashed. Kids were darting about inside, stealing things from shelves.

  Jack, Skuli and Emma crouched to run past. Then they waited, huddled in a side alley to check the rest of the street was clear. The rain drummed hard on the row of bins beside them, sending bullets of water upwards.

  A group of kids appeared, as if from nowhere, coming closer.

  In a flash, Jack pulled up his sleeve and signalled for the others to do the same. They raised their forearms. Jack saw the kids hesitate, then change direction.

  “The protection runes work!” Emma hissed.

  They pressed on through the downpour in the direction of the sea. Jack stayed silent. He had noticed something as he’d shaken down his sleeve. The runes looked less purple-red. As if they were very, very slowly disappearing, and as if using them had made them fade faster.

  The last few houses on the western side of town petered out, and Jack heard the thundering river and saw the narrow suspension footbridge that would take them over the gorge. Then it was down to the shore and along the boardwalk to the museum.

  As they crossed the footbridge in single file, Jack looked down and saw with a start how the river level was rising. The current had clawed great clods of soil from its banks. The water churned and frothed far below them.

  Once off the bridge they went down the steep track to the pebble beach, then followed the wooden boardwalk beside a curved stretch of shoreline. Before long the squat museum building came into view, all stainless steel and concrete.

  They sheltered by the glass door of the front entrance. “We’ll have to get in somehow,” said Jack. “Find a window we can break or…” He hesitated, thinking he saw a movement inside, a brief flicker of light… But there was nothing. Tentatively he pushed at the glass door and, to his surprise, it swung open.

  They edged into the foyer and stood for a few moments, listening. But there was no sound other than the steady metallic rattle of the rain on the roof.

  “Norse longboat.” Emma pointed at a sign. “This way.”

  Passing quickly through the room, they saw three wax models of Vikings dressed for battle; a long glass case containing bits of pottery and silver bracelets; and gold coins laid out on red cloth. caught Jack’s eye and he hovered to look: a silver goblet and jewelled beads with a crucifix, arranged neatly round an information card. They seemed strangely familiar.

  MANY ENGLISH TREASURES WERE

  BROUGHT TO SCANDINAVIA

  FROM RAIDS ON ENGLISH MONASTERIES.

  He leaned close and his breath fogged the glass. They’re the same, he thought in amazement. The same things he’d seen Vekell steal from the monastery.

  “Jack.” Skuli nudged him and pointed at the doorway in front of them. “The boat’s through there.”

  Emma gripped Jack’s arm. He took a breath and they went in.

  15

  DRAGON BOAT

  There at the harbour stood a ship with curving prow, eager to depart.

  Beowulf

  Jack stared at the boat, his skin prickling.

  A huge dragon’s head rose over them, its wid
e mouth filled with runes. Along the curving hull, flowers and pine branches and metal shields caught the light from glass wall at the end of the room. But to Jack the boat seemed to shine with a light of its own. The dark wood of the dragon’s neck was carved with swirling serpents, the mouth of one biting the tail of another in a mass of bodies.

  “Gripping beasts,” Emma. “To scare off evil spirits.”

  “It’s the same boat!” said Jack breathlessly. “The one Tor sailed in for the raid!”

  “Are you sure?” said Emma.

  “One of the dragon’s eyes is damaged,” Jack said rapidly. “See? It’s got a cross-shaped split in the wood. And the anchor – look at what it’s held by! I remember that snake design, and that metal anchor chain. It’s definitely the same boat!”

  Standing on tiptoe, he peered between the dragon’s teeth at the long snaking tongue and the row of runes carved along it, straining to read them. “Our glorious chieftain…” he murmured. “Vekell the Great. Son of Tomas.”

  Jack saw that the boat was nestled in a metal cradle; should be easy enough to launch from that – so far so good.

  The cradle’s wheels sat in rails leading to the glass wall, which looked straight out over the grey water of the inlet; that part would be a bit more tricky. A smudge of light in the grey sky told Jack where the sun was. Rain streamed down the panes, and on the other side Jack saw more rails, sloping down and disappearing into the water. He scanned the glass for some way to get it open. He nodded grimly; he’d it if he had to.

  He turned back to the boat. “See the pulleys and ropes?” His eyes narrowed as he worked out the set-up. “Loosen that one there, Skuli,” he said, pointing to a rope looped in a figure-of-eight round a bracket on the wall. “Emma – grab this end.”

  “It’s a lot of weight to shift, but I think we can do it,” said Skuli.

  “It’ll need all three of us pulling at once, so wait till I say,” Jack replied. He went over to the glass and rattled the handles he found welded into the frame. “Just got to get this open first…”

  He broke off. He turned to the doorway they’d come in through, frowning, then took a few steps towards it. There was a voice, muffled, echoing along the walls from somewhere in the museum: a man’s voice, eerily singsong, reciting some kind of poem.

  Jack crept closer to the door, motioning the others to be silent as he listened. Something about the raid on the monastery… Lines about Vekell being some kind of hero, saving Odin’s arrowhead from demon monks… The voice got louder. Something about the monks’ dead spirits turning into ravens and attacking the boat, killing everyone except Vekell and Tor…

  The Saga of Vekell

  A longboat sailed upon the tide,

  For Odin’s gold it yearned.

  But though the crew twelve strong began,

  Yet only two returned.

  On England’s shores did Vekell land,

  And plundered well and brave,

  And by great Vekell’s steadfast hand

  Was Odin’s arrow saved.

  And then for home the longboat sailed,

  Vekell and brother Tor,

  But it wasn’t long, in the dead of night,

  That the moonlit sky did roar.

  A shout went up from the homebound deck

  As terrible clouds drew near,

  Demons of the slain whirred down

  And the winds of fate did veer.

  In raven form the demons came,

  Beaks stabbed down as rain,

  And despite the valour of their lord,

  All men, save Tor, were slain.

  Brave Vekell fought the traitor Tor

  Upon the icy waste,

  To free all Isdal from the plagues

  And the dreadful doom they faced.

  With wit and stealth did Vekell fight,

  With swordship skilled and fast,

  And Tor did fall to his icy doom,

  And the traitor thus was smashed.

  And noble Vekell pledged that day

  A heavy sacrifice,

  For Odin’s gold lay out of reach,

  Lost deep in tomb of ice.

  And though his earthly life will pass,

  Great Vekell waits alone,

  Ready to return again,

  To carry the arrowhead home.

  “He’s getting closer!” Jack pulled at Skuli and Emma’s sleeves. There were footsteps, heading steadily in their direction. “Hide! Over there!”

  The three of them rushed to the other end of the room and huddled in the murk behind a display board, peering through the gap where the hinges attached the panels together.

  Jack saw the silhouette of a figure moving by the boat. The male voice continued to speak, distorted by echoes.

  “Unearthed on this very spot…”

  Jack’s pulse raced. Why was he talking to himself? Why wasn’t he in bed with the fever like the other adults?

  “…Vekell declared that on his death he should be buried in the same ship in which he took that fateful journey…”

  Vekell? Jack held his breath as the man passed right by them.

  “…until that day when the arrowhead is found once more…”

  Jack’s eyes strained to adjust to the gloom. The man stood with his back to them, stooped over some kind of long glass box raised up from the floor. A match flared and a candle flame rose inside a metal lantern, spreading a ghostly glow over the case. There were bones inside, a skeleton laid out in an open glass coffin. And as the glass lit up, Jack saw a face reflected in it, merged with the gnarled human skull inside.

  Petter!

  “Still not at rest,” Petter sighed. He took out a heavy bunch of keys, slipped one into the lock and lifted the lid, the keys left hanging.

  Candlelight spread up the wall behind the case and Petter reached to unhook the clothes hanging there – a tunic edged with pale snakes, a mangy fur cloak. A Viking helmet with a faint design of wolves.

  Jack stared, the rune scars on his arms prickling. The colours were dull with age, but he recognized those things!

  Petter leant over the coffin, laying Vekell’s clothes gently inside, tucking them round the bones. He was breathing fast. Sweat trickled down his face and his normally neat hair was dishevelled. There was a dark stain under each armpit and his eyes seem to bulge behind the thick lenses of his glasses.

  Jack’s arms stung. There was a frenzy of rain on the roof over them, like beaks tapping.

  Petter stretched up, unclipped an axe from the wall and brought it down, sagging under its weight at first. Then his whole body trembled, and suddenly he was lifting it easily with one hand. Then he ran one palm slowly and deliberately over the blade.

  Jack twitched, watching the blood trickle down Petter’s fingers and drip off their tips. Fat red splashes dropped on to the bones below. He remembered Vekell attacking the old monk – with that same axe? The old man’s words to Tor as he was dying. He who kills me steals not only my life but a growing power to control others.

  Realization hit. That voice Jack had heard Petter speak with in the kafé! the man with the scarred lips in his visions…

  Vekell! Jack shuddered and the floorboard under him let out a high-pitched creak.

  Petter brought his head up sharply and spun round. “Who’s there?”

  Jack held his breath. He felt Emma and Skuli tense beside him.

  “I know you’re there! Come out!”

  Jack saw the whites of Emma’s eyes as she held on to his arm and he rapidly shook his head. He tried to breathe evenly. “Only use runes if you have to,” he mouthed. “Door. When I say.”

  Petter tore back the screen and stood there looking at them, the axe rested on the floor. He threw down his glasses and narrowed his eyes.

  “The entrance door was open,” said Jack slowly. “We’re doing a sc
hool project and… Anyway, we’re going now.”

  Petter continued to stare.

  “You really have some wonderful artefacts, Petter,” said Emma.

  Jack heard her struggle to keep the fear out of her voice. Keep talking, he thought. Find a way to escape.

  “We saw the amazing Viking jewellery on the way in,” he said steadily, turning his head a little in Emma and Skuli’s direction, flicking his eyes towards the doorway, shifting one foot ever so slightly towards it.

  “My mum made jewellery,” said Skuli randomly, talking too fast. “We’ve kept all her tools.”

  Petter stepped closer, edging them towards the boat. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw Skuli ease the bunch of keys from the glass case and slip it in his pocket.

  Jack felt the arrowhead, warm against his skin. Petter was by the narrow doorway now, blocking their only way out, one fist still clutching the axe handle. He stared at his reflection in the rain-streaked glass wall and the grey water beyond.

  Then Jack blinked hard. Instead of a reflection of Petter, he saw another man reflected there, much taller, broader…

  And as Petter turned, it was no longer the museum curator Jack saw.

  Skuli gave a stifled cry and the three scrambled back in a huddle.

  Emerald snakes coiled over the hem of the man’s tunic, his thick muscle filling the fabric. His fur cloak was streaked with rich earth colours, and wolves leapt in bright silver across his helmet. Blonde plaits hung down, tied with strings of sharp teeth.

  In front of them stood Vekell himself.

  “But how…?” Emma gasped.

  Vekell lifted the axe, as if the weight of it were nothing. “Tor.” His scarred mouth twisted into a sneer. “I might have known you would have it.”

  Petter’s gone, Jack told himself, fighting panic. No point trying to understand how it happened. This is Vekell now. He thinks I’m Tor. He knows I have the arrowhead. Play along.