Raven of the Waves

by Michael Cadnum

  Gunnar struck a sea chest with his fist. “We were caught drunk, pissing into the fire.”

  “It was everyone’s fault,” said Njord. “We all should have expected this.”

  “Why are we running away?” asked Gorm. “We can turn back. We have nothing to be afraid of!”

  No one answered him. The ship rode more heavily now. With the gold in its belly, it would not be as seaworthy.

  Gorm stopped rowing and stood upright. “I am ashamed of my village! We run like children at the sight of a few helmets.” Blood streamed from under Gorm’s helmet and from the gash on his thigh. He did not seem to feel the wounds.

  Gunnar ordered the rowing stopped. The men panted, leaning forward to rest.

  “Gorm,” said Gunnar evenly, “sit down.”

  Gorm pulled the helmet off his head. His blood was scarlet in the sunlight. Eirik was bleeding from a black puncture in his upper arm. There were other wounds among the men. Opir spat blood into his hand. He worked fingers back into his jaw and removed a broken molar. “I tried to bite a chunk out of a shield, and it didn’t taste very good,” said Opir.

  A few men chuckled. Opir rose weakly, standing by the mast. “Nobody could outrun Gorm, though” said Opir. “He ran ahead of me, and I was running as fast as I could.”

  Gorm did not laugh. Lidsmod avoided meeting the man’s eyes.

  “Be happy, Gunnar,” said Njord. “We have gold, and we have our lives. Did you think we could burn two villages and not do at least a little real fighting?”

  Gunnar was not happy, but there had been worse days under the sun. “We’ll have to put some of the gold into Crane and Landwaster. I don’t like the way we’re riding.” They would let the current and the oars carry them beyond any possible danger, and then they would back oars for as long as it took to redistribute the gold.

  Eirik slumped. Trygg supported him, and Opir reached an arm to help him up. Voices encouraged him, but the saga master was pale. When he spoke the lines from the story of the labors of Thor, his voice was a mere whisper. “Therefore I wrestle with Death herself,” the poet recited.

  “Shoulder to shoulder with the oldest adversary,” Lidsmod recited in turn, putting out an arm to the weary poet. Lidsmod was shocked to see the strong man look so suddenly frail.

  We would bind the wounds even of our enemy.

  The words were Father Aethelwulf’s, spoken long ago in the light from a tallow candle. It was like hearing the abbot’s actual voice, close and unafraid. Wiglaf considered how Father Aethelwulf would want him to act. If any one of these strangers misunderstood Wiglaf’s motives, they would not hesitate to use a sword.

  Hesitant at first, Wiglaf told Njord what he wanted to do. The helmsman did not respond. Wiglaf repeated himself with gestures.

  Njord’s eyes widened. Njord and Lidsmod stared, looked at each other, and Njord ran a hand through his white hair. He smiled doubtfully, and made something like a shrug. Wiglaf could almost understand what he said next. It might be a good idea, it might be bad, said the old man to Lidsmod. Was Wiglaf to be trusted?

  There was a moment of indecision.

  Njord found his carving knife and handed it to Lidsmod. “Cut him loose,” he said. “And get him what he wants.”

  Lidsmod cut strips of wool from a garment pulled out of a sea chest, and Wiglaf tied them around Eirik’s arm, after first making a pad of wool to fit exactly over the wound. Wiglaf had seen Aethelwulf do this many times, and he could sense Aethelwulf’s approval from Heaven as he worked. These men were not Wiglaf’s friends, but they were hurt.

  Eirik smiled wanly. He thanked Wiglaf in a deep, gentle voice.

  The men of Raven watched. They admired craftsmanship, and Wiglaf’s work with a bandage was not the work of a mere boy. This new thrall had the hands of a wise, skilled master.

  Wiglaf turned to Gorm. In words that carried unmistakable meaning, the thrall asked Gorm if he could bandage his leg.

  Gorm gave no answer. He lifted his hand to strike Wiglaf.

  33

  “Let him bind your wound,” said Gunnar.

  “A ship full of women,” spat Gorm, and he lowered his fist slowly.

  But he had watched the boy work and understood that perhaps the thrall had some uncommon value. If he could bind wounds, he might know other medicine lore. He might know plants and mosses, and he might, more important, have that touch that learning cannot bring.

  Gorm shook the thrall away from his head. It was nothing, he said. It did not hurt.

  For the first time Gorm thought that perhaps he would not kill the thrall. Perhaps the thrall would be more than simply useful. He was young—he could have a long life. Gorm considered how valuable it would be to have a medicine thrall. Hurt and sick people would send to Gorm and ask for help. He would charge them gold—not sheep, not horses, but unalloyed gold. “Three pieces of gold,” Gorm would demand. “Three pieces, or my thrall does nothing, and you will die.”

  This was, Gorm thought, an excellent plan. He would buy the thrall from his sea mates and then have gold for the rest of his life. Never again would he have to sail with a crew of weak, clumsy men. He could live alone, with his thrall to earn him gold.

  To the people of Spjothof, Gorm knew, worth was everything. Without worth, a man was simply a featherless bird. But with worth, he had a place among men and women.

  Gunnar gave the order, and men began rowing again. Lidsmod took Eirik’s place and struggled to pull as hard as the rest. Afternoon shadows fell across the river. Gunnar watched the banks.

  The ships neared the site of their first attack. Keel scars still marked the banks near that first village. It seemed so long ago! The men glanced as they rowed. There was no sign of smoke now. There was no sign at all that there had been a village. Gunnar motioned to Lidsmod, and the thrall’s head was kept down. Let the people here imagine that the boy had been burned or drowned or speared, thought Lidsmod. There were men who especially delighted in spearing boys, even infants. Let the villagers imagine the worst.

  A single figure ran to the bank and watched them pass.

  “I could hit him with an arrow,” said Trygg.

  “Keep rowing,” said Gunnar.

  “A windless day like this—it would be easy,” Trygg protested without much heart. “A miserable village, that,” said Gorm. “Torsten did all the fighting.” He said this without much force, however; his mind was on the future. He would be wealthy. He would be seen as kind-hearted.

  Gorm dreamed that the jarl himself might be sick one day and ask for his thrall. “For the jarl,” Gorm would say, “there will be no price. I give my thrall’s services to the jarl.” Men would be amazed and impressed. “Gorm is generous as well as brave,” they would say.

  The river broadened and became more and more like a sea.

  Terns squealed along the banks. They were river birds as well as seabirds, but when the gulls appeared, Lidsmod thought hopefully that he could taste salt in the air.

  The land here was still. No one pursued them, and Lidsmod believed that they were safe now.

  Gunnar signaled to Crane. Crane in turn signaled to Landwaster.

  Lidsmod rowed beside Ulf. He had thoughts he could not shake, and the more he thought, the more he believed he was right. He would wait until the right moment, and then he would act.

  It was not a plan that needed Thor strength—it was a plan the One-eyed God would understand. Lidsmod knew he could not explain to his sea mates what he intended to do. Perhaps they would never forgive him, and he would be exiled. That would be hard. He would miss his friends, his mother, and Gunnar. But Lidsmod believed that Odin would understand. More than this: he believed Odin wanted it.

  The weather vane fluttered in a breeze. It was the day’s first wind, but it was in from the sea. Gunnar ordered the ship ashore, and men sprang from Raven to drag her to safety.

  Lidsmod worked with the rest of the men, hauling Raven. He prayed silently to the One-eyed God that he was right.


  34

  Wiglaf sat in the midst of a bustling camp.

  He worked at being small, certain that if any one of these men really saw him, actually perceived his dark hair and darting eyes and his annoying littleness, his throat would be cut. They would not even mean harm by it, he thought. It would be like squashing a tick.

  Wiglaf had begun to wonder if some of these men might be kind. Some certainly appeared friendly. But he also sensed that if the ships traveled much farther, they would be on the sea. He had seen unfamiliar birds, with dark heads and white bodies, and smelled the salty, freshening scent in the air rivermen referred to when they described the ocean. Wiglaf did not want to sail the sea. He did not want to go far away with these strangers. But his home was destroyed, and everyone, including Father Aethelwulf, had been killed, he was sure. Wiglaf shrank, wishing he were invisible.

  Gunnar sniffed. He glanced at Lidsmod and held a finger to his lips.

  Lidsmod thought he could nose landsmen if they were anywhere near. They smelled like sheep and pig and old rancid fat, as well as cheese and boiled beef. He drew in a long breath through his nostrils. If an army of the unwashed wanted to attack, they would rush from the trees. These very trees around the camp.

  Gunnar rubbed his hands together and blew into them because there was a chill. Lidsmod squeezed his shield grip and was surprised at how sore his palm was. He had held the shield tightly during the battle, and in his inexperience was surprised at the stiffness in his arms and back.

  To Lidsmod’s surprise, Gunnar asked him, “What do you think the landsmen will do?”

  “Watch us carefully,” Lidsmod said, feeling honored. “Observe us from a distance.”

  The forest was a mass of black tree skeletons, just furred with leaf. The unwashed knew how to hide, and how to sneak up on a group of very weary seamen. Let them attack, thought Lidsmod. Let them try. He would welcome one last chance to test his sword.

  And then he laughed at himself.

  It wasn’t true, this hunger for fighting. He wished for the music of sea waves, sea wind. Lidsmod had river grit under his nails, and his knuckles were grimy with pitch from the new ship. His hair was stiff with silt and sweat. He ached for the next bath day—when hot water would ease him and he would feel cleansed of this land.

  “You don’t think they’ll attack?” asked Gunnar. His long hair was gathered neatly behind his head, fastened with a leather clasp, but there was a shadow of weariness under each eye.

  Lidsmod realized it was a question that tested more than his ability to predict the near future. Gunnar was weighing Lidsmod’s judgment, his power to predict what these unfamiliar men might do.

  The wind whispered out of the east. It sang through the branches near the river and struggled with the river current, tossing small river waves. It tugged at Lidsmod’s dirty hair and at his cloak. The wind smelled dry, and was steady rather than strong. Clouds tumbled slowly in the twilight, and the ships lay just out of reach of the surging water.

  “I don’t know,” said Lidsmod at last.

  Gunnar gave a satisfied syllable of affirmation. Somehow Lidsmod had given the right answer.

  The tide would be going out soon, but it would not help the men of Spjothof. Gunnar explained that it was unwise to head into the sea against a stiff wind. Unless the wind shifted soon, they would have to spend the night here.

  Men lifted sea chests and staggered from ship to ship. The gold was evenly distributed among the three vessels. The three leadmen also discussed the deployment of guards. They decided on twenty guards, to be replaced throughout the night. There would be no more mistakes.

  Lidsmod hesitated. Do I dare to tell Gunnar my plan? He was standing beside the leadman, the forest trees stretching black branches through the late-day sky.

  Lidsmod’s mother had keened the old songs, tales of gods and dwarves. Suffering was exchanged for peace, pain for solace. Lidsmod tried to believe that Gunnar would understand.

  “Gunnar, good neighbor,” Lidsmod said. Nothing gave more honor than the respectful use of a man’s name. “Do you know what my mother would want us to do?”

  “Regarding what?” asked Gunnar, watching the forest and the sunset-gold river.

  Lidsmod wished he could have a future with Wiglaf. The boy was very nearly a companion. He thought Wiglaf understood much of what was said. He wished he could show Wiglaf how to play the board game every man and boy loved—hnefatafl—a game for long winter nights beside fires.

  He could show him how to use his king in a position of strength so that he would win, always. Or nearly always. They could roll the walrus-ivory die and see whose luck was strongest. He could lend Wiglaf his elk-bone ice skates, or perhaps ask Njord to make a pair so that Wiglaf could race with him across the fjord.

  Lidsmod groped in his tunic and found what he wanted. He extended it toward Wiglaf. The thrall’s eyes were bright, but he did not take it at once.

  “For you,” said Lidsmod.

  Wiglaf’s eyes asked a question.

  “A gift.”

  The thrall’s hands were not tied, but he was seated beside a stump at the center of the camp, his feet tangled in a hobble of walrus-leather thongs. This was the same kind of device that kept horses from trotting off in the night.

  Wiglaf would have had trouble with these knots. Njord had tied them, and each knot was a separate secret. Njord knew all the knots, from the dwarf knot to the savior knot, the one for a man swept out of a ship and into the sea. Knotted inextricably in the hobble was a small iron bell that jingled prettily every time Wiglaf moved.

  The boy’s hand hesitated, then closed around the gift. Wiglaf smiled and thanked Lidsmod in his strange tongue.

  Wiglaf ran his fingers over a comb made of bone. It was carved with beautiful markings, like a row of flying gulls. The teeth were sturdy and precisely crafted. These strangers could do magic with their knives. Wiglaf ran the comb through his hair so Lidsmod would know that he understood what it was. He thanked him again and tucked the comb away.

  “Antler,” said Lidsmod. He imitated a deer for a moment, his hands like branches above his head. “Carved from a deer’s antler.”

  A shadow flowed over the earth in the firelight, and the bloody muzzle of a deer grazed the grass, carried into the camp by a hunter. Gunnar had sent Gorm to hunt along with Trygg and two men from Crane. Lidsmod was not pleased to see Gorm back so soon.

  Gorm knelt and tested Wiglaf’s hobble. The man’s hands were blood sticky. He tested the thongs. “This is what’s keeping him here?” he snapped at Lidsmod. “He could untie himself and hop off like a rabbit.”

  Lidsmod pointed out the bell. “Every time he stirs, the bell rings.”

  Wiglaf drew in his feet at just that moment, and the chime sounded.

  “I have a much better idea,” said Gorm. “One that will keep our little thrall right where he belongs.”

  35

  After Gorm had butchered the deer, and the blood and hair was rinsed off in the river, he found a stick among the river stones. He worked a hole at either end of the stick, and asked Njord for some leather thongs.

  Njord sat in Raven, carving the walrus tooth. “You like to keep your hands busy, Gorm. So do I,” he said without looking up.

  “It’s to keep the thrall safe,” said Gorm, trying to disguise his impatience. Njord was a good helmsman and could sail as well as any man, but sometimes he was as slow-witted as any other villager.

  Njord glanced at the stick in Gorm’s hands. “We don’t want Wiglaf running off, do we?” said Njord.

  Gorm did not want to hear that the thrall had a name. Gorm would give the thrall a name when he had paid for him. A good, powerful name. Perhaps simply Gormsthrall.

  Gorm fastened Wiglaf’s hands behind him. He tied the stick between Wiglaf’s wrists. He wrapped the straps until Wiglaf gasped. Gorm laughed in what he assumed was a soothing manner.

  “Don’t worry, your hands won’t drop off.” Gorm smiled. “Th
is little span will keep your hands apart. You can’t untie your knots now.” He patted Wiglaf on the head. “Wiglaf,” he said, struggling with the ridiculous name. “Good Wiglaf, the thrall of Gorm. A good servant and helper,” he added.

  Wiglaf gave him something like a smile.

  Ulf threw an armload of half-rotten firewood to the ground and asked Lidsmod to help him. “There is much more than I can carry,” he said. Ulf beckoned him to the place where the birch logs were stacked. “I need your help with more than firewood,” said Ulf, when Lidsmod reached him.

  Lidsmod had never heard Ulf speak in such a furtive manner before. His voice was low and quiet, and he glanced around them as he spoke. A blackbird made bright music high above them, and Ulf looked up as though the bird might overhear something it should not.

  “I am telling you a secret,” said Ulf, putting a fist over his heart. “A blood secret.”

  Lidsmod was flattered that Ulf would share such a secret with him, but he was mystified. “Ulf, please tell me—is anything wrong?”

  “Swear, before the gods, that you will keep this between us.”

  This was very serious. Lidsmod had never made such a formal promise in his life. “I so swear.”

  “I am going to let little Leg Biter go free.”

  Lidsmod did not respond.

  “The thrall,” said Ulf. “I will let him escape.”

  Lidsmod tried to read Ulf’s features. This had been Lidsmod’s hope as well, and while Gunnar had not agreed at once, he had not chided Lidsmod for daring to offer such a scheme. “Let me consider it,” was all Gunnar had said.

  “The boy gave us his gift when he bound Eirik’s wound,” Ulf continued. “That was a bad wound and might have bled until Eirik died. I think the thrall saved Eirik’s life.” Odin thought was hard, and few men could do it. When men heard such talk, they tended to respect it.

  “He repaid us for saving his life when we kept him from drowning. And I think we should give him a last gift. Besides,” Ulf continued, “Odin crippled him when he was born, or when he was still an infant. That means he belongs to the gods. We have to let the boy go. The others will understand when it’s done. I’ll pay for the thrall after he’s gone.”