Raven of the Waves

by Michael Cadnum

  Lidsmod felt a flash of admiration and even love for Ulf.

  “My thoughts walk with yours,” said Lidsmod, the old saying that meant complete agreement. “But I think Gorm will slice our heads from our necks.”

  36

  Wiglaf slept, despite the laughter around him, and the sounds of boasting and wild tales. Gradually the camp settled. New guards cast shadows across sleeping men as they took their places at the edge of the firelight.

  Someone whispered; there was a step in the sand at his ear. This was the moment Wiglaf had feared. One of these men crouched beside him, knife in hand.

  Wiglaf woke, sure it was only a nightmare. But it was not a nightmare. A killer knelt over him. And that bright knife glinted in his hand, eager to be sticky with Wiglaf’s blood. Wiglaf tried to scream but he had no air. He could not move.

  Then came some soft speech, and a gentle hand touched his shoulder. Lidsmod said something kind and covered Wiglaf’s lips with his fingers. “Don’t worry,” he seemed to say.

  Firelight fluttered from the last charred logs. Men snored. Guards stood, looking away from the river, toward the forest.

  Ulf’s knife was red in the firelight. The knife bit through the hobble and slashed the bindings Gorm had contrived. Ulf’s hands were quick, stripping the leather from Wiglaf’s ankles and wrists. Ulf smiled and stuffed moss into the iron bell. Lidsmod and the stout, bald-headed man pulled Wiglaf to his feet.

  They led him to the river.

  Two guards watched over the ships, and these men lowered spears toward Wiglaf.

  “What is this, Ulf?” asked one of the guards.

  “Watch. I’ll show you.” He turned to Wiglaf. He gestured, his voice low. “Run, Wiglaf. Run home. Go quickly.” He slapped Wiglaf’s back. “Run now!”

  Wiglaf started, and stopped.

  “Hurry!” Ulf said.

  The two spearmen stepped toward Wiglaf, but he danced away.

  As he ran he heard an iron bell chiming, far off on the other side of the camp. Lidsmod! He was running in the opposite direction, drawing pursuers away from Wiglaf.

  There were shouts. These strangers had the fiercest voices! Wiglaf nearly fell at the sound. But he told himself: I will not stumble.

  Wiglaf splashed into water for a moment, and veered. The river was nearly at his feet, but he could not climb through the wall of tree trunks at his right. He ran until tears streamed, and then collided with a tree in the dark. He forced himself up, through the claws of branches, the stalks of hazel wood and the teeth of brambles, up into the forest. There was starlight, and the dullest moon.

  Suddenly branches crashed behind him, and breath hissed into his ear.

  “I have you!” said Gorm.

  Gorm’s teeth were bright. His hands clutched Wiglaf’s tunic, then his leg, then fumbled at Wiglaf’s heel.

  Wiglaf slithered. He leaped and ran hard into a tree. He rebounded, and dived into shrubs he could not even see, hoping they would be thick enough to hide him. Hadn’t he always been Wiglaf the spider?

  Gorm’s hand closed around his foot. Wiglaf struggled to hang on to something with his stronger hand, but the man was much too powerful for him. Wiglaf felt stalks and leaves break between his fingers. He could not find a handhold among this young growth.

  Gorm laughed, panting.

  Wiglaf bit him. He did not know what limb he was biting exactly, although as his teeth sank and blood filled his mouth, he surmised that it was one of Gorm’s arms. The man gasped, struck Wiglaf on the head, and flung him into the air.

  Wiglaf sailed through the darkness. He fell into a cradle of branches and landed on his feet.

  Gorm was just behind him. Once he felt Gorm’s fingertips graze his shoulder and Wiglaf fell deliberately; he rolled through squelching mossy mud and then ran again. Hares don’t run in a straight line, stone to wall to tree. They slant, swivel, scamper, and then, to cheat the hound, they run straight for awhile. Wiglaf raced one way, then another, and Gorm’s hand snatched at air just past Wiglaf’s ear. Wiglaf dodged, and then he was a rabbit, indeed.

  This was Wiglaf the hare, and Gorm ran hard, slogging through the wet branches and splashing through puddles, but Wiglaf seemed to avoid the puddles—or perhaps there was a charm in his running that night. Perhaps the puddles shifted to avoid Wiglaf, and found Gorm’s feet instead. Forests are not simple places. They lie beyond the word and ken of humans, and Wiglaf ran afraid of the trees around him as much as he feared Gorm.

  There came a moment during the running when Wiglaf realized he was alone. Gorm was no longer behind him. The forest was silent around him, closing in, trees leaning over him with their great, dark heads.

  At last Wiglaf walked. His breath thundered and his heart galloped, so he could not discern what was forest sound and what was the noise of his own body. He could not tell if Gorm followed him at a distance. He could hear nothing but himself. His nose was streaming, and he forced himself onward. He realized that he did not know where he was going.

  He was lost, swallowed by forest. He hurried along what looked like a path, and then he realized that there was light. It was a poor, thumb-worn daylight, but it was not darkness. Birds answered each other, and Wiglaf worked his way along the path, praying that it paralleled the river. So long as Wiglaf knew where the river was, he was not lost.

  But the river was nowhere. Forest slime glistened at his feet. There were trees, furry and green in places, smooth and sere in others. There were stones scaled and blistered with lichen. Tree-colored birds scurried, pin-sharp beaks and quick eyes all around him.

  Wiglaf kept to the path. No one had walked this trail for many years, he believed. This path was a bad charm, the way into a witch’s embrace.

  37

  As the sun rose, Wiglaf found the river. Or perhaps the path found it, or the river found Wiglaf. The dawn-bright water was sliced by the black trunks of trees. But it was an old friend, this river—Wiglaf knew where he was. He climbed behind a tree, exhausted, and prayed that Saint Peter would stand guard and let no harm find him.

  He slept.

  Wiglaf woke thirsty, hungry, and frightened. He hurried to look at the river. It was still morning. The current was busy and had more color now.

  He ran again, but he did not run fast. It was a trot, like the pace a dog might try to maintain over distance. He had never dreamed that there were so many trees. This river no longer looked so much like the way home.

  He walked all day, and at night he slept hard, dreamlessly.

  It was when the earth turned gray that Wiglaf realized the sun was rising again. It was another day. But he had forgotten the names for things in his hunger and weariness.

  He had forgotten his own name. He had forgotten where he was going, or where he had been. He knew only Going and Walking, one step after another. He would walk forever.

  That was when he saw the wolf.

  Like all such creatures, it was beautiful, and yet with the sort of beauty the eyes can scarcely believe. And it was following him, its slanted eyes invisible in the first light. It had long legs and silver-brown fur. It nosed forward, following Wiglaf more quickly as Wiglaf began to pant.

  Wiglaf was shocked back into knowing. Where one wolf ran, dozens followed. Soon a wolf company would fill the path behind Wiglaf, and they would trot closer and closer, wolf slather flowing. There would be a mead hall of wolves. Wiglaf looked back every few paces and each time he looked the beast was closer. Its eyes were black, like fine nicks taken with a knife, not at all the open gaze of Stag.

  The wolf was near now. Wiglaf sobbed, breaking into a shaky trot. He did not have the strength to run any faster. The animal was nearer yet, closing on him. When the path turned, the wolf disappeared for a moment, keeping to a straight line, reappearing when the path no longer crooked.

  Wiglaf fumbled for a stone. He found one and flung it at the creature. The wolf lifted one paw and sniffed at the rock. He looked back at Wiglaf, his mouth open in a carnivorous grin
.

  At that moment, a bear climbed through the forest.

  Wiglaf would never be certain about this. When he thought back on it later, there had been, he knew, a wolf. But the bear had not been like a bear at all, and Wiglaf would wonder as long as he lived what, in fact, had approached through the woods that morning.

  It was huge, too big to be real, but it crackled the leaves and shoved saplings to one side. It stayed beyond the trees, so Wiglaf could only see its shadow—the size of an ale hall—where it rose and fell.

  The wolf hesitated and whined. The bear snapped twigs, just out of sight. The wolf stepped sideways and sniffed again, and its muzzled wrinkled. The wolf bared its white teeth and growled.

  Wiglaf scrambled down the path, and the bear grew closer, its slow paws crushing leaves, its breath chuffing in the cold morning. Or was it the spirit of all dead bears trailing him through the forest? Or a bear of magic, of divine power, come after Wiglaf to protect him? Sometimes it clambered ahead, and Wiglaf could just see the shag of his back fur above the bushes.

  The bear stayed with Wiglaf and did not leave him. All day the great animal accompanied him on his journey. Wiglaf spoke to it, but he would never be able to recall what he said to it, or why it seemed that the bear answered.

  Wiglaf approached the landmark and did not know it. He was not seeing the world anymore; he was only walking. Breath came out of him, a silent cry, and he stopped. I know this place.

  It was the aldwark, the stone ruin beside the road.

  But it couldn’t be. Surely he had not traveled far enough yet, he thought. Sun spilled through the trees. Birds lifted their voices, like the broken voices of children. Wiglaf would walk forever, he believed. Stride after stride—it was all he had ever done. Now he was walking to the place he remembered, but of course it was all burned to ashes, and all the people were gone.

  The familiar one-two note of a cuckoo drifted from across an empty field. Scattered sheep droppings and sheep-cropped grass stretched all the way to the forest. The flock was gone. He took a breath to call out the name of his dog, but of course there was no familiar dog—nothing living remained.

  His legs collapsed and he lay still on the soft earth of the road. He would rise again soon and trudge the road through the charred places where his mother and father had lived, and his brothers, and Aethelwulf.

  Wiglaf wondered if this was what it was like to die—warm sun kneading his body, a voice calling his name.

  38

  Gorm returned along the riverbank slowly and quietly. He had believed that someday he would sit beside the quick, stunning-cold white water and be happy.

  He had believed that Gormsthrall would bring him stature and honor, and that the years ahead would be kind. When the men from Heglund, a village of rich pig farmers, docked and traded stories over mead, Gorm would sit upright among them, his silent pride better than any boast.

  Now he did not need to hurry. He was deliberate and careful. His future had fled, and he would seek out the man who had caused it to depart. And kill him.

  The fire danced, and men crouched or stood near it, the shadows quaking. Gorm stepped into the circle of light. Ulf sat with his hands folded, a sleepy look in his eyes as his gaze met Gorm’s.

  Good, steady Ulf, thought Gorm. The man everyone trusts.

  “Stand up,” said Gorm in a quiet voice.

  Ulf stood from his place beside Lidsmod. The young man forced himself to stand too, his legs stiff from rowing. Ulf said the old justice formula, “Right for wrong, I will pay for your loss in gold.”

  Men leaned forward. This was only proper, and they were not surprised that Ulf wanted to pay for what he had done. Ulf was a worthy man. They were relieved that Ulf realized that the loss of this thrall was a loss for all of them. A thrall with knowledge of medicine would have fetched a high price from the Swedes or from a jarl in another village.

  “You all know me well,” Ulf continued, “as you knew my father and my uncles. You know the men and the women of my family always pay what they owe.”

  Men murmured. This was true.

  “Tell us why you did it,” urged Njord.

  “Yes,” hissed Gorm. His voice was like sticks breaking. “I want to know why you did it too, and I will listen with great interest.”

  “I will pay,” Ulf said. He spoke quietly, but spoke into the soul of every man there. “Because Odin has given us good fortune. And because the thrall, little Leg Biter—Wiglaf—had lost the strength of one arm and was not ours to keep. He belongs to the gods.” Ulf used high speech, the language of challenges and formal contracts.

  “This is madness,” Gorm spat. “No one believes such froth about Odin and the gods. Nobody listens to that sort of talk—that’s for children around hearthfires. We’re men, Ulf. I do not accept your gold. I demand a greater payment.”

  Lidsmod shook inwardly at these words. This was close to a formal challenge.

  “You seek my life?” asked Ulf. His voice was quiet, as though they sat on a pleasant afternoon in the sun.

  “Maybe some of our shipmates,” said Gorm, “dream about Odin as much as Ulf does. I don’t. I piss on the gods. Step forward, Ulf. I challenge you before all this company to fight to the death.”

  Ulf shook his shoulders and cocked his head back and forth like a man stirring from a nap—Ulf’s way, his friends knew, of hiding his apprehension. A brave man sometimes had to disguise his fear, sometimes with a laugh, sometimes with affected complacency. Gorm was very nearly the most dangerous fighter in Spjothof, and even a stout warrior like Ulf would stand little chance.

  Ulf said nothing more to Gorm but slowly drew Long and Sharp from its scabbard. He called the name of this fine sword, the result of highest dwarf craft. “Langhvass!” he said, speaking softly to his blade. “Sword of my fathers, stand with me in this dark night!”

  This was a classic war prayer, and the words turned in each man. They did not want to watch this last fight of such a good sea mate. Lidsmod glanced at Gunnar and saw that the chief was tempted to step in. Gunnar’s hand was on his own sword, but he did not want to shame Ulf before all these men. The old harpoon scar was livid on Gunnar’s cheek, and Lidsmod understood how hard it was to lead men.

  Lidsmod put his hand on his own hilt and stepped forward into the firelight. “And you will have to fight me too,” he said, adding, in the ancient saga phrase, “though it cost me blood and breath.” His voice was ragged, but he knew the words were correct.

  Eirik leaped between them, his bandaged arm a reminder of the lost thrall. “Lidsmod and Ulf do not owe any of us a life.”

  Gorm snorted. “If they choose not to fight me, I will accept thirty sheep in payment.”

  Ulf and Lidsmod had no sheep. Gorm knew this. All Ulf had was his share of the gold, and his life, and Lidsmod was a new shield man, who had never settled a farm. Every word now, and every gesture, was borrowed from the sagas. The challenge, even Eirik’s attempt to prevent the fight before it began, were all from one ancient song or another, and Gorm and Ulf were now trapped in the Norns’ web, in the net of myth and fate.

  Gorm kicked aside a charred knot of wood. His sword flickered in the firelight. He smiled with teeth like gold and beckoned Ulf forward like an adversary in a battle poem.

  Gorm’s sword swept easily and bit blue fire from Ulf’s blade. The clash made every man start and creep backward, away from the fire. In song, real steel does not bite steel, nor do real men sweat in firelight as Ulf was sweating, despite his calm smile. Gorm smiled too and lunged, feinted, and struck sparks again. Ulf circled, blocking two more blows, but Gorm was toying with him, teasing, Gorm’s shadow like a second Gorm, helping him, leaning forward to spy a weakness.

  Neither man had a shield. Neither man had a helmet, nor did each wear armor. Lidsmod waited, sword in hand, for his turn to taste the keen edge. The fighting men wore only wool, the gray cloth of their village. Gorm faked, lunged, feinted, and then Ulf fought off a series of blows toward his
face, the white blade of Gorm ringing off Long and Sharp. Dancing around Ulf, Gorm showed why he was feared.

  Ulf was slow. He struck back, but as his sword was raised it was plain that Ulf knew it would not come close to Gorm, and it did not. Ulf was powerful, legs and arms, but his strength was against him now—he was not quick enough.

  The blades were lengths of firelight, spans of heat that spat sparks, and yet it was Gorm who crept ever nearer, and it was Gorm whose leg snaked behind Ulf, and the big man was down. Gorm was on him, his hand reaching to grip Ulf’s hair for an easy throat cut, but Ulf struck Gorm on the side of the head, and Gorm sprawled face down in the sand.

  Gorm stood, brushing the white grains from his smile and spat. Lidsmod felt his heart shrivel.

  “He’s right.” A white-haired figure stepped between them, holding out his arms to embrace Gorm. “He’s right,” repeated Njord. The interruption in the combat was welcome but startling, an act not rooted in poetry or battle lore. “He doesn’t owe us anything, not even gold. Wiglaf paid for his freedom by binding our cuts, Gorm.”

  “That’s true,” said Eirik, eager to support Njord even in this break from protocol. “No one wants blood.”

  “This fighting is needless, Gorm,” said Njord.

  “Are there no men here?” asked Gorm, looking around at the firelit faces. “Are there no strong men here at all?”

  Gorm struck Njord fiercely with the pommel of his sword.

  39

  The blow was quick.

  The men groaned as Njord fell, face hard into the sand, a starfish of blood spreading in his white hair. Men stared, unable to move or think, anguished to see the blood of this fine seaman, who once carved a serpent from the tusk of a narwhal, and whose steady hand seemed to cup the stars and count them each night.