by Peter Fox
Sigvald looked at him intently, his blue eyes thoughtful. Finally, he spoke. ‘How much do you remember of what Tegen told you about your home, your family?’
Rathulf looked back at the jarl, reluctant to cast his mind back to that time when his mother had been alive and everything was as it should have been. ‘Shouldn’t father be here?’ he asked, then wondered why he had said that. Thorvald still lay on the edge of consciousness and would be of little help to his son.
Sigvald nodded gravely. ‘He should, but can you wait until he wakes to have your questions answered? I think not, thanks to Alrik’s pernicious interference.’ He spoke the boy’s name with considerable ardour and threw a dark glare in his nephew’s direction. Rathulf looked across the room to where Alrik sat. His friend regarded him with an odd mix of sadness and guilt, his expression occasionally punctuated by a grimace as the steading’s healer dabbed a salve to his head. Rathulf heard Helga clear her throat, and he turned to her.
‘There is much that your father – and by that I mean Thorvald – wanted to tell you,’ Helga said, ‘but in the end, he decided not to because you had a good life here.’
‘A good life?’ Rathulf said, not at all certain he wanted to hear this. ‘What hasn’t he told me?’
‘When Tegen lay on her deathbed,’ Helga explained, ‘she made your father pledge that when you grew old enough, you were to be told of your family and their fate. She tried to tell you as much as she could herself, but you were so very young when she died, and I’m afraid you were more interested in stealing barley cakes than learning about history and family lines.’
‘What do you remember?’ Sigvald cut in impatiently. ‘Can you recall anything Tegen told you?’
Rathulf closed his eyes and not for the first time in his adolescent life, tried reaching back for that distant time when his mother had been alive. One memory, and only one, remained clear to him, even after this long expanse of time; sitting in Tegen’s lap in the fragrant grasses by the little beck that wound its way through the valley to the head of the fjord. They would sit with their backs against the warm stone of the great tor that stood alone on the valley floor; Magni’s Stone they called it. It was said to have fallen there from the God’s pocket as he had made his way across the valley back in the early days of Midgard. Tegen had taken him there often, teaching him the words for things in his native tongue. Rathulf knew that he had once been adept in his birth language, but it had long since been lost to him through misuse. As a reward for the day’s lessons, Tegen would often describe in much detail the land that had once been home to them. She had talked of low hills rolling away as far as the eye could see and vast expanses of wheat and barley and green pasture waving in the warm summer’s breeze. Layered upon these descriptions were images of long, golden beaches enclosed by ragged cliffs and sparkling seas that stretched off to a horizon shimmering under a bright southern sun. There had been great settlements too, surrounded by impregnable walls of stone and wood. What had my mother called them? Sitis? Civitas? Curse it, Rathulf thought, the images blurring. I was just a little boy! I had no understanding of the importance of that information.
‘I… I can remember some things,’ Rathulf said, ‘but it’s too long ago.’
‘It’s alright, Ra,’ Helga said gently. ‘You were very young. Do you remember a chest?’
‘Chest?’ Rathulf said, struggling to make sense of the fragmented memories. He did manage to conjure up the image of a Viking sea chest, but was it real or just his imagination creating something to fit? The box that Thorvald had held before the avalanche had been wrapped in a covering, so he’d not seen the actual chest, but he was pretty certain it wasn’t Viking.
Another image did stay long enough to make a meaningful impression, however: a blood-red expanse of cloth with two golden wolves charging across it. He frowned.
‘I don’t remember a chest,’ he said hesitantly, ‘but I do remember something else.’
‘Yes?’ Sigvald asked encouragingly.
‘A piece of cloth with pictures on it. Like Eirik has in his hall.’
‘Pictures?’ Sigvald said, raising his eyebrows.
Rathulf paused again. ‘I think they were wolves,’ he said, not really understanding how he knew that. ‘But what do they have to do with me?’
Sigvald glanced at Helga.
‘The blanket in which you were wrapped when we found you had that design woven into it,’ Helga said quietly. ‘Hence the name we gave you.’ Helga smiled to herself as she recalled her foster-son’s early antics. ‘You were such a bold little boy, always asking questions and offering advice whenever you thought it might be useful. Thorvald was remarkably patient with you, so we named you Rath–ulf: his little wolven counsel; the reference to the wolf, of course, coming from the swaddle.’
Rathulf took a sip of his mead, but it tasted sickly sweet all of a sudden, and he put the mug aside.
‘I still don’t understand what this has to do with the chest. Is it the one that my father had before the avalanche?’
‘Ah,’ Sigvald said. ‘Yes, I believe so.’ He paused, collecting his thoughts, then he went on. ‘It contained that blanket, as well as a few other things from your birth home.’
‘And that’s what Alrik took?’ Rathulf asked. When no one answered him, he looked around the room. ‘So where is it?’
‘Erm,’ Sigvald said, clearing his throat. ‘I’m afraid it isn’t here.’
‘What else do you remember?’ Helga said quickly, diverting the conversation. ‘Something of your family perhaps? Your first home?’
Rathulf closed his eyes again, and more images entered his mind; at first vague and distant, then growing rapidly in clarity and potency. Rathulf fought back, anxious not to return to that terrible place of his nightmares, but the memories were too powerful, too strong. He saw a man holding a sword, as old as Sigvald but with dark hair and a shaven face. There was a flash of gold on the warrior’s chest, then the man had gone, replaced by other fleeting images of frenzied people, rushing about amid a clamour of screams and shouting. From somewhere amongst it came that voice, harsh and urgent, whispering that name.
When he searched for its source, he saw only two wolves, large and grey, sitting either side of a frothing torrent of water. The wolf on Rathulf’s side sat facing him, its back to the other. Behind the distant wolf and shrouded in swirling black smoke were the frightened people, gradually dissolving as the smoke thickened. The gulf between the wolves widened and the torrent grew wilder. The wolf on the other bank paced from side to side, agitated, but the closer beast seemed unaware of its plight. Rathulf felt a deep sense of despair mingled with a longing, so strong he could feel it tearing at his heart.
‘Rathulf?’ A woman’s voice broke into his vision. ‘Rathulf, what is it?’
With immense difficulty, Rathulf dragged himself back to the present, into the warm, spice-tinged air of the hall, but despite seeing the roaring flames of the hearth fire, a chill remained inside him. He felt drained of energy as if he had left something of himself behind in that frightening place. He found it difficult to hold his focus on anyone.
‘Rathulf?’ Helga’s voice carried alarm now. ‘Come back to us.’
He felt a jab in his side, then Sigvald’s voice sounded unnaturally loud in his ear. ‘Have you had too much of that stuff?’ He was pointing at the jug of mead.
Sigvald’s voice echoed in Rathulf’s head, mingling with the background cries of the panic-stricken people. The hall wavered before him, and he felt a rush of hot air, then the smell of burning was with him again. Screams filled his ears, and behind it, he heard the clash of iron against iron and men shouting. He shook his head, consciously opening and closing his eyes, trying to expel the disturbing scenes. Then in a sudden explosion of freezing cold, he was wrenched from the vision and back to the room.
He blinked at Helga, then he realised his face and most of his front was wet. Sigvald stood nearby, a dripping pail in his hands. Ingrith was sput
tering all manner of profanities beside Ra, having received a goodly dose of the water herself, and Alrik too was cursing his uncle colourfully. Sigvald gave a shrug of apology.
‘I think that’s done it,’ Helga was saying. She peered into Rathulf’s face, then waved a hand in front of his eyes. ‘Rathulf, can you hear me?’
He nodded.
‘Tell me where you are.’
‘Having a bath with me,’ Ingrith said, glaring at her father.
‘I’m in Bardi’s hall, I think,’ Rathulf said, only half-aware of Ingrith fuming beside him. His mouth felt dry, and he swallowed.
‘That’s good. Now tell me what you saw.’
‘I… I’m not sure,’ he said, reluctant to revisit the distressing scenes. ‘I’ve seen it before, in my dreams, and then when I was in the Troll’s Lair… I mean the boathouse.’
Helga paused for a moment, then she said, ‘what brought it on? Was it something we said?’
Rathulf shook his head. The action made him feel ill, and he stopped. ‘It just came. I keep seeing wolves.’
‘Helga, I think we should do this another time,’ Sigvald said.
‘No, this is not a thing that can be left half done. He sees wolves in his dreams, Sigvald.’
Sigvald said nothing, so Helga continued. ‘Tell me what you saw, Ra.’
To the best of his ability, Rathulf described the bleak landscape and the strange person who inhabited it, and those other aspects of the chaotic visions he could recall, but always he returned to the desolate young man with the blank eyes and bleeding hands. ‘He keeps calling to me,’ he said. His head felt dizzy and he took another drink, then he looked up at his foster-mother again. ‘Who is he?’
‘Helga,’ Sigvald warned. ‘I don’t think this is wise.’
‘This must be told,’ Helga countered, and before her husband could argue, she went on. ‘Tegen spoke to you of this, but you were too young to understand, perhaps even to remember. There is – was – another.’
‘Another?’ Rathulf whispered. He took a long breath, trying to calm himself down.
‘He was in your færing. Another boy. Older than you.’
Rathulf blinked, the full realisation of what Helga was saying finally sinking in. He closed his eyes and all at once the grieved stranger was there again, standing before him with his outstretched hands in the desolate landscape of his nightmares: a young man with hazel eyes and sandy hair, just like Rathulf, crying out to him. It all made sense now. The stranger was calling to his kin.
Rathulf’s throat tightened. ‘I have… a brother?’
Helga nodded.
‘Where is he? What happened to him?’ He looked from Helga to Sigvald, but he saw the answer in Helga’s sad expression.
‘He drowned, Ra,’ she said softly, ‘in the accident. You must understand that it was unintentional. There was a heavy mist, and your little boat appeared in front of Thorvald’s ship. There was nothing he could do.’
A brother! Rathulf thought, his mind reeling at the prospect. What was his name? What was he like? ‘Is he… is he the one I keep seeing in my dreams?’
‘Perhaps,’ Helga said, glancing at Sigvald.
‘His name, what was his name?’
‘Aneurin,’ Helga replied, her voice tinged with sadness.
Rathulf felt a tingle down his spine at the mention of his brother’s name; at once familiar, always known to him. ‘Why does he keep calling to me? What does he want of me, and why is he in that awful place? I don’t want to go there, Helga.’
‘Hush now. You are perfectly safe here, and you don’t have to go anywhere.’
‘But why is he there? What is he looking for?’
‘He wants you to go back and avenge him and the rest of your family,’ Sigvald said, rather more forcefully than he had intended. He received a scolding glance from his wife. Undeterred, he continued. ‘Until your family are avenged, he will continue to trouble you. Perhaps he cannot enter Valhalla until you have fulfilled your duty.’
‘Goodness, Sigvald,’ Helga rebuked, ‘and you were just telling me off.’
‘What other reason could there be? There is no greater ignominy than unavenged kin,’ he said pompously. ‘It is Rathulf’s destiny.’
‘Perhaps he should begin with you, Bardi and Thorvald then?’ she said pointedly.
Sigvald winced with embarrassment.
At last, all the pieces began to fall into place. ‘They weren’t fisher-folk, were they?’ Rathulf said, wondering how he could have been so ignorant of the many signs that had surrounded him for as long as he cared to remember. No wonder Thorvald had wanted to live in isolation. ‘Why were my mother and brother in that færing?’ he asked. ‘In fact, why was I?’
It was Helga who spoke. ‘Your mother was not in the boat.’
‘Helga, stop!’ Sigvald blurted. ‘I thought we’d agreed… What good can possibly be wrought by telling him these things?’
‘And how much more ill will be brought by keeping them unsaid?’ Helga countered. ‘We must finish what Alrik began.’
Rathulf, meantime, was frowning at Helga. How could my mother not have been in the boat? Everybody knew the story; Thorvald and Sigvald were famous for it, for they had both lost their ships on that same disastrous trip. Surely that could not be a fabrication too?
‘But what about the collision? What about the Sea Swift?’ He looked from one adult to another, shocked by the magnitude of the falsehood that had been perpetuated all his life.
‘All that we have told you is true, Ra. You were in that færing, as was Tegen.’
‘You just said she wasn’t!’
‘No Ra, I said your mother was not with you.’
Rathulf choked, finally understanding what Helga was saying. ‘Tegen was not my mother?’
Helga shook her head, and, seeing Rathulf’s distress, shooed Ingrith away and took her foster-son in her arms. ‘Oh, Rathulf, I wish there was an easier way to do this.’ She paused, close to tears herself. ‘Tegen was your wet nurse. It was her duty to look after you, like a foster-mother.’
‘Then what happened to my real mother?’
Helga sighed. ‘We do not know her fate, Rathulf, for Tegen herself did not know. What she could tell us was that your father was killed – murdered – just days before Thorvald found you.’
‘Murdered? But you’ve always said you didn’t know what had happened to him.’
Helga let out a long, regretful sigh. ‘We were trying to protect you, Ra. Perhaps it was the wrong thing to do, but you must try to believe me now when I tell you your father was killed out of jealousy and greed by his own brother; your uncle. It was a blood feud, plain and simple. You were fleeing from him when Thorvald ran into you.’
Rathulf blinked, barely managing to take it all in. ‘What about my mother? Tegen must have known something?’
Helga paused, clearly questioning whether or not to go on. At last, she made up her mind and continued. ‘You were on your way to meet her. You and your brother were sent by boat in the hope that it would be safer; if one party was caught, then the other might survive. We don’t know with whom she was travelling, if anyone, nor whether she arrived at the place you were to have met. I have prayed often that she did not.’
Rathulf looked at her, aghast, wondering why she would say such a thing.
‘Oh Ra, understand that I say it with a fair heart, for the sanctuary toward which you were sailing was the very same place plundered by Thorvald and Sigvald. In the manner of such raiding, they left few alive.’
Rathulf recoiled from her, horrified. He wanted none of this to be true. Surely Thorvald and Sigvald could not have been responsible for the deaths of so many of my family? He looked from Helga to Sigvald then back to his fostra again, hostility rising in his heart. Is that why you fostered me? Out of guilt?
‘Do not be angry, Rathulf,’ Helga implored. ‘The Gods must, for reasons we cannot understand, have wanted it this way. This is why Thorvald ceased raiding, and why he
wanted you to play no part in the life of a Viking either. He was devastated to learn the story of your family from Tegen, and that he had inadvertently stumbled across your path and thus interfered with your destiny. When he learned your tale, he took it upon himself to raise you so that perhaps one day you could return to avenge your kin. Yet, when the time came for him to tell you all these things, he could not bring himself to do it. You had grown to be a strong, happy young man, secure in this world, the Norse world. He did not want to hurt you, Ra. He has come to love you very much, as a father to a son.’
‘How could he?’ Rathulf cried. ‘He is no father to me. He killed my brother and my mother too!’
‘No, Rathulf. Don’t blame him for what has happened. You must seek others for that. We cannot change what has been. The Gods have spoken. Why else would Thorvald have been there at that very moment, if not to save you? Perhaps your enemies were already advancing on your sanctuary. Perhaps you would have been killed had Thorvald not been there, and your family and their memory would have been wiped out forever. You live, Rathulf, and in your living abides hope.’
‘Hope? For what?’ Rathulf said, fighting back tears. ‘If Sigvald, Bardi and Thorvald hadn’t gone on that raid, I would be at home with my real mother right now, and with my brother too.’
‘No, Rathulf, you would be dead,’ Sigvald said harshly. ‘There were men searching for you, all with the same object. If you had landed on that shore you would have been captured and your head cleaved from your neck, if not on that day then surely the next. We are not making this up. This is the truth. Your truth.’
‘And I’m supposed to be grateful?’
When no one answered him, Rathulf turned to Alrik. ‘Where is it?’ he demanded.
‘What?’ Alrik blinked, caught by surprise.
‘My trunk. I want my things.’
Sigvald took in a sharp breath. ‘You can’t have them.’