Forged in Ice (Viking Odyssey)

by Ken Hagan

  Chapter 4

  ‘Nipper!’ I look up and see Da leaning over the bows. ‘Where is Kol? Where has that dog got to?’

  ‘I thought he was with you, Da, on the ship.’

  Feilan and I are on the skiff tied alongside. Wattle walls dismantled from our shelter are easy to lift. We have been tossing them into Cormac’s hands on deck.

  ‘Kol is not with me.’ Sepp’s voice comes from under an oil-skin amidships. He has lifted it to scrape tar off the grain sacks.

  ‘Have you seen our hound, Mel?’

  Ma cuts in. Her answer is sharp. ‘You care more for him than us.’ She wipes Mel’s mouth briskly with the tail of her shawl, and for once my little sister is without words.

  ‘We haven’t seen him,’ Einar says from stern-side. ‘He’s nowhere here.’

  Our steering withies have been giving trouble; the rudder-head needs tightening to the tiller arm, a job that must be done before we set off. Einar has his long arms stretching over the stern, while he pulls and draws in the cordage. Jo is sitting above him, her knees astride the tiller-stump, tucking into a rib of pork.

  Da, still thinking of the hound, looks straight at me. ‘If I know Kol, he will be on the beach scavenging for scraps.’

  ‘Shall I row ashore and look for him, Da?’

  ‘Don’t bother, lad,’ says Da, looking sideways at Ma, ‘Kol will make his own way to us. He knows we are on ship, and he can swim like a fish.’

  Vrekla and Alu are on the fore-deck loosening the first bale of hay with Bedwyr. They have been laughing at what is going on. They know Da wants me to go looking for Kol, and they have probably guessed why I will be happy to skive off to the beach ― there is a chance I might see Helga one more time before we leave. Unasked, and with a shy smile, Feilan climbs off into the ship. I push away on the skiff and start to row ashore.

  ‘How soon, Da, before we leave?’ I shout across the water.

  ‘Not long,’ he answers. ‘Any time soon. The tide is not far off the turn.’

  When I have rowed a few more strokes he shouts after me in a good-natured way, ‘Don’t worry, nipper, we won’t cast off without you — we need the skiff!

  The beach is busy with men and livestock, rain falling heavy. I jump off the skiff and heave the square prow onto the beach. The sky is leaden, more rain to come, clouds weighing on the fiord, mists closing in from the fells.

  The Skarsons have completed another loading on their second ship. Geir has charge of the empty raft — he has two slaves with him. They are guiding it in-bound over the swell, with the ramp-end facing inshore. The pushing from behind, like we had to, wading against the under-tow.

  Already there are woolbacks on the Skarsons’ first ship; squealing pigs on the second. The swell-tide was rocking the raft on their last loading, a sign that the tide may be on the turn. It will be tricky from now on. Horses yet to be boarded, they are next to go after cattle.

  The Jarlsons are in no hurry to board, or so it seems, though their sheep and slaves are down from the fell. Their woolbacks — three times as many as ours — are blocking the strand, foraging along a line of seaweed.

  Jarl’s grand-daughter Hungrid — we call her greedy Gridi, a nice girl, plump and jolly — brings him a horn of beer. He sets it on the shingle, stretches out to enjoy a rest. His shelters have not been taken down and his wife is fanning the fire under a pot.

  Red Asgrim, naked from the waist up, fat midriff wobbling, bald head bobbing to and fro, is swinging the pitchfork as he spreads hay for his cattle along the strip of turf above the beach. He is casual about it, as if he had all the time in the world. Now Asgrim’s daughter brings him a beer. He settles down to drink it beside his father.

  Mord and Eyjolf are straining a bull along by the nose, leading their beast off the beach. The usual friendly greeting from Eyjolf, but Mord, sour-faced as always, ignores me.

  At the Skarsons’ raft, Skar’s wife, old Freyda the battle-axe — they say she started as shield-maid for Skar in her younger days — her arms waving, cries of ‘ho there!’ to marshal her cows. Helga is not with her grandma. She is nowhere to be seen. I will go ask Geir.

  ‘Where’s Helga? Seen your sisters? Are they on-ship?’

  ‘Couldn’t tell you, Kregs, been busy. Olver was on the skiff. Maybe he’s taken Helga to be with Ma and Ynvild. They are on our second ship, the one that is waiting to be loaded.’

  A smile and a wink from Geir. Despite our scuffle on the ice, and even the breaking of his wrist, he has never held a grudge.

  *

  Searching for Father’s hound, I have reached the place where the crew of the Raven are drinking around a fire. It’s a muggy day despite the rain. They sit toasting their faces, steam rising off their wet hair, ladling ale, ale given by Jarl; feasting on Jarl’s salt-ribs and Jarl’s dried fish.

  I see the wild ones in bear-shirts, and men in kirtles, but no others. No Drak, no wolflings at the fire. On their ship the heavy sail-cloth lies loose, unfurled, where the deck-men lowered the yardarm, an untidy heap draped over the oar-benches. The crumpled image of the raven is just visible. There he is— Drak —under the canvas. He and the others with him are drunk and asleep, their bodies strewn about under the folds of sail.

  A yelp and a bark behind me. Kol has come up the beach to beg a share of the salt-ribs. That big kirtle-man has just thrown him a bone. Our greedy hound settles on his belly, paws forward to hold the bone, jawing into it for all he is worth. He will sit like that till his prize is picked clean. Drak’s men at the fire glare at me. Something tells me not to go farther.

  ‘What do you want here, boy?’ This from a lean face — a kirtle-man, blond, long of beard. What do I want? That’s a dumb thing to ask. He knows that I have come for the dog. I don’t answer.

  I go down on one knee, slap my thigh three-times, calling Kol to run to me, ‘Here-Kol-here!’ I have been doing a ‘call-and-slap’ like that, so I’m told, since I was able to talk. Ma says I borrowed it from Cormac, the same way I copy everything he does.

  ‘Here-Kol-here!’ Kol sees me, hears me slap out the call, but he doesn’t come. The hound’s hesitation lasts only an instant. In that instant, I’m aware of them grinning at me. Even bear-shirts, their faces so blank and dull, even the wild men are grinning.

  Anger boils inside, my face burning hot. My rage lasts for an instant and is gone. Kol lifts the rib-bone in his jaws, comes running to me, drops the bone; licks my face, picks up the bone again, and waits. I run up the strand, the hound bouncing at my heels, back to where I beached the skiff.

  Helga is waiting there with Olver. She had gone on board with her mother and Ynvild, but having seen me row ashore, she asked Olver to row her back to the beach.

  ‘I am not talking with you here,’ says Helga in a bossy voice. That means she’s anxious. ‘Go to the beck. Go as far as the black tree hit by lightning. I will come to you.’ Olver smiles as if he knows what is going on. It is more than I do. Helga is not smiling, she is unhappy about something. Her brother mimics a kiss, to show he knows what she’s after. ‘Olver,’ she cries, ‘don’t be such an idiot.’ Helga grabs me. ‘Say you will, say you will go to the old birch tree; promise me.’

  ‘Here-Kol-here,’ I call the hound after me, making for the beck.

  *

  Here we are at the beck, Helga, me and the hound, sitting under the age-old birch. Its blackened branches were struck by lightning years ago, long before she and I, or Kol, were born. A smell of burning still comes from the splintered bark.

  Kol is restless. He is up and splashing in the waters of the beck, sniffing for a scent among the reeds, where a newt, or a vole, or a water-demon has passed; his shaggy ears, no longer russet, dripping black with rain and beck water.

  ‘Come on, Helga, out with it.’ She takes my hand. Olver was right; she is going to make me kiss her or make me promise something. ‘Helga, why have you brought me here?’ Still no reply. Her neck stiffens and she turns away. Her free hand, the one sc
ratched by gorse, is clenched and strong. ‘Helga. I can’t stay. I have to go, now.’

  ‘Can’t we just sit for a while?’

  ‘How can we? I have to be on the Vigtyr. My father will kill me.’

  Helga is not one for weeping, but she is close to tears now. ‘I am going to lose you,’ she says. The words soften me.

  ‘No, no you are not, don’t make a big thing of it.’ I try to sound bolder than I am. ‘In a week, two at most, we will be in the ice lands. Everything will be as before.’

  ‘No it won’t,’ she insists, ‘it can’t ever be.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Something bad is going to happen.’

  I look at her askance. ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘It’s Drak, and the crew of the Raven. They are up to no good.’

  ‘It won’t bother us. Whatever mischief they are after, we will be long gone.’

  ‘Not if they come after you, you and your family.’ Now both her hands are tight on mine.

  ‘What have you heard?’

  ‘Ynvild heard something from Ingrid. You know my sister. She tells me everything. She came straight to me.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘According to Ingrid, your ship is a prize for the harriers. They are going to take the Vigtyr.’

  I put on a false smile before answering. ‘Gossip, Helga, silly girls’ talk, that’s all.’ That annoys her.

  ‘No, it’s the truth, you must believe it.’

  ‘If Drak did have his eye on us, why not make a move now, on the beach? We are a sitting target, anchored off-shore.’

  ‘How can he? Jarl is here, and grandpa Skar. If any of us are touched, the other families are duty-bound to help.’

  ‘That’s why the Raven won’t trouble us. We have safety in numbers. Helga, together, three families, we are as big as a tribe.’

  She hesitates and thinks, but something robs her of certainty. ‘Once out at sea, Kregin, things will be different: a ship can get separated from the rest, and when it does, it will be easy to pick off, before others can help.’

  ‘Ynvild has been filling your head with nonsense.’

  ‘My sister didn’t make it up. She heard it from Ingrid.’

  Kol shakes the wet off his body, covering us with beck-water and weeds. I catch a smell of scorched bark from the tree.

  ‘Helga, you have said it yourself, often enough. Ingrid doesn’t want to go to the ice lands. She will do anything to wriggle out of it. Isn’t this another of her scare stories?’

  ‘It’s not a story. Ingrid went to her father, she asked if he would have her back.’

  ‘And what did Drak say?’

  ‘He said it was too late for that. He told her he’d made a pact with Jarl, and with grandpa too. He wouldn’t touch our ships or lay a hand on our families and slaves.’

  ‘There you are, Helga, I am right. I told you there was no need to panic.’

  ‘Yes, but that’s not all.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘He said the Vigtyr would be easy pickings for him. He means to get even with your Da, settle an old score. He will take your Da’s ship, kill all on board.’

  ‘How do you know? You weren’t there to hear.’

  ‘Drak spoke bad words against your Da. He said the name of your ship over and over. Ingrid says that Jarl has accepted a deal from her father. She says that my grandpa has agreed to it too: they will let you sail ahead on the Vigtyr — that’s the plan ─ our five ships will lag behind and you will be left alone to fight it out with the Raven.’

  ‘That proves it! The whole thing is daft, the story is made-up.’ She goes silent; wipes the rain from her nose. I try another way to convince her. ‘You’ve heard the skald-man’s song. It’s recited every yule. Da was born a slave. He was shield-lad to Jarl for years and years. He got to earn his freedom by saving Jarl’s skin. What sort of warrior would Jarl be if he cheated on the man who saved his life?’ To hide my doubts I bluster on, ‘Helga, do you suppose Jarl will stand idly by while one of his ships is attacked? How can he let the Vigtyr be taken? If we lose our ship, or lose our lives, it will be Jarl’s loss too. The debt owed by my father will never be re-paid.’

  Chapter 5

  Crossing to the ship with Kol, I row like mad as if my life depends on it. The effort won’t impress Da. I will still get it in the neck for staying too long on the beach. He will say I dawdled to dodge my share of the work. I know there will be hell to pay, but I row till my hands and wrists ache.

  I am to be spared a telling off for now. Da is in the water at the anchor rope and cable, Cormac with him; they have dived under the hull to dislodge the ship’s anchor jammed on the seabed. Kol spots Da’s head under water and jumps in after him. I don’t escape a ribbing from my sisters.

  ‘We saw you,’ says Vrekla with a grin, ‘we saw you run off with Helga.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Alu, as she leans over the gunnels, ‘you went to the beck.’

  ‘And don’t say you didn’t,’ giggles little Mel. ‘We saw you give her a big kiss.’

  *

  We have been making way over water to the mouth of the fiord.

  ‘Kregin,’ Einar shouts from the stern. ‘Keep your eyes skinned, dark water steer-board. Don’t have us running aground.’

  ‘Aye, aye, skip,’ I shout from the prow. Mel is with me at the stem. She chuckles when she hears me say ‘skip’.

  No surprise that Einar is skip for the voyage. No one is better able to set course and gather wind. We would trust him to skipper us anywhere, be it to the end of the world. And no surprise too that Feilan has Einar at the top of his song for the Vigtyr:

  “Einar, Einar, brother mine, shipper-lubber, skipper fine;

  Hail or thunder, rain or shine, tiller taker, shake the brine;

  Quick the Vigtyr, slick the line, ice-floe breaker, chill the spine.”

  Our daft brother loves to keep a silly song jingling in his head, he has lists and verses for everything under the sun. It’s a trick he plays for his pleasure, or comfort, stringing words together, rhyming in sequence. Mumbling a string of thoughts joined-up like beads is Feilan’s way of keeping things tidy or safe in his head; of making sure that nothing in his fussy routine is omitted or forgotten. I can’t be doing with lists or verses. I don’t see the point of rhymes. Cormac agrees. ‘You can’t nail everything down,’ is what he says, whatever that means. Everyone in the family puts up with Feily’s lists and songs. We humour him. It is easier that way.

  Feilan has made a new verse to list the crew of the Vigtyr. He keeps repeating it, chanting our names in rhyme. He jabbers out a singsong over and over. He has me muddled by his jabber-jabber this, jabber-jabber that. I can’t get his rhymes out of my head.

  According to Feilan’s list for the crew, according to his game, we each have our task on board. No one must vary from it. You cannot change a rhyming list, not in Feilan’s scheme of things, not once it has been set to verse. In Feilan’s rhyme, everyone has a fixed place on ship, all hands accounted for.

  Einar is first-named, Da second — Da sharing duties on the helm with skip. Einar will hand over to Da if he needs to fix a bearing, or keep an eye on the vane, or catch up on sleep. If Da is not on helm, he will prowl the deck, like he is now, checking forestay, backstay, checking scrouds amidships, making sure that our rigging is reeved tight to hull, taut to mast.

  Sepp and Cormac — and Jo, as sturdy as a man — will stand ready to haul yard or ‘turnabout’; Sepp on halyard, Cormac on steer-board brace, Jo taking larboard. Alu and Vrekla, with help from Ma, will reef sail, ‘up’ to shorten, ‘down’ to lengthen; otherwise their task is to keep us fed, measure out water for livestock and crew. I’ve just thought of it this moment: food and drink — I bet Feilan doesn’t know he missed those tasks from his list. As for Feilan, he will stay abaft with Da and Einar, his gaze turned on the wake of the ship, waiting to pull rope on sheet end of the sail. Feilan is our sheet-man; he has the easiest task on deck!

>   Mel and I are on lookout at the prow. Einar says we have the toughest job. We have to keep an eye out for broken water ahead, where currents meet. We have to shout a warning. If bad water seizes the hull, it could flip us over or run us aground. We are last on Feilan’s song-list — another miss for him — Feilan hasn’t thought to include the slave-hands. Our boys will be with the livestock, feeding, watering and mucking out; they will clean and rinse the cess-pails after use.

  It’s a great job for Mel and me, sitting at the stem, getting soaked by the bow wave; salt spray on our faces, timbers dipping and creaking under a weight of sea, and above our heads, the shuffle of wind on sail.

  We have three hen-crows with us in a cage. They will help us to find land. Mel plays her little games with them. She has the birds on her side of fore-deck; she is talking with them, chattering away in her childish, made-up language, as if they are her crew and she is the skip on-board her ship, the crows waiting on her playful words of instruction.

  Crows are clever: if they see land from the sky, they will fly to it. Often they just sense a green wind blowing from an unseen shore and make that their hoped-for distant haven, but if they have no sight or sense of land, they will return to ship for food and roost, and are easily coaxed from freedom back into the cage. When we think we are a day or two from the ice lands, we will set our course when the birds fly off, follow them to find landfall, and then follow the coast till we find safe haven. That work for the crows will be seven to ten days from now.

  ‘Here they come at last,’ Feilan shouts from aft, ‘their two ships making sail.’

  It has taken ages for the Skarsons to weigh anchor and get under way. ‘Ah,’ says Feilan, his voice caught in the wind, ‘they have gone out of sight now.’

  Einar has been turning to larboard, avoiding skerries, splashed islets, tips of rocks, dangers at the foot of the southern headland, and now with a light touch on the tiller to steer-board, he chooses a bearing that will take us out to sea.