Forged in Ice (Viking Odyssey)

by Ken Hagan

‘It is what’s under the rock that matters,’ she answers, ‘pull back the moss and shake off the snow. The opening is big enough. Don’t hang about. In you go!’

  I do as she asks and slip feet-first down into the dry channel under the rock. A sweet smell of clover-blossom and summer heather greets me inside the hollow. Grisly moss, thick as a curtain, has grown over the rock. The underground passage is narrow and dark.

  ‘How far does it go?’

  ‘Crawl in and see,’ she replies, ‘to your left.’ I can barely hear her. She is still above ground. ‘Feel your way along.’ She calls down to me. ‘It leads to a chamber. You will see better there. The space gets wider.’

  In the innermost chamber, under its roof of stone, the air feels warm in spite of freezing cold outside. Not much daylight through the moss-covered gap, but enough to see that the earthen cave has been altered from its natural state, swept clean, lined with scraps of wood, and put in good order, evidently the work of many visits.

  The cave-floor, like Hethrun’s lodge at Suthyre, is tamped hard, covered in straw, but the straw here is sweetened with clover-buds and heather. Boards of weathered driftwood have been clinkered haphazardly to the walls, and a bench, a rowing-bench from a shipwrecked skiff, is wedged tight, like a baulk, to hold the clinkered wood against the turf.

  The kerling has followed me into the chamber, crawling on hands and knees. The height of the roof allows no room to stand. I smell the chill from the frost on her skirts.

  ‘You will carry me here,’ she says quietly. ‘This is where I must start my journey when the time comes.’ She takes my silence as understanding, my nod for an answer. ‘Kregin, listen to me, I will show you how to seal the entrance, how to close me in, not forgetting Ikki and Ogg — they must be with me too.’

  My sadness turns instantly to laughter. ‘How will I get those two rascals to come? Follow me to Skagi ness? No chance. And be coaxed into this hole? Forget it. They won’t come down here at my bidding.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she says, ‘leave it to me. I will see to Ikki and Ogg. Whether duped or doped — or by free will — they will come.’

  *

  A voice breaks into my morning dreams. ‘I have told you before,’ says the kerling. ‘I can’t do a thing to ease your cramps. You will have to grin and bear it.’

  The voice jolts me awake — it is the third morning that I have overslept in the lodge. Half-asleep, taking her words as intended for me, with a yawn, I push open the bunk-door to shake a leg, but as soon as I put feet on the floor I realise it is not me she is talking to. We have a visitor.

  It’s Knara, Viggi Karghyllson’s wife, Olaf’s daughter as was. The poor girl is upset, face swollen with tears. She is expecting her first child, and by the looks of her size and shape, she is going to be a mother sooner than thought.

  ‘Alright, alright,’ says Hethrun, relenting of her harsh tone. ‘Let’s see; let’s see.’ She begins to stroke Knara’s belly. ‘I will give you a tincture, a small dose to calm your waters, but listen to me, girl, you’d be better staying at Skogurdale with your man, not traipsing through the snow. Don’t worry. Your baby will be fine.’

  At the sight of me, Knara breaks into tears. Hethrun turns to greet me with a hard look. ‘Up at last, are you? The floor needs to be mucked out. You better see to it. And Ogg is itching for air.’

  The goat has made free overnight with his droppings on the straw. ‘What about something to eat, first?’

  ‘Never mind food, make yourself scarce. I’ll tell you when to bring in the goat.’

  From the door, with dung-pail in hand, I catch a glimpse of Hethrun’s heavy arm on Knara, and the girl being pushed brusquely to the floor. Later, I hear a scream from inside. Hethrun’s face appears at the lodge door. It’s beginning to snow. ‘You better come,’ she says. ‘I need you. No, no, leave Ogg where he is. Peg him down in the ice.’

  At the gable end of the lodge, in a dark corner away from the fire, Knara squats hunkered on the floor, her body naked but for a shift tucked up to the breasts, her thighs wet with birth waters and sweat. There in half shadow she moves to and fro, rocking like a skiff on a wave. The girl is straining to force the baby through. With each thrust she holds breath, grits teeth, her chin jutting out with jaws clenched. Between thrusts she lets out a wail of pain.

  Hethrun has a worried look, but keeps a calm voice. ‘Knara, leave off pushing, let me lie under you. I will push from below. We will do it together. Kregin, hold out your hands between her legs. Get ready to catch the infant’s head.’ Knara turns her head away.

  The kerling, seeing my hesitation, shoves me into place, making me kneel in front of Knara’s knees. ‘Watch out, lad. The new-born will be slippery — this is no game of knatt. I don’t want you dropping the catch.’

  In the tight, dark space Hethrun wriggles to get below Knara. Once in position, she eases the girl’s body off the floor, grasping the ribs under her breasts, pushing up the swollen belly — as far as it will go — stretching the bulge till it is hard as a hammerhead. The girl’s open cleft is birth-widening under my nose, her unshod feet kicking against my upper arms. With Knara naked before me, I see her white flesh covered in bruises.

  Knara has dug her nails in the kerling’s wrists. She won’t let go, won’t loosen her grip, even during the respite between spasms. Hethrun is near to exhaustion, her eye-lids heavy, fighting sleep and fatigue, but still she holds Olaf’s daughter, her hands over the girl’s midriff, waiting for the next convulsions to come.

  Dark in the lodge, no flame from the hearth. Numbness in my knees, in my arms. Late in the day, nothing to show for it: no reward for the girl’s courage or Hethrun’s exertions; Knara is worn out, straddled over Hethrun, still the child unborn.

  The gable door blasts open in the wind — my fault for not bolting it. A blizzard blows outside. It sends flurries of snow through the lodge door, not reaching the corner where we are, but melting on warm stones of the hearth. Dark outside, getting darker in the lodge; the fire is low and untended. Ogg is left out in icy wind and snow. He is going crazy.

  ‘Leave the door,’ snaps Hethrun, ‘stay where you are. And let him howl,’ she says of the goat.

  ‘How much longer?’ pleads Olaf’s daughter.

  The lodge is cold. The gable door rattles, slamming open and shut. The birth labours begin again, tensing the girl’s buttocks and thighs. The spasms take hold. Knara thrusts and wails. Hethrun keeps pace with the girl’s pangs, sucking in air, holding breath, gasping out mid-convulsion like the birthing mother — as if she were the one in labour — while all through the spasm, she kneads Knara’s swollen belly, her bony fingers pressing on the jutting hammerhead of flesh. Drained of strength, in respite from the pangs, the girl sags listless and limp in the old woman’s embrace.

  ‘What do you see, Kregin?’ Hethrun gasps, ‘Is the head pushing through?’ Olaf’s daughter groans. ‘Hell’s teeth,’ yells Hethrun. ‘What do you see, lad? It must be through!’ No time to answer. The baby’s head bursts into view, puncturing the mother-cleft and spilling blood on Knara’s thighs — not a full head, but a little, wrinkled scalp, freed as far as the brow. Forward it presses and stops, half-in, half-out, caught between one world and another.

  ‘It’s coming!’

  ‘Head-first or not?’ shouts Hethrun in a rage.

  ‘The head is through!’

  ‘The head has turned.’ Relief from Hethrun; ‘Keep going, girl, you will be fine.’

  Knara pushes and strains. The new-born’s eyes are tight-shut; chin, lips, cheeks, nose puckered in a single pout. The tiny head holds still — motionless — no more through as yet — no pushing arm or fist. It makes me wonder whether this will be a life gained or a life lost.

  My hands and fingers are cold as ice. The gable door batters on its hinges. I pinch the infant’s cheeks with my thumbs to unplug the nose and mouth — it is what Sepp taught me to do, years ago in Thwartdale, to unloose a dozy lamb from a birthing ewe. The baby’s f
lesh is red-ripe as summer fruit, hot to the touch of my fingers. I pinch again, firmly, and see froth pour from the infant’s mouth.

  Knara screams. And with her scream, the baby plunges into the world — plunges into my hands — first one shoulder, then an arm fists through, now the other; now all of the child. A little half-scream comes, as if answering the mother scream: Knara’s baby girl, her tiny buttocks slippery in the cup of my hand.

  ‘Wake up, Hethrun, wake up! It’s done.’ And in the young mother’s ear, I whisper, ‘Look at her, Knara, she’s perfect — a little girl.’ The girl’s eyes flicker open. I put the infant to her breast.

  ‘Sigi’s daughter,’ she cries, ‘Sigi’s, it must be his. Look at her. She is beautiful.’

  Chapter 26

  The frozen Os is grey, brittle underfoot. The sky is sunless — heavy and uneven — like the bashed lid of an iron pot pressing on the fiord. People have gathered along the four edges of our skating rink, spectators for the battle to come. A few are wearing skates, but most have boots on — gritted with coarse river-sand to stop them from slipping on the ice.

  Haldis is weighed down in sealskin wraps, gloves of fox-fur tied to the wrist, and shod in sturdy winter clogs, well-gritted for her by Bera. She has come without a walking cane; it would be a hazard on the ice. To keep balance her arms are set on her hips akimbo. A hearty laugh from Haldis echoes over the Os — an approving laugh of delight — when she sees her brother. Sigi spins on his skates, spins twice, spins a third time, does a fancy ‘yule-step’, his word for a tip-toe. To show off in front of the crowd he cart-wheels effortlessly, as if the frozen estuary, and not solid ground, were his natural element.

  Haldis wouldn’t be here but for Sigi. He pestered her till she agreed to come. He threatened to drop out of the team, surrender his place — to Olaf of all people — and throw his skates in the fire. He would never slam another ball on the ice, he said, unless she came to watch him in the challenge against Klepjarn’s men.

  Not that she believed a word of it. She wasn’t swayed by Sigi's threats or tantrums, only that it was proof of his love, and showed his need of her praise. Sisterly love softened her in the end. She gave in, as we knew she would.

  Yesterday by horse and sleigh Haldis arrived for the feast at Klepjarns-stead. It is unheard-of for her to set foot on Laxvik shore. She did it solely to please her brother. She wouldn’t have left her hearth on Thor’s day for anyone else — even for Father — and now, the morning-after-yule, she has hobbled out bravely onto the ice to watch our game of knatt.

  Bera and Svena are skating arm in arm. They have been like that all morning. Earlier they were on the far side of the Os, circling the shore. Now they have ventured as far as the salmon nets at the ford, where the river is iced-over. Like other skaters out for fun, they have been told to keep off the rink where our match will be played.

  There they are again. I can make them out in the distance. Even from here, I know it’s them. There is a crowd of girls on skates across the river, youngsters in twos and threes, a string of five holding hands, but what makes our girls stand out are the precious pelts brought by Geir. Bera’s figure — fur-clad in white — seems to glide like a graceful swan against the frozen grey of the estuary.

  Last night, on yule-fires’ night, a beacon was lit high on Vorgha fell. It couldn’t be seen from Laxvik shore. The skies by the Os were black, overcast with icy mist. We had the great fire at Klepjarns-stead to keep us warm and bright — the fire was fuelled by a sleigh-load of timber sent by father from Finn’s wood.

  Guothie Klep always throws his night feast to greet the arrival of Thor’s day and mark the turn of the year. We would have had our own gathering at Osvellir — our usual spread of meats and ale for all comers — but this year Father agreed to accept Klep’s invitation and cancel ours. It made sense to be here for yule. The great thing is that we will have our people on hand to watch the game, otherwise we wouldn’t have their vocal support on the day. And it saved an early start for the players — not to mention a dark, uncertain journey for us in the snow — we will be short of daylight for the game as it is.

  We are all here, close family, farm hands, tenants, fisher folk from Klettur Os — some forty Njelson people in all — staying overnight in the long hall at Klepjarns-stead or in one of the connecting barns.

  The Karghylls turned up yesterday without Knara. Viggi made the excuse that his wife couldn’t travel with a new-born at the breast, but day hadn’t darkened before the truth leaked out. Everyone knows who fathered Knara’s baby. It was common knowledge that the girl was taking savage beatings from her husband, but the revelation that Sigi was carrying on with Viggi’s wife has put another worm in the broth. I don’t know where the story came from — not from me anyway. Knara is afraid of Viggi. She refuses to be his wife. Hethrun has been keeping the girl safe at Suthyre and won’t let anyone come near her or her baby.

  Karghyll is in dispute over the price he paid for his son’s runaway bride. Last night, in front of the guests, he challenged Olaf. He wants the bride-swag returned, every last scrap: pork and cheese, brine-stock and pickle-tub.

  Olaf can’t pay and won’t pay. He says that Karghyll should look elsewhere for compensation. The crofter-man has disowned his daughter. He is not brave enough to say it in front of Father, but he blames the break-up on Sigi. During the feast, last night, Father put on a brave face and kept out of the argument. But you can bet your life he will be chewing it over with Sigi as soon as we are home.

  Our folk from over the Os weren’t the only ones invited to Klepjarn’s hall for yule. Before the snows fell a month back, Helga’s uncle, Morfin Skarson, dumb as you please, arrived on the doorstep to stay with his sons and their wives. Bane and Gunnar are not overly grateful for their father’s visit. They know full well he will expect to live off them, scoffing their stores and grog till the winter is through.

  Mord Asgrimson is here too, sent by Asgrim to gather information ahead of the kaupships coming to Long-fiord next summer. The story put about is that he is here to talk with Klep about wool and trade. Cuin, being of a suspicious frame of mind, says there must be more to it than that.

  *

  Father should have been guest of honour at Klepjarns-stead, his right and due, since Klep is always welcomed as our chief guest when he comes to Osvellir, but last night Morfin — old stutter-mouth — was given pride of place on top-bench by the host, and Mord took second spot, which meant that Father was ousted from his seat at the high table. He seemed to take the slight in good heart, judging from his outward demeanour.

  The arrangements backfired on Klep. Morfin is not a man for speeches, and as the night wore on, Mord was too drunk to get to his feet. It fell to Father to toast Klepjarn on behalf of the guests and offer thanks for hospitality.

  Of course, he took his chance to poke fun at our host. Guothie Klep’s face was red with embarrassment by the time Father had finished. No one can tell a cheeky story — one that hits the mark and raises a laugh — like a man of the law.

  *

  Grey ice, sunless sky, a mid-day Os wind sharpening over the ice. People have drifted to their chosen side of the rink — either shore-end or offshore-end — depending on which five skaters they favour. Women keep together; their children pushed in front, and behind them the men-folk, every man the worse for drink, light-headed from a night of tippling grog, and made twice as cheerful by this morning’s ale. The men find it hard to keep on their feet, and yet it is no one’s fault but theirs that the surface has become slippery. They relieve themselves at will, passing water where they stand, making yellow stains on the ice the colour of yesterday’s grog.

  Our Njelson crowd has massed at the shore-end to cheer us on. Cuin, with his back turned to the women, adds more colour to the ice, Snorri at it too. Olaf looks cold and glum. Haldis is in good heart. She shares a laugh with her dairy girls. Olaf’s wife fusses over her youngest, her other children shivering in rags. The fish wives and the men from Klett
ur Os are in high spirits. One young fisherman, Yarg by name, lies flat out, dead drunk on the ice. His brothers — in stitches of laughter — try to wrestle him to his feet.

  *

  ‘Hola!’ cries Uncle. ‘Too fast, you two!’

  Bera skates plumb into Olaf’s family. Svena flips sheer at her heels, skating too lively to turn, or stop. Both take a tumble, giggling, skidding, sliding, scattering the bairns. Bera lies on the ice, playing dead. The little ones jump on her, cuddling, snuggling among her white furs. She kisses them, gives hugs to all, rolls over and over, joining in the fun. Svena is on her feet, chasing two toddlers. The youngsters run to escape under Cuin’s legs, skidding on the yellow ice, almost taking Yarg off his feet.

  You can’t miss Gudrun and Grima, their clipped chins jutting out, red-raw from the cold, eyes and nose hidden in black furs. They stand cheek by jowl with Karghyll’s women. Blot’s wife is here, and their daughter-in-law Idris, fat as a woolpack, another child on the way.

  All Laxdale has turned out at the offshore-end to raise a shout against us, salmon-fishers, bog-diggers alike — from old man Djup to the smallest babe in arms — every man, woman and child shouting for Klep. Red-beards from Blot’s neck of the woods, and Karghyll’s kin from Skogurdale, are lined up with the Laxdale folk. Karghyll won’t stand next to Olaf. Nowadays he and Blot are bosom pals. You wouldn’t think that a year or two back they were at the other’s throats over a stupid whale.

  Spectators at both ends are getting noisy, the clamour from our side louder than theirs, no question about it. We have the women of Klettur Os. No one can outdo a fishwife from Kletturvik, not in a slanging match. Thanks to them, our Njelson folk are beating the hell out of Klep’s end for noise. And take a look at Svena, girning like an idiot with her tongue on her nose. Now that’s what I call cheek — she is pulling a face to spite Blot’s wife.

  We have been ready for ages — our five — all of us itching for battle, but we can’t make a start till the big men turn up — I mean Father and Klep. No sign of Morfin. I doubt if he will stir from the hearth. Nothing worse than killing time, hanging about in frosty air, going through your paces to keep warm. Geir, Sigi and I have stripped off our furs to skate in serks and breeches. The weight hampers your batting-arm and slows your limbs.