by Ken Hagan
We keep on the move to stay warm, skating past them, skating right under their noses. We stare without blinking — give a mean look, hard as nails — if one of their five dares look one of us in the eye.
Geir and Lar are skating end-line to end-line, ducking, weaving, dodging pretended tackles, leaping knee-high over imagined hurdles with all the bravado they can muster. Bane and Gunnar swing their bats, practise volleys, overhead hits, ground shots, backhand, fore-hand — tame stuff, barely working up a sweat — but now they shape more lively as they pass by their wives, showing off, striking the air.
Gunnar, confident of victory, rehearses a match-winning hurl of the ball. Skinny Grima goes daft with pride; she jumps, slips on the ice, clutches Gudrun. Her sister saves her from falling, but her husband, speeding past, sees none of it.
Mord, Viggi and Grith were pot-partners at the feast. They didn’t leave off drinking till dawn. For them gingerly does it over the ice. They are too addled yet for sport, their eyes blinking and bleary, skating shoulder to shoulder, all three huddled to the neck in furs. If they don’t sweat off last night’s grog before the start, they will be a push-over; they will spill spread-eagled at the least contact from us. No practice shots from them: their hurling-bats are abandoned somewhere on the ice.
Ulph will be our man of defence on the end-line. He is back there, sitting on his own, adjusting shin-guards made from tree-bark, his fingers tight-bound for grip and protection. He hopes that bast-tape will save his shins and fists from bruises, but I wouldn’t bet on it. Those breeches he wears are mine — too big for him, full of holes. He cuts a comic sight. If Ulph doesn’t bring us luck, wrapped-up like a bandage, I don’t know what will.
No sign yet of Klep or Father and — as we expected — no show either from Morfin. Crowds thicken at their end of the rink, stragglers, arriving late for the fun, stamping over the lines that should mark the rink. They press the ones-in-front-of-them, pushing inward, narrowing the field of play. Markings were done to set the bounds. Blot’s men did the measuring, using taut ropes as guides and laying down red dust from Klepjarn’s forge to create regular lines on the ice. It was a waste of time. The red touchlines are no longer to be seen, smudged underfoot by sandy boots, discoloured by yellow stains. The late arrivals are setting their own bounds. We wait for the big men to turn up. We can’t start without them. So much daylight has been lost. Guothie Klep is to blame for the delay. Trust him to have waylaid Father in the hall.
Sigi and I are chasing tag for want of anything better to do. We switch tag, Sigi’s hand to mine, mine to his, now mine again and back to him, neither of us in earnest, neither of us bothered who holds tag, but it does us good to raise the tempo, drawing in deep breaths of frosty air — no better way to get rid of a sluggish head.
‘Tame stuff, you two!’ shouts Cuin. ‘What is the point of tag-chasing like that?’
‘Put some needle in it!’ Olaf’s voice behind me. ‘Call yourselves tag-skaters?’
‘Next time, Kregin,’ says Uncle, ‘when Sigi comes to ditch the tag, leave him for dead, make off!’
Olaf snivels again. ‘Do as your uncle says! Young master is always up to pranks. Ruffle his feathers. Give him a taste, for a change.’
Cuin guffaws, sneezes in his beard, swears like a fishwife. Olaf’s wife grabs her youngest and holds him up to see. Even she has caught the excitement. Snorri Harelip in tears of laughter, Bera, Svena urging me on. Our crowd roaring for me, Olaf loudest of all. Only Yarg looks out of it, his cheeks bloated with grog, eyes like slits, he can barely see.
The tag is on Sigi. He can’t get rid of it. I skate off, taunting him, daring him to catch me over the ice. Sigi gives lip and more. He yells at me; shakes his bat. He is after me, giving chase with a roguish glint in his eye. He comes close to the edge the crowd near Olaf’s children — he reaches out to tag me. I scrape ice, surge off, away from his clutches, skimming past Svena, ducking recklessly under-arm to escape. Haldis sways to her right, hot-foot on her clogs, almost losing her feet.
Now this next prank of mine will rile Sigi. I circle Ulph, circle again tantalisingly, giving my brother a target to hit. He is down on me, down on Ulph and me, flying straight as a hawk. I feint left, dodge right, leaving him to flounder — he flies smack-bang into Ulph. Sigi is back on his feet, helped by Ulph and — look at his speed — he will catch me this time — no way to lose him, hemmed in as I am — on Klep’s end — by the heckling crowd. Nothing for it but to break through on the offshore-end, to go beyond the bounds.
I make for a gap. Blot’s wife moves, but Idris is slow on her feet. I can’t bang into her — not with a bairn in her belly. I mis-time the spin, turning Gudrun over, spilling her skinny sister too, black furs and all. The four women roll on the ice, but I’ve broken through the gap. I am off over the Os, skating outside the rink of play, leaving the crowd behind, speeding mindlessly into thin ice by Osvik shore. And Sigi is after me.
I hear cracking under my skates, come to a crunching halt. At this end of the shore where I have turned sharply, I will have to stop — or risk taking a plunge into icy water. The surface is cracking, the ice sinking under my weight; breaking up like cobbled paves, splitting, separating. Water spills over my feet.
‘No, Sigi, not here, watch out! You are sinking. Go back before it’s too late!’
*
Word comes from the hall. Klep and Father are held up — some business to deal with. Morfin is with them too. We are to start the match without them.
*
One-up to us, early in the game. Geir opens the score — a brilliant solo run that silences the offshore-end and has our end chain-dancing mad on the ice. But after Geir’s flash of brilliance we are at stalemate — no touchdowns, no line-passes to celebrate at either end. Not that they push for a score. Their tactics are to “stand-off”; wait for us to come at them, and then hammer us with fierce tackles. Theirs is a solid wall of defence, four men back, only one up front — that is Viggi. And he is easy to contend with; he is dozy from grog. Ulph, sporting his billowing breeches, easily holds him off. We come off worse in clashes near their line. Their tackles are spoiling. They force errors and falls — they do nothing but hammer our shins and ankles.
Attack and attack from Sigi and Geir, the best skaters on the rink, attack and attack, but what’s the good of it? Gunnar and Bane don’t go for bat or ball. Their hits are aimed at our legs. As for Mord, his strikes are high and dangerous, meant for body and head. Mord is not fast enough to catch Geir in a head-jammer. Geir is too smart; he keeps out of harm’s way. Sigi’s face is black and blue from elbow and fist, every blow dealt by Mord.
‘Take that, you big shit.’ Gunnar hollers in my ear, sends me skidding to a fall.
‘I have it,’ shouts Lar. He hooks his bat through Gunnar’s legs, retrieves the ball.
‘I have nailed him,’ shouts Bane. He has robbed the ball from Lar — clever stuff, sliding it with a back-flip to his twin brother. Gunnar skates too fast to intercept the pass, overshoots the ball. The ball is running to Geir — no, it is not — Sigi is closer.
‘It is yours,’ cries Geir. He points his bat — a signal in knatt — leaving it to my brother.
‘Mine!’ shouts Mord, and he rams Sigi, intent on doing harm. Blood on the ice! Mord’s blood, not Sigi’s. Mord is cut above the eye — serve the bastard right.
*
Patched up with a bandage, Gudrun’s work, Mord is back in the fray. Worse luck for Sigi, Mord is after him harder than before.
‘Take him, Grith,’ shouts Viggi, ‘take him.’ Grith swipes his bat, flat-blading into Sigi’s ribs. Sigi is down and winded.
‘Get up, Sigi,’ cries Lar, ‘for Thor’s sake, get up.’
‘Get his fecking legs,’ shouts Mord. That’s meant for me. Grith is after me, he hurls his bat between my skates, sends me headlong into the crowd. Idris, laughing, helps me to my feet.
*
Still only one touchdown. Geir’s run-over is all that separat
es the teams. We are ahead, but only by a single score. All to play for.
We are near dusk, with sunless, darkening skies. The ball is hard to see when on the ice and — if it’s struck in the air — we lose sight of it altogether. It’s anyone’s guess where it might fall. Klep’s men have brought out flaring torches onto the ice, not to shed light on rink or players, but to lead the crowds back to the hall when the game is over.
Father comes at last, followed, shortly after, by Klep. Their faces under torchlight have the same joyless smile. Almost dark now, and in the last stages of the game, it falls to Klep on his home turf to call an end to play, but of course he won’t — not while his five are behind.
The bound-lines are overrun, crowds pressing in. The space that’s left is no wider than two ship-lengths. With little more than half a rink to play in, it is easy for dullards like Viggi and Grith. They can block and maim without having to skate or show much skill. No scope for our best man. No width for Geir to circle their defence. Sigi out of it again, down, this time he’s taken a hammering from Viggi.
Disaster! Gunnar’s dash past the end-line has equalled the scores. His speed and guile leaves Ulph standing. While Gunnar’s touch-down was being made, Sigi down, from Viggi’s blows; Lar embroiled in a bust-up with Grith; my legs kick-tripped by Bane. Geir Idgarson, alone from our five, drops his bat and applauds the score.
Thor strike him dead! But Gunnar is good, you have to admire him. No wonder the offshore-end to a man has converged on their hero. Gunnar lifts Grima to his shoulders and glides with his wife the length of the rink. The rabble on offshore-end follow in celebration. Jeers our end, cheers from theirs. Our fishwives taunt them rotten, but this time, the Laxdale wives give it back and more.
Only four of us without Sigi, four left standing. How can we keep them out? We can’t hope to stem the flood with only four on the ice. We need Sigi for the re-start or we face a beating. The girls round him, he is down, dazed, bruised; they fuss over him, checking limb by limb.
‘Haldis,’ I shout in my sister’s ear. ‘Any broken bones?’
She shapes her mouth to answer amid the noise. ‘No.’
One of Sigi’s skates is off; ankle bindings shredded by Viggi’s crunching tackle.
‘Can you hear me, Sigi? Answer me, brother.’ He comes round, fear in his eyes, something I have not seen before.
‘Come, lad,’ says Cuin, his words slurring badly. ‘The others are waiting, they need you.’
‘Young master.’ Snorri pleading, face red-raw with wind and grog. ‘Get up, master! Give that bastard Mord a taste of your bat.’
‘I would.’ Sigi points to his foot. ‘I would if I had a blade to skate on.’
Haldis pulls a thong from her gloves, a braided tie-lace around the fox-fur at her wrists; she hands it to me. ‘Here Kregin, use this, long enough, isn’t it?’
Nodding, I take the leather lace from her. I kneel and fasten the glide to Sigi’s boot, binding it twice, tight to his ankle. My brother looks at me accusingly. Snorri and I help him to his feet.
‘Sigi, Sigi, Sigi!’ Chants from Bera and Svena; roars from the fish wives, ‘Sigi, don’t let us down.’ This last call to battle — the stern shout from Haldis — rings in our ears.
Dusk falling, the rink black under our feet. More torches lit, shining moons on the ice, they glow on a hundred watching faces.
At the re-start, a quick shuffle by Geir, a dummy, a shimmy, a break for the line, his sliding pass, through Grith’s legs, is hit the full length of the rink towards Sigi. My brother finds second wind, makes a racing forward run. If he can get to it, this could be a run-over, our last chance for a winning score.
But Sigi, what in Thor’s name is he doing? He is sprinting in-field, sprinting away from the ball. Flying like the wind, my brother skates to Mord Asgrimson. Hell’s teeth — Sigi has smacked him — hammered his bat into the bandaged face — smashed right into Mord, nose and brow. Mord slumps to the ice in a puddle of wet. Grith and Viggi stand and gape, motionless. Taken by surprise, we all stand motionless too. But no — not all! Bane and Gunnar bear down on Sigi. Bane reaches him first. Sigi stands firm. He slams his bat on the twin’s neck, below the ear. Bane’s arms go limp — he falls like a sack.
Gunnar makes a grab for Sigi. My brother steps back; takes aim with his bat. Crowd and players rush across the rink. Too late! My brother brings down the bat — strikes behind his opponent’s leg, below the knee and we can all hear the snap of a man’s bone breaking. Gunnar buckles under the blow.
Chapter 27
The great feast for our leaf-god Vali has come and gone, an end to winter. At Osvik, in what was Finn’s steading, we awake to brighter days, to muddy mornings damp and mild. The woodlands swarm with thrushes. Redwings, flown home to mate from overseas, are nesting in the silvery birch-tops, and from the moment light breaks over the Os — while the birds scramble to build among the trees — we hear frantic birdsong and chatter.
A whiff of pitch-tar hangs around the steading: Cuin-rua has been sealing the winter leaks under the eaves, brushing pine-resin into the gaps where he can see timber joints stained by dripping ice. From our makeshift lambing-barn comes a ripe smell of ewes in lamb, only five to start with, in our first year. Their black snouts sniff noiselessly in the air. Each mother-to-be waits for the moment of birthing.
From the fells rushing melt-waters of snow carry iron-red sludges and sulphur-mud, and, from the bogs above the steading, hundreds of streams flood into the swollen river at Osvik. Grey-goose, duck and swan move in pairs among the reeds. Every sight and sound, every reek and hue, every breath of air through the leafy woodlands is a welcome proof of spring.
We are in Finn’s wood again today, the three of us, felling trees. Sigi and I man the two-handed saw. The felled birch-trunks we split by axe and wedge, cutting length-wise into timber boards. Lar has the job of skinning tree-bark off the younger logs for use as bast or twine. He trims branch and twig for kindling, nothing wasted, sawdust set aside for the pig-pen.
We still call it Finn’s wood, but the woodlands no longer belong to Finn. Lar’s step-father left our shores last summer on a kaupship returning east. All the land formerly his is now ours, foreshore to fell, paid for in hard silver.
The upper meadows, where the ice-slip ran down from Grisedale tarn, still lies under mud, but spring-grass has taken hold on lower ground. That spring-grass has been our salvation. Without grazing, without the prospect of a working farm on offer, our bid to win Helga might have failed at the last hurdle.
Father was determined not to be outbid by Asgrim. To close the deal with Idgar, he has put up Finn’s land — with steading and woodlands — as surety for Helga when she weds. Half-share of everything will be hers, half-share mine, as soon as we are married.
Travelling twice over the fells in two weeks, Geir carried the news hot-foot between us and his father to say that it was a done deal. Helga won’t be able to leave home right away, on account of her mother being so poorly, but as Cuin says, we have time to make Osvik steading ‘perfect for a bride’.
There is another side to the tale. Laugdale and Skogurdale are now in Klepjarn’s possession. It came as a shock when Father broke news of the sale. Unknown to us, he had been talking it over on the quiet with guothie Klep. He and Klep reached agreement on the night of Thor’s feast. The loose ends were tied up the morning after, when Morfin was on hand to witness the deal — it explains why they were late coming to watch us on the ice. Cuin took no part in the proceedings. Uncle was too drunk to be of help. The sale took him as much by surprise as it did Haldis and Sigi.
Blot and Karghyll are no longer tenants of ours. From this summer their hustings vote will be Klep’s for the asking, their land, lease and produce, in trust to him. Father says we have done well from it — or we will have done, when the exchange is all complete. Beyond recouping what was paid for Finn’s land, we will add to the size of our herd. We are taking ten-score yearlings in return for Karghyll’s lease, a
nd another six-score for Blot’s.
The sheep are not yet in our folds. We are to get two instalments from Klep, payable on the hoof. The first will be delivered at roundup — once the gelded lambs are summer-hardened on Vorgha fell — the second hand-over promised by the following winter-fall. At Osvellir Father will accept for himself only black wethers, heavy-fleeced blackies, making two hundred of the total, to build up his wool herd. The balance, one-hundred and twenty yearling ewes, brown, black or white — whatever turns up — are earmarked for me, a mix of breeding stock for Osvik.
The idea of selling land south of the estuary is not new. Father has been mulling it over for years. None of us thought it would come to anything. We are used to hearing gloomy talk by a winter hearth — everything looks bleak when weather is harsh and days are short. That’s when Haldis goes through accounts in her head, reeling off bad debts from memory, saying how much rent is overdue.
Farming in Laugdale and Skogurdale has never been good, for us or the tenants. Rents are always behind — one excuse after another — and seven years back the ash rains took a toll on fell and fodder. The leases to Blot and Karghyll, and to their fathers before them, have been in the family since the time of Sigi’s grandfather Njel. It was always understood that their tenancies would pass intact to Sigi.
Haldis is hard-headed about it. She is glad to see the back of Blot and his wife. She never saw eye to eye with the folks in Laugdale, and with the dispute brewing over Knara’s daughter — and the finger pointed at Sigi — she holds a grudge against Karghyll and son. She calls Viggi a little runt, and worse.
‘They were not good tenants,’ I heard her say yesterday. ‘They cost us more than they paid. I tell you, Bera, we are well rid of them.’