by Ken Hagan
‘From what I hear,’ says Djup, joining in the fun, ‘there’s more to it than magic.’
‘Nothing like having two women,’ says Pils, ‘two women to sweeten your grog!’ Blot makes a rude gesture with thumb and finger. ‘Double bubble in the mud, is it, little Knara and old Thrunny too?’
‘Aye,’ says Hals, to keep the banter going, ‘there’s life in the old ram yet.’
‘I know what you rascals are up to;’ returns Cuin good-naturedly, ‘but don’t imagine you can distract me.’
‘How’s that?’ asks Pils.
‘Muzzle and fuzzle all you want,’ replies Uncle, ‘but if any of your young men cross the line — if they make a run for it — if they gallop past the gate before I have dropped the starting-cloth, I will rule them out of the race. And then where will your wagers be?’
Thicket of men and horseflesh, horse-tails in the air, men’s knees and boots; riders agog, arms high, elbows out, sly kicks, back-heels and jabs, any edge to improve their chances, horses high-stepping, stamping in, stamping out, hardly space to put hoof down on sand. I’ve left Srelni un-shod — he will run smooth without shoes to hamper him. ‘A horse runs faster in the wild,’ as Father would have said. Some idiots have strapped crampons to their horses’ hooves. Studded horse-shoes are all very well for ice and snow, for mud riding and pulling a plough, but useless over sand.
I am anxious for Srelni in case his shins are cut by the iron studs of other horses — I nudge him from the bustle, and move clear, coming muzzle to muzzle with Mord’s mount, a soft-silver dapple, white mane and tail — a fine horse borrowed from Klep. Not for the first time I avoid Mord’s eyes. His dapple sidles past Srelni. Their flanks touch. Each horse gives a contemptuous swish of the tail.
Annoyed with myself, annoyed for not having faced up to Mord, I pull the sorrel to the back of the huddle, the sand here churned under hoof, mushy with horse waters, spillage from pails and un-gathered dung. I loosen the snaffle and let Srelni walk at will.
‘What are you doing back here?’ asks Geir, ‘I thought your idea was to stay wide, get off to a gentle start?’
‘Too many horses at the stone,’ my curt reply.
Geir has a blue dun, an old breed, snow-cap markings to forelock and mane.
‘Your dun is in fine fettle,’ shouts Viggi, admiring Geir’s horse. ‘You are in with a chance on him.’
Viggi is no slouch in the saddle, though he is a fool for fitting his horse with studded shoes. But, poor sod, he has had to make do with his da’s hand-me-down ride. The grey mare shows signs of age, flecks of brown on her withers.
‘Mine is too frisky today for my liking,’ replies Geir, ‘not half as safe as yours.’
Karghyll’s son nods to the compliment — if it is one — butts his way tail-first into the crowd, forcing Olaf on his mangy skewbald to dodge the heavy hindquarters of the mare.
‘Arsehole,’ shouts the crofter-man, backing off from the starting line.
‘Don’t worry, Olaf,’ says Lar, ‘you will be past him before he makes fallow dale.’
All eyes are on Gunnar’s mount, a filly of four years, strong, stocky; low-strung; her flaxen tail trailing the ground.
‘She has more to grow yet,’ says Lar — who knows a good horse when he sees one. ‘If she doesn’t do it this year, she will win next.’
‘Seated too far forward,’ Djup murmurs scathingly, ‘Gunnar is out of balance, he has all his weight on her shoulders.’
*
Signal for the off. I didn’t see it — didn’t see Cuin raise his hand — didn’t see the starting-cloth fall. A fierce hola, a long holaaaaa fills my ears. Urging cries; horse-lungs soughing; whistles, roars, yells, oaths of encouragement.
Over the race-line, ‘Away! Away! Away!’
In front of me horses passing the gate; tails swirling; churning hoof; beating sand. Srelni follows. Can’t hold him — my will lost to his — his will lost to the torrent of the chase.
My eyes slit-closed, tongue spitting dust, sand in my face, can’t see a thing, the sorrel’s moving flesh powerful under me — full tolt, not as I planned, but a beautiful gliding gait, full tolt without shoes, smooth almost as other horses canter. The others are already at the gallop. I have grit in my eyes — all around me is a blur — am I the only one trailing?
Srelni slows, an act of will on his part — not mine. He lets me control from the snaffle, lets me hold his head. At last with my eyes clear I can take stock — no runners on either flank — but shadows behind me two runners, two horses back there. Karghyll’s old mare is at a standstill, dropping dung and water — Viggi off her back, smacking his horse’s neck. Another runner has stalled — gelding, brindled markings — Djup’s mount, rider-less, nosing the ground. And Djup, where is he? Another quick glance behind, and I see Blot helping someone — it was Djup — to his feet. Cuin is off the piebald and he’s helping too; he must have had a sly bet on the Laxvik man. Tough luck on him!
Can’t see for dust. Srelni responds to my pull; gnashes his teeth, salt and grit on his lips. Best to slow down — to bide my time till riders ahead have thinned out. Within sight, behind me are the chasers — betting men, young Pilson at their head — with the old set, Asgrim, Klep, Karghyll and Cuin, and a crowd of hangers-on. Once out of the marshes, they will take the narrow causeway in single file to fallow-river-ford, and catch up there.
Sanderlings take to the sky in one dark eruption from the marshes, startled at the sight of horses throwing dust, at the thud of hoofs on hardened clay. Their flight overhead dulls the brightness of the morning, but the sky no sooner dulls than it clears — the birds sweep up-estuary to settle at the mouth of fallow-river.
To firmer ground inland — and better going for the horses — away from the marshes, that is where the runners are headed, to the edge of camp, where the dog-fights are held. There, waiting for us, is a crowd of women and children, servants and slaves, a few men, men too lazy or too old for the chase, and a mounted horse or two. Sadly, no Bera and no Svena to urge us on — the girls have returned to Osvellir. Our herd’s milk is in surplus and Haldis needs all hands to the butter-tub.
While we make a long, swerving turn to our right, the riders who have set the pace come into sight. I can see gaps between. Olaf is in the lead on skewbald, and at his back, three horse-lengths off, but gaining, Gunnar on flaxen filly. Chasing them is Geir on blue dun, neck and neck with Lar. Our big bay horse carries him well.
After the front-runners, the next four, Vorgha men, on darks and greys, riding knee to knee, tight as four fingers on a fist; Grith from Laugdale hard on them, his mare strap-shod like his brother’s, his mount the second-best horse from Blot’s farm, her fine head bridled close, her young shoulders grooved from wearing a plough halter. Mord is at Grith’s tail, his borrowed dapple in comfortable gait, silvery mane tousled by the wind, a good-looking horse, Mord riding him easy.
All these six, including Mord, are well-placed behind the front four. Gunnar has passed Olaf — he’s pulling ahead on the flaxie. The pace quickens. The gap widens between Mord and me. I have had enough of lagging behind — I lean into the turn, press Srelni on, take him from tolt to gallop, and from gallop to a full skight. The sorrel loves it, but it’s too soon to be pushing my horse. Too soon. I shouldn’t give a damn for Mord or the crowd; for jeering red-beards from Laugdale — old insults in my ears. I hear Idris above the rest, her laughter, screeching after me, ‘Fly, bird man, fly!’ Grith has heard the bird-call; he snatches a look, leering at me, with his silly grin.
A womanly figure stands out from the crowd — young widow Gudrun — on show for the riders, mounted on one of her father’s horses. She is seated on a saddle of wood to support her bottom-girth, in best apron, with the look of someone who thinks she is a cut above the rest. I catch a glimpse of her feet, fat and bare, resting on the horse’s withers. She won’t be a widow for long — that’s what the gossip says. Word has it that before summer she will be married to Mord. At the sight of
Gudrun on the saddle-tree, I feel a sickening anger in my throat — anger for Sigi’s sake.
Mord, heedless of the race, stays his horse in front of Gudrun. She throws him a keepsake from her purse. Women mill around the guothie’s daughter, Laxvik women, whooping, cheering; blocking the causeway. Mord rides away with his bauble — he judges his moment well, pushes me wide.
Grima is running after Gunnar, baby shawled in her arms. It is reckless of her. She has no hope of catching her husband. Gunnar is pressing down the causeway — stretching his lead over Olaf — the filly’s blond tail flies in the air. Grima comes to a stop, eyes fixed on Gunnar and horse. She watches her husband, with Olaf after him, disappear in the dust. All of a sudden, she becomes aware of other riders — Geir and Lar beating down on her, and hot after them, the Vorgha men and Grith.
In panic, she darts left, darts right. Stupid girl, she will be mown down! Now what? She steps plumb across the path of Lar! Lar swerves; pulls up short, he has to stop dead, or trample her under hoof. But no! Grima has fallen! She trips, falls, her baby tumbles from the shawl. She hurls her outstretched arms over the fallen bundle.
Lar, at once to the ground, his lean figure over mother and baby, shielding them from running horses; Vorgha men passing either side, missing Lar’s arching body; Mord passing on left. I make a wide berth to the right, get a sight of blood on the child’s blanket, under Grima’s arms. Lar’s horse has run off. His race is finished.
Near fallow-river ford Olaf’s horse begins to flag, the hardy old skewbald broken, outridden for his years, his flanks lathered like a mare in labour. Olaf rides on. He should quit; pull out of the race; walk the horse back — he is flogging the life out of the poor beast. The crofter-man is as good as finished, dropping through the field like a stone, overtaken by Geir; overtaken by Mord who moves into third; by Grith who keeps up with the leaders; by four darks and greys, who pass at steady pace; and, just now, by Pilson, Viggi and me.
Pilson shouts in passing. ‘For Thor’s sake, Olaf, give that horse of yours a rest.’
Pilson, to safeguard his wager, has joined the race as a late runner. It is anyone’s guess where has he laid his bet. He and Viggi have caught me up — Viggi is back on the mare. We are neck and neck, the three of us settled at a comfortable canter. We don’t need to push the horses. It won’t be long to fallow-river.
*
At fallow-river Pilson and I follow the Vorgha men under willows to a wide stony bend where the stream is fordable — Geir, Gunnar and Mord stand in shallows under the trees. The three front-runners have watered their horses, stretched their legs, a break for their horses to catch second wind, a lull before the real race begins. I make straight for Gunnar. He must be told of Grima, of her fall, and blood on the child.
‘The Karghyllsons have dropped out,’ says Gunnar, before I can speak. At the sight of us, he is on his feet to tighten his saddle, suddenly anxious to be off.
Mord mounts his horse. ‘What of the skewbald,’ he asks, ‘and the idiot riding him?’
‘Olaf you mean,’ replies one of the Vorgha men.
‘We saw him,’ says Pilson, ‘we passed him on the way down.’
‘And Grith too,’ says the man.
‘Grith’s horse threw him in the river,’ returns Pilson with a sly grin, ‘looks like he cracked his skull on the stones.’
‘He’s lucky that’s all he’s got,’ says Gunnar, ‘a drenching and a scratch to the head.’
‘Had I been his horse,’ says Mord, ‘I would have trampled him.’
‘He is dazed,’ says Geir, ‘he doesn’t know if it’s day or night.’
‘Viggi has taken him on the back of the mare,’ says Pilson. ‘He will see him safe to camp.’
‘Isn’t that what brothers are for?’ The voice come from behind a tree, where a man is crouching with his breeches off
‘Too bad Viggi won’t finish the race,’ says Geir.
‘Where’s young Lar got to?’ asks another Vorgha man.
‘Yeah, Kregin, where is he?’ says Gunnar, ‘thought he might be with you?’
‘Lar has pulled out,’ my abrupt reply, ‘horse ran off; he stopped to help your wife.’
‘What’s my wife to do with him?’
‘She took a fall on the causeway, chasing after you — she and the child are hurt.’
‘No harm done,’ says Mord, ‘from what I saw, she will get over it. She is a hardy one, is that Grima.’
‘You lay off,’ says Gunnar, not best pleased to have his wife discussed.
‘I will check her bruises for you,’ says Mord, ‘what do you say?’ Gunnar clenches his fists. It might come to blows. Mord laughs at him. They tear up the bank, Mord on the dapple, Gunnar after him on the flaxie. Geir shakes his head at their nonsense and he is off too. Srelni, cooling off under the willows, takes a sniff from dung left behind by the filly.
I should have told Gunnar the full story. It looked bad for his baby son, too much blood for it not to be. It is only fair on the man. He should be told. Without a word to young Pilson, or the Vorgha men, without rest for the sorrel, I am again on horseback, careering along the bank, half in water, and half out, pushing through hanging willow branches. I won’t ride inland after the others. If I keep going on this riverbed to the shore, and take a fast burst on the strand to ferry-point, I can catch Gunnar, and tell him what happened.
I throw Srelni into full skight on the wet strand — again I am pushing him too hard, but he’s never happier than with a stretch of sand under hoof, a salt breeze in his eyes. Ahead of me on my right, on the inland side of the dunes, three riders are kicking dust, the familiar brown dust of summer — three riders — Gunnar, Geir and Mord. If I keep going at this rate, I should head them off by the ferryman’s croft at ferry-point-north.
*
‘Didn’t I tell you he would come by the strand?’ These words from Sepp, a hearty laugh, and my brother, with a playful punch, jabs little Hvard on the chin. There they are, large as life — and Bedwyr too — sitting with the ferryman inside his boat, beached in front of the croft.
Hvard beams ear to ear, his cheeks flushed with excitement. ‘No one has passed before you,’ says the boy. ‘We are the in the lead.’ My nephew jumps out of the boat and hugs the horse, holding Srelni’s head by the nose-piece. The sorrel’s white muzzle and jowl rest on the boy’s shoulder. ‘See how he is with me,’ says Hvard, but now a frown comes to his face. ‘Riders!’ He points to brown dust rising on the bridleway. ‘You better be off.’
‘I will have to wait, lad,’ I reply. ‘I need to speak to one of the riders.’
‘But they will catch up!’
‘Can’t be helped; I have a message for one of those men. His little boy is badly hurt. He doesn’t know how badly. I have to tell him.’
‘Hvard,’ says Sepp, ‘why not take our horse for a drink?’
‘No sweeter spring-water this side of Laxvik,’ are the words from the ferryman.
‘What has happened?’ Sepp asks, as soon as Hvard and the ferryman have gone off. ‘What has got you so riled up? It is not the race, is it?’
‘No, Sepp, it is not the race. A woman fell in front of the horses, back on the causeway. Her baby boy tumbled out from the shawl — it looked bad when I rode past.’
‘Whose wife?’ asks Bedwyr. ‘Who owns the child?’
*
Gunnar Morfinson looks at me dumb, so I say it again. ‘That is as much as I know, Gunnar, I thought I’d better tell you.’
‘I know your game,’ he replies at last, ‘you want me to give up the race: isn’t that it? Isn’t that what you are after?’
‘Do as you wish,’ is my reply. ‘Ride on or go back —it is up to you. She’s your wife; it’s your son.’
‘Aren’t you concerned for her and your child?’ asks Sepp.
A stern look from Sepp and Gunnar’s face falls.
‘Don’t listen, man,’ says Mord. ‘While you stand here, Geir Idgarson has ridden ahead. That was their game
— they were stalling. You have let their man grab the lead.’
*
Summer rain blows off the Os, carried before me in darts of sunlight. Geir’s blue dun is out in front. I have pulled into third, behind Gunnar. Mord has dropped back. A quick look tells me that young Pilson is closing fast on Mord. The Vorgha men are far back, out of the running. They will always ride to the slowest paced among them. No Vorgha man will think of going alone — that’s not their way.
Only two, Geir and Gunnar, are ahead of me, and two riders behind, Mord and Pilson. The race will be won from one of five riders. Gunnar’s filly is more than a match for Srelni. It is low-tide and she takes to the shallows, hoof, heel and feathers hidden in spray. The little flaxie has the look of a horse that could fly over wave and sky. Srelni is hard-put to keep in touch, but he keeps going. Maybe the filly’s frisky tail dipping the water’s edge, and the memory of her scent in the dung at fallow-river, are what’s driving him on.
The sorrel has no wind for the chase. If he had, he would pull closer. I pushed him too hard on the stretch to the ferry. He seems to know that the filly has the better of him, but he is content to chase her shadow.
*
Morfin at Lax-river-ford has the look of a man who is bored. My first thought is that he has had his head down; that his eyes full of sleep. Another glance tells me I am wrong. Wood smoke from a fire has made his eyes water. Helga’s uncle has not been idle. He has caught fish from the river — he has three fat chub cooking on the stones.
But that was a big mistake on Geir’s part. Not like him to make a hash of it. He has attempted to cross salmon-river on horseback. The blue dun was spooked by the currents, and has thrown his rider mid-stream.
Geir has had no luck coaxing his mount to dry land. He and the horse are stranded on a sand-spit mid-stream. He is drenched to the skin. Gunnar has crossed the river on foot, ignoring Geir and the stricken horse. The twin sits with his father, drying off at the fire, chewing on a tail of fish.
I dismount, let go the reins, letting Srelni make for the river. The little flaxie has her head down, tail up, drinking at the edge. ‘Hey, Thralson,’ shouts Gunnar, ‘keep your cock-horse away from mine. I don’t want her going all broody on me.’