by Ken Hagan
‘You keep them apart, if you want,’ is my reply. ‘I am going to help Geir.’ Not waiting for an answer, I am in the water, wading out to mid-ford.
I shout at Geir. ‘Hold his neck down, man, let him see his footing.’
‘He has cut his knees on the gravel,’ replies Geir. ‘He won’t budge for me, Kregin, He’s spooked. I’m an idiot! I have thrown the race away. I should have walked him over.’
‘I will lead mine in. We will get them both to the far bank, side by side.’
‘Thanks, but my ride is finished, best turn him round; get him to the near shore.’
‘If that is what you want, let’s do it. I will bring mine to yours.’
The blue dun with Srelni by his side splashes out of the water, but, once back on the bank — while Geir and I drain our boots — he gets spooked again and starts to stamp, throwing his head like a horse possessed, slamming out his rear end. He has a go at Srelni.
‘What’s got into him, now?’ says Geir.
Srelni is having none of it. He returns mischief with good measure, slams, with the underside of his neck, a powerful blow on the dun. Before long, a cowered nickering cry, and Srelni’s adversary makes off, beaten, limping up the bank and into the trees.
‘It’s the flaxie they were after,’ says Geir. ‘Look!’
Gunnar runs to us, shouting. ‘I told you before, Thralson, keep your horse off.’
Srelni curls his lips, nuzzling, nipping at the filly’s ears, sniffing her from end to end. She lifts her tail. She waters, drops her dung for him, and runs off only a short distance, leaving him to get a whiff of her innards. Gunnar steps between sorrel and flaxie. He is too late to stop them. The filly stands firm, hindquarters out. Srelni takes a turn, twists his neck and makes for her.
Mord rides up at a fair skight on the dapple, Pilson not far behind, both dismounting, red-faced and hot from the ride. They drop reins and make for the river edge. They stoop to drink, heedless of their horses and heedless of ours. Mord’s dapple-horse and Pilson’s gelding move into the water. They rub flanks with the flaxie, nudging her. Srelni butts at them, brushes the gelding aside, fixes a look on Mord’s horse, stares the stallion out, unblinking, eye to eye. The silver dapple digs in, holds his stance.
Pilson laughs as his gelding sidles off. ‘My bet is on the sorrel,’ he says knowingly.
‘If either horse takes her,’ says Gunnar, ‘you have me to reckon with.’ Mord picks up the reins to pull his horse away. Srelni rears up, un-balancing Mord, who lands unhurt in the shallows. I grab at Srelni’s reins; grab and miss, twice more I lose him, while his head wriggles and denies my grip of the leather. The sorrel blows out froth in the urge to mate, shuddering his lips and nostrils.
‘Thralson,’ Mord shouts from the ground, ‘he is your fecking horse; pull him off!’
‘I will drop him on you,’ is my reply. ‘That will wipe the grin off your face.’
‘Shake in my boots at the likes of you?’ returns Mord. ‘Move off, move now, Thralson, pull him back or I will beat the shit out of you.’
‘Low-boy-low!’ I have Srelni at the reins, pulling him closer to Mord. ‘Low-boy-low!’ A flash of fear in Mord’s eyes, he slides back, a defiant glare.
‘Do you think you will make me beg and squeal like that soft boy Sigi did?’
‘Leave my brother out of this.’
‘A pitiful mess that soft boy was — squealed and begged for his life — a wonder you didn’t hear him scream all the way from Grisedale fell, when I cut his lights out in the cave.’
Blood spurts. Blood gushes from Mord’s torn wrist. His forearms are no defence for the falling weight of Srelni, his crushed red hand too weak to parry hoof from head. I have the bidding of Srelni. I bid him, I bid him rear and fall. I hold him to the task. If there was a cry from the grounded man, I hear it no more. Srelni whinnies, daubs the watery gore around Mord’s body, nudges the gore paw-like, at the point of his hoof; sniffing the scent of death.
‘Sigi,’ I hear myself cry.
Strong arms at my neck, I am wrestled to ground. I have my face in gravel, my nose in water. I smell Morfin’s fish burning on the fire, hear Pilson’s voice, Geir’s, other voices roaring in my ears like torrents coursing in flood — voices rushing through my head, accusing, mocking and familiar.
Chapter 45
If Knara can make it — the girl has courage enough for two — she will come to me after dark. The walk over the heath, to my hiding place on Skagi ness, would be a risk in daylight — for her as much as for me. It is four nights since she was here. Each night I have been waiting sleepless in my lair, listening for her return. The only disturbance close to my hollow was yesterday before dawn — a snowy owl on the hunt for ground birds and their eggs. His talons scuffed the heather above my head. I heard his familiar throaty cry, as he swooped to his prey, and a brisk flapping of wings, while he took off to feed his nesting hen and fledglings.
Knara has left me water, dry victuals and a linen purse filled with petal-dust. The purse was sent by Hethrun. Fish and pork are finished. I have saved bread for tomorrow — in case Olafs-daughter doesn’t show again tonight — but I am struggling to make the water last. The fish was salty and I have a wicked thirst after foolishly licking petal-dust straight from the purse. My tongue sticks to my gums as if I am spitting feathers.
Hethrun was right to chase me from Suthyre. Soon after I had gone, men descended on the lodge. Knara says they watch it day and night. Others are posted on the strand to block my escape by fishing-boat over the Os. ‘Strangers,’ said Olafs-daughter with a snort of disapproval. ‘Not from our neck of the woods — ice-heads from up north.’ Knara chuckled at how easily she gave them the slip. She and Cuin waited for a moonless night and, while Uncle caused a noisy distraction with the goat, she sneaked past the bounty-men, heading in the opposite direction to the shore. In the close twilight of summer night, she found her way over the heath, retracing her steps in darkened moorland. She was lucky to find me: the entrance to my lair is hidden under layers of moss. She had been once before, and then only in darkness — with Hethrun on the night after the killing — when they hurried to the ness to make this place habitable as best they could.
My refuge is a natural hollow under the heath laid out by Hethrun as her burial chamber. On a chosen day — the day will be hers to name — Hethrun will coax Ikki and Ogg inside the hollow. She will sit with them in darkness and share a final potion. The entrance will be sealed and votive offerings placed for the unseen ones — Knara will do the honours — I was once asked to be the kerling’s grave-servant, but the duty can no longer be mine.
It is an odd feeling to be buried underground, odder still to be at the threshold through which Hethrun will pass with goat and cat to the nether world. For me, when I first hid inside, it was a respite from the bounty-men — a shaky hold on life, not a voyage to the hereafter. And yet, now that I am here, I hanker for death. I have been skulking for days like a fox in a hole, knowing there is no escape but into the jaws of the hunt.
*
Hounds are out on the ness. They can’t fail to pick up a scent. I had hoped for rain to flush away the traces, mine and Knara’s, but not a drop has fallen since I crawled under the moss. Men on the heath must believe they are close to their quarry. One of them, or a group of pledgelings working hand in hand, will strike it lucky and get to me first. They will earn a bounty from Mord’s father. Blood-silver won’t be a drain on Asgrim’s purse — by law the blood-cost can be recovered from the runaway’s family — he will snatch the amount from my sisters in livestock and wool.
Claims for loss of a son won’t end there. Asgrim’s demand for compensation will be pushed to the limit. He has an ally in Klep — Klep’s widowed daughter Gudrun was to have married Mord. The priest-man can be sure of a “yea” in the law-field for as much as he asks. As things stand with me — a runaway from justice — Asgrim will have a free hand to collect in kind “from killer and killer’s kin”. It will
be done in the old way: my life for Mord’s, and a heavy toll exacted from our families at Osvellir and Osvik — loss for loss; pain for pain.
I feel for Hethrun’s linen purse in the darkness and take a lick of petal-dust.
Sigi, dearest brother, your body can rest easy under the tarn. The killer who ripped and tore at your flesh — he did it to humiliate you after death — has been paid in equal measure. If it were a board-game — and you were still alive — you could boast that our enemy has been wiped off the face of the earth. But no, this was no game of hneff, no mock battle of stone figures played out on a chequerboard. It was a deadly exchange of blood. What’s done is done: too late for regrets. For your sake, Sigi, I have no qualms — I will take what’s coming — if only the burden after I am gone didn’t have to fall on our sisters and my brother Sepp.
After my blood-letting by the river no friend or foe could hold me, so deep was the rage, rage streaming inward against myself. From the ford I escaped on Srelni over salmon-river, and rode to Ma at Osvik. I choked out a name — Mord — she saw blood on the sorrel’s head and haunches and guessed at once how bad it was for me; how bad it was for all of us.
At Osvellir I was greeted with hugs of gratitude from Haldis. She pushed out her chest and stood boldly with arms akimbo, a stance of pride, and then lifted my stained hands toward the firelight as if to survey a task well done — but soon afterward the cold truth hit her like a stone; she had grasped what must follow the death of Mord. My sister ran off to the dairy, apron held to her eyes. Moments later came a long wail — a cry helpless and lost, as pitiable as on the day father was buried — and thereafter silence. Svena went crazy on hearing the news; she kissed me full on the lips and — despite her girth with unborn child — did a jig of celebration round the hearth. Later in the evening, I am told, Lar’s sister gave birth to Sigi’s little boy.
As for poor Bera, her parting words were no less cruel for being true. She can’t be blamed for her outburst. Her hopes of marrying Geir are shattered. Idgar will be expected to cut all ties with our family — Helga is lost to me too — but Bera gave no thought to that. As I ran from the steading door, my sister hurled abuse after me — so unlike her to be bitter or hurtful — no less than I deserved. ‘Kregin!’ My very name, stripped of all sisterly affection, fell harsh and accusing on my ears. ‘How could you have done it to us? Father trusted you.’
I ran from Bera, ran from her in shame. I left Srelni at the steading and walked by the cliffs to Kletturvik. There I found Yarg and his brother on the beach at evening, folding their nets; preparing for a night’s fishing. The young fishermen — no questions asked — ferried me over the Os and put me down at Suthyre. Only as night fell did it occur to me that I was on the run. There was no way back. I understood as soon as I put foot in the kerling’s lodge. I have never seen Hethrun so utterly without words. She and Knara clung to me as if I were already dead.
*
A man accused of killing cannot flee without risking the consequences: if he takes to his heels, his guilt is assumed — and with just cause. Asgrim grabbed the chance to make sure that I would stay on the run. He called on Cuin to persuade me to turn myself in; to return to Laxvik and answer for my crime; to put up a defence, if I could, and account for the broken settlement. The priest-man must have hoped that I would ignore his call to abide by the law. It would leave him free to demand the ultimate penalty. Only a fool would have stayed on the run. There again, only a fool would have heeded his false entreaties. Grovel or flee — no matter which I had chosen — I would play into his hands. Not even my foster father, were he alive, would argue against the blood reckoning demanded by Asgrim. When a man absconds — when he turns his back on due process of law — what follows is as sure as night follows day.
Asgrim sent out word by land and sea — I am told that a fishing boat from Long-fiord carried the news to two estuaries up the coast — inviting all-comers to join his quest for justice. He set the bounty high, too high to be ignored. Honest steadmen in default or crofter-men facing eviction were lured to the bait. They will hope to end their troubles through my demise. That’s why ice-heads from up north are camped out at Suthyre. Others, perhaps less needy but no less keen, will have tagged along for a taste of excitement. Local men in the know — and greedy like Djup or Blot — will be scouring the bird cliffs, the caves, the ledges and cracks in the rock, where I did my egg-gathering in the early days.
Their search will lead them here.
*
I think of Ulph and where he might have run to. The old shepherd knows the heaths and fells like the back of his hand. No one is better able to sleep rough, to lie low and find food by laying snares for game. But even barefoot Ulph — a man who wore no breeches — might not have kept himself alive in the wild. Maybe he hasn’t made it through last winter’s harsh snows. Snorri said as much a month or two back. Today there are no hounds on Skagi ness; no hue and cry for a murderer; no end in sight for me. I almost wish there were.
*
A lick of dust — a last lick from deep in the gusset of Hethrun’s purse — has turned me light-headed and drowsy. Scents of clover buds and heather blossom sweeten the musty air of my hollow. Flies hum in the summer heat above the slab of stone that forms a natural roof for the chamber; inside here there is neither heat nor cold, neither day nor night. A curtain of moss hides the entrance from above. Faint brown light penetrates the empty darkness. There is no space to stand or stretch my legs. While turning to lie on my side, I disturb the floor-cover of moorland heather plucked by Knara from the heath. My face rests on the tamped earthen floor; my hand falls against wood. The turf walls are clinkered like a hull — baulked to prevent earth caving in from the sides. Hethrun has used salt-crusted boards from a sunken ship washed up on the strand at Suthyre — the wood might have come from the Vigtyr. I imagine myself on a skiff beached on the shingle shore at the foot of Thwartdale, a child asleep under the stars.
*
I awake with a start, opening my eyes to brown darkness, touching the grainy driftwood with my finger; scraping it searchingly with a fingernail. I am not on the beach at Thwartdale. Smells of heath clover and summer heather — smells of the ice lands — bring me to my senses. Skagi ness is where I am. This earthy hole is my hiding place, Hethrun’s grave-chamber under the heath. I sense warmth around me, tightness pressing over my thighs, a yielding softness at my back and chest. Someone’s weight, someone’s warmth lying against me. I think of Helga.
‘About time,’ a woman’s voice, alarmingly cheerful and normal, whispers in the darkness. ‘Awake at last!’ Again the same voice but with a giggle and a gush of warm breath on my neck. ‘You have taken for ever to wake up. I thought you would never come to.’ The giggle is Knara Olaf-daughter’s; the gushing breath hers; her body crushed against mine in the narrow space.
‘Knara, it’s you. You gave me a fright! Have you brought water? I have a terrible thirst.’
‘I have water for you, and bread, and more fish. I came after dark; I did try to rouse you; but you were out cold, so I settled down and waited.’
‘Is it still night?’
‘Don’t know,’ replies Knara, suddenly anxious and alert. ‘I must have dozed for a while. Shall I go and take a look? They are expecting me back in Suthyre before it turns light.’
‘Where’s the water?’
‘I put it down somewhere near the opening. I will fetch it for you.’
‘Tell me if the coast is clear up there.’ I whisper after her. ‘I took a lick of dust from Hethrun’s purse — to help me sleep. It has played havoc with my insides.’
Knara laughs while she squeezes past me in the tight hollow. ‘It was I who mixed that stuff for you. Hethrun showed me which petals to use. The powder wasn’t meant to make you sleep, or give you the runs, but it will have done you no harm.’
From the moment Olafs-daughter moves away, releasing her embrace, lifting her weight from my chest and thighs, I feel a cold shiver running t
he length of my body, a tingling on my hands and feet. When she returns on all fours with the water-bag, the shiver from losing her warmth is gone, and the fear that came with the shiver has passed too, leaving only a dull longing for the hounds to come.
‘Must be mid-day or after,’ she says. ‘How could I have slept for so long?’
‘You should be off.’
‘No, Kregin, I will have to wait till it turns dusk. I can’t risk being seen.’
‘Go! You must go! I don’t hear hounds on the ness, but if you do chance to meet anyone, say you have been foraging for herbs.’
‘They will suspect me at once,’ says Knara with a giggle. ‘I am no good at telling lies.’
‘Hethrun will be worried; she and Uncle Cuin will fear the worst. Get yourself out of here. Little Eyra will be missing her mama.’
‘Better that I stay till dark,’ replies Knara firmly. ‘Let me keep you company for a while. Must have been terrible — cooped up in here for a week!’
*
‘Come out! Can’t you hear?’ The voice comes from above ground, someone calling from outside the hollow. Knara jumps off me and bumps the back of her skull on the stone above our heads. ‘Come out!’ the voice calls again. ‘Don’t expect me to crawl in.’
‘It is Hethrun,’ whispers Knara, rubbing her head ruefully, ‘but what the hell is she doing, coming here in broad daylight?’
‘She was worried for you, I expect.’
‘Kregin, come on; shape up!’ Hethrun’s voice is sharp and impatient. ‘You too, Knara, I hear you in there!’ At the opening of the hollow a gloved hand separates the curtain of moss. Unwelcome light penetrates the brown darkness. ‘I have news for you, Kregin. Whether good or bad is for you to decide, but you better come and hear it.’
*