Peaceweaver

by Rebecca Barnhouse

  She glanced at the female monster. It crouched beside her, firelight playing on its coarse fur, its face in shadow. It was watching her.

  Steeling herself, she reached a trembling hand toward the wound, then darted a look at the female again. It didn’t move.

  Hild extended her hand farther. She could see how deeply the blade was buried in the creature’s body, how complete her work had been. Her fingertips brushed the sword hilt.

  The injured creature howled, swinging out at her. She pulled back to the wall again. It was a moment before she could get her breath, a moment before she realized that the female was holding the injured monster’s claws, keeping them from hurting her.

  The female monster made a noise, a grunting sound. It made it again, then again, until it was a continuous grunting. What did it mean? What was Hild supposed to do?

  Then it leaned toward the injured monster with an intimate motion that made Hild gape. It looked like nothing if not a mother crooning to her injured child. It was singing to the wounded monster, comforting it.

  She caught her breath. Were these two mother and son?

  Hild’s heart sank. If she couldn’t help the monster, its mother would kill her. But she couldn’t help it. Nothing could.

  That didn’t matter, she told herself fiercely. The mother believed she had the power to heal. If it had seen her tending to the men, she would need to do something that looked convincing. Her life depended on it.

  She had no herb bag like the one Thialfi had lent her. She glanced around the cave, but no herbs—not even moss—grew here. Bones and piles of what looked like animal droppings littered the cave floor. There was nothing she could use.

  The mother made a threatening sound, a low growl in the back of its throat, like a dog preparing to attack. Hild backed away. As she did, something dangling from the cave’s roof caught in her hair. She looked up and saw a wide web of tiny roots woven to the cave’s roof. She stared at them, then cautiously reached up, her heart beating loudly. Her side throbbing, she rose to her knees and worked the earth with her fingers, digging out the roots, keeping them together like a piece of loosely woven cloth. Bits of dirt showered into her eyes but she blinked them away and kept working at the roots, glancing at the mother monster. Its eyes were on her, but it didn’t move.

  Hope surged through her and she tore at the delicate edges, gently bringing the tapestry of matted roots to her lap. Making sure the creature was watching her, Hild looked at the sword hilt, then back to the roots, and then to the fire. She didn’t know whether the monster had seen her mixing ashes with the heal-all, but she wasn’t going to take any chances. She scooped warm ash into her hand and began sprinkling it over the roots.

  As the sooty flakes fell onto the roots, she started to chant the heal-all charm but stopped before the second word. Mixing roots she couldn’t identify with ashes was harmless enough, but charms had power. Yet if the creature had watched her earlier, it would expect her to chant something. Hild took a shaky breath and then started again, grabbing at the first lines that came to her panicked mind, from the lay she had asked Aunt Var to sing so often, the scene she’d been making into a banner for her uncle’s hall. “Her babe in her arms, the elf-bright lady ran,” she sang, her voice ragged and quavering. Surely the monster wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a lay and an incantation of power. Would it? She swallowed and kept going.

  Tossing waves welcomed them, woman and child;

  The sea-steed stood ready, its sail eager for wind.

  The boat’s beams embraced her boy. The woman turned back.

  Slaughter-greedy warriors searched for her child.

  The web of fate had been woven; only one would survive.

  A quick peek showed her that the monster wasn’t reacting to her song. Good. She spat into her hand and used the saliva to make the ashes adhere to the roots.

  She looked up at the mother again. It watched her closely, but it shifted backward, making room for Hild to come close to the injured creature.

  Holding her breath, she edged forward inch by inch, careful not to damage her pretend poultice, or to set off a ripple of agony in her own side. She moved as calmly as she could, trying to keep from startling the creature on the ground. The closer she got, the more danger she was in. If what she did caused the monster any pain, she wouldn’t survive.

  She glanced back at the mother. Its red eyes were trained on her. She had to keep going.

  As slowly and gently as she could manage with her trembling hands, she stretched out the lace of twining roots, floating it softly down to the wound, draping it around the place where the blade emerged from flesh.

  The roots caught on the matted fur. Hild held her breath.

  The injured creature didn’t move.

  Tentatively, she touched the roots, tucking them together to keep them on the wound. She peeked at the mother. It moved its eyes from the wound back to Hild, as if it was waiting for her to continue. With what? She’d already put the roots on the wound—what else could she do? There was only one thing she could think of that didn’t mean touching the monster again. Kneeling in front of it, her voice gravelly with fear and fatigue, she sang the words from the lay a second time. Then, without looking at the mother, she scuttled back to her place against the wall, wrapped her arms around herself, and watched.

  The mother monster stared at the roots before it reached out to touch them with a gentleness that surprised Hild. Then it sat back on its haunches as if it was waiting for the wound to heal.

  It seemed to have believed her ruse. She didn’t think it would kill her quite yet. Her muscles relaxed the tiniest bit and she let out her breath.

  Sitting on either side of the wounded creature, like women in a king’s hall tending a battle-weary warrior, Hild and the monster settled in to wait.

  TWENTY-TWO

  HILD STARTLED AWAKE. HOW COULD SHE HAVE LET HERSELF fall asleep? She glanced furtively around her, blinking in the dark. The fire had burned to coals. She could just make out a heap on the ground—the injured monster. Its mother hunched between her and the cave mouth. Were they asleep?

  Keeping her eyes wide for movement, she listened for regular breathing and thought she might have heard it.

  She had to take a chance. As quietly as she could, she started to stand.

  The monster turned so swiftly that Hild stumbled and fell to the ground in astonished fear, agony knifing through her ribs.

  She had to get away. The injured creature could die any moment now, and when it did, its mother would kill her. She had to do something.

  Looking to the mother for permission, Hild rose to her knees, gritted her teeth against the throbbing in her side, and moved carefully toward the creature on the ground.

  The mother grunted and Hild stopped. She gestured toward herself, then at the injured monster, unsure of how well the mother could see her in the dimness. Keeping her eyes on the female creature, ready to stop at the slightest movement, she pushed forward again until she was so close to the injured monster she could see its wound and hear its labored, raspy breath.

  She couldn’t make herself touch the poultice she’d made, but she bent closer as if to examine it, wrinkling her nose. On top of the monster’s foul smell, she detected the sweeter odor of decay from its wound, the smell that meant death was imminent. Time was running out—she had to get out of this cave.

  Thinking as fast as her fear-muddled mind allowed, she turned to the female creature. The wounded monster was far beyond needing food, but Hild had to trust that its mother wouldn’t know that. Careful not to startle it, she brought her hand to her mouth and pantomimed chewing, then pointed at the creature on the ground. She repeated the gesture, watching the mother for a reaction, but it didn’t move.

  Forcing her agitation away, Hild tried again. This time she gestured as if she were tearing meat from a bone and chewing it.

  The mother grunted. As Hild watched, it shifted position. Over the red glow of the coals,
it looked at her. She pointed at the creature on the floor again, trying to make sure the mother didn’t think she was the one who wanted meat. Then, horribly, she realized she was meat.

  Scrambling back to her place by the cave wall, she cowered, watching. The mother moved, and Hild pushed herself into the wall, hands ready to protect her face.

  The mother crouched in front of its offspring. It grunted, reached out its claw, and gently poked at its son.

  Then, as Hild watched, it turned. Moving with incredible speed, it rushed from the cave.

  Had the ploy worked? Hild listened, not daring to breathe. Was the mother gone? No, she could still hear it. Scraping sounds came from just outside the cave mouth, and a loud rumbling she couldn’t identify. Her spirits fell as she realized the creature could be gathering food from a stash. If it was, Hild’s plan had failed. Only if the monster went away to hunt would Hild be able to escape.

  She strained her ears, trying to interpret the noises the creature was making.

  Had they stopped? She concentrated and heard nothing, no sound at all.

  Quietly, cautiously, she rose and crept toward the cave mouth.

  It must be night; no light spilled through it.

  Taking a deep breath as if to arm herself, she gathered her skirts and started forward, ready to run.

  Something barred her way. When she reached out, her fingers met cold stone.

  Panic set in and she pushed, but the stones didn’t give. The sounds she had heard were the piling up of stones. The monster had walled her in.

  “No!” she cried, and pounded on the stones, bruising her fists, scratching them. A sob of frustration rose from her chest. There was nothing she could do. She was trapped.

  She retreated to her corner in the cave, cupping her hands against her aching side. She brought her knees to her chest, her face to her knees. “Freyja, help me,” she whispered, knowing that no help would come. She closed her eyes. Tentacles of despair wrapped themselves around her.

  The sound of the injured monster’s breathing intruded into the space her arms made around her head. She wished it would stop. It was labored and painful-sounding, and she didn’t want to hear it.

  She tried to think of her mother’s face, the sound of Arinbjörn’s laughter, the taste of Unwen’s cod and barley stew, but blackness crowded out thoughts of home. She was going to die in this cave and even her bones would never be found.

  She fell deeper into the darkness. Her head felt too heavy for her neck and she let her chin drop to her chest. All light and sound retreated except for the monster’s gasps, the sound grating and horrible. Why couldn’t it be quiet?

  She burrowed her forehead into her arms and wished she were already dead.

  Now even the sound of breathing stopped. Maybe the gods had heard her desire and granted it. Maybe she was dead.

  She raised her head, listening. There was only silence.

  The truth came to her with a jolt. She wasn’t the one who was dead. The monster was. And its mother would return at any moment.

  She moved toward it and stretched out a foot, kicking it gingerly. It didn’t move. She tried again, and again it was still. And now she knew that she couldn’t stay here in this cave waiting to be killed. She had to at least try to escape.

  She knelt before the coals and blew on them until little flames sprang up. She looked behind her and gasped. The monster’s mouth hung open, yellow-stained fangs visible in the new light.

  It took her a moment to calm her wild heart, to convince herself that it was truly dead.

  She looked toward the cave mouth and tried to think what to do. Bones littered the ground and she reached for a large one, ignoring the bit of gristle still clinging to it. She told herself firmly that it had belonged to a bear, not a man, but a shudder ran through her nonetheless as she stepped to the stones that blocked her escape. She ran her fingers over them, feeling for their edges, looking for chinks.

  One huge stone covered most of the cave mouth. It was far too heavy for her to move. But at the top, smaller rocks had been piled. Careful of her throbbing ribs, Hild started to work on them, using the bone to push them free.

  When the first one fell, it made such a noise that Hild was afraid it must have resounded through the entire forest, alerting the monster’s mother to what she was doing. She had to hurry. She fingered the rocks again, feeling the space she’d just made, then pushed with the bone.

  Nothing happened.

  She repositioned the bone and tried again. This time she thought the rock moved just a little bit. She pushed harder. Yes, it definitely moved.

  Using her hands now, steeling herself against the pain, she worked at the rock, shoving against it with all her might. It was bigger than the first one, and it took every ounce of her strength, but finally, it fell crashing down.

  Hild stopped to rest and peered through the hole where the rock had been. She blinked, then blinked again. If her eyes weren’t deceiving her, she saw black branches and, beyond them, the deep purple sky of half-light, whether dusk or dawn she didn’t know. And piercing her heart with its promise, a white star shone steadily through the branches.

  “Oh, Lady of the Vanir,” she whispered in thanks before she set to work again.

  The next two stones came out more easily, and now there was only one more. She pushed, but it didn’t budge. Hardly daunted, she attacked it a second time, again with no result. She peered at it and saw that a number of little rocks were helping wedge it into place. Painstakingly, she worked at them, but they were hard to reach. She needed a tool, but the bone was too big.

  Near the fire, there were smaller bones, but none of them was as long as she needed.

  Her eye fell on the heap against the wall—the dead monster with her sword stuck through its chest.

  Hild swallowed, then moved swiftly to take the hilt in her hand. She pulled.

  The monster’s body held tight to the blade.

  Hild pulled again, but again the sword stayed fast.

  Wincing with revulsion, trying not to gag, Hild planted one foot on the monster’s chest, took the hilt in both hands, and pulled.

  The sword moved.

  She repositioned her grasp, put her foot more firmly on the creature’s body, and tugged as hard as she could.

  The blade came free, sending her staggering backward into the fire, agony flaring in her ribs.

  Pushing the pain aside, she danced free of the flames, slapping them from her skirt, and ran to the rocks. Arinbjörn’s sword did the work she needed it to. One by one, the tightly wedged rocks came loose. Dropping the sword, Hild reached up and pushed the final rock free, sending it tumbling to the ground.

  She gazed at the cave mouth, measuring. Even in the best circumstances, it wouldn’t be easy to climb over the single huge stone that blocked her way. The space at the top was still narrower than she would have liked, and she feared she might get stuck. But there was no other way.

  She peered out again, looking up to find the star, but she didn’t see it—it must have already dipped below the trees. Never mind, she thought. Preparing herself for the pain to come, she grabbed the sword and scrambled up the stone, her fingers trying to find places she could grip.

  On the first attempt, she fell to the ground, hitting her backside, but she got up again. She’d found a handhold; she was sure of it. Yes, there it was, and below it, she found a ledge for her foot.

  She climbed, her fingers feeling for spots to grab, her toes scrabbling on the rock. Every movement made her think hot daggers must be piercing her ribs, but she had to keep going. She was almost to the top, almost ready to launch herself into the breach she’d made, almost ready to wriggle through. One more push and she would make it.

  A splash made her stop. Silent as a rabbit, her limbs straining to keep her from falling, she listened.

  Was it a fish?

  It stopped just outside the cave and made a snuffling noise. Definitely not a fish.

  Though her muscles
were on fire, Hild didn’t move. Her fingers began to slip and she grasped the rock more tightly, desperate not to fall.

  The snuffling came again.

  Her calves started to cramp, and she was losing her grip on the sword. In another heartbeat, she would drop it.

  The animal, whatever it was, could probably smell her.

  She resisted the urge to blink—she didn’t dare close her eyes. She strained them in the half-light, watching, waiting for it to move away.

  It made another noise, this time fainter. Was it leaving?

  She readied herself to push over the rock, every muscle stretched to its limit. She was going to make it.

  A claw shot through the gap.

  The creature was back.

  TWENTY-THREE

  HILD FELL, HITTING THE GROUND HARD. THE SWORD FLEW from her grasp.

  She scrambled to her feet and grabbed the weapon as the huge stone began to move. She watched in horror. The taste of blood flooded her mouth—she’d bitten her lip clear through. The new pain helped her focus. She gripped the sword hilt in both hands and positioned herself, knees flexed, just inside the stone’s edge. As it moved, she moved with it, keeping herself hidden.

  The stone stopped. So did Hild’s heart.

  An eternity passed and she waited, eyes wide, muscles strained.

  The creature started through the cave mouth, a stag hanging limp in its arms.

  Hild rushed forward and thrust the blade upward with every ounce of strength she could muster, aiming for the creature’s eyes.

  It roared, dropping the stag and reaching for its face.

  Hild pulled out the sword and leapt over the stag’s body. The antlers snagged on her skirt, yanking her back. She tugged but her skirt was caught.

  She tugged again, hard, and heard a tearing sound as the cloth ripped.

  She was free.

  She raced from the cave, splashed through the pool of icy water, pulling her sodden skirt out of the way of her legs, and ran.

  Behind her, the monster kept roaring. She didn’t know how badly she’d hurt it, but she wasn’t going to stay to find out.