Viking Dead

by Toby Venables

  A section lifted like a hatch, opening into a dark confined space below, among the ship's ribs. It was damp and dark with tar and smelt like urine. But it would do. Partly filling the space was some sort of bulbous cage made from withies, broken and useless - a bird or animal trap of some kind, he supposed. Further over, a tiny carved effigy of a god, wrapped around with twisted straw, had been nailed to the inside of the keel. Atli abandoned his bundle of sticks, climbed in, and, shoving the trap further under the deck with his feet, nestled against the clammy timbers, pulling the hatch back over him.

  He couldn't tell how long he had waited in darkness, listening to the lap of the water. He had been aware, at some point, of shouting in the distance, and the pounding of feet on shingle. Then, quite suddenly, the deck above him had burst into life with the hasty, heavy tread of the crew, and the rumble of oars being thrust into position. There had been urgent cries all around - some so close, he could hear them swear under their breath. The planking creaked and shifted. Further away, the shouting grew to a roar. There was the clash of metal against metal, and the space around him suddenly reverberated with the grinding of wood and gravel. The ship was moving. Then the vessel freed itself and began to heave to and fro, pitched forward with each pull of the oars. There had been laughter. For a time the motion had even seemed leisurely. Then another shout had gone out, and the ship had begun to lurch more violently, the rhythm of the oars building in speed until everything around him creaked and cracked as if the ship was about to break itself apart. Somewhere to the right of him, the heavy wood of the steer-board had clunked and groaned against the outside of the hull. Amongst it all, inexplicably (at first, he thought he had imagined it) a voice had begun to sing. Suddenly, up ahead, he had seen daylight. Someone further down the ship had raised a section of planking. Surely they could not know he was here? He had gripped the ship's ribs tightly, then, holding his breath against imminent discovery.

  But no discovery came. And, as the rise and fall had grown greater, a more urgent fear began to grip him. In the darkness, with each inevitable plunge leaving his stomach behind, he had tried to brace himself against the relentless, increasingly violent motion, clinging to the slimy timbers until he felt his knuckles would burst, repeating over and over the prayer for protection that his father had so often used when they were fishing out in the estuary, and which Atli had never before believed.

  It had got significantly worse after that.

  The torment that followed had seemed endless; the heaving of the ship so extreme - the inexorable climb on the swell, the sudden drop like a stone, the shuddering and cracking and groaning of the timbers, like howls of agony - that he felt sure he could not survive it. He could not understand how men could go to sea in such conditions. Even in his terrified state, it had made him angry to think of it. Surely, he had thought, whatever was going on outside his wooden prison must be the most treacherous, the most violent of storms? It was only the onset of seasickness that had finally taken his mind off the danger. He had spent the rest of the journey not so much fearing for his life, as wishing for death.

  Time had blurred, then. He only remembered becoming aware, somehow, that the swell had diminished - and then, without warning, the scowling face of the ship's captain had appeared, framed in the dim rectangle of the open hatch. Then he had been quivering on deck, facing the stares of the crew - and before he knew it, engulfed by the numbing cold of the sea.

  And then there was the thing in the water.

  The memory came back, chilling him to the core. He could no longer judge whether it had even been real. As he swallowed, his ears popped and crackled again. Water ran from them, and the sounds of the ship, the sea and the men - now busying themselves with the fishing lines - returned with a disconcerting clarity, sharp and bright in his aching head. He felt himself fully back in their world, stunned and helpless, and only dimly aware of a throbbing pain in his calf where four rows of parallel scratches stood out, angry red weals against the white flesh.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE NAMING OF NAMES

  Standing silently at the stern, the captain kicked open a chest and rummaged inside, pulling out a worn leather belt and short blue tunic embroidered in red and white at its edges. He looked at them, thoughtfully, then back at Atli in his soaking, sagging excuse for a garment. "These were Steinarr's. They would pass to his family, but he has none, so they pass to me. And I am lending them to you." He threw them at the boy. They were soon followed by some brown leggings, and finally an old pair of fur-lined boots which Atli, arms now full, fielded clumsily with his feet. Still shivering, too weak and cold to question it, he immediately changed into them, heaving his old, sodden tunic over his head. It slapped in a heavy, soggy pile on the deck. The new clothes were warm against his skin, more comfortable than anything he had ever worn. The boots, incredibly, were a good fit. Steinarr, whoever he was, must have been a small man. Atli felt the life returning to his toes, to his whole being. It wasn't just the warmth, he realised. It was something else. These were the clothes of a warrior. It was as if they were giving him new strength, new purpose. He felt like a king. For the first time in his life, he was somewhere he belonged.

  Bjólf looked him up and down, critically. "A little long, and a bit baggy here and there, but more fitting for a member of this crew." Atli pulled at the belt, fastened as tight as it would go, but still falling about his waist. Steinarr clearly had been a rather slender fellow, but nowhere near slender enough.

  "Do you have a knife?" Atli said.

  The captain stared back at him in amusement. "Slow down, little man. You're not quite ready for battle just yet."

  Atli felt himself blush. "It's for the belt. To make holes."

  The warrior laughed and rummaged in the chest again, unearthing a small, sheathed eating knife, which he tossed to Atli. "Don't lose it. It's valuable." Atli gazed in wonder at the ornate handle. He had never seen such a common implement made with such care and skill. It was carved with an intricate, interweaving knotwork pattern in what he assumed - never having encountered walrus ivory before - was some kind of bone. He drew the knife slowly from its simple, brown leather sheath and marvelled at the blade; thin and slightly curved, with a very fine point. It had, at some point in its life, acquired a notch in its edge, close to the handle (what story lay behind that, he wondered?) but otherwise, the smooth metal had all the appearance of having been lovingly cared for, polished, sharpened and re-sharpened over many years. He immediately set about his belt, twisting its sharp point into the tough, brown leather.

  "Ah, give the boy a proper weapon," called the giant with a laugh. "He's one of us now!" The words gave Atli an instant glow of pride - so much so that in his distraction he almost drove the knife into his palm. He hoped no one noticed.

  ''The captain considered his words, then slammed the chest shut and rose to face Atli once more. "First things first. Swords must be earned. For a sword to be given, an oath must be made, and for an oath to be made, one must first have a name."

  Atli stopped fiddling with his belt and stared nervously at his new captain.

  "Bjólf, son of Erling." He pressed his palm to his chest as he spoke. "And this" - he slapped his hand against Gunnar's shoulder - "this is Gunnar, son of Gunnar. Imagination was not his father's strong point."

  Gunnar snorted in gruff acknowledgement. A few of the men nearest them chuckled.

  "He is skipari," continued Bjólf, "first mate of this ship. Make sure you stay on the right side of him, and do whatever he tells you."

  Atli had no idea what to do when meeting a fellow warrior - should he make some kind of greeting? Grasp the man's hand? - and instead just stood uselessly, tongue tied, shifting from foot to foot.

  "I'm guessing you've not strayed far from home before, little man," said Bjólf. "Am I right?"

  Atli nodded, while trying to exude an air of confidence. He did not wish to admit that he had barely been out of sight of his village.

  "Well
, your travels begin today." He turned and began to pick his way between the men, several of whom were now occupied with catching whatever vaguely edible creatures the ocean was willing to give up. Atli hurried after him, staggering awkwardly with each movement of the ship and trying not to trip over men, ropes, and the vast array of strewn objects upon which he constantly threatened to bark his shin or impale himself. All around, the crew - each seeming to know their purpose on the vessel without the need for communication - busied themselves with all manner of tasks, most of which Atli could only guess at.

  "Half the world is right here on this vessel," continued Bjólf. He gestured to a tall, clean shaven man with black hair and olive skin, the one Atli had called Curved Sword. "Filippus, from Byzantium. You know of it?" Atli, not wanting to admit he had not, made a non-committal kind of sound. "A great city. Many sjømil from here. Perhaps you'll see it one day." Filippus gave an elegant nod of his head. Bjólf raised his eyebrows and puffed out his cheeks. "He has a father, so we're told, who has a name, but none of us can pronounce it." There was a hearty laugh from a thick-set man with short-cropped hair nearby.

  "Odo, son of Theobald," said Bjólf, clapping the laughing man on the back. "From the land of the Normans. Good fighters. Bad haircuts." Odo half smiled, half scowled back at him, his fellows - Filippus among them - now laughing at his expense.

  Bjólf continued to call out names left and right - Thorvald, Úlf, Njáll, Egil, Kylfing - more than Atli could hope to remember. Bjólf gave a friendly kick, in passing, to a lean figure of a man who was crouched at the foot of the mast, seemingly trying to untangle a fish line with his teeth. "Skjöld, son of Jarl. He's an Icelander." Skjöld made to grab Bjólf's foot, but the other was too fast for him. "He'll tell you all about that forsaken place. Just don't ask him to recite any poetry unless you've a couple of days to spare."

  At that, a smelly, wet rag flew past Atli and slapped Skjöld full in the face, raising a cry of disgust from the victim. Bjólf rounded on the culprit. Atli recognised the grinning, thin-faced man as the bowman from the forest. "That's Fjölvar, son of Mundi. Don't upset him. He's the cook."

  Bjólf moved swiftly onwards, a further cascade of names flowing from him as he picked his way past men of every size, shape and demeanour - Lokki, Odvar, Salomon, Gøtar, Farbjörn, Hrafning, Arnulf, Halfdan, Ingólf, Áki, Eyvind - all with father's names and, more often than not, a less than complimentary nickname too - Ham-Fist, Flat-Nose, Hairy-Breeches, Crow-Foot - the list went on until Atli felt his head start to spin.

  Bjólf then came to one Atli remembered. Long-Axe was sat on his sea-chest, running a whetstone along the blade of his axe. Passing behind him, Bjólf placed his hands on the man's shoulders. "And this is Godwin, son of Godred. From England, no less. Nice place. Good growing land - though I don't think he'll be returning there any time soon." Godwin gazed back at Atli, implacable as ever. "He had a slight misunderstanding with some of his kinsmen..."

  "They are no kinsmen of mine," said Godwin flatly. Atli felt the man's hard eyes bore into him.

  "A good man to have at your side in a tight spot," said Bjólf, back on the move. Before Atli turned away, one of Godwin's eyes winked, and he even fancied he saw a smile flicker beneath the great, sandy moustache.

  "And this is Finn," said Bjólf, pulling the man's fur hat roughly over his eyes. Wide-Face said some words of protest that Atli did not understand and pushed it back where it belonged, then returned to baiting his line with what looked to be thin strips of dried fish skin. "He's from Finnmark, in the far north, and his real name is more of a mouthful than raw reindeer balls."

  "Lávrrahaö Hætta!" protested Finn. "Even our littlest children can say it!"

  Bjólf shrugged. "'Finn.' But of course - you've met already..."

  Finn eyed the boy with a smile, skewering the dried fish on a hook. Atli edged around him cautiously, bumping into a great iron dish hanging from a tripod of metal, which rocked and clanged as it swayed on its chains.

  They were almost at the bow now. As at the stern, the long, slow pitching of the ship was more extreme here, so much so that Atli struggled to keep his feet, even though Bjólf seemed immune to its influence. Ahead, crouched over a pale, lifeless figure, squeezing a dribble of water onto the blue-white lips, his head partly hidden by a cowl and his thick brown robes draped in folds around him, was Grey-Beard.

  "This wise man is Magnus, son of Ingjald. Doesn't fight much. Good healer, though. A Christian man, but we don't hold that against him." Magnus looked up with a half-amused grunt. Atli stared back, his eyes drawn inexorably to the dark, empty socket where the man's left eye had once resided.

  "If you are injured, Magnus will put you back together. He was once to be found rotting in a monastery in the middle of nowhere, but he grew tired of the reclusive life. And I know what you're thinking." He whirled his index finger in front of Magnus's face and mouthed a word: "Odin..."

  "Ah! Not that again!" Magnus waved his hand dismissively and turned back to his patient.

  It was, indeed, exactly what Atli was thinking.

  "It's a curious irony, to be sure," said Bjólf. "The Christian man who is the very image of the All-Father."

  Magnus turned to look at Atli, and a smile creased his brown, whiskered face. "Well, you look a little more presentable than you did."

  Atli had thought Magnus a startling presence back on the riverbank, in the shadow of battle, but now he saw him like this, smiling warmly, it seemed hard to believe he could inspire anything approaching fear. Atli cursed his own stupidity. What use would he be to the crew if he let such childish superstitions get hold of him?

  "And this," said Bjólf, crouching, his knees cracking, "is Kjötvi, son of Björn. A finder of ways. We call him 'The Lucky.' Not so lucky today." His face became suddenly grave. He looked up, staring distractedly at Atli's new clothes for a moment, lost in thought. "But luckier than some."

  The approach of Gunnar broke the spell. "The fog is thickening. Maybe rain later. Could make for better light tomorrow."

  Bjólf nodded, and gazed at the flat featureless sky. He stood suddenly, addressing Atli. "Now you have our names, we should have yours."

  "Atli."

  "Son of...?"

  "Just Atli."

  From where he stood, Gunnar saw again the tightening of the boy's jaw at the mere memory of the parent he had left behind, the anger contained within his refusal even to name him. His mind went back to his own childhood - to the harsh words and harsher blows he had suffered from his own father. One day, when he was big enough, he had turned on the old man, wrestled him to the floor and held a knife at his throat. To his great surprise, the old man had broken into an uproar of laughter, and insisted on them both breaking open the mead he'd been saving for Yule. Things were much better between them after that.

  "Well, Atli Just-Atli," said Bjólf. "I have a job for you."

  CHAPTER TEN

  NIGHT, WOOD AND FIRE

  Atli pulled the stick against his bent knee and felt the satisfying snap as it yielded to the pressure. Placing both halves on the deck, he rested the end of one on the middle of the other, then gave the raised half a sharp whack in the middle with the hand-axe he had acquired earlier that evening. It immediately cracked in two. He fed the two smallest parts into the fire that was now crackling away in the broad, blackened metal dish and watched them catch and spit in the glow, relishing the warmth. The cauldron of water swaying on its chains above was at last starting to steam.

  All along the ship, the men were hauling up lines to examine their catch. Now and then one wrestled with small fish - haddock, Atli thought - some of which flipped and slapped on the deck. High on the prow, a man with no front teeth whose name Atli could not remember stood looking out to sea. Sundvordr, had Bjólf called it - bow watch. Below him, on the forecastle, Kjötvi lay, tended now and then by Magnus, while closest to Atli, now wrapped in a smooth skin coat lined with thick fur, Finn scanned the dark water silently, the finger of his r
ight hand tucked under the taut fishing line that disappeared over the side and into the inky black swell, sensitive to the slightest movement. Atli found his own gaze continually returning to this strange figure. He was Sami - so Gunnar had told him; a reindeer herder from the far north, where there were year-round snows. This one had been a shaman of his tribe before the lot of them had been killed by raiders. Somehow, he alone had survived. Powerful with magic, Gunnar said. Atli had already noticed that the attitude of the other men was different towards this one. Though jovial and direct, as they all were with each other, they kept more of a distance from him. There seemed an unusual kind of respect, or perhaps fear. Despite his continuing efforts to fight the superstitious dread that had made his family life so miserable - efforts bolstered by the welcome pragmatism of his new captain - something about this man made Atli edgy. Something unnerving, dangerous - like a feeling half remembered from a dream. Or perhaps it was just Gunnar's story that had disturbed him. He poked the fire, and set about the wood again with his axe. Never mind. At least there should be some proper food soon.

  Not long before, Atli had watched as Bjólf had set the fire. It was a familiar ritual - one he had seen perhaps a hundred times before as part of his father's regular routine - yet here performed with such elegance and efficiency that it was somehow rendered fascinating again, as if seen entirely anew.

  First, Bjólf had snapped one of the thinnest of the dry sticks into short lengths, then, smashing one of its ends to splinters with the flat back of an axe, placed it in the charred middle of the great metal dish, on top of a handful of straw Fjölvar had brought from a box beneath deck. On top of that, he had piled more small, kindling-sized pieces of wood, then, from the bag on his belt, he had drawn a small pouch, from which he had pulled a tuft of what looked like wool - flax, Atli thought it was - and tucked it into the straw. Rummaging further in the pouch, he had then produced a lump of flint and an elegantly shaped metal tool whose purpose Atli did not recognise - smaller than a palm and something like half a belt buckle, it was completely flat along one edge, the other delicately fashioned with intertwined dragons, the long, snaking necks curving outward and back towards the centre so their heads met in the middle. Its purpose was soon to become clear. From the pouch, Bjólf had taken a small piece of what looked like black felt - Atli recognised it as hnjóskr, or 'touchwood,' something his grandfather had once been renowned for making - and, gripping the flint in the upturned palm of his left hand with the touchwood held between his fingers, began to strike the exposed surface of the stone with the flat edge of the tool. Sparks flew. A firelighting steel. Bjólf repeated the blow over and over, moving the touchwood around in relation to the flint, altering the angle of striking to direct the now steady flow of sparks towards it. Wisps of smoke and the sharp tang of flint filled the air. Within a few moments, Bjólf had cupped his hand around the strip of touchwood, and Atli could see that its rough edge was glowing. Transferring it swiftly to the flax tuft, he blew gently until the glow caught the flax fibres and, with the nurturing of another few breaths, made a tiny flame. The flax flame caught the straw, the straw the wood splinters, the splinters the kindling, and, before long, a respectable fire was flickering and swaying before Atli's eyes. Bjólf had stood then, saying: "Keep this fire going, no matter what." Then, as he had turned to go, added: "And don't set fire to the ship."