by V. Campbell
“What to do?” Olaf cut in. “We should go home. Anything else is madness.”
Ivar looked thoughtful. “I have something I want you to take to my daughter. A gift, if you like.”
“We’ve little room on the ship for such things,” Olaf said.
Ivar smiled and clapped his hands.
A small, stooped man in long brown robes hobbled into the room. “I’m not here to join your pagan rituals,” he muttered. “I’ve told you this before.”
Ivar laughed. “We have guests, Brother Alfred.”
The monk peered round the fire-lit hall. “More heathens, no doubt.”
“Brother Alfred was on his way to convert the Icelanders to Christianity, but got lost and ended up here. We didn’t tell him he wasn’t in Iceland for nearly two months.”
“Most uncharitable,” Brother Alfred sniffed.
“So, Sven, will you repay my kindness and take this fool with you? My family have no use for him. The boys merely throw stones … and I won’t even tell you what the girls do!”
Sven nodded, a look of satisfaction glinted in his eye.
Redknee took a gulp from his drinking horn. It would be a long journey to Iceland.
Later that evening Sven let Brother Alfred examine the Codex Hibernia. The little monk’s eyes lit up when he saw the picture of the unicorn with the five ivy leaves above its head.
“Does it say how far we should sail to the west?” Sven asked.
The little monk nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, yes. It says right here,” he said, pointing to the page opposite the picture of the unicorn. “Oh, now, this is very complicated language. But it says the treasure you seek is buried in a land far to the west. Er, with high mountains and er, green forests and er, big rivers.” He looked up from the book, his pale features all squashed and serious in the firelight. “Are you going to take me away from this godforsaken place?” he asked.
“If you help me find this treasure,” Sven said.
“Oh, I can do that,” the little monk replied. “So long as you take me with you.”
After they had looked at the book for some time and Sven was satisfied the treasure did indeed lie further to the west, he took the book from Brother Alfred and locked it away in one of the oak chests at the back of the longhouse.
Everyone dozed together, head to foot in a circle round the fire. Sleep eluded Redknee. He wanted to ask his uncle why he’d hidden the book if he hadn’t thought it valuable. But he hadn’t had the chance. Instead, he filled his time trying to block out the sleep noises of the men, and when the grunting and snoring and farting became too much he quietly let himself out of the longhouse. Silver followed him down to the beach.
“Hey there little one,” he said, ruffling the pup’s thick collar. “I suppose you couldn’t sleep either.”
Silver dipped his head in what Redknee took to be agreement.
“You and me both,” Redknee said, selecting a smooth round pebble from the sand and skimming it across the still water of the bay. It bounced four times before disappearing beneath the surface.
“So much for that,” he said. “You know what I don’t understand?”
Silver gazed up at Redknee with dark, golden eyes.
“Well, what I don’t understand is this – I’d never heard Uncle Sven even mention the Codex Hibernia before, and now he knows all about it. He’s determined to find its treasure, that’s for certain. No matter what the cost. And he knew the book was valuable before Ragnar came, otherwise why would he have kept it hidden?”
“I used to be good at that.”
Redknee spun round to see Ivar standing in the moonlight, a flat, grey pebble between his thumb and forefinger.
“Shall I see if I can beat you?”
Redknee nodded, though he hadn’t really been trying before.
Ivar snapped his hand back and sent the pebble skating over the water, it bounced once, twice, three, four … five times before plopping beneath the surface.
“Bad luck,” Ivar said. “You know, I used to do this with your mother, the summer she came to stay with us.”
“Why was she here?”
“You know, I can’t really remember, but I think she was expecting you.”
Redknee wasn’t sure why, but he felt himself blush. “You were going to tell me something about her back at the lagoon, before my uncle came upon us.”
“Oh, that. It was nothing. Only that my daughter, Astrid, has something that once belonged to your mother. When Ingrid was here, she spent time with Matilda, embroidering. They made beautiful things – caps, gloves, belts, everything. But your mother had a special talent. She gifted Astrid, who would only have been one or two at the time, a lovely cloth decorated with flowers. When Astrid married, she took it with her to Iceland, but I’m sure she would let you have it. Considering.”
“Thanks,” Redknee said, not sure what else to say. “I’ll ask her when we get there.”
“Jarl Ivar!” A shepherd boy ran towards them from the direction of the hills. He had a bow in his hand and his face was pink with exertion. “They’re here!” he shouted.
“Where?” Redknee asked, his heart pounding.
“At Whale Bay,” the boy said, trying to catch his breath. “Hundreds of them!”
“Let’s go,” Redknee said to Ivar, “while we still have the advantage.” He charged towards the longhouse to wake the others, but before he went more than five steps, the door flew open and Sven burst out dressed in full armour, his battleaxe in his hand.
Redknee turned to Ivar. “How far is Whale Bay?”
“We can row there before sunrise,” Ivar replied. “But it’s not Ragnar this shepherd boy comes to warn us of … but the gungiger.”
Redknee must have looked confused, because Ivar explained, “The gungiger – the little whales.”
Sven visibly relaxed, sliding his battleaxe through a loop on his belt. “You’re going on a whale hunt?” he asked.
Ivar nodded then turned to the shepherd boy. “Have you told the other farms?”
“Yes … I’ve lit the beacons.”
Sven tensed. “Ragnar will see them.”
Ivar looked thoughtful. “But he won’t know to what … or where we go.”
Koll came up beside Sven in the doorway. He was also wearing his leather armour and carrying his axe. “Fresh meat for breakfast!” he said, grinning. “And if Ragnar shows up, we’ll cut him down in the shallows with the whales.” He emphasised this with a series of crude slashes.
Sven nodded and stood aside to allow the rest of the men, who had now woken and dressed, to filter into the yard. Redknee went to stand beside them. He had no weapon for the hunt save the eating knife Matilda had given him. But when Sven saw Redknee he motioned for him to go inside.
“You should let the boy join us,” Ivar said. “It will get him used to killing.”
“It’s too dangerous. He needs to learn the difference between being brave and being downright foolish.”
“But he’s the son of a great warrior—”
“We do not speak of that,” Sven snapped. He turned to Redknee. “You stay here and guard the Codex.”
Redknee waited until the rowing boats bobbed out of sight. Everyone had gone, even the women and children. But not him. No, he had to stay and watch the stupid book. He kicked a pebble, watched as it plopped beneath the surface of the water, then he turned, head bowed, to go back inside the longhouse, Silver trotting quietly at his heels.
Damn his uncle for refusing to allow him on the whale hunt. His uncle’s censure echoed in his head. He needs to learn the difference between being brave and being downright foolish. His cheeks reddened. Downright foolish. That’s what his uncle thought of him chasing Ragnar.
He turned to Silver, who’d already settled himself by the dying fire. “But I nearly killed Ragnar,” he said. “And I got the book, didn’t I? Eh, little pup? What’s so foolish about that?”
Silver looked up, a quizzical expression on his fa
ce. Cursed book. He was with Olaf there. They were never going to find the treasure, even with Brother Alfred’s help. Sven was an idiot for even trying.
If only he hadn’t grabbed the book from Sinead. Let Ragnar piss away time looking for some poxy treasure. By Odin’s eye, it probably didn’t even exist. They should be avenging their dead. First Ragnar then King Hakon. Nothing foolish in that.
The longhouse stank of sweat and mead. He joined Silver beside the fire, giving the embers a prod with the toe of his boot. It would be a long night. Suddenly, he wanted another look at the Codex. When Brother Alfred had been turning the pages, he’d seen the picture of the unicorn again, with its cornflower blue eyes and gold mane. Next to it, the pages with words looked drab. But it wasn’t just that. There was something very real about the unicorn, its sad eyes staring from the page, as though …
Redknee shook his head. He was going mad if he thought that. As mad as his uncle. He raked the fire with his toe again, orange sparks danced in the half-light. His stomach grumbled. If he looked, maybe he could find some leftover bread.
He got to his feet, but even as he started to shuffle round the room, he knew he wasn’t looking for food. It was the eyes that troubled him. They were beautiful, yes, but it wasn’t that. It was the way they looked as if they held a secret.
He found the chest against the back wall of the longhouse. He tried the lid, but found it locked. He supposed it made sense.
“You stealing?”
He spun round to see the shepherd boy staring at him. Silver trotted over and started sniffing the boy’s mud-caked boots. “No … I thought I was alone.”
The boy had a quiver full of arrows slung over his shoulder and he carried a slender yew-wood bow in his hand. He smiled.
“Clearly.”
“Actually, I was looking for the book my uncle put in here. But it’s locked.”
“I see,” the boy said. “Don’t you want to go on the hunt?”
“My uncle said I should stay.”
“Oh. I suppose that’s that then.”
“Why haven’t you gone?” Redknee asked.
“I was just leaving.”
The boy didn’t move. He was smaller than Redknee, thinner, but Redknee reckoned they were about the same age.
“Well,” Redknee said. “Don’t let me stop you.”
“My name’s Olvir,” the boy said. “I can show you where they’ve gone.”
Ivar’s advice about killing came back to him. If he was going to take his revenge on Ragnar, he’d need to do a better job than he’d done at the caves. He’d killed before – fish, chickens, a pig – nothing that would actually fight back. And what, after all, did he care about guarding the book?
“Alright,” he said. “Show me.”
The rowing boat slid through the calm sea like an eel. Redknee had left Silver at the longhouse with strict instructions to behave. The pup had whined a little, scraping his paws down the inside of the longhouse door as he’d been shut in, but Redknee was firm. Silver was still too small for the dangers of a whale hunt.
Olvir proved an excellent navigator, for a shepherd, and they came upon the other boats while the moon was still full in the sky.
The rowing boats formed an arc closing off the head of a shallow bay. Beyond them, flumes of water spurted into the air.
“Whales,” Olvir said, pointing to the spurts. “The men will circle them and drive them ashore. No one will see us if we join the end.”
Redknee nodded. Soon boats arrived from the other farms and they were lost in their number.
The boats crept forward in tight formation, forcing the whales towards the beach. As many as a hundred of them thrashed in the surf, each as long as four men, their waxy black fins catching the moonlight, churning the water to a milky soup. One tried to escape by smashing its tail against their boat, knocking Redknee flat. They were going to capsize. But a man waded over, plunged a long metal hook into the whale’s shiny skin and dragged it into line.
When they were only yards from the beach the men leapt into the water and dragged as many of the whales ashore as they could. Redknee and Olvir copied them, but without one of the long hooks, they couldn’t gain purchase on the whales’ smooth contours.
“Here,” a toothless old man said, handing Redknee a spare hook, “stick the metal end in the blow hole and pull. That’ll hook ’em good and tight.” He laughed. “Hook ’em … get it?”
He waded off, still chuckling at his own joke. They took turns hooking the whales and dragging them ashore. Redknee felt the muscles in his arms and shoulders being worked.
When there was no space on the beach, the men took out their knives. With probing fingers, they felt for the jugular vein and sliced it open. Blood seeped into the sea, weaving round Redknee’s legs.
Olvir’s face drained of colour.
“What’s wrong?” Redknee asked.
Olvir didn’t reply, instead he fell forward, disappearing beneath the surface of the waves. Redknee shot over, hoisted him up and carried him ashore, laying him on the sand. His face was grey, expressionless. Redknee lifted his head and slapped his cheek. Olvir spluttered awake.
“I thought you were dead.”
Olvir reddened. “I hate the sight of blood.”
“No slacking, boys!”
Redknee turned to see Ivar shouting at them. His tunic was soaked in blood and splats glistened, like pimples, on his face.
“We’ve got to make this harvest before sunrise.” He squinted in the half-light. “Is that Olvir?” he asked. “Faint again?”
Olvir nodded.
“You stick to your bow and arrow, son,” he said, shaking his head and wading back into the sea.
“I’ve failed,” Olvir held his head in his hands. “Ivar will never let me go on another whale hunt.”
“Why did you come when you knew there would be blood?” Redknee asked.
“I so wanted to prove myself.”
“Look,” Redknee said, his voice softening. “I think it’s best if you wait here for a bit. Keep an eye on those dunes,” he pointed to the low grass-fringed hills behind them. “Ragnar is out there and all this noise is going to attract his notice.”
Olvir nodded. Redknee left him and made for the water.
Stupid boy, nearly getting himself killed just to impress Ivar. It was an insult, being left to nurse such a … a weak-stomach. Anger coursed through Redknee’s veins as he grabbed the nearest whale, tilting it onto its back to reveal a snow-white belly. This would be easy. He’d seen the men do it many times. He placed his knife between his teeth and let his fingers probe for the jugular. But everything under the coarse, blubbery skin felt the same.
A short way off, Harold and Olaf hacked frenziedly at the remains of a large bull, their blood-splattered faces twisted with pleasure. Redknee looked away in disgust. There was a skill to this that meant the beast didn’t have to suffer. He gripped his knife firmly, readied himself to make a good clean cut, but at the last moment, he saw his face reflected in a big glassy eye, and hesitated. The whale fluttered her dorsal fin and a tiny calf darted from under her, twisted between his legs and disappeared out to sea.
Nausea rose in his throat. He fought it down. He would not be weak. The muscles in his arm extended and jerked back as if some outside force controlled him. Her skin made a ripping noise. Blood stung his eyes; he fought to contain the spurts by pushing her beneath the water. The wound bubbled, fizzed, died. He let her bob back to the surface. Her white belly had turned salmon-pink and she felt limp. He wiped the blood from his eyes and began to move quickly, slotting the hook into her blowhole and pulling her onto the fat-soaked beach. He skidded on some yellow gore and lay exhausted on the sand, little pieces of flesh and guts crusted to his face.
Scavengers circled overhead. Little children ran along the beach batting them with oars. This sea-harvest was vital for the island. Ivar would divide the kill equally among the many farms. Every part of the haul would be used, and the blac
k meat would feed them through winter.
The whales hadn’t stood a chance. Their bodies lay along the beach in neat lines. Battle dead. Their black livery shining in the fading moonlight, each with a stripe of honour cut into its breast. Redknee had never seen or smelt so much death in one place. Not even when Ragnar had come to his village.
He sat up and scanned the low hills enclosing the beach. Clumps of silvery grass blew in the wind. There were no trees. Not even in this sheltered bay. A shadow flickered between the dunes. A moment later, a lapwing waddled out. He rubbed his eyes. Tiredness was playing tricks on him.
He found Olvir sitting on his own some distance from the others, his head in his hands. Redknee hunkered down beside the shepherd boy.
“It’s not your fault if you can’t stand the sight of blood.”
“I’ll always be left alone with those damn sheep if I can’t fight like a man.”
There was nothing brave about the dispatch of the whales. Still, though, he recognised the outsider in Olvir.
“I’ll bet you’re a sure shot with your bow.”
Olvir sniffed. “Yes … but the others say it’s a coward’s weapon. You don’t get up close. Don’t see the blood.”
As Redknee listened, he saw a figure move between the dunes. This time he wasn’t imagining things – it was the clear profile of a man. He motioned to Olvir to get down as, a moment later, a hail of arrows purred through the air and landed on the sand. A group of more than twenty heavily armoured men charged from behind the dunes towards the main part of the beach where the others were dismembering the carcasses.
Ivar and the other farmers mustered quickly, meeting the attackers blow for blow. Not one to be left out of a fight, Sven was fast to wade in, crunching flesh and bone beneath his axe.
“Should we help?” Olvir asked.
“We’re unarmed …” Redknee said through gritted teeth. “We should stay where we are.”
Olvir picked up a stone. “I’ll never be a warrior,” he said, pulling back his arm to throw it.
“No!” Redknee said, catching him. He took the stone from between Olvir’s fingers and chucked it away. “I’ve another idea.” He grabbed Olvir’s wrist and pulled him towards the bloodied water. “If you know this island so well, you’ll know where Ragnar has left his ship.”