by V. Campbell
“We’ll never move her like this,” Koll said, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Uncle Sven’s face turned pink as he pushed harder. “We need more men down here, and fewer lording it on deck.”
“They’re scared to help,” Koll said. “In case they lose their place.”
Redknee had an idea. He splashed through the shallows until he reached Olvir. He tugged on his friend’s shoulder.
“We need your help up front,” he said.
Olvir nodded. Sinead and Brother Alfred followed too, the pudgy monk waddling awkwardly as his cassock fanned in the surf. They took up positions on either side of Redknee.
“Now,” Sven said and they pushed their weight against the keel as one. The ship creaked and scraped a short furrow in the sand before lodging itself in the seabed once again. She was sinking deeper into her sandy grave with every effort they made.
“It’s no use,” Sven shouted above the clamour. “We need more strength.”
“Praise be to the Lord!” Brother Alfred huffed. Redknee turned to see him dragging a large wooden plank across the beach, his weedy eyes popping with the strain. “Will no one help me with this blasted thing?” he wailed.
Redknee rushed from the water and lifted an end.
Uncle Sven looked doubtful. “How will we get that under the hull?”
Brother Alfred looked round in anticipation of a volunteer. When none was forthcoming, Redknee raised his hand.
“I’ll do it,” he said. He didn’t want to, the tide was strong, but someone had to, someone small enough to get right under the hull, and strong enough to wedge it there, or they would all die on this forsaken beach.
“No!” Sinead gasped. “You’ll be crushed.”
Ignoring her, Redknee hauled the plank into the water and swam out, avoiding the churn from flailing limbs. It was too deep to stand at the prow so he trod water as he filled his lungs with giant gasps of air. Taking one last breath, he started to descend beneath the waves when Sven grabbed his arm.
“You’re beginning to take after your mother,” he said, sadness in his eyes. “She was afraid of nothing.”
Redknee nodded. He hadn’t known his mother was brave. He only knew her as the woman who darned his socks and cooked his porridge. Unsure what to say, he took one last gulp of air and plunged beneath the waves, the board tucked firmly under his right arm. As the quiet of the water cocooned him, he thought he heard his uncle urging him to be careful. But he couldn’t be sure.
He kicked hard until he was beneath the sloping underside of the hull. As he struggled to get deeper, the sea flattened him against the strakes. Barnacles gouged his skull. He clutched at seaweed, his cursing muffled as the stalks came away in his hand. He had to wedge the plank tight under the keel for the plan to work.
Something slid past his calf. His heart quickened; roared in his ears. Panicking, he lashed out with his feet in a frenzy of bubbles. The force sent him crashing into the hull. Blood trickled into his eye and he blinked in the half-light as an eel slithered past. He relaxed. An eel he could deal with.
But his relief was short-lived. In his terror, he’d let go of the board. He saw a dark shadow floating towards the light. He kicked after it, reaching it just before it popped through the surface. Damn. He had to start again. Kicking like a frog and pulling at the hordes of barnacles clinging to the hull, he inched his way along. Eventually, he made it deep enough. Faint with lack of air, he fought to wedge the board under the keel. Summoning the last of his strength, he pushed as hard as he could until the board was jammed tight between the ship and the soft seabed.
His fingers tingled. Yellow spots swam in front of his eyes. He had to reach the surface. He kicked, forcing the water to carry him faster towards the light. Every nerve in his body ached for air. Craved it ferociously, like a parched man craves water. He was nearly there: his delicious drink of air in reach. And then, nothing …
He woke, coughing and spluttering in Uncle Sven’s arms. “We thought we’d lost you there. You were gone for some time.”
“I got it under,” Redknee said, quickly composing himself. He was still in the water, but it was shallow enough that he could stand. He found his feet and moved away from his uncle. “Someone needs to get those people out the way.”
“I’ll do it,” Sinead said. She stood waist deep in the water, strands of hair plastered across her face like trailing vines.
Sinead did her best to convince the stricken islanders to stand back while the men tried to push Wavedancer free. A couple of the islanders came to help them. But still nothing happened. Redknee sighed. His efforts were in vain. They were all going to die. Clouds of black smoke had reached the beach now. People covered their mouths as lumps of ash rained down, blotting out the sun.
“We’ll all choke to death!” Koll said, wiping a pulpy mixture of ash and water from his face.
Suddenly, a great explosion rent the air. Redknee covered his ears as the seabed shook beneath his feet. He staggered. A large wave slammed into his side, knocking him under the water. When he surfaced, a jet of orange fire shot hundreds of feet skyward from the top of Mount Hekla, hurling a torrent of rocks in all directions. A vast plume of black ash crowned the fire, and it appeared to be coming their way.
Brother Alfred stood, his mouth agape. “Dear Father in Heaven,” he said, trembling, “the whole island will be swallowed.”
“Come on,” Redknee said. “We need to push, NOW!”
It must have been the tremor, or strength born of panic, for this time, Wavedancer slipped free of the sand. But the people on board lost no time. As soon as the ship was free, someone gave the order to begin rowing and twelve sets of oars struck the water at a brisk pace.
“Those ungrateful dogs,” Sven said. “They’re leaving without us!”
Redknee powered through the waves after them, followed by his uncle and hundreds of desperate souls. He heard his heartbeat echoed in the rhythmic splash of Wavedancer’s oars. He didn’t know what he was doing; swimming after a ship? Damn stupid. Wavedancer had been built for speed by some of the finest craftsmen in all the Northlands, and she cut through the waves faster than any swimmer could hope to follow. He would never catch them, but then, what else could he do? He couldn’t turn round.
His heart bounced in his ears as he forced his limbs to keep going in disregard of the odds. He’d rather drown trying to escape than be fried alive ashore.
Then it struck him. He could no longer hear the rhythmic thud of the oars. He stopped to look up. Oars flailed randomly, splashing water into the air, like the legs of a drunken caterpillar. In their panic, and without the leadership of his uncle, they’d lost their rhythm. Wavedancer would not make good time unless her oarsmen worked together. His heart soared. This was his chance. He tucked his head down and ploughed forward.
Redknee reached Wavedancer right behind his uncle. Seeing a place where the oars were still, he slid underneath and scrabbled to grab hold of the hull. But the wood was slippery and his fingers failed to find purchase. His uncle fared better; being tall enough to reach an oarport, he hauled himself bodily over the rail and onto the deck.
The hysterical voices of those onboard rose above the waves, punctured by the sound of drawing steel. The crowd fell silent. Redknee looked up, expecting to see Sven’s body tossed over the side. Instead, he heard a man shout above the din:
“We can’t take anymore people on board. This ship is full.”
The man hadn’t asked a question, but Redknee waited, hoping to hear a response in his uncle’s familiar voice. After what seemed like a long time, he heard his uncle reply.
“We must all work together,” he said. “You cannot sail this ship without the knowledge of the men who built it.” Redknee breathed with relief. His uncle’s voice was strong and true. He was unhurt.
“Ach, they’re all much the same,” the man who’d spoken before shouted. “Any more people and this tub will sink.”
“Aye!” Someone else s
houted. “Throw any newcomers overboard.”
The clang of steel on steel echoed through the hull. Redknee struggled to see if Ivar or Olaf were there to help his uncle, but his hand kept slipping and he feared being swept beneath the keel.
Other swimmers started arriving at the longship, circling out of reach of the oars. Koll was among them. Redknee motioned to Koll to swim under the oars and join him. Just as Koll’s head disappeared beneath the surface, a hand appeared over the side of the hull and dragged Redknee upwards, out of the water and onto the deck.
“Couldn’t leave you to drown, after you saved my life,” Toki said, smiling.
Redknee shivered in the cold air. Fighting had broken out between Sven and the Icelanders. Sven wasn’t alone. Olaf, Magnus and the Bjornsson twins had come to his aid. But the ship was packed, leaving scant room to swing a sword. Fearful women and children huddled together, stamping on the hot ash that singed the deck. Astrid stood at the prow, her beloved Beyõral curled beneath her cloak. She was protected by four of her men-at-arms. They seemed to be biding their time before choosing a side. Redknee had no such luxury.
He turned to Toki. “I suppose you’re unarmed.”
Toki grinned. “These big fingers can be light as a feather.” He pulled an old twin-edged sword from his belt and handed it to Redknee. “I prefer to fight with an axe,” he said, producing a short-handled hatchet from beneath his tunic.
Redknee shook his head. “I won’t ask who you took these from.”
“Can’t reveal any more secrets today,” Toki said as he turned to meet a charging Icelander head-on.
Redknee gripped the hilt of the rusty sword and glanced round. Sven and his men were outnumbered by the rabble of Icelanders by as much as six to one. But the mob fought carelessly, panic in their eyes. Sven’s men stood a slim chance.
His uncle swung the great Dane-axe above his head. It whirred through the air, terrifying the two men who’d been about to attack him. Sven growled savagely, baring his teeth at the pair, and they scampered away. Redknee was about to join the fighting when a fiery rock struck a rolled-up sail. The wool erupted in a flash of orange. Silver darted out from under it, his amber eyes wide with fear.
Sven’s display did not deter the ox of a man who stepped up next. The beast lunged at Sven with an iron-tipped spear, the muscles in his vast arms snapping with every thrust. Sven brought his axe crashing down on the man’s hand, but the blade skittered off the spear, causing only a flesh wound. Sven dodged the next jab. But the deck was slick with ash and seawater; he faltered. His attacker took the advantage, lunging at Sven’s chest. Redknee heard a strangled cry. It could have come from him, he couldn’t be sure as he tore across the deck to where his uncle first convulsed and then stiffened against the spear.
Redknee hurled himself between them. The old sword suddenly felt smart as an arrow as he propelled it towards the attacker’s shoulder. The spearman, still wallowing in his early success, moved slowly. Redknee felt bones crumble and splinter as the blade made impact. The man staggered. Redknee pushed him to the ground and raised his arms for the final blow. The man closed his eyes and a tear trickled down his cheek. Redknee wavered. This wasn’t what he’d intended. The ship would be witness to a bloodbath and none would escape the volcano alive. The fighting had to stop now.
He pressed his foot into the spearman’s chest. “Submit, or I’ll fillet you like a cod.”
The man gripped the lesion at his shoulder and nodded. Redknee saw the ship’s horn dangling from a hook on the mast, grabbed it and blew as hard as he could.
The fighting continued. So he seized his captive by the collar, pressed his sword against the man’s throat, and blew again.
“Stop!” he shouted. “I have your leader.”
A couple of heads jerked round, but there was no let up in the fighting.
“Stop fighting or I’ll kill him!”
Reluctantly, a few of the Icelanders lowered their weapons. Redknee took this pause as his cue.
“We’re not your enemies,” he shouted. “All we want is to escape the volcano, just like you. There are hundreds of your fellow Icelanders still in the water, and not a few of my uncle’s men.”
“Aye, and they’ll sink us if we stop for them,” a woman shouted.
“Which would you prefer?” Redknee asked. “To die by the sword or to help your fellow man? This ship is strong, she can easily take more. And if you let me, I’ll tell you how we can carry every last person floundering in the water to safety.”
At this, most of the men lowered their swords. Many still had loved ones in the water and were willing to listen to any plan that might save them.
Chapter 18
They neared the islands as dawn eclipsed the night. Tongues of sharp, white light licked the heavens clean. Redknee lifted a hand to shield his eyes. Morning made everything depressingly real.
He pulled his sheepskin tightly about his shoulders and went to check on his uncle. Sven had lost a lot of blood from his injury. Though the spear seemed to have missed any major organs, it had re-opened the shoulder wound Sven had suffered during his fight with Ragnar. Last night Redknee had ripped his woollen cloak into strips and bandaged his uncle’s shoulder. Blood now showed through, a dark patch on the brown wool.
“Ach,” Sven grunted, pulling himself upright, “I’m fine. Look,” he said, raising his left hand, “I can still move my arm. It’s the others you should worry about; the ones who have been in the sea.”
Redknee lifted the bandage gently. The wound was clean and it had started to clot. Satisfied, he nodded, left Uncle Sven to rest and went to see the ropes.
Wavedancer had never been so full. People lay everywhere on deck, huddled together against the cold, propped upright against the mast, even sitting on the gunwale, a sea of pink faces, crushed together in adversity. Yet these were the lucky ones. Redknee pushed past them and leaned over the rail; a blast of tart air caught his face. They had entered colder seas. They would be lucky if anyone in the water had survived the night.
The water was glassy smooth, devoid of life. He slumped against the rail. The sea had taken them. Beaten the fires within, doused their will to live. He punched the blistered wood. They had tried so hard to save those Wavedancer could not carry. The ropes had been their only solution, to drag the wheezing, spluttering, half-drowned husks in the water to the nearest island, a safe distance from Mount Hekla’s wrath. It was a crazy plan, but it was the best they could do. In the end though, it hadn’t been enough.
A dark fleck near one of the ropes caught his eye. A head? He called out, but it didn’t move. His heart sank. It had been too much to hope.
Sinead joined him. “We should pull the ropes in,” she said, her voice flat as the millpond surrounding them.
He looked round the deck. His uncle still dozed, as did most of the others onboard. No one had truly slept last night. But it was time. Koll was out there somewhere, and Redknee had to know if his friend lived. He took the end of one of the thick ropes slung round the gunwale and pulled. At first, it slid along easily, but soon he felt resistance. He tugged hard, but it was stuck. He glanced at the water. Several objects, visible now as heads, bobbed nearby. One of the heads looked up at him and opened its eyes.
They were alive!
“Hang on to the rope,” he yelled, pulling for all he was worth. “I’ll get you out.”
Sinead placed her hand on his arm. “Bring that poor soul in. I’ll swap my place.”
“No. It’s too cold.”
“If they can survive the night, I can make it to the islands. We’ll land before the sun has fully risen.”
Redknee nodded. The choice was hers to make.
Sven, Olaf and many others came to help Redknee pull out the survivors. They rescued more than thirty people. He didn’t know how many had clung to the ropes when they left Reykjavik last night, but he thought it more than twice that number.
For each shivering wreck they hauled aboard, one brave
volunteer from the ship traded their place. The exchange was performed in silence, without knowing the sum of who lived and who had died. Both an answer and a question, each sodden being brought a queasy sort of relief, for every family had spent a sleepless night, unaware if their father, brother or son would endure. The final toll, they knew, would be known only upon landing.
Joy and sorrow warred in Redknee’s heart as they plucked the last survivor, trembling and blue, onto the deck. Koll grinned shakily at him, his clothes plastered against his body.
“Anything worth eating?” Koll asked, rubbing his belly with a trembling hand as Thora ran forward to hug him.
Redknee stared at the water stupidly, hoping to conjure more faces from the blankness. But nothing came of it. Despair burned in his guts. Must death follow him everywhere?
Brother Alfred shuffled over to the rail and rested a plump hand on his shoulder. “We have done our best,” he said. “It is as God wills.”
“How can you say that?” Redknee snapped back. “You prayed to your god all night. You said he is powerful; more powerful than all our gods. Stronger even, than Odin. So why did so many die?”
“Oh, it is not the fault of my god,” Brother Alfred said, shaking his head sadly. “Yesterday’s fire mountain is only the beginning. The end of days comes fast upon us. The Son of God will soon return to destroy the earth and claim the faithful as his own. That is why I first came to these Northlands, to spread the Good News before the final reckoning.”
“What rot you talk! We have our own stories for the end of days. A great battle, known as Ragnarok, will rage across the world. There is no mention of a fire-spewing volcano. Why should I believe you? Why should I believe the end of the world is upon us because one measly fire mountain kills half a town?”
“Oh yes, that is a very good question,” Brother Alfred said screwing up his face. “It is the year, you see.”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“This is the nine hundredth and ninety-ninth year since the birth of our Lord Jesus.”