The Book of Bera

by Suzie Wilde

  All went well until one of the men slipped. The sentinel let out a long warning wail and the massive creatures headed for the sea. They moved at a man’s running speed, which surprised Bera, who thought they would lumber.

  The hunters gave chase.

  The prize bull had the longest tusks, which hampered him. Hefnir flung his spear just as the beast made it into the water and hit. The next man missed. The bull swam towards the rest of the pack, with the long staff sticking out of its back. Hefnir let the coils of rope unravel and the others grabbed the free end and took up their positions. Bera kept her mittens on, to stop rope burn. They all took the strain. At first the bull was too strong and they went skittering down onto the beach like children.

  ‘Hold hard!’ shouted Hefnir.

  They dug in and slowly began to gain. The six of them heaved as one. There was gradual progress and then a rush and they got the beast quite close to shore. It maddened the watching walruses, who chanted a battle-cry: ‘Uk-uk! Uk-uk!’

  A female locked tusks with her mate, trying to drag him to deep water and safety, but he was tiring and she had to retreat. It was a signal to pull harder. The huge creature wallowed in the shallows, rolling in the undertow. With each wave surge they tried to get him further ashore; with each drag he was sucked out to sea. They were all tiring, too. Bera flung off her mittens, waited for the next wave to bring the bull closer, then grasped a flipper and heaved. She thought it would be slippery but the underside was rough and grazed her hands. Egill took the tail and others the tusks. This time, it did not go back out. Hefnir tied more ropes and they dragged the beast ashore.

  Its skin was studded with fleshy nodules and folded in long wrinkles. There were old battle scars and a couple of new lesions, but the skin was so thick that no blood had yet reached the surface. The creature’s sad, defeated face had whiskers that were more like thin fingers; now hardly stirring. Bera wanted to end its suffering. She unsheathed her sword and plunged it through its brown eye.

  They sank onto the beach, exhausted.

  Bera could not stop grinning. At last she had bravely killed something.

  ‘That was the best thing I’ve ever done!’

  ‘Only five more and we can go home,’ Hefnir said.

  She threw a mitten at him.

  The exhilaration of courage didn’t last past the first kill. Bera was ashamed of growing so cruel and said parting words rather than be in at any other death. It was enough that she knew she could do it when the time came to dispatch Thorvald. One practice kill was enough.

  When at last they had their six walruses and Hefnir made ready to set off, a gale blew in with sharp hail. They laid the boat on its side and used the mainsail as a booth to sit it out. Their clothes dried on their backs while they ate and drank, especially the latter. It surprised Bera how much Egill put away, telling wild tales of whoring into the night until she fell into a stupor. Perhaps she had to be more of a boy – but was it to persuade others or herself?

  No one slept as the storm raged. It let up just before dawn on the third day, so they righted the boat and rolled it down to the water, ready. Bera ran her hand along the side and saw that some boards had become unclenched with the flex of the hull.

  Egill joined her. ‘Done many boat repairs. Reckon on being the best.’

  ‘Stay away from the mender,’ Bera warned. ‘He’s proud, with a temper.’

  Egill did not. Instead, she went straight to the boatmender and reasoned, with lots of pointing. The man could not speak because his mouth was full of nails. Egill gestured more wildly. The mender shoved. There was finger jabbing and then Egill threw a rabbit punch. Both Bera and Hefnir ran over and kept the two apart.

  Hefnir laughed. ‘I like your spirit. The mender’s twice your size.’

  ‘Only trying to help,’ Egill said and shook the mender’s hand.

  All over. It was odd how quickly folk were inclined to forgive Egill. And when the heavy tusks broke the winch, the mender had to make running repairs and let Egill help.

  Bera piled the discarded ballast stones into a rough marker and blessed all the creatures in this distant place so they would be plentiful. Then she asked for a safe passage back with no Maelstrom.

  ‘We don’t go till the last hour of the ebb,’ she said to Hefnir, who did not argue.

  Bera glowed. The honeymoon might be over but she was one of his advisors now.

  The whole crew were grey with exhaustion. When it neared slack water they set off and the last of the tide spared them, taking the boat out safely through the channel and heading south. Bera liked short trips where you could let rip and feel the wind and spray in your face; or fishing, watching clouds roll past as you gazed up at a summer sky, not this long flog home.

  ‘Need a bit more easting,’ Egill said. ‘Then you’ll reach Seal Island, no time at all.’

  Bera did not want Egill to go home. She kept away from her to avoid hurting more. A sea-chill crept into her bones, despite her heavily greased sea cloak. The wind stayed a steady north-easterly.

  Then Egill rushed to the bow and pointed east. ‘See those clouds? That’s the Point. Home’s not far off.’

  Hefnir said nothing and when they saw Seal Island he did not change course to make for it.

  Bera knew that look: he alone had made a decision and would discuss it with no one. But why was he bringing Egill, who gazed at her land with wet eyes, her head slowly turning as the day passed.

  Bera pictured the little boat, high and dry in the rafters. ‘Will you miss home?’

  ‘Thought Hefnir would want that black bowl.’

  ‘He easily forgets what’s precious to him.’ It was probably true.

  Egill looked sideways at her. ‘You liked it too. And kept it well away from him.’

  ‘I scried in it. For the first time.’

  ‘Heard tell of scrying.’

  ‘I saw that land of fire. We could go there together.’

  ‘Never! Never again, Bera, don’t ever want to!’

  Bera wondered why Egill never said ‘I’. Perhaps she never had a ‘you’. Freckles stood out on her ashen skin where blood coursed red and blue. Up close, her hair was like dull glass, made colourless by years underwater. She was a corpse whale: the opposite of a Drorgher. Black and white. Fearless and fearful.

  Bera hugged Egill more tightly. The skern might be wrong about her. In any case, she could mend her troubled friend.

  Much later, a line of deeper greyness on the sea-rim thickened and became the mountains that guarded the entrance to their fjord.

  It was nearly dawn when they closed the land and too dark to see Hefnir’s face until he kissed her.

  ‘You’re a jewel, Bera. Not many women are as fearless as you.’

  ‘I’m full of fear.’

  ‘But you ignore it, like a man.’

  Is that what eventually made a man hard, like her father? Would driving herself beyond fear to kill Thorvald make her like Ottar? Worse?

  ‘I want to be home.’ Even Seabost. Bera longed to be back, boasting about her bravery to Dellingr, although it would also mean having to share Hefnir with Heggi and everyone else with a claim on him. The Serpent King. Thorvald.

  ‘You got festivals, that sort of thing, at your place?’ asked Egill.

  ‘Midsummer, Yule,’ Hefnir said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Sowun’s good.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Feast in Iraland. A good feast.’ She nudged Hefnir. ‘Plenty to drink and—’

  ‘What’s it for?’ Bera interrupted, to stop Egill’s pretend crudeness.

  ‘End of harvest. Cattle come down off mountains. Start of winter.’

  Hefnir said, ‘It’s hardly summer yet.’

  Bera would make this festival hers. ‘We need a new Seabost tradition! It can be a mix of this Sowun and Midsummer.’

  Egill said, ‘The doorway to the other world opens and dead souls revisit their homes. You’ll see them again!’

  Thorvald mus
tn’t be one of them. If he wasn’t dead already, Bera would have to wait until the feast was over.

  9

  The Serpent King had not attacked but the longhouse felt changed. Everyone in it looked different. Ottar was more muscular, Sigrid thinner and Heggi’s legs were as long as a colt’s. Bera had pictured the words of greeting and then the hugs, the smiles, but they were all tongue-tied. Perhaps she should be patient but that wasn’t a skill she possessed. The biggest disappointment was Heggi. He was as surly with her as in the early days and he glowered at Egill. It was a relief when he set off, going hunting with some older boys.

  Bera apologised to Egill. ‘He should not be so rude.’

  Ottar bristled. ‘Be glad he’s found some friends at last. I miss him at the boatyard, mind.’

  ‘Egill’s worked with boats and can even sail a round thing.’

  ‘I’ll give him work.’ Ottar smacked Egill on the back. ‘What’s this round thing?’

  ‘In Iraland, they tar skins stretched over a frame. A man with one oar...’

  They went out talking boats. Ottar thought he had another lad to mould and it delighted Bera that he should be fooled. Hefnir followed them, leaving Bera alone with Sigrid.

  ‘This is a fine welcome, Sigrid. You might try and look pleased to see me!’

  Sigrid fussed about, pulling Bera’s salt-stained garments from sacks. ‘Look at the state of these. And you can’t trust a thrall to do the job properly. I shall have to do it myself, as ever.’ She gestured at the rips and marks. ‘You go off and double my work. It’s typical. You stay away twice as long as you said and then you expect songs of joy the moment you get back!’

  ‘I don’t!’

  ‘You do.’

  Bera pulled the clothes out of Sigrid’s hands, threw them on the floor and kicked them towards the door. ‘You don’t have to do any of it!’

  The women glared at each other. Then the corners of Sigrid’s mouth twitched, trying not to smile. It looked funny and Bera roared with laughter. Sigrid joined in, opened her arms and Bera went to her, smuggling in as though she were a child again.

  A couple of thralls took the clothes.

  ‘I’ll see to them, just leave them outside,’ Sigrid called after them. It made her chest rumble.

  Bera pulled away. ‘Where’s Thorvald?’

  ‘How am I supposed to know?’ Sigrid was sharp again.

  ‘Did Thorvald... talk to you about anything? While we were away?’

  ‘Did you think we’d sit in silence?’

  Perhaps she resented being left alone with the monster but Hefnir came back in before Bera could find out.

  ‘Where’s Thorvald?’

  ‘He had to meet someone,’ said Sigrid.

  ‘When did he go?’

  ‘Early.’ She went through to the pantry. ‘I’d best get on.’

  Bera was astounded. Why couldn’t she have said so to her? Was Sigrid still seeing her as a child, not Hefnir’s wife and in charge of the household?

  Hefnir warmed his hands at the fire. ‘I never used to feel the cold. Must be getting old.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘I will never be an old man, Bera.’

  ‘Not the way you live your life, no.’

  ‘To be old is a dishonour.’

  Dishonourable to be old and blind like Agnar? Or to have scars only on the back like Hefnir? Men made up the rules of honour but one day she would know which were the right ones.

  Hefnir sat near the fire. ‘Your father and Egill have already started swapping stories.’

  ‘My father only knows this fjord.’

  ‘That didn’t hinder him.’ He looked round the longhouse. ‘It always seems smaller to me, when I get home, than how I picture it.’

  ‘Why did you not take Egill home?’

  Hefnir turned away to pick up a gaming counter. He flicked it in the air, then pocketed it. ‘So – a new feast! The folk at the jetty want something for fertility.’

  ‘All men, were they?’

  ‘Not all, no.’ His voice softened. ‘The village needs more babies, Bera. And so do we.’ He held out his hand.

  She ignored it. ‘I’m going to the forge, with something for their baby. Shall I take the hunting weapons?’

  ‘I don’t want you going up there, Bera.’

  She cracked a split log into two parts and threw them on the fire. ‘Am I your captive now?’

  In one strong move he had her across his knee and smacked her bottom, hard. Bera shouted in rage but he laughed and kissed her.

  She was not a child anymore but played it. She let him think he had won but determined to see Dellingr. There was nothing to hide, so why shouldn’t she? He was the only one who truly appreciated her skill. He understood her and knew about the old ways, which helped her scry and feel Valla power growing inside her. He made her more herself.

  The smith rubbed his hands on a sooty piece of sacking and then used it to wipe the sweat off his brow. Both face and hands were left looking more grimed. This wasn’t the face she had pictured in her time away and she was tongue-tied.

  ‘I didn’t know you were home,’ he said. ‘I’ve had my head in the furnace and banging away on these farm tools all morning. Asa says I’m deaf as a post already.’

  ‘Are you so old?’

  He grinned at her with clean, even teeth. ‘Old enough to know when I’m being teased.’

  Except she meant it. Her dismay continued.

  ‘I’ve brought you this for the baby.’ She pulled out the piece of walrus blubber on its stick.

  Dellingr frowned. ‘It’ll get filthy here. Why not give it straight to Asa? She’ll be that pleased. It’ll keep little ’un quiet, that’s for sure. He’s on her breast every whip-stitch.’

  His fond concern made her sick with jealousy. The soother was only an excuse to be here with him, not visiting his wife and the gaggle of womenfolk come to drool over the baby. Perhaps it showed on her face.

  Dellingr said, ‘I expect you’re busy, just getting back and that. I’ll get my blower to clean himself and take it over. Wrap it up in its cloth again and I’ll fetch him.’

  The boy came out to the pump, already stripped to the waist. He threw a bucket of water over his head, which streamed blackly over skin that was as white as a drowned man’s. The second bucket revealed red spark-spots and scars where the fire had got the better of him. He stood, shivering, keeping his back turned to Bera. It pleased her that he showed no sign of being beaten. Not many masters failed to strike their boys. It was comforting to find her trust was well placed.

  ‘Dry yourself on this,’ said Dellingr.

  He threw the lad a sack. The boy made a poor job of it and pulled on his scorched smock before he was dry. Bera held out the parcel and he grabbed it and made off.

  They were alone.

  Bera found a reason to stay. ‘I wanted to thank you for your sword. It did well.’

  ‘A fight, was it?’

  ‘A fight against a walrus.’

  At last she was able to brag; telling the story of the hunt, when she single-handedly brought down six monster walruses. She was beginning to feel close to him again when a slow handclap from behind made her falter. She spun round and there was Thorvald, smirking down at her from his horse.

  Bera’s horror at being overheard talking about slaughter by the man she intended to kill was doubled by his finding her at the forge. Guilt turned to fury and she wished she had her sword with her while she was riled enough to use it away from home.

  ‘How dare you follow me!’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve come to ask the smith to do his work.’ He took out his own sword. ‘Unlike some folk, who stop him.’

  ‘It was a good tale,’ said Dellingr. He took Thorvald’s sword by the hilt. ‘I’d best be getting on now, though.’

  Thorvald pulled the horse round. ‘Want a ride?’

  Bera ignored him and started for the village.

  ‘Too proud to sit
behind me?’

  ‘I suffer you at home, Thorvald. I like to breathe clean air when I’m outside.’

  ‘Ever the madam.’

  She left the men behind. Poor Dellingr, having to deal with someone like Thorvald. But had her temper made her miss an opportunity? Could she have pushed him off his horse? He was too skilled a rider. Now Thorvald would tell Hefnir that she was at the forge. Would he lock her up like Heggi? Where? Any confinement would send her mad. She had always believed it would bury her powers. Her mother had been confined, they said, and she died.

  Thorvald was with Hefnir by the time Bera got back. She went into the byre and pretended to be busy. Hefnir did not come and scold her, so she decided Thorvald liked to wait for when any bad news about her might do most damage.

  Rakki came home, in stages, with thirty-two puffins and when they ate some of them later Bera pronounced him the best dog ever. Heggi thawed enough to allow her to comb his caffled hair but he kept to the men’s side when possible and followed them out to the latrine after they had eaten. Sigrid helped thralls clear the dishes and then stayed in the pantry. Bera had the impression she was avoiding her.

  She put on her cloak and followed. ‘I’m going to check the cattle.’

  ‘They’ve managed without you all right.’ Sigrid lowered a barrel into its pit.

  ‘I want to see if Feima has calved.’

  ‘Heggi would have told you, wouldn’t he?’

  Bera left Sigrid to her bad temper. It was unlike her to bear a grudge, if a grudge it was.

  She quickly checked on dear, uncomplaining Feima then stayed outside. A few chickens squawked out of her way when she passed the slurry pond. A runnel brought the urine downhill into it and the warm air was thick with the stench. Bera hated being excluded now they were home. Eavesdropping was unthinkable – and yet she found herself standing by the runnel at the back of the latrine without planning to be there. She crept as close as she dared to one of the trapdoors, which was pegged open ready for thralls to collect the soil that dropped into the pail below. There was a precise smell, almost like seaweed, that she recognised as Heggi’s. There was no taint of illness but Bera studied it for pinworms while she tried to hear who was speaking.