The Book of Bera

by Suzie Wilde

  A man said, ‘She’s always a barrel of laughs.’

  Folk noisily set to drinking again.

  Sigrid nudged her. ‘You need to bend with the wind more.’

  ‘I’ve learned to be plain, Sigrid, or else it all goes wrong. And I’m not bending if it means leaving you.’

  Sigrid looked over at Thorvald. ‘Then you’ll do without me.’ She made a hammer sign and left.

  Hefnir barged through. ‘So much for our plan. No thanks to you there wasn’t panic.’

  ‘I have no choice, Hefnir. I have to say truthfully what my skern has warned me.’

  ‘We built the dam. We’re in control, Bera. The world is ours for the taking. We’re not superstitious Crapsby peasants but masters of our own Fate, with our own skills and labour.’

  Bera shoved Hefnir, furious. ‘There’ll be some terrible revenge, speaking like that. We’re in thrall to Fate and it will be deeper and darker now, thanks to you.’

  ‘Don’t dare to lay hands on me in public.’

  Heggi ran up to her, holding his elbow. ‘I fell and cut myself. It’s quite bad.’

  Bera gestured at the blood. ‘You had better hope this is not the start of it.’

  She took Heggi home, breaking off some hagthorn on the way. She sat him in the dairy, where it was cool and clean, got a thrall to fetch fresh water from the dam and studied the gash. It was deep enough to need clamping.

  ‘I want you to be brave,’ she said.

  First she bathed the wound, then broke off three big thorns from the branch, pinched the sides of the wound together and pushed one of them through the middle. Tears poured down Heggi’s face but he didn’t make a sound, even when she set the other thorns each side. Perhaps he was becoming a better man than his father. Was he like his mother – or had Thorvald and Ottar influenced him? A strange thought that she pushed away.

  She gently put some salve on, dressed it in strips of clean linen and kissed him. ‘All done. It’ll be better in the morning.’

  ‘I know.’

  She liked the way he trusted her to do good.

  A night of dreams of drowning gave way to a day dark as night. Bera could taste the air, like in a sooty hall. She went to look for Heggi and a man pointed up to the home field where he and Sigrid had taken Feima and her calf. He did not know where the men were. Her head was thick, so she splashed her face in the cool running water in the channel outside. It only increased her irritation that the dam had its uses.

  Everything was taking so long when they needed to set sail. Every passing day made her more afraid of the Serpent King, too. Man and nature oppressed her. She was beginning to worry that not killing Thorvald was causing all the bad luck. Perhaps she could wait until they were well out to sea and then push him overboard at night.

  Her skern’s face rippled.

  Fooling yourself. Your body’s weaker than your will.

  ‘You’re speaking to me again, are you?’

  He gave her a stiff look.

  ‘I thought there were rules.’

  Listen, lovey, we both know you’ve always had to make them up.

  ‘When I can’t see him I forgive him for Sigrid’s sake. Then that face of his makes me think of what he did.’

  Then do something else. Sewing the sail, for example.

  ‘Sigrid says that a Valla’s skern disappears when she and a man have... and there’s a baby inside her.’

  Old fishwives’ tales. You can’t always see me and that’s your own fault. Now, crack on.

  Bera sat at the loom, weaving words of protection into the final piece of the sail-strip until the light was so dim she could see nothing. She felt pent up. Sweat trickled from underneath her breasts. It was too hot to work. The sky ripped overhead but there was no rain.

  She went back to the byre doorway and stood under the overhang. The thunderclaps echoed and re-echoed and then a sizzling light stabbed the sea. Clouds squatted on the mountaintops, squeezing the hot air to a thin layer. She couldn’t breathe. More spear lightning. Bera longed for a breeze but there was only suffocating thickness. She should dread rain but it would be more than a bodily release: it would prove her right.

  Those who could were leaving the fields.

  ‘Is Heggi coming?’ she called out to a neighbour.

  The woman shrugged and carried on.

  His wound ought to be kept clean and dry. Bera waited anxiously, longing for some release. And then the loud pat of a fat raindrop. Another and another. The smell of dust made her sneeze. The lowering sky split and a curtain of water rippled the world. Its coolness made her want to rush out and be cleansed.

  At last, two familiar figures were running towards her through the blur of rain.

  They jumped over puddles and stomped into the byre, bringing a sweet smell with them. Bera kissed Heggi’s chilled, wet face.

  He shook his hair. ‘Dotta’s so funny in the rain. She licks it.’

  ‘We’re soaked to the skin.’ Sigrid wrung out her top layer.

  Bera said. ‘Let’s get you dry, Heggi, before you catch your death.’

  They went through to the fire. Heggi stood steaming while Sigrid fetched a change of clothes. A woman brought a cloth and he reluctantly stripped off. Bera ignored his shy squirming and rubbed him down, deafened by rain hammering the roof. She made sure the thorns were still in place and put more salve on the raw wound. Sigrid returned and they got him changed. Bera held up his wet garments and wrinkled her nose.

  ‘Have you been rolling about with the calf?’

  ‘Not much,’ Sigrid scoffed.

  Bera was angry. ‘I’ve never known a boy like you for hurting himself.’

  ‘Feima and Dotta are coming on our boat, Father says. And Rakki, too.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Somewhere,’ said Heggi vaguely.

  ‘Go and get the bales ready.’

  ‘That’s a thrall’s job.’

  ‘I’m asking you.’

  He scuffed off, making sure they knew what an indignity this was with every step.

  The women went through to the pantry.

  ‘Is this the storm?’ asked Sigrid. She put Heggi’s clothes over a flatbread pole and hoisted it.

  On impulse Bera said, ‘Let’s be bad and have some ale. I know there’s work to be done but there always is and it’s never finished.’

  Sigrid grinned and sat at the table. ‘Just don’t start on me about the sea passage.’

  Bera took down a jug and tapped the barrel. She joined her friend, poured the ale into two beakers and they toasted each other.

  Sigrid wiped the ale from her mouth. ‘We’d best finish that sail when we’ve drunk this.’

  ‘You ought to get into dry clothes first.’ Bera gathered some crumbs from the table with the edge of her hand and threw them outside for the chickens.

  ‘Have that ale.’

  Bera took another sip. ‘Ottar’s making some counters so we can draw lots. I want you to pick one.’

  ‘There you go!’

  ‘Let Fate decide, Sigrid.’

  ‘No. My doom is to drown. Or be eaten by some sea monster. I’m staying.’

  Bera yearned to tell her about Thorvald and ruin him. But Sigrid’s unguarded face, drinking her ale, was too innocent, too familiar.

  She remembered. ‘I haven’t blessed the dam yet.’

  ‘Best do it, then. If this rain stops. And I’d best get on.’

  The rain slackened enough for Bera to go out. Egill was standing by a pool that was forming behind the dam.

  ‘There’ll be fish soon,’ she said, pulling Bera to the edge. ‘Look!’

  There were yellow plants, submerged by the rising water, looking like they belonged in a world where things were bigger and brighter. The two watched for a while, marvelling at the familiar turned strange.

  ‘Just like you,’ Bera said. ‘You dress like a boy in our world but underneath you’re a natural girl.’

  Egill carried on gazing.

&n
bsp; ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘Don’t know what that means, natural,’ Egill said. ‘Been alone so long.’

  ‘Has Ottar told you about drawing lots?’

  Egill proudly prodded her chest. ‘Used the burning-glass to mark the ones for going.’

  ‘It’s dangerous!’ Bera wanted to clout her. ‘I was going to do it.’

  Egill blinked, then delved into a pocket and pulled out a counter. ‘Special one for you. To make sure you go.’ It had Bera’s rune on it.

  She was touched. ‘That’s kind, Egill. You keep it. I’ll be going anyway, with Hefnir and our household and Ottar. If only Sigrid—’ Bera jumped.

  Her skern was underwater, waving at her with a stem of sneezewort. Or was he drowning? The surface shattered. The next storm had arrived in a cloudburst.

  They ran their separate ways. Bera was drenched by the time she reached the byre. She still had not blessed the dam.

  Storms rampaged over the following days and the dam held. Egill sauntered about the mead hall whenever folk gathered, declaring the genius of Iraland and accepting praise. Her friend’s pride made Bera uneasy. Egill didn’t even cross her fingers. Bera went to the boatyard and made the excuse of cutting Egill’s hair to try and warn her privately.

  ‘Boasting makes Fate punish us.’

  Egill refused to listen. ‘Fact is, the dam’s saved us and you don’t like that. You want to be the one to save folk, Bera, not anyone else.’

  That hit home. Bera snipped savagely. ‘I’m the only one who really can save them.’

  ‘Ow! You haven’t blessed the dam cos you want it to fail.’

  ‘Bilge!’

  ‘Not.’

  ‘You said you feel safe with me.’

  ‘Do.’

  ‘Shut up, then.’

  Egill did, but was nearly bald when Bera finished. She left her whittling furiously and went to find Ottar.

  Bera insisted he should come with her to inspect the dam.

  ‘Aye, there’s too much swanking by half,’ her father said. ‘Fate’s got a way of punishing folk for getting above themselves.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been saying.’

  ‘I’ll tell Egill to help get spares on the boat. That’ll shut him up. My work’s about done, so we can go on up to the dam.’

  The structure looked secure, even though the pool was swollen into a lake. Ottar pointed out the steep clay flood banks.

  ‘Them’s my own devising and the dam’s solid enough. I’d best be getting back and check they’re not skiving.’ He shouted over his shoulder. ‘You blessed it yet? Maybe we won’t need to go after all.’

  She was glad of his trust – but he was wrong.

  Bera stepped up onto the dam’s wooden structure and ran her hands along one of the supports. It was as well found as one of his vessels. She smiled when she saw the gates: one of Egill’s better ideas. But the more she examined the way they were made, the more at odds they seemed. The woodcraft of Ottar’s men was evident everywhere else but the two structures that braced the gates looked bodged and cumbersome. Her father was too far away now to ask.

  Bera tried hard to bless it but doubt made it impossible. She needed reassurance from someone who understood shape, who might even say words in the old tongue and who was the only other person who questioned the dam.

  Dellingr.

  Her route took Bera a new way to the forge, past the poorest huts where the blower had had his tongue cut out by a drunken father. Some grimy youths, hunched on thin, bowed legs, watched her. Their eyes were huge in their hungry faces. They had likely eaten their meagre crops and couldn’t trade. Even worse for the ones whose mothers drank the strong brew they made up here. These few huts were close to the sick house, where Sigrid had recovered, but furthest from the cleansing sea. Now they were the only ones to have no running water. The whole area was a latrine and the smell made Bera’s stomach rise.

  A stone hit the middle of her back. When she turned, no one had moved.

  ‘My skern is at my side,’ Bera warned.

  ‘Oooooh!’ said one in mock concern but they did not risk another throw.

  The darkness of the forge blinded her. Bera closed her eyes for a moment and when she opened them Dellingr was right in front of her.

  ‘I won’t have time to do any new work. I’ve got the dam-building tools to sharpen or mend.’

  ‘It’s the dam I’m worried about.’

  He turned away. ‘Then speak to your husband.’

  ‘Well, sorry to trouble you!’

  He did not react to her tartness and began shovelling. His boy worked the bellows as if his life depended on it. Bera loved the smells of leather and sweat and hot metal and fire in here. Honest labour. But she left, vowing never to come back. They had agreed she wouldn’t go up there alone so couldn’t he see she needed him? To Hel with the pompous smith.

  Long strides and temper got her to the crossroads quickly. She had not noticed that the same group of boys were there, waiting.

  ‘Get back to your own side of the village,’ she called out.

  A hail of stones skittered around her feet. Then the biggest drew back his arm and threw a rock, making her duck.

  It was too much.

  Bera growled low in her throat, then charged at them, roaring with frustrated rage. It was a battle cry that would stop a Drorgher and the boys scattered. If anyone else noticed, they stayed indoors. It was satisfying for an instant. Then she thought about the flaw in the dam. If Dellingr would not help her, she must give Hefnir the chance to be the true partner she needed.

  Hefnir was lit by a torch in the winter-dark day, waiting. Bera ran past the latrine and down to meet him at the byre.

  She rested against the pig rail to catch her breath. ‘I’ve been a fool.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘I’m sure the trouble’s at the dam.’

  ‘Oh, no. It’s much closer to home.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You’ve dishonoured me. I’ve been hearing about what you get up to when I’m away trading, trying to put food on our table.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Or any time my back’s turned.’

  ‘Did Thorvald—’

  ‘I had to endure a visit from a gaggle of women, friends of Asa’s, with tongues hanging out, telling me that you and Dellingr—’

  ‘No! Hefnir, that’s not—’

  He slapped her hard across the face. The shock was worse than the pain. Her ears were ringing and she could taste blood.

  ‘They’re wrong! I was only asking Dellingr for help.’

  He wasn’t listening. He wasn’t even present, behind his eyes. Perhaps he had been drinking.

  ‘It’s about the dam. Trust me.’

  Hefnir seized her wrists and dragged her across the yard to the outhouse. He barged open the door and bundled her inside. There was an intense scent of over-ripe apples; ages of winter stores. Something darker. He unlocked the door in the far corner. Heggi’s cell.

  ‘No!’ she screamed.

  Hefnir’s face was closed. He kicked the low door open and stood back. ‘Get in there.’

  ‘It’s jealousy. Their boys threw stones and I threatened them. They don’t like me being a Valla and they’re trying to—’

  Hefnir grabbed her, and thrust her into the small cell. She fell down a short distance and he slammed the door behind her. The lock clicked and Bera was alone in the dark. The smell of earth and decay. Below ground level, with a flood certain.

  Still Bera tried to save the village. ‘They don’t want you listening to me! It was Egill’s plan, those gates, wasn’t it?’

  The change of subject checked him. She sensed him thinking on the other side of the door.

  Bera pressed her small advantage. ‘Tell Ottar he must check them. Hefnir? Listen to me. The weakness is at the gates. Hefnir?’ Three small circles of grey light gave her hope. ‘Get Ottar!’

  She groped and found some steps in the soi
l, leading up to the door. Before she could climb them the outer door closed and the circles vanished. The silence of the grave. Her mind cracked open and screamed danger. Confined.

  There was a thickness to the dark. The hairs went up on the back of her neck. The Drorgher was crouched in a corner of the room like a black spider. This could only be a battle of wills now; she had no Valla power to draw on in here and no flame to frighten it away. No one believed her in Seabost. She had grown soft, unsure, and there was only unending darkness.

  Death brushed her cheek like a cobweb.

  The worst storm hit. Torrential rain came in waves and water levels were rising. Above the village the pool reached the outer clay boundary. Drumming rain brought big silver fish up from the deep. They swam in wide lazy circles, exploring the far reaches of their new kingdom. Beneath them, land plants swayed in the swell of water, trapped like flies in amber. The level had been rising as slowly as hair grows. Now it was nearing bursting point, going up a hand span in moments. The water picked and probed the banks for weakness, making the solid putty.

  Bera sensed this but did not know if it was fact or fear. Her skern was wrapped about her but no comfort at all. She hid behind some empty boxes, held her beads and attempted some words of banishment. Hollow threats. This one was cunning and confident; something had invited it in. How long ago Bera did not know, but she dared not drowse. The Drorgher had roused to its prey, feeding off Bera’s fear.

  She kissed her black bead and there was a child’s laughter; a wooden horse. Some connection with the dead thing with her. Then darkness pressed, squeezing out thought and memory.

  14

  The Drorgher began casting around, sniffing. Bera felt every shift in the air against her cheeks and was afraid. Then it came to her that something happening elsewhere was exciting the creature; drawing its attention. With that relief came the touch of her skern above her eyebrows and she arched towards escape, even while her body stayed locked inside the tiny cell. She saw...