The Book of Bera

by Suzie Wilde

  Thorvald carried his wife back to their billet.

  ‘Tell him,’ Sigrid called out, over his shoulder.

  Bera was puzzled for a moment.

  The baby.

  Telling Hefnir would make it real for them both. His back was a wall. Would he be pleased? She refused to give him any joy. There was too much bitterness, too much falsehood and secrecy already, but some secrets must remain – because they were about to make passage to a shore Egill dreaded and they needed her boat-skills.

  ‘There was no chance Thorvald was staying,’ said Hefnir. ‘That’s why he punched me, because he knows he can’t leave me. He loves me, Bera. He’ll always choose me.’

  How could he think this was true? Hefnir was so busy making up his version of Thorvald that he did not ask what Bera should tell him or why she had fainted.

  Ottar and Egill arrived, playing bully-bully with Heggi like overgrown toddlers. The mood shifted to excitement then fear and back again. They ate the stew quickly and Sigrid went off to pack, as white and silent as a ghost owl. Heggi refused to get into his bedroll then fell asleep the minute he did. The others turned in soon after. The last thing Bera saw was a spurt of green flame from salty driftwood. It stirred some memory of the day her mother died. A smell of spruce, blood; a rat scuttling. Fear. She touched the bead with the B rune on it: not her rune, or Bjorn’s. Given by Bjarni to her mother, pretending it was for Bera? A mother herself now, she fell into sleep praying the baby would not kill her.

  And then it was morning and they were leaving Seabost for ever.

  Their last few belongings went on barrows and the small procession set off. Bera stayed behind, needing to be in the house alone. Her last action was to place the household keys on the cold hearth. The ancestors were silent as she went through the passage. Even they had departed.

  Before she entered the twitten, Bera made the mistake of looking back. The families with the stone-throwing boys were already moving in, their thin faces red and rapacious.

  She caught up with the others, holding her head high and fighting back tears so she would not lower their spirits. The barrows rattled the wooden boards and Rakki barked all the way down onto Hefnir’s jetty where the two boats were moored. Ottar was bustling about the deck of the bigger, re-hogged vessel, which would be theirs. A fog hung over the middle of the fjord, like a cloud come down to kiss the tide. On the other jetties, some fishing boats were packed with happy, boisterous families and all their hefty stuff. They were already too low in the water.

  ‘Stupid oafs.’ Ottar handed Bera aboard. ‘I fixed the boats and they’ll have ’em over before we make the Skerries.’

  ‘You can’t blame them.’

  ‘They’re up to the gunnels in junk.’

  Hefnir was on his way to the animal pens. ‘Keep your mouth shut, Ottar. It makes our leaving easier if they think they’ll make it.’

  Lying to his people again.

  Adversity makes scoundrels of the scared.’ Ottar muttered.

  It was like a feast day, with laughter and drinking. Hefnir’s tenant farmer appeared with Egill in tow, leading the animals down to the jetty. They were followed by a small procession so that by the time they reached the boat there was a racket of frightened beasts and raucous people. The livestock were loaded onto the boats and Heggi made certain that Feima and Dotta were on theirs. Bera joined them at the pen and marvelled at the calf’s thick, sooty eyelashes and innocent eyes.

  Egill promised to care for Dotta on the journey. ‘In Iraland the fields are green as emeralds. There’s so many cows that the sea’s white with milk.’

  ‘Egill!’ Bera playfully cuffed her. ‘We’re not going to Iraland.’

  ‘Hefnir says we are.’

  ‘Let the wind decide.’ Bera was a Valla who ruled the wind.

  Heggi pulled Bera’s sleeve. ‘Have you named our boat?’

  ‘It’s only been re-hogged.’

  His face fell. ‘Ottar said you would.’

  ‘All right. I will then.’ Bera pulled out her necklace.

  Egill studied the black bead. ‘Obsidian.’

  ‘That’s a silly name for a boat,’ declared Heggi, who went off in disgust.

  Bera went up to the bow alone, thinking about the glossy black stone. Obsidian. Its purpose was too dark to name this boat of Ottar’s with it. She thought of another and said a prayer for its safety. Once she would have kept her mother’s naming of the boat. Now Bera felt she was as good a Valla and accepted what came with that position, which was to view honour differently. Sigrid must have seen Alfdis use some of her skills – what if her refusal to pass on any knowledge was really a fear of provoking infidelity in Bera?

  Dellingr’s voice was close but Bera kept her back turned. She would fight the passionate side of her nature as long as she could.

  Ottar startled her. ‘You naming her?’

  ‘Raven.’

  ‘Good one.’

  ‘Is there any more work needs doing?’

  ‘I can do it when we’re underway. It’s mostly strengthening the pens but they’ll do for now.’ He prodded her. ‘I’ll carve a fierce raven head when we get settled, once I’ve built the longhouse and that.’

  The sail squeaked and rattled as it was raised.

  Bera’s scalp prickled. ‘I wish we’d get going.’

  ‘We’ve run out of ropes so I told them to use the mooring warp and make a slip of the haul-yard.’

  ‘So you can stay on board to cast off. I wondered why the sail was going up.’

  ‘Wind had better stay light till we’re clear.’

  They both checked the darkly striped sail. It was hanging limp, with the new patch glaringly clean against the weather-beaten original.

  ‘Did you make sure it was all greased?’ asked Ottar.

  ‘Best I could.’

  ‘Looks like we’re about ready. Do you know where we’re headed?’

  ‘I have to get Hefnir to agree.’

  ‘You will.’ Ottar touched her lightly.

  The other boat was ready, waiting for them to put out to sea. Its white-faced settlers were motionless, gazing at the edge of the known world.

  ‘Father... before we go, I want to tell you...’

  There was a loud curse. ‘Got rope burn now!’

  ‘Clumsy scab, I’ll do it!’ Ottar yelled and left.

  Bera wanted to tell him she understood him better. That she had always valued him as a craftsman. That she felt safe in so well-found a vessel. Now that she had an unwanted new life inside her, she was grateful to him for raising her. She smiled fondly at his sturdiness and grace as he went amidships and was suddenly his little girl again.

  She would tell him so, as soon as he had cast off.

  Ottar let the haul-yard run past the block. The boat’s nose scented the breeze and softly twitched towards the sea paths. They were off, with no skirmish or panic. Bera relaxed.

  There was a blur of blond fur at the rails.

  ‘Rakki! No!’ Heggi shouted.

  The dog set off up the jetty in full chase.

  ‘Leave it!’ shouted Hefnir, at the steer-board.

  Bera tried to grab Heggi but he was off, charging after his dog. Her scalp flared like nettlerash.

  ‘Good job I had hold of the rope,’ said Ottar.

  Bera turned on him. ‘Why didn’t you stop him?’

  ‘I pulled the boat closer to the jetty so he didn’t...’

  She shouted to Hefnir. ‘Send Thorvald after him.’

  ‘You know that dog. As soon as the rat’s lost or eaten, Heggi will be straight back.’

  ‘Then I’ll go.’

  ‘Stay here, woman, and stop fretting.’

  When she got to the rail Heggi was already running back with his dog. So why was her scalp on fire? Some horror was fast approaching. And then she saw the dust cloud rising behind her boy, coming down from the forest into the home field.

  ‘War band!’ Heggi screamed. ‘On horses!’

  T
he boat listed dangerously as the settlers crowded the side.

  ‘Get back!’ Hefnir began pulling them away from the rail.

  Bera willed Heggi to hurry. He had to push through the crowd of dazed villagers loitering at the end of the jetty. A man made a step of his hands, Heggi clambered up and Thorvald swung him aboard. The man threw Rakki after him then ran to stand with his kin, the only villager who seemed to understand the danger.

  Drumming hooves thundered into the village, as yet unseen.

  ‘Slip the line, Ottar!’ shouted Hefnir.

  ‘Hel’s teeth!’ Ottar was tugging, cursing.

  The jetty shuddered with the weight of horses and riders. They must have already mounted the far end of the wooden walkway, beyond the boatyard.

  ‘Hurry, Father.’

  ‘Man the oars!’ yelled Hefnir. ‘We need to get away fast.’

  ‘The boat’s not moving.’ Bera looked for something to push off with.

  Ottar shouted, ‘The haul-yard’s mungled.’

  A knot was caught round the block on the jetty.

  ‘Cut it!’ said Egill.

  Ottar refused. ‘We’ll have no sail power.’

  He pulled the boat nearer the jetty with all the strength of his broad back, leapt ashore and started to pick at the knot with his spike. Bera was urging him to be quick, knowing no one could be faster. Ottar cursed, trying to drive the spike into the centre. It skidded and ripped his hand and the blood made the spike slip. He would not be beaten.

  The horses appeared.

  Six of them skidded to a halt at the end of the jetty. The Serpent King was leading, naked to the waist, the black shapes on his face and chest writhing. He swung his axe and chopped into a cowering huddle of terrified villagers. Someone screamed and fell. The others ran for their lives but were rounded up by other horsemen. One of them carelessly swiped his axe at the man who had helped Heggi aboard and laughed at the mutilation.

  Ottar worked at the knot, sweating and cursing.

  ‘Cut it!’ yelled Bera.

  ‘This is only for show,’ said Hefnir. ‘He’s not going to harm us, only frighten us. He’s come for money.’

  ‘Wrong,’ Bera spat. ‘He’s come for blood.’

  ‘It’s free!’ Ottar threw the loose end aboard.

  Many hands were held out to help him up. Ottar’s fingertips brushed a crewman’s but a gust caught the sail, taking the boat further from the jetty. He teetered for a moment and then regained his balance.

  ‘You owe me!’ bellowed the Serpent.

  ‘Then come and get it,’ said Hefnir.

  Thorvald drew his sword and stood in front of him.

  There was screaming at Ottar to jump.

  Bera reached out for him. ‘Papa!’

  Ottar looked only at her as the boat moved further away.

  ‘Swim, Ottar! We’ll pick you up,’ said someone.

  ‘He can’t swim,’ said Egill, her voice as thin as a reed.

  ‘Papa!’ Bera screamed.

  Ottar was lost. His square figure blurred and grew smaller.

  ‘Papa,’ she whispered.

  The Serpent roared after them in fury. ‘I’ll come for you. I’ll hunt you down and take my revenge. You’ve played me like a fool for years, brother, and owe me blood money too. Never dirty your own hands, do you? It’s always that scar-faced son of a Helhound that does it for you, you cowardly, dishonourable, two-faced bastard.’

  He swung his axe and Ottar’s head came off as neatly as a child’s toy.

  17

  Whenever Bera stood on a clifftop, the sea appeared to go on forever. From a small boat surrounded by a beaten-iron expanse, it seemed as if the entire known world was a dream. At the end of time it would be, for the ocean was spreading. The Skraken was always heaving and flexing at its monstrous boundaries. Beneath the Ice-Rimmed Sea it was especially active: it writhed over the abyssal plain, tearing open the wound on its belly. Its seeping black blood made the sea grow at the same rate as a human fingernail, until it would finally claim the land at the moment of drowning it. Sigrid’s fears were not unfounded. The creatures swimming in this swollen realm were growing larger in size and numbers, so the boat sailed over the silver backs of teeming fish, facing the danger of being the prey of a sudden monster of the deep.

  Bera didn’t care. She was the walking dead.

  The Raven wallowed in a sea fog that froze the bones. The other boat never entered it; Bera saw it scuttled at the jetty. The fishing boats were swamped. She felt nothing.

  No one comforted her. Each family kept to its own small camp on deck, while Hefnir’s crew worked round them. Egill stayed apart, keening, shamelessly behaving as though Ottar had been her own father. Sigrid was in a bad way with seasickness. Every time she leaned overboard, retching, Thorvald made sure she did not go over.

  Heggi began asking Bera exactly what had happened to Ottar and why, and might he be alive, until she raged at him. He went off to Dellingr’s camp looking baffled and hurt. When she went over to get him back Dellingr briefly smiled at her but Asa immediately made him tie her shawl tighter to keep their baby firmly inside. No matter; the smith was irrelevant now.

  There was hardly room on deck. Ottar needed to strengthen the animal pens and make hull adjustments when the new boards swelled. Who knew what else was needed? He would never get to finish now, so this was how the Raven would stay, for however long it took. They were in an open boat and prey to the weather. They would have to endure every day that Heggi notched on the wooden passage-marker.

  For the first time she cared nothing for being on a boat. Bera had no idea who or what she was anymore. She felt a blank. Ottar’s death left her an orphan and her skern was too pale and silent. It was like being a child again, when he never spoke to her. Bera was a lonely figure in the midst of her folk and completely unable to advise them. She was the plaything of Fate, failing to save her father or even predict his death, and she blamed the baby for robbing her of both human and Valla strength.

  The boat tracked steadily north-westwards in a stiffening breeze. Hefnir tried to edge further south but the wind kept heading them. Bera was aware of what he was doing. Hefnir was enthralled by Egill’s Iraland and still thought it was his secret. He had looked into the heart of obsidian and wanted it to be a dagger: as dark and deep as the night sky in winter, with an edge that could kill. She was certain he had been visiting the boatyard to talk to Egill and make a passage plan for Iraland.

  Let Egill also think they were heading there. Bera trusted that the boat was taking them towards her chosen destination and the wind stayed true. Egill was terrified of the place and they might indeed be passing through the gates of Hel but it was where the black stone was forged and she and Egill belonged there. The thought surprised her for a moment but quickly her mind returned to its obsessive replaying of the sequence leading up to Ottar’s death. She believed that if she could only get the order right, she could change the ending. And, if she behaved well and kept everyone happy, perhaps her father would return and she could tell him she loved him.

  This was madness and must stop.

  The sound of laughing children intruded. They rampaged about the vessel, trailing fishing rods and pretending to fall overboard. Seething, she went below deck to check on the livestock. The raucous shouts and thundering feet must have upset them. Heggi was in the pen with two girls, one of them Dellingr’s daughter. He had his arms round both of them and looked pleased with life. How dare he?

  ‘Is Dotta safe? Your dear little calf.’

  Heggi glowered. ‘Go away, Bera.’

  The girls smirked. Did he care so little for Ottar? Bera was tempted to explain how the world was a darker place than they could imagine. Dellingr’s girl kissed him and provoked such an urge to shatter their happiness that Bera got herself away.

  Back in their camp space, she took out the passage-marker and made a notch. Doing Heggi’s duty made her more resentful, as she wanted it to. There was no one to be a
wise, soothing friend. Sigrid was propped against the rail ready for her next bout, green-faced and sweaty, with Thorvald beside her as ever.

  Hefnir called over to her, ‘Will this damn wind ever set fair?’

  There was, at least, her husband. Someone.

  Bera went to him, rolling with the boat. ‘It’s strange and empty out here, with no sea birds and unknown clouds. I can’t read it.’

  ‘I’ve never seen waves like this, either, though I’ve never crossed deep ocean this far north with Fall coming. We should have hugged the coast.’

  ‘Exactly as the Serpent would expect.’

  A large roller creamed in. Hefnir swiftly adjusted the steering so that it safely hissed away beneath them.

  ‘Don’t want to meet a rogue wave broadside on,’ he said.

  Did he forget she’d ever sailed? She was seeking warmth and consolation. If they could not share grief they might at least have shared the names of waves for companionship. They never would.

  There was only Heggi to bind them. ‘Heggi has girls kissing him now.’

  ‘He’s a good-looking lad. Like his father.’ Hefnir smiled and it was enough. Every passage needs a truce.

  Bera returned to their billet. Seasoned sailors like Hefnir and Thorvald had their leather sea rolls with them, which kept their bedding dry during their off-watch. Bera had to endure a heap of damp blankets and furs. She found her workbox and took out her sewing kit. Clothing was more precious now that it was scarce. The trouble was, she had given away their old clothes to the poor folk before they left, so she had to improvise.

  She hitched up her skirt and cut a small piece of the linen undergarment to patch Heggi’s undervest, which he had torn when he jumped overboard. Bera flinched away from the memory and concentrated on her stitching. The regular prick and pull of the needle soothed her. She prided herself on her neatness, as if it could control life. Not that madness again.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Heggi flumped down beside her with his dog. ‘I’m hungry.’