West of the Moon

by Katherine Langrish

  Astrid’s face was a mask of innocence. “Fever, of course. What did you think?”

  They stared at each other across the bed. At last Harald said, “Just cure him quickly.” He strode out. Peer and Hilde hastily drew back to let him pass.

  Astrid turned back to Gunnar, stroking his forehead. “I’ll sing to you again.”

  Gunnar nodded wearily. His head rolled back under her fingers; his eyelids flickered shut. Peer and Hilde tiptoed back to the fire.

  Peer was laughing. “I think Astrid won that bout,” he whispered.

  Hilde nodded. “Peer, I have to tell you about last night.”

  But before she could begin, Magnus sat up and stretched. With his arms widely spread, he used one foot to prod Floki in the ribs. “Wake up, Floki, you lazy young brute.” He gave Hilde his gap-toothed grin. “Morning, Hilde my lass. What have you got for a starving man’s breakfast? Or has Tjørvi scoffed it all?” Then he cocked his head to one side, and his brow furrowed. “What’s going on in there?”

  Astrid’s voice floated out of Gunnar’s room, half singing, half chanting:

  “I know a black stone, out in the sea.

  Nine waves wash over it, three

  by three. Out, sickness!

  I know an oak tree, out in the wood.

  Nine crows sit in it, croaking for blood.

  Out, sickness!

  From breast, from body, from hand, from heart,

  From eyes, from ears, from every part –

  Out, sickness!”

  “Troll girl. Witch woman,” said Magnus darkly. “Brrr! It makes you shiver.”

  Chapter 54

  Disturbances and Tall Tales

  GUNNAR WAS ILL for days. Astrid and Harald clashed constantly over his care, and Astrid won, but Harald became dangerously sullen. When Gunnar recovered enough to get out of bed, he spent his days shivering over the fire with Astrid in attendance. Harald kept urging him to go outside, but he seldom set foot beyond the door, though the weather was now gloriously hot. Summer seemed to arrive all at once. Wild roses, a curious bright pink, flowered in tangles around the salty marshlands, and down on the shore purple pea blossoms twined over the dry sandy stones above the tideline.

  There was food everywhere. Flocks of ducks and geese nested in the marshlands, and more flew in every day. Harald and Arne took bows and shot down dozens. Salmon were spawning, running upstream in such numbers that Tjørvi joked, “You could walk across the river on their backs.” Strange birds sang in the bushes. Strange animals were glimpsed in the woods. At night, flashing fireflies wandered silently in the air. The Nis went out every evening and caught handfuls, releasing them indoors to drift amongst the rafters like bright sparks. Tjørvi put one in Hilde’s hair, where it winked off and on like a green jewel.

  The settling in was over. With the house roof steaming and smoking, and chickens running in and out, and Loki sleeping in the sunshine, Vinland felt almost like home. But at home it would be harvest time. Here, there were no fields to tend. A lot of the time, the men just sat about, sunning themselves or talking.

  And Thorolf ’s house remained empty, a cold, silent reminder of how alone they all were. Every morning, Peer gazed across the bay, hoping to see a square sail making its way in from the gulf. Where were they, Thorolf and his son Ottar, and the crew of the Long Serpent? When would they come back?

  One evening as they sat around the fire, the latch flew up. Hilde burst in from outside, eyes wide and black. She doubled over, gasping. “There’s someone out there! I was filling my buckets at the stream, and I heard something moving, further up the slope. And I’m sure I heard singing.”

  Harald leaped up, grabbing a bow and a fistful of arrows. He ran outside, and everyone but Astrid and Gunnar followed him.

  It was nearly dark. The wooded slope behind the settlement was a wall of shadows, full of creeping sounds, sleepy bird calls, snapping twigs – all strange, all mysterious. As they approached the trees, the mosquitoes came out to meet them in stinging clouds.

  “There’s something there all right. Loki knows,” said Peer. Loki was staring into the trees, hackles up. He backed off, whining and growling.

  “Skraelings, perhaps,” Magnus muttered. “Lurking there, watching us…”

  The slope was almost as steep as a cliff. The stream cascaded down a deep cut between mossy banks, cluttered with fallen branches. The rushing water filled their ears – and then the sound of something crashing and sliding downhill.

  Peer’s hair stood on end. Would he see Skraelings at last?

  “Bear!” Tjørvi yelled. Out from the trees plunged a shambling, sloppy-coated black bear. It saw them and reared up, paws loosely dangling. Peer saw its curved black nails, the white spot on its chest, and its small, narrow-set, blinking eyes.

  Harald’s arrow flew just as the bear shook its flat head and dropped on to all fours. The arrow vanished, and Harald swore, fumbling for another. But the bear was gone, melting into the dark bushes as swiftly as any deer.

  “Well, now,” Tjørvi said to Harald. “If you’d stung that bear, young master, it would have charged us. And then what would you have done?”

  Harald’s teeth gleamed. “I would have let you deal with it, Tjørvi. You look like a bear yourself. It would probably mistake you for its mother.”

  Halfdan and Magnus sniggered. Tjørvi pretended to scratch his head and said, “I’ve always fancied a bearclaw necklace.”

  “But I heard singing,” Hilde said. They all looked at her.

  Arne put his arm across her shoulders. “I don’t think you could, Hilde. Bears don’t sing.”

  “I know that, Arne. And I know what I heard.”

  “Mosquitoes,” suggested Tjørvi helpfully after a moment.

  “Don’t be silly!” Hilde bent crossly for the buckets she had dropped, but Peer picked them up for her.

  “Whatever it was, Hilde, please don’t fetch water by yourself again.”

  Harald’s voice sliced through the dusk. “Why don’t you fetch it? You look a proper milkmaid with those buckets.”

  Magnus choked and slapped his thigh. A hot flush crawled under Peer’s skin, but he knew it wouldn’t show in the dark.

  “What a shame we didn’t bring any goats,” Harald mocked.

  “Can you milk, Barelegs? I’m sure you can.”

  With difficulty, Peer controlled his temper. “Of course I can. If I meet the bear, I’ll milk it for you, shall I?”

  There was silence, and he knew he’d shut Harald up. Tjørvi burst out laughing. He threw his arm around Peer’s shoulders, roaring: “Milk the bear! Excellent! That was very good, young ’un. Here, give me one of those buckets. Bear’s milk! I like it.”

  With a quick, dancing step, Hilde caught up with Peer. “Good for you. That showed him!” But Peer’s flash of triumph was already fading.

  He’ll make me pay.

  Was there no way of dealing with someone like Harald, and winning?

  Whizz! Whizz! Whizz!

  A metallic, rasping sound greeted Peer’s ears as he and Floki came out of the house together next morning, heading for the fish-traps on the shore. Harald sat on a cut log near the porch, sharpening his sword. He whistled between his teeth, tilting the blade, and the sun flashed off in brilliant winks.

  It was an ominous sight. Peer was going past without speaking, but Floki stopped in delight. “Your sword, Harald! You’ve got Bone-Biter out.” He stared at the bright, dangerous thing, obviously longing to touch it, just as obviously not daring to ask. “I suppose it costs a lot, a sword like that?” he added wistfully.

  Harald glanced up, shaking his hair back.

  “Yes, it cost my father a pound of silver.”

  Floki gasped like a fish, and Peer just managed to keep his on jaw from dropping. A pound of silver! He looked at his own little silver ring, the most valuable thing he had. How much silver was in that? A fraction of an ounce. How long had his father scrimped and saved to buy it?

  Hara
ld laid the whetstone down. He lifted the blade, shutting one eye to look down its length. “My father always gets me the best,” he said to Floki. “Pattern-welded, see? Gilded crossbar. The hilt’s bound with silver wire. And the balance – well, see for yourself.” He reversed it neatly and offered the hilt to Floki.

  Floki flushed till even his ears turned scarlet. He took the sword reverently, one hand clutching the hilt, the other palm out under the blade.

  “Try her,” said Harald. “Go on, give her a swing.” He gave Peer a bright look. “Not too close to Barelegs, though. We know what happens if he gets a fright.”

  With sly glee, Floki prodded the sword at Peer’s ankles. Peer stepped back. “Stop it, Floki.”

  “He’s scared!” Floki grinned. “How do I look?” He bared his teeth in a ferocious snarl.

  “Floki,” said Harald lazily, “with a sword in your hand, you frighten even me.” Peer’s lips tightened. But Floki didn’t notice the mockery. He raised the sword and slashed it through the air. “Hey, look at me!” he cried. “Magnus, Tjørvi, look at me.”

  “Mind you don’t take your own leg off,” growled Magnus from the porch. Tjørvi emerged, ducking low under the lintel, his shock of hair white in the sun. Yawning and stretching his arms, he watched Floki chop down invisible enemies, yelling: “Ya! Hey! Take that!”

  Hilde came out with a pail of dirty water and stopped to stare. Encouraged by the audience, Floki whirled ever more wildly, till his toe caught on a loose turf, and he fell flat on his face. Everyone burst out laughing. Harald strolled forwards. Floki scrabbled for the sword on all fours, and handed it back. He knelt in front of Harald, gazing up with an expression of raw adoration on his silly red face. Peer stopped laughing. This wasn’t funny any more.

  “I’m your man, Harald.” Floki pawed at Harald’s knees. Hand on hip, Harald smiled easily down at him, the picture of nobility. Peer’s toes curled. There was still a scar beside Floki’s mouth, where Harald had hit him. Didn’t he have any pride?

  “If only I could have a sword like that,” Floki mumbled. “But I never will.”

  “If we make our fortunes, you can buy one,” Halfdan suggested.

  “A lad like him doesn’t need a sword,” said Magnus scornfully. “He’s got a knife and an axe. What more does he want? Better spend his money on a cow.” Floki looked downcast.

  “Here’s some advice,” said Tjørvi solemnly. “If you do get a sword, Floki, there’s something else you ought to get first.”

  “A shield?” Floki asked.

  “Na, na.” Tjørvi winked at Peer. “You ought to get yourself a life-stone.”

  “What’s one of them?”

  “A life-stone? Ah, it’s a wonderful thing to have. If you’ve got a life-stone, no matter what happens to you, you won’t die. Sickness, battles, wounds – no matter. You’ve really never heard of one?” Tjørvi sounded amazed. He looked around. “You’ve all heard of a life-stone, haven’t you?” The men grinned, smelling a joke.

  “A mate of mine had one once,” Tjørvi went on. “He went to an awful lot of trouble to get it, too. He knew where to look – in an eagle’s nest.”

  Floki listened, wide-eyed. Several of the men were chuckling.

  “So my mate shins up to the nest and grabs the life-stone. There’s a terrible fight, the eagle squealing and slashing him – but with the life-stone in his fist, he slithers safely down. Then he has a proper look at it.

  “My, he thinks, that’s a bit small. How’m I going to keep it safe? I know – I’ll get the wife to sew it into my armpit.”

  “And did she?” asked Hilde demurely.

  “She certainly did,” said Tjørvi, straight-faced. “Sewed it into his left armpit. He was right-handed, you see. And after that, my mate was as safe as houses. His lucky life-stone got him through all sorts of adventures without so much as a single scratch.”

  “Has he still got it?” demanded Floki excitedly.

  Tjørvi sighed. “That’s the sad part. He went on a long sea voyage. There was a terrible storm right out in the middle of the ocean, and the ship was wrecked. Everyone on board drowned. Except him. He couldn’t drown, could he? He had the life-stone.”

  “What was sad about that?” Peer asked.

  Tjørvi opened his eyes wide. “He had to walk home along the bottom of the sea, and it took him years. Oh, a horrible time he had – with sea monsters trying to swallow him, and the fish nibbling at him all the way. At long last he staggered out on shore, and the first thing he asked was for one of us to open his armpit and take out the stone. We did it, of course – anything for a friend – and as soon as it was out of him, the poor fellow crumbled into dust.”

  They were still laughing at Tjørvi’s tall tale – and at Floki, who wanted to know where the life-stone was now, and whether Tjørvi had it – when Halfdan cried out. “Listen! D’you hear that?”

  It was the unmistakeable ringing chop of an axe, far away in the forest: a flat clap followed by an echo. It repeated and repeated.

  “Someone cutting wood. But who?”

  “Skraelings at last.” Harald was on his feet, his eyes bright and narrow, the sword swinging in his hand. “Let’s go and find them.”

  “I’ll come!” said Arne.

  “And me,” Tjørvi rumbled. He patted his hard, flat stomach. “Too much food and too little exercise. I’m getting fat.”

  Everyone wanted to come and Harald had to choose. “Halfdan, Tjørvi, Arne… Not you, Barelegs,” he said to Peer, who hadn’t offered. “Floki, you can come if you like.”

  They set off into the trees in high spirits. Magnus stood at the house door and shook his head. “There goes a lad who needs to be kept busy.”

  “Oh, I wish I could go,” Hilde exclaimed. “I wonder what Skraelings are really like? Do you think they’ll find them?”

  Magnus scratched his stubbly chin. “If not, let’s hope young Harald finds another bear or something. ’Cos he hasn’t got enough to do.”

  It was oddly quiet around the houses with half of the men missing. By sunset, they had not returned. Magnus stood outside, wafting away mosquitoes and staring at the woods. “Should’ve thought they’d be here by now,” he kept muttering. “P’raps I should’a gone along. Floki’s got no sense. Still, Tjørvi’ll prob’ly keep an eye on him. Don’t you reckon?”

  Gunnar kept sending Astrid and Hilde to the door to look for Harald coming back. At last Peer and Hilde and Magnus walked up to the spot where they’d met the bear, listening for the sounds of their friends coming out of the forest. The chopping had long since stopped. Branches cracked, birds cried in strange voices. On the edge of hearing, some creature wailed, a wordless, wistful call. It dragged on Peer’s nerves. Find me. I’m lost, I’m lonely…

  And then: “Ahoy, there!”

  This time it was a real shout. Magnus sighed in relief. “That’s them. Here they are, look – coming from the river. This way!” he bellowed.

  Exhausted, swearing, and plastered with mud, the expedition limped out of the bogs beside the river and up on to the firmer ground below the trees.

  “Gods!” said Arne. “I’m glad that’s over. We’ve wandered for miles.” He looked back and shuddered. “I’ve felt eyes on my back all day.”

  “And insects!” exclaimed Tjørvi. “Whew!” His eyes were almost swollen shut with mosquito bites.

  “It’s been horrible,” Floki whined, scratching at an angry lump on his face.

  Tjørvi gave Halfdan a shove. “It was Halfdan’s fault. He kept seeing things.” Peer had never seen Big Tjørvi in such a bad mood.

  “What things?” asked Hilde.

  Halfdan looked unhappy. “Someone beckoning between the trees. With long hair covering the face. Sort of – greenish. Arne saw it too. He thought it was a woman.”

  “I was never sure,” said Arne quickly.

  “So we followed this ‘person’ till we lost it,” Tjørvi growled, “and ended up in a stinking bog, and floundered around for
hours. Finally we stumbled across a stream —”

  “He means that – Floki fell into it,” Arne added. “Which led us down to the river. And thankful I am that it’s the right river.” Tjørvi still seemed unusually angry. “I thought we’d never get back.”

  Harald had said nothing so far. He was wiping his sword in the long grass. His hair trailed over his shoulders in long muddy draggles, and his legs were mired to the knee. A spirit of mischief rose in Peer. “So you found no Skraelings. What a pity!”

  Harald glanced up. “Oh, but we did. That was the one thing that went right.”

  “You found Skraelings!” Peer felt sudden deep alarm. “Just two,” said Arne. He sounded rather odd. “Camped a mile or so back along the river, under a sort of bark shelter. We saw the fire they’d lit.”

  “What happened?” Hilde cried. “Could you talk to them? Were they friendly?”

  “We didn’t have time to find out,” said Tjørvi carefully, “before Harald killed them.”

  Harald finished cleaning his sword and rammed it back in its sheath. “Exciting, wasn’t it?” he said cheerfully. “Floki almost wet himself. Look at this.” He tapped his chest. Slung from his neck, a rope of splendid white claws gleamed in the dusk, each one as long as a finger. “Skraeling work. A bearclaw necklace: the only thing worth taking. Who said he wanted one of these? You, Tjørvi? Too bad; you’ll have to be quicker next time. Come on, it’s suppertime, and I’m starving.”

  Chapter 55

  A Walk on the Beach

  “HE KILLED THEM?” Hilde stared after Harald in disbelief. The thick dusk prickled with stars. Mosquitoes whined about their ears.

  Halfdan muttered, “They might have attacked us.”

  “Certainly,” said Tjørvi with heavy sarcasm. “It pays to be careful with odds like that. Two of them, and only five of us.”

  “Did they look dangerous?” Hilde asked in a strained voice.

  “A couple of young fellows, cooking fish over a camp fire?” Tjørvi snorted. “They hardly had time to look around, let alone go for their weapons.”