West of the Moon

by Katherine Langrish

  Once he almost steps on a little green snake lying in a patch of sun. It pokes out a scarlet tongue and shoots into the undergrowth. Once he finds a tangle of fruiting blackberries, and shoves the sweet berries into his bruised mouth till his fingers drip.

  The path brings him to the top of a steep bank, thick with birches and aspens. The brook plunges over in a long horsetail, splashing off little ledges on the way down. At the bottom, between layers of golden leaves, is the silver glare of water. Echoing up from the water is childish laughter and splashing.

  Children?

  How? Whose? But it doesn’t matter: there are people down there. He slithers downhill, Loki at his heels, skidding, sliding, catching hold of branches to check his descent. He tumbles out of the trees.

  A stretch of open water spreads away, level and bright. Along the water’s edge, against the fringe of the forest, is a village of conical huts or tents, constructed of tall poles propped together and wrapped in sheets of white and golden birchbark. There are fifteen, twenty of them. White smoke rises from cooking fires. Slender white boats lie drawn up on the shore, and a band of bare little black-haired children are chasing each other through the shallows.

  Skraelings?

  The word doesn’t seem to fit the happy children and the white and golden village.

  Then the children see him. They take one look at this pale, shambling, bloody creature and scatter, screaming. The village erupts. Dogs howl. Mothers run to snatch up their babies. Fathers scramble from their doorways and run yelling at Peer, shaking light axes and brandishing spears.

  Peer sits down. In truth his legs have simply given way. But no one can think he’s dangerous if he’s sitting on the ground. And if they want to kill him, they’ll do it anyway. And he’s too tired to care. He grips Loki’s collar and waits for them to come.

  It works. A crowd of men and boys surrounds him, arguing loudly, threatening him with their spears but not touching him. Their dogs skulk around snarling, foxy-faced, with curling bushy tails. Peer looks up, beyond fear. Dark eyes glitter down at him, suspicious, doubtful. He sees details – a cluster of red feathers swinging from a brown earlobe; a long necklace of white beads; a chequerwork armband in black and blue and white. And then…

  Can there be fair-haired Skraelings? A young boy scrabbles his way to the front of the crowd. His chest is bare. He wears a breech cloth of soft leather. His shoulder-length, white-gold hair is braided at the front and tied with discs of white shell and bunches of little blue feathers. His round face, pale under the tan, is marked with paint – a black line drawn from his forehead down over his nose, and white diagonal streaks across each cheek. His blue eyes blaze at Peer, furious, incredulous, and more than a little scared.

  “Who are you?” he demands, in clear, aggressive Norse. “Where have you come from?” The paint on his face wrinkles as he scowls. “Did Harald Silkenhair send you?”

  Chapter 60

  Thorolf the Seafarer

  HILDE DREAMED. SHE thought she was running through the woods, trying to catch Peer, who was running ahead of her and wouldn’t stop, although she called and called. He vanished into dark trees, leaving her alone and lost.

  She woke, and the waking was as bad as the dream. She lay in the gloomy flicker of the fire hall, knowing that Peer was gone. Nothing good would ever happen again. Astrid lay asleep beside her, her arm over her face.

  Gunnar had shut his door against Astrid, leaving the girls no choice but to sleep in the fire hall with the men. Hilde didn’t know why it should be different from everyone sleeping together, as they had on the ship. But it was, and the men thought so too. There was a wide gap between herself and Tjørvi, the nearest sleeper.

  Miserably she went over what Astrid had told her about Peer. He had fallen into some sort of trap; that was all she would say. When Hilde had pushed for details, Astrid got angry. She’d said, “It’s too hard to explain. It’s like looking through a tiny window, a peephole, at something bright and small. You can’t see everything. In fact, you can’t see much of anything.”

  “But you found him,” Hilde burst out. “Then let’s go and rescue him.”

  “But I don’t know how to get there,” Astrid said. “Oh Hilde, think about it. Think how a fly flies! I’d never find the way.”

  Hilde thought of it, the random career of a fly whirling through the woods, past tree after tree after tree… “You said he was trapped,” she’d said at last, dreading the answer. “What sort of trap?”

  Astrid wouldn’t tell her for ages. And when she did, it was worse than Hilde could possibly have imagined. “He couldn’t move. I think he was pegged down.”

  Pegged down!

  She made a small noise, a groan of suppressed agony. Tomorrow Tjørvi and Arne would look for Peer again. She would go with them. But when Astrid’s sending had found Peer, he had seemed to be dying, so by now he was probably dead. Perhaps there were things in the woods that weren’t harmless like the little wiklatmuj’ik. Perhaps the elusive Skraelings had killed him… Her thoughts were running in frantic circles, when she was startled by an unexpected sound. A single muffled thump on the door.

  Peer!

  Her heart jumped into her throat.

  It’s him, it’s got to be.

  She sat up instantly, casting a look around the room. No one else had heard. They were all sleeping like the dead. Her bare feet touched the damp earth floor. Taking fast, shallow breaths, she tiptoed past the fire. Peer’s come back. He’s waiting outside. It’s him: he’s safe.

  The relief, oh, the relief! The childhood reassurance was true after all: It was only a bad dream. Everything would be all right. A second chance; we’ve got a second chance.

  There was another thud against the door, followed by a strange scratching, like claws. Loki. Of course Loki would be with Peer; he never left him.

  I’m coming, I’m coming…

  He was so clear in her imagination, standing on the other side of the door. In a moment she would see him, speak to him, touch him. She seized the wooden bar that fastened the door at night. It was heavy, but she managed to lift it from its sockets without a sound and lay it quietly on the floor. Trembling with cold and excitement, she raised the latch and eased the door back.

  A freezing wind whirled into her face, smelling of salt and seaweed. It blew her hair into her eyes. “Peer?”

  The night was dark, cloudy, but surely there was someone on the threshold. Taller than Peer. A figure – or figures… She wiped her hair away and craned into the night with a cry of disappointment. Peer was not there.

  The wind pushed into the house. It rushed up the room, sweeping the fire low. Along the walls, men raised sleepy heads, lifting themselves on their elbows. Hilde turned.

  A wet trail crossed the floor, as though someone had run through the room with an armful of soaking washing. A person was disappearing through the door to the inner room – a big man, his clothes black and dripping. The door slapped shut.

  There was a strangled wail from Floki. “Oh gods!”

  His voice was drowned by Gunnar’s waking yell of terror.

  Hilde stumbled. Something squirmed between her feet. She looked down. The dragonhead lay there, inert, its blind eye staring at her, its mouth curled in a sardonic grin. She backed away from it, knuckles against her teeth.

  It didn’t move; it couldn’t have moved.

  But there it was. And how had it got there?

  Frantic men scrambled from the blankets, grabbing axes, drawing knives. The dim end of the room filled with shadows as they threw themselves at the door of Gunnar’s bedchamber. What a crowd they made. Who were they all? Breathless, she counted faces. There was Tjørvi, pressing against the door with Arne – but who was that hollow-cheeked fellow beside him, who ducked away as she looked? Between Floki and Magnus was someone whose head gleamed unpleasantly, like bald bone. And who was that, grinning most inappropriately over Halfdan’s shoulder?

  From beyond the door came a series o
f half-throttled screams.

  “It’s stuck!” Sweat poured down Tjørvi’s face. “It’s barred – on the inside!”

  “Then break it down.” Teeth bared, Harald swung round, his gold hair flying. “A log, quick. That one!”

  “Not that one!” Hilde screeched. It was the dragonhead he was pointing at, and it was now much further up the room. “Don’t touch it!”

  Harald bent, stared, cursed. He grabbed an axe from the feeble hands of Floki and began attacking the door with huge hacking swipes.

  Someone touched Hilde’s elbow and she almost jumped out of her skin.

  “What did you stop him for?” said Astrid viciously. The bruises on her face stood out. Her lips were parted and her breath came quickly.

  “Nobody ought to touch that thing – not even Harald,” said Hilde vehemently. She didn’t know why. Then she did. When the dead fight the living, I’m on the side of the living. It was as simple as that.

  Astrid pointed at the ruined dragonhead. “But you did. You took it away. Where did you hide it?”

  “In Thorolf ’s house.”

  “Thorolf’s house?” Astrid began to laugh. “No wonder we have visitors. Can you see them, too? Poor fellows, they’re not in very good shape any more – after sword and fire and seawater…”

  Tjørvi had an axe now, and he and Harald were taking turns at the door, which shuddered and jumped. Splinters flew. They opened a long gash in the planks. Harald tossed the axe aside and called, “Father? Father!” The screaming had stopped. Harald ran desperate hands through his hair. “Astrid! Help him!”

  “How?” said Astrid.

  He seized her. “You’re a troll, you’ve got troll powers, haven’t you? Do something!”

  Astrid showed her teeth. “And if I’m a troll, why should I help you or him? Maybe I did this! Maybe I let them in.”

  Harald grabbed a fistful of her bright hair. He jerked her head back and pressed his knife to her throat.

  “No! Harald, she didn’t.” Hilde caught her friend’s arm. “Astrid, everyone knows you’re not a troll. Please help us. Please!”

  Astrid’s face twisted stubbornly. She looked at Harald out of the corners of her eyes and gasped, “Threaten away, Harald Silkenhair. I can’t help Gunnar any more. You saw to that.”

  “What do you mean?” Harald yanked her hair.

  Astrid laughed again, a high-pitched sound not far from weeping. “The soul has wings, Harald, did you know that? Even Gunnar’s soul. So I hid it for him in an egg, a little bird’s egg. And it was quite safe with me – till you stamped it into pieces this afternoon.”

  She lifted her voice and screamed, “Hear me, Gunnar, if you can! You should have trusted me, not Harald. And now I wouldn’t help you if you came crawling to me along the highway. A cold wife and a cold bed. A cold life and a cold death to you, Gunnar Ingolfsson!”

  Harald flung her away. He hurled himself at the weakened door, and Tjørvi and Magnus joined him, throwing their shoulders against it.

  It gave way, pitching them into the darkness beyond. “Bring torches!”

  Hilde ran to the fire and plucked a burning stick from the embers then ran to the broken door. The men pushed in. Floki hung back, his mouth trembling – afraid to go in, afraid to stay in the fire hall by himself. Hilde held out her hand, and he gripped it tightly. Like children they tiptoed into the room together.

  Gunnar lay uncovered on the bed. There were deep black marks on his bare throat. His skin ran with water; his hair was soaked. The air in the room smelled chill and shocked, as though a wave had burst through it. The bed linen dripped quietly on to the floor.

  Floki’s hand shook in Hilde’s.

  With a cry, Harald cast himself on the bed. He got an arm behind Gunnar’s shoulders and heaved him up, cradling him. Gunnar’s arms hung down and his eyes stared at nothing.

  Thorolf the Seafarer had been – and gone.

  They built up the fire till it blazed, and huddled around it, listening to Harald weeping behind the broken door.

  “Harald’s brave enough,” Halfdan muttered once. “Sitting up with that.”

  The men nodded. After a while, and almost as though h couldn’t help it, Magnus said, “What if Gunnar won’t lie quiet?”

  That made everyone draw closer together – except Astrid, who sat alone and silent near the door.

  When a little grey light crept through the smoke hole, Hilde began stiffly to set about stirring up some warm groute. She didn’t ask Astrid to help: Astrid looked as though she might never move or speak again. Hilde set a small bowl aside for the Nis. It was frightened of ghosts. She hoped it was all right.

  Harald came out of his father’s room. The men jumped nervously as if expecting a monster. He paused in the doorway. “A funeral,” he said coldly. “Build a pyre. We’ll burn his body and raise a mound to cover his bones. Pull down the other house to make material for it. I don’t want a turf or a hearthstone left in place. And from now on this bay will be called Gunnar’s Grave. Where is the dragonhead? Has it been burned yet?”

  “No,” said Halfdan nervously. No one had liked to touch it. They all looked where it lay, halfway up the room.

  “Put it on the pyre,” said Harald. “Put it at his feet.”

  They built the pyre on the beach and carried Gunnar out on a board, wrapped in his cloak. Rain drove in from the sea. Out in the river, Water Snake tossed at her mooring. They stood in the cold wind, watching the flames. Astrid waited at a distance, her cloak and dress fluttering in the wind. She looked like a sort of ghost herself, Hilde thought. She had been “the skipper’s wife”. Then she had been “the troll girl”. What was she, now? Widow, or faithless wife? Hilde was afraid for her – afraid of what Harald might do.

  They went to the beach next day to recover the bones. The rain had beaten into the embers, and the fire was out. Raking through the debris, Floki gave a yelp of horror. The dragonhead thrust its snout out of the ashes, a long, black, staring, crooked thing, no more scorched than it had been before. Magnus turned it over with a flinching foot.

  “Of course it won’t burn,” said Tjørvi angrily. “It’s lain in the sea too long. Soaked in salt water – damp right through.” Everyone nodded. No one believed it. They kicked it down to the tideline, where some winter storm might wash it away.

  Chapter 61

  War Dance

  PEER’S BREATH SMOKED as he followed Kwimu and Ottar back to the wigwams. They’d been checking the traps around the beaver dam, and found two fine fat beavers, which had rashly triggered the deadfalls.

  How quickly summer vanished! In a few brief weeks, since he’d been here, the trees had burned themselves up in a bonfire of colour – red, purple, gold. Now all that was left was bare black branches, and dark green firs, and bluish spruce. A powdering of snow had fallen, and Peer was glad of the warm moosehide wrap, as big as a blanket, which Nukumij had given him.

  The still water above the beaver dam was already half frozen – thin shelves of ice spreading out from the edges. As they walked away, Kwimu said something that made Ottar laugh.

  “Beavers build lodges and live in families like the People. Kwimu says if they were a tiny bit cleverer, they’d stick out their heads and talk to us. Then we’d have to stop hunting them.”

  When Ottar had finished translating, Kwimu grinned at Peer. Peer grinned back. It had been a long time since he’d had a friend of his own age, and you couldn’t help liking Kwimu. With his long black hair, and strong, regular features, he was as handsome in his way as Harald Silkenhair, but there the comparison ended. Kwimu always had a smile ready, or a helping hand. Ottar adored him.

  Peer was glad to be of use at last. The day he’d staggered out of the woods, he’d just managed to explain to Ottar that he wasn’t an enemy, that Harald Silkenhair had driven him out. Then he’d collapsed, and lain ill for days. He remembered waking from dark dreams to see the fire flicker, smelling the strong green smell of broken fir branches. Crying out, struggli
ng against the grip of hands, before realising that they meant only to poultice his arm, or tilt him up to pour odd-tasting drinks down his throat. Listening to human voices flowing over him like water. Then one night he’d woken to the sound of a light, shifting rattle, followed by the thud of a stick on a bark drum. Close by, someone began an intricate, flowing song that died away at the end of each breath and began again with renewed strength: “Yah weh ah hah yay oh. Ah hah yay ah hay oh…”

  It was Grandmother, Nukumij, singing a medicine song to cure him. Its ever-changing rhythm seemed to bring back his spirit from where it was wandering. Soon he was sitting up and learning about the people who had helped him.

  There was Grandmother, of course – so tiny she seemed almost lost in her voluminous deerskin robes, but whose skilful hands were always busy and whose bright eyes saw everything. There was Kwimu’s father, Sinumkw, so stern and stately that Peer was nervous of him – until he smiled, when he looked just like Kwimu. There was Kwimu’s quiet mother, and Plawej, a sweet-faced young woman with a plump, black-eyed baby, whose husband was away on a hunting trip. And Kwimu’s little sister, Jipjawej – too shy even to look at Peer till, remembering a trick that charmed the children at home, he carved her a small wooden whistle. The first time he blew on it, she jumped. Then she took it with a quick, delighted smile.

  Ottar watched her tooting on it as though he rather wanted one himself. “I’ll show you how to make them,” said Peer. “So if Jipjawej loses hers, you can make her another.”

  Ottar was no older than Sigurd. Cutting away at the whistle, he told Peer how he’d seen his father killed – how he’d climbed on the roof and hidden from the murderers – and watched them sail away, leaving him to die.

  “And for nothing,” he said bitterly. “For an argument about some furs. Pa set the traps and did the work, and then Harald claimed half of them. He said Pa and Gunnar had agreed to go halves on everything.” His voice rose: “But that was a lie. Pa said they’d only agreed to share the expenses of setting out, and what we brought back was up to each of us. ‘Then you won’t give me the furs?’ Harald said. He sounded really nasty. Up till then I’d liked Harald. He looks such a hero, and he used to say things that made me laugh.” Ottar scowled and shivered.