West of the Moon

by Katherine Langrish

  Ottar turned to Peer. “Do you believe in Valhalla, Peer? Where do you think we go to when we die? Kwimu says the People walk along the Ghost Road to the Land of Souls. Look, you can see it up there.”

  Kwimu pointed upwards. A-glimmer above the trees was the line of the Milky Way, spangled and studded with stars. A royal road for the feet of the dead. Peer’s breath caught.

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “My father used to say we cross over a bridge.”

  “It looks like a bridge, doesn’t it?” said Ottar, staring up. “I hope it’s the same one. Wherever Kwimu goes, I want to go there too.”

  Crossing a bridge… floating away down a dark river… Perhaps all the journeys ended at the same bourne. Peer thought of his father and was comforted.

  Shadowy snowflakes whirled into the fire like moths. Peer’s breath smoked. The wind wailed. Or was it a wolf or some other animal, crying?

  Kwimu sat up, listening. He took off the fox-skin pouch, which usually dangled from his belt. It had the face and paws and tail all attached, and Peer had sometimes seen him playing with it, stroking it and pretending to make it pounce. Now Kwimu scrambled lithely out of the shelter and disappeared into the snow. He came back almost immediately, without the pouch, and lay down. The others followed suit.

  “What’s that about?” Peer whispered.

  Ottar yawned. “It’s all right. He’s leaving Fox on a tree branch not far away. To warn us of danger.”

  “Fox? You mean his pouch?”

  Ottar scowled. “It’s his tioml. His power. You don’t notice much, Peer. Haven’t you seen how it comes alive?”

  “But…” Peer shut his mouth. He wasn’t sure of anything. And about midnight, after the fires had gone out, they were woken by a yapping bark from close above. Loki stirred and grumbled.

  On the cold wind came a distant howl, a lonely, hungry sound. It drew nearer. Beside him, Peer saw Ottar’s eyes gleam wide.

  Out of the woods, into the clearing, a moose came leaping in an arc of snow – running for its life. Peer rose to see better. It lifted over the shelter in a single bound, kicked a freezing dust of powder snow into his hair, and galloped into the trees. After it something came rushing, with crashing of undergrowth and explosive cracks of branches. It must be enormous to make such a noise. Wolves? Bears? Impossible. Here it comes, and it’s big. It’s very big —

  “Down! Get down!” Ottar hissed. In disbelief Peer saw the tops of the pine trees shiver and sway apart. He sat down hard. It was overhead – a striding shadow against the stars – a yell that threw them to the ground – a double shock of mighty footsteps leaping over them.

  It was gone. The woods swallowed it. An odd, musky smell blew back on the wind.

  And a small animal slunk light-footed over the edge of the snow shelter, dashed to Kwimu and disappeared under his cloak.

  In the eerie snowlight, men poured from the dugouts like ants from disturbed anthills. Peer too scrambled up into the cold. Ottar dragged him over to a great shapeless treadmark stamped into the snow on the very edge of one of the other shelters. They grouped around it, excited and afraid.

  “Jenu,” Peer heard. “Jenu…” He turned to see Kwimu standing sombrely, staring into the trees. The fox pouch hung limp from his belt, dark-eyed and grinning.

  “What was it?” Peer asked quietly.

  “A sort of – ice giant.” Ottar’s teeth rattled. “That’s the s-second time I’ve seen one. I’ll t-tell you about it – but not out here.”

  With the dawn, they clambered out of their snow holes. It was a bad omen for the day ahead. Peer hoped they might give up and go back to the village. But his companions were strapping on their snowshoes and setting off, and with a heavy heart he knelt to do the same. As Kwimu bent beside him, Peer got a good look at the fox pouch. Whatever it had done in the night, it was definitely not alive now. The eyes were made of little black shells.

  And the day passed in trudging along slanting hillsides, under the lee of rocky ridges and over open tracts where fire had swept through the woods and the charred treestumps poked through the snow like black teeth. Peer couldn’t recognise anything from his autumn journey. Apart from their own passing – the creak of the snowshoes, and the swish of robes – the woods were silent. Snow spread endlessly under the trees till the woods looked like a white cavern held up by dark pillars. His eyes ached from the whiteness, and his ears ached from the lack of sound.

  In the blue dusk, they descended one last slope. At the bottom, snow curled over the banks of a river, frozen over except for black cores and sink-holes out in the middle where the ice was still treacherous. Following the bank, they came to frozen marshlands where the wind swept the snow like dust before a broom. Beyond the marshlands, Peer heard the pounding of the sea.

  Serpent’s Bay! It looked different. Ottar pushed alongside, staring. “What have they done?” he said hoarsely. “They’ve pulled down our old house.” Only Gunnar’s house was left. Peer stared hungrily at it. Hilde was there. So close!

  The sky was clear and very cold. In the south west a fingernail moon clung, setting into the trees. Sinumkw led the war party silently along the edge of the wood, leaving the frozen flats to their left, till they came to the spot where in summer the brook rushed down the slope. Now it was a white cascade of leaping ice.

  From here, with Thorolf ’s house gone, there was a clear view to Gunnar’s. Sinumkw signed his men to stop. It was a good position, uphill from the house, and camouflaged against the trees.

  Ottar shivered – with old memories, Peer thought, not with cold. Kwimu put an arm around him. Sinumkw turned to Peer. Peer couldn’t read his face under the dark war paint, but his eyes gleamed. Ottar translated. “Sinumkw says, ‘Now do what you came for. Carry our challenge. Tell them who they killed and why we have come.’ And he says if you can get the girls out, do it before the moon sets. That’s when we’ll attack.”

  “It’s mighty cold tonight,” said Arne to Hilde. He wiped the last of the broth from his bowl with a lump of bread. “It will be a long winter.”

  “I know,” said Hilde, rousing herself with an effort.

  Astrid sat on the floor close to the hearth, mending clothes in the firelight. At the other end of the fire, Harald sprawled moodily in his father’s chair, a low trestle table in front of him. He ignored his food, playing with his knife, twiddling it on its point and catching it before it fell over. The rest of the men were eating silently, heads down. Sometimes one of them coughed, or nudged his neighbour to pass the bread. Floki had a bad cold, and sniffed steadily – juicy, bubbling sniffs. “Can’t you stop doing that?” Magnus grumbled. No one else spoke.

  Somewhere in the rafters, Hilde supposed, the Nis perched, swinging a leg and watching them. If it wasn’t dying of boredom.

  Arne watched her. He cleared his throat. “It would be easier, maybe, if we two could help each other.”

  She turned drearily. “What do you mean?”

  “Peer’s not coming back, Hilde,” Arne said quietly. “Not after all this time. I know you were fond of him – but aren’t you fond of me, too? If you’ll marry me, I’ll take care of you. I won’t let you worry about anything.”

  Hilde felt a twisting sensation inside her chest, as though he had taken her heart in both his hands and wrung it out. She met his clear blue eyes and remembered Astrid’s words: Arne’s quite ordinary. It was true. Nice, yes, but ordinary. She wondered why it taken her so long to notice.

  “Of course I like you, Arne, but you can’t ‘take care’ of me.”

  “I’d like to try.”

  “You don’t understand.” She closed her eyes and saw, as if by flashes of lightning, pictures against the darkness. Peer on the ship, gripping her arm and dashing off to deal with the Nis. Peer telling Harald the lie about the seagull. Peer facing Harald down not once, but many times, armed only with his wits, and, finally, with a burned dragonhead. She opened her eyes. Dammed-up tears spilled out. “Peer never tried to take
care of me. He just took it for granted we’d do things together. You say you’d look after me. But in all this time, the only person who’s stood up to Harald – the only person brave enough – has been Peer. And I miss him – so much.”

  Arne rubbed his eyes. On the back of his wrist Hilde saw the scar where he’d turned aside Harald’s harpoon. “I’m sorry,” she added. “But it’s no good, Arne. Don’t ask me.”

  “I see it’s no good asking you now,” said Arne. “I spoke too soon. Don’t worry, I’ll wait.”

  Though he looked sorry for her, she sensed he was confident that she’d change her mind. She began to protest, and fell silent. What was the use? Maybe he was right. Maybe Astrid was right. If the person you wanted died, you just had to accept it and move on. Didn’t you?

  No, she thought passionately. No!

  “Floki,” said Harald in a cutting voice. “Will you stop that revolting sniffing? You sound like a pig.”

  A ripple went down the room – men lifting their heads and then deciding not to look. Floki smeared his nose with the back of his hand. “Sorry,” he muttered, and sniffed again almost at once.

  “Gods!” Harald stared at him in disgust. “You’re like a human water clock. We ought to stand you in a corner and keep time by the drips.”

  Now that, thought Hilde, is the sort of remark that used to make Floki giggle. See how he likes it when it happens to him.

  This time there were no smothered chuckles. The men ate on steadily, pretending not to notice. There’d been a lot of this lately: everyone tiptoeing around, afraid of setting Harald off. Since Gunnar died his moods had become dangerously unpredictable and his mocking tongue was sharper than ever.

  Floki, who had been struggling not to sniff, gave up the battle. “Sssnnnfff!”

  Harald heaved a cold sigh. “Someone should make a poem about you, Floki. Though I wonder if anyone could do you justice. Let’s see. Indoors, Floki’s nose drips into the pot. Outside, it sprouts an icicle of snot.” He showed his teeth. “How’s that? Not bad, I feel, on the spur of the moment.”

  “I’ve got a cold,” Floki muttered. “I can’t help it.”

  “I know that, Floki,” Harald said soothingly. “I know you can’t help it.” Floki’s worried forehead cleared, but Harald wasn’t finished. “But tell me something. Is there anything you can help?”

  Floki looked this way and that. “Answer the question,” said Harald pleasantly. “You look like a pig, you sound like a pig. Granted. But do you have to be as stupid as one? Do you have to be a bandy-legged, red-faced, useless idiot?”

  Floki tried to grin, but there were tears in his eyes. Magnus growled, “Come on, Harald, stop picking on the lad. Like he told you, he can’t help having a cold.”

  “Ah!” Harald’s blue eyes flicked to Magnus. “Magnus, rushing in to look after Floki, as usual.” He spun his knife and caught it. “You should be in petticoats. You fuss over him like an old woman, don’t you? Why is that, Magnus?”

  Magnus flushed a slow, angry red.

  With widening eyes, Floki plastered his fingers to his face and exploded into a huge, wet sneeze. “Aaaarcchoooo!”

  Harald grabbed his cup. “Get out of my sight, you fool!” he yelled, and threw it. It bounced off Floki’s head, splashing Magnus with weak ale. Floki squealed in pain. Magnus jumped up.

  “Right! I’m sick of your sneering ways, Harald. I stood by while you drove one young lad to his death, and I’ll not stand by while you start on Floki. Who gave you the right to push us all around?” He glared at Harald. “Your dad was all right, but I can’t stick the sight of you. If you was old enough, I’d pick you up and break you in half.”

  “Shut up!” Harald’s voice slashed like a whip. “Tuck Floki into bed and kiss him goodnight. That’s what you’re good at, isn’t it?”

  With an incoherent roar Magnus launched himself at Harald’s throat. Harald stood. The trestle table collapsed between them. Harald put his chin over Magnus’s shoulder, hugging him close. His right arm jerked, once, twice. He stepped back. His knife was covered in wet blood. Magnus slid to the ground.

  It happened too fast for anyone else to move. Hilde stopped breathing. All around the table were open mouths and horrified eyes.

  “Oh, gods. Magnus!” A wail from Floki broke the silence. He scurried round the table and dropped to his knees, grabbing Magnus’s arm, rolling him over. “Oh, gods!” He patted Magnus desperately. “Wake up, wake up! Oh gods, Magnus!”

  Hilde stared at Magnus. There was a blood-stained slit in his shirt. His mouth hung slack, showing his missing teeth, and his eyes were setting in his head.

  Floki looked up. “Tjørvi!” He threw himself at Tjørvi, grabbing fistfuls of his clothes with trembling urgency. “The life-stone, Tjørvi, give it to me, quick!”

  Big Tjørvi gaped. “What?”

  “That life-stone,” Floki shrieked. “The one you told us about. The one your friend got from the eagle. You can have it back later. We need it for Magnus. Quickly, he’s dying!”

  Tjørvi’s face twisted in shocked understanding. “There isn’t any life-stone, Floki. It was just a story.”

  Floki stared at him, panting. “But – we need it.”

  “There isn’t any life-stone,” Tjørvi repeated.

  Floki dragged his hands down his face, staring at Tjørvi with wild eyes. He fell down beside Magnus again, shaking him. “Magnus – Magnus…”

  “He’s dead,” said Harald drily. The bloody knife was still in his hand.

  “Oh, gods.” Tears poured down Floki’s face. His nose ran. “You killed him. You killed Magnus.”

  He got up, arms and legs scrabbling as though he could hardly control them. “Then I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you,” he screamed, and snatched a knife from the table. His hands were shaking so hard that he fumbled and dropped it. Harald laughed, but the others were coming out of their shock.

  “That was murder,” Arne yelled. “Aye!” Tjørvi growled, and there was a chorus of agreement.

  Harald flicked the knife into his left hand and drew his sword with a scrape of steel. “Come and tell me so,” he taunted. “Come on!” He threw back his head to make his hair shake. “Who’s first? Who wants to meet Bone-Biter? Come and kill me, Floki!”

  Sobbing, Floki tried to fling himself forward, but Tjørvi grappled him back. Harald laughed again, shrill and loud. He stepped across Magnus’s body and began to chant, beating time on his chest with the fist that held the dagger.

  “My name is Harald Silkenhair!

  I am the son of Gunnar One Hand.

  He gave me my blade, Bone-Biter.

  Ha!

  I was bred for battle.

  My mother fed me on wolf meat.

  She gave me knives to play with,

  To teach me the sharpness of swords.

  Ha!

  I will dance between the spearpoints.

  I will split skulls.

  Who dares to meet me?”

  The men hung back. To get to Harald they had to get past three feet of pointed steel.

  Under Harald’s feet, poor Magnus lay sprawled in death. Floki was weeping in awful, shrill whimpers. A haze of shame and defeat floated in the room.

  Astrid backed up close to Hilde and spoke between her teeth. “You threw a bucket of water over him once. Could we try it again?”

  “He didn’t have his sword then,” Hilde answered. But Astrid was right, they had to think of something, fast. She could see Arne creeping forward, and Tjørvi shifting his balance. Harald was watching with pin-prick eyes, laughing silently, his sword braced.

  What would Peer do? Distract him somehow. There was a chirrup from overhead. The Nis! Her gaze flew upwards. Could the Nis distract Harald? The Nis was beside itself with excitement. It teetered on the edge of the rafter, eyes popping, pursing its lips in an exaggerated Sshh! Sure of their attention, it jumped from beam to beam till it crouched directly over the clothes Astrid had been mending by the fire, and jabbed a long fo
refinger downwards.

  Hilde stared. A cloak, a couple of tunics, some leggings? And now the Nis was pointing excitedly at Harald…

  Astrid’s face came alive. She clutched Hilde’s arm, sprang forward, snatched up an armful of clothes, and threw them over Harald’s sword and sword-arm. The blade sagged, muffled in fabric. Harald jumped back, swearing, trying to shake off the clothes, but Hilde tore a blanket from the sleeping bench and sent it sailing at him.

  The girls went crazy. They grabbed everything they could off the benches and sent cloaks, jerkins, blankets, socks – a snowstorm of clothes – whirling at Harald. The Nis squeaked deliriously.

  Harald staggered. A pair of Floki’s trousers hung drunkenly over one eye. His sword was tangled in the folds of Tjørvi’s heaviest cloak. Arne leaped on him, bearing him to the ground. Tjørvi followed. They pinned him down, and wrenched the sword from his hand.

  Astrid and Hilde leaned together, laughing and crying. The men dragged Harald to his feet. The floor was a mess of clothes. Magnus’s feet stuck out from under it. Hilde sobered abruptly. Rough, cheerful Magnus was dead, and their little victory couldn’t change that. Floki, weeping like a rainstorm, went on his knees to clear the clothes from Magnus’s face.

  Tjørvi looked down at him, and then at Harald, whose face was ugly with rage. “What shall we do with him?” he asked heavily.

  “Take your hands off me,” Harald spat. Then his eyes went black with shock, and he stared past them, down the room, at something behind them – something that could not be happening.

  The house door scraped slowly open, revealing a wedge of black night and white snow. Someone walked stiffly in. Someone – or something. The clothes were strange, and covered in painted symbols. The face was stained with blood, but it looked familiar.