Tindr

by Octavia Randolph

  But it was not Tindr that Dagr had thought of that bright morning. Squinting into the Sun, watching the play of gold upon the rippling water, the thought came, unbidden, of Hedinfrid and Holmfrid. His girls had been gone so long. At times, tho’, there they were, almost before him. A glint of yellow or gold recalled him to their hair. He smiled, without knowing it.

  He bent to pick up the net; he was at the edge now of the herring-pool, and could see their silvered bodies tumbling just beneath the surface. As he stooped and took up the net-line a surge of pain shot through his chest. He straightened, gripped the rail. He had before felt this tightness, a burning that spread from his heart, up into his throat, and down into his arm. Rannveig had fussed over him and made him drink boiled dock leaves, as if he had a bad belly. But it was nothing he had eaten, and if he stayed still it would pass. This time it did not. Skuld was there to make certain.

  The pain shrank a moment as he clung there, only to re-double; a clenching in his breast that squeezed his heart in a fiery grasp. He gasped for breath, let himself sink down upon the line coiled on the deck, and onto the edge of the net he had planned to drop into the waiting mass of fish that surged about the hull of his boat. On his back the pain eased. His eyes looked up into the brilliant blue of the sky. His sail luffed slightly into view, then swung back out again. The sky was so blue, as blue as the eyes of his lost girls.

  When Dagr did not return that afternoon Rannveig and Tindr sat up all night. At dawn every boat was launched to look for him. His boat was spotted, drifting, at noon that day. The men who boarded her lifted Dagr’s cold body to one side of the keel. “Look at these fish,” said one, wiping his nose with his hand. The herring still swarmed about the hull of Dagr’s boat. “We will drop his net, bring it full back to Rannveig,” said the other. This they did.

  They carried his body to Rannveig and laid it upon the kitchen work table. She stood at its head – not keening, not crying – as shoulder-to-shoulder they placed Dagr before her. Her narrowed eyes beheld the man she loved.

  The end had come, but not in the way she had expected. Soon after their hand-fast she had ridden the night-mare. The dark mare had carried her to the beach, on which she walked. There she found his washed-up body, sea-weed clinging to his face. His handsome form was bloated, his skin silver-green, like the fish he had sought. But here before her was her own Dagr, perfectly dry and whole. The long, always tousled brown hair, now showing strands of grey; the heavy and worn green tunic he liked to fish in, and which she had watched him pull over his back so many times. His strong and calloused hands were gently cupped at his sides, the hands that had built their house here at the water’s edge, raised the mast of his boat, hauled in the swarming net, and caressed her own body. Save for the pallor of his skin he could have been asleep.

  “He always knew his Fate was held in water,” she recalled aloud. Her voice was as dry as her eyes; but the larger light in her had been snuffed out, and this she knew. “He gave himself to Njord, and Njord was kind. He did not claim him after all.” She looked at the two who had found his boat. “I am grateful to have his body,” she told them.

  Tindr had been standing behind her and to one side. He had watched the somber procession make its way up from the beach, and knew from their lack of haste there was no need for hurry. Now his mother turned to him. Tindr stepped forward and looked upon his dead father's face. His blue-white eyes scanned the length of him. They too rested on his hands, then returned to the face. It was his Da, but it was no longer Da. The lump that had closed Tindr's throat was forced down; he swallowed it, and his throat reopened in a howl. No cry had ever come from hound or wolf to match the single howl that sprang from Tindr's chest.

  It was Tindr who thought to take the sail from his father's boat and use it as his shroud. The next day all on the trading road and from nearby farms met at the place of burial, where Dagr's body was consigned to the flames. The bone and ash were swept up and taken by his widow and her son to Dagr's boyhood home. She had the crockery urn buried in the ground, and great stones rolled into the shape of a ship's hull around it. She made sure that Dagr was at the place the steering oar would be.

  When she and Tindr returned from the South, Rannveig sold Dagr’s boat. The buyer was a fisherman from down the coast, looking for a second boat for his son. When he came to sail it away Rannveig walked down with him to the pier, where she looked a final time upon the vessel that had been her husband’s love and livelihood. She pointed to the small nail head, still raised, by the keel, and told the new owner the story about it. He listened with nodding head. “No hammer shall touch it,” he promised.

  Chapter the Eighteenth: The Skogsrå

  SPRING had been dry, and Summer long and hot. Tindr moved through the forest, aware that even there the sustained heat was leaving its mark. Leaves drooped limply, curling at their edges. Ferns, spread to their fullest extent, looked dusty and almost brittle. Even the animals were slow. A rabbit sat up on a fallen log, washing its twitching face, and let Tindr come within a few feet before it finally hopped down and away.

  One of his hives had swarmed, and he had been walking slowly amongst the trees, looking for the bees. He had found them massed against the trunk of a larch, a living gold and brown cluster of wings, crawling and circling. He had carried a new skep with him, and wedged its base into an outcrop of nearby rock. At the heart of the swirling cluster upon the larch would be the queen. He breathed gently on the mass and with his fingers parted it. The queen lay there, diminished in size, but recognizable. He slowly took her up and placed her in the woven skep, then stepped away to allow the train of bees to follow her in.

  He had been out for hours, looking for them, and was glad to have found them. The more honey he could provide to his mother, the more mead she could make, and mead sold for five times the price of ale. Since his father’s death such things mattered. Rannveig’s hair had faded to grey, but she still worked long and full days. She had expanded her brewing, enlarged the brew-house, and hired women to help her serve each afternoon. Folk were always thirsty in Summer, and she did good business. In Winter’s depths it was another story. She began selling her ale by the crockful, so that even when it was too cold for folk to gather in her brew-house those who liked it could carry it away and drink before their own firesides. Gudfrid helped her in this, and Tindr cared for their beasts, chopped and piled firewood, did most of their vegetable gardening. Without the silver of his father’s stock-fish trade it was what was needful to do. When Tindr took surplus game they traded the excess meat for grain or goods.

  He was much alone. He had ever spent part of each day in the forest, but as a boy had always had his friends to play with as well. Now Ragnfast, his best and closest friend, was wed. He and Estrid had a child, a little girl, and another child coming. They had taken over the horse farm, and though they greeted him warmly each time they met, those times were rare, for their own lives were full. He and his mother still came to their farm to sit before the Mid-Summer fire. Estrid was kind as ever, a smile always on her lips, the grey eyes filled with tenderness. Ragnfast would show Tindr the foals that had been born that year and the progress he had made in training the older colts and fillies. There would be a feast beneath the shade of the pear trees, and much drinking too. But now Ragnfast was host, with his father Rapp, and a father himself. When it grew dark and those with young ones retreated to the smaller fire of the kitchen yard, Ragnfast and Estrid went with them. Tindr was left at the big fire with his other friends. Soon, he knew, Runulv would no longer sit with him, for he and Gyda would hand-fast at Summer’s end. By next Summer they might show up at Ragnfast’s with their firstborn babe.

  There was growth and change in everything, Tindr saw that. Whether amongst folk or in the forest, cycles repeated themselves with little change from year to year, season to season. Then someone was gone forever, like a great elm that had commanded the skyline but had withered and died. A sapling, freed from shade, grew rapid
ly in its stead, just as a new babe was born to take its place amongst those left behind. It was the circle of life.

  The young men his age now had wives, or at least sweethearts. Tindr had neither. When he gathered with other young folk they welcomed him, but when they paired off and sat together, or left the group to walk around the side of a barn to kiss, he was not one of them. Maids like Gyda and her cousin were nice to him, and had even learnt a few of his signs. Others ignored him. Last Spring a new family had arrived at the trading town from up North, the brother of the silver-smith. They had a daughter close to his age, a maid with curling brown hair. Shortly after they settled Tindr walked along the road, back from the wick maker. The new girl was working in her uncle’s workroom. Tindr had noticed her once before, and seen that she had noticed him. Now she raised her head from her polishing as Tindr passed, and looked at him. He smiled and dipped his chin a moment before he moved on. A day later she came to the brew-house, alone. He was at the edge of the herb garden, and instead of going towards the rolled-down awnings of the brew-house proper, she came to him. She smiled as she neared him. Her mouth opened and she began to speak to him, gesturing to the small crock she carried.

  He felt his heart almost turn behind his breastbone. She said something more, still smiling, the pink lips raising and bowing. In a moment more it would be over, he feared, the smile gone from her lips. It was hard to hasten that moment, but he could not stand for it to go on.

  He made a small uh, and touched his ear. She cocked her head slightly, looking at him.

  He touched his ear again, and pulled his bone whistle from his tunic. He blew out the two notes for his mother.

  Rannveig appeared from the back door of her brew-house. The maid turned to her, her question on her face. He watched his mother explain that he could not hear her, saw the girl’s quick look back at him, the pretty lips now pursed. The lovely head gave a short nod, then turned from him. His mother was gesturing the maid to go to the brew-house where she would fill her crock. She walked off, and before she turned as well his mother looked at him. Tindr had seen the look before. His Nenna was smiling, but the hurt in her eyes was for what he was feeling inside.

  “A man you cannot talk to,” Gyda had once explained to her cousin, “a man who cannot hear what you say, cannot hear his babes cry nor teach them to talk…what maid with choice would choose Tindr, handsome as he is, knowing how hard it will be?”

  Ása and Gyda had sighed together for his sake, but had no answer. Almost all liked him, but none would have him.

  Tindr had stopped by a clump of silver birches. The Sun had reached its highest point overhead and would crest downward. The light it threw turned the small birch leaves over his head into green gems. He felt listless in the heat, and the water-skin at his side was close to empty. He had found his bees; he should head back home. He looked about him. Not far from here ran a swift-running stream, which ended in a small pool. Even now the water should be clear; it was not a stream he had ever seen dry. He would splash his face, have a drink, then turn for home.

  He left the track, walking through ferns and undergrowth, pushing a few vines from where they draped from trees. The ferns and mosses grew thicker here and looked as bright as if a good rain had watered them; he knew he was nearing the stream for them to look thus. There was a smell in the still air, not the green odour of growth, nor the mineral tang of dry soil, but one almost of flowers, and he let his head turn from side to side to see what grew near to so scent the air. He could not tell, and parted the thin branches of some sapling aspens and kept going.

  There was the pool. The stream that fed it lay almost hidden from where he stood, and he paused a moment. Trees rose up from the banks, and rocks large and small crowned with moss rimmed it. A shaft of brilliant Sun struck the water, and he saw rock at its bottom and the waving fronds of green and brown plants swaying in the slight current. The pool was much deeper than he recalled, and had a rare beauty about it. He wondered if he had mistaken the place, yet it seemed familiar; he had come right to it.

  He stood looking, watching a dragonfly dart and hover above the water, and became aware of his thirst. He took the final steps to the edge, walking over a bed of moss so thick that it rolled and clumped upon itself.

  He knelt. Something moved across the water, on the bank he faced. A white hind stepped forward from the shadow of the trees and stood opposite him.

  He had not seen Her for so long, not since the grey day he had taken his first boar. Sometimes, Summer or Winter, he thought he caught a glimpse of moving white as he walked the woods, but it was never more than that, a fleeting glimpse, and he was never sure. Now here she was again, looking at him, the coat a white so pure it almost shimmered. The dark brown eyes took him in, unblinking, but soft. The delicately tufted white ears shifted over those eyes. She lowered her head to drink: an invitation.

  He watched the neck stretch and downy muzzle touch the water. He dropped both hands through the rippled surface, pulled them to his face, splashing the heat and dust from it. He drank with cupped hands of the cool and sweet water. He shook his head when he was done, driving the wet tips of his long hair behind his shoulders. She was gone.

  He sat back on his heels. He was not hunting now; his bow and quiver were hanging by his alcove. Perhaps she came just to show herself to him.

  He stared at the place she had been. An arcing row of ripples spread towards him across the water, marking where the muzzle had touched and drank. His hands dropped to his lap.

  A long moment passed. The spark that had been struck in seeing the hind left a candle’s glow within him. He looked into the rippled water. He would take off his clothing and bathe in it. He unstrapped his knife belt. His boots were those he made himself, of boar skin. Holding them recalled him to that first boar he had taken. He pulled off leggings and tunic, then stepped into the water.

  It was deliciously cool, and so clear he surprised himself with how deep it was once he moved into the centre. If he bent his knees slightly he could drop his whole body under. He fanned his arms out on the surface, plashing so that the ripples washed the wet bottoms of the rocks along the banks. He dunked his head again.

  He opened his eyes underwater to see the green world shimmering and dancing above him. Then, still underwater, from the tail of his eye he caught a glimpse of something white-fleshed. He burst from the water, looked about him. He saw nothing in the water, and the banks were empty.

  He let himself sink again, up to his shoulders. The Sun found an opening through the dark of the trees and pierced the water with light, striking his face and shoulders with its warmth. Again, a flash of white in the water beside him. He lowered his head toward the water, looking for it, then gasped. Two gentle hands stroked his waist from behind, one on either side of him.

  He turned. As he did the hands surrendered their hold on him. Before him in the water stood a naked woman. Her lips were parted in a half-smile. He could not make out the colour of the eyes; they seemed dark, but shifted in hue as he gazed on her. Her wet hair was so light as to look like Moonlight. Locks of it, running with water, lay over her shoulders and arms. None fell on the roundness of her breasts, nor over the rosy nipples.

  She lifted one of her hands, laid it over his heart. The hand was cool, yet as she pressed it there upon his chest he felt the warmth in the palm. It was Her, he knew.

  He closed his eyes. His heart was pounding under her touch, suddenly too large for his ribs to encase. He felt fearful to raise his hands and try to touch her, and wished to prolong each moment of her nearness, her touch, lest she vanish if he tried.

  He sensed her movement towards him, the water pulsing gently from her body to his. Lips touched his. His eyes fluttered open just long enough to see the beautiful face a breath away from his own. Her lips, again, on his. A kiss, his first from a desiring woman.

  His arms came up out of the water, raining droplets. They yearned to close around her, but fear and wonder bo
th kept him back. It was she who moved. She caught up his hands in her own and brought them to her face. She kissed the back of his right hand, and then the palm. His fingers curved around the beautiful mouth as she did so. She brought his left hand to her face, kissed the back, then the palm. Bow hand and arrow hand did she bless.

  The lips were soft, but cool. Only after she pulled them away did he feel the lingering heat of their impress.

  She still held his hands, each in one of her own. She was looking at his face, at his lips, his eyes. She drew his hands towards her, and laid them upon her breasts. His breath had stilled, or he was not aware of his breathing; but he could feel the pumping of his heart. His hands closed about the softness of her breasts. Her nipples rested in his palms, and as he tightened his gentle grasp he felt them harden and rise. Her eyes were half-closed, her lips slightly parted in the smile she gave him. He took a breath, felt he was nearly quaking. Every particle of his body was alive, alert, enraptured.

  She moved closer to him. His hands surrendered her breasts. They went to the smooth flesh of her waist, up the curve of her back, and wrapped themselves there. Her lips found his, and he quivered in response as her tongue flicked at his. Her mouth clung to his now, one hand resting on his face, the other clasped about his shoulder. As gentle as her touch was, there was strength behind it, that power of a muscled animal under a coat of softest fur.

  She pressed her body fully against his own. He felt the firmness of his naked chest against her, let his loins open where she held her hips to his. His male body coursed and reared in response. The sheath had already tightened and withdrawn as the flesh underneath it hardened. His prick lay upright between them, pressed against the soft curve of her belly, the tingling heat of his own body seeming the greater in contrast to the coolness of her flesh.