Stars and a Wind- The Complete Trilogy

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Their feet in water to their ankles, Skarga and Egil rowed the skiff out into deeper water. The coast still bound them and it was many minutes before they heaved into sight of the open ocean. Then through the gloom the waves rose up to meet them like a great grey wall.

  Skarga stopped rowing and stared. The mountain of water roared towards her. She screamed over the noise of it. “By the gods, how can we row through this?”

  Egil shouted back. “I’ll row. Your rowing is all out of rhythm anyway. You use the bucket and bail.”

  The bucket was bobbing, already floating beside her feet. Skarga grabbed it. The black force of the waters crashed upon them. But instead of sinking them at once, they were lifted high and swept forwards into the greater tempest. Flung with each crest of water, the boat was taken up and on. Then Egil stopped rowing for all the power and all the speed was that of the ocean and no other effort could counteract it. The little boat was directed where the waves carried it and both Egil and Skarga clung desperately to the gunwales and bent to scoop the weight of incoming waters from within its slopping hull.

  Within a few panicked heartbeats all memory of land was gone and the world was a furious torrent. Tempest-tossed against the swirling darkness, the boat was impelled, circled, dragged down and spun up again. Soon utterly weary and soaked, ice cold and too frightened to think, both grappled only with each moment’s survival. They lost of concept of how long they had been at sea nor which way they were headed. They prayed only for sight of some coast or for the storm to blow out. Neither happened. It could not yet be night but the sky was black. The wind lashed at the waves and tossed them higher, surging beneath the little wooden planks, straining at the trenails that held keel to stem, chipping at the old tarring like an axe to a twig. Even the noise beat against them, roaring from water and from wind and from the repeated crashing thunder. They bailed with every effort remaining to them but the water within the boat rose steadily, both from the ceaseless pouring rain and the raging ocean. It had not been built as a sea going craft but only for coastal fishing and the setting of crab pots. Now it was sinking. With the insidious exhaustion of hopelessness, the knowledge seemed almost a relief.

  Vision now came only from sudden thrusts of lightning. Then the greenish white slashed the sky open before diving back into the instantaneous black. In those minutes they watched the waters rise as their boat sank. They still bailed as the cold ocean swept around their knees.

  Skarga desperately tried to say she was sorry. Neither Egil nor the gods heard her. She had thrown off her cloak for it impeded her arms and no longer sheltered her. Her skirt hems were below water. She was unaware of nausea or sickness though the boat’s wild tilting threw her constantly to either side, then pitching forwards, then reeling back. There was neither time to be ill nor breath to vomit. The precious food they had stolen and hoarded and packed so carefully, was sodden beneath their feet, some already washed away.

  Somehow still unsinking and without consciousness of passing time, many hours streamed onwards with the thundering waters. The storm gathered strength, dipped and lessened a little, then took force again. And then there came a great lassitude, a yearning for the forgiveness of slumber and the ending of it all. Skarga still bailed, her arms still swung, her shoulders bursting with the force of repetitious effort, but she felt her eyes closing. She neither willed nor approved it, but, still gasping for breath, she slowly shut her eyes. Then everything became clear.

  It was not only the water that carried them. Beyond the power of the storm and the open tide, some creature led them on. With a speed that cut the waves and defied the force of the current, some huge beast controlled their passage. Astonished and terrified, Skarga opened her eyes wide with a jolt, but with full consciousness she saw nothing. The wind flung the sea waters into her face, blinding, drenching and buffeting her backwards. The sky was tarred blacker than the boat’s keel. No moon nor star escaped the storm clouds. If it were now night then the signs of it were as distant as the sun. The bucket, wrenched by wind and current was forced from her grasp and smashed against her knees. Skarga retook it and bailed once again but the water was too high and more entered than she could fling away. Tossing the bucket’s contents against the wind, returned them to her threefold. She huddled back and again closed her eyes. And again she could see.

  The creature of the seas was leading them onwards, and afloat. This was no slick silk dolphin’s back. The thing which drew them on, herding the boat through the waters as a dog will guard sheep, was twice as large or more than any dolphin, four times perhaps though its whole bulk was too deep beneath the waters to see. Its body was patterned with strange shapes, black as the storm and white as the lightning. Its dorsal fin rose like a flag, straight and high from the sea, rising and falling with the waves. It was this which the boat followed as though roped. Smooth and black, the fin’s symmetry was unblemished. Below the surface of the ocean, the arching back sped as if it were water itself, never tiring, never pausing while heading its own chosen course towards some invisible horizon. It did not turn. It did not leap as the dolphins had. And the boat followed, nudged or dragged, held up and buoyant even with its weight of sinking bilges, they were being kept alive by the sea beast. They were being herded.

  Now the noise of the storm mesmerised and the slap of wind, rain and ocean were no longer punishment, but an irrelevance to the sleep that overcame her. Skarga tried to call to Egil but she was already deep lost in the dream. The dream brought forgetfulness. She knew neither time nor space.

  Skarga opened her eyes on a bright blue sky. She was lying curled on her back and the bedraggled tatters of her clothes steamed across and around her. Her wolfskin cloak lay partially to one side, her feet were bare and her hair was tangled across her face, but through the wet blond knots she could see the sky and feel the sun. It was a fine day, a warm morning, and spoke of summer.

  She was on grass, a scrubby dampness of short weed interspersed with sand. She blinked and brushed sand from her eyelashes. Her head spun but she tested her breath and it was strong and steady. So she wedged herself onto one elbow and sat, carefully and very slowly, looking up. She saw the ocean glittering as bright and calm as sunbeams on a rainwater barrel, all placid turquoise, jade and aquamarine. The waves were tiny playful fingers, edging back across the sands with an ebbing tide. The wind murmured over the surface, collecting a scatter of spray. It was a different world and Skarga gazed in bewilderment. Then she remembered.

  Staggering upright, tripping over sodden hems, she started to run. Her feet sank and slowed her and she scraped her toes on the thousand shattered splinters of shells. She called over and over, her voice echoing out across the water, then ran all along the sluggish shallows, darting up into the inland banks where low branches met the beach, pulling at thorn bushes and gazing behind every stone, blasted heather clump or sudden slimy pool. She shaded her eyes, gazing out to sea where something might be floating. She continued to call until her voice broke and her throat burned. Very distant, she heard the wailing of a gull from some other shore but the skies were empty and so was the land. She knew she was crying when she could see only through the blurring of her tears. It did not stop her.

  She found Egil nestled like an egg in a nest, sheltered beneath the overhang of a rock. The rock face curved into a shallow cave, backed with sand and partially closed by drift wood and blown debris from past tides. Egil was breathing peacefully and his small hollowed chest beat its own placid rhythms. Fast asleep and smiling like a baby in its mother’s arms, he was wrapped all around by the huge warmth of a bear pelt, as white as the sea spray, though stained across one side with dark crimson blood.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “But I don’t remember,” he said, very small voiced, clutching to her arms.

  He had woken in her embrace. She was still crying into the bear pelt though she was no longer sure whether it was from shock, or happiness, or simply exhaustion. “My dearest boy, you must remember,” she whispe
red to him, rocking him gently against her. The shadows of the rock cave dipped them in honey shade and beyond the dark line, the sun was mellow and low in the gentle sky.

  “I don’t,” he said, more mumble than words. “Anyway, it wasn’t him, because he’s dead.”

  Skarga nodded. “I know. I watched you kill him. But you left him so he could breathe again, just in case. I watched you do that too. And this is his cloak. He was wearing it.”

  “It can’t be,” said Egil with a subdued sniff. “That’s just silly. How could it be? He’s dead and he’s over there and no one knows where we are. Not even us. Perhaps we’ve washed ashore in some place where this white furry stuff grows.”

  “It’s his cloak,” said Skarga. “And it’s his blood.”

  Egil scowled. “Perhaps it’s my blood. The captain’s dead.”

  “These things don’t grow,” said Skarga. “They come from animals. Great white bears that live in the north. And you’re not bleeding.”

  “Look,” Egil sat up a little, recovering his sense of balance. “If it’s an animal then it’s a dead animal, so it’s the animal’s blood. I killed Grimr, even though I didn’t want to and I hope he knew I didn’t want to even while I was doing it. But it’s better this way. He meant to kill you all the time I suppose. Anyway, perhaps we’re in that north land where the bears live, and someone else found us and covered me up.”

  Skarga stared, shaking back her wet hair, wondering why the boy was so desperate to ignore the obvious. “Or Grimr isn’t dead,” she whispered, “and I’m guessing the storm swept us back to the other side of the Sheep Islands, and that’s where he found you. We’re back in the same wretched place and still under his power, and he’ll be furious with us both for running away and trying to kill him.”

  “So furious he wrapped me up to keep me dry and safe,” said Egil. “And then just crawled away and left us here? Besides, it’s not the Sheep Islands. There was never weather this good. There was only mist and rain and storms. This is a pretty land.”

  Skarga stared over his dishevelled head to the spangle of the sun on the sea. It seemed inconceivable to her that this was the same ocean they had crossed in such danger, presumably only the day before. She said, “Well, we’ll find out I suppose. I’m going to have a look around, maybe find some food.”

  Bare footed, they enjoyed the caress of sunshine on grazed skin. Small rocks and the pools between them emerged from the receding shallows, and the wriggling things that lived there, clasped in limpet embrace to the stone or burrowing from pool to sand, were easily collected, and eaten. Although there was little to chew, these were creatures already known to all people who lived along the shoreline of the Nor’way, and Skarga and Egil both recognised what to take and what to leave. With the afternoon breeze and the sun glaze dipping from its heights down towards the bright horizon, they stood for a little while staring out at the waters that had carried them there. The gulls were flying far out, white scatters against the glare. Then, from the sea, something rose in a spray crashed arc, leaping high from the water as if it might take flight. It was long finned with a dorsal flag that stood as tall as a wing, and its huge sides were patterned in deepest black and startling white. Cascading water, it disappeared again and the crash of the waters as it dived deep could be heard louder than the wailing gulls or the whistle of the wind.

  Skarga did not know what name it might have, but she knew it was the thing that had brought them safe. Egil shaded his eyes with his small hand. “What terrible things live in the waters. That could be the Midgard serpent.”

  She spoke softly. “Jormundgandr’s only a myth. That thing is very real. And I’ve seen it before.”

  The land began to rise as evening swept in as sure as any tide. They walked with the setting sun at their backs. When they could walk no longer they found a place of shelter, curled together and slept. Their clothes had dried, each had a warm fur cloak, and they slept snug without dreams.

  The next day, finding easy food in the valley, with fallen nuts, fungi and herbs, roots to dig and salad greens in damp moss beside streams, it seemed a far better land than the one they had left. But no shoes and bleeding heels, Egil’s thin slave’s flaxen tunic with no britches, and knowing themselves lost, kept them slow. The ground turned rougher and difficult to cross. Even with feet long toughened, they limped, stopping often to sit amongst the clover or beside a stream to rest their feet and dabble in the cool. Narrow waterways shelved down fast from the distant mountains and melted snow galloped and sprang between shallow banks. Tired, but with plentiful food, drink and shelter, they walked for some days and took their direction from the ease of the land. It was the land itself which forced them ever north and each morning the sun rose further to their right. Crags, sudden gorges and deeper rivers forced them ever off the chosen path. They lost track of time and had no need to count the days.

  Once Skarga said, “It’s peaceful and it’s beautiful, but we’ve seen no one in so long. Perhaps this is an empty world.”

  “Not empty. There’s been an eagle watching us,” Egil said. “Crows and ravens too. Bird song in the mornings and owls at night.”

  And then finally they came to the little town, and discovered that the world was not empty of people either. Beneath the shadows of the foothills with a sweep down to the inner point of the fjord beyond, a thriving market square fronted a hundred longhouses snug in their own strips of land. Fenced against the squabbles of their neighbours, complacent beneath the twists of pale smoke from a hundred cooking hearths, the town beamed prosperous. Away from the cliffs, larger houses lay central within their farming settlements, ditched and fenced and sweetly furrowed with burgeoning crops and the busy grazing of cattle, sheep and goats. It was far larger, sweeter and richer than the scraggy fishing port where Skarga’s father had made himself chieftain, but it was so reminiscent that now she stopped on the rise looking down at the spread of activity below, and she frowned.

  “So we’re back in Nor’way after all,” grumbled Egil.

  “Better than back on those miserable islands,” nodded Skarga. “This looks like Ogot’s vik, but much more important.”

  Egil scowled. “I bet Helmsby’s just over the northern rise. We’ve travelled the world and ended up just back home.”

  “We have to look,” nodded Skarga. “If it’s safe, I’ll find a farm where we can get work in the fields and sleep in a barn.”

  They scrambled down the hillocks and wandered into the shadows of the town. Too big and too busy, here each man had his own business, more interesting to him than the appearance of any other, and no one took any notice of them. Crossing one of the ditches, they were knocked aside by a bustling woman carrying parcels. She dropped them all. Egil bent at once and helped her pick them up. “You’ve been to market, mistress,” said Skarga, reaching for the slab of bacon in the mud.

  The woman stopped, hands on hips, and eyed Skarga’s torn hems and bare feet. “You’re looking for work?” Skarga nodded. “Follow me then,” said the woman. “My mistress has guests she can’t feed and a husband she can’t tame. I manage the family but I can’t brew enough for guests as well, and the sow’s birthing in the main house where the master likes to sleep when he’s pissed. Though he’ll not be pissed for a week if I can’t get the ale sieved, and that’ll put him in a foul mood even worse than the one he’s in when he’s pissed. One help-girl is down sick, the guests show no signs of leaving and they’ve a thirst to match the master’s. Now the roof’s leaked onto the hearth and there’s blood on the clean straw from last night’s brawl. We need an extra pair of hands by all that’s fair and I reckon the mistress’ll take you both on for a day or two at least, food included, and sleep dry with the goats.”

  There was a dancing drizzle in air that seemed fresh and cleansing. It had washed the hedgerows and the buttercups. A brown fluff-coated kid was trailing its mother across the fields where the woman led. Egil and Skarga stayed close behind.

  A high thatch ti
pped over a doorway, pillared with carvings. The woman kicked the door open and nodded to Skarga. They entered the sudden blindness of shadows, but a lamp hissed tallow from its central hanging and several long window openings allowed a gently screened light. It was a far larger house than Ogot’s, but built much the same as any other. “Your master’s the local chief?” asked Skarga.

  “Of course he is,” said the woman over her shoulder, kicking at the great golden sow lying on its rippled side in the straw, suckling a squirm of frantic piglets. “Vilgeroar the Dutiful, they call him, though it should be Vilgeroar the pissed. He’ll be out at the Althing hall. The mistress must be here somewhere but I’m the house-slave, and I can make my own decisions. You can help prepare the evening meal since the other cook girl is down with dysentery and there’s eight of the family and four guests to feed. “

  Torn and soiled sleeves rolled up, Skarga hurried to the hearth where the boiling pots hung. Grudgingly the pigs moved. She hoisted up the great iron cauldron and dragged its chains to the trivet. Back into the drizzle and collecting two buckets on the way, she filled both at the well, struggled back with them to the smoky hall, then squatted on the doorstep to scrape a mound of turnips, the silver drift of rain in her hair. Egil had been sent to the coop to strangle one of the fatter hens, and then pluck it. It would be a job he hated more than most but he said nothing and trudged off. Skarga tucked her bare toes beneath her and bent to work.