Tigerlilja

by Sky, Erin Michelle; Brown, Steven;

  Here, Amma would twist her shoulders and her hips back and forth where she sat, imitating the bear’s entitled, lumbering gait.

  “Because of the fish!” Tigerlilja would exclaim.

  “That’s right,” Amma always agreed, nodding slowly. “Because of the fish. There was a tremendous catch that morning. Already an auspicious day! So by evening, there were many fat, succulent fish, all filleted, gutted, and hanging on the racks. Some smoking for jerky; some roasting for a feast.”

  “And all smelling delicious!”

  Amma always chuckled at that. “Delicious, indeed! Especially to the bear!”

  “And then what happened?” Tigerlilja knew very well what had happened, of course, but she loved to hear Amma tell it.

  “The men and women of the village gathered up their little ones and ran for their axes. Two weapons for each, to bang them together and chase the bear away with the noise.” Amma would raise her arms and slap the palms of her hands together three times. (It was always three times.)

  “But I was all by myself,” Tigerlilja would say.

  “Right in the center of the village, directly in the bear’s path. But your father and mother didn’t know you were there until later.”

  “Vegard was supposed to be watching me.”

  “Yes, he was. Your brother was distracted by his friends. Only for a few moments, but sometimes that’s all it takes.”

  It was here that the stories began to differ.

  The way Father told it, the bear reared up and roared, fierce and terrible, and Tigerlilja, all of six years old, bravely stood her ground.

  “Stop that, this instant,” she snapped. Then she placed one hand firmly on her hip, the spitting image of her mother, and pointed imperiously in the direction from which the bear had come. The she-bear dropped heavily to all fours, grunted, turned in the direction Tigerlilja was pointing, and left without any trouble.

  Mother, however, told it differently.

  According to her version, Tigerlilja approached the bear softly, and the bear did not rear up. Instead, it walked right up to the girl and let her kiss it on the nose, like a blessing, before wandering away.

  (If Father got it wrong because he wasn’t outside to see it, Amma had no explanation for Mother’s inaccuracies. “I don’t know why,” Amma said. “She’s just wrong.” And then she added, catching Tigerlilja’s eye sharply, “But don’t tell her I said so.”)

  Amma’s version, which was Tigerlilja’s favorite, went like this: The bear did rear up, but it did not roar. It stood on its hind legs only to investigate the rack of fish. Then the men and women of the village began to emerge from their homes, banging their axes and yelling because they did not see the danger Tigerlilja was in. When they did, they froze in horror.

  The bear became nervous at the commotion, and it dropped to all fours, shuffling its feet and swaying from side to side, looking like it might swipe at the small girl, or charge headlong over her in a panic.

  But Tigerlilja stepped up to the bear, placed one hand on either side of its massive face, stared it right in the eyes, and then gently guided its head toward the quickest and safest path out of the village and away from all the ruckus. The bear ambled off, and that was that.

  Only that wasn’t that, because most of the clan had seen it happen. The village erupted into wild speculation even as Mother and Father ran to gather her into their arms, and an old fisherman named Frode stepped forward.

  “I will meditate upon these events at once,” he declared.

  Frode fancied himself a bit of a seer, and many of the clansmen and clanswomen believed it was true—that he really did have Odin’s gift—because he always seemed to know when and where the fish would be running. But Amma never placed much credence in his predictions.

  Nonetheless, Frode cloistered himself away until the feast, and then, in the middle of the celebration, he stood up and told everyone that the bear had chosen Tigerlilja to be Father’s successor. It had become clear to him through a vision, he said, that it would be she, and not her older brother, Vegard, who would take up the mantle of leadership when the time came.

  Tigerlilja remembered that part for herself. She had always adored Vegard, and she remembered being shocked by Frode’s words, worried that her brother would be angry with her. But Vegard was sitting right next to her at the feast (partly because Father had warned him that if he ever took his eyes off Tigerlilja again he would be flayed alive), and the boy only grinned.

  “Things could be worse,” he whispered to her. “He could have chosen himself.” Then he winked, and Tigerlilja giggled, and breathed a small sigh of relief.

  But that still wasn’t the end of it. Late that night, she woke to the sounds of Mother and Amma speaking in hushed tones. Tigerlilja snuck out of bed and saw Amma casting runes while Mother watched intensely, her long, beautiful fingers flicking against her lips.

  “The bear did choose her,” Amma said firmly. “That much is true. But the rest… no, it isn’t right. Or, not exactly.”

  “What is it then?” Mother asked, her eyes nervous.

  “She will take up the mantle of the clan, but she will not take Vegard’s place. She will find her own place.” Amma’s voice was soft and searching—the way it often was when she was casting, as though she were reaching for each word before she spoke it. “This is her birthright, and she will write our names among the stars.”

  “But what does it mean?” Mother leaned forward, searching Amma’s eyes, but they held no answers.

  Eventually, Frode and Amma would each prove to be right in their own way, but Amma was closer to the truth.

  Which didn’t surprise Tigerlilja at all.

  oth children were still young when Frode made his pronouncement. Tigerlilja was only six (going on seven), and Vegard was ten. So Frode’s vision didn’t cause any trouble for Father, who had plenty of time to decide what to do about it.

  But it caused a good bit of trouble for Vegard.

  Their clan was a prosperous one, with rich farmland, a nearby forest for timber and hunting, and two great rivers full of fish, so there were plenty of other children close to Vegard’s age. They were his friends, for the most part. They took lessons together in hunting and fishing, building and fighting, and all the other skills they would need when they were grown.

  But children are like sharks—calm as you please until they smell blood in the water. And Frode’s words might as well have been chum, cast before them without any regard for the consequences: Vegard’s little sister was better than he was. Smarter, stronger, faster, and more fierce.

  Frode hadn’t said any of that, of course, and everyone knew Vegard was the stronger and faster of the two. After all, he was almost four years older. But the village children sensed the possibility of weakness, and weakness begged to be tested. Especially when that weakness might lie in Vegard, of whom they had always been a bit jealous, just for being Father’s son.

  So three boys waited for him one cold morning, when most of the clan was inside by the fires and the children had been sent out for water.

  Hampus was twelve, with narrow-set eyes, thin lips, and a determined jaw. He stood in the middle of the footpath, near the river, with his arms folded across his chest, flanked by his younger brothers, Garth and Argus, who were eleven and nine.

  “That water skin looks pretty heavy,” he said to Vegard. “Maybe you should let your sister carry it.”

  Tigerlilja stepped out from behind her brother on the path and glared at Hampus. The other children who were out collecting water all stopped what they were doing to watch, but no one made any move to interfere.

  “Knock it off, Hampus,” said Vegard. He kept walking, moving to the side to go around all three of them, and Tigerlilja followed. The brothers might have let him pass if he hadn’t said anything else, but Vegard had inherited a healthy dose of Father’s pride. Just as he walked by, he looked Hampus straight in the eye and added, “Don’t be stupid.”

  The
re was nothing Hampus hated more than being called stupid.

  “What did you say?” Hampus shoved Vegard farther off the path, pushing hard against his shoulders.

  “You heard me.” Vegard dropped the water skin and shoved him back.

  With that, the thing came to blows.

  “Stop it!” Tigerlilja shouted, but it was already too late.

  Vegard was a good fighter. Father and Mother had made sure of that. But Hampus was bigger, and he had his two brothers besides. Vegard got in some good punches, but Hampus soon wrestled him to the ground, where the two brothers started to kick him. And then the youngest raised a heavy boot over Vegard’s face.

  “No!” Tigerlilja screamed. She leaped at the boy from the side, knocking him off balance. As he staggered, surprised, she clambered higher, wrapped her arms around his neck, and bit the back of his ear.

  “Aaaaaaaaaah!” he screamed. “My ear! Get her off me!”

  His two brothers turned to see what was happening, which gave Vegard a chance to kick Hampus away. Blood was pouring down the smaller boy’s neck. That was going to be trouble for all of them.

  “Are you crazy?” Hampus yelled at Tigerlilja. He scrambled to his feet, wrapped both arms around her, and hauled her away from his brother, who was holding his ear and trying not to cry.

  “Don’t you dare touch my sister!” Vegard shouted. He was about to launch back into Hampus, but the other children had all run in to break things up at the first sign of any real injury. A dozen hands held him now, and other bodies were stepping between them.

  “She bit my brother!” Hampus shouted.

  “He deserved it!” Tigerlilja hollered back. “Let me go, and I’ll bite you too!”

  “You are crazy!” Hampus turned around and let her go, shoving her so hard that she toppled forward onto her hands and knees. But Tigerlilja didn’t care if they all thought she was crazy. No one was going to attack her brother and get away with it. Especially not if they were trying to smash his face in, fighting three on one.

  She pushed herself back up and spun around, but the fight was already over. Hampus was consoling his little brother, reassuring him that the ear wasn’t that bad, even though everyone could see that it was.

  “Stay away from us!” Hampus yelled when he saw her stand up. “Just stay away!”

  “Don’t start what you can’t finish!” she yelled back, but Vegard placed a steadying hand on her shoulder.

  “Let it go,” he said quietly. “It’s over.”

  Tigerlilja turned and smiled up at her brother. “That’ll teach them to mess with us, won’t it!”

  “Aye,” Vegard agreed, but he didn’t look happy about it.

  He didn’t look happy about it at all.

  Father made amends to the boy’s parents, but the damage to the ear wasn’t permanent. Despite all the blood, Tigerlilja had only bitten through it at the back, and the severed flap was still hanging on. Mother sewed it back together herself, and it healed almost as good as new, with only the tiny scars of Tigerlilja’s teeth to show for the day’s trouble.

  “Why would you give them anything?” Tigerlilja complained, when she found out what Father had done. “They started it! And they weren’t fighting fair!”

  “Because they are clan,” Father told her. “It’s my job, as clan leader, to take care of our people. You are my blood. If you hurt them, then I hurt them. Everything you do, I do. I might as well have bitten that boy myself. Do you understand?”

  “But they were going to stomp on his face!” Tigerlilja’s voice rose in frustration. “What was I supposed to do?”

  “Not bite him, for starters,” Father scolded her. “You must never hurt anyone in this clan, Tigerlilja. Not anyone. Not for any reason. Not unless you absolutely have to, under clan law.”

  “But I did have to!” she protested. “They were going to hurt Vegard.”

  Father sat back and sighed, regarding her for a long time in silence. But Tigerlilja met his gaze without flinching, her tiny jaw set in a stubborn line. She kept expecting him to relent. To smile at her fondly, as he always did. But his concerned expression did not change any more than hers.

  When he finally spoke, his voice was firm, his expression still unflinching. It was the voice he used when he expected to be obeyed without question. “I will teach you how to stop a fist fight without drawing blood. This, I promise you. In the meantime, if you need me, come get me. Is that understood? No more biting. You must promise me in exchange.”

  Tigerlilja promised, and she remembered that promise all her life, because it was the only time she ever lied to him. She would have done it all over again if she had to. Father hadn’t been there. He didn’t know how badly Vegard could have been hurt if she had taken the time to run and get help.

  As for Vegard, he wasn’t happy either. But at least he wasn’t angry with her. He was just frustrated that Hampus had gotten the best of him, and that he had needed help.

  “It was three on one,” Tigerlilja pointed out, when she finally found him sitting alone in the fields.

  “Still.” Vegard looked down at his hands and said nothing more, but Tigerlilja wasn’t about to leave it at that. She sat right in front of him and placed a hand on his knee.

  “If anyone tried to hurt me, would you stop them?” she asked.

  “Of course!” His eyes snapped onto hers, and his gaze was fierce just thinking about it.

  “There. You see?” she said simply. “Whether they attack you, or they attack me, they’ll have to fight us both. It doesn’t matter whether there’s one or three or fifty. We stand together.”

  He scrunched up his lips, and his eyes darted away. But Tigerlilja waited. Three heartbeats. Four. Then he rolled his eyes back to hers, and the far corner of his mouth turned up in a smile.

  or twelve more years, destiny waited. Quietly. Patiently. Waiting to steal everything she loved. She supposed, later, in her more philosophical moments, that she should be grateful for the time she had been given. But she didn’t feel grateful. She felt like she wanted to bash destiny’s head in with a hammer.

  Nonetheless, there are certain elements at work in life that are greater than ourselves. Elements like destiny. And death. It is not ours to control them, but only to respond as best we can whenever they intervene.

  Tigerlilja, for example, couldn’t help it that Amma’s ancestors had lived in Taiga’s forest. She couldn’t help it that they had been entrusted with Taiga’s sword many generations ago, or that they had been forced to move south as the forest slowly waned and died, without explanation. Nor could she help it that Buri’s people of the tundra had spread out and multiplied.

  And she couldn’t help it that on her eighteenth birthday, Buri sent his people to claim the sword that, to his mind, should rightfully have been his.

  She couldn’t help it. But she could fight.

  They came at dawn, with cruelty in their ice-blue eyes. Their hair was braided for battle. Their faces were painted for war: cracked, grinning skulls, with coal-blackened eye sockets and stark-white teeth painted over their lips. They wore thick hides wrapped around their legs, with chainmail to protect their chests and arms. For hoods they bore the skinned heads of once-living animals—wolves and caribou, their teeth draped across their foreheads.

  They should have been hungry after weeks of trudging through the cold, hard tundra into unknown territory, but Buri had provided. So they were still strong when they arrived, their bellies full of venison and confidence.

  They carried bows and axes and torches, and although the night watch had raised the alarm at the first sight of them, and had even managed to kill a few, it took only moments for them to race across the open land between the forest and the village and set the thatched roofs of the outer buildings ablaze.

  Tigerlilja woke at the first yells of alarm, shrugged into her fighting leathers, and grabbed her axe from the wall at the foot of her bed.

  When she reached the front entrance, Mother already sto
od in the doorway, shooting at the invaders with a bow. Even as Tigerlilja watched, her mother spun back inside, and an enemy arrow screamed through the air where her chest had just been, embedding itself deep in the far post of the threshold with a sickening thud.

  “Bows,” Mother ordered. Vegard had come up behind Tigerlilja, so Mother was speaking to them both. In a single swing, she sliced through the arrow with a hand axe, clearing the doorway, then shoved the axe back into her belt.

  “But—” Tigerlilja started to protest.

  “Bows!” Mother snapped. She met Tigerlilja’s gaze with a fierce glare. “Protect your father! Protect the clan! Now!”

  “Yes, Mother,” she mumbled. Vegard said nothing. He raced to the far wall and brought back two bows and two full quivers, handing one of each to Tigerlilja.

  “Use the doorways for cover,” Mother told them, and then she added, “Keep your axes too, for when they reach you.” Her eyes wavered for a moment, gazing at Tigerlilja, but then they snapped back into a hard, calculating intensity. She paused two breaths, listening, then spun her shoulders back out of the doorway and fired at someone they couldn’t see.

  “Vegard,” she said, ducking back in again, “use the lodge across the way. The doorway’s empty. Tigerlilja, stay here. I’ll make my way to Frode’s. He’ll be out wielding an axe like an old fool.”

  Tigerlilja understood. There was only enough room for one of them at a time to use a doorway for cover. She wanted desperately to run out and fight by Father’s side, but she held Mother’s gaze and nodded. They could cover Father and the others better from here, as long as their defenses held.

  “May Taiga protect you both,” Mother said, and then she slipped out the door and was gone.

  Vegard drew a deep breath. He turned and clasped Tigerlilja’s forearm, who clutched it back, hard, then let it go.

  “We stand together,” she said.