Betsy Tobin Page 2

  Both riders drop from view for an instant as they near the wall, then reappear, their horses halted just the other side. The two men stare down at them, and the others join them one by one. Fulla’s eyes travel down the line until they reach the fifth and final rider: a youth not much older than herself. His hair is a tangled auburn mass and his eyes are a pale shade of brown. The boy stares back at her brazenly.

  Helga makes a strangled noise in her throat, and Fulla shifts her gaze back to the lead man, whose horse is moving uneasily behind the wall. He reins it in repeatedly with short, sharp jerks. He is darker than the others, with eyes set deep, like a hawk’s, and a beard so full it obscures his mouth entirely.

  “I am Thorstein, son of Skallagrim,” he announces loudly. “Tell your grandfather that Skallagrim is dead,” he continues. “We will meet him on the boundary at noon tomorrow.”

  Fulla hesitates. The words are angry ones, the sort of words that killed her father. She does not feel like offering condolences. “You can tell him yourself,” she replies, in a voice as loud as she can muster. “I’ll not be your messenger.” A tiny cry escapes from Helga’s lips.

  Thorstein exchanges looks with the man next to him, then turns back to her. He raises his eyebrows, scrutinising her more intently. She shifts uneasily under the water, aware of her naked flesh just beneath the surface. “As you wish,” he says with the thinnest of smiles. “But we are coming, just the same.” He whips his horse around abruptly and urges it into a gallop up the slope. One by one the other riders follow. But as the last rider turns his mount, his gaze snags on hers. She sees a flicker of something in his eyes, but does not know what it signifies.

  They stay until the riders are out of view, then scramble quickly out of the water, not waiting for the wind to dry their skin before they hastily pull on their clothes. Helga is talking in short bursts, but Fulla does not listen. She has one thought only: of reaching her grandfather as quickly as possible, so she can carry their message back to him, just as they knew she would.

  FREYA

  All my life I have waited for Hekla to unveil herself: even on the clearest day she wears a ring of cloud. This morning is no different. The air is cold and bitingly clear but Hekla remains wreathed in white. I pull my woollen cloak more tightly around my shoulders and walk outside to draw fresh water. But as I reach the spring, I hear a long, low roar—like the dying throes of some enormous animal. The noise is deafening. It washes like a torrent down the mountain and sweeps right past me across the valley. A moment later it is gone. Terrified, I turn and scan Hekla’s flanks. But I see no beast, nor any other living soul, not even a bird. And then the ground beneath me lurches violently, as if shaken by the hand of a giant. The wooden bucket flies from my hands as I am thrown forward onto the grass, where I wait for the earth’s trembling to subside. Only then do I realise that there is no animal. There is only Hekla.

  The earth calms and the air is deathly still. I stare up at the sky. Far off in the distance, a cock crows. I listen as it calls twice more. The sound stirs something deep inside me. A crimson rooster, I think, biding its time in the halls of Hell. For that is how the poets said it would begin: with the rooster’s rousing call. Now their prophecy comes back to me in fragments, each one clinging like a shard.

  Though we may be a divine race, the poets have long warned that our world is on the brink of destruction. One day, according to the prophecy, our families will be torn asunder. Brothers will do battle to the death, and sons of sisters will fight their own kin. When this happens, the sun will turn black and great flames will lick the sky.

  We have lived with their dark promise all this time: now I can almost feel the wolf’s hot breath upon my face. For it is the wolf that will bring about our downfall, say the poets. A storm age, a wolf age. That is how our destruction will begin. The fetter will break and the wolf will run free.

  FULLA

  Hogni emerges from the house at the sound of Fulla’s calls, his laboured movements those of an old man. He walks slowly towards her, one hand absently pulling on his greying beard. Fulla rides breathlessly into the yard, and before she can dismount, blurts out the tale of her encounter with Thorstein. Hogni stares up at her, nonplussed. His large eyes are of a pale blue colour and, despite his age, they remain surprisingly clear.When she has finished, he grunts in acknowledgement, and motions for her to climb down. He takes the horse’s reins and begins to lead it away. “Grandfather?” she calls after him, puzzled. He stops and turns back to her. “Shouldn’t we call in the men from the boundaries?”

  He raises an eyebrow. “There’s been a death, not a murder,” he says.

  She stares after him, speechless, as he leads her horse into the stable.

  That night, sleep does not come easily. Inevitably, her thoughts turn to her father, and the day he was found half-dead by one of Hogni’s farmhands.When they brought him into the yard, Helga had to drag her from the doorway so she would not see his injuries. Three days later, he was dead. Only then was she allowed to enter his bedchamber. By then, he was so altered that she refused. Now she regrets her cowardice.

  Fulla closes her fingers around the small bronze amulet he gave her when she was five. “Here,” he had said, placing it around her neck. “Keep this close. Then your mother will be with you always.”

  She’d studied the amulet, tracing her fingers along the delicate shape of the patterned serpent curled around the base of a tree. “Where is she now?”

  Her father had hesitated. “She is with Odin and Thor and the others. They will feast together, until the day we meet again.”

  “When will that be?”

  “Later. When you are grown. Until then, we must be patient.” Then he’d held up his own amulet, identical to the one around her neck, and kissed the top of her head.

  Now, all these years later, she has lost both of her parents. And not all the patience in the world will bring them back.

  Thorstein and his men come the following day. Shortly before noon, Fulla climbs the hill behind the house to watch for them, her gut twisted in a knot.The storm has passed and the weather is clear and mild. When the sun is at its highest point, she catches sight of them, tiny dark specks on the horizon. She watches tensely as they take shape. After a minute, she sees that this time there are only three riders. Once again they carry weapons, but now they are dressed like those riding to battle, in tight-fitting leather caps and chainmail shirts. Each man carries a broad sword and round wooden shield.

  Scrambling down the hill, she shouts for her grandfather. He emerges from the forge with soot on his face, and pauses briefly to wash himself with water from the well. Then he puts on his cloak and waits for the riders, with Fulla by his side. The three men ride into the yard, Thorstein at the fore. They dismount from their horses and turn to face Hogni. Thorstein steps forward, the two men flanking him, and clears his throat. “My father is dead. We have business to discuss.”

  Hogni frowns in disapproval. “The business of grief?”

  Thorstein shifts uneasily and exchanges a look with his brother. “We wish to discuss the boundaries.”

  “Now is not the time,” Hogni replies. “We will come and pay our respects to the dead. Fulla, make ready your things.” And with that, he turns and strides off in the direction of the barn.

  This time, Thorstein blinks in perplexity. He looks at Fulla, who meets his gaze only briefly. She turns and goes inside to fetch her things. Once inside, she closes the door and leans against it with a smile. She washes her face, grabs her cloak and pulls a comb quickly through her hair, before going back outside, where the stable boy is standing with her horse. Her grandfather is already mounted, as are Skallagrim’s relations.

  They set off at a brisk trot, Fulla and her grandfather in front, the other three just behind. They ride for nearly two hours without a word spoken between them. When they reach Skallagrim’s farm, Fulla is struck at once by its size. There are more than a dozen buildings, all with turf roofs, tucked into
the lee of a broad hillside. A small stream tumbles from a waterfall halfway up the hill and meanders to one side of the yard. The farm looks well-tended and prosperous. At least half the buildings appear to be dwellings. At the sound of the horses, several people come out to meet them in the yard. One of them is a fair-haired woman wearing a linen dress and a goatskin kirtle, with a large bunch of iron keys hanging at her waist. The woman greets Thorstein with an anxious look, and Fulla realises she is his wife.

  They climb off the horses and Thorstein explains their purpose. Thorstein’s wife turns to them without hesitation. Her face is lean and taut with tiredness, but she nods to them graciously and beckons them inside. “Come and rest from your journey,” she says. They enter the largest house, where more than a dozen people are already gathered around the long trench of fire. Benches line the carved wooden walls. They have been strewn with a colourful array of woollen blankets and animal furs. The roof timbers are large and richly decorated with the carved figures of animals. Fulla looks quickly about the room at the range of faces she does not recognise. These people are our enemies, she thinks. She accepts a cup of ale from a pale young woman with auburn hair and freckled arms, who smiles shyly and nods to her.

  Thorstein stands a little awkwardly to one side, and for a few moments, no one speaks. “My father passed on quietly during his sleep,” he explains somewhat hesitantly. “He had not been well of late.” Thorstein’s voice cracks slightly at this last. He clears his throat before continuing. “His body is laid out within.” He gestures towards a bedchamber at the far end of the room.

  “It is a blessing that he went peacefully,” says Hogni judiciously.

  “May Christ receive his soul in heaven,” says Thorstein.

  Fulla watches Hogni stiffen. She steals a glance at Thorstein. She did not know Skallagrim and his family were followers of the new religion. For an agonising moment, she fears her grandfather’s anger. The two men eye each other silently.

  Hogni finishes his drink and hands the cup back to the pale woman. “We will view the body now.”

  Thorstein motions for them to follow. At the doorway to the bedchamber, he stands to one side and Hogni ducks inside the narrow doorframe. Fulla hesitates, then follows.The room is small and dark, lit by a single iron lamp that hangs suspended from the wall. Skallagrim lies fully clothed upon the narrow bed, his hands folded over his chest. His skin is grey and there is a slightly sour stench in the room, intermixed with the smell of burning tallow from the lamp, but otherwise there is little to suggest that he is not safe in repose. Hogni stands silently by the bed and bows his head. Unsure what she should do, Fulla follows suit. After a few moments, the air in the tiny room becomes dense and cloying, and the body of Skallagrim seems to swell in the half light. She is relieved when Hogni finally raises his head and clears his throat, turning to go.

  Once again, they duck through the doorway, and this time, when Fulla comes into the main room, she sees the auburn-haired youth amongst the others. The boy watches her as they move through the room, until her grandfather lays a hand upon her arm and steers her towards the door.

  Hogni pauses in the doorway and turns to Thorstein. “Our business is complete,” he says with an abrupt nod. Thorstein opens his mouth to speak but Hogni raises a hand to silence him. “I am an old man, just as your father was. I am past the age of argument. The boundary lands you dispute shall be yours. I give my permission for you to move the markers, but should you or your kin ever cross onto my land again, then I must warn you our response will be swift and merciless. These are my conditions.”

  “Very well,” Thorstein says in a guarded tone. “We accept. The markers shall be moved at sunset this evening.”

  Hogni gives a wave of his hand and turns to go. Fulla follows him out into the sunlight, where their horses are waiting. Thorstein stands to one side as they mount. Several members of Skallagrim’s family file out of the house to watch them depart in silence. Hogni turns his mount and walks the horse slowly out of the yard, with Fulla right behind. When they are several paces from the house, Fulla hears a shout.

  “Hold up!”

  She turns to see the auburn-haired youth running after them. Fulla halts her horse, but Hogni rides on unaware.

  “Vili!” Thorstein shouts at the youth.

  He calls back over his shoulder. “Her girth is loose.” Fulla sees Thorstein frown. By now, her grandfather has halted his horse several paces ahead of her. The boy reaches her saddle and bends his head to her girth, pulling at the strap with a grunt. As he leans into the horse, Fulla looks down at him. He is thin and muscled and wears a generously cut dark red tunic that hangs loosely from his frame. Her eyes stray to the bare skin exposed at his neck. Inside the tunic, a tiny silver cross swings freely from a cord.

  The boy finishes adjusting her saddle and raises his head to look at her.

  “Thank you,” she says a little stiffly. He nods, and seems on the point of leaving, when his eyes drift down to the amulet around her neck. He stops short, and a look of confusion crosses his face.

  Almost without realising, Fulla raises a hand to the amulet, as if protecting it from his gaze.

  “Vili!” Thorstein calls from behind. After a moment, Vili tears his eyes from the amulet and turns away, nearly stumbling. Then he jogs back to where Thorstein is waiting.

  “Fulla! Are you all right?” Hogni calls to her. She is staring after the boy, one hand still holding the amulet.

  She turns her horse towards Hogni, nodding. He urges his horse into a lope, and after a moment’s hesitation, she follows.

  That night, two godi from neighbouring farms arrive. As is their habit, they plant themselves around the hearth, clutching drinking horns of ale and debating the merits of Hogni’s decision. Hogni is unrepentant. “I shall brook no more arguments over land rights,” he says, motioning for Fulla to join them. Reluctantly, she seats herself on the bench at his side. “All these years we have lived and died by the sword. And we have little more to show for it today than when we first set foot upon this land thirty years ago.” He breaks off to cough for a moment, and Fulla steals a sideways glance at him. She sees a face that has been ravaged by age and exposure, yet with the eyes of a younger man.

  Ulf leans forward and points a drunken finger at him. “You cannot afford complacency, Hogni. Not now. Not with Olaf’s men scouring the land looking for converts, and threatening to burn down our temples.”

  “Let them come,” says Hogni with a dismissive wave. “Let them bring their bells and their crosses and their incense. They will never win the hearts and minds of our people.” He stares into the flames morosely. “We came here to be free of them,” he adds, almost to himself.

  “They say this Thangbrand is a dauntless sort of man,” says Ulf. “He is passionate and ungovernable. And clever of speech.”

  “He is even cleverer with the sword,” interjects Thorgillson. “He has killed two men already who dared mock his beliefs.”

  Hogni snorts. “Yes, yes, I have heard all the chatter. Thangbrand sleeps with a crucifix in one hand and a dagger in the other.”

  “Nine godi have been converted already,” says Ulf pointedly.

  Hogni stares into the fire. “Not me. I’ll not take the fly that Thangbrand casts.”

  “If King Olaf has his way, Iceland will become the spawn of Norway. Reading its laws, preaching its faith, worshipping its idols,” says Thorgillson.

  “I came to Iceland seeking refuge from their god,” says Hogni, shaking his head. “I’ll not wait to see my adopted homeland bow down before a Christian king.” He lays a bony hand on Fulla’s knee and squeezes a little too hard.

  “What will we do?” she ventures.

  He sighs. “A good question. What indeed? We are a tolerant people. But they push us too far.”

  “Pray to Thor and Odin,” says Ulf. He raises his drinking horn with a lopsided grin. “And sharpen our swords.”

  Later Fulla slips away from them, relieved to be fr
ee of fighting talk. She has seen nothing of these Christian missionaries they speak of, though secretly she would welcome the diversion. She finds her cloak and slips out to the stable to say goodnight to her horse. Outside, the night is cold and clear. The sun has long since dropped beneath the horizon, but the sky is not yet fully dark. She makes her way in the deep blue light across the yard to the stable and ducks inside, pausing for a moment as her eyes adjust to the darkness. A few slivers of evening light come through the cracks in the building, and after a pause she begins to move about, filling a wooden bucket with some oats from a barrel in the corner, and calling softly to her horse.

  The horse moves forward in its stall and nickers softly. She comes to the door and he pushes his nose against her chest, while she reaches up to scratch behind his ears. Then she picks up the bucket and hangs it on an iron hook.

  “Here you go, Bor. Eat well, my handsome warrior.”

  “A lucky fellow, to garner such fine praise.”

  Fulla spins around in the half light with a gasp, her heart beating hard. A figure steps out from the shadows. She stares at him for a moment.

  “Do you not know me?” asks the auburn-haired youth. He takes a step forward.

  She takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Of course I do.You startled me, that’s all,” she says tartly. He holds up his hands in apology. “If my grandfather sees you here, he’ll have your flesh roasting on a spit,” she continues.

  He raises an eyebrow. “Bold words. Are they yours or his?”

  “It won’t matter when you’re dead,” she counters evenly. “Why have you come?”