Raven of the Waves Page 15
“Njord!” cried Lidsmod. He fell to his knees beside his old friend, the master of wind. “Njord, get up,” Lidsmod implored, bending over the helmsman where he lay.
Gorm did a thing no saga prescribed. Men took in a hard breath as they saw it. Lifting his sword over Lidsmod as he knelt beside the bleeding shipwright, Gorm steadied himself for the deathblow. Lidsmod saw the sword about to fall but stayed right where he was, kneeling protectively over his friend.
There was a snarl, and a shape burst through the dark.
Torsten grappled with Gorm. Gorm wrestled, clawed, tried to slash with his sword, but the unarmed Torsten, clad only in his bear shirt, hammered Gorm with both fists. Blood streamed from Gorm’s face. Torsten roared and smashed Gorm with the bear god’s fury.
The sound of Torsten’s fists was sickening. Gorm’s face was a scarlet mass by the time Gunnar and Eirik had their arms around the berserker. None of the other men stepped forward, unwilling to interfere in a moment when a god was present among them.
The two wrestled with Torsten until Gunnar cried out, asking for help. Then the others joined in. It was a long struggle, but at last Torsten was bound and the bear roar was silenced.
The berserker was bright with Gorm’s blood. “Gorm said he pissed on the gods.”
No one spoke.
“Did I—” Torsten coughed. “Did I hurt him?”
Gunnar put an arm around him. “Sleep, Torsten. Go with these men and sleep in the ship.”
“Did I hurt him?” asked the anguished Torsten.
Gorm died before dawn.
What we are dissolves in the eyes of men when we die, Lidsmod knew. A stubborn enemy becomes an honored memory, and a contrary spirit becomes a solemn absence when life is spent. Just as a blood eagle alters an enemy chief into a prize for the gods, so Gorm’s death changed him from the man they had known.
His shipmates grieved, brave men who had known Gorm since childhood. Gorm’s soul had been a labyrinth, a long fjord with many turnings. But now he was beloved for all his knotty nature. Never again would they see him stepping out from a forest with his prey.
Floki wept most bitterly. Gorm’s faults were easy to forget now that his eyes had closed forever. Floki would give Gorm all his sheep back. He did not want the horse price. He wanted Gorm—sneaky, untrustworthy, quick-footed Gorm.
Lidsmod, like the others, felt the weight of this death. He felt the taste of it. He knew that Gorm had only himself to blame, but it was a bad thing to lose a man.
Who could make men out of a stick, or a scoop of mud? No one. Men could not be carved out of ivory or worked out of bone. They came out of air and went back into air, a mystery.
Eirik sang the song of Heimdall, the enigmatic god who had made men. The song was what each man needed to hear at this moment. Men were an accident, an afterthought, beloved of very little. Did the sky love men? Did the sea? Did the surf off the rocky shore love men?
Only men loved men. They wrapped their shipmate in sealskin. They would not burn his bones in this unclean land. They would take his remains to Spjothof, where he could be mourned among his neighbors.
40
Aethelwulf swept the ruined sanctuary clean of all ash, but now the wind had turned and the ash was blowing back again. He was like a man sweeping back the sea. The charred bits scurried around his feet and swirled.
The broom fell apart, a mere stick in his hands. The parts of the broom scattered, twig and cord. He gave a weary laugh, and bent over to gather them up. He sat in a corner doing a good job, he thought, of repairing the bundled straw. Now that he had it in his lap, he could see that it had suffered from fire like everything else. Fire came. Wind blew. Man did what he could. To work was to pray.
Lente, lente, he told himself. Semper lente. Slowly, slowly. Always slowly. To lose is to have. He had been a smart, ill-tempered young man. Now he was a loving, ill-tempered old man.
Wiglaf staggered across the ashy earth with a bucket. Water slopped. Crook-jawed Stag trotted in behind him. The old dog had stayed in the woods until the day after the new sheep-fold was finished, as though only the sound of ewes and lambs could call the dog to his home. Or perhaps it was the sound of Wiglaf’s voice, back among them, gathered in from the road.
“Put the bucket anyplace,” said Aethelwulf. “Quickly,” he added kindly, “while there is still some water left in it.”
Something dropped from Wiglaf’s tunic and spun across the floor. A line of thin white fangs grinned at Aethelwulf from the ashes. He picked up the object and ran his finger over the teeth.
“It’s a comb, made from an antler,” said Wiglaf.
“Indeed?” said Aethelwulf politely, handing it back.
A step at the door made them both turn. Redwald was dressed in a riding cloak, but now he carried a long sword at his belt. Wiglaf knew that Redwald had tarried here, gathering men, taking his time; he rode all the way downriver only after the strangers had ample time to sail away. Redwald was brave enough, but cat smart.
Wiglaf mourned Edwin and his father, but Aethelwulf had counseled that it was a blessing that Forni and his mother were still very much alive. The sight of Lord Redwald disturbed Wiglaf, the nobleman gaunt and bleary-eyed.
“And what charm craft do you have in your hand, Wiglaf?” asked Redwald, accepting a cup of new ale.
“A gift,” said Wiglaf. “From the hand of one of the strangers.”
“Cast it,” Redwald commanded, “into the fire.”
Wiglaf looked to Aethelwulf.
“Wiglaf’s life was spared,” said the abbot. “This gift reminds us of their mercy.”
“I will have no reminder of any of those heathen men in my presence,” said Redwald. Neighbors said that Redwald wandered the ruined village at night, standing guard over the charred timbers of his ale hall.
Aethelwulf took the cunning object and, with a swirl of his robe, made a gesture, the fire spitting and smoking within its ring of stones.
Wiglaf nearly cried out, but kept his silence at a glance from the abbot.
“It’s only right,” said Redwald, “that we suffer no remnant of them among us.”
“Indeed Redwald,” said Aethelwulf. “It is as you wish.”
The red-haired nobleman stared into the fire with what looked like real regret. “It is just,” he said. He offered a sad smile in Wiglaf’s direction, firelight glittering in his eyes.
Later that night, Aethelwulf lay a hand on Wiglaf’s shoulder. “Let it remind us,” said Aethelwulf, “of our blessings.” He pressed the comb into Wiglaf’s hand.
Aethelwulf then uttered a prayer, but this was holy speech nothing like any Wiglaf knew. It was a prayer in farm talk, not in Latin—in the language of women at the well, in the tongue of shepherds. It was glorious, but so unusual that Wiglaf did not know whether to say amen after the poem speech was finished, or make the sign of the cross, or simply wait to hear what the abbot would say next.
Wiglaf nearly asked, “Did the Lord God hear such words, and understand them?”
“Tomorrow,” said Aethelwulf after a long silence, “you will help me write the words down.”
41
The wind slackened, and the men ran out the oars.
Gorm’s body lay stitched into sealskin. Within its sealskin enclosure Gorm wore his sword and his helmet. His shield hung over the side of the ship, as though Gorm still manned an oar.
Raven had done well, Lidsmod knew. Raven would never be as famous as Landwaster, but Lidsmod thought that Landwaster had not won further glory on this voyage. The old ship leaked, and it was time she sailed only in songs around night fires.
Njord kept a steady hand on the steering oar. His head was bandaged and hurt if he looked into the sunlight off the water. But it was a good pain, he said. He was alive and healing.
Opir had been silent for three days. Now he leaped off his sea chest and announced that he would walk the oars. “I can do this better than any man!” he cried.
It was
possible to do this with practice, but the men of Spjothof believed that any man who walked the oars as they stood horizontal from a ship, especially in midocean, was demonstrating wicked pride as well as skill.
Opir knew this. He thrust out his chest in mockery of his own vanity. “I am the bravest. I am the man with the quickest eyes. I am the man with the smartest feet.”
Opir sprang onto the first oar, Floki’s. “Eirik cannot do this,” called Opir. “Trygg Two-nose cannot do this.”
He stepped onto Trygg’s oar, and then he spread his arms. He was losing his balance, arms wheeling. But he did not fall. He swayed, arms stretched, and balanced himself.
Opir fell into the sea just as the wind rose, then swam alongside the ship. He called out that it was cold.
Lidsmod reached far over the side, helped by other shipmates, and pulled the shivering boaster into the ship.
The wind swelled the sail and the men shipped their oars. The two following ships began to recede into the distance as Raven reached upward, her prow skimming sky as she cut through the living ocean.
The wake was wide, clear, like sword steel.
Eirik began a song, an old tune, the story of a great ship full of treasure. The saga ship winged homeward bearing its gold lightly. But the tune had new words, because now this new ship—Raven—was nameworthy, sang Eirik. Her name was newly crafted by the poet into something more proud, fit to be carried to all who heard tales during long winter nights.
Lidsmod climbed back to Njord and took the steering oar. The old man gave up the helm with a show of reluctance, and at first the ship shifted, a current of uncertainty running along her keel. But at last Lidsmod steadied the ship, and under the strength of a following wind, guided the course of Raven of the Waves.
About the Author
Michael Cadnum is the author of thirty-five books for adults and young adults. His work—which includes thrillers, suspense novels, historical fiction, and books about myths and legends—has been nominated for the National Book Award (The Book of the Lion), the Edgar Award (Calling Home and Breaking the Fall), and the Los Angeles Times Book Prize (In a Dark Wood). A former National Endowment for the Arts Creative Writing Fellow, he is also the author of award-winning poetry. Seize the Storm (2012) is his most recent novel.
Michael Cadnum lives in Albany, California, with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2001 by Michael Cadnum
Cover design by Drew Padrutt
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1968-2
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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