02 The Invaders (8 page)

Thorn took a deep breath before replying. His first instinct was to wallop Edvin over the back of the head for being so insolent. But he realized that the boy was trying. In fact, he was trying too hard. He could see the others performing the movements with comparative ease and he wanted desperately to match them. He didn’t have the same coordination as the others and he was trying to compensate for the fact by going too fast.

“Listen to my count and slow down,” Thorn told him. “I promise you, you will get it. But it’s something you have to build up to. You can’t just step into the net and do it perfectly each time.”

“Stig did,” Edvin replied.

Thorn shook his head. “Stig didn’t,” he said. “He did it better than you because he’s a little bit better coordinated and balanced than you are. But you can make up for that. You simply have to practice. And build up your speed. Don’t try to match him each time. Work at your own pace and let it build. All right?”

“All right,” Edvin agreed reluctantly, and Thorn waved him forward into the net once more.

“Now, listen to my count. Don’t try to get ahead of me. As I see you’re improving, I’ll speed it up. Understood?”

Edvin’s face was set in determined lines. He nodded, his lips moving wordlessly as he waited for Thorn’s command.

This time, Edvin stayed with the count. Thorn called the steps more slowly than he had before and the other boys lounged on the grass and watched Edvin as he moved, stepping high and with
exaggerated care in time with the rhythm Thorn was setting. As he saw the boy was managing the slower pace, Thorn imperceptibly increased the rate of his call.

“Keep your eyes up!” he shouted suddenly. Edvin was letting his gaze drop to the net at his feet and that was an almost certain precursor to a fall. The boy had to sense the rhythm and the proximity of the cords around his feet. If he tried to look at them, he would never keep up with the call, even at the slow speed Thorn was currently setting.

Thorn increased the pace a little further and still Edvin kept his feet. Finally, Thorn called a halt, and Edvin stood, resting his sword on his shoulder, letting his shield arm fall. Thorn patted him on the shoulder.

“Much better,” he said.

Edvin shook his head. “Stig went a lot faster than that,” he said. “So did Hal and Jesper.”

“And so will you,” Thorn told him. “The more you work at it, the faster you’ll get. Trust me.”

“As fast as Stig?” Edvin asked. Thorn opened his mouth to reply, then decided honesty would be the best course.

“Probably not,” he said, and saw an angry light begin to smolder in Edvin’s eyes. “But you will get fast enough to save your life in battle, and that’s not too bad. Face it, Edvin, we all have differing levels of ability. What we must do is make the most of what we’ve got.”

“I suppose so,” Edvin said. But his voice lacked conviction.

Thorn eyed him carefully for a few seconds, then said, “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that if you practice long and
hard enough, you’ll show me that I’m wrong—that you can be as fast as Stig. Correct?”

Edvin’s chin went up and he colored slightly. Then he answered, defiantly, “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

“Then good for you!” Thorn said, and slapped him heartily on the back. The impact was such that Edvin nearly went tumbling over in the net. He staggered, and as he did so, he took several high steps to recover.

“Nice save,” Thorn said. “Now take a break. You can practice again later.”

He watched as the boy walked a few paces away from the net, let the heavy shield slip from his arm and slumped to the grass. Edvin would take up the challenge, he knew. The boy had something to prove—to himself as much as to anyone else. If that gave him the incentive he needed to improve his performance, all the better. As Thorn had pointed out, it might save his life one day.

Finally, he turned toward Ingvar and nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s have you.”

There was a murmur of expectation from the rest of the group. So far, Ingvar hadn’t attempted the net. Nobody had expected Thorn to order him to.

Ingvar rose, peered in Thorn’s direction and hesitated.

“Are you sure, Thorn?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Thorn said testily. “I don’t say things unless I’m sure. Step forward into the net.”

Ingvar moved awkwardly forward to the edge of the net. As he went to step into it, his left toe caught on one of the strands and
he lurched uncertainly, waving his arms for balance and dropping his massive club in the process.

Someone sniggered. Thorn turned quickly and caught sight of Stefan hiding a smile behind his hand. Thorn’s eyes narrowed.

“Laughing at a shipmate, Stefan?” he said, his tone deceptively mild. Stefan hurriedly assumed a more serious expression.

“It’s all right, Thorn,” Ingvar said. “I’m sort of used to it.”

“Well, I’m not.” Thorn addressed his words to the watching group. “In my book, we never laugh or make fun of a shipmate who’s trying his best.”

“Yeah. Don’t be an ass, Stefan,” Ulf said, and to everyone’s surprise, Wulf reiterated his brother’s thought.

“That’s right. Shut up.”

Thorn’s eyebrows went up in surprise. May the Great Blue Whale fly up to the sun, he thought.

“Sorry,” said Stefan. It wasn’t so much the warning note in Thorn’s voice that did it. It was the fact that Ulf and Wulf, for the first time in living memory, agreed on something. And that something was the fact that he, Stefan, was an ass. It was a sobering thought.

“Thanks, fellows,” Ingvar said.

“Think nothing of it,” Wulf said.

And Ulf chorused, “Nothing at all.”

Then Wulf turned to Thorn. “Carry on, Thorn,” he said magnanimously, gesturing with his right hand.

Thorn shook his head. “Oh, thank you very much,” he said, and the other boys all smothered their laughter while Wulf grinned at them.

“That was well said,” Ulf leaned over and told him.

Wulf nodded smugly. “I know.”

“In fact, it was so well said, I’m surprised
I
didn’t say it,” Ulf continued.

Wulf, who had been leaning back on one elbow on the grass, now straightened abruptly and glared at his brother.

“Are you now?” he said. “Well, I’d—”

“Drop it!” Hal’s voice cut like a whip and Wulf turned toward him.

“Drop what?” he asked.

Hal shook his head in annoyance. “Whatever you planned to say. Just drop it. You’ve got a laugh out of everyone, so quit while you’re ahead.”

“Quit while you’re behind, more like,” Ulf sniggered, and Hal turned his glare on him.

“You drop it too,” he snapped and was surprised when Ulf looked considerably chastened.

“Yes, Hal,” he said meekly.

Hal turned back to Thorn and repeated Wulf’s earlier gesture. “Carry on, Thorn.”

“You’re sure?” Thorn replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Nobody else has anything to say? You’re all happy for me to
carry on
, are you?” He let his gaze travel around them. Nobody spoke. “Well, in that case, I think I will. Ingvar, are you ready?”

“I’m not sure, Thorn,” Ingvar said truthfully. He certainly didn’t feel too ready.

“All right then. Now, you saw what Edvin was doing, correct?”

“Ummm… not too clearly. There was a bit of jumping and arm waving going on, is that right?”

Thorn suppressed a smile. “Yes, jumping and arm waving is a
pretty good description of what everyone’s been doing,” he said. Edvin looked suitably insulted by the description, but he said nothing. He suspected that it
was
a fairly accurate description of what he’d been doing.

“Very well, let’s try it slowly, Ingvar. Ready?”

“I think so.”

“I’d like you to
know
so,” Thorn told him.

The big boy nodded several times, licking his lips nervously. “All right. I know so.” But he didn’t sound convinced.

“Then here we go. One forward… two to the right… careful!”

This last comment came as Ingvar caught his left toe in the net and swayed precariously. With a great deal of difficulty, he recovered his balance and turned, peering in Thorn’s direction. Thorn waited until he was standing evenly again and continued.

“Good. Now, two forward… one left… three right… one… help him up, will you, Stig?”

Ingvar had snagged his foot again and fell awkwardly. At Thorn’s order, Stig leapt to his feet and heaved Ingvar upright.

“Thanks, Stig,” Ingvar said. Then he turned to Thorn. “I think we’re wasting time here, Thorn. I’m just no good at this.”

Thorn rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He’d noticed that as Ingvar moved, he was peering down at the net and at his feet. It was a natural reaction. In fact, he’d had to tell a couple of the boys not to do it, but instead to keep their eyes up and sense where their feet were going. He strode toward Ingvar now.

“Ingvar, can you see the net?” he asked.

Ingvar shrugged unhappily. “It’s pretty blurry.”

“I think that might be the problem. You can see it. But you
don’t see it well enough, and that’s causing your loss of balance. You’re tensing up because you’re uncertain. Let’s try something. Close your eyes for me.”

Ingvar complied.

“Now breathe very steadily,” Thorn said. “In and out. In and out.” He watched the boy’s shoulders rising and falling. “Now relax… Now imagine you can see the net. See it in your mind’s eye.”

“His mind’s eye?” Jesper commented quietly to the others. “What’s that?”

“In your case,” Hal replied dryly, “it’s a
very
small eye.”

Jesper went to reply, realized he had nothing to top that comment and shut his mouth.

“Can you see the net now, Ingvar?” Thorn asked.

Ingvar, eyes shut tight, nodded.

“All right. Then, with your eyes shut and seeing the net in your mind, let’s begin again. One back… two left… three forward… two right…”

The other boys watched in amazement as Ingvar began to follow Thorn’s directions confidently and carefully. The pace was slow, of course. But he was stepping cleanly and the tendency to wave his arms wildly and teeter off balance was almost gone. Once, his right foot caught on a strand of the net and Thorn, watching like a hawk, immediately called on him to stop.

“Stand up straight!” he ordered. Ingvar did so and breathed deeply as he recovered his balance. Then Thorn began again and Ingvar continued his slow, careful movements.

Careful, Hal noticed, but no longer cautious and lacking in
confidence. He shook his head and murmured quietly to Stig. “He’s amazing, isn’t he?”

Stig grinned. “Who would have thought Ingvar could do that—even as slowly as he’s moving?”

Finally, Thorn called for Ingvar to stop and open his eyes. The big boy stood in the middle of the net, face flushed with pleasure.

“Well done, Ingvar. We’ll have you running through that net before you know it.”

Ingvar shook his head, but his wide grin showed how pleased he was with his progress.

“Maybe not in no time, Thorn. But give me four or five years and I could work up to walking pace.”

The assembled group laughed. But this time they were laughing with their crewmate, and not at him.

“Good lad,” Thorn told him. “Now step out of the net. No!” he cried quickly as Ingvar looked cautiously down to see where to place his feet. “Keep your eyes up! See the net in your mind.”

And to the amazement of those watching, Ingvar, head up and eyes straight ahead, walked clear of the net, stepping high and cleanly, without so much as a stumble.

Then, unfortunately, as he stepped onto the clear ground, he caught his toe against a grass tussock and fell flat on his face. This time, he laughed with the others as he clambered to his feet. But nothing could detract from his feeling of accomplishment.

“I guess I didn’t see that in my mind,” he said, and they all laughed again. Thorn nodded, smiling at the boy.

“Just keep practicing,” he said. “Practice and practice and practice. The more you practice, the better you’ll get.”

Late that night, long after the camp had gone to sleep, Hal woke, as a strange sound impinged on his subconscious. He lay frowning for a few minutes. It was a rhythmic trudging sound and he strove unsuccessfully to identify it. By now, he was accustomed to the usual night sounds of the sea and the wind and the rain around the campsite in Shelter Bay. But this was something new.

He rolled out of his blankets and, seizing his belt with the saxe knife in its scabbard, he stood and stepped quietly out of the tent.

He followed the sound to the area where they trained each day. Trudge… slide… slide… trudge… scrape. He became aware that he could hear a voice, pitched low and muttering. The words were indistinct. Then he relaxed, slinging the belt and scabbard over his shoulder as he realized there was no danger.

Ingvar was in the center of the net. He was facing Hal, and in the moonlight, the skirl could see that Ingvar’s eyes were shut as he moved deliberately in a complex pattern of steps. Right, forward, left, back, left, right, his feet slid and trudged on the dew-damp grass. His lips moved as he called the steps to himself in an undertone.

“Right two… back three… left one… forward two…”