Epic (11 page)

It was the editorial that was most disturbing to Svein’s eye.

Around the table, elderly shoulders sagged and faces lengthened.

“Where is this coming from?” Godmund was furious. He looked accusingly at Hleid, who shrugged. “This is too well informed. Look! Who here remembered about Halfdan’s shield? Not I. This is coming from the inside. One of us perhaps?”

“But why?” Brynhild was perplexed. “Why would one of us do this?”

“I don’t know,” Godmund growled. “But whatever they think they are doing, the result is that they are going to cause chaos and instability for us all.”

For a while, the committee members said nothing, but looked at each other with confusion and suspicion. Bekka was the recipient of several scowls.

“There is no point in continuing the meeting if we have nothing constructive to offer. One day the person or people responsible for this will make a mistake. Then we will act.” Svein stood up to leave.

“Very well. We are adjourned,” announced Hleid.

As Bekka slowly made her way down the stairs of the tower, Svein came alongside her.

“It’s not me. They think it’s me, but it is not.” She looked over her shoulder at Svein.

“Of course not. Only a fool would think that you would write such things.” Svein gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. There was no longer an attractive side to the aging, irresolute druidess. But as long as Bekka was a member of Central Allocations, Svein would make the effort to create the impression that he was an admirer of hers, through his considerate words and attentive glances. After all, it cost him nothing and might secure him an important vote one day.

“Then, who is it?”

“I’m not sure Godmund is right. Why would any of us write it? Perhaps it is another bitter person like Olaf the Swift.”

“I hope so.” Bekka nodded. “It makes me cringe inside, the thought that someone at that table is pretending, is lying to us.”

Chapter 11

BROKEN GLASS

The Osterfjord Players
were giddy with merriment as they returned from Hope Library and the final stages of the graduation tournament. Rolfson had come to meet them with the horses, and they were all in the cart, bouncing along as the horses picked a steady route through the potholes of the path. Now and again, as they met travelers coming towards Hope, Rolfson would embarrass them all by proudly calling out, “We reached the finals. My children reached the finals.”

B.E. was leaning against the side of the cart, arms stretched out on either side, holding the wooden frame to help him ride the bumps.

“I hear that in Mikelgard the roads are covered in a metal surface that does not wear.” B.E. was convinced that their performance would earn them places in Mikelgard University, and, as the oldest, both he and Bjorn would get their places this year.

“Ohhhhh, smooth rides. What a treat is in store for you,” his sister Sigrid tried to mock him, but he was unflappable.

“Ahh, yes. I will think of you plodding along in your cart, while Bjorn and I sunburst along in our racing sallers. Probably with a couple of girls in the back seats, eh?” B.E. winked at Bjorn, who smiled but did not encourage B.E. further; that kind of joking made him uncomfortable.

“You think they still have sallers in Mikelgard?” asked Erik.

“Of course they do, standard issue to students no doubt.” B.E. closed his eyes, enjoying the image in his mind.

“I saw one once.” Rolfson looked back over his shoulder.

“Really, Dad?” Bjorn sat up. “What was it like? Was it working?”

“Oh, yes.” Rolfson nodded. “It was fast. You had to be careful not to get in the way as it came along the road. Very low. The driver’s head would not have come above my belt.”

“That’s really tech. I hope we get to Mikelgard and get to see them.” Bjorn beamed at the others.

“If we do win places. It’s a shame we didn’t get one more win and then we would have been in the compulsory places.” Erik didn’t want them to get their hopes up too high.

The cart paused as a herd of goats, bells jingling, crossed the path.

“Oh, don’t be a spoiler, Erik.” Now that she did not need to hold on to the side of the cart, Sigrid used her free hands to wave away his pessimism. “Nobody outside Mikelgard has done this well for years.”

The sun was just beginning to redden as their cart jolted over the last hill. Orange and brown light filled the fields of olive trees that surrounded their houses. Not long now and Erik would be in the kitchen, telling his parents everything about the tournament. He felt hungry and was looking forward to a large dinner. Even if they had eaten already, his mum and dad would sit with him to hear about the day’s competitions.

“Strange,” said Rolfson. “What’s Freya doing on the roof?” Sitting up, Erik could see a yellow light reflected from the ax blade that his mother was bringing down vigorously near the solar panel.

“Is it broken already?” Bjorn’s brow furrowed. “That’s bad luck.”

A cascade of sparks flickered like fireworks from her next blow; it was followed by a painful groaning sound as the panel lurched partway down the roof, causing a flock of starlings to flit away towards the sea.

Another flashing strike with the ax, more sparks, and the panel slid to the end of the roof, cables pulled taut behind it.

Erik jumped from the cart and ran. Something was wrong.

“Erik!” shouted Injeborg. But he did not turn.

Dashing through the trees, eyes jumping from the path ahead to his mother on the roof, her ax raised for a final blow, Erik was still far away when the crash echoed through the valley. A thousand glass bottles dropped together would not have created so much volume. Nor would they have made such a hideous splintering sound, as though the sky itself had been wrenched and cracked apart. Up on the roof, his mother fell forward, hiding her head, sobbing into her arms.

“Mum, Mum!” Erik burst into a yard that was now strewn with thick black slabs of glass, the bigger pieces cracking and sliding as he made his way precariously over them, feeling them slide beneath his feet, grinding down into the stone.

“Mum! What is it?” Erik gasped out, a hand clutching his side, his head craning back to look up to his mother.

“I hate it. If only I hadn’t wanted a new one,” she called out, crying. “It’s your dad. They’ve taken him into exile. I knew it. I should never have told him to play for us. I knew it was too risky.”

The horse and cart arrived. Everyone was silent, looking slowly up to the roof and down to where Erik stood as though at the edge of a sea of black ice that had been compressed and shattered, blocks sliding over one another. He could not bear their expressions of concern and confusion, so, without a gesture or word to them, Erik fled inside.

Much later, his mother joined him in the kitchen, her eyes red. Both of them watched the small flames inside the stove, neither looking at the other.

“What’s happened, Mum? Where’s Dad?”

“On his way to the Isle of Roftig.”

“The island for exiles.” Erik was bewildered. “But why?”

“A long time ago, when we were both in University, he hit somebody.”

“Dad? Hit someone? Never.”

“Yes, he did.” Freya heaved a big sigh, the only sign that it was a struggle for her to keep her voice level. “Another student called Ragnok Ygvigson. Harald punched him in the face until his nose broke and blood flowed everywhere.”

A little dizzy, Erik risked a glance at his mum; she caught it.

“You have to understand, your dad is not a bad man at all. Ragnok is the criminal. He is sick.”

“Why? Why did Dad hit him? Didn’t he know the penalty?”

“Of course he did, but . . .” She paused, then shakily poured water from a pitcher into a clay mug and drank it. “Ragnok had been drinking with me, drinking far too much mead, until my head was reeling and I was nearly unconscious. Then he tried to do something . . . but Harald came and when he understood that I was distressed, he hit Ragnok.”

“But the solar panel—what were you doing?”

“I hate it. I could not live with it. Just think, if we had left it alone, we would be happy. Your dad would be with us still.”

For a while they sat in the dark room; Erik’s mind was whirling. He came to when Freya lit a lantern.

“So, you think Dad was right to use violence?” He was genuinely confused. All through school and in every aspect of life it was agreed, there should never be recourse to violence—not when they had Epic to manage conflict. It was thought that once society allowed violent actions it would devolve to the same disastrous society that had supposedly driven their pacifist ancestors into space millennia ago.

“No, violence is never right. But I understood him and I forgave him. Alas, our rules allow no exceptions.”

“So . . . Dad was exiled?”

“Yes. Only he escaped and found me, and I agreed to marry him, to make a new life far from Mikelgard, where no one would know us.”

Now it was Erik’s turn to pour a drink of water, while he gave this thought.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I’m old enough.”

“Yes. Your dad thought we should. But it was to protect you. Anyone who knowingly harbors an exile is subject to exile themselves—depending on the ruling of a judge. At least you have the choice. If you want, you can stay here with your friends—or go to University.”

“Stay? Without you and Dad? No. I’ll come with you.”

“I don’t even know what I’m doing myself yet. It has all been so sudden. The judge was here today. I told her you knew nothing, but she will probably want to ask you herself.”

They sat still, not looking at each other, silent and alone with their thoughts.

“Mum, I’m tired. I must lie down and think about all this.” All desire for food had gone; he just wanted to lie in the dark and try to understand.

“I know, Erik. I’m so very tired too.”

Looking back at the still figure of his mother, you would hardly have known that anything was wrong but for the tears that were silently running down her cheeks to fall onto the table.

Erik was tired, but not able to sleep. It was as though his mind was torn in two and bleeding thoughts uncontrollably: never to see his dad again; to struggle on with the farm; for Harald to live an unhappy and lonely life. That dark thought could not be put aside and as it welled up, so did his tears, forming hot and salty trails at the corners of his mouth. Yet there had to be a way to overcome this catastrophe. For a moment he could master his misery, channel the deluge of mental activity into thinking about the measures he could take to get his dad back. Unbidden, the deeply distressing image of his mother on the roof of the house interfered with his attempt to make plans. She hacked away at the cables of the solar panel. That outburst of apparent insanity was understandable; they would only be reminded of the disaster every time they used it. His dad, a violent man. The worst that anyone could be accused of: horrific, criminal and obscene. Society agreed; Erik had agreed. Those who committed acts of violence should be shunned. Exiled. It had not seemed so unreasonable. Exile, a place where they could be as perverse as they pleased, without harming any law-abiding person. But now his dad was on his way back to Roftig Island. What was it like? Did you live in fear of being attacked? Not in a game but for real. Real wounds. Real blades parting the skin and blood pouring out. Did it feel like burning? Or icy cold? To have a knife thrust into your ribs? It was tiring, lying in the dark, trying not to think of a future without his dad, trying to marshal his thoughts.

When the moon had risen and turned the olive trees a creamy silver, his mother climbed heavily up the stairs, her footfall so uncharacteristically slow that it had a nightmar ish quality. Erik did not call out, nor did his door swing open. They each had enough to bear without trying to manage the sorrows of the other.

 

The next morning, Erik felt steadier. Despite the catastrophe that had enveloped their lives, he was strengthened by one thought—that the secret his dad had been keeping was one that did not reflect any lack of confidence in Erik. Harald had not been evasive when he had said that there was something worse than reallocation; it was the truth. Exile was far worse. Now, at least, everything made sense; by keeping Erik in ignorance they had hoped to protect him from the punishment of exile. Overnight, Erik had grown stronger and he knew why. The only doubts about his own trustworthiness, his own loyalty, were gone. This day was the start of the Agricultural School holidays, traditionally the day for the olive farmers to start pruning. It was hard and laborious work, but Erik envied those who were rising early to make a start on it. In all the farmhouses around Osterfjord this morning, they would be going through their usual routines of work—normal, life-affirming routines. The cutters would be brought and whet and, perhaps with a meal wrapped in a satchel, the olive-growers would go out to the fields.