Raven Speak (9781442402492) (23 page)

She paused to catch her breath. Something about that heap of red-brown needles tucked close to the nearest trunk drew her eye and she poked through it. Jewel-green leaves, freed of the weight, unfurled along a tender stem. She smiled. Another year come. As many as she'd witnessed, the pure brilliance—the undaunted spirit—inherent in each dawning summer never failed to stir her. Yes, everything was unfolding as it should. Leaning into her stick then, she continued up the muddy path. Summer may be on the way, but at present she was cold and in need of a steaming bowl of tea. She hoped they had some brewed.

The clan,
his
beloved clan as well as Asa's, needed a skald, and though she cherished her privacy, she knew she had to reclaim his seat beside the fire. That's why she'd turned around. The people needed hope. A good skald provided hope.

High above, an errant wind disturbed the treetops. Was the weather changing? She picked up her pace though her chest strained.

They needed a good leader, too. A confident chieftain who'd
govern with a generous heart and a wise head. A leader who would put the needs of the clan above his—or her—own. Would they have one?

It irked her that she didn't know. What was the purpose of trading her eye for knowledge if she couldn't
know
everything? The apparent trickery related to her bargain sent her stick slamming into the mud with vexation. She chewed on that idea as she climbed, aware that her wheezy exhalations added fleeting puffs of mist to the forest's skirts.

Perhaps knowledge was limited to facts, to the objects she discovered in her travels, to the terse words and images delivered to her by her ravens. Perhaps humans, ultimately, were unknowable. The girl, without question, continued to surprise her, continued to reveal a depth of character that she'd never expected. As much as she probed, Asa yet remained a mystery, one who possessed a wisdom beyond her years. She would enjoy instructing her.

Up and down she trudged over the knuckles of the mountain's splayed fingers. The light filtering through the forest slowly dimmed as evening approached. She'd not yet caught the scent of smoke that would signal the settlement. Flap had assured her it wasn't much farther, but he'd miscommunicated distance on more than one occasion. He couldn't be made to understand the difference between him flying a straight line through the air and her traversing this mountainous terrain on foot.

A sodden pinecone unbalanced her and sent her tumbling to the ground with a surprised grunt. Ach, she was getting old!
Muddy debris coated both palms and soaked through to an elbow. Fuming, she planted the walking stick and climbed to her feet with some effort. How she missed clipping along these paths on horseback. With each passing year the mountains grew steeper. She gauged the distance to the next crest and heaved a sigh. That was another thing: She could see so much farther from the back of a horse. She enjoyed looking ahead. Adjusting her cloak, she proceeded.

As the path narrowed and darkness pressed in, her steps slowed. Many times she'd traveled this way as a young woman, often at night, so she could rely on memory to guide her. But no one much bigger than a fox had passed here in a while, and even when she spotted what she thought were the trail markers, she had to blink and blink again, for they, too, had aged, and that left her frowning and feeling somewhat adrift.

At last, when she emerged from the forest to overlook the fjord, she found the sky glowing under faint moonlight. The waters reflected its silvery sheen. And below, huddled on a scrap of land between the base of the mountain and the inlet, lay the dismal settlement. If not for the wisp of smoke coming from the longhouse, she'd have thought the place abandoned. The muddy fields lay barren of crops; the byres, by their silence, seemed empty of livestock.

Cautiously she made her way down the slope and crept through the dark to the longhouse. As she rapped her stick on the door she noted the short pine bough mounted above
it. Someone, at least, clung to hope. “I'm a wanderer needing a roof,” she called. “You know me.” Within she heard murmuring and the footsteps of someone's approach. When the heavy door opened a crack, Tora's narrowed green eyes peered through. Her challenging expression retreated into reluctant recognition, and the door was pulled open to a stale and dreary winter-chilled room. Only eight dull faces met her gaze as she entered. Was that all who were left?

Tora made a small show of having to maneuver the heavy door closed all by her groaning self, then returned to the fire, pointedly not offering a seat. The woman could certainly hold a grudge.

“You've not seen me for many a winter, but you know me, as I knew Jorgen's father.” Distrust showed on their ashen faces, distrust mixed with fear, especially on those of the four children. The young boy lying in his mother's lap seemed especially frightened, and she guessed that was due mostly to her empty eye socket. Well, she was not a pretty sight anymore, but the women had aged too, and she had to search from one to the next for a familiar feature. Standing shakily beside his straw mattress, one hand still gripping a half-hidden knife, was old Ketil. He recognized her.

“How is your leg, Ketil?”

“Like the wolf's got it in his teeth, Wenda.” That was Ketil: always grumbling. “You're welcome to our fire.”

The chieftain's seat on the far side of the hearth remained empty, as did the skald's. Best not to hesitate. She confidently
picked her way among the mattresses and discarded utensils and lowered herself into the skald's place. At once a warmth unrelated to the fire oozed through her joints, offsetting the clan's unspoken disquiet. Her beloved used to sit here. Those had been such happy times. She'd help weave some more.

Casting sighs of annoyance, Tora peered into a cooking pot, stabbed a small slice of mutton, and deposited it onto a plate. To that she added a meager ladling of cooked barley and signaled for it to be passed. “We're missing some of ours,” she announced. “Besides the men off to sea, there's a girl of fourteen winters, the chieftain's daughter, about as willful as the wind. She came back from some foolish venture only to pass one night and disappear again.”

Tora caught her hiding a smile as she sniffed the mutton. “Yes, it's yours,” Tora snapped. “And we thank you.” Then she went on. “The other person we're missing is Jorgen the Younger, gone two days now. Maybe you know something?”

Best to be blunt. “Your Jorgen is dead.”

“How?” Ketil asked.

“That's for later,” she replied, taking command—temporarily at least. “It comes closer to the tail of the story.”

A glance at the empty faces showed no reaction to the news about Jorgen. She realized that this wasn't because his death was welcomed, but because it was expected. Death had become routine to these poor people.
Any one of us could be next,
they seemed to be thinking.

So who had mounted the pine bough?

“As for Asa”—and she paused to monitor their surprise at her naming the missing girl, again stifling a smile—“she's finding her way.”

She turned to Tora. The woman carried her self-anointed authority with ease—flawed by selfishness, yes, but such was her nature. Smart of Jorgen to have utilized her. “Do you have butchering knives?”

She received a perfunctory nod. “Why?”

Information, yes. Explanation, no. “Get them out, along with the whetstone. You'll need to have them sharpened.”

The softly hissing fire marked time as the two stared at each other and the rest of the clan watched. It became obvious to everyone that Tora wasn't taking orders. Astrid rose. “I'll get them.”

“What are we going to carve up?” Tora sneered. “The mutton's nearly gone and the storeroom's empty.”

Wenda straightened her shoulders and answered in a voice that nearly boomed. “A whale.”

Ketil's jaw fell open. “Have you found a beached whale then? In truth?”

“I've not found him, but you will—soon. Now get to sharpening those knives.” She gestured with an insistence that set most—but not all—hands to working.

“But what about Asa?” Gunnvor asked. “What is it you know about her?”

How much should she tell? She fluttered her hands at those still idle. “And gather some baskets, too, some big ones.” When she pinned her one eye on Tora and delivered its solemn, expectant blink, even that stubborn woman finally shuffled off to work.

“Now,” she said, slapping her knees and working to recall the tricks of a good skald, “let me tell you a story about a girl with hair the color of copper, a girl who was no ordinary child. A young woman who came to do extraordinary things.”

A thin, high-pitched whine bored through Asa's torpor. She forced her eyelids, incredibly sticky and sore, open just far enough to discover the rocks teeming with tiny, winged insects. Thousands of legs and slight bodies surrounded her, all engaged in an excited dance. Confused, she blinked hard and rolled her eyes upward. The creatures were congregating around her wrist—odd that she couldn't feel them—and the underside of the dislodged boulder. They were preparing to feast on her dead hand! Instinctively she tried to pull free, but of course couldn't. How long before they gnawed their fill and doubled back, came spilling down her arm, and crawled over her and into her? With all the strength she could muster, she lifted her free arm to shoo them away. They scattered momentarily, as weightless as blown ash, and resettled. Again she waved them away. They returned. It was no use. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about them.

From somewhere in the sky behind her, a heavy
swoosh-swoosh
announced the return of the ravens. Had they been watching all this time, just waiting for her to stir? Irritated, she opened her eyes and watched them alight in their same places and immediately
resume their cacophonous duet. As on the previous day, the larger bird gurgled and chattered while the smaller one shook its head with excitement and hopped sideways and back on the rocky lip. Then it flapped to a boulder below and looked up, obviously hopeful she would follow.

“I'm snagged,” she managed to croak, “in case your beady eyes haven't noticed.” Her scratchy throat made her sound like an old, old woman.

In a direct series of hops and winged leaps, the raven returned to her side. It found a perch so close to her face that when it parted its beak to scold with a jarring
kra-a-ck
she could see its black tongue spasm. It cocked its head and studied her with such intensity, such purpose, that she grew a little panicked. Was it preparing now to peck out her eyes? She covered her face, watching the bird from under her elbow. If it so much as leaned in her direction, she was going to grab it by the neck and bash its body against the rocks. The other bird set to shrieking at once, and with such alarm it must have understood her thoughts.

Swallowing with great difficulty, she muttered from beneath her protective elbow. “Well, if you're both so smart, why don't you fly off and find Wenda? Bring her here to help me.”

The smaller bird lifted off the rock and repeated its pattern of flapping onto a lower boulder, then another and another. Near the bottom, it looked up at her.

This was ridiculous. “I can't follow you!”

Rebuffed, the bird spread its wings and flapped up the coast.
She watched its image shrink until, far in the distance, it landed on an enormous rock. Only a tiny black silhouette now, the raven amused itself by hopping from one end to the other, leaping into the air and coming down, spinning, and all the while yelling and yodeling in agitated raven speak. Unmoved, she watched the performance. The gusts picked up the strident calls, braided and unbraided the notes, and rushed the fragments across the bluffs where they teased the larger raven into response. His calls came sharp and loud, the demanding
kr-r-rucks
and
gronks
so eerily like commands that she looked up. He'd become another creature entirely: His plumage, bristling like stalks of black wheat, doubled his size, feathery horns arose from his head, and his eyes rolled to white as he bobbed and screamed like some disembodied spirit. What was happening?

Such racket seemed destined to draw birds from all over, but none appeared. And then, as if by mutual signal, the clamor ceased. The coast and Asa's tethered roost on the bluff fell extraordinarily quiet. Gooseflesh prickled her arms. This time when she looked up, the raven was casually preening its feathers, now folded smooth. It lifted a claw to scratch its cheek, then paused to calmly return her stare. The wind whipped through her hair, the ocean tide surged in and out, and the day stretched on.

Until a percussive sound like metal upon metal came from far up the beach. The monotonous hammering arrived as regularly as her heartbeat. The nearer raven listened with keen interest. It didn't seem possible for a bird to make such a noise, but it was
indeed the raven up the coast calling in a rhythmic monotone. The annoying
ping-ping-ping
pounded in Asa's skull until she thought she'd scream. Every fiber in her being wished to boot that bird off its rock, and she shook her fist in its direction. Just then the rock, as if performing her will, jerked with such force that the raven flapped into the air. It circled and landed. The rock writhed, flinging the bird again, and the fog vanished from her head. It wasn't a rock; it was the whale! The whale had returned!

Summoned from memory, happy cries drifted down the beach as they had two summers ago, when her clan had discovered that other beached whale. The men—including her father—had carried their sharpened knives high, laughing and boasting of the ferocity of their blades. The boys had competed in carrying woven baskets heavy with meat back to the longhouse. Her mother—and at that a familiar musty fragrance, achingly comforting, tickled her nose—her mother and the other women had scurried to bring pots of water to a boil, to scoop out salt and unwrap spices. Astrid had attacked the storeroom, sweeping with such vigor she'd not even noticed the clumps of fallen turf settled atop her head scarf.