The Ghostfaces (9 page)

chapter
thirteen

B
y sundown, the palisade fence was finished. Hal, Thorn, Stig and Lydia inspected it, satisfying themselves that it was an effective barrier.

“Even a bear would have trouble getting through that,” Hal said, eyeing the tangle of brushwood and sapling, with the sharp pointed ends of branches pointing in multiple directions. He seized hold of a section of brush and heaved at it. It didn't move. It was solidly built and interwoven to provide strength.

“A bear's stronger than you,” Thorn told him.

Hal grinned. “Maybe, but I'm smarter.”

Thorn's eyebrow shot up. “That remains to be seen,” he said. But on the whole, he was satisfied that the fence was as strong as they could make it. He glanced out to the beach, where four large mounds of firewood—light kindling and dried brushwood—had been placed at intervals along the line of the fence.

“Is that bear likely to come nosing around?” Stig asked.

Thorn shrugged and looked at Lydia. “No reason why he should, is there?” he asked. He was prepared to defer to her greater knowledge.

Lydia considered the question thoughtfully. “No way to know, really,” she said. “Bears do as they please. He might be scared off by the activity and noise of the campsite. Or it might make him curious to find out what's going on. One thing,” she added. “We should make sure Edvin knows not to leave any food leftovers inside the palisade. That'd bring the bear faster than anything. If he's got leftovers, I'll tell him to stow them up a tree outside the campsite.”

Stig studied the fence critically. “So, could a bear get through that?”

“I think a bear could get through anything we could build—if he wanted to,” Lydia told him.

Stig raised his eyebrows. “You're such a comfort.”

Hal glanced around the deserted beach. The daylight was fading rapidly. He shifted his gaze to the forest, where the shadows were deep and dark under the trees. Somewhere in there was a bear, he thought.

“I think we'll double the watch tonight,” he said.

From the campsite came the soft sound of voices raised in song. The crew were sitting around Edvin's cook fire, singing and sniffing the savory odors coming from the large bird Lydia had shot. Edvin had jointed it. It was too large to cook in one piece over his small cook fire. The wings, legs and thighs he was roasting over coals, while he split the big body in two, then coated it in bark and mud and placed it in a fire pit, heaping coals over the top. The fat sizzled
and spat from the meat over the coals, causing flames to flare up from time to time. Edvin eyed it proprietorially.

“Plenty of fat there,” he said. “That should mean it's tender and good eating.”

Indeed, if the smell was anything to go by, the bird would be delicious; the crew watched the cooking pieces eagerly as Edvin turned the spit over the fire. They'd been working hard all day and their appetites were well and truly honed.

Stefan began a new song and they joined in. He had a fine tenor voice and his shipmates were content to let him lead the song, joining him on the chorus. It was a song about being far away from home.

Ulf, thinking of his mother and her comfortable little cottage in Hallasholm, was momentarily overwhelmed with nostalgia and surreptitiously raised a hand to wipe away a tear.

Wulf, who was similarly affected by the words and the haunting melody, snorted disdainfully. “Hah! Has the song made you sad, crybaby?” he asked, glad of the chance to disguise his own feelings with an assumed attitude of scorn.

“Just got something in my eye,” Ulf said defensively, making a more obvious movement to rub his eyes and disguise the tears.

“I'll bet,” his twin replied scornfully.

Ulf looked steadily at him. “You'll have my fist in
your
eye if you don't shut up.”

Wulf opened his mouth to retort but he was silenced by an angry growl from Ingvar, sitting close by.

“Shut up, the pair of you,” he said.

They looked at Ingvar in surprise, which deepened as they
realized that tears were rolling freely down his cheeks. He too had been affected by the song and was totally unabashed by the fact. Ulf and Wulf exchanged an uncomfortable look. Ingvar was as brave as a lion, they both knew—big, strong and terrifying in battle. If he wasn't ashamed to show a little emotion, why should they be? Wulf raised a hand and wiped a knuckle over his eyes. Ulf, on the brink of making a sarcastic comment, decided not to.

• • • • • 

Lydia's huge bird was an unqualified success. The meat was tender and delicious, particularly the pieces that had been baked in the coating of mud and leaves. The meat, dark in some places and light in others, peeled away easily from the bones, and both light and dark meat were equally tasty.

They ate it with fried onions and some of the dwindling supply of potatoes they had laid in before they left Hibernia. Unfortunately, several of the sacks of potatoes had gone moldy, spoiled by the salt water that had washed aboard during the storm.

Ingvar sat back and licked the grease from his fingers. “Well, if you can get more of those oggle birds, Lydia, you'll make me a happy camper.”

She smiled, remembering how the bird had waddled into the clearing, full of its own sense of self-importance.

“I should be able to manage that,” she said. “They don't seem to be too bright.” She paused and added thoughtfully, “But I'd really like to get that deer I missed. That would keep us stocked with meat for three or four days. I might go looking for it tomorrow.”

Thorn looked up at her. “I'll join you.”

She frowned. “I thought you said—”

He held up his hook to stop her. “I know what I said. But I'd like to get a look at this bear if possible. It could become a problem.”

Leaning back against a log, the warmth of the fire on his face, Hal nodded to himself. He was well fed. His crew were safe. And for the moment, the task of organizing their camp lay with Thorn. The young skirl was happy to leave that responsibility to his older friend. It was a welcome relief after having been in charge for days and nights through the fury of the storm. For a moment, Hal considered suggesting that he might go along with Thorn and Lydia the following morning. Then he shrugged and discarded the idea. The time would come when he'd have to take charge again, he knew. Until then, he could leave the responsibility and the worry to the others.

He looked across the bay to where the rising moon lit a silver path across the water. It's really quite beautiful, he thought.

He glanced up at the sky. There were constellations there he had never seen before. Those that he recognized were far to the north. Suddenly, he felt a long way from home.

• • • • • 

It rained during the night and the crew pulled their blankets tightly around them as they huddled comfortably in their low tents. Hal listened to the soft patter of rain on the canvas a few centimeters from his face. Before too long, they'd have to build a more substantial shelter, he thought—something along the lines of the large canvas-covered cabin they'd constructed during their brotherband training days.

Stefan and Edvin, who had the first watch, prowled along the fence line, wrapped in tarpaulin cloaks to keep out the rain.

“Hope that bear doesn't show up,” Stefan said. “Those beacon fires will be useless in this rain.”

Edvin looked up, letting a light scatter of drops fall on his face. “I don't know,” he said. “Hal coated the wood with a lot of pitch. That should burn easily enough. Besides, bears are too smart to go out in the rain. They leave that sort of thing to idiots like us.”

Stefan said nothing, but winced as a runnel of cold water found its way inside his cloak and ran down the back of his neck.

The rain had stopped by morning, and as the sun rose over the bay, the tents steamed as the moisture dried out of them. Edvin was already at the cook fire and the welcome scent of coffee drifted over the small settlement. Gradually, figures rolled out of their blankets, crawled out of their low tents and ambled up to the cook fire, where the coffeepot was sitting in the coals to one side of the main fire.

Their eyes were bleary and their hair was tangled and awry. In spite of the early, low-angle sun, the morning was chilly. But gradually the hot beverage sent its warmth seeping through their bones, bringing them fully awake. The smell of frying salt pork and hot griddle cakes raised their spirits even further.

The crew had erected a canvas screen for Lydia around one of the small pools and she sheltered behind it as she washed and bathed. By unspoken agreement, the rest of the crew waited until she had finished, then followed suit in the larger pools. Lydia, her face glowing and her hair damp, sat by the cook fire and wolfed down slices of hot salt pork wrapped in a griddle cake.

“You keep supplying food like this, Edvin,” she said, “and I might have to marry you someday.”

The cook-cum-medic grinned easily at her. “Kind of you to say so,” he replied. “But I've had better offers.”

“I'll marry you, Lydia,” said Stefan cheerfully. He was the first of the boys back from the pools and was pouring himself another cup of coffee, blowing on its steaming surface to cool it.

Lydia eyed him speculatively. “You can't cook,” she said at length.

He shrugged, unabashed. “I have other, hidden talents.”

She smiled. “Very well hidden, I'd say.”

As the rest of the crew straggled back down to the cook fire, hair wet and faces red with the cold of the water and the friction of rubbing with rough towels, Thorn emerged from his tent and rose to his feet, scratching himself.

He's like a bear himself, Lydia thought, as he strolled over to the fireplace, sniffing and stretching.

“You ready to go hunting?” he asked her, accepting a mug of coffee from Edvin.

She nodded, but glanced toward the water pools under the cliffs.

“I'm ready,” she said. “Are you going to wash first?”

He wrinkled his nose, rubbed his hand over his face and shook his head.

“Naah. Washing is for them that's dirty,” he said.

chapter
fourteen

O
nce breakfast was finished, the crew broke up into smaller groups. Hal led Stig, Stefan and Jesper off to the inlet. He wanted to inspect
Heron
's bilges. He had a suspicion that she had been taking in water. After the pounding she had taken during the storm, she might have sprung a plank or two. They would need re-seating and caulking with pitch and oakum—a substance derived from unraveling old lengths of rope.

To do that, they'd need to locate the sprung planks, then tilt the ship to expose them. They could do this by hauling in on hawsers running from the mast to trees on either bank of the inlet.

Thorn and Lydia headed off into the forest, in search of another deer. Thorn trusted Lydia's instincts when she said she thought someone had been watching her. But he wanted to see for
himself and to get a better idea of the country inland of their campsite.

Ingvar stayed with Edvin, helping clean the breakfast dishes. They packed the rest of the food away, securing it tightly under canvas covers and in small wooden casks. Even without Lydia's warning, they were well aware of bears' propensity to seek out food left uncovered. Then Ingvar took the food scraps and climbed over the barricade by way of the rough stile they had erected the day before—two ladders tied together at the top and placed one each side of the fence. He disposed of the scraps by the simple expedient of hurling them into the sea. As the bread and fragments of pork hit the water, myriads of small fish swarmed around them.

Ulf and Wulf had been prepared to spend a day relaxing on the sand, enjoying the sun. But before he left the camp, Thorn had glanced at Edvin's supply of firewood.

The stock was running low, Thorn thought, and even though he knew Edvin would replenish it himself without complaint, he felt that Edvin already did more than his share of the campsite tasks, cooking for them all, cleaning up and tending any minor wounds or illnesses they might suffer. He had jerked a thumb at the twins as they stretched out on the sand in the rapidly warming sun.

“You two. Get more firewood for Edvin,” he ordered.

Ulf opened his mouth to protest, took one look at Thorn's face and nodded. “Yes, Thorn,” he said meekly.

“Take one of the bear spears and keep your wits about you,” the old sea wolf ordered, and turned away to stride after Lydia.

“Why didn't you tell him where to put his firewood?” said
Wulf pugnaciously. Ulf noticed that he waited until Thorn was out of earshot before he said it. And even then, he kept his voice low.

“Why didn't
you
tell him?” Ulf replied.

Wulf shrugged. “Obviously, he was talking to you.”

“And how is that so obvious?” his brother wanted to know.

“If he'd been talking to me, he would have said ‘please.' He respects me.”

Wulf selected one of the long, sharpened poles the crew had prepared the previous day, inspecting the cross-spike that Hal had hammered through it. He sighted down it, checking that it was relatively straight, and was apparently satisfied.

“You'd better get the firewood carrier,” he said to his twin. This was a large square of canvas with rope handles on either side. The user laid it on the ground, piled firewood into it, then picked it up by the handles, wrapping the canvas round the firewood to secure it for carrying.

“And what will you be doing while I'm cutting and collecting firewood?” Ulf wanted to know.

Wulf gave a small shrug. “I'll be keeping a watch out for that bear. You heard Thorn tell me to take a spear.”

“I didn't hear him say please,” Ulf said sharply. “So he must have been talking to me.”

Wulf shook his head. “He was definitely talking to me. The please was implicit.”

“The please was nonexistent,” Ulf told him. But he gathered the firewood carrier anyway, rolling it up and cramming it under one arm. They negotiated the stile over the boundary fence and headed for the forest, waving good-bye to Ingvar and Edvin.

They continued their bickering as they made their way into the shadows under the trees. It was second nature to them, and if they had been asked what they were arguing about, neither of them could have said.

But as they entered the trees, the bickering died away and both boys became instantly more wary. The forest was an unfamiliar and strangely disturbing place. The trees were tall and grew thickly together, creating blind spots and deeply shadowed areas where anything could be lurking. When they were building the barricade, the crew had collected most of the deadfalls and kindling that lay close to the campsite, so now the twins had to go farther afield in search of suitable firewood. The trees seemed to close in behind them, masking the cheerful, familiar sound of waves breaking on the beach. Without realizing it, they began to talk in lowered tones, afraid of disturbing the stillness of the forest.

Ulf spied a good pile of deadfall underneath one of the older trees. They were branches that had dried and fallen off in the wind—or under the influence of their own weight. He stepped quickly forward and laid the firewood carrier out on the forest floor.

“Keep an eye out for bears,” he said. He reached toward the pile of dead branches and grabbed a large bunch in both hands. As he went to pull them free, he heard a violent buzzing, rattling sound from the wood and he sprang back.

“What was that?” Wulf demanded. He'd turned in time to see his brother leap back from the pile of wood.

“The wood rattled at me,” Ulf told him, his voice unsteady.

“Don't be an idiot. How can wood rattle at you?”

Ulf pointed at the tangled pile of dead branches and gestured an invitation. “See for yourself,” he said. “Try to pick it up.”

But Wulf had heard the rattling buzz and it had a decidedly threatening sound to it. He wasn't putting his hand anywhere near it. Stopping a few meters away, he thrust the bear spear forward, pushing it in between the branches and twisting it so that the transverse spike caught in a Y-shaped fork.

The rattle sounded again—louder and more insistent this time. Wulf drew back the pole, dragging the forked limb with it and disturbing several of the other branches at the same time.

The rattle increased in pitch and volume, and he distinctly felt two sharp impacts against the end of the spear. Twisting it free of the branches, he withdrew it rapidly and they both stepped back.

The rattling stopped.

Wulf brought the sharp end of the spear closer and held it up for inspection. There was a small stain of viscous liquid on the end, just before the burnt, hardened point.

Ulf crouched, shading his eyes from the sunlight filtering through the trees, and peered under the pile of branches. There was something there, he saw. Something mottled and brown, that blended into the colors of the bark and leaf mold. As he peered more intently, it took shape.

It was a snake, lying coiled up, with its head and tail both rising out of the ends of its thick body. As he watched, the tail vibrated, and a low, warning buzz sounded. The tail seemed to be constructed of a series of hard rings, and as the snake moved its tail rapidly from side to side, these rattled together. He edged toward it a pace. The vibration increased in speed and the rattle went
up in volume and pitch. He stepped back and the sound subsided.

“It's a snake,” he said. “It has some kind of rattling thing on its tail.”

“I thought so,” Wulf said loftily. He never liked to look as if he was hearing anything he didn't know.

Ulf looked at him and shook his head.

“I suppose it's venomous,” Wulf continued.

His brother jerked a thumb at the liquid staining the end of the spear tip. “Unless that's wild honey, I'd say it is,” he said sarcastically.

Wulf dropped the lofty, knowing tone and studied the spear tip once more, taking care not to touch the thick liquid. “What should we do?” he asked.

Ulf had a ready answer. “Leave it alone. It only rattles when we come near it. It's warning us off. If we leave it alone, it'll stay where it is.”

“What makes you so sure?” Wulf asked.

Ulf gave him a long-suffering look. “Well, it's stayed put so far, while we've been disturbing it. Stands to reason that if we simply walk away, it's not going to come after us.”

“Maybe we should kill it,” Wulf said uncertainly.

His brother gave him another pitying look. “What with?”

Wulf looked down at the bear spear, but before he could speak, Ulf forestalled him.

“You'll never get at it with that sharpened stick,” he pointed out. “There are too many branches in the way. If you go poking around in there with that, it's possible it'll come darting out and attack us.”

“We could kill it with our saxes,” Wulf suggested, dropping his hand to the hilt of his saxe knife. “We could lop its head off.” The idea appealed to him. He'd teach that snake to go rattling at him, he thought. But again his brother offered a scornful suggestion.

“You can try it if you like. But I wouldn't go pushing my hand through that tangle of deadfall, saxe or no saxe. That's getting altogether too close to it.”

“So what do you suggest we do?” asked Wulf, with the tone of someone who has presented a series of good ideas only to have them disregarded by someone with none.

“I told you. We should simply walk away and leave it alone. Listen,” Ulf said, pointing to the tangle of dried wood. “Since we've been talking, and not poking around where the creature lives, it's stopped its rattling.”

“All the same, it tried to bite me,” Wulf protested.

“It tried to bite your stick,” Ulf told him. “And if you went poking around me with it, I'd likely do the same thing.”

Wulf regarded him with interest. “You'd bite a stick if I poked you with it?” he asked. He seemed to be contemplating the idea.

Ulf met his gaze for several seconds without speaking. “No. If you tried to poke me with a stick,” he said, “I'd bite
you
.”

There was something in his voice that told Wulf he was serious. He discarded the idea of poking him with the bear spear. “So what should we do about it?” he repeated.

Ulf sighed. Sometimes it was like talking to an infant, he thought. “We walk away. We ignore it and it will ignore us. We haven't heard a peep out of it since we've left it alone.”

“It doesn't peep. It rattles. Or buzzes,” Wulf said, remembering how high-pitched and urgent the rattle had become as he shoved the stick farther into the bushes. Then he added thoughtfully, “Of course, it may be trying to lull us into a false sense of security. I've heard snakes do that. It may be waiting for us to walk away, and when we do, it might come chasing out after us. And I've heard snakes can move very quickly when they want to.”

“So?” Ulf challenged.

“So what do we do if it chases us?”

“I don't know what you'll do. But I'm going to run away.”

“Can you run faster than a snake? I've heard they're very fast,” Wulf repeated.

“I don't need to run faster than the snake,” Ulf said, in tones of sweet reason. “I just need to run faster than you.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Wulf asked: “And what will you tell our mam? Will you tell her you ran off and left me to be bitten by a rattling snake?”

“No. I'd tell her that I ran away and you bravely threw yourself on the snake to save me. I'd tell her you died a hero, and we'd both shed a tear for you.”

Of course, they both knew that neither of them would ever desert the other in the face of danger. And they knew that either of them would willingly give his life for the other. But neither mentioned the fact.