Thunder God (11 page)

‘I know what this is,’ said Cabal. ‘It is a Thunder Stone. I have seen fragments of them before, like the one around your neck, but never one as large as this.’ He set his hand upon its surface. ‘My people say that Thunder Stones have the breath of life in them,’ he said, ‘and they have been alive longer than anything else on this earth. The first spark of our existence in our world came from these Thunder Stones, and life still streams from them like rays out of the sun.’

Cabal and I stood looking at each other. The black rock reflected the flames of our fire, as if it held its own flames deep inside.

I understood now why this needed to be hidden, having seen for myself what had happened to the places which other faiths had openly declared their holy ground. They became battlefields. The only way for their disciples to protect them was to turn them into fortresses, where the meaning of their sacredness was blurred by the blood shed in their defence.

In silence, Cabal and I scraped the dirt back into the hole, then trampled it flat so that there was almost no trace that the earth had been disturbed. We left the door ajar as we had
found it, knowing that sheep would wander in and cover up the last signs of our digging.

At my parents’ house, the door would not open. I gave it a push and the whole thing fell back into the building. A smell of damp wafted into my face. Inside, Cabal and I tripped on fallen beams and pieces of broken furniture until we reached the fireplace. Using a chair as kindling, we managed to light a fire there. Through the haze of rotten-wood smoke, I saw the place where my sleeping bench had been and where the iron hook that held the cooking pot still hung from the rafters like the curled tail of a cat. The roof had sagged in at the far end, spilling turf across the floor. Dandelions, huge and spindly, stretched up towards the gap in the roof, through which I saw the shattered glass of stars. From somewhere in the shadows came the cooing of a dove.

Cabal lay down beside the fire, using his shield as a pillow and hugging his leather pack against his chest. Almost at once, he began snoring.

As tired as I was, I could not sleep. I did feel like a ghost. A stranger even to the shadows of my parents, which still lingered in this place.

My mother had spent half her life in this room. An image returned to me of her sweeping the hearth with an alder-twig broom. Now her own restless spirit carried on as she had done – cleaning, mending, cooking, convinced of small conspiracies, unaware that her heart had stopped beating and that the dust she cleared away was her own.

I walked over to the broom and picked it up. Slowly and methodically, I began to sweep the floor.

I woke before dawn, curled beside the embers of the fire and with one of Cabal’s feet for a pillow. Leaving him asleep, I went to the door and moved it aside, since it was no longer on its hinges and only propped in place.

Walking out into the morning fog, I looked down on the rooftops, which floated on the mist like upturned boats. I wondered which belonged to Kari, which to Guthrun, which to Ingolf.

When I walked back inside, Cabal was awake, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

We washed in the stream behind the house, making our way through the overgrown garden, among the herbs my mother had planted. The thyme and rosemary, along with bearberries, gentian and mint, had all managed to survive. Cabal drew his hands through the mint, then touched the tips of his fingers to his nose, breathing in the dusty sweet smell.

We made our way down to the beach. Now that it was daylight, I could see even more clearly how run-down the town had become. The muddy streets, the saddle-backed roofs of the houses, carts which had been repaired too many times rather than being replaced, the tired-looking people in their worn-out shoes, all left me feeling ashamed that Cabal had to see it this way.

Either Cabal did not notice these things, or he was good enough not to mention them. This had once been a prosperous place, and I wished he could have seen it back then.

Olaf was there to meet us on the beach, having run his boat up on the sand. He was still half asleep and his hair stuck up in tufts, which made him look like an owl that had been knocked out of its nest. ‘What do you think of our beautiful town?’ he asked Cabal.

‘I like it here.’

Olaf grinned. ‘You ought to be a merchant. You certainly lie like one.’

‘It is no lie,’ replied Cabal.

When I asked Olaf where Kari lived, he told me I would see her soon enough.

‘She will be down here before you could find your way to her house. I have brought some knives and bowls for her and she is coming to collect them. For now, I need your help setting up my tables.’ He led us to his house, which stood close to the beach.

The place was a shambles. Two huge arcs of whale-rib formed the entrance. The door, which he had left open, was made of hide stretched over a wooden frame. The entranceway itself was so tilted over that to go through it a person would have to lean as if they were on the deck of a rolling ship. Inside, I glimpsed a tangled mess of boat parts, tools, rope,
evil-smelling
whale bones, broken pots and chairs which, when Olaf saw the look on my face, he announced he was planning to fix up some day. Then he went on to explain that, even if an object could no longer fulfil its original purpose, it might always be useful for doing something else. Because of this, he had never thrown anything out.

Olaf’s shed leaned precariously against the side of the main house. This was where he kept his trading tables, which Cabal
and I helped him carry to the water’s edge. Then we unloaded the cargo, while Olaf busied himself laying out bolts of cloth and wooden crates containing glass, unfinished knives, soapstone bowls, and the pots of honey.

The first buyers were already gathering, women mostly, shawls pulled over their heads to guard against the morning chill. They were quickly followed by the remainder of the town, until it seemed that everyone who could walk or find someone to carry them had assembled on the beach.

A story-teller started up his act, and children gathered around him. Their grateful parents dropped a coin in his wooden bowl and wandered off to see what Olaf had brought. Nearby, an old woman squatted on a stone, telling fortunes with a handful of bones and glass beads.

With growing apprehension I watched the crowd, wondering if Kari would even recognise me, or if I had changed too much for her to know my face.

‘Will Guthrun be here?’ I asked, as I handed Olaf a crate of glassware padded with straw. Splinters from the flimsy wood hooked into my skin.

‘You will not see him here this early,’ replied Olaf. ‘He is too lazy to get out of bed. Besides, he has no money. You will not need to find him. When he is ready, he will find you.’ Olaf shook out a piece of red silk, which wafted in the air above the table. The silk shimmered and spread in the sunlight, like a drop of blood falling into a pool of water.

On the table lay Olaf’s own sword, a handsome thing in the short Roman style with a leather-wrapped handle held by a twisted braid of gold. He used it for measuring cloth, which was always sold by the sword-length.

It was not long before news of my arrival began to spread. There was a great deal of muttering and pointing in my direction.

‘You seem to be the main attraction today,’ said Olaf. ‘A shame I am not selling you.’

‘I have been through that once already,’ I replied, as I lifted a bale of cloth from the bow of the boat.

No one else spoke to me, which made me wish I could stand up on one of these tables and announce why I had returned, but my instincts steered me towards silence. I stole glances out across the crowd, searching for a familiar face.

Meanwhile, Olaf cut the strings that tied bales of cloth and prised off box lids, revealing pale green Frankish glassware in its packaging of straw. These were snatched up and then immediately put back after Olaf quoted the price.

The old fortune teller, her back bent like the arc of a drawn bow, offered to tell Olaf’s fortune in exchange for a pot of honey.

Now that she was close, I thought I recognised her. ‘Tola?’

She peered at me and smiled, gums pulled back from her peg teeth. ‘You remember me, do you?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘We gave you up for dead long ago.’

‘How is Ingolf?’ I asked. ‘Is he here?’

Tola nodded. ‘He will be along to buy up some rubbish or other.’ Then she went back to pestering Olaf about the pot of honey, until he took some of the straw packing, set it on her head, and pushed her away.

She scuttled back into the crowd, muttering insults and swatting the straw from her straggly hair.

Soon after, Ingolf appeared from inside the alehouse and strode towards the beach with a leg of lamb over each shoulder. He had grown almost as wide as he was tall, and his round, red face still showed the gentle nature which had marked him as a child. He wore a leather apron, which slapped against his knees with every step.

‘He and his mother manage the alehouse now,’ said Olaf as we watched him approach. ‘His father died a few years back. He went out to slaughter the pig they fed on scraps left over from the alehouse meals, and the pig slaughtered him instead. Tola still runs Ingolf’s life, same as she did when he was little. Or as little as he has ever been.’

Ingolf came straight over to me. ‘Heard you were back,’ he said, with a solemn look on his face. ‘Thought you were dead.’ He kept his arms wrapped around the legs of lamb.

I smiled and suddenly it was as if no time at all had passed.

Ingolf was grinning, too. ‘I cannot stay,’ he said. ‘Have to get this lamb on the fire, and the alehouse will be open soon. I am in charge there now, you know.’

Olaf made a snorting sound and Ingolf scowled at him.

I introduced Ingolf to Cabal.

‘I have a Celtic recipe for ale,’ said Ingolf.

‘I like you already,’ replied Cabal.

Ingolf built a driftwood fire on the sand and began roasting the lamb on an iron spit. Soon, he had begun to sell slices of rare meat, which he laid dripping on top of thick slabs of bread. Cabal bought two of these, and held one in each hand, taking bites first from one and then the other. As he spoke to Ingolf, gesturing one way and then the other, juice from the meat flicked out over other people waiting for their turn to buy.

Nobody objected. They were too busy staring at the size of him.

My eyes drifted from Cabal to the beach, where I spotted a tall woman running out across the sand towards me. I knew immediately that it was Kari, from the black hair and bright blue eyes. Her skin was freckled and pale, and her high cheekbones, which had been the rounded cheeks of a child the last time I saw them, cut sharper angles now.

I tried to say her name but the breath caught in my throat.

Then Olaf was standing in front of me, tugging at the bolt of cloth in my hands. ‘Let go!’ he grumbled. ‘What is the matter with you?’

I dropped the cloth and climbed over the table.

‘Mind the merchandise!’ shouted Olaf.

As I put my arms around her I knew I had prepared for anything but this. I had thought about it a thousand times, but I had not prepared for it. I had prepared for Olaf being the same person who could not see beyond the tasks he had set himself, whether it was hunting for the creatures of the underworld or selling pots of honey to old ladies. I had prepared for the stares of those who had, in their minds, already buried me long ago. For the deaths of my parents and the fact that the town had never recovered from the raid, I had prepared.

But to embrace Kari, and have her be my own flesh and blood and at the same time a total stranger, and what the sight of her would do to my mind and to my heart, I had not come close to understanding in the years I had been gone. Even now, I could not grasp it. The enormity of this could settle only slowly in my bones. Until then, there was nothing to do but get on with the uncountable small details of returning to life in this town.

We held each other for a long time. The bustle of the market swirled around us.

When she stood back, still holding onto my arms, the tears were running down her face. ‘You have heard about our parents,’ she said.

I nodded, blinking the tears from my own eyes. These were the first tears I had shed in as long as I could recall.

‘Are you going to help at all?’ Olaf shouted after Cabal, who had gone to buy himself some more to eat.

The women rummaged carelessly through bolts of wool that Olaf had stacked in neat piles on one table. They weighed the cloth in their hands, brought it close to their faces to smell the
wool, then rubbed it between their fingers, even plucking a few strands to put in their mouths.

‘Stop doing that!’ shouted Olaf.

The women ignored him.

‘You are working for Olaf?’ asked Kari.

‘For now.’

She laughed and wiped her eyes. ‘Well, you are braver than most.’

‘Will somebody help me get rid of these empty crates!’ Olaf shouted.

Kari turned and pointed to a house about half way up the hill. ‘That is where I live. Come and find me when you are done. We have waited this long. One morning longer will not matter.’

Reluctantly, I returned to the tables. The tears kept coming to my eyes.

Olaf thumped an empty crate down in front of me. ‘Could you kindly tell your enormous friend that I am not paying him to talk to people who are not even customers. We have work to do!’

I could not find it in myself to be angry at his impatience. Olaf had not been patient as a child, and he was no different now. I reached across and patted him on the shoulder. ‘It is good to see you have not changed. Now what do you want done with this crate?’

‘Take them over to Ingolf and tell him to bring me a slice of lamb, which I do not expect to pay for since he is using my wood for his fire.’

I carried the splintery crates over to the fire.

Cabal was still talking to Ingolf. When he caught sight of me, he frowned. ‘You did not introduce me to your sister.’

‘I forgot. I am sorry.’ I set the crates down on the sand.

‘She is very beautiful,’ he said, with a mouthful of food. ‘Are you sure she is your sister?’

Ingolf wiped his greasy palms on his apron, leaving two burnished marks in the leather, like a pair of inverted horns that curved down the sides of his belly. He picked up the crates I had brought and threw them on the fire. ‘I expect none of this is coming free,’ he said.

‘No,’ I replied, and delivered Olaf’s message.

‘Well, that is no surprise,’ he grumbled, and spat into the crackling flames.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur.

By midday, most of the dealing had been done. In twos and threes, the crowd made their way back up the beach. Some compared with each other the trinkets they had bought and the prices they had paid. Others strutted home with their goods tucked into woven-reed baskets, as if afraid they might be robbed by jealous neighbors. The only ones left were those who could not make up their minds what to buy. They slinked around the tables, tortured by their indecision as we packed our things away.

One of these was Ingolf. When nothing remained of the lamb, he tossed the bones into the fire and came over to inspect Olaf’s tables. Ingolf pulled at his rubbery chin and ran his fingers frustratedly through his thinning hair, fussing over what to get, although in the end he bought nothing and eventually went home.

As Olaf and I packed up the things which had not sold, he told me some more about Ingolf and Tola. She made up for Ingolf’s lack of business sense with a tightfistedness that was unnerving even to Olaf, whose own fists seemed tight enough. Under Tola’s eye, no one could leave the alehouse without paying. There was no credit, even if you had been going there for years and only lived across the street. It was Tola who decided when the place should close each night, otherwise it might
never have closed and Ingolf most likely would have slept on top of the bar, alongside his satisfied customers.

According to Olaf, the fact that Tola was not liked had less to do with her strictness than the way she treated her son. ‘She makes sarcastic comments about him being timid, overweight and weak. She says these things in public, right in front of him. When arm-wrestling competitions start up at the alehouse, she asks him in a loud voice why he is not taking part. So, of course Ingolf joins in, and when he loses she makes fun of him. He hates her for never letting him grow up as much as he hates himself for never having the courage to move out on his own. Of course, he cannot bring himself to say any of that, but he is not as feeble as he seems. He uses that helplessness of his just as well as she uses her sharp tongue.’