Troll Blood (10 page)

A branch cracks with the cold: a sharp, splintering, tearing sound. Kwimu starts. Of course, though, branches break all the time. They snap like pipe stems, weighed down with snow or split by frost.

All the same, he holds his breath. The cold intensifies, the fire pines and dwindles, darkness creeps up the walls. Just as he has to let his breath go in a cloud of vapor, he hears it again: another crack. And then heavy, slow footsteps in the snow.
Crunch. Crunch.

Beside him, Fox twists into sudden life. All through the wigwam the family wakes, eyes flying open, breath caught. No one speaks. Even the dogs know better than to yap. No one wants to attract the attention of what is outside. Skusji’j sits up. He looks tensely from face to face.
Mum?
he mouths to Kwimu. Bear?

Kwimu shakes his head. All the bears are asleep. They won’t wake, hungry and bad-tempered, till late spring.

Crunch. Crunch.
Something shuffles about the wigwam. Kwimu’s heart beats so hard he is afraid it will burst. Quietly, Sinumkw stretches out his hand and grips Kwimu’s arm above the elbow. The touch calms him.

The framework of the wigwam jerks and shudders as the thing outside jostles it, and then picks at the walls, patting and
fumbling. Kwimu’s little sister is panting with terror. Any moment now the frail birchbark walls will be torn away, exposing them to the bleak wind and icy stars, and to—

Skusji’j cries out loudly in his own language, and as Kwimu turns on him in furious anger, repeats it in the language of the People: “See! See there!” He points upward.

Something is blocking the opening at the top of the wigwam—something round and dark and glistening—something that rolls about with quick, jerky movements, showing a yellowish-white rim, fixing for a malevolent moment on each person below.

An eye as big as your hand.

Sinumkw seizes his lance. Kwimu’s mother shrieks. But Grandmother springs nimbly to her feet, shaking off her covers. She catches up two of the fir branches that line the floor, and thrusts them into the fire. They crackle and catch, and she waves them upward, streaming hot smoke and burning sparks.

The eye vanishes. From high above the wigwam a terrible scream rings across the forest. The sound crushes them with its weight of cold anguish. They huddle flat, clutching each other, expecting any moment to be trodden and trampled. But the frozen ground shudders to the impact of huge feet running away.

Before his father can forbid it, Kwimu dashes to the door of the wigwam, Skusji’j at his heels. He peels back the hide flap and scurries out into the bitter night. Around him the peace
ful village is waking in alarm. Men stumble from the doorways of the nearest wigwams. Sleepy voices call out to ask what is happening.

The treetops are dark against a sky hazy with moon-glimmer. A few hundred yards to the southeast, something crashes away through the trees, howling, brushing the very tops of the white pines. There are enormous, pitted tracks in the snow.

Kiunik, Kwimu’s young uncle, ducks out of the wigwam and races toward the trees, yelling a war cry, his black hair streaming loose. Some of the other young men join in, but the older ones call them roughly back: “It’s gone; let it go.”

“We’ve been lucky.”

“You can’t fight a
jenu”

“What was it?” The Little Weasel tugs Kwimu’s arm. He looks like a ghost in the white darkness. “Kwimu,
what was it?”

“Jenu”
Kwimu mutters. “Ice giant. We have seen the
jenu
—and lived.”

CHAPTER 7
Ghost Stories

T
here are no trolls in Vinland,” said Magnus confidently. Peer sat with his back against the curve of the side, rocking to the steady up and down of the ship. He could see sky, but not sea, and it was comforting to shut out for a while the sight of all that lonely vastness. The sun had just set. The boat was in shadow, but the top half of the sail still caught a ruddy glow on its western side.

The cold northeast breeze had held.
Water Snake
was on the starboard tack, lifting and diving over the waves in a rhythm as easy as breathing. They were far from land—farther than Peer had ever been before. Fishing trips with Bjorn had never taken him past the islands and rocky skerries that lay scattered beyond the fjord mouth. This big ship seemed very small now—a speck of dust under a wide sky.

The day had passed simply. At home there would be a hundred things to do: plowing fields, chopping firewood, patching boats, mending nets. Here there was only one purpose: to sail on and on into the west.

As for keeping out of the way of Harald Silkenhair—so far it hadn’t been difficult. The ship divided naturally into separate spaces, like “rooms.” There was the afterdeck in the stern, where the steersman stood. Around the mast was the open hold with all the goods and gear, and the ship’s boat upside down across it. A narrow strip of decking each side of the hold allowed gangway up and down the ship. And up here in the bow was the foredeck, narrowing to the point where the dragon-neck reared stiffly from the prow.

Like an enormous slewed curtain, the sail almost cut off the front of the ship from the rear. To be heard by someone in a different part of the vessel, you had to shout across the wind. Just now, Harald was steering, and Peer was almost as far away from him as it was possible to get. He hoped to keep it that way.

He leaned back, watching Loki scrambling over the stacks of crates and barrels in the hold, sticking his nose in everywhere, and making friends with the crew. Loki was having no problems adjusting to his new life at sea!

And neither was Hilde. On leaving home this morning, she’d been as close to tears as Peer had ever seen her—but now she was sitting on a crossbeam, cheerfully chatting to some of the men.
Trust Hilde
, he thought with a rueful smile.
She knew the names of half the crew already, and was busy finding out about the others.

“No trolls in Vinland?” she was saying now. “Is that so? Then you’ve been there, Magnus—you’ve sailed with Gunnar before?”

“That’s right.” Magnus was a middle-aged man with a shrewd face, all crisscrossed with tiny lines from screwing up his eyes against sun and weather. He beamed cheerfully at Hilde. “Me and Halfdan and young Floki here, we all went with the skipper on his last voyage. Never saw a troll. Floki’s my mate. I look out for him, and he does what I says. Like a father to him, I am, ain’t I, Floki?” Floki was a youngish man with curly hair and a rather vacant expression. Magnus dug him in the ribs, and he sniggered amiably.

“Now what the skipper does, you see, missy,” Magnus went on, “he splits us into two watches, so we can take turns to sail the ship and rest. There’s us three, and your brother here, Peer—”

“I’m not her brother,” said Peer, so firmly that Hilde looked at him in surprise.

“Oh, aye, like that, is it?” Magnus showed three missing teeth in a grin. “And in the other watch there’s Arnë—”

“We both know Arnë,” Hilde interrupted.

“And young Harald Silkenhair and Big Tjorvi,” Magnus finished. He frowned at his hands and bent down gnarled fingers, muttering, “Six, seven … that’s eight of us, counting the skipper, who’s in charge but who don’t do much hauling
and rowing anymore. See?”

“It makes ten of us,” Hilde corrected him, “counting Astrid and me.”

“Women don’t count,” said a deep voice. A man ducked under the edge of the sail and straightened up—and up, and up. Big Tjorvi. He was like a white summer cloud, the kind that towers up against a blue sky. His hair and beard were as fluffy as dandelion seeds. He stood, swaying easily to the pitch of the ship, regarding Hilde with a straight-faced, solemn expression.

“Why don’t women count?” Hilde demanded.

“Too weak,” said Big Tjorvi.

“I like that! We may not be as strong as you, but brains count for something, you know …” Hilde’s voice died away as she took in the men’s furtive grins and nudges. “You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”

“Wouldn’t dare.” Big Tjorvi’s eyes gleamed.

“Better not,” Magnus joked. “This girl took on a whole mountainful of trolls, so she tells me.”

“Not by myself,” said Hilde hastily. “Peer was there too.”

“Did you, now?” Tjorvi looked at the pair of them with interest.

“Tell Tjorvi about that troll baby,” urged Floki. “She saw a troll baby, Tjorvi. With a pig’s snout and a purple tongue. Like this!” He pushed his nose up with his thumb, and stuck out a slobbery tongue.

“Um, yes,” said Hilde, averting her eyes.

“Don’t tell that tale to the skipper,” said Halfdan darkly.

“Why not?” asked Peer.

Several of the men looked around. But Gunnar was in the stern with Harald and Astrid, and with the wind blowing as it was, there was no chance he could overhear this conversation.

The men were uneasy, vague. “The skipper’s a bit—you know…”

“Edgy,” said Halfdan, a small, skinny man with rather narrow-set eyes.

“Reckon he’d think talking about trolls is unlucky,” said Magnus. “Lots of things is unlucky at sea. Like whistling.”

“Whistling’s unlucky?” asked Hilde, who could whistle nicely herself.

Everyone nodded.” ’Cos it brings the wind,” said Floki. He pursed his lips and mimed a breathy little whistle. There was no true sound, but Magnus aimed a cuff at his head. “Stow that, you young fool!” he growled.

It could have been coincidence, but just then a strong gust sped over the water. The ship heeled and put her bow hard into the next wave. Several of the men glared at Floki, and a small shiver ran down Peer’s back. Out here at sea, maybe these things weren’t funny.

“There’ll be no good luck this trip,” continued Floki, who seemed to have no sense of self-preservation. “Women on ships is unlucky, too, and here we are with two of ’em!” Hilde opened her eyes and gasped indignantly, but the men weren’t thinking of her.

“Astrid …” There was a sort of general mutter.

“The skipper got a wrong ‘un there.”

“What’s she got in that bag of hers?”

“I reckon she’s half a witch.”

“You know what I heard?” Halfdan said in low tones. “I heard she’s got troll blood in her veins—it runs in the family. But her father tried to hush it up. Who’d marry a troll? Likely the skipper doesn’t know. Well, who’d tell him?”

Floki’s rather protuberant blue eyes opened wide. Magnus sucked air in through his teeth. Peer tried to exchange a skeptical glance with Hilde, but she was examining her nails. Big Tjorvi stretched. “I reckon that’s rubbish,” he said slowly. “At least she looks after the skipper. She’s got healing herbs in that bag of hers.”

“Then why’s he still sick?” demanded Magnus.

“What’s wrong with him?” Hilde asked. “Not just his hand?”

Magnus seemed to take this as criticism. He glared at her. “The hand? Take more than losing a hand to stop an old sea wolf like Gunnar. No. But he gets awful fevers and black sweats that shake him till he can’t hardly stand.”

“That’s no ordinary sickness what’s wrong with the skipper,” said Floki in a melancholy singsong. “There’s a ghost a-following after him, ah, and it won’t rest till it gets him.”

“A
ghost?”
Hilde squawked. Peer sat up.

“Shut up! Shut up!” Magnus lunged at Floki. He grabbed a handful of shirt and twisted it up under Floki’s chin, shaking
a hard fist under his nose. “I told you not to talk about that!” he said.

Floki screwed up his face, flinching and crying, “Sorry, Magnus, sorry. I won’t do it again!”

“See you don’t. Or see what you’ll get!” Magnus dropped him. “Don’t listen to him,” he added to Hilde. “He’s simple, a moon-calf. Believes anything you tell him. The skipper would kill him if he heard. There’s no ghost.
There’s no ghost!
”

Peer and Hilde looked at each other. Peer got stiffly to his feet. With Loki at his heels, he made his way up into the prow, where the tall neck of the dragonhead divided the darkening horizon. Hilde murmured an excuse and came after him.

“Well
, Peer, what did you make of that?”

“I don’t know,” said Peer. “It doesn’t sound good.” He leaned over the side and Hilde did the same, her left arm almost touching his right. Rank after rank of surly waves slopped up as though trying to reach them. Peer was wishing with all his might they had never set foot on this ship. At the same time, since Hilde was here, he was glad to be with her. He thought of something to say:
At least we’re together. But
before he could get the words out, Hilde said crisply, “Not good? I call it very odd indeed. A ghost? Whose ghost?”