Troll Blood (19 page)

“They eat each other?” asks the Little Weasel.

“A
jenu
eats anything,” Kiunik says as he sits up, frowning. “See what you’ve brought on us—you and your people.”

“That’s not fair,” says Kwimu hotly. “It wasn’t his fault that the
jenu
came. It was bad luck. And good luck that Grandmother knew what to do.”

“Did I say it was the Little Weasel’s fault?” Kiunik’s dark eyes flash. “I only say that the Jipijka’maq People came, and the
jenu
followed. Yes: It was bad luck. Bad that his people
came to the bay. Bad that they killed each other there. I think bad luck breeds bad luck. And things like the
jenu
are drawn to it—like moths to a flame.”

“You may be right,” Sinumkw agrees. “That’s why I don’t want to stay there this year. We’ll go to the lake instead.”

“The lake’s a good place, but so is the bay. We shouldn’t abandon it,” Kiunik argues.

“Kiunik,” Plawej pleads softly. “Remember, it’s the Place of Ghosts now.”

“I’m not afraid!” Kiunik hands the baby back to his wife and swings to his feet. “And I’ll not be driven out. Those are our hunting grounds, our traplines. I’ll go there whenever I like.”

He pushes out of the wigwam into the twilight.

“What a hothead,” Sinumkw complains, pretending to be annoyed. But he looks after the tall young man with affectionate approval.

Grandmother lays her pipe aside and looks at the Little Weasel’s worried face. “The
jenu
has gone now,” she says soothingly. Her eyes are very kind and bright. “Gone far away into the north to live upon mosses and grass. Now is the hungry time for the
jenu
, while we grow fat. It can’t endure summer. In the summer we are safe.”

“Wonderful summer,” says Kwimu, smiling, and he stretches his arms wide, and wider, as if to embrace the whole green, growing world.

CHAPTER 12
Serpent’s Bay

W
ater Snake glided in over the shallows. Peer looked down through clear water at thickets of groping weed, and pale undulations of sandy gravel.

“Serpent’s Bay!”

It was late afternoon. With four oars out, they were rowing into the mouth of a river. It ran from a tuck in the hills and flowed across meadowlands and a shelving gravel beach to empty into the bay.

A black cormorant flew over. The trees made a dark fringe around the bay, rising into wooded slopes. The clear voices of Astrid and Hilde echoed off the shore.

“There are the houses!”

“I see them!” Then, after a pause: “But …they look empty.” Peer cupped his hands around his eyes. The two houses
he’d heard so much about squatted side by side on rising ground behind the meadowlands. They looked just like Ralf’s farm: small and homely, with thick grassy roofs. The doorway of the nearest seemed to have been left half open.

Nothing moved on the shore. No dogs ran out, barking. No smoke rose from the houses, no voices called in excited welcome. Where was the busy, bustling settlement Peer had imagined, with Thorolf’s little boy waving cheerily from the roof?

And there was no ship drawn up on the beach or moored in the river. “Where’s the
Long Serpent
?” he asked.

Arnë heard, and twisted to look over his shoulder as he sat rowing in the bow. “Where’s Thorolf, skipper?” he sang out. The oars swung raggedly as the other men tried to look, too.“Where’s Thorolf?”

“Keep rowing,” Gunnar grunted. “How should I know where he is? I’m not his master.”

“They’ve gone.” Hilde’s voice was hollow. Peer knew what she was thinking.
Five years
.

“They’ll be back,” he said, as much to comfort himself as Hilde.

“I thought you said Thorolf had settled here,” Tjorvi called to Gunnar.

“He must have changed his mind,” Gunnar said shortly.

Tjorvi snatched a quick glance shoreward and his oar clashed with Magnus’s.

“Watch your stroke,” Magnus snarled.

“Concentrate, boys,” Gunnar bawled. “We’ll put her aground on the beach. Harald, steer for the houses. Pull!”

Harald leaned on the tiller. The men heaved.
Water Snake
slipped toward the shore. Her prow grated into the shingle.

The crew broke into cheers. The noise was oddly thin, rebounding off the shore. The dark line of trees seemed to advance, one marching step. Startled waterfowl clattered off across the tranquil river, honking alarms.

But the air was sweet, smelling of earth and forest—rich soil, black bog, fresh water. Peer filled his lungs and forgot about Thorolf.
We’re here! We made it! We’re in Vinland!

“First one ashore …!”Arnë vaulted into knee-deep water, whooping. Peer leaped after him. Floki came tumbling after. Magnus methodically shipped his oar and clambered down. They splashed up onto the gravel. Land! Solid footing for the first time in weeks! It rocked under Peer, and he stumbled. Magnus laughed. “Aye, you’ll be unsteady for a while. … Odd seeing the old ship from the outside again, ain’t it?”

It was. Peer stood back, taking in
Water Snake
with new eyes. How huge she’d seemed coming into the jetty at Trollsvik. Now he just wondered how on earth he’d crossed the ocean in anything so cramped and small. Her paintwork looked even more faded than before. Her sail was down, an untidy crumple of sea-stained fabric. Ropes trailed everywhere. But the dragonhead glared inland with all its old, stiff-necked arrogance.

Loki’s head and two front paws appeared over the side. He
jumped, hitting the water with a crash of spray, then swam steadily to shore. As soon as his paws touched, he bounded out and shook himself all over Magnus and Floki.

Hilde leaned out, looking down into the water. “Is it deep? Shall I jump?”

“Your dress will get soaked. I can carry you.” Peer reached up to her. “If you sit on the edge, I’ll take you on my back.”

“Don’t trust him, Hilde,” said Arnë, wading up. “He’ll drop you. Better come with me, I’m stronger.” He flashed his wide, charming grin and flexed his arms in a mock show of strength.

“How strong do you think you need to be?” asked Hilde, laughing.

“Here’s an easier way,” Tjorvi called. He and Halfdan were manhandling a long gangplank. Once it was firmly settled between ship and shore, Tjorvi swept off his cap. “Would the Lady Hilde care to descend?”

“Thank you, Tjorvi.” Hilde caught Tjorvi’s hand and he walked her down. At the bottom she dropped him a curtsy. Tjorvi bowed. “See?” he said over his shoulder to Peer and Arnë. “She likes me best.” He went back to help Astrid.

“Vinland,” breathed Hilde. She staggered, and Peer saw her eyes widen. “I feel as if I’m still on the ship. Oh, that’s strange.”

“You’ll soon get your land legs back if you walk around a bit,” Magnus told her.

“Walk?” Hilde picked up her skirts. “Ha! Who’ll race me to the houses?”

“Not me,” said Astrid, stepping cautiously down the gangplank. “I’m not running anywhere. Oops!” She checked as something small and light rushed past her skirts. With a patter of feet, a disturbance of the gravel beach, a swishing movement, it dashed into the grass.

Tjorvi’s head jerked around. “Did you see that damn great rat come ashore?” he exclaimed. Peer smothered a smile.

And Hilde was off, too, tearing up the slope toward the houses, plaits flying. “Wait,” yelled Peer. “It might not be safe.” He plunged after her. On legs that seemed hardly to obey them, they ran across spongy meadows patched with bright green moss and pocked with boggy holes. Birds whirred up everywhere. Loki streaked ahead.

Hilde reached the nearest house and promptly disappeared inside. Peer flung himself at the door. It opened inward, protected by a rough wooden porch sticking out of the turf roof.

It was cold inside. The thick turf walls cut off all sound. The house smelled of frost-bitten earth and old smoke, and it was so gloomy Peer could hardly see. There were no windows. A little light splashed through the smoke holes in the roof, gleaming on Hilde’s pale hair as she stood looking around. The only other light came from the doorway. Gradually Peer made out two lines of wooden posts supporting the rafters. Down the middle of the house ran the fire pit, edged with stones. At either side long sleeping benches lined the walls. At the far end, another doorway led into a small second room. That would be for Astrid and Gunnar, Peer guessed.

Or had this been Thorolf’s house? He squinted about, but there was no clue to show who had been living here, no personal possessions, or bedding, or stores.

He jumped. Something bounded through the rafters like a squirrel, caroling,
“Ooh, a house, a house, a lovely house!”
It fetched up on a crossbeam just overhead, and peeped at Peer upside down, wispy hair trailing like old cobwebs.

“You like it?” asked Peer.

“A house!” the Nis sang.

“Where’s the Nis?” Hilde squinted up, but the Nis had scuffled into an angle of the rafters. “I likes it, Peer Ulfsson,” came its muffled voice, “but it needs—a spring-cleaning!” And it flung a bird’s nest down at them, giggling.

“Well, the Nis approves” Peer brushed twigs out of his hair. “What do you think?”

“I can’t wait to light the fire,” said Hilde. “Hot food tonight!”

“Sleeping under a roof, warm and dry!” said Peer.

They looked at each other and laughed.

“I can’t wait to explore. It looks so wild and beautiful. No farms, no fields. No sheep, no cows, no villages …”

“No Thorolf.”

“He’ll turn up,” said Hilde optimistically. “You know, that first night on the ship when Astrid told me about Harald and Gunnar being outlawed, I thought I’d made a terrible mistake. I thought we should never have come. But I like all of the men now, don’t you? Even Gunnar.”

“Except Harald,” said Peer.

“Except Harald,” Hilde agreed. “Come on, we’ve spent long enough in here. I wonder which house we’ll use. Shall we look at the other one?”

“Hey!” Peer raised his voice. “Nithing—want to see the other house?”

With a scuttle and a rush, the Nis was at the door. It scampered outside, and Peer was surprised to see that dusk was falling. The sun had sunk below the hills, and the wooded slopes looked dark and mysterious. Down by the ship, the men had lit a fire on the shore. Around the flames, the evening turned a deeper blue. One side of
Water Snake
gleamed, her red and black strakes warm in the firelight. On her other side was a black shadow double. The shadows were confusing, Peer thought. There seemed too many people crisscrossing in front of the fire.

“We should go and help,” said Hilde. “Look, they’re bringing things up already.” Someone was coming slowly up the path, as if stiff from weeks at sea. His face was indistinct in the dusk. He turned aside, heading for the other house. Hilde called out, “Hello! Is that one ours?”

Whoever it was made no reply, but turned into the porch of the second house. Hilde shrugged. “He didn’t hear me. It must be that one.”

They walked across. Flat stones made a short path outside the door, which was shut. Peer lifted the latch. The Nis darted between his feet—and sprang back like a startled cat, all arched spine and splayed limbs. Peer saved himself by
clutching at the doorpost. “What are you doing?” he cried.

The Nis was creeping backward, bristling. “Not nice,” it squeaked. “Not a nice house at all, Peer Ulfsson. The other one is better!” It shook itself and shot decisively away.

With an odd feeling under his ribs, Peer shoved the door wide open and looked in. He didn’t step over the threshold. Hilde craned over his shoulder.

It was just like the first house. Same long fire pit, same smoke holes, same dusty-looking benches and line of dim posts leading to a doorway at the far end.

This house was colder than the first. The air felt disturbed, as though someone had recently passed through. But it was completely empty.

Peer’s skin crawled.

“Surely we saw—” Hilde broke off. “Or is he in the room at the far end?”

“In the dark? Hiding?” Peer looked at her. “Do you want to find out?”

“No,” said Hilde hastily. “Let’s go.”

Peer nodded and tugged the door shut. “I think I agree with the Nis. I like the other house better.”