Troll Blood (30 page)

“No,” said Halfdan nervously. No one had liked to touch it. They all looked where it lay, halfway up the room.

“Put it on the pyre,” said Harald. “Put it at his feet.”

They built the pyre on the beach and carried Gunnar out on a board, wrapped in his cloak. The weather had changed. Spatters of rain drove in from the sea. Out in the river,
Water Snake
tossed at her mooring. Hilde looked at her sadly.
All that long journey—for this
? They stood in the cold wind, watching the flames roar up. Astrid waited at a distance while the funeral pyre burned, her cloak and dress fluttering in the wind. She looked like a sort of ghost herself, Hilde thought. She had been “the skipper’s wife.” Then she had been “the troll girl.” What was she now? Widow or faithless wife? Hilde was afraid for her—afraid of what Harald might do.

Back at the house, after the funeral, Harald sat on a low stool by the fire, empty-handed and silent, staring into the flames. At last he raised his head and called across the fire.“Astrid!”

Hilde drew a sharp breath. But Astrid came around the fire and stood in front of Harald. He said slowly, “My hair needs combing. Comb it for me, Astrid”

Blank-faced, Astrid sat on the bench behind him, lifted a long strand of his hair and began to run her comb through it.

After a while Harald slid to the floor and leaned against her knees. He tilted his head into her lap and closed his eyes.
Astrid combed mechanically, spreading out the shining strands till her knees were covered in a silken cloak.

They went to the beach the next day to recover the bones. The rain had beaten into the embers, and the fire was out. Raking through the debris, Floki gave a yelp of horror. The dragon-head thrust its snout out of the ashes, a long, black, staring, crooked thing, no more scorched than it had been before. Magnus turned it over with a flinching foot.

“Of course it won’t burn,” said Tjorvi angrily. “It’s lain in the sea too long. Soaked in salt water—damp right through.” Everyone nodded. No one believed it. They kicked it down to the tide line, where some winter storm might wash it away.

CHAPTER 21
War Dance

A
long the lake edge the ice was a thin pavement that crackled and broke under their feet. Peer’s breath smoked as he followed Kwimu and Ottar back toward the wigwams. They’d been checking the traps around the beaver dam, and found two fine fat beavers, which had rashly triggered the deadfalls.

How quickly summer vanished! In a few brief weeks, since he’d been here, the trees had burned themselves up in a bonfire of color—red, purple, gold. Now all that was left was bare black branches and dark green firs and bluish spruce. A powdering of snow had fallen, and Peer was glad of the warm moose-hide wrap, as big as a blanket, which Nukumij had given him.

The still water above the beaver dam was already half
frozen—thin shelves of ice spreading out from the edges. As they walked away, Kwimu said something that made Ottar laugh. “Kwimu says the beavers are like the People. They build lodges and live together in families. He says if they were just a tiny bit cleverer, they’d stick out their heads and talk to us. Then we’d have to stop hunting them.”

Kwimu waited till Ottar had finished translating, then he grinned at Peer. Peer grinned back. It had been a long time since he’d had a friend his own age, and you couldn’t help liking Kwimu. With his long black hair and strong, regular features, he was as handsome in his way as Harald Silkenhair, but there the comparison ended. Kwimu always had a smile ready, or a helping hand. Ottar adored him.

Peer was glad to be of use at last. The day he’d staggered out of the woods, he’d just managed to explain to Ottar that he wasn’t an enemy, that Harald Silkenhair had driven him out. Then he’d collapsed, and lain ill for days. He remembered fleeting snatches: waking from dark dreams to see the fire flicker, smelling the strong green smell of broken fir branches. Crying out, struggling against the grip of hands before realizing dimly that they meant only to poultice his arm, or tilt him up to pour odd-tasting drinks down his throat. Lying with eyes shut, listening to human voices flowing over him like water. Then one night he’d woken to the sound of a light, shifting rattle, followed by the thud of a stick on a bark drum. Close by, someone began singing—an intricate, flowing song that died away at the end of each breath and began
again with renewed strength:
“Yah weh ah hah yay oh. Ah hah yay ah hay oh …”

It was Grandmother, Nukumij, singing a medicine song to cure him. Its lilting, ever-changing rhythm seemed to bring back his spirit from wherever it was wandering. From that moment he got better. Soon he was sitting up and learning about the people who had helped him.

There was Grandmother, of course—so tiny she seemed almost lost in her voluminous beaver-fur robes, but whose skillful hands were always busy and whose bright eyes saw everything. There was Kwimu’s father, Sinumkw, so stern and stately that Peer was a little nervous of him—until he smiled, when he looked just like Kwimu. There was Kwimu’s quiet mother, and Plawej, a sweet-faced young woman with a plump, black-eyed baby, whose husband was away on a hunting trip. And Kwimu’s little sister, Jipjawej—too shy even to look at Peer till, remembering a trick that charmed the children at home, he cunningly carved her a small wooden whistle. The first time he blew on it, she jumped. Then she took it with a quick, delighted smile.

Ottar watched her tooting on it as though he rather wanted one himself. “I’ll show you how to make them,” said Peer. “So if Jipjawej loses hers, you can make her another.”

Ottar was no older than Sigurd. Cutting away at the whistle, he told Peer how he’d seen his father killed—how he’d climbed on the roof and hidden from the murderers … and watched them sail away, leaving him to die.

“And for nothing,” he said bitterly. “For an argument about some furs. Pa set the traps and did the work, and then Harald came along and claimed half of them. He said Pa and Gunnar had agreed to go halves on everything.” His voice rose: “But that was a lie. Pa said they’d only agreed to share the expenses of setting out, and what we brought back was up to each of us. ‘Then you won’t give me the furs?’ Harald said.

“He sounded really nasty. Up till then I’d liked Harald. He looks like such a hero, and he used to say funny things that made me laugh.” Ottar scowled and shivered. “Well, next morning, while we were still getting up, we heard a dreadful yell from outside. I was eating breakfast and I nearly dropped the bowl. I didn’t know if it was a man or a wolf. Pa said, ‘What in thunder is that?’ And the door burst open. They all had swords and axes.” Ottar looked up with a tortured face. “How could they do it, Peer? They were supposed to be our friends.”

All too easily
, Peer thought. Prime fox and beaver skins sold at home for several silver pennies apiece. No wonder Gunnar could afford to buy Harald that expensive sword.

“And now he’s back,” Ottar stated. He swallowed. “Do you think I ought to try and kill him?”

“No,” said Peer firmly.

“But it’s my duty, isn’t it? To avenge my father?”

“Do you really think your father would want you to fight Harald?” Peer asked. And Ottar thought about it. “No,” he admitted finally, looking relieved.

With Ottar’s help, Peer told the family about his ordeal in
the woods. The creatures who’d fastened him down were known as the Spreaders, and Ottar said that they ate rotten flesh. Peer remembered the sweet, fly-ridden stink of the gully, and shuddered quietly. On the other hand, the Thin Faces were known to help lost travelers. “And Grandmother says they don’t help bad people,” Ottar said with a grin. “So she thinks you must be all right.”

But when, shyly, Peer told them a little about the dream of the dragonhead, Grandmother’s eyes snapped with excitement. She plunged into a long speech, and Peer listened helplessly, wishing he could understand. Ottar did his best. Grandmother was trying to tell him that his father’s spirit had taken on the form of a
jipijka’m
. Peer got Ottar to say it again, and Grandmother nodded, repeating the word several times. So far as Ottar could explain, it was a sort of horned dragon, magical and dangerous, with powers to change and heal. “She says …”—he stumbled—“the
jipijka’m
is your
tioml. Your
power, I think. Your strength.”

Grandmother’s whole face crinkled up into a smile, and she leaned forward and patted Peer’s hand. She said something else, nodding again. “Jipijkame’ji’j,” said Ottar. “That’s what she’ll call you. Young Dragon.”

Young Dragon
. A thrill of pride ran right through him. Then he thought of the Nis, and laughed a little. Nithing the Seafarer! Peer the Young Dragon! Peer Barelegs! What a difference a name could make.

Dusk was coming early. The sky sagged over the world like a sleepy gray cat settling down into its basket. It was snowing again, tiny white grains that swept across the ground without sticking. Peer transferred the beaver from one cold hand to the other, wishing he had mittens like Kwimu’s. Kwimu caught his eye and said something, lifting an eyebrow with a teasing smile.

“Kwimu’s asking about these girls that came on the ship with you,” Ottar reported, his face a mixture of embarrassment and disdain. “He says, ‘Are they your wives?’”