West of the Moon (42 page)

Peer looked back. “Can you manage?” he asked curtly.

“Yes.” The last thing she wanted was for him to help her. She hoisted her skirts and clambered grimly on.

Cheeping with excitement, the Nis led them to a long pool. Repeated tides had pushed up sand and gravel into a ridge blocking the entrance, so that although waves broke against the rocks a few yards away, only a few ripples ran in over the sand bar to disturb the pool itself. An old black log was jammed there too, half buried.

The Nis stopped, its grey wispy hair blowing in the wind, pointing with one long finger. “For you!” it announced proudly. “Nithing the Seafarer found it!”

Hilde heard Peer say softly, “Oh, no.”

“What is it?” she asked, bewildered. “Peer, what are you doing?”

She scrambled after him as he flung himself recklessly down the sharp rocks and jumped into the water. It came up to his thighs: he waded through it, arms flailing, thrashing up spray. He stumbled up the slope where the bottom rose towards the sandbank, and threw himself upon the old black log, digging the silt away from it with his hands.

“What's the matter?” gasped Hilde, really frightened, though she didn't know why. Had Peer gone mad?

Peer put both his arms around the log, and heaved. It came out of the silt with a rush, streaming water, and he hugged it to his chest. He turned to face Hilde, holding it. His face was dark against the opal sky, his eyes glittered. She stared, knowing what she was seeing before she could frame it in words.

The black log glistened, slimy as a snail; it was horned like a snail, with two root-like stumps. It had a savage look: a twist to it like a neck, a gaping maw like some snarling animal.

“Burned!”

The word burst from Peer. He staggered back through the water and laid the thing on the edge of the rocks. He covered his face.

Hilde crouched. With a finger she gently traced the blackened carvings: the criss-cross scales, the round, charred eye.

“A dragonhead.”

“It's the
Long Serpent
,” said Peer from behind his hands. “Oh, Peer!” Hilde's voice shook on a sob. She reached out and awkwardly patted his hair. “Oh, Peer!”

“Thorolf 's not coming back.” Peer's eyes were dark; his mouth was a white line. A tear fell down his face and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

Hilde didn't know what to say. “Don't stand in the water. Come on, get out.” She gave him a hand and he struggled on to the rocks and stood dripping and shivering.

From the peak of a rock higher above the pool, the Nis looked down, its face crinkling in an effort to understand. “Doesn't you like it, Peer Ulfsson?”

Peer tried to speak. The Nis scuttled down the rocks and laid a knobbly hand lightly against his knee. “Doesn't you want my present?”

Peer bent down. “Yes, Nis, I do. It was very clever of you to find it. Thank you for showing us. Do you know who made this? My father made it.”

“Good!” Satisfied, the Nis hopped away.

Peer said to Hilde, “I suppose it's stupid, but I feel as if my father was on the ship, too. I feel as though I just lost him all over again.” He picked up the burned dragonhead and said bleakly, “Let's go.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“Take it back, of course. Show it to the others. Now we know.”

“Know what?” Hilde felt slow and clumsy. “What do we know?”

He turned fiercely. “The ship
burned
, Hilde. It wasn't wrecked, it burned. And how do you suppose that happened?”

She hurried after him, fear pecking at her heart. “I – I don't know. How?”

Peer jumped off the rocks. Loki greeted him in relieved delight. “Down!” Peer snapped, striding past.

“How did the ship catch fire?” Hilde had to run to keep up.

Peer flung her a look of disbelief. “How do you think? Gunnar and Harald. They did it, didn't they? All this time, they've been lying to us. They know quite well what happened to Thorolf.”

“No,” Hilde said dizzily. “Surely…”

“No?” Peer swung away. “Let's go and ask them.”

“Peer, don't!” Hilde caught his arm. But he broke roughly away, running towards the low sod houses by the river mouth.

“Peer!” she screamed. He was faster than she was, she'd never catch him. She sprinted after him, and the wind blew tears from her eyes. How quickly everything had gone wrong. Only a little while ago they'd been laughing, running in the moonlight, marvelling at the pictures made by the little
wiklatmu'jk.

Astrid rose like a ghost from a stone in front of her. “What on earth have you done to Peer? Didn't I give you long enough? Has he kissed you?”

“What” – Hilde pressed a hand to her ribs – “are you talking about? We've got to stop him. He's going to… he's found…”

Astrid's eyes narrowed. “So it's Arne after all, is it? What a fool you are. Arne's quite ordinary.”

Hilde nearly screamed at her. “He's found the dragonhead from the
Long Serpent
. Burned. He's going to face Harald.”

“Oh, gods.” Astrid's face changed. “Get after him, quick. They'll kill him.”

“Then it's true? And you knew?”

“Just go!” Astrid shrieked, and Hilde flew on. The surface of the beach seemed to jump at her. Patterns, everywhere: patterns…

They danced before her eyes, in her mind, at the back of her head. A boy, a girl, a boat… she dashed through the patterns, scattering them.
Mind out, little creatures
. Stick figures flew, a leg here, an arm there.
The wiklatmu'jk make pictures of what they see.
What pictures had they made a year ago, when the beach was a battleground?

P
EER BURST INTO
the house like a destroying wind. The men eating around the hearth looked up in amazement. He lifted the dragonhead high, like a standard. Then he hurled it to the floor.

“What's this?” Harald was the first to break silence, in his insolent drawl. “Firewood?”

Big Tjørvi came slowly forward. “That's a dragonhead,” he growled in wonder. “A burned dragonhead.”

“From the
Long Serpent
,” said Peer harshly.

Gunnar half-rose, staring at the ruined dragonhead. Harald's lip curled.

“And how would you know that, Barelegs?” he sneered.

Peer laughed, a hard, fierce laugh. “Better than anyone, Harald. My father made it. In a way, it killed him. His chisel slipped, and the wound turned bad… You might say he put his blood into that ship.”

“And so? Why should I care about your carpenter father?” Harald lounged back, stretching out his legs and propping his heels on a small stool.

The dark, smoky room blurred and narrowed to the bright, pale, hated face of Harald. Peer tore free of Tjørvi's restraining hand.

“Because my father was a maker, Harald,” he yelled. “He put something into this world, instead of taking something out of it. He made a ship, and it was a good ship. It brought Thorolf and his men all the way across the sea, not once, but twice.”

He drew a sobbing breath. “And where's Thorolf now? Where's Thorolf, and his son Ottar, and all his crew? What happened to the
Long Serpent
, Harald? Why did she burn?”

He ran out of air. Harald stared up at Peer with a hard little smile. Beside him, Gunnar bent over and coughed: short, wet, hacking coughs. Harald's hand shifted to grip his father's arm.

Everyone else remained perfectly still.

Peer shouted, “They're dead, aren't they? Dead, like those Skraelings you slaughtered today. And you know it, because you killed them, and then you burned their ship and took their goods and sailed away. Thorolf 's in Vinland, you told us. And we believed you. Of course we did. How were we going to check?”

The door rattled open. Hilde tumbled in out of the night, her hair falling down. “Peer, come outside. I… need to talk to you.”

Peer didn't even look at her. “You murderer, Harald. You bloody murderer. Ships don't burn themselves. Thorolf 's not in Vinland. Thorolf 's in Valhalla.”

Harald still didn't move. “You're crazy. I'm flattered, of course. You think I killed how many men, all alone?”

“Of course not alone. You and Gunnar, and – your crew…” Peer looked around and swallowed.

“You mean Magnus, and Floki, and Halfdan?” Harald mused, flicking out fingers. “At least five of us here?” He twisted round. “What about it, men? Remember killing Thorolf?”

Floki's ready mouth opened, but Magnus's elbow caught him in the ribs. He doubled over, wheezing. Magnus turned a dark look on Harald and shook his head.

“No, Magnus doesn't remember. What about Halfdan? Can you remember killing Thorolf, Halfdan?” Halfdan pinched his lips together. “Nope,” he said quickly. Arne and Tjørvi looked at each other.

“Oh dear, Halfdan doesn't remember either.” Harald put his head to one side. “It can't have happened, then.”

“Peer, leave it,” said Hilde. Her voice crackled with fear. Only his anger was supporting Peer, a fragile scaffolding over a pit of terror. “They're lying. I know you did it.”

Harald stood up. “Prove that.”

Peer pointed at the dragonhead on the floor. “There's the proof.”

“I don't mean that sort of proof.” Harald's eyes sparkled. “You've accused me: now let's see if you can prove it – man to man.”

“No!” Hilde screamed.

All the men began shouting. “No, no!” “Yes!”

“Fight!” Floki yapped.

The door opened again and Astrid stole in, white-faced and narrow-eyed. Hilde ran to her. “Astrid, you must know what happened. It's true, isn't it? You know Peer's right. Tell them, quickly.” She pulled Astrid forwards. The clamour died down. Tjørvi looked at Astrid as if expecting pearls to drop from her mouth.

Astrid's eyes flashed from Peer's face to Gunnar's. “Sorry, Hilde.” The words were as cold and distinct as chips of marble. “I don't know what you're talking about.” And next second everyone was shouting again.

“Enough!” Gunnar struggled to his feet. He stood, head low, glaring around the room with fierce, red-rimmed eyes. “That's enough.
I'll
say what goes on here.” He eyed the blackened dragonhead with a disgusted shudder. “Throw that thing on the fire. And you” – he turned on Peer – “apologise to my son and we'll forget about this.”

Peer licked his lips. The anger was draining away. He felt he was waking from a dream into a cold daybreak.
How did I get myself into this mess? I've made all the wrong moves. Run straight into the net.

“Apologise, Peer,” whispered Hilde. “It doesn't matter, nothing matters. It's only words. Just do it.”

Harald smiled at him, eyes alight with amused contempt. “You heard her, Barelegs. Get on with it. Grovel.”

Peer looked at Harald.
I can't
, he thought,
I really can't
. It was a surprise to discover that he'd sooner die than do what Harald wanted. He was almost angry with himself.
Stupid, stiff-necked, stubborn…
He said doggedly, and a chill swept down his spine: “No. You killed Thorolf, Harald. I swear it on my father's life.”

“All right then.” Harald nodded to him. “We'll fight.”

“This is crazy!” Hilde's face was white. “How can fighting prove anything? Gunnar, please!”

Peer wished she'd stop fussing: it wouldn't do any good. Harald's sword came out with a grating hiss. Floki was saying, “But what's Peer – I mean, Barelegs – what's he going to fight with? He hasn't got a sword.”

“He can borrow my father's.” Harald tossed a look at Peer. “Or would you prefer a hammer?” Laughter bubbled up in his face, and Peer saw in his eyes the memory of that faraway day on the jetty. He remembered, too. He remembered watching the ship come in, wondering if he would be any good in a fight. Now he'd have to find out.
Harald always meant it should come to this.

“He gets to borrow Gunnar's sword?” Floki was saying jealously. “Lucky!”

“Shut your stupid mouth,” Magnus growled. “This won't do.” Arne slammed a fist down. “Peer can't fight Harald. It's not a fair match.”

Tjørvi rumbled agreement, but Gunnar picked at his front teeth with a brown fingernail and said, “Two lads, the same age, the same height?” He shook his head. “What's wrong with that?”

“Harald's experience?” said Astrid, her voice like cold water dripping.

Harald laughed. “He doesn't
have
to fight me, darling Astrid. He can back down.”

“Peer,” Hilde pleaded.

“But he can't,” said Halfdan, shocked. “Only a coward would do that.”

Someone – Floki – shoved a sword into Peer's hands. “Here, take it.” His red face swam close up to Peer's, round-eyed and curious as a cow's. “You must be mad,” he said on a waft of damp, warm breath. “Fancy having a go at Harald.”

Peer clutched the sword. It was amazingly heavy: he had to use both hands. He stared at the blade. There were little silver scratches where it had been sharpened, and halfway down, the edge had been turned by some blow.

A space was clearing around them. Benches were being dragged back. Peer felt horribly calm, though rather weak at the knees. There was no way out. He had a sword he didn't know how to use, and Harald would kill him. It was as simple as that.

“Right.” Harald stepped forward.

“Wait, Harald.” Arne grabbed him. “You can't fight like this – indoors, by firelight. Look around!” He gestured. “There's hardly room to move. What's more, it's unlawful. Night killings are murder: that's the law.”

Harald turned. “What law, Arne? Whose law? This is Vinland,” he added cheerfully. “There are no laws here. That's why we came.” He advanced on Peer.

Peer backed away, holding the sword out in front of him. He saw Big Tjørvi's troubled face, the firelight shining through his dandelion-fluff hair. He saw Hilde's horrified stare – Floki, twisting his hands together excitedly – Magnus, sour and uneasy. Astrid stood behind Gunnar, gazing intently. Gunnar's light eyes blinked at Peer and flicked away. Blink, flick.

Harald shook his sword suddenly and laughed to see Peer jump. He was moving sideways, making Peer turn to face the fire so that the light would shine in his eyes. He feinted in, a low slash. Everyone went, “Ooh!” and Peer stumbled back before realising that Harald was playing with him.

Cat and mouse
, he thought bitterly. A dog barked outside the door.
Loki
. Peer's attention flickered. At least Loki was safe out there…

He dodged, barely in time. The sword struck like a serpent, stinging his arm, parting his sleeve. Harald feinted again, high, then low. Peer hopped – this way, that way. Where would the next blow come from? Harald was smiling.
I've got to fight back
, Peer remembered.
Got to use this sword
. He wagged it clumsily.

With a grunt and a cry Harald whirled his sword in an arc towards Peer's shoulder. Peer's reflexes took over. He lashed furiously upwards. There was a ringing crash, and the blades clung, biting, then slid apart with a tooth-jangling screech and a flurry of blue sparks.

Sweat and terror half-blinded Peer. His arm hurt now. There was blood on his sleeve. His fingers were numb with the shock of the blow. He stepped back, blinking, shaking his head.
I'm done for
.
I'll never manage to ward him off twice.

Harald was in no hurry. He began to jeer. “Not bad for a carpenter, Barelegs. I can see you've chopped a few trees down in your time. But you'll have to do better than that.”

Peer's vision cleared. Past Harald's shoulder he saw Hilde, white-knuckled fists bunched at her sides. Next to her was Arne. He was staring at Peer, as if willing him to look. Their eyes locked. Slightly but urgently, Arne shook his head.

Don't play Harald's games
. As if a message had flown straight from Arne's mind to his, Peer remembered Bjørn's warning.
Better to take an insult than a sword in your guts.

It's too late now. Or is it?

Peer glanced around. Behind him was the door. In front of him was Harald, dark against the fire, his loose hair rimming him in gold. And there on the floor lay the burned dragonhead, with its snarling mouth and blackened eye, like a legless monster creeping into the fight on its belly…

With a shout, Peer flung Gunnar's sword at Harald. Instinctively, Harald lashed out. His blow sent the loose sword cartwheeling through the air. Everyone yelled and ducked. The sword hit the stones of the hearth with a clang.

Peer hurled himself on the burned dragonhead. He lifted it like a club. “You're right, Harald,” he panted, “I'm useless with a sword. This'll be better.”

Harald's beautiful face contorted. He leaped towards Peer and brought his sword round in a scything sweep at neck-level. Eyes screwed shut, teeth bared, Peer swung the dragonhead. There was a thud and a jerk. His eyes flew open. Harald's blade had bitten deep into the wood and was stuck there. Glaring and snorting, Harald wrenched at it.

Peer let go. As Harald went reeling backwards, he sprang for the door. The men were roaring. Hilde screamed, “Run, Peer! Run!”

He fumbled with the latch. Harald was up, one foot braced against the dragonhead, wrestling and tugging, working his sword free.

The door came open. Loki rushed in, tail wagging. “No, Loki!” Peer yelled. “
This
way!” He whistled, fierce and shrill, and Loki bounded after him, confused but willing. Peer banged the door shut. He was out in the cool night, running for the woods.

Loki raced alongside. Behind them the door opened again, spilling pursuit. Shouts echoed between the trees and the shore. Peer didn't bother to listen. The ground was uneven, scattered with branches, pitted with holes. He staggered, recovered, sprinted on.

Then he was at the foot of the bluff, close to the little cascade where Hilde fetched the water. He threw himself at the rise, pulling himself up. Twigs lashed his face; brambles snagged his skin. He scrambled higher, clawing handholds out of the soft leaf mould. Beside him Loki scrabbled and sprang. Sobbing for breath, Peer forced himself to keep climbing.

The shouts faded. The slope lessened, levelled. Still Peer ran, weaving under the trees. Fireflies tacked across the dark: a bright stitch here, a bright stitch there.

He ran on, not thinking, escaping. Something terrible was following, that was all he knew. And if he stopped, it would catch him. But his legs were weaker and weaker. His arm stung and throbbed. His sleeve was sticky and warm.

The ground vanished. Peer pitched forwards down a steep slope. Dry branches cracked under him. In an avalanche of dead leaves and small stones, he rolled, fell, and thudded on to rocks.