Wild Magic (69 page)

‘He requires only the three,’ he said cryptically. ‘The madman, the giant and the fool.’ The wide grin he gave his father was proof enough of which of the three Fent himself might be; and after that, he would say no more.

Aran Aranson led his youngest son to the mast and bound him there with soft but strong cords, having first removed the remaining harpoon to another place of safety. Urse was the only other allowed to tend him: they fed him and twice a day untied him so he could make his ablutions. The Master of Rockfall would answer no questions from the crew as to why he had taken these measures; but thereafter no man disappeared in the night, and people drew their own conclusions.

The ice closed in, the black, watery leads between the floes becoming shorter and narrower and less easy to navigate. The light seemed to lie forever just above the far horizon, a beckoning band of violet and blue which promised another life, another world, just out of reach. In the hours of full darkness, the Navigator’s Star seemed to hang directly overhead: but did it signify a beacon or a warning? It was so cold, men barely spoke for fear of losing the little warm breath their bodies contained. They wrapped themselves in all they owned. Any exposed skin became reddened within moments; left for longer, it turned white, then numb. Each man asked himself in constant, inward monologues why he had come here, what madness had invaded his soul that he had voluntarily taken up Aran Aranson’s invitation. No one had a satisfactory answer for himself: the lure of gold and wealth seemed pointless and nonsensical in this inimical place. Mere survival gradually overtook all other goals; but even survival required some form of forward movement, and there were many days when they made hardly any progress at all. The wind fell away, and rowing became difficult, for lack of open water for the oars to scull or through their own lack of strength. Spurred on only by Aran Aranson’s singleminded will toward their mythical destination – a place most of them had long since given up believing in – they used the oars as poles to push the ship through shallow channels, they pressed the ice-breaker into sheets of ice which bowed and then fractured, giving way to the forward momentum of the ship; they slipped into the wake of great bergs which carved their own aimless courses through the ice; and all the time they despaired.

At last, the floes closed in altogether so that the much-vaunted ice-breaker could gain them no further headway. The
Long Serpent
ground to a creaking, protesting halt, its bow rammed hard into a great floe, and the ice crowded all around to engulf the vessel in its inexorable embrace. Nothing they tried could free them: they were stuck fast. The Master of Rockfall waited a day to see whether the movement of the ice would open up a channel; but instead the ice began to crack the ship’s timbers. There was no choice. ‘Get everything off the ship!’ Aran shouted and, together, they evacuated everything of practical use – the remaining ship’s boat, the kegs of meat and barrels of water (solid frozen now and bursting the iron-bound seams), the weapons and spars; the shrouds and halyards, even the great dark sail.

With this last, they fashioned a tent, using the mast as its central pole and roped it taut to great boulders of ice. They made ice walls to seal its base, and ice beds and chairs inside. They furnished these with whatever furs and cloaks and sealskins they were not already wearing; they salvaged any wood they could for fires.

This purposeful activity kept them warm and occupied for a day under a sun which gave off such a thin, pale light that the whole world lacked shadows. It was an eerie, luckless, limbo place; and the gradual dying of their ship as the ice took it in its giant, crushing fist filled the air with ominous banshee sounds, so that many of the crew plugged their ears with wool and sang to themselves to mask the noise.

While his men rested, Aran Aranson sat for a long while and watched as the ice devoured the ship which had carried all his dreams. Then he took aside Mag Snaketongue, Pol Garson, Urse One-Ear and Flint Hakason, the most experienced men on his crew. ‘We cannot stay here,’ he said. ‘Here, we will subsist on our few stores, then on whatever we can catch or find; and then we will die, one by one and horribly. There is little chance of rescue so far north: the only others who will venture here will be those like ourselves, bound on an expedition for the Hidden Isle, with little wish to take on board castaways with whom to share their few provisions.’

Urse nodded slowly, having already reached this conclusion for himself. Pol Garson nodded. ‘This is a land which devours both ships and men,’ he said. ‘But if we cannot stay here, where can we go?’

‘Onward, to Sanctuary,’ Aran replied. ‘Overland.’

‘Over the ice?’ Flint Hakason sounded appalled.

‘But we do not know where Sanctuary is, even if it exists,’ said Mag Snaketongue, voicing all their thoughts.

‘I have a map,’ said the Master of Rockfall proudly. He drew the piece of battered parchment out from the interior of all his layers of clothing and unrolled it in front of them, crouching down to flatten it against his thigh.

They gathered around him to peer at this precious item. The Westman Isles and their surrounding seaways were recognisable to each of them, each section of coast beautifully delineated by a delicate and accurate hand; and the farthest islands and corners of the mainland were also thus rendered; but beyond these known landmarks the Northern Ocean gave way to a world of shifting ice; and who could possibly be expected to map such a mutable place so that a man might follow a straight course through it? And indeed, the northernmost quarter of the map contained very little useful detail – a wavy line here, an amorphous shape there; the foreign-sounding ‘isenfeld’ scrawled across one great swathe of white space; and at the heart of a gorgeously drawn windrose in the far righthand corner, a word beginning ‘Sanct’.

Urse reached out his hand to smooth out this corner of the map, but Aran jerked it away from him like a child with a jealously guarded toy. Untouched by the magic the artefact contained, the giant stepped back, frowning.

‘It’s a very pretty thing,’ he started hesitantly.

Flint Hakason was less impressed. ‘It’s completely useless!’ he snorted. ‘Is that what you’ve used to bring us to this godforsaken place?’

Aran Aranson leapt to his feet, his eyes ablaze. With one hand, he stowed the map inside his clothing; with the other, he grabbed Flint Hakason by the throat. ‘I am the captain of this expedition,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Are you questioning my judgement?’

Flint was a hard man, not easily cowed. He wrestled himself free of the Rockfaller and glared at him. ‘I’m not going one step further with you,’ he announced bitterly. He lifted a pendant out from under his thick fur cloak. ‘See this?’ he said, waving the intricately worked silver anchor in Aran’s face. ‘I will place my trust in Sur now, rather than in you.’

And with that, he turned his back on the other four men and stalked back to the waiting crew. There, he took a piece of string and cut it into a number of uneven pieces which he then balled up into his fist so that only the heads showed. ‘I’m leaving this fearsome place, and this cursed expedition,’ he announced, ‘and I’m taking the ship’s boat, some provisions and five of you, if you wish it. I’m going home. Who’ll come with me?’

For a moment there was silence. Everyone had seen the confrontation between Flint and the captain and they feared Aran Aranson greatly. But even in their devastated and exhausted state, they feared death more. Suddenly there was a great clamour. A dozen or more of the men, roused from their lethargy, clustered around Flint Hakason and began eagerly to draw out the pieces of string. When each of them had a length, the mutineer declared: ‘Longest win a place.’

Emer Bretison roared with delight. ‘Ha! I’m with you, Flint. Homeward bound.’

Flint looked less than pleased. ‘Don’t expect to get any more to eat than the rest, son, despite your great size,’ he warned. He looked around the rest of the men with the strings held out on the palms of their hands, then looked relieved. ‘Ah, Jan – looks like you’ll balance the boat a bit.’

Jan was a slender lad, no bigger than a girl, but with a whippy frame and tough, stringy muscles. When he grinned, he showed sharp canine teeth amidst his straggly blond beard.

In no time, it seemed, Flint Hakason had a boatful. Between them, they hoisted a keg of meat and a sack of hard bread into the skiff, alongside their furs and skin-bags, while Aran looked on, his brows drawn into a single black forbidding line. He made no effort to stop them.

Flint Hakason and his five mutineers shouldered the skiff. It was heavy with provisions, and they were tired and weak from the killing cold, but there was a new purpose in their eyes: they were going home, even if they had to walk for days to find clear water. He turned to the rest of the crew who crouched uncomfortably around the sail-tent, rubbing their hands, avoiding each other’s eyes. ‘Cheerio, lads,’ he said with loud bravado. ‘We’ll have the fires burning back in Rockfall to greet your return.’ He looked to Aran Aranson. ‘I hope you find your magic island,’ he said, but there was no trace of sarcasm in his voice. ‘I hope you come back laden with gold.’

Then he and the five others trudged off southwards across the floe, the loose snow crust squeaking and crunching beneath the soles of their boots. Aran and his crew watched them go. No one said a word.

At dawn the next day, Aran Aranson made an announcement.

‘I am continuing with my quest,’ he said and watched as his men looked from one to another in disbelief. He cleared his throat and went on: ‘A captain without a ship is no captain at all: you may make a free choice as to whether you wish to accompany me or not, or whether you wish to remain here with whatever shelter and provisions you need until the weather improves and you can make your own escape, or until I can return for you and take you to safety.’ He paused, taking in their hooded expressions, their distrust. Yet these were the men who had travelled from miles around Rockfall – a hundred miles and more in some cases – clamouring to come on this romantic expedition. Now it seemed as soon as disaster struck, they had no backbone at all, were more afraid of the unforeseen death which might await them in the wide, white yonder than the certain death which stalked them here on this grim floe. From their silence he deduced that he would be making the long trek north alone. So be it. He felt disgusted by their cowardice, angry at himself for caring. He took up the harpoon, checked his belt-knives and patted his sack. He had in there a big hunk of flatbread, as hard as seasoned timber, some dried fish which had lost even its rank aroma in this freezing place, a bag full of smoked mutton which would have to be soaked and heated if he were not to break his teeth on it. Three fish-hooks, a length of twine, some seal-fat to smear over the exposed parts of his face. He was ready.

‘I’ll come with you.’ Urse One-Ear stepped forward. ‘I have travelled all my life: waiting around is not for me.’

‘And I have no wish to sit here and watch my bollocks freeze and fall off,’ Fall Ranson declared.

Pol Garson stood up. ‘I’ll come with you, Captain. My wife always told me I’d never make a name for myself. I’d like to prove her wrong.’

No one else spoke up. Aran scanned face after face and watched as each one looked away. His eyes came to rest on the cook, Mag Snaketongue. He was a tough man, older than most, and Aran trusted him. But the man’s expression was guarded.

‘Someone has to cook for the lads,’ he said simply.

The Master of Rockfall’s hand went instinctively to the place where the precious map was swaddled. One small part of his mind knew exactly why Mag had refused to accompany him; but the greater, obsessive part refused to acknowledge this reason. He gave the man a quick nod, then sought out his son.

Fent was sitting on an upturned keg, stabbing repeatedly with a broken stick at a hole in the ice. His face was shrouded by his fur-lined sealskin hood. Aran called his name. The boy made no sign that he had heard his father at all, just kept stabbing and stabbing at the ice. Tiny chips flew up, glinting palely in the low light. Aran raised his voice. ‘Fent!’

The lad’s head shot up, his eyes flaring blue between the white of his face and the deep red of his fringe and beard. He looked disorientated, disturbed, as though suddenly woken from a deep sleep.

‘Get your things together. You’re coming with me.’

Fent looked evasive, as if he might bolt at any moment; as if he thought his father might be trying to trick him into following him to a quiet place where he would slaughter him on the spot and leave him for the skuas. ‘Where?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘To Sanctuary.’

If the Master of Rockfall had been expecting mulish obstinacy from his youngest son, he was to be much surprised. Instead of protesting, Fent Aranson leapt to his feet, beaming from ear to ear. His whole demeanour had changed from that of a compulsive child to that of an energetic man with a task to accomplish. ‘I’m ready!’ he declared.

He carried nothing with him – no pack, no weapon, no spare clothing. Aran ducked into the sail-tent and quickly harvested a few necessary items, which he stuffed into a sheepskin bag which could be slung across the back. When he re-emerged, it was to find Pol Garson in a head-to-head confrontation with Gar Felinson over a haunch of smoked mutton. ‘There are more of us than there are of you,’ Gar growled.

‘Leave it!’ shouted Aran, brandishing the harpoon. ‘We’ll catch what we can on our way.’

Pol Garson shrugged and let go the meat. ‘Have it and welcome,’ he said to Gar Felinson. ‘I have eaten enough sheep in my time to lay their stringy old carcasses from here to Sanctuary and use them as stepping stones!’ He turned to the Master of Rockfall. ‘Lead on, Aran Aranson, I have a taste for more exotic meats!’

They walked for two days across the sea-ice. It was so cold, it hurt to breathe: they could feel the freezing air deep in their lungs like a wild animal, tearing at the ribs. The hair in their nostrils froze. Their brows and lashes became clumped with ice particles: if they closed their eyes for more than a few seconds, the lids stuck together; icicles formed in their beards and hair. Apart from the light cast by the sun and moon, the landscape was unchanging – grey-white ice, white spindrift, ridges and creases of driven snow, low, ruckled peaks and rifts, rendered romantic and eerie by turns by gradual shifts through red and purple and blue. The world seemed to hover always on the edge of darkness; then at last the sun would sink into the distant sea and night would gather, the moon taking so long to rise that it looked as though it might at any moment lose its battle and drop back into the depths whence it had come.