Wolfskin (52 page)

Now she must go; she must find a place of hiding as far from here as
she might travel before the sun rose bright in the spring sky. Her helpers seemed to be waiting; perhaps they expected some reward. Nessa took her knife again and moved sunwise around the circle, undoing what she had made here. She spoke a few words to the guardian of each quarter, spending a little longer in the north, home of Bone Mother, for she knew the ancient one had sent courage to her heart and steadied her hand in this night's work. There: the circle was unmade, the morning brightened, the wide sky showed a faint rim of rose pink to the east. Still they waited there, eyes dark and solemn, bodies clad in tattered rags, whose openings showed old, deep slashes to the skin, neat patterns of lines on chest, belly, back, or thigh. Some wore talismans of whalebone driven through ear or nose, and one had a necklace of tiny skulls.

“Th–thank you,” Nessa stammered, not at all sure they would understand. “I honor you for coming to aid me. Without you, I could not have completed this task.”

They stood unblinking.

“I would like to give you something, some token of my gratitude,” she said, “but I came away in haste; I have very little.”

Now they were staring at Guard; one licked his lips. The hound growled a warning.

“I have a little food. Bread, some hard cheese, some dried fruit. You are welcome to that.” She bent toward the bag, wondering how she would manage if even this meager supply were gone.

A bony finger tapped her shoulder. Nessa looked up. Its owner motioned toward her face, then to his own, touching the lips. A rustling went around the circle; they edged in closer.

“A kiss?” Nessa rose to her feet, blinking in amazement. “That is all you want? This I will give gladly, and then I must be on my way. I will remember each of you, and do my best to keep your secret places safe. Our kind and your kind, we are both of the fabric of these islands, though our feet seldom walk the same path.”

Right around the circle of them she went, stooping here, rising on tiptoe there. Each got his kiss; each felt the touch of her lips on cheek or mouth, each felt the warmth of her hands, and one or two were bold enough to put an arm around her, to touch roughened fingers to soft hair or narrow waist. When she was done, she opened her mouth to thank them again, and saw the grins that creased their fierce faces, but before she could speak, the lights faded away and, with a whisper of shadow on dew-
touched grass, they were gone. Behind her, the mound still rustled with life as myriad small creatures worked their magic of remaking.

“Come, Guard,” said Nessa, shouldering the little bag and picking up the other with its strange cargo. The shovel she must leave somewhere in the fields; it would slow her progress, but could not be abandoned in this place. “We must seek shelter until it is dark again. Come, good friend.”

When it came to it, they did not go far, for there were soon men about, Somerled's men, and it was quickly clear to Nessa, peering out from what refuge she could find, that they were looking for someone. Perhaps they had learned of her escape, finding the ruins of Kinart's boat, her footsteps on the shore, some other trace. Perhaps Somerled sensed her purpose and sought to silence the voice she would summon. She could see small groups of warriors scouring the countryside, going into every cottage, every barn, searching each fold and cranny of the land, perhaps on orders not to return until they had found their prize. Of her own folk, she saw none as she fled, nor would she have sought them, for to ask for shelter among what survivors still lived in isolated farmhouse or far-flung settlement was to bring down Somerled's wrath on them. What must be done, she would do alone.

She was tired; she was so weary her legs would hardly go forward, her eyes barely remain open to see her way. She would have to stop. She would have to rest and go on at dusk when she might move more freely undetected. She watched while a group of five warriors searched a hay barn, now all but empty of its summer harvest. The best stock had not long been let out of winter confinement to feed on the first new growth in the fields; it was strange to remember that, but for Margaret and Ulf, the crop that had been stored here might never have been gathered in to nourish the herd through the dark season. When the search was over and the men moved on, Nessa stole into the barn with Guard by her side, and crept into a dark corner among the remnant hay. She lay down with her pack under her head and her arm curled protectively around the other bag. She was too weary to eat, to drink, to do anything at all. In the far corner, Guard caught some small, squealing thing and ate it hungrily. Nessa thought about Margaret. A fine, strong girl: a pity she had not been able to sway Somerled. He had not listened to her, and he had not listened to Eyvind. He had scorned the good counsel even of those who loved him. He had gone his own way, and now it seemed he would make the choices and determine the path for all of them. That could not be allowed to happen. She would stop him.
When it was dark, she must head southward to the great circle, and then to the coast again. The Hidden Tribe had come to her aid. Now she must seek help from another quarter, though she trembled to think of it. She would go on…she would…

Nessa slept. In the doorway lay Guard, one eye half-open, ready for trouble. The sun passed over, the breeze brought a shower of rain, and another. Down the hill, armed men passed and passed again, searching. The sunlight glinted on their spears, on their helms, on the burnished bosses of their round shields.

“Not a whisker,” said one warrior to another, easing his back. “Whatever way he went, it wasn't this one.”

“So what do we do?” asked a second. “Report back empty-handed? Who wants to tell Somerled we searched from dawn till midday and found nothing? Not me.”

“We could try northward,” suggested another.

“Fool's errand,” grunted the first. “The man's a Wolfskin. Wild creatures, they are. Slip across the land like the hunters they're named for. Like shadows. Like ghosts.”

“Bollocks,” said the second. “Any man can be caught, so long as he's flesh and blood. Somerled's right. Eyvind turned into a traitor. Traitors have to be taken and punished. No chieftain worth his salt lets a man turn against his own and get away with it, Wolfskin or no Wolfskin.”

“Never catch him, not unless he wants to be caught,” muttered the first man. “If you ask me, Somerled's a fool.”

“What?” Four voices spoke as one. His companions turned toward him, eyes narrowed, mouths grim. Each fingered his weapon.

“Nothing. Come on, then. North it is.”

They moved across the land in silence, leaving no tumbledown hut untouched, no cave, no sheepfold, no heap of weathered rock unsearched. In the hay barn, small creatures stirred in the walls, and Guard's ears twitched. Nessa slept a sleep of dark dreams.

As night fell a chill wind came up, numbing his ears, hurting his head, setting a shiver in his bones. He had stolen sword and knife, a pair of boots, a haunch of meat which he'd already eaten, crouched motionless in the lee of a stone wall between fields, some time during the day's gradual journey southward. Without fire it would be a cold, dark night. But fire could only attract pursuers; in darkness, he was safe from Somerled. A wolf finds his way by moon and stars, by the faint scent of the enemy, by the subtle movement of leaf and twig. Thus Eyvind must go; but for now his aching body demanded rest, his throbbing head and hazy eyes cried out for sleep. Ah, sleep: he longed for it and dreaded it. Sleep brought a bright tangle of dreams, and all the dreams were of her. The bad ones: Nessa frightened, Nessa captive, Nessa burning; from those he would wake with flesh bathed in cold sweat, heart racing, eyes full of tears. The good ones: her soft voice, her elusive smile, the scent of spring flowers; words of love she had never spoken, sweet touches she had never given. He walked with her on the shore in summer; he sat silent by her on the clifftop in springtime. Waking from those dreams was bitterest of all, and he did not know which was strongest in him, the craving to see her or the horror of confronting, each time anew, the knowledge that she had been taken from him. He cursed the gods for sending him such dreams, and yet he would not have been without them.

He could not go much farther; he must find the nearest hiding place and seek rest, at least for a little. Before dawn he would move on, and with luck be close to Hafnarvagr tomorrow, close enough to get a message to Eirik somehow, and find help. All day he had observed armed men swarming across the fields in search of him; to go to his brother's dwelling
was impossible. He would need all the stealth he could summon, and all the subtlety that Somerled had always told him a Wolfskin did not have. Perhaps that was what he should be trying to do: to think as Somerled would think, cleverly, cunningly. Somerled had always known how to put a legal argument, setting it out in logical sequence, clearly and wittily; when challenged by the opposition, Somerled could always summon some trick of words, or aim some barb at his adversary in order to extricate himself. Eyvind had never seen him lose. Very well then, he'd need to do something like that. A shiver went through him, for he knew this challenge was near impossible. Without help, it seemed quite beyond him. And to seek help, from his brother or Thord or others such as Brother Tadhg or even Margaret, that was to set those others at grave risk. What if something happened to Eirik, and his brother never returned home to his family in Rogaland? What kind of burden was that to have on your conscience?

Pondering this and trying to ignore the creeping cold, Eyvind marched grimly on in the darkness until he came to a place he recognized. He had come too far to the east, and was close to the great ring of standing stones, set by a narrow neck of land on rising ground. He had walked this way before, in the days when any man might pass freely across this land without fear of sudden ambush. But no man came here by night unless he must. The stones were full of ancient power; all felt the slow dance of spirits weaving around and between these grave giants. Dotting the landscape close by the great circle were earthen mounds, some sealed, some with low entrances leading to darkness. Only a fool would seek shelter in such a howe after sunset; they'd all heard the tales the locals put about, of how a night in there would turn your hair white as snow, and leave you screaming crazy things the rest of your life. Without saying it in as many words, it was made clear these old places were forbidden.

Eyvind walked on until he saw the form of one such barrow looming up ahead. He thought he could discern an opening, though all was shades of gray on gray. The moon was low in the sky, casting the stones' long shadows across the heather-clad hillside and touching the lake water with a faint glimmer of silver. It was apparent to him that he could go no farther; he recognized the gradual numbing in his legs and knew they would buckle and disobey him if he asked them to carry him on. Crouched double, he crept into the secret depths of the howe. He walked the edge of the chamber once, touching the neat-laid stones with outstretched fingers, judging the size, the positions of three small alcoves. He did not reach within them.
If precious things were hidden here, it was not for him to disturb them. Eyvind unbuckled his stolen sword; he spread his wolfskin on the earthen floor and sat, leaning his back awkwardly against the sloping wall, staring into the blackness. The wolfskin was all he had left, the last thing that was his own: that, and the small tokens Nessa had given him. His captors had tried to seize even those, with muttered words about spells and witchcraft. He had not fought them for his bright sword or his dagger, he had not even fought them for Biter, so great had been his anguish on that day of death and betrayal. But he had fought them for this scrap of cloth, this ribbon, these little things that seemed of no consequence, yet encompassed the world in the space of a girl's cupped hand.

He did not want to dream. He sat thinking, delaying the moment when his weary lids must drop over his eyes and the longed-for, the dreaded visions again assail him. The wolfskin was warm beneath him; he welcomed that. Not one of them had dared lay hands on that badge of honor, that garment of power. It was strange. In one way, he did not deserve the skin anymore; in another, it had never been more truly part of him. Thor had let him go. He would never again hear that golden trumpet voice calling him on, would never again know the thrilling flood of rage that threw the warrior forward in blind courage to do the god's will, the call that made of a man an unthinking weapon of sheer unassailable power. Invulnerable, that was what they said: a Wolfskin could be stopped neither by spear nor axe nor broadsword. The Warfather's silence had seemed a death blow; without that voice, he had indeed been lost, cast adrift, bereft of strength and robbed of purpose. A Wolfskin vowed lifelong loyalty; to break that vow was a kind of death. But he had been human then, as full of doubts and aspirations, of love and sadness as he was at this moment. Thor's cry had made him deaf to that, the red haze of battle frenzy had made him blind to it. Now he understood what it was to be a man: that it was to be weak as well as strong, to be foolish sometimes and wise sometimes, to know how to love as well as to kill. And he had learned that there were other paths for him, other gods who called in the deep places of the earth, in the lap of wavelets on the shore, in the breath of the west wind. He had learned that there were other kinds of courage. He knew, with deep certainty, that the islands held a new path for him. He need only move forward to find it.

His fingers moved across the fur of the wolfskin, feeling its softness, its strength, its beauty and power. He thought he saw the wolf's eyes glowing in the darkness, but now they were not yellow and feral, they were the blue
of a spring sky, full of courage and sorrow. They were his own eyes. It was his own skin. So long, so many seasons it had taken him to learn this lesson. He had believed it bravery, to feel no fear. It was only now, when there seemed nothing left but the darkness, that he understood what it was to be the wolf.

His eyes closed despite himself; dark turned darker. This time the dream came at once, a soft rustling from the entry as of gentle footsteps, a flickering gold light across the small chamber. She was there, standing hesitant by the opening, clad in blue tunic, dark skirt, her soft hair loose over her shoulders, a little bag on her back, a bundle under her arm. In her free hand she carried a tiny lamp; its glow illuminated her pale skin, her deeply shadowed eyes, her lips parted in the sudden shock of recognition. Her hand began to shake; the lamp wobbled perilously, spilling oil, threatening to fall. He heard her voice, a whisper of astonished disbelief.

“Eyvi?”

Gods, this was cruel indeed, for the nightmare to copy so closely what might have been real. How could he bear this? The urge in him was fierce to leap to his feet, to take two strides across and fold in his arms this lovely phantom, this beguiling trick of light and memory, yet he knew the moment he reached her she would fade, and he would be left with the night and the loneliness. He sat quite still. He scarcely dared to draw breath lest she vanish.

“Eyvi?” the vision said again, and now a hairy gray form pushed past her skirts and hurtled toward him, tail thrashing in delight, tongue licking his face in an exuberant display of recognition. Eyvind rose slowly to his feet, eyes fixed on the slender figure opposite. The lamp shook; she was going to drop it, and it would go out, and she would disappear forever.

“Careful,” he said, stepping forward. “Here, let me take it.” He reached out; he took the little light carefully from her and turned to place it safely in one of the alcoves. A warm glow spread through the round chamber, echoing the warmth that seemed to be flowing now, miraculous, incredible, into every corner of his wounded heart. The moment his fingers had touched hers, he had known that she was real.

Eyvind turned back. There was no need at all for words. His arms went around her, and hers around him; they stood thus enfolded a long time unmoving, for the message that flowed between them was deep and solemn, and needed no more for understanding than the beating of heart on heart.

The hound, however, had a wish to be a part of things, and at length made his presence known again by jumping to plant his great forepaws on Nessa's shoulder and giving little whines of excitement. Reluctantly, Eyvind released his hold and moved back a step, staring at her in wonderment.

“I thought you were dead,” he said, finding his voice did not come as readily as usual. “I thought you had perished there in your uncle's hall. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I failed you, I tried, but—”

“Shh,” Nessa said, putting her fingers up to touch his lips to silence. “You are here, that's all that matters now. How is it you are here, Eyvi? I saw you fall, I saw you clubbed down and trampled…I thought I had lost you, too, that day…” Her voice was shaking; in the lamplight, he could see the tracks of tears on her cheeks, he could see the deep weariness in her eyes, the pallor of her skin.

“You must sit down. Here,” Eyvind said, drawing her over to the place where the wolfskin was laid on the ground. “You look exhausted. You should eat and drink, you must rest. I have some water here, but no food; I made a rapid departure and brought only what I could snatch before I ran. Nessa—”

She sat; she looked up at him and he was instantly lost for words. In silence, he fetched his stolen water skin, and offered it for her to drink.

“I have some food,” she told him. “Bread, cheese, it's in my pack. We may as well share it now; who knows what tomorrow may bring? No, not that bag,” she said sharply as he moved to open the larger bundle she had carried. “The other, the small one; that's it.”

It was another night like that first one, when they had sat together by soft light under the earth, and spoken as if there were no barriers between them. Eyvind saw the recognition of that in Nessa's eyes. Yet, it was different as well. That first time, they had sat side by side, hand in hand, as if that were quite natural. Tonight, after that first fierce embrace of recognition, a sudden constraint had fallen between them; they sat close, but each was careful, now, not to touch. Their eyes met, and looked away, and met again, as if unable to deny what was as yet unspoken. Eyvind fetched the small store of food, Nessa divided it, giving the dog an equal share, and they made pretense of eating.

“How did you escape?” she ventured. “I cannot understand how you survived so harsh a blow.”

“Grim's an expert; he did not intend to kill me. And I've a hard head, and a will to go on. That much has brought me here. And you—Somerled
told me you had perished. He told me you were in the hall with King Engus. With your uncle.”

It seemed she grew still paler, her eyes full of dark memories. “My uncle expected an attack sometime, though not so soon. He made me promise to run and hide if it happened, and I kept my promise. I came away in the little boat, when all were gone. Somerled killed them, Eyvi. All my people, all the fine young men, every one. He hacked off their heads and left their bodies strewn on open ground, gull pickings, worm fodder; he defiled the Whaleback forever with that unthinking act of desecration. I walked among the fallen; I saw this work of madness. He struck down the Kin Stone. It seems to me an ocean of tears cannot speak such sorrow as this.”

Eyvind nodded. No words seemed adequate. He longed to take her in his arms again, to offer simple comfort, but he did not think he could.

“Why are you here? Where are you going?” she asked him suddenly.

“To Hafnarvagr, to seek my brother. I had evidence, clear proof of Somerled's responsibility for Ulf's death. I was foolish, I showed it to him, thinking to prevent the attack on the Whaleback, and he took it from me. He would not hear me, Nessa. And the others, I tried to tell them, I tried to stop them, but it was too late. The light of battle blinded them to the truth. But I will prove my case, despite all. I will find witnesses to what happened that day on High Island, and witnesses to the burning that killed Hakon and his wife. My brother can help me. I should move on at daybreak. Somerled's men are everywhere, searching for me. But I cannot leave you alone with nobody to guard you. Where can you go? Where can you be safe? I should be by your side to shield you.”

She was silent a little, toying with the crust of bread she held. Guard's eyes followed every movement. “I–I have something to do, a task that must be completed. It's a little like a ritual, that's the only way I can describe it. To do this, I must have some time alone, in a particular place. I'm traveling there now. It lies to the west; I came this way only to speak to the stones, to tell them my uncle's story. Eyvi—I cannot describe for you what comes next, it is dark and secret. But if I achieve this task, it will help. Its purpose is to confront Somerled with the truth of what he has done. So, my quest is the same as yours.”