The Book of Bera Read online

  Suzie Wilde left full-time English teaching to go sailing. She has an MA with Distinction in Creative Writing from the University of Sussex. In 2014, she was selected as one of the first six playwrights to take part in a series of workshops at the Criterion Theatre with professional actors. She occasionally teaches creative writing in all genres.

  “Mind, maidens, we spare not

  One life in the fray!

  We corse-choosing sisters

  Have charge of the slain.”

  Darraðarljoð (‘Battle Song of the Valkyries’ ), Njál’s Saga

  With Special Thanks to Hotel Rangá

  www.hotelranga.is

  THE BOOK OF BERA

  (PART ONE: SEA PATHS)

  SUZIE WILDE

  This edition first published in 2017

  Unbound

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  All rights reserved

  © Suzie Wilde, 2017

  The right of Suzie Wilde to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Text Design by PDQ

  Art direction by Mark Ecob

  A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978-1-78352-277-4 (trade hbk)

  ISBN 978-1-78352-279-8 (ebook)

  ISBN 978-1-78352-278-1 (limited edition)

  Printed in Great Britain by CPI

  In memory of my mother, Dorothea Davies, who made me what I am.

  Dear Reader,

  The book you are holding came about in a rather different way to most others. It was funded directly by readers through a new website: Unbound. Unbound is the creation of three writers. We started the company because we believed there had to be a better deal for both writers and readers. On the Unbound website, authors share the ideas for the books they want to write directly with readers. If enough of you support the book by pledging for it in advance, we produce a beautifully bound special subscribers’ edition and distribute a regular edition and e-book wherever books are sold, in shops and online.

  This new way of publishing is actually a very old idea (Samuel Johnson funded his dictionary this way). We’re just using the internet to build each writer a network of patrons. Here, at the back of this book, you’ll find the names of all the people who made it happen.

  Publishing in this way means readers are no longer just passive consumers of the books they buy, and authors are free to write the books they really want. They get a much fairer return too – half the profits their books generate, rather than a tiny percentage of the cover price.

  If you’re not yet a subscriber, we hope that you’ll want to join our publishing revolution and have your name listed in one of our books in the future. To get you started, here is a £5 discount on your first pledge. Just visit unbound.com, make your pledge and type BERA in the promo code box when you check out.

  Thank you for your support,

  Dan, Justin and John

  Founders, Unbound

  Prologue

  The longhouse slumbered in its winter-bound dusk. The woman listened for voices but there was only the crackle of the fire. All gone. Shadows thickened the cobwebbed corners but she knew her skern was there, waiting for her to die, so that they could start their last journey together as they had the first.

  She needed to get her daughter here. She struggled to prop herself against the rough wooden frame to begin the words of command but the tearing sensation deep inside frightened her into stillness.

  The fire bowed as a draught swept in with the chilling dark.

  ‘Mama?’

  ‘Bera? Come to me, I need you.’

  The latch clacked and the gloaming settled once more. Smoke hazed the spaces of her narrowing sight. Her breath was shallow, raspy.

  ‘Don’t be afraid, Bera. I have to give you something.’

  The child made no move.

  She reached out. ‘Don’t be frightened of your mother.’

  Footsteps rustled the new firs Sigrid had put down after the birth. Their sharp smell rallied her enough to make out the small, pale face hovering in the gloom. Her child looked too serious, too young.

  ‘Good. Now you have to help me.’

  ‘How?’

  She clutched her hand. ‘I can’t do it myself, Bera. You must.’

  ‘You’re hurting me, Mama.’

  ‘Take off my necklace.’ She bent her head.

  It was some time before she felt icy fingers fumble at her neck, a rough smock brushing her face. The bead necklace slithered down her neck and fell onto the floor with a clatter. She gasped, her throat exposed to danger. It had not been off her neck since her own mother had died.

  At last, the scratch of the beads being gathered.

  ‘Keep it safe, Bera. You’re so young and I didn’t... Listen. It’s our lifeline. You are a Valla. The black bead…’ The pain returned, stealing breath and reason.

  Her only son had gone full term. If only her death could have given him life. Her skern swept round her like a cloak and the gnawing need to slip away was taking over.

  ‘Bera?’

  The child put a small, cold hand against her cheek and the touch freed her. Her breath left her like the tide, leaving only the beads hanging between them like a cord.

  1

  Bera reached the waymark and took the path towards the Ice-Rimmed Sea. Marsh reeds and grasses whispered, husky in the frosted air. It was dawn, at the tipping point of the year; when long, barren months gave way to fishing and trading. Until winternights, those left alive were too busy to visit the sacred sites.

  Only someone who needed to.

  Her mother’s rune stone sat on top of a hillock at the edge of their inlet, the place she had chosen at the height of her power. Bera paused while she was still quite far away and gazed at the grey sentinel in the bleached landscape. Beyond it, a skein of whale paths stretched to the flat sea-rim, with furrows and cat’s paws where the wind whispered on the water. She sensed the distant swell of long waves, their slow tumble in the deep. The edge of the known world.

  The rune stone was close enough to be reached from the village where her father had brought her and her mother, leaving behind the rest of their folk to die from the red-spot sickness. Closer to the Seabost raiders, too, who needed his boats and would trade. Folk resented Seabost arrogance and feared their battle scars but they needed meat, so deals were struck.

  This was the seventh time Bera had come here on the day of her mother’s death. Sigrid always said the baby had killed her by being born with a monster face that couldn’t suckle. Bera had been too young to remember much, except the fire of the skin at her mother’s neck. She quickened her pace.

  At the rune stone Bera opened her bag and took out a shallow dish. She had no idea how to scry and Sigrid was useless. She may have been her mother’s best friend but Sigrid was frightened of ‘Valla stuff’ and had no knowledge to pass on to Bera. It made it even harder to live up to folks’ expectations – and now they needed her more than ever.

  It’s never going to work without water, dear.

  Her skern was leaning against the rune stone, studying his nails.

  ‘If you know that much, why don’t you tell me how to scry?’

  I can tell you how but you either have the knack or you don’t. Seems you don’t.

  ‘Y
ou’re supposed to predict for me. So tell me where to find water.’

  I’m not here to replace your eyes, ducky, so open them. There’s a spring over there, look.

  Not for the first time, Bera wondered if her skern was unusually exasperating. A Valla like her always kept her twin spirit close, supposedly to receive support and guidance. Normal folk were born with their skerns, then lost them until the point of death. Bera often had cause to envy this, given her skern’s nature. She stomped over to collect some clear water in the bowl and carefully took it back to rest on flattened earth, near the rune stone. The water stilled and Bera stared at the dark surface.

  Her skern smirked back.

  ‘Stop leaning over me.’

  He flumped down beside her in a sulk.

  ‘I need you, Mama.’

  The bowl reflected nothing but Bera felt close to her mother here and some signs might one day come.

  ‘It’s the time of Drorghers, Mama. But worse than that, I think the red-spot has started here.’

  It has.

  ‘I’m talking to my mother.’

  I don’t hear her saying much. Go on, ask me what to do.

  ‘You never give a straight answer.’

  I’m getting the hang of it. So listen up. I happen to know that a fabulous creature, other than me, has wandered far off its normal track.

  ‘What has that got to do with the sickness?’

  Always so impatient!

  ‘So is death.’

  He held up a hand. Its tusk will protect from red-spot. Or any evil.

  Bera pictured herself being held high on shoulders, a hero. ‘How do I get it?’

  That’s up to you. Look into the dish.

  The wet back of a huge beast surged out of a frozen sea. Old battle scars marked runes in its mottled white hide. Bera tried to read them but its head surfaced, pointing a spiralled spear at the sky.

  ‘That’s the tusk!’

  An overgrown tooth, actually. Now study the land behind it.

  ‘Cleft, shingle beach, gnarled tree.’ She shivered. ‘What beast is it?’

  Narwhale. There are always... conditions attached to using its tusk.

  ‘I’m getting better at healing, even Sigrid says so. I’ll work out how to use it.’ Bera leapt up. ‘I’ve always wanted to see a narwhale!’

  The runes on its back are signs.

  ‘I’ll get Bjorn and the others.’ She was already on her way.

  Killing the creature was the price of their safety.

  The six families had moved into the mead hall for the dark days, to keep safe and eke out the food until late spring. It had been a hard winter and scant food remained. There had been one time of starving, after they had failed to pay Seabost, and Bera vowed she would never let them be that hungry again. But now there was the outbreak of sickness and, for the first time, she knew how to help. She glanced up at the ribbed cross of timbers, ruddy in the fire’s glow. It was like being inside a whale.

  Seabost was best passed in darkness but it was too late for that now. There had been too much drinking and her father would probably refuse to give her a crew. Still, Bera took a ladle of water from the bucket, poured it down her throat and then banged it on the cooking pots.

  ‘Come on! Wake up! We need to get going!’

  The hall was full of folk bundled in furs, the air sour with ale-sodden snores and old smoke. There were moans and shuffles as they stirred. Her father pushed off his bedroll and stood up. He coughed, hawked and spat. The gobbet sizzled in the fire. He banged his chest with a massive fist.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere.’

  ‘I’m going to the Skerries so I need your crew.’

  ‘We’ve got boats to re-rig ready to go out.’

  ‘You don’t need to rush if I bring back food.’

  He gave a warning growl, like an old bear. It would have stopped her but she was determined to start being a proper Valla.

  ‘I’ll go alone,’ she said. ‘Who needs your scabby crew anyway?’

  ‘You do. So you’re staying put and we’ll have less lip.’

  Bera got close. ‘It’s red-spot. Do you want us all dead?’

  A square bundle of clothes pushed forward, with only a nose and mouth visible. Sigrid minded the cold.

  ‘It’s too dangerous.’ Sigrid shoved her shawl back with mittened hands. ‘You’ll be too close to Seabost and they won’t have it.’

  Her father pulled on his boots. For some reason he looked smug, like when he had a big boat order. ‘It’s not Seabost she needs to fear.’

  ‘I don’t fear anything,’ Bera lied, and crossed her fingers.

  ‘Tend the sick, then. Brew some herbs.’

  ‘She doesn’t know the best ones, Ottar.’ Sigrid scratched. ‘Her mother never had time to show her.’ She burrowed under her furs and triumphantly crushed a flea.

  ‘So try helping me, Sigrid.’

  ‘Your mother would—’

  ‘Enough gossip.’ Ottar strapped on his tool belt. ‘I’m off to get the kitting-out started.’

  He kicked his lad awake and headed for the double doors. Big Falki stopped him but Bera didn’t wait. She needed Bjorn.

  Her friend was Sigrid’s son but everyone said he was more like his father, Bjarni, who drowned soon after he was born. Bjorn had come into the longhouse to live with them afterwards as Ottar’s foster-son, which surprised folk considering how Ottar used to call both parents useless.

  Bjorn was slightly younger than Bera. He was sleeping like a toddler; blond hair tangled over his creased face. There was darker fuzz on his upper lip. When had that appeared? Bera didn’t want him to become a man and go off and drown like his father. She kicked him crossly, as if he had willed himself to grow up.

  ‘That hurt!’ He rubbed his thigh.

  Bera snarled like a bear and flung herself at him. Bjorn rolled on top of her and tickled her until she wept and they laughed so much they were crying.

  Bjorn said, ‘Do you know how to get a man off you? I mean, if it was real.’

  ‘How would you know?’

  ‘Big Falki told me. You have to go all limp, don’t fight. Let him think he’s got you, then twist …’

  ‘I can guess what,’ she said. ‘Come on, we’re taking a boat out. The others won’t come so it’s just you and me.’

  Bjorn grinned. ‘As ever. What are we after?’

  ‘Something to cure the red-spot,’ she whispered. ‘My skern told me about it.’

  Bjorn slept fully dressed and only had to pull on his sea boots.

  ‘No wonder you stink,’ Bera said.

  He also believed in her skills, though, so Bjorn hurried off to fetch their fishing gear. Bera was grateful.

  She went to say goodbye to his mother, who would be working hard and complaining about it. Sure enough, she was at the back of the hall, tidying away the bedding.

  Sigrid didn’t look up. ‘You’re leaving me with all this, then?’

  ‘Come with us, Sigrid.’

  ‘Never! I’m not drowning, even for you. When have I ever got on a boat?’ She stopped. ‘Teasing me again. But listen, I feel a bit mizzy-mazey today. Don’t go.’

  Perhaps she should stay. Or did some growing Valla instinct want Sigrid aboard? Either way, Bera batted away the thought of danger.

  ‘I have to find a narwhale.’

  ‘They don’t come down this far.’

  ‘The Skerries?’

  ‘Bjarni went up past Seal Island, only time he ever saw one. How do you know where to look?’

  Bera wanted support, not doubt. ‘I’ll take Blind Agnar.’

  Sigrid bridled. ‘That old fool.’

  ‘It was a whale that blinded him, so now he senses them.’

  Sigrid sniffed and rubbed her nose on her sleeve.

  ‘Chop some more wood when it’s full daylight,’ Bera said. ‘One of the fires was nearly out when I got up.’

  Sigrid made the hammer sign at her throat. ‘Were there Drorgher
s?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Ottar arrived. ‘Take the fast boat. Big Falki will row.’

  Bera was surprised. ‘What changed your mind?’

  ‘You need more than Bjorn.’ Her father glanced at Sigrid. ‘Falki’s wife died in the night and both his sons are sick.’

  ‘I will stop the red-spot!’ Bera braced herself for their scorn but none came. It felt good.

  Bjorn beckoned to her.

  Ottar went instead and spoke into his foster-son’s ears. Then he shouted back to Bera. ‘Tell me if the Seabost traders are heading out yet.’

  Was her father letting her go because he always gave in to Bjorn?

  Sigrid caught Bera’s arm. ‘I don’t like this. My friend’s just died. It’s a sign. It’s the wrong time, the wrong place, I don’t want Bjorn going.’

  Bera’s scalp prickled, which was a sign of danger, or sometimes anger. ‘Why do you and Ottar spoil everything? It’s my one chance to prove I’m as good a Valla as my mother and you ruin it. Bjorn trusts me, why can’t you?’

  Sigrid made the hammer sign. ‘Then look after Bjorn for me, Bera. If anything should happen … Look after my boy.’

  Bera clenched her teeth. There was to be an end of doubting herself. She would find the narwhale and come home in glory.

  Ottar’s boat was tied up at the jetty, butting against the posts as if urging her on. Big Falki and his oarsman were throwing the kit aboard. Beyond it, at the far end of the jetty, Blind Agnar was sitting, as he did every day. He was shamefully old. His equally ancient dog was curled at his feet. Both turned to face the sound of her approach with opaque blue eyes, like sea-milled glass.

  ‘That you, Bera?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I’m smelling a storm coming.’

  ‘There’s a mackerel sky, but I don’t think the bad weather will come till this evening.’

  ‘Could be so. Where you off to?’

  ‘I’ll get out there, then see. I want you to come.’