The Book of Bera Page 8

  ‘I’m motherless too.’

  Quite. You of all people should understand how he feels. There he is, in his full grief, and yet you’re nasty.

  Bera threw the bowl of buttermilk at him. It trickled down the wall and soaked her blanket.

  Dearie me. I came to warn you about something but it’s gone right out of my head now, with all this unpleasantness.

  Bera sat down next to him. She needed comfort and leaned her head against his chest. She fell onto her bed through nothingness and wept, alone.

  The rain stopped before her visit to the bath hut. This time two women came with her: the silent one and an older thrall, who went off somewhere as soon as they got there. Bera soaked in the hot tub for a while, before being soaped and rubbed by the woman. It felt less strange.

  ‘This is fine soap. Do you make it here?’

  The woman’s beautiful slanted eyes were expressionless.

  It would be wrong to confide in a slave and lose authority but how Bera ached for a friend. It made her regret the times she had gone out fishing alone and not let Bjorn come with her. Wasted, like his life. But soon Thorvald would pay the blood debt; she was about to be presented with the sword to do it.

  When she was ready, Bera was taken to a smaller hut. It was stiflingly hot inside. The older woman was in there, heating stones. She dipped a wooden ladle into a tub of water and sprinkled them with large drops. Steam rose and wrapped Bera in a blanket of damp heat. It was wonderful. The woman gestured at a long pine bench. Bera sat down and was given a bundle of thin birch twigs. Was she supposed to brush the floor? The thrall mimed switching herself, like a horse gets rid of flies. Bera tried it and found it made her sweat. She beat her feelings away. Guilt, fear, remorse, betrayal, all vanished in an ecstasy of scratching.

  Afterwards, the woman led her to another wooden tub and she plunged into cold water. When her explosion of shivers relaxed, Bera saw that the rinse water had herbs and flowers strewn on the surface and there was a sweet scent of oils.

  ‘For good night.’ The older thrall winked.

  The silent one mimed a swollen belly. Both women thought it was all mighty funny and Bera was reminded that she was merely a house cow, bought to breed. She couldn’t run away. Her home village was teeming with Drorghers.

  As she took her place at Hefnir’s side, Bera was miserable. For a start, no villagers were there to witness it. Hefnir said it had all been settled the night she arrived, but was it true? Back home it was often the way that a man would sample his bride before the ceremony but this felt secret and wrong. She longed for Sigrid but she was surrounded by men she loathed and no kinswoman. Ottar ignored her and played with Heggi; Thorvald had a permanent smirk and kept making coarse jokes with Hefnir. She let herself imagine it was Dellingr beside her. The thought of him gave her strength.

  A fine thing, thinking about the smith when you’re stood next to your husband.

  ‘It’s his fault! He keeps joking with Bjorn’s killer.’

  Her skern settled round her neck with a shuddering sigh.

  Bera concentrated on the fact that she would own a sword at the end of this sham.

  It began as it did at home, with the man making a show of cleaning the sword. Hefnir then held the hilt towards her.

  Bera lay a hand on it and lied. ‘I take you as my husband,’ she said, ‘and swear that I shall give you children that shall be your own.’

  Best not mention the poultice then.

  ‘And I swear to protect and shelter you and all your kin,’ Hefnir prompted.

  Bera repeated his words then quickly took her hand off the sword.

  ‘Wait,’ Hefnir said. ‘There’s one more oath.’

  ‘No, there isn’t.’

  ‘Swear that you will take Heggi as your own son. That he remains my firstborn and so shall take back the sword of my forefathers.’

  That’s a new one. What are you going to do now?

  Bera’s brain whirled.

  ‘Get on with it,’ said Ottar. ‘My tongue’s hanging out for a drink here. And if you’re like your mother you’ll only get daughters, or some misshapen brat—’

  Hefnir insisted. ‘It’s an honest trade. I take you, your father and Sigrid under my protection. Remember, they’re all dead in Crapsby.’

  ‘Seabost has already sworn me as your wife, Hefnir, and I have done my duty for weeks. I need the sword for my own child.’

  Heggi flung his carved horse to the floor. ‘No! It’s my sword! It’s not fair! You promised, Papa. If I said sorry then I would have it back. She’s not my mother and no one can make me.’

  Hefnir gestured to Thorvald. ‘Take him to his place.’

  Thorvald lifted Heggi and the boy screamed frenziedly all the way through the byre.

  ‘Give it back, girl,’ said Ottar. ‘It was never yours to keep.’

  ‘All I ask is a small kindness, Bera,’ said Hefnir. His voice was soft, like he might use on a spooked horse, and he looked baffled at why she would refuse; hurt, even.

  She was young and lonely. Despite everything, Bera yearned for her new husband to smile at her and offer warmth and companionship. She was tired of being alone in warding off danger.

  ‘Then I take Heggi as our firstborn son.’

  And then Ottar shook Hefnir’s hand.

  Bera had sworn away any child’s rights – and failed to keep the sword.

  5

  A few days later, Hefnir took Thorvald off trading to keep them apart. Sigrid was well enough to tell her so.

  Bera was furious. ‘My potions have kept you alive! The least you could do is show some gratitude and not gossip about me with whoever drops by the sick house.’

  But Sigrid was too ill to argue.

  Bera left her to doze. It was clear she needed to kill Thorvald before the poor woman came to join them in the longhouse and live beside her son’s killer.

  Hefnir stayed away, sending back furs and goods. After a while, Bera liked coping without being watched and the burden of taking revenge lifted. The thralls quickly became unthreatening tools, like boat parts. They did the heavy labour, leaving Bera free to tend the animals, which she loved. The livestock were good but dogs better, especially Rakki. His uncomplicated joy was so different from his boy’s.

  Heggi spent time at the boatyard with Ottar, who offered to teach him boat-building skills. One day, Bera took out a small workboat. She didn’t tell her father that Hefnir had forbidden it. He was too busy fussing round the brat to notice, anyway.

  Out on the water she felt closer to Bjorn and began their song.

  ‘In the bones, in the bones,

  Feel the east wind in the rigging

  And the boat-song in your bones.’

  Her throat closed over the last words. There was no Bjorn to sing the second verse. Tears burned her wind-chilled cheeks and she turned back. Thorvald had poisoned her sailing, as he had everything else.

  Then one of the thralls got sick. It wasn’t red-spot but still bad. Bera made a quick healing stick while she tried out brews of different local plants. A rat took one of the mashes and it never reached its nest; it died writhing with pain. Bera pitied it but noted what she had used. It might be useful to kill vermin.

  Vermin like Thorvald.

  ‘I’m busy healing, you might notice.’

  He raised a finger. Dishonour follows he who uses venom.

  ‘You just made that up!’

  Your father’s the one for sayings.

  ‘Then how about “death cancels all debt”? That’s one of his.’

  Despite her skern, Bera concocted a useful remedy, which saved the thrall. She hoped it would impress Hefnir. And then she could not stop herself wondering if poisoning Thorvald would impress her father, who had loved Bjorn more than he loved her.

  Sigrid finished her recovery in the longhouse. Sickness and bereavement had taken a heavy toll and she was different: listless and forlorn. She did not even seem grateful that Bera’s potions had saved her. She s
at at the loom but there was no happy chatter or sharing of confidences. Bera did not tell her who would be returning with Hefnir, under his protection and under the same roof. How could she load her with such knowledge? Bera wanted to protect her from more pain. It was her own fault so she would deal with Thorvald alone.

  She devised a heavy hanging for the door and wove it with Sigrid. It made getting into the hall slower and panic-inducing but Bera had spoken words at the making of it so that it muffled the ancestors. It was also an extra barrier between her household and the malign forces that swept through the village in the darkness – whether folk believed it or not. Sigrid said it kept out the draught.

  By chance, Bera found another role in Seabost. She came upon a fight to the death. They said it was their way to settle disputes. Bera persuaded them that an outsider and Valla had no favourites, so could judge fairly. They wanted to lose no more men, so let her try. It was the stealing of a midden pig, which she quickly resolved by saying the pig should be slaughtered and parcelled round all the neighbours. Bera was proud, until Sigrid said one day she might be as good a judge as her mother. Bera wanted her own special skill.

  While Thorvald was out of the way, Bera tried other weapons she might use on him. She took a knot-spike from Ottar’s workshop but he missed it at once since all his tools were either hanging in orderly rows or on his tool belt. She daren’t risk taking it again. Everywhere she went in the boatyard, Heggi’s eyes bored into her, as if he knew what she was about. So, in desperation, she decided to get her small knife fixed. It meant visiting Dellingr again. She did not scrutinise why the idea pleased her so much.

  She went out so early that the low, bright sun made the frosted earth look bruised. A thin veil of mist trailed on the surface of the fjord. Boats swayed sluggishly against the wooden jetties, their sails hanging limp. Fishermen were getting ready to leave. The baker, who never went to bed, was turning out the first loaves and the smell of hot yeast made her stomach rumble.

  At the crossroads, Bera took the path to the forge but then on impulse she made for the huge rune stone. It was steeper this way so she stopped to catch her breath before pressing on. Pain griped and she grasped the coarse tussock grass to help her. When she reached the level summit she stood panting. She straightened up and looked at the stone. Although the weather side was blasted by storm-force winds, the carvings facing her were etched with lichen. The earliest memory Bera had was of her mother showing her some runes. She wished she could picture the whole of her face.

  ‘Are you there, Mama?’ Her words were smoke in the still air.

  Her skern was close, somewhere. A bad pain this time, like an iron claw rasping her stomach. She slid down against the rune stone and held tight to her necklace. Her skern was around her in an instant. Was she going to die like her mother? Was this how it felt?

  It’s only your courses.

  ‘I know. But bad up here – and you’re shrouding me.’

  Remember that warning?

  ‘No.’

  You keep putting it out of my mind. Let’s get warm. I can’t think when I’m cold.

  The two lay enfolded. The tightness comforted Bera. Was it why babies were swaddled when they parted from their skerns at birth? They must have shared a heartbeat in the womb but it was pointless to ask; her skern knew nothing of the past, just as she knew nothing of the future. Was this what death was like? Bera and her skern, together for eternity. Not having to face Thorvald. A languor soaked into her bones and she welcomed it. Falling asleep... not having to be afraid.

  Not yet, sweetheart.

  ‘I’m so lonely.’

  Her skern’s sad smile lingered and the ache of his unclasping was worse than ever. Bera stood up and stamped about, waving her arms to warm herself. The blood debt must be paid. Her duty was to see Dellingr to bring that closer.

  The forge was empty. A bitter blow, and Bera was close to tears. The boy came round from the back and was startled, his eyes huge in his black face.

  ‘Is Dellingr here?’

  The boy shook his head violently and ran inside. She heard the bellows whumping. There was nothing for it but to go home. She dawdled to the crossroads but the smith did not appear.

  Bera collected some loaves from the baker and her spirits lifted when he touched his forelock to her. Respect. She whistled on the way home. Dellingr was still in the world and there was time to prepare before Thorvald returned.

  She turned into the last twitten and saw blood.

  It did not shift her mood at first: it could have come from a chicken killed for the pot. She marvelled at the vivid red on the grey planks of the walkway until its saturation began to sear her brain. When she shut her eyes the splashes were still there, yellow against purple. The skern had forgotten his warning. Was it this?

  Bera hurried on. The drips kept with her, punctuating her way. She began to panic. She slipped and tripped, terrified they were all dead. Sigrid! The shame of failing to protect them was too dreadful to think about.

  Outside the door was a spray of scarlet, as if a vein had been opened right there.

  She fumbled with the thick outer latch but then it was open and she burst in, tripping on the sill. Very bad luck. She stumbled through the dark passage and could not find the inner latch. The spirits screamed.

  ‘Perfidy! Violation!’

  The door crashed open. Two bodies lay sprawled across the hearth. One was Rakki, so the other must be Heggi. She had forgotten about him.

  ‘Not him, Mama, please.’

  Bera pictured blond hair matted with blood. She rushed over, dreading what she would find. The boy and his dog were sleeping, close as puppies.

  Rakki opened one eye but did not stir.

  ‘Good dog,’ she whispered and stroked his head.

  All was safe and calm. The blood must be a butchered animal. A thrall came in from her quarters. Bera was going to ask her but it was the mute bath hut woman. She hurried over with house shoes, put them down and Bera slipped off her boots and stepped into them. The woman helped her off with her cloak and Bera told her to mend the boots.

  The woman’s silence rattled her.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ Bera demanded.

  The thrall lowered her head at her sharpness.

  Bera found something to be cross about. ‘The fire is low. Get a man to fetch the logs and bring fresh spruce.’

  The woman bowed lower, so a wing of black hair hid her face entirely, then backed away.

  She needed company. Was Sigrid outside? She was weak as a runt and certain to get sick again.

  Heggi slept on, so Bera started clanging pans around the fire. At last his eyes unstuck; he buried his fingers in the thick fur around the dog’s neck and kissed him.

  Then he noticed Bera. ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘When are you not? Leave that dog alone and come and have your day meal.’

  ‘Is there any honey?’

  ‘There’s barley porridge.’

  ‘Which needs honey.’

  ‘Get up and get dressed quickly. And put your bedroll back where it belongs.’

  ‘Papa sent some honeycomb from the Marsh Lands.’

  ‘Then why ask?’

  The boy sullenly pulled his thick woollen tunic over the clothes he had slept in.

  ‘It’s four more days till wash day,’ she said. ‘You’ll smell even worse if you sleep in them.’

  Heggi placed his shoulder against hers. ‘I’m going to be much taller than you!’

  ‘I’m not your mother.’ She regretted saying it at once. ‘I meant... It sounded like you might take after me.’

  ‘It’s easy to be taller than a dwarf.’

  Rakki rushed over to the door of the store and snorted loudly at the gap at the foot. Then he began scratching furiously at the wood.

  Heggi ran over to him. ‘What is it, boy?’

  The blood was no butchery.

  ‘Get your dog away,’ she said.

  ‘No, I’ll go in with him and s
ee what it is.’ Heggi’s hand was on the latch.

  ‘I’m telling you to stay here!’

  Bera softly opened the door, peeped inside. The rusty smell of blood. It was dripping from the neck of a large reindeer that was hanging from a roof beam.

  Something else, a slither of darkness, stirred.

  She slammed the door shut, fast.

  Heggi struggled to hold Rakki, who was stiff with rage, teeth bared and hackles bristling. His low continuous growl was more vibration than sound.

  ‘What is it?’ Heggi asked.

  ‘Run to the boatyard,’ said Bera. ‘Tell Ottar to get back here quickly. But you stay there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For once, just do as I say, will you!’

  The boy glared at her, then dragged his rigid dog to the door. It slammed behind them, which brought a thrall running, his arms full of spruce.

  ‘I have to deal with... something,’ Bera said. ‘Would you go and find Sigrid and get her back here as fast as possible?’

  The man threw down the boughs and left.

  Bera ran and took a knife from the pantry, longer than her gutting knife, though blunter. She slid it into her belt. The glimpse of the horror inside the store was enough to convince her she needed any weapon, as well as Valla words she wasn’t sure of. She took some deep breaths and went in.

  She faced a boggelman come to life, as tall as the beams. The saffron-yellow beard on his blue-black face shone like an inverted flame. He wore reindeer-skin trousers, above which his naked torso writhed with twisted snakes. Every small piece of visible skin, from stomach to neck and all along his arms, was alive with black-scaled vipers, including his face.

  He stretched up his arms and swung from the crossbeams. Each armpit had a huge, slit snake eye that winked when he pulled himself up. It smelt like a snake pit, too. This was a performance. He opened his mouth to reveal four rows of teeth, then pushed a notched tongue between them and waggled it at her, fast. Bera gasped but then composed herself and fought to stop her knees trembling. It made him laugh. A lot.