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“Yes.” It was like swearing an oath: the most serious thing he’d ever done. He didn’t know how he’d manage, but he’d do it, or die trying. “I will. Don’t worry, Ralf. Gudrun, I promise I’ll bring her home again.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Ralf gave Peer a tiny nod, and looked at Gudrun. With an enormous sniff, Gudrun nodded too.
“Thank you! Oh, thank you!” Hilde nearly danced on the spot.Then she threw herself at Peer and hugged him. “Oh, Peer, I never thought you might want to come too. But you do, and it’s perfect—absolutely perfect!”
She let him go. He looked dizzily around the room. No one else seemed very happy. Arnë was scowling. Harald lifted an ironic eyebrow. Gunnar frowned. “Who is this?” He jabbed his thumb at Peer as though he’d quite forgotten meeting him on the jetty. “What use will he be to me? Why should I take him on my ship?”
And Hilde said cheerfully, pulling him forward with her arm around him: “Oh, this is Peer. He’s terribly useful. He can do anything with wood. His father was a boat builder. He’s helped Bjørn make a new faering. And he’s my brother. He’s my foster brother!”
CHAPTER 5 The Journey Begins (#ulink_e4f34f63-afda-585f-8924-3c3fa38e37aa)
Peer opened his eyes and saw a dark roof-space criss-crossed with sunbeams like golden scaffolding. Straw prickled under him. To one side of him was a plank partition. Behind the planks something large was champing and stirring.
Slowly he remembered. He and the twins were sleeping in the cowshed to leave more room for the guests. “Do you mind, Peer?” Gudrun had whispered last night. He’d minded very much, but of course he’d lied and said he didn’t.
He remembered more, and a pit of dread opened in his stomach. What had he done? Had he really promised to go away for an unknown period of time, on a strange ship, to a strange land? Spring was on the way. He’d been looking forward to seeing the lambs being born, watching the barley come up, rowing out of the fjord with Bjørn and Sigurd to gather seagulls’ eggs from the islands. Now all that would go on without him.
He sat up. On mounded straw between him and the door, the twins slept, cocooned in blankets. Behind the partition, Bonny the cow swung up her head, rolled a large brown eye at him, and returned to munching and breathing and switching her tail. From a warm nest in the straw beside him, Loki got up, stretching and yawning.
Peer stared at his dog in dismay. How could I have forgotten him? But is it fair to take him on a ship, for weeks at sea?
Loki lifted a paw and scraped at Peer’s arm, probably hoping for breakfast. Peer took it, feeling the dog’s pads rough on his fingers. “Loki, old fellow,” he murmured. “What shall we do? Do you want to come with me?” Loki’s tail hit the ground, once, twice.
“Good boy!” Peer hugged him. He was fooling himself, and he knew it: Loki always wagged his tail when Peer spoke to him. But he didn’t care. He could never leave Loki behind.
At least that was decided. He lay back in the straw, stared upwards, and wished he could carry on sleeping—that today need never start—that he didn’t have to remember what Hilde had said last night. Peer’s my brother.
He burrowed under the blanket, trying to dive back into sleep and escape the aching throb of the memory. A brother! A safe, dependable brother, to be relied on and ignored. Didn’t Hilde know how he felt about her?
Perhaps not: he’d been so careful to keep things friendly all year. Perhaps she thought he’d got over it. He wished he’d kissed her again, even if she’d been angry. He wished he’d tried.
Oh, what was the use? Peer’s my brother! It was hopeless.
“Psst,” came a piercing whisper. “Peer! Are you awake?”
He raised his hot face from the crackling straw and saw Sigrid sitting up, arms wrapped neatly round her knees.
“Are you really going away to Vinland, Peer?”
“Looks like it,” he said gloomily.
“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”
“But Hilde wants to, and I’ve promised to go with her.”
“Oh, Hilde,” said Sigrid crossly. “Why do you always do what she wants?”
“I don’t!” He thought about it. “Do I?”
“Yes, you do.” Sigrid sat up straighter and wagged her finger at him. Peer almost smiled, but she was quite serious. “You’ve got to be tougher, Peer. Sometimes Hilde ought to do what you want.”
Peer stared at her, speechless, until Sigrid wriggled and said, “What?”
“You’re a very clever girl, Siggy,” he said slowly. “And you are absolutely right!”
She beamed with surprised pleasure, and Peer threw back his blankets. “Time to get up!” And he pulled open the creaking cowshed door and stuck his head out.
The morning was sunny, but a wind with ice in its teeth blew down from the mountains. A seagull tilted overhead, dark against the blue and white sky, then bright against the hillside as it went sweeping off down the valley. Peer watched it. A fair wind for sailing west. So we really are leaving. Today.
But Sigrid’s simple words had acted like magic. He set his jaw. I’ve messed about long enough, trying to be whatever Hilde wants. From now on, I’ll act the way I feel!
He stepped out, alive and determined, and nearly trod on something shrivelled and whip-like lying by the corner of the cowshed. Loki ran to sniff at it, and backed off, sneezing. It was the troll’s tail. Peer poked it with his foot, and when it didn’t move, he picked it up gingerly by the tip. It was heavier and bonier than he’d expected, and cold to the touch. He threw it on the dung heap with a shudder. A rusty smear stained the bare earth where the tail had lain. Blood. He scuffed dirt over it so that Sigrid would not see, and went on into the house.
Gudrun and Hilde were sorting out clothes. Peer put away his faint hope that Hilde might have changed her mind. Astrid sat like a queen in Ralf’s big chair, watching them. She had little Elli on her knee, and was letting the baby play with a bunch of keys that dangled from her belt, jigging her up and down and humming some strange little song that rose and fell. Ralf, Gunnar and Harald were nowhere to be seen.
“Peer! Eat something quickly. Gunnar wants to catch the morning tide.” Gudrun’s voice was brittle.
“The men have gone down to the ship. Gunnar wants to load up more food and fresh water. We’re going to follow as soon as we can,” Hilde added. She glanced at Gudrun guiltily, but Peer could tell she was bursting with excitement.
“I don’t know.” Gudrun bundled up a big armful of cloaks, shifts and dresses. “You’d better just take everything. Peer, you can have some of Ralf’s winter things. You’ve grown so much this year. I was going to make new clothes for you, but now—” She broke off, folding her lips tight.
“Where’s Eirik?” asked Peer.
“Pa took him along to show him the ship,” said Hilde. “It would have been tricky to manage him and Elli and the baggage too. And of course Ma wants to come down to the ship as well because—” She stopped.
But for once Peer wasn’t interested in sparing Hilde’s feelings. He completed the sentence for her: “You mean, because she wants to say goodbye?”
Hilde flushed. There was a moment when no one spoke, and in the interval they heard Astrid singing to Elli, clapping the baby’s hands together at the end of each line:
”Two little children on a summer’s night,Went to the well in the pale moonlight.The lonely moon-man, spotted and oldScooped them up in his arms so cold. They live in the moon now, high in the air.When you are old and grey, darling,They’ll still be there.”
“I’ll take her, shall I?” Peer almost snatched Elli away from Astrid.
“What a strange rhyme,” said Gudrun nervously.
Astrid looked up: “It’s one my mother used to sing. What a lovely baby Elli is. Why has she got webbed fingers?”
“She’s Bjørn’s daughter,” Peer snapped, as though that explained it. His friend’s tragic marriage with a seal-woman was none of Astrid’s business.
Gudrun must have thought so too, for she said, clearing her throat, “Now, I wonder where the Nis is. I haven’t seen it this morning.”
Peer made a startled, warning gesture towards Astrid. But Hilde shook her head. “It’s all right, Astrid knows.”
“Knows about the Nis?” Peer looked at Astrid in suspicious astonishment.
“I saw it,” Astrid said. “I knew it wasn’t a troll. And don’t worry, I haven’t told Harald.” She gave him a sweet smile. “You’re a good liar, aren’t you, Peer? You fooled Gunnar and Harald, anyway. But not me. I asked Hilde, and she told me it was a Nis. I even put its food down last night—Gudrun showed me how after everyone went to bed. It likes groute, doesn’t it? Barley porridge with a dab of butter? And then it does the housework.”
“Or not,” said Gudrun,” as the case may be.” She put her hands on her hips. “Well, if Gunnar wants you on that boat before noon, we’d better move.”
There seemed mountains of stuff to load on to the pony. “We’ll never need all this, surely?” Hilde laughed.
“I’m sure you will,” said her mother grimly.
“What’s this?” Peer picked up a tightly rolled sausage of woollen fabric.
“That’s a sleeping sack,” said Gudrun. “Big enough for two. It’s for you, Peer—we’ve only the one, and Astrid says she’ll share hers with Hilde. Ralf used it last, when he went a-Viking.”
“Thank you, Gudrun,” Peer said with gratitude. He hadn’t thought about Loki. He hadn’t thought about sleeping arrangements. What else had he missed?
“My tools—I’d better bring them.” He dashed back into the empty house and looked around, caught by the strangeness of it all. Would he ever come back?
“Nis,” he called quietly, and then, using the little creature’s secret name, “Nithing? Are you there?” He listened. Nothing rustled or scampered. No inquisitive nose came poking out over the roofbeams. “Nis?”
Perhaps it was curled up somewhere, fast asleep after the shocks and excitement of last night. “I’m going,” he called, raising his voice. “Goodbye, Nis…I’m going away. Look after the family.” Again he waited, but only silence followed. “Till we meet again,” he ended forlornly.
He picked up his heavy wooden toolbox and went out, closing the door behind him. The pony lowered its head and snorted indignantly as this last load was strapped on.
“On guard!” said Gudrun to grey-muzzled old Alf, who settled down in front of the doorstep, ears pricked. Hilde carried Elli. Astrid was wrapped in her blue cloak again, shoulder braced against the weight of her bulging goatskin bag.
Peer held out his hand. “Give that to me, Astrid. I’ll carry it for you.”
“No!” Astrid clutched the strap. “I’ll carry it myself. It’s quite light.”
It looked heavy to Peer, but he didn’t care enough to insist. “Are we ready, then? Off we go.”
Through the wood and downhill to the old wooden bridge—each twist of the path so familiar, Peer could have walked it with his eyes shut. Past the ruined mill, where a whiff of burning still lingered in the damp air, and into the trees again. On down the long slope, till they came to the handful of shaggy little houses that made up Trollsvik. They swished through the prickly grass of the sand-dunes and dropped down on to the crunching shingle.
The fjord was blue-grey; beyond the shelter of the little harbour it was rough with white caps. Short, stiff waves followed one another in to land, turning over and collapsing abruptly on to the pebbles. And there was the ship, Water Snake, bare mast towering over the little jetty, forestay and backstay making a great inverted “V”. It was a shock to see her, somehow—so real, so—
“So big!” Gudrun gasped.
Astrid stopped, her cloak flapping in the wind. Her face was sombre, and she braced her shoulders. “Here we go again!”
Most of the village was there on the shore, trying to sell things to Gunnar. “Chickens—you’ll want more chickens. Fresh eggs and meat for the voyage!” That was old Thorkell, gripping a couple of hens by their legs and brandishing them, flapping, in Gunnar’s face. The jetty bristled with people, onlookers jostling against cursing sailors who were manhandling barrels of fresh water and provisions into the ship.
There was Harald, his long hair clubbed back in a ponytail, heaving barrels and crates around with the crew. Peer’s eyebrows rose in grudging respect: he’d thought Harald too much the “young lord” to bother with real work. He noticed with relief that neither Harald nor Gunnar were wearing swords this morning. That would even things out a bit. Of course, those long steel swords would rust so easily; they’d be packed away in greased wool for the voyage. I suppose they got them out yesterday to impress us all, he thought sourly.
Ralf and Arnë came to unload the pony. Ralf seized Hilde. “Are you sure about this?” he asked. And before Peer could hear her reply, somebody grabbed him, too, and swung him round.
It was Bjørn, a tight frown on his face. “What on earth are you doing?” he demanded. “How can you think of sailing with Harald?”
Peer’s gaze slid past Bjørn’s shoulder to where Hilde was standing with Ralf. “I’ll be all right, Pa,” she was saying in an earnest voice. “I really, truly want to go.”
“Ah,” said Bjørn. “So this is Hilde’s idea, is it? I might have known.”
“Not entirely,” said Peer, blushing.
Bjørn shook him. “I thought we were going to work together. I thought you wanted to build boats, like your father.”
“I do.” Peer touched the silver ring he always wore, his most treasured possession. It had been his father’s, and it never left his finger. He added earnestly, “And I do want to work with you, Bjørn. When I come back—”
“When you come back!” Bjørn exploded. “If you come back! Peer, this is no fishing trip. Whatever they say, Gunnar and his men are Vikings, and that ship is—is like a spark from a bonfire that goes floating off, setting trouble alight wherever it lands.” He added wryly, “Well, I’m not usually so poetical. But you see what I mean?”
“Yes,” said Peer. “But your brother’s going, isn’t he? This is a trading voyage, not a Viking raid. Gunnar has his wife with him. He’s not going to fight anyone in Vinland, he’s just going to cut down trees for a cargo of timber. Besides—”
He broke off. Who am I trying to convince? And yet he still felt the unexpected longing that had squeezed his heart yesterday evening as he looked westwards from the stern of Water Snake. “Bjørn,” he said awkwardly, “the very last ship my father worked on, the Long Serpent, she’s in Vinland now. Think of it, she sailed all that way! He’d have been so proud of that. I’d like to follow after her, just once. I’d like to find Thorolf and say, ‘Remember me? I’m the son of the man who built your ship.’”
Bjørn began to speak, then shook his head.They stood looking at each other for a moment, while the gulls screamed and circled, and the men shouted on the jetty.
“One thing you should know,” Bjørn said at last. “Gunnar’s own men have been gossiping that he and Harald killed a man in Westfold and had to run for it. No wonder they’re on their way back to Vinland.”
“But that’s no secret,” said Peer. “He told us about it. That’s when he lost his hand. It was self-defence. The other man started it.”
“You mean, the same way you ‘started’ that fight with Harald yesterday?”
“You might be right,” said Peer after a pause. “But I won’t back out now.”
Bjørn sighed. “Arnë won’t change his mind, either. He’s always been crazy, but I thought you had sense.Well, stick together.” He caught Peer’s expression. “You can trust Arnë. You know him. But keep out of Harald’s beautiful hair.” He clapped Peer on the back. “Maybe you’ll come back rich! And now we’d better go and lend a hand—before Gunnar decides you’re nothing but a useless passenger.”
“Don’t touch the sail,” Astrid said to Hilde. “That red colour comes off all over your clothes.”
“Where shall I go?” Hilde looked around, wondering where she could sit. The ship was full of scrambling seamen.
“Just try and keep out of their way.” Astrid perched on a barrel, forward of the mast, and began to tie her hair up in a headscarf. “It’ll be better when we’re sailing.”
“Mind out, Miss.” One of the men pushed past Hilde. “Here, you, son”—this was to Peer—“give me a hand with these oars.”
Hilde craned her neck to see if Ma and Pa were still watching. Of course they were. She gave them a desperate little wave. This is awful. If only we could just get going.
A rope flipped past her ears. Arnë jumped down into the ship and pushed off aft. Bjørn tossed another rope down to him. Harald took the tiller. A gap of water opened between the ship and the jetty. Hilde stared at it. It was only a stride wide. She could step over that easily if she wanted.
With a heavy wooden clatter, the oars went out through the oar holes—only three on each side, but Water Snake was moving steadily away. For a moment longer the gap was still narrow enough to jump—then, finally and for ever, too wide.
Pa’s arm lifted. Sigurd and Sigrid waved, and she heard them yelling, “Goodbye, goodbye!” Even Eirik opened and closed his fingers, and Sigrid was flapping Elli’s arm up and down. But Ma didn’t move. Hilde raised her own arm and flailed it madly.
Too late to say the things she should have said. I love you. I’ll miss you all so much. Too late to change her mind. Ma, please wave…
And at last Gudrun’s hand came slowly up. She waved, and as long as Hilde watched she continued to wave across the broadening water, till the jetty and all the people on it dwindled with distance to the size of little dark ants.
Hilde blinked, carefully, so as not to spill tears down her cheeks. Her throat ached from not crying. She turned a stiff neck to look round at the ship: her new world, her new home.
And there was Peer, wrenching away at one of the oars. He looked up and caught her eye, and gave her an odd lopsided smile, and she knew that he knew just how she was feeling.
It’s going to be all right, she thought, comforted.
“Oars in,” Gunnar bellowed. “Up with the sail!”
Thankfully Peer dragged his long oar back through the oar hole. Water Snake began to see-saw, pitching and rolling over steep, choppy waves. He laid the wet oar on top of the others in a rattling pile, and went scrambling down to the stern to help haul up the sail.
