Chapter 17
Feelings of intense panic and of warmth spreading throughout the kindling under his feet plagued Ivar’s mind. He couldn’t escape the memory of such a blind terror. And then there was the memory of Areld’s screams as his body was consumed by fire. It echoed in his sleep and haunted his quiet thoughts when no one else was around.
Early in the morning, Ivar and a small handful of other villagers left to trek north and south to find the ship on which the two Ør scouts had arrived. Ivar was in the southern party with Sigvard, his father, and Eldór was in the northern party with Leiv and a hunter named Torald. He and Eldór brought in the vast majority of Neska’s meat, as well as that of the surrounding villages.
Ivar opted for the southern party, partly because, after Eldór’s doubt of his daughter’s eyesight on the boat, he was afraid of what he’d say to him when they found it; biting his tongue would be a struggle. The other reason was because, judging by where the Ør had found them in the woods, his instinct told him they’d find it in the south.
They first made for the familiar bits of coast just outside the village, filled with well-trodden pathways and the occasional wandering soul, out looking for berries or collecting firewood. Their approaching footsteps frightened the wanderers, white faces and round eyes staring at him and his father, before recognition dawned. Ivar couldn’t blame them. At a time like this, everyone feared their own shadows.
When they left those paths behind, the terrain was much less accessible. They had to walk single file in many places, where the only ground on which they could get a foothold was so narrow that they risked plunging into the crashing waves on their left. Ivar walked behind Sigvard, glancing into the trees now and then, as if the hulking form of an Ør might emerge at any moment. He was on edge, tightly strung, like a bow about to be released.
Somewhere between one and two kilometres to the south, they found it. The land jutted sharply inland, forming a sort of icy cove that was nearly impossible to get to without careful consideration of every step. The waves were far less rough here, as they’d lost much of their power upon entering the inlet. A wooden boat, affixed with a black sail that had been torn ragged in the wind, lay almost on its side, washed ashore.
“There she is,” Sigvard said under his breath, shaking his head like he almost couldn’t believe it. “Let’s have a look at what’s on board, shall we?”
Ivar’s stomach twisted as they made their way painstakingly down, imagining Ósa having seen that wretched sail out at sea. Imagining her father not believing her.
Every few steps, his feet tried to slip from underneath him, but he held on to any rock and root in sight, until at last, they were firmly on the beach. The boat loomed larger now, not so large that the two Ør alone couldn’t manage it – if indeed there were only two – but big enough to set Ivar on edge. They approached it slowly, and he half-expected to see scarred heads and ragged hair poking over the railing, though there was nothing.
Ivar was first to climb aboard, as his father walked as far around it as he could without entering into the water. The boards beneath his feet sent shivers up his legs, all the way to his neck. Monsters had built this boat. It was evidenced in almost all the aspects of its creation, from the dark, rough wood – foreign to Skane – and the black sail, to the oars that lay idly by, made from the same unusual wood as the boat. Tall points, spikes, of sorts, were positioned every few metres around the railing. Whether they were for tying ropes or hanging heads, he couldn’t tell, but they were unsettling, like jagged teeth surrounding the mouth in which he now stood.
This very boat had sailed all the way from the Ør Isles, all the way through the White Water, and to this spot, carrying with it two monsters who had planned to take back information about them. To kill them.
Ivar shut his eyes and breathed in the cold, salty air. Your scouts are never coming back, he thought, and a small bit of satisfaction tickled his mind.
“They didn’t leave much here, it seems,” Sigvard said after climbing aboard. “And I don’t see any shelter.”
“Perhaps they don’t need it,” Ivar told him, staring out of the inlet to the open sea. “Perhaps they’re built to weather anything.” Judging by their strange, leathery skin, it seemed true.
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to a partially open wooden box tied to the mast.
Ivar made his way over, fighting the sharp angle of the boat, and opened the lid. He pulled out a tattered bit of white leather, on which was a series of lines and markings.
“It’s a map,” he said, turning it over. “At least, I think it is. I don’t understand the writing.”
“Just keep it,” Sigvard said. “Hell knows why, but it’s not worth losing.”
Ivar rolled it up like a scroll and deposited it into his pocket.
“Well,” Sigvard said with a sigh, “it won’t do us any good to keep the boat, and using the wood just doesn’t seem right.”
Doesn’t seem right felt like a gross understatement. The Ør had killed many of their ancestors, chased them from their homes and torn apart their families. The very thought of introducing this dark, foreign wood to Skane felt like defiling something sacred. No, there was only thing to be done with it.
After Eldór and the others had a thorough inspection of it, they burned the boat.
Back at the village, a small group of men had retrieved the bodies of the Ør on sleds. By the time they were brought in, wild animals had got to them, as evidenced by the torn skin and missing limbs. They’d left the bulk of them, though; perhaps the animals could taste the evil in their blood.
They were burned in the centre of the village. Only a few came to watch. Others hung well back, covering their mouths and turning away every few seconds, like the sight of the Ør was too much to bear. Ivar stared at their bodies, stared until the flames had engulfed them and reduced them to nothing more than a pile of smouldering ash in the village, and the memory of what had happened in the woods.
Ivar let another knife fly, and with a satisfying thud, it joined five more that were already stuck into the trunk of the tree. He’d just finished a lesson with a handful of villagers on how to throw them, and now he poured his energy into doing it on his own. There was a war in his mind, one that had started when they’d encountered the Ør scouts. No, perhaps it had been earlier than that. Perhaps it had started with the intense feeling of defeat when the red lós had shone in the sky. On the one hand, it felt like none of this mattered. Teaching children and elderly folk to throw knives wouldn’t defeat the Ør. It was foolish. But there was still that tiny flame of hope that was fighting to stay alive somewhere within him. The one that reminded him how much he believed in Ósa and her ability to see this through.
“I’ll bet you my snowshoes you can’t do it,” he said to her. They stood under the shadow of a towering fir tree that was starkly green against the vibrant blue of the sky. It was in the warmer months and the air no longer bore that biting cold which lashed at one’s skin and throat. They wore their lighter wraps, leather boots instead of fur.
Ósa’s neck was craned and she stared towards the very top of the tree, hidden by branches and needles. She had more blonde curls than several children combined, and the breeze kept blowing them into her eyes.
“You promise I’ll get the snowshoes at the end?” she asked, reaching out a hand for Ivar to shake.
“You’ll never make it, so that’s an easy promise.” He shook her hand.
Removing her outermost layer, Ósa hoisted herself up on to the lowest hanging branch of the tree, making sure to send a smug glance his way before the needles of the tree swallowed her. Soon, all he could see was vague movement and shuffling, hear twigs cracking and snapping and an occasional grunt of effort. But within a few minutes, he couldn’t see or hear anything at all. Small amounts of worry pulled at his mind as he watched and waited.
“Are you all right?” he called up, but there was no answer.
A few more minutes went by before he heard a light thump thump thump. A series of large pine cones came dropping down from above, bouncing off the branches and the trunk and a few of them hitting the top of his head.
“All right, I get it!” he shouted, stepping back and shielding himself from the onslaught. “You can have my snowshoes.”
The memory made him smile – when Ósa set her mind to something, she usually achieved it.
There were footsteps in the trees, and he froze.
“You should teach me,” said a familiar, high voice. He closed his eyes and turned to face her.
Anneka smiled and tilted her head. “You never miss your mark.” Her arms were folded across her chest and her cloak was far too thin for the time of year. Underneath, her dress clung to her body, her pale skin visible in places. Her hair, usually pulled back and tucked neatly away, was now braided down the right side of her head and hung over her chest and folded arms.
Ivar kept his eyes on her face.
“I practise.”
“I’ll practise.”
“No.”
It was about three years ago, shortly after he’d turned seventeen, that he’d started to notice how she acted around him. Why it had started, he didn’t know. Perhaps it was due to the amount of time he’d spent at their home. Time he’d been spending with Ósa.
Her smile faded, but returned a moment later. “What wretched news, no? How terrible. How utterly terrible.” She moved a hand to her mouth in a dramatic display of worry. “After all these years, the Ør…” She shook her head, as if she couldn’t allow herself to continue. “And I’m so sorry about what happened to you. My father told me.”
“What do you want?” She hesitated at the shortness of his words. He sighed and turned back to the tree, hurling another knife into the trunk. “I’m sorry. I’m worried about your sister.”
He could feel her prickle behind him. “Ósa will be fine. Leaving was her choice.” The way she said it, as though she didn’t care what became of Ósa, sent fire roaring through his veins.
He turned to face her again, and something in his face must have given his feelings away.
“Of course, I worry too.”
“Do you?”
She fell silent. Then, “Good to see you, Ivar.” She smiled, a forced, small smile, and left him.
She’d only been gone moments before hooves crunched through the snow. He peered into the forest around him. Three men on horses were approaching from the northwest.
“Who goes there?” Ivar said, loud enough to carry through the trees.
They didn’t answer until they’d stopped beside him. One was an older man, his short beard white. The other two were younger, perhaps the age of his father. Ivar didn’t miss the way their eyes quickly travelled over him, no doubt looking for signs of illness. He couldn’t blame them. Everyone was keeping a watchful eye. No one knew when the plague would strike.
“The name’s Gregor,” the man with the beard said. “We’re from Is̊avik, back that way.” He pointed over his shoulder. “Ósa sent us to you.”
Ivar breathed in so deeply, he thought his lungs would burst. “She reached you?”
“Came and went,” Gregor replied. “She brought us the news. Left our village this morning, off to cross the plain to the foothills. Brave one, her.”
Rubbing both hands across his face, Ivar nodded. “So she told you.”
“Indeed she did. Said we should come and speak to her father about preparations, and someone named Ivar. Know where I can find him?”
“I’m Ivar,” he replied, relieved and complimented that she had given his name. “I’ll take you to her father.” He yanked the knives from the tree trunk and stuck them in his belt. The men followed him through the woods to the village. Groups of people filled the streets, all lost in their work. A whittling station had been set up, where arrow after arrow was being carved from wood. At another, stone was being pounded and hammered to form any sort of blade they could make. At yet another, large shells that had washed up on the shore were being sharpened into small throwing knives.
Ivar pounded on the door to Ósa’s home. Her father answered. “This is Gregor,” Ivar said, sweeping an arm behind him. “They’re from Is̊avik. Ósa passed through there last night and brought them the news.”
“Ah, come in,” Eldór replied. “We have much to discuss.”
Ivar joined them. He’d heard the same speech a hundred times now, but if Ósa was off on such a desperate mission for help, the least he could do was help with the preparations. Even if that meant listening to the same story and telling his own a hundred times more.
Anneka sat knitting in the corner. She glanced at Ivar briefly before her eyes returned to her work. Ivar crossed his arms and leaned against a wall.
“So our plan is to fight back?” Gregor asked when Eldór had finished explaining about the Ør scouts.
“With everything we have,” Ivar answered for him.
“Futile, perhaps, yet our only hope,” Eldór said gravely.
Not our only hope, Ivar wanted to reply, though he didn’t.
“We could run and hide, but they would find us. They won’t leave Skane without destroying us all.”
Gregor and the others nodded. “I’m afraid you’re right,” he said. “We can hope for salvation, like Ósa, but our only real chance is to put up one hell of a fight.”
Ivar looked to Eldór, and despite his usual stern appearance, lines pulled at his eyes at the mention of his daughter. He was worried about her, perhaps more than anyone, but he’d never say it. And why shouldn’t he worry? He was, after all, the one who’d sent her to the mountains alone.
“We need to band together,” Gregor said. “You’re the easternmost village. This will be our strongest point, if they attack from the sea. Our only hope is to meet them on arrival. If you have room to host us, we’ll all gather here.”
“We will make room,” Eldór said.
“What of the bodies?” one of the other men asked. “May we see them?” There was a slight undertone of incredulity to his voice.
“We burned them,” Eldór replied. “But we kept these.” He moved to a wooden box at the far side of the room. From them, he withdrew a stone blade and a rope necklace hung with bones and teeth. “This,” he said, holding up the necklace, “was likely one of his last victims.” He tossed it across the room and the man caught it, pinching it gingerly between two fingers.
“So if we’d like to avoid being the next piece of jewellery,” Eldór continued, “I say we get on with the preparations.”
There was a cave down by the water, a short walk from the village. At high tide it filled halfway, but at low tide it was empty. It bore runes, a handful of them, but to avoid the water, they’d been written on the ceiling. It was the first cave Ivar had been taught to translate in, and a favourite of his. Even at low tide, the cave still echoed the nearby crashing waves, reminding him of low thunder.
Today, it also echoed the voices of women and children, collecting shells and stones from the beach, despite the bitter cold. Ivar sat on a large rock and stared upward. The runes were hard to see without direct light, but a few of them could just be made out. It wasn’t terribly interesting, just his ancestors recording how they’d made the first boat to use to fish. Many skills, like boat making, had been brought over from Löska, but they’d had to be refined and changed. Different trees. Different tools. Even the way they fished had to be adjusted. Skane’s waters were cold, rougher than Löska’s.
The voices from outside echoing around him suddenly changed to screams. He leaped to his feet and bolted out of the cave, searching the beach for the cause. The women and children were gathered around a boat that lay on its side, washed up in the waves. Ivar ran, half-slipping down the rocks to where they stood. As he approached, his stomach turned. One woman faced away, retching on to the ground.
Inside, tied to the wooden bench at the front of the boat, were the heads of Albrekt and another fisherman. They had gone out to sea that morning – the people still needed feeding, they had to catch fish. Their faces had been mauled almost beyond recognition.
Their bodies were nowhere to be found, and blood ran from their mouths. He knew why.
Something out there had a new necklace.