Chapter 8
The shadows were long by the time we returned to the village. Never before had I been so relieved to see the modest little place we called home. Those few souls milling about outdoors stared at us as we passed through, and I looked down at my body. Bruised. Covered in blood that wasn’t mine. Bearing the weight of dark news.
“What happened?” My father waited outside our home, his arms crossed. Beside him stood Albrekt, and Sigvard, Ivar’s father, approached as well.
“We will need a village meeting,” Ivar replied, catching his breath from our long trek. “We bring news.”
The three men exchanged a glance, then my father said, “Tell us.”
“Not out here in the open.” I shook my head. “Not yet.”
I entered our home, the others following behind me. My sister sat by the fire, a pile of knitting on her knees. “Oh, you’ve returned,” she said, dropping her hands into her lap. But her annoyance was short-lived when she saw the others entering behind me. “What’s this?”
I didn’t reply. My energy had been drained and I needed to conserve what little I had left for our long explanation. I let my cloak fall to the floor.
I sat before the fire, across from everyone else. Ivar remained standing by his father, his arms crossed, holding his elbows. It was hard to feel joy at being back safely, knowing our safety now had an all but imminent end. I closed my eyes and drank in the warmth of the fire.
“Tell us,” my father said again.
Ivar’s eyes met my own. We were both so tired, yet one of us had to speak. I offered my voice.
“We went to the caves at the lake,” I began, staring into the fire. Anneka let out a light humph from beside me. “We went seeking runes, hoping for something that might guide us after the red lights appeared.” I knew how foolish it sounded, and the dubious looks from the men across from me did nothing to quell that. I cut to the point. “But we were followed.” In the ensuing pause, the only sound was the snapping of the fire as it consumed the wood. “We found tracks outside the cave that weren’t our own. They disappeared at the cliffs. When we made to return to the village…” Though I willed it to continue, my voice trailed off. It was a struggle to even think the words, let alone speak them. “Ør.”
Silence.
After a heartbeat, my sister’s hand moved to cover her mouth, as tears welled in her eyes. For a moment, I found myself pitying her, the picture of fear. My father, though his face was pale, wasn’t so quick to believe.
“Surely you are mistaken. No one alive today has seen one. How would you know?”
“The runes,” Ivar whispered, then found his voice. “They are exactly as the runes said. The leathers, the jewellery, all of it.” He cleared his throat and shook his head, as if it would erase the memory. “We left the bodies in the woods near the lake. They were too large, too heavy to bring. But we know where they are, should you want to see them for yourself.” His words were terse, challenging.
“They were scouts, we think,” I continued. “Their armour bore crude badges, resembling some sort of ranking. I … I think they came in the ship I saw yesterday.” I stared at my father, and he stared back. Unspoken words hung in the air between us. There was so much I wanted to say, but this was neither the time nor the place.
Another moment of silence passed. I could understand it. I’d seen the Ør face to face, heard their screams and felt the force of their blows, but even still I could hardly make sense of it. All of us, everyone in this village, had been born into a life of peace. It wasn’t an easy life. The winters were harsh, sometimes we went hungry, sometimes we lost lives to the sea, but in our generations, we’d never been under attack. The very notion of danger, danger from a land not our own, was unfathomable.
“They must know,” Sigvard hissed. “They must have seen the lights and know what’s upon us. It would give them the advantage, when we are at our weakest.”
“Eldór and I,” Albrekt said. “We’ll go and examine the bodies at daybreak. It’s too far to go and return by sunset.”
“Agreed,” my father said. “For now, spread the word. We’ll call a meeting in the village centre tonight.”
Everyone left, Ivar touching my hand briefly as he passed. My father motioned for Anneka to follow them. She did so, a flash of hatred and triumph in her eyes. She had witnessed the full force of my father’s temper unleashed on me before.
“I raised you better than to travel so far from the village without a very good reason,” my father hissed the moment we were alone.
My skin flashed hot and my tongue cracked like a whip. “You hardly raised me at all,” I replied, my voice deadly low. After the events of the day, the monsters and the fight in the woods, I was in no mood to entertain his cruelty.
His eyes gleamed in a way that was just sinister enough to make me almost regret my words. “I have given you a home and food on an island where you would struggle for either without me. I could have turned you over to another family when your mother died, but I kept you, against my better judgement.”
Against my better judgement.
The words nearly flayed the skin from my bones. I took a step closer to him, gazing into every dark speck of his eyes. “Then why did you keep me when I could have been happier elsewhere?”
“I feared guilt.”
Some ruthless part of me wanted to laugh at him, at the very notion of him fearing guilt when every minute of every day of my entire life had been wracked by it, consumed by, driven by it. The only reason he kept me as a part of his family was to avoid feeling guilty. It wasn’t from love or duty or tenderness, it was from his fear of how it would make him feel, and that was far from a good enough reason.
“Then that was your gravest mistake,” I said finally. “Because guilty or not, you robbed this house of every ounce of love and light and left us to drown in your bitterness. You leave the village every day in your boat, and I revel in the wake you leave behind. I couldn’t save Mother’s life, but neither could you, and you’ve let me fall on your sword over it for seventeen years.”
They were evil words and I regretted them the moment they’d escaped into the air, but a part of me had awoken that was vying for control of my mouth. After everything that had happened today and since the red lights had appeared, the calm veneer I’d built over the course of my life disappeared like melting snow. All of the hurt and anger he’d caused me boiled to the surface, until there was so much of it that I lost control. I took a step back to give him some space, to gauge his reaction. He simply stared at me, eyes boring into mine as he considered his next words, but they never came.
The stars winked from above, as though mocking my insignificance in the universe. I lay on a rock by the sea; it was a favourite spot of mine, big enough to lie on and watch the stars, and surrounded by the sounds of the crashing waves. Here, two of the most powerful forces in the world seemed to collide: the sea and the sky. While it made me feel small and sometimes helpless, it was also a reminder that there were forces out there much bigger than the Ør.
The meeting was starting without me. My presence wasn’t required, and no one would think to look for me here. Ivar would be there to fill in the story and answer questions as needed. I couldn’t stomach hearing it again. After my fight with my father, the thought of seeing him again sent pain shooting through my heart. He’d hurt me and I’d hurt him. There were bigger things to worry about now, but the guilt about what I’d said grew heavier by the minute.
Besides, as far as I was concerned, talking about the Ør and the plague again would get us nowhere. I wanted to act. Between Ivar and I, I’d always been the more impulsive one, the one who spent less time thinking and more time doing. Sometimes it was a blessing and sometimes it was a curse. Right now, I was inclined to believe it was the former. Time was running out, we needed to act fast.
Overhead, I focused on one particular shape in the sky. It was a woman, a crown resting on her head and a cloak on her shoulders. The Goddess. Unlike the other constellations, She never moved. No matter the time of day or month or year, She remained stationary, watching over us. That set of bright, well-placed stars symbolized so much, including the only being who knew why the red lights existed. Why the plague haunted us.
The more I gazed at the stars, the hotter my blood became, boiling beneath my skin. Why should I have to travel all the way to the mountains to speak to Her? There She was, directly above, so close, and yet so infinitely far. Nothing I could say or do would bring Her any closer. If I wished to seek Her counsel, to find out what could be done to save those whom I loved, I would have to meet Her on Her terms. Back in the village, they’d all be planning how to defend themselves, and discussing how to train us to use knives and bows and arrows, pretending that enough of them would still be alive to fight the approaching Ør. Pretending that the plague wouldn’t sneak in and destroy us long before the Ør ever reached our shores. If Skane was to have even the smallest of chances, persuading Her to hold off the plague – and the Ør – would be our only real hope.
I thought then, as I stared at the sky, of a conversation with Ymir.
“These constellations,” he said, sweeping a hand up to the sparkling night sky, “they are like pictures. They are artwork on a grand scale, there for us to love and admire from below. When we look up, we don’t just see darkness, emptiness. We see light.”
“Who painted them?” I asked, letting my eyes drift from one bright star to another.
Ymir was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know who exactly,” he answered softly. “Someone from the past, long, long ago. It’s like those cave wall writings your friend Ivar can read. Someone had to write those for us to read now, someone who wanted us to know their story. I think the stars are much like that. They’re a story about the universe, but so much time has passed that we have no hope of translating it properly. We can just enjoy the pictures and invent our own stories.”
I felt a thrill at his words, at the thought of someone using the sky to paint a portrait of the past. How much time did it take? How much power? One day, I swore, I would find a way to paint the sky.
A neighbour in the sky to the Goddess, the Giant loomed against the velvety black backdrop. It was one of the largest shapes, made up of many, many stars. Our ancestors spoke of the jōt, as did many of the cave wall runes. They’re tall, we were told. The size of at least three grown men, though usually more. Stronger than a bear, they almost never use weapons. Some joked darkly that, if they flicked a finger against us, our bodies would shatter as they fell.
In many ways, I supposed, they were like the Ør. Only they didn’t invade our lands. And while they would fight and kill when necessary, they didn’t seek out war. While that sort of size and power would have at one time been difficult for me to picture, having met the Ør in person helped to bridge the gap between my frail imaginings of the jōt and their reality.
A frigid breeze swept in from the sea. Sitting up, I wrapped my arms around my knees and stared out to the water. It was from there, from where my eyes were affixed to, that the end of Skane would come. From these waters, countless foreign sails would amass, and from the boats would come the Ør. There would be many of them, so, so many of them, and from the moment the first foot touched our land, we could only hope our deaths would be quick. How long we’d sat here, quiet, safe, fighting against a frozen land for a chance at a life that was never to be. How many lives we’d sacrificed, trying to lay down roots somewhere far from the horrors of what happened in Löska. In many ways, Skane was like a sapling, the start of a new life, which the Ør would simply pluck up and crush.
I wasn’t brave, or even terribly useful. I couldn’t read runes like Ivar or sail a ship like my father, but I would rather be damned to die at the hands of the mountains than sit by and watch my world, my people, be ripped limb from limb and left to drown in their own blood. If we had to die, let us die in a fight. Not on our knees begging for our lives. Let them come looking for their scouts. I’d send their heads out to meet them in boats.
Let no more children grow up without knowing their parents.
I closed my eyes and saw my mother’s face – how I imagined it. Hair as light as mine, but perhaps less curly. Green eyes like Anneka’s, but more vibrant and beautiful. Happy eyes. A mouth that always smiled. Neither my sister nor my father had ever told me what she’d looked like, refused to on every occasion I’d asked. I didn’t deserve to know, Anneka said. There was no point in looking back, Father told me.
I left the coast and made the short trek to the village, my steps filled with purpose. Away from the waves, the silence was deafening. The only noises came from my boots in the snow and even that was muted. The trees seemed to stand taller around me, as if showing their support of my new plan. Behind them hung the ever-watchful stars.
There was a bonfire in the centre of the village, and a crowd – just about everyone who lived here – was gathered around it. My father stood in the middle, beside the fire, along with Sigvard and a handful of others who were generally looked up to as the village leaders. There wasn’t much order to how they became leaders; the title tended to fall upon those who were successful in their trade, like my father, or whose skill garnered respect from the villagers, like Sigvard. One day, if he chose to follow in his father’s footsteps, Ivar would be a leader too. Rune singers were always respected. I’d heard stories that things were different in Löska, that there was usually one man in charge, and everyone wanted his power. Power invites disaster, Sigvard had once said. Things were different in Skane. Women could offer as much as the men – Ivar’s grandmother had been a widely-respected rune singer – and the power of leadership was divided amongst more than one person.
Even from a distance, I could tell those gathered were debating. Some voices were raised in an earnest appeal, and others were more calm and rational.
“We can train,” my father said, “but the sooner we all accept our fate, the better. Don’t fill your heads with foolishness.”
“We can offer every last bit of strength we have,” Sigvard countered. “We can’t lie in our beds and wait to be slaughtered.”
“The only reason we are here, Sigvard,” my father replied, “is because our ancestors’ world was destroyed. The Ør took Löska as easily as a toy from a child. With so few of us, even if we rally every village we know of, we’d make nothing more than a few hours’ work for them.”
“The only reason we are here,” Sigvard shot back, “is because our ancestors fought against all odds and escaped to build a life.”
A few voices erupted in agreement.
“With talk like yours, Eldór, we’ll never stand a chance!” someone shouted.
“Aye, we’d rather hear Sigvard speak,” another added. “We want to hear of hope.”
“I am more comfortable with speaking of what is real and of what is to come, than filling your heads with fairy tales,” my father replied, so calm it was almost alarming. “Have you all forgotten about the plague in your blind fear of the Ør? How many of us do you think will live to see the fight? I lost more than some of you last time. You can hope for the best, but I’m prepared for the worst.”
I stopped moving. Father never mentioned Mother. Ever. His face was blank, but pain pressed behind his eyes, a sort of headache he’d been suffering for seventeen years.
I pushed through the throng.
“I’m going to the mountains.”
Eyes dug into me, especially my father’s. His forehead wrinkled, a mixture of both confusion and anger. “What nonsense are you on about now, Ósa? We are discussing serious matters.” He waved me off like a fly.
“There were runes,” I continued, speaking loud enough to be heard. “Runes in the cave by the lake. They said if I make it to the mountains, I can hear the Goddess speak. It’s our only hope. We must beg Her to call off the plague, and to help us battle the Ør. We cannot survive both. We could hardly survive one.”
My words were met with silence. My father continued to stare at me, perhaps questioning whether I’d taken leave of my senses.
“I can ask Her, I think. Ask Her what can be done.”
My father shook his head. “Nothing can be done, Ósa.”
From somewhere in the crowd, Ivar stepped up. “You don’t know that,” he said. “You can risk your daughter’s life at sea in a storm, but you draw the line at standing up to the Ør?”
The look that my father gave to Ivar could have turned the world to stone, if Ivar’s anger hadn’t given him such a resilience. I opened my mouth to say something, to ease the tension, but closed it again.
“At a moment like this,” Ivar continued, not the least bit subdued, “we should allow for more than one possibility. Someone carved that rune. Someone who knew something.”
I understood how we must sound, but no one else had seen the things we’d seen, learned the things we’d learned. In my heart, I knew that going to the Kalls might be nothing more than a death sentence. But I also knew that, no matter how small, it also offered us some a chance at survival.
“It’s foolish,” I conceded, more to my father than to anyone else. “It may end in my death, and yes, perhaps we will all die anyway. But if there’s anything She can offer, we’ll never receive it if I don’t try. She cared enough to put the red lights in the sky to warn us. Perhaps She’ll care enough to help us through it. Perhaps She can be persuaded to stop the plague, to stop the advance of the Ør.”
The fire crackled, warming the right side of my face. I kept my eyes on my father, unflinching. Intimidation was his strong point, and he well knew it. But not this time. This time, I wouldn’t back down.
“Where was She seventeen years ago?” he said, barely above a whisper. “Where was She when babies were burning from within, the elderly dying a slow, dragging death? Where was She when your own mother was taken, delirious to the end? She didn’t know me, didn’t know Anneka. She died a stranger, Ósa. My wife died a stranger to me.”
I blinked away the burn of tears behind my eyes. I’d never heard him speak this way. Never heard him utter words that were born from raw emotion and pain.
“The Goddess left us to rot back then. She’ll do the same now.”
A fist tightened around my heart, and in the edges of my vision, I saw Ivar glance at me. My father’s face was calm, stony. He watched me, waiting for me to give in.
“I can fix it,” I whispered. My father’s eyes cut into me. “I can help this time, try to stop it. I owe you that. I owe Anneka that.”
“You can never undo it.”
A lump in my throat tried to choke me, but I swallowed it.
“I say she goes,” someone said from the crowd.
“As do I,” another added.
Before long, everyone was agreeing, nodding and speaking to each other with a sense of affirmation. I met one pair of eyes after another, finding them filled with hope. After so much fright, so much heartbreak and worry, the sight melted my heart.
It was another few minutes before my father replied. “Go if you want,” he said, his voice resigned. “But go alone. We can’t spare another body that could be here aiding in the preparations. Everyone should be trained with knives and bows and arrows. Everyone will learn to defend themselves. Ivar will see to that.”
He paused, and the look in his eyes dismissed me. When he returned to discussing the preparations, a tremor of terror ran through me. While I’d wanted his blessing – though perhaps not his permission – not one part of me thought he’d condemn me to the mountains alone.