Chapter 12
It was perhaps two hours to Is̊avik. I spent the ride imagining the imposing shapes of Ør standing between the trees up ahead, hearing their battle-cries echoing in my head, seeing the teeth hanging around their necks. In a way it was my reminder, my motivation to carry on and not turn back. If my journey meant that those frightful faces, those stone blades and scarred heads, wouldn’t be the last thing my people would see, then it made every worry and every moment alone worth it.
When they weren’t attacking, though, when it was just them on their Goddessforsaken isles, what was their life like? I tried to picture their children, small versions of the scouts we’d seen, yet every bit as brutal as the adults. Did their children kill and pillage as well?
Soon, the sounds of Ri’s hooves crunching into the snow beneath me faded into the background of my thoughts, nearly to the point of disappearing. There was a faint comfort in being so close to another living thing, out here where life seemed all but absent.
I wasn’t far from Is̊avik when a quick movement to my left made me quickly rein in the horse. Something landed on a nearby branch, half hidden in shadows.
Uxi.
“I haven’t any food to spare for you right now,” I said softly, relief flooding through me. “But you’re more than welcome to follow me.” When I urged Ri onwards again, Uxi left the branch and disappeared into the trees, but I knew he would continue to shadow us. I could just imagine if Anneka or my father could see me talking to an owl. It would only work to confirm everything they’d ever thought about me: a silly, impractical girl.
But that made me smile. If silly and impractical was the opposite of Anneka, then I welcomed it.
I’d been to this village a handful of times, mostly to help my father in doing fish trades with them, but I hadn’t frequented it enough to be recognized. At the outskirts, the villagers stared at me distrustfully, some concerned. I stared back.
“Have you a leader?” I asked of a young woman who stood in the shadow of her door.
“Who are you?” she asked. Her face was soft, the question rising from genuine curiosity. I couldn’t blame her. Save for trade, which I clearly wasn’t here to do, our villages tended to keep to themselves. Spending our entire lives around the same set of faces meant that newcomers made us wary.
“I’m from the village on the sea,” I answered, pointing back behind me. “Neska. I bring news.”
Her eyes darted back the way I’d come. “It’s Gregor you’ll want. I’ll take you to him.” She moved away from the door and walked off.
I swung down from Ri and walked beside her, past one home after another. In many ways, this village was much like my own. Our houses had been built in the same manner, using the same materials, and smoke curled out of the chimneys on the roofs. The biggest difference was the set of unfamiliar faces I passed. I didn’t know these people, didn’t know anything about them and their lives, yet here I was, delivering perhaps the darkest news they’d ever hear. It made me sad that I’d never got to know them, and now I might never have the chance to do so.
We finally reached the far side of the village. It was a small house we stopped at, and there was a post outside at which I tied Ri.
“I know where there’s some dried grass the village keeps for the animals,” the woman said, knocking on the door. “I’ll go and find her some once you’re inside.”
“Thank you,” I said, warmed by her kindness.
An aging woman opened the door.
“There’s a girl here,” my guide said. “She’s from the coastal village and says she brings news. I thought Gregor might wish to speak with her.”
“Aye, I’m certain he will,” the older woman replied. “Come on in, girl, I’ll fetch you a drink.”
I entered into the warmth of the house. A fire blazed in the centre, and unlike so many of our open, roomy houses, this one was small and filled with furniture and scrolls. Here and there I even saw a handful of leather-bound tomes, generally thought of as a rarity. Leather was valuable and better used for more practical purposes. On a chair that rocked back and forth on the earthen floor sat a man, older than the woman by at least a few years.
“A visitor, Gregor,” the woman, whom I presumed was his wife, said.
“So I see,” the man replied, lying a scroll which he’d previously been perusing on his lap. “I know you,” he said after a pause. “You’re that fisherman’s daughter.”
“I am,” I replied. “Eldór.”
“That’s the one. Tough man, him. I hope that you’re a bit gentler.”
I shrugged. “We’re related by blood. Nothing more.”
His wife offered me a cup full of warmed water with dried winter berries. The first sip sent a delightful heat through my body, creating a wave of comfort that chased away the day’s cold. I thanked her, and she pulled up a chair close to the fire and motioned for me to take it. I obeyed.
“So you’ve got news, have you?” Gregor asked. “You’re alone, dressed for a long ride, and you’re carrying the weight of the world in your eyes.”
“It’s dark,” I said. I would want honesty if someone were relaying this story to me. “You saw the lights, surely. You must know what they mean.”
A solemn nod. “Yes, we all saw them. The village is heartbroken, of course, but there is little to be done except wait.”
I drew in a breath. “There is more. The Ør are coming.”
The fire cracked, my cup steamed in my hand, and no one spoke. As if a cloud had entered the house, a shadow settled on the man’s face. His white beard moved a fraction, where his jaw tightened. “You shouldn’t say those words lightly,” he whispered.
“I’d never.”
I relayed the rest of the story, recounting our trip to the cave, our encounter with the Ør scouts, and the things that had been decided in our village. When all those points had been laid out, I included why I was here and where I was going. At the end of the story, both he and his wife were silent for so long that I wondered if they’d understood me. When at last he spoke, his voice was so low it barely reached my ears.
“You must have heard the stories,” he said. “About the mountains.”
I nodded. “Some.” So few people ever went there that few stories ever came back. Mostly, we just knew never to go.
“That girl who brought you here, Stína,” he said, his eyes moving to the fire. “Her great-grandfather made a journey to the mountains. He was the only one I know of who ever came back.”
“Why did he go?” I leaned forward, interested. Perhaps I wasn’t the only one desperate enough to speak to the Goddess that I’d risk everything to get there. If so, perhaps he’d learned something while there. Something that could prove useful to me on my journey.
“Curiosity,” Gregor replied, and I sighed a little. “He wanted to see if the stories were true. He left in the night so no one could stop him, leaving a note with his wife. Her cries could be heard all around the village the next morning. Two weeks he was gone, and when he returned, despite everyone’s having given up on him, he was skinny and … battered, like he’d been thrown around against a wall and forced to walk back home. And the stories he brought back with him … they ensured that none of us would ever venture there again.”
I still held the cup, but I couldn’t force another sip down my throat. It had constricted, his words strangling me.
“It started with the jōt,” Gregor said darkly. His eyes seemed to grow distant, shadowed, recalling memories that weren’t quite his. “He was skirting one of their camps when he slipped down an icy rock face and landed in the middle of it. From such a close range, he said his heart nearly stopped from their height alone. The ground was layered with bones, broken and scattered. Some were human, jawbones still lined with fractured teeth. Some were animal, pointed rat skulls and wolf snouts. The jōt were gathered around a large bonfire, the flames themselves twice his height, over which they were roasting an entire wolf. Skinned, surprisingly skilfully, as if it was something they did often and did well. They took him as a prisoner, no doubt with the intent to kill him once they’d finished with the wolf, but before they could do so, they entered into a fight with another clan of jōt passing through, and he escaped during the fray. They were monstrous, he said, nearly naked despite the cold, save for a few scraps of furs or leathers. Their eyes were large, bloodshot, and their skin as hard and thick as the leathers they wore.”
Gooseflesh rose on my skin.
“But it wasn’t just the jōt that chased him out of the mountains.” Gregor raised his eyes to mine as a shiver started at the base of my neck and slithered its way down my spine. “He said there were all manner of strange, sudden occurrences. Rocks would tumble from above, seemingly undisturbed by anything. Sometimes he’d see a shadow, as if from a living being, but it was cast by no one. There were noises, voices, but they belonged to nothing. Sometimes he would spend hours searching for whomever or whatever they belonged to, following the elusive notes on and on through the Kalls, only to wind up lost, all the rock and ice blending together until nothing stood out. More than once, he was certain he’d never again find his way out, or would go mad before he did so. The thing that saved his life was stumbling upon an outcropping that looked down on the country below. From there, he could see east and a way out. The entire length of his time there, he ate nothing more than the remnants of food he’d packed with him and some mountain berries.”
I said nothing. Could I afford to let his words deter me? I’d known this going in. Known that there was almost nothing in the mountains but danger.
Almost.
The mountains were also my only hope of speaking to Her. That man had only gone out of morbid curiosity, out of a desire to test the stories and see what truth they held. My reasons were vastly different, and perhaps that would work in my favour. Perhaps the Goddess would bless me in a way she hadn’t done him.
I thought of my mother and took in a deep breath.
“The red lights,” I said at last. “She’s the one who puts them in the sky. She’s the only one I can ask for help. If I don’t do it, we’ll never stand a chance. We’ll be overrun like Löska, our people will cease to exist. I’d rather die in the mountains trying to find Her than at home, on the end of an Ør’s blade. Our people gave so much, so many died for Skane. Now it’s my turn to thank them and to continue the fight they began.”
“Your courage is admirable,” Gregor said. “Though foolish.”
His words cut me, despite my having expected them.
“My mother died last time.” The words escaped suddenly. My heart raced and my eyes stung. “She died in the plague a few days after I was born. I lived, somehow, but she didn’t. I think about it all the time. I’m reminded of it all the time. I don’t remember anything about her and yet I can’t escape the memory of her. I don’t know what she looked like. I don’t know what she sounded like. My older sister hates me for it, and I don’t think my father will ever forgive me.” My jaw quivered as I worked to keep from crying. “I have to go. I have to do this, Gregor. For her. For them, so they’ll forgive me.”
“Oh, child,” said his wife.
“You have to know it wasn’t your fault,” Gregor said softly. “You couldn’t help being born.”
“I made her weaker,” I said, my chest heaving with a sob. “She couldn’t fight any more, not after I was born.” They fell silent. When I’d regained my composure, I said, “I need to speak to Her.”
Gregor sighed and closed his eyes. “You think She doesn’t know your plight? You think She doesn’t know what you’re doing? She always knows. Once before…” His voice faded and he looked to the door, as if people might be listening. “Once before, She even helped us. At least, that’s what we think.”
I waited for him to continue, rapt. Never had words like these reached my ears.
“When my ancestors came to settle this village, they nearly all lost their lives. The whole lot of them. They were new to this land, travelling through the countryside, searching for a place to lay down roots after breaking off from a larger group that were building near the coast.”
My village.
“It was slow-going, trying to locate a decent region. Before they’d found one, or any kind of shelter, a violent storm blew in. One of those storms like we just had, that make you fight to see a hand in front of your face. It took only hours for some of them to die, frozen to death or smothered beneath the snow. The others didn’t even notice, at first, couldn’t tell who was still with them and who had fallen. A third of them had perished before something … changed.” He sat back in his chair and stared into the fire for a long moment before continuing. “There were things in the storm, maybe beings, maybe not. No one was ever able to describe them afterwards. They led my ancestors through the snow and wind to the shelter of trees, where the remainder of them managed to survive until it blew over. When it had passed, in the pre-dawn glow, the lós were just disappearing from the sky, giving way to the sun. But they all swore, swore on everything they held dear, that the lights were gold.”
My breath caught in my lungs.
“They were very near to this exact spot, and this is where they founded the village. They said it felt right, felt like the things had wanted them to live here, so they stayed. They were also the ones who wrote an addition to that song. You know the one.”
“About the lights,” I said softly. “Of course I know it.” Everyone knew it.
He began to hum the song, making his way through the colours. Green. Blue. Red. And then:
“Gold, gold, the lights glow gold
Reawakens something old.”