Troll Blood

“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.

“Hey—up! Hey—up!” Each heave lifted the heavy yard a foot or two higher. When it was halfway up the mast, Arnë yanked the lacing to unfurl the sail, and swag upon swag of hard-woven, greasy fabric dropped across the ship. “Haul!” Up went the sail again, higher and higher, opening out like a vast red hand to blot out the sky and half the horizon: a towering square of living, struggling, flapping cloth. The men on the braces hauled the yard round, fighting for control. The sail tautened and filled, and the ship sped forwards so suddenly that Peer had to catch at the shrouds to keep his balance.

“Good work!” shouted Gunnar. He seemed glad to be at sea again: his face had a healthier colour; he straddled forwards, his good hand on Harald’s shoulder to help his balance, bad arm tucked under his cloak.

“Right, lads, listen up! Some of us are old friends already. Magnus, Floki, Halfdan…” His eye roamed across the men, who grinned or nodded as he named them. “Anything you others want to know about me, ask them—but don’t believe more than half of it. The way I like to run things is this: you jump when I say jump, and we’ll get along fine. We’re going a long way together, and if you don’t like the idea, you’d better start swimming.” He bared his teeth ferociously, and the men laughed. “I lost my hand a few weeks ago. But if anyone thinks that makes me less of a man, just speak up now.” The men glanced at each other. No one spoke. “We’re going to Vinland, boys, and we’ll come back rich! That’s all, except—we’re the crew of the Water Snake, we are, and there isn’t a better ship on the sea!”

The men cheered. Even Peer felt a stirring in his blood. The crew of the Water Snake—sailing to Vinland, across the world!

Waves smacked into the prow. Spray sprinkled his face. The dragonhead nodded and plunged. They were out of the fjord already, and the wind was strengthening.

He looked back. There was the familiar peak of Troll Fell, piebald with snow-streaks, but behind it other mountains jostled into view, trying to get a good look at Water Snake as she sailed out. As the ship drew further and further away, the details vanished, and it became more and more difficult to pick out Troll Fell from amongst its rivals, until at last they all merged and flattened into a long blue smudge of coastline.

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