CHAPTER SEVEN

 

KJÖTVI THE LUCKY

 

Kjötvi lay on the raised deck at the prow, deathly pale, his lips tinged with blue, but for the flickering in his eyelids, the very image of a corpse.

"Will he live? asked Bjólf.

"He's lost a lot of blood," said Magnus. "His skin is clammy." That was a bad sign. Magnus had propped Kjötvi's legs up on a chest to slow the flow of blood and, using a small collection of delicate iron tools spread out on their leather wrapping, was now engaged in cutting open the ragged, blood-soaked material to reveal the wound on the lower part of Kjötvi's left leg. As he carefully snipped and peeled away the wet, sticky fabric, a flap of flesh fell open, spilling thick gobbets of half-clotted blood on the deck. It looked for all the world as if someone had tried to carve a neat slice from Kjötvi's calf, mistaking it for a roasting joint. "A blade caught him from above," said Magnus, indicating the line of entry with the flat of his hand. "Very sharp. Very deep. But the battle-fire was in him. Probably didn't even feel it."

"In the woods...." said Gunnar, nodding. "A throwing axe flew past my ear and bounced off his leg. I helped him up."

Magnus examined the angle. "Stopped against the bone. He's fortunate to have kept his foot."

"Kjötvi the Lucky," muttered Gunnar. He did not appear so lucky just now, lying there, half dead. But then, mused Gunnar, half dead was better than all dead.

With delicate movements, compensating for the slow rise and fall of the ship, Magnus peered into the depths of the wound, tentatively opening up the sliced muscle tissue. He squinted hard with his one good eye, a pair of iron tweezers between his steady fingers. "There's something I need to..." Before he could finish his sentence, blood suddenly began to flow again, dripping through the fingers of Magnus's supporting hand. "Ach! We could do with more light here."

"We could risk it, for Kjötvi's sake," said Bjólf.

"Wait..." said Magnus. He knew time was not on their side. Holding his breath, he reached deep into the wound with the tweezers, then emerged with a short, yellow-white sliver of bone between its tiny jaws. "That's where the axe stopped," he said, exhaling heavily. "At least that won't stay rattling around inside him." Without further delay, he pressed the sticky halves of the wound together and, gesturing for Gunnar to place pressure upon it, began to bind up the leg with strips of linen.

Gunnar looked thoughtful. "That could have been my head."

"His bad luck was your good luck," said Bjólf.

Magnus sighed. "Were we ashore, I'd seek herbs to aid the healing. As it is... It's in God's hands now." He silently blessed his patient, kissed a small wooden cross hanging from a thong of leather around his neck and tucked it back into his brown robe.

Stooping, Gunnar picked up the small shard of bone, chipped off Kjötvi's leg like a piece of whittled wood. Studying it between his great thumb and forefinger, he shuddered inwardly, wiped it clean on his sleeve, then tucked it in the small leather bag hanging from his belt. He looked up to the featureless dark sky and muttered to himself. "Gentle Eir - listen to the pleading of this faithful old fool and care for our battle-weary friend." Drawing his knife, he pricked his thumb and let a drop of blood fall onto the deck.

Bjólf placed a hand on Magnus's shoulder. "Do what you can," he said, straightening up. "And do not trust too much to gods, or miraculous resurrections."

He walked with Gunnar, picking his way past the men, huddled between their sea-chests, wrapped in thick woollen capes and furs. After their momentary victory, the fall of Kjötvi had put them in a melancholy mood. The fog clung to them, making everything damp with beads of moisture. At the small steering deck, Bjólf relieved Finn at aft watch and stared with Gunnar out across the darkening sea. For a long time they stood and watched in silence, the only sounds the lap of the water, the creak of the timbers and the occasional isolated cough from a member of the crew. The swell was longer and more even now, and night was almost upon them. Of Grimmsson there was no sign. Not even a glimmer in the failing light.

"Must've given up," muttered Gunnar.

"Can you blame them?" said Bjólf, blowing through his hands, his breaths turning to fog. "They'll be feasting on roasted pork and lamb tonight. On dry land. And where are we?"

"Hey, we're alive, aren't we?"

"No, really..." said Bjólf squinting at the featureless gloom surrounding them. "Where are we?"

"No sun. No stars. No moon." Gunnar sniffed the cold air, then licked his finger and held it aloft. "No wind... No land in sight. Not even a horizon. No creatures in the sea, nor birds in the air." He shrugged. "It's anybody's guess."

"And what would your guess be?"

"My guess would be no better than yours," he said, then, after a moment's hesitation, added: "But Kjötvi would know."

Kjötvi the Lucky was kentmand - one who had a deep knowledge of the seas. He was also the unluckiest person Bjólf had ever met; one of those for whom fate seemed to deliver ten times the misfortune of ordinary men. It had become a standing joke among the crew. In the past, some had expressed reservations about even having him on board. In the course of their current voyage, he had lost his father's helmet in a well, his mail coat overboard, his sword and half his ear. But the one thing Kjötvi had never lost was himself. He knew the currents of the air and the water - and perhaps others yet more subtle - better than any man. 'Wayfinder,' they called him, and it was this uncanny ability that persuaded even the most superstitious of the men to accept him. If Kjötvi could not find a way, they would say, there was not a way to be found. Others said the gods had played a cruel trick, granting him exceptional powers of foresight and sensitivity to the ebb and flow of the world, but taking half of his luck in payment.

"Kjötvi..." said Bjólf with a sigh. And then there was Hallgeir and Steinarr. "This has not been a good day." He dug absent-mindedly at a large splinter in his left palm - where and when he'd got that, he had no memory - then, with a deep sigh, pulled his cloak tighter and stared out again into the nothingness that surrounded them.

"You know what's hardest to take?" he said dejectedly. "Grimmson's men didn't even bother to put their armour on. Do they really have such a poor opinion of us?"

"I think it's more a measure of their blind hatred."

Bjólf looked sideways at him.

Gunnar shrugged. "Basically, you pissed them off so much, they didn't even stop to think."

"Well, that makes me feel better."

"If you were so worried about feelings, you probably shouldn't have taken their plunder right from under their noses that time at Roskilde."

Bjólf couldn't resist a smile at the thought of it. Now that was a good day.

"I don't like to run, Gunnar," he said. "What is it the Hávamál says? 'The fool believes he'll live forever by running from battle - but old age gives no peace, even though spears might spare him."

"No one likes to run at the time. You'll be glad of it tomorrow." Bjólf looked unconvinced. "And anyway, you did for... what? Two of them?"

"Three."

Gunnar looked at him thoughtfully. "The thing is, I know you're not really angry because you ran. You're angry because you hesitated. But that proves it, you see?"

"Proves what?"

"You didn't run to save yourself. You ran to save your crew. Left to your own devices, I have no doubt you'd be lying hacked to bits back there, your blood feeding their crops - most likely having taken Grimmsson and several others with you."

"That hesitation cost two lives."

"Steinarr most likely lost his shoe. Hallgeir let himself get fat. Their time was up. And they died fighting."

"And Kjötvi?"

Gunnar shrugged again. "The Hávamál also says: 'Better blind or crippled than burning on a pyre.'"

"Better still to be in one piece."

"Ah!" Gunnar threw up his hands in disgust. "Your problem is you think you can change everything. Bend it to your will. Me? I know perfectly well I can change nothing. I follow the thread of my fate, knowing it was set down long ago."

"I cannot believe that. A man's life is his own."

"And that, my friend, is why you are our captain." Gunnar laughed and clapped his huge hand on Bjólf's shoulder. "Maybe that's your fate. To give them something to think about." He thrust a thumb out towards the surrounding emptiness as he spoke, at some vaguely-situated dwelling place of the gods.

Bjólf allowed himself another wry smile. For some reason - he had no idea why - the mood of one of them was always unfailingly up whenever the other's was down. He was glad there was one thing that could be relied upon. But as he continued to look out into the nothingness, some words drifted back to him. 'May all you've killed return to claim you...' He wondered at the curse, and the broken man who had uttered it.

"How many do you suppose we have killed over the years?"

"Hmph! A small army."

"It has not always been something to be proud of."

Gunnar sighed deeply. "That, I grant you."

"Ever feel we're getting too old for all this?"

"All the time. For this life you're always too old or too young. Never exactly the right age."

"It was easier in the old days. Now there are too many earls and kings taking over, pushing people around. Hardly any opportunities left for free enterprise."

Gunnar stared into the dark water. "Norway and Denmark under one king. The White Christ replacing the old religion. The world is changing - everything being drawn to one centre. Even Harald the Blue-Toothed gives up on the ways of our ancestors. And Hedeby and the Danevirke overrun with Germans! I can't help but feel that a great age is coming to an end."

"Maybe it's time we got out."

"I must admit, the prospect of a quiet farm somewhere is starting to look increasingly attractive."

"I never thought I'd find myself thinking that. Or agreeing with you. Maybe after this, one more, then we quit. Agreed?"

Gunnar nodded slowly. "Agreed."

Bjólf spat in his palm and slapped it against Gunnar's. "Our fate's our own, old man." He waved vaguely in the direction of the gods, mocking Gunnar's gesture. "Let them concern themselves with someone else for a while." Gunnar grinned and shook his friend's hand heartily.

As he spoke, Magnus approached, an urgent look in his eyes. For a moment, Bjólf feared the worst. Magnus waved away Bjólf's concerns.

"He wakes from time to time," he said. "This is good. But he drifts between this world and the next. And he has no warmth in his body, for all the blankets and skins we pile upon him. Hot food or drink is what he needs now."

"We could all use some of that," said Gunnar.

Bjólf looked out again at the blank, grey night. "What we need is land. Gunnar - tell me straight: what are our chances?"

Gunnar shrugged. "If a breeze comes up, it might be enough to take us southwest. Then we hit the coast of the English and get slaughtered like pigs. Or, perhaps, the current will be stronger and carry us north. Then, potentially, we miss landfall altogether and end up frozen to our oars for all eternity."

"And the bad news?"

"Well, if we row..."

"We're rowing blind..." said Bjólf, nodding.

"... and, at worst, we run straight back into Grimmsson. There's a chance he may yet be out there somewhere."

Bjólf sighed again. "So we have no choice but to sit tight until this fog clears and we can get our bearings." He gave Magnus a grim smile. "Looks like it's going to be a long night, brother."

Gunnar clapped him on the shoulder again, and gave a cheerful smile. "Don't worry! Thor loves the foolhardy!"

"Fjölvar!" called Bjólf. "What's our food situation?"

Fjölvar stirred, heaving himself stiffly to his feet, and, weaving past his hunched shipmates, pulled up the loose planking of the deck before the mast-fish. Immediately below was a small collection of barrels and caulked chests, lashed to the mast-beam below to prevent them shifting on the swell. He dug around, half buried below the deck.

"Some barley meal, a little dried meat, salt fish, two barrels of water, several rotting onions..." He dragged a small sack from a chest, peered in, sniffed tentatively, and recoiled. "And I think these once were mushrooms."

Gunnar sighed. "No fresh meat. No butter. And nothing to drink but water."

"It'll do, for a start," said Bjólf. "Thorvald! Finn! Throw the lines over, see what we can catch. There must be something alive out there." The two men set about the task, while Bjólf, striding past Fjölvar to the prow, dragged a bulky, heavy bundle from beneath the fore-deck and undid its wrappings. It clanked as he did so. Kjötvi stirred, his eyes flickering open for an instant.

"Sorry, my friend," said Bjólf. "But you'll thank me for it later." He unfolded a sturdy, black iron tripod - as tall as a man - pressed its clawed feet until they bit into the deck, and anchored each foot with a sack of sand. Then, drawing out a wide, charred metal dish - almost the size of a small shield - he suspended it by three long chains from the apex of the tripod. Above that, from three similar chains, he hung a large, fire-blackened cauldron.

"Now... Firewood." He scanned the length of the ship, a vague memory stirring as he caught sight of a familiar bundle of sticks tucked into the gap under the steering deck. He frowned. "Firewood..." As he looked, taking in the distribution of his men on the deck, he noted a slight list of the ship - so subtle, that another eye could not have detected it.

"Thorvald, are we taking in water?"

Thorvald looked up from baiting the lines with a frown. "No. She's sound."

Pulling his knife, Bjólf strode toward the stern, looked around for a moment, then hauled up a section of loose decking on the steer-board side, barely a pace from where he and Gunnar had been standing moments before. From the cramped, dark space below the deck, a shivering, white face peered back up at him.

The farm boy.