CHAPTER TEN

 

NIGHT, WOOD AND FIRE

 

Atli pulled the stick against his bent knee and felt the satisfying snap as it yielded to the pressure. Placing both halves on the deck, he rested the end of one on the middle of the other, then gave the raised half a sharp whack in the middle with the hand-axe he had acquired earlier that evening. It immediately cracked in two. He fed the two smallest parts into the fire that was now crackling away in the broad, blackened metal dish and watched them catch and spit in the glow, relishing the warmth. The cauldron of water swaying on its chains above was at last starting to steam.

All along the ship, the men were hauling up lines to examine their catch. Now and then one wrestled with small fish - haddock, Atli thought - some of which flipped and slapped on the deck. High on the prow, a man with no front teeth whose name Atli could not remember stood looking out to sea. Sundvordr, had Bjólf called it - bow watch. Below him, on the forecastle, Kjötvi lay, tended now and then by Magnus, while closest to Atli, now wrapped in a smooth skin coat lined with thick fur, Finn scanned the dark water silently, the finger of his right hand tucked under the taut fishing line that disappeared over the side and into the inky black swell, sensitive to the slightest movement. Atli found his own gaze continually returning to this strange figure. He was Sami - so Gunnar had told him; a reindeer herder from the far north, where there were year-round snows. This one had been a shaman of his tribe before the lot of them had been killed by raiders. Somehow, he alone had survived. Powerful with magic, Gunnar said. Atli had already noticed that the attitude of the other men was different towards this one. Though jovial and direct, as they all were with each other, they kept more of a distance from him. There seemed an unusual kind of respect, or perhaps fear. Despite his continuing efforts to fight the superstitious dread that had made his family life so miserable - efforts bolstered by the welcome pragmatism of his new captain - something about this man made Atli edgy. Something unnerving, dangerous - like a feeling half remembered from a dream. Or perhaps it was just Gunnar's story that had disturbed him. He poked the fire, and set about the wood again with his axe. Never mind. At least there should be some proper food soon.

Not long before, Atli had watched as Bjólf had set the fire. It was a familiar ritual - one he had seen perhaps a hundred times before as part of his father's regular routine - yet here performed with such elegance and efficiency that it was somehow rendered fascinating again, as if seen entirely anew.

First, Bjólf had snapped one of the thinnest of the dry sticks into short lengths, then, smashing one of its ends to splinters with the flat back of an axe, placed it in the charred middle of the great metal dish, on top of a handful of straw Fjölvar had brought from a box beneath deck. On top of that, he had piled more small, kindling-sized pieces of wood, then, from the bag on his belt, he had drawn a small pouch, from which he had pulled a tuft of what looked like wool - flax, Atli thought it was - and tucked it into the straw. Rummaging further in the pouch, he had then produced a lump of flint and an elegantly shaped metal tool whose purpose Atli did not recognise - smaller than a palm and something like half a belt buckle, it was completely flat along one edge, the other delicately fashioned with intertwined dragons, the long, snaking necks curving outward and back towards the centre so their heads met in the middle. Its purpose was soon to become clear. From the pouch, Bjólf had taken a small piece of what looked like black felt - Atli recognised it as hnjóskr, or 'touchwood,' something his grandfather had once been renowned for making - and, gripping the flint in the upturned palm of his left hand with the touchwood held between his fingers, began to strike the exposed surface of the stone with the flat edge of the tool. Sparks flew. A firelighting steel. Bjólf repeated the blow over and over, moving the touchwood around in relation to the flint, altering the angle of striking to direct the now steady flow of sparks towards it. Wisps of smoke and the sharp tang of flint filled the air. Within a few moments, Bjólf had cupped his hand around the strip of touchwood, and Atli could see that its rough edge was glowing. Transferring it swiftly to the flax tuft, he blew gently until the glow caught the flax fibres and, with the nurturing of another few breaths, made a tiny flame. The flax flame caught the straw, the straw the wood splinters, the splinters the kindling, and, before long, a respectable fire was flickering and swaying before Atli's eyes. Bjólf had stood then, saying: "Keep this fire going, no matter what." Then, as he had turned to go, added: "And don't set fire to the ship."

As he was leaving, Fjölvar had returned with the big cauldron, now full of water, and hooked it back onto its chains above the fire. For a moment it had rocked and swayed dangerously, its contents slopping about above the still-meagre flame. Fjölvar tapped the cauldron with his knuckle. "Every man aboard is depending on you," he said, encouragingly, then, with a single slap on Atli's shoulder, had made off, back to a small area near the mast that he was now using for food preparation.

The first thing Atli had realised, once things had settled down, was that he was faint with hunger. Somehow, the events of the day had managed to keep his mind off his stomach, but suddenly, he felt his head swimming. His hands shook as he fed wood into the fire, his stomach tightening as if it were about to cave in. The mere mention of food had brought him crashing back to the reality that not a morsel had passed his lips since early morning. It had been a rough meal porridge with some dried fish in it. The fish had had a particularly rank taste today - it could get like that when the weather wasn't good for drying - but right now Atli would have given anything for a bowl.

"Here." Atli had jumped at the voice beside him. It was Gunnar. He set down a bowl of drinking water, and then, reaching into a black leather bag - of a type that all the men seemed to wear at their belts - he drew out his huge fist and held it towards the boy. Atli offered his cupped hands, and into it was deposited a huge handful of hazelnuts, shrivelled berries and small pieces of what looked to be dried meat. "Keep your strength up," said Gunnar with a curt nod. He stood awkwardly for a moment, scratching at his black beard, then, with a grunt, turned and went.

At first, Atli had simply stared at the small feast, almost too exhausted to eat. Then a wave of hunger overwhelmed him again. Having no hands free, he simply shoved his face into the mix and chomped on it like a hog. The sweet bitterness of the hazelnuts and sharpness of the berries made his saliva run like a dog - his cheeks ached with it. Then came the pungent, deep flavour of the meat. It was the most delicious thing he had ever eaten. Its effect was like magic. Within moments, he felt his strength and his resolve returning - enough to realise that here, now, food was a commodity too valuable to squander. Half the mixture remained in his cupped hands; it would be wise to pace himself. But, as he looked up, he realised the fire was already dying. Scooping the remaining half of the mixture into his left hand, he shoved a stick into the dwindling blaze then looked around for somewhere to put his precious food. He eventually drank the bowl of water, put the dried mix into it, then turned his full attention back to the fire, piling up the embers with another stick and coaxing it back to life with his breath.

Bjólf, who had been watching from a distance, smiled at the boy's ingenuity. He'd be alright. They could adapt to anything at that age - it was the best time to go to sea. Or maybe he was just getting sentimental in his old age.

A thought struck him. Returning to Steinarr's chest, he pulled something from it and made his way back to the prow.

The sudden slap of leather on the deck had given Atli another start. At his feet lay a bag that had been repaired in one corner, with a bronze clasp and two straps that had been designed to fit neatly over the belt now at his waist, and of the same brown leather. "You'll be needing that," Bjólf had said, towering over the crouching boy. "Unless you want to keep all your possessions in a bowl."

Atli had wasted no time in putting the bag where it belonged - on his belt, next to his shiny new knife. And it had not been the last gift of the evening. Later, when he had been struggling to break some of the thicker pieces of wood, another of the crew - the one called Thorvald; a short, stocky fellow - had taken pity and given him the axe. Its owner, he said with a laugh, had no further use for it; a trophy of their battle on the beach. But before Atli could ask him further about that, he had gone. It had made his task easier, that much was certain, but, more importantly, it had made him feel trusted, one of them. A warrior. When not in use, he tucked the axe proudly, if a little awkwardly, into his belt, and became all the more determined to make this the best cooking fire the crew had ever seen.

Atli's great worry now was his supply of wood. He had tried to make it last, while getting the best blaze he could to heat the water as quickly as possible - for his hunger, and, he supposed, that of the others, demanded more than dried fruit and nuts - but already, half of it was gone. How long did they want him to keep this going? Until the cooking was done, certainly. But how long would that take? And how much longer after that? An hour? Two? All night?

Emboldened now- and realising he must act before the need made itself too keenly felt - he built up the fire as much as he dared and set off on a foraging mission about the ship. As the men worked around him, sometimes ruffling his hair or making a quip about his size, his eyes darted about in the darkness, searching for anything - anything at all - that might keep the fire going. He found the shattered remains of a shield - Godwin indicated with a stern nod that he could take the boards from it - and then, remembering the broken trap below the boards, in his old hiding place, sought permission to drag it up and put it to better use. As word spread about his quest among the crew, more offerings came - an old broken chest, a pail that had rotted through, a couple of warped spear shafts, an oar that had split its blade and been sitting below deck ever since. Up in the bow, Atli had seen a choice piece - a big, roughly conical chunk of oak, about the length of his forearm, tucked into a gap at the edge of the planking, beneath the prow. He had pulled it out and was about to add it to his hoard when he saw Magnus shaking his head discreetly.

"That's part of the ship," the old man whispered.

Atli returned it without a word.