CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE ROAD TAKEN
It was only gradually that Atli realised what his new treasures meant. As they talked, the weight of his situation began to bear down upon him as palpably as his new mail-shirt. But now, like the mail itself, there was something oddly comforting in the burden, and while he felt a rush of sheer terror each time he even thought of putting his sword to use, its presence also reassured him. In this company, dressed as he was, he felt himself speak a little more assuredly, move a little more naturally with the ship and stand a little taller.
"Then we are agreed. There is some pestilence in this land," said Bjólf.
"I have no need to agree anything," said Gunnar, his patience wearing thin. "I saw it with my own eyes."
"But some pestilence. That was what you said. A plague of some kind?"
"I suppose," shrugged Gunnar. "But unlike any I've seen. And we've seen many, you and I."
Bjólf nodded gloomily. "And you are certain of what you saw?"
"Odin's beard! For the last time... It was like something yanked out of a grave; a puppet of rotten flesh and bones! Just as the boy describes. And don't forget those moans, you yourself heard those."
"Could they have been something else? An animal of some sort?"
Gunnar threw up his hands. "If that was an animal then you can drop me in a cauldron and call me a Celt."
"Well, this makes sense of the merchant's' tall tales."
"And perhaps, too, of our old friend back in the village." Gunnar gave Atli a swift sideways glance as he spoke, then added: "Of Ivarr..." Atli felt mixed feelings at the vindication of his father's actions. He chose to remain silent. But he was glad, at least, that Gunnar had chosen to honour his father with a name.
"There's one good thing to come of it," sighed Bjólf. "If the poor wretches you saw did stray onto Grimmsson's ship, then that crew will have more pressing things to worry about than us."
"It seems the bad luck was in our favour."
At that moment, the voice of Finn called out from his position at the prow. "Hoy! Up ahead - a fork in the channel."
Bjólf hurried to the bow, with Atli close behind, as the steady rhythm of the oars drew them through the fog, closer to the place where the waterway branched off, off to port. Splitting off at an angle and heading back in the opposite direction from that in which they were now travelling, it was far narrower than the fjord in which they now found themselves - but still a good size for their ship. It was also considerably more inviting. The banks were greener, it even seemed the sky beyond was lighter, and they could see slight eddies around the confluence - signs of the gentle current against which, thus far, they had been rowing.
"So," he said. "It seems we have a choice. Keep on inland within this fjord, or turn back down this tributary, and perhaps on to the sea. What say you, little man?"
Atli looked ahead at the forbidding, indistinct gloom of the fjord, then back at the leafy, gently sloping banks that lined the waterway to port. "This is like the rivers of my home. Its forest has a kindlier look than hereabouts. More the kind of place I would wish to be if I wanted fresh meat and game."
Bjólf nodded. "More hopeful of a landing place, too. And everyone has had a bellyful of rowing, and it's easier to roll a stone downhill than up. Bring her about!"
Slowly the Hrafn was turned into the gentle current, and the men, every one of them glad at the boy's decision, were finally able to ease up on the oars. "Don't let her drift!" called Gunnar. "I can't steer her if you drift!" All jeered at his protest, but Úlf, relieving half the rowing crew, made sure the remaining men kept up a gentle pressure on the oars.
It was not long before all spirits were lifted. The surrounding banks, though swampy, were green and verdant, the fog was clearing with every stroke of the oars, and soon the haze was pierced by glimmers of sunlight and the sounds of birdsong. Finally, there began to appear subtle signs of human habitation: a thick wooden post among the branches at the water's edge, once a mooring for a boat; a long wicker basket, abandoned now by the side of the river, but meant for trapping eels; in a stark, half-dead ash tree, old sacrificial offerings to the gods - skeletal remains of pigs, sheep and birds nailed to its mossy boughs.
Bjólf stepped up to the prow then, and, taking up the thick, conical wedge of wood that Atli had once thought to put on his fire, climbed up past Finn to the dragon's head and knocked out two pegs from the point where the neck joined the prow. For the first time, Atli realised that the head - intricately carved, and once painted in bright colours, though now faded and chipped almost down to the dark, bare wood - was an entirely separate piece.
To Atli's great surprise, Bjólf then tilted the dragon's head backwards until it came away completely in his hands. He paused for a moment, patted the dragon's forehead affectionately and muttered "Sorry about the 'ugly pile of wood,' old girl..." Then he kissed his fingers, pressed them on the dragon's head, wrapped it carefully in sacking and laid it gently in the crook of the prow. "We are not on a raid today," Bjólf explained, seeing the questions creeping across Atli's face. "So, we take her down to show we have no warlike intent. No point making enemies until we know what we're dealing with."
As he was speaking, Finn, looking ahead, had spied something. He nudged him, and gestured downriver. Just visible in the distance, on the river's left bank, was a clearing around a muddy bay, and beached in the mud several small boats.
"However," Bjólf continued, "there is no advantage in appearing weak."
He turned and gave a shrill whistle to the crew. All looked to him. And without another word he raised his arms to head height and struck a clenched fist against the flattened palm of his left hand.
As Bjólf strode astern to arm himself, all around threw open chests and set about the same task. The air was filled with the chink of mail and the glint of helms and blades as hauberks were thrown over heads, straps tightened and quivers filled. Shields and spears were passed out from their places on the deck, while amidst the clamour came the sound of whetstones honing sword and axe.
Among the men, Gunnar spied Kjötvi, up and about and making his own preparations, despite a near total lack of armour with which to prepare. His leg was bound, his left hand wrapped in a bloody bandage so he struggled to buckle his belt, yet it seemed to Gunnar that, aside from the obvious injuries and the near permanent look of consternation upon his face, that he was the very picture of rude health. That was just the way of things, he supposed. Some men could trip on a bucket and that was the end of them. Others could be trampled by a dozen horses and get up afterwards. Kjötvi, uniquely among men, seemed to combine the worst of one and the best of the other. It was certainly a strange kind of half-luck that he had.
Gunnar approached him. "Sorry about the, er..." He nodded in the vague direction of the place where Kjötvi's left index finger had once been.
Kjötvi shook his head in disbelief. "I put my hand on the gunwale for one moment. The two ships' hulls clashed, and..." he shuddered at the memory.
Gunnar reached into the bag on his belt and pulled out a small, yellow-white sliver. "I have something. Something to return." He handed it to a bemused Kjötvi. "The shard of bone that Magnus removed from your leg," explained Gunnar. "I kept it safe. It's not much, but it seemed to me you'd already lost enough for one trip."
Kjötvi took the bone fragment, and, closing his fist around it, gave a smile of deep gratitude.
Atli - already kitted out with mail and sword - had meanwhile hurried back to his small heap of belongings at Bjólf's command. As he fastened his belt, from which hung his leather pouch, eating knife and axe, Magnus approached, in his hands a simple steel helm with a straight nose-guard. He held it out to Atli.
"Gøtar asked me to give you this," he said. Atli took it from him, momentarily lost for words. Like the mail, it was far heavier than he had imagined. Responding to Magnus' encouraging nod, he lifted it and placed it carefully over his head, uncertain how he was supposed to tell whether it was a good fit or not. His head rattled around inside the metal casing like a clapper in a bell. Magnus raised a finger, then reached inside his tunic and pulled out what looked like a woollen cap. "Here," he said, "you need one of these." And with that he took off the helm, then, having pulled the tight-fitting cap onto Atli's head, put it back over the top. Atli shook his head from side to side again. It was a snug fit now. Magnus smiled and rapped a knuckle on the front. "Better!"
Atli beamed. "I should thank him..."
Magnus shook his head solemnly. "He has passed. But this was his last wish."
Atli's face fell at the words.
"He knew the life was leaving him," said Magnus. "The helm was no protection when his time came. But he hoped it might help you live out longer days."
And without another word, he turned and left Atli standing in silence. The boy could not put a name to the feelings he felt at that moment. Never had he experienced such a mix of pride and sorrow. That a man who he barely knew - a warrior - had spent his last breath upon him... As he thought of the lives these many forge-fashioned works of metal had known - these things, everything he owned, that now were part of him - his feelings resolved into a steadfast determination, a decision about how his own life should be. Whatever he did, wherever he went, he would strive to honour them all - Steinarr, Hallgeirr, Gøtar and the rest.