CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

 

THE RESURRECTION AND THE LIFE

 

They had barely departed when Magnus finally gave up the ghost. For hours afterwards they followed the winding course of the river in silence, the wind in their faces. The channel became broader, the turns longer and more meandering, and here and there it began to fork off into other tributaries, some of which were near-choked with overhanging trees and creepers. But, bit by bit, the banks became more favourable to the presence of men; the vegetation thinned, seeming to spring forth with a more youthful vigour. No longer the impenetrable, primordial murk of the cursed land they had left behind, but fresh and inviting, the penetrating sunlight clearing the airy forests of the dank moulds and fungi that had weighed so heavily upon the air of that weird domain. To port, far beyond the trees, the land rose to craggy, mountainous uplands whose jagged tops shimmered in a hazy morning mist. Beyond them, Bjólf surmised, lay the steep-sided fjord which led to the site of their encounter with Grimmsson's ship. Yet nearby, the banks' edges were shallow and inviting, the grass lush, the soil dark, the trees lofty yet not oppressive, their branches filled once more with the songs of birds.

It felt like emerging from a nightmare, and yet, even this began with the end of a life.

Looking down upon the neatly wrapped corpse of Magnus, Bjólf called out to his crew.

"Heave to!"

Thorvald leaned on the tiller. The men shipped the oars, and Finn threw out the anchor. They would land here and rest a while. Perhaps hunt some game. And, most of all, they would give Magnus a decent burial. He, at least, would be properly laid to rest. It would not quite be the funeral he deserved - no array of rich accoutrements to accompany him to the next world (in truth, Bjólf was uncertain what warrior trappings, if any, were appropriate to the Christian heaven). But the spot was tranquil and beautiful, with dappled sunlight and scattered clumps of fragrant herbs here and there - the very ones the old man had once so carefully gathered to ply his craft - and Bjólf knew that, to Magnus, this would be worth more than all the wealth and ceremony of a king.

With the ship safely anchored a short distance from the shore, Bjólf took his place upon the steering deck, the body of Magnus at his feet, and turned to his men.

"I am no religious man, but Magnus followed the White Christ, and while I profess no knowledge of gods or their ways, it is only right that we honour him in his own manner, out of love and respect for the man we knew." A general mutter of approval passed through the assembled company. "But also, I wish to pay him my own tribute, this last time. There are others for whom I would like to have done the same, others we have lost. I cannot stand over their bodies and speak words of praise at their deeds. We have been denied that right. And so, my words over this, our most recently fallen, go out in honour of them all." He paused for a moment, head lowered, thinking carefully about the form of his words.

"Magnus was a great friend. A fearless man and a generous one, whose skills in healing we all have had reason to thank over the years. Some of us live today only because of him." There were nods of assent. "I remember when we first found him, locked in a filthy cell, drunk and baying for the blood of his abbot - branding him a coward and a hypocrite in the foulest possible language..." Another laugh, more raucous this time. "This was not what I had come to expect of a Christian monk. The very next moment, he was telling us where the abbot's silver was hidden and begging to be taken away from that hell-hole. Somehow I sensed we had found - what can I call it? - a kindred spirit. He began as our guest, became our friend. Our teacher. Such were the qualities of the man..." Bjólf cleared his throat, looked suddenly self-conscious and uncertain, then pressed his flattened palms together awkwardly in an unfamiliar gesture. This was to be, he hoped, how Magnus might have wanted it. His eyes sought out Odo amongst the men crowded on the deck. Odo nodded discreetly to confirm that Bjólf was doing it right.

"Man comes from earth, and returns to earth," Bjólf began, hesitantly. He'd heard parts of the sacred book from Magnus many times before, but now he was starting to wish he'd listened more closely. It all seemed to jumble together in his head. "We commend his soul to... to... the hall of Christ..." Was that right? He recalled that Christ and his men were sailors, but what else? He searched his memory, trying to find somewhere in it the sound of Magnus's voice. "Long may he feast there... at the... last supper of his God..." A groan came from somewhere. Was his attempt at this really that bad? He pressed on, regardless. "And revel in that heroic company... until the great day of his... earthly resurrection." Yes, now he remembered. A familiar phrase popped into his head, as if Magnus himself had uttered it in his ear. He spoke it triumphantly: "The Christ told his men, 'I am the resurrection and the life'..."

As he spoke the words, a second, greater groan came from the deck. With it was a sound which seemed utterly incongruous - the slow tearing of fabric. Before Bjólf could grasp what was happening, the front few rows of the crew recoiled suddenly, crashing into those behind, and an ungainly white shape seemed to loom out of nowhere. It staggered drunkenly before him, shreds of stretched and rent linen unravelling and falling away from its face as the thing within emerged like a moth from its silken cocoon.

Magnus. And not Magnus.

Bjólf was momentarily paralysed, not with fear, but with disbelief. Others seemed similarly stricken. In the weird, still silence that followed, the eerily frozen company stood tense and motionless, expressions of horror and incredulity upon their faces, as the ghoulish figure wearing their friend's features swayed uneasily before them, its arms still part-swaddled by the remains of its wrappings. Its head turned stiffly, twitching, taking in its surroundings like a ghastly newborn. Its feet shuffled and it lurched suddenly around to face the body of men. At the sight of them - of this great feast of flesh - the expressionless mouth lolled open, spilling drool upon the gnarled wood of the deck. From it came another horrible, imbecilic wail.

Shrunk against the gunwale, half-slumped in horror, Atli scrabbled backwards at the sound as if to put more distance between him and this new nightmare. Next to him, the old, rusted spare anchor - the very one Háki the Toothless had swung with such crushing effect at the jaws of Grimmsson's men - shifted noisily at his elbow and fell flat against the boards. At the sound, the dead parody of Magnus turned, baring its teeth, and lunged at the boy.

Atli flung himself out of the creature's way as several men - snapped out of their reverie - jumped forward in an attempt to restrain it. As they did so, its arms finally sprang free of its linen bindings and flailed about wildly, catching one or two across the face. They reeled back, but more waded into the fray, grabbing at it in a disordered melÈe of shouting and thrashing. The thing turned on anyone that came near, fearless, thoughtless, punctuating the uproar with the sharp clatter of its teeth snapping at their flesh.

Many now had weapons drawn; seaxes and knife-blades flashed in the sunlight. Yet many who would not have hesitated under other circumstances - who had survived past battles only because of their lack of hesitation - were suddenly afflicted by a crippling doubt. This was Magnus. Wise Magnus. Gentle Magnus. Was he alive after all? He walked. He moved. Could he not be crazed with fever? Might he not be saved? Even as the ghastly, pallid mockery lurched before them, evoking all the horrors of the previous night, misplaced hope stayed their hands.

Bjólf stepped forward, then, sword drawn. "Get back!" he called as he strode towards the wild brawl, blade raised and ready over his shoulder. The men immediately scattered, knowing their captain would not wait to strike his blow. The creature whirled around, saw his approach, and even as Bjólf swung at it, flew at him with no regard for its own welfare. The sudden move caught Bjólf off guard; he tried to redirect his blade as it sang through the air, and caught the creature across its raised arm with a clumsy strike. The thing staggered and crashed against him. Bjólf fell as its severed arm - still moving - thudded on the deck next to him, splashing thick, foetid fluid across his face.

The thing was still on its feet, looming over him. Some of the men, the spell broken, had snatched up spears and poked at the writhing figure. But its eyes were fixed upon Bjólf. Ignoring the spear-points, it cried out again - a hollow moan of blind, ravenous hunger. Drool dripped upon Bjólf's chest.

Gunnar, meanwhile, had grabbed the nearest thing to hand - the iron chain that had come aboard with Grimmsson's treasure chest. He swung it around his head in a great circle, its heavy length clinking and roaring in the air. The others stepped back at the sound, and he made his move. The iron links caught the thing a heavy blow on the side of the head, wrapping around its neck, and Gunnar hauled the creature towards him with a roar and threw loops of chain about its body, pinning its arm against its chest. He spun the creature around and looped the chain through itself before pulling it tight at its back. "Finish it!" he cried out, gripping the thrashing ghoul from behind in a bear hug. Thorvald broke from the crowd, his heavy axe in his hand.

Then, just when it seemed it was over, the fiend smashed its head back into Gunnar's face. He staggered back, letting go his grip, blood pouring from his nose. The thing teetered sideways, away from Thorvald, its remaining arm wriggling free again, the long chain dragging after it.

 

 

Crouched by the gunwale, Atli looked up once more at the thing that had been Magnus, stumbling above him. This time, his mind was clear. This time, it would be different. Out of the corner of his eye, he had seen Bjólf scramble to his feet. A look passed between them as Bjólf hefted one of the oars. Atli understood. "Hey! Over here!" he cried. The creature whirled around and made for him once more. Atli did not move this time, but pressed himself hard against the gunwale until the very last moment - human bait for the monster. In moments the thing was almost on him. As its hand grasped for his face he dropped, curling himself into a ball. The full weight of the oar, swung with all Bjólf's strength, cracked against the creature's back and sent it flying forward, stumbling over Atli and tipping head-first over the side.

The weight of its iron bonds dragged it swiftly beneath the surface. As the loose chain rattled along the deck, Bjólf caught hold of it and wrapped the end around the brace cleat. The chain pulled tight, and Atli peered tentatively over the side, into the churned, weedy water that had swallowed the creature. But of Magnus there was now no sign.

Bjólf clapped Atli on the shoulder with a grateful nod, even allowing himself a hint of a smile. He did not say anything. But that silent recognition meant the world to the boy.

Gunnar approached, shaking the dizziness from his head. He scooped up some water from the river and splashed it over his face and beard, then spat, and snorted the remaining blood out of his nose noisily.

"You should know better than to put your face in the way of someone's head," said Bjólf.

Gunnar simply made a gruff rumbling sound deep in his throat, one of his more subtle means of expressing annoyance. He wiped his big forearm across his mouth, and then stared at the few tiny bubbles that broke the surface, a dark and brooding look upon his face.

"Kylfing. Gøtar. Oddvarr. Now Magnus," he said. "They were all dead, of that there can be no doubt. And yet..."

Bjólf raised his hand, silencing the big man, and turned and leaned on the gunwale, staring at the place where the still quivering chain disappeared beneath the water.

"We've all seen it now," he muttered, gazing into the impenetrable, green-tinged depths, his expression dark. "The dead return." He sighed deeply. "I needed to see it with my own eyes. That is my own failing." Gunnar shrugged, as if this were not such a bad failing to have. Bjólf spoke slowly, in calm, even tones. "This was how Grimmsson's ship died. The ones you saw in the woods, they not only attacked his crew; they took the pestilence aboard. Passed it on."

He looked along the length of the Hrafn, and amongst the men spied a solitary, motionless figure sitting slumped, head hanging, his face pale and with a clammy sheen of sweat.

"Watch Jarl," said Bjólf.

He searched further, found another whose eyes were fixed upon the same subject, as they had been since departing the vale of Halldís and Hallbjörn. "And watch Einarr too. His wits have been shaken since last night. Who knows what master he follows now." Gunnar, his heavily browed eyes scanning the ship, gave a curt grunt of acknowledgement.

"But what of Magnus?" he said after a long pause. "He suffered no bite. No wound at the draugr's hand. And Kylfing and the others, too..."

"It is among us," Bjólf said, nodding slowly, his voice grim, resigned. "As with the dead of Hallbjörn's clan - they leave their graves regardless of the manner of their death. It is in the air. In their blood. In us. Now we carry this curse with us, wherever we go." He turned to Gunnar. "There is no escape, old friend."

Gunnar stood in silent thought, then exclaimed defiantly. "Pah! So what if death stalks us? When did it not? Nothing is changed. We do as we have always done - fight to stay alive!"

But Bjólf was not cheered by the words. He spread his hands out before him, reviewing every mark and scar, as if suddenly baffled by his own flesh. "We're dead already."