PEER WAKES… TO the sound of Loki barking. It’s still night. His head pounds and his arm throbs. Loki barks again, angry growling barks as if he’s holding something at bay. There’s a dreadful smell, sweet and rotten. And a strange noise – twittering, giggling. Peer lifts himself painfully to see.
He’s lying in a steep, secret gully, roofed with trees as thick as thatch. To his left, a few feet away, the creek pours past. To his right is the dark side of the gully, riddled with even darker, irregular holes, each with a spoilheap of earth at the mouth – some kind of animal lair.
But the nasty, shrill chattering noise from the holes doesn’t sound like animals. Deep within, small eyes gleam white, like tiny pearls.
Loki dashes at them, then cries and yips. Stones rattle into his face. He bolts away, tail low. Next second Peer is hurled backwards. He cries out. The things scramble all over him, sniggering – scrawny things with puffed chests and nipped waists and cold scratching fingers. Their white eyes look sightless, like the eyes of a cooked fish. Pinching hands grip and roll him over. The stones graze his face. Again he’s rolled, this time on to damp earth covered in twigs and pine needles.
And they fasten him down, forcing twigs into the soft earth between every finger, stretching out his arms and legs, tugging back his hair. They ram a forked stick over his neck and use more to pin down his wrists and ankles. Peer struggles, but he’s already weak, and there’s so many of them crawling over him. Soon he can’t lift a finger. He rolls his eyes and shouts, and one of them slips a sharp piece of wood into his mouth and twists it, propping his mouth wide open.
Peer gurgles and retches. Blood trickles down his throat. He prods his tongue at the wooden gag, but it’s too tightly jammed to shift. His jaw aches already.
He waits in flinching horror. What will happen now? But the things, whatever they were, seem to have finished. One moment they’re swarming over him; the next, they scuffle to get in through the entrance of the nearest hole. A sprinkle of earth is kicked out over him. And they’ve gone.
That’s it? But they can’t leave me like this!
Peer jerks and twitches at his bonds, but nothing gives. He tries to cry out, but can only manage a muffled, “Angh – ah!”
And who’s going to hear?
He struggles again, then lies limp. Threads of saliva trickle from the corners of his mouth. Tears fill his eyes.
I don’t want to die this way. Not like this. I should have let Harald kill me. Died fighting. I bet Thorolf didn’t run.
His hurt arm throbs. Chilled, exhausted, he slides away into a world of dreams. He’s with Hilde on the beach, and she says, “I love you too”. He’s back in the house, and he’s just run Harald through with Gunnar’s sword. Everyone cheers, everyone thinks he’s a hero. He’s sailing Water Snake into Trollsvik. Bjørn’s there on the jetty, smiling his old smile. “Well done, Peer. I knew you could do it.”
Lies.
Day comes. He wakes slowly, staring up at a brown tangle of interlaced branches, tipped with fringes of dark green. The sun shines through in white blinks. Surely it was all a bad dream?
But his mouth gapes open, wide, dry. He lies on the cold bank, pegged down. The water bounds past, chuckling and burbling, but he can’t reach it or see it. A striped squirrel scampers down a tree, a dove coos, a crow calls harshly. Somewhere close, a lot of flies whirl and hum over the source of the bad smell. Peer doesn’t want to think what it is. Sometimes, disturbed, they rise in a buzzing cloud. One big one finds Peer and explores his face, walking with tickling feet over his eyes, nose and mouth. Its body glints like green armour. He squints at it, helpless, unable even to puff it away.
Paws pad round his fallen body: a nose pushes into his face with a worried sigh that scares the fly off. Poor Loki, that’s all you can do. If only the Nis could come and set me free.
It’s cold. But Loki settles against Peer’s side, and a little warmth creeps through. Peer drifts in and out of consciousness, woken sometimes by griping cramps. Once he hears an axe chopping, or perhaps it’s only a woodpecker. Once when he wakes, Loki is not there, and he hears him drinking. And the long, slow, agonising day passes, and the pine trees huddle together overhead, and darkness returns.
Peer falls into a dream deeper than any he’s had yet. He seems to be awake, sitting up, free of his bonds. The pain is gone. He hears splashing from the creek, looks around and sees without surprise the tall black dragonhead from the Long Serpent – alive, long bodied, writhing its way upstream with head raised, horns twitching, fiery eyes turned on him.
You’re alive! Peer cries. They didn’t kill you after all.
The dragon’s jaws open in a long hiss. Then it speaks, using his father’s voice. Alive for you. Alive whenever you think of me.
Peer is filled with joy. Father! Where have you been all this time?
In the land of the remembered dead, says the dragon gently.
It’s wonderful not to be alone any more. There’s so much to say, so much to tell, Peer doesn’t know where to start. Have you been with me, watching me? If only I’d known. I’ve kept trying, Father, really I have. But it’s been so hard.
I know only what you tell me, says the dragon, but Peer isn’t listening. He pours it all out: I came to find Thorolf, but Thorolf’s dead. I fought Harald, but I ran away. I wasn’t brave enough – I can’t use a sword. And I’ve left Hilde behind, though I promised Ralf to look after her. And…
Hush! The dragon shoots its long neck forwards and twines around him. Its wet, rough skin sizzles with life. Wherever it brushes against him, he feels a tingling shock.
What more could you do? it demands. What did you leave undone?
Nothing, says Peer slowly.
It touches him with a serpent’s tongue, cold vivid kisses. Then you did well. It rears over him, fierce and glad, as it did on the prow of the longship. You did all you could, Peer, Ulf’s son. You faced your fear and kept faith with your friends.
Peer is silent. At last he asks, What happens now?
Come with me.
The dragon loops, gliding down the bank into the water. Come!
Peer rises. Loki is nowhere to be seen, and for a moment that worries him, and reality, if this is reality, quivers like hot air over a fire. Impatiently the dragon shakes its fringed mane, and Peer hurries, wading into the creek. He puts his arm over the dragon’s sinuous neck, and a moment later they are streaking downstream. The dragon’s body lashes against him like a snake’s, whipping around rocks, surging over little cascades where the spray flashes like ice. Enormous trees tower overhead. Their black branches reach into the sky like arms trying to tear down the stars. Their thick roots plunge deep into the river as if exploring to the bottom of the world.
And now the banks are becoming cliffs that lean over the water till they touch overhead, and all light vanishes. The noise of the river grows louder, growling and rumbling. Fear touches Peer like a drift of cold spray. Where are we going?
Away, says the dragon dreamily. Away together, far from pain. Down the dark river.
No! Peer frees his arm from the serpent’s neck. Instantly the black water plucks him away. He fights the pull of the current, kicking fiercely. I can’t follow you, Father. Not yet. You’re dead. I want to live. I want to live…
And the tilt of the river steepens, and he’s falling, falling over the waterfall, a long, slow tumble for ever and ever.
He wakes with a jolt, spreadeagled on his back. Still here. Every muscle in his body seems to be tearing itself away from the others. Each breath is shallow torture. How long can this go on?
Help me. Father. Somebody. Anybody, please, help me.
Loki growls low, vibrating against him. Panic flares through Peer’s veins. Are those creatures coming back?
But something splashes, disturbing the rhythm of the creek. A stone plops. Black against the faint sheen of the water, shadows stoop and straighten, flitting towards him. A voice calls, cool and curious as a bird. Loki growls again, then whines and trembles.
An extraordinary face appears hanging over him, as thin as the blade of an axe. The eyes gleam, so closely set they look like a single green stone sticking through the narrow forehead. The face is almost all nose. A sharp, down-turned mouth looks comically disapproving. It warbles a rapid string of sounds that may be a question.
Peer tries to speak. Croaks. Hot and cold waves are washing up and down his body, and he seems to be shrinking, but at different rates. He feels very heavy, and very small. Yet his feet are miles away. His hands are useless cramped claws far off at the ends of his arms.
More of the thin faces peer down at him. Cold, gentle fingers prod and probe into his sore, cracked mouth. With an agonising twitch the wooden gag is pulled out, and tears of relief spring to his eyes as he tries to close his jaws over his swollen tongue. The Thin Faces uproot the forked sticks pinning him down, and toss them away.
An angry chittering comes from the holes in the side of the gully, but nothing emerges. Peer struggles to move. His rescuers drag him up, but he falls over. Loki circles anxiously.
The Thin Faces whistle quietly together. They range themselves on each side of him and pick him up. Their hands are cold and damp, but strong. They’re not tall – only child-sized, and he finds himself bumping along close to the ground. A low singing starts up, “Hoi… hoi… hoi…” They stamp their feet in time, dancing down to the creek where they lower him into the water. The shock is delicious. He rolls over and buries his sore face in the swift coldness, sucking and lapping.
“Hoi… hoi… hoi…” Before he’s had half-enough, the Thin Faces catch his arms and pull him up the opposite bank. Low fir branches shower needles into his hair, and his heels drag on the soft loose surface. They swing him up, running at a steady jog-trot. Peer hangs jolting, upside down, staring into the crooked sky-track above the trail. It streams past, pale with pre-dawn light, brushed with fingers of black yew, spruce and pine. Loki bounds along, keeping up with him, sometimes on one side, sometimes on the other.
Tiny clouds appear overhead like pink feathers. Birds call. Sixty feet up, the tips of the pines are brushed with gold. The Thin Faces glance uneasily at each other and warble. Their profiles are strong against the brightening sky. Their skin is brown with a bronze-green bloom, and their long lank hair is looped up in identical top-knots.
They stop and lower Peer to the earth. Heads hanging, they melt shyly away into the forest. The last one hesitates. It raises a slender arm and points up the trail. And then it’s gone.
Returning blood jabs a million needles into Peer’s hands and feet. His wounded arm throbs. He pushes himself into a crawling position, sits up. Loki watches, wagging his tail.
“Loki,” Peer says with his sore tongue, and it feels like the first word he’s ever uttered. “Loki, boy.”
He can’t begin to cope with what’s happened. The dragon – the black river – he tucks it away inside himself to look at later.
The path slants along the side of a steep valley with a creek at the bottom. Peer can hear it below him, hidden by trees. He hobbles along, seized by unexpected crippling cramps. It may get warmer later, but it’s cold down here in the shadows.
After an hour or so the trail steepens, curving away from the creek. The noise of the water fades. Peer climbs doggedly on. He comes out on to a ridge and the sun burns the back of his neck, though the air is still sharp. There’s a view of more hills, pleating away in soft folds under a blue sky, covered with forest in which the endless green is already interrupted by autumn reds and golds. His heart sinks at the sight. Where in all this wilderness can he go?
The path fades downhill over dry ground till it vanishes under a litter of dead branches and undergrowth. Wherever he sets his foot, brown grasshoppers scramble and jump, and their tick, tick, zizz fills the air. He battles on, clambering over fallen trees, stumbling through ankle-deep moss. When he finds the trail again, he doesn’t know if it’s the same one. Or if it matters.
It dips into a ravine with a trickle of water at the bottom. The trickle becomes a brook, swirling over a series of waterfalls like deep steps. Peer stumbles on, not sure why, except that to stop moving is to give up hope entirely. But he has to rest more and more often, and each time it’s harder to get up. Small goals become important. I’ll get to that bend in the stream before I stop. As far as that tree with the silver bark. As far as that overhanging rock. At last he’s not sure how long he’s been wandering, or how many nights he’s spent in the forest.
Once he almost steps on a little green snake lying in a patch of sun. It pokes out a scarlet tongue and shoots into the undergrowth. Once he finds a tangle of fruiting blackberries, and shoves the sweet berries into his bruised mouth till his fingers drip.
The path brings him to the top of a steep bank, thick with birches and aspens. The brook plunges over in a long horsetail, splashing off little ledges on the way down. At the bottom, between layers of golden leaves, is the silver glare of water. Echoing up from the water is childish laughter and splashing.
Children?
How? Whose? But it doesn’t matter: there are people down there. He slithers downhill, Loki at his heels, skidding, sliding, catching hold of branches to check his descent. He tumbles out of the trees.
A stretch of open water spreads away, level and bright. Along the water’s edge, against the fringe of the forest, is a village of conical huts or tents, constructed of tall poles propped together and wrapped in sheets of white and golden birchbark. There are fifteen, twenty of them. White smoke rises from cooking fires. Slender white boats lie drawn up on the shore, and a band of bare little black-haired children are chasing each other through the shallows.
Skraelings?
The word doesn’t seem to fit the happy children and the white and golden village.
Then the children see him. They take one look at this pale, shambling, bloody creature and scatter, screaming. The village erupts. Dogs howl. Mothers run to snatch up their babies. Fathers scramble from their doorways and run yelling at Peer, shaking light axes and brandishing spears.
Peer sits down. In truth his legs have simply given way. But no one can think he’s dangerous if he’s sitting on the ground. And if they want to kill him, they’ll do it anyway. And he’s too tired to care. He grips Loki’s collar and waits for them to come.
It works. A crowd of men and boys surrounds him, arguing loudly, threatening him with their spears but not touching him. Their dogs skulk around snarling, foxy-faced, with curling bushy tails. Peer looks up, beyond fear. Dark eyes glitter down at him, suspicious, doubtful. He sees details – a cluster of red feathers swinging from a brown earlobe; a long necklace of white beads; a chequerwork armband in black and blue and white. And then…
Can there be fair-haired Skraelings? A young boy scrabbles his way to the front of the crowd. His chest is bare. He wears a breech cloth of soft leather. His shoulder-length, white-gold hair is braided at the front and tied with discs of white shell and bunches of little blue feathers. His round face, pale under the tan, is marked with paint – a black line drawn from his forehead down over his nose, and white diagonal streaks across each cheek. His blue eyes blaze at Peer, furious, incredulous, and more than a little scared.
“Who are you?” he demands, in clear, aggressive Norse. “Where have you come from?” The paint on his face wrinkles as he scowls. “Did Harald Silkenhair send you?”