37

I stared out the window for what could have been an hour. Skoll was lying far below me with his arms spread, his body outlined by the moon. Flakes of snow drifted down, lightly covering him. In time I couldn’t see him at all.

I leaned against the side of the church, breathing deeply, trying to gather my wits. I shook off the numbness, found the spearhead, and put it back in my pocket. The church was getting colder and colder and I needed to get home. I wandered out through the broken door and stumbled in the direction of Uncle Thordy’s yard. I had to climb down a rock wall, careful not to put too much weight on my ankle. There were moments when I wanted to stop and just lie down, but a verse kept repeating itself over and over again in my head, in time with each step: Cattle die, kinsmen die, I myself shall die, but there is one thing I know never dies: the reputation we leave behind at our death.

I passed the alcove and Mordur was gone. So was Gunnvor’s body. It was a lifetime before I neared the farmyard. I was met by Michael and strangers in thick jackets. They looked like policemen. Two of them were carrying Mordur. The moment they got near I collapsed and they had to lift me. They wanted to know if I had seen Uncle Thordy. “He’s dead, he’s dead, he has to be,” I whispered.

Then I passed out.