Wolfskin Read online

  “You did well,” Eyvind said.

  Somerled chewed on his strip of meat, saying nothing.

  “I mean it. When you first came here, you could never have done that. Most of the boys couldn’t do it. They’d be scared of the dark, of wolves, of trolls. Scared the spear might miss. But you did it.”

  “Stop trying to make me feel better,” Somerled muttered.

  There was a considerable silence while Eyvind thought about this remark.

  “I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong,” he said eventually.

  “That’s the trouble with you.” Somerled’s voice was uneven. “You’re so good at everything, and yet you’re stupid. You’re so stupid you don’t even know how stupid you are.”

  “Right,” said Eyvind after a moment. He threw the rest of his meat on the fire, pulled his blanket around him and lay down to sleep. With Somerled, sometimes there seemed to be no point in trying to understand. There was silence for a while, and he began to feel drowsy after the long day. His limbs ached with weariness, but it was a good feeling, the sort of feeling that went with the cool, clean air of the woodland, and the smell of smoke from the campfire, and the sight of the dark, jeweled sky far above them. He imagined his mother’s smile in the morning, when they returned home with their trophy.

  “Nobody cares.” Somerled’s voice came out of the darkness like the whisper of a small, restless ghost. “Nobody cares what happens to me.”

  “What?” Eyvind rolled over sleepily.

  “My brother left me here to punish me. Now he’s taking me away to punish me.”

  “But…” Eyvind struggled to get his thoughts in order. “Isn’t going to court good, if you want to be…you know, what you said?”

  There was a silence.

  “How could you understand?” asked Somerled bitterly.

  “I am trying,” said Eyvind, propping himself up on one elbow. He could not see Somerled’s face; the boy had his back to him.

  “You don’t care either,” Somerled said in a voice no louder than a rustle of wind in the bushes. “You’re just counting the days until I’m gone. Then you’ll go out with Sigurd and the others, and have a good laugh about me, and do your swimming and diving and hunting, and be pleased you haven’t got me to drag along, slowing you down.”

  This was true, most of it. Already, in his head, Eyvind had planned a swim across the Serpent’s Neck and a run to the top of Setter’s Crag, a trip Somerled could never have managed. He spoke carefully.

  “You know how much I want to be a Wolfskin. I’m too young now. They won’t even let me do the trial until I’m fifteen. It’s hard to wait. Three years seems forever. It’s been good having you here. You’ve kept me busy, given me things to do.”

  “An amusement.” Somerled’s tone was cold. “A little diversion.”

  “You know I don’t mean that,” said Eyvind, sitting up. Still the other boy’s face was obstinately turned away. “Have I ever laughed at you, even once? You’re my friend, Somerled.”

  He heard the indrawn breath, and wondered if Somerled were weeping. Then his voice came, harsh and intense.

  “Then prove it.”

  “Prove it? How?” Eyvind was perplexed.

  Somerled turned. He had his hunting knife in his hand, and his left sleeve was rolled back. As Eyvind stared transfixed, he scored a neat line in the white skin of the forearm, a wound that flowed with fresh blood from wrist to elbow. Somerled’s face was like a war mask, the mouth hard, the eyes fierce with challenge.

  “Swear it in blood.” His voice rang in Eyvind’s ears like the call of a solemn bell or some trumpet of doom, like a sound from an old tale. “Swear we’ll be like brothers, forever. Prove to me you’re not lying.”

  And when Eyvind hesitated, staring as the blood began to trickle from Somerled’s arm onto the blanket, and descend in runnels to be lost on the forest floor, Somerled’s eyes grew chill, his face still tighter.

  “I knew you wouldn’t,” he said. His tone did not mirror his expression. It was the voice of a lonely child who fights to hold back tears.

  Eyvind got up and took the knife from Somerled’s hands. Not allowing himself to think too hard, he bared his own left arm, took a breath, and cut neatly: not too deep, or it would be hard to explain; but deep enough so the blood would flow freely. It hurt, but he knew how to deal with pain. He lifted his arm and laid it against Somerled’s, and they clasped hands as their blood mingled and dripped in the glow of the fire.

  “Now swear,” Somerled whispered. It seemed to Eyvind that the sound of Somerled’s voice was echoed in the rustle of the undergrowth around them, and the restless sigh of the wind in the high branches of the firs.

  “What do I say?” hissed Eyvind, though there was indeed no need for hush, since they were quite alone.

  “Say what I say. Say, I swear an oath that you are my brother from this day on; my brother in the blood that we share.”

  “I swear…” Eyvind repeated the strange, solemn words, wondering why his heart was pounding thus, and his skin breaking out in a cold sweat. After all, he was only reassuring the poor lad that he was not quite friendless. That was all this was.

  “…faithful to each other above all other earthly vows; loyal to each other before all other earthly allegiances, even until death.”

  “…even until death.”

  They let go. The blood was a sticky mess, and Eyvind rummaged in his pack for scraps of linen to use as a binding. Wounds of one kind or another were common enough when hunting, and he always came well prepared.

  “Here,” he said, passing an old cloth to Somerled. “Tear it up, wrap it around.”

  Somerled bandaged his own arm neatly, finishing it off one-handed with a little knot that resembled a flower.

  “I know what you want to be,” he said, his voice quite calm now. “That’s why I put in that part, ‘earthly vows.’ I understand your first promise must be to Thor. But your next is to me. When I am a king, you will be first among my Wolfskins, my war leader and principal bodyguard. There will always be a place for you, if you are loyal.”

  “Thank you,” said Eyvind, trying to conceal his surprise. The whole thing had confused him. He would not think of the story of Niall and Brynjolf, which he had hated so much. This was a gesture of good will, no more. Somerled was lonely. He could hardly let the boy go away thinking he hadn’t a single ally. When Somerled grew a bit older, he’d realize his grand plans were foolish, something that was all in his head and nothing to do with the real world. In the meantime, the lad may as well dream his dreams. “Good night, Somerled,” Eyvind said.

  “Good night.” The small, serious voice came back through the darkness. Eyvind lay down again and, for all the throbbing of his arm, he was soon overtaken by the exhaustion of a day spent stretching his body to the full, and fell asleep. But Somerled sat a long while by the fire, his dark eyes fixed on a place far beyond the farthest margin of clearing or forest or wide hillside, a place that only he could see. He held his bandaged arm against his chest as if it gave him some comfort. Only the gods heard the words he whispered into the darkness.

  TWO

  Somerled departed with no sign of anger and no trace of tears. He thanked Ingi in tight, formal words. He glanced at Eyvind and touched his right hand briefly to the inside of his left forearm as if to say, Don’t forget. Then, as abruptly as he had arrived, Somerled was gone.

  A vow was a vow. But it was easy to forget when the days were warm and bright, and there were so many things to do: wrestling, or swimming, or playing a game they called Battlefield, which involved a very hard ball of straw-packed oxhide and ashwood paddles. Battlefield led to bruises and fierce rivalries and, on occasion, broken bones. When Eyvind went hunting, he took Sigurd or Knut or one of the other boys with him, and they did well. He swam across the Serpent’s Neck and back again without coming up for breath. In the evenings, he worked with knife and wood, and made a little weaving tablet with a border of dogs on it. He thoug
ht he might give this to Ragna, who did not have one of her own. But he remembered Sigurd’s joke about the ten children, and he noticed the way Sigurd had stopped pulling Ragna’s pigtails, and now made chains of flowers for her instead, and he slipped the small carving away in his pocket.

  Three years had seemed forever when Eyvind was not quite twelve, but the seasons passed quickly enough. Sometimes Eirik would visit, and now, as Eyvind grew closer to being a man, his brother began to teach him new skills. There were some techniques you could not practice on a friend, in case you took it too far and maimed or killed him: a little twist of the neck, a thumb applied very specifically, a particular jab to the lower back, or a squeeze to the groin.

  And there were refinements in the use of weapons. A Wolfskin had to be able to be two men, Eirik told him as they rehearsed axe flights against the bole of a great pine in the forest, well out of sight of the house. One was the warrior who leaped first from the longship’s prow, screaming Thor’s name, so fearsome of aspect, so wild of manner that none dared stand against him. That was the crazy man all feared, the frenzied fighter reputed to chew holes in his own shield, so fierce was his rage for battle. That was one man, and one side of it. But a Wolfskin could not be all raw courage and no skill. His life was likely to be short enough; there was no need to let pure stupidity make it any shorter. In between the viking seasons were times when other qualities came into use: the ability to guard one’s nobleman and patron, to fight his feuds on land, and to play hard as well, for a Jarl liked to see his chosen band of elite warriors in demonstrations of skill, be it in horse racing, or wrestling, or challenges of other kinds. So, said Eirik, Eyvind had better polish up his swordplay and his mastery of staves, and try unarmed combat with someone closer to his own size and strength than those puny lads down at the farm. The two brothers pitted themselves one against the other, and Eirik won every time, which was only to be expected. Still, he tended to be a touch breathless at the end of a bout, and he watched his younger brother with the trace of a smile, as if something long suspected were being proven true.

  In the autumn, the dark thrall-woman, Oksana, had another fair-haired babe at the breast. In the following spring, Somerled came back. This time he was visiting at his own request, until his brother should return from another expedition southward toward the kingdom of the Franks. If Ulf did well, the silver he brought home would buy the services of fine boatbuilders and bring his oceangoing longship closer to completion. He might lay aside enough to purchase the skills of a master navigator; he might even begin assembling his own force of Wolfskins. A good share of the season’s booty would go to the Jarl in tribute, of course, but that was part of the whole process, Somerled explained. One must keep the Jarl content, if one might need his support in future. Such a venture required long and careful planning.

  So, Somerled was back, taller, paler, still unsmiling. His clothes were finer. He wore a woollen tunic whose border was pricked out with glinting metallic threads, and his cloak was fastened by a heavy silver brooch in the shape of a dragon’s head. His dark hair was neatly combed and held back by a band of the same metallic braid; he watched much and spoke little. As soon as he arrived, the other lads stopped asking Eyvind if he would play Battlefield, or take them through the forest for deer. It was assumed, with not a word spoken, that for the duration of his stay Somerled would be Eyvind’s only companion.

  Somerled had changed. It was apparent he had not been wasting his time at court, reluctant as he had been to go there. The Jarl had a thrall in his household who had been a scholar far off in hot eastern lands, and from this man Somerled was learning to draw charts and interpret the stars, to fashion verses and to play games. At Hammarsby, he found a willing partner in Eyvind’s eldest brother. Karl loved games—not the Battlefield kind, but the sort one played with a small, square board and a set of finely carven pieces. His opponent was usually one of the senior housecarls, who had a shrewd eye for such pastimes. Karl had tried to teach Eyvind the knack of it over the long evenings of several winters, but somehow Eyvind could not get his mind around the intricacies of the strategy; he did not know how Karl could see three, four, seven moves ahead and plan cunning attack and counterattack. In the end Karl gave up, telling his brother with a grin that he’d never learn because he thought like a Wolfskin, his only tactic being to charge straight in, axe whirling, and mow down the opposition. This remark was probably intended as criticism, but to Eyvind it seemed like praise.

  Karl was delighted, then, when Somerled expressed a willingness to play. They started with the game that had pegs in little holes, seven by seven, and before long Karl was maneuvered off the board. They played the one with pieces in black and in green; Karl had the sixteen small soldiers, and Somerled the eight, lined up behind a tiny king in gleaming soapstone. That game took longer; at first Karl grinned and joked, then he frowned and mopped his brow. Later he drank ale, cursing, and finally he admitted defeat. Somerled did none of those things. He played games as he did everything else: silently, watchfully, his dark eyes giving nothing away. At the end, he gathered up the pieces neatly, putting them back in their small calfskin bag. He nodded at Karl, unsmiling.

  “You play well, for a farmer,” said Somerled.

  They went hunting, they set snares, they swam in the river or in the cold waters of the fjord. Somerled had not forgotten what Eyvind had taught him, and he learned more. He would never be a warrior, that much was clear. With his new tricks learned from Eirik, and his superior size and strength, Eyvind was as far beyond his friend in physical skills as a master craftsman is beyond the rawest apprentice. But at least, under his tutelage, Somerled learned to defend himself. If he ever had to live rough, he would be able to find his own food and shelter. They built a platform together in the upper branches of a sturdy oak, a secret refuge that could be reached only by means of a knotted rope. The floor was of lashed poles, the walls of wattles, the roof open to the stars. It was very high. Once, during the construction, Somerled had slipped and nearly fallen; he clung by one hand, his fingers all that prevented a rapid descent to instant oblivion on the forest floor. Eyvind had managed to grip his arms and haul him to safety. Near sunset, as they sat on their high perch listening to the cries of homing birds, Eyvind saw Somerled scratching something on the bark with his hunting knife.

  “What are you doing?” he asked. “You’ll blunt the edge.”

  Somerled did not answer. The knife was making a neat, irregular pattern of vertical lines and slanting cross-strokes, like a row of little trees, each with one or two or three branches.

  “Somerled? What is that?”

  The steady movement of the knife continued. Somerled spoke without turning.

  “It says here, Two brothers made this house. Somerled carved these runes.”

  Eyvind’s jaw dropped. “You mean, you can write?” he breathed in astonishment.

  “I haven’t been wasting my time,” Somerled said casually, incising a neat pair of parallel lines against one small upstroke. “A man needs certain skills to advance in life. This is one of them. I can read, too. But this is not everyday writing, Eyvind. Here, let me show you.”

  Patiently he went along the line of tidy markings, explaining what each meant, and why. “They are not ordinary runes, you understand, but another kind, a secret kind. Even among scholars, few understand them. The branches are the clue, a sort of pointer…”

  His explanation was careful and slow, but after a while he stopped. Looking at Eyvind, he did not smile, exactly; a real smile from Somerled was a rare event. But his expression softened.

  “I’m sorry,” confessed Eyvind ruefully. “I just don’t understand.” It was beginning to come to him that perhaps his friend was very clever indeed, so clever that Eyvind might never quite comprehend him.

  “It’s all right, Eyvind,” said Somerled. “You don’t need to know these things. It’s different for me. To be what I must be, I have to learn everything. Reading, writing and games, archery, ro
wing and skiing, probably even smithcraft. And I must not forget music and the fashioning of verses. Without the mastery of these, a man cannot call himself a leader. And I don’t have long.”

  Eyvind sat back, round-eyed. He said nothing.

  “You don’t believe I can do it.” Somerled said flatly.

  “On the contrary.” Eyvind spoke in tones of awe. “I’m beginning to believe you can do anything you put your mind to.” He watched as his friend carved the last rune and lowered the knife. “It looks very fine,” he added.

  Something in his tone caught Somerled’s attention.

  “What is it?”

  “I—” Eyvind was unusually hesitant. “I’m wondering if—”

  “What? You want to make your mark here too? You should, brother, for this belongs to the two of us. Our secret.”

  “I would like to learn how to make my name. Properly, in these signs, not just a cross. It looks difficult. I’m not sure if I could do it.”

  “We’ll practice it here, on the boards, until you have it. Then on the tree. Get your own knife and copy me.”

  Eyvind was to remember, in later years, how patient Somerled was with him that day, talking him through each upright, each cross-stroke, letting him try it slowly, correcting each error with kindness, until Eyvind could inscribe a passable version of the runes that made his name on the bole of the great tree. For the space of that lesson, it seemed to Eyvind that Somerled became a different boy, one who could find joy in sharing what he knew, one who could give as well as take. It was a brief enough time, but Eyvind never forgot it.

  Much later, after Somerled had returned to the south, Eyvind would climb up to the tree house sometimes and study the inscription in the bark. He would run his finger over the signs, just the part of it he knew said Eyvind, for the rest of it he was not able to decipher. It seemed to him a proud thing for a man to be able to write his name. As for the other part, that stood as a reminder of the vow he had sworn, for in those runes Somerled had set down the pact between them: two brothers.