Susanna Gregory: The Sacred stone

Jorund pulled his cloak more closely around him and began to walk towards the nearest pen. Then the wolves howled again, and he was both annoyed and relieved when he realized they were not close at all — as often happened in the great silence of the Arctic, the wind had carried the sound many miles.

‘Something is bothering them,’ came a voice at his elbow. He smiled. It was Leif, his eldest son, already tall for his nine years and showing the kind of qualities that would make him a good leader one day. ‘They do not usually bay at nothing.’

‘It is not nothing,’ Jorund said, pointing to the sky. It was a clear night, with millions of stars blasted across a vast, velvety blackness. But there was something else, too — the strange, shimmering light that appeared sometimes in the spring months. It hovered like a great green scimitar, shivering and undulating. ‘Perhaps God has not forsaken us after all.’

But Leif jabbed his finger towards the east. ‘There! Do you see it? Gold in the sky!’

The wind was making Jorund’s eyes water, and at first he could not see what Leif had spotted. But then he saw it — a shower of stars that burned brightly, then winked into nothing.

‘Treasure!’ breathed Leif, gripping his father’s arm in excitement. ‘God is sending us gold, because He is sorry for all the troubles He has sent us. We will be able to buy anything we want from the traders when they come in the summer, and then it will not matter whether the crops fail and our old animals die. We will stay here and be happy.’

‘Perhaps we had better go and look for it tomorrow, then,’ said Jorund with an indulgent smile. ‘And check the fox traps at the same time.’

Leif grinned in pure pleasure, but then his happy expression faded. ‘I cannot. I promised Ivar I would carve him a wooden boat. His leg has been paining him more recently because of the cold.’

Jorund sighed. Ivar had been born seven years before, making his entry into the world at the exact moment that the sun had returned after its winter absence, which the villagers had deemed to be a good omen. But poor Ivar was a frail, sickly child with a twisted leg. Brand often claimed that Ivar’s poor health was another sign that they should abandon Brattahli? and head for more ameliorative climes, but Brand was shameless in using any tragedy, no matter how sensitive, to make his point.

‘We shall take Ivar with us,’ said Jorund, patting Leif’s shoulder. ‘We will put him in a sling on my back and collect this gold together. And if we cannot find any, then perhaps we shall come home with a few fox pelts instead.’

White bears were particularly dangerous in the spring, because they were hungry, especially if they had cubs to feed. Two men had been killed by a female the previous year, and Jorund had no intention of sharing their fate. He carried a sturdy sword that had belonged to his father, and asked his friend Qasapi, from the nearby Skraeling settlement, to accompany him — Skraeling was the Old Norse word that the villagers used to describe the local people they encountered. Qasapi, who claimed his people had lived in Greenland since the beginning of time, was a superb hunter, and Jorund was certain no bear would ever catch him unawares. Moreover, Jorund needed to repay him for the seals he had given the village during the winter — they would share any furs they collected that day.

Jorund took Brand and his brother Aron on the expedition, too — not because he wanted their company, but because he did not dare leave Brand behind to spread more discontent.

‘Did you see the lights last night?’ Qasapi asked as they began to climb towards the hills. Leif was skipping ahead, full of energy and excitement; Ivar was a silent weight on Jorund’s back; and Brand and Aron were a resentful presence bringing up the rear.

Jorund nodded. ‘They have been brighter this year. Perhaps it is a sign that our luck may be about to change. God knows, we need it.’

‘No, not the green lights — the falling stars. Did you see the falling stars?’

‘It is gold from heaven,’ called Leif with great conviction, bending down to poke at a frozen stream with his knife. ‘It will make us rich.’

‘Rich?’ asked Qasapi, laughing. ‘How? Will it bring herds of seals and walrus for us to eat?’

‘It might,’ said Leif archly. ‘And then we shall stay here for ever.’

‘It will be your death if you do,’ said Brand bleakly. He was a powerful man with a thatch of yellow hair and fierce black eyes. ‘Brattahli? will be our tomb if we do not leave this year.’

‘Stop,’ said Jorund wearily. ‘It is a glorious day — the first clear one we have seen in weeks. Can you not enjoy it, and forget these dreams of yours? Just for a few hours?’

‘I talk to the traders when they come to buy our furs,’ said Brand angrily. ‘They all say the same thing: that everyone in this region is struggling to survive. Foxes and wolves are getting harder to catch, our own animals are dying, the weather is turning too harsh to grow our crops. It is time to leave this icy wilderness to the Skraeling, who know no better, and sail for Engla lande.’

‘Watch what you say,’ snapped Jorund, glancing uneasily at Qasapi. They could not afford to offend such a generous neighbour. ‘And if Engla lande is such a wonderful place, then why have the traders not settled there? The seas around Greenland are dangerous, so why risk themselves to barter for furs when they could be farming in paradise?’

‘Not everyone is suited to agriculture,’ retorted Brand. ‘Just as not everyone is able to fight.’

Jorund ignored him, knowing perfectly well what he was trying to do. Brand itched to solve the dispute between them with his sword, and he had invited Jorund to win his point by combat on several occasions. Jorund had declined. Brand muttered that this was cowardice, and perhaps it was — he would be a formidable opponent. But it was not just his own life Jorund was afraid of losing, but that of every man, woman and child in Brattahli? because he knew, with all his heart, that everyone would die if Brand won the contest and led them out across the open seas.

‘The gold fell around here,’ announced Leif, his chirruping voice breaking into the tense silence that followed Brand’s remarks. ‘Shall we look for it first or check the traps?’

‘The traps,’ replied Jorund, smiling at him. ‘But we can watch for gold as we go.’

The first three traps — the best ones — were empty, and Jorund saw Brand nodding meaningfully at his brother as they bent to inspect them. Worse, one was smashed, and blood indicated that a fox had ventured inside, but something else — a wolf or a bear — had been quick to take advantage. Wearily, Jorund gathered the pieces so they could be carried home and mended. He was acutely aware that the traders would expect at least fifty pelts when they arrived in the summer, to make the journey worth their while, and so far he had only eight.

‘The land hates us,’ muttered Brand. ‘It is telling us to go.’

‘Look!’ cried Leif suddenly, jumping to his feet and waving something in the air before Jorund could respond to Brand. ‘Look what I have found!’

‘Is it gold?’ asked Qasapi, amused by the boy’s eagerness to acquire what seemed to him to be a useless metal. ‘To bribe the seals and reindeer to give themselves to us?’

‘It is a special stone,’ declared Leif, running towards him. ‘It is in the shape of a boat!’

He held it out to Qasapi, and the others clustered around to see. The object was about the size of his hand, roughly cruciform, with two longer arms that were straight along one edge and curved along the other. One of the shorter arms was rectangular, while the other was rounded.