Susanna Gregory: The Sacred stone

‘It is a boat,’ declared Brand. ‘Here is the keel, and this square part is the sail. It is a sign that we should load the whole village in one and-’

‘No,’ interrupted Qasapi. ‘It is a bird. The square part is not a sail, but a tail, and the rounded part forms its head. The two longer arms are wings.’

Jorund frowned: it did look like a bird, but he could see why Brand had thought it was a boat. He took it from his son’s hand and was surprised by its weight — it felt as though it was made of lead. He took his knife from its scabbard, to scratch it, and was startled when the blade was drawn to the stone’s surface, where it stuck. He pulled it away, then let it stick again. When the two surfaces met, they made a light ringing sound.

‘It is iron,’ he said. ‘But like no iron that I have ever seen. It is blacker and smoother.’

‘I have heard of rocks falling from the sky in the north,’ said Qasapi. ‘Although they are as big as your church. They are also made of metal, and my people chip pieces from them to use as knives and harpoon heads. We call them sky-stones.’

Leif looked acutely disappointed. ‘I thought it was going to be gold.’

‘They glow like gold when they fall,’ explained Qasapi. ‘But they go black or grey when they hit the ground.’

Leif forced a smile. ‘Would you like it? It will not make many harpoon heads, but…’

‘You must keep it yourself,’ replied Qasapi. ‘A sky-stone is a gift, and you should treasure it.’

‘Pah!’ Leif made as if to lob it away, but Ivar spoke for the first time that day.

‘No!’ he whispered from the sling on Jorund’s back. ‘Give it to me. I will look after it.’

Leif shoved it at him, then turned and bounded away, clearly hoping to discover something more interesting.

‘I want to get down,’ said Ivar, watching him. ‘I want to run, too.’

‘I know,’ said Jorund kindly. ‘And you shall in the summer, when the weather grows warm and your leg becomes stronger.’

‘I mean today,’ said Ivar, uncharacteristically firm. ‘I want to run today.’

‘Oh, let him down,’ said Brand irritably. ‘He will soon come snivelling back to you, crying that it hurts. And we will be here for a while, anyway. We need to check another seven empty traps yet, and then discuss why the foxes fail to jump into them.’

Ivar took no notice of Brand’s sour temper as his father unbuckled the sling that held him. In truth, Jorund was grateful for the respite, because although the boy was little more than skin and bone, he was still seven years old and no age to be carried. Qasapi helped him, then watched as the boy took several tentative steps, the sky-stone clutched firmly in his hand.

‘It is not running, but it is a start,’ the Skraeling remarked to Jorund.

Jorund nodded but said nothing. He always found Ivar’s pitiful attempts to walk difficult to watch. Why had he not been blessed with two strong sons? The village could not support anyone who was unable to work, but who still consumed valuable resources, and it was only a matter of time before someone like Brand said so. He sensed the man had been on the verge of making an announcement that winter, and might have done had Qasapi not arrived with gifts of meat.

Pushing bitter thoughts from his mind, Jorund turned his attention to his traps, and stared in stunned belief when the next one he inspected contained a beautiful white fox. Its pelt was perfect, and would fetch a good price from the traders — perhaps enough to buy a new axe. And the trap after that contained not one but two animals. He could scarcely believe his eyes! He leaped to his feet, to shout the news to the others, but the words died in his throat.

A bear was suddenly among them, arriving so fast that even Qasapi did not see it coming. Jorund had always been shocked by the terrifying speed of the creatures, and he barely had time to reach for his sword before it attacked Brand and Aron, claws and teeth slashing, and its savage growls terrible to hear.

Aron screamed as the bear’s fangs fastened around his head — bears killed seals by crushing their skulls, and this one clearly intended to make short work of the human it had caught. Brand swung his sword at the creature, but panic made him careless and his glancing blow on its shoulder merely served to enrage it. The bear whipped around, and a casual swipe of a talon-laden paw knocked him clean off his feet. As he raced to their rescue, Jorund could see a good deal of blood and knew the wounds were serious, if not fatal.

He reached the bear and raised his sword. It was enormous, and when it growled he could smell its fetid breath. It lunged at him, and the blow he aimed with his sword went wide. He could hear Ivar screaming his terror and Leif howling at him to kill it. But that was easier said than done — one slash of a paw could disembowel a man, not to mention break his bones. He had to stay out of its reach and make sure that, when he did strike, his blow would kill — if it only injured, he would be a dead man for certain.

Then Qasapi arrived. He held a spear, and lobbed it with all his might. Jorund braced himself to take advantage of the bear’s distraction, hoping that the wound would slow it down sufficiently to allow him to finish it. If not, the animal would be even more dangerous. The spear hit the bear’s head, and Jorund felt his hopes shatter — bear skulls were thick and hard, and even the sharpest of spears would only glance off them.

Thus he was startled when the bear uttered a curious kind of whimper and fell on its side. Cautiously, he edged towards it, sword held ready, and saw the spear had gone through the bear’s eye and entered the brain behind. Death had been instant. He turned to the hunter in awe.

Qasapi looked just as astonished. ‘I was aiming for its chest,’ he explained with a bemused shrug. ‘With two men down, it was too dangerous to try anything else.’

But it was no time to congratulate him. Jorund turned quickly to Brand and Aron, steeling himself for sights he knew were going to be grisly. Aron’s eyes were closed and his face was waxen; Brand was groaning.

‘We must carry them home as quickly as possible,’ he said to Qasapi. ‘Forget the pelts. We will collect them tomorrow.’

‘They will not be here tomorrow,’ warned Qasapi. ‘The land is hungry this time of year.’

Jorund knew it, but it could not be helped. All the elation he had felt about his luck changing evaporated as he concentrated on how he and Qasapi were to carry two large men all the way to Brattahli?. Was Leif strong enough to tote Ivar? Could they manage their weapons, too? It would be suicide to cross the land without them, but there was a limit to what they could take.

‘Hold my sky-stone,’ whispered Ivar to the moaning Brand. ‘It made me feel strong. Perhaps it will help you, too.’

Brand shoved it and the boy away with an aggressive sweep of his hand. ‘I am dying,’ he gasped. ‘You have your wish, Jorund. You brought me out here in the hope that some accident would befall me. Well, it has. You will not have my advice any more.’

‘You are not dying,’ said Jorund firmly. But he could tell from the bluish sheen to Brand’s face that something was badly amiss. Would he survive the journey home? Would the scent of his blood attract other predators, meaning they would all die trying to help him?

‘My belly is slashed open,’ whispered Brand. ‘I feel my innards spilling hot and wet inside my clothes. Finish it, Jorund. Kill me, because I cannot bear this pain. Then you can carry my brother home. I heard his skull crack when the bear bit it, so he will not survive me for long, but do your best for him.’

‘My skull is not cracked,’ said Aron. Jorund twisted around in surprise. Aron was standing behind him, and although there was blood on his head it was no more than a smear. ‘There was an agony in my head, but Ivar made me hold the sky-stone, and it disappeared.’