Susanna Gregory: The Sacred stone

‘It is true,’ said Ivar, standing proudly beside him. He knelt and, ignoring Brand’s protests, pushed the stone into his hand. ‘You hold it, too. Then you will find your innards are all where they are meant to be.’

‘I saw the bear’s jaws close,’ said Jorund uncertainly. He peered at Aron’s head. ‘Yet there is barely a mark on you. A few scratches, perhaps, but I have had worse from Ivar’s cat.’

‘The bear was young,’ said Qasapi with another shrug. ‘Its jaws were not large enough to go around Aron’s head, so instead of crushing his skull the teeth must have glanced off. He is very lucky — few escape such determined attacks.’

Jorund turned back to Brand and began to undo his clothing so he could inspect the damage caused by the claws. Then he stopped, embarrassed. The area around Brand’s belly was certainly hot and wet, but it had nothing to do with blood.

‘Fear,’ said Qasapi, inspecting the mess dispassionately. ‘It can do that to a man.’

‘I was not afraid!’ shouted Brand, mortified. He scrambled to his feet. ‘I was slashed! I felt the claws tear through my clothes.’

‘Your clothes are torn,’ acknowledged Qasapi, while Jorund shook his head in disbelief that both men should have had such narrow escapes. ‘But there are no wounds, not even a scratch.’

‘It was the sky-stone,’ said Ivar, taking it from Brand and clutching it hard. ‘It made them well again, just as it made me strong.’

‘Perhaps it did,’ said Qasapi, while the others regarded the boy uncertainly. ‘But we have work to do here. We have a bear and three foxes to skin, and meat to prepare.’

‘Bear meat?’ asked Brand in distaste.

Qasapi smiled beatifically. ‘Why not? The land has made us a gift, and it would be rude not to accept it. We shall take as much as we can carry. But we must hurry: I feel a storm coming.’

The storm raced in from the north as they struggled back to Brattahli?. Three foxes and a bear were more than Jorund had ever hoped to find, and his heart sang with joy. Leif carried the weapons, while the men staggered under heavy burdens of fur and meat, and — perhaps best of all — Ivar walked by Jorund’s side and never once complained that he was tired or that his leg hurt.

The clouds began to gather, thick, black and driven by a fierce wind. Jorund wondered more than once whether they should abandon their spoils and run for home. But the storm held off, and it was only as they pushed through the door to their house that the first flurries of snow began to fall. Perhaps it was yet another sign that the run of bad luck was over, and that the village’s fortunes were about to change.

Sigrid cried when she saw Ivar on his feet, and declared his cure a miracle. Together, mother and son went to lay the sky-stone on the altar in the church. Leif, a natural storyteller, was eager to tell everyone about their adventures, and the whole village gathered to eat roasted bear and to listen. They laughed when he described Brand’s declarations of imminent death, and Jorund winced — had Leif been older, he might have had the wisdom to omit that particular detail. Brand glowered and slouched out; Jorund sighed, knowing there would be trouble later.

It came sooner than he expected. The following morning Brand approached him, several cronies at his heels. All were burly, powerful young men who were bored and restless living as farmers in Brattahli?. Jorund was not surprised that Brand’s dreams appealed to them: most boasted Erik the Red as an ancestor, a man who had been banished from his own country for being a murderous troublemaker. It was unreasonable to expect all his descendants to be satisfied with the sedate life of agriculture.

‘We are going,’ Brand announced without preamble. ‘You cannot stop us, so do not try. We are taking everything we own, plus the boat, and we are heading south. When the traders arrive at the place they call the Western Settlement, we shall go with them to Engla lande.’

‘No,’ said Jorund firmly. ‘We need you — we cannot plant the crops without you. Would you abandon us here to starve?’

‘Anyone who does not want to share your fate can come with us,’ said Brand. ‘They all have a choice, and so do you.’

Suddenly, Jorund was tired of doing battle with Brand. They probably could manage without the men who had elected to leave. It would not be easy, but if their luck really had changed, then perhaps it would not be as difficult as he feared. But Jorund did not think he could face another winter of constant recriminations, such as the one he had just endured.

‘Very well,’ he said, seeing the surprise in Brand’s eyes at his abrupt capitulation. ‘But do not set out yet. Wait until the weather warms, and there is less ice in the sea. It will be safer for-’

‘And give you months in which to dissuade us?’ demanded Brand. ‘I do not think so! We are going today — we have the boat ready. And we are taking the sky-stone. You have no need of it here, and we can sell it to buy new livestock to get us started in Engla lande.’

Jorund frowned. ‘Sell it?’

Brand leaned close towards him. ‘You saw what it did yesterday — it cured your crippled son, and then it healed Aron and me of grievous wounds. There are abbeys and priories that would pay a fortune for such a prize.’

‘It cured no one,’ said Jorund. ‘Ivar claimed it did, but he is a child and does not know what he is talking about. His leg healed because winter is over, and he — like all of us — feels better for it. And you and Aron were never wounded in the first place. The bear’s teeth glanced off Aron’s head, while your clothes protected you from its claws.’

‘Then you will not mind us having it,’ said Brand. ‘If it is just a worthless scrap of stone.’

‘I do not, but it is not mine to give. It belongs to Leif, so you must ask him-’

‘I will take it now,’ said Brand, pushing past him and marching inside the chapel. ‘Tell him it is payment for you keeping us here all this time. We would have gone years ago, if you had not forced us to stay.’

He emerged a few moments later with the sky-stone in his hand. Jorund fingered his sword, but he could not hope to fight Brand and six others single-handed. Unfortunately, Ivar and Leif arrived at that moment. Ivar saw what Brand held, and raced forward.

‘No!’ he shouted, distressed. ‘Put it back! It is sacred and belongs on the altar.’

‘I gave it to Ivar,’ said Leif, gazing defiantly at Brand. ‘That means it is his, and you have no right to touch it. Put it back, like he says.’

‘Control your brats,’ said Brand coldly to Jorund, aware that people were gathering to watch and listen. Several were smirking at the way Leif was laying down the law to his elders. ‘They cannot talk to me this way.’

He started to walk towards his friends, but Ivar grabbed his hand to prise the fingers open. Brand swatted him away like a fly. Before Jorund could stop him, Leif leaped at Brand and punched him in the chest. More outraged than hurt, Brand hit Leif so hard that he flew through the air and struck the side of the church. He lay still, and suddenly there was absolute silence.

Stomach lurching, Jorund ran towards Leif and rested a shaking hand against his neck, although he could tell by the way the child had fallen that his neck was broken.

‘Leif!’ he whispered, cradling the limp form in stunned disbelief. Next to him, Ivar began to cry.

‘He should not have touched me,’ declared Brand, eyes darting around nervously. ‘This is your fault. You should not have let him-’

With a roar of fury, Jorund staggered to his feet, sword in his hand, and launched himself at Brand. Brand was tall and strong, and Jorund had never known whether he would be able to best him, but such thoughts were far from his mind as he attacked his son’s killer. Brand stumbled away, shocked by the ferocity of the attack, and Aron darted forward to help him. Someone shouted that two against one was unfair, and another weapon was drawn. Then Brand’s friends joined the affray, and the air was full of furious voices and clashing steel. The ground underfoot grew slippery with blood.