Tim Leach - Smile of the Wolf

‘It will be from the stream, then. The sound of the water will cover their approach. Low ground to conceal them.’

‘You have a good eye. But they can do better. And keep their feet dry.’ He extended an arm, mimicking the flow of the ground with the palm of his hand. ‘It will be from the ground to the east of the river.’

I looked to where he gestured and I saw it then, as clear as a vision from the gods – the future, or the possibility of a future, at least. A band of armed men, moving in the darkness, no moon in the sky above them. Creeping along the undulating terrain to the east of the river, using the rolling ground to conceal themselves. Each with a hand on the shoulder of the man in front to guide the way, as if they were a band of blinded killers, hunting by sound and scent. They would come through the few trees and fall upon the house from the south. The striking of a spark, the lighting of a torch. And then fire. After the fire, the killing.

‘And they can retreat along the riverbed,’ I said. ‘Afterwards.’

‘That is right.’ His lips twitched; proud of me, perhaps, for learning from him.

‘When will they come?’

‘Perhaps they will come scouting soon. But it is too soon for the killing. It will take them time to gather enough men. Time for us – for me – to gather men of my own.’

‘They may not come at all.’

‘Do you really believe that?’

‘How many will stand by you in the feud?’

‘Not enough.’

I did not answer, and looked again at the land below. My eyes fell once more on that scattering of trees – not forest, barely even a copse. There had been great forests in this land once, but almost all were gone now, cut and burned and they would not grow back again. Those few thin trees were a wealth in wood for an Icelander. I had seen Gunnar sit by the fire at night, listening to the creaking of the wind against the wood, and smiling like a wealthy man looking upon a horde of gold.

‘We will cut those down,’ I said. ‘They will give them cover when they come.’

‘A shame to lose the trees. I had hoped to see a forest there one day, when my beard was grey.’ He sighed. ‘But you are right.’

‘The forest would never grow back.’

‘It would not?’

‘No others have.’

Movement caught my eye. It was Kari and the horse, the boy leading it by the bridle, not yet daring to ride it, circling again and again around the long house. From time to time he would pause, place his hand on the horse’s nose or curl his fingers into its mane, showing the patient love that only a child has.

Gunnar scratched at his beard to hide his smile, but I knew that it was there.

‘I told him that he was not to take the horse beyond the cattle shed,’ he said, ‘but I see he has found a way around my command. I expect he will be out there all day.’

‘They may kill me as an outlaw, and kill you in the feud in a year. But we cannot change what has been done. And for now, your boy has a horse and he smiles.’

He cocked his head, baffled.

‘Poet’s talk,’ I said. ‘Forgive me.’

‘I do not understand when you speak in this way.’ He touched me on the shoulder, briefly. ‘But still, I like to listen.’

‘I suppose you must listen while you can. You will soon be rid of me.’

‘When will you leave?’

‘A fortnight. A few days longer, perhaps, if I am willing to take a chance on the tides. But it would be a pitiful death, would it not? Sitting in a port, outlawed as I waited for the wind to change.’

‘I would stand against them, if it came to that.’

‘You would fight the entire island? That is what it would come to.’

‘I would try.’

I looked away, for there was something in his eyes that I did not like to look upon. A kind of madness that I had no name for.

‘Come. We must go back down. There is much to be done. I will help you all I can. But we do not have much time.’

‘No. We do not.’ He turned away, out towards the sea. We could see it, but not hear it at this distance. Any whispered wisdom it might have had for us, it could not reach us. ‘And there is something else for us to plan, before you go.’

‘And what is that?’

He looked on me once more, his smile as sudden and brilliant as dawn upon the water. ‘A celebration, of course.’

It was an early harvest we had that year. A harvest of wood, weapons, promises. For those in the feud, the long days of midsummer are the hardest months, the most dangerous. It is the killer’s season, and it offers no respite.

We worked every hour the day gave us: cutting the trees and stripping the wood, gathering stones to build a palisade around the farm. Most days I spent working side by side with Dalla, her dress hitched high and sleeves rolled up, as strong as any man. The children helped as much as they could, and Gunnar too, but he had other matters to attend to. Travelling from one farm to another, bearing wood, ale, meat, silver. Offering gifts, promising a celebration, asking for their oaths in return, to stand beside him when the time came. And at night, we prepared for the feast.

We spoke together of who we would invite, casting our minds back over the years, trying to remember all of those men who might owe us the debt of friendship. For Gunnar had few kin on the island, and I none at all. We thought of men we had traded with years before, exchanged stories with, those who had sheltered me in winters past, whom I thought might be keen to fight. We collected those names by night, repeated them together again and again like prayer, and in the days Gunnar would go to them and ask for their help.

Sometimes he came back with promises, and sometimes even with company, men who came to look at the farm and pledge their loyalty in front of Gunnar’s family. But there were not many of them: a pair of brothers who Gunnar had once made a gift to; an old fisherman who liked to hear me sing; Dalla’s brother from the north. And too many of those who did come had that doubting look to them that I could not trust. They ate the meat and drank the ale, promised they would return for the feast, boasted of how keen they were for the fighting to begin. But I am a poet, and know a poor performer when I see one.

Once, as we discussed who else we might ask to our harvest feast, I dared to speak a more familiar name.

‘You must invite Olaf,’ I said.

‘The Peacock? He will not come. He wishes nothing more to do with us.’

‘But you must invite him. He is a proud man. You do not need him at your side, but he must not turn against you. Invite him and let him say no.’

Gunnar thought on this for a time, rubbing the knuckles of one hand with the dirty palm of the other.

‘We do not have many who will stand with us, do we?’

‘No. And they have the chieftain, Hallstein.’

‘Vigdis’s father.’ He shook his head. ‘It disgusts me. Begging for favours from cousins and cowards. And this is what it comes to, does it not? They have a powerful friend and I do not. Björn, Snorri, none of them could face me in the holmgang .’

‘But you cannot fight them all.’ I paused, then said: ‘I will go to Olaf. He may favour me a little more than he does you.’

‘I doubt that.’ I saw the white of Gunnar’s teeth shining in the light of the fire. ‘But I think there is someone else there that you wish to see.’

‘Of course.’

At this, Dalla spoke: ‘Who is that?’

‘A woman,’ Gunnar said. ‘A servant of Olaf.’

‘A lover?’ she said, her tone carefully neutral. ‘You will go tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’

‘I do not know what gifts we have…’

‘We will offer none,’ I said. ‘There is nothing we could give to Olaf that would not insult him.’