Tim Leach - Smile of the Wolf

‘Let us hope so.’

And he was away then, into the darkness. Only Dalla and I remained.

‘I did not think that anyone would come here,’ she said, her eyes bright.

‘You have more friends than you thought.’

‘We have nothing to offer them.’

‘Only honour, the promise of blood. For some that is enough.’

‘True,’ she said. Her foot scratched at the ground. ‘You will go tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’

‘I am glad you saw this. A little hope, before you go.’

‘There is much hope here. If the men stay loyal, there is little for you to fear.’

‘They will still outnumber us.’

‘But they will fight on your ground. You must merely watch and wait.’

‘Wait for what? For Björn and Vigdis to grow old and die?’

‘Wait for me to come back. Let them grow bored and stupid. I will come back and I will settle this feud.’

‘We will settle it together,’ she said.

‘Aye. We will settle it together.’

She grinned at this – not the awful warrior’s smile I had seen before, that greets death as a boon companion. For a moment I think that she forgot all thought of killing.

Then she looked out in the darkness and the smile froze upon her face.

‘What do you see?’

‘There is someone out there,’ she said, her voice flat, her body still.

I followed her gaze, but I could see nothing in the darkness. ‘Where? I cannot see.’

‘Do not move. We cannot let them know.’

‘Björn and the others?’

‘I cannot tell. Wait.’

Her eyes hunted through the darkness, one hand drifting to the knife at her side. I waited – for the command to run or fight, for an arrow or a spear from the darkness.

She said: ‘We have nothing to fear.’

‘Who is out there?’

She laughed. ‘You still cannot tell?’

‘No,’ I said, for she spent most of her life in the dark of the longhouse and her eyes were better than mine at night. But I saw it then: a moment of motion, grey cloth catching under the light of the half-moon. I knew what was out there, then, and I gave chase without a word, Dalla’s laughter following me into the night.

There are stories my father used to tell me, about the hidden people. Women whom one can see but not touch, beautiful and terrible, leading men into the darkness, into the sea and over high cliffs. And there were times, on that night of the feast, that I thought I might be chasing such a creature.

That winter I had hunted a ghost in the night, only to find it to be a man. Now I pursued a woman; would she truly be a ghost this time?

Many times I almost caught her, but she was quick and saw better in the dark than I did. Many times I thought I had lost her, only to hear a silvery laugh echoing back at me that I chased after once again, through the fields and rivers, the remnants of the woodland.

I could tell no pattern to where she took me, though we never ventured beyond sight of the farm, the fires of the feast always nearby. She seemed to be leading me no place in particular, for I retrod the same ground many times in pursuit of her: again and again we passed through the cut-down remnants of Gunnar’s wood, the shallow waters of the river, the broken stones on the high ground that marked the borders of Gunnar’s land.

It was only when I stood still for a moment to catch my breath and saw her pause in the distance to wait for me that I at last understood the rules of the game.

I turned my back to her and walked towards a turning of the river, where the hills on each side might grant us some measure of privacy. I put my hand on the ground; the grass was wet and I laid my cloak down upon it. I sat on the ground and waited.

I saw her at the top of the hill, but she did not come to me at once. She moved slowly, pausing every so often to see if I would lose my patience and give chase once more. She was testing me, but I remained still. I knew what it was that she wanted.

She did not want to be caught. She wanted to catch me.

She walked upstream towards me and knelt upon my cloak. We looked at each other, she close enough to me that even in the half-light I could see the mark of the fey in her eyes. I still could not quite believe that it was her. I reached out, to truly know, and a moment later felt her lips against my palm.

We stood for that moment together, listening to the whispering river. I could see her trembling a little – a quiver in her shoulders, a tremble in her hand. But her eyes were clear and a smile danced across her lips.

‘I could not wait,’ Sigrid said.

And there, in the darkness, we found each other.

After, she lay on her side, her head turned from me, and I watched as she let one hand trail in the waters of the river beside us.

‘I could not come to the feast,’ she said.

‘Olaf forbade it,’ I replied, coiling a strand of her hair around my finger.

‘Of course.’

‘But you came here tonight.’

‘Of course.’ I reached out from the cloak to where my belt lay. I drew my knife and cut away a lock of hair.

She rolled back to face me then, and in the darkness I could see the white of her rolling eyes. ‘Of course, a poet would do such a thing.’

I kissed her. ‘You must go back. There is not much night left. Olaf will be angry if he finds you away. I must go away tomorrow. But I will have this to remember you by.’

‘And what will I have? I want no token part of you. I shall have all of you or nothing.’ She stood from the cloak, naked and unashamed. She washed in the river and dressed, and when we stood together once more, she touched the two silver arm-rings that I wore. ‘One of these buys you a place on a ship. The other buys us a place at a farm, when you return.’

‘That is so.’

‘You will come back?’

‘Yes. I will come back.’

She dropped her head, and so if there were tears I could not see them. She was as proud as any warrior.

I watched her go, a shadow in the darkness, and I tried to mark her in my mind – every word, every touch that she had gifted to me. They would be all my company in exile. Within me, the aching hope that she would wait for me.

I wandered back towards the farm, uncaring for anything else. For I was young and foolish, and I loved. Yet it did not last long. The beating of five hundred heartbeats, perhaps. The time it took for the moon to sink only a fraction in the sky. However long it took to lay eyes upon the farm and to see that the torches were out.

Perhaps, I thought, they had simply burned out of their own accord – there might be no more to it than that. Yet some instinct made me come forward as quietly as I could, waiting for the wind before I moved, watching and listening as if I were a hunter close to the wolf, not a man returning to his home. Some wrongness seemed to seep from that place, though I could not say what it was.

I drew closer and saw that the door was open, swinging and creaking softly in the wind. There was no light from within. They have put out the cooking fire, I thought, and a coldness stole through me.

It looked abandoned, like one of those farms emptied by disease and roamed by haunts. As if some strange witchcraft had passed out in the dale, and Sigrid and I had lain together for half a hundred years. But then the wind blew hard, caught the door and almost swung it closed, and a pale hand stole out of the darkness and held the door open. There was still someone inside.

I drew the axe from my belt, crept closer to the wall. I felt it with my free hand, searching for the places where I might place my hands and feet. I tried to remember when I had helped build this wall, what stones I had chosen and what order I had laid them in. My poet’s memory served me well; it had been a hot day three weeks before when I placed those stones. My lack of craft was my undoing, for as I came down the other side my foot struck loose a poorly placed rock.