Tim Leach - Smile of the Wolf

‘I do not know.’

He nodded absently. ‘And who is it you sail with?’

‘Ragnar Ragnarsson. The one they call the Keel-farer.’

‘His kin call him that. I have heard him nicknamed the Coward.’

‘That is what most men call him, yes.’

‘I would not trust such a man to captain a boat.’

‘Oh, he may tremble on the shore at the first sign of bloodshed, but there is no calmer man on a restless sea. Or so I have been told.’

‘And where will you go?’

‘I do not know. Dublin, perhaps. I have always wanted to see Ireland. Perhaps I will find kin there. Or Jórvík.’

‘You will like Dublin, I think.’ And then he drew his sword and held it flat in both hands, the blade against his palms, a man in prayer to his god. Then he turned and held it out to me. Wordless, perhaps not trusting himself to speak, he gestured for me to take it.

I said: ‘That is too great a gift. I have no need of it.’

‘You have every need of it.’

‘They may mistake me for some great warrior. I do not have the skill to fight the men who would be willing to stand against this sword.’

‘You will take it or I will cast it into the sea. You may choose.’

I lifted the sword and held it flat, placed one palm underneath the top of it. I looked down on the blade and saw there the name of some craftsman whose story was long since forgotten. I ran one finger down the centre of the groove that was carved there to make the weapon lighter, to let the blood run freely from the blade, and I thought of how much must have poured down that mark. No mighty river’s worth, but perhaps, somewhere in Iceland, there was some brook or rivulet that had washed the ground with as much water as this blade had seen blood.

It was beautiful, in the way that killing can be beautiful.

‘How did I earn this?’ I said.

Gunnar thought upon this for a long time. ‘You are kind,’ he said at last. ‘Perhaps it is as simple as that. Most who are kind are cowards. They think to buy with words what they cannot earn with courage. But you are not like that. I think you are the only man I know who has that quality.’

‘Another name for me. Kjaran the Kind. If I were to make a song of that, none would listen.’

‘I cannot learn it from you. I wish that I could. But I am nothing but a killer. Men love me for it. But it is worthless. I am tired of it.’

‘That is not why men love you, Gunnar.’

‘What is it, then?’

‘Because you are not afraid to die.’

He looked at me, his eyes disbelieving. ‘You think that such a precious thing?’ he said.

How much we discover of someone, when we are so close to leaving them. What a cruel trick that is.

I would have pressed him further, but I saw them then, coming from Hjardarholt. Olaf and his men, a convoy of warriors and horses. My escort to another world. He had business in Borg, family to visit, and had offered to take me to the coast. One last favour. Doubtless it would dishonour him if I were murdered on the road. He would see me safe to a ship and his part in the feud would be ended.

‘You go to the ship here?’

‘No. South, to Borg. Ragnar has a shipwright there that he trusts.’

‘Will you say goodbye? To Dalla and my children?’

‘It is better that I do not.’ I looked away. ‘You could come with me,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘Sell your land. Olaf would give you a fair price to be rid of you, rid of the feud. Take your family, find a new home. You have silver enough and no kin to keep you here. I do not know why it is that you stay.’

I watched him think on this. It is not as they say, that we poets can see into the hearts of men. The world would be a simpler place if we could. There would never be another feud, or a true love that remained unspoken. I cannot see into the hearts of men. But I think that I could see him tempted, in that moment.

He spoke. ‘Do you know how many places I travelled to, before I settled here?’

‘I do not. You never tell me of that time.’

‘I have been to lands to the east where there are deserts greater than this whole island. I have been to the courts of kings where even the whores wear gold. Seen wonders that you could not imagine, poet that you are.’ He turned a palm towards the sky, gestured to the valley as if he were toasting it with a cup of wine. ‘But this is the finest land of them all. I would never leave this place. I love my children, my wife. I…’ He fell silent for a moment. Then: ‘But I love this country more than anything else.’

‘Then you would have me stay?’

‘No. I want you to go. To stay is to die. But I wish that you could.’ He stood and offered his hand to me. ‘I will see you in three years. Promise me that.’

‘You have my word.’ I laid my fingers against the sword. ‘I will return this to you.’

‘If I am still here.’

‘I am the one that they want. They will leave your family in peace,’ I said. And he smiled in such a way that showed he knew that I was lying. But we wanted to believe the lie.

I made to put the sword in its sheath, but some omen stopped me. I put my free hand against the blade, felt the sharp line against the back of my hand. I pressed it there, until I felt the blood run free. I held forth the sword, and my bloodied hand.

‘Would you become my brother?’ I said. ‘Swear an oath in blood with me.’

It has always been done amongst my people. Where a man finds a brother in battle rather than kinship, and seals the bond in blood. I could not think why we had not done so already.

There had been no fear in him on the night he hunted the ghost, when we stood accused upon the plain, when he fought in the holmgang . But I think that, for a moment, I did see him afraid. Of what, I could not understand.

‘No,’ he said, his voice cold. ‘I will not do that.’

There was something more that needed to be said, but I could not find the words to say it. I heard the horses come up to us, heard Olaf calling my name.

That is how I left Gunnar. With words unspoken, a debt unpaid. The worst of partings between friends.

Two days remained. I would be a man of the people in that time, protected by the spoken laws that bound all of us together. Once that was over, I would be an animal to be hunted for sport or for revenge. But if Olaf and his men thought any differently of me, they did not show it. I did not travel set apart from them, but as just another member of the company. Perhaps even as the last moments were counted away, they would still laugh with me, urge me to sing another song, hand me one last cup of ale. Then, as the sun touched the horizon, they would take up their blades and murder me without a moment’s hesitation. Such was the power of the law that bound us. And such was the outlaw’s fate.

We rode down through the valley to the south, passing mountains that held their snow even in the height of summer, listening to the calling of the waterfalls. We came to the open plains, scarred and marked by the black rock where the earth had cracked and bled many years before.

It was then that I saw them. Always behind us, another group of riders. My second escort, trailing us the way that wolves will trail a deer abandoned by its herd.

They kept a respectful distance, never close enough to be a threat, always close enough to keep us in sight. They made no attempt to hide, for they did nothing wrong. A band of men, travelling towards the sea. Björn, Snorri and the rest of his kin. I wondered if Vigdis rode with them.

They were there to see that I truly left the country, that I played no sorcerer’s trick. And if we found ourselves delayed – if a sudden storm trapped us on the land or the tides went against us – they would take their opportunity for revenge.