Tim Leach - Smile of the Wolf

‘Kill them for me,’ he said, his voice thick.

Then he was gone from me, just as abruptly, striding back to the barn and wiping at his eyes.

Let them talk, I thought. Let him be a Christian if he wishes. I thought to keep Thorvaldur content, to feed him converts like a man sacrificing to his gods.

I was still thinking in the old ways, of the old gods. The White Christ took a different kind of offering. But I did not know that then.

I moved slowly across the land, an idle traveller. For years I had waited for this, yet the day had come and it seemed there was no rush. I stopped at rivers and dangled my ruined left hand in the cool water, as though hoping to find an elvish place that might knit my hand whole once more. Looking in the tussocks and the bogs for the bones of sheep or stones worn smooth, as a child searches the land for charms of good fortune.

As the sun peaked in the sky I made my way inland, near the good trapping ground on the upper banks of the river. I walked through a little patch of woodland, cutting at the brush with my knife to pass the time, collecting the twigs and wet leaves, feeling the damp matter between the palms of my hands before I drew them once more within my cloak. I did not know what I was waiting for, but there came a moment when I knew that it was time, and I knew that I was ready.

I made my way to the house of Kormac Bersisson. To the home of a traitor.

There was sound within. As I came close to the door of the longhouse, walking soft upon the wet ground, I could hear men talking. Not many: two or three, unless they had one of those silent men with them, the kind that does not speak a word until there is blood to be spilled.

I backed away from the house, each foot placed carefully, though there was little need for such caution. Men in a feud listen for hoofbeats, for the whicker of horses. They do not expect soft footfalls of a lonely man on foot. And these men had no need to listen for a murderer’s footsteps. The feud was over. They had won.

I waited for smoke to rise from the longhouse, for the fire within to burn high. Then I went to the door and pushed at it without knocking. It swung open – unbarred, an open house for friends and neighbours. I heard a curse within, for no doubt they thought me some sudden gust of wind. Then footsteps coming.

‘Kormac,’ I said, and the footsteps stopped.

‘Who is there?’ said the voice from within.

‘An old friend,’ I said, but I was sure to turn the corner before I spoke my name. I wanted to see them first, before I gave them such a warning as that.

There were two men there, sitting by the fire, looking on me as they might have looked upon a ghost. Kormac was there, older and fatter than when last I had seen him, and with him but one other man, whom I did not recognise at first. Bjarni – that was his name. Kormac’s son. I had seen him at Gunnar’s feast three years before. A boy then, but a man now.

Even in the flickering light of the longhouse fire I could see Kormac’s face go pale at the sight of me, his eyes search me for a weapon. But I smiled at him and offered my good hand in greeting. He took it, more by instinct if not in friendship, and I sat down without waiting to be asked.

‘Stoke the fire high,’ I told him. ‘Or am I not a good enough guest to burn the wood for?’

‘Every guest has that right,’ he said thickly. And he cast the wood upon the fire: a little fortune in brush and twig, his honour demanding nothing less.

The smoke grew thick and yet still I could see him well enough.

‘Bjarni, you remember Kjaran.’ An emphasis on that third word, a weight to give it another meaning.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I remember.’

‘You have been gone a long time, Kjaran. I did not know you at first.’

‘Yes.’

‘I had heard that you were dead.’

I smiled at him, to show that I was not afraid. Then I leaned over, stirred the ladle of the pot on the fire. ‘Plenty of stew here for two men.’

He gave a half-laugh and attempted a smile. ‘You know me. Hungry. Always wanting more.’

‘Yes, I do know that of you.’

I watched the smile flicker and fade. I could see the shame biting at him, like some beast that lived within. But let it bite a little longer, I thought.

‘I would have thought that you would be in the fields by now. It is near midday.’

‘I took on more servants this year.’

‘You have prospered since last I saw you.’

‘Yes,’ he said, and hung his head low.

‘You are unwell.’

‘Perhaps.’ He hesitated. ‘You should not have come back, Kjaran.’

The son moved, his feet gliding across the ground, a half-step towards me. I tilted my head slightly, to keep him in my vision.

‘Why is that?’

He shrugged. ‘You have few friends left in this valley.’

‘That is why I came to you.’

A light in his eyes. He shifted on the bench and he tried to smile. ‘A good thing. A good thing. You should tell me what you mean to do.’

‘I do not think so.’ I leaned forward and felt the heat of the fire biting at my neck, my chin. ‘I know,’ I said.

‘What do you know?’ he said. How do you know? – that is what he meant to say.

‘You have not yet spoken of Gunnar,’ I said.

He gave a little sigh, a soft breath of regret. ‘No. I have not.’

‘Send your son into the fields,’ I said. ‘He should not be here for these words.’

‘I do not think I will,’ he said.

‘I had not thought you so shameless,’ I said. ‘But I should have expected nothing more from a man like you.’

‘That may be so.’ There was a little shame in his voice, I thought. But it was not enough. ‘I do not think it is words alone that you mean to give me.’

All was still. All was ready. I concentrated on my breath – in and out, in and out, in and out. Never had that air tasted sweeter to me, when I did not know how many tastes of it remained.

Then a rapping at the door. The moment gone, a spell broken. A strange look on Kormac’s face: fear and relief both. Who was it that had come to this place in the middle of the day?

I should have run then. Towards the back door, past the barrels of whey and salted fish, out towards the light. The son would have his knife between my ribs if he were not lame or dumb, but it was a greater chance than if I were to remain. Yet I sat there, compelled to stillness by some strange force. A binding spell, though whether it was a curse spun by some witch or by my own heart I could not tell.

The door swung open and there came no band of men to end my life, no solitary enemy to cut my throat. A woman stood there – a woman I had not seen in many years.

Vigdis. The one who had begun the feud.

We stared at one another for a time, her cold black eyes not leaving mine.

‘You come alone?’ Kormac said to her.

‘Of course,’ she replied, and sat beside the fire.

‘I did not know he was coming. You must believe me. I have not said—’

‘It does not matter,’ she said. ‘Do not worry, Kormac.’ She inclined her head to me. ‘I did not think to see you again.’

‘I knew that I would see you.’

‘Did your god give you a vision? I have heard that of the skalds.’

‘Something like that,’ I said.

‘Did your god give you a vision of Gunnar? Of the way he died?’

‘No. But I know what was done there.’

‘I am glad of it.’

‘Does your child live?’

‘He does.’ She lifted her head. ‘He is almost three now. Strong, like his father.’

‘You have a son, then. Good.’

Her hands went still.

‘Where do you stay at night, Kjaran? Tell me that. There is no harm in it.’