Tim Leach - Smile of the Wolf

‘I shall not tell you that. I have some friends yet.’

‘But not here.’ She lifted the cup to her lips, holding it in both hands like a child. ‘You would like to kill me, I think,’ she said.

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘You spoke the words, but it was not you that did the killing. Others bear the shame of that.’

‘But Björn?’ She lifted a finger towards Kormac. ‘And this man?’

I made no answer. She nodded, satisfied. ‘It is as I thought,’ she said.

‘Will you tell me why?’

She cocked her head. ‘I do not understand.’

‘Why you have brought about this feud.’

‘I have done no killing.’

‘No. But there were so many times when peace might have been made. And every time you have spoken the words to break that peace. I wonder why that is.’

She considered this and I watched the firelight play across her skin: the shadow of the fire dancing over her cheeks, the elegant movement of her hands, the hollow of her throat. She truly was a beautiful woman. But not enough to die for. To kill for.

‘No,’ she said at last. ‘I will not give you that. You will die ignorant.’

‘I may die,’ I said, ‘but I shall know that, before I die.’

‘I shall not see you again,’ she said.

‘Perhaps.’

‘Perhaps,’ she allowed. ‘But I am not sorry,’ she said. ‘Remember that.’ She stood, smoothing her skirts with her hands. She looked on Kormac and said: ‘You know what must be done now.’

She was gone then, back into the light of the world, and we listened to the sound of hooves beating against the wet ground.

‘I wish you had not come here,’ Kormac said.

‘You would kill a guest in your own house?’

‘You are not a guest. You should not have come.’

‘I should not be surprised. You have done some coward’s killing already.’

‘I had no part in what was done to Gunnar. That was Björn’s sport.’

‘That is not what I mean. I know what was done to Gunnar’s wife. His daughter.’

His face went white with shame. ‘You cannot know,’ he said. ‘None would tell you that.’

‘And yet still I know it.’

He trembled for a moment, then stilled himself and looked at his son. ‘What are you doing here, Kjaran?’

‘I think you know why already.’

He looked on me, his mouth agape. And then, a little sigh of relief. ‘You came here to die?’

I drew my hands beneath my cloak and I leaned my head forward towards the fire. The way I have heard that condemned men in distant lands kneel before an executioner.

‘I have lived long enough,’ I said.

And at the edge of my vision, I saw his son’s hand go to the knife on his belt.

‘Tell me one thing,’ I said.

‘What is that?’

I saw his son move closer still.

‘Why did you turn against Gunnar?’

‘You truly wish to know?’

‘Yes.’

His eyes slid to his son. ‘He thought himself better than the rest of us,’ he said – slowly, grudgingly, but his words had the taste of truth. ‘He thought that because he had a good hand with a sword and a taste for killing, that he was the greater man. All he had was that little plot of land, that herd of wormy sheep. No kin, no favour with his chieftain. And yet he thought he could do without the rest of us.’

I did not dare to close my eyes, but that was all that I wanted – to block away the world for a moment, to think myself dreaming. I do not know what it was that I had hoped for. That Kormac had been bought with silver or the promise of honour. Now that I had the petty truth, I wished that I had not heard him.

‘You are right,’ I said. ‘He was a fool, to think that he could live without such things.’

The son was closer still. But I still had time to speak again.

‘He was right in his own way,’ I said. ‘He was a better man than you.’ And with that I lifted my hand, my good hand, from within my cloak.

Kormac was ready for me, stepping up and stepping back to escape a blade, his hand going to the weapon at his side. But he sought to escape a blade that was not there. I did not bring iron in my hand, but a heavy handful of leaves, still wet from the rain the night before. I cast them upon the fire and in a moment the longhouse was filled with smoke.

A hand grasped at my cloak, pulling me towards the point of a blade. But my cloak was unclasped and slipped from my back, and I was into the smoke, my hand over my mouth, my eyes closed. I listened.

The others were gasping, retching, stumbling. I sought Kormac through sound, through touch, as I have heard blind old men seek revenge at the end of their lives, their trembling hands searching in the dark for a throat, an eye, a beating heart to still. So it was that I went into the smoke, reaching forward with my maimed left hand until I felt it touch his chest. For it was my right hand that carried the knife.

Three times the blade went in and twice it came out again, for on the third stroke some trap of bone closed about it and held it there. I was away then, counting my steps back towards the door. I could hear his son moving in the smoke, circling the fire, crying out for his father. But he realised too late that I had made for the door.

I was into the blinding daylight, the smoke pursuing me like a vengeful spirit, my eyes streaming, sucking at the fresh air as a desert traveller drinks water. I looked back over my shoulder as I ran, for I thought that Bjarni would pursue me, that he would follow me out to fight and die beneath the open sky. But he did not. As I ran from the longhouse I heard the sound of a blade falling to the ground behind me, and a keening wail rose up, a son for his father, just as the softest snow began to fall.

What sign was it, this summer snowfall? For the clouds had come in from the sea, but they did not bear rain. The white was falling thick about me as I ran and scrambled from the killing house, back across the dale to Ragnar’s homestead. What god spoke this way? The White Christ or the old gods I had left behind? Was it to cover my escape or to reveal my tracks, to leave no place for a killer to hide?

In that moment, I cared not. For the killer’s joy burned like a fever, and how I had lived so long without it I did not know.

Now I understood the longing that Gunnar had felt, and I could not understand how he had tried to give it up, to trade the killing for a farmer’s life. What a thing it was, to try and put up your sword, once you have known such a terrible joy. At that moment I loved him more than I ever had before. And I loved his son, for that was all that was left of my friend.

I took a long time to return to Ragnar’s home. I circled around the high lands, waiting and watching for any sign of pursuit, for I could take no chance of being followed. Every so often I stopped to plunge my hands into the snow, leaving it red behind me, wiping away the killer’s sign that I bore. It was only when I was certain that no pursuer would find me that I made my way towards the coast, back to Ragnar’s longhouse.

I did not knock, but threw the door open and made my way inside. I could feel the smile upon my face, but I could not rid myself of it. As I entered, I found Ragnar and Sigrid speaking in close conference by the fire; Sigrid looked up at me and I could see the fear in her eyes.

‘It is not my blood,’ I said. ‘I am not hurt.’ For my hands were clean, but my clothes were still marked with gore.

She walked to me, put her hands to my face, held my gaze. I could not breathe for a moment, the ache in me was so strong. Yet I saw that I was mistaken. There was no tenderness in her touch, no affection. She meant only to be sure of my attention.

‘Thorvaldur has gone,’ she said. ‘He has taken Kari with him.’