The Dark Horse (3 page)

7

In front of a small fire, in a shelter of branches and bracken, the man with white hair and skin rubbed the black palms of his hands together. He felt warm enough, but he shivered, as if with a fever. He spread all his possessions out before him by the jumping firelight.

First. His knife, the length of a hand, with a different blade on each side, one toothed and one smooth. As good for skinning a goat as cutting a throat.

Second. Some leather cord, for various purposes.

Third. A little dried fish.

Fourth. An oiled bag containing his fire sticks.

Fifth was the leather bag in which he carried these things. That was all. His only other possessions were his clothes and a charm around his neck, a round metal disc with a picture of a horse on it. How he wished he still had his horse for this task . . . but she had died when he was only a year into his journey.

He’d been heading north when the ship ran aground on the reef in the storm. It had irritated him to learn that he’d already passed the place, had gone too far south. He’d had to find a ship heading back the way he’d come.

None of the traders whose ship it was seemed to have survived the shipwreck. It hadn’t been far to the shore, but they’d all been drunk. He’d despised them for it as he clung desperately to the box with one arm and swam inland with the other, the cord of his leather bag tightening around his neck with every stroke.

So he’d go on going north. It was always possible the box had been washed out to sea while he lay unconscious on the beach, but he didn’t think so. He’d seen footsteps near him in the sand, though the tide had washed most of them away, and there was no trail to follow. Besides, he’d come too far to fail. He had to succeed. And he had to have the box to do it.

Without it he felt anxious. It was his reason for being here; in a way it was simply his reason for being. After years of traveling, and so close to the end of his journey, he’d lost it.

He held the charm in his hand and vowed he would find the box. It was too cold to sleep tonight, but before the sun had set on him tomorrow, he
would
find the box. He shivered again, and a drop of sweat fell from his forehead into his eye. He ignored it, his mind on more important things.

No one else knew what the box held, and even if they did, he was safe enough for now. The box had its own protection.

8

After Sif had produced the box, Horn had shouted at Mouse and Sigurd. And after Horn had shouted at them, Olaf had shouted at them, in front of everyone. After that people had begun to be more interested in the box itself, and Mouse and Sigurd had fled the great broch, Sif laughing at them, and Freya chasing after Sigurd, trying to console him.

Mouse had no idea where Sigurd was now. It seemed he didn’t want even her around. But it wasn’t just his fault that Sif had seen him hide the box. They’d been careless. Mouse wondered what was in the box. Horn would find out now and keep whatever treasures were inside it.

Mouse had crept into one of the small brochs used as a grain store. She’d put her blanket up onto the pile of wheat and gone to sleep. She’d done it before. It was a place she came to whenever she needed to hide. She wasn’t allowed to sleep with the dogs, so she came here. Not even Siggy knew. If she heard anyone coming, she’d learned how to wriggle down into the grain and hide, and if a few last ears of wheat spilled onto the floor as whoever it was opened the door, they’d say, “Just a mouse,” not knowing how right they were.

The last time Mouse had hidden in the grain, not that long ago, she’d had to throw her blanket onto the top of the pile, and herself after it. This time she’d only had to step up onto it. They were using up their stores of wheat. The fishing was very bad, and it was a long time till Harvest-month. Olaf had dared to mention this at a gathering in the great broch, and Horn had savaged him with words.

“You’d have my people starve?” Horn roared. “They must eat something.”

Horn played up to the assembly, and it worked. They muttered their support. They were tired of being hungry and of worrying about being hungry.

Olaf tried to argue, but it was no good.

“If we eat all our wheat now,” he said calmly, “then we shall starve.”

Horn turned really nasty then.

“If you continue to spread these ill omens, they will come true. The fishing will improve soon, thanks to Gudrun’s spells! I suggest you concentrate on finding sea cabbage, the task I gave to you. Then we’d have something to eat!”

Mouse took her blanket with her as she crept out of the grain store at first light. She passed the low stable where Skinfax, Horn’s horse, lived. Horn had bartered half a year’s worth of wheat for that scraggy horse from some traders. It was the Storn’s only horse; they had no use for one, but it was typical of Horn that he should think he needed one. She heard Skinfax give a low whinny as she passed.

“Shhh,” she whispered, and put out a calming thought to the animal. He snorted, and Mouse walked on.

She crossed the scrubby fields where they grew the wheat and other stunted vegetables, and made her way up the hills behind the village.

She was heading for the stones on Bird Rock, and within an hour she was there. The sun had climbed with her, and for the first time in weeks it was going to be a warm day. The sun glinted off the sea way below her, casting it a rich blue.

By the time she got to the top of the hill, she was hot. She took her clothes off and flung them in a pile at the foot of one of the huge stones. The stones pointed far away into the sky high above her. They were huge, jagged fingers of rock that formed a rough circle. Some slightly taller or wider than others, there was nothing precise about them.

It was said that however many times you counted them, you would always come up with a different number, but Mouse knew that was rubbish. She counted them often enough to know there were seven of them. They had been there forever—no one knew what they were or who had erected them.

No one else came up here much, only Gudrun, but she never emerged from her tiny hut before midday. It was something to do with being awake late at night making the spells work. The rest of the village feared the place. It seemed a place of magic to them, ancient magic that they did not understand. More than that, it was the place they took their Lawspeakers upon death.

Gudrun, thought Mouse. The Wisewoman. Olaf ’s hound, Frost, would make a better Wisewoman! The sea gave no fish, the crops were poor, and still everyone put their faith in Gudrun. But in Storn there were reasons for everything, and Gudrun’s invulnerable position was no exception to this.

Feeling sorry for herself, Mouse lay in the heather. Instinctively she curled into a ball and began to lick the backs of her hands, as if cleaning them, like a dog, like a wolf, though they were not dirty. After a while she realized what she was doing and made herself stop. Olaf and Freya would be cross if they knew. She rolled onto her back and stared at the sky instead.

There! A crow.

In a moment Mouse left her body and flew up to the bird. With that crow’s mind she swung high, surveying the whole coastline. There lay the village. Even from a thousand feet high she could see Olaf setting off with Frost along the shore. What for? She didn’t know. There was Freya, pulling a bucket of water from the burn. There was Thorbjorn, the blacksmith, an ally of Olaf ’s. The village was up and awake now, and there . . . there was the thin figure of Gudrun, leaving Horn’s private broch. At this time of the morning! No doubt Horn had been asking her advice on a point of magic.

Magic. What use was Gudrun’s magic? Mouse swung away with the crow, which began to head north, along the coast.

This
was
real
power.

9

Confusion:

“No, not with words.”

“Why haven’t you spoken till now?”

“I have, but not with words.”

“Then how are we supposed to understand you?”

“The hounds understand me.”

“But we’re not hounds! How do you speak to them without words?”

“I know what they’re thinking. I just need to be near them.”

“And is it only dogs?”

“No, not only dogs . . . the wolves . . .”

“You understood them?”

“Why did you hurt them?”

“Did you understand them? How did you come to be with them? What were you before then? How can you speak?”

I watched all this from the back of the crowd. I felt the pain they were subjecting Mouse to, trying to force answers from her. But Mouse had fallen silent.

She would speak no more, would answer no more questions. Whether because she did not want to or because she did not know the answers, I do not know. But the faraway look had come into her face again, and she was silent. As silent as she had been before.

All I sensed in her then was pain, and I wished everyone would leave her alone. As soon as they were busy arguing amongst themselves, I went up to her.

“Mouse?” I said quietly.

She didn’t say anything, but she looked at me. Her eyes were filled with tears that did not fall.

“Come with me,” I said.

And I took her away from the fuss and the noise, and we walked on the low hills behind the village. The sun was setting.

We sat and watched it sink.

I looked at Mouse and suddenly felt very sorry for her. She was all alone in the land.

She leaned her head on my shoulder.

“Sigurd?” she said.

Somehow I knew what she meant, though she hadn’t
spoken
the words.

“Yes,” I said, “I will be your brother.”

10

“He’s gone? He can’t have just gone!”

“It’s true, Mouse,” said Freya. Mouse could see she was trying not to cry anymore. It
was
true.

Olaf stomped around in the background. Frost, the hound, lay exhausted in the corner. They’d walked all day north along the coast but hadn’t found Sigurd. No one had seen him since the affair with the box in the great broch.

“I’ll go south,” said Olaf, “tomorrow.”

“No,” said Mouse. “Let me look for him. I just need to find a bird to—”

“No,” said Olaf sharply.

“But I could search much quicker than—”

“Not that way,” said Olaf. “This family is in enough disgrace as it is. If you go parading your . . .
self
in front of everyone, it’ll only get worse.”

Freya put her hand on Olaf ’s shoulder.

“But Sigurd . . . ,” she began.

“Sigurd’s nearly a man now. He can look after himself. And if he can’t, well, perhaps it’s for the best if he doesn’t come back!”

“That’s not fair!” cried Mouse, but Olaf stormed out of the broch.

“He doesn’t mean it,” said Freya, “he doesn’t mean it. He loves Sigurd.”

Mouse paused.

They were too alike, Olaf and Sigurd, father and son, that was the trouble, said Freya. Both stubborn and proud.

“I know Olaf loves him,” Mouse said after a while. “
I
know, but Sigurd doesn’t. That’s why he’s gone, isn’t it?”