As Ulf and Wulf took their seats, there was an expectant giggle from half a dozen children surrounding them.
Ulf cocked his head at the young ones. “What’s so funny?” he asked.
“They’ve probably never seen twins before,” Wulf remarked.
His brother nodded. “Yes. That’d be it. They probably think we’re gods or something,” he said loftily.
Wulf scowled. He wished he’d thought of claiming divine status. But he tried to resume the ascendancy by one of his unfounded statements of “fact.”
“I imagine so. It’s a well-known fact that twins are totally unknown among foreign people,” he said, with that tone of certainty that only expert liars can produce.
He felt a tap on his shoulder and twisted round to see who was there. His jaw dropped as he beheld an incredibly pretty Mawagansett girl of around eighteen years, standing behind him, offering him a platter of assorted pieces of meat and roasted vegetables. Beside her, and offering another plate to Ulf, was an identical girl, with an identical platter.
“I am Millika,” said the first girl, smiling warmly. “I have been assigned to serve you at the feast.”
“And I am Pillika,” her twin said. “I have been asked to serve your brother.”
“How unusual,” Ulf said to his brother. “Millika and Pillika. Their names are almost identical. You don’t see that every day.”
“What about Ulf and Wulf?” Lydia said, from her position three places away. The twins regarded her, frowning.
“What do you mean? Our names are totally different,” said Ulf.
“That’s right,” Wulf joined in. “There’s no W in his name.” He jerked a thumb at Ulf as he said the words.
Lydia shook her head wearily. “The phrase ‘dumb as a post’ takes on a whole new meaning with you two around.”
Ulf and Wulf shrugged, then turned back to Millika and Pillika, reaching for the plates they were offering. It was perhaps significant that they selected identical pieces of roast venison to begin their feast.
Each of the Herons was assigned a member of the tribe to serve them at the feast. In Ingvar’s case, several of the older children squabbled to have the right. Mohegas finally intervened and assigned them to a rotating schedule.
Lydia was delighted to be attended by a strapping young man. Hal felt a strange twinge of jealousy as she greeted the young man with a dazzling smile. Then he shook himself mentally. Why am I jealous about Lydia? he asked himself. We’re shipmates, friends, fellow warriors. Nothing more. Yet he couldn’t shake off that feeling of irritation as he watched the unquestionably good-looking Mawagansett attending to her.
A platter of snacks was suddenly thrust in front of Hal and he turned, a little startled, to see the smiling face of the young woman who had greeted him so enthusiastically when they arrived. Instinctively, he edged a little away from her, fearing she might try to continue the rib-cracking hug she had subjected him to. He gingerly took a piece of roast bird from the platter.
“Um, thank you,” he muttered.
She beamed. “I am Sagana,” she said. “We thought you were Ghostfaces when we first saw you. I’m glad that you’re not.” She smiled at him and slipped away.
Hal frowned. This was the third or fourth time that someone had mentioned the mysterious Ghostfaces. He turned to Mohegas.
“The Ghostfaces. These are the people who killed Orvik’s shipmates?” he said.
Mohegas hesitated, then deferred to Orvik with an inviting hand gesture. It was a complex matter and he feared his grasp of the common tongue might not be up to the explanation. Orvik considered his answer for a few seconds, then began. The Herons all leaned in to hear him. Some of the Mawagansett, Hal noted, looked away, casting nervous glances over their shoulders in case the Ghostfaces might suddenly materialize out of thin air. It was a touchy subject, he realized.
“As I told you, they live to the north of here,” Orvik said slowly. “About ten days’ travel by canoe. There are a lot more of them than the Mawagansett. They’d outnumber these people by at least three to one. A raiding party, or war party, is usually made up of more than a hundred warriors. They travel down the main river, which lies east of here, in fleets of canoes, raiding and killing as they go. There are four or five other tribes settled along the river north of here and they all suffer the same fate.”
“Why not band together to fight them?” Thorn asked.
Orvik shook his head. “There’s never time to organize it. They move quickly and silently and they travel by night. They’ve usually raided and burned two or three of the other villages before we even know they’re here. Then it’s our turn.”
“What do you do?” Hal asked.
Orvik shrugged. “There’s not much we can do. We can usually muster only twenty or so warriors with any skill in weapons. And we’re facing four times that number. Best we can do is hide in the forest until they’re done. If they catch us, they kill the men and take the women and children prisoner, to use them as slaves. If they can’t find us, they strip the village of any food and vegetables. They destroy our crops and burn down the houses. Eventually, they get tired of the game and head back north.”
“And then what?” Edvin asked.
“I’ve only seen one Ghostface raid,” Orvik said. “That was . . .” He paused, thinking, then continued. “Eight years ago. Is that right?” he said in an aside to Mohegas, who nodded gravely. “Yes. Eight years. But I’m told it’s always the same. After they’ve gone, the Mawagansett pick up the pieces, rebuild their homes and start over again. Usually it means a pretty hungry winter, as the food stocks have all been stolen.”
Thorn shook his head angrily. As a former raider himself, back in the old days when wolfships marauded through the known world, he knew that a lack of resistance like this would only encourage the Ghostfaces to repeat the action anytime it suited them. But he said nothing.
It was Stefan who raised the question that they had all wondered about. “Why are they called Ghostfaces?” he asked, and there was a murmur of agreement from the other Herons.
This time, Mohegas supplied the answer. “They paint themselves to look like ghosts,” he said. “They shave their heads completely, then paint their faces with white clay, putting black circles around their eyes so they resemble skulls.” He gestured toward Ingvar’s spectacles. “When we first saw the big one, the black circles he wears over his eyes made him look like a Ghostface—that and his pale skin. Then, as we watched Wooden Hand”—he gestured toward Thorn—“and She Who Throws a Spear”—this time the gesture was toward Lydia, who smiled at the description of herself—“we realized that you were not Ghostfaces, but more like Polennis here.”
“Why didn’t you make yourself known then?” asked Lydia.
Mohegas shrugged. “We still weren’t sure. We didn’t know where you had come from. At that point, we had seen no sign of your ship, so we assumed that you had traveled overland from the south. You seemed to be well armed and well organized and we thought you might be the advance party for another raid. You all had the look of warriors about you—even you.”
Lydia inclined her head, taking the comment as a compliment.
“So we decided it was best to stay out of sight and observe you—to see what your intentions might be. Then, of course, two naughty children brought things to a head, and we realized that you would be good people to have as friends.” He paused and gestured around the feast circle. “And here we are,” he concluded. “But enough talk of enemies and Ghostfaces. It has been eight years since we have seen them. By now, they have probably forgotten all about us.”
There was a murmur of agreement. Thorn looked down, shaking his head. “Or they may be thinking it’s time for another visit,” he said. But he kept his voice low so that nobody would hear him.
“So let’s eat in good fellowship!” Mohegas said. Several of the older
women moved to the cook fire and began carving more slices of delicious, juicy-looking venison from the spitted deer haunches.
Stig, whose stomach was rumbling at the sight and smell of the food, felt a light hand on his shoulder. He looked around into the most beautiful pair of eyes he had ever seen.
Her dark eyes were set in an oval face. Her skin was light brown and unblemished, and her nose was straight with the mouth full lipped and perfectly formed. The beautiful face was framed by long, glossy black hair, parted in the middle and worn in braids. The girl, who appeared to be in her late teens, was slim and long-legged and she moved with a supple, catlike grace as she lowered herself to kneel behind him.
“I am Tecumsa, your server,” she said. “Can I fetch you some deer meat?”
Her voice was soft and warm, in keeping with the perfection of her face and figure.
“I am . . . Stig,” Stig croaked, his voice catching in his throat.
She smiled at him. “Welcome, Stig.”
And in that moment, for the first time in his life, Stig fell hopelessly, irrevocably in love.
chapter twenty-six
The rest of the evening was an unqualified success as the Mawags—as Hal discovered they were more familiarly known—and the Herons enjoyed one another’s company. The food was excellent, and if the Skandians had any regret, it was that the locals had no knowledge of coffee. But they were offered an herbal tea that they found quite pleasant to the taste, and for those who wanted something different, there was pure cold water and pressed fruit juices.
Perhaps the highlight of the meal was the moment when Edvin revealed his mud-baked oggle bird. Ulf and Wulf had left it wrapped in the canvas sheet they had used to carry it, and it had retained most of its heat. As Edvin unwrapped the unprepossessing sphere of dried, whitened mud, the women of the tribe gathered round him curiously, while he explained the cooking technique.
“The mud seals the bird,” he told them. “So all the juices and fragrances are kept inside, and the bird cooks in them, staying moist and juicy. I noticed these birds are low on fat content and can dry out when they’re roasted.”
Several of the older women nodded agreement. It was one of the disadvantages of the bird. The flesh was delicious, but incautious cooking could cause it to dry out. Edvin’s technique was a fascinating approach to the subject and they crowded closer as he took his saxe and struck the hardened mud sharply with the hilt. The mud cracked in a long, uneven line around the bird. Edvin struck it again, opening another crack at right angles to the first. Then he used the tip of the blade to flick several large segments of mud away, revealing the bark wrapping underneath.
“The bark keeps the wet mud away from the flesh,” he explained. “After all, you wouldn’t want to eat a muddy bird, would you?”
Several heads shook in agreement. That had been one of the reservations they had felt about this method of cooking. As Edvin now used the saxe to open the bark and strip it away, a cloud of delicious-smelling steam rose from inside. Mouths watered all round the feast circle, and now the men of the tribe gathered round as well, some of them actually licking their lips at the delicious fragrance of the bird.
Edvin uncovered more of it, revealing the golden-brown skin, and a low chorus of appreciation went round the circle. Then he quickly jointed the bird, placing legs, thighs and wings on a large platter supplied by one of the women. Once that was done, he continued with the razor-sharp saxe, deftly carving thick, juicy slices of breast and thigh meat and placing them on the platter with the legs.
“Hop in,” he said, gesturing with the knife, and the assembled Mawags and Herons needed no further invitation.
Hal moved quickly. “Better grab some or there’ll be none left,” he said.
Thorn eyed the flashing blade of Edvin’s saxe as he continued to reduce the big bird to a large pile of delicious meat slices. “Hope he cleaned that knife after our last battle,” he said. But the thought didn’t deter him from seizing a wing and several slices of dark meat from the thigh.
There was just enough to give each of the adults a small sample of the roast bird. People drifted back to their seats, savoring the juice-laden, fragrant meat. The flavor of the onions and herbs that had been stuffed into the cavity and then trapped inside the mud shell had permeated the flesh, adding their own delicious highlights to the meat. Everyone agreed that it was an excellent method of cooking. Within a few minutes, the huge bird was reduced to a pile of stripped bones.
For the first time since they had arrived in this unknown land, the Herons found themselves really relaxing, reclining on their elbows around the fire and exchanging stories with the Mawags. Ulf and Wulf were fascinated by the ministrations of the Mawag twins, Millika and Pillika. The girls were extremely vivacious, laughing long and often at the feeble sallies of the two sail trimmers.
Ulf had gravitated to Millika. At least, he thought she was Millika. He whispered in an aside to his brother: “This one’s mine. She’s prettier than her sister by a long way.”
“You must be blind as well as stupid,” Wulf told him. “Anyone can see that Pillika is much prettier.”
The two girls exchanged a secretive smile. So did several of the Mawags who were watching the little tableau with interested amusement. They had noticed, as Ulf and Wulf had failed to do, that some minutes earlier, the girls had switched places and partners. Millika, who had been wearing a red leather headband, had surreptitiously handed it to her sister, who quickly donned it.
The result was that Ulf, who had begun the feast with Millika, was now being served by Pillika. And Wulf, who assumed his partner was Pillika, was actually sitting beside Millika. It was a familiar sight for the Mawags. The girls had been playing this trick on boyfriends and dance partners since they were thirteen years old.
“What we should do,” said Ulf, “is change places just for a laugh, so they don’t know who’s who.”
He was somewhat surprised by the outburst of laughter that greeted his words. The Mawags, of course, had understood every word, even if the two girls pretended not to have heard.
Oblivious to this byplay, Stig sat cross-legged, facing the beautiful Tecumsa, totally absorbed by her loveliness and grace. For her part, she was equally fascinated by this tall, muscular young man from an unknown land across the sea. She could see that he was a warrior, and she guessed that he was an expert in the craft. She also noted how the rest of the crew deferred to him—with the exception of Hal, their leader, and the one-armed, shaggy-haired older man. Those two treated him as an equal and that indicated to her that he was one of the senior members of the Skandian hierarchy.
Not that he needed any such status to impress her. He was handsome and blond and moved with the grace of a natural athlete. And he had a ready smile and a delightful sense of humor that had her constantly breaking into helpless laughter.
As the night wore on, the two had eyes only for each other. The other Skandians and most of the Mawags noticed and smiled indulgently.
Most, but not all. There was one Mawag who eyed the smiling couple with hot, angry eyes. Orvik, who was familiar with the social undercurrents in the Mawagansett tribe, noticed and wondered whether he should say something. Then he shrugged his shoulders. It wasn’t his part to interfere, he thought. All the same, he wondered whether Stig’s obvious attraction to Tecumsa, and her reciprocal interest in him, would eventually cause trouble.
• • • • •
Several days passed and the Herons and the Mawags were now bonded as friends. There was a good deal of to and fro passage between the village and the campsite by the beach. Edvin had been adopted by the women of the village, who were fascinated to see a man cooking—and cooking well. They gave him free run of the large vegetable garden they maintained behind the village, where they grew beans, squash, onions and the strange vegetable called corn they had eaten at the feast. It was cylindrical in shape, and cove
red in delicious small golden kernels. Its outer layers consisted of fine, silklike threads covered by thick green leaves. Roasted over the coals of a fire, it had a deliciously sweet flavor. The kernels could also be ground to make a fine flourlike substance, and Edvin began baking bread with it. The vegetables added a welcome new dimension to the Herons’ basic meat diet.
Orvik arrived one morning with Mohegas and several of the other elder men to inspect the Heron itself, where it was concealed in the narrow inlet beyond the camp.
The Mawags, of course, had never seen Wolf Foot, the ship on which Orvik had sailed. It had been wrecked several miles farther north. And nobody had been present to witness the Heron’s arrival. Their concept of a ship was limited by their experience of the bark-covered canoes that they used to travel up and down the river and to fish in the bay. These were small, flimsy craft made from spruce frames, with birch bark glued and sewn in place over them. They were light and handy craft but they would be dwarfed by the graceful ship moored in the inlet. The men clambered aboard, wondering at the solid deck planking beneath their feet. In a canoe, one had to tread carefully to avoid putting a foot through the bark skin.
On this craft, one could step anywhere without fear of doing damage. They inspected the long oakwood oars, making a mental comparison with the light birchwood paddles they wielded in their canoes. All in all, they thought, the foreigners had a completely different take on the subject of water transport.
Orvik, however, was at first somewhat disappointed.
“She’s not very big,” he said. Then he realized that this might be taken as a criticism and hastily amended his statement. “I mean, compared with a wolfship. We were pulling fifteen oars a side on Wolf Foot. Here you’ve got only . . .” He hesitated, counting the rowing positions. “Four a side.”