“I’ve been thinking about it,” he said. “And it’s magic. That’s what it is. And though I’ve never seen magic before, I don’t know why I should think it doesn’t exist.”
Rising in her chest was a feeling of hope married to despair. Oh, that he should be so good as to forgive them their cursed inhuman abilities. It was frightening. She could not bear for him to be so kind.
The anguish rose so strong and with such urgency she didn’t know how she could keep it in. The feeling was violently, urgently seeking escape.
“What is it?” Owen asked.
Hanne shook her head.
Tears, damn tears, spilled over the rims of her eyes. Hanne rubbed at them with the back of her hand.
“Can’t you tell me?” Owen said.
She shook her head again.
“Please. Let me alone,” she managed to say. She turned away from him, hiding her face. “You don’t understand. You can’t!”
Owen’s face was stricken. He had been reaching toward her, but drew back now, stung.
Hanne curled away from him, putting her back to the fire. She knew he could see she was crying, but she tried to make no sound. Eventually she slept.
* * *
SHE WAS AWAKENED by a tug on her arm. The fire was entirely out, and it was very dark and still in the cave.
“Hanne!” It was her sister, whispering urgently. “Wake up.”
“What is it?” Hanne mumbled.
“My arm hurts, and I have to go.”
“What?”
“You know, I need to go,” Sissel whispered again.
Hanne sat up. Her mouth tasted stale, and she was thirsty. She felt disoriented and shaky, but could feel the same need to relieve herself.
“What do we do?” Sissel said, her voice near tears.
“Are you awake, girls?” came Owen’s voice. “I’m thinking I’d better go and check on the livestock.”
“We will come, too,” Hanne said. He had likely heard them and parsed out the issue in question. She burned with embarrassment, especially when she thought of their exchange the night before.
Owen struck his flint and lit one of their candles. Then he set it into the lantern.
“Oh,” Stieg said, moaning from near the rock wall of their cavern.
“I saved the rest of the coffee for you,” Hanne said. “It’s cold, though.”
“Thank you,” he replied in Norwegian.
“Is it very bad?” Hanne asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, my arm hurts, too,” Sissel said. “It hurts terribly bad!”
“Oh, be quiet!” Knut said. “It’s because of you we got in this whole mess!”
“It is not!” Sissel protested. “Is it my fault I got attacked by a mountain cat?”
“If you had just stayed with us, like Stieg said, it never would have happened!” Knut answered.
“Quiet!” Stieg said, in a voice stricken with pain. In the candlelight, his cheeks looked sunken and there were dark circles under his eyes.
“Sorry,” they both muttered at once.
* * *
KNUT USED A rock to shatter the ice behind where he sat. The snow beyond it was hard-packed for only a couple of inches, so when Knut pushed it away, his head and shoulders went clear through.
Anyone outside would have thought it a funny sight, suddenly the arms, head, and shoulders of a tall, blond boy poking up out of a snowdrift.
Inside, a cascade of snow all over the floor.
“It’s clear!” he said in Norwegian. “Clear and still. The sun is coming up. It’s pretty.”
“Do you see the animals?” Owen asked, but Knut was stepping out, wading into the deep snow.
Owen was next out of the cave. He went right toward the livestock. They were tied together, near the old fir tree. The horses were glad to see their riders, but did not seem too much aggrieved. They’d not been saddled when the storm hit, so the snow had slid off their backs.
The world was all white and shining. As they stood near the horses, Stieg had to shield his eyes from the bright blue sky.
Owen turned to Hanne. She felt a sinking in her gut. He had offered her understanding and kindness, and she had pushed him away. Surely this would be the moment when he told them he was leaving—they were safe, the storm was over, and he knew who they were. What they were.
Hanne set her shoulders, readying herself to receive the information. She did not want her face to reveal her mixed emotions.
“If I can scrounge up some firewood, are you up to cooking breakfast?” he asked her.
Hanne’s face must have conveyed her deep surprise.
“What?” he asked.
“I thought … I thought you would surely—”
“Would surely what?”
“Leave us.”
Owen was taken aback. An emotion twisted his mouth. Hanne hadn’t seen it on him before: anger. His brown eyes sparked fury, and his lips pressed into a line.
He looked at her, then around at the faces of her siblings.
“Do you really think so little of me?” he said.
Hanne was astonished. Then she scrambled to make amends. “I am happy to make breakfast,” she offered.
He shook his head.
“I may not have royal blood, like you all, or magic powers I can use to shape the world to my liking—”
“Wait, Owen, I’m sorry—” Hanne protested.
“But I’m a man of my word!”
Hanne felt miserable, felt heartsick that she’d given him offense, but before she could protest, Sissel let out a wail and sat down in the snow abruptly. Knut had been trying to help her over a mound of snow and had touched her injured arm. She cradled it to her chest.
“My arm!” she cried. “Oh, it hurts!”
“Shut up,” Hanne snapped.
Stieg rebuked her as well. “This is not the time to complain about your arm!”
But Owen waded over to her through the snow.
“Let’s have a see,” he said.
“No. I’m fine!” she said. Hanne came over and tried to examine it. “Don’t touch it.”
“Sissel, for shame!” Hanne chastised her. “Show us the wound so we can see if you’re faking or not!”
Pouting, Sissel unwrapped the muffler. She took such a long time, Hanne wanted to rip it off. But when Hanne saw the makeshift bandage they had applied, her breath caught in her throat. The cloth was stained with dried blood, and yellow pus seeped through. It clung to the wound, and Sissel cried as they removed it.
The marks from the lion’s claws were each swollen and festering.
“She needs a doctor,” Owen said.
Stieg came over. “Yes, she does.”
“No!” Sissel said. “No doctor!”
“Hush!” Stieg said. “A wound like that could cost you your arm!” He turned to Owen, who was scratching his head. “What do we do?”
“We ride for Townsend,” Owen said.
“Is it out of the way?” Hanne asked.
Owen nodded.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Their outer garments were not warm enough. They did not have mittens. They did not have a good pan to cook on. They did not have enough food to cook. Nor did either of them have, for that matter, any knowledge of how to cook!
Rolf had assumed there would be roadhouses or inns along the way. Places where travelers could stop for a night and count on a warm bed and a hot breakfast. There was nothing. The area was wild and desolate.
And worst of all, far worse, they had lost the trail of the Nytteson.
Rolf sat on the floor of the crude, abandoned shack they’d chanced upon. They had passed it on the trail, the squat building so overgrown with brush it was barely recognizable as a structure. It blended in with the hill behind it, except for the rusted metal roof and the square window staring empty at them from the front of the shack.
Then, as the sky had turned a sick, dark green in the north, they doubled back, searching for any shelt
er from the gathering storm. They had galloped their worn-out horses and stumbled into the shack just as the blizzard hit.
There was no furniture, only a long, narrow table that was attached to the walls and supported by legs. It likely served its owner as both table and bedstead. Ketil reclined upon it now, while Rolf sat next to the wood-burning cookstove, warming his hands.
Rolf had dug kindling and logs out of the woodpile he found buried in the snow outside. With luck and prayers to the Gods, he managed to start a fire. He had started some porridge for them, mixing snow and oats in their kettle.
The glass in the window was long gone, either taken, stolen, or broken, so Rolf had shoved saddlebags into the hole to keep out the driving snow.
Rolf was wearing every piece of clothing he had brought, and he had the blanket from his bedroll wrapped around his shoulders, but still he shivered. He grasped the handle of the kettle, using his blanket so he wouldn’t burn his hand, and peered inside. It didn’t look promising. Their kettle was scorched on the bottom, and it made everything taste burned. Rolf poured half the watery porridge into one of their two tin cups and handed it to Ketil.
“Blech,” Ketil said, sniffing at the oats. “Is there no bacon? I cannot stomach this gruel for much longer.”
“We’ll stomach it or starve,” Rolf said.
Ketil sighed, then dropped the tin cup. The oats slopped out onto the floor.
“I would have eaten that!” Rolf said.
Ketil turned on his side and gazed down at Rolf.
“Are you feeling terribly sad, Tjossem, about how you’ve botched this operation?”
Rolf did not reply. He was being baited, the Berserker trolling for a fight.
“Do you think the Baron will keep you in his employ once we return, empty-handed? I doubt it, my friend.
“No. I think your time has come. The Baron knows what he wants now. Strong men, proper Nytteson, to lead the way. Superior men.”
Rolf rolled his eyes.
“You know he means to breed us,” Ketil said.
Rolf’s attention was snagged. “That’s not true.”
“Oh yes. Why do you think he’s so intent on finding Nyttesdotters?” Ketil continued. “I think he wants to breed an army of Berserkers. Just like in the olden days. Can you imagine? We’d be unstoppable.”
“The Baron brings you together to keep you safe. He doesn’t want the Nytte to die out,” Rolf protested. “He is not a violent man, Ketil. I’ve known him for many years.”
Ketil shrugged. “He gathers us together. He keeps us close. We’ll intermarry, of course, and breed more Nytteson. That’s what he wants. You saw how happy he was when Martin married that Helga cow.”
Rolf had recruited Helga, a Shipwright, and she married Martin Larsson, who was an Oar-Breaker. The Baron had thrown them a lovely wedding, and there was a feeling of accomplishment at the party. The Baron had, indeed, seemed very pleased.
“I think he wants an army. War’s coming, they say, what with Germany making alliances everywhere. It’s time for Norway to stand strong.”
“That’s absurd,” Rolf said. He jerked open the rusted door to the stove and stuck another piece of wood into the fire. With snow building up around the walls of the shack, the air inside was finally beginning to warm. He knew he should try to sleep.
“I’ll tell you a secret, Tjossem,” Ketil said. He dangled an arm over the side of the table and mussed Rolf’s hair. “The Baron promised me a Nyttesdotter bride. A nice young one.”
Goose bumps ran along Rolf’s arms.
“I’m going to sleep now,” Rolf snapped. “Don’t let the fire go out. We’re almost out of matches.”
Rolf lay down on the floor and arranged the canvas outer layer of his bedroll so that it enveloped him, then he curled as close to the stove as he could get.
His mind was racing with the thoughts Ketil had planted there.
Rolf remembered little Emma Stenehjem, the orphaned Storm-Rend he had located in Flåm. She’d been working in the kitchens of a grand estate. She was a sad girl, only thirteen years old, shy because her front teeth bucked out, but she’d brightened when Rolf had persuaded her to go with him to Gamlehaugen.
The Baron had clapped his hands when Rolf presented Emma to him. He embraced timid, little Emma and told her she was to be his new ward.
Rolf had enjoyed seeing the girl bloom with the care she received. The Baron dressed her in lace and silk. She had a governess and was taught to write and read. She was an ungainly girl, but happiness made her lovely.
Rolf developed the habit of bringing her bits of ceramics from his travels. Little button boxes or figurines. Her favorite had been a little black swan. She was chatty and playful around him, coming out of her shell. She even began to call him “uncle.”
And then one day she would not see him. Her maid said she had a terrible headache. The maid added to Rolf, in a scared whisper, that Emma had not left her room in several days. Rolf had been terribly concerned; he’d spoken to Fjelstad about it. How often did these headaches occur? Was the child eating well?
If they had not been such old friends, Fjelstad might have discharged him, for Rolf spoke with uncharacteristic force and emotion.
But the Baron understood Rolf’s agitation. Together, they consulted with the governess, who told them the girl was having difficulties in her lessons. The governess found Emma mulish and recalcitrant. That didn’t sound right to Rolf, either.
But the child would not speak to him and by the next time Rolf visited, Emma had run away, taking none of her lace dresses or fine hair ribbons or china figurines with her. Not even the little black swan. Fjelstad seemed just as brokenhearted as Rolf had been.
But now Rolf wondered—what had really happened to Emma Stenehjem?
* * *
WHEN HE WOKE, the fire was dying down and Ketil was snoring, oblivious. Rolf stoked the fire and sat watching the flames through the grate. Rolf prayed to the old Gods. What did they want him to do? He wished for a full set of divination rune stones, that he might throw them and try to find some wisdom.
They had lost the trail of the Berserker. He had failed on this mission. They would find the road back to Livingston and take the train from there. He would wire ahead, and the Baron’s disappointment would have time to settle before he and Ketil arrived home.
Then he would, he must, speak to the Baron about the Nytteson he was recruiting. The rights of the Nyttesdotters must be safeguarded, at all costs. Moreover, Ketil should not be encouraged to have children who might have the Nytte. Rolf knew the Baron would bristle if Rolf brought it up, but Ketil was unfit to be a father to a normal child, much less one with a gift that could be destructive if not properly guided.
Though they had lost the Nytteson, Rolf still had the children’s Bible to study—there might be a lead in there to other relatives in Europe. He must get back to Gamlehaugen.
By the time the blizzard blew itself out, Rolf was ready to face the tasks ahead.
He woke Ketil, handed him his mug, scraped clean, wiped out, and now filled with hot coffee.
“I’ve decided we should turn back,” Rolf told him. “We’ve lost the trail. We should return home.”
Ketil snorted. “You’re going to pay hell—”
“I know. I know. But the Baron is an old friend, and I hope he will forgive me.”
“I hope he won’t,” Ketil said.
“Yes, I know. You’d like to see me ruined.”
They began to pack up. Rolf fingered the rune stone in his pocket.
The arrow flew false,
The horse fell lame,
The waterskin punctured,
The deer shied away,
The trail dwindled to nothing.
Thus in small treacheries
Did the warrior learn himself
Deserted by the Gods.
Ketil shoved open the door, pushing out the snow that had accumulated. The sky was crisp and blue. The earth was covered in a thick blank
et of white. A slight depression indicated the road they had taken—the road they must now follow to retrace their steps.
Their horses stood in the brush, the snow around them packed and melted by their heat. Ketil swore, stomping through the snow toward them.
Rolf closed his eyes and prayed, Please, Odin, if this is a mistake, please show me the way.
“Let’s go, Rolfy. It’s cold!”
Rolf slogged through the snow, raised up his arm to throw his saddlebag over the bare back of his horse, when he froze.
There, on the branch above the head of his horse, sat a fat black raven. Its glossy, beady eye was fixed on Rolf.
The hairs on the back of Rolf’s neck stood up.
“CAW!” the bird called to him.
A raven, Odin’s escort, sitting right there, as if waiting to guide them.
“What’s wrong with you?” Ketil asked, coming close.
The raven gave a loud, coarse cry and flew off to another bush, ten feet away.
“Odin has sent us a guide,” Rolf said. “Quickly, mount up!”
* * *
AS MUCH OFFENSE as Owen had taken when Hanne had suggested he might leave, now he was considering doing just that. He’d get them to Townsend. From Townsend, they could find someone else to get them to Wolf Creek.
She thought he might abandon them? And after he’d tried to make peace, to tell her he wasn’t scared of their witchy abilities? It galled him.
She thought he was a man of no honor. A man who would leave them stranded out-country.
They had packed up camp without having a proper meal. Owen’s stomach growled as the horses plodded through the snow. He looked down to check on Daisy. He’d loaded his dog into his saddlebag. She fit snugly inside, and didn’t whine or complain. If he reached back, he could pat her on the head.
But even that couldn’t break his stormy mood.
Skipping breakfast had been a poor decision, but he wanted to get to Townsend as quickly as possible. Sissel was so thin and sickly already, he wasn’t sure how quickly the infection on her arm would spread.
He ought to have tended the girl’s arm before taking care of his dog back in the cave.
It was one poor decision after another with him, he told himself. They’d be better off without him.
“Hey!” came a call behind him.