“Sigurd! Mouse! Wake up! People coming.”
They crept to the cave mouth, only to see Hemm, with his son Egil, leading a small group of the Storn up the slope toward them.
Sigurd stepped out to meet them.
“Hail!” he called from the top of the slope in front of the string of caves.
They embraced gladly for a few minutes but then grew quiet. They looked at one another.
Sigurd asked a question, though he was afraid of the answer.
“Have you seen Freya? Any of you?”
They all shook their heads.
“I told her to take Skinfax,” he said.
But they looked back at him blankly.
“That’s not necessarily bad,” said Thorbjorn, putting a hand on his shoulder. “She could have got far away.”
Sigurd nodded. It wouldn’t do to show weakness. No doubt they each had lost someone when the Dark Horse attacked. It was up to him to lead the way.
But lead where? And to what end?
As the day wore on they took stock of their situation. They had a few swords and two spears. Otherwise, they had no food, nor water, nor any clothes apart from what they were standing in.
“All is lost!” wailed someone.
And Sigurd could not bring himself to disagree.
But then Mouse began to take over.
“I can help,” she said. “For a start, I know where some others are hiding.”
Sigurd turned to her. In spite of what he knew about her, he was surprised.
She held up a hand.
“There is a snake nearby. In the long grass by the cave mouth. It can smell humans. Upwind. That way.”
And she pointed.
“How do we know they’re not Dark Horse?”
“We don’t, unless we go and look. Anyway, my guess is they’ll all be in the village by now. . . .”
Sigurd could work again.
“Very well. Thorbjorn, Hemm, come with me. The rest of you, I want you to find a water supply and anything we can eat. And if Mouse has any suggestions, follow her as you would me. . . .”
They left, Sigurd clutching Fire-fresh, Hemm and Thorbjorn with a sword and a spear between them.
23
It felt strange to be up on that bit of hillside again. It had been the best part of five years since we had found Mouse, and yet I recognized much of the landscape around us.
As Hemm and Thorbjorn and I went looking for more survivors of the attack, I remember worrying about the effect that being up on the hill might have on her. So far she seemed well, but she was so sensitive, I reasoned, that anything might happen.
It made me think of happier times, after Mouse had settled in with the Storn, before the famine had started—I was still a boy, a child, and Mouse was my little sister. We didn’t have much work to do, and when it was done, we could spend the rest of the day wandering along the shore, swimming in the bay, or practicing hunting in the south woods.
But even then, I remember one time as we trailed each other through the woods she suddenly froze. As usual Mouse had found my hiding spot with great swiftness. She only had to ask the animals around her, and their feelings would give me away.
Laughing, I grabbed her and she squealed.
“Cheat!” I cried. “Try finding me yourself one day!”
And she was laughing but suddenly stopped. The look on her face made me let go of her straightaway.
“What is it?” I asked. I knew she was sensing something.
“Wolves,” she said.
I must have looked scared, for she said, “No, not now. There were wolves here, but one died. Right here.”
I don’t know how she knew, but it had obviously upset her greatly. I took her home.
That’s what I mean—she could sense something like that, and it could have a strong effect on her.
So I worried about what the caves might do to her. I was right to worry, as it turned out.
24
Sigurd and the others returned. They had found no one, but when they got back to the camp, more of the Storn were already there.
“They came around the top of the hill,” Mouse explained, “as you were going to look for them along the side.”
There were about sixteen of them now. The new arrivals included Hemm and Detlef, the Song-giver’s son, who had seen his father killed in the attack.
Sigurd studied them all. They were quiet and looked at him hopefully, as if he was going to save them from all this mess.
“And there’s something you must see,” said Hemm. “Show him, Detlef.”
Sigurd followed as the Song-maker’s son took him back up onto the hills above the caves. It was a short but steep climb. They lay on a high spit of cliff, panting until their breath returned.
“Look,” Detlef said, and pointed. Down, way down.
Incredibly, there was the village of the Storn, way below them. There was a sight line from high up on the cliff all the way down to the village. Even from this great height Sigurd could see individual buildings. The great broch was clearly visible, as was a weak, snaking column of smoke that rose out of what had been its roof. Other buildings were smoldering, too. The Dark Horse had destroyed the place.
“How are your eyes?” Sigurd asked Detlef.
“Yes, I see them, too,” he said, understanding what Sigurd was asking.
There were figures walking around the village, and again, even at this distance, you could tell they were Dark Horse by their height and black garb.
“What are we going to do?” asked Detlef.
Sigurd wanted to tell the truth. Detlef was his own age, yet Sigurd already felt so much older. He could not let Detlef down.
“We’ll survive,” he said, but he felt he was lying. “Let’s go down.”
As Sigurd told the others what they had seen, that the Dark Horse, or at least some of them, were still in the village, the mood amongst them all grew blacker.
“We have water,” said Mouse. “There’s a stream a short way from here.”
“And we have these,” said one of the women, holding up a brace of hares. “We caught them,” she explained needlessly.
Sigurd nodded.
“Good, now all we need is fire. We might just get some of this bracken to catch, but we’re going to have to kindle it the old way. Who wants to try?”
Hemm volunteered. He got his small son Egil to help. It had been a long time since Hemm had lit a fire without flint and steel. They worked methodically, using the gut of one of the hares to make a string. They wound this once round a stick and then tied the ends to another stick. This made a bowstring, and when they ran it back and forth, the stick around which the gut was tied spun in a small hole in a third, flat piece of wood.
Eventually a little smoke began to drift from the hole, caused by the furious spinning of the bow stick.
“Try it,” said Hemm, and Egil dropped a few crushed bits of dried bracken into the hole. He blew gently and a glow appeared. He repeated the process, and a small flame licked up the side of the bow stick.
“Quick!”
It was alight.
“Right,” said Sigurd, “get the fire into the cave! We can’t take the risk of being seen, even if we do need to eat.”
Night was falling, the end of their first full day on the hill. They ate the hares, quietly and without joy. It had been a long time since anyone had asked Sigurd what they were going to do. He guessed that was because they knew he had no idea. There was only one person who didn’t seem to feel the weight of sadness upon her.
Mouse.
25
Mouse had found the water. Mouse had sensed the presence of more of our tribe.
It was she who had told them where to look for the hares we ate. While the rest of us brooded over our own thoughts, Mouse seemed different.
A moment’s reflection and I knew what it was. She was content.
We prepared to sleep. We had cut armfuls of bracken before dusk, using our swords. Now
we passed as much of the stuff through the smoke of the fires as we could, in an effort to get rid of the ticks lurking in the bracken’s fronds. It would be a restless night otherwise.
The ticks dropped from the bracken and crackled as they hit the fire. It would not get them all, but it might make the night a little more comfortable than the one before.
Then there was the problem with the horse. The invaders’ steed would not obey us. We needed to get it under cover, into the cave with us, but though the ceiling was high and there would be plenty of room for it to stand, it would not come inside.
I looked to Mouse for help, but she was uncooperative, too.
“Leave him outside,” she said.
“No,” I said. “We must get him inside. We can’t take any chances.”
Mouse looked at me. For a long time she said nothing but held my gaze. It suddenly occurred to me that we were having a fight, a battle of wills. I didn’t know why, but it worried me.
“Mouse,” I said quietly, “please get the horse to come in.”
And finally she relented. She went and put her hand on its neck, and after a moment or two she was able to lead it into the cave. It snorted gently.
We gathered in the smoky darkness.
“Sigurd,” someone said, “tonight is Spell-making. But we don’t have Gudrun. . . .”
She was right. It was the full moon.
“Yes,” said her sister. “What shall we do for Spell-making?”
It seemed obvious to me.
“Mouse,” I said, “will you do the Spell-making for us?”
But again she refused, and this time I could not face forcing the issue. If she made me back down in front of the others, it would do me no good as leader, either.
“I cannot,” she said, and that was all she would say. So I mumbled a few words to everyone and wished that we might yet prosper.
We slept. Or rather, some of us did, some of the time. Dawn was still a little way off as I rolled over on my bracken bed and saw that Mouse had gone. I thought she must have only just left, for I saw her moving out of the cave, a darker silhouette against a dark sky.
I got up and followed.
By the time I made it to the entrance, she was outside, farther along the series of cave mouths. She seemed to be heading somewhere, with purpose. It was clear she was not just sleepless and wandering aimlessly. Something about that made me want not to disturb her, but I followed, fascinated.
She made for a smaller cave, a little higher than the others, and went inside.
I hesitated, waiting for I do not know what. I looked out over the moonlit sea away beneath me, and I can clearly remember how beautiful it all seemed, despite the horror that had befallen us. There was not a cloud in the night sky, and the full moon shone as brightly as the sun at dawn.
I remembered Mouse. I climbed to the mouth of the cave. The moon was low in the sky now, and as I put my head up to look in, it illuminated the narrow, tunnel-like cave fully. Mouse was sitting at the back wall but was looking in, not out.
She seemed to be studying the wall. She was talking; it sounded as if she were talking to someone else, though there was no one there.
I decided she was not in any danger, and left her to her memories.
26
Next morning Sigurd sent Detlef and Mouse back up to the lookout point on the cliffs above them.
While they were gone, Sigurd spent some time organizing.
“For the time being, until we find the others, we are all that’s left of the Storn,” Sigurd said to the rest of the group.
They regarded him silently. There was no hostility, no disagreement, nor for that matter, agreement. There was nothing. Sigurd sensed that they had given up.
“Now is the time to prove ourselves. We need to relight the fire. And we need more wood so that we can keep it from going out again. We need to hunt for more food.”
“Are we going to stay up here forever?” asked Hemm.
“Don’t worry about that for now,” said Sigurd a little desperately. “I’ll work out what’s best to do. . . .”
He bade them get on with their duties, before there were any more awkward questions.
He needed to think.
Should they look for the others? Should they return to the Storn itself ? At least Detlef and Mouse might have some information that could help them decide.
Mouse.
What had she been doing last night? he wondered. He walked over to the cave where she had been. It wasn’t hard to find. It was different from the others, smaller and higher up. Looking around to see that no one was watching, he went in. He paused for a moment, letting his eyes get used to the gloom inside.
After a while his vision became clearer, and he crawled toward the back of the low tunnel.
What had she been doing?
And then he saw it.
A drawing. And then another and another.
Bold drawings made with some dark brown stuff on the smooth back wall of the cave.
Sigurd did not understand them. The first thing he recognized was a picture of a wolf. He soon identified several more. Then there was something that looked like a huge, round tent. And then, as his eyes learned to understand what he was seeing, he saw some human figures. They were only stick drawings, but Sigurd could see a group of tall men dressed in heavy cloaks, and some women with arms raised. They pointed at the last, small figure.
“What are you doing here?” said Mouse, behind him.
“Nothing!” said Sigurd automatically. Then, remembering himself, he said, “Why? Should I not be here?”
“This is my place!” said Mouse.
Sigurd could not judge her mood. He crawled toward the opening, where his sister crouched.
“You mean when you lived with the wolves?”
Mouse ignored that question.
“What are these drawings?” Sigurd tried instead.
“How did you know they were here?” Mouse asked.
“I followed you last night,” said Sigurd simply. “But how did you know about them?”
Mouse looked him straight in the eye.
“I made them,” she said.
Sigurd couldn’t help showing his surprise.
“You . . . ?” he began, but as so often before, he could tell the subject was closed. He left.
“Sorry,” he said as he went, “I’m sorry. . . .”
He tried to hide it from Mouse, but his mind was racing, struck by a new terror. Again the girl he thought of as his sister had surprised him. They grew apart a little every time he realized how much he did not know about her. He had seen paintings on a wall in a long-forgotten cave, and she had told him they were hers.
Sigurd found that Detlef had returned, too, and was talking to the others.
“They’ve gone, Sigurd,” said Thorbjorn as he approached.
“The Dark Horse?”
“Yes,” said Detlef. “I couldn’t see anyone down there at all. The fires are out, but there’s still smoke.”
“What about Mouse?” Sigurd asked.
“What do you mean?” replied Detlef.
“Could she . . . see anything? Feel anything?”
Detlef shook his head. “No. Nothing. They’re gone.”
A question lay unspoken in all their minds: Where?
Where had they gone?
Farther south, looking for more easy pickings?
Or had they gone back to the north, to their own lands?
Sigurd thought that was less likely. And there was another, more worrying possibility, too. Supposing they were coming to the hills? Coming to finish what they had started in the village?
Pictures and sounds from that terrifying night swept through Sigurd’s mind again. So many of them! Dark brown and black cloaks swirling around their shoulders and white-haired heads as they swung sharp iron at anything that lay in their path. Unstoppable. And so many of the Storn dead.
They could not survive another attack. It would be the end of the
m all.
27
We did not see Mouse for most of the rest of that day. She spent a long time in her cave. I worried about what was happening to her. The rest of us argued.
We argued about what the disappearance of the Dark Horse meant, whether it was a good or a bad sign. We argued about what we should do either way.
Some of the tribe wanted to go back to the village. Others said that was certain death. I was rapidly losing control; I was on the edge of losing my status entirely, because they could tell I was struggling.
And then, late in the afternoon, as we sat around the fire in the cave, Mouse appeared at the entrance. The horse whinnied as he saw her.
“I have seen the Dark Horse,” Mouse said. “They are coming for us.”
And that changed everything.
28
The difference between them spoke much in itself. The small foundling girl, back on her hillside, stood and spoke calmly but urgently about what she had seen. The rest of the Storn, or what was left of them, stood in a ragged bunch, weak, dispirited, and defeated. Even Sigurd’s proud young heart was failing him.
And so Mouse took charge.
“In the mind of a wolf I ran down to the Dark Horse. They are camped in the low hills. At least they were.”
“Where are they now?” asked Sigurd. He could feel his heart starting to beat stronger and faster. He looked desperately at Mouse, too scared to marvel at the change in her.
“All is clear,” said Mouse. “They have again divided into two groups.”
At this news, which indicated another attack, there were shouts and cries. Of fear, of pain.
“There is only one chance,” said Mouse firmly. “There is a narrow gully that runs inland. It is not far from here. Detlef and I saw it when we went to look for the others. I have felt my way along. It opens into a wooded valley.”
Sigurd nodded, understanding Mouse’s plan.
“From there we can hide in the woods,” he said. “And move through them far away until the Dark Horse give up.”