‘Your brother,’ she said. She smiled at Siggy and said, ‘Your son.’
Styr didn’t move his eyes from the boy, but she saw him flinch. Vincent backed away from these terrible men. He understood nothing. Brother, father? But his father was Conor. And why did this new brother, who looked so much like him, stare at him with such hatred?
‘What did he say?’ Siggy asked her, thinking that maybe Odin had spoken.
‘Nothing, but he came to bless us, Siggy, I know it.’
‘To take one of us, more like,’ said Styr. He stared at Signy for the first time. If a Volson had to die today, it was clear to him who it would be. But first there was the main prize. ‘Where’s Conor?’ he demanded.
Signy shook her head over Siggy’s back. ‘Dead.’
Styr cursed.
‘My big son,’ said Signy, watching him closely, trying to work him out, but Styr shook his head and scowled. He wanted no other mother but the glass tanks.
Signy stood back and held Siggy at arm’s length, as if he were a child himself.
‘You’ve grown,’ said Siggy, confused. She used to be smaller than him. Now she was taller by a head. He had forgotten about the tank.
She smiled and nodded. Her eyes filled with tears to see him… yes, in the end she was glad to see him and to hold him. This was how it used to be between them, the twins who had been so close. Now that they were together again, it all came back.
‘I’d forgotten,’ she whispered, and Siggy smiled, knowing exactly what she meant. Then, carefully, she looked down at her brother’s belt. ‘Is that the knife?’ she asked. ‘I never got to touch it, Conor always kept it locked up. Can I?’ And she held out her hand.
Siggy at that moment would have given her anything, anything, but he paused just for the second with his hand on the hilt, thinking, that’s odd – because hadn’t it been Signy who slid the knife down the ventilation shaft to him? But then he thought that perhaps she’d got Cherry to do it for her. So he passed the knife to her; and watched her hand close around it. Signy smiled, her lips parted in pleasure. Holding it for the first time she felt just as Siggy had – that this was her purpose, that for this shape her hand had been made.
Siggy said, ‘Where’s Cherry?’
Signy said, ‘Dead,’ and moved her hand like a snake.
The soldiers had drawn up to them but it happened too fast in that dull light for anyone to see or understand who was the traitor, who the betrayed. Siggy himself had no idea afterwards whether the blade had touched him or not, not that it made any difference. Odin’s knife could cut anything in the world except his flesh. He saw only that as his sister moved her hand…
Styr fired. The first bullet entered Signy’s stomach, penetrating up under her ribs and grazing her heart. Siggy snatched her as she fell, held her in his arms as she groaned and bled. He screamed, ‘What? Hold him!’ as he went down with her. Styr yelled, ‘She tried to murder you!’ and in the same second fired again. If the first murder left any doubt how heartless the cloned man was, the second expelled it. Who would kill a child, even though that child was yourself ? The stubby barrel of his gun spoke savagely twice more; the blood rushed out and Vincent fell dead to the ground.
‘He was mine to kill!’ Styr screeched. He had fallen into a berserk frenzy for killing, and began to run up the tunnel towards the sounds of fighting. He still wanted to murder the god and perhaps, too, he was scared that having begun killing, he would never be able to stop. Siggy bawled after him, a terrible shout with no words in it.
‘They were both mine to kill!’ screamed Styr, and ran on.
Siggy turned back to his sister, cradled in his arms. They stared at each other for a second; he was watching the life ebb out of her. She tried to say, ‘The gods got their way this time,’ but she was already too weak to speak. Then she died.
Siggy laid her gently on the floor, and as he got up he was ready to murder his son. But Styr was gone, out of sight already, running fast towards the battle.
One of the men put his hand on Siggy’s arm. ‘I saw her, it’s true, she tried to stab you,’ he said. Another nodded; another said, ‘No, she fell. I don’t think…’ But Siggy waved them to silence. They stood gazing at the body, listening to the sounds of battle raging closer.
Siggy said, ‘Go ahead, find him if you can. He’ll answer for this. See if you can find Conor and get him out, and her servants.’ He was thinking of Cherry. ‘I want them all alive. Tell him that.’ He nodded at where Styr had gone, but what chance was there he would show mercy to anyone if not to his own mother?
‘Go on…’ Siggy waved them forward. He bent and loosened the knife from Signy’s hand.
The men paused, not wanting to leave him alone, but again he waved them on. ‘Can’t we stay and help you?’ one asked. Siggy looked up and nodded, unable to speak as he fitted the knife back into his belt. Three waited with him; the others ran up the tunnel to hunt for Styr. Those left behind waited awkwardly until Siggy stood and gestured to them to pick her up and carry her back down the passage away from the fighting. He followed on, with no taste at all for the battle raging behind.
Bloodtide is based on the first part of the Icelandic Volsunga Saga.
‘Since this tale nor anything else can be made to please everyone, nobody need believe any more of it than he wants to believe. All the same the best and most profitable thing is to listen while a story is being told, to enjoy it and not be gloomy: for the fact is that as long as people are enjoying the entertainment they won’t be thinking evil thoughts.
I’d like to thank those who’ve listened and enjoyed the story, and since those who don’t like it won’t ever be satisfied, let them enjoy their own misery.
AMEN.’
From Göngu-Hrolf’s Saga, translated by Hermann Pálsson and Paul Edwards, Canongate, 1980.
lady: my life as a bitch
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Melvin Burgess, Bloodtide
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