what. The only solid thought was to carry on with his plan, to buy Wilda and keep her from Bausi. After that—after that he didn’t know.
First he must get Wilda. He shoved aside every other thought, concentrated on what he could do rather than what he couldn’t, and surveyed what he’d managed to find. Five fox furs, barely enough for a good cloak for him, but it would fit Idunn, who was small and looking frail as a bird this winter. That would please Agnar, a cloak this fine for her. Maybe enough to sell Wilda. Then, when that threat was safe, he could plan.
He set the latest fur in a barrel to soak, to loosen the fat and skin before he scraped it. Two of the other furs were ready, while the last two needed a day or so more to cure. He gathered the two that were ready and set to, letting the repetition take over his mind and free it to think.
He’d lived asleep for too long, he saw that now. Let it all wash over him, letting the poison that was Bausi seep into everything, into everyone. He’d let it, because he loved Sigdir and Gudrun and wanted to see them live, even if twisted. Twisted was better than dead. He’d been asleep and blind with it, thinking his silence courage. It was time now to let his dreams become real, to live outside his head and show the iron in him they all thought long rusted.
Wilda had come, woken him up, opened his eyes. He’d been drifting on the tide, but now he had to row for shore. Only he didn’t know where the shore was. His only guide was Wilda, and he clung to the thought of her, like a guiding star to take him home.
It took two days before he was satisfied. By then his eyes were strained, his back hunched, but it was done. The finest thing he’d ever made, a cloak of white fur, trimmed with the tails, the little bone carving from his trunk altered to serve as a pin. It might be enough, if Agnar was feeling generous.
He led Einar out into the grey daylight and heaved himself onto the horse’s back. His hut was far from the others—no one wanted him close by, so he’d built far up the valley, close by the forest. A tiny patch of land that had been begrudged him, but it was home now.
Down the valley toward the fjord, smoke rose from longhouses and farmsteads in tidy little plumes, rising and mingling with the lowering clouds. Near the centre, near Bausi’s feasting hall and the blacksmith’s, Agnar’s farmstead puffed out smoke and little black figures darted around the buildings. Slaughtering for Bloodmonth. Toki looked back at his hut. The pig. If he added the meat that was smoking slowly in the rafters, that would be more than enough. If he added that, he might not make it through the winter. If he didn’t buy Wilda, she might not make it through the winter. He thought of her younger face, drenched in sweat, blood and fear as she threw his knife, averted the blow that would have killed him. Bought him precious time, enough for Agnar to come and stop Bausi from another outright murder.
He brought the meat. He owed her that.
It was slow going at first. Horse-Einar had to break the crust of snow and make a path for himself, at least till they got to the first farmstead. After that it got easier, though it became full of half-frozen slush that made the way slippery. By the time Toki reached Agnar’s farmstead, the sun was a grey disk through the clouds halfway up the sky. Toki slid carefully from Einar’s back, mindful always of his leg, and took down the cloak, folded and wrapped in an old scrap of homespun wool.
When he turned, Bebba stood in the doorway, hands on hips, with a disapproving purse of her lips accusing him. Of what he wasn’t sure, but she stood aside when he approached. He ducked through the doorway into smoke-soaked dimness. Agnar stood on one of the benches, hanging hams from the rafters above the fire so the smoke would preserve them. His face drew into a scowl when he saw Toki, but he got down and wiped his hands on his trousers.
“I hope you
First he must get Wilda. He shoved aside every other thought, concentrated on what he could do rather than what he couldn’t, and surveyed what he’d managed to find. Five fox furs, barely enough for a good cloak for him, but it would fit Idunn, who was small and looking frail as a bird this winter. That would please Agnar, a cloak this fine for her. Maybe enough to sell Wilda. Then, when that threat was safe, he could plan.
He set the latest fur in a barrel to soak, to loosen the fat and skin before he scraped it. Two of the other furs were ready, while the last two needed a day or so more to cure. He gathered the two that were ready and set to, letting the repetition take over his mind and free it to think.
He’d lived asleep for too long, he saw that now. Let it all wash over him, letting the poison that was Bausi seep into everything, into everyone. He’d let it, because he loved Sigdir and Gudrun and wanted to see them live, even if twisted. Twisted was better than dead. He’d been asleep and blind with it, thinking his silence courage. It was time now to let his dreams become real, to live outside his head and show the iron in him they all thought long rusted.
Wilda had come, woken him up, opened his eyes. He’d been drifting on the tide, but now he had to row for shore. Only he didn’t know where the shore was. His only guide was Wilda, and he clung to the thought of her, like a guiding star to take him home.
It took two days before he was satisfied. By then his eyes were strained, his back hunched, but it was done. The finest thing he’d ever made, a cloak of white fur, trimmed with the tails, the little bone carving from his trunk altered to serve as a pin. It might be enough, if Agnar was feeling generous.
He led Einar out into the grey daylight and heaved himself onto the horse’s back. His hut was far from the others—no one wanted him close by, so he’d built far up the valley, close by the forest. A tiny patch of land that had been begrudged him, but it was home now.
Down the valley toward the fjord, smoke rose from longhouses and farmsteads in tidy little plumes, rising and mingling with the lowering clouds. Near the centre, near Bausi’s feasting hall and the blacksmith’s, Agnar’s farmstead puffed out smoke and little black figures darted around the buildings. Slaughtering for Bloodmonth. Toki looked back at his hut. The pig. If he added the meat that was smoking slowly in the rafters, that would be more than enough. If he added that, he might not make it through the winter. If he didn’t buy Wilda, she might not make it through the winter. He thought of her younger face, drenched in sweat, blood and fear as she threw his knife, averted the blow that would have killed him. Bought him precious time, enough for Agnar to come and stop Bausi from another outright murder.
He brought the meat. He owed her that.
It was slow going at first. Horse-Einar had to break the crust of snow and make a path for himself, at least till they got to the first farmstead. After that it got easier, though it became full of half-frozen slush that made the way slippery. By the time Toki reached Agnar’s farmstead, the sun was a grey disk through the clouds halfway up the sky. Toki slid carefully from Einar’s back, mindful always of his leg, and took down the cloak, folded and wrapped in an old scrap of homespun wool.
When he turned, Bebba stood in the doorway, hands on hips, with a disapproving purse of her lips accusing him. Of what he wasn’t sure, but she stood aside when he approached. He ducked through the doorway into smoke-soaked dimness. Agnar stood on one of the benches, hanging hams from the rafters above the fire so the smoke would preserve them. His face drew into a scowl when he saw Toki, but he got down and wiped his hands on his trousers.
“I hope you
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