Hawk Quest (38 page)
‘Watch which way it goes.’
It was just a speck when Hero saw it merge into a wispy grey flock flying low across the sea.
‘Raul, steer the same course.’
‘There ain’t nothing to give me a bearing.’
Hero backed away. ‘Keep pointing along the path the birds took. Don’t let the ship drift.’
He hurried to his pack and took from his chest the mysterious direction finder. With great care he set it down on a thwart. The fish-shaped needle wandered around the horizon before settling in a lolling arc. Hero looked up to find the rest of the company still holding out
their hands in the self-conscious attitude of amateur actors. ‘North,’ he cried. ‘The birds flew due north.’
‘Follow them,’ said Vallon.
Raul looked at the compass with scepticism. ‘You trust that thing?’
‘I’ve tested it and it’s as true a guide as the Pole Star.’
But there was no wind that day to put his claim to the proof.
Shearwater
drifted around the compass needle like a small lost planet. With the coming of dark, they were still no wiser, although the sighting of a clump of seaweed gave them hope that land might be near. Hero crouched over the compass by lamplight until a breeze from the east blew away the cloud and revealed the Pole Star almost exactly where the diviner had predicted.
He waited up all night until a thread of pale yellow appeared on the eastern horizon. The sun rose and he saw to the north a long low bank of cloud.
‘Could be land,’ said Vallon.
‘Pray that it is,’ Raul said. ‘We’re precious low on food.’
They sailed nearer. Gulls appeared, trailing in their wake.
‘Ice,’ Raul said, pointing at a chilly gleam high up in the cloud vapours. ‘David said there’s an ice mountain on Iceland’s southern coast. If we’re where I think we are, we have to sail west. We should come to some islands before the day’s over.’
They skirted the shrouded coast. Wayland climbed to the yard to look for their next landmark, and in the late afternoon he called out that he could see islands ahead. One by one they appeared out of the drizzle – some like squat fortresses, another like a sleeping green whale, one of them an ugly pile of wrinkled slag with smoke wafting from its flanks.
In a fine misting rain, they made for the largest island, sailing under massive cliffs with clouds snagged on the ledges like tufts of cotton. Surf burst in caves and grottoes. They rounded a tall headland domed with grass and found a haven enfolded between tumbling hills. Once inside, the entrance seemed to close behind them. The sea surge faded to a distant echo, almost drowned out by the cries of birds nesting on the cliffs ringing the harbour. Sea parrots whirred in front of the ship and seals hoisted themselves high in the water to watch the intruders. The faint bleating of sheep floated down from the heights. Raul ran up towards the end of the cove and let go the anchor. The company
jumped into the shallows and waded on to a beach of silky black sand. Hero staggered up it with his arms open and buried his face in the sweet turf.
In the morning they woke to find their camp ringed by a delegation of crouching savages who eyed the argonauts as if undecided whether to worship them or eat them. Raul initiated negotiations. The isles were called the Westmans after Irish slaves who’d fled here from their Norwegian master two centuries ago. The present inhabitants – fewer than eighty souls – eked out their fishing and fowling by trading with the occasional passing ship and plundering wrecks. In return for a dozen nails and a block of salt, Raul obtained a side of mutton and a string of sea parrots culled at their nests that morning.
The company rested in the haven for two days, sleeping, eating or just staring across the bay. The place had a monastic calm and in months and years to come, when Hero was heavy of heart, memories of that cove would come stealing back to ease his troubled mind. It was not a place where he would choose to live, but he sometimes thought that it was a place where, in the fullness of time, he would be content to die.
They left with detailed sailing directions. Two days brought them to Iceland’s south-west peninsula. From here they tacked north-east along an uninhabited coastline of ash and lava. The sun was bleeding into the sea behind them when Wayland called out that he could see the settlement of Smoking Bay.
Richard grabbed Hero by both shoulders and shook him hard enough to rattle his teeth.
‘We’re here!’
Gliding towards the harbour, Hero kept revising his expectations downwards. He hadn’t expected a city, or even a fair-sized town, but he had anticipated more than a sprinkling of houses – not even a village – backed by a few farmsteads. Only the sight of two knarrs tied alongside a stone jetty convinced him that Reykjavik had any connection with the civilised world.
As they crossed the bar, Richard told him that it was the twenty-first or twenty-second of May. More than thirty days had rolled round since their flight from England.
Beacons must have been lit to announce their coming. How else to explain the crowd gathered on the jetty to watch their arrival? Others were still trickling in by foot and on horse, some fresh from their fields and carrying hoes or mattocks. A man with a plaited beard and rings in his ears directed
Shearwater
to a mooring.
‘You do the talking,’ Vallon told Wayland.
The harbourmaster waved a staff to hold back the crowd. ‘Where are you from?’ he shouted.
‘England.’
‘What are you carrying?’
‘Mixed goods.’
The harbourmaster sprang on board and looked the company over. ‘Are you the master?’ he asked Vallon.
‘He doesn’t speak your language well,’ said Wayland. ‘He’s a Frank.’
The harbourmaster was delighted. ‘I’ve never seen a Frenchman before. I thought they were smaller than that.’
‘We’ve got a German and a Sicilian, too.’
‘What’s a Sicilian?’
Wayland presented Hero. The harbourmaster studied him with blatant curiosity. ‘He’s not a monk, is he?’
‘No. A student of medicine.’
‘Good. We’ve got enough foreign monks on Iceland. A pair arrived from Norway a week ago. Germans sent by the mother church to save our souls from perdition.’
Raul spat. ‘Damn. Beaten by a pair of crows.’
Several Icelanders had sneaked on to the ship to examine the cargo. The harbourmaster chased them off and looked into the hold. ‘You won’t have any trouble shifting that timber. What are you after in exchange?’
‘We’ll decide when we’ve seen what’s on offer. First we need to find lodgings.’
The harbourmaster pointed out a pair of bothies set back from the
harbour. ‘That’s all we’ve got for outlanders. Most foreign traders stay with kin or business partners.’
‘They’re no good,’ said Wayland. ‘We’ll be here all summer. We need somewhere large enough to house us in comfort and store our goods.’
The harbourmaster faced Vallon with an air of mild expectation. It became apparent that an inducement was required. Richard slipped the man a couple of coins.
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Where are those ships from?’ Wayland asked, pointing at the pair down the jetty.
‘I’d say they’re from betwixt and between. They’re Norway ships that should have gone home last autumn, but they sailed too late and were taken aback by westerlies. Couldn’t get round the Reykjanes peninsula. Been here all winter. Be careful how you talk to the crews. They’re on short tethers.’
The harbourmaster left the ship and talked to a youth on horseback. The youth rode away. The crowd had begun to disperse. The company put the ship in order before eating. Afterwards, Wayland went ashore, but there was little to see and he soon returned to the ship and settled down to sleep.
It was still luminous night when the dog nuzzled him awake. Three men leading two spare mounts came riding along the jetty, their sturdy little horses stepping out at a curious running walk. The harbourmaster trotted alongside the leading rider, holding on to his stirrup.
‘Wake up,’ Wayland called. ‘We’ve got company.’
The delegation reined in beside
Shearwater
and dismounted. The harbourmaster gestured towards the rider he’d been escorting. ‘This man has a large house for rent.’
Wayland glanced at Vallon. ‘Invite him aboard.’
The visitors climbed to the deck. Their leader was a dignified old gentleman with eyes like blue buttons and a neat fringe of white beard. He searched all their faces before offering Vallon his hand.
‘He’s a chieftain,’ Wayland said. ‘His name’s Ottar Thordar son. He owns a hall that we might find suitable. It’s about ten miles from the coast.’
Ottar was eyeing the contents of the hold with polite avidity.
‘What does he want in return?’
‘He’s interested in buying our timber.’
Vallon looked into Ottar’s candid blue eyes. ‘He’s welcome to take a closer look.’
The visitors walked around the hold, discussing the timber. Finally, Ottar stopped, passed one hand across his mouth and nodded.
‘He says he’ll take the lot,’ Wayland said.
Vallon laughed. ‘We’ll negotiate once we’ve seen the house.’
‘We can visit it today. That’s why he brought spare horses.’
‘You and I will go,’ said Vallon. ‘Raul, you’re in charge of the ship.’
The sun was on the rise when they set off inland. The fields soon fell behind and they followed a rough road beaten out on a plain of lava. Wayland had never seen such an inhospitable landscape. Ottar took pride in pointing out its diabolic features – underground furnaces, mountains that melted and flowed like rivers, springs hot enough to boil a cow.
‘Do falcons live here?’ Wayland asked. ‘White ones?’
‘Yes, there are falcons,’ said Ottar. He pointed east towards a range of peaks floating in the clear air. ‘Two days’ ride. Three days’ ride.’
Wayland fell back alongside Vallon. ‘He says there are falcons.’
Vallon smiled. ‘Good.’ He patted Wayland’s arm. ‘Good.’
They rode on and came to a district so cauterised that not a blade of grass or patch of lichen had taken hold. Steam wafted up from the ground and the stink of brimstone caught in the back of Wayland’s throat. Off to their left stood a smoking black mountain resembling the remains of a gargantuan bonfire. They breasted a bare horizon and sat looking down into a broad river valley partly inundated by lava. Near the river stood a large farmstead isolated between lobes of slag. The road took a diversion close to the house and then went wriggling away to the east.
‘What happened here?’ Vallon asked.
‘This is Ottar’s hall,’ Wayland said. ‘His family built it in the first settlement. They’ve farmed here for two hundred years. This used to be one of the most fertile valleys in Iceland, but last spring Ottar woke in the night and saw flames spewing from that mountain. By morning molten rock had begun to flow into the valley. For three months streams of lava crept across the fields, and by winter Ottar had to abandon the hall. He’s building a new one on the other side of his estate. He was going to salvage the beams from the old house, but he’d
prefer to let the hall die in its own time and stand as a monument to his ancestors. That’s why he wants our timber.’
Vallon looked at Ottar. He looked at the hall. ‘Tell him he has first refusal.’
They descended towards the house, the horses treading with care on the lava. The hall resembled a giant upturned ship entirely carpeted with turf. An old woman came out of a ramshackle outbuilding and limped weeping across a tiny meadow grazed by a solitary cow. She showered kisses on Ottar’s hand and he jumped down and kissed her cheeks and held her by her shoulders and spoke in soothing and affectionate tones.
‘Her name’s Gisla,’ Wayland told Vallon. ‘She was nurse to Ottar’s children. Her own kin lie buried in a cemetery that was covered by the lava, and she didn’t want to leave them. She’ll cook and clean for us. Ottar says she talks a lot. She’s lonely.’
Vallon slid off his horse and studied the house. Its turf eaves were so low that the structure looked like it had grown out of the ground. Wildflowers grew on its roof. Ottar opened the door and led them into the shadowy interior. A bird like the one that had landed on the ship fluttered from beam to beam before escaping into the light. Wayland felt that he’d been in the hall before. It was a replica of the home his grandfather had told him about. Here was the main chamber arranged around the long pit hearth where the menfolk gathered to eat and talk, and there were the retainers’ bunks against each wall. Down that end was the booth where the householders retired for privacy, and above it was a gallery for their daughters. Wayland ran his hand over figures carved on the timber supports.
‘Ottar’s four sons and four daughters grew up here. It was a happy place.’
‘Excuse us one moment,’ said Vallon.
They went to the door. Through the aperture Wayland could see blue sky dotted with a few shavings of cloud. A rider passed in slow silhouette along the road.
‘What do you think?’ said Vallon.
‘I think we should take it.’
‘So do I. It will be good to have a place we can call home for a while.’
*
As part of the agreement, Ottar supplied four horses and arranged for guards to keep an eye on
Shearwater
. Within two days the company had set up residence in Ottarshall.
Vallon took the householder’s booth and the men slept in the ground-floor bunks. Syth had the sleeping platform above, from where she pelted Raul with bits of clinker when his snoring became unbearable.
Two days later Wayland, Raul and a guide called Ingolf rode away into the interior to search for gyrfalcon eyries. They followed the serpentine twists of a river through a grassy flood plain. Wayland lost count of the crossings they made before they left the valley and struck up through a forest of dwarf birches that barely reached their stirrups. Over the next ridge they traversed a barren moor with their heads bent against squalls of sleet. The wind dropped and snow fell fine as dust from a clear sky. That night they watched the sun sink smoking beneath the watershed they’d crossed at dawn. Four seasons in a single day. Next day they picked their way on foot across bogs, jumping from cushions of green and yellow moss. On the other side they rode up a gorge guarded by pillars shaped like men. Ingolf said they were giants turned to stone after being caught by the sun as they journeyed between their subterranean haunts.
