Troll Blood (16 page)

Now Peer saw Gunnar for the shipmaster he was. With no steering oar to help him, he took his ship in a crazy ride over the rolling hills of water, bellowing orders to haul in or slacken off the braces—twitching the sail this way and that—until Peer’s palms blistered and the touch of the harsh, soaking ropes was raw agony. With the others he staggered to port or starboard as Gunnar yelled at them—clutching for balance at the shrouds and the gunwale, bruised and frozen. In vivid
flashes between periods of dazed exhaustion Peer saw his shipmates—Floki being sick, Tjorvi hauling the yard around like a giant, Astrid and Hilde steadily baling, their sopping skirts spreading around them like puddles. Loki crept to his feet, and Peer stroked his cold wet ears.

At long last dawn came. The seas dropped into heaving, sullen swells, as though the tempest had got over the worst of its tantrum and was sobbing itself to sleep. Then the sun came up on the port side, its disc hidden behind broken clouds, poking white rays upward like gigantic wheel spokes. The mountains of Greenland were nowhere to be seen.

Peer mended the steering oar. He threaded a new rope through it, with a thick knot against the outer side. The tiller, which slotted into the end of the steering oar, was too damaged to reuse, but he made a new one by trimming down an oar handle. As soon as it was ready, Gunnar put the ship about. At last they were sailing west again.

The crew cheered. Tjorvi slapped Peer on the back. Gunnar gave him an approving nod. Even Arnë produced a faint smile. Peer felt he truly belonged. It was a good feeling. As he put his tools carefully away, he heard Magnus say, “No sense trying to reach Greenland now. But where are we? That’s what I’d like to know.”

A brisk discussion broke out:

“May as well keep going west.”

“Aye, but we could be anywhere. Did anyone see the stars last night?”

“Never a break in the clouds. But we’ve come a fair way south.”

“We know that,” Magnus said with a sneer.

“What if we miss Vinland altogether and sail over the edge of the world?” Floki piped up, conjuring in every mind a vision of the endless waterfall plunging over the rim of the earth.

“Showing your ignorance, Floki,” said Magnus. “The world is shaped like a dish, and that keeps the water in. Ye can’t sail over the edge.”

“That’s not right,” Arnë argued. “The world’s like a dish, but it’s an upside-down dish. You can see that by the way it curves.”

Magnus burst out laughing. “Then why wouldn’t the sea just run off? You can’t pour water into an upside-down dish.”

“It’s like a dish with a rim,” said Gunnar, in a tone that brooked no arguments. “There’s land all around the ocean, just like there’s land all around any lake. Stands to reason. And that means so long as we keep sailing west, we’ll strike the coastline.”

The crew’s worn faces broke into smiles. This was a good explanation, which everyone liked. There was no chance of getting lost, or of sailing over a precipice. Peer looked around at a collection of bloodshot eyes, bruises, cracked lips, and dull, salt-soaked hair. More than half of the crew had been seasick. Loki’s coat was sticky with salt. Astrid was hollow-cheeked, with purple shadows under her eyes: the storm had blown away her beauty. Hilde’s looks were more robust: the
wind whipped roses into her cheeks and tousled her yellow hair. Gunnar looked terrible, gray under his red, chapped skin. His good hand shook, and he clenched his fist to disguise it.

Yet almost against his will, Peer found he trusted Gunnar to get them to Vinland safely. Rough and tough Gunnar might be, but he knew how to sail a ship, and how to put confidence into his men.

And so did Harald. “Here’s a riddle for you all!” he called out. “Guess what this is:

The men’s faces brightened; they pushed one another.

“Go on.”

“You go first.”

“A king!” shouted Floki.

“Wrong.” Harald cocked an eyebrow. “Guess again.”

“An earl?” ventured Halfdan. Harald shook his head.

“What are the two bonfires?” Arnë wondered aloud.

Halfdan let out a whoop. “I’ve got it! The two bonfires are sunrise and sunset, and nobody knows where the sun goes to bed. It’s the sun!”

“But the sun’s not a stranger,” Tjorvi objected.

“It has been for the last two days,” said Harald, and the men laughed and clapped.

“Give us another!”

Astrid came up behind Peer and draped her arm over his shoulder. Peer knew she was only doing it to tease, but he wished she wouldn’t. He saw Hilde’s eyebrows go up, and tried to move aside. Astrid took her arm away with a comical pout.

“We were talking about your husband,” said Hilde pointedly.

“Really?” said Astrid. “What about him?”

“Just that he knows what he’s doing,” Peer said. “He’s a good skipper.”

The corner of Astrid’s mouth lifted. A faint gleam appeared in her eyes. She threw a glance at Gunnar, where he sat against the port side. He happened to look at her, and his bristly, hard-eyed face softened for a moment.

“He doesn’t look well,” Astrid murmured. “He hasn’t slept more than a snatch since the storm began. Thank goodness you got the steering oar fixed, Peer. You’re so clever.” She tucked her arm through Peer’s, and pinched him playfully. “Don’t you think he’s clever, Hilde—this brother of yours?”

“He’s not my brother,” Hilde contradicted—then frowned, as if wondering what she’d said.

Astrid smiled. She dropped Peer’s arm and went on, “But I came to ask you: How’s the Nis?”

“The Nis!”

Hilde’s mouth opened in horror, and she and Peer stared at
each other. “The Nis! How did it manage in the storm? Where is it?”

Astrid looked at them with scornful amusement. “Really! You two are the ones who are supposed to look out for the Nis. I’m just the wicked woman who dragged it on board. I suppose neither of you fed it, either?”

“If you were clever enough to remember it, why didn’t you do it?” Hilde snapped.

“Nobody had time to think,” Peer said. He imagined the Nis lying in some cold corner, wet, seasick, and frightened; or clinging to the masthead in all that wind; or being blown off into the sea.

“We’d better try and find it,” he said anxiously.

Most of the crew still clustered around Harald on the afterdeck, calling out riddles and answers. Peer made his way along the ship, tugging at knots and knocking on beams and joints as if examining them for strain after the storm. “Nis … Nis,” he called softly whenever he dared. Astrid and Hilde looked into barrels and crates, pretending to take stock of the provisions.

The Nis wasn’t in the apple barrel. It wasn’t in the chicken coop, though all three of them checked it, even moving the bedraggled, seasick chickens to make sure it wasn’t huddling among their feathers. In growing dread they searched across the big cluttered hold. It was impossible to be sure the Nis wasn’t hiding there somewhere, but it didn’t answer their calls.

They met in the bow, confirming with pale faces their lack
of success. Loki plodded after them, poking an inquiring nose into the cranny behind the anchor. No sign of the Nis. With the nagging worry growing into real fear, Peer even lifted the loose deck boards to look into the dark triangular space under the foredeck, though he couldn’t imagine why the Nis would ever go there. There was nothing to see but a little black water spilling about.

“Oh, where can it be?” said Hilde in despair.

“Lost something?” Arnë took them by surprise.

Peer jumped and clattered the boards back into place. “No,” he answered. “Just making sure we’re not leaking.”

Arnë gave him a close look. “You seem worried.” His eyes were watchful and concerned, and for a fleeting moment he looked and sounded like his brother. He turned to Hilde: “Something’s wrong, isn’t it? Why don’t you tell me?”

Hilde began to speak, stopped, and flung an unhappy look at Peer. Peer squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. “Everything’s fine,” he said brusquely.

Arnë turned on his heel and went off.

“That was convincing,” Astrid murmured.

“We should have told him,” said Hilde. “He could have kept an eye out for it. He might even have seen it.”

“Well, you go after him if you want,” said Peer. Arnë’s expression had made him feel cross and guilty. “As far as I know, he’s never seen the Nis in his life. And what if he tells Harald?”

Hilde raised a cold eyebrow. “Why should he? Why do you always think the worst of Arnë?”

“Children, don’t quarrel,” said Astrid wearily. They looked at each other, ashamed.

Hilde dug the heels of her hands into her eyes, rubbing hard. “Oh, Nis, Nis, where are you?”

No one answered her.
Water Snake
rocked over long swells, nodding into wave after wave with a fresh splatter of spray. The sun was slipping down into yellow haze. “I’m so tired of this ocean,” said Hilde, with a dreary little laugh. She looked at Peer with red-rimmed eyes. “We’ve looked everywhere. Let’s face it. It’s lost, isn’t it? The Nis is lost.”

CHAPTER 10
Landfall

T
hey searched till long after dark, hoping the Nis would wake and come creeping out of some forgotten hidey-hole. Even after they’d all given up, and were sitting with the crew over the evening meal, one or another would get up restlessly, and wander off to try again. Everywhere he looked, Peer missed seeing the Nis’s skinny little silhouette hopping in the shrouds or outlined against the sunset.

At last he crawled into his sleeping sack, all hope gone. He thought of the storm, and the way the ship had leaped like a spurred horse. He imagined the Nis swept over the side like a little scrap of cloth, perhaps crying out in a thin voice, then lost in the cold, limitless waves.
The poor little Nis. After being brought all this way, and after it tried so hard to be a sailor.
A lump rose in his throat. “The Nis is gone, Loki,” he whispered,
and Loki whined. He tried not to think of the Nis anymore, but what else was there to think about? The ship was a hateful place, a trap, a coop.

He lay staring up at the great swaying sail, listening to the creak as Halfdan twisted the steering oar, the hoarse whistle of wind in the shrouds, and the slap and tickle of water running along the sides. He knew all the sounds of the ship now. That loud snoring was Tjorvi. The irritating little cough followed by a sniff was Floki. But tonight there was a muttering undercurrent. Peer lay half sleeping, half waking, hearing it running on: somebody talking, low and rapid and feverish, and then a great sobbing shout: “Keep him off! Keep him off! Keep him off!”

Peer sat up fast, dislodging Loki, who sprang up barking. All around him startled men struggled out of their sleeping sacks.

“The skipper’s gone mad!” yelled Halfdan at the helm.

The sky flashed. From unguessable heights, silent streamers unrolled across the heavens. Like the folds of some enormous garment, they trailed overhead, then twisted into ropes and went snaking over the northern horizon. The ship gleamed and flickered: Every upturned face reflected a pale green. “The Northern Dancers!” cried Hilde.

“Help me! Help!” Gunnar crouched against the rail, panting with terror. His eyes goggled; he seemed beside himself. Astrid threw herself down, trying to clasp him in her arms, but he flung her off, catapulting upward with a
jump as sudden as a grasshopper’s. He grabbed the backstay with his good right hand and swung from it, pivoting and peering this way and that, poking out his chin. “D’you hear him? D’you hear him?” he mumbled.

“Gunnar, Gunnar, there’s nothing to fear,” cried Astrid.

“There is. I hear him splashing after us, splashing, splashing …” Gunnar began to choke.

“Father.” Harald’s long hair shone an elfin green in the weird dancelight. He trod forward warily, hand outstretched as if approaching a wild animal. Which was what Gunnar resembled, Peer thought, horrified by the change in him.

Astrid got to her feet. “Harald, he’s ill again. He needs medicine.”