Raven: Blood Eye (2 page)

My mother once told me
She'd buy me a longship,
A handsome-oared vessel
To go sailing with Vikings:
To stand at the sternpost
And steer a fine warship
Then head back for harbour
And hew down some foemen.

Egil's Saga

THE HEARTH IS SPEWING MORE SMOKE THAN FLAME, SEETHING
angrily and causing some of the men to cough as they hunker down amongst the reindeer furs. The hall's stout door creaks open, making a flame leap and tempting the acrid smoke to draw. Shadows edge around the room like Valkyries, the demons of the dead, hiding in corners waiting for titbits, hungry for human flesh. Perhaps they have caught a whisper of death in the fire's crack and spit. Certainly they have waited a long time for me.

Even in Valhöll a hush has fallen like a mantle of new snow, as Óðin, Thór and Týr lay down their swords, put aside their preparations for Ragnarök, the final battle. Am I too arrogant? More than likely. And yet, I do believe that even the gods themselves desire to hear the one with the red eye tell his tale. After all, they have played their part in it. And this is why they laugh, for men are not alone in seeking eternal fame: the gods crave glory too.

As though summoned to vanquish the shadows, the hearth bursts into flame. Men's faces come alive in the orange glow. They are ready. Eager. And so I take a deep, bitter breath. And begin.

England,
AD
802

I DO NOT KNOW WHERE I WAS BORN. WHEN I WAS YOUNG, I WOULD
sometimes dream of great rock walls rising so high from the sea that the sun's warmth never hit the cold, black water. Though perhaps those dreams were crafted from the tales I heard men tell, the men from the northlands where the winter days die before they begin and the summer sun never sets.

I know nothing of my childhood, of my parents, or if I had brothers and sisters. I do not even know my birth name. And yet, perhaps it says much about my life that my earliest memories are stained red. They are written in the blood that marks my left eye, for which men have always feared me.

I was perhaps fifteen years old and thought myself a man when the heathens came. My village was known as Abbotsend and it was a dreary place. Supposedly it was named after the holy father who climbed into the branches of a tall oak and there remained in penance for three years without food or water, preserved only by his own piety and the will of the Lord. Only when climbing down did the man fall and die from his injuries. And so it was that where he died became the place of the abbot's end. Whether the story is true or not I cannot say, but I suppose it is as good an explanation for the name as any and more interesting than most. Abbotsend lay on a windswept spit of land jutting boldly into the sea a day's ride south-west of Wareham in the kingdom of Wessex. Though no king would ever have reason to visit Abbotsend. It was a settlement like any other, home to simple folk who expected nothing more from life than food and shelter and the rearing of children. A good Christian might say that such a humble place was ever likely to be blessed and by that blessing suffer, as its namesake had suffered and as all martyrs do. But a pagan would spit at such words, claiming the inconsequence of the place was reason enough that it be culled like a sick animal. For the village of Abbotsend no longer exists and I am to blame for its end.

I worked for old Ealhstan the carpenter, felling ash and alderwood for the cups and platters he turned on his lathe.

'I know, old man. All men must eat and drink,' I would say wearily, interpreting Ealhstan's gesture of banging two plates together and nodding to some passing man or woman, 'and so shall we if we keep making the things others need.' And Ealhstan would grunt and nod because he was mute.

And so I spent most days alone in the wooded valley east of the village, cutting and shaping timber with Ealhstan's axe. I had a roof over my head and food in my belly and I stayed away from those who would rather I had never come to that place, those who feared me for my blood-red eye and because I could not tell them whence I came.

The carpenter alone did not hate or fear me. He was hardworking and old and could not speak, and he would not indulge in such emotions. He had taken me in and I repaid his kindness with blisters and sweat and that was that. But the others were not like Ealhstan. Wulfweard the priest would make the sign of the cross when he saw me, and the women would tell their daughters to stay away from me. Even the boys kept their distance for the most part, though sometimes they would hide amongst the trees and jump out to beat me with sticks, but only when there were three or four of them and all full of mead. Even then the beatings lacked the fury to break bones, for everyone respected old Ealhstan's skill. They needed his cups and platters and barrels and wheels and so they usually left me alone.

There was a girl. Alwunn. She was red-cheeked and plump and we had lain together after the Easter feast when the only living things not drunk on mead were the dogs. The mead had made me brave and I had found Alwunn drawing water from the well and without a word I took her hand and led her to a patch of tall, damp rye grass. She seemed willing enough, enthusiastic even, when it came to it. But in truth it was a graceless fumble and afterwards Alwunn was ashamed. Or perhaps she was afraid of what her kin would do if they found out about us. Either way, after that clumsy night she avoided me.

For two years I lived with Ealhstan, learning his craft so I could take his place at the lathe when he was gone. I would wake before sunrise and take a rod and line down to the rocks to catch mackerel for our breakfast. Then I would scour the woods for the best trees from which Ealhstan would make whatever people needed: tables, benches, cartwheels, bows, arrows and sword scabbards. From him I learned the magic of different trees, like the way the yew's heartwood gives the war bow its strength whilst the sapwood makes it flexible, until in the end I knew from sight and touch alone whether or not a tree would suit a certain purpose. I would spend hours with the oaks especially, though I did not know why they fascinated me, only that they had some power over my imagination. In their presence, strange half-thoughts would weave a tapestry in my mind, its threads worn, the colour a dull faded brown. I would sometimes find myself mouthing sounds to which I could put no meaning and then in frustration I would name the trees and plants aloud to steer my mind from the fog. Still, I would come back to the oaks. I was drawn from tree to tree searching for great curving limbs in which the grain would run so strong that the wood could not be broken. But the old carpenter had no use for enormous oak timbers and chided me for wasting my time.

We had neither horse nor cart. Once, when I moaned about the work, Ealhstan leant back as though he had a huge belly and staggered around the workshop leading an invisible horse and cart. Then he pointed at me and waggled his finger.

'You're not Reeve Edgar and you can't afford a horse to share the work,' I said, guessing his meaning, and he nodded with a grimace, grabbed the scruff of my neck and pointed to the door. 'But you could if you didn't have to feed me?' I hazarded, rubbing my neck. The old man's affirming grunt was warning enough and I stopped my moaning.

And so my back and arms grew strong and the boys who had beaten me took to beating Eadwig the cripple who had been wont to gather the hazel branches they used on me. Though I was strong I was always pleased after a hard day to sit and pedal the pole lathe, which turned the timber this way and that as the old man teased form and shine from rough wood. At night, after a meal of cheese and bread, pottage and meat, we would go to the old hall and listen to merchants swapping news, or men reciting the old tales of great battles and deeds. My favourite story was of the warrior Beowulf who slew the monster Grendal, and I would sit spellbound as smoke from the hearth filled the woody space with a sweet, resinous aroma and tired men drank mead or ale until they fell asleep amongst the rushes, to stagger home at cock's crow.

This was my life. And it was a simple one. But it would not last.