Page 89 of Don't Let Me Go
“Ask your questions, Chieftain, and I will give you their answers,” Ulfhild replies, turning toward Erik but keeping her eyes closed.
“First, I wish to know of my son Leif. A year ago, he took a ship and set out across the great ocean in search of a new land on the other side of the world. I wish to know if he has found that land, how he fares, and if he shall return.”
The seeress tilts her head as if listening to music that only she can hear.
“Your son is safe. He found the new land that he sought. And you will behold his face before the next winter.”
Erik sighs in relief, and my brother-warriors raise their voices in a cheer.
“What of Brattahlid?” he asks. “What of our future?”
Again, the seeress tilts her head in silent communion.
“Brattahlid will be strong as long as Erik the Red sits on the great seat.”
Another cheer rises up, and Erik nods approvingly. “The winter will not be too harsh, then?”
“No harsher than you are accustomed to.”
“And our crops?”
“Will thrive in the spring. As they always have.”
“And what of the sickness?” Erik asks. “I have heard rumors that it has returned all along the seacoast and that no village is safe. I lost fifty men to it when it first struck Brattahlid three years ago. It nearly destroyed this settlement. I must know if it will come again.”
Ulfhild’s silence sends a shiver through my body.
“Well?” Erik asks, his voice edged in fear. “Will the sickness come to Brattahlid?”
“No,” Ulfhild answers, shaking her head. I breathe a sigh of relief, as does every man in the hall, until the seeress opens her eyes and points at Ragnar. “The sickness is already here.”
Ragnar rises in protest, his eyes wild, his face drenched in sweat. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can utter a word, his legs buckle beneath the weight of his weariness. He collapses into my arms, dragging us both to the floor.
“It is true,” Erik says, rising from his chair in horror. “Ragnar has brought the sickness upon us!”
The men scatter like rats as they flee to the far side of the hall.
“Please!” I beg, turning my tear-filled eyes to Ulfhild as I cradle Ragnar in my arms. “Help him. You must help him!”
Ulfhild shakes her head. Her eyes are not without pity, but her words are without mercy. “There is no cure for the sickness but death.”
“Take him from here!” Erik commands, turning to his brother. “Light a pyre. We will purge the sickness out of Brattahlid with fire.”
“No!” I shout, jumping to my feet and unsheathing my sword.
“Rorik, put down your blade!” Erik shouts. “Ragnar must die!”
“You will not touch him!” I answer, spitting the words in defiance. “None of you will touch him!”
I cannot defeat one of my brother-warriors in battle, let alone all of them. But the wolf is in my blood. I will die before I let harm come to Ragnar.
The men look to Erik. At his fatal nod, they will have their order to kill. I am ready.
But the nod does not come.
The witch moves to Erik’s side and whispers in his ear. The Great Hall goes silent. All I can hear is Ragnar’s labored breathing and the howling of the wind moving through the valley.
“Let them go,” Erik pronounces.
