Page 53 of Viking Warriors: Vol. 1-3
Only in slumber was there relief. In my dreams, I joined the boys I’d played with in my childhood, swimming in the forest lake, gulping down great mouthfuls of sweet, fresh water. How we would run, and jump from the highest rocks above, falling deep before kicking up to emerge, gasping and laughing.
I saw my grandmother, kissing me goodnight, my aunt, and the mother I’d barely known. Would I soon meet them all again? And Eirik. I dreamed of his soft kiss and of his arms, strong about me.
I dreamt, too, of entombment and engulfing dark, and woke to find it real. My chest, seizing tight, choked the air from my lungs—too thick to breathe.
By the feeble light of day, I woke to an ominous, gnawing ache within my left hand. I felt the clutch of fear and willed myself to look. There was infection, as I’d seen so many times. My fever had not just been from the cold but from the affliction I’d avoided all these months, caring for others in the village. Across the width of my palm, the sore was livid purple, the centre beginning to blister, throbbing deep under the skin, seeming to spread out beyond the boundaries of the lesion.
How much time had passed? How long would it be until Helka came? Had she and Eirik been detained by Jarl Ósvífur, or been attacked by a rival clan on their return journey from Bjorgyn? The duration of their absence had been far longer than expected, even before I took refuge in the cave. I clutched Eirik’s amulet and invoked the gods. I did not wish to die, but to stay here would be my end.
I’d been a strong swimmer, once. Shouldn’t I try? Swim for the shore; find some other place to hide. With limbs heavy and my head light, I sat upon the furthest point of the ledge, waited for a lull between the waves, and lowered myself into the sea.
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Closing my eyes against the brightness all around, I kicked hard. Dwelling in that cramped, underground space, I’d grown used to its gloom and the confinement of its walls. The sky now felt huge and the sun dazzling. I knew I must clear the perilous rocks. Only then would I have a chance.
Almost immediately, the swell lifted me high then plunged low, saltwater entering my nose and throat. I struggled and spluttered as the current swept me sideways. Scraping my elbow, I spun, reaching out my hands to stop myself. I caught my breath in pain but fought forward, almost dragged under before being hoisted upwards on a surging wave and pushed beyond the jagged granite.
I felt the difference at once and was filled with optimism. If I might now stay afloat, I could kick my way to shore. Yet, as I began to swim, I seemed to make no progress. The realization came to me in a flood of despair. How foolish I was! I’d never reach the shore, for the tide was on its way out, drawing me with it. I’d be swept out of the fjord, to the open sea.
In my panic, I kicked harder. I might, perhaps, make my way back to the rocks, drag myself hand over hand, returning to the cavern. That hope was in vain for the current was strong. Already, I was drawing level with the next opening in the cliff—a smaller hollow, without visible ledge but also without rocks. I might take refuge there and wait for the turning tide. Summoning the last of my will, I thrashed through the water. Turning my body, I swept close to the cliff face and braced myself. Knowing how easily the waves could crush me against the unyielding granite, I launched myself into the cave.
* * *
Ientered green twilight, the water calm. It stretched back a long way, ending in a shelf wide enough for me to sit upon, perhaps to lie. Algae grew thick upon the walls, fanning like hair where it touched the brine. I clutched a clump, pulling myself by its anchor, to heave myself from the sea.
Had I the strength, I might have cried but my quiet despair lodged in my throat. I fisted my left hand shut, not wishing to see what I knew grew there. My head throbbed with the fever and my limbs trembled. I could think no further than to rest, to sleep, curling upon myself as animals do, knowing themselves in the grip of sickness.
* * *
She came to me in my dreams. I lay in a lush meadow, the cornflowers tall around me and the sun warm, my eyes closed to its glare. I heard her singing and then felt her gown brushing against my leg, from my ankle to my knee. There was nothing to fear for she was with me. I opened my eyes and saw her face, as lovely as it had ever been.
I woke to find my leg trailing in the water, long strands of green sweeping my skin. It had only been a fanciful reverie, yet I felt somehow comforted and renewed by Asta’s appearance. And there was something familiar in the sensation on my leg. Had it been the same that I’d felt those days before, when I’d been bound to the pier?
Something else had brought me from sleep. Not touch but sound, for there was a rushing noise, the low rumble of a storm and, closer, the sound of trickling water. The light was dim, for it was the first of the day, but enough to show me rain upon the sea and a low mist.
My body had no wish to move. Scraped, aching and fevered, my inclination was to close my eyes once more. Too long since I’d eaten, too long since I’d been warm or dry. The struggle had left me.
The tide would be turning but it would do me no good. My legs were leaden and my body bruised; to swim seemed impossible. Straightening my arm brought a stab of pain. The abrasion on my elbow had crusted, then broken. The sore on my left palm ached and itched. I opened it partially and winced. I clutched still some algae, torn as I’d dragged myself from the water, its slender strands plastered to the lesion. I would examine it later, when I had the mind. There were nagging irritations elsewhere on my body that I refused to dwell upon. I’d no wish to look, for what good would it do?
I lay still, listening to a steady drip and splash. Helka had told me the cliffs were riddled with chasms and cracks, crevices through which water would travel. Perhaps if I could find the source, there would be fresh water to drink—enough to wet my mouth, at least. Turning my head, I saw the fissure and a faint slant of light. Would it be wide enough for me squeeze through?
I groaned as I found my feet, my back and limbs protesting, head reeling, but it was good to stand. If I allowed myself to sleep, the temptation would be to never wake again.
The first section of the opening was the hardest to breach, the bones of my hip chafing awkwardly. Had I tried even a week ago, my flesh would have been too ample. There was a curve, obliging me to bend then crawl. I shuffled on my knees and knuckles, hearing the trickle of water, telling myself it would be only a little further. If the tunnel came to naught, forbidding me final passage, it would be more than I could bear.
At last, the rock receded and I emerged into a narrow column of space. I felt a change in the air—only a fraction warmer but certainly brighter. What I sought was flowing down the wall, forming a clear pool beneath. I plunged my lips, drinking greedily until my stomach ached to bursting. Craning my neck to look upwards, I almost laughed with relief, for there was sunlight and a fresher smell—a hole through the rock, to the cliffs above. The gods had answered my prayers, showing me the way.
The rising granite had footholds and places my hands could grasp but it would be coated in fine algae, running with water. If I slipped, my bones would find their rest here, hidden in the heart of the rock.
My left arm was in pain and my right gashed. Could I take the rough treatment of climbing? I still felt feverish—my forehead hot and my hands clammy. I steeled myself to unfurl my fingers, knowing that I must inspect my palm. Algae had pressed into the tender flesh, preventing me from seeing the progress of the lesion. I lifted the strands, easing them from the sore. It was tender but there was no ooze of pus. The blister had reduced in size with no tinge of yellow, no appearance of aggressive infection. Pink and swollen though it was, it appeared to be healing. I flexed my hand and blanched a little but the discomfort was bearable.
Not only had divine forces watched over me but nature, too, offering her bounty. I rested my head against the rock and gave my silent thanks. Wasn’t this what I’d been searching for, all these long months? I’d investigated many of the seaweeds along Svolvaen’s shore but had never found this fine-threaded variety. The gods had led me here. This would be the remedy for those who’d shown me love, and those who’d doubted me.
It would be easy to returnlater, with other villagers,to bring a boat and fill it with enough to treat every person in Svolvaen many times over, but how could I reappear in the villageempty-handed?The charge of being a witch would mar the miracle of my survival in their eyes. If I brought the cure which they needed, perhaps it would convince them of my true intentions.
No algae grew in this small space where the spray did not reach. I grunted my discomfort as I crawled back through the fissure but was driven by the thought ofAstrid, Ylva, Torhilda and her children.I’d collect what I needed andclimb from this place. I’d cure the affliction for which others had blamed me and, in the process, save myself.
My apron I tucked upon itself, creating a pouch in front and behind, to stuff with the algae growing plentifully from the walls. With the torment of hunger nagging me, I pushed some into my mouth, making myself chew the thin strands. I’d need what strength I could muster to make my climb.
