Susan Squires Danegeld

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Glimpsed through the circle of cheering men, she could only half see what happened. But she knew that
they were violating her mother, all of them. Britta pressed her cheek into the rough boards of the shed
and wondered whether she could look away. But she couldn't. She couldn't even blink. Her eyes felt dry,
in spite of the tears spilling down her cheeks.
The one called Offa stepped into the circle and drew his sword. Two others held her mother's legs. She
saw it all in shades of gray and brown. There on the cold winter ground, the fork-bearded beast took his
sword and thrust it to the hilt between her mother's legs. The only color was the blood that welled up out
of her mother's mouth, the gushing blood around the awful sword as the devil drew it out. Her mother's
shriek circled up into the sky, accusing the gods. A strange black pool pulsed around her, and Britta
knew instinctively what it meant: death.
She scrambled from the shed and ran out into the circle of grass and mud, oblivious to her danger. She
had to stop that black halo. She had to touch her mother, make it right, make all the things right between
them. She pushed the first huge man aside, wailing like a banshee. Throwing herself down, she gathered
her mother in her arms until the black nimbus enveloped them both. Her mother's eyes stared flatly at the
unrelenting gray sky. Britta felt a shriek rising inside her. Like the bird, she shouted silently to whatever
would listen. Like the bird!
There was no answer, but she felt a fullness growing and the black halo began to fade.
A great hand grasped her arm. She saw the laugh spurt out between the forked beard, though she could
not hear it. He pulled her away from her mother. Britta screamed in rage and tore at the hands that held
her. She bit and clawed until the beast shook her loose and she fell to the ground. On her hands and
knees over her mother, she looked into the green eyes so like her own. They were dead. The black halo
puffed out, obscuring her mother entirely, and was gone.
"No!" Britta screamed. "Mother, no!"
Hands again grasped her shoulders and turned her roughly around. She found herself staring into the face
with the forked beard. The eyes were narrow and sharp, maybe gray, the face cut in severe lines, the
skin marked with scars from the pustules of youth.
"A mother and child reunion, eh, Offa?" one in the circle behind her called.
Offa's grip on her arms tightened. "No need for her to end like her dam. We'll want to keep a tender
piece like this one about for a while."
Britta looked up at Offa and knew that there might be fates worse than her mother's.
Britta stared at Karn without really seeing him. "After they killed her, Offa raped me and let others do the
same." Her voice held no emotion, because all the emotion was still trapped inside her, seething. "I sought
sanctuary in my father's church." She took a shuddering breath. "But Offa killed him, too. I thought his
God would protect us. But He didn't."
Karn sat back. He looked like he wanted to say something but didn't.
She shook her head, remembering the feel of nothingness. "I ran to my island, where no one dared
follow. I lived with shame, with anger. I hated myself and everyone else. But I lived."
She watched all those emotions roil in Karn's blue eyes. How could words comfort him? At last he rose
to his feet. "The gods are harsh, Britta."
Fenris trotted up from his wanderings, her knife in his mouth, and he nosed her hand tentatively. She
pulled at his ears. What to do next? "You will not try to kill yourself again?"
He stared out at the pounding surf. "No." Rising, he limped away without looking at her.
It was afternoon when she came up the beach toward the log where Karn sat slumped. She had found
her other bundle, the one with her father's bible, still wrapped in its oilskin. There were a few pots of
herbs unbroken, but no food. She had even found Karn's crutch, lying among the driftwood. The axe
was gone, of course. It lay at the bottom of the sea.
Last night's vision rolled through her brain uncontrolled. Was her own death to be the payment for the
magic she had tried so hard to preserve? Would she pay it tomorrow or when she was sixty? Did it make
a difference? She couldn't give up the chance of realizing her mother's lost dream, her own dream. It was
the only way she could be whole, the only way she could pay for what she had stolen. What did it matter
how much she paid to lift that debt?
But Karn would continue to put the magic in jeopardy. She had wanted him today. Strange, but part of
her still wanted him. Now, when he was a danger to her, it should be easy to leave him. But all she could
think of was the smell of his chest when he held her and called her berserker. He, a Viking, whom she
had once rated as no more than a beast, had tried to comfort her when no one had comforted her for
years, perhaps ever. She thought of her hands on his flesh, on his wounds wounds that were her own.
And she couldn't leave him.
It made her angry, as though it was his fault that she could not do the easy thing. What would she do with
a Viking in tow? And where could she go to be safe? She almost ran to the bundle and the cloak she had [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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