The midnight sun hovered over the sea horizon like a glowing pumpkin.
Stian anchored his clinker-built sailboat out of sight from the mainland and jumped onto the rocky shore, scrambling up over the outcrop on all fours and keeping cover behind spruce trees and towering pines. It didn't take long to reach the sleeping village through the forest: a fenced-in cluster of longhouses surrounded by fields, forest, and highlands. Smoke billowed from holes in the thatched roofs and spitz dogs with pointed ears and curled tails roamed about behind the fence, keeping guard. Stian passed the village and went toward the nearest sheep pen where the night watchman lay fast asleep in his covered bed box. A roaming spitz dog served as a second set of eyes and ears.
Keeping cover, Stian pulled a poisoned chunk of whale meat from his tunic and tossed it near the bed box. It didn't take long for the dog to sniff it out and eat to his demise; he soon lay in a heap in the grass, the hairs on his stilled shoulders twitching in the breeze.
Stian approached the sheep pen with slow steps, careful to avoid any sounds that might alert the shepherd, and took a little lamb from the group; killing it with a seax dagger. In the green shelter of the woods, he gnawed on the lamb's body enough to make a mess, and pulled a vial from a pocket in his woolen tunic, filling it with blood. Tossing the carcass out into the open, he went back to the fence surrounding the longhouses, and set the dogs to barking. He then retreated to the forest to wait, inhaling the metallic scent of blood on his chin.
The village came to life as men left their homes and gathered together with the dogs, heading for the fields where they soon found the mutilated lamb. Knowing they would suspect a wolf or a bear rather than a man and would search the woods, Stian scaled the fence and went straight for the longhouse he'd scoped out days before.
He crept up to the door in the dull lighting and rapped the door with restraint, knowing the residents might not open it if he pounded.
It opened a crack and a maiden peered out through the gap. Before she could scream, he reached in, grabbed her by the neck with both hands, and kicked the door inward with his foot as he yanked her outside. She flailed but soon went limp with unconsciousness. He dropped her to the ground, pulled the capacious hood of his cloak up over his head and went inside.
A fire burned in the center of room, benches topped with sheepskin and woolen blankets lining the walls. A young boy was retreating to a far corner, his eyes wide with evident fear.
Without removing his hood, Stian dropped on all fours and lunged at the boy, his clawed nails scattering ashes and dirt on the packed floor as he went. If he didn't grab the child immediately, the boy would cry out, alerting the men folk to his peril.
In a split second he was upon him, one furry hand covering his mouth, the other gripping the child's torso at his side as he stood up on his hind legs and carried him from the room.
Outside, the boy's mother still lay in a heap in the grass though her chest rose and fell with sound breathing. She would soon come to. Shouts and barks sounded from the hillside, indicating the men were on their way back, so with a quick look to and fro, Stian left the village and entered the forest path, sprinkling some of the blood from the vial here and there. When he reached the boat, he held the boy at his side, pulling a scarf and a length of rope from the pocket of his tunic. He lost no time tying the scarf around the child's mouth and the rope around his wrists. He then removed the boy's overtunic, replacing it with one of his own from the boat, and again took the vial of blood from his pocket. With quick movements, he shredded the child's tunic, emptied the remainder of the blood on it, and tossed it up on the outcrop. He then plunked the boy down on a crate in the center of the boat.
After quickly adjusting the square-rigged sail and rudder, he unanchored the boat and sat down on a bench, taking hold of the oars and maneuvering the boat away from the shore. They were soon off, rowing toward the orange globe that hovered just above sea level. The men from the village might attempt to come after them on the sea once they discovered the child was missing, but he hoped the bloodied tunic would at the very least disorient and slow them. They would suspect the child was dead and hopefully waste time searching for his body in the woods; but if not, if they indeed thought him kidnapped, they hadn't seen the boat, and wouldn't know which direction Stian had set sail for. That is, so long as he could be out of sight by the time they reached the outcrop.
The boy's expressive eyes, as dark as walnut, were as wide as when he'd first been captured, his skin chalky. But he made no attempt to speak or move, and sat solemnly beneath the sail. An hour of vigorous rowing later, when the shoreline was far out of sight and they were heading south, Stian let go of the oars and crept around the roped cargo to the center of the boat where the boy sat, about two meters or so away. He removed the scarf and untied his ankles. It no longer mattered if the child screamed—there was nowhere to escape.
"What's your name?" he growled in Old Norse.
The boy blinked but said nothing.
Stian tramped back to his seat and reached into a nearby crate, pulling out a chunk of whale jerky and a loaf of bread. It was the last of the loaves he'd stolen after his body had been changed. Taking the seax dagger from his boot, he halved the jerky and offered it along with a section of bread to the boy, who caught each piece in his hands, set them down beside him, and made no move to eat. With a harrumph, Stian made short order of his own meal; tearing at the jerky like a savage and chugging from a waterskin as well. Once done, he wiped his hairy chin with a handkerchief and was half startled to see blood all over the handkerchief as he stuffed it back into his pocket—he should be used to that by now. The boy watched him with what seemed both curiosity and alarm, likely trying to discern his features beneath the shrouding of his hood. There was no hiding his grotesque hands.
"What's your name?" Stian repeated in a low voice.
"It is Josva."
"Eat," he said, gesturing at the untouched food with an outstretched claw.
Josva's eyes widened again but he did not move.
Stian held the child's gaze for a long time, each surveying one another as water lapped the sides of the wooden boat and a breeze bathed their brows. He looked so tiny in the giant overtunic, not at all like a ten year old. His tawny hair hung straight to his chin.
"Can I see your face?" the child asked after a time, breaking the silence.
Stian hesitated, fingering the edge of his hood with a claw. He felt overheated keeping it on but didn't want to be gawked at. After all, it was only because of his face that he'd abducted the boy in the first place. He could no longer trade on the coasts; his boat filled with valuable quarry he had no hope of selling.
"Here's how it's going to be, boy," he said, leaving the bulky hood in place. "We'll go from village to village, and make sales at market until all this is sold." He made a sweeping gesture at the various crates cluttering the center of the boat. Crates filled with stolen wheat, wool, furs and pelts, honey, armor, and weapons. "After that . . . I'll take you back to your family." This was a lie but he needed the boy to cooperate. What he really intended was to eventually train the boy as a shipmate, the start of a new crew. That's why he'd chosen him. An older boy would have been far too difficult to tame.
He lowered his voice to a growl: "But listen closely. If you dare to cross me, or try to escape, I'll burn your entire village."
Josva glanced around, a look of sorrow in his limpid eyes, but he said nothing. They were surrounded on all sides by Nile-green water; the sun darkened to an ember on the edge of the western horizon. Was the threat enough to keep the boy from running or yelling once they reached shore? Stian hoped fear was a sufficient rope for now.
Tears welled in the boy's eyes and dropped to his lap when he blinked. He seemed so frail then, alabaster and innocent. A child missing his mother. Heat coursed through Stian's veins, his breathing raspy as it picked up speed. With a roar he lunged at the boy and grabbed him by the shoulders, preparing to shake him for all his worth. "Man up," he thundered, the hood slipping from his head. Cool air bathed the back of his neck and he let go. Grabbing an empty crate instead, he flung it out across the water with all his strength. It landed with a distant splash and bobbed on the surface.
Beside him came the sharp intake of breath.
He didn't look down at Josva, didn't need to. The boy had seen his face, had beheld the monstrosity of it. The chimp schnoz and serrated teeth, the beady eyes and protruding brow bone, the frizzy mane and blood-stained beard.
He returned to his seat and plunked down with a growl, looking at the boy upwards with a slanted gaze rather than directly. He was met with luminous eyes and cheeks mantled pink. The tears had ceased; likely frozen by terror.
"I used to be like you," he said, voice like gravel as he swallowed back a lump. "Same age when me and my brother joined a Viking crew. Little shrimps we were, all lily white, missing mother." He laughed. "But we learned. We became men. Never saw her again."
"Where is the rest of your crew?" Josva asked, his voice stronger and clearer than Stian had expected. He seemed a rather brave little fellow now that the tears had dried.
Stian picked up his oars and rowed. "Gone, the lot of them. Banished me." He narrowed his eyes. "Just a wanderer now." A hideous wanderer, he might have added. Trapped in the body of a beast; face forever marred.
"Where is this brother, the one you spoke of?"
Fire tore through his veins but this time he suppressed the urge to attack.
He took a long and deep breath, waiting for the tingling in his arms and chest to subside. When he could finally answer without roaring, he spoke: "At the bottom of the sea." He bared his teeth. "I killed him."
Tears puddled in the boys eyes again, the pink fading from his face.
"What, you don't like that answer?" His arms were tingling again. "You don't like that I killed my brother?"
Josva blinked. "Didn't you . . . love him?"
"I hated him." He lifted his chin. "He pleased the gods. I could not. It was either survive on the crumbs that fell under his table—or take his table."
Josva wiped his eyes dry with his sleeve. "Why not ask to sit with him at his table?"
"Never!" Stian jumped to his feet and tipped his head back, roaring without control; chest heaving up and down.
When he began to calm, he fell silent and stood in place, clenching and releasing his fists; breathing in and out through his nostrils while gritting his teeth. Josva sat stock still all the while, watching him with the eyes of a gentle yet frightened dove. Finally, Stian sat down and lifted the oars with a dignity he did not feel.
"We'll reach our first destination in three days," he grumbled.
His thoughts remained on his brother as he steered the boat: the wide-eyed shock when the harpoon pierced his brother's chest one wintry night at sea. He'd stumbled backward a few feet and crumpled to the deck floor. By the time Stian reached his side he was already dead. Forcing his horror into stasis, he'd removed the arrow and hefted his brother's body over the ship's railing like a sack of potatoes. He leaned over the edge, wind and rain whipping at his hair, and watched his brother sink out of sight in the turbulent waves—those eyes still open in a fixed yet absent stare—the sight of one betrayed. And once his body was gone, swallowed up forever, Stian slowly turned to face his outraged crew mates, expecting them to do to him likewise. He hadn't planned the murder, but in a fit of rage had released the harpoon with deadly precision. He was sick of competing with his brother and failing every time. Sick of being a shadow, always coming in second place. But now that his brother was dead, so far from being a sweet victory, Stian still wouldn't be able to take his place—the crew would never stand for a traitor in their midst. If they didn't kill him on the spot, he'd be banished for certain.
And banished he was.
They'd bound him hand and foot and in an act of mercy, left him on a secluded shoreline where he at least had a chance at escape.
Stian shook his head, chucking the memories and the horror that even after all this time, still remained in the dungeon of his subconscious. He had no intention of ever releasing it. But the image of those eyes, his brother's wide dead eyes: would there ever come a day when he could close his own without seeing them?
The night was about as dark as it could get in these summer months of the midnight sun, the sun still smoldering on the horizon, suffusing the boy's right side with an amber glow. The waters were placid with not much wind to push the sail, making propulsion slow-going and strenuous, the only sounds the occasional cry of a seagull and the distant splash of a minke whale rising to the surface for air. Stian rowed as needed, surmising the sleepy child from time to time, whose eyes were droopy. Of course he must be tired by now, they'd been at sea for two hours; but the more distance behind them, the better. He wanted to ensure that there was no chance of Josva being rescued.
A scent of salt and fish lifted on the breeze.
Josva's head nodded forward and he snapped awake again.
"Go to sleep if you want—" Stian mumbled, his voice drowned out by sudden boiling to the left of the boat. Before he could react, the dorsal fin and slick charcoal body of a minke whale broke the ocean surface as the creature emerged from below. The sheer speed and force of it snapped the oar in half—the separated piece striking Stian's jaw with hurricane strength. Everything went dark as the boat shook and a wave of water poured over the ship's side, dosing the cargo and soaking the boy.
When Stian opened his eyes again, he couldn't be certain how much time had passed, or what had happened.
There was a ringing in his ears and his last memory was of telling Josva to go to sleep. The first blurry blink revealed the boy leaning over him, peering into his face with round eyes and dripping hair. The next revealed a dusky sky and the top of the square-rigged sail, a seagull circling above it. He must be reclining. The third blink burned his eyes, the sky shimmering with dawn. He tried to sit up but could not, his head pounding and jaw aching, limbs like lead. He made an attempt to focus his vision but was unable. Nausea rose in his throat and he lolled to one side, vomiting on the boat floor.
A child leaned over him, dabbing his chin with a rag and offering him a sip of water from a waterskin. The stench of vomit overwhelmed him and he nearly barfed again, but managed to have a drink. The world seemed to shift around him.
"Hevel, is that you?" he asked, voice slurred and disembodied. He blinked but the child's face remained blurry.
"It is I, Josva," came the response.
He didn't understand.
The light was too much and he squeezed his eyes shut; water lapping the boat startling him as though it were claps of thunder. "Hevel," he said, "what has happened to me? Everything is . . . a fog."
Was he dreaming? There was his childhood home, his mother in the yard, wailing, holding her shawl about her; one hand stretched out helplessly toward he and his younger brother, Hevel, as an armed Viking dragged the two terrified boys away from the village. His dear mother—oh how his heart had been shattered that day. It was to be a long time after that before he could sleep without tears wetting his pillow. Had she lived or died? He would never know.
The first few years the pirates had used the two brothers as slaves but eventually assimilated them into the crew as they developed into brawny young men. He learned to forget his gentle mother, to forget that he ever loved her. His heart hardened layer by layer, the fragmented pieces turning to stone; the numbness a welcome and soothing balm. He shucked his pain. Acquisition and standing became his focus and goal, ale and women a reprieve from the harsh seafaring life. His brother, whom he once leaned upon, a comrade those first few lonely years, became his rival as time wore on and more attention was given that golden boy than Stian could ever hope to receive himself.
A cold rag dabbed his swollen jaw, supplanting the memories.
Stian's eyes fluttered open.
He sat upright with a gasp, holding his head in his hands until the searing pain subsided.
The sun was due south now and a breeze tickled the surface of the deep as his vision came into sharp relief. The splintered oar laid at his feet next to a pile of rags that had been used to sop up the vomit. He remembered the whale. Josva stood at the front of the boat with his back to Stian, partly obscured by the sail as he stared at the diamond-studded sea, dried hair glinting.
Stian looked down at his hands, at the coarse fur, padded palms and charred claws; digits elongated like a man's. He reached up and felt his face, noting the same goose-fleshed snout, teeth so sharp he could bite off a finger, and the protruding eyebrows. Even his toes had claws, his whole body covered in wolf-like fur beneath his tunic and trousers.
Josva, evidently hearing his stirrings, turned around and made his way around crates and rigging until he reached his original seat beneath the mast. He sat down and watched Stian with expectant eyes. Though the day was warm enough, a hint of blue surrounded the boy's lips. Had he caught a chill from getting doused by the whale during the night? Stian's boat had never been hit by a whale before though he'd certainly had a few close calls over the years. Fortunately, the broken oar was the only damage to the boat.
"Why did you care for me while I was out?" he asked, baring his teeth a little. "You could have hefted me overboard and made your escape."
"You were not dead."
"Yes, but I am your captor. Don't you want to be free?"
"I am free," said the boy, "it is you who is not."
Stian muttered under his breath and broke eye contact, somewhat nonplussed. Was it just that he'd been too heavy for the boy to lift? But then, when he'd awoken in the night it was to be offered a drink by an attentive child, a child who'd sat by his side for many hours as though genuinely concerned. There wasn't a shred of evidence that Josva had made any attempt to dump him from the boat. He'd also cleaned up the vomit best he could with rags. But it didn't make sense; why let your captor live? Stian looked down at his left boot where the leather-bound handle of the seax protruded. If Josva didn't have the strength to heft him overboard, which was indeed probable, he could have at the very least killed him with the blade, pushed him onto the floorboards, and tried to row the boat home. Chances were he didn't have the strength to row, being so young, but if the wind got strong enough, the sails would propel the boat for him and he'd need only to steer.
Yes, the child's lips were blue, there was no denying it. Stian rooted through a crate until he'd found what he was looking for. A woolen blanket. He tossed it to Josva. "Put it on," he ordered, "before you catch your death of cold."
Josva took the blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders gratefully, smiling his thanks.
The smile might as well have been a blade to Stian's gut.
A low growl escaped his lips and he glared at the child. Why did it enrage him so to look upon that face? He hated the dove-like innocence of it, the bright eyes whose torch had not yet been snuffed out by the suffocating realities of life. He was the picture of frailty, of a porcelain vase waiting to be smashed. Stian could snap him in half like a twig with his two bare hands if he wanted. He must see to it that the boy develop alligator skin and a curl to his lip. A scar or two would man up his face as well. That radiating heart was like a pearl nestled within a clam, a jewel that must be taken by a thief; just as his own once was.
The smile faded from Josva's lips.
It occurred to Stian that he was still growling. He was making the boy uneasy, scaring him again.
Good, it would keep him in his place.
Though why did he so wish to befoul him? Hadn't his own abduction ruined his life? Yet the instinct to treat this child likewise was as ravenous as a parched throat or an empty stomach. If he couldn't have his own innocence back, why should Josva retain his? And if he couldn't have his mother back, neither could Josva. Why should he have mercy when the one time mercy had been shown to him—by his crew mates when they'd left him tied up on a shore—it had been a worse punishment than death. He needed this boy to trade for him in the market places; if anyone saw Stian's face and true form, they'd hunt him down like a wild animal and kill him, or take him prisoner. Without Josva as a slave to do his bidding, he'd have no choice but to retreat deep into the forest like an animal, living out his days in miserable solitude.
Yet Josva had shown him something more than mercy in sparing his life while he was incapacitated. He'd also vouchsafed an undeserved drink and a cold cloth to ease his pain.
Stian tossed the splintered oar overboard and retrieved a spare one, putting it into place. His head and jaw still ached from the concussion and he was weak with hunger, but he must resume rowing immediately. They'd been drifting a good twelve hours while he was out of commission and were greatly off course. He glanced over his shoulder with a start, half expecting a ship on the horizon. Surely Josva's people were pursuing them by now, though hopefully in the wrong direction.
But there was nothing to see behind them besides swooping gulls and the edge of the earth.
Was the boy a fool for letting him live, or was he stronger than he seemed?
The picture of frailty, he'd been thinking. Perhaps not.
Stian rowed on and off as needed, silently eyeing the boy with suspicion as time dragged on, attempting to make sense of him. The blue had faded from the child's lips and color had returned to his face. He no longer needed the blanket.
It was time he pulled some weight. "Make us some supper," Stian ordered, pointing at a crate. "There's stuff in there."
A few minutes later he let the oars rest and accepted the bread and jerky Josva handed him. This time the child ate as well. They chewed in silence, each evidently wary of the other. It gave Stian a certain sense of satisfaction to see that the boy's health had returned, but it also embarrassed him. His only reason for offering the blanket was to prevent the death of a slave; it would be too much work to abduct yet another child. Yet it had admittedly troubled him to see the child shivering. He felt protective, an instinct he hadn't felt for anyone other than himself, as long as he could remember. Nevertheless, rage simmered just beneath the surface, a desire to tear everything in the boat apart and to roar at the top of his lungs.
Stian let out a ragged exhale and picked up the oars again. If only the wind would pick up so he could take a break. These oscillating emotions were nauseating. Or maybe it was the concussion. His arms were sore and his headache had grown worse, vision deteriorating again. He was overexerting himself, he knew, but what other choice was there? They had to keep travelling until there was no longer any chance of rescue.
The sun was beginning to set and the heavy net of dusk had settled around them again, the waters more Nile-green than ever. Soon the coast would come into sight. There'd been no further sign of the minke whale that had resurfaced next to the boat the night before.
"Go to sleep," he said to the boy. "Get some rest."
Josva took up the blanket again and was soon dozing on a wide crate.
Stian rowed on and on as the sun sunk lower and lower; the ebb and flow of his headache like waves of the sea. The midnight sun became an ember on the western horizon; the mast and rigging casting gaunt shadows across the cargo, the child, and the sail.
What was Stian to do when they reached their first destination? His face he could hide well enough in the shrouding of his hood, but his clawed hands no longer fit in any of his gloves. He figured he could wrap a shawl around them, but all it would take to ruin everything was for the boy to run up to the first person he saw and share his plight. When he first planned this abduction, he imagined a boy so timid he'd do anything he was ordered to do, just as he and Hevel had done; but this child had a strong mind. That much was clear now. Any mind could be broken though, he presumed. But it would take time, a commodity he did not possess.
His throat tightened as though being strangled.
It was desperation that had brought him to this place and desperation that was draining the life force from him. He was not going to succeed after all—the child would be rescued and he'd be dead.
But he already was.
He knew that now.
Death arrived when he was torn from the crook of his mother's arm, and again when he murdered his own brother. The first act had bludgeoned his heart, the second his soul.
A wave of nausea rocked him and he dropped the oars, gripping his head in his hands and blinking rapidly. The pain in his head had grown too much, receding less and less now. The sky seemed to swoon, the breeze soughing in the sail. It was over. He didn't have the strength to keep rowing. Sleep, he needed sleep. No, he mustn't, they would catch up—catch him.
"Are you all right?" Josva asked, sitting up.
Stian struggled to focus on the boy's ghostly face and fluttering hair, only to have his vision dissipate in fogginess.
"Don't ask if I'm all right," he yelled, heat tearing through his body. "You shouldn't care how I feel—no one else ever did—why you?" He choked on a cry and roared some more, trying to stand up but losing his balance and falling back down to the bench. Defeated, he put his snout in his hands and sobbed.
No, he refused to spare this boy, it was not his way. The world had been cruel to him, he would be cruel to the world.
Stian lifted his chin, his palsied body going still with determination, the searing pain in his head dulling to an ache, and his vision clearing. The burning in his chest turned to a spreading ice and he bared his teeth, upper lip twitching as he peeled it back. Hatred welled in his eyes and Josva moved backward instinctively at the recognition of it, making an attempt to duck around the mast, but he didn't move fast enough. Stian leaped forward and grabbed him by the shoulders.
"I won't let them rescue you—" he spat the words in Josva's face. "I won't—you hear? I'd rather you die than go free!"
The child began to cry, eyes lambent with what could only be grief and dismay.
Stian held the boy with one hand and with the other grabbed a rope, tying the boy's wrists together. He didn't need a slave, he didn't need anyone. He would retreat to the forest and wait there to die. Better than dying at the hands of another man.
His thoughts a violent muddle, Stian threw the child overboard and the splashing water doused his face, trailing down his cheeks and hairy chin in rivulets. He leaned over the edge and watched the boy sink into the verdant depths, just as Hevel had . . . but these living eyes did not haunt, they implored. Implored him to reconsider.
For a moment time seemed to slow to a standstill, the boy suspended just below the surface of the water—then the darkness below swallowed him up.
Stian's heart pounded in his chest and a seagull shrieked from somewhere above. He knew what he had to do. This was his chance, his one and only chance.
It would never be offered again.
Throwing his cloak from his shoulders, Stian dove into the chilly water, down down down into the tar, clawed fingers outstretched, grasping, grasping, until finally making contact with the tangled tunic of Josva, and those little roped hands. Gathering the child in his arms, he turned around and kicked his feet with rapid, brute strength, reaching the surface within seconds; oxygen filling their lungs the next.
Josva coughed and sputtered but he hadn't been under long enough to inhale the water. Great relief coursed through Stian's veins—it wasn't too late—it wasn't too late. There'd been no second chance with Hevel—there was with Josva.
Treading water, Stian lifted the boy up over the edge of the boat and helped him in, then pulled himself up over the edge as well. Standing upright, water splattering the floor at his feet, he reached out toward the boy to untie the rope, and stopped short.
His hands.
Peach-colored hands, a touch of flaxen hair on the back, short translucent nails.
He reached up and touched his face—a square jawline and trimmed beard, a smooth strong nose, a flat forehead, wavy hair—he pulled it forward so he could see—it was flaxen too. The coarse wolf fur, gone, the chimp schnoz, gone. The serrated teeth, gone. He looked down at his feet, tore off a boot. More peach-colored flesh and neatly trimmed nails.
He was . . . a man.
No longer a beast.
"Josva," he cried, cutting the rope from the boy's wrists, "the spell has been broken! Look at me, look at me!" Barely able to contain himself, he rooted through the crates feverishly until he'd found smallish, dry clothing, which he gave to the child, as well as a warm woolen cap and leather-bound boots. "Put these on," he said, beaming. "I'm taking you home."
Josva gaped at him but didn't say a word. He took the clothing and went behind a crate to change out of his sopping ones, all the while keeping an eye on Stian. When he was dressed and warm and back at his seat under the mast, the tiniest smile formed on his lips, eyes alight.
Stian tossed his hooded cloak overboard, sat down, and picked up the oars. He shook out his shoulders. The headache and swelling in his jaw was completely gone: he felt as though he'd just been born. Strength coursed through his veins as he turned the boat around and set course for Norway. His health restored, he was able to row with twice the intensity he'd had before, making for much faster progress; the midnight sun lighting the way and a welcome wind pushing the sails.
Eventually the coast came into view, distant snow-capped mountains lit by the shimmering light of dawn. Those treacherous mountains where he'd first been changed into a beast.
When his crew had left him bound hand and foot on the water's edge that winter's eve, he'd found a sharp rock on the outcrops, and tediously worked at the ropes until they broke free, his gloved fingers nearly frostbitten. After that, he headed deep into the forest, looking for shelter, perhaps a cabin with lantern-lit windows where he might find some hot soup and a place to sleep. But wherever he was that lonely polar night, it seemed far from any human being.
Ancient pines loomed above him, their snow-laden boughs barely discernible against a starry, onyx sky. It was cold, so cold. He hugged his overtunic around him, tugged down on the edges of his woolen cap. His toes were beginning to freeze in his boots as he trudged through the knee-deep snow. A crisp wind bit at his cheeks, a pack of wolves howling miles away; their otherworldly melody sending a chill up his spine.
Then came the sound of cracking ice.
At first he thought he'd unwittingly stumbled upon the surface of a frozen creek. If he fell through, there'd be no chance of recovery. He had no lantern and no means of lighting a fire.
The cracking sounded again, but not from beneath. He peered into the distance, palely suffused by light reflecting off the snow.
Someone or something was approaching him.
He stood stock still, wishing he had a weapon.
His mouth opened at the sight of her: a tall slender woman, fur-clad, skin porcelain, eyes blue like a husky, glittering armor, bow and arrows over her shoulder. Her hair billowed around her like a snow squall. She stopped walking and stood several feet away from him.
"I know who you are," she said, looking down at him. "I know what you've done."
He could only stare up at her, unable to move.
She pulled an arrow from its quiver and put it in the bow, stretching her arm back. "As it is in your heart," she said, "so it will be on your face."
The arrow released and he flew backwards into the snow as it shattered his breastbone and lodged in place. He waited a half second for the exploding pain that was sure to ravage him—but instead his body began to grow and shift, the arrow splitting in two and falling out. The iridescent goddess walked away, fading by degrees into the gloom. He lifted his hands, watched the nails grow into claws, coarse hair sprouting everywhere, protruding in tufts from every tear in his clothing. He felt the bones shift in his forehead, felt the expanding teeth slicing his lips as they settled in place. Blood dripped on the snow at his feet, his beast-like feet, the boots torn full away.
A melodic voice soughed in the pines, as haunting as a wolf cry.
"Be your brother's keeper," it had sung, "and the curse will end."
At long last, Stian anchored his stolen sailboat on the same shore where he'd left behind Josva's bloodied tunic two days before. The midday sun shone high in an azure sky, the summer air mild with a hint of delicious warmth. He helped the boy out of the boat and together they climbed up over the outcrop. The villagers would probably kill him for what he'd done, but he was determined to bring this child back to his mother, no matter the cost.
They took the foot trail that lead to the longhouses, and a familiar fence came into view. He put his hand on Josva's shoulder and smiled down at him. Josva lifted his gaze, those walnut colored eyes crinkling with joy, and smiled back at him in return.
Stian knocked on the gate and the spitz dogs lifted their voices in a pandemonium of barking.
Within minutes, the gate was unlatched and the door opened by several villagers who recognized Josva instantly.
There was yelling and shouting and whoops of joy, a flurry of dogs around his ankles, the boy lifted up and set down again, one hug after another, and then there she was: Josva's mother.
She approached from her home with uncertain steps, a shawl draped over one shoulder, a braid over the other, wide eyes reflecting the blue of the sky, and a flush in her cheeks. As soon as she glimpsed her son, she lifted her skirts and ran, fairly pushing people out of her way in her haste to reach him.
Within seconds she had her arms around the child, covering him in kisses, wetting his shoulders with her tears, the first tears of joy Stian had ever seen.
He stepped back from the boy and waited, waited for the people to take him into captivity. But what was this? There was some kind of mistake: they were thanking him. How could this be? Thanking him profusely for returning their child, inquiring as to where he'd found the boy and how he'd rescued him. They must think him a hero. "We thought he'd been eaten by a wild animal," they explained. "We searched and searched the woods and coast for his remains, but found nothing but his tunic. His mother said she'd been attacked by a great beast, who tore up the ground in her house and dragged her child away." They urged Stian to stay—they wanted to reward him, to feed him—but he extricated himself as gently and politely as he could, unable to answer such a bewildering plethora of questions.
He had somewhere else to be, he told them, and it was true. A new life awaited.
When he reached the anchored boat, rocking on gentle waves, he one by one emptied it of its cargo, leaving all the crates in piles on the shore for the villagers to find. His pillaging days were over. And when the boat was finally emptied, he set course, rolled up his sleeves, and began to row; sunshine glinting on the fine, flaxen hairs of his arms.
He was no longer a pirate with a heart of stone.
He'd been given a new one.
A heart of flesh.
The End.
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I wanted to tell a Beauty & the Beast kind of tale with this story but didn't want the meaning to be obvious. One of my favorite quotes/mantras is by Emily Dickinson ("Tell all the truth but tell it slant ... The truth must dazzle gradually, or every man be blind"), so I cloaked my characters in the past, in the Viking age and Norse mythology, with a Christ-type hero.
What meaning did you take from this story? Let me know in the comments! :)
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Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.