Catan the order of raven.., p.24
Catan: The Order of Ravens, page 24
Lars peeled himself from his blanket. Caven’s older friend had spent the night with Cayla, a woman no longer quite so young with a lively character and Irish roots. If dour, tight-lipped Lars had occasionally stretched his lips in a smile during the last few days, it was thanks to the dark-haired woman’s boisterous, joyful nature, which not even his grouchy friend and right-hand man was immune to.
Lars climbed up the bank to Caven and looked at him with a strange grin.
Caven held out his hand, helping him up the last of the incline. “Looks like you had a restful night.”
“Not particularly restful,” his friend said, still grinning. “But all the more exciting.”
Caven laughed. “Cayla’s good for you. Don’t scare her off!”
Together they walked to the twins’ house. One of the two old men came shuffling toward them with a bucket in one hand. In his other hand, he held a cup, which he now dipped into the bucket. His eyes shone expectantly when he held out the full cup to them. “Try this!”
Caven accepted the cup and drank from the white liquid. It was milk, and it tasted of milk—except sweeter, and it seemed a little thinner to him. Following a second long sip, he handed Lars the rest.
“It’s delicious, Bjarni. Is that milk from your mares?”
The old man seemed pleased at the praise. “Yes, freshly milked. But I am Björni—you can tell by the scar under my ear.” He turned his head and pointed a gouty finger at a whitish, jagged line beneath his earlobe. “Would you like some more?”
“Yes please,” replied Caven and Lars almost simultaneously, whereupon Björni refilled the cup with a proud smile.
Bjarni returned from the paddock. Caven wondered at the bow and the quiver with arrows the haggard man carried on his back.
Like his brother, he was in high spirits, greeting them with a laugh. “Well, milk-beards, I can tell you like our breakfast drink.”
Caven looked at Lars. In the dark beard on his upper lip glistened white droplets, and, assuming his own beard was equally laced with milk, Caven wiped his sleeve across his mouth before returning the cup to the old man.
Bjarni turned serious, reaching for Caven’s arm. “We need to talk.” Caven nodded. “I agree.”
“Go ahead to the stable,” Björni said. “I’ll take the milk to the house and be right back.”
Bjarni asked Caven and Lars to follow him. He climbed ahead of them up the ladder that led to the viewing platform of the stable roof. From the platform, they had an excellent view of the surrounding land. To the north, woods bordered on the grassland which stretched toward the sea in the south, eventually vanishing in a gray haze.
After a few moments of silence, Bjarni pointed toward the edge of the woods. “Look. There lie the fields of rye we planted.”
Caven squinted. “All I can see is grass and weeds.”
“Following the death of our last companion last fall, we gave up working the fields. When Björni and I tried to push the wooden plow through the dirt, the aches and pains in our old bones and our backs grew unbearable.” Bjarni held up his gout-ridden fingers. “And these don’t allow us to work as well as we used to.”
Björni, meanwhile having scaled the ladder too, joked, “That’s probably why the gods finally took pity on us and sent us servants and maids.”
Lars, who had no great sense of humor, drew his eyebrows together but swallowed back any words he might have said.
Caven asked, “Why don’t you hitch a horse to the plow?”
Bjarni shrugged his shoulders. “We don’t have enough ropes. The ones we brought from home have long since rotted, and we haven’t enough material to make new ones. The skins go toward our clothing and other things, and with the string we make from sinews, we stitch our clothes together and string our bows. We need the bows to defend ourselves.”
“Defend yourselves?” asked Caven, puzzled. “You don’t have enemies here.”
“Yes, we do,” said Björni. “Those mongrels Thorgrimm stole in Ireland. They were aboard one of the knarrs that crashed against the rocks, and apparently they had no trouble swimming ashore.”
“If it’s wolfhounds you’re talking about—they haunted Woodhaven too and killed livestock.”
“Yes, Irish wolfhounds,” said Bjarni. “The Irish use them to hunt wolves and bears. In the woods here, they and their offspring turned into feral beasts. Just a few years after our arrival, they attacked us and killed half of our pigs. One of our men received a nasty bite and later died of his wound.”
“And so there were just nine of us,” said Björni dryly. “Ever since then, we’re watchful, always keep bows and spears within reach, and we built the stable where we lock up our pigs and horses at night. The next time those mutts paid us a visit, we saw them in time from up here and gave them a good hiding.”
“But they came back,” his brother went on. “The last time was just over a year ago. There were only four of us left, and we struggled greatly to finish off the beasts. It’s been quiet since then. But the peace is deceptive—sooner or later, a pack will find its way here again.”
“What about the rabbits and the horses on the plains?” asked Lars. “Did their ancestors also arrive on your knarrs?”
“Of course! Or did you think they swam all the way across the great ocean?” Björni’s laughter sounded like the clucking of a chicken.
Lars frowned. “But what on earth did you have rabbits on your ships for?”
“They were Thorgrimm’s. In his younger days, he picked up a few of them in Frankia, and since then, he always carried some to sea. Thorgrimm loved the little creatures’ tender white meat—and their incredible reproductive spirit.”
Bjarni added with a smirk, “They’d even shag below deck and raise their young somewhere between barrels and crates.” He tugged at the sleeveless, roughly sewn fur coat he wore over his leather tunic. “And they’re useful for this, too, when the weather turns cool.”
Caven grew impatient. “Lars and I need to get back to our people. Let’s get to the point before we talk more about rabbits.”
Björni nodded. “You need our help if you want to make it through the next few weeks without starving. We’ve lived here almost our entire lives, and we know every corner of these grasslands. We know where the fishing’s good, where the best cockle spots are, and where to find nutritious roots. We’ll take you to these places. Also, we’ll let you use our boat, and your lambs and piglets will find shelter in our stable.”
“If you plow the weeds in our fields,” Bjarni went on, “you’ll be able to sow within the next few days. And if you let us have a long rope, we’ll catch you a wild horse every now and then.”
“We don’t need horses,” said Lars. “None of us know how to ride.”
The twins chuckled. “You’re not supposed to ride them,” explained Bjarni, “but eat them. Until the grain is ripe, fish and cockles alone won’t be enough to feed all those hungry mouths you brought here.”
“On top of everything else, we know a place in the woods where you can hide your knarrs and build huts for yourselves,” added Björni.
The twins crossed their arms and raised their bushy eyebrows, looking at them expectantly.
Even though Caven felt suspicious whenever he was promised good deeds seemingly without any demands in return, he forced himself to give the two old men the friendly response they were obviously expecting. “I thank you for your generous offer. Our Christian God smiled on us when he led us to you.”
Bjarni and Björni gave a wide smile—almost from one long ear to the other.
Caven ran one hand through his black curls. “And what do you expect in return?” he asked after all.
Bjarni answered, “We need several of your people who are good with bow and spear. We want them to lend us a hand on our farm and keep watch on the platform. The wolfhounds may not come for a while yet, but when they do, we ought to be prepared.”
Björni added, “And, if I know my fellow countrymen at all, they will pursue you, and it won’t be long before they turn up here. It’ll be good if the watch spots their arrival in time for you to make yourselves scarce.”
Caven rocked his head pensively. “I’m sure that’s a good idea . . .”
“But?” inquired Bjarni.
“We were thralls. I don’t think any of us know how to use a spear, let alone a bow.”
Björni stared at him incredulously. “Then how do you plan to survive? Without weapons. Without the possibility to hunt or defend yourselves.”
“We intended to hide in the woods. We would have defended ourselves against the wolfhounds with cudgels.”
The twins burst out in bright laughter almost simultaneously, sounding like the whinny of a horse at the start and then ebbing to a cackle before welling up once more when the brothers exchanged a look, slapping their thighs with amusement.
Bjarni wiped tears from his eyes. “If you haven’t learned how to fight, cudgels aren’t going to help you. Before you have a chance to strike, the beasts will be hanging off your throats.” He looked at his brother. “What shall we do with them?”
Björni massaged his white-bearded chin while he thought. “Teach them—what else?”
Bjarni nodded and turned to Caven and Lars. “All right. Pick ten of your people who you believe nimble enough to learn the use of spear and bow. From tomorrow, we’ll practice each morning.”
Caven had been staring darkly at the twins for a while now and refused to answer. He liked the queer old men well enough, but he loathed being laughed at. Lars appeared to share his feelings, as his knitted eyebrows looked like the gathering clouds of a thunderstorm.
Bjarni slapped Caven’s shoulder good-naturedly. “Come, lad, don’t sulk. We didn’t mean to insult you. We’re merely two old fools who find the thought of fending off a pack of wolfhounds with sticks amusing.”
Caven saw the corners of Bjarni’s mouth twitch and hoped the old man wouldn’t burst out laughing again.
“We’re lonely old men who haven’t had much to laugh about in a long time,” said Björni peaceably. “You bring diversion to our lives. For it to stay that way, you need to listen to us. For more than forty years, we’ve learned how to survive here. So, tomorrow, send us capable people to train. Now, I’m going to take care of the pigs before my brother accuses me of forgetfulness again.”
While Björni climbed down the ladder, Bjarni raised an arm and made a sweeping gesture. “This is good land. It is your future if you make no mistakes. It’s not our future. But for the few years that we may have left, we’d like to share with you—with the sons and daughters we never had.”
Caven could tell that the twins were serious about their offer to help him and his people, and his anger and distrust evaporated. “We won’t disappoint you. This I swear by my God.”
In the afternoon, the twins led the Ravens to a large clearing that lay about a hundred paces from the edge of the woods by an arm of the Tajo. That’s where they rowed their knarrs afterward and started to cut lumber for the construction of shelters. Caven’s priority was the construction of a roof for the anvil and the other blacksmith tools to protect them and the fire from rain. As soon as this workstation was ready, he would begin to make nails from the iron they’d brought and, at the same time, teach Lars. Should he, Caven, be unavailable as a smith for a longer period of time, then there’d be someone capable of at least simple forging tasks.
The Wasteland
“Eat! You have to eat something!” Edvina implored her friend to open her mouth and accept the spoonful of broth she was holding at her lips.
But Luba merely gazed at her from glassy eyes and shook her head slowly, murmuring softly in a hoarse voice, “Swallowing hurts so terribly.” Then she closed her eyes and appeared to drift back into merciful sleep.
Edvina looked at Luba’s drawn, pale face, which was but a shadow of its former beauty. It pained her deeply to watch her friend deteriorate and suffer thus.
Ethel sobbed. “Is there nothing we can do?”
“Take her hand,” said Edvina. “Luba loves you like a daughter. She’ll sense your presence. Maybe it will help her fight her illness.” She gave her daughter a sad look. “There’s nothing more we can do, aside from lowering her fever with wet cloths.”
That’s what they’d been doing for ten days by now. While Jora went hunting, Ethel and Edvina took turns at the sickbed, trying to make the painful cramps that had been racking Luba during the last few days as bearable as possible.
When Jora returned from her hunt that evening, she immediately inquired after Luba’s state.
Edvina shook her head dejectedly. “She’s doing worse. She’s been having more bouts of cramps.” She wiped a tear from her eyes. “I don’t think she’ll last much longer.”
Jora nodded silently, as if she hadn’t expected anything else. She lifted the stick with her prey off her shoulder. “You two stay with Luba. I’ll take care of the food.”
Before they lay down to sleep, they washed Luba by the glow of the campfire and dressed her with a fresh linen shirt. The sick woman barely seemed to notice.
Edvina crawled under the blanket with her and wrapped her arms around her. She listened to her friend’s breathing, and after a while, she felt it grow less rattling and more regular. Luba was spared further cramps too. Perhaps Edvina’s closeness soothed the sick woman; perhaps Luba would get healthy again after all. With this comforting thought, Edvina eventually fell asleep.
In the middle of the night, Edvina was startled awake by a rattling gasp. Luba was cramping. Edvina cautiously sat up and settled Luba’s head in her lap. With horror, she listened to the strangled wheeze escaping the sick woman’s throat. It sounded like Luba was desperately struggling for air.
Panicked, Edvina called for Ethel and Jora, who immediately rose from their sleeping places.
“What is with her?” asked Ethel anxiously.
“Her body is all stiff, and she can’t breathe properly. I think she’s suffocating,” said Edvina in a shaky voice, looking at Jora, who had crouched down and placed her hand on Luba’s chest. “What would your mother do now?”
“I don’t know,” replied Jora huskily. “But I don’t believe she’d be able to help her.”
Suddenly Luba opened her eyes wide, staring blankly into space. Edvina spoke to her with despair, but Luba didn’t seem to hear her. One last time, her rib cage jerked in search of air. Then her body went slack, lying still in Edvina’s arms.
It took a while before the irrevocable truth sank in for Edvina—her friend was dead. Tears streaked down her cheeks as she gently closed Luba’s eyelids.
Ethel clasped her hands to her face and started to cry heartrendingly. Jora placed an arm around the young woman and held her close, offering comfort. Grimm whimpered softly. Apparently, the wolfhound sensed the profound grief that had descended upon his mistress and her companions, and it was as if even the heavens wished to profess their sympathy: just a few scattered drops at first, then more and more heavy raindrops pattered down onto the skin stretched above Luba’s deathbed.
Three days after Luba’s death, they were ready to continue their journey. One last time, they gazed at the pile of rocks with the small cross. They had spent an entire day scratching a shallow grave in the ground with sticks and gathering large stones and small rocks to shield their friend’s corpse from hungry wolfhounds.
They walked side by side in silence, each following their own thoughts about Luba, missing her sorely.
Jora glanced back. Winnie was following them, albeit at a distance. It would probably take some time before the bitch became fully accustomed to the human members of her new pack. She no longer had to hunt each rabbit by herself, and the regular feedings had visibly done her good. Her fur had become shiny, and she was far less skinny than two weeks ago.
“These accursed thorns,” groused Edvina suddenly, sucking blood off her finger. “Those god-awful bushes and giant ferns everywhere. Back in the woods of my homeland, we didn’t have to zigzag to make any progress. We’d occasionally have to step across a fallen trunk,” she carried on cursing, “or walk around a bush, but nothing like this tangle of greenery here.”
“Why do you think the woods are so different here?” asked Jora.
“Hmm,” said Edvina, pausing to reflect for a moment. “Maybe because there’s no large game here, no roe or red deer to keep the young shoots and ferns in check?”
“Roe and red deer? Are those big?” Jora asked, intrigued.
“You’ve never told me about them, Mother,” Ethel said slightly reproachfully.
“Oh, I forgot,” said Edvina with a tinge of mockery, “you pups were born on Catan and don’t know the wildlife of our old homes. Imagine a kind of horse with horns on its head. Some stags—those are the male red deer—have mighty antlers.”
“What are horses and antlers?” asked Ethel.
Jora saw Edvina smile for the first time since Luba’s death.
“A horse is an animal that’s roughly twice the size of Grimm,” explained Edvina, “but gentle, and they eat grass just like sheep. And antlers are two large sticks made of bone that sprout left and right from the stag’s head. They are mighty weapons that would fend off even wolfhounds.”
Ethel gave her mother a look as if she struggled to imagine animals with sticks on their heads, asking, “Why don’t we have those here?”
Edvina gave a shrug. “I can’t tell you that, my love. I trust God has his reasons.”
In the course of the following day, the forest floor grew rockier, and stones covered with moss increasingly took over the place of bushes and ferns. Fewer and fewer trees lined their path, and their progress quickened.
Ethel stopped as abruptly as if she’d walked into an invisible tree.
Astonished, she pointed at a gap in the canopy. “What is that?”
“That’s the smoking mountain,” said Jora. “You can see it from the sea too. It lies about halfway between Woodhaven and Ryansville.”
