used to his long absences — yet no news of him had reached them for some time, and they were beginning to grow concerned.
Now, as Rigg stood there pondering his own adventurous past and trying to imagine the future with his father, Ari was busy searching the rough brown turf and stony outcroppings at their feet.
“We’ll lose the trail soon,” his friend reminded him. “But I think I know where she’s heading — if it is a she.”
Rigg nodded. “You mean the Valley of the Nine? I think so too — unfortunately. That’s a place I like to avoid. You remember how Aunt Freydis did the trance there?”
Rigg’s aunt had put on her blue cloak with a strange hood that was embroidered with the magic stones from the land of the Svear, or Swedes. She wore gloves made of wildcat skin and boots with fur on the outside. She carried a magic staff and took along her charms in the skin bag Rigg’s grandmother, Thiodhild, had given her before the old lady converted to the new religion of the Christ.
“That was when your good aunt went into the seidhr, the visionary state, and predicted a dire end for us all, for the whole colony! I know, I know! But Rigg, how can you take such nonsense seriously?”
“Don’t underestimate Aunt Freydis,” Rigg cautioned him. “Just before we left Brattalid, Tyrkir warned me to be very careful on this hunt. I think he suspected that the killer wolf would hide out in the Valley of the Nine, and he believes that Freydis has put some spell on the place. He doesn’t offer such warnings lightly, as you know, and to back it up he told me something very interesting. It seems that Freydis is disgusted with Grandmother Thoidhild’s taking up with Christianity — something I suspected but didn’t know for sure. My aunt doesn’t want a Christian church in Greenland and will do anything to stop it. Apparently she asked Tyrkir to help her. He didn’t commit himself, but he’s worried now. He says the valley is one of Freydis’s power channels. We have to be careful when we get there. The wolf may not be the only danger in that wild valley.”
Ari stopped in his tracks and gave Rigg a searching glance. “I suppose I must take this seriously, even though I have little faith in the power of the old magic. For my taste, the sooner we get rid of it and accept the new religion the better. As a student of the craft of poetry I respect and treasure the old stories. But as a man who wants to travel and live in the great cities, I’m disgusted by this backwoods stuff! In Constantinople itself they are Christians, and Olaf Tryggvason, our Norwegian king, has taken up the new faith. Since I hope to practise my poetry at such glorious courts I must accept the faith of the Christ myself — or so it seems to me. And, mark my words, Rigg, the colony will soon be Christian. You know yourself that Thiodhild, as Erik’s wife and Leif’s mother, has great influence. What she wants is very likely to come about.”
Rigg shrugged his shoulders and walked on. He did not want to argue with his friend, although he knew that both Tyrkir and even Fianna — brought up as a Christian — were resisting the changes. While they did not love the black arts of Freydis, they saw much good in the traditional ways and did not want to lose all contact with the old gods.
For half an hour the two young men trekked on in near silence, each wrapped up in his own thoughts. From time to time they paused, bent down to examine the trail, and exchanged knowing glances. In a few places their experienced eyes detected faint but telling signs of the passage of their prey. At last they left the sloping ridge and descended, by easy stages, to a bleak and barren valley. Here the sky seemed to close in above them, its cold blue splendour dimmed by low drifting patches of cloud.
Now all traces of the wolf’s passage had vanished. They were tracking by instinct; at the same time, Rigg recalled Tyrkir’s guess — or was it more than a guess? — that the marauding beast would have its lair somewhere in the Valley of the Nine.
That awe-inspiring place lay only a few miles away. Rigg turned to Ari and started to speak, but his friend’s silence, his determined march forward, made him swallow his words. Ari’s hunched shoulders, his straight-ahead gaze, seemed to indicate that he expected the worst and wanted to confront it as soon as possible.
Rigg knew his friend well enough to respect his silence. Ari was nineteen, two years older than Rigg, and much more careful and cautious. In comparison with his friend, who loved words and languages, Rigg sometimes felt almost tongue-tied. But while Ari had the skills of a poet, Rigg had the soul of one. Rigg also had the good looks of a blond Viking and the lithe body of an athlete, while Ari, the son of a Wendish mother from the Baltic, was already bald-pated and monkish-looking, although physically strong and fit enough.
Rigg always kept in mind that it was Ari’s way to try to find a rational explanation for everything, that one of his friend’s deepest fears was to come upon something for which no ordinary explanation would suffice. And Rigg’s experience in Vinland had already taught him that life was full of surprises, full of mysteries. Life, he had decided, was like the weather he was used to in Greenland: changeable, uncertain, and often frustrating in its seemingly inappropriate shifts and turns.
Even now the blue sky of the morning had vanished, giving way to a blanket of low-lying clouds that had obliterated the high peaks to the north. A chill wind blew down the valley, and to Rigg’s dismay, large snowflakes came swirling down, cancelling all of the past few days’ hints of spring and bringing memories of cold winter walks, lost trails, and shivering retreats to the hearth fire.
“Just our luck,” Ari grumbled. The young men had stopped for a frugal meal of bread, cheese, and dried caribou meat. “Now we’re in for it, I guess.”
Rigg couldn’t help laughing at his friend’s gloominess. “We can turn back if you like — but I don’t think we’d get much praise if we did.”
“Who would care? With Erik, Leif, and Thorstein all off voyaging, we can pretty well do what we like! Maybe Rolf the Navigator will ask a few questions, or Tyrkir, or one of the old Vinland crew, but they won’t mock our hesitations or our caution. ... Even so, I think we would be ashamed of ourselves if we turned back!”
Rigg laughed again. “True! Well, at least we’ve got warm clothing. And the Valley of the Nine is not far now. You see up ahead where that ridge falls away from that rocky spur? It runs east-west from there, I think.”
“I only hope our friend the wolf is there.”
“Don’t worry, I’m certain we’re on her trail.”
“Oh yes, you and your famous intuition! On the other hand, the tracks back there did point this way.”
They finished their meal, pulled their heavy cloaks more closely around them, and continued their march up the bleak valley.
CHAPTER TWO THE HAUNTED VALLEY
The storm grew worse by the minute. The wind gusted, driving the snow in their faces. Cold and half-blinded, they staggered forward, depressed by the darkening sky, aware that the vague path in front of them had disappeared altogether.
“Fine spring weather,” Rigg shouted, attempting to be cheerful. Ari growled but said nothing.
Shivering, bundled up in their cloaks, they trudged past giant boulders and crossed stony wastes where the rocks seemed to have been smashed by Thor’s hammer. Walking was difficult, and from time to time they slipped, or their boots sank in half-thawed muddy earth.
After a while they caught a glimpse of a tiny, slow-trickling stream, absurdly fringed with snow. On the left the dreary curtain of the storm parted to reveal the grey ghosts of cliffs and, more strikingly, the great cleft of a valley, like a portal to nowhere between the looming rock ramparts.
“That’s it! See where I’m pointing? The Valley of the Nine,” Rigg shouted.
“I do see it,” Ari replied. “But just what can we accomplish there in this storm? Lie down in the snow and have a sleep? Or ask Madam Wolf to share her den with us?”
“Have you forgotten Erik’s cave — the place where Grandfather used to camp over during the sacrifices? It’s