"The Fisherman"

What happens to the people who are left behind when the world changes around them? That question guided me as I wrote this story.

William washed the blood from his hands in the white foam of the incoming tide.  It was what he had always done.  Blood and sweat and scales returned to the ocean with the receding water.  Next, the spear.  He cleaned the barb and hook, let water run down along the shaft.  The wood had grown lighter with the years, grown smooth as his hands had grown hard.  It was the way of things.  He was a fisherman.

            The cold brought them all together when the sun sank beneath the water and darkness came.  The fire pit glowed, then roared to life.  It devoured the driftwood treated with seal oil.  During this last hour before sleep, he sat together with the men and women and children.  Some of the others told stories and sang songs into the night.  He listened before returning to the hut he shared with the old man.  There he lay in silence until the sound of the waves claimed him and he slept.

 

            William obeyed the old man’s commands because he knew what to do and when to do it.  “Haul now, cut here, strike there.”  Rope, blade, and spear were his ready servants.  William had strength and speed, gifts given freely to many young men.  But it was his obedience that had earned him a place in the old man’s boat.  A boy without kin, William could have been cast aside.  But the old man had claimed him, made him a fisherman.

            He grew to manhood and let the ways of wind and water work their way into his skin and muscle and bone.  When the old man grew feeble, his boat became William’s.  Even then, they fished together, and together they hauled in more than their share.

 

            The ocean and the old man spoke to each other in a way that William recognized but could not understand.  His beard fluttered like a banner, trailed in the water when he leaned over the side of the boat.  They were parts of one whole, made of the same element.

            He taught William how to return a part of what the ocean offered.  Fish, seal, whale flesh, all were returned in part to the world below.  William learned to pull his curved knife along the flesh, never sparing the best part.  “Return it, William.” 

            The old man spoke rarely, never with art.  His words belonged to the ocean.  He was the only one who ever spoke William’s name.  That, too, became a sound of the ocean.

            Together they rode the waves, blind to the other boats and the other men.  They hunted on the waves, pulling fish into the boat, silver scales and steel blade flashing.  Spear in hand, William pierced the largest of the living things that came out of the water and landed between them.  The curved blade made possible his offering.  There was an understanding among the three of them: old man, boy, and the ocean.  It was a pact, made holy by sweat and blood.

            On the day when William pulled the handle in haste, the curved blade cut clean through seal flesh and into his left palm.  He watched his own blood mingle with that of the seal, clouding the water as the offering dropped beneath the surface.  Their mixed blood created a pattern.

            The old man watched, too, and nodded.  “We all bleed into the same ocean.”

 

            It was his love of the old man that brought an end to things.  The old man had grown weak, had come to do little more than perch and watch as William fished.  On most days, he said nothing.  But his eyes remained sharp, cold like the blade of the spear that lay in the bottom of the boat.

            The raiders came late on that day, when the sun burned high in the sky and the spear was streaked with blood.  The old man looked down at the blade, and his eyes reflected the dark red he saw there.  His red-stained eyes looked over William’s shoulder and fixed upon what he saw.  William turned.

            The Northmen came each year.  No one could remember a time before the Dragon Ships.  Each year, when the ice began to thaw, the Dragon Ships would come.  Sometimes, there were one or two ships.  Warriors would leap into the water and pull their boats beyond the reach of the waves.  One or two ships, and it was possible to offer something: dried fish, seal skins, cloth, even the odd handful of coins.  The raiders would eat and drink their fill and then return to the ocean with whatever offering they would accept.  Other villages along the water would be next.

            Some years brought five or six ships.  Then, the women would gather up the children, and the men would grab their spears and nets.  Those things small enough to carry were cast inside the boats and carried away from the water, to the place of hiding.

            By night, they would watch the flames.  By day, they would see the smoke.   When the Dragon Ships were gone, the people of the village would return carrying their boats, and they would sift through the ashes of the huts.  The huts could be replaced.  Losing the boats would be to lose everything.

            One year, the ships came at night, and the people were late in fleeing.  Seven men were killed.  William heard twice as many women and children being dragged into the night.  The old man had been strong enough to help carry the boat, and so it was saved.  The women and children were not.

            This year there were only two ships.  The old man spotted them, saw the sails unfurled and oars churning the water white.  William turned and saw, too.  In the bottom of the boat, blood dripped from the spear.

            Soon all the fishermen had seen.  They returned to the shore and dragged their  boats well above the line of the tide.   Hands at their sides, they waited.

            Two Dragon Ships, riding high on the water, approached the beach.  William saw the old man stiffen and knew then that all would not be well.  They could have run, even then, but instead they waited.  They watched warriors pull their heavy craft onto the beach.

            “Bring drink,” called one man, larger than the rest.  “And food.”  He was taller than William by a head and twice as thick.  His beard was red and long.  A group of older women ran toward the huts, obeying the command.  Three men, including Rig, the village headman, brought the offering without waiting to be told.

            The women returned with cold fish and dried seal meat.  They brought bowls filled with fresh water.  The Northmen consumed all of it, letting the empty bowls drop to the ground.  They spread out across the beach, sitting in groups of three of four.  It made the much larger group of fishermen feel as if they were surrounded. 

            Their war leader, the large man with the red beard, grabbed the wooden basket with his hands and looked at the offering.  The old man put a hand on William’s shoulder a moment before the Northman dumped the basket and its contents onto the rocky soil of the beach.  Two other warriors sifted through the pile and looked up at their leader.  He ran a hand through his beard and then looked at Rig.

            “No.”  The word contained power, told of an ending.  William stiffened.  “Beads, hooks, and a handful of coins.  Even with your rotten fish and whale blubber, this is not enough.”  The group of Northmen stopped their talking.  Those who had reclined rose to their feet.  “I am Ulf, son of Tryg.  I have blazed a path from Ice Mountain to the marshes at the end of the world.  You filthy fishermen offer this pitiful tribute to me?”

            Rig opened his mouth, closed it.  He tried again.  “This is all.  All we have.”

            Ulf’s eyes were cold, hard pieces of ice.  He shook his head.  “No.  Each year, we offer you the choice: blood or tribute.  For the last three, we have taken your tribute.  I am not pleased with what I see.  I want something more.”

            Rig frowned.  “This is all. . . .”  Ulf’s huge hand, covered in metal chain, flashed in the sun and struck Rig on the cheek.  He spun and collapsed.  The Northmen cheered as one.

            “You have something more.  I know you do.”  He looked at the people gathered along the beach.  He began to walk among the villagers, two of his men close behind.  The heads of the men and women hung low.  Their eyes were cast downward. 

            William and the old man watched with heads held high.

            One of the warriors, shorter and thinner than Ulf, stopped in front of an old woman, Helga, best mender of cloth in the village.  The man grabbed her chin and pulled her head up until their eyes met.  He smiled.  “How old are you, grandmother?  How many winters have you seen?”  Helga frowned, tried to speak, then closed her eyes. To William,  she looked like a child being confronted with a wrongdoing.  The other warrior walked behind her.  Ulf watched, his eyes cold and empty. 

            The short blade pierced Helga through the small of her back and protruded through her belly.  She fell quickly with only a short, muffled moan.  Two of the women screamed.  The first Northman laughed, while the second wiped his blade clean using Helga’s hair.

            Ulf called out.  “There are young women here, somewhere.  You have hidden them from us.  We claim them.”  He looked at the faces of the villagers in front of him.  The shock and fear enforced a perfect silence.  Only the ocean refused to hide the sound of its voice.  None of the villagers moved.  “We will return tomorrow.  Have ten of your young ones ready.”  He approached the huddled mass that had moments before been Helga and kicked her solidly with his booted foot.  “No bearded crones.  On your lives, no old women.”  The Northmen cheered and laughed.  The readiness dropped out of their tense arms.  The time for violence was over.  Some of the men returned to their eating and drinking.  Helga’s pierced body remained on the ground, lifeless. 

            Ulf walked to where Rig sat, holding his bleeding mouth.  “Headman, do not disappoint.  Do not keep me waiting.  I return sometime after midday tomorrow, with whatever I claim from the villages beyond.” With his arm he motioned to the west, then continued.  “Let me not find ten lasses, let them be too old or too frail, and I will burn everything I see and pile your heads among the ashes. “  He smiled with genuine mirth.  “Yours will go on top.”

 

            It was his love for the old man.

            Helga had been gruff but kind.  William felt pain when she slid to the ground.  The girls and young women hid cowering in a cave not far away.  It was the way of things.  Women suffered what the men inflicted upon them.  But his concern was for the old man.  William stayed close by his side.

            Ulf left only two warriors behind.  Such was his contempt for a village of fishermen.  These two amused themselves by mocking their prey.  As time wore on, they grew bored and more bold.  The larger of the two brutes, a lean savage with long blond hair named Ulric, made a show of concern regarding Rig’s face.  He and his companion mocked the headman’s wife as she tended to him, offering to make her face match his.  The side of his face was a swollen mess, already dripping with clear fluid. 

            Then Ulric looked up from his victims and met the eyes of the old man.  William acted quickly, handing the old man a net while he worked to undo tangles that did not exist.  He kept his eyes down, separating strands of the net.  Moments later, a shadow fell across him.

            The two Northmen had decided to have their fun with the old man.  William did not exist.  “Old man, this beard looks like one of your nets,” said Ulric.

            His companion sneered.  “Aye.  And it smells of fish just the same.”  William stood.  His body was still, straight and tense like the shaft of the spear that lay at his feet.  He looked at the old man, and their eyes met.  William saw his own face, staring back at him.

            They probably would have moved on, found others to shame.  The ships would have arrived the following day, and the women would have been taken.  It was the way of things.  Only, William’s love for the old man was too strong, too strange.  The Northmen gazed at him and could feel his willingness to sacrifice for the old man.  They could not understand what they were seeing, and their ignorance made them feel fear in a way that smoke and steel never could have.

            Ulric and his companion stared at William, tall and thin, wearing only a thin cloak and breaches made of sealskin.  The shorter of the two licked his lips, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then struck the old man with his closed fist.

            If the old man were still alive after the blow, he was certainly dead after his head hit the rocks.  William knew.  He dropped to his knees and lifted the old, weathered head with his two hands.  Lifeless, the body was long and limp like an old, frayed rope. 

            William let the head of the old man gently come to rest on the rocks.  He stared straight ahead; the light of the afternoon sun blurred his vision.   The two warriors before him were bathed in light.  The metal of their scaled armor shimmered like the scales of a fish.

            Later, he would not remember any of it.  With a sure, practiced motion, he brought spear to hand and thrust at the shimmering scales in front of him.  The blade bit.  He twisted and pulled, and the blade tore free with a wet ripping sound.  He thrust a second time, rising to his feet as the spear pierced scales and flesh.  The axe that would have struck his head never fell, as the shaft and hand that held it collided with his shoulder instead. 

            William’s eyes focused and met the dull, unbelieving stare of Ulric.  He grunted and tried to pull the spear free.  William pushed it from side to side and the man impaled on its blade began to scream.  The fisherman tore the blade loose and stepped away as the bleeding warrior fell.  Then, he turned to the still form of the old man and again knelt beside it.

            Behind William came the steady thump of rocks as both men and women battered the remaining life out of the Northmen who had come to torment them.  But he was deaf to these sounds.  He heard only the waves as they crashed along the beach.

 

            He carried the body of the old man back to their hut and laid it down.  Later, William would bury the old man in the rocky soil and pile stones on top of his grave.  First, though, there was something else.  When he returned to the beach, Rig and a group of the other men were standing above the bodies of the two Northmen.  The matted blood and shattered bone hid what was left of their faces. 

            “It is a bad business,” said Rig through swollen lips.  “None of us know what to do now.  They will be back, those others.”  William looked at Rig and each of the others in turn.  He could not remember the last time anyone other than the old man had spoken to him.

            A large, barrel-chested man named Thrall growled at William.  “Did you think of that before you picked up your spear?”

            No, William had not thought of the two ships that would return the following day.  He had known what to do with the spear, though, when the light had reflected off the scales and the two round bodies had been in front of him.  And he knew what to do now.

            He placed a large basket, the one that had held Rig’s offering, on the ground between the two Northmen.  He took out his curved knife, cut straps and leather thongs, pulled aside armor, and stripped the tunics from the two dead men.  Each man had a jagged wound in his belly.  Behind him, one of the fishermen retched.  Others joined him when they witnessed what William did next. 

            He sank the sharp curve of his blade into the soft flesh just below Ulric’s ribs.  He pushed down with the flat of his left hand and pulled the knife with his right hand.  He opened a gaping wound, revealing the still steaming insides.  With two more sure cuts, he released an armful of the red mass he found there.  He dumped the contents into the basket and completed the ritual a second time with the other body.  Then he dragged the boat, the boat he had shared with the old man, down to the water.  With spattered, slippery arms he placed the dripping basket and the spear into the belly of the boat.  He climbed inside and waited.  He did not wait long.

            Two men pushed the boat free of the shore and set William adrift.  Rig was one of them.  Several of the women wept.  In the boat, William began to row.

            Thrall touched Rig’s shoulder.  “He is gone.  His mind is gone.”  Rig looked at him and then turned his eyes back to the boat. 

            “Maybe.”

            William rowed far enough from the shore that he heard no sound from the people who stood there.  The knife was still in is hand, but he did not need it.  He placed it on the bench beside him.  The basket felt heavy as he lifted it.  William was relieved when he had dumped its contents over the side.  Some of it sank.  Some of it spread across the top of the water.

            William turned his eyes back to the shore.  A group of men were dragging the two bodies away.  One man stood at the edge of the water, facing the boat.  William could not see who it was.

 

            The following morning, William goaded his boat past the breaking waves and went out to fish.  The boat sat strangely on the water and responded differently when he pulled on the oars.  He nodded to himself, looking at the empty space where the old man used to sit.

            The catch was better than usual.  The familiar casting of the nets, the firm hauling, the decisive thrust with the spear were all executed without thought.  His hands worked smoothly; muscles in his legs and arms responded with ease to the familiar strains and exertions.  He looked back to the shore only once.  The other boats had not been moved since the day before and no one could be seen on the beach. 

            William turned back to his work.  

 

            After he had returned his offering for the ninth time, he placed the part of the fish that he would keep at the bottom of the boat.  William regarded the large silver form with wonder, tracing the rainbow captured in the scales with one finger.  Then, he wrapped the fish tight with the rest of his catch and rowed back to shore.

            William dragged his boat to the tie pole and fastened it.  He placed his bundle of fish outside of the hut that had belonged to him and the old man.  There was no thought of eating or preserving the fish. 

            Returning to the water’s edge, he sank to his knees and then fell back into a sitting position.  The spear lay at rest in front of him.  The knife was wet with fish blood.  William held his knees in his arms and waited.

            The sun was still high in the sky when the first ship arrived.  The warriors rowed into the little bay that sheltered the village and rowed for the shore.  The second ship followed close behind it.  William could see the massive shape of Ulf at once, leaning on the prow of the first ship with one hand as his warriors pulled the oars.  The metal scales of his armor flashed in the sun.

            William rose to his feet, spear in hand.  He held it across his body at the level of his waist.  Soon both ships were close enough to hail, but the Northmen did not call out.  William knew, then, that they had planned for blood.  They had come to take and to kill. 

            As one, the warriors of the first ship raised oars.  The men of the other ship did the same.  Ulf turned toward the second ship and raised the axe in his hand, twisting a shaft that disappeared inside the meat of his fist.  The other warriors rose to their feet, weapons in hand.  William noticed the shapes of three girls, three gray lumps, cowering in a tangled mass in the stern of the second Dragon Ship.  He brought his eyes back to Ulf.

            The leader of the Northmen looked beyond him, further up the beach.  William turned.

            All of the men of the village were there.  They had come from their place of concealment behind the great stone overhang, the High Rock.  The first man reached the waterline as William turned back to the ocean, and the others followed.  They were hooded, faces hidden beneath their storm gear.  Each man held a spear.  Many held their spare lances or carried some odd bladed or edged thing.  They advanced in a solemn procession, drawn hoods making them look like mourners.  The dragon ships were too close to turn, but several rowers in the second ship began to backwater.  Ulf twisted his body and looked back, the change in the familiar pattern breaking his concentration a moment before he would have leapt into the water. 

            It was Thrall who charged forward and cast his spear.  His massive, squat body contracted then exploded with the violence of his throw.  His blade flashed as it passed through the air.  The fisherman’s roar saved Ulf, who crouched as he turned.  The spear passed over his shoulder and struck the warrior behind him. 

            A wave brought the dragon ship into the shallows where it was swarmed by fishermen who sent a hail of spears and stones over the side.  Ulf leaned forward and brought his axe down on the skull of one man, and his backswing would have taken the hand off of another if the two ships had not collided at that moment. 

            Ulf toppled backward into a tangle of warriors.  The fishermen formed a heaving semi-circle around the tangle of oars and bodies, thrusting their spears with the blind force of habit.  The jabbing motions were beyond conscious thought; each man’s body knew only the need to bury steel inside of flesh.

            Ulf jumped into the second ship just as its rowers managed to disentangle themselves and backwater with a desperate strength.  Mighty pulls on the oars sent it over two of the crashing waves.  It began to pick up speed as it moved further away from the beach. 

            William could see the form of Ulf, standing massive in the prow of the ship.  His axe was raised in a deadly salute, a promise of vengeance.  William watched the boat recede, then returned his gaze to the ship in the shallows.  Three fishermen were standing inside of it, thrusting downward into its belly with savage repetitions.  Other men pulled, ripped, and stabbed at the wriggling shapes flailing in the water.  He saw the body of a hooded man bobbing in the surf, face down. 

            The slaughter continued for several moments more.  The villagers worked their way ashore, dragging their own dead and wounded.  Then, they returned to where the warship sat listing helplessly to one side.  Groups of men pulled the hulking shape onto the beach. 

            The mangled corpses of the attackers were left to the whim of the ocean.

            William stood on his own, watching the horizon until the Northmen and their Dragon Ship disappeared.  Behind him, the battered hull of the captured ship was already in flames.

 

            William pushed his boat into the water the following morning.  He rowed out of the small inlet and cast his net, thrust his spear.  His knife was busy that day as he worked the waves alone.  He brought his catch back to shore and divided it into two parts.  He left half by the door of a hut with a newly formed pile of stones beside it.  William knew nothing of the man buried beneath those stones.  But his widow would be hungry, the work of her hands would require life from the ocean. 

            Rig was waiting by his hut, the hut that once had belonged to the old man.  William walked past him and entered, leaving the door open behind him.  Rig followed, closing out the world with a sharp tug.  William pulled back the roof flap and brought the fire to life between them.  They sat across from each other and watched the flames.  Occasionally, one man would eat a piece of fish.  The smell of sickness and corruption lay beneath the heavy odors that were always present, the smells of fish and burning fat, of sweat and the iron tang of blood. 

            “You don’t know what you’ve done.  What you’ve started.”  William listened , his eyes fixed upon the fire.  “It is past me, beyond me.”  William nodded.  “You know that I will be gone soon?  You can tell?”  William nodded again.  He did not see but could smell the suppurating wounds on Rig.  He looked at the man across from him.  He was strong and brave in a way that was different from Thrall, more like the old man.  He knew when to be silent.  William was sorry.

            “I am not a warrior.  But we all played a part.”  He cast a piece of fish into the fire, and both men turned their eyes toward the hiss.  “Eric and Harald are dead.  Eric’s wife will remarry.  She is young.  Harald’s wife . . . I don’t know. “  He grunted as he leaned back against the wall of the hut.  “I didn’t even feel the one on my shoulder until after, you know.  That is the one.  There is something wrong inside.  The blood keeps coming.”  William knew what this meant.  Rig did, too.

            “So, you see, there will be another pile of rocks soon, another woman without a husband.”  He stared at William until he looked up and their eyes met.   “I don’t blame you.  I don’t.  I have always admired the way that you work, the way that you don’t waste time on words. “  He looked down again, into the fire.  “I don’t think you know what you’ve done, though.   None of them do.  Not yet.”

            William finished eating a fish as Rig braced himself and worked his hand, bit by bit, along the back wall of the hut until he was standing.  “You will bring her fish, too?  See to things, man things, during the cold months?”  William nodded, still staring into the flames.  “Good.  I thought you would.”

            He turned and put a hand on the door, then stopped.   “There is something else, William.  But not now.  I have a day or two yet.  Tomorrow, maybe.  Maybe we will talk tomorrow.”  He shuffled through the half-opened door and then pushed it shut.  William listened to the sound of his steps as Rig walked toward the fire where the others sat waiting.  After a while, he extinguished his own flame and lay down to sleep.

 

            William placed the fish at the threshold of the hut, as he had done for the last week.  The pile of stones had settled, seemed ready to fall flat and become part of the rocky soil once again.  He turned and walked back toward his own hut along what the others had already begun to call the Widow’s Way.  He found Thrall waiting for him with two other men. 

            William looked at each man in turn, noting that all three wore armor stripped from the Northmen.  Most of the villagers saw Thrall as the hero of the battle on the beach.  The deep cut on his chin and neck, already yielding to the soft pink of a scar, was his badge of honor.  He wore a helmet, taken from among the dead, that added height to match his muscular width.  His companions stood close to his side.  They all looked at William with hard, unblinking eyes. 

            William looked down at his crumbling, fur-lined boots.  They were the same faded color of the rocky soil beneath him.  He nodded and pushed open the door to his hut.  Thrall followed him, waiting for William to pull the sealskin away from the roof flap before pulling the door shut.   Outside, the two men scuffed their boots in the dirt.

            Thrall watched as William started the fire burning.  Both men sat, and Thrall began to speak.  “You know that even the storage huts are now full.”  He offered this fact without introduction, then paused.  He had expected no response but gave the chance anyway.   After a moment he continued.  “We are storing fish and seal in the smokehouse, what little extra there is.  You’ve seen that some of the men, the older ones, have been put to work.  We’re building a hall.  For warriors. “  He smiled.  “Seven more this morning.  They traveled nine days to come here.  And they are staying.”  He frowned at William’s silence.  “Word travels quickly.”

            Thrall shifted his weight, no longer trying to conceal the naked blade in his lap.  William showed no surprise or alarm.  He picked up a fish from one of the cooking stones.  Then, he unsheathed his own blade and held it just under the fish.  He raised his head and met Thrall’s gaze.

            “You see things are different now.  They can’t go back.  Each day that goes by, more people don’t want it to go back.”  William looked at Thrall’s armor, his helmet, the stiff set of his shoulders.  Beneath all of those things he saw something else, something that Thrall could not hide from William.  There was doubt, a lack of certainty.  William recognized this thing and thought of Rig.  Rig, lying beneath the stones outside of the hut he once shared with his wife.  William returned the fish to the stone, now warm.  He placed the knife beside it.

            Rig watched all of this carefully.  “It is important, for everyone, to know that things are different.  Everyone must know that our spears are made to pierce more than scales and blubber.  We are becoming a new people.  We are a new people.  These things are important.  Do you understand?”

            William picked up the knife once more and peeled off a thin strip of the fish, separating the flesh from the fat and scales.  He ate a small piece, then tossed the rest into the flames.  It sizzled and filled the hut with the smell of cooked fish.  He wiped the knife clean on a strip of cloth, then returned it to the sheath at his waist.

            Thrall let his blade rest limply across his thigh.  His shoulders slumped and his head followed.  William could see the weariness, the strain of the helmet and armor pulling him down toward the earthen floor.  William thought to himself that the old man would have offered a few words.  For several moments, both men listened to the crackle of wood being consumed by the fire.

            Thrall rose to his feet and sheathed his own blade.  “The travelers, they have heard of you.  They tell all kinds of stories.  Some of them are true.  Some of them. . . .”  He shook his head.  “People say all kinds of things.  Some people do.”  He rubbed his eyes, banished the weariness, then stared hard at William.  His chest heaved and his shoulders drew back.   The room filled with his strength.    “It is just you, now.  Some will keep fishing.  We need the food.  But the rest of us. . . .  It is different, now.”  He turned his back to William and went out. 

            William listened to the sounds of the ocean outside, the same as it had always been.  Then he rose, closed the door, and returned to his meal.

 

            The following day brought another group of warriors.  They came in the morning, and William passed them as he pulled his boat to the water.  Two men with spears stopped the small group at the end of the wooden picket that Thrall had ordered built.  Atop the High Rock, another man stood silhouetted against the sky.  His body and spear were set toward the ocean.

            When William returned later that day with his catch, there were three new men standing inside the wooden rampart.  He knew at once that they were not warriors, that they had come to see him. 

            The newcomers sat on stones and gazed up at William as he leapt from the boat and into the water.  Heavy brown robes hung off of their shoulders, and each man’s head had been shaved bald at the crest.  Their eyes shone as they watched him, expecting something.  William wondered if he had ever gazed at the old man with those same eyes. 

            Two of them helped to push the boat ashore and drag it above the water line.  There were no set places for the fishermen’s boats anymore, but William continued to secure his own boat against the same post each day.  The oldest of the three stood apart, clutching a bundle to his chest.  He watched the others work as a father would watch his sons.

            After the cord had been tied, William walked along the Widow’s Way.  There was no longer a need to leave bundles of fish for any of the women; other men had taken the job as their own.  Still, the routine was a comfort.  He chose a different hut each day and left his offering of fish.

            The three men followed close behind.  The day was bright and warm, one of the warmest days that William could remember.  He reached his own hut and then stopped outside the door.  He turned and faced his guests.  The oldest spoke almost immediately.  “Greetings, brother.  I am Stephen.”  He motioned to his companions.  “This is Malchus.”  The young man smiled.  “And this is Jude.”

            William studied Jude.  He was little more than a boy, his red hair and freckled skin setting him apart from anyone William had ever seen.  He pulled his robe in close to his body and leaned forward.  He shivered despite the warmth of the sun.  William could see that the boy’s body would never be at home in this place.  From a distance, William considered his own youth.  Other young men worked boats with fathers or uncles, but no one his age was the master of his own boat.  The image of Jude made him think of these things. 

            Stephen continued.  “It is a fine day, brother.  Perhaps we could sit here together and speak?”   He turned.  “Ah, a cooking pit.”  William followed the older man’s gaze to the dim impression of a fire ring.  Long ago, the old man had made it his habit to sit outside by the fire.  As he grew older he joined the others on the beach or retreated to the hut, and the stones were carried off.  Now, Stephen expertly shaped the rocky soil into a new mound with a pit at its center.  He stood and motioned for the bundle of fish in William’s hands.  “May, I?”  Stephen took the fish and passed them to Malchus who unwrapped them and began to prepare them for cooking.  Jude scrambled here and there picking up pieces of driftwood and dry scrub grass.  Soon a fire was burning and the four sat down together.  The smell of cooking fish rose into the air.

            “It seems that your village has become an important place.”  Stephen motioned to the hall, the skeleton of its frame reaching towards the sky.  “All along the northern coast of the Gray Sea, people speak of this place.  They speak of your leader, Thrall Red Fist.”  Stephen smiled, but said nothing.  Jude took the fish away from the fire and broke them into pieces.  He placed the steaming food into four wooden bowls that he kept in a small satchel.  Before passing out the bowls, he bowed his head, as did his two companions.  It was Stephen who spoke.

            “Almighty God, we praise you and your holy name.  Lord, we thank you for this food.”  He looked up and smiled at William.  “And we thank you for our friend, the fisherman.”

            “Amen,” intoned Jude and Malchus.  Jude passed out the bowls and the three began to eat.  William stared.  The brief ritual had surprised him, but there was something pleasing about it.  Something familiar.

            He entered his hut and returned with a skin of clear water.  The others thanked him and passed it amongst themselves before returning it to William.  Together, they ate in silence.  When the meal was finished, Stephen rubbed his hands together and looked into the fire.  “We have been traveling along the coast for close to a year.  Last winter was hard.  We spent most of it at the village where the great river meets the water.  You know the one?”  William nodded.  “We were preparing to leave when the Northmen arrived.  They had only recently left here.  Their war leader was a giant of a man.  Ulf, I believe he called himself.”

            “Son of Tryg,” added Malchus.  Stephen met his eyes and the two shared a smile.

            “Yes, of course.  Ulf, son of Tryg.”  The smile disappeared.  We learned of your fate here.  Knew they were coming back for your women.  The river village was more fortunate.  The men there had more to offer.  The village just beyond, though, they lost a group of their young ones. “  Stephen looked into the fire and shook his head.  “It was a sad thing.”  He grew silent, eyes fixed on something from another time.  William was aware of the sound of the waves and the gentle crackling of the fire.  The evening gulls had huddled at the base of the cliffs.  Soon, it would be dark. 

            A piece of wood burst in the flames.  Stephen shook his head once and looked at William.  “Then the news came to us about what had happened here.  No one believed at first.  Who could believe such a thing?  When had the Sea Wolves ever been denied?  But other stories followed.  The tale spread along the coast.  How one village, this one, refused to give an offering.  We heard of the battle on the beach.  The name Thrall became known.”  Stephen smiled and looked toward the skeleton of the hall.  “His new role seems to please him.”

            He pulled his robe more tightly around himself.  His blood had not been made cold by years on the water.  Malchus and Jude huddled together, finding warmth in their togetherness.  William waited for what he knew would come next. 

            Rig had spoken to William only two days before he died, and he had told William that the story would grow.  The fight would become a day-long battle.  The numbers would change; there would be armies of men and a sea full of ships.  Thrall would become a tall man, and Northmen would fall with each thrust of his spear.  Rig also said that, later, others would come.  Thinking men would know that something had come before the first cry of defiance, the first cast of the spear.  Someone would have to be standing at the beginning of things. 

            Rig told him all of this.  And now they had arrived, these others, and they had come looking for William.   

            Stephen looked up from the fire.  “Behind all of the tales was something else.  There was a silence there.  And when an old woman spoke of a man, a young man, who fed the wives of the dead, who took no wife of his own, who had the habit of returning some part of what the sea had offered, I knew I had found the source of that silence. ”  He smiled.  “You, William.  I found you.”

            William listened to all of these things and knew them to be true, knew also that something would be expected of him now.  But for William, nothing had changed.  He would continue to fish, continue to make his return, continue to share what remained.

            Stephen motioned to Jude, who picked up the bundle that had been resting at his feet.  Stephen took this bundle and unwrapped a large brown object.  William had never seen anything like it.  It was obviously covered in the skin of an animal but not a seal.  The skin was beautiful and smooth and a shape had been etched into it.  He knew that the shape was laid in gold (he had seen it once as a boy),  but this mark of gold was impossibly thin.  Two narrow bars lay across each other, intersecting, like two oars resting in the sand.  He reached out for it, and Stephen placed it in his hands.

            William put his hand flat across the front of the large, brown object and closed his eyes.  A vision of the old man appeared before him.  Startled, he opened his eyes.  When he closed them again, the image was gone.  “It is a book,” said Stephen.  “There are words inside of it, written down.  Open it.”  William looked down at the book resting on his knees, and he opened the front cover.

            The beach, waves, fire, and birds all disappeared.  The page in front of him became the world.  He had never seen written words before, but they filled him, roared through his blood.      There were colors and thin veins of gold.  Small, perfect lines of writing stretched across the pages.  He turned the thick leaves, again and again.  The words on each page were surrounded by pictures, pictures of flowers and trees, animals that William had never seen, objects from the day and night skies.  And there were people .  Each page brought him further into a place that was not his own.  It was not a world where men fished and fought and bled.  This was not the world that he knew, but as he explored the book with eyes he became aware of a kind of homecoming.  It was beautiful. 

            He turned the page one more time, and his breath caught in his throat.

            There on the page was a picture of the ocean water.  Riding the waves was a small boat and in it sat three fishermen, a look of fear on their faces.  The water all around them churned white, the white of an early winter storm.  But toward the center of the page the water was calm, and amidst the calm was a man.  William looked at the face of that man and knew it at once.  The world around him went dark.

           

            He looked up, aware that time had gone by.  It was now completely dark.  Jude and Malchus were huddled close, still, in front of a pile of driftwood.  Malchus leaned forward and tossed more fuel onto the fire, then returned to his miserable huddling.  William watched the firelight dance across the figures on the page.  Then he closed the book.

            Stephen stood before him.  He reached down and reclaimed the book.  William looked up and Stephen smiled. “All things,” he said, and William understood.

 

            They stayed for three weeks and William taught them to fish.  Stephen watched mostly.  He learned to cast the nets and helped to push and drag the boat.  Mostly, he sat opposite of William and stared at the water.

            William worked with Malchus and Jude the first day.  They learned quickly and knew how to work with their hands.  When he knelt in the bottom of the boat, his curved knife in hand, he felt Stephen’s eyes upon him.  He cut, pulled, and made his return.  William looked at Stephen, who nodded once and turned his gaze back to the horizon.

             

            Life in the village had changed for almost everyone.  The wall of sharpened wooden posts had been completed, encircling most of the village.  It had been planned well.  The only unprotected approach was from the sea, and even there any group of ships would have to pass between High Rock and a sheer wall of stone before landing upon the beach.  Stones thrown from above would take their toll on any unwelcome visitors.  The hall would soon be finished, as well.  William had never seen anything so large built by human hands.  Thrall had managed these things, selecting three men from the ranks of the warriors to serve at his side.  Only one was a man that William recognized.  Thrall was an able leader, knowing when to ask and when to tell.  This was a new world; it belonged to him, and he belonged to it.

            William, Stephen, Malchus, and Jude continued their own work, the work that had always been there. 

            Each day, the men brought their catch in from the ocean.  They beached and tied the boat, spread and cleaned the nets, and washed the spears in the surf.  Malchus and Jude delivered fish along the Widow’s Walk.   After, they sat with a group of children by the fire pit.  For over a week they had used the last of the daylight to teach the children to make shapes like the ones in the book.  To make their marks, they dipped sharpened pieces of driftwood into ash mixed with fresh water and wrote on tattered pieces of cloth.  When the growing group could no longer get enough ash or cloth, the children practiced their shapes in the sand. 

            One day, toward the end of the third week, they returned from fishing earlier than usual.  Malchus and Jude met with the children and proceeded with their lessons.  Stephen stood with William close to the shore.  For a time they stared in silence at the water and listened.  After a while, Stephen spoke.  “I have told you only a little about our book.  You have seen.  But have you understood?”  William looked at Stephen.  “Sit here.  Sit with me.”

            William obeyed and Stephen opened the book before him.  It was a page that William had seen before.  The same feeling pierced him as the eyes of the figure on the page transfixed him.  “You love these people, William.  That is true?”  William continued to stare at the book.  The cry of a gull overhead went unheard by both men.  William traced his finger along the raised picture in the book, outlined in gold and glowing with color.   The shape was simple, and it felt true to him.  The intersection of wood on wood was something that William had always known. 

            “You know what is coming, William.  They will be back.  Soon.  I think before the ice comes again.  They will not wait a whole year.  And this time, it will not be two ships.”  William closed the book and left it resting on his knees.  He looked out over the water and thought of the old man.  On most days, the rituals of his daily work and sacrifice created a pattern for William to walk, and as he walked, he could feel the old man with him.  But at that moment, he longed to see him again, to go back to him.  He stared at the water until his eyes grew heavy.  He closed them, but the water was still there.

           

            The next day was their last day together.  William stood on the beach and watched them fish.  Jude and Malchus worked well together.  They were fine fishermen.  Stephen spoke loudly to them as they worked, but the sea swallowed the words.  Sounds without meaning reached him, lost to the wind and the waves. 

            They fished later than usual, and as night began to fall a storm gathered over the water.   The boat dipped lower and lower, and William could see the stiff form and round face of Jude as he gripped the side of the boat with both hands.  A large wave rolled along the back of the boat and pushed beneath it, lifting it out of the water.  It crashed down with an explosion of spray and all three men called out at once.  William heard them.  He rose to his feet and took one step toward the water.  Then, he stopped.  The boat would return as it had always done or it would not.  What could he possibly do to change that?  He turned away and walked up the beach.  He prepared his hut to receive the storm that was coming.  Then he pulled back the roof flap, started a fire, and waited.

 

            The storm struck and unleashed its fury on the village.  A long stretch of the wall was blown down, and the pickets were scattered.  The roof shingles so newly laid on the warrior’s hall were torn loose and cast away like dry leaves.  Two fishing boats had been torn loose from their tie posts and sent skittering into the rocks.

            Thrall gave his orders and men began to reset the wooden pickets before the sun had finished rising.  Teams of women and children searched for roof shingles and found most of them.  The sound of hammers striking was inescapable. 

            The two boats lay upturned, their bows touching as they leaned against the large stones that had shattered them.

            Stephen, Malchus, and Jude helped William reset the wall of his hut, the wall that faced the sea.  It had been blown in before, when the old man alive.  William’s hands remembered the old injuries to the wall, and the four of them were done by midday.

            “For you,” said Stephen as he prepared to leave.  He pushed a small carved piece of wood into William’s hand.  William knew what it was without looking.  He closed his fist around it. 

            Malchus and Jude nodded their heads and turned to follow Stephen when he left.  William watched them walk along the water, their feet leaving a winding trail in the sand.  After a short distance, Jude stopped and turned.  Behind him, his companions continued to walk along the beach.   When the two brown robes began to recede into the distance, William shook his head.  Jude continued to stare until a small wave broke and the water touched the hem of his robe and his sandaled feet.  He turned, then, and began to run, leaving behind nothing but his footprints.

 

            The Northmen came with the dawn.  They had beached their ships and marched inland.  But when they made their attack the watchmen gave warning, and Thrall was ready. 

            The first few attackers were claimed by stakes at the bottom of deep pits, hidden cleverly on the landward side of the village.   But the shame of Thrall’s earlier victory urged the Northmen on, even as they fell steadily before the villagers in the light of the new day.

            William heard the sound of metal striking metal and the long, low-pitched call of a man in pain.  Smoke began to rise as the Northmen set fire to anything that would burn, including the wooden picket. 

            Most of the villagers had sought shelter inside the walls.  William stood alone on the beach, watching the smoke reach up to the sky.  That is how Ulf found him when he came wading through the shallows at the base of High Rock.

            “Fisherman.”  William turned.  He had not heard Ulf’s approach.  Still, he was not surprised to see the warrior there, standing by the waterline with his back to the water.  “I came back for you, fisherman.  I came back to your shore.  Out of the ocean I come, just like a fish.”  He was smiling, his chest rising and falling with each breath.  A long scar ran from the base of each eye down to the raw and mottled skin where his beard had once been.  “Where is your spear, fisherman?  Where is it?”  He laughed as he approached William.  “You see?  I brought my axe.”

            William stepped forward and raised his arms as the blade fell, using both hands to deflect the attack.  Ulf’s mailed fist struck him in the neck, and he fell.  A second swing of the axe brought pain as the blade bit into his shoulder.  He rolled away from a third blow and rose to his feet just as the Northman thrust his axe forward, like a knife.  The spike at the end of the shaft struck deep into his side and William fell again.  He lay there looking up as Ulf stood before him.  The warrior spoke slowly, almost calmly, beyond any anger that William had ever seen.  “When I am done with you, fisherman, I will bring your pieces back to the ocean to feed your fish.”

            William was looking at the scars on the Northman’s cheek when the first stone struck Ulf in the head.  It was the second stone that tore away a small piece of his face and  brought him to his knees.  William rolled slowly, like a great wounded fish, onto his hands and knees.  He crawled away from the sound of stones thumping against Ulf’s body.  He managed to reach his boat before the last of his strength left him.  He touched the wood with his hand, then closed his eyes.

           

            It was Thrall who woke him.  The large man pulled back William’s tunic with a gentle hand.  William watched his own blood run out of his side and onto the rocky soil.  His left arm slipped from under him when he put weight upon it.  “Easy, now.  Easy.”  Thrall tried to push William down but stopped when he saw his face. 

            William worked his right hand up the side of his boat until he could grip the top plank.  He pulled himself to his feet.  A group of women, some still holding stones, stood next to the body of Ulf.  Others still stood atop High Rock.  Rig’s widow was among them.  William looked at the wet stain covering the ground beneath him and then at the crowd of people standing between him and the water.  There were no Northmen among them.

            William saw the battered form of Ulf before him.  He reached down to his side and wrapped his fingers around the handle of his curved blade.  He held it in a loose fist and squeezed but left the blade in its sheath.  He closed his eyes, set a shoulder to his boat and pushed.  He inhaled and exhaled deeply and pushed again.  This time others joined him in his efforts.  The boat slipped along the ground and found its way into the water.  With strength that didn’t seem to be his, William climbed over the side and collapsed into the bottom of the boat.

            The tide was moving out, back to the ocean, and the boat moved with it.  His hut and  the people on the shore were gone.  There was nothing anywhere around him except for the ocean, limitless.  Above him the sky was a mirror of the gray world below. 

            William placed his cheek on the side of the boat and let his arm hang over the edge, his fingers breaking the surface.  Blood ran out of him and into the water.  Voices were coming from somewhere, but the words were lost.  The wind and the waves swallowed them.  William unsheathed his knife and dropped it into the ocean.  From a great distance came the sound of one man speaking.  William smiled when he recognized the voice. 

            He leaned backward and found that nothing was there, nothing at all.  William tipped over the side and his body hit the water.  It lay there, floating on the surface, arms extended, lifeless.  It remained suspended for a moment.  Then, the water parted around the still form of William’s body and it sank into the world below.

 

            Not long after, the ice returned.  It was then that a new, small group of fishermen returned to the water to ride the waves and fish.  It was something that they had always known, something that was a part of them.  These men continued to make their way along the surface of the water, casting nets and thrusting with the spear.  Their sons learned alongside of them.

            On the shore, the wreckage of two boats lay crushed against the rocks.  Strangely, the wood was never reclaimed, and the battered vessels remained there until the earth itself seemed to rise up and claim them.