Read Online The Coming of the Dragon by Rebecca Barnhouse - Free Book Online
Authors: Rebecca Barnhouse
Ads: Link
when he’d been cast out alone into the world, who had taught him and disciplined him and loved him—Amma was gone.
A ragged, wordless sob tore from his chest.
. . .
It took him the entire next day to prepare the graves. He worked mechanically, feeling light-headed. His vision was as blurry as his voice was raw from the prayers he’d chanted to Thor and Freyja, asking them to guide Amma’s spirit on her trip to the next world. He’d kept his fingers wound in hers all night to keep her spirit from becoming fearful—or worse, angry—when it realized the body it had lived in could no longer house it.
When he woke, Amma’s fingers were stiff and cold, and he had to use one hand to free the fingers of his other from hers.
He buried Hwala and his sons and Ula first, all of them together in one pit. It took him till midday to dig it. Skyn and Skoll had made his life miserable, but he would never have wished them such a fate. And certainly not Hwala, who, though he was a hard man, had allowed both Rune and Amma food and shelter without complaint. He couldn’t find Skyn’s dagger, so he gave him a scythe. Hwala would meet the gods with the farm’s ax.
Dully, he wondered about Ula, who had kept to herself no matter how often he had asked her to tell her story. Amma would have known. Who had her people been? Would they ever hear what had happened to her? He doubted it. He found a ceramic jug, scorched by the flames but still serviceable, to bury with her. Because she had had so little joy in her life, he wished he could search for abrooch or a bracelet for her, but he was running out of time. Amma’s body was still waiting.
His shoulders aching, his hands blistered, he hefted the last shovelful of dirt onto the grave and then made his way down to the stream to rest and drink, away from the smell of ashes and death. Weak sunshine filtered through the gold-touched leaves, and the water gurgled over the rocks, reflecting the light. Then a raven croaked. Rune looked up to see it swaying on a branch too narrow to bear its weight, staring at him. It unnerved him.
Stumbling with fatigue, he returned to the hut he and Amma had shared. Her grave would be here, under the ash tree.
He wished he could build a funeral pyre for her, or even an earthen barrow to mound high over her grave, but for a pyre, there wasn’t enough dry wood—the dragon had burned it all. And a barrow would take more strength than the gods had given him.
After having buried the others, he wasn’t sure he had the energy for Amma’s grave. But he had no choice. Again, he started to dig.
As he worked, emotion came seeping back. If only he’d come home instead of going to the king, Amma might still be alive. Each jab of the shovel into the earth brought him a fresh thorn of anger and regret. How could he have been so stupid? If only he hadn’t fallen asleep after the king questioned him, he could have been home in time; if onlyhe hadn’t run after Ollie; if only he hadn’t climbed the crag in the first place but had stayed to deal with that slave. Of the thousand different things he could have done, he had chosen the very worst one. He would never forgive himself. If it hadn’t been for him, the dragon would never have killed Amma.
The dragon. Leaning on the shovel shaft, he lifted his face from the grave to gaze toward the mountain where the creature made its home, its top lost in a haze of clouds. Hatred seethed in his chest, renewing his strength. For the first time, he truly understood the desire for vengeance that drove tribes to fight each other, that kept feuds alive for generations. He dug his shovel into the dirt again.
Finally, when the shadows stretched long and blue across the burned fields and he deemed the grave deep enough to keep out the wolves, he lined it with soft leaves he had gathered by the stream. Then he wrapped Amma tightly in her blanket and laid her in the ground, the round stone with the image of Freyja carved in
A ragged, wordless sob tore from his chest.
. . .
It took him the entire next day to prepare the graves. He worked mechanically, feeling light-headed. His vision was as blurry as his voice was raw from the prayers he’d chanted to Thor and Freyja, asking them to guide Amma’s spirit on her trip to the next world. He’d kept his fingers wound in hers all night to keep her spirit from becoming fearful—or worse, angry—when it realized the body it had lived in could no longer house it.
When he woke, Amma’s fingers were stiff and cold, and he had to use one hand to free the fingers of his other from hers.
He buried Hwala and his sons and Ula first, all of them together in one pit. It took him till midday to dig it. Skyn and Skoll had made his life miserable, but he would never have wished them such a fate. And certainly not Hwala, who, though he was a hard man, had allowed both Rune and Amma food and shelter without complaint. He couldn’t find Skyn’s dagger, so he gave him a scythe. Hwala would meet the gods with the farm’s ax.
Dully, he wondered about Ula, who had kept to herself no matter how often he had asked her to tell her story. Amma would have known. Who had her people been? Would they ever hear what had happened to her? He doubted it. He found a ceramic jug, scorched by the flames but still serviceable, to bury with her. Because she had had so little joy in her life, he wished he could search for abrooch or a bracelet for her, but he was running out of time. Amma’s body was still waiting.
His shoulders aching, his hands blistered, he hefted the last shovelful of dirt onto the grave and then made his way down to the stream to rest and drink, away from the smell of ashes and death. Weak sunshine filtered through the gold-touched leaves, and the water gurgled over the rocks, reflecting the light. Then a raven croaked. Rune looked up to see it swaying on a branch too narrow to bear its weight, staring at him. It unnerved him.
Stumbling with fatigue, he returned to the hut he and Amma had shared. Her grave would be here, under the ash tree.
He wished he could build a funeral pyre for her, or even an earthen barrow to mound high over her grave, but for a pyre, there wasn’t enough dry wood—the dragon had burned it all. And a barrow would take more strength than the gods had given him.
After having buried the others, he wasn’t sure he had the energy for Amma’s grave. But he had no choice. Again, he started to dig.
As he worked, emotion came seeping back. If only he’d come home instead of going to the king, Amma might still be alive. Each jab of the shovel into the earth brought him a fresh thorn of anger and regret. How could he have been so stupid? If only he hadn’t fallen asleep after the king questioned him, he could have been home in time; if onlyhe hadn’t run after Ollie; if only he hadn’t climbed the crag in the first place but had stayed to deal with that slave. Of the thousand different things he could have done, he had chosen the very worst one. He would never forgive himself. If it hadn’t been for him, the dragon would never have killed Amma.
The dragon. Leaning on the shovel shaft, he lifted his face from the grave to gaze toward the mountain where the creature made its home, its top lost in a haze of clouds. Hatred seethed in his chest, renewing his strength. For the first time, he truly understood the desire for vengeance that drove tribes to fight each other, that kept feuds alive for generations. He dug his shovel into the dirt again.
Finally, when the shadows stretched long and blue across the burned fields and he deemed the grave deep enough to keep out the wolves, he lined it with soft leaves he had gathered by the stream. Then he wrapped Amma tightly in her blanket and laid her in the ground, the round stone with the image of Freyja carved in
Similar Books
