Brian Udall
Summer in the highlands was breathing its last. The turning of the leaves was a sign of winter’s warning. Easy enough to spot, if one knew what to look for. The changing of the seasons is particularly beautiful on the isle of Birka, where the old kings lay.
A ferry boat tossed water beneath its bow, unsettling the stomach of a visiting professor. “Wogh.” Professor Cairn clutched his gut to hold it in. “Easy now. A bit faster.”
The ferryman paid the stranger no mind. The worn, oak paddles in his old, calloused hands moved as fast or as slow as they’d like. A bit of water splashed over the side, soaking the professor’s black bag. He cursed and fumbled about as if it were going to change anything.
“Will you be here long, sir?” The ferryman asked in a thick Nordic accent.
“Not if I can help it,” the professor replied, a practiced smile plastered across his face. A recent touch of Botox gave him the look of a porcelain doll. The ferryman looked away toward dry land, his face steady and unreadable.
The wood of the dock was seaworn and blistered, the toll of sea ice leaving its mark. The boat knocked against it with a sturdy clunk as the ferryman roped off each end. “Up you go,” he said. “I’ll be just there in the yellow building when you’re finished.”
In the east, the new dawn was rising over tall, snowy mountains. The ancient stone barrier, ascended by heroes and kings in their time, drew Cairn’s attention not at all. He stumbled from the boat, gave the ferryman a brisk nod, and clutched his thick bag to his
chest as he swerved a few dockworkers with a dainty flourish.
The narrow dirt road to the cemetery wasn’t long, but Cairn took the side route to the back so no one would see him enter. It wasn’t exactly illegal, what he was about to do, but he didn’t want trouble.
Entering the cemetery, Professor Cairn’s eyes grew hungry at the sight of all those graves. Grand monuments to the legendary men who’d carved the names of their people into the stone of the Earth with their blood. In every direction, dozens of stones stood tall in the sunshine. Many inscriptions had been worn down by the wind and rain, but most were still legible. Cairn rummaged through his bag and pulled out a long, retractable shovel.
He looked around to make sure no one was watching before setting the shovel in the dirt. It was mid-afternoon by the time he was five feet under. His shovel hit bone: a decomposed finger snapped clean in two. The last foot or so would have to be done with a gentler touch to avoid destroying the rest of his prize.
Cairn climbed out of his hole and sidled into the shadow of a nearby yew tree. He cracked open a plastic water bottle and slurped it down. The air was chilly, but he’d broken a sweat and was happy to hide from the sun overhead.
“Might I ask what you’re doing there, friend?” The question came from Cairn’s right. He turned, startled by the sudden appearance of a guest.
“Oh, hello there,” Professor Cairn stammered. “I’m from California.”
“Aye,” said the young man. “But what are you doing?” He couldn’t have been older than
twenty-five. Blond hair, stocky build, his fingernails well-lined with soil.
“Ah, glad you asked. I’m an archaeologist at UCLA.” Cairn stood up from where he’d been sitting. His tiny head came up to the boy’s shoulder. “This here is a grave.”
“I know that,” said the boy. “It’s the grave of my grandfather, generations past.”
“You’re a descendant of Erik Holmstead?”
“I am.”
“Wow, that’s incredible!” Cairn was beaming with delight. The boy was not.
“You still haven’t answered my question, stranger.”
“Well, you see, I have a permit.” Cairn reached down into his bag and the boy stiffened. He pulled out a piece of paper, wet from the ocean. “It must’ve gotten drenched on the ferry. Sorry about that. But here, take a look, it’s all above water.” Cairn held the paper out but the boy didn’t take it or even look its way.
“And what does this paper have to say about digging up my forefather’s grave?”
“Well, it says that I can.” Cairn was looking at the boy like he was a bit daft. “For research purposes.”
“Ah,” said the boy. He looked down into the pit. The cracked bit of bone stood out like a flag. A wagging finger dangling in the hollow earth. “In that case, I have something that might interest you.”
“Really?” Cairn said. “A relic perhaps?”
“That’s right,” said the boy, turning back to the man. “A relic.”
“Well, where is it?”
“At my home. Follow me, I’ll take you there.”
Cairn looked around at his work, wondering if he had time to spare. Sensing an opportunity, he stuffed his things back in his bag and slung it onto his back. “Lead the way!”
The young farmer nodded and turned to the east. “Follow me, then.”
“So you live on this island?” Cairn asked after they’d travelled for a time in silence.
“I do,” said the young man.
“Interesting. I thought Birka was largely uninhabited.”
“People say that.” They passed over a hill and the valley below came into view. “I don’t know why.”
The valley was filled with acres of fields. Wheat, amaranth, and other fine grains were beginning to yellow as a sign of their maturation. They blustered about in the breeze, creating a soft rustling like feathers on a goat skin drum. Houses built of stone and wood marked the terrain every so often. An old man glanced up at their passing and went back to work without a word.
“You’re a farmer, then?” Cairn asked.
“That’s right. It’s my family’s farm. Don’t suppose you’d know, but harvest season is fast approaching. Do you know what that means, professor?”
Cairn scoffed, clearly insulted by the question. “Of course I do, young man.”
The boy turned around and looked him dead in the eye. “It’s the time where the wheat is separated from the chaff. Do you know what happens to the chaff, professor?”
“I suppose it gets thrown out.”
“It gets thrown into the fire until it’s not but ash and smoke.” An awkward silence hung between them. Cairn shuffled and glanced downward, not knowing how to reply. Satisfied, the boy turned and the two made their way onward.
“You have a lovely village,” Cairn said, hoping to smooth out the tension. “What was that relic you were talking about again?”
“My family crest.”
“And you’re offering it to me?” Cairn asked, confused.
“Of course not.” The young farmer’s voice was calm. “But you may look at it and take notes if you like.”
Cairn briefly considered turning back to finish his work. He’d left under the impression he was going to be given something precious to take home. He’d already seen pictures of
the Holmstead crest before. The bear, the elk, the fox, and the wolf positioned on a circle with four quadrants surrounded by eight stars and a sort of floral vine rising up from below. The top hosted a crown with two lances pointed diagonally downward to the outside.
“I’m familiar with it,” said Cairn. He was racking his brain for some way to make this little detour worthwhile. “What’s your name, anyway?”
“Ezra,” the boy said and pointed at a barn. “We’re here.”
The air was rich with the smell of ripe grain and manure. Several horses could be seen enjoying a rest beneath the shade of a nearby tree. The ground in their pen had been completely stripped of green grass. The well-trod dirt was littered with hay, pale and dry beneath the high northern sun.
They stepped inside the open barn door. Hanging on the wall was indeed the Holmstead crest. It’s coarse outer edges looked like hell, but the filigreed lines which demarcated the four corners of the emblem still shone as if they’d been painted yesterday.
“It’s magnificent,” said Cairn, leaning closer to soak in the detail. His left hand reached out to touch it but Ezra interjected.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said. Cairn turned to see Ezra standing in the center of the barn with an axe hanging loosely by his side.
“Oh,” said Cairn, not noticing Ezra’s new tool. “Sorry about that. My curiosity can sometimes get the better of me.”
“Is that why you desecrated my ancestor’s resting place?” Ezra lifted the axe to where he knew Cairn could see it. “Idle curiosity?”
“Look at the time,” Cairn laughed nervously and stepped toward the door. One step was all he got before Ezra was upon him, the wood handle of the axe smacked into the large of Cairn’s back, knocking him to the ground.
Cairn swiveled upward but it was too late. With one swift motion Ezra lifted the axe high above his head and brought the blade down just below Cairn’s right knee, severing it from his body completely. If anyone in the village heard the man’s screams, they didn’t come to see.
As the professor writhed on the ground clutching his stump, Ezra moved to the back of the barn where a wood oven was already blazing. He grabbed a metal rod, the one he used to brand horses, and set it into the fire.
“Don’t kill me,” said Cairn, spit flying through his teeth. “Let me go. I’ll never come back, I promise.”
“I’m not going to kill you,” Ezra replied, his back turned to him as he spun the rod in the flames. “Not even such as you can make me stoop so low.” Satisfied the rod was hot enough, Ezra pulled it from the fire and walked back over to where Cairn lay. “This may sting a little.”
“What?” Cairn cried, eyes fixed on the hot iron. He started to pull back, but Ezra’s stride was too swift. He grabbed Cairn’s thigh, pinned him to the ground, and stuck the hot metal on the open wound. The blood, spurting out in thick waves, shriveled black and hard in the shadow of the barn. Cairn’s eyes rolled backward as every nerve fired off. He
passed out, the whites of his eyes filling up like a ghost.
Some time later, Cairn came to. He was still lying on the dirty barn floor. He looked up, dazed, to see Ezra tying a thick gauze bandage to the wound. The clean, white cotton was now soiled black and red. Cairn mumbled something as his head lolled back.
“Good, you’re awake,” Ezra said, finishing up.
“Bastard.”
Ezra nodded his head and stood up, checking his handiwork for any mistakes which might cause the bandage to fall off. “I take no pleasure in it.”
Cairn glowered at Ezra standing beside him, not quite coherent enough to be furious. “Idiot, backwards woodsman,” he mumbled. His eyes were spinning a dark vertigo.
Not bothering to merit the comment with a reply, Ezra turned and took a worn shovel from off of the wall before walking to the front door. “Come,” he said to Cairn. “Sun’s going down.”
Gawking with disbelief but not wanting to stay, Cairn grit his teeth and turned belly-down to crawl after Ezra who’d left through the open barn door. The pain in his leg sparked off, but the bandage kept the hay and manure from getting in. Reaching the entrance, he tumbled out onto the dirt road like a log down a hill. His clothes were thoroughly soiled.
Channeling his impotent rage, Cairn’s eyes bore holes into young Ezra’s back as he dug his forearms into the soil. He carried himself through golden wheat fields which towered
above him, radiant and ripe for the upcoming harvest. Dragged by an invisible string whose name Cairn had forgotten, the academic trailed behind Ezra’s formidable form one fist at a time. Ezra’s slow, plodding steps betrayed a deep sorrow, but Cairn only saw what he could of the man.
The journey back to the town’s cemetery took place in silence, though it didn’t seem so to Cairn. Down there, each clump of dirt and each snapping straw echoed as loud as any angel’s trumpet. By the time they reached their destination, Cairn was too tired to hold onto his anger.
“I was going to make you fill this in,” Ezra said, turning the shovel over in his hands. Cairn curled into a ball under the yew tree, trying to hide his fresh, flowing tears. Ezra saw this and nodded to himself before turning to the pile of dirt Cairn had left for him. Taking care not to damage the exposed skeleton, Ezra got to work.
“You’re an animal,” Cairn seethed when Ezra was halfway finished. He was sitting up now, massaging his injured thigh. The phantom limb burned like a thousand fire ants.
“If you say so,” said Ezra, barely breaking a sweat. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
“Understand what, backwater vigilante justice?”
“I’m a builder,” said Ezra. He stuck the shovel back into the pile of dirt, lifted it up, and poured it into the open grave. “What are you?”
Cairn looked down at his missing leg, wondering how this boor could possibly spin his behavior to where he was in the right. “An archaeologist. There’s no sin in studying the past.”
“There is a difference between studying the past and destroying it, friend.”
“I’m not your friend,” Cairn spat.
Ezra sighed and scooped another shovel of dirt. “You’re lucky one of the elders didn’t catch you, you know.”
“Yeah, what would they have done?”
Ezra stopped and held Cairn’s gaze, praying the traveler would learn this lesson quickly. “If you come back and try again you will most certainly find out. Rest assured I will not be coming to watch what unfolds. I don’t have the stomach for such things.”
Cairn looked down at his bloody stump and frowned. “You people should be ashamed of yourselves.”
“Wake up!” Ezra shouted and threw his shovel to the ground. With four quick strides he was in Cairn’s face. “This place is not yours to destroy! The powers which hold our village together will leave if we allow you to insult them this way. Do you want know what happens when they do?”
Ezra’s face was flush with terror and rage as Cairn cowered, confused. Sensing his lack of understanding, Ezra pulled away and rubbed his tired eyes. A dog
barked wildly at something unseen.
“What happens?” Cairn asked, reaching for his notebook. Ezra sighed and shook his head as he picked up his shovel once more.
“Nothing…”