Page 40 of Don’t Let Me Go

The witch is coming. Whether to bring good tidings or ill, none can say. But my heart fears the worst. A wolfish winter has

fallen upon our land. The cold stalks our longhouses, devouring all that is warm. Does not this make my Ragnar the choicest

prey? My Ragnar, who burns with fire in his blood.

“Water,” he groans, tearing the sweat-stained blanket from his body as if it were some poison-fanged serpent that meant him

ill.

Perched on the edge of his narrow cot, I dip a cup into the wooden bowl that rests in my lap. It’s almost empty. I’ll need

to fetch more snow to melt, though had I all the waters of the fjords, I doubt I could quench the terrible flame consuming

my beloved.

With great effort, Ragnar props his tired body up on his elbows, and I bring the cooling cup to his lips. He drinks greedily,

desperately, then sinks down again in weariness. His face and body are drenched with sweat despite the meagerness of the hearth

fire.

I soak a cloth in the remaining contents of my bowl, then press its damp relief to his hot forehead and wipe his tired face.

Even in sickness, my Ragnar is beautiful. The fever that rages in his bones can do nothing to mar his noble profile or dull

the luster of his hair, which even now catches the light of the fire like burnished bronze. He is and always has been my most

precious treasure. My golden love.

I know not what I would do if I lost him.

“You’re worse than a wife,” Ragnar chides, pushing my hand away. “You fret like an old woman.”

“I haven’t said a word.”

“You fret with your eyes. I can hear them. The whole settlement can hear them.”

Unleashing another groan, Ragnar sits up in bed. His body, made taut and lean with years of fighting, is as pale as snow.

Too pale for one who burns like the sun.

“Help me to dress,” he says, gripping my shoulder for support as he forces himself to stand. “Everyone has already left for

the Great Hall. Our absence will be noticed.”

“You’re not well.”

“It’s nothing. Bad fish. It will pass.”

“You need rest.”

“Erik wants all his men at his side when the witch arrives.”

“Erik will understand. I will tell him—”

“You’ll tell him nothing!” Ragnar barks, grabbing my wrist. Even in illness, his strength is ferocious. “Erik is our chieftain.

We serve at his command. Those who cannot serve have no place in this settlement.”

This rage of Ragnar is nothing new; I have seen his fury in battle. But never in all our years has he aimed it at me. This

is how I know he is scared. Not of Erik. Not of losing face among our brother-warriors. But of the sickness that has fallen

upon him over the past three days, stealing his strength and making him a prisoner of his bed.

“Even Erik rests when he is weary,” I remind him.

“Great men can afford such comfort. We are but swords. And swords must always be at the ready to serve their masters.”

Ragnar releases me. Whatever strength he mustered in his fit of anger flees his body, leaving him weak on his feet.

“I’ll help you to dress,” I say, clasping his shoulder to steady him. “The chieftain will have his swords. All of them.”

I turn to fetch his clothes, but before I can take a step, I feel Ragnar against my back. He wraps his arms around my chest and buries his lips against the nape of my neck.

“You are half my heart,” he whispers, the words tearing themselves from his lips as if he cannot help them. The new hairs

of what will be his first beard scratch my cheek, and his breath on my shoulders is hot and moist. Both fill me with remembrances

of our stolen nights together. Nights when, safe from the prying eyes of men, our bodies twisted around each other in an attempt

to discover the shape of desire.

“And you are mine,” I tell him, lifting his left hand to my lips, then the right. Then I press both hands over my heart and

hold them there. Ragnar sighs into my shoulder, crushing me in the desperate embrace of his arms.

My beautiful warrior. I have seen him stained with the blood of Norsemen when the battle rage blazed in his bones, more wolf

sometimes than man. But I have also seen him gentle as the dawn, covering my body with kisses so soft, his lips might have

been the breeze.

That Fate can bestow such a blessing has often made my heart rejoice. But tonight, in Ragnar’s sickness, I see the cruelty

of such a blessing. For I see now that what Fate bestows to a man, it can also take away.

I know not if Ragnar’s fever will consume itself or consume him. I know only that if it be the latter, I shall not survive

the loss. For no man survives with half a heart.

The Great Hall is silent as the sun sets over Brattahlid. The long fire burns strong and bright in the center of the room,

keeping the hungry night at bay. Outside, a wailing moves through the valley, though whether it be the wolves who live in

the mountains beyond our settlement or the winter wind raging over the fjord, I cannot tell. Sometimes I think they are one

and the same.

In the high seat, flanked by wood-carved dragons, Erik sits lost in thought.

He scarcely attends to the hushed whispers of his kinsmen, who have gathered on the fur-draped benches nearest their chieftain.

Great men have great worries , I think as I watch him run a nervous hand through his long beard, stroking the rough red hairs that have earned him his

nickname and that have not, with age, lost their luster.

Never have I seen Erik so quiet. Nor have my brother-warriors, who have taken their cue from our chieftain and shuffle uneasily

to their benches. Silence among Norsemen is an unnatural thing. I have, on many occasions, heard this hall filled with such

carousing, I thought the roof would collapse. Tonight, though, our earls and warriors are as mute as stones. It is as if they

fear that one wrong word or careless utterance might unleash disaster upon our heads.

“She is not to be called a witch,” Erik announces, his voice like sudden thunder. “If she addresses you, you will call her

Seeress or Wise One. She must be accorded every honor.”

The men in the hall nod in solemn understanding, and Erik sinks back into his chair to resume the worried stroking of his

beard. When he discovered this island and laid claim to its southern shores, he must have thought himself the most fortunate

of men to possess such an unblemished paradise. But he did not reckon on the brutal winters taking so severe a toll on him

and on those who followed him here. Every year there is talk of abandoning the settlement. That is why Erik sent to Iceland

for the witch—to see what the future holds for Brattahlid. Whether greatness or doom.

Ragnar coughs beside me and struggles to loosen his cloak. I wrapped him in the warmest furs I could find to protect him from

the elements. But now that we are seated in front of the raging fire, the air around us thick with smoke, he is once again

drenched with sweat.

“Let me,” I whisper when I see the leather knot of his cloak defeat him.

He glares at me but says nothing as I remove his furs.

On the bench beside us, Thorsten looks Ragnar up and down with his one good eye. “Where have you been all day?”

“Bad fish,” Ragnar answers.

Thorsten laughs and turns away, and Ragnar smiles at me as if he has claimed some victory with his deceit. Then he coughs

and clutches at his chest in such desperation, I am certain it will bring all eyes upon him. But I am wrong. We are spared

discovery by the bitter frost-wind that tears through the Great Hall when its large oak door is thrust open.

Erik’s brother Asvald enters. He removes his cap and shakes the snow from his bear-fur cloak. Behind him, lingering in the

shadows, a hooded figure waits.

“My lord.” Asvald kneels before his brother. “I bring you Ulfhild the seeress.”

Erik rises from the high seat, and every man rises with him. The seeress steps out of the shadows and pulls back the cowl

of her black lambskin mantle that is finer than anything our women have here in Brattahlid. Her pale face is sharp and lean,

and her kohl-black eyes have something of the wolf’s smile in them. Were I to guess, I would say it is a face that has seen

no more than forty summers. In youth, she would have been a beauty, and some of that beauty lingers in the bloodred hair that

coils atop her head like knotted snakes.

“Greetings, Erik, son of Thorvald,” the seeress says, nodding in deferment to our chieftain, her voice sharp and cold as ice.

“Greetings, Seeress. You are most welcome in Brattahlid. It was brave of you to make the journey. I know men in this room

who would be afeared to traverse the sea in such a winter as this.”

“That does not surprise me,” Ulfhild replies with a short, hard laugh. “Men are often brave only when it is convenient. Life

does not afford such luxury to a woman.”

My brother-warriors tense, our eyes turning to Erik to see how we are to take this strange rebuke. To our great relief, he laughs.

“You speak true, Seeress,” he declares. “Come, sit, we shall feast and toast your good health!”

A chair almost as finely and elaborately carved as Erik’s is set beside him and draped in pillows and furs. The seeress nods

in approval. In slow, unhurried steps, she makes her way across the long, narrow hall, nodding to each of Erik’s men, who

pay homage with words of greeting.

“You are most welcome, Great Seeress,” I say as she passes before me. She nods and is about to continue her slow procession

when her wolf-sharp eyes catch sight of Ragnar. I see her take in his labored breathing and his pale face stained with sweat.

She holds him in her hungry gaze, and I feel a chill in my bones colder than any winter.

Then she turns away and resumes her journey to the chair of honor.

Once his guest is seated, Erik motions for us to do the same. Ragnar almost collapses in exhaustion, his body going slack

like a sail that has lost the wind. Thank Odin for the swift arrival of the servants. Their entrance draws the attention of