Page 18 of The Devils

Clean Not Clean

‘This way,’ said Vigga, striding on towards the river.

‘Right,’ squeaked Alex, hurrying to catch up. She had to take three steps for every two of Vigga’s, partly ’cause she was a stringy little scrap and partly ’cause she treated every step like it was saying sorry for something.

Vigga did not say sorry. Ever. Never had, even before the bite. She liked to walk. Feel the mud press the soles of her feet like a handshake. Jakob had said something about incognito and she got the feeling that was someone stealthy, but she’d never heard of him. Sneaking about was well enough for Sunny who was built like a length of wire, and well enough for Baptiste who could smirk her way through a keyhole, and well enough even for Alex who didn’t look like anyone in particular so you almost missed her when she was right in front of you.

But it wasn’t going to work for Vigga. Disguises weren’t made in her size. So she pushed her hood back and shook her hair out and stood her full height. Some fucker wanted her to shrink they could try and make her, see how that turned out.

People stared, of course. That’s a very big woman , they were probably thinking, and they were right. So?

Why be ashamed? her mother always said. If people don’t like you, it’s their problem, don’t make yourself suffer for it. Fuck ’em , she’d always said. You’ll find enough folk want you to suffer, there’s no need to help the bastards. They never got Vigga’s mother to drop her eyes, and Odin’s beard, they’d tried. So Vigga didn’t drop hers, either. Not for anyone.

‘Fuck ’em,’ she said.

‘Who?’ asked Alex.

‘Oh.’ Vigga had forgotten she was there. ‘Everyone. Fuck ’em. That is my … what’s the word?’

‘Philosophy?’

‘Motto,’ said Vigga, then frowned. She was thirsty. She tapped at her breastbone with a finger. Felt like the thirst was a thing alive under there, niggling and gnawing. ‘Need a drink.’

‘You just drank,’ said Alex, hurrying to catch up again. ‘You drank all the water we had.’

‘That was then.’ Vigga didn’t think about the past much. The past was nutshells. Once they’re cracked off what use are they? Toss ’em away and walk on, why hoard the bastards? Also her memory was poor and digging up anything but the vaguest impressions further back than a week ago always felt like hard labour. Fucking yawn. She hadn’t the patience for it. Never had any patience, even before the bite.

Why worry about it? her mother used to tell her. Maybe while she was smiling, and braiding Vigga’s hair. The thought made Vigga smile. Made her push her fingers into her hair, trying to remember what it’d felt like. The tugging on her scalp. The being taken care of. The gulls calling on the dock and the smell of fish. Hadn’t she been thinking she didn’t think about the past much? Now here she was thinking about the past again. Maybe she remembered all the time, then forgot she’d remembered.

Vigga frowned again. Now she’d got herself a bit confused.

‘You all right?’ asked Alex.

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘Why have we stopped?’

‘Oh. Right.’ Vigga walked on. She liked walking. ‘What was I saying?’

‘You weren’t saying anything.’

‘Oh. Right. Was I thinking something?’

‘How would I know that?’

‘Oh. Right. Hot, isn’t it?’

‘Not really.’

‘Uh.’ Vigga wiped sweat from that hollow at the base of her throat. Always collected there, for some reason. ‘I’m thirsty.’

‘You said.’

‘Did I? We should get water.’

‘That’s … what we’re doing.’

‘Ah! Hence the river. Good, then. Perfect. We should get a bucket.’

Alex raised her brows, and rolled her eyes downwards, and Vigga followed them.

‘Ah.’ She had a bucket in her hand.

‘Jakob gave it to us.’

‘So he did. Jakob’s a very practical man.’ He’d made sure to strip all the corpses back at the inn for coins and rings and what have you, so now they could buy food and blankets and things. Not that Vigga needed blankets. She ran hot. Hot as Brokkr and Eitri’s crucible. The weather wasn’t made that could make her cold. She’d probably have wandered off and left that plunder. Jakob was good for thinking ahead. Good on the details. Vigga was terrible on the details. Always had been, even before the bite. You’re terrible on the details, Vigga , her mother used to say.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Money smooths things out. Can’t buy things without it. You get debts and whatnot.’

‘Believe me, I know. Left a few debts behind me, in fact—’

‘Need a piss.’ And Vigga hitched up her stupid bloody cloak-thing, took a step from the track, and squatted in the grass.

Alex blinked. ‘You just going to—’ Vigga was already wriggling her trousers down. ‘Course you are.’

Couple of pilgrims walking towards the river were staring over at her now. ‘Morning!’ called Vigga, but they hurried on. ‘What’s got up their arses?’

‘Couldn’t say,’ muttered Alex, scratching the back of her head. ‘Maybe you—’

‘And … there we go. Ha! Don’t stand downhill of me, you’ll be swep’ away in the flood! Like when the sons of Bor slew Ymir! It’s like a river in spate down here.’

‘Yep.’ Alex squinted off at the horizon. ‘It’s a real fountain. All that drinking surely paid off.’

‘I knew it would!’ And Vigga forced out a last dribble with a shiver, shook her arse and pulled her trousers up and was off, leaving Alex hopping along behind. Why hang around?

‘You forgot the bucket!’

‘Aye, but look, you’ve got it.’ And Vigga clapped Alex on the back, and near knocked her over, and had to catch her shoulders to whisk her up straight again.

The Pope said look after Princess Alexia, and Vigga loved the Pope. Such a laugh! They would chat about this and that. Vigga was usually in a cage at the time, but she was in a cage most of the time and had to accept there were good reasons why. They understood each other. Both missed their mothers, maybe. Her Holiness said look after Princess Alexia, so Vigga had decided to like her. If you have to look after someone what’s the point in not liking them? Makes everything a pain in the arse. And life’s painful enough without getting in your own way , as Halfdan always used to say. Before she killed him.

Don’t look too far ahead. That was what Olaf used to say. Before she killed him, too. Or did she kill him first? The order was hazy. Probably best not to look too far back, either. Specially if your memory was as poor as Vigga’s and had all the horrible shit in it hers had. Next breath, next step, next meal, next fuck. Get what you can from the moments then let ’em go. Don’t hoard your nutshells. Travel light, light as wind, scrape off the mud of grudges and regrets. Stay clean.

‘Vigga?’

And Vigga realised she’d stopped again. Just standing there, staring at the dirt.

‘Wha?’

‘We shouldn’t be …’ Alex glanced about. ‘Drawing attention.’

‘I cannot help that I’m a striking woman.’

‘Jakob said—’

‘Jakob’s all right,’ she said, striding on. ‘You can trust him. All the oaths and whatever. He’s like a rock. Not much give, but he’s a man who does what he says he’ll do. Bloody past and blah, blah, course, but we’re none of us along for our virtue. ’Cept Brother Whatsface, I suppose.’

‘Diaz.’

‘Is it? Priests like to be virtuous. Or at least like to pretend to be. Or at least like other people to pretend to be.’ She stopped to snarl the words. ‘Fuck that bastard Rikard, though! He has a fucking stink on him, can you smell it? That evil stink he has! Dead and wrong and rotten old blood.’ She realised she was standing over Alex and spitting in her face, and took a step back, and tried to smile, which was hard with that lumpy throbbing, that scratchy scratching under her breastbone. ‘But, you know, you can hate a shipmate and still row the same way.’ And she took the bucket from Alex’s limp hand and set off again, towards the river.

Erik used to say that. Had she killed him? Or was he one of the ones that got away? Hard to remember, now, it was all in a mist, hints and whispers and bits and pieces. Take a breath, and open your fist, and let the mistakes fall out like nutshells and … there! You’re clean.

‘After all, look at me. How many folk have I killed?’ And she laughed, and threw an arm around Alex’s shoulders. ‘Boatloads. Imagine if you stacked them up into a hill. Into a mountain. Blot out the sun.’ And she laughed again, but she could hear it cracking, like it might turn to a scream any moment. She’d a worry the wolf was awake. Could feel its pitter-patter footsteps, up and down inside the cage of her ribs, slinking and slobbering, whining to be let out.

‘What’s the point of counting, after a while? Once you’re over your head in blood, what’s the difference?’ And she realised she had tears tickling her eyes, and she wiped ’em, then laughed again, and made a better fist of it this time. You have to laugh it off. Nutshells. Pretend you’re clean.

Here was the riverbank, and trees in the sun on the far side, and light all a-sparkle on the water with the little flies drifting in the chilly sunny morning and Vigga took a long, sharp breath through the nose and let it sigh away and things weren’t too bad. Downstream a ring of women had gathered in the shallows, all facing out in their wet shifts, while one or two of their number washed hidden from view in the middle.

She nudged Alex with an elbow. ‘Look at these, I ask you. Didn’t God make your twats?’ she shouted at them. ‘He knows what’s under there and the rest of us can guess!’ She tossed the bucket down and started to wriggle out of her cloak-thing. ‘I’ll show ’em how it’s done—’

‘But everyone’ll see, you know …’ Alex was peering at Vigga’s hands, and Vigga turned them over, and saw the marks on the backs.

‘Ah. The warnings.’

Hard to feel clean, when they’d pricked her crimes into her. Warned the world about her, for ever. Chained her, and goaded the wolf out with hot iron. She could feel it, snapping and scratching in the cage of her ribs, ever-so-niggly, ever-so-sharp. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to get the breath in. It was gone and done and washed away. No need for regrets. She flapped her hands about a bit, put ’em where she didn’t have to see the writing on the backs.

‘You all right?’ asked Alex.

‘Fine. Fine. I’m clean.’

‘You’re what?’

‘Like nutshells.’

‘What?’

‘Fucking nutshells!’ snarled Vigga, spraying spit. ‘Aren’t you fucking listening ?’ And she saw her hands were up like they’d catch Alex and rip the meat out of her and the hair on the tattooed backs of them and the tendons standing stark and shit the points of claws popping her nails off and she hid them behind her back ’cause Alex looked very pale and who could blame her.

‘Sorry,’ said Vigga. ‘I am so sorry for shouting. How rude.’ And she was sort of smiling and sort of crying at the same time. ‘My mother would be very disappointed.’ She touched Alex’s cheek with her hand, and it was just a person hand with the nails a bit bitten down, and if you could look past the runes and what have you actually very gentle, and Vigga stroked Alex’s hair and pulled a leaf out of it. She looked quite scared while Vigga was doing it but oh well at least one of them felt better.

‘I like you, Alex,’ said Vigga.

‘Why?’ asked Alex, which sounded strange and almost a bit sad, but who knows why people say things?

‘Don’t know. You swear a lot, maybe? Here’s the thing.’ Vigga tried to smile, but it was hard. ‘A time may come when I tell you to run away from me.’ She took a breath, but it felt like the wolf swelling in her chest hardly left room for it. ‘And if I say run, you have to run. You hear me? Don’t argue. Don’t dither. ’Cause the Pope’s binding binds me … but not the wolf. Run away and maybe climb a tree? Or ride away fast on a horse. Or jump down a well.’

‘Down a well?’

‘Yes. Good idea.’ Vigga took another breath, and got this one all the way in. The wolf was shrinking, shrivelling away. ‘Phew.’ She scratched her neck, and patted her breastbone, and wriggled her shoulders. ‘Fine, fine.’ She took another breath. ‘I’m clean.’

Not far from the bank a man was changing a wheel on a wagon, down beside it on one knee, pilgrim’s hood back and hair dark with sweat and his sleeves rolled up, sinews shifting in his forearms as he wrestled with the axle.

You couldn’t have called him pretty, but no one ever called Vigga pretty and it wasn’t about pretty. What was it about? Always something different. Never what you’d expect. Something in the way he knelt there so easy, the way he looked at the wheel to be changed, like it was the whole world. Something in that stillness, in that patience, and Vigga felt the tickle, and she pressed her tongue into her teeth and made the growl in her throat and thought about going over. Thought about how the tickle would become an itch and the itch would need scratching.

Not the time nor the place , Jakob would say, but he was wrong. The place and time was here and now. It had to be. Claw what you can from the world while it’s on offer ’cause we’re all meat, all dust, written on the sand, gone in a twinkle. You can’t keep it for tomorrow, ’cause tomorrow your hopes won’t all bloom of a sudden, tomorrow will be just like today. Not the time nor the place.

She took one step towards the man changing the wheel and felt someone grab her wrist.

‘Vigga?’

‘Uh?’ She stared around. She’d forgotten Alex was there. Took her a moment to remember who she was. ‘Oh. Right. Princess. Who’d have thought?’

‘Not fucking me,’ said Alex, puffing out her cheeks. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Nowhere.’ Vigga shook herself. Shook the tickle off. ‘Not the time nor the place, is it? Ah! The river.’ She loved a swim! Always had, even before the bite. Water in your hair and whatever.

So she strode down the bank and slopped into the river in her clothes and felt the lovely chilly kiss of the water and drank it down and spat it out in a little fountain and laughed and splashed about and laughed again.

‘The bucket!’ shouted Alex from the bank.

‘The what?’ She did see a bucket, floating away on the current. Someone must’ve dropped it. That was careless.

She stood up in the river, water streaming off her sodden clothes. Now she was confused again.

‘What was I saying?’