CHAPTER XIII
THE GATE IN THE SKY
FOR nearly three days the snow driver raged, and then there fell a calm. The whole of the earth was blanketed in white and only the dense clump of firs showed the spot where four human beings slept, two feet beneath the surface of the snow.
The reindeer were the first to sense the passing of the storm, and staggered up, tossing their heads and going off at once to paw at the drifts with their cleft hoofs in search of the moss that was their winter food. The movement aroused Kyrger, who bobbed up and shook himself like a dog. Picking up a fallen branch, he went to where Joan and Thorne were buried, feeling around with his feet until he found the spot.
Here he hesitated a moment, his eyes traveling to the bundle of gear secured in the tree. This was to him incalculable treasure, and, above the other things he coveted the crossbow which sent a shaft twice as far as his bow.
It came into his mind that if he let the outlanders sleep on they would die and the weapon would be his as well as the other things. In fact he wondered whether the other three were not dead already.
Then the Samoyed began to thrust the snow away with his branch. The same instinct that had led him to safeguard the lives of the helpless three, now called to him to rouse them. Kyrger had accepted Thorne as his master. He looked upon the armiger as a young lord, in much the same way that Thorne cherished the memory of Edward, his king.
He hauled up the felt and satisfied himself that Thorne still breathed; about the maiden he was more doubtful. He examined the biscuits, and saw that they had eaten something. Then he set to work rubbing snow on the man's face and hands until the blue tinge faded from the skin and Thorne opened his eyes, grimacing with pain, and incapable of movement until the hunter had rubbed his limbs.
“Mistress Joan?” he croaked, and rose to his knees, swaying dizzily as the blood began to circulate through his veins again.
He drew back the hood from the girl's face and felt for the pulse in her throat. He could feel nothing through the numbness of his fingers.
“Fire,” he muttered. “We must have a fire.”
Helped by Kyrger, he plowed his way to the bundle in the tree and took from it a powder horn and steel and flint. Then, cutting off a length of the Samoyed's loosely woven rope, he untwisted the hemp strands. Gathering a double handful of dead twigs from the firs, he went back to the spot kept dear of snow by the felt and his own body.
Building a small mound of twigs and pine needles, he poured a little powder from the horn and fell to striking the steel against the flint stone. Presently a spark flew into the powder grains and flared up, eating into the dead twigs and the hemp strands.
Kyrger, who had watched with interest, now brought larger twigs and coaxed the tiny flame into a crackling blaze. To this branches were added until the fire glowed warmly. The heat only served to quicken the girl's heavy breathing, until Thorne chafed her wrists and throat with snow.
After a while her eyes flickered, and she sighed. A kind of smile touched her lips, bringing the semblance of life back into her again. He himself ached in every joint and his vision played queer tricks. He fancied that the whole sky over the sea was on fire.
Kyrger had anticipated his need, and brought frozen meat, which he placed on flat rocks in the fire. A savory odor spread into the air, and, as if roused by this summons, Peter Palmer dragged himself out of his white mausoleum and crouched down by the fire.
Thorne noticed with weary surprize that the stout boatswain was weeping. Tears trickled down his hollow cheeks, but he said no word. He kept his eyes fixed on the meat until Thorne had forced a piece between the girl's teeth and induced her to chew and swallow it.
When Joan would eat no more the three men fell on the meat and divided what remained between them. Then Peter tightened his belt and looked around him slowly.
“I said truth,” he grunted at length. ”This maiden was a sea troll; the land is not her place. By black arts she hath fetched us to the very portal of which is plainly to be seen over yonder.”
Thorne looked over his shoulder and rubbed his eyes. What he had taken for a fantasy was still visible.
A light cloud arched over the northern horizon and from this cloud fiery streamers stretched to the zenith. Up and down these streamers passed a radiance, now purple, now yellow, but always flickering up to an immense height where it vanished in a kind of mist.
As Thorne watched, the radiance vanished, to reappear almost instantly in a different form. Gigantic, glowing pillars seemed now to rise from the dark horizon to the regions of outer space. This glow palpitated and grew stronger until his eyes ached. The pillars were columns of fire, towering over their heads, but giving out no heat.
Then the fiery portals, that had so wrought upon Peter's fancy, vanished and the elusive streamers sprang into being again.
“I have sailed the seas of the earth,” said the shipman solemnly, “and I have seen the water rise up into pillars that reached to the sky. I've clapped my deadlights on the serpent that the Good Book names Leviathan, daddle me else. I've seen fishes fly through the air, off Madagascar, it were. But yonder gate in the sky is the gate of Satan's do-minions.”
Having relieved his mind of this augury, he fell into a troubled sleep. Somewhere in the lurid darkness a tree trunk cracked sharply, and Thorne heard far inland the howling of a wolf pack, coursing the hard snow on the heels of the storm. Hunched close to the fire that warmed them into life, he wondered what the morrow might bring.
THE armiger admitted to Joan that they must have heavier garments, if they were to enter the unknown world to the east. The girl labored with Kyrger in sewing rude coats out of the furs for the two men to wear. For thread she had the supple gut preserved by the Samoyed, and for needle a bit of whale-bone rubbed into the desired shape.
Meanwhile Kyrger got out what appeared to be a pair of great wooden skates, nearly two ells long and as wide as the palm of his hand, with strips of reindeer skin fixed to the under side.
Thus shod and carrying a long staff, he could glide over the surface of the snow beside the sled on which the girl rode. Thorne and Peter ran or walked in the hard track made by the cloven hoofs of the beasts and the run of the sled.
It was necessary to carry on the sled powder, tinder and pine branches enough to kindle a fire at a moment's notice. Only in this way could they ward off the at tacks of the lean, gray wolves, larger than any the voyagers had seen before.
It was after they had beaten off a pack of these wolves and were pushing forward warily, that Thorne halted and pointed down at some large tracks that ran across the slot of the sled.
“I pray you, Mistress Joan,” he said, “tell the Samoyed we must have good fresh meat, ere ever we can reach the ships. Here are bear's tracks, and we will hunt down the beast.”
But when the maiden translated his speech to Kyrger, the Easterling shook his head and uttered one word decisively.
“Kyrger says,” she explained, “that this is ermecin—the strongest. 'Tis thus they name the white bear of the Ice Sea.”
“Nevertheless we will seek it out.”
The small Samoyed appeared to be troubled. Ermecin, he declared, could not be brought down by his arrows. Nor would the pistols of the outlanders serve to stop the rush of this beast. Moreover the white bear was sacred to a neighboring tribe, the Ostiaks.
Thorne was determined to get good meat for the girl, and took his crossbow from the sled, winding it with care and setting a bolt in the slot. Joan insisted on going with him, saying that she had a dread of being left alone. Peter was put in charge of the reindeer and the three set out toward the shore.
The tracks were fresh, and Kyrger followed them easily, though reluctantly enough. They descended a gully and came out on the shore, sighting the bear before long, among a nest of rocks.
It scented or saw them at the same time and raised its head on a swaying, sinuous neck. Thorne saw that its head was small and its body greater than that of any bear he had set eyes upon. Moreover, being white tinged with yellow, it blended with the snow behind it.
It did not seem to fear them because it made no effort to move away when they approached within bowshot.
“Bid Kyrger loose his shafts,” said Thorne briefly. “For he can shoot several, and I but one.”
The Samoyed shook his head, reluctantly, yet obediently fitted an arrow to the string and bent his short bow. The missile whipped through the air and struck the white bear in the flank, but did not penetrate half its length. The brute swung toward them instantly, its head weaving from side to side.
A second arrow pierced its shoulder, and it swept through the snow, moving with unexpected speed, so that Kyrger's third shot merely glanced along its ribs.
The hunter cast down his bow and drew his knife, the breath hissing between his teeth, while Thorne planted his feet and sighted the crossbow, sending a bolt into the bear's throat.
The beast plunged forward, and gained its feet slowly, blood streaming from its open jaws. Then it fell on its side, not a dozen paces from them.
Kyrger shouted, wild with excitement. He pointed admiringly at Thorne's weapon and ran to the bear, chanting something loudly. To Thorne's surprize Joan smiled, although her lips were bloodless. She had not stirred or spoken during the charge of the great beast.
“He is saying,” she laughed, “that the spirit of the bear must not be angered at us. He is telling the spirit that we did not slay it, nay, a wicked Ostiak sped the bolt. And when the bear's spirit seeks blood revenge in another body it must follow the tribe of Ostiaks.”
“What are they?”
“My father said they dwell more to the east. They are cruel people, who slay strangers. They are the dog-sled people, more warlike than the reindeer-sled Samoyeds.”
Leaving Kyrger to skin the animal, they returned to the camp, where Peter had kindled a fire and Thorne took the shipman aside.
“Many days have passed since we bade Master Chancellor farewell. By my reckoning this should be close to Christmas, if, indeed it is not that very day.”
“Noël!”
Peter glanced up at the flickering arc of the northern lights, and at the gray sweep of the shore with its fringe of ice floes.
“That is ill said, younker, for it puts me in mind of the honest Yule log, aye, and the boar's head, and a pudding with brandy afire. And here us be on Christmas eve, where the very angels would fear to raise a chant, and the good Christ”
“He would not fear to venture here.”
Thorne wrinkled his brows in thought.
Peter regarded his companion in some surprize, for he had not noticed that Thorne was given to prayer or meditation.
“'Tis of Mistress Joan I am thinking,” went on the armiger. “Her spirit lags, and if we do not show her some care she will not endure in this life. Now, she is ever mindful of prayer and such-like. How if we hold the Yuletide as best we may?”
“Aye, but how?”
“Why, we can cut us a proper tree and make shift to trim it. Then may we sing a round of carols.”
Peter rubbed his chin, and eyed his friend sidewise.
“Fairly said, if we had e'en a nuggin of brandy or a sprig of hollywood. But carols—harumpf! Do you sing the words, Master Ralph, and I'll carry the melody, blast me else! A fine voice have I for melody, but as for words—now that's a craft of another rig.”
NEVERTHELESS, he got his hatchet from the sled and disappeared into the twilight, while Thorne aided Kyrger in preparing the steaks the Samoyed had brought up with the bear skin.
By the time the meal was ready, and Joan seated on the sled, he returned, carrying a small fir which he set erect in the snow a little distance from the fire and proceeded, with an air of mysterious importance, to set icicles in the branches.
Then he placed the last of the biscuits in Kyrger's solitary pewter dish and drew from his girdle a small leather flask.
“I filled it at the Wardhouse,” he said defensively when he caught Thorne's eye on him. “Aye, 'twas cherished 'gainst sore need. 'Tis the last bilge of the brandy.”
With that he took a splinter of wood from the fire and touched the pewter plate with flame. Blue fire sprang up about the biscuits, and Kyrger who had been watching with growing interest, hid his face in his arm.
It was obvious to the Samoyed that these outlanders were making shaman magic, a magic that involved the cutting of a pine tree and burning what appeared to be water on a common pewter plate.
Peter raised the dish on high and his dumpy face split into a grin.
“Fair greeting to ye Mistress Joan. My service to ye, lady, on this eve of evenings, this merry Yuletide.”
“Is it truly so?” The dark eyes of the maiden grew somber. “Nay, you have taken all our biscuits, and burnt up your brandy.”
“No matter.” Peter waved a huge hand grandly. “I know where more is to be had. Aye, we will have no more troubles to ward. Now—” he laid the burning dish at her feet and cleared his throat—“a bit of chantry, to ease this down the ways:
“The boar's head in hand bring I,
With garlands gay and rosemary;
I pray you all sing merrily
“To be sure,” he broke off apologetically, “we do lack summat of a boar's head, and garlands. We must e'en make shift without the rosemary, but Master Ralph and I will pipe up a song, having, as it were, a pretty face—a fair, sweet face, I say—whereby to lay our course.”
He puffed out his cheeks and made his bow, and Thorne, who had been no little surprized at his high spirits and hearty manner, saw that the girl had smiled. So he went to stand by the fire and lifted his fine voice against the leaden silence of the night.
“Forth they went and glad they were;
Going, they did sing,
With mirth and solace they made good cheer,
For joy of that new tiding.”
His voice, which had been hoarse, now
rang out clearly:
“Neither in halls, nor yet in bowers,
born would He not be,
Neither in castles, nor yet in towers
That seemly were to see;
But at His Father's will,
Betwixt an ox and an ass,
Jesu this king born He was;
Heaven he bring us till!”
Peter nodded approval beating time with a finger as if he was a criterion of good music. His rasping roar joined in the chorus, while he kept an eye on the maiden:
“Forth they went and glad they were;
Going, they did sing—
Noël”
“And now,” quoth the shipman, “God lack, the maid is weeping. She is a-leak at the eyes.”
So, in truth, Joan was crying, her hands pressed to her cheeks. The two men surveyed her doubtfully, rather taken aback, at the result of their holiday spirit. Peter made bold to lay his hand on her shoulder.
“What cheer, mistress? Sets the wind foul or fair?”
She glanced up, her face flushed and a smile twitching her lips.
“Nay, I am a simpleton, good Peter. The ballad minded me of Christmas Eve long since when we had candles in the casements of the cottages of Cairness, and the children sang sweet carols. Nay, my tears were not—not of grief. I do give you thanks for your entertainment, good Peter.”
The boatswain drew back as if satisfied and motioned Thorne to one side.
“Does 'ee love the lass, Master Ralph?”
“Why not? Certainly, she is a fair companion and a brave soul.”
“Ah.” Peter nodded sagely. “Y'are a dullard with words, but still, with an observant eye. In a manner o' speaking, ye keep a sharp lookout, Master Ralph. But not so sharp as Peter Palmer,” and he made mysterious motions with brows and lips. “I have good tidings for ye, younker. The maid is an honest maid, and no sea troll.”
Thorne laughed.
“And why, Peter?”
“By reason of the holy words of the Christian song. When it was sung, she did not vanish, she did not slip cable and leave us. If she had been a witch, now, or a troll, she would not be here. So I say, if ye love the lass, why cherish her and ye will have no harm by it.”
“I am indebted to your wisdom, Peter, and to your—ob-servant eye.”
“Y'are so,” assented the shipman. “For I was about to tell the lass my tidings. While I was on yonder headland seeking the Yule fir I saw the ships. Aye, Sir Hugh's ship and the Confidentia, lying in the ice of a bay. Come morrow, we'll be with our mates.”
Kyrger squatting by the fire, waited solemnly for the end of this ritual of the outlanders. He wondered if they had been paying reverence to the quoren vairgin, the Reindeer Spirit.
Perhaps, he thought, like himself they had been paying their respects to the elder souls, the spirits of their dead companions, which were quite visible in the sky.
Purple and fiery red, these elder souls flamed on the broad gate of the sky. Kyrger knew well that the northern lights were the souls of the dead, rushing from earth to the zenith in their wild, merry dance.
Never had he seen the gate in the sky so broad, the flames so bright.