tossed it into the sea. The bone needed a resting place and because I had taken it, I must give it what it craved.
Eydis
Rouse – the action of a hawk shaking its feathers.
I know she is drawing closer. I sense it. The draugr senses it too. I take up our lucet again, our cord-maker, our power. It will lead her to us. It must.
Our lucet is fashioned from a piece of deer-horn, but it was not carved by our hands. It is an ancient thing. The Vikings brought it on their long-boats when first they ventured to this land. When its owner died it was placed in the grave with her. And there it lay for hundreds of years, until a storm washed rock and earth and grave away, and we found it, lying among the brown bones and a scatter of amber beads.
Though we were scarcely five years old we knew at once what it was, for our mother had taught us the art of plaiting cords for our clothes, just as she had taught us how to cook lichen and clean pots. But our lucets were carved from rough pieces of mutton bone, not smooth and polished as a sea-washed stone, not curved as proudly as a horse’s neck … not a precious gift from the long-dead. We sensed even then our mother would fear to see it in our hands.
Now the cord I have woven twists from its twin prongs. It is long enough to reach the girl, but not yet long enough to pull her close. Each day I must add another finger-length to it. Each twist, each loop gently and slowly guides her footsteps to this place. Three strands of wool woven together to make a single cord – black to call the dead, green to give them hope, red to lend them strength.
I turn the stem of the lucet in my hand, twisting it always with the sun I cannot see but have never forgotten. And with each new knot, the cord tightens and tightens until she will feel it drawing her, and know it is the falcons calling her. Then she will come. She must bring them to us. For the dead who follow her are our only living hope.
Iceland Ricardo
Entraves or fetters – the equipment used to prevent a bird of prey flying away, comprising the jesses attached to the legs, a swivel and a leash with which to tie her to the perch or block.
It would just have to be that snivelling little wretch Vítor who gave Isabela the news that the coast of Iceland had been sighted, wouldn’t it? I’d heard the cry go up from the watch, of course, but they were always hollering orders at one another in their own jargon with the sole purpose of trying to make the passengers feel inferior, so that I had long since abandoned any pretence of listening to them. But on this occasion it turned out the incoherent bellows were because land had been sighted, and Vítor came thundering down the steps into our sleeping quarters to convey the glad tidings, urging us to come and look, as if this was an uncharted land and he had personally just discovered it.
I was the more annoyed because, for the first time, I had actually begun to believe I was gaining Isabela’s trust. There is a moment in every scam when you know that you have succeeded in putting a halter on your victim and may lead them to wherever you want to take them. At first they are wary of you, then comes suspicion, distrust and even hostility, but you must hold your nerve, persist. Gradually you will see they are listening to you, pricking up their ears, sniffing the air, and then they begin to edge diffidently towards you. They ask a few questions which suggest they are thinking about the prospect. They give you a tiny inadvertent nod of agreement, a hesitant little smile, and this is the beginning of trust, but only the beginning, mind you. Move too fast at this stage and they will shy away, never to return, but offer soothing words, compliments about their good sense and judgement and you’ll find them snuffling ever closer. Believe me, I have conned enough men and women to know the signs. And Isabela was almost there, almost willing to allow me to lead her.
It was imperative that I got her to trust me before we reached Iceland. If I