Bjorn was walking, he did not know how far or how long he had been walking, but he kept the sun at his back during the day and wandered as it pleased him during the night.
When he first heard the voices of his family, loved ones and the people he had grown up with, he thought they were coming to take him back. They told him he had been misled and that a great feast was waiting for him at home with mead and roasts to celebrate the successful raid. It had all been in jest. Just follow our voices, they said. We will lead you home, great warrior. He had followed them without thought, without hesitation, for many days and nights. Each time he said he was tired and needed to rest, they mocked him, called him weak.
It wasn't until something in him shouted, Stop! To not take a step further. That he had started paying attention to his surroundings again. He found himself a few steps from a great drop. The great green forest far below him stretched out as fat as he could see. The sight was glorious and brought some life back into his befuddled mind. He was angry with the voices and called them deceivers. Told them to go away. They had only mocked him in return. So he took in the sight one more time and turned around.
He ignored the voices now. Sometimes they were silent, but they always came back. Telling him to end his worthless existence. To stop shaming the People. He was no better than the lesser men of the Softlands, no better than a beast. A house dog or pig had more value than he did.
With the sun still high and shining on the back of his head Bjorn found himself unable to continue. He saw a rock a few steps away, so he crawled to it for some shade and rolled over on his side facing the rock, curled up and closed his red eyes. There were no dreams of comfort, and there were no dreams of damnation. He only knew that one moment had he been sleeping, and the next, he was awoken by something tugging at his back.
Taking the shaft of his iron knife, he drew it as he stood, ready to fight. It was only a fox. He could see its red coat scurrying away through the trees and bushes, scampering from the fright he must have given it. Sheathing his knife, he took in his surroundings for the first time in a long while.
He was at the edge of a forest, a few hundred steps, and he could see the grasslands begin. He heard a brook close by singing its song, as it journeyed from the far away snow covered mountains to the lowlands. Bjorn knew the great steppes would turn into the ground that never thawed further north and ice covered trees. He had been there hunting with the clan, his former clan. The first time he heard a tree tear apart during the night, he had wet himself, so had most of the young hunters. The sound had been so loud, like standing next to thunder. It was a strange and beautiful place in the far north, but the wildlings that lived there were weird and quick to anger, almost as quick to anger as the People. They held some evil power over the snow and cold with wicked sorcery.
Looking down at his gloved hands, Bjorn swallowed. Best not to think about it now. Taking off his pack, he started unrolling one of the skins, taking out grains, dried meat and fish. The fox had likely been after this bounty. The priestess and his cousin had come through. Behind the rocks, he had found his prized possessions, a pack with enough dried food to last for weeks and the essentials for traveling the land of the People. Cloths to warm him and hide his shame. Then there were the gloves. Made of soft brown skin, he barely noticed wearing them. They fit him like they had been sewn onto his hands. How the priestess had managed to make them in such a short time, he would never know. The holding rods were tall on the pack to fit all the rolled skins, but he didn't mind. He barely felt it on his back while walking. Unhooking a couple of pots, he went to the brook.
A short while later, he sat on a rock, eating gruel with dried meat and drinking the still warm water. It felt good. Just to be. Not to think. Thinking made him numb and brought the voices back when he was spent beyond what was good. He knew their secret now. He knew their intent, so they would not fool him again. If he ended his time in the land of the living, it would be on his own term, not some foul spirits.
It was not yet time for him to make that choice. He would need to mend his spirit first, now that his name was taken. He tried remembering what the will of the Mother had said, but all he remembered was an ocean of sand. Bjorn tried to picture such a thing, but it was too much. Did their longships sail across the sand as if water? He had seen sand along the shores, even fine white sand in the Softlands. How one made an ocean to sail on with sand, he had no idea. There was always something new to see when they went on raids, even if he sometimes found things better at home. His former home. He thought as he ran a hand over his skull and short hair, feeling for what was no longer there. His hair was growing back fast.
Making his way down, he brought the empty gruel pot to the brook, cleaned it and brought it back to his small fire setting both pots to boil. He knew that the Softlanders often smelled horrendous, but the People cleaned themselves at least once a day, either in steam huts or in the baths. He could see the rings of sweat, new and old, he had made on his inner shirt. This would not do. He may not be among the People anymore, but to fall as low as a Softlander? No, it would be better to eat slop with the pigs or beg bones at the table as the hunting dogs sometimes were allowed during feasts.
Bringing the boiling water to the brook, he set them down by the water's edge and brought out one of the lye soap bars the priestess had undoubtedly put in his pack. He could not see his cousin remembering that.
Bjorn stood there for a moment, eyes closed, setting his mind right. He repeated the words in his mind. “I, Bjorn, will heal my broken spirit and return to the People whole one day. I will take my name back by right or by force. I will be worthy.” Over and over, he repeated it until he almost believed it himself, but the foolish belief was all he needed for now.
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Quickly stripping off his clothes, he tossed the outer garments away from the water and stepped into the brook. He stood there for a moment longer, eyes closed to gather his courage. He repeated his promise again and again until he was numb to its meaning. Then he quickly started scrubbing himself in the cold running water. It may only reach his calf, but he didn't need much more. Testing the water in the pots, they didn't feel like they would burn him. Dunking the lye soap and a washcloth in one of the pots, he lathered his body, staring at the distant horizon as he washed his chest and arms. Rinsing the cloth in the brook, he dunked it in the warm, clean water and continued washing until he felt his skin tingling. When he was done cleaning his inner clothes, he hurried back to his fire and put them up to dry. The smell of wood smoke on these clothes was something he much preferred over his own filth.
Standing in front of the fire after having packed the pots in cloths and hung them from the holding rods. He enjoyed the warmth on his front and the cool breeze playing on his back. It gave him comfort and kept him alert at the same time. He stood there for some time staring at the fire, not paying attention to his thoughts, if there were any.
He would need to find a better resting place before it became dark. That he had not ended in the belly of a beast while wandering aimlessly was nothing short of a miracle. Even as the gods had turned their backs on him, maybe the Brother had taken some pity on his wretched state and kept the beast away.
Feeling the clothes, they were almost dry, so he put on new underclothes and his outer clothes before hanging the still moist clothes from his backpack. The smell of wood smoke should help keep some of the basts away from him too. He was almost sad to put out the fire. It gave him comfort and drow away the bad thoughts.
It was almost dark when he found what he was looking for. A place where the mountains almost reached the great steppes, woodlands on either side and a river making its way into the great steppes. If he had been of the People, he would have considered taking a few brides and moving to such a place. Starting his own clan. It was what the land should be. He only missed the endless waters. The inland smelled different than he was used to. The sea brought something cleansing into the air. The sweet smell of grass and pine trees also had their own place. It was a place of peace. A place not touched by the People. Bjorn would enjoy his time on this virgin land, he decided.
Making sure there were no regular tracks of prey or predators close to this night campsite, he set up a lean-to between two strong trees. His felling axe made short work of the fallen branches. He had a fire pit in front, with boiling water and gruel by the time Brother Sun was chased out of the sky and Sister Moon showed herself in full glory. Sitting back on the skins he had unrolled in the lean-to, he made sure his good iron knife was close to hand, and his fighting axe was leaning against his side as he was using a carving knife to make spear tips on some of the straighter branches he had found. He already had two propped up far enough above the fire to not burn. He would let the outside turn to ash when he thought enough moisture had left them.
Tomorrow he would scout for a better place to stay. He had no plan for the future yet or even knew if he had a future looking at his gloved hands, but he knew that the winter would make its mark known on the land soon. By then, he hoped to have enough forged to see him through the winter or find a trader encampment along the coast to raid or trade with. The people wouldn't stop him from speaking or raiding the Softlanders. They were considered even of less worth than he was. They would just pretend he wasn't there, or if he directly interfered, they would put him to rest.
Bjorn was hanging his pack up by a branch the next morning when he heard the sound of shouting. He hurriedly got his fighting axe and the spears and made his way towards the sound that shattered his peace. Hungry and annoyed at having his plan to scout interrupted, he ran toward the forest's edge. The closer he got however, the more excitement started to build in him. Maybe it was a fight. He could do with some bloodletting. He could always do with some bloodletting. Feeling his body heat up, he increased his pace until there only was a thin line of trees between him and the grassland.
There were three people in the distance, trying to clear the river he had found the previous day. They were pulling something behind them that looked like travois to his eye. It seemed foolish. While the river was thinner where they would be at, it would also be deeper. There was a need in him to see them closer, to see what they were doing out here between the villages. Maybe he just needed someone who was of the People but not of his village to see him. To see what their eyes told him.
Running back towards the mountain, he followed the river's bank. He remembered seeing a place that would be easier to ford. It was almost back at his camping spot, so he grabbed his pack too. Who knows how long he could be gone before he summoned the courage to let them see him.
Back at the wide section of the river, he took off his shoes and pants and walked into the river using two branches to feel his way, but he could easily see the bottom here, and he doubted it would go past his knee at the deepest. His pack was stacked high, though, with the spears and axes he didn't want to get wet, even as it stayed surprisingly light. Bjorn thought the risk was acceptable. Taking careful steps, he almost flinched when a large salmon swam past his legs. Now he wanted to go further downstream and see where this river ended. For one that large, the lake would be enormous, or it had come from the sea.
The fording had gone so smoothly that he had to dissuade his childish self from vaulting the opposite bank with his two branches, pack and all. He remembered them doing that when they were children, but to get into the river.
He hurried to the tree line and quickly spotted the people again. Two of them had reached the opposite bank. The last one was close behind. It seemed to be slow going, but they had decided to carry their cargo overhead. It would take several more trips by the size of the travois they had been pulling. At least they would be easy to follow, he thought as he leaned back against a three and let the sun warm his body.