‘But it does not have to be that way.’ The krol smiled. ‘We must be as one; work together to forge this land anew.’ Now the women were confused again. Only the gods could cough up new land and spit it into the sea.
The shield wall broke as two woyaks dragged in a sack and dropped it at the feet of Krol Gawel. Still smiling, Krol Gawel dipped his hands inside and brought out a handful of grains, letting them slip slowly through his fingers. ‘Barley and rye,’ he said. ‘We have hops and buckwheat too. We’ll plant these seeds deep in the womb of Matka Ziemia and she will reward us with food. My woyaks will cut down the trees and you will carry the wood away. Once the earth has been cleared I will plough the field and you will plant the grain; then we shall have bread to eat and beer to drink,’ he continued, but none of the women listened. Now they knew that the krol was mad: how could anybody do such things to moist Mother Earth, who gave so much, so freely? All you had to do was pick her bounty. Did she not provide herbs which grew easily from her tender soil? Why not just pluck the berries which spouted readily from her body, or follow the herds for meat? Despite their fear some of the women sniggered, their giggles hidden behind cupped hands as they turned to their neighbours. But more were scared, trying to wipe the tears from their eyes as they struggled to take in the words. Karnobog must have truly forsaken the clan to have allowed Krol Gawel to rule over them, but surely no god would forgive such sacrilege.
Even as the krol spoke they imagined Matka Ziemia’s tears. Surely she would cry out, her womb cut open and bled white. Then the god Swarog would rain fire down upon them and Jezi Baba would fly down on her birch branch to grind their souls to dust in her black stone pestle. Or else Žaltys, the serpent who lay coiled about the roots of the great world tree, would slither up and gobble them whole. Surely no one would survive such a sacrilege, all would be dragged down, even those who stood and watched.
Iwa heard the prayer of the old ones, their lips moving silently as if to ward away evil. In front of them Krol Gawel had finished talking, still smiling and oblivious to the smirks and terror from the women, or maybe he simply ignored them. ‘We’ll take you back to your ship now,’ he said. ‘We have left you some food there. Tonight my men will feast and then, at break of day, the work will begin. Until then you must rest, for there is much to be done.’
With that the line of woyaks opened and he walked away, the clubfooted boy stumbling behind him. ‘You have heard the words of your krol,’ Grunmir shouted, as if giving battle orders. ‘I am Grunmir and I am Krol Gawel’s kneiez. His words and mine are one and you will obey me as you would your krol. If you need anything you will come to me, or one of the woyaks, and we will deal fairly with you. But,’ he paused, ‘if there is any hint of trouble, the merest breath of revolt and you’ll answer to this.’ Fang glinted in his raised hand, the light playing cruelly over the curved blade. He gave the women a narrowed look before he put the blade away. ‘Play fair with me and I’ll play fair with you. We have bread and we have work. Soon we will be together as one and you will forget that you ever travelled the forest.’
There was a murmur from the women, and many made the sign in supplication to their god, the bones silent on the litter that lay before them but, already, Grunmir had waved his hand and the woyaks had begun to herd them back to the boat. Already the raiders’ companions were bringing barrels into the camp and the air danced with the scents of vodka and spit-roasted meat.
This time the woyaks didn’t lash out with their spears and some of them even chatted with the younger women. Iwa felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her. Finally there would be food, and she wouldn’t have to creep out of the camp to pick mushrooms in the dark. Not that she trusted the Poles, but at least they weren’t about to kill her, yet. Even the children were happy, relieved now that their mothers were not so fearful. One or two were allowed to run ahead of the group, the woyaks laughing as the children scampered along the shore.
Yet, even before she got to the boat, Iwa had began to doubt her good fortune. Already Katchka and some of the others had begun to talk, dark words muttered under stifled breath. As they neared the shore, Iwa could see a gang of woyaks hauling a huge cauldron into the bowels of the ship.
A set of rough wooden steps had been placed against the side and the tarpaulin had been raised. As Alia lifted up her skirts to clamber inside, one of the woyaks slipped his hands around her waist. ‘I can manage by myself,’ Alia snapped. ‘I’m a daughter of the mountains, not some milksop from the steppes.’ But he wouldn’t let go so Alia slapped his hands and, as she stepped into the boat, she lashed out with her heel. Behind her the
