On the Cold Coasts

head down and shuffled into the icy breeze blowing across the field to the east of the farmhouses, toward the storehouse that was attached to the stable. Frost was beginning to form, and the brittle grass crunched beneath his feet. He kept his head lowered in the dark and did not see the guard by the storehouse wall before he almost bumped into him. Of course someone had been positioned to guard the prisoners; what an idiot not to have thought of that! Now what? How would he explain his presence there? The man was one of the Enni domestics, a short, stout, middle-aged man, with broad shoulders and an almost square face, his forehead and chin almost equally wide.
    “What is your business here? Surely they haven’t sent a young lad to replace me?” he grumbled. “My shift was supposed to end at nightfall, and the godforsaken Englishmen all fell asleep ages ago. I’m freezing my rump out here.”
    “Ehm…no,” Michael answered uncertainly, “or, well…yes, sort of.” He suddenly had an idea and launched into an explanation, speaking rapidly. “All evening they’ve been gorging themselves on meat and gulping down mead in the warmth inside. No one wants to come out, so I was sent to tell you to go inside and eat something before it’s all gone.”
    “No one wants to come out?!” The man looked at him, indignant and slightly suspicious. “What the hell…?!”
    Michael shrugged. “They’re all dead drunk. And it’s awful cold.”
    “Morons! And here I am freezing to death while they sit in there drinking and having a grand old time!”
    Michael cocked his head. “I could stay out here for a while, just while you go in and warm up a bit and have something to eat.”
    The man looked doubtful. “That will hardly work. You’re just a kid. What if the villains try to escape?”
    “Didn’t you just say they were sound asleep? And anyway, how will they get out?”
    He pointed to the bolt and the big lock in the latch of the storehouse door. “They can’t break a bolt and a hanging lock from the inside. If I hear anything, I’ll run to the farm right away and call for help.”
    “Hmm. Maybe that’s not such a bad idea, boy.” The servant gave it some thought. After all, he was cold and desperately hungry. “All right.” He wrinkled his forehead. “Weren’t you at Holl yesterday and didn’t you see…?” He didn’t finish the sentence. Michael concurred in a low voice and looked at his toes.
    “You’ve got spunk, kid,” he said, looking at the boy with admiration and patting him on the head. Then he turned and walked swiftly up the field. “I won’t be long. Or if I am, I’ll send someone out,” he called over his shoulder.
    “Take your time,” Michael called back and waved. No one had ever praised his courage before. He almost felt ashamed of what he was about to do to the guard. But maybe no one would notice a single prisoner missing in the morning.
    As soon as the servant was out of sight, he put his ear to a small knothole in the storeroom door. They were asleep—no question. Amazing how loud their snoring was. He put his mouth to the knothole and called Oswald Miller’s name as loudly as he dared.
    No answer.
    “Oswald Miller!”
    Still no answer, but someone had woken up. The snoring became less audible, and he could hear movement inside.
    “Who’s there?” someone asked suddenly in English, and Michael sighed with relief. He knew that gruff voice.
    “It’s me, Michael!”
    A brown, bloodshot eye looked out through the knothole. “Is that you, kid? Praise the Lord! I knew I could rely on you, my young friend!” Oswald’s voice was almost weepy.
    “Yes,” said Michael, suddenly finding it hard to speak. He leaned his forehead against the door and gnashed his teeth. Was he doing the right thing? Could he be absolutely sure that Oswald hadn’t done anything to Einhildur? He hadn’t heard him, but then again he’d covered his ears the whole time. How could he be sure?
    “Michael?”
    “I’m here.”
    “You know I wasn’t involved in what happened there at the farm, Michael.” Oswald spoke quickly. “I couldn’t stop them—they were like animals, just mad. And now they’ve been executed for their sins, decapitated and buried like the beasts they were.”
    The boy swallowed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
    “I’m going to open the door, Oswald,” he said softly. “I have the keys. But you have to promise to come out alone. I don’t want to