Chapter One CHAPTER ONE
Seven years later

Most people don’t think of funerals as opportunities, and probably it’s wicked of me to feel that way. But Goat-Thigh and I need all the help we can get. And finally earning the favor of our chieftain will be like having a shield in battle. So though I know it’s the last thing Goat-Thigh wants, I make him come with me to the funeral feast.

Side by side, we follow the worn dirt path through the valley to the chieftain’s home, Goat-Thigh plodding with the rolled-up tapestry slung over his shoulder. That tapestry is so big that two or three people could use it as a blanket; plus it’s an hour’s walk from our little farm to the chieftain’s longhouse. I can’t carry it the whole way myself.

But it’s also important that the chieftain sees Goat-Thigh with the tapestry. That he knows it’s a gift from both of us. That he thanks us, honors us together for it.

Goat-Thigh and I walk through wide and sprawling farm fields, the dirt all plowed, ready for planting. We don’t see anyone else, even though we pass several neighbors’ homes: low houses built from blocks of packed dirt with grass growing on the roofs. Everyone must already be at the feast. Maybe they’ll be too distracted with food to notice Goat-Thigh and me until we’re presenting our gift.

That would be best for all of us.

We hear the feast before we see it, melodic tunes from harps and flutes decorating the air, punctuated by the sharp beats of a drum. At times, they’re nearly drowned out by harsh, off-key shouts—I think that’s supposed to be singing?

“Drunk as dogs already.” Goat-Thigh shakes his head. “This is how they bid a man farewell?”

I tug one of the locks of hair left loose around my face—most of my long, long hair I’ve woven up into a braid crown. “Maybe the ale is just that good?”

It was the chieftain’s cousin who died. For a kinsman, the chieftain would buy only the finest drink shipped from the old country. Still, with how laughter bubbles up among the music, never mind those shouts that sound too much like cheers… are these people celebrating the man’s death?

Goat-Thigh sucks his teeth, making his narrow face even thinner. “Fox-Brow would have never—” he starts, then cuts off as though someone snatched the rest of the words from his throat. He tips his face down, scratching at his eyes like dirt has gotten into them.

I pause my steps. “Goat-Thigh? What’s—is something wrong?”

He shakes his head and marches on, leaving me hurrying to catch up.

I didn’t know the dead man, Stígandi Fox-Brow. From what others say, he once lived in this valley, though that was before Goat-Thigh brought me here. A few months ago, Fox-Brow finally returned, but he was very sick and never came outside the chieftain’s house. When he died, some people say, a wail rose from that house that was fit to raise the dead. Others say that wail was a curse. They all claim that Fox-Brow was a sorcerer, that he did magic with dead bodies and dead spirits. All kinds of evil spells.

These people really love their stories.

We crest a slope, and the feast finally comes into view. The chieftain’s longhouse is enormous, many times the size of our little home. Its roof looks like a huge longboat turned upside down. Even so big, it still can’t hold all the people who’ve come. They spill into the grassy fields surrounding the front of the longhouse, dancing and hollering around bonfires.

Everyone is in their brightest clothes and shiniest jewelry, adding pops of color we don’t usually see this early in the summer. And even from where Goat-Thigh and I stand atop the slope, the scents of smoky, roasted meat and spiced ales tingle our noses.

Some people walk backward beyond the edge of that crowd, carrying big plates of meat. They’re leaving offerings for Troll Teeth, the jagged mountain that looms in the distance. More stories: Folks claim that mountain will swallow up anyone who died recently. To let the dead move on to a peaceful afterlife, the family must set aside food from the funeral feast so Troll Teeth will fill up on that instead.

But don’t look at the mountain while doing that, or it will swallow you.

Goat-Thigh’s face goes pale, and sweat dots his brow. He stares at the crowd as he might at a nightmare. “It’s not a good idea for me to be here. I’ll leave you with the tapestry and come back later to walk you home.”

He’s always trying to sneak away whenever I bring him to a gathering or any place where our neighbors will see us. Him. But if all we do is hide, they’ll never understand why they should want us around.

Why they don’t need to hate us.

Those arguments don’t work with Goat-Thigh anymore. I know what does. I wrap my hands around one of his arms and rest my head against his shoulder. “I worked hard on your new tunic. People should see you in it.”

The tunic was supposed to be a birthday gift, but I gave it early so he could wear it here. The color suits him, a bluish purple from dye I made by boiling crowberries for hours. I made all of it myself, spun the wool into thread so fine, it was almost a whisper against my fingers. Wove it into feather-soft cloth. Stitched it into a tunic that emphasizes his height and broad shoulders—and that hides how thin he’s become. Goat-Thigh was never a big eater, but these last few months he’s hardly touched his food. Even when I make his favorite, salmon porridge.

In this tunic, he looks strong. Important. Plus that purple brings out bright flecks in his shadowy eyes. His beard needs trimming; I should have insisted on that. He’s starting to look… well, like a goat.

Better to have people thinking Goat when they see him instead of Bear-man.

The moment the crowd spots us, they go silent. It’s like an icy wave crashes over them, drenching their joy.

My heart sinks to my toes. These people judged Goat-Thigh long ago. Even a tunic of spun gold probably wouldn’t change their minds.

But if I give up, if I stop trying to make them see why we’re good to have around, what chance do we have of surviving?

Everyone stares. Some tip their heads together and whisper. One man who’s missing a bunch of teeth spits on the ground. A few people make very, very bad hand gestures at Goat-Thigh, warding him off like he’s a monster.

They’ve been getting meaner, even though in all the time I’ve been with Goat-Thigh, he’s never once gone into bear-fury. I’ve really seen him so much more like a goat than a bear. He can practically run straight up a cliffside to rescue old sheep who’ve gotten stuck. That’s how he got his nickname! But people curse when he walks by. In the past few months, they’ve begun making trouble on our farm: Breaking Goat-Thigh’s tools. Letting out our sheep in the night—it takes all day to find them again! Scratching pictures of dead bears into the dirt path outside our front door. Last week, someone set fire to our food shed. We were able to save only a little of what was inside.

That was when I decided we had to come here. Winning the chieftain’s favor is our only hope. If he accepts us, everyone else will have to as well.

I’m going to make it happen. Here, today.