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Chapter 4
THE PROBLEM OF FOOD
    That night Hekja slept on her bracken bed with Snarf beside her. She kept him warm with her cowhide cover, and when the pup whimpered she held him closer until he forgot about the pain.
    The next morning she changed the bandages. The pup whined, especially when she pulled the herbs off and then put on more. But when she had finished he snuggled close, as though grateful for her warmth.
    Her ma peered through the door. She’d been dragging the wood plough through the rocky soil outside the hut so they could plant the spring kale and barley seed. Normally Hekja would have helped, but today she was staying close to Snarf.
    ‘How is he?’
    ‘I think he’s stronger,’ said Hekja hopefully. ‘Aren’t you, Snarf?’
    ‘Arf arf!’ said the puppy weakly. Hekja laughed. ‘He knows his name!’
    Her ma smiled. ‘Riki Snarfari! What a name for a pup like that! You should call him Cuddles, or Wimperwail.’
    Hekja shook her head stubbornly. ‘Tikka says hisname is Riki Snarfari. She says it’s a True Name and that he’ll be useful.’
    Her ma opened her mouth to speak, then saw the happiness on Hekja’s face, and shut it again. Happiness came too rarely to the hut on the shore since their men had died. So she said instead, ‘You need to feed him something.’
    Hekja nodded. She put the puppy on her lap, and held a handful of warm barley mash up to his nose. Snarf whined, and held his nose away.
    ‘He won’t eat,’ said Hekja despairingly.
    ‘He’s too small, perhaps,’ said her ma. ‘He’s forgotten how to lap, if he ever knew it. Here.’ She lifted Snarf’s chin with one hand and gently edged the tips of two fingers in his mouth. A trickle of the barley mash was down his throat before he realised. ‘My gran showed me that for a poorly calf,’ said Hekja’s ma. ‘You try it.’
    Snarf swallowed a few mouthfuls, then seemed to realise what was happening. He shut his jaws and tried to squirm away.
    Hekja’s ma shook her head. ‘Dogs like meat,’ she said quietly.
    Hekja said nothing. The hut had no smoked legs of meat hanging from its rafters. Even fish was precious.
    Then a shadow darkened the door.
    ‘How is the pup doing?’ It was the voice of the chief’s son, Bran.
    Hekja had caught him looking at her lately, when he thought she wasn’t looking. Sometimes she looked at him as well. Nothing could ever come of it, she knew, even if she had been old enough to think of marriage. A chief’s son should marry another chief’s daughter, whocould bring a herd of cattle and a year’s worth of cheeses to her husband.
    ‘He won’t eat,’ said Hekja worriedly. ‘And we don’t have any meat to give him.’
    Bran shrugged. ‘Too bad,’ he said carelessly. Then the light came through the door again and he was gone.
    Snarf slept after that, with Hekja’s hands stroking him, and her lap to keep him warm, while her ma went back to dig the barley field. Hekja was just trying to get the pup to take the barley sludge again when Bran reappeared. He thrust something through the door.
    ‘Here. See if he’ll eat that,’ he said. He was gone before Hekja could thank him.
    Hekja looked at what he’d brought. It was a badger, limp and bloody.
    Suddenly the pup lifted up his head. ‘Arf!’ he announced weakly.
    Hekja laughed. ‘You like the smell of badger meat, do you! Thank you!’ she called to Bran. But there was no reply.
    Hekja’s ma cooked the badger with the barley, to make the meat go further. Hekja trickled the mush into Snarf’s mouth, as she had done before. The pup ate reluctantly at first, and then began to gobble, as though he had realised he was hungry. Afterwards Hekja held him on her knee and scratched behind his ear, but carefully, so as not to disturb his wounds. And while she scratched she sang.
    It was a song her father had taught her, and that his father had sung too, mending the fishing nets or at the summer feast. The villagers had said Pa’s