For Me Fate Wove This

by Octavia Randolph

  The boy’s father had spoken too soon, and Yrling with his native quickness had seized on his words.

  “Less danger. Not none,” Sidroc returned.

  “Sea storms,” his mother said. She could barely get the words out. It was impossible he go; how had he even taken it into his head, she wondered. His father and she would not permit it. Raiders or not, the risks of the sea were always there. Ship-wreck was the Fate of many a voyager.

  Yrling would not give up. He looked back at his brother. “How old were you when you came here, with Ceric?”

  It was a question that brought a moment of silence to all at the table. Still, Hrald must answer.

  “Nine. Ceric had eleven years.”

  “I have twelve years,” Yrling answered. There was triumph in the fact, but not his tone. In his voice and face was only the ardency of his desire.

  Ceridwen looked to Sidroc, whose eyes were fixed on their son. She lowered her chin to the curls on Rodiaud’s head, and closed her eyes. She recalled travelling so long ago with Gyric, and yearning to go with him to see the hall and seas of Kilton. She was not much older than her son when she held that hope. How could she refuse him, as he pleaded for the chance to see his own birthright.

  The boy’s next words said as much. Yrling stared his father in the eye.

  “It was yours, father. Now it is Hrald’s. Let me go with him.”

  Sidroc drew breath. He looked to the boy’s mother. Beyond the concern in her face was something more. She met his gaze in a way that acknowledged the path their son was being called to take.

  Sidroc turned to Hrald. Now it must be his decision, his responsibility to take on.

  Hrald looked to his brother. “You will miss Gotland,” he began. “But you will like Four Stones.”

  Yrling gave a whoop of joy.

  They had not finished sharing their first few words of hope and caution when Eirian jumped up from the bench.

  “I will go, too!” she claimed.

  Even her father was quick in his refusal.

  “Nai,” he answered. “It is not safe.” It was so decided a tone that Eirian looked up at him, stunned.

  “Why is it less safe for me, than Yrling? We are the same age.”

  “It is less safe,” he answered. “You cannot go.”

  If they were boarded and seized, Yrling risked outright death or thralldom. But Eirian – there was no richer human prize than a young maiden, and one as comely as was his daughter would be highly sought. Young as she was, she would be taken by the war-chief for his own pleasure, or set aside for the better of the slave markets, where an untouched woman would bring the highest possible price. His shield-maiden knew all this; their daughter could not. It was something they would tell her about, but not yet.

  “For many reasons,” her mother added, none of which she seemed ready to share.

  “I want to go!”

  Ceridwen took a deep breath. It seemed unjust, she knew it; and left unanswered the question of why she would risk one child, and not the other. All she could do was implore the girl. “Do not leave me, Eirian,” she asked, as she fought against the misting of her eyes. “And do not leave Rodiaud.” Do not leave Gotland, her heart added.

  Rodiaud was looking at her older sister, and screwing up her little face. Her lower lip trembled. It looked like tears might spring into her wide eyes.

  “Eww-yan,” she lisped, the best she could make of her sister’s name. “No go, Eww-yan. No go.” She reached her bread-filled hand out to her.

  Eirian must concede, but not without securing some future boon.

  “When I am older?”

  “Perhaps,” her mother granted. “But now we need you here, my bright one.”

  It was the meaning of her name, and whenever her mother called Eirian this, it seemed a special entreaty, hard for the girl to refuse.

  Even though she hung her head, she gave a nod.

  On the morrow Ceridwen took up the letter she had written to Ælfwyn. Using her bird-shaped scissors she snipped out the thread she had used to sew the linen sleeve shut, and unrolled and weighted the parchment. She must add to her text.

  Now I burden and entrust you with our son, Yrling. He knows full well that Hrald and Ceric were younger than he when they made the voyage here, and as Hrald sails back well-defended in three ships, we could not forbid the boy his desire to see Four Stones. Yrling needs a firm hand which I hope will not demand too much of either you or Hrald. He has been raised in the ways of the Old Gods, but is quick to question all. Instruct him as you see fit in the faith of the Christians; it may do him good. His father has taught him much of justice, but of mercy there is more to tell.

  He is a hard worker, and truthful, but his lust for adventure is great. I think you may see his namesake in him, as I do. Remind him that we will yearn for his return.

  YOUR LOVING CERIDWEN

  The three ships were being laden with provisions and water. Ceridwen gathered and re-gathered all that Yrling might find needful, not only for the journey, but for his life ahead at Four Stones. The boy did not wish to take his wax tablet; his mother pressed him to do so, finally laying it in the bottom of one of his packs so he might not find it before he took ship. Both Hrald and Yrling made their fare-wells to Tindr and his family. Yrling had become a good bow-man under the hunter’s tutelage, and the embrace he gave the hunter was heartfelt. To Juoksa he promised that when he returned, he could serve as his second on Dauðadagr when they went raiding together. Young Juoksa looked puzzled, but unafraid to let his sadness at his older friend’s going show in his warm embrace.

  The day before Hrald would sail, he was alone in the hall with his father. The nearer his departure grew, the less they could speak to each other of it. But Sidroc’s eye fell upon his son’s sword, hanging there by the door. Hrald had worn it only on the journey to Paviken. It was symbol of everything awaiting the young Jarl in Lindisse.

  “Are you ready?” he asked him.

  Hrald gave a short laugh.

  “I will answer that the way I think you would. It does not matter if I feel ready. I am the Jarl of Four Stones. Many depend on me. As they did, for so long, on you.”

  Sidroc could say nothing to this, just nod his approval. He felt Hrald knew more of duty than many men twice his age.

  In the morning, just as the sky began to lighten, Hrald rode with his father down the trading road, out to the wooden statue of Freyr. The cockerel had been dropped in a sack, with only its head sticking out, and was tied to Sidroc’s saddle ring. Yrling was with them as well; it was a final ride on his horse, and a chance for him to ask for the God’s blessing on his adventure.

  No stall or workshop was yet opened, and no one was about. They reached the painted statue, now seeming no hue but brown in the little light. They got off their horses, and Sidroc drew the bird out, powerful wings flapping against his hands. Hrald was Christian, and could take no part in the Offering, yet to honour his father and his beliefs wished to witness. Sidroc drew his seax and crouched down, holding the bird by the legs, and pressing it to the soil.

  “Freyr! You and your sister have made this island a favoured home to us. All increase is in your power, and every dealing which profits man and beast. You welcomed my older son twice, brought him safely to us. Now both sons sail from here. We give you this bird that you might smile upon their journey. May their ships be as your own, which knows only favourable winds.”

  Sidroc looked to Yrling, who came forth and placed his hand over his father’s on the hilt. With one stroke the speckled breast was pierced. The wings flapped once, and then were stilled.

  Sidroc lifted the body to one of the upright Offering poles behind the God, and placed it on the small platform there.

  “A fulmar or gull may eat of it, and its kin a sea away end up guiding you safely to land,” he noted.

  They rode back. The tide would turn just after full Sun-rise. The early hour mattered not; Rannveig was about, calling the men up to her brew-ho
use that they might roll down her parting gift to them, a cask of ale. A full month of the thirsty crews’ custom had fattened her silver store as much as any long Summer of normal trade would.

  The few packs of Hrald, and the many of Yrling, were carried on. Hrald would take with him Ceridwen’s letter to his mother, and also a length of cobalt blue silk as gift for her. Sidroc had traded for it, but she could think of no higher end for its sumptuous beauty than to adorn Ælfwyn, with her blue eyes. As for Yrling, she sent with him all his clothes, that the hall might not be burdened with outfitting him, Summer or Winter.

  The water was changing from near-black to deep blue as the Sun struck it. The dawn rose up, pink and lilac, staining also the ripples of the sea with those hues. Eirian kissed her brothers, and began to cry. She hugged herself, both against the morning chill, and to give herself the embraces they no longer could.

  Gunnvor and Helga had come down, and Helga took Rodiaud while Ceridwen made her parting with first Hrald, and then her son. Few words came; these had already been said. She spoke with the kiss of blessing she gave to each.

  Aboard the ships the men were making final preparation. All were onboard, awaiting the two that lingered. The men had oars in hand, ready to push away and oar out to hoist their sail in the quickening wind. Aszur whistled out to Hrald. It was time to step from pier to ship, to transit from land to sea. They did so, and took up position next to Aszur at the steering-oar on the lead ship. The captain grinned at them, and at those seeing them off, a glint of gold flashing from his mouth. Yrling had one hand on the hilt of his knife, and the other atop the steering-oar.

  The spreading rays of the sun also struck the hull of Dauðadagr hauled up on the pebbles. Yrling narrowed his eyes at it, and looked to his father.

  “Take care of my ship for me. I will be back for her, fronting five more!”

  Ceridwen spent much of that night weeping. Lying there in Sidroc’s arms she could give vent to the numerous sorrows and concerns weighing upon her heart. The past few days had been full ones, preparing Yrling for his journey, and Hrald too. She had attended fully to these tasks. At Hrald’s arrival she had wept from the bottom of her soul at his initial telling of the story of his sister and Ceric. She had tried then to put her tears away, so that she might bolster and console Hrald in his own affliction.

  Now Hrald, whom she dearly loved, both for his mother’s sake and for his own, was gone, taking with him her son by Sidroc. The boundless love she knew for Yrling was matched by growing concern for him. Eirian’s sudden insistence that she go as well was a further pang. No loving mother wished her children to flee their home, not when they were so very young.

  Above all these piercing griefs was the larger one, of Ashild’s death, and at the hand of her son who cherished her. In their final act together he took her truly to wife with his ring and troth. In their brief lives, and through Ashild’s grievously wrought death, they were united in ways unfathomable. It was more bitter, and more sublime, than anything she had heard in the Saga tales of tragic heroes. It struck deeply to her core, as it would to any listener. With cruel poignancy had Fate woven the life of Ashild.

  Sidroc could say little on this, and knew enough at this point not to stifle a woman’s tears. He kept his arm about her while she wept, and let the warmth of his presence lend what comfort it could. She slept at last, and he did as well.

  In the morning when they awoke he spoke again of his father. He told of his eagerness to soon bring the elder Hrald and Stenhild to Tyrsborg for a visit. It set her thoughts on a new course, a happier one in the near future, as they planned for this.

  The table without Hrald and Yrling felt empty indeed, but Ceridwen tried to meet it with good cheer. Rodiaud, forgetting or not understanding that she had seen the two sail off the morning before, seemed to look for them, as she did at supper last night.

  After the table was cleared Sidroc went out, a leathern pack in hand. Ceridwen set about her daily tasks. She stood before her loom, which had been neglected in the past few days. It held a half-woven length of green-tinted wool, destined to become a warm Winter gown for Eirian. The girl was there herself, spindle in hand, working with the same green-tinted wool roving which she and her mother had dyed in the kitchen yard with leaves of dyer’s-broom.

  Eirian was a better spinner than Ceridwen had been at her age, and her mother knew pleasure in telling her this. Her daughter had patience, and also took a pride in her drawn thread that Ceridwen as a girl never could find. She was always proud when her mother would claim that they had made any garment together. She stood now, drawing the green yarn through her slender fingers as the spindle whirled almost to the floor. Rodiaud squatted at her feet, pulling apart a puff of the fluffy roving her sister had given her.

  Sidroc came back to the three of them and looked at his wife. “We will take a ride,” he told her.

  “A ride?”

  He smiled, and nodded. “The two of us. Your mare is already saddled.”

  They all had tasks to complete; Hrald’s visit had taken them away from certain chores which now must be undertaken. But he kept looking at her.

  “Come,” he invited.

  Eirian was looking at them both, and about to ask that she might come too; her mother knew this. Ceridwen spoke first.

  “You may go to Šeará, so that Rodiaud may play with Jaské.”

  Eirian was more than gladdened at this. The Sámi woman was teaching her how to make the coloured trim of folded and shaped ribbands which adorned her skin clothes. Eirian was using this to trim the hem of one of her own gowns, and was so far pleased with the result. She put her spindle back in the roving basket and ran to her alcove to get the gown.

  Ceridwen took her lighter mantle from the peg by the door. The Sun was strong enough that she might not need even this, if where they rode was not too windy. She stepped out and watched the two girls as they made their way down the forest path to the round house where Tindr and Šeará lived. Rodiaud was laughing and running ahead of her big sister.

  Sidroc was just cinching the girth of his saddle on his black stallion. Her dun mare stood ready for her, shaking her dark mane in eagerness to be off. Sidroc had the leathern bag he had taken earlier, and now tied it to one of his saddle rings. He stepped into the stable and returned with two hempen ropes as well, as if he expected to stake their horses at their destination. More than this she could not know.

  They began by taking the forest track the girls had. The trees over their heads were bursting into full leaf, and the birds that darted between them were busy with gathering food for their fledging broods. The warmth was almost Summer-like, and the sky when they glimpsed it through the trees nearly the same blue. It mattered not the nights were still chilly. This morning held every promise of blossom becoming fruit.

  They left the track not far after they passed Tindr’s memory stone. Their path led them over ground still oozing from the wet of long-melted snow and more recent Spring rains. As the soil dried they climbed a slight rise, to a broad and unfrequented meadow land. Ceridwen had not been here before, and looked at all with interest. Even though they now could ride side by side, she would not ask, as it was clear their goal was a surprise.

  They rode some little way, the Sun climbing steadily and warming their backs as it did. They entered a small wood, almost all of birch, its white curling bark shimmering in the strong light. She lifted her chin and looked up, delighting in the verdant green of the fresh leaves over her head.

  Then they were there. Passing through the birches her eyes were filled by what lay before them, a lake, its water a deeper blue for the Sun which shone upon it. It was not large, and had the marshy growth about its edges suggesting that if they flourished it one day might become a mere. But now, beyond the thin margin of green spear-like sedge was open and clear water.

  Sidroc swung off his horse, and with no mounting block to aid her, moved to help her down off her own. Something about the way he grasped her as he let her dow
n brought to her mind the way he had taken her by the waist the first day they arrived at Four Stones, when he had swung first Ælfwyn and then her from their waggon-board.

  She saw they meant to stay, as he took the hempen line from his saddle, and looping neck ties for their horses, walked them to the nearest birches and tied them where they might browse.

  She watched him as he did this, and watched as he walked back with the saddle bag in his hand. He took a woollen blanket from the pack. It was one of the old blankets from their bed, the first she had woven for them, and a warm memory of her attempts to make the hall fully their home. He lofted it in the air, and let it spread upon the grass as if they might sit and take refreshment. But she had not seen him with Gunnvor, packing food to enjoy a meal in this pretty place. He had as well a few linen towels, which he let fall upon the blanket.

  Finally he spoke. It was hard to read his face; he looked almost grave as he stood before her.

  “When you and I first sighted the coast of this island, I made promises. One I felt forced to break, and was forgiven by the Gods, and by you. The rest I think I have kept. One vow only remains unfulfilled. And today I will make good on that promise.”

  She tried to smile, but knew her puzzlement must show on her face.

  Still looking at her he unbuckled the belt that held his seax, and let it drop. Then he pulled off his tunic and stood before her, bare-chested. The outline of the blue dragon on his chest was faint indeed, but she could still trace it with her eyes, as she had done many times with her finger.

  He smiled. “I promised to teach you to swim in warm water. I have not done so. All promises are heard by the Gods. I will not miss a day with you in Asgard because I failed to fulfill this one.

  “Today I will teach you how to swim.”

  Her intake of breath was near to a gasp. She too remembered their approach to Gotland in that tiny boat, and the promises he made to her – to keep her warm with furs, that he would earn his silver through trade and not his blade, and that, yes, he would teach her to swim so she might overcome her fear of water. Almost without knowing it she was shaking her head.