As she walked into the woods, Cathal fell instep beside her. They were heading northward along a faint, leaf-covered trail. Large oak and birch trees towered over them, gently swaying in the wind.
Cathal cast a worried glance into the woods; always on the lookout for wolves. “You're not worried about a wolf attack?” he asked.
With her eyes studying the path before her, Danika looked up in surprise, as if she had not considered the danger. A troubled look then crossed her face. “I was wondering if you were a Christian.” she said, ignoring his question.
Cathal paused for a moment, briefly taken back by the change in subject. Was she avoiding his question? Slightly annoyed, he said, “Everyone in Birka seems concerned with what I believe in.”
“Of course they are. What you believe in is a reflection of who you are. I was curious, because I wanted to ask a Christian about possession and exorcism.”
With raised eyebrows, Cathal turned and gave her a sidelong glance. What an odd thing to say! “I'm no Christian. I simply believe in the natural order of things.”
“But surely you must have some faith?” She sounded truly concerned.
Cathal gave a brief, stiff smile. “Forgive me. I'm usually asked that question by judgmental Christians. But you're no Christian, are you?”
She offered him a mischievous smile and said, “What gave you that idea?”
“I suppose the question is, do you worship Veles, as your brother does?”
Danika shook her head and said, “No, I worship the goddess Devana.”
“Ah, the virgin goddess of the hunt,” noted Cathal. “Quite different from Veles.”
“Yes, but then we all tend to worship the gods that reflect our own nature. Or is it the other way around? Perhaps it is the gods that reflect human nature?”
Cathal inwardly smiled; he was impressed. “In answer to your question, I worship the Celtic gods.”
Danika gave him a questioning look. “Celtic gods?”
Keeping his eyes warily on the forest around him, Cathal said, “A thousand years ago, the Romans conquered most of the Celtic kingdoms, making it illegal for the Celts to worship their gods and speak their own language. Only in Ireland and certain areas of northern England did the religion survive, and only for a few hundred years. Then, a little over five-hundred years ago, Christianity overtook the Celtic religion in those areas, as well. Many believed that our religion was dead, when in fact, it was simply hidden. The Celtic religious leaders merged with the Christian clergy, and operated from within the Christian church. They have done so for hundreds of years.”
“Why would the Christian leaders allow such a thing? Aren't all religions fiercely insular? I find it hard to believe that Christian priests would allow another religion to operate under their own churches and monasteries.”
“It's the simplest reason of all – knowledge. The Celtic holy men had a strong oral tradition. They memorized an immense amount of ancient knowledge that was handed down over thousands of years. The Christian leaders had more foresight than the Romans or the Greeks; instead of banning the religion, they appropriated it. They have benefited from Celtic wisdom for hundreds of years, and no one, except a few Christian bishops and priests, have been the wiser.”
After walking in silence for a few moments, Danika said, “It seems to be the way of things – new religions supplant the old. We Slavs laugh at the Norse gods, knowing they are but frail imitations of our own gods, and yet the Christian god is slowly replacing both of our religions.”
“It is the way of things,” admitted Cathal, with a tinge of bitterness. “What interests me are the similarities between all of these different religions.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, take for instance the concept of the world tree – it has a central narrative in the Celtic religion. But the world tree also exists in the Slavic, Turkish, and Norse religions, as well.”
Danika stopped and studied the Irishman, squinting her eyes in scrutiny. “You seem to know an awful lot about religion and history, for a doctor.”
“Your brother said the same thing.” He awkwardly waited a few moments. When she did not reply, Cathal gave an uncomfortable smile and said, “In regard to your original question, I've actually seen exorcisms being performed, back in my home city of Dublin.”
“Did the exorcisms work?”
“In a manner of speaking, I suppose. I have a suspicion that some of the exorcisms were successful due to the power of suggestion. In other cases, I believe the possessed just wanted attention. I've never seen an exorcism that couldn't be explained by some other means of logical inquiry.”
She had a slightly disappointed, yet far away look in her eye. Danika then brought up her hand and waved off the matter with a laugh, “It's not important. I just thought...”
“Yes?”
She crinkled her brow, searching for the right words. “If Christian priests can exorcise demons from their own faith, do you think they could exorcise demons from the Norse and Slavic religions, as well?”
Cathal narrowed his eyes and jerked his head to the left, not quite sure if he saw something move, just beyond the nearest trees. “I don't know. I...”
“What is it?” she asked.
He whipped his head around, wildly looking in every direction. Something was out there, watching them. He was certain of it. “We need to get out of here.”
“I don't see anything.”
Without asking, Cathal grabbed her arm and urgently whispered, “Come on!” He then started to run to the south, towards the logging camp, with Danika stumbling after him. They sprinted for several minutes. Trees blurred past them as twigs and leaves crunched under their hurried footsteps. His lungs screamed for air as he raced through the thick wood, with Danika trying to pull her arm away, yelling for him to stop.
Ignoring her plea, he continued on. And then he saw it, standing in the middle of the trail, only a hundred feet before them. An ominous sense of foreboding washed over him, as his vision narrowed to a tunnel.
The creature was hunched over and growling, looking at him with fierce, hateful eyes. It slowly crept forward on four legs, its front legs much longer than its hind legs, then stopped. It sniffed the air and let out a low roar. It was studying them.
With a horror-stricken gasp, Cathal's hand instinctively clutched at the pouch of wolfsbane that was tied to his belt. He knew that hunters used the poison to coat their weapons...but he had no weapon! Cursing himself for his lack of foresight, he protectively stepped in front of Danika and defiantly stood his ground, though his fortitude was not nearly as strong as his countenance would suggest. He was breathing heavily, light headed and nearly crazed with delirium. This couldn't be happening!
The beast took another step forward and cocked its massive head to the side. A malevolent grin slowly crept across its black lips, revealing a row of wickedly large teeth. It was playing with them; the type of game a predator would play with its prey. The creature then tensed its body and bolted into the woods; a blur of black fur and claws.
“Run!” choked Cathal, his voice was cracked and strained. After taking a few running steps, he looked back. Danika was simply standing there! In exasperation, he peered into the woodline and said, “Come on. It's stalking us!”
She looked at him as if he were touched. “What's stalking us?”
“The creature! Didn't you see it?”
Her only response was a troubled look. She canted her head to the side and studied him, unsure of what to say.
Cathal scanned the woodline with wild eyes. Did he imagine it? Impossible! The creature was real. He was certain of it.
After a few moments, Danika said, “I think the events of the last few days are starting to catch up to you. My advice would be to not mention this to anyone, lest they think you're insane.” Without another word, she walked past him, towards the logging camp.
Chapter 8
With more than a little apprehension, Cathal walked ba
ck to his station at the north end of the logging camp. At first, he followed quietly behind Danika. After a few minutes, she veered off the leaf-covered path, into the woods. He watched after her for a moment, then continued on, shaking his head and grumbling to himself.
Did he imagine the creature? In his mind, he went over the incident again and again. While it was true that he was stressed and out of sorts over the events of the last few days, he prided himself on being a man of sound judgment. And yet, the things that recently transpired seemed to have a strange effect upon his mind.
He decided to keep the incident to himself, for now. Cathal was equally distressed by the fact that he confessed his religion to Danika. If anyone back in Dublin learned that he had spoken of the collusion of the Celtic religious leaders and the Christian church, he would be excommunicated or worse. But he supposed that a handful of Slavic woodcutters halfway across the world wouldn't care about the politics of faraway religions.
It seemed so strange that the violent wolf attacks in Birka seemed mired in a tangled web of religion and superstition. There was a connection to all of it – the wolves, the rumors, the opposing religions...it was all leading to something. What that something was, seemed just beyond his grasp.
As he reached his station, he could see Gustav talking with his brother, Greger. Gustav seemed to be telling his brother about some seedy gambling story, while his brother simply stood there and gazed into the woods, shaking uncontrollably.
With a raised eyebrow, Cathal picked up his ax and started chopping away at his birch tree. It wasn't his job to manage the slaves. Besides, he had more pressing matters on his mind.
“Had a little chat with Danika, did you?” observed Gustav.
With an exasperated sigh, Cathal said, “Just get back to work.” He didn't want to talk about it.
Gustav chuckled as he picked up his ax and began chopping at his tree. “Getting sweet on the foreman's sister. I'm sure that will end well,” he laughed.
Cathal scowled and didn't bother to reply. What was the use of arguing with an old slave?
A few hours later, towards late afternoon, Cathal heard a horn blare in the distance, in the direction of the logging camp. His body involuntarily tensed as he turned towards the sound. “Do you think that was a warning?” he asked Gustav.
“No, that horn signals the end of the workday. Most beautiful sound in all of creation,” joked the old slave.
Cathal nodded and turned towards Greger, who was quivering and staring off into the woods, as usual. Since their arrival, the old Norseman hadn't picked up his ax once.
It was a slow walk back to camp, as Greger shuffled his feet in short, faltering steps. His brother held him by the elbow, while telling fishing stories to no one in particular. Cathal could have walked on ahead, but he decided to match their stride, lest they get lost on their way back.
Nearly a half hour later, they came into view of the camp. Most of the loggers were sitting around the campfire, listening to Domyan blow off steam. The foreman was pacing back and forth, throwing his hands into the air in an emphatic manner, yelling at no one in particular.
As the three woodcutters entered the logging camp, Domyan jerked his head in their direction, snorted, then continued on with his diatribe. “Can you believe it? We lose seven men...seven! And the chieftain is simply sitting there the next morning, playing board games with his daughter! I could tell that he didn't care in the slightest. When I asked him for more workers, he just shrugged his shoulders, as if it weren't his responsibility. The conceit of the man! I tell you that back home in my country, a chieftain is a man of strong moral character. A chieftain is a leader who is willing to sacrifice for his men.” He spat upon the ground, then continued, “Any fool can be a woodcutter. Any idiot can be a fisherman or work in the copper mines. Not many people can lead men. Fewer still can lead men into danger. I tell you that the chieftain of Birka is not a leader. He is a pretender, and should be deposed.”
Cathal quietly took a seat next to Faolan. The two Irishmen quickly exchanged furtive glances, but said nothing. Was the foreman inciting a rebellion, or just blowing off steam?
Noticing the worried glance, Domyan stopped in front of Faolan. A cruel grin creased his lips as he said, “What about you? Do you have the courage to lead men?”
Faolan stiffened. He turned several shades of white and stammered, “I-I'm just a woodcutter.”
The foreman's hard countenance softened, as he broke into a laugh. “Just a woodcutter!” His jovial attitude abruptly stopped, as he snarled and slapped Faolan across the face, causing him to fall backwards off his seat. Biter growled and sprang to her feet, ready to defend her owner. Domyan then gave the dog a withering, hateful stare, causing the giant wolfhound to take a tentative step back. Cathal then stood up and was about to say something, when Domyan simply pushed him, causing the Irishman to fall backward over the log he was sitting on, landing next to Faolan.
Domyan started to pace around the campfire once again, as if nothing had transpired. “Christians,” he muttered. “Damned Christians have no place in this world.” As Faolan climbed to his feet and sat down, Domyan rushed towards him and shouted, “Do you think your Jesus is greater than Veles? Do you think your god more powerful than the combined might of the Slavic gods?” He was pointing his finger directly at Faolan's face.
Faolan just sat there, visibly shaking.
“Do you know the problem I have with Christianity?” continued Domyan. “Everything is good or bad, black or white. There's no room for complexity. With only one god, there is only one rigid law, but with a whole pantheon of gods, a man can choose which god suits him. He has a choice. And what is a man without choice?” Domyan shot a glance towards the three Norse brothers, then returned his gaze to Faolan. “A man without choice is a slave, and that is what you are – a slave!”
The entire campsite was deathly quiet, almost comatose with fear. At that moment, the door to the foreman's cabin squeaked open, and Danika walked out. She was carrying two jugs of mead. She seemed oblivious to Domyan's rantings, as she simply sauntered over to the campfire, handed the jugs to two random loggers, then walked back into the cabin.
Domyan's expression softened, as he regained his composure. He let out a heavy sigh and said, “Drink up, lads. We've all had a hard week. Enjoy your day off tomorrow.” He then walked back to his cabin, seemingly deflated. After he shut the door behind him, an audible sigh of relief could be heard across the campsite.
One of the Slavs started playing a lute, plucking the four strings of the old instrument in quick succession. The woodcutters drank and spoke amongst themselves, paying no heed to the foreman's prior rantings, as if his outburst was simply a matter of course.
Cathal turned to Faolan and asked, “Are you alright?”
Rubbing his jaw, Faolan gave a half smile and nodded his head. By that time, the jug of mead had made its way around the campfire. As the man to his right passed him the jug, he took a swig then handed it to Cathal. “Just another average day,” he joked.
Nodding his head, Cathal took a drink from the jug, then exhaled loudly. “Just another average day,” he repeated.
The next morning, Cathal woke up early, just before sunrise. He raised his head and looked around the rickety old cabin. The other woodcutters were still in their cots, soundly sleeping. One Slavic man at the far end of the room was loudly snoring.
Cathal sat up and put on his boots, then quietly walked out of the cabin, careful not to wake his fellow workers. Once outside, he turned to close the door behind him. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw a giant animal quickly running towards him. He barely had time to react, when a giant tongue slobbered across his face. “Biter! Knock it off,” he admonished.
The wolfhound happily continued to jump and lick his face, as he struggled to push her away. “Okay. Enough, enough,” he laughed.
Biter wagged her tail and followed him to the cold remains of the campfire.
After nud
ging the blackened logs with the tip of his boot a few times, Cathal conceded that he would need to relight the campfire. Luckily, there was a stack of lumber nearby, so he didn't need to waste the morning collecting firewood.
It took him only a few moments to reignite the campfire – the dried twigs and logs spat and sparked, then finally roared to life. He then cast a glance towards the foreman's cabin. He did not see a light under the door.
With another furtive glance towards the foreman's cabin, he took out his pouch of wolfsbane and poured half the contents into a pan. He then mixed in a half cup of water and a pinch of potato starch as a binding agent. Picking a stick off the ground, he stirred the concoction until it gelled into a thick paste.
Careful not to get any on his hands, he poured the thick poison into an empty pouch and closed the drawstring. If the wolves were upon him, all he would need to do is stick a knife or an arrow tip into the pouch – a mere drop of the poison would stop a wolf dead in its tracks, and if the legends were true, it would kill a werewolf before it hit the ground. With hardened eyes, he gazed into the flames of the campfire. He wouldn't be caught defenseless again.
The sun was just peaking above the horizon as the woodcutters slowly filed out of their cabin. They mulled around the campfire for a bit, warming their hands. After a few greetings and good mornings, they made their way to Birka to spend their hard-earned silver.
“Aren't you going into town?” asked Faolan.
Cathal sat there, unsure. He needed to go into town to pick up more supplies and possibly talk with the chieftain, but he also wanted to go to the reindeer camp and ask the Turks about the wolf attacks. As he mulled over his prospects, he asked, “Is there a way I could get my hands on a bow and a quiver of arrows?”
Faolan scratched his chin and said, “Well, if you're going hunting with the intention of bringing back enough deer meat for everybody, I suppose you could ask Domyan for his bow. Otherwise, you would need to buy one from town.”
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