Grumbling under his breath, Cathal reached to his side and felt the coins in his pouch – he didn't have nearly enough for a bow. Perhaps he had enough for a cheap knife, depending on his bartering skills. After a moment's consideration, he made up his mind to go into town first. He wasn't going to walk all the way to the reindeer camp without a weapon by his side. With an irritable sigh, he asked, “I suppose Danika isn't going to feed us this morning?”
With a laugh, Faolan said, “I'm afraid not. On Sundays, we're on our own.”
Cathal stood up and stretched his back. He then slapped Faolan on the shoulder and said, “Alright, then. Let's go to town.”
As they walked down the trail towards Birka, Faolan had a hard time concealing a mischievous smile. Finally, he turned to Cathal and said, “So...you and Danika, eh?”
“What?”
“Rumor is, you and Danika are sweet on each other.”
Cathal loudly exhaled and did his best to look annoyed. He brought up his hand and waved off the matter. “You heard wrong. All we did was go for a walk in the woods.”
With a knowing smile, Faolan said, “In my experience, there's always a bit of truth to any rumor. So, are there going to be any little Slavs running around here in nine months?”
“Oh, shut up.”
The two shared a good-natured laugh as they ambled down the dirt trail.
It was a lazy Sunday morning in Birka. Less than half of the store fronts and booths were open. Cathal wondered why that was, until he noticed a large group of Norsemen standing outside of an old wooden church. It seemed that over half the population of Birka was waiting for morning service to start.
Faolan stopped in front of the church with a conflicted look on his face. He scratched at his beard and said, “I suppose I should go to service this morning.”
“That's good old-fashioned Christian guilt talking,” said Cathal with a snicker.
“That Christian guilt is the only thing keeping me honest.” With a heavy sigh, Faolan added, “You go on ahead. If I don't go to service, I'll feel guilty for the rest of the week.”
Cathal nodded and waved farewell. A part of him was curious as to what type of service the Norsemen performed, and how it differed from the service back home in Ireland. He knew there was merit to the Christian god, just as there was merit to the Norse and Slavic and Celtic gods. As a young boy growing up in Dublin, he was forced to go to church, if only to maintain appearances. There was a tremendous amount of community pressure to attend service every week. Most of the villagers in Dublin attended daily.
He exhaled loudly and shook his head. He had a busy day ahead of him. Perhaps next Sunday he would have enough time to satisfy his curiosity.
Feeling a grumble in his stomach, the first thing Cathal did was eat a breakfast of grilled cod and potato cakes at the tavern. He was disappointed that Old Mats wasn't there. Besides Faolan, the old fisherman was the only person he felt comfortable talking to. He wondered where the old man lived. Did he have a family? Or was he simply a lonely fisherman, living out the rest of his days doing what he loved?
After breakfast, he walked outside, placed his hand on his stomach and slightly bent forward. The food from the tavern was playing havoc with his digestion. He wiped the sweat off his brow as he continued on down the street.
Luckily, he was able to purchase a cheap knife at one of the booths. He ran his thumb along the edge of the blade. The knife was sharp enough, and it had a nice handle, fashioned from the section of an elk's antler. He placed the knife in its leather sheath and tucked it into his belt. Perhaps next week he would have enough silver to buy a bow.
Next, he stopped by a booth selling herbs and he refilled his stocks of comfrey leaves, calendula, and wolfsbane. He was surprised to find a measure of mistletoe on display. As he pondered purchasing the herb, Danika's image flashed across his eyes, and a sly grin crept across his face. He pointed to the mistletoe, and had the shopkeeper snap off a portion. He carefully placed all the herbs in separate pouches and tucked them into his belt, right beside his new knife.
Satisfied with his purchase, he set off towards the chieftain's longhouse. Would the chieftain be at home, or at church? He slightly shook his head to clear his muddled thoughts. He then took a deep breath to settle his nerves.
How much should he tell the chieftain? Would he even grant Cathal an audience? As a foreigner, he had his doubts. He stepped off the main road and strolled down a wide path towards the chieftain's longhouse. Up ahead, he could see a guardsmen standing by the door with his arms folded across his chest.
Raising his hand in greeting, Cathal said, “Is Torsten available for an audience?”
The guardsmen cocked his head and scowled, disapproving of the migrant's odd dialect. “The chieftain is at church, as you should be.”
Cathal narrowed his eyes, wondering if the guardsman understood the irony of his statement. He decided not to make an issue of it and turned around, back towards the main road. How long did church service last? It had been over an hour since he parted ways with Faolan.
He walked northward towards the church. As Cathal approached the old wooden temple, he could hear the muffled voice of the priest conducting his sermon.
Cathal stopped in front of the church for a moment, deciding if he should wait or continue on. As he waited, he listened to the muted words of the sermon, barely audible with the wind whistling past his ears. He heard the preacher describe the tribulations of Jesus, as he wept over the fate of Jerusalem. The messiah knew that in a short while, the city would be torn apart by Roman soldiers.
As he listened to the sermon, he realized that the Christian religion had no reference to werewolves, at least not in the supernatural sense. When he was a boy, he remembered two monks arguing over Daniel 4:33, a passage that described Nebuchadnezzar, the exiled king of Babylon, as he was transformed into a hideous beast and ran through the forests for seven years. One of the monks argued that Nebuchadnezzar ate grass like an ox. The monks finally concluded that the insane king of Babylon was merely indwelt by a demon.
Cathal pondered the implications of his situation from a religious point of view. It seemed that Christianity, a newer religion, didn't have much to say about werewolves, whereas the Slavic, Norse, and Celtic religions did mention the beasts. He had a suspicion that whatever was transpiring here in Birka, was an ancient evil from a forgotten age. Shaking his head, he decided to walk to the Turkish reindeer camp. Maybe they had some insight to this situation.
As he walked, a few biblical passages flitted past his mind. There were more than a few passages in the bible that explained how vicious wolves were. From memory, Cathal quietly recited Matthew 7:15: Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly are ravenous wolves.
A rueful smile creased his lips; perhaps the bible did have a few things to say about the situation in Birka...
Chapter 9
The reindeer camp was located at the western edge of the island, nearly a half-hour's walk from Birka. As he entered the camp, Cathal received more than a few uneasy glances from the Turks. A quick scan of the workers confirmed the foreman of the camp didn't hire anyone outside of his ethnicity.
The Turks were easy to recognize on sight. Their olive skin, short hair, and close-cropped beards stood in stark contrast to the wild long hair and beards of the Norse and Slavic people on the island. And while most of the Turks dressed in the same drab attire as the rest of Birka, no doubt purchased from the same clothing vendors in town, they liked to wrap colorful scarves and handkerchiefs around their necks and belts.
As Cathal walked towards the campfire, he asked several Turks if they spoke Norse. He received the same suspicious stare and the same shake of the head, no.
“Can I help you?” asked a man sitting by the campfire. He was smoking from a short, wooden pipe. The smoke had a strangely familiar scent.
“I'm looking for the foreman,” answered Cathal. He felt more than a little uncomfortable
amongst the accusing eyes of the Turks.
The man waved his hand in a dismissive manner. “We're not hiring. Try the logging camp,” he said, pointing to the northeast.
“I am from the logging camp. I simply want to talk to the foreman about a few things.”
The man cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the newcomer. He carefully drew on his pipe and said, “You have a strange accent for a Norseman. A bit on the small side for a Norseman, too.”
Cathal pursed his lips and replied, “I'm an Irishman.”
“Ah, an Irishman! Come have a seat by the fire. What can I do for you?” he asked.
Taken back by the man's sudden change in hospitality, Cathal graciously nodded his head and took a seat by the campfire. The man snapped his fingers, and a subordinate hurriedly grabbed a pot of tea and a cup that was sitting on a wooden table by one of the tents.
“You're the foreman, I take it,” noted Cathal, as he accepted the cup of tea from the underling.
“Call me Firas.”
Breathing in the sweet smell of the pipe, Cathal asked, “Can I ask what you're smoking?”
Firas smiled and passed him the pipe. “It's the dried roots of the angelica plant. The Norse call it angelikarot.”
“Ah, I have a friend in town who smokes the same herb. Do you know a man by the name of Old Mats?”
“Old Mats,” Firas nodded his head and offered a grim smile. “Yes, we've lost quite a bit of money gambling with him. He's a good man...for a Northerner.”
After Cathal drew smoke from the pipe, he coughed a few times and pounded his chest with his fist. The smoke tasted sweet, if not a bit pungent. He then handed the pipe back to Firas. “I wanted to ask if you've been having any wolf attacks lately.”
With narrowed eyes, Firas looked at him suspiciously. “Were you sent here by Domyan?”
“No, I'm here of my own will.” Cathal sipped at his tea. It had a strong, bitter aftertaste. “The logging camp had a wolf attack recently. We lost over half our workforce. I was wondering if you've had similar problems.”
“Problems? Yes. There's always problems with the wolves – they kill two or three of our reindeer every week. There's no help for it, it's what they do.”
“Have they killed any of your workers?”
Firas nodded his head. “Every month or two I lose a worker to those damned creatures. My men know the risks, and yet they stay. Where else are they going to find work?”
Cathal scratched at his neck and looked at the campfire. He was surprised to hear that the Turkish camp only lost one worker every month or two, whereas at the logging camp, the wolf attacks were much more frequent.
“Is that why you've come all this way? To ask about the wolf attacks?” asked Firas.
“Partly. There's something else I would like to ask you, but I hope you won't think I'm foolish for asking it.”
Firas smiled graciously and said, “You see? This is what I like. Civilized conversation between two men of different cultures. I could never have this type of conversation with a Norseman. They consider all other cultures beneath them.”
Nodding his head, Cathal said, “It's the same everywhere. Foreigners visiting any land are treated as second-class citizens. There's no help for it.” He then leaned forward and said. “Domyan blames the Norsemen for the wolf attacks, but I can find no evidence of their involvement. I was wondering if you had any thoughts on the matter.”
Firas let out a long stream of smoke and looked thoughtfully into the campfire. “I have more than a few thoughts on the matter, I can assure you of that. In my eyes, the Slavs are to blame for the wolf attacks. They push their logging operations too far into the forest, into wolf territory. The wolves are simply defending their land.”
Cathal grew more serious. He leaned forward and asked, “Have you seen anything else in the woods, other than the wolves? Something that moves amongst the pack?”
As Firas puffed on his pipe, he looked down, troubled. “I know what it is you speak of, but I cannot say for sure. I have a notion of what it might be...”
“Yes?”
“I hesitate to say, as I don't want to appear foolish. You see, in our culture, we have legends regarding the relationship between wolf and man.”
“Exactly!” exclaimed Cathal. “That's why I came here, to ask you that very thing! You see, in my studies, I have found that every culture has a legend that notes the connection between man and wolf, whether it be Irish, Norse, or Slavic.”
Firas paused for a moment, watching the smoke rise from his pipe. He then shifted his gaze to Cathal and said, “There is an old Turkish legend of a boy who was the only survivor of an enemy attack. The rest of his village was slaughtered, and the boy, no more than fifteen years old, was too injured to care for himself. A she-wolf found the boy and licked his wounds. The wolf brought him food to eat and protected him from predators. After a time, the boy recovered from his wounds and grew stronger. A few years later he became a man and took the wolf as his wife. He impregnated the wolf and she gave birth to ten babies. The infants were not entirely wolf and not entirely human, but both! One of the wolf-kin grew up to be a mighty leader by the name of Ashina.”
Cathal slowly nodded his head. It was as he expected – every culture had a legend of the werewolf, even the Turks. But even though every culture had a myth that acknowledged the beasts, none of the myths explained why there was a connection between wolf and man. For what purpose? Clearing his throat, he said, “The other day, as I was walking through the woods, I came across a creature, half man and half wolf, stalking me. It watched me with hateful eyes, then sprinted into the forest. The creature moved almost faster than I could see. Have you ever seen such a thing?”
The foreman of the camp looked troubled. He hesitated for a moment, then said, “Personally, I have not seen this creature, but I have heard rumors. My herdsmen have spoken of such beasts. They refuse to go out and tend to the animals, unless they are in a group, fully armed with bows and axes.”
“Beasts? Your men have seen more than one?”
“I am afraid that is correct. According to the herdsmen, there are at least three of those black demons prowling the forest.
Cathal sipped at his last bit of tea and set the cup on the ground with shaking hands. Three demons? No wonder the Turk's herdsmen insisted on being armed with bows. That would also explain why they lost fewer men to wolf attacks. Odd that Domyan didn't see the need to arm his workers with bows.
The Irishman nervously craned his head upward and noted the position of the sun overhead. He then stood and bid farewell. He wanted to get back to the logging camp before dusk.
Before Cathal left the encampment, the foreman offered him one final bit of advice. He looked at the Irishman through a hazy cloud of smoke and said, “For as long as we have walked this earth, we have had a contentious relationship with the wolf. It is in man's nature to push towards the unknown; to expand his territory and conquer new lands. But that expansion always comes with a price, a price the men of Birka are paying dearly for. Remember - in the end, nature always wins.”
Raising his hand in farewell, Cathal waved at the Turkish foreman then slowly walked towards the northeast, ever vigilant for creatures just beyond the periphery of his vision.
As Cathal entered the logging camp, he saw the woodcutters mulling about the campfire, drinking and talking amongst themselves. They looked up briefly at his arrival, then went about their business, not bothering to greet the Irishman.
Quickly perusing each face, Cathal tried to locate Faolan, without much luck. But he did see Biter sitting dutifully by the sleeping quarters. He walked over to the rickety lodge and opened the door, while absently petting the dog with his other hand. The late-day sun crept into the dark interior, as he whispered, “Faolan, are you in here?”
“What? Cathal? Where have you been?” answered a sleepy voice.
Cathal walked into the room and shut the door behind him. “Are you sleeping? It
's still daylight out.”
Elbowing his way up to a sitting position, Faolan rubbed his eyes and let out a long yawn. “I must have fallen asleep. Too much mead.”
“Drinking after church service, eh?” said Cathal with an impish grin.
“Some call it drinking, I call it Irish communion.”
Cathal laughed and sat down on the edge of his cot, just opposite of Faolan. “How was church? I came back after an hour, thinking service would be over, but the priest was still giving his sermon.”
“Ugh,” Faolan lamented. “It was brutal. Service was nearly three hours long! Honestly, I would rather chop wood all day than go through that again. And the singing! The Norse have no ear for music. It sounded like a pack of dogs were being slaughtered. The entire time, I imagined god in heaven, clamping his hands tightly over his ears and grimacing in dismay.”
“Ha! Glad I missed it.”
Faolan scratched the top of his head and said, “So, what did you do today?”
“I walked over to the reindeer camp and had a talk with the Turkish foreman.”
“What? Why?”
Cathal shrugged his shoulders and said, “I simply wanted his take on the wolf situation. Did you know that he gives bows to all of his workers for protection?”
“He does? Maybe I should ask him for a job,” lamented Faolan. “What did he say about the wolf attacks?”
“He believes the logging camp is pushing too far into wolf territory; that's why they're attacking. It's clear that he doesn't like Domyan either, for reasons he didn't get into, and he blames the chieftain of Birka for not providing adequate protection.”
“Well, I suppose there's enough blame to go around.”
Cathal exhaled loudly. “No one knows anything. The Turks are blaming the Slavs, the Slavs are blaming the Norse, and the Norse don't care enough to do anything about the situation. I need to talk to the chieftain and impress upon him the importance of my mission here.”
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