Captain Asbern had been doubtful about setting sail this late in the year. He went cautiously, as near the coasts as was prudent, running for haven at the fIrst sign of a hard blow. Thus he did not reach Denmark until shortly before Christmas. But the passage was free of peril, with no more hardship than seamen should endure.
About midday on the feast of Adam, Brynhild lay alongside a Copenhagen dock. After learning whose she was, the harbor-master dispatched a boy to tell the owner.
Snowflakes drifted thinly out of a sky already dusking. The air was mild and damp. Scant traffic moved between walls and arcades, beneath overhanging galleries; yet light from windows, smoke from roofholes, savory odors, sounds of bustle and laughter and song, told how folk indoors were making ready to honor the birth of Our Lord. Those twelve days would be like a giant candle in the middle of that cavern which was winter. Slush plopped under the hoofs of the mules which man and woman rode. Ahead of them, high-booted against muck, went a pair of armed linkbearers. The flames flared and sparked, casting short-lived stars out among the snowflakes.
“We’ve only time for a few more barebones words ere we reach your house,” she reminded. “The whole tale will be days in the telling.” She thought. “No, years or a lifespan-for the understanding of it.”
“We will have that lifespan, we twain,” said Niels happily.
She clenched a hand tighter than needful around the reins. “It
will not be easy. First, this same eventide-I dread- How. . . what. . . shall I tell Ingeborg? Help me think what may wound her the least.”
He flinched. “I was forgetting.”
“Blame not yourself. Joy can so easily be selfish. Once I would
have forgotten.”
“Eyjan-“
“I am Dagmar.”
He crossed himself. “Could I forget your own miracle? God forgive!”
“It will not be easy for us,” she repeated. “You must needs bear with me more than most men with their wives: I who in flesh and mind am half a mermaid.”
“And the other half a saint,” Niels answered. A bit of his olden grin flashed forth. “That will prove hard on me.”
“No, never say such things,” Dagmar beseeched. “You’ll like-liest find me stubborn, quick-tempered, no real womanly meekness in me, strive though I will for it.” She reached toward him. “But oh, Niels, never will I fail in my love for you.”
He became grave, took her clasp, observed her through snow-
fall and dim yellow light. Finally he asked low, “Do you indeed
love me, Dagmar? You care for me, yes, I know that, and I’ve
no right to crave more. Yet-“
“I give you myself, siIICe you will have me,” she told him in utter honesty. “My inmost heart you have still to win, but my prayer is that you may; and in that quest also, I will fare at your side.”
X
INGEBORG Hjalmarsdatter was a Jutish woman of about thirty winters. Early one spring she arrived at Hornbaek, a fisher hamlet on the north coast of Zealand, a day’s ride by the shore road from Copenhagen. The men who had gone before her, found a cottage for sale, and comfortably furnished it, had explained that she was a widow of means who wanted a place where she could take refuge, when she desired, from city life, among common people such as she herself had been before making a good marriage.
The dwellers gave her an awkward welcome but were soon at ease. She put on no airs; rather, she was soft-spoken in her funny dialect, and ever ready to help when a need was real, whether for a bit of money or for hours of toil. However, nobody came truly to know her, and unwed men presently stopped paying court. She did not seek out her neighbors, nor invite them oftener than be-hooved her, nor gossip, nor say much of anything about her past. Alone in her home, she did housekeeping, kitchen gardening, and marketgoing for herself. Each day when weather allowed, she would walk miles along the beach or into the woods. That was not as reckless as it would have been formerly; the King’s peace prevailed anew, for a while, in these parts. Nevertheless, no other I woman would have dared. When the parish priest counseled her’ against it, she told him with a smile, the sadness of which matched aught he had ever seen, that she had nothing left to fear.
Time passed. Raw winds and lashing rains gave way to blos-soms, plowing and seeding of what fields the villagers held, boats bound forth to reap the waters. Blossoms fell, apples budded, furrows wore a tender green, forest filled with birdsong. On the roof of Einar Brandsen had long been fastened an old cartwheel whereon a family of storks nested, summer after summer. They were thought to be lucky for everyone thereabouts, and indeed the months wending past saw births, confirmations, weddings, large catches, merry holidays. But of course they also saw illness, death, burial, a drowned man wash up on this his own strand.
So time went as it ever had, until ~ new stranger arrived.
He came westward from the Sound, belike from Copenhagen,
since his horse was of the best and his clothes, while sturdy for traveling, were too. He was very big and appeared young, beard-less, hair yellow with a peculiar underwater tint, though the for-eign-looking face was haggard. The lordliness of his bearing scarcely fitted with the absence of servant or bodyguard.
Nearing midsummer, the sun was yet above the Kattegat, over which it threw a bridge of molten gold. Eastward across the chan-nel its low-flying rays glowed on clouds piled like mountains above Scania, which rested blue on the edge of sight. Elsewhere heaven stood clear, crossed and recrossed by wings. Far out, a few vessels lay becalmed, toylike, their sails also catching the light. Lulling of gentle surf and mewing of gulls were almost the only sounds adrift through coolness. Tang of sea and kelp mingled with odors from plowland and common on the rider’s left, and the woods which made a darkling wall beyond them.
Youngsters tending geese shrilled their delight when they saw him and sped to the roadside. A bit stiffly, he inquired how to find Fro Ingeborg’s house. His Danish resembled hers but was not quite the same. Could he be a different kind of Jute, or an actual outlander? The children buzzed like bees as he rode on.
Turning up Hombaek street, he was hardly more talkative to the grown persons who hailed him. “I am a friend bringing news solely for her ears. Tomorrow she’ll tell you what she sees fit. Meanwhile, please leave us be.”
Countryfolk like these were not shocked that he and she would spend a night together. Some snickered, some showed envy, a few who were more thoughtful recognized that here was no romp; the stranger’s manner was anything but lecherous.
Ingeborg’s cottage stood near the end of its row, an ordinary. building of moss-chinked timber gone silvery with age; thatch dropped low, full of lichen and wildflowers, anchored by cables against northerly gales. Dismounting, the newcomer unslung the bundle tied behind his saddle, took it under the same arm that held his spear, and gave a man a coin to stable his horse. The gathering goggled as he rapped on the door.
It opened; they saw Ingeborg wonderstricken, heard her shout; the stranger immediately stepped through and closed it against them. A minute later, the shutters were latched and nothing could.. be heard from within.
A peat fife on the hearth gave scant illumination, but she had thriftlessly lit several tapers. They. picked out newly installed stove, table, chair, stools, texture of woven hangings, brightness of kitchen gear, smoke that swirled among food-laden rafters, amidst flickery shadows. The cat which had hitherto been her” single housemate had given up seeking attention and slept on the rushes strewn over the clay floor. Warmth and pungency filled the room, as if to stave off the night that had fallen.
Tauno and Ingeborg sat on a chest whose top, cushioned, was a bench with a backrest. A goblet of wine rested on a shelf at his side for them to share, but it had seen no heavy use, and the meal she set forth remained untasted. For after the storm of kisses, embraces, caresses, laughter, tears, wild words of joy had laid itself to rest in her, he had starkly begun relating his story.
“-I came overlan
d, in hopes I might find something that would give hope. But the journey was merely slow, hard, and dangerous. Well, here and there were remnants of Faerie, different from any I’d ever heard of before. Once I’d have spent much time getting to know them. Now I found I had no stomach to linger long anywhere. I reached Copenhagen a few days ago. Niels and Dagmar made me welcome, but still less did I want the lodging they gave-too thick with sanctity, no place for my Nada. I told them naught about her. Instead, I got what I needed to be re-spectable and came straight hither. Aye, they bade me greet you kindly and urge your return. They’d like to see you mingling, taking pleasure, making a match with some genial widower who needs a mother for his children.”
Ingeborg leaned against him, his arm around her waist, hers reaching across his back to comb fingers through his hair. But she did not look at him, she stared into that hole of darkness which was the open door to the rear chamber. The second storm he raised in her, by his tale, had likewise died down. She still trembled somewhat, hiccoughed, spoke in a voice roughened and unsteady after much sobbing; her eyes were red, she snuffled, salt lay along her cheeks and upper lip. Yet she could quietly ask:
“How is it with you and her?”
He too gazed beyond. “Strange,” he answered, no louder. “Her
nearness-like a, a sweet drink that burns-or a memory of a darling lost, before grief has faded, though more than a memory: a presence- Is this how you Christians feel about your dead who are in Heaven?”
“I think not.”
“Waking, I have her with me, as I have my own bloodbeat.”
Tauno smote his knee. “That’s all-that, and remembrance more sharp than any other ever-it hurts!” He mastered himself. “But it quenches too. It is her presence, I said; she has not gone away. And when I sleep, oh, then she comes back in dreams. They’re like life; we’re together, just the way we used to be; because it is Nada in the sigil.”
Ingebord summoned her last strength: “Do you, in these dreams, fully know her?”
He slumped. “No. We roam and gambol through her homeland or in lands and seas where I’ve been and call forth for her. She grows wide-eyed with amazement. . . until sorrow seizes her that she must deny me more than a kiss. I tell her these are simply dreams and she tells me they are not, they’re a meeting of shades outside of space and time; she’s a ghost, she tells me, and if I lost myself in her I would share her death.”
“Oh, don’t!” Ingeborg’s fingers grew white-knuckled upon his shoulder. Unvoiced was that he would die like a blown-out flame.
Silence.
“Fear not, I shan’t,” he said.
“Bless Nada for her care-“ The woman drew a ragged
breath. “Yet, Tauno, whom I myself love. . . you’ll not go on thus, will you? Year after year, century after century, living only what you’ve lost. . . no, what you never really had?” She twisted about to see him. Her mouth stretched out of shape. “God gave you no soul. How can He leave you trapped in Hell?”
“It isn’t-“
She clutched him with both hands. “Throw that thing in the sea, in the Pit!~’ she yelled. “This night!”
“Never.” Before the sternness in his countenance, she quailed back.
Abruptly he smiled. His tone gentled, he reached for her, touched lips to her forehead. “Good friend, be not afraid. Every-thing shall be made well. I misspoke me. You were suffering, and that roused my own ache; but it’s very near an end. I give you my word of ho~or it is.”
Numbed, she gaped at him and mumbled, “What will you do?” “Why, this,” he said levelly. “Do you remember what I told you about the sigil after we returned from Greenland, that the angakok had earlier told Eyjan and me? Faerie scryers I met on the way back from Croatia, they agreed he spoke truth, and added more knowledge to mine.
“Nada dwells in the talisman. But she’s not locked there for aye. She can come forth, into a living body, if that person invites her.
“I will do that. Nada and I will become one, in a deeper fashion
than I sought. I’ve delayed just so that I might see how you fare
in Denmark-“
She screamed, wilder than before, and cowered from him.
He rose to stand above her, take her temples between his palms,
speak anxiously: “Be at peace. Nada is. She’s ready to dare this venture with me.”
Ingeborg shuddered toward a measure of steadiness. She could not meet his gaze. “Find someone else,” she moaned. “You can if you search.”
He frowned and let go of her. “I thought of that, but Nada refused, and rightly. It’s an unhallowed thing to do: for she’s damned.”
“But a girl in despair... or a pagan, or—She’d gain, wouldn’t she? You. . . for a husband. . . and what else?”
“The vilja’s agelessness, her power over air and water, while keeping the sun-loving flesh. And, aye, Nada’s dear flighty spirit. Such a woman would be of the halfworld.”
“You’d find many who’d spring at yon bargain.”
“And sunder themselves from God, with who knows what fate
after the body at last perishes? That was something which no magician could learn for me.” Tauno shook his head. “Nada will not. Nor, in my honor, once she’d explained the evil to me, could I allow it.”
Ingeborg lifted face and hands in pleading. “But what will you become?”
“That’s another thing which is unknown, I being of Faerie,” he replied. “Wherefore I’d fain wait several days yet, and nights, with you, old comrade.”
“Are, are, aren’t you afraid? You’ll nevermore be Tauno.”
He raised himself to his full height; his shadow fell huge. “I
am Tauno Kraken’s-bane,” rang from him. “Should I fear to take unto me my bride?”
She sat mute, until he touched her and murmured:
“The hour is late. Let’s to bed, shall we? Though this night, at least-after what’s passed between,us-I’m weary to the mar-row. Let’s just sleep. You understand, don’t you Ingeborg? You’ve always understood.”
The second room was where she slept.
Having stolen from him after he was evenly breathing, she
kindled a splint at the banked fife and used that to relight a taper. This she carried back. It gave her enough ocher dusk to see him by. .
He wanted no blankets, but lay on his right side on the pallet, unclad. Over the length of him, the great thews molded darknesses which stirred as his rib cage rose and fell. A lock of hair had tumbled across his brow, another curled beneath the jawline. A blind calm was on his face;. In the crook of an arm nestled her cat, purring.
Herself naked-she felt the rushes beneath her feet, heard them rustle, caught in her nostrils a phantom of bruised sweetness-she went carefully to the bedside. She had taken the crucifix off the wall. From that peg hung the talisman.
(“Doff it,” she had urged. “This once, that you may rest un-troubled in your true dreams.”
(“She would be lonely.”
(“I see on you the marks of nature’s revenge. Would Nada not
want you healed of them?”)
She had better not look at him for more than a few pulsebeats. He might awaken. She took the sigil by its thong and slipped back out again, closing the door behind her. Thereafter she could stand freely and by the light of the candle in her left hand behold the thing she bore in her right.
All else receded. The weight was small and was as heavy as the world. The dull ivory became a whole sky whose hollowness roofed her in, through which the dark-headed bird winged in eclipse of a moon; she was the earth below, she was the sea. It closed her off from every sound, it made a hush that snowed down through her, drenched her in its coolness until nothing was in Creation but one enormous hearkening, which was herself.
When silence had been completed, she could hear in her spirit, like a dying echo:--- Who are you? What would you? ---I am Ingeborg, your sister, who also loves him. She put the candle in a holder and
brought the thong across her head, brushing her tresses aside, until the piece of bone lay on her bosom. She parted her breasts that it might fall next her heart. Her fingers she clasped above.
Clear within her, a song of longing: -Ingeborg. Yes. You have had what I never may. I’m glad to know you. He keeps remembeflng you. (Surprise) What, you weren’t aware? Well, he does.
(Later)--He is yours, however, Nada.
· He shouldn’t be. If I’d foreseen, I’d have fled him. . . I hope.. .But now I can’t.
· Of course you can’t.
(Later, tirnidly)--lngeborg?
· Yes?
· I’m frightened, Ingeborg. Not for me, really not. For him.
You know what he wants to do.
· Aye. Why do you suppose I’m talking with you?
· But- You? (Aghast) No! I mustn’t!
· Why not?
· I’m damned.
· Well?
· Not you too. I couldn’t.
· Not even if this is my dearest wish? asked Ingeborg into the weeping.
· It can’t be. You’ve Heaven before you.
· What’s that to me without him?
· We know not what ‘II become of us . . . you-me. . . on the Last Day.
Ingeborg lifted her head. Candle-glow went fiery across her.
· Do you care?
· I should. For you.
· Nada, come to me. (With the strength of aliveness) We will be the bride of Tauno Kraken’s-bane.
There was a moment, though, when Ingeborg went on her knees. The rushes had slipped aside and she felt the cold clay underneath. “Mary,” she whispered, “I’m sorry if I’ve made you cry.”
She walked from the sleeping hamlet, down to the strand.
While the Danish nights had grown short, they were still dark. Eastward, thunderclouds had gone to loose their anger elsewhere, and a ghost of dawn was paling the stars. Throughout the rest of the sky they gleamed in their thousandfolds around the Milky Way. Beneath that crystal black which held them, the Kattegat glimmered quicksilver.
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