Viking's Sunset

by Henry Treece

  In a thorn bush which stood above them, on the skyline, a bird suddenly screeched. The running party stopped and looked up. It was a swamp hawk, its feathers tattered and torn, as though it had suffered many conflicts with the other birds of the plains and marshes.

  Wawasha said, ‘Those birds are usually brave. It is not often that one hears them cry out when a man approaches. Perhaps it is an omen, my friends.’

  Harald, who ran beside him, said, ‘It ill becomes a man to stop in his running because an old bird suddenly feels the sadness of its life.’

  But Wawasha said, ‘We of the red folk learn to listen to the words of the creatures. And this creature tells me that it is disturbed in its heart. I would say that it has been made afraid this morning, by others than us.’

  They ran on then, but Harald thought of Knud Ulfson, who was such a man as might trouble more than a mere bird, when he was in a mood to do so.

  A little later, one of the Swamp Cree ran up to Wawasha and showed him a copper armband, thick with swamp mud.

  ‘This I found beside the waters, chieftain’s son,’ he said.

  Wawasha answered, ‘This belongs to my brother, Heome. We must go carefully, my friends, from this point onwards. The gods have spoken to us twice; once through a bird, once through an armband. It would be foolish to shut our ears and our eyes to such signs.’

  Grummoch said, ‘They are two and we are many. For my part, I would as well run singing at the top of my voice. Who can harm us, when all folk go to the quarries without knife, or sword, or axe?’

  Wawasha said nothing, but from then on he ran cautiously, sometimes watching the ground for spoors; sometimes swinging his fine head from side to side, like a questing beast.

  But nothing happened, and at last they came out of the long valley where the swamp water stank and the flies buzzed, to see ahead of them on the top of the slope, a high and circular mound of clay. It stood against the blue sky like a smoothly-polished helmet, and looked to be big enough for forty men to stand upon in comfort, without jostling each other.

  ‘That is an ancient burial mound,’ said Wawasha. ‘It was there before the first of the red folk came, and our tales say that it will still be there when the last of us have gone away from the land.’

  Harald said, ‘In England, in the south, there is a circle of great stones, about which men say the same thing. It was there before the Romans came, and it will be there when Odin decides to crumble the world in his two great hands. There are some such monuments which are meant to teach man that he is but a little thing, with a life hardly longer than that of a spring fly.’

  They said no more, but set their course towards the ancient burial heap, beyond which lay steps, cut in the rock, leading down to the sacred quarries.

  When at last they arrived at the tumulus, most of the men were glad, for they had somehow expected to be delayed, with one thing or another.

  And so they scrambled up the smooth slopes with relief, at last standing on the summit and gazing below them, for a distance greater than ten men could shoot with one arrow after another.

  Harald almost gasped with sheer amazement at the size and beauty of the great quarry, for he had never seen its like, in all his journeyings across the world.

  It lay, like an immense hole scooped from the earth by the greatest hand of the greatest god the earth had ever known. A city ten times as great as Miklagard might have been placed within it, and then have left space for Rome. It was deep, deep, deep – deeper than the waters of the Jimjefjord, which, as all Northmen know, has no bottom. And its sides were sheer, save for the yellow bushes which sprouted here and there like the tufts of beard on an old man’s cheeks. Its stone was of many colours – red, yellow, black, blue. The Vikings cried aloud and said that this must be the end of the world, for they had seen no place like it, nor had heard of any in all the sagas they knew.

  Wawasha pointed to a place a hundred paces away.

  ‘That is the only way down,’ he said. ‘There are steps there which were cut when my grandfather’s great-grandfathers first came here, when the sun was young and so small that a man could hold it in his hand without being burned. That is the place we must go to. All the tribes use those steps. We call them “The Steps to Life and Death”. Let us go down! None of the other tribes will be here for another hour yet!’

  As he spoke, they all stood on the mound top, against the blue morning sky, their buckskin bags and staghorn picks in their hands.

  And as he spoke, Wawasha suddenly let fall his pick and bag and gave a strange sobbing cry, then half-turned and flung his arms out wide. Harald and Grummoch, who stood on either side of him, caught him in their arms and gazed at him in amazement. Then they saw that a little arrow, hardly longer than a man’s hand, stuck deep in his head, just above the right eye. There was little comfort to be had from asking Wawasha any questions, for his jaw had dropped and his eyes had rolled back sightless. In that one moment he had died, and now lay as heavily as three men, his great arms hanging useless before him.

  Harald turned to Grummoch and was about to speak some words of astonishment, when from the lip of the sacred quarry, men began to run towards them, men of the Algonkin, the Abnaki, the Oneida, all swinging spears or tomahawks, all painted with the white and yellow war-ochre. And at the head of this pack of warrior-hounds ran Heome and Kuud Ulfson, shouting like berserks, calling down death on all the men who stood on that ancient mound, their hands grasping short picks of staghorn, their hearts full of foreboding.

  Grummoch gasped, ‘By Thor, we are ambushed! Form a ring about the head of the mound, and strike with what you have! This is the warning that the swamp hawk spoke to us, though we had not ears to hear it then!’

  And so the red men and the white men gathered, close to each other, like buffalo waiting for the slaughter.

  22

  The Fight on the Mound

  Now, with the yapping of foxes and the deep and terrible grunting of bears, the attacking red men came in, striking low with their tomahawks, thrusting up viciously with feathered lances.

  Grummoch, who stood well to the forefront, his tawny hair flying in the high breeze on the tumulus, shouted out, ‘Come forth without delay, all who wish to try their skulls against this little horn pick! The play has just begun, catch me while the mood is on me to strike once only and cleanly; later, my blows may grow careless, then meeting will give little pleasure to either side!’

  The Vikings around him laughed and cried out, ‘Where are the famous Algonkin now?’

  A tall young brave of the Algonkin, wearing a high fur hat stuck round with hawk’s feathers dyed yellow, called back, ‘We are here, pale murder-wolves! Have no fear, we shall come at you as soon as there is room to move!’

  The Swamp Cree set their brown faces grimly and struck slowly and surely, each man grunting out the number of those who fell before his staghorn pick. But they were hampered by their heavy furs, and the attacking Abnaki on that side of the mound gave them small chance to strip off their clothes and to move freely.

  The Swamp Cree suffered bitter losses that bright morning, used as they were to a different manner of combat. But the Beothuk sucked in their breath and dilated their nostrils with contempt for their enemies; and soon the Algonkin learned that the little pick of staghorn, used with craft, can equal the copper-headed tomahawk, while its point lasts and its stave remains whole.

  Harald, facing the Algonkin with the high fur cap, fending blows, striking blows by turn, saw from the edge of his eye a young Viking named Olaf Miklofsson take a stroke from an Abnaki axe on the shaft of his pick, then kick upwards into his opponent’s chest with such force that the man fell backwards, to be lanced through by the oncoming Indians. Almost immediately afterwards, Olaf Miklofsson was struck on the neckbone by an Abnaki who had pushed his way among the Swamp Cree and was standing in the midst of the men on the burial mound.

  Harald shouted out, ‘Stand back to back, you red men, then they cannot come amongst u
s so!’

  The great Algonkin who faced him bellowed out that the white men were cowards, and drove at Harald’s shoulder with his long-bladed axe.

  Harald said, ‘A little more to the left would have been better, friend!’ And swaying from the blow he slashed sideways so that the sharp-pointed pick entered the Algonkin’s side, between the lower ribs.

  The warrior fell sideways, dragging with him Harald’s pick, its shaft now slippery with sweat and other things. Harald bent swiftly and snatched the long-bladed war-axe from the dying brave’s hand.

  ‘Exchange is no robbery, friend!’ he said grimly, and then turned to ward off the blows of another red man.

  Grummoch saw this happen and said, ‘When I go back home to the fjord, I shall tell all I meet that Harald Sigurdson is so crafty a bargainer that he even sets up his market stall on the battlefield!’

  This was meant to be a taunt, but Harald took it otherwise, as is the right way among warriors at such a time; and he answered, ‘It would well become Grummoch of the rusty hair to call a higher price for his blows. He is letting them go too cheaply, and half his enemies are escaping with little more than a broken arm or a cracked head!’

  Grummoch was indeed so sorely pressed that often he had to let his opponents stagger away without the endknock which he was used to giving on all occasions, wherever possible.

  Indeed, at the moment when Harald spoke, three red men were about the giant, stabbing with lances, almost cutting each other in their haste to be at the giant.

  Harald stepped forward and sliced down at two of them before they knew where he was. The third, seeing that now he stood against two of the white warriors, swung about and rolled down the hillock into safety for the time being.

  The Vikings laughed and slapped each other on the shoulders. Then Grummoch stopped and chose for himself the best and the longest of the lances dropped by the fallen red men.

  ‘Now we are well-armed for such as will come against us,’ he said. ‘And thank you, oath-brother, for that bit of advice about bargaining. I have never before needed to trade my weapons in battle, and the wisdom of your words came at a good time.’

  Harald said, ‘I am always pleased to advise a friend on such occasions.’

  Then, in the little lull that followed, Grummoch pointed over the black heads of the swaying red men and said, ‘Look at the edge of the crowd. Heome and Knud Ulfson are there; I wondered when we should see them again!’

  Heome was beating on a shallow drum with his nerveless hands, since he could not hold a drumstick. The rhythms he was evoking from the stretched deerhide came over the littered ground like the mutterings of death.

  Knud Ulfson had torn off every stitch of clothing, and was nodding his head back and forth in time to the drum, like a war-stallion that can hardly be restrained from plunging, blind, into the thick of the fighting. His plaits, which were usually yellow, were now stained red, and flopped stiffly behind him. His right hand clutched a long iron axe that he had brought from the ship. On his left arm was a round buckler, such as the red men carry; a thing of wood, covered with buffalo hide and edged about with the down of the winter goose.

  Grummoch said bitterly, ‘It ill becomes a Viking to strike against his kith and kin. Yonder youth is drunk with more than maize beer this time. Now he is thirsty for honour among the Algonkin! I think he looks to be their war chief when this affair is over!’

  Harald said grimly, ‘At the end of this morning, Knud Ulfson will lie stark upon this mound. That I promise you, and I do not speak hastily in these matters.’

  Grummoch, whose arms were red to the elbows, and whose broad face was streaked with blood and sweat, yelled out then, ‘Knud Ulfson, I bear an invitation to a party! Come up here like a man and let us dance together, my friend!’

  Knud gazed about him, blank-eyed as a blind man, and called back into the blue air, ‘I am Loki now, the red one. Crippled Hoder beats the drum for me, because proud Balder is dead! I come to no man’s bidding!’

  Harald said, ‘The poor fool is quite mad, as mad as the red man who has brought this battle about!’

  Then, raising his voice, he shouted to Knud, ‘Ulfson, little man, Harald Sigurdson commands you! Come up the hill and show him what you still know of axe-usage, for, remember, it was Harald who taught you all you know, in the pasture-field behind the village middens!’

  Knud Ulfson gave a little shuffle of the feet, as though he might be about to fall down, then he waved his bloody head from side to side, mincingly, like a girl who is petulant, and cares not who sees it.

  And at last he called out in a high, unnatural voice, ‘Harald Sigurdson is a man! I will not harm Harald Sigurdson, who taught me all I know of the axe-play! Let Harald Sigurdson come down the hill and stand by my side as my brother and he and I will fight for Heome together! Two true berserks among a pack of mangy wolves!’

  Harald Sigurdson replied, ‘I take only men as my brothers, Ulfson Maidenhair! I fight only for men, and Heome Tenderhand is not my man! Come forth, Ulfson, and learn what it is to face a man!’

  Then the red men on the hillock began to laugh in mockery, though they stood knee high among the bodies of their dearest brothers, and their own strength was failing as the sun climbed higher in the blue sky.

  Knud Ulfson heard this laughter and began to grit his teeth so savagely that pieces of them broke off. He began to bite his lips with such abandon that his own blood ran down his long chin, giving him a red beard. He began to swing his long-shafted iron axe so perilously that all the red men stood away from him, knowing in their own savage way that he was now beyond speech and reasoning.

  Then Knud began to cry out, to the beat of Heome’s little drum, which stuttered with the berserk’s stuttering words, as though the two young men were in unison of thought and feeling:

  ‘Knud Ulfson speaks to all the world!

  And this is what Knud Ulfson says:

  Neither the white bear of the wasteland,

  Nor the white ghost in the darkened hall;

  Neither blood, nor bone, flesh, nor entrails,

  Neither belly-wound nor eye-wound,

  Liver-wound nor armpit wound –

  Causes him fear, causes him delay

  In answering challenge!

  Knud Ulfson has outstared the breeding wolf;

  He has snatched the snake from its mossy shelter;

  He has held the bear’s paw in his right hand.

  Knud Ulfson will not waver from Harald’s blade,

  Will not avoid Harald’s thrust,

  Will not shrink when Harald strikes;

  For though Harald is great,

  Knud Ulfson is greater;

  Though Harald kills Knud,

  They will go together to Valhalla!’

  When Grummoch heard these words, even he shuddered, for he knew that now Knud had reached the outermost boundary of berserk madness, the point at which a Viking’s mind deserts him and he runs upon the spears gladly, laughing and joking, knowing not what he feels or says. Such men die without knowing they are dead; but always they take with them any who stand within reach of their blows. Such men make no effort to defend themselves, but set their heart only on delivering blows …

  Grummoch muttered from the corner of his spittle-flecked mouth, ‘I stand beside you, Harald. When he comes in, I will strike his legs from under him with the shaft of my lance, then we will send him packing as he sprawls upon the ground!’

  But Harald did not answer. His face was set and hard, like a face carved from wood. He slowly set himself, left foot forward, to meet the berserk’s charge. His motions were deliberate. It was as though he stood before a king and prepared to make his bow. It was as though he stood before a lady and prepared to dance with her, in some high hall at the winter feasting. It was as though he was a statue carved in ivory; a statue of a man preparing to stand before death himself.

  Then Knud Ulfson began to scream, high and in the rhythm of the little drum. Heome pounded t
he hollow gourd, beating out the pulses of the berserk’s inner heart.

  Then suddenly Heome himself twirled round thrice, shouted high in the barking of a dog, and ceased his drumming.

  Knud Ulfson flung back his blood-stiffened plaits and charged, his lips drawn upwards so that his white teeth could be seen, clenched in a smile of death.

  The red men on either side parted before him, their axes now lowered, their eyes wide with wonder and fear.

  Grummoch made to stand before Harald, but Sigurdson gave such a bull-like bellow that the giant fell to one side, his lance-point almost in the ground. And thus he learned that Harald Sigurdson wished to meet his fate alone, and with no aid from any man – not even from his dearest oath-brother, and the foster-father of his children, Svend and Jaroslav.

  23

  Settlement

  There are the moments in a man’s life when he welcomes other folk about him, so that they may comfort him, bring him food, or presents, or the simple pleasure of kindly words. But there are other moments, which come but infrequently in a man’s life, when he needs no other but himself to be beside him. These are the moments when food, and presents, and kindly words count as nothing; for the man stands before death himself, who is not concerned with food and presents and kindly words.

  Before death, man stands alone, and no one may comfort him. Nor does he need comfort, for he is now aware that only he may pass through the low door into the darkness; that none may go with him, however much food, however many presents, however many kindly words they bear.

  The man at the brink of death stands quite alone.

  Harald Sigurdson stood quite alone that morning, upon the blood-slippery clay of the ancient burial mound, that had been there before the first red men carried their skin-wrapped packages across the frozen seas to the north. The hot sun beat down upon him, from a world outside man’s knowledge; the hot sun burning down, thoughtlessly, upon another world of ants, some wearing feathers, some wearing iron helmets; ants, without sense in their movements, power in their minds; ants who must die one day, from sun, or frost, from hunger, or the letting out of blood; from the deep salt sea, where great creatures moved mindless among the weed …