by Angus Donald
They had been shaped into neat patterns, cut or cultivated into long, curving lines to make a design clearly visible from the high ridge they were standing on more than a mile to the north. The tree lines made a clearly defined configuration that consisted of three interlocking leaf-shaped lobes, each equidistant from the other two, and all meeting in the centre, where there was a massive patch of dark green, rising much, much taller than the rest, in the rounded triangular space at their junction. This was a block of dark foliage the size of the whole village of Bago. It took Bjarki a moment to realise that the towering green mass in the middle triangle formed by the three interlocking lobes was made up of a single gigantic tree. It was the Irminsul, he realised with a shock.
‘Behold the sacred Groves of Eresburg,’ said Valtyr, speaking slowly and portentously, like a skald at a royal feast. ‘Home of the Fyr Skola.’
‘About time, too,’ said Tor. ‘I’m digesting my own stomach here.’
Chapter Five
The Fyr Skola
They were intercepted by half a dozen well-armed men before they had descended a hundred paces down the side of the ridge into the valley. Dressed in woollen tunics and fine leather-lined cloaks, long seaxes slung across their bellies, the men emerged silently out of the forest from all sides and surrounded them with a ring of deliberately pointed spears.
It was neatly done, even Bjarki could tell that. These troops were well trained. One moment the travellers were alone on the steep path, the next, they were completely at the soldiers’ mercy. He looked questioningly at Valtyr. Should they resist these warriors? Should they try to fight them off?
No. Valtyr was grinning broadly at the captain of these men-at-arms, a middle-aged Jutlander named Bragi, who seemed to know Valtyr well, in fact he seemed to be an old and trusted comrade. The spear points swiftly lifted.
As the soldiers led the travellers down the narrow path to the valley bottom, Bragi aimed a stream of questions at Valtyr about the outside world: was the peace holding between Siegfried and Theodoric? Was the Dane-Work completed yet? Was there any sign of fresh Frankish incursions?
To Bjarki’s greater surprise, Valtyr answered them all: the peace with the Dane-Mark was intact, but Christian missionaries, protected by Frankish troops, had built a wooden church in the far west, inside Theodoric’s realm on the east bank of the River Ijssel, at a little place called Deventer.
Valtyr seemed to be carefree while chatting with these soldiers, as if a burden had at last been lifted from his shoulders. Without obviously staring, Bjarki scrutinised these ordinary-looking men-at-arms while they scrambled down the valley side on well-worn footpaths. Could these men really be the famous warriors of the Groves of Eresburg – the Rekkar, the heroes who knew no fear in battle, whose skin could not be pierced by any blade, who wielded their weapons with the skill of wizards and strength of ten men?
Bjarki did not believe it. They looked like commonplace warriors to him. Perhaps that was their secret: they looked ordinary but somehow transformed into the legendary frenzied fighters when battle was at hand.
‘They don’t look very special to me,’ he muttered to Tor. They were walking through the lush meadows at the bottom of the valley, beside the chuckling waters of the river. ‘I thought at least they’d all have decent furs.’
Tor gave him a look of deepest contempt. ‘These are not Rekkar, you idiot,’ she hissed. ‘These are not Fire Born. They are just… men.’
One of the younger Eresburg soldiers raced off ahead to give warning of the three strangers’ arrival and, as they splashed over the shallow waters of the river, which barely came up to their knees, and began to climb the track that led up to the high valley-island, Bjarki lifted his eyes to look at the place that Valtyr had promised to lead him to, the sacred community where, if Bjarki were blessed, he would remain for months undergoing the rigorous training the old man promised would change his whole life: the Fyr Skola.
It looked completely different from the eagle’s-eye view on the ridge, where the interlocking pattern of the three leaf-shaped groves could clearly be discerned, and the Irminsul unified the whole in the centre of the design.
He could see a low earth wall and lichen-smeared log palisade, not dissimilar to the one that protected the Hellingar Fortress, indeed it was not all that different from the one at Bago – although thicker and higher. The most obvious difference was that the palisade surrounded the mass of trees on the summit, as if that was what it sought to protect. Usually, a village had woodland on the outside. It was a bizarre inversion of the order of things.
When they reached the top of the track and passed through the open gates, they found that a crowd had already formed. Bjarki was taken aback. He was not used to his arrival being a cause for any kind of gathering. He glanced at Tor and saw her grubby face filled with a glow of happiness.
There was a large group of people waiting to meet them, about a hundred men and women ranging in age from greybeards to girls on the cusp of womanhood, and they were all singing. It was a melody that Bjarki did not know, and yet it seemed familiar nonetheless: it was solemn and slow and in a language he did not understand, and so beautiful that he found the fine hairs on the back of his neck rising with the song’s emotion. He realised that Valtyr, standing beside him, was singing along, and the old man had tears pooling in his empty right eye socket and streaming down his cheeks.
The crowd parted and formed a corridor and Bjarki and his companions stepped forward, passing between two wings of singing Eresburg folk. He found himself walking towards the Irminsul, the sacred heart of the Groves.
Close up, the One Tree’s size was staggering. The gnarled trunk of the ancient oak was so massive that twelve tall men clasping hands would be unable to make an unbroken ring around its girth. It soared up, up and up into the sky, its distant topmost branches out of sight and each of its many curving limbs and sprouting twigs was bristling with new leaves, so dense the sunlight that managed to filter through to the earth had a greenish tinge.
Bjarki and Tor found themselves alone, in a little patch of space under the faint emerald light of the tree, when the beautiful music finally ceased. They stood there, feeling more than a little foolish, as a tall, lean and lovely woman stepped forward, holding a newborn lamb in the crook of her arms.
Bjarki had never seen anyone who was as thin as her before – yet the lady did not seem malnourished, nor faint with hunger. She seemed calm and serene, a crown of white hawthorn blossoms and other spring flowers was set on her long, reddish-gold hair, and she wore a gown of some fine material, green as moss, light as gossamer, which fell to her ankles. In her right hand she held a long, black, iron staff with an intricate head of spiralling strands of metal forming a small egg-shaped cage below a large iron knob.
‘Welcome, weary travellers,’ she said in good, clear Norse, but with a slight Saxon accent. ‘I am Skymir, Mikelgothi of the Groves of Eresburg. I bid you welcome to this sacred place. I, and all my fellow gothi, and all the servants of the Groves here gathered, pray you may discover your true selves here, and find a knowledge of your inner power, and furthermore that you will learn to use what strength you gain here for the benefit of all mankind.’
Valtyr stepped forward. ‘Greetings, Mikelgothi, may the gods shower their blessings on the Groves of Eresburg. I bring you Bjarki Bloodhand of Bago and Torfinna Hildarsdottir of Svearland, who seek the honour of enrolment as novices in the Fyr Skola. May you find them both worthy.’
‘Our thanks to you, as ever, Valtyr Far-Traveller. Not all who enter the Fyr Skola are blessed by the gods; but all may render good service to them.’
Then she said, in a surprisingly deep, booming voice for someone so slight and slender: ‘Irminsul, hear me! Mother of Trees, bear witness!’
The crowd began to hum, a thrumming in a hundred throats, a simple, four-note repetitive tune. It made Bjarki’s arms immediately goose-pimple.
‘Do you freely choose, Bjarki Bloodhand and Torfinna Hilda
rsdottir,’ the priestess intoned, ‘to join our community this day as novices, to enroll in good faith into the ranks of the Fyr Skola, and to solemnly swear in the presence of all these good folk that you will accept and keep all our laws and practices, and take them as your own; that you will cherish and protect the Fyr Skola and its customs, keep its secrets, and guard the Irminsul and the ancient spirits of the forest from all enemies as long as you both shall live?’
There was a slight pause. Then the priestess smiled and said, in a more normal, friendly tone: ‘You can say “No”, if you want to. We will feed you and clothe you and send you safely on your way, if you do not choose to join us. Think hard before you answer. This is a serious and binding oath.’
Tor immediately said: ‘Yes, lady, yes, I choose and so swear.’
Bjarki said: ‘I don’t know what your laws are here. So how can I swear to accept them? I know hardly anything about you or about the Fyr Skola.’
‘Just say yes, you dunderhead.’ Tor’s voice was too loud. ‘Don’t you want to become one of the Rekkar? Don’t you want to become a legend?’
The weird humming had stopped. The crowd was muttering now.
‘You may refuse to take the oath, Bjarki Bloodhand, it is entirely your choice,’ Valtyr’s voice was soft and kindly. ‘I hereby free you of thralldom and will take you back to the Dane-Mark, if you wish it, to face whatever the Fate-Spinners have in store for you there. But you may not know the secrets of the Fyr Skola before you make your decision. You must swear the oath unknowing; you must trust us blindly. Or not. Just as you choose. All I will say is that I think this is the right path for you, the right place for you to be. I would not have brought you here if I did not believe that with all my heart.’
For a moment or two, Bjarki did actually consider going back to the Mark. Freya would join him in his exile, he was sure of that, and they could hide out together in the forests in the north of the peninsula, or on one of the more remote islands, and be safe from the wrath of the Bago folk. But then what? The miserable life of an outlaw, a despised outcast, freezing in winter, hungry much of the time, constantly in fear for his own life and Freya’s?
He took a deep breath. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I choose and so swear.’
‘Good! Let the great Irminsul and all servants of the Fyr Skola witness these solemn oaths made today,’ said the Mikelgothi, ‘and let the making of them be marked now, and for all eternity, in iron and death and blood.’
She passed the iron staff to another gothi, held out the newborn lamb in one hand and plucked a short knife from her belt with the other. She sliced quickly through the lamb’s neck with one movement and held the struggling creature over the thick roots of the ancient tree so that the blood spattered and gushed down on to the gnarled wood. Bjarki stepped back to stop the hot gore splashing his new shoes. The lamb made not a sound as it died.
The ceremony was over. The priestess handed the limp carcass to an attendant and received a linen towel from another to wipe her bloody hands clean. Valtyr grasped Bjarki by the elbow and gently led him to one side.
‘You did well, son,’ he said, patting his shoulder. ‘Oaths are a serious business and a serious man should never swear one lightly nor unthinkingly – but I do not think you will regret what you have promised on this day.’
Bjarki thought of the oath he had made to Freya in the dunes: the promise to love and protect her all the days of his life. The knowledge that he’d broken that solemn pledge was a knife in his heart. But he said nothing.
The crowd was dispersing now, streaming away in all directions.
The Mikelgothi came to them; she was taller than Valtyr, perhaps even as old as he was. Certainly they were of an age. She had a tattoo in the centre of her forehead, Bjarki saw, a long black triangle inked between her brows.
‘Have you any thoughts about the Lodge to which they should be assigned?’ she said. ‘Or should I ask the Dreamers to pronounce on it?’
‘He’s Bear Lodge,’ said Valtyr, indicating Bjarki. ‘My life on it.’
‘I must be assigned to Wolf Lodge,’ said Tor, emerging from behind Valtyr’s back. ‘It has to be the Wolf Lodge. My father was ulfhethnar – Hildar Torfinnsson, you will certainly have heard of him. He died gloriously in battle a few years ago, slaughtering his enemies, terrorising his foes. He left me his Wolfskin before he was gloriously sent to the Hall of the Slain.’
Tor was now rummaging in her pack.
‘Hildar Torfinnsson! I have not heard that name in a long time,’ said Skymir the Mikelgothi. ‘I did not know him well myself. I was Boar Lodge and our paths did not often cross. He was Wolf-chosen, for certain. And we know that the blessing of the gandir is often passed on through the blood.’
Tor was now holding out the slightly raggedy and moth-eaten old skin that she used as a sleeping blanket. Skymir took it gently from her hands.
‘You may not wear this,’ she said. ‘Not yet. The Wolfskin is for those who have passed through the flames and emerged as Rekkar. For the Fire Born. It is not fit for novices.’ Bjarki saw the rage blaze in Tor’s eyes, like a dry haystack put to the torch. He wondered if she might attack the priestess.
‘But,’ continued the Mikelgothi, ‘I shall assign you to Wolf Lodge for your training. In time, if the gods allow it, perhaps the Wolfskin shall be returned to you. Then you may wear it in honour of your father’s memory.’
* * *
Valtyr took his leave of them shortly after this. Bjarki found himself close to tears when the one-eyed old man embraced him and told him that he would be gone by first light and they should not see each other for some while.
‘They will look after you well here,’ Valtyr said. ‘And we shall surely meet again. Obey the Mikelgothi in all things, serve the Fyr Skola faithfully, and look for truth deep inside yourself. Farewell. May the Bear guard you.’
Tor had already been led away. She had not said goodbye. And Valtyr was now striding across the space with the Mikelgothi without a backwards glance. Bjarki saw, with a little jolt of surprise, that they were holding hands.
‘Hey, you must be Barney, the new one,’ said a voice.
He turned round slowly and saw a young man a year or so older than him; a round face with a wide mouth grinning at him from under a mop of greasy hair. The stranger wore a plain blue tunic and trews, gartered below the knee, leather shoes and a belt from which hung a short knife and purse.
‘It’s Bjarki,’ he said. ‘But, yes, I am newly come to this place.’
‘You’ve been assigned to Bear Lodge, which is this way. Come on, hurry up, we’re about to eat. I’m Gunnar, by the way, your Elder Brother.’
Bjarki looked at the stranger. He looked quite normal; nothing odd or mad about him at all. Yet he seemed to think he was a blood relative.
The young man seemed to read his mind. ‘My job is to look after you for your first few months as a novice, show you how things work, where to go, what to do. They call me your Elder Brother although, obviously, I’m not. Anyway, tell me about yourself, Bjarki, where are you from? What trade do your parents follow? How was the journey? See any monsters in the forest?’
The youth loosed a string of questions at him as they walked away from the Irminsul, heading into one of the leaf-shaped groves, but he did not seem to listen properly to any of Bjarki’s answers. He threw out items of interest, nuggets of Fyr Skola knowledge, from time to time, but Bjarki was barely able to take them in. After a few hundred yards they approached a longhouse, thatched with straw, the heavy end-beams carved in wonderful designs, all of them depicting bears in various poses – bears snarling, bears reared up ready to fight, bears sleeping curled like dogs. At the apex of the roof, at both ends of the hall, were attached two huge, bleached, bear skulls.
There were several broad wooden tables set up outside the longhouse in a large sun-lit area of beaten earth. A fire was burning merrily in a pit to one side of this space over which the glazed carcass of an enormous wild bull, an auroch
s, was turning. The smell of roasting beef was intoxicating.
‘They feed us properly here; it can’t be denied,’ said Gunnar. ‘Grab a seat, there’s ale in the jug, help yourself, I’ll be back in a moment. I’d better report to Angantyr that you are here. Sit. Sit down over there. I’ll be back.’
Bjarki sat down at a pine bench that was parallel to the largest table.
A short, middle-aged man with cropped grey hair, naked above the waist, his upper body covered in swirling tattoos, was sitting on the far side of the table. The youth nodded and said, ‘Greetings, sir, I am called Bjarki.’
The older man just stared at him – not at him, through him, as if he were not really there at all. His eyes were an indeterminate muddy colour and curiously opaque, almost blank. Between them, above his squashed nose, Bjarki noticed a tattoo of a triangle – not the same shape as the one Skymir possessed, this one was less pointed and of equal length on all three sides. It was only one of many curious markings that this strange man bore.
Bjarki saw that his squat muscular body, where it was not tattooed with serpents and stars and animals and the outlines of large-breasted women, was thick with scars – pink ones that curved round his ribs, short greyish bars of hard tissue, wide glossy patches of skin that looked like terrible burns, as if he had rolled in the hearth coals. Half of one ear was missing and a white crevasse joined his right eyebrow to the right-hand corner of his mouth.
But for the fact that his muddy eyes were open, Bjarki might have believed the man fast asleep. Then he moved. His right hand shot out with the speed of a striking snake and he grasped a pottery jug that was on the table in front of him. He slopped some brown drink into a cup and shoved it skidding across the table towards Bjarki. It stopped exactly in front of him.
‘Ale,’ he said, in a thick, dusty voice that sounded as if it came from deep within a centuries-old tomb. ‘Drink some ale, lad.’
