The Boat of a Million Years

by Poul Anderson

  Gest gave him grave heed and soft answers. “I am no stranger to your Christ,” Gest said. “I have met him often, or at least his worshippers. Nor am I plighted to Odin and Thor.” His smile was rueful. “I have known too many different gods.”

  “But this is the true and only God,” Conor replied. “Hang not back, or you will be lost. In just a few years a full thousand will have passed since his birth among men. Belike he will come back then, end the world, and raise the dead for judgment.”

  Gest stared afar. “It would be good to believe I can meet my dead anew,” he whispered; and he let Conor talk on.

  At eventide, however, after meat, when the trestle tables had been taken from the hall and women carried the drinking horns forth, he had other things to talk about, yarns to spin, verses to chant, questions to meet. Once a couple of guardsmen happened to speak of the great battle at Bravellir. “My forebear Grani from Bryndal was among the Icelanders who fought for King Sigurdh Ring,” one boasted. “He cut his way close enough to see King Harald War-Tooth fall. Starkadh himself had not strength to save the Danes that day.”

  Gest stirred. “Forgive me,” he said. “There were no Icelanders at Bravellir. Norsemen hadjiot yet found that island.”

  The warrior bristled. “Have you never heard the lay that Starkadh made?” he flung back. “It names all the worthies who came to the fray on either side.”

  Gest shook his head. “I have heard, and I do not call you a liar, Eyvind. You passed on what you were told. But Starkadh never made any such lay. Another skald did, lifetimes afterward, and put it in his mouth. Bravellir was bloodied—“ He sat a few heartbeats thinking, while the fires in the trenches guttered and crackled. “Was it three hundred years ago? I have lost track.”

  “Do you mean Starkadh was not there, and you were?” gibed the guardsman.

  “Oh, he was,” said Gest, “though he was not much like the stories men tell of him now, nor lamed and half blind with age when at last he went to his death.”

  Stillness fell anew. King Olaf peered through shifting shadows at the speaker before he asked low, “Did you, then, know him?”

  Gest nodded. “I did. Indeed, it was right after Bravellir that we met.”

  2

  His staff was a spear, for no man traveled unarmed in the North; but over the small pack on his back hung a harp in its case, and he offered harm to none. When at nightfall he found a homestead, he slept there, repaying hospitality with songs and tales and news from outside. Otherwise he rolled up in his cloak, and by dawnlight drank from a spring or brook and ate of whatever bread and cheese his latest host had given him. Thus had he fared through most of his years, from end to end of the world.

  This day was cool beneath a wan sky where clouds were scant and the sun swung southward. The woods that decked the hills of Gautland stood hazed and hushed. Birches had begun to turn yellow, and the green of oak and beech was less bright than erstwhile. Firs lifted darkling among them. Ripe currants glowed hi the shade. Smells of earth and damp filled every breath.

  Gest saw it all, widely, from a ridge he had climbed. Below him the land rolled off to an unclear edge of sight. Mostly it was tree-clad, but meadows and plowed fields broke it here and there. He spied two houses and their outbuildings, distance-dwindled; smoke rose straight upward from the roofs. Close by, a stream glistened on its way to a lake that shone in the offing.

  He had come far enough from the battlefield that the wreckage and the dead strewn across it were blurred together in his eyes. Carrion birds swarmed aloft and about and back down, a whirling blackness, but also gone tiny for him. He could barely hear their cries. Sometimes the howl of a wolf lifted, to hang above the hills for what seemed a long while before dying away in echoes.

  Living men had withdrawn, bound home. They took wounded kindred and friends along, but could merely throw a little earth over such of the fallen as they knew. A band of them whom Gest had come upon this morning did tell him that King Sigurdh had borne off the body of his foe King Harald, to give it a barrow and grave goods at Uppsala for the sake of his own honor.

  Gest leaned on his spear, shook his head, and smiled sadly. How often had he beheld the like of this, after young men stormed forth to cast their lives from them? He did not know. He had lost the number somewhere in the waste of the centuries. Or else he had never had the heart to try keeping count. He was not sure which, any more. Yet as always, he felt the need to say a farewell, the only thing he or anyone else could now give the young men.

  It was no skaldic drapa that came to his lips. The words were Northern, so that the dead would understand if they could hear, but he lacked all wish to praise bravery and recall mighty deeds. The verse form that he chose was from a country thousands of miles toward the sunrise. There a short, slanty-eyed folk knew much and fashioned things of wondrous beauty, though there too the sword ranged free.

  “The summer fading, Chill shall slash the leaves bloody And the geese trek—where? Already this ground went red While the wind called souls away.”

  A brief spell more Gest lingered, then turned and departed. Those Danes he met earlier had seen the one whom he sought leave soon after half a dozen Swedes did and follow them eastward. Thereupon Gest had gone to Bravellir and cast about until his woodsman’s eye lighted on what he thought must be the tracks. He had better hurry. Nonetheless he kept to his everyday stride. It looked lazy, but in the course of a day it left as much behind it as a horse might, or more; and it let him stay aware of everything around him.

  He was on a game trail. The kings had set Bravellir as their meeting place because it was a broad meadow through which a road ran north and south, about halfway between Harald in Scania and Sigurdh in Sweden. However, the land round about was thinly settled. The six going this way must be headed for the Baltic shore, where lay the ship or ships that had brought them. That they were so few bespoke how terrible the battle had been. It would be remembered, sung about, made even larger in the minds of men, for hundreds of years to come. And those who plowed yonder fields would molder forgotten.

  Gest’s shoes scuffed softly on soil. Branches were a roof overhead, through which sunbeams fell to make spatters of light on the shadowy hallway before him. A squirrel ran like a flame up a tree. Somewhere a dove moaned. Brush rustled on the left, a great dim shape slipped off, an elk. Gest let his soul drift into the sweet-smelling reaches. Meanwhile, though, he kept reading the traces. That was easy, footprints, broken twigs, torn spiderwebs, marks on mossy logs where men had sat down to rest. They were no hunters by trade, as he had been through much of his life. Nor was the one who followed them, never stopping, closing the gap between. Those feet were huge.

  Time passed. The sunbeams lowered, lengthened, took on a golden hue. A bit of cold crept into the air.

  Suddenly Gest halted. He leaned forward, head cocked, listening. Family to him came a noise he thought he knew.

  He quickened his pace to a lope. Muffled at first by leaves, the sound swelled fast, clang and clatter, shouts, soon crackling, snapping, and harsh breath. Gest brought his spear to the ready and glided on as quietly as might be.

  A slain man sprawled across the trail. He had fallen into a bush that snagged the upper half of him. Blood dripped from its stems and pooled below, screamingly bright. A blow had cloven him from the left shoulder through the breastbone. Pieces of rib and lung poked out of him. Fair hair clung sweat-matted to cheeks whereon no beard grew, just the down of a boy. He stared and gaped emptily.

  Gest drew aside and found himself treading on another body, dose by, brush churned with combat. He glimpsed men, iron, blood and more blood. Weapon banged on weapon, scraped across helmets, thudded against wooden shields. Another fighter toppled. A thigh spouted red; he threshed about and shrieked. It was the kind of noise a human throat ought not to make. A fourth warrior dropped and lay sodden in a patch of nettles. The head was nearly off him.

  Gest got behind a young fir. It screened him, and he could see between its limb
s. Two were left of the band that the newcomer had overtaken and attacked. Like their mates, they wore only sarks, coats, breeks. If any owned mail, he had not thought to put it on until too late. Both these did have kettle hats. One carried sword and shield, one an ax.

  Their lone foe was fully outfitted, in knee-length byrnie, conical helmet with noseguard, an iron-rimmed shield hi his left grip and a sword of uncommon size in his right. He was more than big, overtopping Gest’s goodly height by a head, shoulders as wide as a doorframe, arms and legs like oak boughs. An unkempt black beard reached to his chest.

  The pair had recovered from the shock of his onslaught. They worked together, barking words to and fro. The swordsman went straight at the giant. Blades clashed, agleam when they rose into a sunbeam, a blur as they hissed downward or sideways. The Swede caught a blow on his shield that made him lurch, but stood fast and struck back. The axman circled behind their enemy.

  The huge man must have known it. Blindingly fast, he spun on his heel and plunged at the axman, offside, so that the stroke missed him by inches. His blade whipped. The axman staggered, dropped his weapon, stared at a right forearm laid open and bone-shattered. The giant leaped on past him. There was a grassy patch between him and the other swordsman. At its end he turned and burst into a run at that fellow. Shields boomed together, with weight and speed behind his. Overborne, the Swede went on his back. Somehow he kept hold of his sword and got his shield up.

  The giant sprang high and landed on him. Shield was driven against ribs. Gest thought he heard them crack. Breath whoofed out. The giant straddled the writhing body and made his kill in two strokes.

  He glared around. The wounded axman was in flight, blundering off among the boles. The winner dashed after and cut him down.

  The shrieks of the thigh-slashed man ebbed off to cawing, to rattling, to silence.

  Laughter boomed from a cavern of a breast. The huge man rammed his blade thrice into the earth, wiped it clean on the shirt of a fallen, and sheathed it. His breathing eased. He doffed helmet and coif, dropped them, swept a hairy hand over the sweat that tunneled off his brow.

  Gest came out from behind the fir. The giant snatched at his hilt. Gest leaned spear in the crotch of a tree and spread his palms, “I am peaceful,” he said.

  The warrior stayed taut. “But are you alone?” he asked. His voice was like heavy surf on a strand of stones.

  Gest looked into the rugged face, the small ice-blue eyes, and nodded. “I am. Besides, after what I have just seen, I would not think Starkadh need be wary of anyone or anything.”

  The warrior grinned. “Ah, you know me. But we have not met erenow.”

  “Everybody in the North has heard of Starkadh the Strong. And ... I have been in search of you.”

  “You have?” Surprise turned into a glower. “Then it was a nithing’s trick to stand aside and give me no help.”

  “You had no need,” said Gest in his mildest tone. “Also, the battle went so fast. Never have I seen such weapon-wielding.”

  Pleased, Starkadh spoke friendlier. “Who are you that seek me?”

  “I have borne many names. In the North it has oftenest been Gest.”

  “What would you of me?”

  “That is a long tale. May I first ask why you hounded these men down and slew them?”

  Starkadh’s gaze went elsewhere, toward the sun whose light shot in yellow beams between trees turning dark against heaven. His lips moved. After a bit he nodded, met Gest’s look again, and said:

  “Here shall wolves not hunger. Haraldfed the ravens. Honor won we. Only Odin overcame us. Ale I lack, but offer All these foes to Harold. Never was he niggard. Now I’ve shown I’m thankful.”

  So it was true what they said, Gest thought. As well as being the foremost of warriors, Starkadh had some gift as a skald. What else might he be?

  “I see,” Gest acknowledged slowly. “You fought for Harald, and wished to avenge your lord after he fell, though the war be done with.”

  Starkadh nodded. “I hope I have gladdened his ghost. Still more do I hope I have gladdened his forebear King Frodhi, who was the best of lords and never stinted me of gold or weapons or other fine things.”

  A tingle went through Gest, a chill along his backbone. “Was that Frodhi Fridhleifsson in Denmark? They say Starkadh was of his household. But he died lifetimes ago.”

  “I am older than I seem,” answered Starkadh with renewed roughness. He shook himself. “After this day’s work, thirst is afire in me. Would you know where there is water?”

  “I know how to find water, if you will come with me,” Gest told him. “But what of these dead men?”

  Starkadh shrugged. “I’m no scaldcrow to pick them clean. Leave them for the ants.” Flies buzzed around blind eyes, parched tongues, clotting blood. Stenches hung heavy.

  Gest had grown used to such sights, but he was ever happy to lay them behind him, and tried not dwell on thoughts of widows, children, mothers. The lives he had shared were short at best, the merest blink of years, and afterward, for most, a span hardly longer before they were wholly forgotten by all but him. He took his spear and led the way down the trail.

  “Will you be returning to Denmark?” he asked.

  “I think not,” rumbled Starkadh at his back. “Sigurdh will make sure the next king in Hleidhra is beholden to him, and that the under-kings are at odds with each other.”

  “Chances for a fighting man.”

  “But I’d mislike watching the realm fall asunder that Frodhi built and Harald War-Tooth rebuilt.”

  Gest sighed. “From what I have heard, the seed of something great died at Bravellir. What will you do?”

  “Take ships that I own, gather crews for them, and go in viking—eastward to Wendland and Gardhariki, I think. Is that a harp you bear above your pack?”

  Gest nodded. “I’ve put my hand to sundry kinds of work, but mainly I am a skald.”

  “Then come with me. When we reach a lord’s hall, make a drapa about what I wrought this day. I’ll reward you well.”

  “We must talk about that.”

  Silence fell between them. After a while Gest saw the signs he had been awaiting and took a side trail. It opened on a glade starred with clover. A spring bubbled up at the middle; water trickled off through the grass, to lose itself under the trees. They made a wall around, dark beneath, still golden-green on top where the last sunbeams touched them. The eastern sky was violet-blue. A flight of rooks winged homeward.

  Starkadh cast himself belly down and drank with mighty slurps. When at length he raised his dripping beard, he saw Gest busy. The wanderer had lain down his cloak, opened his pack, spread things out. Now he gathered deadwood below the trees and bushes that surrounded the glade. “What are you doing?” Starkadh asked.

  “Making ready for night,” Gest told him.

  “Does nobody dwell nearby? A swineherd’s hut would do.”

  “I know not, and belike darkness would overrun us while we searched. Besides, here is better rest than on a dirt floor breathing smoke and farts.”

  “Oh, I’ve slept under the stars often enough, and gone hungry too. I see you’ve a little food with you. Will you share?”

  Gest gave the warrior a close look. “You’d not simply take it from me?”

  “No, no, you are neither foeman nor quite a stranger.” Starkadh laughed. “Nor a woman. Too bad.”

  Gest smiled. “We’ll halve what there is, though it’s not much for a man your size. I’ll set snares. By morning, with luck, we’ll have voles to cook, or even a squirrel or hedgehog.” He paused. “Would you like to help me? If you’ll work as I show you, we can make ourselves snug before nightfall.”

  Starkadh rose. “Do you think me a coalbiter? Of course I’ll take a hand. Are you a Finn, or have you dwelt among Finns, to know these woodsrunner’s tricks?”

  “No, I was born in Denmark like you—a long time ago. But I learned the hunter’s craft in my boyhood.”

  Gest found, uns
urprised, that he must pick his words with care when giving orders. Starkadh’s haughtiness was likely to flare. Once he roared, “Am I a thrall?” and half drew blade. He resheathed it, smacked fist into palm, and did as he was bidden. For that moment, pain had twisted his face.

  Daylight drained from the west. More and more stars glittered forth. When dusk had seeped upward to fill the glade, the men had their camp ready. A brushwood shelter, bracken and boughs heaped within, would allow rest free of dew, night mists, and rain if any fell. Turfs piled outside its mouth cast back into it the warmth of a fire that Gest had kindled with a drill. Besides nuts and berries, he had found pine cones, sedges, and roots to eke out the bread and cheese. After he had roasted them in the ways that were needful, he and Starkadh would bed down fairly full.

  He hunkered at the fire, with his knife whittling a green stick into part of a cooking tool. It was a fire more low than the warrior would have built, softly sputtering, its slight smoke savory of resin. Though air cooled fast at this season, Starkadh learned he could stay comfortable by sitting close. The red and yellow flames cast wavery light over Gest’s cheekbones and nose; it glinted from his eyes and made shadows in the gray beard. “These are good skills you own,” Starkadh said. “Indeed you shall fare with me.”

  “We will talk of that,” Gest answered, watching his work.

  “Why? You told me you were in search of me.”

  “Yes, I was.” Gest drew breath. “Long and long had I been away, until at last memories of the North overwhelmed me and I must come back to see if the aspens still quivered in the light nights of midsummer.” He did not speak of a woman who died after he and she fared thirty years together over the vast plains of the East with her herder tribesfolk. “I had lost hope in my quest, I had stopped seeking—until as I walked through the woods and over the heaths of Jutland and the old tongue reawakened in me, not too much changed since I left, I began to hear about Starkadh. Him I must meet! I followed word of him to Hleidhra, where they said he had gone across the Sound to join King Harald and thence onward to war. I followed that trail to Bravellir, and reached it at sunset when the day’s slaughter had ended. In the morning I found men who had seen him go from it, and I took the way they pointed, and here we are, Starkadh.”