by Tim Leach
Where there is a city, the local bully becomes a tyrant, the tyrant becomes a king. The gang becomes a warband, becomes a conqueror’s army. The people came to this island, exiles and dreamers and fools, because they had tired of such things. It was our isolation that kept us safe, or so we believed. We left nothing for a king to rule over.
Yet now we could see the thousands who gathered there, the great lake that was a cousin to the sea and a mirror to the sky. The Althing, the great gathering of the People. It is there that we trade and sing, see the friends we thought long lost to us. It is there that the law is spoken and decided. All things that a man could dream of lay there – we had only to find them and choose between them.
‘What will you do here?’
The voice a strange one to me, so long had it been. I stared at Gunnar, so that I could be sure that it was he who spoke and not some trick of the mind. He waved a hand at me, impatient.
‘I will go to the poets. There are songs I must learn. And I have a new song to sing. And you?’
‘I go to buy a horse for my son. I promised him a black gelding,’ he said, and he stirred his own mount forward.
Perhaps it was as simple as that – he owed me the courtesy of an escort, and honour had now been served. Yet just as I was ready to believe this, he turned in his saddle and spoke to me once more.
‘I shall see you with the poets. I will hear this new song of yours.’
*
My horse was tethered with the great herd in a canyon, my axe bound to my belt with white cords, for none may go to the Althing with a ready weapon. Then I was among them, passing into that sea of people like a swimmer into water, clearing a path through the crowd with my hands against their backs. Instead of the breaking of the waves, my ears filled with the cries of old companions reunited, of daughters seeing their fathers once again. I smelt the salt of sweat and not the sea.
I went not towards the great booths of the chieftains, where beneath the high black cliffs the Thirty-Nine gathered to discuss the great deeds of the people, to confer on the will of the gods. Nor did I go to the great trading grounds, where men and women gathered to see the treasures brought from distant lands – intricate silver jewellery, richly dyed clothes, fine Swedish steel – that few could afford but all could look upon and long for. I did not go to the Oxara river, to look upon the little island where countless duels of honour had been fought, where men had died for an insult, a word, a single untoward look. I went instead to that raised piece of ground to the west. I went to where the poets sang.
I sometimes wonder how the people of other lands speak of the Northmen. The Saxons and Picts whom we have raided time and time again. Perhaps they respect us for being braver warriors than they, for showing them how to fight and how to die. More likely they think us monsters and murderers. But that is because they have never heard us sing.
We may love the sight of a well-forged weapon, the glitter of silver in a chest, fine-worked jewellery, deep-dyed scarlet cloth. But there is only one true art that matters to the Northmen and that is poetry.
For we may spend much of our lives huddled close in the dark, waiting for the sun to rise. Those who do not die of sickness or starvation or to the feud spend their restless lives toiling in the fields and raising sickly cattle. Even our gods know that they fight a hopeless battle, doomed to die at Ragnarök. Yet we know what beauty is, and it is the voice that sings in the night. For when the shield is shattered and the sword is blunted, when all friends have broken fellowship and lovers grown cold, we will not be alone. The poets shall keep us company.
These were my people and there were not many of us. Many had gone abroad to find their homes in the courts of kings, for it is known that we Icelanders sing truer and sweeter than any other. There are few who could resist that call of glory, the court of kings – only those of us bound by poverty or feud or lack of skill remained behind.
I knew them all. Hallfred – but a boy at that time, but already we knew that he would be greater than any of us. Kormákr, his eyes mad with love and poetry, face marked with the scars of the many duels he had fought for love. A little way distant, I could see the towering figure of Egill Skallagrímsson – an old man now, but looking half a giant at least, still glowering with such ferocity that men half his age kept their distance from him. The greatest of all the warrior poets, who had won a stay of execution with a single poem, ended a feud with a song. And there were more there, others whom I shall not name.
They nodded at me then – I the least amongst them, but I had enough skill to earn my place. No great king would ever call me to his court. No man would sing of me a hundred years from now. Yet I had drunk of the mead of poetry as they had, that gift from the gods which few men may know. They looked on, and waited for me to sing.
A crowd gathered round; not so great as that around the chieftains or the traders, but large enough for my heart to quicken, to taste iron upon my tongue. But I would not look into the crowd in search of men and women I knew. My words were not for them.
I closed my eyes, and stilled my breath. I began to sing. I sang of a man who fought a ghost in the snow.
A careful song: I left no clue for the curious, no chance that they would know the meaning behind the words. Yet I sang of the battle in the snow, of a great warrior whom none would acknowledge. A proud man who needed no acclaim from his kin or chieftain. For this man, to be forgotten was the greatest of praise: he fought for himself alone.
If I had lost his friendship, then the words at least would remain. As some sing of the loves that they have lost, so I sang of my friend.
I see in your eyes that you wish to hear it. Of all the songs I have given you, perhaps you want this one more than any other. But you shall not have it. Soon, you will know why.
*
I saw them then. As I finished my song and the first words of praise broke over me, I looked amongst the crowd and I saw the two who I most hoped for.
Gunnar first, standing in the first row, his mouth slightly parted, his fighter’s eyes unreadable as ever they were. And Sigrid – further back, almost lost amidst the others, I could not see her face.
The words of the other poets fell upon me – guarded praise, questions of origin, a few cutting words. I did not answer them, but went forward to the crowd. Yet Gunnar was already gone. A little nod of the head that could have meant anything, and he drifted away into one of the shifting currents of bodies that ran through that sea of people.
Sigrid remained, a little smile across her lips. Sharp she had been before, bearing a studied indifference as carefully as a swordsman holds his guard. Yet now, for a time at least, that coldness had gone from her.
I saw the way that her eyes danced over the crowd, how she half-started at the shouts and the cries like a wild horse before the breaking.
‘You have never been to an Althing before, have you?’
She shook her head. ‘My father would not let me.’
‘And he permits you now?’
‘He is dead. He…’ She fell to silence and I took her hand.
‘Come. Let me show you.’
On that first day, the new world was still being built. We walked past those chieftains and merchants and priests who always came to Althing, hard at work on the booths they occupied every year, re-erecting roofs that had been taken by storm, shoring up walls pierced by vagrants or outlaws. They were like men rebuilding a lost city from its ruins, a memory. Elsewhere, those too poor for a regular place were arguing amongst one another, vying for the best spot from whatever space was left. The crafty traders waited for an argument to begin, and snuck quietly into a place that was disputed. If you have ever watched seals on the islands dividing up the breeding grounds in a brawling, shrieking, sneaking battle of voice and flesh, you will know this sight, or close enough.
There are great happenings to witness at the Althing, places where our little world is being reshaped by the speeches of great men, their words falling upon the rest of us l
ike a hammer upon hot iron. I could have taken her to see where the priests would be arguing about the coming of the new religion that some Icelanders were practising in secret, spread by the followers of the White Christ. Or where great chieftains would be speaking to their followers, or where travellers from distant lands would be sharing stories of the raids they had fought in, speaking to an audience of wistful, shipless Vikings. Perhaps that is where Gunnar would be now, lost in memories of the man he once was, nurturing an impossible dream of pulling the bones of his ship from his home and setting sail once more.
But I did not take her to these places.
Instead I took her to where Thord the Sly was selling his axes to men who did not know him, and told her how one could tell from the flecks on the blade that he had scrimped on his iron. They were brittle axe heads that would shatter on shield and skull and chopping block alike. I told her how, young and foolish, I had bought one of his axes as a youth and won back my silver in a challenge.
‘I stood there with a shield in my hand,’ I said, ‘and told him that he could swing at me as much as he liked with one of his axes. If it broke before my shield did, he would pay me double its worth. If the shield broke first, I would pay him twice the price. And he did not swing once. Just smiled for the crowd, called me a fool who did not know good quality when I saw it, and gave me back my silver.’
‘Why do any still buy from him, then?’
‘He talks well. Men want to believe him.’
We went to a horse fight run by Old One Eye, and I told her how to pick out the winner, how more often than not it was the horse that looked a coward, that rolled its eyes and danced away from its owner, that would fight hardest when forced to it. Cowards fear death more than the brave, and it is cowards who are the most dangerous when trapped. I showed her the mares that were tied behind each stallion, there to make them fight harder.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘They kill for love, then?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do men ever kill for love?’
‘Not often. Most men kill for honour, or in anger.’
‘So only horses kill for love.’
‘Only horses. And poets, sometimes.’
She laughed at me then. ‘Come. Show me something else.’
I did not take her back to the poet’s quarter, where greater skalds than I would be singing their most famous songs, trying to fix themselves in the fickle minds of those who stopped to listen. Instead, I took her to that little hollow by the lake where, every year, the same old man told the same sad story. He had been there at every Althing I visited. His story was not that of a great life spent raiding or feuding, but a long, quiet tale of loss and ill fortune. A wife who divorced him when his fortune turned, children lost to sickness and shipwreck, a farm run down to ruin. He paid no mind to whether any came to listen, which was rare enough. He was blind and expected nothing from his audience. The telling of the tale, it seemed, was enough for him.
I showed her only these parts of the gathering, the Althing I knew, and hoped that she might know me from it. A crooked seller of axes, a duel of horses, a man telling stories to the air. A passing world. It was as close a thing to a city as either of us would see in our lives.
At last, we came to the heart of the Althing. A simple field by the sheer rocks, where we do not come to listen to the words of gods or heroes, chieftains or singers. It is where we come to listen to the law.
We were early and there were not many others there. Only a scattering of men, all wandering restlessly. Each of them had grievances to put before the court, walking in circles and muttering to themselves, repeating the particulars of their suit over and over again. We were the only ones, it seemed, who came without a case to prepare. We sat upon the warm grass and waited.
‘So,’ I said, ‘you have seen the Althing. I would know what you think of it.’
‘It is wonderful. As wonderful as I hoped it would be.’ She looked at me, as if seeing me again for the first time. ‘But I think you are not so pleased by it.’
‘I like it well enough. I like the silence better.’
‘A poet of silence. You make many difficulties for yourself, I think.’
‘Truer than you know,’ I said, and I held her gaze until she looked away.
‘Why did you come here, then?’ she asked.
‘To pay my duty to a friend.’
‘And did you?’
‘I did.’ But I said no more than that.
I watched her for a time – her rough hands, a servant’s hands, clasped together in her lap. The dance of blood beneath the skin of her neck, quickening and slowing at the rise and fall of her breath. Her lips, thin and always slightly parted, always ready with a quick word, it seemed. I wondered what it would be like to kiss those lips.
Perhaps she saw those thoughts marked upon my face. ‘Olaf’s tolerance goes only so far,’ she said. ‘I must go. But come and find me again. We should speak more.’
I could not help but laugh. ‘Where does that boldness of yours come from, I wonder? Some famous ancestor?’
‘No. Perhaps my courage is the same as yours.’
‘You think I have courage?’
‘I do.’
‘And where does it come from?’
‘From one who has little to lose.’ She stood, and as if by accident, let the edge of her hand brush past my face. Cool skin, the edge of a nail biting for a moment against my cheek. Then she was away, disappearing into the crowd.
I called one last question after her. ‘Can you sing, Sigrid?’
‘Better than you.’ And she was gone.
I lay back on the grass and watched the clouds dance across the sky, and gave myself to thoughts of the future. I thought of the feel of her skin against mine, what it would be like to share warmth in the darkness. The way, at night, that a woman’s eyes shine like silver under candlelight. Then I thought of nothing at all.
Before long, I heard footsteps, soft through the grass. A shadow across the sun, and then a presence on the ground beside me. I knew who it was before I sat up, and we shared the silence together for a time.
Then Gunnar said: ‘Forgive me.’
‘There is nothing to forgive.’
He looked back towards where Sigrid had gone. ‘A handsome girl. You shall marry her?’
‘Perhaps.’
He nodded, almost to himself. He reached to his forearm, that place where the men of Iceland keep their wealth in rings of gold and silver and bronze. There are men like Olaf who have arms that glisten like dawn light on the water, with much more kept under lock and key in their homes. Others, like Gunnar, carry all the wealth they have in the world upon their arms. When they take a piece off, you know exactly what has been given, and what is left.
He pulled a silver arm-ring away and offered it to me, pinched between forefinger and thumb.
‘It is too fine a gift,’ I said.
‘No, it is not fine enough. But I can spare no more. Come, take it. Do not dishonour me. You might buy some land with it.’
I eyed the arm-ring and I tried to keep the doubt from my face. But I did not succeed, for Gunnar laughed at me and said, ‘Not much land, I grant you. But something.’
‘I would not need much.’ I looked around at the gathering crowd. The time of the Lawspeaking was drawing close. ‘I never thought I might give up the wanderer’s life. You were right, I suppose. To think that I should marry and settle.’
‘No. I was wrong, wasn’t I? At least in the woman I chose for you. Perhaps I do not have that gift.’
‘You chose well enough for yourself.’
‘Yes. I did.’ And yet there was something strange in his voice as he spoke. Something a little like regret.
I wish we had spoken more then, of women, and the future. It would have made for a good memory. But we had no time left.
An expectant silence was spreading across the plain, even as it grew ever more crowded, as thousands gathered to bear witness. For many it was obligation
, as they came to support a cousin or a brother or a friend involved in a dispute. It was rare for a man to come to the Althing without a connection to one case or another, bound as we all were by blood and duty. Those who had the privilege of remaining uninvolved in the shifting feuds still came to watch and listen. For we are a people who love the battle, who live to go to war. And now our wars are over, our raiding days long gone. All we have are the legal duels of endless court cases, and the sudden, secret violence of the feud.
We sat together in silence, and waited for the law to be spoken.
7
There is a rock on the cliffs above the plain. None know its history, why it should contain such a magic as it does for our people. Perhaps some judgement was settled there in the years of the first settlement. Marked with reddish stains, it might have served as a headsman’s block. It is uneven, it would be difficult to make a clean cut upon it. Or perhaps at some stand-off between rival families, with swords drawn and blood about to flow upon the snow, some man leapt upon the stone and shouted out for peace. We do not know the true history of that stone, and it does not matter. Now it is the place where the law is spoken, in incantation, in prayer.
The word is the law, the law that we have all agreed upon. Other lands might inscribe their judgements and laws upon scrolls and tablets, but we do no such thing. Written words are lifeless things and my people have no use for them. Our law lives in word and memory. Our chieftains do not command us, they ask us. Our laws are not chains to bind us nor whips to beat us. We pay no tithes or taxes, raise no armies. There is only the law we agree together, and the honour that binds us to the law.
One must not think such an unwritten law to be a simple thing. Every Althing, the Lawspeaker will stand and speak for an hour, and even then he will have spoken only one third of the laws that we follow. The Lawspeaker speaks thrice, at three Althings, and once he has spoken every one of our laws he is released from his charge and another appointed, as if the law were some curse that could be lifted only by being spoken in its entirety. We sat and watched as the Lawspeaker, Thorkell Thorsteinsson, took his place upon the stone above us and began to speak to us.
