The shingles sputtered angrily set in some trunks by the fireplace and I waited for Aldbert to get up. Mostly, he just slurped on the ale, and seemed to be muttering to himself, and I realized he expected to perform his poem for Friednot, or a song and it would be requested during the Thing, or before the funeral, after the blessing and sacrifices of the coming day. It left him listless with worry. I chuckled as he slapped his forehead, berating himself mercilessly, and left a red welt as he had forgotten to put down his drinking horn. I sat there, admired the two pretty girls, and waited, though my patience was growing thin. Talking to the dead? Gods above, but he was crazy. After an hour of looking on as he kept suffering, I saw his face tighten, and he drank down his mead. ‘It’s time,’ he said like a wounded hero of old and got up, looking grave as a stern father about to berate a boy for having let the cows escape, and I hoped he was not too drunk to amuse me. He burped and smiled sheepishly, caught my eyes, and nodded for the door. I nodded back at him and pushed back the bench, which drew an inquisitive smile from our host. I bowed to him and indicated a need to piss, and went out under Hulderic’s long, speculative gaze.
The night was windy, and some specks of snow were coming down, riding the breeze forlornly and I saw Aldbert marching resolutely for the darkness, carrying something. ‘The bastard doesn’t even know this place,’ I murmured and cursed I had left without a spear. Had he not gotten lost in Timberscar just last month? And there were wolves about, no doubt. They smelled the feast, and they were always hungry. And perhaps there was something else, something on two legs as well? I walked after him, nonetheless. We went on, until he stopped to look back at me, clutching a huge sack and nodded with reverence for a dark wood, not far. Damn him, I thought. We had vitka, and völva to perform such magic during the high rituals, and sometimes they took a life to give to the gods in return for the wisdom. These woods looked just like something that had been dedicated to the Aesir or the Vanir. While I had mocked ravens just that day to Father, it was a different matter to do so in the depth of a night. No Germani was a disbeliever when walking dark, lightless woods. Woden’s ravens would be skulking around indeed, eyeing our progress, the boar Lord Freyr and his bloody-handed sister Freya, they would stir as the fool made a mockery of everything our people considered holy, and Donor and Woden would probably send down a plague or a lightning bolt before Aldbert would understand to stop the charade.
He scuttled for the thickest part of the woods, took a wrong way, one that was hopelessly entangled with branches and had to come back a ways before finding the right path, looking flushed, but still I followed. I felt danger lurking in the shadows, saw gleaming, small eyes, and some larger ones. A night bird, probably an owl fluttered ahead, its shadow splitting the few specs of light from the settlement, and despite the foolish company of Aldbert, I felt alone and afraid in the wood. It was the sort of child-like fear you remember from your past, a terror lurking on the edges of your memories, a fear of creatures in a dark room with you, things you have been told are not actually there, but you are absolutely sure they are, nonetheless. My belly twitched with the fear, and I was cold, strangely cold, and resisted the urge to rub my arms. Were there vaettir there? The sprits of evil men, destined for the dark lands, but still lost, having been abandoned by the Valkyries, or perhaps just not welcome in Helheim at all? It was night, it was a very holy month, and the vitka said the spirits were close to our world during the weeks that led to the Yule feast. Then again, they seemed to think every month was like that, I thought. I walked past stumps of trees and dodged low hanging boughs that wetted my face.
Then, a skull swung in the air and slapped into my chest.
I squawked, then changed the terrified noise into a cough and heard Aldbert chucking somewhere in front of me and I bit my tongue, and slapped the clammy, brittle thing away, as I stepped away from it. I hung from a rope and looked oddly alive. I kept staring at it, still unreasonably suspicious it might jump at me as I moved away, ready to latch into my neck for a late evening snack. It was brown, stretched skin hung from it in tatters, and it looked sinister as Hel’s dead eye. ‘Are you going far? Isn’t this creepy enough? Does it have to be a certain bit of this crappy wood or can we just sit down here?’
‘They were sacrificed to Woden a year ago,’ he laughed hollowly. ‘Svear. They cannot hurt you now. Later, perhaps, but not now. Slap them out of your way and they will not hurt you.’
Hurt me later? I thought and cursed him, this time aloud and clear and crudely. ‘You salt-faced charlatan. I’ll slap you if I have to wet my shoes in some damned stretch of swamp,’ I growled and then found him. He was slouching over a stool, trying to make it stand in the wet, half-frozen moss. ‘Seriously, you brought a seat? In that sack?’
‘Yes. A self-respecting poet does not squat in shit,’ he sniffled as he finally managed to find a proper position that held promise not to topple him to the perfectly good grass. ‘This is rickety, so don’t mope. Not comfortable. And you might have brought one yourself. Not my fault if you have fewer tools inside your bony skull than I do.’
‘Last time I’ll fight your fights, poet. Seriously, you didn’t bring me one?’
‘You won’t need one. I’m supposed to sit higher than you, Maroboodus. I’m the respectable medium between you and the gods, and you are the humble, if ugly warrior whom they might or might not hear out.’
I poked a finger in his chest. ‘Hear me out? Aldbert, I don’t know why we are here. I wanted to see you speak to the dead, but you seem to think the dead can do something for me. What, exactly, should I wish from the things? Will they tell me how to kill Maino? And I won’t sit below you. I’ll stand.’
He shook his head, as if trying to find an answer. ‘I don’t know. With everything that’s happened these past days, I think it might be a good idea to ask for their guidance. You need it. And no, not on how to kill Maino. Just ask them what you should do. Obey your father? Rebel like an idiot? Ask them! The dead can be very helpful, if they feel so inclined. They have helped make me a better poet.’
‘In that case,’ I told him maliciously, ‘they have enjoyed a grand joke. And I don’t want to join that herd of fools who think they are special enough to have the ear of the dead and the gods—‘
‘Can you please give them a chance, Maroboodus?’ he breathed. ‘Here,’ he said, and showed me a horn full of mead, stoppered with a leather cover. ‘It’s a very good sacrifice. Hold it!’ He handed it to me as if it was the blood of the highest king in Midgard.
‘I think they might enjoy a drink, but perhaps also a human sacrifice?’ I asked with a growl, holding the horn.
‘Don’t be tedious,’ he answered. ‘I spared that bit when you guzzled everything down, little thinking you might have to sacrifice something for the answers. And you mope after a stool, when I go thirsty?’
‘Damn liar. My heart breaks. I’ll just laugh over here, by the tree,’ I told him with a wry grin. ‘And you ask the spirits on what the future holds for me? Ask them that, eh? That’s what I want to know.’ And then I waited, as he sat there. I did so for a few minutes, and realized he was trying to figure out what to do. ‘So,’ I said, eyeing the woods where I saw many skulls hanging from the boughs. ‘What now? You have no clue what your galdr-song is like, no? You’ve never spoken with the dead, only a mug of ale where you saw spirits and tits. Admit it.’
But he didn’t and I bit away the rest of the mockery. I saw he was actually afraid, shaking as he gathered courage and I looked away, feeling sorry. ‘Now, be ready,’ he said, breathing heavily. ‘I’ll risk much for you, you ungrateful lout. I’ll ask the hidden spirits to help you. To guide you in your way. Us, in fact, as I am stuck with you, a damned fool that I am. They will aid us. Both of us. Pour the mead on the ground. Do it respectfully, slowly.’
I did. I rued the waste, but I let it trickle down to the frosty dirt, and Aldbert looked on with a critical eye, until I was done, making sure I saved not a drop for myself.
‘Go ahead then, sing them a merry song,’ I told him, though I tried to avoid looking at the skulls that were now hung with small icicles. Had they been there just now? No, only regular skulls, and no ice. The air was chilly, and the leaves and pine needles were icy, but I was sure the skulls hadn’t been so afflicted with the rime and ice before. I put my back against a heavy pine trunk. If the dead answered, they’d be creepy and deadly shadows, resentful of the warm blood in our veins and I’d make sure they could not sneak up on us. And if Aldbert’s head was not full of cow turds, and actually spoke the truth about his galdr singing, his ability, I’d be sure to knock him out if he lost control of it. I clutched a sturdy branch to be used as a cudgel and tried to concentrate on thoughts of a happy, warm hall’s fire, a pleasant summer morning, but instead, I had to focus on Aldbert. I couldn’t help it. His act looked very genuine indeed. Far too much so.
He was speaking gutturally, spitting words between his teeth, his weak beard swaying as he shook with an aggressive spell-song’s casting. And that was not all. He was rubbing a strange-looking wand with pale green leaves. It was a rough bit of wood, and I shook my head in wonder as it was truly a magical wand, like the vitka used, being wand carriers, and even the female völva, when they practiced their dark magic in places much like this, carried such things. I had not seen the latter take place, of course, as the völva would be truly dangerous, but the vitka carried their wands brazenly to the sacrifices and used them for their spells and for sprinkling blood, of course. Aldbert’s was made of dried oak and he took ridiculous, meticulous care to make sure he rubbed every inch of it with the leaf. He even rubbed the stubs and the shoulders of the tiniest branches as well as he could, his eyes crossed, but all that time, he was speaking the spell-words with a rhythmic voice. When one leaf predictably developed a hole, he grabbed another from the pouch with such practiced movement, I was beginning to believe he was actually onto something. Then he was humming, looking relieved, as if after a good shit and his voice grew in power and determination slowly, hypnotically. His voice changed, slowly, resolutely, until it didn’t resemble his own anymore. It was thrumming in the woods and across the ferns, carrying a strong tune and he stared away from the wand towards a pile of tinder. I gawked at it.
Had it been there before? Surely it had. If it had, who put it there? If it hadn’t, then there were beings there I could not see. Alfs? Dead? Something that never lived? I grasped the club and felt my hand shake with anxiety, and sweat trickled down my forehead.
Then I cursed myself for a fool.
Of course, he had brought it there to begin with, earlier, when we had arrived. Or had someone bring it. Or perhaps the real vitka left it there, whenever they were done with their strange spells.
But it was dry.
I saw it. The pile was not wet or frosty in the least bit. Surely it would be, if we had been—
It burst into flames. Blue and red licks of heat grew up from it like aggressive lizards and Aldbert’s eyes were large with wonder and fear. An act? He was mumbling again, almost apologetically, swaying like a boat in a tide, and praying to the great spirits, the old gods that live deep in the earth. He called for Woden, the All-Father, for hammer god Donor, for Tiw the just, and finally, with great fear and reverence, to Freya, the Red Lady, goddess of wisdom and war both, the odd duality of the goddesses’ nature evident in her titles. He tapped his wand in the blazing twigs, hurling fire around, causing a small storm of angry sparks to sputter across the near woods, like mad flaming flies out and lost and then he slumped into a sack-like shape, his hands lax on his sides.
His voice sang, and it was weird, guttural, and then suddenly clear, bright as rain with an oddly mocking note.
‘Yea, you mortals,
hear the gods chortle.
Twigs and skull,
and an old, rotten hull.
The Bear shall choose,
between a woman and a noose.
A surprise for the murderous lord,
and death at the end of the sword.
Victory for the beast,
but there shall be no feast.’
He sat still for a while and I tried to focus on his words. His eyes fluttered, the whites showing strangely, and I fought the temptation to shake him awake. Instead, I let the words flit through my head. Was this my future? ‘Nonsense,’ I whispered, but could not shake the gloomy terror away. It was Aldbert, for Hel’s sakes, he could not act worth a damn. But this was an act worth the old skalds, I had to admit.
He sat there for a long time, until his wand fell from his nerveless fingers, and I decided there would be no more words forthcoming. ‘Aldbert,’ I whispered, and cured my timidity and spoke louder. ‘Lout?’
It had an immediate effect on him. He twitched like a tired fish on a hook and shuddered as if an old man waking up from a long, pleasant nap. His eyes kept staring at the fire. Then his voice took on a mysterious, ridiculous tone.
‘Your father is right,
you’re a blight.
The Bear should obey and pray,
and his father he should always hear.’
I stared at him with a frown. That was it. No more was coming. Now that was the Aldbert I knew and occasionally liked well. I stepped closer and bent to eye him close. He did not move, his eyes fixed on the flames, which still burned brightly and I stared down at him until my back ached. And then I kicked the stool from under him. He fell on his rear and still did not move, though there was a brief look of disgust on his features as the wetness of the grass and the icy water of the sodden moss infiltrated his ass. I crouched before him, and smiled like a clever wolf would to a wounded rabbit, measuring its bravery. Finally, I shook his hand. ‘Drop it. Father put you up to this?’
He said nothing.
I smirked at his blank face. ‘He put you up to this, sure he did. And you came up with something like that. Pray and obey? I’ve enjoyed this, but I’m not convinced. How much did he pay you? Some of his better ale?’
He twitched. ‘Erse.’
I stared at him with stupefaction. ‘Erse? He gave you the right to ask Erse to marry you?’
‘He did,’ my friend said, still staring ahead. ‘He was looking at me carefully, smiled as I named my price, and finally shrugged, and told me of course I am free to ask her. I know he likes her, and it was a struggle for him to agree, but—‘
I laughed with mockery. ‘This was what you were discussing with him that evening? A girl?’
‘The girl,’ he moped. There was a disgusted look on his face and I stretched my neck to see his fine moose leather pants were soaked through.
‘Pissed yourself in your god-like bliss? Freya gave you a fright instead of a sight?’
He smiled sheepishly as he picked himself up from the ground. He fingered his wetted pants with despair and shrugged. ‘He didn’t pay me anything else. Just that. Didn’t make me any promises. He asked for help, and help I tried to deliver and he did give me permission to ask Erse’s hand, though he warned me it was not likely to had.’
‘You know you are right. He will probably marry her himself,’ I said with mirth. ‘Probably told her to say no just after giving you the promise.’
He looked shocked. ‘He wouldn’t. He is fair.’
‘He is about to have me lick Maino’s balls,’ I reminded him and he frowned. ‘He might not be as fair as you think,’ I said, surprised by the hurt look on his face. ‘He likes Erse well enough, even if she is very young and would probably kill him in a week.’ Anger played on Aldbert’s face, but then he rubbed his temples and waved his hand tiredly.
He sighed. ‘Doesn’t matter. He is almost like a father to me as well. Granted, it was not a very inspired performance—‘
‘It was just fine until you dropped those stupid, terrible lines. Should obey indeed. A blight, pray, and obey? You took Father’s own words, even. Didn’t you?’
He smiled and rubbed his face. ‘Yes. It would have been a lot better if I hadn’t spent all my co
nsiderable skills and creativity on the song they want to hear of the mighty Friednot. This was really a seat-of-the-pants kind of thing. Your father worries about you, so be happy about that. He asked me to make sure you find your respect for the gods. That you will heed his words of wisdom when it comes to Maino.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘For your own sake.’
‘He should have sent a real vitka to frighten me, I think. You are far too fond of the simple drinking songs, far more so than holy messages and galdr-songs. That was terrible. Absolutely horrible. And no, I am not convinced. I’ll do what I must do, friend. Gods or not.’
‘I’ll try to help you, Maroboodus,’ he said sadly, and picked up his piss-ridden seat. ‘We have been friends for a long time. Almost like brothers. Don’t tell Hulderic I failed. It’s the mead, as well as momentary lack of inspiration. Strong drink, it addles my brain. Some say you should make songs and poems when totally, utterly hammered, but I lose all sense of drama that way and begin to spew silly crap that sounds as terrifying as a sparrow in love. Erse told me I am far too happy to be a good poet.’
‘She is right,’ I grinned. ‘I hope she surprises us all and says yes to you and then you might find inspiration for drama after she makes life terrible for you. She’ll force you to become a warrior, she will.’
‘She would make me chirp like a bird should she marry me, she would, out of happiness, and I’d be anything she wanted me to be,’ he said, entirely in love.
Maroboodus: A Novel of Germania (The Goth Chronicles Book 1) Page 9
