Thunder God

by Paul Watkins

  I stood with Cabal by the water.

  ‘So they have come after all,’ he said. ‘Well, they will not have this place. I promise you that.’

  I glanced at him, realising that his hatred of the Christians had only grown stronger since our days in the Varangian. ‘Let him say his piece. People will decide for themselves.’

  ‘He can talk all he wants,’ snapped Cabal.

  A fire had been lit in a brazier on the ship’s deck. It burned brightly, throwing off sparks. Brand was walking back and forth, barechested and rocking his arms in front of his chest, like a man getting ready for a fight. Then he knelt down by the brazier, holding up a wooden cross, eyes closed and lips moving in prayer.

  ‘What is that smell?’ asked Cabal.

  ‘The roasting meat, I think.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Something else. Like tar.’

  Now that Cabal mentioned it I did smell something which was not the smoke of the beach fires or the meat. ‘Must be incense,’ I said, remembering the dusty fragrance of sandalwood twisting in the still air of the Haga Sofia. ‘They burn it when they pray.’

  When the outer layer of meat was cooked, Ingolf carved off slices and distributed them. Slowly, as each layer of meat was cut away, Ingolf made his way down to the bone. The keg was opened and the ale passed out in bowls from person to person until each one was empty. Then the person with the empty bowl walked back to the keg and filled it once again.

  I watched Guthrun sink an entire bowlful by himself. He had no money to come to the alehouse and refused what I had offered. But free ale he would not refuse, no matter who was paying. He sat on the sand and beamed, ale foam frosting his beard.

  Tola ate so much that she looked like a cormorant with a fish stuck in its gullet.

  Cabal sat himself down on a flat stone to watch, refusing the food that was offered to him.

  It was the first time I had seen him do that.

  Twilight crowded in around us. Grey clouds over the bay still caught sunlight from beyond the hills, which streaked their undersides crimson.

  The beef was soon eaten up. To feed himself, Ingolf cut scraps from the bone and ate them off the blade, teeth scraping over the iron.

  At last, just as people were getting sleepy and talking about heading back to their houses, Brand set out in his rowboat and soon arrived at the shore.

  He had changed his light cloak for a heavier one with a hood, made from a tightly-woven fabric. ‘Your bellies are full,’ Brand announced, ‘thanks to the generosity of the church.’

  Then he took off his red cap and began to walk among the crowd with the cap held out. ‘Thank you for repaying the church’s kindness with the greater kindness of your own.’

  ‘So we are paying for this after all,’ said Cabal. ‘That is a fine trick. I bet he makes a fortune this way.’

  ‘He has not met the people of Altvik yet,’ I told him.

  And it was true that Brand’s red cap stayed mostly empty.

  When Brand approached Cabal and me, he was stopped in his tracks by Cabal’s palm raised towards his face. ‘I had none of your bribe,’ said Cabal.

  ‘Are you a Celt?’ asked Brand, noticing his accent.

  ‘I am that,’ he replied, ‘and I know what you people are.’

  ‘Well, this bribe as you call it was not meant for you,’ he said. His face was hard with contempt. He turned away, jingling the few coins he had gathered.

  Cabal’s eyes were glazed with rage. Slowly, he leaned forward. His fingers slid into the sand and closed around a stone.

  ‘Cabal,’ I said softly. If he killed this man now, the whole town would turn against us.

  Cabal glanced at me.

  I did not speak again, but only met his gaze with mine.

  He understood. His fingers uncurled from the stone and he sat back. The strange fire which had glimmered in his eyes died away.

  It was then that I noticed Kari, standing a short distance away. She had seen what passed between Cabal and me. Her face was pale with fear.

  Brand still made his way among the crowd. His teeth-clenched smile sputtered on and off his face like a failing candle flame. He returned to the edge of the water. With a wave of his hands, he gathered the crowd around him.’ How often did you eat so well under the rule of your old gods?’ he asked. ‘And where are these gods? Who can come forward and show me the power of these giants? Who speaks for them?’

  I saw a few heads turn towards me.

  Brand followed their gaze until his eyes fastened on mine. ‘You!’ he called. ‘You are a priest?’

  ‘I am,’ I replied, feeling the blood run to my face.

  ‘He got struck by lightning,’ said Guthrun, whose eyes were foggy from drink. ‘He was chosen by the gods!’

  I wished Guthrun would be quiet and let me speak for myself.

  Brand walked over until he stood too close to me. His massive chin was dimpled and his short, flattened-out nose looked as if it had been broken several times. ‘I have heard about you. The man from Miklagard. Too hot for you down there?’ When I gave him no answer, he stepped back and boomed at the crowd. ‘To be struck by lightning is indeed to be chosen. But not by god. By the devil!’ His breath swept past me, smelling of sour milk. ‘This has been foretold by our scriptures, in which it is written, “I beheld Satan as lightning fall from heaven!”’

  I wondered how many times he had done this, on how many beaches and in how many village squares, the air thick with the smell of roasted meat and greasy-fingered people drowsy from heavy drink.

  ‘I will show this devil the way of love and compassion,’ he shouted. ‘The power of Christ will compel him.’

  I caught sight of Olaf, standing by himself at the edge of the fire’s light. The flames glowed on his face.

  ‘In a town I visited last year,’ Brand told the crowd, ‘I heard a story of a man who was killed when he stepped outside his house one night. He had been awakened by a dream of nine women, clad only in black, riding black horses down from the north. And then from the south, he saw nine women clad only in white and riding white horses. But when he stepped outside to shake the dreaming from his head, he saw these nine women in black gathered right in front of him. They were no dream after all and neither were the knives they used to cut him down. They fled when the women in white appeared. The man’s family rushed out to help him but it was too late. All they found was a dying man and the ground trampled with hoof prints. He lived long enough to tell them his story, then he died. It was a mystery to the people there, but I knew its meaning at once. This man had allowed himself to be brought into the fold of the true church, but at the last moment, when salvation and protection were within his grasp, he refused to be baptised. This was the price he paid! Those black witches were the servants of the old god, come to take one last sacrifice before they fled before the white angels of the Christian church. That man need not have died, not then or ever after. And your lives and your souls could also be saved. Let me be your guide! Let me save you from the black witches who ride down from the hills in the dead of night.’ He aimed a finger at the Grimsvoss, as if the witches were already on their way.

  Tola stepped forward from the line of murmuring people. The story had snagged deep in some wrinkle in her brain, waking a nightmare perhaps even older than the ancient woman herself. ‘What do you want us to do?’ she asked.

  ‘Let me baptise you!’ Brand took her hand, which vanished under his massive furry knuckles. ‘Come down to the water with me.’

  ‘Why should we believe a word you say?’ It was Guthrun, who had stepped forward from the crescent-shaped line of people. He was weaving, and Ingolf stepped forward to steady the old man.

  Brand dropped Tola’s hand and turned to face this new threat. ‘Yes. Why should you? Words are never enough, are they?’

  ‘No, they are not,’ muttered Cabal.

  ‘Do you need me,’ Brand called out, ‘to show you the proof?’

  ‘Yes!’ shouted Guthrun. �
��Let us see some proof.’

  Everyone was shouting now: Yes! Yes! Show us the proof!

  ‘So few of you?’ asked Brand, as if their voices barely reached his ears.

  ‘All of us!’ they screamed. ‘Show us the proof!’

  Brand held up his arms for silence. Then he dropped to his knees and clapped his hands together in front of his face. He stayed this way for some time.

  Ingolf heaved the bone from the leg of beef into the fire, sending up a flurry of sparks. Then he began stirring a heavy stick in the embers.

  At last, Brand rose to his feet. He went over to Ingolf and held out his hand for the burning stick.

  Ingolf threw it to him.

  The stick turned in the air and Brand caught it. He held out the burning end towards the faces of those who were watching. This stick was as thick and as long as his own arm. He swept it back and forth, trailing smoke and sparks, which sent the front row of the crowd squawking backwards. It made a whooshing sound as it travelled through the air. Then he turned to me. ‘Will your gods protect you once more from the fire?’ He moved towards me, holding out the burning stick. ‘I want to see your gods shield you from the heat of these flames, just as my God will shield me.’

  It was only stubbornness that made me hold my ground.

  He brought the sputtering, crackling end of the stick close to my face.

  The heat pinched my skin. The smoke was painful in my nostrils. I could smell the bitter reek of my own burning hair.

  ‘Will they save you?’ he asked. ‘Ask them to save you. Go on. Ask them.’

  For a moment longer, the burning stick wavered in front of my face.

  ‘No,’ I said quietly, tasting the smoke in my mouth. The heat stabbed at my eyes. The moment I closed them, I felt a blow to my chest from the stick. I toppled over backwards onto the seaweed-crusted sand.

  Brand stood over me, swinging the burning stick slowly back and forth, just above the ground. ‘They would not save him!’ he told the crowd, ‘and my God is too kind to let me hurt this man.’ He wheeled away.

  My shirt was smouldering in the place where he had hit me. I could feel the scorch mark on my chest. I climbed to my feet, not thinking. Anger like a black-red fluid swam inside my brain. I took a step towards him.

  Brand spun about. He brought his face close to mine and spoke through gritted teeth in a voice too low for the others to hear. ‘Years ago, before I joined the Christian faith, I killed a priest here in this town. If you are not careful, I may finish off another here tonight.’

  I realised he was the one who had chased Greycloak into the mountains and left him there to die. It seemed to me that whatever was about to happen had already taken place long ago, woven by the widow Norns into the fabric of our lives.

  ‘By this time tomorrow,’ he murmured, ‘I can have the people of this town building a Christian church over the ruins of your house. What do you think of that?’

  ‘I can build another house,’ I told him.

  ‘That is not the point. The point is that your former congregation is ready to convert. Your people have no unity. You are like a wheel with no hub. How do you expect to stand up to the Christian church, which organises its people into one voice, one thought? What is it that unites you?’

  ‘There is a hub to our wheel,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said dismissively. ‘The black hammer, lost here in the hills above your town. It is no use to you now.’

  Even as he spoke, I felt its weight around my neck, hidden from his view by the ash-blackened cloth of my shirt.

  ‘Walk with me,’ said Brand. ‘Let us try to solve this without bloodshed.’

  We moved away from the fires and into the gathering shadows.

  With each step, Brand dug his heels deep in the sand, as if he did not trust the earth to hold still beneath his feet. ‘I have brought you away from the long ears of your friends in order to make you an offer, because we are sensible men.’ He held out his hand, as if some evidence of our good sense was balanced on the great creased slab of his palm. ‘We understand that religion is more than just a pathway to a life beyond this life. More than just discussions with our various gods. It is the binding that holds a community together. Let us set aside for now the idea of your conversion to the Christian faith. All I ask is that I may baptise you and that you kneel for the Prima Signatio.’

  ‘The first sign? What is that?’

  ‘You kneel before me. I make the sign of the cross over your head. That is all. It does not mean you are Christian. It means you are setting out on the road to becoming a Christian. What it means is only that you are thinking about becoming Christian.’

  I shook my head. ‘I am not thinking about it.’

  ‘You have not heard the rest of my offer. Trygvasson has declared himself a Christian and requires that the people of this land should also become Christians. What is more, they will be taxed. King Trygvasson’s men are travelling all over the country now, collecting what is owed. They will be here in this town in a matter of days.’

  ‘We do not have much to give,’ I said.

  ‘That makes no difference to Trygvasson. You had best hand over what they ask from you, or they will leave this town in ruins, as I have seen them do to other places on this coast. On that, you have no choice but to do as you are told. But you’ – he aimed a baubled finger at me – ‘can take a share of the profits if you are intelligent about it. If you will allow yourself to be baptised here today and will oversee the building of a Christian church, you will receive a third of the taxes that come due each year. I will say that God himself, the Christian God, has chosen you to be the leader of his church here, even if you have not yet chosen him.’ A faint smile passed across his broad, flat face. ‘From then on, if they go against you, they go against God, for which the penalty is death. Come now. Let me baptise you now before these people start heading for home.’ He turned to walk back down the beach.

  As soon as he realised that I was not following, he turned and looked at me, his face a mix of anger and bewilderment. ‘A third of the taxes!’ he snapped. ‘For the rest of your life. How is it going to feel ten years from now, knowing you have turned me down, when your bones ache in the winter and you have no means to survive except to gnaw the bones of sacrifice in your dreary temple on the hill? I will not make this offer twice. Do you think you can stand in the path of the inevitable?’

  When I breathed, the air felt hot on my lips, as if I were drawing in the embers of a fire. ‘You have misunderstood us,’ I said quietly.

  He dismissed my words with a wave of his hand. ‘You have misunderstood yourselves. The fire of the Norse gods has burned out and you are living in the ashes.’ He strode away down the beach. When he reached the fire, he jammed in the stick and twisted it in the embers. Then he raised the stick above his head. ‘His god would not save him,’ cried Brand, ‘but my God will save me!’ He tipped his head back, as if he meant to ram the burning end down his throat, but instead he touched it to his chest. When the smoking stick brushed against the fabric, the whole cloak seemed to shudder as it erupted into fire.

  The crowd shrieked but made no move to help him.

  From where I stood, I watched as Brand turned his back to the crowd. He was hidden from them by the boil of flames and smoke. He pulled the cape up over his head and hunched over, while the fire ran in fierce, bright liquid from the ends of his cape.

  I understood then what I had smelled earlier. It was the scent of wax, which Brand had used to paint his cloak and over which he had splashed some kind of alcohol to feed the fire. But under the wax-coated barrier, the flames would not reach him. I wondered how many times Brand had pulled this trick, how many people it had caused to be converted, and how many would be joining him tonight.

  On the other side of the blaze, standing level with me, I saw Cabal. He, too, could see the way Brand had hidden under his cape. He was watching me. The reflection of the fire flickered in his eyes.

  Soon, th
e flames died away, leaving a huge plume of smoke which curled in the air like fingers closing into a fist. As Brand turned to face the crowd, he pulled away the cape and let it drop at his feet. He held open his arms to show he was not burned.

  The open-mouthed silence of the watchers gave way to cheering.

  Guthrun dropped to his knees. He stared open-mouthed at the smouldering cloak.

  Now the crowd converged on Brand and would have lifted him up off the ground if he had not been too huge to lift. ‘One at a time!’ he was laughing. ‘One at a time, my brothers and sisters!’

  ‘Do it again!’ shouted Cabal, standing at the edge of the firelight.

  Faces turned to look at him.

  For a moment, the sound of the cheering died down.

  ‘Do it again,’ he repeated.

  ‘Stay away from this, Celt,’ said Brand.

  ‘You are the one who should have stayed away,’ growled Cabal.

  ‘I want to see it again,’ said Ingolf.

  ‘One miracle is enough for today!’ Brand turned to him and smiled.

  Smoky air poured into Ingolf’s mouth as he breathed in. ‘If your God is so strong, he can protect you.’

  ‘Of course he can protect me,’ replied Brand, ‘but you have seen all the proof you need.’

  Now Guthrun appeared, pushing his way to the front. ‘We decide when we have seen enough!’

  There were mutterings. People stepped back.

  ‘My friends,’ Brand held up his arms for silence.

  But suddenly the mood had changed. It was as if they had all been asleep and woke to realise that we were not his brothers, nor his sisters, nor his friends. The space around him grew. ‘You will see the miracle again,’ he told them in his deep showman’s voice, ‘first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Now!’ shouted Cabal.

  ‘What trickery are you selling?’ demanded Ingolf.

  ‘All right,’ said Brand, ‘but first I will return to my ship and pray for guidance.’ He turned towards the rowboat. Then his face grew suddenly pale.

  The oars were gone.

  Guthrun had carried them off. He was making his way over the barnacled rocks at the end of the beach, one oar tucked under each arm, leaving two trails into the sand.