by Paul Finch
“I think it’s fascinating,” she concluded, “and a great, great honour, that we … nobodies, let’s be honest … could be among the very first people in 11 centuries to set eyes upon Ivar the Boneless. Remember how mysteriously his life ended. A figure of fury, a colossus of carnage, who cast as black a shadow in the west as Attila had done in the east, simply dropped from history. We know a little bit about it, of course. After nearly a decade of depredations, he turned away from the British mainland for monetary purposes. Knowing that his chief ally, Olaf the White, was by then bound for Norway to press his own dynastic interests, Ivar had intended to make himself sole controller of the Irish Sea trade-routes, and already with a vast haul of slaves and booty to divide as spoils among those who would welcome him in the Emerald Isle, it seemed he couldn’t fail. But despite that, he did. The Danes were defeated in Ireland, and Ivar promptly vanished from the records. Literally vanished.
“Only to reappear now … and here.”
There was a momentary silence.
Here, they each of them thought. Craeghatir … a rugged, desolate isle just off the storm-ravaged point of Cape Wrath. A lost place; a forgotten place. In the words of Joseph Sizergh: “A savage, awful isle, all stones and shells and the bones of ancient beasts; to maroon a man here would be worse than to keel-haul him.”
How appropriate that a man like Ivar had found this as his final resting place.
As the summer dusk slowly fell, the trees ranked densely to either side of them seemed to close in, to squeeze the green shadows in their dim, dusty depths. Somewhere close by, an osprey made its shrill, piping call. It was a cold, menacing sound, and it lingered long in the otherwise silent forest.
4
The barrow was a ten-minute walk up through the woods, located on a truncated spur overlooking the crashing waves on the island’s northern coast.
It was perilously close to the cliff-edge, and exposed to the elements on all sides. As with many tumuli, it was little more than a rounded, grassy hummock, about 10 or 12 yards in length, but two things gave it away at once: the low tunnel dug several feet into its western end, and only partially sheltered by a small canvas awning, much of which flapped in tatters from its flexible aluminium frame, courtesy of the Cork University team’s unsuccessful expedition in the January of that year; and the sentinel form of the megalith, a vertical granite obelisk standing 10 paces to the west. This was about nine feet tall, and covered in mosses and lichen, though it had clearly been squared off at the top, indicating that, by origin, it had been hacked from its own bedrock, probably for the very purpose of being put here. Additional evidence of this was the vague inscription on its surface. Further examination revealed Icelandic-style runes, though even after tearing away much of the vegetation and getting in close with her eye-glass, Professor Mercy was not immediately able to decipher anything.
“I think there’s a reference here to Halfdan,” she said, pointing out one particular passage. “He was one of Ivar’s brothers, of course. But I can’t be sure what else it says.”
Alan and Craig glanced at each other curiously; to come across a piece of Viking writing that Professor Mercy was unable to translate, was a new experience indeed.
A moment later, they were surveying the barrow itself.
“I wonder how deep the Cork lot actually got,” said Linda, raising her voice to be heard over the wind.
Craig crouched down. “Let’s check it out.”
A moment later, he had ventured forward under the awnings, and had thrust his head and shoulders into the dark mouth of the passageway. A second passed, there was some grunting, then he began to wriggle his gangling body forwards, until only his legs were visible.
“It’s not bad,” came his muffled voice. He squirmed his way back out, and stood beating soil from his clothes. “They got a fair way – about three or four feet, which, if it is hollow, must be fairly close to the central cavity. There’s a heavy stone up, blocking any further access. Probably a portal.”
Professor Mercy considered this, then nodded. “Good, very good,” she said, unslinging her pack.
Barry sneered. “Imagine doing all that work then sodding off, just because of the weather.”
Clive shook his head. “It can get pretty wild round here.” He licked a finger and held it up in the stiff wind. “This is nothing, believe me.”
“Let’s not waste the valuable sunshine, then,” the Professor said, kneeling on the grass and laying out her tools. Though it was now late evening, she was clearly eager to get started.
They debated briefly, finally deciding that while there was still a couple of hours of daylight left, it wouldn’t do any harm at least to try to enlarge the space around the portal-stone. As the previous party had already set timber struts up inside the tunnel, most of which appeared to be solid, this seemed a reasonable proposition. Among the Professor’s various tools, she had a small hand-axe and a pick. Only one person could get into the access passage at a time, so Craig took these, along with a torch, and went in first. While he was doing this, the others busied themselves finding a flat area on which they could erect the field-lab. This would basically be an open-sided tent under which they could store their equipment, paperwork and any decent finds, though for the moment they’d left most of that gear down at the base-camp.
Half an hour later Craig re-emerged, filthy but full of enthusiasm. “It’s coming,” he said, wiping sweaty soil from his brow. “It’s a granite block, about as big as a portable TV. Another 10 minutes, though, and it’s loose I reckon. We might be able to move it tonight.”
Nug took over, and sure enough, within just over 10 minutes, his muted but trembling voice called out that the stone was shifting … at which point, the going got slightly tougher. As only one person could fit into the tunnel, this meant Nug had to haul the stone at least four feet on his own. As if the thing wasn’t heavy enough, he’d have to do this crawling backwards on his hands and knees, which would be virtually impossible. The goal was achieved only when Barry and Alan took him by the feet and pulled him bodily out, Nug yelping and yowling, but dragging the stone along with him.
Even then it was a painfully slow process, but eventually worth the wait. For the stone, in itself, proved to be an exciting find. It was caked in impacted clay, which the professor gently crumbled off with her fingers while the others held it up; it took three of them to do this. The rest watched in tense, breathless silence, as the stone was finally laid down, and their project-leader kneeled to examine it more closely. It was clear that some kind of etching had been made on the stone’s surface. As they did not yet have water and sponges at their disposal, Clive took what he liked to call his ‘awl’ – a long steel pin with a leather-bound handle – and delicately scraped away the detritus crusted into the grooves. It was five minutes or so before the image was fully visible; when it was, it appeared to be a snake-like creature, arranged in a pattern of typically symmetrical Nordic whorls. It had been chiselled with delicate skill and meticulous attention to detail.
“What is it, a sea-serpent or something?” David asked.
“I wouldn’t think so,” Clive said. “Can’t imagine this is just decorative. To be cut on a portal-stone, it’ll probably have some arcane significance.” He glanced up at the Professor. “Any thoughts? Skadi’s Viper, perhaps?”
She gave him a deep and meaningful look, and for a moment there was a faint tension between the two, a curious uncertainty about what they had, a wariness even. “I suppose it shows we’re on the right path,” she finally said. All of a sudden, she didn’t seem quite so exhilarated.
Clive nodded and resumed his examination. In his case, too, guardedness had overcome enthusiasm. Alan watched them, perplexed. This find in itself would grace any national collection, never mind the items it might presage if it really was a portal-stone. He was about to ask them what was wrong when Nug re-emerged from the tunnel, irrita
ble and coughing. “Can’t get through in there yet,” he complained loudly. “There’s more bloody soil in the way. Maybe a foot of it.”
Professor Mercy considered, then looked up at the darkling sky. “Well … it’ll wait until tomorrow,” she said. “I think we’ve done enough for one evening. Well done everyone. Let’s pack up.”
They made their way back to the camp in their twos and threes, talking excitedly. Though still subdued, both Clive and the Professor seemed certain they were on the verge of something big. Nug was talking about knocking the spots off Sutton Hoo, Craig about having their very own exhibit in the British Museum. Alan walked alone, however, and in silence. He was just as keyed up as the rest, but now found himself racking his brains for any reference to Skadi’s Viper. He’d asked about this briefly, before they’d knocked off, but neither Clive nor the Professor had chosen to elaborate, saying simply that it had been just a passing thought and was “nothing important”. The student’s knowledge of Norse mythology didn’t extend half as far as either of theirs, but, oddly, he felt certain they weren’t being entirely honest in this.
Skadi’s Viper? … He’d definitely heard that phrase somewhere before. And, as Clive had hinted, in some significant arcane respect.
5
On every side of him the grey seas rose like Himalayan mountainsides, booming and awesome. He tilted sideways and thought he might go overboard, but somehow his feet remained planted firmly. An oak-like strength ran through him: he knew no fear; scarcely felt the cold, though the skies above were brittle with winter’s breath, though the rigging-ropes thrumming in the strong salt wind were slick and hard with frost, though the great raven sail Land-Waster bellied and banged overhead.
Onward, the ornate prow rose and fell as it crested the swells. Through the breaking surf, a long green shore emerged, bleak and misted with the dawn. Beyond it stood the blue humps of mountains, their snowy heads lost in clots of cloud – though, as Alsvidh rose on his pillar of flame and glared through the cracks of the ice, torrents of hot crimson light spilled down the flowing screes, and the Jotuns beat their hammers on the walls of their deep Earth prison, and now Alan felt that immense surging in his veins.
Oh, how he wanted to tear it: to tear that land, to tear it up by its rock-roots, to bend and twist and turn it, to burst out its blood and entrails, its priests and nuns, its saints and relics, its simpering, cowardly kings, who hid behind their sacred swords and gilded thrones, their hearth-men and their adder pits. To tear and tear, to rip and smash and pummel until the thick silver fleece on the backs of his hands was drenched and matted with gore, ’til the black blades of his clenching claws glittered like dragon-fire …
Alan awoke with a start.
For a moment he was befuddled and dazed, blinking hard in the deep blue light inside his tent. Then he turned over and yawned. As usual, the Fibrefill sleeping bag had kept him comfortably warm, while the foam mat, though always difficult at first, had gradually absorbed his weight and protected him from any dampness or ground-chill. Alan glanced at his watch. It read five o’clock, which was very early by his normal standards, but even though he’d not managed to get to sleep until around one that morning, he opted to rise. It was impossible not to, with the energy of the expedition, and the excitement of the find still pulsing through him.
Outside, the camp lay in blissful summer morning slumber. Below the line of the trees, the early sun gleamed on the bog-pools, while above, it broke through the dense pine canopy in misty, milky shafts. To Alan’s surprise, Craig and David were already up and about. Craig, clad for climbing in his sweater, his cleated boots, his longest, thickest socks, a pair of woollen trousers and a red and white Llanelli bob-cap, was kneeling outside his own tent, enthusiastically stuffing goods into his day-sack; among other things, some rolled-up waterproofs, his camera, and a block of Kendal Mint Cake. He was proverbially bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. David, on the other hand, was pale with early-morning nausea, and, again showing his inexperience, standing around clad only in denims and sneakers, neither of which were suitable for this austere landscape.
“Don’t tell me you’re still going after that sea-eagle?” said Alan, strolling over. “Not after yesterday?”
Craig nodded and grinned. “You got it, bud. The Prof wants us up and at it by nine. Didn’t see she could complain about me getting a little R and R before breakfast.”
Alan was genuinely amazed. “We’re on the brink of the archaeological find of the century, and you’re going bird-watching?”
“It wouldn’t be so bad if they were birds without feathers, would it,” David put in, with a wan smile.
Craig just laughed. “You guys have your passions, I have mine.”
Alan glanced over the glen towards the high crags where the bird nested. “Passion isn’t the word for it. You sure you’ll be able to get there and back in time?”
With a flourish, Craig zipped his sack up. “Dunno. Got to suss it out first. Can’t do that from down here, of course.” He glanced sideways at David. “You still tagging along?”
David nodded. “Mmm.” He looked at Alan and yawned. Up close, he was bug-eyed from lack of sleep. He rubbed wearily at what was probably a stiff neck.
“Never had you down for an ornithologist, Dave,” Alan said.
He shrugged. “I’m not, but what else is there to do? I’ve been awake all night, picking bloody pine-cones out of my spine. Anything’s better than doing that for another three hours.”
Craig stood and brushed a few needles from his knees. He then gave David’s ‘street-corner’ clothing a dubious once-over. “I hate to say this, but you’ll not get far up in that gear.”
“I’m not going up, don’t worry.” David’s tone implied that the idea alone was ludicrous. “Once we get off the flat, I’m leaving you to it. Support from below is my remit.”
Craig looked at Alan and shook his head. “Support from below … I ask you.”
Alan chuckled.
“Come on then, Sherpa Tensing,” Craig said, setting jauntily off, sack on back.
David grinned sleepily at Alan. “It’s great here, isn’t it.” He wandered off in pursuit of Craig. “I’m having about as much fun as a one-legged man in an arse-kicking contest …”
Alan continued chuckling as he set about clearing the cold debris of the last fire, then gathering a few dry sticks and sprigs of fir to get the next one going. After that, he went for a walk. Perhaps inevitably, he found himself heading back towards the dig.
As he strolled, he thought only briefly about the odd dream he’d had. Vivid as it had been, its details were already fading in his memory. He could still feel something of the emotions it had inspired within him, however: a raw love of the wild; a fearlessness of Nature and a oneness with the savagery of its moods. He glanced up and breathed deeply of the fresh, heather-scented air. Craeghatir might have its own micro-climate within its secretive interior, but the sky above it possessed that vast, pale emptiness of the north Atlantic. There was a harsh brightness to the light here, a relentless ferocity about the seas heaving around the coasts, about the sub-Arctic winds howling over the high, gorse-laden crags.
When he got back up beside the barrow, it was everything he’d expected it to be. The view from the cliff-side was incredible: the awesome, rolling wastes of the northern ocean, the way the surf rose up in fountains from the occasional rocks and skerries. The sun was high and hot, yet up here it barely registered in the strong northerly breeze. Despite the Vikings’ atrocities, it was difficult to hate anyone who had spread the hand of conquest over so wild and uncharted a portion of the world as this. All kinds of wonderful stories abounded about how the Northmen had mastered this most hostile of environments, breaking out from the ice-bound fjords of their homeland by following the paths of whales or hacking compasses from the magnetic cores of fallen meteorites; or by navigating rivers into the deepest wildernesses of Eu
rope and Asia’s continental interiors, and, inspired by their ferocious gods, battling and defeating anyone who came against them, no matter how superior the numbers. At the time there’d seemed no limit to their achievements, either spiritually or geographically. Legends told how they’d even reached Africa and the Americas. Good Lord … four of the world’s seven continents contacted five centuries before Columbus, and with what? Crude weapons and flimsy longships.
Yes … it was difficult, if not impossible, to hate any race of men who could achieve so much with so little. To fear them, on the other hand? That was a different matter. Fearing them was easily possible. And in that moment, like a dash of cold water, Alan remembered exactly where he’d heard about Skadi’s Viper.
And it had everything to do with fear.
Wonderingly, he walked away from the precipice to the tunnel mouth, where the portal-stone still lay on its tarpaulin bed. In the bright morning light, the carved serpent looked even more beautiful than it had before, the endless coils of its body interwoven with near mathematical precision, filling almost every inch of the exposed surface.
Skadi’s Viper … indeed; in fact, now that he thought about it, without any doubt at all.
The story concerned Loki, the Norse god of Evil. It told how, weary of his many crimes and fearful of what he might do next, the other gods took Loki and bound him in perdition with mighty chains; the goddess Skadi then added to these a poisonous serpent or viper, a creature so monstrous that it was thought no-one and nothing could escape its clutches. According to the legend, of course, that thinking proved incorrect.
