by Mark Coakley
"I didn't think anything like that. I know you're married."
"Yes, I am. Being abandoned doesn't change that. The proper way to handle the sleeping arrangements is for you to sleep over there —" she pointed at some shadowy bushes to her right "— while I sleep over there." She pointed left, at other forest-shadows, far from the fire.
"Fine," Halfdan said.
"But," Yngvild said, "it is cold at night, and when the campfire goes down, having another body close makes it a lot easier to sleep. And good sleep keeps folk healthy. You don't want us to get sick in the middle of this adventure, do you?"
"No."
"It would be foolish to let ourselves get sick. We need to stay healthy. So I think we should sleep lying close together, but not touching. Just for warmth. Sharing our blankets, but nothing else. Can I trust you not to touch me?"
Late that night — as they lay close but not touching, on a flat pile of soft spruce-branches, and under thick wool blankets made in Loen — Yngvild whispered to Halfdan, "Are you still awake?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Thinking."
"Me too. And I'm cold."
"Do you want me to feed the fire another log?"
"I think we should sleep closer together."
"Then we would be touching."
"As long as it's innocent and only for warmth. Nothing more."
He moved closer to her. Very nervous, his heart pounding, he said, "Probably the warmest thing for you would be if I lay on top of you."
Also breathing faster than before, Yngvild whispered, "Good idea."
They stopped talking.
"You seduced me," Yngvild said afterwards, holding him close.
"I did," Halfdan said, sounding proud.
"Bad man. My mother was right about you."
Now they could sleep.
Their journey to Os took five days. Now and then, Yngvild would leave the forest to get food and information. From some beggar-women washing clothes at a stream, Yngvild learned that the new rulers of Fjordane had sent armed riders to many of the towns. Fighters from Sogn and Førde had rampaged through the towns, stealing all the silver they could find, killing anyone who resisted. "They call it tax-collecting," a beggar-woman said. They were also collecting men — they had a list of names of nobles who had been close to King Lambi. Many of these folk were killed, and the rest were taken under guard to Eid. Yngvild asked if the "tax-collectors" had reached Loen yet. The beggar-women did not know.
"Are they looking for a fighter with dark looks, who ran away from the burning?"
One of the beggar-women had heard about that — and that a reward of much silver had been offered for help catching or killing Halfdan.
Yngvild walked into a shore-town and tried to rent a boat to cross the fjord. As she was a stranger, and claimed to be travelling alone, folk were suspicious of her, and would not rent a boat to her. With a chopped-off piece of Halfdan's silver belt-buckle, she convinced a fisherman to sell her an old boat he did not use anymore.
They crossed the fjord at night. The wind and the waves were strong as Halfdan rowed. The wave-rocking of the boat, with the boat's strong smell of fish, made Halfdan sick; twice, he pulled in the oars and leaned over the side, throwing up oatmeal and bits of pig-meat sausage into the moon-reflecting water.
"Do you always get sea-sick on the water?" Yngvild asked.
"Usually, at first. I get used to it after a while, usually."
"But as a ship-raider, you must have sailed and rowed all over. That doesn't sound like a good job for you."
Halfdan said, "Sea-sickness was a small price to work for King Lambi. He was a great man, and the world will never see another like him."
"Are you crying?"
"No."
"You are. It's not shameful to mourn losing your king and so many friends."
"I'm not crying."
He started rowing again.
Chapter 10
ALCUIN WRITES TO TETTA *
September 11, Year of Our Lord 792
To my beloved sister worthy of all honour, the Abbess Tetta, praiseworthy for your long observance of the monastic life:
Alcuin, servant of the servants of God, wishes you eternal welfare in Christ.
May the Eternal Rewarder of good works give joy on high among the choirs of angels to my dearest sister, who has brought light and consolation to an exile in Germany by sending him gifts of spiritual writing. For no man can shine light on these gloomy swamps of the German people and take heed of the traps that line his path unless he has the Word of God as a lamp to guide his feet and a light to shine on his way. As my soul thanks you for the book, so my tongue and stomach thank you for the generous donation of spices! Although hunger can make bitter things sweet, sugar from a friend is sweeter still. I assure you, Tetta, that with each spoonful of my meals flavoured with your gifts, I remember how Blessed am I to have you as a dear friend; my dearest friend, I blush to confess.
When I was in Northumbria, the nearness of your love would give me great joy. But now that I am so far from you, in this rude and savage land, the thought of you pains me day and night. Yet how weak and selfish it is for me to dwell on my insignificant loneliness! It would be more fitting to rejoice greatly that now, in these final days of a wicked world, the Lord Jesus has such women to praise his holy name and preach the Truth and seek after wisdom as you; you who gently leads a militia of marching virgins across the battlefield of souls, despite fearful temptations on every side, all of you armed with invincible weapons of piety and learning; often here, in my loneliness, I imagine your mild-hearted militia of girls and women singing sweet hymns of spiritual combat, of Christ's victory, and the eternal occupation of Heaven!
Temporal things pass away, but the never-changing will soon be here. Treasures will melt like shadows, or smoke, or sea-foam. Men who wallow in luxury know not that they are spinning fragile webs that catch only dust: "They gather treasure and know not for whom they gather it."
Lowly as I am, I have tried to avoid the sin of ostentatious fashion, and to dress in accordance with Benedict's Rules. It saddens and dismays me to hear that Bishop Higbold has chosen to dress like his luxurious brothers and uncles, rather than as commanded in Scripture by Our Father. He has apparently changed greatly in the years since I last visited Northumbria. Rest assured that I shall discreetly write to Rome of this, without identifying my informant.
Brave Tetta, I urge you to continue to strive with all your might against foolish distractions and superstitions in dress; these are hateful to God. Modern fashions, as some call them — but which I call modern foulness — are sent by the Antichrist to herald his coming. Through his craftiness he introduces into Monasteries and Nunneries his servants of Fashion and Vanity, soon followed by Laziness and Disobedience, then Lust and Fornication (both natural and otherwise): Tetta, your struggle is truly against the fever of Lucifer, the blackest of sins, the ruin of souls! So I applaud and commend you on your firmness in discipline regarding your flock. As Benedict wrote: "Nuns who are respectful and remorseful, let them be corrected at the first and second offence only with words; but let the Abbess chastise Nuns who are wicked and disobedient at the very first offence with whips and other bodily punishments, knowing it is written in Scripture: 'Fools are not corrected with words' and 'Hit your son with a rod, to deliver his soul from death'."
As you struggle against the gentle impulses in your so-good soul, meek Tetta, to discipline your feminine flock — to give them transitory suffering for the sake of eternal salvation — so do I, Alcuin the scholar, struggle to deal firmly with the Germans. My "rod" is the Frankish army of King Charlemagne, which chastises any still-defiant German tribes, brings the submissive tribes to Baptisms, and protects my Priests bearing Holy Writ from one town to another.
What a challenge it is to force Truth into these ignorant minds! I have been given precise and detailed instructions from His Holiness himself, on the proper way to use logical argument
s to convert German tribes and individuals. We are told not to argue about the family histories of the Germans' false gods. We are told to pretend to accept the statement that German pagan gods were given birth by other gods, after the intercourse of male gods with female gods. Then, His Holiness instructs, we are able to prove by logic that each of their gods had a beginning, since they were created by some other god. After forcing the pagan to concede that point, we are told to ask whether the universe itself had a beginning, or was always in existence. If the pagan says that the universe had a beginning, we ask: What were the pagan gods doing before that time? If the pagan insists that the universe had no beginning, we ask: When was the first pagan god born? Who were its parents? How did pagan gods gain control of a universe that existed before them? Why do pagan gods care about human sacrifices if they already possess and control everything? Why do pagan gods allow Christian men to rule the warm European lands rich in food and wine, while leaving the pagans only the frozen lands of the north? Why is the Christian world dominant, while those clinging to primitive beliefs are a dwindling minority?
These questions, and many others that it would be tedious to mention, are put to the leaders and common people of the pagans, not in an offensive and irritating way, but calmly and with great moderation. From time to time, their superstitions are compared with our Christian dogmas and touched upon indirectly, so that they might realize the absurdity of their primitive beliefs, and may be ashamed to know that their disgusting swamp-rituals have not escaped our notice.
Perhaps the strongest argument against the ancestral superstitions of the Germans was made by myself, almost a year ago, in the Hesse region. There was a so-called "holy tree" growing there, which the pagans claimed was personally guarded by Thor! I ordered that old oak to be chopped down, and called out for Thor to strike me with one of his famous thunder-bolts, if he existed. The local pagans who were watching from behind the line of Frankish soldiers looked up at the sky in anticipation of my doom. When nothing happened, I announced to the crowd gathered around the fallen tree: "Either Thor does not exist or he is too weak to fight against the power of Christ." A huge step towards converting this tribe!
Before I end this too-verbose letter, I wish to show my gratitude for your gifts and your friendship by supporting your important work at lovely Lindisfarne. You mentioned the shortage of olive oil in England, and the risk this poses to liturgical practice. Olive oil is scarce also in Germany, but my direct supply from Rome is secure. Separately from this letter, I have sent you five amphorae of good virgin olive oil. It should arrive at Lindisfarne a few weeks after this letter. Do not be surprised when you find your gift accompanied by four caged hunting-falcons. They are not for you, of course, but for the King; he asked me for German falcons many months ago. When the hunting-birds arrive at Lindisfarne, please send word to the mainland and the King will send someone to your island to collect them.
Farewell, and may you continue to live a life of angelic purity, until you reign forever in Heaven.
Alcuin
Chapter 11
THE NEXT MOVE
Halfdan lay on his belly on a dark farm-field, on barley-stubble left from the harvest, not moving at all. His breathing was slow. The ax was in one hand. After a long wait, Halfdan slowly lifted his arm and moved it slightly forward. Slowly, he laid it down. He did not move again until after taking many slow, steady breaths. Then he slowly moved his other arm forward. Slowly lifted a leg forward. A long pause, then he shifted his other leg forward. He lay still for a long time. A silent bird fluttered past in the dim space over Uncle Harald's farmland. Halfdan raised his head and torso; slowly moved forward, a bit. He lowered himself again to the ground and was still for a long, long time. He was heading up-wind, so his uncle's dogs would not catch his smell and start barking.
Yngvild was behind him, in the dark woods where they had spent most of the afternoon watching the farm. It was possible that King Lambi's killers knew where Halfdan's family lived; it was possible that their fighters were waiting for Halfdan to show up here, to kill or arrest him. But he and Yngvild had seen nothing to raise suspicion. Staying concealed, they had searched all of the woods that circled the small property where he had grown up. They had watched Uncle Harald limping out of the well-made oak-plank house, and had watched him set up an iron-forge behind the chicken-shed and wait for the charcoal fire to get blue-hot. There was a loud clanging sound as his hammer pounded a red-hot piece of iron. Halfdan's Aunt Anna — the sister of his father — had brought out a plate of food and a cup of beer, and her husband took a break. Even from a distance, both of them had looked older than he remembered. He had not been home in a long time, as earlier mentioned. Halfdan and Yngvild had watched Aunt Anna drag a heavy basket out the front door and hang rugs and drapes and wall-coverings over a pole, then use a paddle to knock out dust. When it had started getting dark, both went inside; soon a line of smoke twisted up from the hole in the grass-covered roof. Halfdan had waited for full darkness, then started a slow crawl towards the house.
King Lambi had taught him this and many other military skills. Halfdan could hear King Lambi's voice in his ears, "The way to be invisible is to move very slowly. Motion is what attracts eyes. You can avoid being noticed, even on open ground, by moving slow enough. Your body might be visible, but it won't be noticed — until you put your iron into the foe's guts."
Halfdan was looking ahead very closely, hearing King Lambi's ghostly voice in his ears say, "Divide all that you can see into sections, and look at each section in turn, paying attention to every detail. Look at each one of the sections of your view as closely as you can, and made sure you check all of them, even if it seems impossible for a foe to be hiding there. And don't look just to the front — when you get the chance, look backwards to see any foe sneaking from behind."
Not wanting to make motion by turning his head, Halfdan could not look behind him during his crawl across the field of barley-stubble. He only looked forward, at the familiar farmhouse and its surroundings. Yngvild was guarding his back. Her task was to watch from her forest hiding-place and, if he was attacked, to use her arrows to protect him.
It took Halfdan half the night to make it across the dark field to the farmhouse. He crouched by the door, which was decorated with a sheep's body hanging by its cut neck from a bronze hook — a sacrifice to Freya. (His relatives were devout, but had failed to spread their love of the gods to him.) Halfdan put his ear to the thick wood of the door and listened.
Nothing at first. Then, the faint sound of Harald snoring. There seemed no other noise. It was unlikely that foes had spent all of the afternoon in the house while his aunt and uncle were going about their business outside, but possible. He strained his ears to catch the sounds of armed, awake men waiting for him: iron clinking, boots scraping on the dirt floor, whispering, burping, farting, sighs of boredom. But there was nothing but Harald's faint, recognizable snore.
Still crouching, so his full height would not be visible at the door, Halfdan raised his ax and tapped the square-end of its heavy blade onto the door.
The snoring inside stopped. After a while, there was a rustling sound on the other side of the door, and Halfdan heard his uncle say, "Is somebody out there?"
Hearing that gruff voice, Halfdan smiled. In a voice barely loud enough to be heard through the door, he said:
No life here but a lazy owl
Who's hungry but won't hunt
Good man, I beg a meal
Open your house, toss me a mouse!
Aunt Anna's voice cried out inside, "It's Halfdan!"
The sound of the door-latch raising, and the door opened to show the sleepy-looking faces of his aunt and uncle. His aunt looked delighted to see him, squealing, "Come in!" But Harald looked nervous, glancing over Halfdan's shoulder. Harald grabbed his nephew's sleeve and pulled him inside. As Anna hugged him, Harald slid the wooden latch on the door shut.
Uncle Harald said, "Too many syllables in the last line
."
Aunt Anna said, "Oh, Harald, do you expect a hungry owl to follow all the rules of poetry?"
Halfdan felt the strength in his uncle's grip as they shook hands.
"I'm glad to see you alive," Uncle Harald said. He was a thick-bodied man, with a wide, grey-bearded face and watery blue eyes. People said that he was one of the best farmers in Os; he not only fed his family, but had earned and saved enough silver over the years to buy a farm for both of his two sons, and to pay a good dowry on his daughter's wedding-day, and to pay Halfdan's admittance-fee for joining the hall in Eid. He was one of the richest and most-respected men in Os. He was the closest thing to a father Halfdan had known, and had taught Halfdan a lot.
Aunt Anna was thin, a bit taller than her husband, with hands that fluttered at her sides when she talked. There was a scar from a horse-kick on the left side of her face, which she usually hid under her hair-cloth. She had been the only mother Halfdan had ever known — treating him the same as her natural children, comforting him the many times he came home in tears over some other child calling him a "black troll," praising his earliest poems — and he loved her greatly.
This place had been Halfdan's home for many years. The house was much the same as when Halfdan was a boy. It was a single room, windowless except for the smoke-hole in the roof, with low platforms for sitting and sleeping along both of the side-walls. A long, central fireplace with still-glowing embers gave off some light, as did the beeswax candle that Aunt Anna lit and put onto a low table near them.
She said, "Something to eat? We're all out of mice, dear, but there might be some cheese and smoked salmon."
"Yes, please," Halfdan said, sitting on the platform and resting his ax on the floor.
