Sworn Brother v-2

by Tim Severin

  They found themselves a gand volva — a black witch — in the nearby village. Who she was or from whom she had learned her seidr I do not know. But her knowledge was partly of things that I had learned from Thrand and Rassa, and partly of other elements more evil and malign. She was a woman perhaps in her sixtieth year, emaciated but still active and possessed of a sinewy strength. When she arrived at our camp I looked for her noiade emblems — such as a sacred staff, a girdle of dried fungi, gloves of fur worn inside out or a string of amulets. But I saw nothing that might signify her calling, except a single large pendant, a polished green and white stone dangling from her belt. But there was no doubting who she was. I felt the presence radiate from her as powerfully as I could smell a rotting carcass and the sensation made me queasy.

  She ordered the materials for a scaffold. It was to be built on the shore, and as she drew the outline of the structure in the sand with the point of a stick my fears were calmed. It was to be a wooden platform similar to one Rassa had shown me when he took me through the northern forests. The height of a man, the scaffold was where a noiade often chose to keep vigil when seeking to enter the saivo world, sitting above the earth in the cold air until the spirit chose to leave the body. When the kholops had brought timber for the structure, the volva called for Ivarr's favourite knife. She used it to cut runes on the main cross timber and as I watched her I shivered. I had seen those runes only once before: on the log which had been the cause of Grettir's death, the log that turned the axe to wound him. They were curse runes. Of course the volva sensed my dismay. She turned to look straight at me and the venom in her glance was like a blow to the head. She knew that I possessed the second sight and she dared me to intervene. I was helpless and afraid. Her power, I knew, was far greater than mine.

  Ivarr's funeral began an hour before dusk. By then the members of the felag were already well and truly drunk. They had supervised the kholops as they dragged the leakiest of our boats from the river bank up to the scaffold and placed firewood under and around the hull. The crone had then taken charge. She ordered Ivarr's tent to be taken down, then reassembled amidships on the boat. In it the kholops placed his carpets, rugs and cushions. Finally Ivarr's corpse, dressed in a gown of brocade, was carried aboard and laid upon the cushions. When all had been arranged to her satisfaction, the volva went to fetch Ivarr's favourite concubine. She was a plump, obedient girl with long, black braids which she wore coiled round her head. I guessed that she was the mother of at least one of Ivarr's boys, for she wore a heavy neck ring of gold, a sign of her master's favour. I liked her because she had shown kindness when she supervised the preparation of the twins for sale. Now I feared that she would fall into the hands of owners as vicious as Vermundr or Froygeir. When the volva arrived to collect her, she was standing on the patch of bare earth where Ivarr's tent had stood and looking bereft. I saw the volva whisper something in her ear and take her by the wrist.

  Walking as if in a dream, the girl was led towards the scaffold. From her wavering steps it seemed to me that she had been drugged or was intoxicated. Certainly every member of the felag was tipsy and I confess I was far from sober myself. Overwhelmed with dread, I had taken several cups of mead to repel the sense of doom.

  'You should go with her. You were just as much his favourite,' Vermundr jeered, his drunken breath in my face as we watched the concubine approach the scaffold. Two hefty Varangians took her by the waist and lifted her to the platform. Three times they raised and lowered the girl in some sort of ceremony, and I saw her lips move as she mumbled an incantation or maybe a plea for help. On the third occasion the volva handed her a living cockerel. For a moment, the girl hesitated and I heard the volva scream urgently at her. What language was used I do not know, but the girl put the head of the cockerel in her mouth and bit it off, then flung its corpse, still fluttering, so that it landed upon the funeral ship. I saw the spray of chicken blood scatter through the air.

  The girl was lifted from the scaffold one more time and, weaving and stumbling, brought to her master's ship. She slipped and fell as she tried to climb the stacked firewood and the volva had to help her. Four members of the felag, including Vermundr, followed her and so did the volva. The light was fading, which made it difficult to see the details, but the girl lost her balance and toppled into the open door of the tent. Perhaps the volva had deliberately tripped her. She slumped on the cushions and one of the four Varangians began to fumble drunkenly at his trousers. Then he advanced on the girl and raped her. The volva stood to one side, looking on dispassionately. Each of the Varangians took the girl, then stood up and, turning towards us where we were clustered around the campfire, shouted, 'That I have done in honour of Ivarr.' Afterwards he descended from the boat and allowed the next man to take his turn.

  When all four men were back on the ground, the volva reached down, seized the girl by the hair and dragged her further into the tent. By that stage the concubine was completely limp. The flickering light of the campfire illuminated the final death rite. I saw the volva make a noose with the cord to which the blue and green stone was attached, and slip it over her victim's head. Next she placed one foot on the girl's face, and leaning back, pulled tight the noose with a powerful jerk. Lastly she took Ivarr's knife from her belt, and repeatedly stabbed down on the human sacrifice.

  Only then did the volva descend and, selecting a brand from the camp fire, thrust it into the kindling heaped around the boat. The wood was dry from the summer heat and immediately caught fire. The breeze fanned the flames and within moments the funeral pyre was burning fiercely. As the blaze sucked in more air, I threw up my arm to protect my face from the heat. Flames roared and crackled, sending columns of blazing sparks into the air. In the heart of the conflagration, great holes suddenly appeared in the fabric of the tent sheltering Ivarr's corpse. The holes spread their burning edges, eating away the cloth so rapidly that for an instant the frame of the tent stood alone as if to defy the inferno. Then the tent poles collapsed inwards across the bodies of Ivarr and his murdered concubine.

  That night I drank myself into oblivion. The heat radiating from the blaze had brought on a powerful thirst, but I drank to forget what I had just seen. All around me the Varangians caroused and celebrated. They drank until they threw up, wiped their beards and then went back to drink. Two of them came to blows over an imagined insult. They groped for their swords and daggers and made futile stabs and slashes at one another until too weak to continue the dispute. Others guzzled mead and ale until they fell senseless on the ground. Those who could still stand, staggered off to the tent where our slave girls slept, and molested them drunkenly. The volva was nowhere to be seen. She had vanished, gone back to her village, no doubt. Nauseous with too much drink, I crept away to a quiet corner behind some cargo bales and fell asleep.

  I awoke with a racking headache, a queasy stomach and a foul taste in my mouth. It was well past daybreak and the sun was already high above the horizon. It promised to be another scorching day. Holding onto the cargo bale for support, I pulled myself to my feet and looked across to where Ivarr's funeral pyre had stood. There was nothing but a heap of charred wood and ash. Only the volva's scaffold remained. Beside it a chicken feather stirred in the breeze on the scorched ground.

  A few kholops were moving about the camp in an aimless way, lacking orders. Their masters, those I could see, lay snoring on the ground, motionless after their debauch.

  Gingerly I made my way slowly across the camp, then down the river bank to the water's edge. I felt denied and in desperate need of a wash even if the river water looked far from clean. It was a dark brown, almost black. I pulled off my soiled shirt and wrapped it around my waist as a loincloth, and removed my loose Varangian trousers. Slowly and carefully I waded out into the river until the tepid water reached the middle of my thighs. I stopped there for a moment, letting the sun warm my back, feeling the mud ooze up between my toes. I was in a back eddy. The water was barely moving. Cautiously I leaned
forward, fearing that a sudden movement would bring on an attack of nausea. Gradually I brought my face closer to the dark water, and got ready to splash water in my face. Just before I plunged my cupped hands into the river, I paused and looked at my reflection. The sun was at such an angle that I saw my head and shoulders as a vague outline. Suddenly I was assailed by a violent swaying sickness. My head spun. A chill washed over me, and I was about to faint. I thought it was the result of my debauchery, but then realised that I had seen the very same reflection before. It was the image I had seen when I peered into the well of prophecy that Edgar the royal huntsman had shown me in the forest at Northampton. Even as I came to that understanding, I saw the flash of something bright in the mirror of the river. For a heartbeat I mistook it for the silver flicker of a fish, then I recognised the reflection of a knife blade and the upraised arm that held it as I fell to one side and the assassin struck.

  There was an agonising pain high up in my left shoulder. The blow aimed at my back had missed. A swirl of water, a growl of rage and I felt a hand grab for me, slip on wet skin and then another slash of pain as a second knife stroke sliced my left side. I flung myself forward, desperate to avoid the dagger. Again a hand tried to hold me and this time seized the shirt wrapped around my waist. I ducked underwater, twisted and pushed down with my feet. The ooze gave no grip and I panicked. My flailing feet touched the legs of my attacker. Even without seeing his face, I knew who it was. It had to be Froygeir. He had hated me since the day I humiliated him at dice in front of the other Varangians. Now, with Ivarr dead, the time for his revenge had come.

  I wriggled like a salmon trying to avoid the barbs of a fishing spear. Froygeir was a big, agile man, well used to fighting at close quarters with a knife. Normally he would have finished me off with ease. Perhaps he was feeling the effects of his night's debauch or maybe he wanted to haul me out of the water, turn me so I could see my killer and then cut my throat. So, instead of stabbing again, he made the mistake of trying to pull me close by heaving on my loincloth. Its knot came undone and I squirmed free.

  As Froygeir stumbled backwards, I seized my chance to swim clear. The pain in my wounded left shoulder was so excruciating that I forgot the cut to my ribs. Terror drove me as I found the strength to move my arms and legs and swim a dozen frenzied strokes. I had no idea in which direction I was going. All I knew was that I had to get away from Froygeir. I thrashed forward blindly, expecting at any moment to feel his hand grasp my ankle and pull me back.

  My nakedness saved me. I can think of no other explanation. Froygeir was a river man. He knew how to swim and should have overhauled his wounded prey with no difficulty, but he was wearing Varangian trousers with their many folds of material and, waterlogged, they hampered him. I heard him surge after me, wading at first, then forced to swim in my wake. As my initial panic receded, I took a quick look to see where I was heading — directly away from shore, out into the broad river. I forced myself to breathe deeply and move through the muddy water in some sort of rhythm. Only when I had swum at least two hundred strokes did I risk glancing back. Froygeir had abandoned the chase. I could see the back of his head as he returned towards the shore. There, I knew, he would be waiting for me if I was so foolish as to return to the camp.

  Utterly exhausted, I stopped swimming and trod water. A red stain was spreading from my shoulder all around me. I had heard of giant fish in the river — it was said they were longer than a man — and wondered if they fed on flesh and would be attracted by blood. I prayed to Odinn for help.

  Slimy and ancient, the log was floating so low in the water that I did not see my salvation until it nuzzled against me and I flinched, thinking of those meat-eating fish. Then I wrapped my arms gratefully around the slippery wood and let the timber take my weight. Another circle of my life was closing, I thought to myself. Driftwood had caused the death of my sworn brother and now another floating log would prolong my life if only I could hang on. Bleeding to death would be better than drowning. I clenched my teeth against the pain from my shoulder, squeezed my eyes tight shut, and deliberately sought the relief of darkness.

  I knew nothing more until a sour smell roused me. Fumes stung my nose and brought tears in my eyes. A trickle of liquid, sharp and astringent, ran into my throat and made me cough. Someone was bathing my face with a sponge. I opened my eyes. I must have fainted while clinging to the log - I had no idea how I came to be lying on my back on a carpet and looking up into the chubby face of ibn Hauk. For once, his expression was sombre. He said something in his own language and I heard the voice of his interpreter.

  'Why were you floating in the river?'

  I licked my lips and tasted vinegar.

  'They tried to kill me.'

  The Serklander did not even bother to ask who had made the attempt. He knew.

  'Then it was lucky that one of my Black Hoods spotted you.'

  'You must get away,' I said urgently. 'The man who sold you the slaves, Ivarr, is dead. His comrades think you poisoned him. Now the Varangians are leaderless they are very dangerous and will try to catch up with you to get back the twin girls.'

  'No more than I would expect of those savages,' he answered. 'We are already on our way downriver.'

  I tried to sit up.

  'My master asks you to lie still,' said the interpreter. 'You will disturb the dressing.'

  I turned my head and saw that my left shoulder was bandaged. Again I smelled vinegar and wondered why.

  Ibn Hauk answered before I had time to enquire.

  'The vinegar is against the pestilence,' he said. 'It is to cleanse you from the sickness that killed Ivarr. Rest now. We will not be stopping, but will travel through the darkness. I do not think that your Rus will catch up with us. And if they do the Black Hoods will deal with them.'

  I relaxed and thought about this turn of events. Everything I owned — my precious furs, my clothes, even the knife that Thrand had given me and which I treasured — was lost irretrievably. They were in the hands of the Varangians, who would already have divided the spoils amongst themselves. I was glad that I had given away the fire ruby to Allba. I was destitute and now I did not even have clothes to wear. Under the loose cotton sheet which covered me I was naked.

  Ibn Hauk personally attended to me as we sailed downriver. He carried a stock of healing drugs from his own country and prepared the poultices of herbs and spices which were applied to my knife wounds. Certainly he was very skilled in their use, for eventually the wounds closed up so cleanly that they left barely the faintest scars. Each time he came to change the dressings he took the chance to question me about the customs of the Varangians and the countries where I had travelled. He had never heard of Iceland or Greenland, and of course he knew nothing of Vinland. But he had heard of King Knut of England and had some vague information about the northern lands.

  When I told him how Ivarr's corpse had been burned, he was shocked. 'That is utter barbarism,' he said. 'No wonder the pestilence spreads among those river pirates. My religion demands that we wash before our prayers, but I observed that your former travelling companions are more filthy in their habits than donkeys.'

  'Not all are so uncouth,' I said. 'There are men who know the use of herbs and simples just as you do, and the true Varangians, the men who come from the northern lands, are strict about their personal cleanliness. They bathe regularly, keep their hair and fingernails clean and take a pride in their appearance. I know because I have had to wield the heavy stones they use to press their clothes.'

  'But burning a corpse to ashes,' ibn Hauk observed, 'that is abominable.'

  'In your country what do they do?' I asked.

  'We bury our dead,' he answered. 'Often the grave must be shallow because the soil is rocky, but we put the dead into the ground as quickly as possible before putrefaction sets in. Our climate is very hot.'

  'That is what the Christians also do - bury the dead,' I said, and found myself repeating what Thrand had said long ago. 'You see,
for those who follow the Old Ways that is an insult to the deceased. We - for I am an Old Believer - find it repugnant to let a man's corpse decompose or be eaten by worms. We prefer that it is destroyed neatly and cleanly, so that the soul rises to Valholl.'

  Then, of course I had to explain what I meant by Valholl, while ibn Hauk busily made notes. 'Your Valholl sounds very much like the valley that some of our believers, a strange sect, think they will achieve if they die in battle sacrificing their lives for their leader.'

  He was so amiable and outgoing that I took the chance to ask him if he had ever seen precious stones that were the colour of pigeon's blood and had a burning fire within them.

  He recognised the description instantly.

  'Of course. We call them laal. My master owns several — they are among the pride of his royal jewels. The best ones he received as gifts from other great potentates.'

  'Do you know where they come from?'

  'That's not an easy question to answer. The gem dealers refer to these jewels as badakshi, and this may have something to do with the name of the country where they are found,' he said. 'It is said that the mines lie in high mountains, close to the borders of the country we call al-Hind. Their precise location is kept a secret, but there are rumours. It is reported that the rubies are found encased in lumps of white rock, which are broken open with great care by the miners, using chisels, to reveal the jewel within. If they find a small jewel of poor quality, they call it a foot soldier. A better jewel is known as a horse soldier, and so on up through an amir jewel, a vizier jewel, until the very best - the emperor jewel - which is reserved for royalty.'

  In such intelligent and informative company the journey south passed rapidly, and it was with genuine regret that I heard ibn Hauk announce one afternoon that our paths were about to separate.