by V. Campbell
“He was the closest thing I ever knew to a father.” He ran his hand over the crude rendition of his uncle’s face. “And now I know he wasn’t even my uncle.”
Sinead bit her lip. He knew she was thinking of something to say that would soothe him. She should know he didn’t want to be soothed. He wanted to be angry. “And he gave you no clue who your father might be?” she asked gently.
Redknee shook his head. “I don’t think he knew.”
“Well that’s it, don’t you see?”
“Not really.”
“He knew you weren’t his brother’s child. Maybe not even family. Still, he wanted you to succeed him.”
Redknee thought Sinead’s logic about as convincing as a feather knife.
They arrived back at the longhouse at first light. Sinead helped him fix the sign above the door. It fitted perfectly.
“Your uncle would be pleased,” she said, standing back and admiring. Redknee only nodded, he did not have the words to say what he felt.
Koll was the first to rise. He stroked his beard as he studied the new addition. At first Redknee thought he was angry. But Koll turned to him, smiling, and drew him into a back-slapping hug.
“It is a good likeness of your uncle. He would be proud of you. From now on this settlement shall be known as Svensbyan.”
Redknee needn’t have feared the others’ response. Everyone, Toki included, admired the carving and agreed Svensbyan was a good name. After that day, the speed of their work seemed to increase. The day of the first snowfall saw the completion of the outbuildings, only the protective wall remained to be finished. Brother Alfred blessed the new settlement in the name of the Christian God. Koll, unsure as to whether such a blessing would carry any weight in Asgard, the land of the gods, declared that they should also have a feast in honour of Odin.
Brother Alfred had no objections. He liked a feast as much as anyone, and it was well known throughout the camp that Koll had just completed his first brew of Promised Mead.
And so began the preparations. Olvir took his bow into the forest and brought back a great stag. Toki, who was a better fisherman than hunter, took his lines to the shore and returned with a sackload of fat pink salmon. Brother Alfred laid traps around the camp, catching squirrels. Sinead, used to keeping a kitchen garden at the monastery, rummaged in the forest for fruits, returning with a heap of shiny red berries that tasted sharp on the tongue.
So, although they had found no chickens, cows, sheep or pigs on this new island, they had plenty to fill their table. The only missing ingredient was bread. They had searched thoroughly, but failed to find wheat.
On the day of the feast, Redknee helped Sinead decorate the longhouse with evergreen branches and pinecones. Olaf lit the fire in the centre of the room and everyone huddled round. Koll burst through the door, a barrel of mead slung across each shoulder. Smiling, and attuned to the drama of the event, he began walking slowly down the hall towards the dancing flames.
“A better burden, no man can bear,” he boomed, looking round the room and drinking in the rapt faces, “than his mother’s wit: and no worse provision can he carry, than a draught of mead.”
Everyone laughed at the last line, for Koll always seemed to have a stash of mead. Odin’s famous poem could be Koll’s motto.
Koll pretended to stumble the last few feet under the weight of the barrels, gaining one last laugh, before placing them, very carefully, on the floor. The barrels were opened and everyone began filling their drinking horns.
“Dew of the Gods …”
“Sweeter than honey …”
“Fiery and true …” …were just some of the accolades won by Koll’s mead that night. Sinead served up the feast and soon everyone lay sleepily round the fire, their bellies full. Redknee sat beside Sinead; Silver chewing a bone at his feet. He felt warm and content, yet strangely lost for words. “Tell us a story,” he called to Brother Alfred.
“Don’t you want to hear of Valhalla tonight?” the little monk asked.
A cheer went up and everyone drank a toast to the gods. Once the noise died down, Redknee repeated his request. Soon everyone was goading the little monk to tell a story – and make it a good one.
“Oh, all right,” Brother Alfred said, dabbing the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. “Will it be a tale of guts and gore … or honour and love?”
“Honour and love!” Sinead called. Redknee fancied she cast him a quick glance.
“Guts and gore,” Koll shouted.
Brother Alfred listened until the rest had called their preference. “Very well,” he said, “I think that was a tie.” He rubbed his hand over his bald head. “Let me think … love and gore, honour and guts. That really calls for the Greeks. Then again, the Bible has its fair share—”
“Just get on with it,” Olaf shouted. The festivities had done little to lighten his mood.
“Very well. I shall tell you of the homecoming of Odysseus. Odysseus was a seasoned warrior – he’d been away from home for twenty years fighting the Trojans. This war finished, he decided it was time to return to his beloved wife and son.”
“Bet she’d entertained a few,” Koll shouted, eyes gleaming with mead.
Brother Alfred chuckled. “As it happens, Penelope remained true to Odysseus for many years, but even her patience had its limits. In Odysseus’ absence many suitors had arrived at her door. Penelope refused to hear any of them until she had woven a memorial shroud for her father-in-law. For three years, she wove by day and, at night, crept back to her loom to unpick her work.”
“Canny little shrew,” Magnus said, spitting berry pips on the floor. Redknee thought the comment out of character for the straightforward steersman.
Brother Alfred tilted his head thoughtfully. “But to Penelope’s suitors, her guile only made her more desirable.” He took a slug from his drinking horn and continued. “Now, at this point, Odysseus was ensnared by the beautiful nymph Calypso. She offered him immortality if he would stay with her forever. But Odysseus wept every day for his wife and son. So the gods helped him escape, but before he could return home, he had to travel through Hades – where the dead go.”
“Greek warriors don’t go to Valhalla?” Koll asked, concerned.
Brother Alfred shook his head. “Nor do they go to the Christian heaven, my friend. Of course, this is but a tale. In those days everyone, good or bad, heroic or cowardly; they all went to the same place – to Hades. Now, in Hades he meets his old friend Achilles. In life, Achilles had been a great warrior, obsessed with risking death for eternal glory. But in Hades he states he would rather be alive as a swine-herd than dead.”
“No!” Redknee jumped up. “That’s a lie. It could never be better to tend pigs, than to die bravely, your name on the lips of men forever.”
“Perhaps it was because he was in Hades and not Valhalla,” Toki offered, grinning. “I’m sure it’s different for a Viking.”
Brother Alfred raised his hands. “I only tell the story as it happened. I cannot change Achilles’ feelings.”
Sinead tugged on Redknee’s arm. Deflated, he sat down and let Brother Alfred continue.
“Before Odysseus reached home, he passed the island of the Sirens. These women use their sublime singing to entice sailors ashore and kill them. Odysseus ordered his men to block their ears. He lashed himself to the mast, and though he heard the Sirens’ magnetic trill, he was powerless to steer his ship aground. But what Odysseus heard was terrible. Truly so. For the Sirens promised knowledge of all things.”
“But knowledge is good,” Sinead said, frowning.
“Ah … my child, but what would there be to do, once one knows everything? It would be a kind of death, for certain.”
“You’re saying the Siren’s knowledge would kill him?” Sinead asked in disbelief.
“Well … more that it would stop him from going home. Stop him completing his destiny.”
Sinead bit her lip. Brother Alfred’s explanation appeared to bother
her.
“Odysseus arrived home safely,” Brother Alfred continued. “Disguised as a beggar, he sets out to test his wife’s loyalty. He creeps into the palace and sees how the suitors harass her to accept their proposals. He corners Penelope and tells her that her husband is still alive. She says she is holding a bridal contest … the successful suitor must match her first husband’s ability in shooting an arrow through a row of twelve crossed axes.
“The day of the test arrives. Each of the suitors tries but none can string Odysseus’ great bow, let alone shoot it. Acting the drunken fool, Odysseus stumbles forward for his turn. The suitors cry in outrage. But Penelope nods. What harm can it do? No one but her husband can wield his bow anyway. Grasping the familiar sweep of yew, Odysseus strings his great bow and pulls. His arrow thrums through the twelve axeheads.
“Silence falls over the room. He grabs a second arrow and spins round. He draws back; the arrow snaps into the chief suitor’s throat, killing him instantly. The other suitors try to flee, but Odysseus mounts the table and reveals his identity. Then he draws his sword and sticks the soft-bellied suitors like pigs. The only person spared is the priest.”
“Cowpats!” Koll shouted. “He would stick the priest too.”
“No, no. It’s a particular sin to kill a man of God.”
Koll growled his dissent, but he let Brother Alfred go on.
“Still doubting Odysseus’ true identity, Penelope asks a servant to bring their marriage bed for him to rest. But this is a trick. He stops her by saying their bed cannot be moved for it is built round a living olive tree. Penelope sinks to her knees; her hero is home.”
“I’ll tell you a story of real betrayal,” Toki said. Everyone turned; Toki had moved closer to the fire. The flames glinted in his eyes. “It’s about two brothers.”
“Is there a wench?” Koll asked.
“There’s always a wench,” Toki said dryly. He leaned back so that half his face was cast in shadow. Everyone in the room leaned in. He commanded their attention like a true skald. “We will call the brothers Einnear and Sigurd,” he said.
Sinead’s eyes widened. “Are those their real names?”
Toki glanced sharply at her, but did not answer. Instead, he said, “Einnear and Sigurd grew up together and loved each other as only brothers can. Einnear, the elder of the two, taught Sigurd to swim, to ride and to hunt. Sigurd idolised his brother, copied him in everything. And though Sigurd proved the better warrior, he didn’t show a speck of jealousy when Einnear succeeded their father as jarl.”
Koll snorted.
“You doubt the strength of brotherly love?” Toki asked.
“Only its endurance,” Koll blustered.
Toki laughed. “Well, one day Einnear heard about a monastery atop a rock in the middle of the sea. A place said to hold more gold than all Byzantium. This was too good a tip-off for the brothers to ignore. They gathered their men and set sail. The sea swooped down on their longship, but the brothers kept their course true. They arrived while the monks were at vespers. The men of God were helpless in the face of the Northmen. Soon, only the aging abbot and a few servants remained alive.”
Koll raised his drinking horn in a wide sweep. “That’s how to deal with Christians,” he shouted. “Show ’em for Verden.”
Brother Alfred tutted.
Redknee felt Sinead shift uncomfortably at his side. He ventured to put his arm round her shoulder. She didn’t shrug it off.
Toki smirked then continued. “The brothers searched for the famed treasure, yet they found nothing. Angry, and thinking he’d been tricked, Sigurd raised his sword and told the abbot to prepare to meet his God. Being a pragmatic man, the abbot quickly agreed to take the brothers to the vault. Provided, of course, they would spare the lives of his servants.
“A true man of God,” Brother Alfred said.
“Indeed the abbot was.” Toki said, flashing his coal-black teeth. “He led the brothers to a room deep in the crumbling monastery. A casket stood against the wall. Sigurd opened it; it was a quarter full of Arab coins. When he saw the pitiful amount, Sigurd struck the abbot across the face with the back of his hand and demanded to see the rest.
“Blood trickled from the corner of the abbot’s mouth. He knew not of what treasure Sigurd spoke. Their most prized items, he said, were in the scriptorium. His voice faltered over this word as if he feared uttering it in the presence of the Northmen. Now, since the fall of Alexandria, this scriptorium knew no equal in all Christendom. And the abbot, it was said, had been lucky enough to receive many treasures from the demise of that great city.
“The brothers followed the abbot back up the stairs. Neither Einnear nor Sigurd knew what a scriptorium was. Whatever they imagined, they were not prepared for what they saw. Spread out before them, on solid oak shelves, were row upon row of leather covered blocks.
“Sigurd stared in surprise at a leather-covered block that sat open on a desk, its flesh of yellow parchment exposed. His eyes scanned the strange black marks on the top page. He realised these so-called treasures were but rune-keepers. Angered, he turned to the abbot and said he would only spare the lives of the servants if the abbot could show him something truly worth his time: a rune-keeper encrusted with lots of jewels.
“A sensible demand,” Koll said. “What use have monks for such finery anyway?”
Brother Alfred shifted uneasily. It hadn’t escaped notice that the wooden cross he wore round his neck was inlaid with a tiny amethyst.
Toki tilted his head. “Well put Koll, and indeed, that was also Sigurd’s opinion. Yet a fleeting smile crossed the abbot’s face. He told Sigurd they had many books ringed with gold and silver. Others still, with peridots and opals set deep in the covers. Fine Flemish workmanship, to be sure. He took a slender volume from a shelf and held it up for Sigurd to inspect. Swirls of silver, picked out in strange green stones, glittered in the candlelight.
“While Sigurd had been speaking to the abbot, Einnear had begun wandering through the scriptorium, running his fingertips over the soft leather spines. He fancied them like silk, and his eyes glazed over, trancelike, as he stared along the shelves.
“Just as Sigurd was about to say such a quality piece would go some way towards sparing the servants, Einnear asked the abbot which of the rune-keepers had the most important story. Einnear believed such a book would be the most valuable.
“The abbot stared at the be-jewelled volume in his hand. Regretfully, he admitted that it was not his most valuable book. Sigurd’s cheeks flashed red. He accused the abbot of lying.”
“That’s Christians for you,” Koll said, burping.
Toki shook his head. “The abbot was most apologetic. Explaining he thought the brothers wanted only the books with fine jewels.”
“And they didn’t just kill him then?” Koll asked. “For insolence.”
“They did not. For at this point, a lookout came running into the scriptorium. Now, the brothers had a friend with whom they’d agreed to share their spoils. The lookout had spotted their friend’s ship approaching. Thinking quickly, Sigurd decided there wasn’t enough of value to divide between the crew of two longships. He turned back to the abbot and told him to show them the most valuable book right away.
“The abbot shuffled towards the far end of the scriptorium. He stopped when he reached a small, undecorated cabinet covered in a thick layer of dust. He fished in his belt-pouch and produced a rusty key. Sigurd told him to hurry, yet the abbot remained calm. He warned the brothers he kept the key about his person, because while the book he was about to show them was the most valuable in the scriptorium, it was also the most dangerous. And he felt it his duty to warn even heathens such as them.”
“Pah,” Koll said, interrupting yet again. “How can a book be dangerous?”
“Sigurd’s thoughts exactly,” Toki replied a touch wearily.
“Is it like the Sirens in Brother Alfred’s story?” Sinead asked.
Redknee stared at her, for he di
d not see the connection.
Toki tilted his head. “How so?”
“Because of the knowledge inside the book,” she said.
“Perhaps,” Toki said. “The abbot explained that when the book first came to the monastery it was left out for the monks to read whenever they wanted. Much like the other books. But, over time, the abbot observed a change in the monks. First came the tired, bloodshot eyes, then grumpiness and irritability. They’d been staying up late into the night, burning candles at great cost, just to read its words. Einnear remarked the story must be a good one. Perhaps a tale of heroism and adventure.
“The abbot replied it would have been fine if that was all it was. But one day a fight broke out among the novices. One of them, a lad of only fourteen summers, stabbed a younger boy. It was not a pleasant death. Bad humours, the abbot thought. The lad died in agony.
“Sigurd failed to see how the boy’s death related to the book. The abbot told him they’d been fighting over whose turn it was to read it. Sigurd snorted, but the abbot shook his head. He explained the book was written by an Irish monk who, long ago, travelled to the Promised Land. It was said that whoever reaches the Promised Land will find treasure beyond their wildest dreams and more – he said that in the Promised Land no one could ever die.”
“Sigurd grabbed the key from the abbot’s hand. “Sounds sellable to me,” he said. But even as Sigurd twisted the key in the lock, the abbot warned him the book would drive anyone who read it mad with longing.
“Sigurd laughed, telling the abbot he’d take his chances. He grabbed the book. It was smaller than he’d imagined and covered in dull brown leather. Then he hauled his brother from the scriptorium.
“The abbot cried for them to wait – he feared he and his servants would be killed if they waited for the next longship of Northmen to descend. Sigurd called over his shoulder that they could come, if they could keep up.
“The brothers escaped the island just as their friend rounded the headland. Their men were bitter about the lack of ‘real’ treasure, as they put it, and the brothers knew they would have to find a buyer for the book, and quickly. Einnear volunteered to take it to the great market town of Kaupangen to see if he could sell it. True to his word, Sigurd did not kill the abbot or those of his servants who had made it onto their longship. Instead, he allowed Einnear to take them to Kaupangen to be sold as slaves.”
