Stranger from Another Land

by Hector Miller

  It was true that Sigizan the Hun had taught me the ways of the hunter. We hunted deer and boar from horseback with bow and arrow, sometimes with a spear. Hunting within the woods is something entirely different, as I soon found.

  I set off early the next morning with the spear and a round of cheese wrapped in hide.

  I explored the forest until late afternoon, cautious to venture too far into the woods. Once did I come across hoofprints and droppings, but it seemed to be a few days old.

  Just before dark I arrived back at the longhouse, empty-handed and crestfallen. “I will find one”, I proclaimed in answer to the looks I received from the two women.

  On the morrow I set off even earlier. This time I ventured farther away from my new home.

  The woods became darker and the undergrowth denser. The trees were large and their thick canopies drowned out the light. During the course of the morning I sighted a family of deer, although briefly, and even heard the roaring of a stag. By midday I was tired and sat down with my back against the trunk of a giant oak. I knew there were wolves and bears in the forests, but I was armed with a spear and there were many trees that could be climbed.

  Suddenly I was beset by a sensation that I was being watched. I looked all around, studying the trees and the undergrowth for movement. Nothing stirred. I took a piece of smoked fish from my leather pouch and started to chew. I hummed a Greek tune that Leodis had taught me, not realising that I was scaring away all the animals in the vicinity. After some time I stood to continue the hunt, without success of course.

  The hunt became my obsession. On the sixth day I ventured deeper into the forest than I ever had before. I managed to get close to a female deer, but my spear did not find flesh and I spent a long time trying to find the weapon that had fallen among the leaves covering the forest floor. I eventually found the spear, nearly covered with leaves. As I bent to retrieve the weapon, I heard a deer roar with pain. Confused, I followed the sound and came upon a carcass of a stag. The blood was still flowing from a spear wound in its flank, but the animal was dead. I cautiously walked around the red deer in wonder. Next to the animal, a patch of leaves were cleared. In the wet forest soil an inscription was written in Greek: “Gift. Do not tell.”

  I dragged the animal away and for some time studied the inscription. At first I feared an ambush, but soon realised that if the hunter wished me harm, I would have been dead already.

  I picked up a dried twig and wrote underneath the hunter’s scribble: “Thank you.”

  I possessed enough cunning to push my own spear into the wound, covering the blade in blood. It took me the best part of the day to drag the deer back to the village. I arrived at dusk, close to succumbing to exhaustion, but I would have rather died than leave the meat to the mercy of the bears and wolves.

  Runa was ecstatic, yet I did notice her gaze settling on the spear-tip. Rather than feeling guilty, I was filled with pride at the success of my deception.

  Soon the whole village had gathered outside the longhouse and all assisted to work the carcass. Nothing was wasted. The skin was removed, as well as the intestines. All would be used. “You truly have the blood of the hunter, young one”, proclaimed one oldster. Another man, a farmer, slapped me on the back: “I have spent days in the forest, Ragnar, but I could not do what you did today.”

  Unni came to stand next to me. “I do not know how you managed to kill one, Ragnar, but your esteem has risen in the eyes of the villagers. We have enough meat for a fine feast.”

  That evening Unni prepared a delicious pottage with fresh liver, tongue and roots. With the farmers’ assistance we had suspended the meat in a corner of the longhouse. Runa gestured with her chin towards the carcass of the deer. While chewing on a mouthful of stew, her head bent over close to the bowl, she said: “The meat is best when it has ripened for at least five days.” She licked the liver juices from her lips. “I cannot wait.”

  I went to bed content. I was surely blessed by the gods. Yet something bothered me. Who was the mysterious hunter who had gifted me the animal? Why had he not showed himself? I decided to investigate at the earliest opportunity.

  It appeared sooner than I thought. On the morrow, after eating a filling breakfast of eggs and grilled deer kidneys, I was ready to do my appointed chores, but Runa said: “Go, boy. You will rest today. You have done enough.” Unni gave me an envious glance and picked up the wooden pail to milk the cow before she would take the animal out to graze.

  I picked up my spear and took some smoked fish proffered by Runa.

  “Going hunting today?” the old crone asked. “No”, I said, “but should I stumble across a dead deer, I will surely bring it home.” Runa narrowed her eyes, I smiled, and walked through the door.

  I soon arrived at the clearing where I had found the deer the previous day. There was no sign of the writing. Someone or something had levelled the leaves. Even the bloodstains had disappeared. Maybe I was losing my mind? The rest of the day I spent wandering around the area, but by the time I walked back home, I was none the wiser. I was angry with myself for wasting a day trying to find a man that did not wish to be found. My time would have been better spent fishing close to the village in the shade of a large oak.

  * * *

  The days leading up to the harvest feast was filled with toil.

  Two days before the feast, I followed Runa, who used an old wooden spade as a walking stick. “I have seen spades with iron heads at the trade fair in Uppsala”, she said.

  I nodded. “Where is Uppsala?” I asked. “It is that way”, she replied and pointed north and east. “Three days walk for young legs.”

  We soon arrived at the edge of the field where the animals grazed, just outside the palisade wall. Runa led me to an oak that was so large, it must have been there since the gods created the realm of men. She pressed the spade into the soil and took a seat on a nearby flat stone. “Dig a round hole. As deep as the length of the spade and as wide as you are from head to toe”, she commanded.

  I nodded.

  “First take out the turf in blocks and put it there”, she said, pointing to an area.

  When I had dug out the turf under her watchful eye she said: “When you are done, collect stones from the beach and place them next to the turf. They must be the size of your head, twice a double handful will do.” She turned around and walked back the way we came.

  Not long after, the village fisherman arrived with a similar looking spade. He also started to dig a hole and we were soon joined by a third man, a farmer. We laughed and jested while we worked.

  By mid-morning my pit was done. I left the other men to their toil and strolled down to the beach to collect stones. Only when I had collected two stones did I realise that it was impossible for me to carry back more than one at a time. I cursed the old crone. Twenty trips down to the beach and back saw me place the last of the rocks on the pile. Exhausted I returned home.

  “Not as easy as hunting, eh?” the crone said when I walked through the door.

  Needless to say, I fell asleep twice during the evening meal.

  In the morning when Unni woke me before first light, every sinew in my body ached like never before. But it was the day before the feast and there were things that had to be done.

  Runa had risen early to boil eggs and handed a bowl to each of us. Mine contained three eggs of clearly different origins. “Unni, I need you to help me cut up the deer carcass this morning”, Runa said while chewing on an egg.

  “Ragnar, take a third part of the wood stacked against the wall outside and carry it to the pit. Make sure you take the thick oak pieces. And be quick about it”, the crone said.

  “Yes, Grandmother”, I said, already used to the familiar form of address. “Ask the fisherman to show you what to do with it”, she said, “and come back here as soon as you are done.”

  The fisherman showed me what to do. “First, boy, you place the large pieces of oak at the bottom of the pit. Be sure to leave gaps between
them, else the fire doesn’t take.” He watched while I placed the wood.

  He carried four stones to the edge of the pit and jumped in. “Now you put the stones down like this”, he said and placed the stones a handspan apart.

  “Then the smaller pieces of wood come on top”, he said, “like this.”

  When I was done, I climbed out and stood next to him, admiring my handiwork. “Good work, boy. I can already taste the meat”, he said, and slapped me on the back.

  * * *

  I woke up early the following morning, filled with excitement. Finally the day of the harvest feast had arrived.

  Runa commandeered two young men to carry the large cuts of deer meat to the freshly dug cooking pits while Unni and I walked down to the beach. We picked fresh seaweed from the shallow water and rinsed off the sand before placing it on a deer skin brought along for the purpose. The water was as cold as ice and chilled us to the bone, but it did not manage to douse our growing excitement.

  When we arrived at the cooking pits, the wood fire that was lit in the middle of the night was spent, but it had transformed the oak to a thick carpet of glowing embers. Runa took a wooden pitchfork and scooped the wet seaweed onto the coals and red hot stones. I waited until the cloud of steam that burst from the pit had subsided, then carefully placed the thick cuts of deer onto the bed of seaweed. Next came handfuls of herbs I was not familiar with, and green leafy branches.

  She pointed the pitchfork at me. “Replace the turf boy, and be quick.”

  * * *

  It was late in the afternoon when all in the village were gathered under the great oak.

  Earlier, the second pit was lit and packed with a variety of fish, mussels and crab. When all was assembled, Runa stood and walked to the third pit, which was as yet unlit and still stacked with wood. She emptied a clay pitcher filled with glowing embers into the pit and everyone cheered.

  The feast had officially begun.

  Chapter 16 – widugastiR (The forest guest)

  A wooden pail with sour milk and honey was placed on a sturdy makeshift table next to the trunk of the oak. We filled our large mugs with a copper ladle and all stood close to the pits from which a mouth-watering aroma escaped.

  The third pit was the largest and had been stacked to the brim with thick oak logs which were now aflame, providing light and welcome heat to the villagers.

  Runa filled a sizeable jug from an even larger clay pot. The chatter came to an abrupt end and all eyes focused on the old crone.

  She held the jug aloft, dedicating the contents to the Vanir, the gods of fertility. The old crone chanted words that I did not understand, yet they were strangely familiar.

  Unni whispered into my ear: “It is the language of the ancients, of the old gods. It holds great power.”

  Runa took a long swig from the jug and held it out to the one standing beside her. The fisherman drank from the vessel and the mead jug was passed around, all drinking deeply, savouring the blessing from the gods.

  I was last to drink and instinctively passed the jug back to Runa, who again spoke the language of the Vanir and poured the remaining mead onto the soil.

  A farmer led a goat to where the crone was standing. He skilfully slit the animal’s throat and she caught the blood in the mead-jug. Runa took a swig of the blood and poured the remainder onto the soil, then cast the carcass of the animal into the blazing fire pit. The flames jumped to the sky.

  She closed her eyes for long. All remained silent until the wise one proclaimed, her mouth still red with blood: “Njord accepts the offering.”

  A cheer emanated from the crowd and excited chatter filled the night. The omens were good, the gods favoured the village. I was handed another jug of mead and again swallowed the sweet tasting liquid before passing it on to Unni, who followed suit. She turned to me and whispered: “The mead is tasty and alluring, Ragnar, but have a care, from now on just wet your lips.”

  The mead loosened the tongues and soon we were all laughing and relaying stories. I told the tale of my hunt, obviously bending the truth, to great delight of the men. Unni told of how they found me after the storm.

  While she was acting out the tale, I could not help to be amazed. The people were so different from my people. Never, ever would it be acceptable for Abdarakos, the noble erilar, to mingle with the commoners. Every Heruli settlement was lorded over by a warrior noble and his hearth-men. They provided protection, but could also be a burden to their people in times of peace. But here, far to the north, the farmers and fishermen were all of the same status, as if no threat existed. As if they did not need protection. What good would a warrior be in this peaceful part of middle earth?

  The socialising and drinking continued, until Runa exchanged words with the fisherman watching over the pit with the harvest from the sea. He nodded.

  She held up her hands for silence and said: “We will feast on the sea-harvest of Njord.”

  The man carefully removed the loose sections of turf with his spade and afterwards lifted the branches, revealing the seafood feast, befitting the table of a king.

  He cleaned the spade with a linen rag and scooped great helpings of fish, mussels and crab onto the oak table.

  The herbs and seaweed had infused the food with a wonderful flavour. The fish were fat and juicy, the mussels and crab tasted like the sea.

  Seafood was common among the people living close to the Austmarr, but meat was a special treat. All enjoyed the harvest of the ocean, but ate sparingly. The best was yet to come.

  When all had eaten their fill, the leftovers were cast into the fire. The food at the feast was blessed by the gods and any leftovers was required to be destroyed. Leaving food for the next day would be an affront to the gods, as they knew the needs of the people and would provide.

  As the hunter, I was afforded the privilege to open the pit containing the deer meat. I carefully removed the turf and branches, then placed the steaming chunks of meat on the table. The meat was so tender that it fell apart like ripe fruit as I laid it down.

  Runa picked up a leg of deer and said: “The meat is a gift from the Vanir to show that they approve of the actions of the people and …” She got no further.

  From the darkness came a menacing growl: “Leave the meat be, hag. It is mine!”

  A man stepped into the light of the fire from the darkness beyond. He wore an open face helmet, his lank, greasy hair hanging low on his back. His torso was protected by a sleeveless chain mail jerkin that extended to the groin. In his right hand he carried a spear with an iron head, but no shield in the other. Broad silver warrior bands decorated his fleshy upper arms.

  He spoke a language similar to the tongue of the Svear. “Resist and you will die. Give us what we came for and you might live.” He smiled a vicious smile, displaying his filed teeth. I was paralyzed with fear, as was all the other villagers.

  From the darkness that surrounded us, another four warriors emerged, all dressed in mismatched armour. Two carried short blades, another a spear, and the fourth a longsword.

  From behind the trunk of the great oak stepped a warrior the likes of which I had never seen. He wore a full face iron helmet with a gilded nose-guard, silver reinforced brows and a red horsehair crest. His neck was protected by thick iron chain riveted to his helmet. Underneath his armour he wore a red, long-sleeved, wool tunic which provided padding for the short-sleeved chain mail jerkin that extended to the knees. His forearms were encased in iron vambraces inlaid with red leather decorated with gold leaf, matching his shoulder guards and greaves. Around his waist he wore a thick belt of red leather, extending to a boiled leather apron with gold decorations. His torso carried additional protection in the form of burnished overlapping bronze scales.

  Affixed to his belt was an ornate scabbard, holding a longsword. In his right hand he carried a long-hafted bearded war-axe. The iron axe-head was decorated with intricate patterns. The shaft was wooden but reinforced with iron strips.

  The warrior
was tall and broad, thick-limbed and barrel-chested, with a demeanour that hinted at a bull-like neck underneath the chain.

  He took a step forward and lazily swung his axe, the haft coming to a rest on his right shoulder. The movement seemed familiar and I realised that he moved with the same grace and fluidity as Sigizan, the champion of the Huns. I knew then that we were doomed. He was a killer.

  A farmer pointed at the imposing figure. “It is Njord come to smite us!” he yelled.

  A heartbeat after the monster stepped forward, the leader of the raiders retreated a step.

  It dawned on me that the monster warrior was no part of the raiders.

  The apparition pointed his empty hand at me and spoke in Greek. “Give them my words, boy!”

  I nodded, still scared witless.

  “Leave now or die”, he growled.

  I pointed at the lanky-haired raider and said: “He.., he says that you must leave now or you will die.”

  The words issued by the giant was cowing, but from the lips of a boy it sounded ridiculous, which was probably the reason why they did not run.

  The raider with the longsword ran at the Greek, screaming, his sword drawn back overhead. The imposing warrior waited until the attacker’s weapon was moving downwards to strike the killing blow. He took a small step to the side, pivoted backwards on his heel, and spun around. The axe, wielded with both hands, moved in a great arc, gaining incredible momentum. The blade of the longsword cleft the air next to the Greek as the blunt end of the axe-head impacted the side of the raider’s helmet, smashing his skull in a spray of blood.

  The spear-wielding henchman thrust his spear at the chest of the Greek. The warrior turned to the side, the spear scraping on the scales of his armour. He grabbed the shaft behind the iron head with the speed of a viper and jerked the raider closer, smashing the spearman’s nose with a vambrace.

  The leader moved in on the giant, but the strange warrior’s blood was up and he hurled his war-axe, the razor sharp edge cutting through the mail links and embedding in the raider’s chest. The impact threw the man two paces backwards. He was dead before he hit the ground.