Stranger from Another Land

by Hector Miller

  He wore an undyed wool tunic with deer skin braccae. Over his shoulders hung a cloak made from the pelt of a bear. He had no weapons, but in his right hand he carried a simple woodcutter’s axe. Slung over his shoulder were two bundles of furs. He handed me one. “You will need this, boy, I can feel the coming of winter in the air.”

  We walked at a fast pace. “We must hurry to the market and return with haste, else the people of your village will suffer”, he said.

  I had other things on my mind and replied: “I wish to be a warrior.”

  The man offered no reply.

  “I wish to be a warrior like my grandsire”, I tried again.

  “And your father? Who was he?” said the stranger.

  “I have no father”, I said.

  “You have the blood of a warrior, boy. War has ever been the way of the Heruli”, I stopped in my tracks. The warrior paused as well.

  “How do you know of my people, lord?” I asked and added: “How do you know of the People of the Wolf?”

  He smiled. “You spoke in the language of the Heruli, boy, when you were travelling between the land of men and the land of the gods. When I found you at the water’s edge.”

  He turned and started down the path. I had to run to catch up.

  “Will you teach me, lord?” I asked, now running beside him.

  “We will talk of this later”, he said, and picked up the pace.

  Chapter 19 – Ferryman

  We rarely rested that day. Only twice did we stop to have a drink at a stream.

  While I dreamed about becoming a warrior, my companion focused on the task at hand. We walked for many miles that day, until I was close to collapse. The warrior glanced at the sky where the sun was rapidly approaching the western horizon. He pointed to a stream in the distance. “We will camp there, boy. Collect firewood and get a fire going one hundred paces upstream from the road.”

  He disappeared into the forest, leaving me to go about my business.

  There was an abundance of firewood available and soon I had a roaring fire going, four paces from the trunk of an ancient spruce. Dense shrubs on either side provided some shelter from the wind.

  The warrior arrived shortly after. He nodded in approval, opened up his tightly bound furs and spread one next to the fire. He gestured for me to do the same.

  From a pouch at his side he removed a massive meat fillet, which could only have come from an elk. I noticed then that he had cut two green forked sticks, as long as the leg of a man. With his dagger he sharpened the ends of the oak sticks and pressed them into the soft earth either side of the fire. He produced a third stick and sharpened it as well. Then he threaded the stick through the centre of the meat and placed it over the fire.

  He took two wooden mugs from the pouch and filled one with water from a skin and handed it to me. From another small skin he filled his own cup with mead.

  “Give me your name, boy”, he said.

  “I am Ragnaris, lord”, I replied, “but, in this land, I have given my name as Ragnar.”

  He nodded. “Ragnaris means ‘the one who gives council to the warriors’. It is a good name.”

  “You spoke about your grandsire”, he said. “Is he of the Heruli?”

  “He is a great warrior, lord”, I replied.

  “I am sure he is”, he said and I thought there was a slight hint of a mock in his voice.

  “My grandfather told Sigi to train me”, I said proudly.

  He nodded, still with a slight smirk on his face.

  “What name does your grandsire go by, boy?” he asked and took a swallow of the mead.

  “Abdarakos, erilar of the Heruli”, I replied.

  His expression lost the hint of a mock and he stared at me intently with his dark eyes, as if he saw me for the first time. Then, after what seemed like forever, he drank deeply from his cup and said: “We will start when we return to the village, Ragnar.”

  “Start with what, lord?” I asked.

  “We will continue with your training, boy. We will start where the Hun left off.”

  I nodded, then looked into the fire to hide my surprise. Maybe this man was truly a god. He knew Sigizan was a Hun and I had never told him.

  I scratched together all my courage. “What name do you go by, lord?”

  He kept his stare in the fire and said: “I am called Trokondas.”

  I had never heard a name that even closely resembles it and asked: “To which tribe do you belong, lord?”

  “It is none of your business, boy. Take the meat off the fire, it is burning.”

  Obediently I removed the perfectly cooked fillet from the flames. He took it from me and placed it on a flat stone next to the fire, and proceeded to cut the meat into thick slices. The meat was tender and juicy, and we feasted like kings. Trokondas even poured me half a cup of mead, which soon made my eyelids heavy. I could not help but wonder whether he gave me mead out of kindness or whether he just simply wished to shorten the evening and be subjected to fewer questions.

  In any event, when our stomachs were full, we lay down with our backs to the fire, covered ourselves with furs, and soon fell asleep.

  The following morning was crisp and clear. We were well on our way when the sun appeared above the treetops.

  “How long will we travel, lord?” I asked. Trokondas looked at me askance. “I do not know. I have heard of this market, but I have never been there.” He pointed down the road. “All we need to do is keep to the path, then there is naught that can go wrong.”

  Not long after we stood on the shore of a narrow body of water, my companion wearing a frustrated scowl. He spat in the water: “This is truly a strange land.” On the opposite shore, more than a hundred paces distant, was a small settlement of sorts.

  Two hundred paces to our left, near the shore, stood a longhouse which had seen better days. Not far from the building, a small boat was tied to a pole with a mooring line. The yard was littered with dilapidated wagons. Near the boat a man sat on a log. His attention was focused on his toil.

  Trokondas took in the sorry scene and shook his head in resignation. “Let us go secure passage.”

  We approached and Trokondas said: “I do not speak their language, boy, neither do I wish to. Tell him that we will pay for passage across the channel.”

  We stopped about ten paces short of the old man, who did not seem to notice our approach. His attention was focused on something in his hand which he was carving with a small knife.

  Without looking up, he said: “G’day to ya, weary travellers.”

  “We would that you take us to the shore across the channel”, I said. “We are on our way to the market at Uppsala.”

  The oldster placed the ivory amulet, carved in the shape of a hammer, next to him on the log. He issued a shrill cackle, as if I had shared a jest with him. "I d’not ferry travellers ‘cross the channel, young one, but I sell amulets, I do. Purchase one, then a trip ‘cross the water is for free, it is.” He cemented his words with a toothless smile. “One silver I’ll trade for the amulet, or if you have none, the bear cloak of the giant will keep me warm this winter, it will.”

  I gave his words to my companion.

  “He is nothing more than a brigand”, Trokondas said, who took a silver coin from his purse and held it up for the man to see.

  The oldster held out his open palm. In response Trokondas closed his fist.

  I gave his words to the old man.

  “One silver for the hammer of Donor, use of the ferry, and answers to our questions.”

  The old man nodded.

  “What is the name of the village across the water?” Trokondas asked, pointing to the collection of huts in the distance.

  “Agnafit they call it. Them fishermen live there”, the old man replied.

  “Is there more water to cross between Agnafit and the market at Uppsala?” Trokondas asked.

  The oldster smiled slyly and gestured with his chin towards Trokondas. “Fool he is not. Y
es, there is another water. Agnafit is an island, it is.”

  “You will take us to the far shore, old man. Around the island”, Trokondas said, “and only then will I give you the silver.”

  We climbed into the boat and the man pushed us off with an oar, then sat down to row. Slowly he took us past the island with the fishermen’s hovels, until we arrived at the far side of the channel. He grounded the boat on a small gravel beach.

  He saw us staring at the multi-coloured stones. “Pretty little rocks, ain’t it. That’s why it’s called the Gravel Lake, the Mälarin.”

  Trokondas opened his hand and allowed the oldster to snatch the silver from his palm. He presented his other palm, revealing three gold coins. The oldster’s eyes went wide and his tongue repeatedly darted out, akin to that of a serpent, to moisten his chapped lips, yet failing to remove the white spittle in the corners. His eyes never left the gold.

  “We will meet you here, when dawn breaks, in six days from now. You must bring two large boats to transport us back across the water, and three men to load the goods. We will buy two large wagons from you, with two horses for each. Make sure they are in good repair.”

  While I translated the words, the man nodded vigorously, his stare fixed on the gold.

  He was still waving when I looked over my shoulder before we disappeared around a bend in the tree-lined greenway.

  “He will try to kill us when we return”, my companion said, and lengthened his stride.

  Chapter 20 – Uppsala

  It took us two long days to reach Uppsala. On the morn of the second day, my bad foot was throbbing with pain from overuse, and I harboured concerns that it would again cause a permanent limp.

  Trokondas must have noticed because I tried not to put too much weight on the limb. “You will make the leg stronger by using it. Ignore the pain, boy. It is how you will become a man.”

  I took his advice and walked normally, but later on it hurt like a glowing iron pressed into the sinews.

  That afternoon, when the first thatched roofs of the town came into view, I could not help to breathe a sigh of relief. On the inside, of course.

  “First let us find a place to sleep, boy. It will rain soon”, my companion said, and walked towards the cluster of longhouses.

  Due to the autumn market, the town was bursting at the seams. Inside the longhouses we could hear hearty laughter and the atmosphere was warm and inviting. Or rather, that was the impression from the peeks over the shoulders of the men standing in the doorways, who informed us that there were no lodgings available.

  Light rain was falling when we knocked on the door of the second to last longhouse. The man first told us that there was no sleeping space available, but then seemed to reconsider. “One of the horses died yesterday”, he said, shaking his head. “The cart went into the ditch and took the horses along with it. Only by the intervention of the gods did I not lose both of the beasts.”

  I stared at him, wondering why the stranger was sharing the tale of his misfortune. “So do you want it then?” he asked. I stared at him, not understanding. “The stable of the dead horse”, he added. “It will cost a silver for you and your mute father every two days. Three cups of mead and a bowl of pottage in the evening included. Payment up front!”

  Our host ushered us into the longhouse, leading the way. A large copper cauldron was suspended above a blazing fire in the hearth. The meaty stew bubbled away, emitting a mouth-watering aroma.

  The host gestured with his chin towards the pot. “His name was Blackie. Best horse I ever had.”

  We weaved our way through the smoke-filled, dimly lit interior and inclined our heads to patrons leaning out of the way to allow us to pass. The animals were separated from the hall by a low wooden wall, the height of my shoulder. The host opened a small gate and led us to a stable bordering the far wall. There was a door in the stable and I stared at it, wondering why we did not enter that way.

  “Only opens from the inside, boy”, our host explained when he noticed. He held out his hand and Trokondas placed a small silver coin in his palm. He smiled warmly. “I will send the mead and the food when it is ready.”

  Blackie’s hay was still in the stable and we soon fashioned it in a way to provide comfort during the night. A small boy delivered the promised mead. We reclined on the straw with our backs against the rough logs of the longhouse. The stable was warm and comfortable.

  The sweet mead warmed us from the inside and eventually Trokondas spoke: “It is good that we are separated from the villagers. It is not the way of the warrior to mingle with the common people.”

  “Why, lord?” I asked.

  For a moment there was silence, then he continued: “When you mingle with the peasants, they come to see you as a friend. An equal. They start to believe that they can make decisions as well as you can, or even fight as well as you.” I heard him swallow the mead, allowing it to settle. “When the time of need arrives, they question your commands in the face of the enemy. I have seen this.”

  “Take this as your first lesson, Ragnaris. Did your grandsire, Abdarakos, mingle with the farmers?” I shook my head in the darkness, but it was a statement and not a question. “Of course not! If you wish to be a warrior, you need to distance yourself from the commoners.”

  Before I could answer, the face of the boy appeared around the corner of the stable. He handed us each a large bowl of stew and a crude wooden spoon. Blackie’s unfortunate demise did not only provide us with accommodation, but also with an excellent meal. Soon we were both asleep.

  On the morrow we woke to the sounds of men waking. We washed our faces in the horses’ drinking trough. Again the small boy appeared carrying two mugs of sour milk. “My da says you can have this.”

  We savoured the thick grainy liquid while the boy waited to take the cups. “My da says you can leave your things in the stable.” He opened the back door of the longhouse and held it open for us.

  The autumn market at Uppsala was held on a large field adjoining the longhouses. The Mälaren Valley was fertile, producing good crops of oats, spelt and barley. Where the forests were cleared, farmers kept cattle and sheep. All the excess animals and grains were brought to Uppsala. From the mines at the nearby Bergslagen there were smiths, wishing to trade their wares for food.

  The grain farmer would typically exchange his bags of excess oats for a few sheep. Then, he would again trade a sheep or two for a round of cheese or an iron plough shear. And so it would continue for days, until the farmer who arrived at the fair with a hundred bags of oats readied to return home with five sheep, two plough shears, an amphora of mead, two bags of dried fish and a few furs.

  Coins were a rarity, yet highly sought after. Unlike the other wares, it allowed the traders to store their wealth for a leaner season, rather than to trade it all for perishable items.

  Before the sun set, we had purchased all that was required for the village to survive the winter. In addition, we had paid a farmer whose sons would transport our goods to the river in two wagons, while he vended the last of his goods.

  There were few weapons on display, but Trokondas manage to purchase a sturdy axe. “If you wish to be a warrior there is no better weapon to master than the axe.” He nodded in agreement to his own words. “Yes, you will learn the axe.”

  After loading the wagons, we retired to the longhouse where we spent another comfortable night. We departed just after sunrise. Our progress was slow, but it mattered not as we had three days to reach the river where the ferryman would hopefully be waiting. The added benefit was that we did not have to walk. I sat beside Trokondas who drove one of the hired wagons.

  When we arrived at the shore of Lake Mälarin, the old ferryman was already waiting, two good-sized boats grounded on the gravel.

  “I’m a man of my word, I am”, he said, and smiled a smile which said the opposite.

  “Would never dream of lettin’ you down, good sirs.” He pointed to three men sitting next to a fire on the gra
vel close to the tree-line. “Me three boys know of boats, they will help unload the wagons. They’re fine boys, you know.”

  The men waved, all displaying the distinctive look that criminals share the world over.

  Despite their unsavoury appearance, the men efficiently assisted to unload the wagons and expertly loaded the boats, giving credence to the oldster’s claims.

  There was still at least an hour of daylight left and the owners of the rented wagons decided to rather use the remainder of the day to travel back to Uppsala. No doubt they did not relish spending a night anywhere close to the ferryman and his family.

  Trokondas and I were left in the company of the oldster and his three fine boys.

  “We will make our own fire and eat our own food”, Trokondas growled and pointed to a spot next to where our few sheep were tethered underneath a large pine. The tree bordered the right side of the track, which meandered into the trees.

  “Go collect firewood boy”, he said loudly. He accompanied me to the edge of the trees and added in a whisper: “Creep up as close as you can and bring me their words. Make sure that you are not noticed.”

  I made my way on the right-hand side of the path within the shelter of the trees. As soon as I passed a bend in the road, which obscured the view of any who would glance down the track, I crossed to the woods on the other side of the road. From there I briskly walked back into the woods bordering the path. When I was fifty paces from my quarry, I came to a halt behind the trunk of an enormous alder. I breathed deeply to calm my nerves and peered around the edge of the tree. The ferrymen were all staring into the fire, engaged in conversation. I went down onto all fours and slowly crawled from one large tree to the next. Eventually I lay down behind a bramble bush, less than fifteen paces from where the men sat.

  To my frustration, I was unable to hear their words. The wind had picked up and small waves lapped against the sides of the two boats, causing their hulls to scrape along the gravel, masking the voices of the men who were conversing in hushed tones.