Odin's Game

by Tim Hodkinson

  The vǫlva’s upper lip curled once more at the sight of the amulet. It was the outline of a fish made by the intersection of two overlapping semicircles of silver. The workmanship was impressive.

  ‘I knew it,’ Heid said as she released the amulet and sat back down. ‘You worship the Christ God. I am a child of Odin. Why do you come to me?’

  Unn shook her head. ‘It’s not for me that I ask,’ she said. ‘You’re right. Where I grew up we followed the Lord, Jesus Christ. But we were taught to respect the powers of wise women and seers. When you were telling fortunes earlier—’

  ‘Why do you seek to hide where you’re from?’ The witch cut her off. Her eyelids had narrowed to rheumy pink slits. ‘I know you aren’t from here. I know you are neither of our folk nor our faith. What accent is that? Iriskr?’

  ‘Never you mind what it is,’ Unn said, casting a hurried glance around the room. ‘Where I came from is none of your concern.’

  The witch gave a little chuckle.

  ‘How do you know these things?’ Unn hissed in a course whisper.

  A scowl creased Heid’s brow in irritation at what she clearly saw as a stupid question.

  ‘I’m a witch, remember?’ she said. Then she gazed at her with a vicious intensity. A sly smile crept across her lips. ‘I know many things. Not just from the spirits. I travel around. I stay here and there. I listen and I hear. Often I hear things I’m not supposed to. I am a spæ-wife who spies into the future but there are those who pay me well for what I spy on today. Perhaps I have news you may be interested in?’

  ‘What interest could I have in the idle gossip of my neighbours?’ Unn said. ‘Perhaps Hrafnkel Hallfredrsson’s prize horse has died? Or maybe Bjarni Njalsson’s goat has wandered onto Gretir Gunlaugsson’s summer pasture?’

  Heid grunted. ‘Perhaps you would not be so sarcastic if I told you I met a merchant from the Orkney islands in a farm to the south four nights ago.’

  Unn did not reply. Her jaw dropped open slightly. The witch smiled. ‘Ah! I thought that might interest you,’ Heid said. ‘We were both lodging with Thorkill at Mostar. Thorkill was talking about the amazing Unn Kjartinsdottir, the still beautiful Irish woman who runs her own farm with just the help of her son. The merchant was very interested in that news. Very interested indeed. He asked a lot of questions. When did you come here? Were you of our faith? Things like that. He said the Jarl of Orkney would be very interested to hear about all this.’

  Unn frowned. She looked down at the embers. Her breathing became heavier and she switched her gaze from the fire to the shadows that hid the roof rafters above. She bit her bottom lip. Her shoulders sagged and for a moment she looked crushed.

  ‘I wish I could say I thank you for this news,’ Unn said. Tears sparkled in her eyes. She shot another nervous glance around the room.

  ‘I knew that would interest you,’ a smile of satisfied triumph spread across Heid’s face. ‘This son of yours—’

  Unn’s demeanour changed in an instant. ‘What about Einar?’ her teeth flashed white in the firelight.

  The old woman chuckled quietly to herself. Irritation crossed Unn's face.

  ‘A fine boy,’ Heid said. ‘Strong and tall. Quite the poet too. The skald looked jealous when your lad sang the drápa of Hrolf Kraki.’

  Despite her trepidation in the uncanny presence of the witch, Unn felt a swell of pride as she recalled how earlier in the evening Einar had held the whole gathering spellbound while he chanted the poem. Snorri Thorketelsson, the professional bard Unn had paid to entertain the feasters, had indeed seemed more than a little put out. Her satisfaction was a little clouded by the amount of ale Einar drank afterwards but there was no doubt that her son had a special gift for the art of poetry.

  ‘I notice he did not come to me to hear his fortune,’ Heid continued. ‘Perhaps he’s a good mother’s boy and did not want to be seen by you having his fortune told by a witch?’

  Unn grunted. ‘If only that were so. He drank too much. He’s snoring in his bed. But that is why I am here now. Not for me. For my son. I want you to tell me Einar’s fortune.’

  The witch raised an eyebrow. ‘You are sure? Sometimes those who learn about the future regret it.’

  Unn bit her lip and nodded.

  Heid sighed. ‘Very well.’

  She lifted the wooden bowl and drained the last dregs of her potion before setting it down once more and lifting her purse. It was soft and silky, made from the black and white pelt of a cat. The witch closed her eyes. Her lips began moving as she muttered incantations. Then she tipped the purse, spilling out a jumble of little bones onto the floor before her, each one carved with a different rune. Unn could not help noticing that the bones were small enough to be from the fingers of a child.

  The witch opened her eyes and gazed down at the rune-carved bones, noting each one in turn. For a long while she said nothing. A hush as deep and silent as the grave settled on the longhouse. The only sound was the buffeting of the wind outside.

  Then Heid closed her eyes and sat back. She began to chant.

  ‘Ice and fire clash. The sea rages but twelve come forth, from the home of the Gods. They sail south; led by lightning, the Whale Road becomes a battlefield. Fields unsowed, bare ripened grain. Baldr and Hoth will dwell in Hropt's Valour Hall. Then Hönir will win the prophetic wand, and the sons of the brothers of Tveggi abide in Vindheim’

  Unn frowned. What nonsense was this?

  ‘A bloody axe waves,’ the witch continued. ‘Woe to the Irish. Woe to the Norse. Skulls are cleaved.’

  Unn’s eyes widened. She sat forward.

  ‘Warriors walk across the sky. A ship as fast as Skíðblaðnir crosses the northern sea,’ the witch continued. ‘There is blood on the ice. Einar must leave Iceland. He must seek the truth about his father. It is his fate. I see him in a forest. He runs with a company of wolves. Einar is not an only child. Urth, Verthandi and Skuld watch. Laws they make. Laws are broken. Life is allotted to the sons of men. Their fates are set. Men inside a burning house. Jarls and kings play a game of war in the Irish sea. Odin laughs. The son fights with the father. One kills the other.’

  This time Unn took a sharp intake of breath.

  Heid blinked. She looked at Unn as if surprised to see her. Bewilderment crept across her face. She raised a hand to touch her own cheek.

  ‘What… what was I saying?’ The witch looked at the fire, her eyes once more becoming glazed and unfocused.

  ‘You were talking about Einar,’ Unn said. ‘What does it all mean? You talked of the Skull Cleaver. Einar must leave? A son fights with his father?’

  ‘Did I…?’ Heid shook her head. All of a sudden she looked like the decrepit old crone she was.

  Unn frowned. Had the old woman indeed been taken by a devil? Had it been the spirit that was speaking through her lips and now it had departed, leaving her confused as to what had been going on? Or was this some sort of ruse?

  ‘Go!’ the witch cried. ‘I am too tired for this. I will speak no more.’

  Unn stared at Heid for a long moment as she realised any further discussion was useless. The old woman looked utterly shattered. She was not pretending.

  She stood up, smoothing down the front of her dress and taking a deep breath as she tried to collect herself.

  ‘It‘s late,’ Unn said. ‘Time we all got to bed.’

  She was sure, however, that there would be no sleep for her that night.

  Three

  Einar Unnsson opened one eye. Confusion blurred his head. Moments before he had been sound asleep, his oblivious mind drowned, sunk deep in the comforting warmth of a sea of ale. Now he was awake.

  ‘Get up you lazy hound!’ his mother’s voice seemed uncomfortably loud. She was standing above him and the dull ache in his thigh told him she had woken him with a kick. The cold caress of the air told him she had pulled away his fur bedclothes as well. She must really want him to get up.

  ‘We’ve got to get going,’ Unn s
aid.

  Einar groaned at the pain that stabbed behind his eyes.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Unn demanded.

  Einar pressed his fingers to his temples. ‘The elves must have shot me in the night. The pain in my head is terrible.’

  His mother gave a loud tut and shook her head. ‘Elves! When I was a girl back home they used to say it was the fairies who shot invisible arrows that gave people sudden pains. Here it’s the elves. It’s funny how these creatures seem to aim their bows most at those who’ve had a skinful of ale the night before.’

  Einar sighed and rose to a sitting position. ‘What do you mean about going, Mother?’ he said. ‘Where?’

  She was already bustling away from his bedside and heading off down the longhouse.

  ‘Snorri the bard is leaving,’ Unn said over her shoulder as she went. ‘You should say goodbye to him before he goes.’

  Einar flopped back into the old wool that lined his bed and heaved a heavy sigh. There was nothing else for it. He would have to get up. She would come back soon to make sure he was up.

  The door of the longhouse was open and daylight streamed in. It was still early though. Around the edges of the longhouse the guests still snored away, which was unsurprising given the feasting of the night before. Hilda, his mother’s thrall woman, was hunched over the hearth, trying to revive the fire. Apart from that no one else was up.

  The thought of speaking to Snorri Thorketelsson did not fill Einar with delight. The poet was temperamental at the best of times and since the feast last night he had been in a strange mood. It was easy to get on the wrong side of Snorri and Einar suspected that without knowing it he had managed to do just that.

  Einar dragged himself out of the comforting warmth of his bed and struggled into his breeches. Gasping at just how hungover he felt, he stumbled out the door into the fresh air outside. The light that fell on him from the grey morning sky was weak and cold, but even so he winced, screwing his eyes shut against what seemed to him like a blinding glare. After a moment he cautiously opened them again, this time shielding his brow with a cupped hand.

  Snorri the skald stood a little way off, fully dressed for travel and packing his horse. The animal cropped at the short, rough grass as Snorri strapped his harp, wrapped in its protective leather bag, behind the saddle. When Einar emerged, the poet looked round but did not speak. Einar was sure Snorri had made a face before turning back to tightening the straps that held his harp.

  ‘You’re up early,’ Einar commented as he staggered over to the rough cut stone water trough. The skald did not reply. Einar took a couple of deep breaths through his nose, trying to dispel the ale fumes in his head. He pushed his fingers through the thin film of ice on the surface of the black water, took one more sharp breath then plunged his head into the freezing liquid.

  With a gasp Einar wrenched his head back out of the water, sending drops cascading everywhere as his soaking hair whipped through the air. For a few moments he stood, blinking water from his eyes, then a frown crept across his brow.

  ‘I thought that might help my head,’ Einar said. ‘But it’s no use. I must have drunk enough to sink a longship last night.’

  Snorri still did not respond. Einar was starting to feel irked at him. The older man was being just plain rude. He walked over to the poet and laid a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘What’s wrong with you, Snorri? You’ve barely said a word since you sang at the feast last night.’ He said. ‘Now you’re up at the crack of dawn, sneaking off while everyone’s still in bed?’

  Snorri shrugged and looked up at the gorse-covered hillside opposite the farmstead. ‘I have things to do. There are many rich men who want to hear my songs.’

  Einar grunted. ‘That’s not it. But I see you are in one of your moods. I won’t get the real reason from you. When shall I have my next lesson? Maybe by then you will be in better sorts.’

  ‘There won’t be a next lesson,’ Snorri said. ‘There won’t be any more lessons.’

  Einar’s mouth dropped open. He did not know what to say.

  At that moment his mother joined them. She looked up at Einar noting his soaking hair and glistening face.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘You’ve washed that Devil’s Blood off you.’

  Snorri finally smiled. ‘I’ll never understand you, Unn,’ he said, a fond smile on his face. ‘You worship the Christ God yet you bring your son up in our faith.’

  Unn shot a sharp glance in the poet’s direction as if he had just said the most stupid thing she had ever heard.

  ‘His father was a pagan like all you people. The boy has to fit in,’ Unn said. ‘I don’t want him standing out. Those who walk alone walk the hardest path.’

  ‘And now, Snorri,’ Einar said. ‘you know about as much about my father as I do.’

  His mother tutted and folded her arms. Einar sighed. As usual, when the topic of his father came up – or anything indeed about his mother’s earlier life – she shut up tighter than a scallop shell.

  ‘All we know is that he went and died,’ Einar said, his voice edged with a touch of bitterness. ‘Leaving my mother, a poor widow, with just me to look after her.’

  ‘I’ve heard it said in other farms, Unn, that the chieftain, Goði Hrapp, is interested in easing your loneliness.’ Snorri said to Unn. ‘He’s recently widowed himself and speaks very highly of you.’

  Unn tutted. ‘He’s just interested in my land and filling the empty space in his bed. This farm is my son’s inheritance. I won’t hand it over to an old goat whose wife is barely cold in her grave.’

  Snorri shrugged. ‘He’s a rich man. He could make you very comfortable. But then I suppose you never married anyone else these last eighteen winters.’

  Unn’s arms remained folded. ‘I was married once. It was enough.’

  ‘Snorri here was just telling me that you’re going to be saving yourself some money,’ Einar changed the subject, knowing from experience that to pursue the topic of his father was pointless. ‘You won’t be paying him to teach me singing any more.’

  Unn scowled and turned to the poet. ‘What’s this? You want more money I suppose?’

  Snorri rolled his eyes then shot a reproving glance at Einar. ‘No, that’s not it,’ he sighed.

  ‘Is my son not good enough for you then?’ Unn demanded. ‘How can you say that after the way he sang last night?’

  Snorri’s face, usually ruddy from the cold wind and the amount of ale he drank, reddened further. He looked at the ground then raised his eyes, meeting Einar’s gaze for the first time.

  ‘It was listening to him last night that made me realise,’ Snorri said. ‘Einar, there is nothing more I can teach you. You’re already better than I am.’

  He turned to Unn. ‘You saw the way everyone was spellbound when he sang last night. That’s a rare gift. It goes beyond mere singing. All I can teach him now are the words to other poems, dræplingr and drápa. As far as technique goes, your son has nothing more to learn from me.’

  The skald’s voice sounded harsh and Einar realised that the moisture in the poet’s eyes was not due to the chill of the wind.

  ‘Thanks for saying that but surely this isn’t why you are in such a bad mood?’ Einar said. ‘It shows what a good job you’ve done!’

  Snorri smiled but the expression was touched with some bitterness. Einar noticed that his mentor looked not just tired but old.

  ‘Einar perhaps someday you will know how it feels to have forty winters behind you,’ the skald said. ‘And a young lad of eighteen comes along, who is already better than you are, and can only get better. And you will know that you will never be as good as him, even if you try for the rest of your days. Perhaps this will happen to you, but going by what I saw last night that young lad would have to have a very special talent indeed.’

  Einar frowned. ‘You’re talking in riddles.’

  Snorri’s smile broadened. The darkness that had been in his eyes dropped away. He clapped
Einar on the back. ‘You might sing better than me but at least you’ve a way to go yet before you’re as bright as me. I must go.’

  He swung his leg over the back of his horse.

  ‘Can I give you a last piece of advice, Einar?’ the bard said as he settled himself in the saddle.

  ‘Of course,’ Einar replied.

  ‘Odin has given you a rare gift,’ Snorri said. He shot a glance at Unn before continuing. ‘Iceland is a small place. There’s a big world out there filled with people all longing to hear stories sung by a good skald. Don’t waste your talent sitting around the farm singing to the cows and the cowherds when kings and jarls will pay in gold for the same tales.’

  ‘I’d rather make new tales than tell those of others,’ Einar said.

  ‘Good luck,’ Snorri said as he nodded to both of them, then kicked his heels and the horse trotted off down the path that led away from Unn’s farmstead.

  Unn and Einar watched him go, then Unn turned to her son.

  ‘Well at least that will save me some silver,’ she said. ‘Now get your best shirt on. We’re going to see the Goði.’

  Einar scowled. ‘Hrapp? What do we need to see that old goat about?’

  ‘Just get dressed,’ Unn said. ‘Something has happened. We will need his help.’

  Four

  Einar and his mother trotted their ponies along the little dirt path that led through the dale towards the chieftain’s house. The journey had taken them half the morning and had done nothing to help Einar’s hangover.

  ‘I thought you didn’t like Hrapp,’ Einar grumbled.

  ‘You don’t need to like your Goði to ask for his help,’ Unn said.

  ‘What about when he sent that slave with those salted puffins a couple of weeks ago?’ Einar said. ‘He’s acting like he’s a lovesick lad trying to woo his first wife, but he’s a decrepit old man whose last wife is barely cold in her grave. Surely you can see through that? You said yourself he’s just after our farm.’

  Unn looked askance at her son. ‘Hrapp is the same age as me,’ she said. ‘And you had no problem eating those puffins.’