CHAPTER 6
Almost four months had passed since the ebony-haired stranger had been brought to the village. They named her Næmr which meant ‘one who learned well’ and gave her to Yalda, a free women of the village, to look after. Thralldom was the normal situation of any captive who had been brought back to the village but this dark-skinned young woman, with hair as black as the shining feathers of a raven night and with brown eyes like the rocks on mighty Jotenfjell, was like no other to have been captured. The tall man had expected the dark-haired woman to be his, for it was normal for the captor to reap the benefit of his hunt. He scowled and pouted with indignation as the chief gave away his prize to be in the care of a woman, especially a woman who had no a man to rule over them. The tall man felt that such a woman who had arrived without a name, should be a slave and, as such, should have been given to him. She had no warrior husband to give her any standing within the community and without such protection, she should be treated as a thrall. By rights, the dark stranger should have been his but against the decision of the chief and council, the tall man could do nothing, as yet.
Yalda was a quiet, practical woman, who had lost her husband and son three years ago on one of the raids led by the tall man. This strange woman from beyond the ice world of Jotenfjell would go some way to compensate her for her loss. Yalda had knowledge of all the local herbs and their healing powers and for that reason was held in high esteem by the leaders of the village. In the meantime and until the stranger’s identity was established, Yalda, known to the villagers as ‘the Healer’, would be the most likely member of the village to restore the stranger’s health of mind and find answers to the many questions as yet unanswered.
Næmr had noticed that most of the adults in the village were young, most being about the same age as herself. She guessed Yalda was probably somewhere in her mid-thirties, but to the people of the village, exact age was of little consequence. One was either young or old. Yalda was more mature than most, and even though she had not seen many years past her prime, the years of working and living in this harsh environment had made her old. Her flaxen hair had not even started to turn to grey. She noticed that Yalda’s hair was pulled back into a long single plait that was so long that she was able to wind it around her waist like a belt. Four metal keys inside her pouch, which signified her position as a free woman, jingled and jangled whenever she moved. Næmr came to recognise their sound and immediately knew every time Yalda was around.
She had a patience with the strange, young woman that was not to be found in the majority of the village inhabitants. Most appeared suspicious of any stranger who came into their midst. This stranger they found most strange, for not only did she speak using words that were unfamiliar to their ears but she was neither fair nor light-skinned like all those who had been brought into the village before. It was obvious she did not come from the southern forested lands from where most of the slaves were taken and neither did she belong to any of the northern tribes who followed the wandering herds of reindeer.
It was strange that Næmr had no knowledge of even the most basic of tasks. Yalda said that her young stranger was intelligent and seemed to possess an understanding of things far beyond their world, yet basic, simple things such as crushing grains or leavening bread were not within her knowledge. Where had this dark-eyed girl come from? She had appeared to Bodvarr the Bellower from a place far away, known only to the mists. Did she come from the gods beyond the highest of the mountains in one of the nine worlds that lay beyond the reaches of mortal men? Or was she from some strange land that had not yet been found by the longboats that sailed far beyond the known waters of the seas? Yalda could not be sure.
Næmr quickly grew stronger and recovered from her terrible ordeal on the slopes of Jotenfjell. Yalda made sure she was kept busy by helping Heggar, a young thrall girl between twelve and fourteen. The girl had been brought to the village several years previously after a particularly successful raid. She was a sturdy girl with lively blue-green eyes, not tall though, even for a thrall child. Yalda had been attracted by her innocence and inquisitiveness that had shown her that this slave girl had a quick, capable mind. The free woman had been prepared to give up a large portion of her herbal medicines that year to get the girl for herself. And Yalda’s belief in the girl was proving to be correct for Heggar was proving that she was quick to learn and happy to please. Since Heggar had arrived, Yalda had someone who could help her in the house and provide her with entertainment during the long solitary winter nights. And now, there was Næmr too for everyone in the village had their part to play.
During the remainder of the cold winter days when the weak northern sun barely managed to creep above the horizon, the occupants of the Yalda household huddled around what little warmth they could find from the fire which continuously burned within a circle of hearth stones in the centre of Yalda’s small house. Silent shadows flitted like moths upon the walls and wood smoke spread a haze across the ceiling, hiding the wooden trusses from those who lived below. There was carding and the preparation of woollen fibre to spin. The two girls took those jobs in turn, sitting alone in a darkened corner with bulging bags of wool, sorting and combing the fibre in preparation for making the yarn. In the rear of the house was an upright loom. Yalda worked there, weaving throughout the daylight hours, creating cloths she would be able to sell as soon as the last of the winter snows had gone. Each day the cloth grew a little more in length and each day the pile of uncarded wool grew less.
The interior of the daub and timber building was dank, sombre and smoky. The only openings were at the door facing the rising sun and the small hole above where the smoke made a spiralling vortex when it found its way outside. The fire not only provided heat to warm their bodies but also provided energy to cook their food. Several times a day, either Heggar or Næmr would be forced to make the trip to the village outskirts to collect handfuls of fresh, clean snow which was then melted in one of the large copper pots that always hung from the roof beam over the fire. And whenever the fire began to subside, one of the other thralls would leave the inner warmth and go out into the freezing air, returning with as much firewood as could possibly be carried. The wood collection was frequent. It was difficult heavy work but if they were to survive, someone had to keep making those trips.
One early morning, Næmr offered to help. She had gathered so much wood that it was impossible to see forward and she had to tilt her head to one side to see round the pile. She managed to prize open the door with her toe and use her shoulder to pushed aside the hanging skins which helped seal the door from the cold outside. She stepped across the doorway slab and paused to look back and upwards towards the mountains that surrounded the small valley and its village. It was one of the clearest days she had seen since arriving and, for once, the grey-black clouds had been pulled aside enough to get a glimpse of the highest frozen peak. It made her shudder.
Would it reveal how she ended up on the mountain’s side? But the silent mountain hung onto its secret and refused to answer. Its was a world normally hidden behind dark menacing clouds, a world that the gods concealed from the people in the valley below.
Finally, the icy snows began to thaw. Small streams appeared once more as melting ice cliffs released their waters that for many months had been locked up in a frozen time. Banks burst as excited waters gushed down the hills to spill with effervescent turbulence into the fjord far below. The village was coming back to life again. Echoes of laughter rented the air and children’s voices filled the valley as winter’s cloak slid away. All around, forests chatted and chirped with a thousand wild calls and the valley exploded with the music of rushing water. Nature was shedding the silence of winter and heralding the expectations of spring.
“I’ve got just the job for you two. Come on!”
Yalda began to roll up the bedding and gather together her things she had used during the winter time. She laid them in the top of her large wooden chest.
Heggar pulled a face. B
ut not where Yalda would see. She knew what Yalda had in mind. That awful job that turned up twice a year.
“You pair can start at the far end of the room. Heggar, show Næmr how to roll up that old straw. Then you can take that broom over there and sweep. Don’t stir up the dust . . . I don’t want it anywhere but on the floor where it belongs.”
The two girls got down on their knees and began to roll up the straw, together with any old bones and bits had been inadvertently been dropped onto the ground sometime during the winter. Several frightened mice scuttled away in fear as their warm winter nesting places were uprooted and so harshly destroyed.
They zigzagged in fleeing disarray, leaping and jumping away in their haste to escape. Næmr flinched as one of the little grey bodies dashed only a short distance from her feet. She noticed that Heggar paid no attention and remained quite calm.
“Heggar,” queried Næmr as the roll grew so large they had to get up from their knees to roll it. “How long’s this been on the floor?”
“Since Autumn,” Heggar answered in a matter-of-fact manner. “Mistress and I laid it at the end of Autumn. She always likes to change it at least once a year. She’s very house proud, you know.” Heggar leaned closer to Næmr and spoke in a hushed voice as though she were about to share in some great secret. “Do you know there are some who don’t change their straw at all! Just add more on top. Mistress doesn’t do that. Says a good clean out hurt no one, not even the mice. They soon come back.”
Næmr shuddered. She did not like mice at the best of times. Whenever she woke up in the middle of the night she could hear them scratching and rustling around in the straw or over the furniture. As yet none of the mice had crawled across her blankets. The thing she hated most were the crawling lice and biting fleas that took up residence in everything that was warm and soft. From the time she had arrived her body had provided them with new blood and she was red and itchy all over. At least this Spring cleaning should lower their numbers.
The girls gathered up the rolls of dirty straw and carried them outside into the insipid, lukewarm sunshine. It would be used as bedding for Yalda’s animals that had spent the winter months in the lean-to shed on the side of the house.
The girls dragged in piles of clean straw that had been stored just for this purpose. They spread it over the dirt floor, layer upon layer until Yalda was satisfied that enough had been strewn around. It would not be changed again until the Autumn harvests provided them with fresh supplies. The two girls worked hard and long until the setting sun announced that it was time to retire for the night. First, to eat; then, to sleep.
One day, as Heggar and Næmr crushed the barley grain that had been stored from the last harvest, Heggar plucked up the courage to ask Næmr about her past life.
“My Lady?”
Heggar scooped up a pile of rye and began sorting out the good grain and dropping it into the keg, she paused. “I’ve often wondered -”
“What?”
“Did you really come from mists?”
“That’s where I was found. Yes, I guess I did.”
“What’s it like high up on the mountains? Have you been to the worlds above the clouds that I see in the sky? Are those worlds different from here?”
So many questions. Næmr did not know how to answer the girl. She had no knowledge of such mysterious lands. In fact, she had no real knowledge of anything before her terrifying ordeal upon the mountain side with the tall man who had brought her in to the village.
“I - I don’ know, Heggar,” she replied. She hesitated and stood looking into the distance, hoping to remember beyond the past events. “One day, one day I will remember!”
“But not now?”
“All I have are strange dreams, fragments of things I cannot explain. Pictures in my mind. Everything’s so disconnected and nothing makes sense.” She dropped her load of rye grain into the keg. “I’m sorry, Heggar. I can’t seem to remember.”
“What, nothing?”
Næmr broke away from the thoughts that brought so much anguish, fragments of feelings within her for which she did not have words to describe.
“Faces. Only faces in my dreams, nothing else.”
“I have dreams, too. I dream of my mother and when I was a child.”
“You still are very young, Heggar. And, Yalda is she not like a mother to you?”
“Sometimes, when she’s in a good mood she’s like a mother. But she’s not my mother! She’s my mistress. My mother’s time is in the past. I only know her in my dreams but I can’t remember what she looked like. Is there anybody you know in your dreams?”
The expression on Heggar’s face indicated she wanted to know more.
“Maybe. Let me think. I’m not certain if it’s real, though.” Næmr tried desperately to focus on what little she could remember. “I think one’s an old man. He’s got grey hair. He’s kind. I think he’s trying to tell me things.”
Heggar suddenly squealed with delight. In her excitement she almost spilt the grain over the floor.
“Odin! That must be Odin! He’s old and wise. Yalda has told me about him.”
Næmr was less sure. She did not know who this Odin might be.
“I, I don’t know, Heggar. If what you say is true - ” She searched her mind for any memory of him. “No, it doesn’t feel right.”
“Mistress sometimes tells me Eir, the goddess of Healing comes to her. Why not Odin to you?”
Næmr thought about the mountain where she had been found but it was no good. She could not remember a thing. It was as if she had no past.
“I’m sure I should know the old man. Was he family? Surely, I would remember someone from my family, wouldn’t I? Don’t you remember yours, Heggar?”
“I do! I remember them,” Heggar exclaimed. “Well, some of them.”
“I’m not sure if I can remember any of mine. I guess I have family. Somewhere.”
Næmr walked across the room and emptied her full container and then rejoined Heggar on the bench. The pair began gathering up the rough husks and putting them into the buckets for the animals. Heggar continued with her own story.
“I remember when I was a little girl. My family lived in a place many, many days - no, weeks away from here. If I look at where the sun comes up, that’s the direction of my home.” Her bottom lip dropped and her face clouded over, yet she carried on. “There are things I would like not to remember. The day when the raiders came. Most of my family was slain. The raiders came up the river.”
“What river? You remember the river?”
“Yes, I remember the river. The sun was only just up. My mother and some other women were walking to fetch water. That’s when the bad ones came.”
“What did you do?”
“We all ran for our lives. I think two of my younger brothers managed to escape to the woods. I hope they did. They were fast runners and could win races all the time. But I couldn’t run fast. My sister tried to help. She grabbed my hand but we were caught and dragged by the raiders to the place where they had hidden their boats.” The young girl shuddered at the thought of the fearsome, beached longboats with their tall curved prows and the largest one with its terrifying, snarling dragon head that filled her with fear. “I remember. I remember and it is so terrible. I wish I did not remember. But I do!”
The girl buried her face in her hands and began sobbing as though all her despair would flow away with her tears.
“I’m so sorry, Heggar. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Heggar raised her face and wiped her sleeve across her wet cheeks.
“It’s all right. You didn’t know.” She swallowed her memory and forced a smile. “See, I’m better now.”
The young girl pointed in the direction towards the water’s edge where several boats lay having been hauled onto the safety of the shore. Her face clouded over and her eyes moistened with tears again but this time she did not cry.
“Every time I see the raiding boats I remembe
r.”
“How awful for you.”
“I was brought to this place in a dragon boat. I cry every time those boats set sail. Are they going away on their raids again? It makes me think of my family: my mother and father, my home. Over the sea and up a long river. Lost forever. My home. All my family. Lost. Gone forever.”
Næmr felt sorry for the girl. To have had a family and to have lost them all was anguish enough but to be haunted by such horrible memories. She realised there was nothing she could do to help console the girl. Words of sympathy would never give back the homeland Heggar yearned for. Næmr decided that, maybe, it was better that she couldn’t remember. It would make things easier for her to accept her own circumstances and encompass the customs and life-style of these people.
“Do you know what happened to your sister, Heggar? Was she brought to this village?”
Heggar handed over her bucket of husks to Næmr. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks and moisten the collar of her tunic. Unable to speak, she shook her head and her loose auburn hair waved across her face like ripened corn in the wind.
“No. She was older me – fifteen years had passed. She was grown up. Very pretty. They took her away and sold her. To a big slave market across the sea. I’ve seen others taken away, too. I was only little so they left me here and my mistress bought me to help with the duties in the house. Maybe, they didn’t think I was pretty like my sister. Am I ugly?”
“Of course not, Heggar. You’ve got beautiful thick hair and very pretty eyes. No, you’re not in the least bit ugly.”
Heggar pulled a face. She pulled the hem of her rough grey tunic away from her legs.
“This tunic’s horrible. The very pretty slave girls have nice clothes. And they are the ones who are given to the warriors when they return from their battles. I don’t know why. After that, some are taken away on the boats and we never see them again. Always in those dragon boats. I hate them!”
“That’s awful!”
Heggar dabbed her eyes dry again. She shook her golden hair so that it waved across her face.
“At least I don’t have to clean out pigs!” She made an attempt to laugh. “I don’t have to haul in great piles of wood from outside the village. Other slaves I’ve known have not lasted many winters. Those who are too weak to work are left out in the snow when food is low in the winter so, you see, I’m lucky to have found such a kind mistress as Mistress Yalda.”
Næmr looked into the young freckled face of the thrall girl and wondered whether such a life would ultimately be her fate, as well. She was just going to ask Heggar something else when Yalda returned from the village. She had been into the village to administer some of her herbal medicines to a sick child, and had decided to check up on the grain the two girls had been sorting.
“Heggar!” Yalda always spoke to her slave girl first whenever there was a scolding due. “What have you been doing all this time and why haven’t those buckets been taken out already?”
“I was just going to . . . ”
“Have you been wasting time chatting again, Heggar? Don’t you ever know when to stop? I don’t know how you’d manage with someone else as your mistress. Probably given a good whipping, I dare say!”
As the fault was not of Heggar’s making this time and Næmr decided she must take some of the blame. After all, she did encourage the girl to stop her chores and talk but this time Yalda was not interested in Heggar’s past memories and gave the girl a swift slap around her face. Heggar burst into tears and dropped down at the hem of Yalda’s dress.
“Sorry, Mistress! I’m sorry!”
Heggar’s bottom lip dropped and it looked as if the girl would burst into tears.
“Don’t you start snivelling, girl. And get those buckets out of my sight. Now!”
As for Næmr, well, Yalda had been instructed by the council to find out what she could about the sun-tanned stranger. She had already discovered that the stranger in her household did have some knowledge about some of the curative properties of her secret potions. Yet, Yalda found it strange that when she accompanied the young woman into the fields, Næmr did not seem to recognise the plants at all.
Heggar returned. Her mistress was still angry with the girl.
“Heggar, don’t stand there gaping, girl! Did you take the buckets out?”
“Yes, mistress.”
“Time’s not for wasting on daydreams! There’s much to do before the sun’s high in the sky. Go and fetch the milk from the goats. They should have been milked by now. Here, take this.” Yalda threw one of the wooden milking pails to Heggar who missed the catch and watched, even more distressed, as it thudded into the straw.
“Sorry.”
“Pick it up, Heggar and go! Out of my sight before I get really cross with you!”
Heggar ran out of the house, the wooden pail banging at her hip in time to her strides. As soon as she had left, Yalda turned her attention to Næmr.
“Oh dear, sometimes I almost despair of that girl. Always daydreaming. Head in the clouds and always all the questions. Questions! Questions!”
“She’s just curious. Wants to know about her world.”
“Maybe. There’s a time for everything. Now, Næmr, you can help me hang up these fish. They were caught early this morning and will provide well for us over the next few days. After, I’ll show you how I want the grain crushed. When Heggar returns you can help her prepare our bread.” She picked up a knife and pointed the blade towards a wicker basket that she had put down by the doorway as she came in. “Now, those fish. They’re in that basket.”
Næmr nodded and obeyed. She began hanging the shining slender fish from the rafters, threading the thin string through their gaping gills just as Yalda had showed her. Later, they would be cooked in the smoky heat over the fire. As they dangled, reflecting the glow of the fire from their shimmering scales, they reminded Næmr of the rainbows she had seen in puddles after a shower. Puddles that reflected green trees that were always green and always dripped silver droplets whenever it rained. Like rainbows, those images dissolved. A strong smell of fish permeated the house’s interior.
“I’ve done that.”
Næmr rinsed her fishy-smelling hands in a small bowl.
“Tomorrow, Næmr, the Council wish to speak to you again.”
“So soon?”
Yalda nodded. She began tipping some of the rye grain into a small round dish beginning the laborious job of turning the grain into flour with one of the smooth stone pestles she kept for such jobs. After a short time, she handed the things to Næmr.
“When Heggar returns she can help. Næmr, pay attention. No! That’s not right!”
She scolded the young woman for her lack of attention and demonstrated the correct way once more. This time Næmr grasped it. Yalda left her alone to do the job and walked to the far end of the house to sit at her loom. Without a husband to provide and protect her, Yalda had to trade her loom-made items and healing herbs for the extra food they needed to survive. It would take Næmr and Heggar most of the day to prepare and bake the bread but once done, there would be time to relax a little before the preparation of their evening meal. If only she could afford more thralls to do the heavier jobs, jobs that her husband and son used to do when they were alive. Another man of her own would be better, still. But a woman of her age and standing, what hope did she have?
As another fine Spring day began to warm the cool morning air, Yalda accompanied Næmr over to the Great Hall where the most important of jarls and his family and large number of thralls lived. It was a rich building, its hull-shaped roof grey tiled and neat, unlike the small village houses with their thatch. Decorations of deer antlers and skulls hung high on its outer walls and carved motifs adorned the timbers. Today, the High Council, comprised of the jarl together with four of the most wealthy landowners, had decided to hold a hearing and make a decision what to do with the slim dark-haired stranger who had been found on their sacred mountain. Yalda gui
ded the young woman towards the huge table that had been set up two-thirds of the way down the room just in front of the ruling jarl’s seat and then retired to the bench on the side wall.
The jarl presided. His seat was higher than the rest and his fur trim was grander than any other’s. It was obvious that he was the senior one, the man in charge of the proceedings. The council of four sat on the bench in front, centred, behind the table as they had done so when she was first brought to the village. All eyes were fixed upon the lone female figure standing in solitude before them.
The jarl on the high seat leaned forward. The glow from the lamps overhead made strange patterns on his face as he moved to stand. Næmr could see the flicker of the hearth flames out the corner of her eye and she was made aware of the dim shapes of those who sat, listening, observing, on the long bench seats that ran the length of both walls. Like the men at the table, the jarl’s beard was short and neatly trimmed. His brown-red tunic was edged with fur and a dark, black-brown animal hide hung loosely from his shoulder. When he finally spoke, his voice was booming and powerful, giving him the authoritative presence of one who is still very much a leader of men.
“Næmr, Daughter of Mists, for that is what I am told you are now so named, you have been brought here to answer the questions that we will put before you. We must have knowledge of how things will go for us after our fields have been sown. Our young men are thirsting for battle and adventure. The Council will ask you to foretell our fortunes concerning that. But, first, we need some answers from you. There are things we need to know. ”
The others nodded and grunted in agreement. The first of the Elders on her left spoke first.
“Bodvarr the Bellower tells us that you appeared out of the mists . . . that you had womanly form and that you appeared high up on the sacred peak of Jotenfjell where no human survives for long. He tells us you bewitched him with a strange tongue and then you begged him to bring you here, here into our valley and in to the safety of our village. Is this not so?”
The strange woman with the dark hair shook her head and almost immediately another Elder began to speak.
“If this were not so, then you must be of human flesh, Bodvarr claims you for himself. He claims you as his rightful thrall and if we grant him this, he will have rights to do with you as his wish so desires.”
Næmr flinched when she heard those words of doom, for she had no desire to become a slave to such an evil man. Then, the third Elder broke in. He was the elder of the four.
“We must know from you.” He hesitated for a while. “If it is true and that you are from the godly worlds of Asgard or Vanaheim, beyond the rainbow of Bilfrost and if you have come to us in disguise as the gods are sometimes known to do, then you will so be honoured and free to choose any one of the finest warriors that this village can supply.” The voice stopped and silence held its breath. “But first, we must be sure. We must know the truth. We wait for you to answer.”
Næmr looked in Yalda’s direction. Yalda stood and came over to her side.
“Go on, Næmr. Tell them what you know.”
Næmr noticed Bodvarr the Bellower standing in the half-light, a cruel, cold interest reflecting from his face.
“I . . . I.”
Her voice faltered as the words refused to come. She could not tell the Council what Bodvarr had done to her, that he had made her feel dirty and worthless, and that rather than have anymore to do with the rogue, she would rather kill herself.
“The woman’s mine!” growled Bodvarr raising his large hand in a defiant fist. “Look how she hesitates! None from Asgard or Vanaheim would act like this. She belongs to me!” The deep voice of Bodvarr bellowed around the walls of the hall like a roaring bull. His wild eyes flickered with anger. “She has been given to me by the gods. No goddess has black hair nor such sun-darkened skin. She was born of the mists on Jotenfell and offered to me as any would offer a slave.”
The Council was not pleased with such a violent interruption. They had not asked Bodvarr to speak.
“Silence!”
The jarl rose out of his high seat and held up his hand towards Bodvarr. Bodvarr scowled. He withdrew into the shadows like the moon behind a dark cloud.
The second Elder spoke next. It was important to be sure, for if their decision was wrong, the gods may send bolts of lightening to destroy them. The elder leaned across the table so that his chest almost touched the timber. He addressed only the young woman. His voice was kind and soft. It made her feel more at ease.
“Come, try to remember. Tell us what you can.”
Næmr tried hard to remember. The time upon the mountain. That interminable duration with Bodvarr in the stone hut. And before? What did she know of before?
She began. Softly, very softly. And slowly, very slowly.
“I . . . was . . . on . . . the mountain.”
“Yes? Yes? Go on. Speak up, Næmr so all can hear.”
“There was a storm.” She could remember that for she could hear the wild, raging winds still in her mind. “It was a violent storm. It must have been because it threw me into the snow as if I was nothing but a fallen leaf. Then, I there was the mist. I couldn’t see. I could hardly breathe. It was so cold, so very cold.”
“And?”
The Council was eager to know.
“I don’t remember much more than that. It was then that he found me.”
She pointed out Bodvarr who was standing away from the other men who were sitting on benches on the long side of the hall.
The third Elder straightened his back and slapped an open hand on the table.
“We know that much already We need to know about your past, your life before. We need to know from whence you came.”
Næmr shook her head. She wished she could remember but it seemed as though the storm had obliterated all traces of a previous memory. The younger fourth Elder picked up a small object from the table’s surface and pushed it across to the outer edge, closer towards her.
“This was on you when you were brought here.” He beckoned her forward. “Maybe, this will help you remember.”
She moved closer to the table and stood looking at the pearly white ornament that now lay on the table in front of her. Nervously, she reached across the space before her and touched the smooth curved pendant with her shaking fingers. She picked it up and wrapped her hand lovingly around the small lizard shaped carving. Immediately, the face of an elderly gentle man formed in her mind.
“K . . . k,” she stammered but the name would not come. “He made it.” The words came slowly and painfully. “Made it . . . so I’d be safe.”
Tears welled up in her eyes and the pendant became opaque.
“Who? Who is he that you speak of?” asked the soft spoken Elder again.
When she answered, her voice was barely above a whisper.
“I don’t know. An old man. He knows - knows everything. He carved it for me. For my protection. He hung it around my neck before I left, before I left -. ”
“Left from where?”
“Where is this old man?”
“What does he look like?”
“What can you tell us?”
The questions seemed to be showering upon her, falling tears of memories that would not come. So far away, so far away. Hidden in the mists, the eternal mists that clung to the mountain tops and would not reveal a thing.
“I don’t know! I . . . I can’t remember!”
The fourth Elder could not contain his frustration any longer. He clenched his fist and banged it down heavily on the wooden surface.
“Try! You must remember!”
Næmr closed both eyes and squeezed hard as she tried desperately to concentrate and create images somewhere deep in her mind.
“A place . . . far away . . . far in distance . . . and time. I know no more!”
“Can our longboats reach that place of yours?” asked the first Elder.
“I don’t know. I only know of the mountain. I
do not know what is beyond.”
The questions continued to flow like the mountain streams with their melting snow churning and raging in the steep, narrow gorges until they thrashed into the deep, calm waters of the fjord far below. Næmr looked at the floor and shook her head.
“No!” She exclaimed but then quickly corrected herself. “I don’t think they can but I do know of such boats, long and narrow like those that sit here at the water’s edge. Boats with carvings. Yes, carvings.”
“And sails?”
“No sails. Just long boats with paddles.”
“Tell us about the land, this land of yours.”
She opened her fingers and let the carved object lay in her palm. She looked at it and colours came into her mind. It was as if she were looking down from above.
“I see land. White sands and green hills - sea deep blue and sky . . .” She looked up into a vast blue dome within her mind. “blue but a sky that reaches so high, far higher than any sky I see here. Yes, mountains where trees grow to the very top.”
“Snow? What of snow and ice?”
“Never snow. I do not see snow.”
“How can that be?” asked the second Elder. “Mountains that are not covered by snow?”
“That proves it!” The fourth Elder banged the table again. He spoke to the people in the hall. “This young woman we call Næmr has been sent to us from above. She must have come to Midgard from the realm of the gods.”
“Yes, but all the same,” cautioned the Elder who had spoken to her first. “She should be taken to Yggdrasil. Only Yggdrasil can really confirm the truth. Only by the Trial of Yggdrasil will we really be certain.”
Everyone in the great hall nodded and called out in agreement. The jarl stood and gathered his elegant cloak around his body. He spoke to one in the hall and addressed only her.
“Yalda the Healer, free-woman, it is for you to deliver this young woman before us to the sacred ash tree, Yggdrasil. Take her at sunrise tomorrow. We will wait for a sign from the gods.”
Bodvarr could contain himself no longer. His loud, deep voice boomed around the hall as he shook his large clenched fists in defiance. His untidy hair swung like brown seaweed around his bullish head.
“She’s mine, I say! That woman is no goddess! She had fooled you all. A dark ambatt, slave woman, that’s all she is! From the loins of an earth woman! Anyone can see that! I found her on Jotenfell frozen and almost without life. If I had not found her, she would be dead. I, alone, lay my claim to this woman!”
“Silence! Hold your tongue!” The jarl out-shouted the angry warrior. “We shall wait for Yggdrasil’s answer first, Bodvarr. If Yggdrasil says so, so be it. If she is not of the gods, then the woman is yours, to do with as you so wish!” He noted Bodvarr’s smirk. “If, however, Yggdrasil indicates to the wise women that she has, indeed come to us from above, then she will be a free woman and all your claims are forfeit. Such are our laws! Is that understood?”
The jarl glared at Bodvarr and Bodvarr dropped his eyes. He aimed his scowls at the floor and cursed under his breath so that none should hear.
As Yalda took the young woman by the arm, Bodvarr stomped over to the door. He turned sharply on his heel and spoke to those who had taken away his prize.
“I will avenge all those who have taken what should be mine.” There was deep anger and bitterness in his words. “Watch all your backs, my lords! You would do well to remember this day!”
The heavy wooden door slammed with a thud that shook the heavy timbers surrounding it.
Just as the sky was beginning to lighten and the sun’s rays crept over Jotenfjell, Yalda led Næmr to the largest of the sacred ash trees, Yggdrasil, which grew out of a large rock near to the main stream. Three of the oldest women Næmr had ever seen were already standing nearby its twisted, grey trunk.
“Yggdrasil! Yggdrasil!,” they wailed in unison, waving their hands high above their heads like swaying snakes. “Here we present a maid from the mists, delivered to us on Jotenfjell. It is for you, with the wisdom of Odin together with the prediction of the Norns, to give us a sign to say whether she is from Asgard or whether she be like any mortal, man and woman who dwell upon the lands of Midgard.”
“You must stay here, Næmr.” Yalda spoke quietly to her charge. “When the Council of Four come at the setting of the sun, then all will have been decided. Yggdrasil will indicate. Yggdrasil will overcome the evil that is gnawing at its roots and give us the signs. Stay! Do not be afraid! The seeresses will be with you. They will interpret all the signs.”
She pointed to the area under the tall tree where Næmr was to wait, its gnarled roots twisted by the frozen torture of countless years of the northern winters.
“Will you stay with me?”
“I cannot. This is something you must do yourself. Here, wrap this around yourself.” Yalda took off her thick woollen cloak and wrapped it around Næmr’s shoulders. “And now, I’ve got to go. Good luck and fare-thee-well!”
Yalda turned her back on Næmr and walked away without a backward glance. When the new day had arrived, she would know whether the young dark-haired stranger would return to her or be claimed by Bodvarr.
Næmr sat at the foot of the tree while the three women danced in the most strange way around its huge trunk. The priestesses chanted long and loud, calling to the gods to send them a sign.
They stopped every now and then to check the weeping branches and dark trunk. Nothing. They danced some more, waving their arms and stroking their long flowing hair as they called to Yggdrasil for help. They stopped and examined the ground for the slightest change. But nothing had happened.
Næmr looked up into the still bare branches of the huge grey tree. Everything looked exactly as it had done an hour ago.
Nothing changed.
She waited some more.
She watched the pale grey blanket that was being pulled back across the sky, revealing the whitewashed blue sky above. She observed the three wise women bending and swaying in their trance like state as they communicated with spiritual forces unseen. She looked at the village buildings snuggled at the edge of the deep, emerald green fjord down in the valley below. She looked beyond the tree, beyond the three women and up towards Jotenfjell, itself.
It all looked the same; nothing had changed.
Time was the master, and he was not going to be rushed. There was nothing to see, nothing to say and nothing to do, but wait; wait for eternity.
She picked up a twig and began to scratch aimlessly in the soil, poking small holes and filling them in again until her stick touched something smooth and hard. She fossicked around it with interest, and like some archaeologist delving into the depths of another time, she began moving her thin stick around its perimeter until she was able to reach in with her fingers and free the object from its earthly prison. At last, it was free; a muddy golden piece of gum. She rubbed the dull amber surface over her fur boots until it began to glow like the sun. She held up the translucent find and turned it around, reflecting the brightness of sunlight and then capturing the dark image of Jotenfjell within its smooth, glossy surface.
The seeresses noticed the interest the girl showed in the shining amber piece she now held in her hands. The chanting and wailing ceased as they observed in silence, drawn into the expectation of something they expected to happen. Næmr’s eyes found a small feather and holding her amber toy above, amused herself, allowing the amber to capture the feather and attract it with a selfish snap. The wise women had never before witnessed such magic.
“Yggdrasil has given us the sign!” Their wailing voices rose in a crescendo. “Only such knowledge as that could have come from great Odin, himself! This woman, brought amongst us, must surely have come from the gods. Her fate has been sealed! Yggdrasil has spoken!”