CHAPTER 8
The dragon boats had been away for most of the Summer. The mid-summer festival that had taken place around the tall upright runic stones was now only a memory. Villagers gathered the large, fat salmon as they returned to the inland streams of their birth, and hung the pale pink flesh up to dry in the warm summer sun. Small fishing boats returned each day filled to capacity with fresh, slender silver fish that had been gathered from the warm ocean currents that could be found just beyond the fjord mouth. This year was a time of plenty, a bountiful harvest rarely seen before. The village had been fortunate to have been favoured by the goddess, Frigga. The villagers felt successful and prosperous.
“Look!” Heggar pointed upwards some distance above her head. “Do you see, Næmr? All the birds flocking together.”
Næmr looked into the darkening sky. Clouds had been building all morning, hinting that things were about to change.
“It’s the autumn change. A little while and winter comes. I wish I were a bird like them and could fly away.” Næmr mused.
“Me, too,” Heggar added. “I hate it when the sun leaves and everywhere’s so dark and cold. It makes me so miserable and there’s so little food then. My belly cries to me in pain. Does yours, my Lady?”
“Yes, sometimes, Heggar, but I wish you’d always call me by my name.”
“Mistress scolded me last time when I did use your name. She said she’d punish me if I did.”
“Well, I say different. When we’re alone. Then, she won’t hear.”
“But she did! My mistress hears everything.”
“She won’t hear you if she’s not around and besides, ‘Næmr’ pleases me better.”
“I really shouldn’t. It’s wrong.”
“You must. Promise.”
Heggar glanced around. Yalda was nowhere to be seen but still the girl paused a while before agreeing.
“All right, Næmr. Oh dear, it feels so wrong.”
“You promised! You can’t take it back. Now, what is it you’re bursting to ask?”
“If you could be a bird, Næmr, where would you go?”
“Somewhere warm, that’s to be sure. There’s nothing much to do during the long winter days. Stay inside. Cough out your lungs and dig the cinders from your eyes.”
“It’s still better for you than for me. For you there are the gatherings in the Great Hall. Mistress Yalda had told me about them. All the things they do to pass the time. Not for the likes of me. For slaves, winter’s the worst time of all.”
“Why should that be, Heggar?”
“We die. If food is scarce, it’s we who die first and I don’t want to die.”
“You won’t, not with Yalda.”
“Sometimes there’s only seaweed and lichen to eat and it tastes awful!”
“It can’t be that bad, Heggar.”
“It is! Have you ever tried it?”
“Seaweed, yes. Lichen, no. That’s reindeer food. I hope Yalda doesn’t run short of provisions this year. I think I’d hate it if I had to eat those. And if it got that bad, I’d share food off my own plate with you. I’d not let you die, Heggar. I’d miss you too much.”
Heggar’s eyes brightened and a wide smile filled her face.
“Would you? Would you really? Really, really?”
“Of course.”
Næmr ruffled the little plain bonnet Heggar wore over her hair to demonstrate the affection she had for the girl. She had seen Yalda do that many times and had become used to the idea.
The days were now certainly drawing in. Daylight became more precious as both animal and people raced to beat the onset of winter. Animals were brought down from their high summer grazing to the pastures surrounding the valley floor where the grass was still green. A new urgency came to the settlement, for the crops were turning golden, indicating that harvest was not far away. Flax and wool needed harvesting for the last time and trees were either coppiced for firewood or felled for timber to repair the buildings.
Heggar was kept doing so many extra chores, that her face became quite drawn, her eyelids drooping and tired. Yalda was short-tempered. As one job was finished, another immediately took its place.
“I hope the men bring home plenty of captives this time. I need more help around here. It’s impossible to get everything done,” she grumbled.
It was difficult trying to keep her small group together, making sure there were enough provisions to last through until the warmer weather returned again and constantly being called upon to administer some of her herbal medicines to someone who was ailing or to help when there was an accident.
Today, Yalda had asked for Næmr’s help. She needed a hand to churn the goat’s milk so that they could make a small amount of butter and cheese to be kept during the winter months. She had sent the thralls who usually looked after the sheep to try and catch a few of the semi-wild chickens that came into the village looking for scraps. Heggar was out collecting the last of any wood berries she could find so Yalda was not in a good mood.
“I’m not getting any younger. Oh dear, how my back aches today!” She straightened herself and rubbed her aching lower back muscles. “Oh dear!,” she exclaimed again. “And just look at my hands!” She thrust her hands almost into Næmr’s face. “See how bent my poor fingers have become? It’s weaving’s that done it! Worn out right to the bone and not one of my poultices have helped!”
“If you’d only teach Heggar. I know she’d like to learn.”
“Yes, I admit the girl’s quick to learn.” Yalda massaged her hands for a few minutes. She seemed thoughtful for a while but then concluded, “But she’s still a slave and I need her for other household duties!”
“She’d still like to try.”
“I admit she’s a very good ambatt and I’m fond of the girl. If I had another slave who could do Heggar’s work, then I could show Heggar what to do. It might give her an incentive to work for her freedom. Yes, I like that idea, don’t you?”
“I do. It would be a wonderful thing for her, Yalda.”
However, in the meantime, Heggar was kept on her toes doing all the daily domestic chores and Næmr had no time to discuss the matter further with Yalda as much of her own time was taken up with Vestlasa. Every morning, the wife of one of Yalda’s thralls whose husband had been allowed a small plot of land for his family in return with looking after her sheep and a small number of milking goats, would arrive at the house and walk with Næmr to Vestlasa’s. Næmr was instructed very thoroughly in everything about the village: its culture, its past history and tales about their land.
The valley was small and narrow. The soils were difficult to work so that everything the land produced had to be carefully handled and preserved for winter. Vestlasa told her about the stories from long ago, of the biting cold and months of starvation that almost wiped out every inhabitant of the village. She told her of the hardships and the time when a great sickness arrived and took with it the very young and the old and how for a long time after, weeping could be still heard by the mothers who had lost their barns. As the population of the valley had increased, more pressure had been put on the thralls and on the safe return of the dragon boats, for if not enough food could be harvested in the valley, then its people were reliant upon the treasures seized during the battles.
Næmr began to understand the problems Yalda faced, a woman on her own without husband or sons to provide for her. She wished she could do more to relieve Heggar of some of her duties, but since the Council of Four had been convinced she had connections with gods who had jurisdiction over the fortunes of mankind, Næmr was exempt from all mundane chores. Surely, that would allow Yalda to have an extra slave?
Since the dragon boats had left the valley, Vestlasa would be both teacher and pupil, for she had been given the task of unlocking memories buried deep within Næmr’s sub-conscious. So far, Vestlasa agreed with Yalda that the dark-haired Næmr was certainly different - unacquainted with so many of the simplest tasks yet capable of producing ins
ights far beyond the capabilities of any human upon this earth.
“Your presence has benefited us with both our harvest on land and out at sea, for never before have we had such a bountiful yield of grain and fish. I hope, that when the warriors return, they will bring back treasures galore to make our village a great and prosperous place.”
Such had been the last words of the council. Vestlasa had attributed so much to the young woman’s presence, that Næmr began to wonder what her reaction would be if things did not go to plan. Would everyone still appear quite so friendly?
As the hours of daylight began to fade even quicker, Yalda spent countless hours standing in the dim light at the rear of her timber and mud house, weaving her wool and flax fibre which she would exchange for baskets of summer sun-dried fish, together with harvested nuts and berries.
It was on a cool late afternoon in autumn, when Næmr was standing in the doorway of the house, gazing out across the dark green waters of the fjord, that she caught sight of what looked like a sail making its way up the long watery finger.
“Yalda!” She was able to distinguish several square sails far in the distance where the fjord met the sea. Yalda immediately dropped the wool and rushed to the open door. “Look, sails! I see sails!”
She pointed out the moving shapes making their way slowly towards them but they were still too far away to see whose they were.
“Drakkarn?”
“I think so. Do you think they’re ours?”
For a split second, Yalda’s face betrayed her inner fears. When she spoke again, there was the sound of apprehension in her voice.
“I hope so. If they’re not, we’re in trouble. Better raise the alarm. Quickly!”
She called for Heggar so loudly, Næmr thought her call was sufficient alarm in itself.
“Why the panic, Yalda?”
“We had trouble several years ago when a raiding party from further up the coast arrived here. We were lucky then. We managed to hold them at bay but we lost people of our own in the skirmish. We must warn the Council. We must raise the alarm!”
Heggar still had not turned up and Yalda was appearing more agitated.
“Shall I go, Yalda?”
The excitement in her own voice made Næmr’s question sound like a cry. She hoped Yalda would allow her to do something really useful. She had found the days a drag since the dragon boat and the other vessels left and the lessons with Vestlasa had not been that exhilarating, either. Also, the killing she had witnessed had upset her for a while and she was taken aback to find that everyone else had taken so little notice of the dreadful event and treated it as just another facet of life. One minute the villagers seemed placid and homely and the next, so bloodthirsty. Now, with danger looming, they were quite prepared to demonstrate their warlike character once more. Everyone in the village seemed prepared to sacrifice their lives for the protection of their possessions and families. It was a matter of their survival, another one of the constant threats that continues to rear up and test them.
Yalda called for Heggar again.
“Let me go.”
“Yes! That’s a good idea, Næmr.” She turned so that she was still able to keep an eye on the tiny boat shapes far up the fjord. “Go, find Jarl Olaf and tell him at once. When Heggar turns up, I’ll get her to keep watch. She’ll not let those boats out of her sight. She always dreads dragon boats.”
“Shall I take the pony?”
“Yes, do.”
Yalda threw another quick look around. Heggar had still not answered her call. “Curse the girl! Where is she?” She called even louder. “Heggar! Heggar!”
Nemi had rushed to the stall behind the back wall of the house where the animals were housed. She could hear Yalda continue to call until she caught sight of Heggar sprinting towards where her mistress was standing.
“Drakkarn, Heggar. Watch them, child! Don’t take your eyes off them!”
Yalda often referred to Heggar as a child even though she was almost at the age when she could be found a husband. But for the time being, Yalda preferred to keep the girl so busy that neither Heggar nor any young man, freeman or thrall, should have the opportunity to make eyes at each other.
She shoved Heggar roughly into the lookout spot between the rear of house and the nearby sheep pens. With an equally frantic movement, she pointed in the direction of the Longhouse.
“Næmr!”
The galloping pony had already taken its rider almost to the centre of the settlement.
It didn’t take Næmr long to find Olaf. She almost knocked him over in her haste as she cantered between the village buildings, skilfully steering the sand-coloured pony around the corners and between the closer built village buidings.
The jarl had just collected a knife from the village blacksmith and as he was about to leave, he was almost run into by the pony and rider.
“Whoa! Whoa there!”
“Jarl Olaf!” Næmr reined in the blowing animal which had smothered its front legs with white froth from its mouth. She slipped easily from its sweaty back. She knew she had no time to pause to draw breath herself before blurting out, “I’ve been sent by Yalda the Healer. Ships! There are dragon boats in the fjord!”
The village blacksmith wiped his dirty hands on his apron and stepped hastily outside. He, too, could remember the time when the ships had not been their own. He could remember how his young apprentice lad had been killed, cut down before he had time to become a man. This were not a time to be complacent, especially with so many of their best fighting warriors away.
“I’ve got swords and hammers here. Call up all the men!”
The blacksmith panicked. He dived into the depths of his workshop and they could hear him throwing metal around like a volcanic eruption.
The jarl did not flinch. He had had the experience of battle behind him and knew what it was to prepare oneself for an honourable death. He had no wish to die in his bed as an old, frail man; to deny himself the privilege of sitting at the feasting table of Odin. Given a few more years and he would definitely be too old to fight any foe.
He sized up the situation with the speed of an arrow and called to four youths who had come to a standstill wondering what the commotion was about.
“You there! Boys! Find anyone who can wield a sword!” His command was snappy and strong. “To the shore! We’ll meet them at the shore! We’ll fight them there!”
Immediately, the boys ran in different directions and their raised voices could be heard in every corner of the village, yelling and screaming for the remaining men to rally to their defence.
Olaf turned calmly to Næmr, pushing the pony’s nose away from him.
“Ask for Frey’s protection, if not for the men then for our women and children! You have the power. You must protect us! Find sacred words the gods will understand! Do not let those dragon boats bring death and destruction!”
He threw his head back and snorted like an angry stallion and grabbed one of the swords from the blacksmith who had finally re-appeared with an armful of weapons.
“Lend me the horse!”
The jarl leapt on to its back with the ease of an athlete and, gathering the reins in one hand, sword held aloft in the other, he kicked the animal into a gallop and made off in the direction of the edge of the fjord.
Echoed cries filled the entire valley. Restless agitation bounced off every wall. The entire village moved in a disorganised array: women screaming at their children, children crying for their mothers, men charging out from every building, slaves grabbing sythes and farming tools to join the call. Everyone prepared for the attack that seemed imminent.
Næmr fled to Vestlasa’s house. She blurted out the news of the moment. They strained their eyes to follow the vessels which were coming their way slowly up the narrow fjord waters. The boats sailed a little nearer and then they saw the sails come down.
“How many boats can you see?” asked Vestlasa.
“Five. Yes, definitely five.
”
“We only sent three! These cannot be ours!” Vestlasa pointed to the small bone pennant around Næmr’s neck. “Use your sacred dragon to call upon the goddess Frigg to protect us! Speak to her, Næmr! Call her with those strange words I have heard you say. Do so quickly! Hurry!”
Fear gripped and tore every muscle and sinew in Næmr’s body. She felt very alone and vulnerable. She had no control over her strange memories and the strange fragments just flitted into her mind like butterflies in the fields. Why they occurred at all, she did not know. This time, when she needed them most, her mind was blank. All she knew was that she had to do something to satisfy this priestess. Something from one of the nine worlds would surely be sent to save them all. Næmr reached for her pennant and, shutting her eyes tightly, tried to probe the hidden depths of her mind.
Please, please give me strength. Næmr thoughts raced through her brain. Let us be safe! I don’t want to die! I want to live!
“Hurry, Næmr! I see boats! One’s a dragon prow and it’s coming into the bay!”
Vestlasa seized an axe and called upon Thor to give her the strength to smite the maiden before her. If the lead boat did not lower its dragon-headed prow, then she would be the first to seek vengeance upon their cruel gods. She raised her arm, ready to strike the blow.
Still the boats came, becoming larger and more ominous with each succeeding second, the proud and menacing prow head still riding high. Næmr opened her eyes.
Please let them lower those dragon heads, she pleaded silently in the depths of her mind.
She could make out the rhythmic movement of the oars as they dipped, then rose either side of the sleek, wooden hulls. But still that dragon head stood fixed at the bow.
The dark-haired woman put a trembling hand up to her lips. As her hand slid slowly downwards past her neck her fingers closed themselves around her own dragon-like pendant and she held it firmly within her grasp. Her entire body shook as she suddenly realised Vestlasa’s intentions.
A vision of a looming prow, a halo of white just above, white fluttering prow-feathers and the rhythmic dip of paddles from each side of the hull, came into her mind. At first there was little to see other than dense, pallid mist but as the movement of something sliding silently across the surface of the water became more obvious, she could remember that somewhere, sometime she had been witness to such a scene before. The memory was merely a glimpse but it resurfaced sufficiently for her whole being to tremble under its hypnotic hold.
“Awhinatia mai!”
The dark-haired maiden called to those beyond this world, her call echoing around the mountains and taking flight to the other world from whence she came.
Suddenly, a cry came. And then another, and another.
“Stop! Vestlasa, stop!”
One lone voice rang out: not this time in fear, but in joy.
“Look! Look!”
And another.
“The dragon face is being lowered! We will not be attacked!”
Cries of joy reverberated around the steep walls either side of the calm fjord waters.
“We’re saved! We’re saved!”
Villagers jostled and laughed, and ran signalling waves of welcoming to the returning boats with their crews. The warrior sailors replied by raising their oars and singing some of their familiar battle songs.
“Odin be praised! We’re saved! We’re saved!”
Vestlasa pushed Næmr on the back with her hand.
“You may leave me, Næmr. Thank you. Your work is done. Go! Rejoice with our people. Join them and welcome home our brave men and their boats!”
Cries of laughter and outbursts of loud singing rang in her ears as she sprinted to the spot where the boats would arrive.
“Those are our drakkar!”
“Our warriors have returned!”
The excitement built as the returning longboats slid into the shallow waters of the harbour. It was clear, now, that the two strange vessels had been captured. Prosperity and good fortune was assured for this winter.
The boats were beached on the sloping stony shore, ready for unloading. That night, would be a night to celebrate. How fortunate the village was to have someone like Næmr, someone who could make sure the gods looked favourably upon them. Odin had really sent his blessings to them. They were safe. This time, the village had all been spared!
Næmr’s thoughts focused only on one person. She searched among the boats for Halldorr. Had he returned? Her eyes scanned the vessels, trying to pick him out from the group of people that gathered around. There stood Bodvarr the Bellower, his solid body towering a good head higher than anyone else’s. How he made her own flesh cringe! She wished that he had been killed and that she would never have to see him again. But time had not favoured her.
The warriors spilled like lemmings out of the boats. Still she could not see Halldorr. Boxes of goods, silver and gold were being handed over the sides of the boats, while captives were being herded like cattle away from the scene and into the village centre. The women were haggard and tired, the children frightened and pale. They stumbled and scrambled over the pebbles and up onto the grass bank. Bodvarr made certain their handling was brutal and rough. Næmr thought of poor Heggar. How she, too, must have suffered upon her arrival to this village.
I wonder where these people came from? she asked herself. What kind of life did they have yesterday? What will become of them now? And tomorrow?
The warriors herded the new slaves like frightened deer away from the boats and towards the village. Bodvarr bellowed out base orders, his booming, bass voice overpowering every other sound. The village was in jubilant chaos; the captives concurrently made an orderly line.
Næmr was just about to give up searching among those near the boats when, all at once, she caught a glimpse of Halldorr. He was over by one of the captured boats. He’d been bent over, rummaging around for something that lay in the bottom of the boat so it was easy that she had missed him. She was so relieved to see him fit and well that her heart temporarily missed its beat.
“He’ll find you when he’s ready.”
Næmr turned round to see Yalda standing directly behind. She hadn’t noticed her until now.
“Yalda.”
“Come, let’s return home, Næmr. You know he’s safe. He’ll come. They all do. They can’t ignore the calling of the heart.”
“Halldorr! I want him now. I long for his smell, his face, his touch. My body yearns for his embrace.”
“You shouldn’t talk like that, Næmr. I’ve got herbs to dry. If I don’t get them out now they’ll be ruined. Come on, back we go.”
Næmr had one more wistful look at her wonderful warrior. How handsome he looked and how upright he held himself. A true leader of men. She sighed yet her heart was beating wildly inside her body and her palms had become wet with her sweat. Yalda was right, of course. She would have to wait for him. Together, she and Yalda, walked back to through the village to the house where they lived.
Later that day, cattle and sheep were slaughtered. Hunters arrived, catches of wild pigs were pick-a-backed in from the forests. The bodies of several dead seals were brought up from the shore by those who had been out to sea. Thralls were employed digging a large pit and gathering rocks and sticks to lay in the bottom, ready to receive the large quantity of meat to be cooked that day. Barrels of beer were rolled in through the doors of the Great Hall.
Heggar had spent most of her day preparing and baking bread and children had been out in the woods collecting wild berries to put on the great tables that had been set up within the Great Hall. Everyone in the village was employed in preparations for the great feast that would take place later that evening. Large colourful tapestries decorated the walls inside the Great Hall and warriors collected round wooden shields to hang from the high wooden beams. This was going to be a feast for all to remember!
“Heggar, you will help in the Great Hall tonight.”
“No! Please no!” r />
It was Heggar’s worst nighmare and she could not understand why her mistress was doing that to her. But Yalda stood firm. She had offered the service of her own slaves for this occasion.
“Sorli from the farm will go with you. You’ll be safe. You’ve only got to help roll out the beer kegs and put out the mugs. And, no tasting, my girl!”
Heggar nodded. She well remembered the time last year when three thrall boys were caught stealing some of the drink and were severely punished for violation of such rules. Heggar had no wish for anythng to happen to her. Earlier, when alone with Næmr, she had whispered that Yalda had once allowed her to have a taste of the deliciously sweet and potent mead.
The day passed quickly. All the free inhabitants of the village managed to squeeze into the Great Hall. A large banquet was laid out on tables and the walls were ablaze with colour from tapestries and shields. The leading village priest opened the ceremony by giving thanks to Odin for such a mighty victory and splendid haul. Songs of praises thundered out from the throats of the three hundred that had filled the hall. Hoots and whistles, roars and shouts were only lessened by slurps and burps as mugful after mugful of deep-brown beer gushed down their throats. Jubilant crowds banged knife handles in unison on the solid wooden tables or beside on the benches that ran either side of the Great Hall. Several exuberant young men and women jostled and tumbled around the floor and between tables and fireplace. Hot, sizzling fat-dripping joints hung suspended from rafters or hung on spits over the dancing flames.
“Come on, my Lady Næmr! Enjoy the feast! Drink to our glorious victory. I’m told it was brought by you! Drink! The gods in Asgard must be pleased.”
Næmr turned her head, and seated only a few places away from her was Halldorr. He was like a god himself with his deep-blue tunic and gold braided edging.
“Nothing’s pleased me more than to see you, Halldorr,” she said, trying to shout to him above all the noise.
“Sorry, can’t hear what you’re saying. It’s all this noise. I’ll move.”
He bent his body round the edge of the table and pushed down with his hands for support. He lifted his legs over the side of the bench and squeezed away from those on his left and his right. After a short struggle he managed to wriggle himself between Yalda and Næmr and sit down.
“Do you remember the promise I made just before we went away?”
“What was that? I can’t hear you!”
He was forced to lean closer to her and shout.
“Remember, I promised to bring you something when I had returned?” She nodded as she realised that she had completely forgotten. “I brought this back especially for you.”
He reached inside his tunic and handed over an exquisite silver brooch, perfectly round with the mythical figure of a dragon carved inside and that had jewelled eyes that sparkled with a thousand colourful rainbows in the flickering light of the lanterns.
“It’s beautiful!”
“I promised you. I want you to wear it. Always. Wear it for me. I love you. I’ll love you for ever.”
Næmr sat looking at the brooch in her hand. It was the most beautiful gift she had ever been given. She allowed him to pin it onto the front of her dress. A happiness trickled throughout her body and made her cheecks glow red. She leaned close to him and voiced words into his ear that only he could hear.
“Thank-you, Halldorr. I’ll always treasure it. I’ll keep it with me until time ends with Ragnarok.”
He pressed his hand onto hers and gave it a little secret squeeze.
“Until Ragnarok!” he mouthed. “Until Ragnarok!”
She was happy. Halldorr made her feel wanted, not for the position that had been put upon her but for herself. She felt his need for her and through that her own attraction for him had grown. With him to guide her, she could belong and make his world, hers. Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud reverberating clang from the ceremonial shield when one of the jarls brought his hammer crashing down on to its side. Instantaneously the shouting and whistling stopped and the Great Hall fell into silence.
“Stand, brave warriors!” It was Sirgud, the father of Halldorr, who spoke. “Let’s hear your brave tales! This is our time to celebrate! A great occasion needs a great performance!”
“A story first, to wet the appetite!” The tables roared and cheered.
“I’m wet enough from spilt mugs of beer!’ someone shouted.
Everyone laughed.
A slight built, wiry man jumped up on the edge of the central table and bowed to acknowledge the cat-calls and cheers. He was the story-teller, the best skald there was and the one who could capture the imagination of the people with his poetic tales. As he began the first lines of his long saga, the hall fell into silence until only the rhythmic, measured words of the poet could be heard.
“In a sea far from this land there arose,
All covered with slime and filth
A monstrous head, with stones for eyes
And teeth too sharp, and bristling scales
That glistened grizzly in the pale
moonlight;
And all the sea-devils, monsters from
the deep
Rose up until the sea was agleam with
eyes;
And all these evil creatures wormed their
way
Towards where warriors in their longboats
lay.”
The people had heard this story before but that did not detract from the magical hold it had on the listeners.
“ . . . clad only in mail-coat, fine and sleek, A mighty warrior stood tall and straight.
Strong were his sinews, strong was his
grasp
Upon the finest crafted sword of steel,
Its hilt, of plaited gold and sparkling jewel.
And he, alone, stood steadfast
Against the foe.”
A gasp sounded around the hall. Tension took hold of time, suspending reality as the plot of the story unravelled.
“ ‘Come forth, Sea-devils!’ called the
warrior, brave.
A brief moment he stood, sword held high
in hand.
‘I am ready!’ And with battle cry,
He faced the snarling, hissing monsters.”
Some of the warriors could contain themselves no longer; they leapt over the tables, brandishing swords, eyes flickering like flames.
“Death will bring honour! Thor will avenge!”
They stood defiantly threatening the monsters that had been created within their minds.
The story went on:
“His blade cut air and flesh alike,
As one by one, the monsters fell,
Their snake-like bodies writhing
Down into the gloomy depths below,
Until all, but one defied his blows.”
Some men became crazed. They went berserk. They screamed and jumped, sword clashing against sword, blow upon blow as they re-enacted the excitement of the battle with the serpents. Yet, even as their eyes gleamed with hysteria, the skald lifted his voice and the magic of his tale went on:
“Up rose the monster from the depths, Flaming nostrils, gnashing teeth.
Those fearful men, in cowering stance,
Fell shaking, clinging madly to their boat.
The Sea-devil, seeking its own revenge,
Lashed out with fury towards our hero
brave
And slashed his mail, his flesh, his bones,
Until, no longer could he wield his mighty
sword.”
Frenzied men leapt the fire and tore the remaining carcasses from the spits. They spilt the brew and tossed drinking horns high into the rafters overhead. The excitement died down. The hall became quiet again.
The story went on:
“His mail-coat hung in shred-like rags, Our hero’s breath was weak.
Sorrow and shame dwelt in those hearts of
men,
/> For a glorious end was his, not theirs.
For he, of all this fated crew,
Would take his place at Odin’s side.
And as the fated boat slipped beneath the
waves,
Aegir and Ran claimed it for their own,
And all, save one, our warrior brave
For he, alone, will taste Odin’s wine,
Fight and feast, ‘till the end of time!”
The skald threw out his arms and bowed. Everyone cheered and clapped and called until even the lamps which hung from the rafters above swayed as if an earth-tremor was shaking the hall. But now, the time had come for each man to stand and tell of his own exploits. Each new speaker’s story became more embellished, more fantastic than the one before. But what did they care, for this was a time to eat, to drink and to enjoy.
The feasting and celebration continued until the early hours of the following morning. As people grew tired, they slumped forwards onto the tables or fell to the floor, joining those who were too intoxicated to stand. As the twilight of night gave way to the early hours of dawn, and a subdued hush crept over the hall, Yalda tugged at Næmr’s sleeve.
“Come on, Næmr. Time to go home.”
The girl tried shaking herself into a more conscious state but with the effects of the drink and the heat from the bodies, she felt groggy and weak. Yalda struggled with her, managing to scramble over sleeping bodies amid chewed bones and uneaten food. Something moved with speed and rubbed against Næmr’s bare legs. She let out a scream and recoiled in horror.
“Yalda!” she shrieked. “Rats! Yuk! Let’s get out!”
Several enormous rats had come into the middle of the room. They had become braver as the humans slept and could be seen foraging for food morsels between the mingled and tangled unconscious bodies that snored and grunted like pigs in the straw.