Geirmund's Saga

by Matthew J. Kirby

  “Are you Ægir?” he asked the stranger.

  “I am known by many names, but you may call me Völund.”

  Geirmund had heard tales of a man called Völund. He wasn’t a god, but he did have dealings with gods and kings, for he was a smith of great cunning and skill, and his creations were the envy of all. “What is this place?” he asked, still holding Bragi’s knife down at his side.

  “It is my home,” Völund said. “My forge.”

  Geirmund looked up, towards the ceiling. “We’re under the sea?”

  “Yes, you are. Long ago, mountains of ice covered much of the northern lands, and this place stood on dry ground. Your forebears hunted the mighty aurochs and gathered food in the forests that grew here. When the ice retreated, the sea swelled. It drowned those forests and my forge, and it drove your forebears to settle new places.”

  Such ice and floods existed only in stories. Búri, the father of Borr, who was the father of Óðinn, had been brought out of the rime by the cow Auðumbla as the ice of Niflheim also retreated, and it was Búri’s descendants who had slayed the jötunn, Ymir, to fashion the world from his corpse.

  “How did I come here?” Geirmund asked.

  “You were drowning,” Völund said. “So I summoned you.” He moved closer, and Geirmund felt a chill through his body as he noticed that he could see through the smith to the wall behind him.

  He raised his knife and backed away. “You are no man.”

  Völund shook his head. “I am not.”

  “Are you alive?”

  “I was once alive.”

  “If you’re not alive, then what are you?”

  The smith paused. “Think of me as a memory.”

  “Whose memory?”

  “The gods”.”

  Geirmund began to lose his grasp on himself, and whether he was where he was, or whether he was dreaming. “Am I alive?” he asked.

  “You are alive.”

  “Why?”

  “Why are you alive?”

  “No. Why did you save me? Many ships are lost to storms, their crews drowned.” Geirmund looked around the room. “I seem to be the only one you have taken into your hall. So I ask you, why did you save me and not others?”

  “Now I understand your question.” Völund turned towards the altar. “This ring is, in part, an answer to it.”

  Geirmund didn’t lower the bronze knife, but he did allow his attention to fall again on the altar and the arm-ring, which was unlike any he had seen. It had been forged in seven pieces, each adorned with a different rune, and each rune seemed to shine with a different colour from within.

  “This ring has a name,” Völund said. “Your forebears called it Hnituðr.”

  Geirmund took a step towards the altar. “My forebears?”

  “Yes.” Völund waved his hand, and the tapestry of light that surrounded the ring vanished. “I explained that you have the blood of your forebears who lived on this land before the sea covered it. You are familiar to me. Your ancestor was familiar to me when I also saved him from drowning.”

  Geirmund had only one ancestor who had nearly drowned. “You speak of Hjörrleif,” he said. “The father of my father’s father.”

  Völund nodded.

  “But that would mean… You’re the sea man.” Geirmund pointed his knife at the smith. “He caught you in his net.”

  “It would not be possible to catch me with a net.”

  “But you are the sea man in the story, are you not? You foretold the fate of Hjörrleif.”

  “I described the most likely of his possible fates.”

  Geirmund lowered the knife. “What does that mean? There is only one fate for each of us, and it is inescapable.”

  “Fate is simply a word for the result of choice and its consequence. It is consequence that is inescapable after a choice is made. Action will be met with reaction. Tell me, do you believe choices are inescapable?”

  “No. I can always choose how I will meet my fate.”

  “Can you?” Völund smiled. “Could you have chosen to remain on land, rather than attempting to cross the sea?”

  Geirmund considered that for a moment. “No, that was a matter of honour. I swore to follow Guthrum.”

  “Did you have a choice when you made that oath?”

  “No, because that was the only way–” Geirmund knew that if he had not sworn that oath, Guthrum would not have taken him aboard his ship, and if he had not taken him aboard his ship, Geirmund would have remained trapped in his father’s hall at Avaldsnes. For each of his choices there had been but one path forward, but that path had been determined by the choices before it, and they by the choices that preceded them. To make different choices would have made Geirmund someone other than who he was. But that did not mean those choices were inescapable, or that other choices had been impossible. They were simply more difficult to make.

  “Consequence is law,” Völund said. “Choice is in your blood, and it is in your blood that I see what lies ahead of you.”

  “You are wise for a smith,” Geirmund said. “What do you see ahead of me?”

  “Betrayal and defeat.” Völund spoke as though he were listing the yield from an unremarkable harvest. “You will surrender to your enemy, but you will not know who your enemy is.”

  Geirmund scoffed. “You are confusing me with my father and my brother. I would never surrender to my enemy.”

  “You surrendered to the sea.”

  He was about to deny that but realized he couldn’t, and he grew angry at the smith. He had surrendered to the sea, that was true, but that did not mean he would surrender to an enemy, regardless of who that enemy might be. “Perhaps you are simply not as wise as I thought.”

  “I speak the truth.” Völund’s face remained calm within his silver helm. “I feel no need to convince you of it.”

  Geirmund returned his attention to the ring. “Why is it called Hnituðr? What about it is planned?”

  “It was so named because it is part of the fate of each who wears it. The ring is law. The choice to take it is yours.”

  The offer of the ring felt to Geirmund like the offer of bait in a snare, and he wondered if it was his fate to take it or his fate to refuse it, and even whether he had a choice, for who could refuse the workmanship of Völund the smith?

  He slid his dagger back into its sheath, and he stepped up to the altar where Hnituðr lay, glittering and waiting for him to make his choice. But Geirmund had begun to see that he did not have a choice. He would not refuse it. The ring was a prize fit for a king, and if it was his forebearers who had named it, then Hnituðr was his birthright.

  Geirmund reached out to take the ring, but when his hand touched it, the blinding light blazed again in his eyes, scorching his mind to ash.

  9

  When Geirmund’s mind returned, he was lying with his face and belly in mud, and he could hear the lapping of water and the call of terns. He thought at first that he had returned to Ribe, and then he wondered if he had ever left that shore, and if the encounter with Völund had been a vision or dream. But when he opened his eyes, he saw that he wasn’t in Jutland. He didn’t know where he was.

  He staggered to his feet, his clothing soaked in seawater, and became aware that he was clutching something. When he looked down, he saw Hnituðr, and knew then that he had not dreamed of that hall under the sea, and he concluded that Völund, or some other power, had brought him to where he now stood.

  The mudflats extended many rests to the north and south, much like the coast at Ribe, but here the sea lay on the opposite side, to the east, which meant he had landed somewhere on England’s shores. To the west, across hundreds of acres of vast, flat wash, he saw the edge of a marsh, which he assumed to be East Anglia’s fenland. If so, he was in territory the Danes had conquered, but far to the north of Lun
den and the River Thames, where Bersi had directed the fleet.

  Any boats that survived the storm would have sailed there, leaving Geirmund to find his own way to the place called Readingum, where Halfdan’s army and Bersi’s ships were to meet. He knew Bersi planned to use the Thames to travel west, which meant Readingum would lie somewhere west of south. Geirmund did not know how long the journey there would take, but it was a journey he had to make, if only to reunite with Steinólfur and Skjalgi. They had come to England because they had sworn to him, and the memory of the older warrior’s face on the ship as he had strained to reach for Geirmund pained him.

  He looked again at the arm-ring, the way its gold seemed not only to reflect the sun’s light but to possess a light of its own, and he decided he had to hide it. To wear such treasure openly would be to invite robbery by anyone he should encounter, whether Saxon, Northman, or Dane, with only his bronze dagger for defence. So he placed the ring inside his tunic, at his belt and out of sight. Then he turned south of west and set off across the wash.

  England’s air felt warm and wet, and the mudflats mired Geirmund’s boots. Some of the pools and channels he encountered were shallow enough for him to ford, but others looked deep and treacherous, requiring extra time and effort to circumvent. The marshes would be worse, from what he had heard said of the fenlands. To cross them might take days, even if he knew the paths and byways, which he didn’t. He needed to find a faster means of travel, or a guide to show him the best route.

  As he approached the boundary of the marsh, he saw a gap in the reeds some distance to the north, where a river spilled onto the mudflats and dribbled towards the sea. A river would surely lead eventually to a village or town, where he might find a boat he could purchase with the remaining silver in his pouch.

  He angled his path towards that part of the marsh, and when he reached the river’s mouth he found it a wide and sluggish waterway, but with embankments that offered his feet some firm land and a track into that country.

  The deeper he travelled in the fenland, the heavier the air grew, laden with clouds of biting flies. In every direction he saw nothing but tall grass, reeds, aspen, and scrub trees in a maze of brackish waters, all clothed in a thin mist that never seemed to drift or lift. Geirmund grew thirsty as he walked, but stopped to drink from only the freshest waters he could find, usually streams that fed into the river, though even those tasted of peat.

  When the sun eventually moved into his westward view and began its descent, Geirmund gave more attention to where and how he might sleep that night if he encountered no settlement before the sun set. He still had his fire-strike in its pouch, but he also knew without having to check that the sea had made his touchwood useless, and most of the fallen kindling he had passed thus far looked too damp to burn. He would also need to eat soon, but his wet clothing was the more urgent concern. He would spend a very cold night if he couldn’t find dry tinder.

  The evening daymark approached, but it was hard to guess how far he had travelled, given the twisting nature of the river and the land. What might have been six or seven rests on a straight road felt like twice that distance or more in the fens. He swatted without effect at the flies and myggs and scratched the welts they left behind, believing they might drain him dry of his blood if he stayed in one place for too long.

  He was somewhat surprised that he hadn’t yet met another person on the river, either Saxon or Dane, but neither did the land have a feeling of emptiness, as though Geirmund were the first to walk there. Rather, the fenland seemed to be holding still and keeping silent, in the manner of prey when danger is near.

  It was when the sun touched the tops of an aspen line on the horizon that he finally smelled woodsmoke. But it was old smoke, from charred timber. The river widened there, blackened with ash and fouled by death. The first body he saw floating in the reeds belonged to a man, bloated and blue, and covered in flies above the waterline. His legs stuck out straight and swollen from inside his long robes, which fitted the descriptions he had heard of clothing worn by Christian seers and priests. His head had been split open by either an axe or a sword.

  Further along the bank Geirmund discovered another corpse, and then another, then several, all of them wearing the same priest robes, all of them men, all of their bodies torn, opened, or divided. He saw parts of bodies alone, including the head of a boy who might have been Skjalgi’s age.

  Geirmund had never been a witness to that kind of death. Old age, sickness, and misadventure had all ended the lives of people he had known; he had never beheld the death that followed raiding and war. Though he had left his father’s hall prepared to kill Saxon warriors, he had never taken a life or seen one taken by such violence.

  He almost retched at the stench that filled his nose and the sights that filled his eyes and mind, and he was so overwhelmed and distracted that he was nearly upon the men ahead before he even noticed their voices. But he did notice in time to halt and listen.

  They were Danes, by the manner of their speech, but Geirmund couldn’t hear the words they spoke. He crept forward, staying low to spy them out, unsure of what to expect from them, and saw a small, wooded island surrounded by the river and the marsh. It was from that place that the Dane-speech had come.

  A causeway of wooden planks connected the island to the riverbank and the fenlands beyond. Geirmund saw no other way to approach the Danes, which meant he would have to announce himself before he knew them.

  Something stirred in the reeds behind him, and he spun to face a Dane coming out of the marsh, carrying a basket. He was young, but older than Geirmund, his yellow hair braided over the top of his head. When he saw Geirmund he dropped his basket and pulled his axe free, but seemed to relax when he realized Geirmund had no other weapon than a knife.

  “You’re no Saxon,” he said.

  Geirmund shook his head. “I come from Rogaland.”

  “A Northman?” He squinted. “You don’t look like a Northman either. Or a Dane.”

  Geirmund sighed. “I am a Northman. I am sworn to Jarl Guthrum.”

  The stranger glanced around, as if searching the trees and marsh for others.

  “I’m alone,” Geirmund said. “And I’m hungry. Is there room at your fire for one more?”

  The stranger nodded and took a step back. “Of course. You can take the basket. I’ve carried it a great distance and my arms are tired.” He pointed towards it with his axe.

  Geirmund hesitated. To carry the basket, he would need to sheath his knife and use both hands, which would put him at a disadvantage, something the Dane had obviously thought about.

  “I am Fasti,” the stranger said.

  “I am Geirmund.”

  “I will take you to Odmar,” Fasti said. “He leads our company.”

  The sun had fallen even lower, and the marsh was growing dim. Geirmund could see few choices and decided it would be better to trust the Danes than spend the night in the open. If the Danes meant him harm, they would be a threat whether he went with Fasti or not, because they would know him to be close by.

  Geirmund gave the Dane a nod, put his knife away, and bent to pick up the basket, which held several dozen oysters. A few of the rough shells bubbled at the seams, and as Geirmund lifted them, they rattled and scraped against each other. It truly was a heavy load.

  Fasti nodded towards a break in the grass, intending for Geirmund to go that way first, but Geirmund did not like the idea of having the Dane and his axe behind him. “You lead the way,” he said.

  Now it was Fasti who hesitated.

  “I carry no weapon,” Geirmund said, holding up the basket. “Unless you think I could do you harm with these oysters, which have another use I’d much prefer.”

  A grin slowly spread across Fasti’s mouth. “True enough. Let’s eat them.” He strode in the direction he had just pointed and Geirmund followed.

  On the othe
r side of the gap in the grass they descended to a stairway of flagstones set into the embankment, and then came to the wooden causeway that Geirmund had seen stretching over the river. It was about the length of a homefield, and the wooden planks felt almost as solid as dry land as he walked on them, without the hollow echo of a bridge or a wharf. Fasti glanced back and saw Geirmund looking down at the wood.

  “The Saxons drive tall stakes into the river bottom,” he said. “All close together, like a quiver of arrows. Then they build on top of it.” He stomped his boot on the causeway. “It’s sturdy, but still lets the river through.”

  “That’s clever.”

  “The Saxons are clever, it’s true.” Fasti held up his axe. “But Danes are stronger.”

  They reached the island on the other side of the causeway, and Geirmund found it thick with thorny shrubs and trees. Fasti led him through the bramble to a path up a gentle rise, and as Geirmund crested it he saw a large field of cleared land. At its centre stood the burnt and smouldering ruin of a hall.

  “What was this place?” he asked.

  “The Saxons call it Ancarig. It was a Christian temple. A small one, made of wood.” Fasti pointed to the west. “Upriver there is a place they call Medeshamstede, where the temple is much larger and made of stone.”

  The remains of several other buildings had also been put to the torch, and, intentionally or not, the fire had also claimed what appeared to have been an orchard. Fasti stepped through the wreckage and entered what was left of the temple. When Geirmund followed, he was greeted by another dozen or so Danes sitting around a fire in the middle of the building’s bones. All looked at Geirmund when he entered, but one of them seemed to command the most attention, a stocky warrior with dark hair and blue lines etched across his brow, with a bearded axe at his side.

  “Fasti, who is this?” he asked.

  “I am Geirmund Hjörrsson.”

  “I did not ask you,” the man said.

  “I need no man to speak for me. You are Odmar?”