Anvil of God

by J. Boyce Gleason

  Their path turned south. Behind them lay a series of steep mountains with rounded peaks. A narrow valley snaked its way around them, giving Trudi the dizzying impression that they traveled at a great height above the ground. A lone peak stood before them. Beyond that, a great expanse of land stretched as far as the eye could see. A river cut a path through it from north to south. The Wormitt, Trudi thought.

  “There is our destination,” the sibyl said, pointing to the last mountain. “There stands the tree.”

  As they descended, Trudi’s heart began to pound in her chest. I’m not ready, she thought. Sunni’s ministrations had been rudimentary. They had only focused on her passage into womanhood and the power that implied. She wasn’t ready for this. Dire warnings from Boniface surfaced in her mind, rituals of witches riding animals in the night sky and demons who mated with humans.

  When they reached the valley, the sibyl blindfolded Trudi and Bradius.

  “Once, the path to the tree was known to all, so that all could come to worship. Today, we must guard the location of the trees. The robe wearers burn them.”

  Trudi suffered the discomfort of the blindfold, but it only increased her anxiety. The horses meandered up the mountain path, stopping and turning at the sibyl’s direction. Trudi lost all sense of direction and time. The pounding of her heart grew more pronounced.

  “We have arrived,” the sibyl pronounced in a whisper. They dismounted, and Trudi waited while the sibyl’s assistants removed her blindfold. She found herself in a broad clearing surrounded by trees. On closer inspection, the trees formed a perfect circle, thirty paces across. Ten paces from the perimeter, a single tree stood tall and straight in the evening light. It was an ash tree, gray, graceful, ancient, and majestic.

  Trudi could see how these people believed that it linked the three worlds of existence. It was beautiful. She started to approach the tree, but Bradius grabbed her arm.

  “No one is to touch the tree outside a religious rite,” he said.

  She turned to look at him and found his face a mixture of awe and trepidation. “Are you afraid?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “What will she do?”

  “For each, the experience is unique.”

  “We won’t be together?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  The two women had taken their horses and supplies into the woods. When they returned, they brought the makings of a small fire, which they built and lit in a shallow pit before the tree. They next brought several of the sibyl’s pouches as well as bread and several jars of what looked like honey or jam. They set these in places on either side of the fire. The day was fading. Already darkness filtered through the light, eroding its sharpness and stealing its clarity.

  “You must disrobe,” the sibyl said. When Trudi hesitated, Bradius’s eyes pleaded with her. She untied her peasant dress and let it fall.

  The two women took their clothing into the woods. The sibyl went with them and returned with a small bowl filled with a blackish, tar-like substance. With a reed-like stick, she stirred it, approached Bradius, and began to draw a symbol just above his right breast. It was a vertical line with two slanting lines falling off it to the right.

  “This is Ansuz, the rune of Yggdrasil, the ash,” she intoned. “All who come before the tree must wear its mark.” Above his left breast, she drew a second symbol. It also had a vertical line. At its center, however, two equal lines formed an angle that peaked to the right. “This is Thurisaz,” she said, “the rune of the giants. It is a mark of strength and resistance.” She drew a third symbol, this time on his abdomen. It was a vertical line with two downward slashing lines. One came from the left, touching the bottom of the vertical line. The other started from the top and slashed downward to the right. “This is Eihwaz, the rune of the bleeding yew—mark of death and regeneration.”

  When the sibyl turned to her, Trudi recoiled. A sharp look from the sibyl stilled her. Embarrassed, Trudi leaned forward, allowing sibyl to repeat her ritual. Save for the ash, none of her symbols were the same as those the sibyl made for Bradius. The second mark looked like an arrow pointing skyward. The sibyl called it “Teiwaz, the god-rune symbolizing victory through sacrifice.” The third rune, placed on her abdomen, had two vertical parallel lines connected at the top by an angle that dropped sharply between them. The sibyl called this rune “Ehwaz, the rune of the horse.” She said it was the mark of “an unbreakable bond.”

  The sibyl continued her work, painting smaller runes on their faces and hands while the soft grayish light of the sky held back the darkness. Little by little, that light, too, disappeared. By the time the sibyl had finished, the forest trees were an impenetrable darkness. The ephemeral red and gold lambency of the firelight danced off their bodies and defined the limits of their world. And at its limit stood the ash. Tall and godlike, it rose before them out of the mysteries of the earth and disappeared high above them into the unknown.

  The sibyl asked them to sit facing the fire and the tree. She disrobed and sat down on the other side of the fire. Her two assistants sat behind her near the bread and the jars they had brought out earlier. They too were naked, and although older, sparingly marked with runes. The sibyl’s runes looked menacing in the firelight.

  “You each have a journey.” She took a pouch and emptied its contents into the fire. A powerful scent lifted off the blaze and struck Trudi like a blow. She could barely inhale it. “You also must eat this,” the sibyl said. Her two assistants proffered bread with the tar-like substance smeared onto it. The sibyl whispered incantations into the fire. With a reassuring nod from Bradius, Trudi took a bite of the bread. It smelled of mushrooms and tasted like bark. She made a face and turned to Bradius.

  Suddenly, she was outside her body—above it—watching herself make a face and turn to Bradius. Panicked, Trudi looked to the sibyl. The woman was staring directly at her, not at her body, but at her. The sibyl smiled, and the world tilted to one side. Trudi was back in her body.

  “Look into the fire,” said the sibyl. As the fire drew her gaze, it grew larger and larger until Trudi lost herself in its dance of consumption.

  ***

  It was a crisp fall day. The sky was a sparkling blue with soft, billowy clouds gently hovering above the trees. The leaves of the wood had turned yellow and red with a tinge of gold streaking through them. They were perfect, thought Bradius. Just perfect.

  Unum was beside him. As usual, they spoke little, contenting themselves with each other’s presence on such a beautiful day. The landscape rolled by them, almost as if they stood in place, and the path passed quietly beneath their walking feet. Bradius turned his face skyward and felt the warmth surround him. The muscles in his back and neck relaxed, and for the first time in ages, he smiled.

  “What did my mother look like?” Unum asked.

  A pang touched Bradius’s heart. His hand reached out to stroke Unum’s hair. It was a familiar subject, but for some reason, Bradius could not remember.

  Someone stood in the road just ahead. Bradius tried to turn Unum around, but the path kept rolling by them, drawing them nearer to the man in the path.

  It was Carloman. His sword twirled casually in his hands, its blade glinting in the sunlight.

  Finding a sword in his own hands, Bradius attacked. Their blades arched toward each other. The two spun, collided, separated, and spun again. Blade caught blade, time and again. Bradius had never fought so well. His attack was a furious combination of feints and kicks that forced Carloman to retreat down the path. Then it was Carloman who attacked, and it was Bradius’s turn to fend off blow after blow as he retreated from his nemesis.

  “Tell me where she is,” Aistulf said, his blade breaking skin.

  Confused, Bradius stepped away from his attacker.

  “Tell him.” Myrna stood naked beside him. “Take him where to find Trudi.”

  Bradius shook his head, knowing that if he did, he would die anyway. Aistulf grabbed Myrna by
the hair and put his sword at her throat.

  Bradius began to tremble. He mustn’t tell. He couldn’t.

  Unum stepped between them. Carloman again swung his blade. Bradius countered. Unum’s head fell from his body. Bradius couldn’t tell whose blade had done it.

  As he tried to put Unum’s head back onto his body, Bradius heard the whisper of a blade and saw Myrna’s body fall.

  “All roads lead here,” Carloman said.

  Bradius looked up in time to see Carloman’s sword pierce his chest.

  ***

  Trudi was eight. Her father had just come home from campaign, and she wore her bright blue dress and flowers in her hair. She danced with her father, her feet on his feet and her hands lost in his. She was singing, and Charles was laughing. When the song ended, he whisked her up in the air with his hands and twirled her around for all to see.

  “And who among you,” Charles called to the nobles, “will marry my little girl?”

  She was twelve. They were riding. Charles had stayed home from the hunt to be with her. He raced his huge warhorse against her brown mare. He had given her an enormous head start. As he passed her at a dead run, he scooped her off her saddle and plunked her down behind him. He hadn’t slowed his horse a step. She hugged his back, immersing herself in the smell of him. He let the horse have its head, and they rode with the wind whipping through her hair.

  “Austrasia!” she shouted. Charles laughed and shouted with her.

  “Austrasia! Austrasia!”

  She was naked. Aistulf had taken off her armor and then her leathers. He had her backed against the wall in her room at the inn. He bent to kiss her, his mouth enveloping hers. She strained against him but felt her body respond nonetheless. She felt the heat churn within her and pressed herself against him.

  “It is only about the children,” he whispered.

  She was naked. She was submerged in a small lake looking up through the water. Ansel was above her, masturbating. His face contorted in anguish as his stroking became more frantic. She tried to cry out, but water filled her mouth. She stretched out her hand to stop it, only to feel the semen strike it as Ansel cried out.

  She was naked. She lay back against the boulder, basking in the afternoon sun. Bradius was above her, taking off his clothes. He smiled at her lovingly as his eyes devoured her body. His hands explored her skin, tracing ancient runes over her body.

  When she looked down, the runes were made of blood.

  ***

  Trudi moved her hand to her mouth and wiped away drool. She was weak with exhaustion and covered with the grittiness of dried sweat. She opened her eyes and found Bradius lying next to her on a blanket near the fire. They were both still naked. He was unconscious, his skin deathly pale and splotched.

  The sibyl sat opposite them on her own blanket. The fire had been stoked; it blazed brightly before them, providing warmth against the night’s chill. Clearly, she had been waiting for them to awaken. She handed Trudi a cup of water to drink.

  Instead, Trudi moved to Bradius, propped up his head, and poured a trickle into his mouth. He coughed and spewed a mixture of blood and spittle over her. His eyes flickered. Recognizing her, he allowed her to pour more water into his mouth. This time, he kept it down. Trudi cradled his head in her lap.

  “What have you done? He looks like death.”

  The sibyl nodded. “He has died many times tonight.”

  “Has he been healed?”

  “His trials remain unfinished.”

  “He won’t survive another one,” Trudi said.

  “His demons besiege him. And you have yet to make a choice.”

  “What does this have to do with me?”

  “You are the center,” the sibyl said. “And your choices are of consequence.”

  “Do you mean that I will decide whether he lives or dies?”

  The sibyl nodded, “Your choices will.”

  “And if I choose wrong?”

  “There are no wrong choices.”

  Bradius struggled to sit up. “Are you all right?” he asked, coughing more blood. She nodded and wiped his face with her hand. He looked haggard and weak.

  As before, the fire defined the circle of their existence and cast its flickering light onto the ash. Shadows danced along its trunk, creating the impression of images carved into the wood. Except those aren’t just shadows, Trudi thought. The tree had changed. She looked curiously to the sibyl.

  “The sacred symbols of the ash,” the sibyl said. “Only in the dark of night may we remove the tree’s exterior. I must restore it before daybreak.”

  Trudi peered through the darkness. Carved into the core of the ash’s trunk stood a large cylindrical pole. Carved into it was the likeness of a woman. Her hands were joined together in front of her abdomen, her palms facing outward. It looked startlingly like the phallus from Trudi’s fertility ritual.

  “It’s a phallus,” Trudi said.

  “It is the symbol of our oldest gods’ joining,” the sibyl said. “The woman symbolizes Freyja, the mother, the pole, Freyr. This tree celebrates that which we hold most holy, the creation of life.”

  “You said our lives were tainted with death,” Bradius said.

  “So they are,” the sibyl said.

  “We’re not finished yet, are we?” he murmured. It did not sound like a question.

  The sibyl shook her head and lifted her hand. The two young women appeared on either side of Trudi and Bradius. They carried a brackish liquid and more bread. This time a whitish substance was spread onto it. Without hesitation, Bradius took a drink of the liquid and bit into the bread. Reluctantly, Trudi did as well.

  “Choose well,” the sibyl said, looking into Trudi’s eyes.

  Trudi took Bradius by the hand and the world fell away.

  ***

  Trudi was playing with her son. They were sitting cross-legged on the floor of the inn. The top she had spun veered wildly off course and then circled crazily back to where they sat. The little boy laughed, and Trudi could not help but smile at his innocent joy. He tried to grab the top and accidentally knocked it over. It rolled out of control across the floor. Trudi got to her feet to retrieve it.

  “It won’t work, you know,” a voice said from behind her. It was Aistulf. He strode into the room as if it belonged to him. He was dressed exquisitely in black and gold. “You can’t hide from who you are. Your life is full of consequences.” Something about the word “consequences” made Trudi flinch. She spun the top again for the boy. “Your son is the direct descendant of Charles Martel. He will very likely be an heir to the throne. You cannot hide him any more than you can hide yourself.”

  “I don’t want him to be part of your world.”

  “It is not mine. It is just the world.”

  “He does not need to be king.”

  “It is not about what he needs.” Aistulf sighed. “It is about who he is. As long as he is alive, he will be a contender for the throne. He won’t be left alone. He may not be left alive.”

  “I can hide him. Others have done it.” Trudi spun the top again for her son. It flew across the floor, hopping wildly until it found its balance. The boy scurried on chubby legs to follow it, delighting in its alluring movement.

  “Maybe you could,” said Charles. She was no longer at the inn. She was at home in her room at Quierzy. Her father was squatting down beside her, watching her son chase the top.

  “But one day someone will lure him away. He will learn of his birthright. And he will dream of becoming king. Oh, what a dream for a boy to have!” Charles’s eyes were far away and gleamed with an inner light. But when they returned to Trudi, they hardened to stone. “And then he will align himself with whoever will have him, and he will fail.” Charles shook his head. “Why else do kings marry their children into powerful families? It is to protect their progeny. An alliance is temporary, a birthright forever.”

  Her son squealed. The top was losing its force and beginning to teeter.
<
br />   “What of love?” Trudi demanded. “What of happiness?”

  “It is time to grow up, Trudi.”

  “Is there no room for love?” she insisted, her eyes brimming with tears.

  “It is just a very poor strategy,” Charles said, combing the boy’s hair with his fingers. “And what, pray tell, is my grandson’s name?” he asked.

  “Unum,” she said, smiling. “His name is Unum.”

  ***

  Bradius was lost. Worse, he was alone. The woods were dark. It was night. He searched through the underbrush, the plants scratching his hands.

  “Unum!” he shouted. “Uuunummmm!”

  There was no response. He followed the path for a hundred paces, calling out his son’s name. He backtracked and searched in the opposite direction, again to no avail. “Unum!” he screamed, his voice cracking under the strain. He listened, but there was no response. “Unum,” he called again, weaker this time. “Unum,” he whispered.

  He realized that he had been here before. He had seen these landmarks. He knew that tree and the rock next to it. He knew this wood. He began to run. There had been no path, but he remembered the way. Past the birch trees. Past the lake. And the ash. Through the clearing. Beyond the oaks. He found it. It was as he had left it. He could have found it by its smell.

  The ground was still soft and broken. Weeds and grass had begun to take hold, but for the most part, the massive grave remained untouched. Gagging from its putrid air, he made for the headstone and fell to his knees. Sinking his hands into the soft black dirt, he began to dig. At first his hands were cautious, brushing away the earth with care. His urgency, however, overwhelmed him, and he tore through the earthen tomb, his hands raking through the decay.