Hakon laughed. “You are not afraid to tell me where I stand, are you?”
Toralv smiled. “Why should I be?”
Hakon chuckled as he worked a clump of thatch into place. “What about you?”
“What about me, what?”
“As a member of my hird?”
Toralv turned to face Hakon, unconsciously wiping his hands on his trousers as the smile on his face stretched from ear to ear. “Truthfully?”
Hakon smiled back. “Aye. Unless you are one of those who aren't willing to join?”
Toralv blushed. “You have snared me in my own joke.”
Hakon did not press his jibe. “I have seen you work and know you are stronger than most men. And I was impressed with you in that fight with Erik. Besides, you never leave my side as it is. What difference would there be if you became my hirdman?”
“I believe you have that wrong. You never leave my side. Who else have you asked?”
“You are the first.”
“I am?”
“Aye. You find that so strange?”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“Hakon, you are a prince. There are many good men who would come to your side to fight. I am young . . . and inexperienced. Who am I against other, better men? Surely you see that. Does Sigurd know about this?”
“It is my decision to make, not Sigurd's. He will know in time.”
Toralv kicked another bushel of thatch into place. “Then until that time, I will control my enthusiasm.”
Hakon frowned, but held his tongue.
Chapter 24
The first snowfall came in the middle of Blotmonath, or Blood Month, named for the slaughtering of the animals that could not be fed through the winter, and the subsequent preserving of the meat. The men finished the new hall as billows of fresh snow gathered on the ground, and the families that had crowded into Sigurd's hall split their numbers between the buildings.
Hakon spent the fleeting daylight hours helping the people in whatever tasks he could find. In return, they taught him to fish through holes cut in the ice, and to hunt wearing long wooden boards they called skis on his feet. He learned the art of ale-making from some of the older women, and how to make sleds from the children. When the bay near Sigurd's estate froze, the men taught him how to tie horse-bone skates onto his boots and push himself across the ice with long poles crafted from branches. This last was especially popular among the wager-happy Northmen, who raced on these skates every free moment they could find. Never one to turn down a friendly challenge, Hakon joined in their sport, and learned just how solid and painful ice could be.
As the Yule drew nearer, the snows came more frequently and the winds picked up. The sun vanished behind an unyielding curtain of gray, so that twilight shrouded even midday. The bitter cold of winter drove the rugged Northerners indoors, where they passed the long hours tanning hides, mending sails and clothes, and making seal and walrus skin ropes. After the chores ended, they played board games and told stories late into the night while sipping on mulled wine, mead, and ale and listening to the wind and the northern spirits howl.
Hakon found himself on many a winter night warmed by alcohol and entranced by the images the skalds and simple storytellers created with words. Their stories painted a world that was at once familiar and totally foreign to Hakon. At certain times in the midst of a story, Hakon smiled with the recollection of some place, then frowned in confusion as unfamiliar characters entered the story. The fact that others in the room nodded in agreement or understanding was all the more disconcerting to Hakon, especially since he was their king and leader. Yet it was through these stories that Hakon reacquainted himself with the history, the people, the myths, and the legends of the Northern world; however awkward that reacquaintance might be, it helped him close the gap between foreign boy and local king.
One especially long night, an old woman recounted a tale of King Harald's witless love for a Finnish woman called Snaefrid. While she spoke, Hakon struggled to picture the sire he had seen only three times in his life as the handsome young man this woman described. He could not envision his father swimming in a lake, or riding at breakneck speed through the countryside. Nor could he visualize him on the hunt, awing his men with his feats of bravery. Hakon saw only a dour, aging father decrepit and chair-ridden with weight.
“Look!” called one of the younger guests, interrupting the woman's story.
Hakon followed the boy's pointing finger to the southern wall. At first, because of the smoke, Hakon could make out nothing. But as his eyes adjusted, he too saw it—a soft green glow reflecting off the shields. He blinked, thinking his eyes had betrayed him. The glow persisted and became more pronounced.
“The green lights,” someone called.
A woman stood and lifted the shutter covering the window on the northern wall. As she did, a brilliant emerald hue stretched across the floor, then climbed up the walls of the hall to the ceiling rafters, where it illuminated even the darkest corners with its radiance.
Hakon gasped and fell to his knees. He had never seen such strangeness, and all his mind could think was that Judgement Day had arrived. He fumbled for the chain that hung around his neck and yanked the cross from beneath his tunic. Those who saw him laughed and shook their heads.
“Stand up and put that cross away,” instructed Sigurd from the corner of his mouth. “You have nothing to fear.”
Abashed, Hakon stood slowly, though his knees continued to shake. “What—what is it?”
“Something that happens quite often in the North. Come with me and I will show you.”
Ignoring the snow that still fell, the people gathered outside the hall to gaze at the swirling green lights in the northern sky. Hakon peeked timidly upward from the doorway.
Sigurd tugged at Hakon's elbow. “Come.”
Drawing a deep breath, Hakon followed Sigurd outside. His legs sank up to his knees in the deep drifts around the hall, making each step a struggle. “I have never seen such a wonder.” A cloud swirled from his lips as he confessed this to his host. “What is it?”
Nearby, Egil glanced sidelong at him and shrugged. “Some say it is Thor casting his lightning bolts at the Finns. Others, like the godi, say it is a portent of some kind.”
“A portent of what?”
“Whatever suits their fancy,” Egil grumbled.
“What do you believe?”
“I do not know what to believe, Hakon. I only know what I see.” Egil stared at the green sky, his eyes distant as he conjured some vision in his mind. “I have been to the land of the Finns many times, and even there, these lights appear far to the north. If it is Thor casting his lightning, then the Finns are not his targets. As for a portent—” he shrugged “—mayhap. But it seems to me that godi see portents in everything.” Egil scratched his bearded chin. “When I was young, my mother used to say that they are the lights of Odin's hall. That sometimes, when the light and clouds and stars move just right, the Alfather gives us a glimpse of the hero's fate. Seems as likely to me as Thor throwing his bolts at the Finns.”
“Do you believe that is where you will go when you die?” The question stumbled from Hakon's quickly numbing lips in a cloud of warm air.
Egil glanced at him, then back at the phenomenon. For a long time, he stood as if frozen by the cold, saying nothing. “It is what I have been taught to believe, if that is what you are asking.”
Hakon turned and looked at Egil. The older man's beard had already stiffened with frost, giving it the appearance of a frozen waterfall. Hakon shook his head. “That is not what I am asking. I want to know what you believe.”
Egil shrugged, but did not look a Hakon. “I am a Northman and a warrior. I have lived my life believing that my battlefield deeds will earn me a place in Odin's hall. But as I grow older, it becomes harder for me to reconcile what is with what should be.”
Hakon's brow lifted. “I do not understand.”
“You see, boy, I fou
ght many battles at your father's side and knew him as a great warrior and a wise king. If any man deserved to drink the mead in Valhall with Odin, it was him. But he died as a woman would, in his bed; so if the stories are true, he will spend the rest of time rotting in Hel's frozen world. Hardly the fate of a hero.” He spat a clump of yellowish phlegm onto the snow. “Now, you take Erik. A great warrior as well, but honorable, no. He would just as soon stab his best friend in the back as kill an enemy. Hardly a hero, in my opinion. Yet, according to the myths, he is worthy of Odin's hall because of his battle prowess, and if he dies in battle, then that is where he's headed. Hardly seems fair, does it?”
“No,” said Hakon, “it does not seem fair.”
“Now, you ask me if I believe in Odin's hall, Valhall? Yes, I believe in it. But I cannot say it is where I want to go, knowing that Harald is not there.”
Hakon could think of nothing to say or do in response to the depth of emotion in the man's words.
Egil broke the silence with a grunt. “Enough of this sentimentality. Let us go inside before we freeze to death.”
Hakon agreed with a nod, then followed Egil back to the hall.
Chapter 25
The Yule came to the land of the Northmen, and Hakon again found himself alone and tested in his beliefs.
A Hogmanay ceremony preceded the first day of Yule feasting. Despite Hakon's objections, Sigurd invited many of Trondelag's nobles to help him sacrifice for the end of northern darkness and the return of spring's sun. These nobles now stood alongside Sigurd and Hakon in reverent silence before the small temple that Sigurd had recently had constructed for the ceremony. Spindly-legged Asbjorn stood just to the left of Sigurd. Kar of Gryting stood to Hakon's right. The others, most of whom Hakon remembered from the assembly at the Frosta field, fanned out in a semicircle from there. Behind them, onlookers stood shoulder to shoulder and craned their necks for a better view of the temple in which the Hogmanay sacrifices would take place.
The temple stood in a small meadow not far from Sigurd's estate. It was of simple design: three walls and a thatched roof. Within the structure stood a flat stone altar fronted by four poles, each carved in the likeness of a god: Odin the Alfather with his one all-seeing eye; Thor the Giant-killer, holding his hammer Mjollnir; Frey the Fertility God with his oversized phallus; and Njord, Frey's father, God of Wind and Sea, with his beautifully-carved feet.
Like the others, Hakon did not speak, although his silence stemmed from other sources. Fear, anger, disappointment, frustration, and other emotions too numerous to count gripped him. From the moment Sigurd mentioned the sacrifice, Hakon had dreaded this moment. He was not so naïve as to miss its political and spiritual purpose. Events like these would play a critical role in his fight for support. Still, the mere fact that he stood before this sacrificial altar contradicted all that Hakon believed in, and all that he hoped to achieve. He was almost glad that silence was compulsory; he did not trust himself to speak anyway.
From the back of the field, a black-cloaked godi approached. Hakon glimpsed pale, almost translucent skin in the shadows of his hood. In his ancient, claw-like hand the godi clutched a rope that he used to pull a thrall-woman, a horse, a cow, and a goat through the onlookers to the temple. As they passed, the onlookers reached out and touched them, as if that mere touch might transmit the power that resided within them.
Hakon caught Sigurd's eye and beseeched him through a shake of his head to end the pathetic display. Sigurd responded with a paternal pat on Hakon's shoulder. To Hakon it felt condescending. He bit his lip and turned away, disgusted.
Slowly, deliberately, the godi led each creature to a different post. The woman he tied to Odin's post, the cow to Thor's, and the horse and goat to Njord and Frey's respectively. As Hakon eyed the woman, pity knotted his stomach. He had seen her many times, but had never paid close attention to her until this instant. She was of middling age, with weather-beaten skin and course, tangled hair. Her eyes were dark and flat, devoid of hope. Yet beneath it all, Hakon saw a hint of beauty that spoke to whom she had been before coming here, and who she might have become, had she never been enslaved.
When all were firmly tied, the godi pulled a long, curved knife from under his cloak and lifted it to the sky. Like the snowflakes that fell from the surrounding trees, it twinkled and glinted in the half-light of the winter day, and drew an appreciative sigh from the gathered crowd. The snow crunched as Hakon shifted his feet, fighting the urge to rush the altar and knock the blade from the old man's hand.
The godi laid the blade on the altar, then retrieved from the folds of his cloak a large wooden bowl. This he also placed on the altar before lifting the blade. The godi approached the woman and raised her head by her tangled brown hair. Hakon felt the spectators press against his back as they leaned forward to see the victim.
Hakon focused on the woman's face. Her eyes remained distant, but something about her face seemed strange. Hakon leaned closer and realized that her lips were moving. Was she praying? If so, to which god, or gods?
Hakon's mind reeled. Was she a Christian? Oh God, please …
The blade came down and sliced her throat from ear to ear. The woman's body tensed. Her eyes widened as the flesh of her neck parted and blood flowed from the gaping wound. Hakon closed his eyes against the sight, though he could not block the gurgling sound from his ears. When it finally died away, he opened his eyes again and saw her body slumped forward, the long tangles of her hair covering her face like a death shroud. With a casualness that sickened Hakon, the godi lifted the wooden bowl and hummed under his breath as her blood drained into it.
The animals sensed danger and tugged on their bindings. With the deftness of one accustomed to the procedure, the godi turned and, one by one, slit the throats of the beasts. His bowl filled with their blood. When the bowl was full, the godi passed it to two helpers, who held it while the godi stooped to retrieve a small pine branch. He dipped the branch into the bowl and, with a sudden flick of his wrist, he began splattering blood inside the temple, on the god-carvings, on the helpers, on the lifeless corpses at his feet. As he did, he invoked the various gods in a shrill, spine-chilling voice for the end of winter and the return of the sun, the calming of the sea, and the fertility of the earth.
The godi moved from the blood-splattered temple to the field, where he continued the procedure. Drops of blood dotted the upturned, smiling faces of the onlookers and speckled the pristine snow. Hakon watched in horror as some sucked on bloodstained fingers and others wiped the blood across their skin, creating macabre patterns on their faces.
As the godi turned toward him, Hakon stepped to his left in an attempt to avoid the flying blood. Sigurd grabbed his wrist and held him tightly. Unable to move, Hakon ducked his head to keep the blood from hitting his face. He prayed for deliverance from the evil standing before him and raining down upon him. He prayed for forgiveness for the people around him, for they knew not the extent of their sinful actions.
Finally the grotesque display ended. The godi disappeared into the trees. The crowd stood in rapt silence.
Though the day was cold, the chill that crept up Hakon's spine was of another sort. For a moment, he thought he might be going mad. Blood-speckled faces smiled at each other; sickening laughter rose in the air. Little children broke into wrestling matches on the gore-soaked ground. Nearby, a woman wiped a dot of blood from her cloak and licked it nonchalantly. This was as close to pure evil as Hakon had ever come.
Unable to stomach the sight any longer, Hakon pushed his way through the euphoric crowd. He had no destination in mind. All he knew was that he needed to escape, to get as far from this death field as possible. He did not notice Sigurd jogging to catch up to him until he heard the voice of his host booming from behind.
“Hakon. Stop.”
Hakon turned, though he did not trust himself to speak.
Sigurd stormed up to him and stopped within inches of his face, keeping his voice low so that others m
ight not hear. “The ceremony is not yet over.”
Sigurd's warning tone only fueled Hakon's temper. “I do not pretend to understand the ways of your people, Sigurd. You know full well what my beliefs are, and yet you mock me with your bloodthirsty display. Sacrifice all the animals and people you want, but never again do it in my presence.”
The scowl on Sigurd's face softened, but the brittleness in his voice remained. “Hakon. These men are energized by the killings you think of as senseless. It is important to them. I know you do not understand, but you live in a Christian world no longer, and you will have to harden yourself to these rituals.”
“I do not wish to harden myself to them. And I refuse to be party to that—that murder.”
“Then you will fail in your quest.”
The matter-of-fact words bit deeply, not just for their callousness, but for their bitter truth. Hakon fumbled for a smart reply, but found none. That his host was right angered Hakon all the more.
Seeing that Hakon had no retort, Sigurd turned and lumbered back toward the meadow.
“Damn you!” Hakon called after him. Sigurd kept walking, unfazed. “Damn this whole God-forsaken place,” he whispered to himself.
Not trusting himself around the others, Hakon strode back to the estate and found a quiet spot upon the snow-covered embankment that surrounded Sigurd's estate. From there he watched the long line of blood-splattered guests trudge through the main gates and into the hall where the feast would take place. Some noticed him and waved, unsuspecting of Hakon's foul mood. Others chattered excitedly, speaking of how well the sacrifice went and of the good fortune it would produce. Their euphoric banter seemed to ridicule the turmoil in Hakon's mind.
“You look like you have a thousand worries.”
Hakon looked over his shoulder at Toralv, whose black-bearded face was still speckled with the dried blood of the victims. Hakon grimaced and turned away, speaking to the air before him. “I have many things on my mind, Toralv.”
God's Hammer Page 18