The Sorrow of Odin the Goth tp-7

by Poul Anderson

  “You’ve ever been rash,” said the chieftain, not unkindly though trouble weighted his tones. “Your belief that mere feelings between man and woman are enough to make a sound marriage—it speaks ill of your judgment. Left to yourself, what might you undertake of unwisdom?”

  Rand war gasped—Before he had time to grow angry, Hathawulf laid a hand on his shoulder and went on, smiling a bit sadly: “I meant no insult there. I only want to make you think twice. That’s not your wont, I know, but I ask that you try. For Swanhild.”

  Randwar showed he could hold his tongue.

  When they came back, Swanhild sped into the courtyard. She caught her brother’s knee. Her eagerness tumbled upward: “Oh, Hathawulf, it’s all right, isn’t it? You said yes, I know you did. Never have you made me happier.”

  The upshot was that a huge wedding feast swirled and shouted through Heorot that autumn. For Swanhild there was but one shadow upon it, that the Wanderer was elsewhere. She had taken it for given that he would hallow her and her man. Was he not the Watcher over this family?

  In the meantime Randwar had sent men east to his holdings. They raised a new home where Embrica’s had been and staffed it well. The young couple journeyed thither in a splendid company, Swanhild carried over the threshold those evergreen boughs that called on Frija’s blessing, Randwar gave a feast for the neighborhood, and there they were.

  Soon, however, much though he loved his bride, he was often away for days on end. He rode around the Greutung countryside, getting to know the dwellers. When a man seemed of the right mind, Randwar would take him aside and they would talk about other matters than kine, trade, or even the Huns.

  On a dark day before solstice, when a few snowflakes drifted down onto frozen earth, hounds barked outside the hall. Randwar took a spear at the doorway and stepped forth to see what this was. Two burly farmhands came after, likewise armed. But when he spied the tall form that strode into his courtyard, Randwar grounded his weapon and cried, “Hail! Welcome!”

  Hearing that no danger threatened, Swanhild hurried out too. Her eyes and hair, beneath a wife’s kerchief, and the white gown that hugged her litheness were the only things bright, anywhere around. Joy lilted from her: “Oh, Wanderer, dear Wanderer, yes, welcome!”

  He trod nigh until she could see beneath the shadowing hat. She raised hand to parted lips. “But you are full of woe,” she breathed. “Are you not? What’s wrong?”

  “I am sorry,” he answered in words that fell like stones. “Some things must stay secret. I kept away from your wedding because I would not cast gloom over it. Now—Well, Randwar, I have traveled a troublous road. Let me rest before we speak of this. Let us drink something hot and remember earlier times.”

  A little of his olden interest kindled that eventide, when a man chanted a lay about the last campaign into Hunland. In return he told new stories, though in less lively wise than of yore, as if he must flog himself to do it. Swanhild sighed happily. “I cannot wait till my children sit and hear you,” she said, albeit she did not yet have any on the way. She was the least bit frightened to see him flinch.

  Next day he led Rand war off. They spent hours by themselves. Later the Greutung told his woman:

  “He warned me over and over of what hatred Ermanaric bears us. Here we are in the king’s own tribal country, he said, our strength not firm while our wealth is a glittering lure. He wanted us to pull up stakes and move away—far away, clear to West Gothland—soon. Of course I would have none of that. Whatever the Wanderer is, right and honor are mightier. Then he said he knew I’d already been sounding men out about getting together against the king, to withstand his overbearingness and, if need be, fight. The Wanderer said I could not hope to keep this hidden, and it was madness.”

  “What did you answer to that?” she asked half fearfully.

  “Why, I said free Goths have the right to open their minds to each other. And I said my foster parents never have been avenged. If the gods will not do justice, men must.”

  “You should hearken to him. He knows more than we ever will.”

  “Well, I’m not about to try anything reckless. I’ll watch for my chance. More may not be needful. Men often die untimely; if good men like Tharasmund, why not evil ones like Ermanaric? No, my darling, never will we skulk off from these our lands, that belong to our unborn sons. Therefore we must make ready to defend them; true?” Randwar drew Swanhild to him. “Come,” he laughed, “let’s begin by doing something about those children.”

  The Wanderer could not move him, and after a few more days said farewell. “When will we see you again?” Swanhild asked as they stood in the doorway.

  “I think-” he faltered. “I can’t—Oh, girl who is like Jorith!” He embraced her, kissed her, let her go, and hurried off. Shocked, folk heard him weeping.

  Yet back among the Teurings he was steely. Much was he there in the months that followed, both at Heorot and widely among yeomen, chapmen, or common fieldhands, workers, sailors.

  Even coming from him, that which he urged upon them was naught they were quick to agree to. He wanted them to make closer ties with the West. They did not merely stand to gain from heightened trade. If woe came upon them here—carried, say, by the Huns—then they would have a place to go. Next summer, let them send men and goods to Frithigern, who would safeguard those; and let them keep ships, wagons, gear, food standing by; and let many of them learn about the lands in between and how to get through unharmed.

  The Ostrogoths wondered and muttered. They were doubtful about a fast growth of trade across such distances, therefore unwilling to gamble work or wealth. As for leaving their homes, that was unthinkable. Did the Wanderer speak sooth? What was he, anyhow? He was often called a god, and did seem to have been around for a very long time; but he made no claims for himself. He might be a troll, a black wizard, or—said the Christians—a devil sent to lure men astray. Or he might simply be getting foolish at his high age.

  The Wanderer kept on. Some who listened found his words worth further thought; and some, young, he kindled. Foremost among the latter was Alawin at Heorot—though Hathawulf grew wistful, while Solbern hung back.

  To and fro the Wanderer went on earth, talking, scheming, ordering. By autumnal equinox he had gotten a skeleton of what he wanted. Gold, goods, men to attend these were now at Frithigern’s seat in the West; Alawin would go there the following year to push for more trade, regardless of how young he was; at Heorot and numerous other households, dwellers could depart on short notice, should the need arise.

  “You have worn yourself out for us,” Hathawulf said to him at the end of his last stay in the hall. “If you are of the Anses, then they are not tireless.”

  “No,” sighed the Wanderer. “They too shall perish in the wreck of the world.”

  “But that is far off in time, surely.”

  “World after world has gone down in ruin erenow, my son, and will in the years and thousands of years to come. I have done for you what I was able.”

  Hathawulf’s wife Anslaug entered, to say her own farewell. At her breast she suckled their first-born. The Wanderer gazed long upon the babe. “There lies tomorrow,” he whispered. Nobody understood what he meant. Soon he was walking off, he and his spear-staff, down a road where lately fallen leaves flew on a chill blast.

  And soon after that, the terrible news came to Heorot.

  Ermanaric the king had given out that he intended a foray into Hunland. This would not be an outright war, such as had failed before. Hence he did not call up a levy, but only his full troop of guards, several hundred warriors well-known and faithful to him. The Huns had been wasting the borders again. He would punish them. A swift, hard strike should at the least kill off many of their cattle. With luck, it might surprise a camp or three of theirs. Goths nodded when that word reached their steadings. Fatten ravens in the East, and the filthy landloupers of the steppe might slouch back to wherever their forebears had spawned them.

  But when his troop
had gathered, Ermanaric did not lead it so far. Suddenly, there it was at Randwar’s hall, while the homes of Randwar’s friends stood afire from horizon to horizon.

  Scant was the fighting, as great a strength as the king had brought against an unwarned young man. Shoved along, hands tied behind his back, Randwar stumbled forth into his courtyard. Blood trickled and clotted over his scalp. He had killed three of those who set on him, but their orders were to take him alive, and they wielded clubs and spearbutts until he sank.

  This was a bleak evening, where wind shrilled. Tatters of smoke mingled with scudding wrack. Sunset smoldered. A few slain defenders sprawled on the cobbles. Swanhild stood dumb in the grip of two warriors, near Ermanaric on his horse. It was as if she did not understand what had happened, as if nothing was real save the child that bulged her belly.

  The king’s men brought Randwar before him. He peered downward at the prisoner. “Well,” he greeted, “what have to say for yourself?”

  Randwar spoke thickly, though he held his battered head aloft: “That I did not fall by stealth on one who had done me no wrong.”

  “Well, now.” Ermanaric’s fingers combed a beard turning white. “Well, now. Is it right to plot against your lord? Is it right to slink about heelbiting?”

  “I… did none of that.… I would but ward the honor and freedom… of the Goths—” Rand-war’s dried throat could get no more out.

  “Traitor!” screamed Ermanaric, and launched into a long tirade. Randwar stood, hunched, belike not hearing much of it.

  When he saw that, Ermanaric stopped. “Enough,” he said. “Hang him by the neck and leave him for the crows, like any thief.”

  Swanhild shrieked and struggled. Randwar threw her a blurred look before he turned it on the king and answered, “If you hang me, I go to Wodan my forefather. He… will avenge—”

  Ermanaric shot forth a foot and kicked Randwar in the mouth. “Up with him!”

  A haylift beam jutted from a barn. Men had already thrown a rope over it. They put the noose about Randwar’s neck, hauled him aloft, and made the rope fast. He struggled long before he swung free in the wind.

  “Yes, the Wanderer will have you, Ermanaric!” Swanhild yelled. “I lay the widow’s curse on you, murderer, and I call Wodan against you! Wanderer, lead him down to the coldest cave in hell!”

  Greutungs shuddered, drew signs or clutched at talismans. Ermanaric himself showed unease. Sibicho, perched on horseback beside him, yelped: “She calls on her witchy ancestor? Suffer her not to live! Let earth purify itself of that blood she bears!”

  “Aye,” Ermanaric said in an uprush of will. He rapped forth his command.

  Fear more than aught else gave haste to the men. Those who had held Swanhild cuffed her till she staggered, and booted her out into the middle of the yard. She lay stunned on the stones. Riders crowded around, forcing their horses, which neighed and reared. When they withdrew, nothing was left but red mush and white splinters. Night fell. Ermanaric led his troop into Rand-war’s hall for a victory feast. In the morning they found the treasure and took it back with them. The rope creaked where Randwar swung above that which had been Swanhild.

  Such was the news that men bore to Heorot. They had hastily buried the dead. Most dared do no more than that, but a few Greutungs felt vengeful, as did all Teurings.

  Rage and grief overwhelmed the brothers of Swanhild. Ulrica was colder, locked into herself. Yet when they wondered what they could do, even though tribesmen of theirs had swarmed to them from widely about… she drew her sons aside, and they talked until the restless darkness fell.

  Those three entered the hall. They said they had decided. Best to strike back at once. True, the king would be wary of that, and keep his guard on hand for a while. However, by the accounts of witnesses who had seen it ride past, it was hardly larger than the band which crowded this building tonight. A surprise onslaught by brave men could vanquish it. To wait would give Ermanaric time he needed and was doubtless counting on—time to crush every last East Goth who would be free.

  Men bellowed their willingness. Young Alawin joined them. But suddenly the door opened, and there was the Wanderer. Sternly, he bade Tharasmund’s last-born son abide here, before he went back into the night and the wind.

  Undaunted, Hathawulf, Solbern, and their men rode forth at dawn.

  1935

  I had fled home to Laurie. But next day, when I let myself into our place after a long walk, she was not waiting. Instead, Manse Everard rose from my armchair. His pipe had made the air hazed and acrid.

  “Huh?” I could only exclaim.

  He stalked close. I felt his footfalls. As tall as I and heavier-boned, he seemed to loom. His face was expressionless. The window at his back framed him in sky.

  “Laurie’s okay,” he said like a machine. “I asked her to absent herself. This’ll be plenty rough on you without watching her get shocked and hurt.”

  He took my elbow. “Sit down, Carl. You’ve been through the wringer, plain to see. Figured you’d take a vacation, did you?”

  I slumped into my seat and stared down at the rug. “Got to,” I mumbled. “Oh, I’ll make sure of any loose ends, but first—God, it’s been ghastly—”

  “No.”

  “What?” I lifted my gaze. He stood above me, feet apart, fists on hips, overshadowing. “I tell you, I can’t.”

  “Can and will,” he growled. “You’ll come back with me to base. Right away. You’ve had a night’s sleep. Well, that’s all you’ll get till this is over. No tranquilizers, either. You’ll have to feel everything to the hilt as it happens. You’ll need full alertness. Besides, there’s nothing like pain for driving a lesson in permanently. Most important, maybe—if you don’t let that pain go through you, the way nature intended, you’ll never really be rid of it. You’ll be a haunted man. The Patrol deserves better. So does Laurie. And even you yourself.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked while the horror rose in a tide around me.

  “You’ve got to finish the business you started. The sooner the better, for you above all. What kind of vacation could you have if you knew that duty lay ahead? It’d destroy you. No, do the job at once, get it behind you on your world line; then you can rest and start recovering.”

  I shook my head, not in negation but in bewilderment. “Did I go wrong? How? I filed my reports regularly. If I was straying off the reservation again, why didn’t some officer call me in and explain?”

  “That’s what I’m doing, Carl.” A ghost of gentleness passed into Everard’s voice. He sat down opposite me and busied his hands with his pipe.

  “Causal loops are often very subtle things,” he said. Despite the soft tone, that phrase shocked me to full awareness. He nodded. “Yeah. We’ve got one here. The time traveler becomes a cause of the selfsame events he set out to study or otherwise deal with.”

  “But—no, Manse, how?” I protested. “I’ve not forgotten the principles. I never did forget them, in the field or anywhere, anywhen else. Sure, I became part of the past, but a part that fitted into what was already there. We went through this at the inquiry and—and I corrected what mistakes I had been making.”

  Everard’s lighter cast a startling snap through the room. “I said they can be very subtle,” he repeated. “I looked deeper into your case mainly because of a hunch, an uneasy feeling that something wasn’t right. It involved a lot more than reading your reports—which, by the way, are satisfactory. They’re simply insufficient. No blame to you for that. Even with a long experience under your belt, you’d probably have missed the implications, as closely involved in the events as you’ve been. Me, I had to steep myself in knowledge of that milieu, and rove it from end to end, over and over, before the situation was clear to me.”

  He drew hard on his pipe. “Never mind technical details,” he went on. “Basically, your Wanderer became stronger than you realized. It turns out that poems, stories, traditions which flowed on for centuries, transmuting, cross-bree
ding, influential on people—a number of those had their sources in him. Not the mythical Wodan, but the physically present person, you yourself.”

  I had seen this coming and mustered my defense. “A calculated risk from the outset,” I said. “Not uncommon. If feedback like that occurs, it’s no disaster. What my team is tracing are simply the words, oral and literary. Their original inspirations are beside the point. Nor does it make any difference to subsequent history… whether or not, for a while, a man was there whom certain individuals took for one of their gods… as long as the man didn’t abuse his position.” I hesitated. “True?”

  He dashed my wan hope. “Not necessarily. Not in this instance, for sure. An incipient causal loop is always dangerous, you know. It can set up a resonance, and the changes of history that that produces can multiply catastrophically. The single way to make it safe is to close it. When the Worm Ouroboros is biting his own tail, he can’t devour anything else.”

  “But… Manse, I left Hathawulf and Solbern bound off to their deaths… Okay, I confess attempting to prevent it, not supposing it was of any importance to mankind as a whole. I failed. Even in something that minor, the continuum was too rigid.”

  “How do you know you failed? Your presence through the generations, the veritable Wodan, did more than put genes of yours into the family. It heartened the members, inspired them to become great. Now at the end—the battle against Ermanaric looks like touch and go. Given the conviction that Wodan is on their side, the rebels may very well carry the day.”

  “What? Do you mean—-Oh, Manse!”

  “They mustn’t,” he said.

  Agony surged higher still. “Why not? Who’ll care after a few decades, let alone a millennium and a half?”

  “Why, you will, you and your colleagues,” the pitying, implacable voice declared. “You set out to investigate the roots of a specific story about Hamther and Sorli, remember? Not to mention the Eddie poets and saga writers before you, and God knows how many tellers before them, affected in small ways that could add up to a big final sum. Mainly, though, Ermanaric is a historical figure, prominent in his era. The date and manner of his death are a matter of record. What came immediately afterward shook the world.