Emma drank in the wise woman’s knowledge. In the Vikings’ world there was no judging God or tempting devil. Thor ruled over land, sky, and seafarers. He helped the humans hold the giants away from the outlying lands, and when he struck with his hammer, lightning flashed in the sky. Odin was the wise one who reigned in Valhalla. The white Heimdallr watched over the bridge Bifrost, and Frigg watched over the hearth.
They were mighty, unpredictable kinfolk, whom you had to stay on good terms with in order to triumph against the chaos that threatened to tear the world apart.
“Freya’s dísir protect the warriors. They are terrifying and powerful beings,” Beyla had said, looking at the white cliffs that rose from the sea.
When she said these words, Emma felt for the first time that the otherworldly presence was speaking to her. Like a mother feeling a baby quicken for the first time, like a fish in your belly, she felt the power of the dís within her.
You are mine.
The words were like a wind that sweeps howling over a deserted moor, and Emma willingly bent to the will of the dís who possessed her. When Emma was in the borderland between life and death, the mother of the universe, older than time itself, had blessed her. This was the strange witchcraft that had caused her to be reborn.
Beyla now raised her hands and invoked her mistress Hel to aid her in the offering she was going to make. The seeress’s face was painted with the death goddess’s symbols, so powerful that they glowed in the twilight.
“Eggthér, we will put out the fire,” she said softly. “Eggthér, we will put out the fire.”
The words caused the being in Emma to howl with anticipation. Soon, soon it would happen. She shivered when Beyla walked over to Megan, who was kneeling on the beach, bound and naked. She was one of the prisoners they had unloaded from the ship when they pitched camp, yet another gift to Emma.
Megan had screamed when they fetched her, prayed that God would rescue her from the devils who ripped off her clothes and raped her, again and again. Megan, who in the abbey had hit Emma and stuffed her cold fingers into all of Emma’s openings and called her a bastard, had ended up lying naked, bleeding, and broken on the ground, and Emma had found revenge sweet.
Megan now sat shivering in her own urine in front of Beyla, who raised the sacrificial knife and invited the goddess in. It was close now. The being inside Emma stormed with her hunger for blood.
“Dear, good God, save me from the devils,” Megan cried. “I beseech you, hear my prayer!”
Her big breasts swayed heavily against her belly as she twisted and turned, trying to get free, shadows and light dancing over her wide-open eyes. Emma moved in front of her with the bowl that would catch the blood.
Megan seemed to snap out of it, tears running down her cheeks.
“Good God, don’t let them do this to me,” she said, her voice trembling.
Emma smiled as the shadows darkened around her. Her mistress, the dís possessing her, was waiting to be set free. The power grew so mighty that she shivered.
“You’re the devil. I can see the demon in you,” Megan cried.
Emma laughed quietly as Beyla took up position behind the sacrificial offering and yanked her head backward so her throat was exposed.
“We give you this slave to serve you in the afterworld,” Beyla told the warriors who had died in the battle. Then she began reading the death spell. The light from the funeral pyre danced over Beyla’s painted face, so ghastly in its power. In one slow slice she slit open Megan’s neck, and the blood, the sacred, life-giving blood, pulsed into Emma’s bowl below.
The feeling of release was immediate. The powerful being within her drank the life force that flowed into the bowl and broke the fetters that had chained her in this world.
Beyla released her hold on Megan and let two warriors lift her onto the pyre, where she died, rattling and gurgling. The warriors brought their torches to the pyre and lit it ablaze with a roar.
Emma stretched out her arms as the storm raged within her body.
“Take this power and drink of its strength,” said Beyla. She dipped a sprig of maple into the bowl and splashed the blood over Emma, who was now enveloped in wind. The remnants of her that were human crumbled away and disappeared like dust as the unknown raged inside her.
“Tell me your name!” yelled Beyla.
The ground beneath her pulsed with a timeless heartbeat. The giants on the beach guarded the gates to the kingdom of Hel where the dead dwelled. Rán watched quietly as her nine daughters swam around her, screaming with hunger. The fire ogres greedily devoured the funeral pyre while the smoke rose to the sky where the gods twinkled like stars.
“Kára,” the being inside Emma bellowed as the wind transformed into a raging storm, tearing and tugging at all their clothes.
Insignificant and frail, Beyla knelt down, groveling before her feet. Beyla’s gray hair whipped around her face, and her cloak soared like a sail. The men shielded their eyes and cowered from the wind.
Kára pulled back, and the wind stilled around them. The waves that had pounded the beach grew calm. Emma collapsed to the ground, her body shaking from exhaustion. Kára still filled her mind, crowding Emma out and raging against her body’s weakness. It was like a snake had coiled itself around her head and body, chilly and damp, a superior power that tore her mind to shreds.
A moment later Beyla helped Emma sit up and leaned her against the cool stone.
“Withdraw, Mighty One, otherwise your vessel will break,” Beyla said calmly, stroking Emma’s cheek.
Kára howled inside Emma but pulled back, and suddenly Emma could breathe again. She wolfed down the air, wheezing, filling her lungs while Beyla hugged her and rocked her as tenderly as a mother.
“What’s wrong with her?” Palna asked, squatting down beside Emma, watching her with concerned curiosity.
Beyla stroked Emma’s hair and then tenderly kissed her head.
“Nothing. The gods have sent us what we prayed for, my brother. This is the dís who will save Valhalla for us.”
The straight tree trunks held up a light-green roof. Rays of sunlight cut through the leaves, like glowing spear shafts, down to the ground. It was covered with a thick carpet of leaves that muffled the horses’ steps as the line of warriors and carts followed the trodden path. A creek ran alongside, merrily laughing at their hardships.
The Alva Woods were widely known for their beauty but only now did Sigrid realize how singularly beautiful they were.
“There’s the old Gyrild memorial,” Ulf said, pointing to a tall painted stone bearing twisting runes so old they could no longer be made out. “So we’ll surely reach Uncle Rune’s place safely before dark.” He urged his horse on so it would keep pace with Sigrid’s mount, Buttercup. “It appears that Anund doesn’t have the courage to attack our hird,” Ulf said, relieved. “Have no worries, sister.”
Sigrid smiled wryly. Ever since they had left the farm, the warriors had been assuring her she was safe. But she was not afraid of Anund’s warriors or anything else anymore, not since the foremothers had embraced her. The unhealed skin on her wrist where she’d been tattooed still ached.
The intricate design showed lines enclosed in a circle, indicating how the Mistress sustained their world with both arms and legs. There was a smaller circle in the middle, representing the fertile, swelling belly as the source of all life. On either side there was an arrow: one pointed up, symbolizing the valkyries Freya sends into battle, and one pointed down, symbolizing Freya’s welcome to all family in the afterworld.
Kneeling in the sacred grove, groggy and surprised, Sigrid had come to when the tattoo on her wrist was almost complete. The concoction she had drunk had made her wander through the worlds, and Grandmother had said that she could never tell anyone what she saw. Sigrid couldn’t have put the bliss she had felt into words even if she’d tried. It was far too overwhelming.
When the tattoo was done, she returned to the estate, a full-fledged adult wom
an. The good-byes and tears of relatives and servants and even slaves had awaited her there. Saying good-bye to them all had been easy because she knew now that it was her destiny to leave.
I am safe in your bosom.
“I’m looking forward to taking a break,” she told Ulf.
Toste had been pushing them hard, and they had taken only one break. But they hadn’t spotted any of Anund’s men, and their journey through the woods and valleys had been peaceful.
Warriors rode around her, still ready for battle, but more serene than they’d been when they left the estate. They chatted as they walked or rode along on their horses. Axel wore a helmet that covered his entire head and nose, a chainmail byrnie that rattled over his leather armor, an ax in his belt, and a sword at his hip. Orm was next to him, wearing the same battle gear, but his horse also wore leather armor over his neck and chest.
The carts creaked as the oxen pulled them along the path, and Sigrid saw Jorun and Alfhild walking farther back in the long phalanx of carts and warriors. There were so many people you might think they were an army.
A squirrel watched the passersby with curiosity until it scurried up a tree trunk, just like Ratatoskr, who ran up and down the trunk of Yggdrasil, spreading hostile words among the world tree’s denizens.
Soon they would reach the ship, which lay moored at Toste’s brother Rune’s home. From there they would sail west across the open sea all the way to the Danish town of Lejre, the largest known trading post, where the great king Harald Bluetooth had one of his royal estates. Toste had business with the king’s men, and he wanted Sigrid to acquire the most beautiful clothing and ribbons she could find at the market.
“Anything you want, you will get,” he promised her.
Then they would sail north to Aros, where she would meet her future husband King Erik of Svealand for the first time, the man she had seen in her dream. She stroked the mark of Freya on her wrist, and her heart filled with love. This would truly be a grand tale to tell the son she was going to have.
A stag watched them from among the trees. She followed the animal with her eyes as it ran from them in long bounds, and then her eyes locked on to something dark moving through the trees. For a heartbeat she thought she could make out a woman with a painted face squatting on a stone. An instant later the vision was gone, and there was only the sunlit woods. Sigrid furrowed her brow as a sense of foreboding ran down her spine. Every forest was home to so many beings: forest dísir, the seductive hulders, the souls of unburied children called mylings, various nature spirits and wights, and beings for which there were no names.
“I saw something, over there,” Sigrid whispered to Axel and pointed into the trees.
“A spy?” he asked, moving his hand to the hilt of his sword.
Orm and the other warriors around her scanned the area vigilantly, ready for battle.
“Something else, a woman,” Sigrid responded.
Axel surveyed the woods as they proceeded. Something had changed. The birds that had welcomed the day earlier had quieted, and there was not an animal in sight. It was as if the forest was holding its breath in anticipation.
“I will gladly meet flesh-and-blood warriors, but supernatural creatures are another matter,” Axel murmured.
Heavy gray clouds were starting to block out the sun, and soon the travelers found themselves riding through a dark half-twilight. Buttercup whinnied uneasily and tossed her head. Sigrid shivered as her sense of foreboding grew. Something malevolent was watching her. She felt that clearly.
Keep me from evil, O dazzling, radiant Freya.
The warriors farther ahead began yelling to each other and pointing to a little hill shaped like a contorted monster that had tried to leap away, but was turned to stone instead. There was a gully below, and a thick gray fog was billowing over the edges, coming up from the bottom of the gully, like water boiling over from a cauldron.
The fog rushed over the ground with a speed that could not be of this world. All the horses started whinnying. Buttercup danced around so much that Sigrid could hardly stay on the horse’s back.
“Battle sorcery!” Alex yelled. “Close ranks!”
Orm pulled his sword as if that would help against the mists that were rushing toward them. The men surrounded Sigrid with their swords and axes raised. The next moment they were engulfed by the damp fog, and everything went quiet.
Axel, who was only an arm’s length away, looked like a shadow. The riders ahead of Sigrid seemed like dark patches in the gray. She clung to Buttercup’s mane as hard as she could, her heart trying to leap from her chest. The sounds of hooves and horses’ snorts sounded muffled. It was as if they were in some border region of the afterworld.
“The enemy will attack soon,” Axel said calmly.
They wanted to kill her. Sigrid held tight to her horse’s mane. They would cut open her belly and crush her skull. She wanted to throw herself to the ground and beg for mercy, but her body was immobile, frozen in fear.
“We’ll take the battle here,” Axel cried.
Two hands came around her waist. Someone lifted her off her horse, which fled into the mists, and then pushed her head down so she was squatting, surrounded by the backs of the Svea warriors as they formed a protective ring around her. Her legs trembled, and she could hardly keep herself upright as she listened in the mist.
A short whistle shot through the air, followed by a tormented moan and a heavy thud. Dark shadows appeared and disappeared in the fog. More screams could be heard now, both ahead of her and behind, followed by the ringing of blades striking each other.
“Stick together!” Axel yelled. “They’re going to try to separate us.”
Her heart hammered in her chest and fear made her sink to her knees. This was unacceptable. Sigrid took a deep breath and put her hand on the mark of Freya on her wrist, drinking in its power. She couldn’t let herself be eclipsed by fear when she needed her strength most.
I have faith. You will protect me, Vanadís.
A horse bolted past like a dís in the night. The warriors shot arrows into the fog. A shadow came out of nowhere and attacked one of the Svea men accompanying them. Twice their blades met before the shadow disappeared back into the fog again.
“I don’t see anyone,” Orm yelled tensely, striking at the blade of a warrior who quickly vanished into the gray.
Shadows flickered; men fought and then vanished into the mists. Like wasps they swarmed around the Svea, who protected her. They struck and pulled away, time and again. Sigrid closed her eyes.
Help me, Vanadís. You have to help me now.
She clung to the ground and felt her body calm down and her mind clear.
The enemy was surrounding them. They came from every direction, and she even heard them up in the trees. A nearby scream came from somewhere very close.
Sigrid clenched her fists and finally Freya gave her a flood of blessed rage, which rushed through her body and swept away her fear. Damn these warriors hiding in the fog, who didn’t have the balls to come fight them man-to-man. She was not going to die here, not now. Freya was protecting her. Sigrid got to her feet and stared into the fog.
“In the name of Freya, my foremother, I curse you!” she yelled so loud that all the warriors shot glances at her.
Sigrid raised her marked wrist to the sky and enjoyed the strength from her fury.
“Mother, come and aid your daughter! Vanadís, save me! I command you. Send the damned all the way to the caves of Hel.”
“Shut up, you’re attracting them this way,” a warrior warned her, but Sigrid’s fury was so strong that she would not be stopped.
“May you be cursed in the name of Vanadís!”
That very moment a gust of wind blew through the trees. It caressed her cheeks before picking up strength. Sigrid laughed out loud. Her prayer had been heard. Not even the darkest sorcery could keep the fog on the ground.
“Storm dís, I beseech you, show your power, and I will repay you amply.”
Sigrid didn’t have a chance to say any more words before the wind grew in strength. With her hair whipping her face, she watched the wind drive the fog away with its rage. It was a blessed miracle!
Cowardly fighters hiding in the fog couldn’t hide anymore. Easily identified by Anund’s mark, there they crouched just arm lengths away, shielding their unshaven faces from the dirt and leaves whipping around. The mother goddess had answered Sigrid’s call!
Sveas and Scylfings started mercilessly slaying Anund’s awestruck warriors. Orm lunged and beheaded a scarred warrior and then a moment later slit the throat of another. Sharp steel sliced people’s flesh as it hunted for new fodder. The Sveas’ armor dripped with blood as Anund’s warriors helplessly fell to their swords.
Spears were thrown at those who attempted to flee. As if propelled by the wind, the spears bored deep into the cowards’ backs.
Toste’s warriors came running with their swords raised, and Anund’s men could no longer put up any resistance.
Mighty goddess, thank you in all your strength for taking pity on me, your humble servant, in my hour of need. My life is yours.
The wind gave Sigrid’s cheek one last caress before fading away. She shivered and touched the mark on her wrist as the sun broke through the crowns of the trees and warmed the ground where the dying and wounded screamed in pain.
Father came running along the path, his armor hanging open and thumping against his chest, and his sword still in his hand. He slowed down, relieved, when he saw that Sigrid was uninjured.
“Where’s Ulf?” Sigrid asked him.
“Farther ahead, uninjured though the same cannot be said of many others,” her father responded gloomily with an approving look at Axel, who had not strayed from Sigrid’s side. “May the inglorious Anund be eternally damned for hiding behind a seeress’s sorcery. If the wind hadn’t picked up and driven away the fog, we would all have been massacred, blinded by Mist.”
The Unbroken Line of the Moon Page 9