The Yelling Stones

by Oskar Jensen

  The boy was frothing once again, windmilling his arms and trying to rise. Astrid was shouldered roughly aside as Odd and Bredi rushed to restrain him, each taking hold of an arm.

  Thyre stood up. ‘Awake!’ she said, in the imperious tone she had used before.

  At once, the boy snapped upright, quivering like a knife thrown point-first to the ground. Then he stumbled, slumped between his carriers, all tension fled from his body. His eyes opened again, and this time Astrid saw that they were normal. Large, dark, intelligent – but normal for all that. When he spoke, his voice was rough with the effort, yet pleasant enough otherwise.

  ‘Where am I?’ was all he said.

  ‘Jelling,’ replied Thyre. She paused. ‘Or possibly, at a path by a river – you’ve been relating a vision. Do you remember?’

  ‘Perhaps …’

  ‘The second man was, of course, the great god Odin,’ Thyre mused. ‘In all the stories, he travels in the disguise of a blind ferryman. And you, my liege,’ she said, turning to Gorm, ‘are famed as Odin’s man.’

  ‘That’s true enough,’ said Gorm. ‘The King of the Danes should worship the king of the gods.’

  ‘But what attacked him? An eagle?’ said Knut. ‘Who could that be?’

  ‘Haakon of Norway?’ said Haralt. ‘He’s already caused my friends a deal of harm. Or, of course, it could be just a boy dreaming about a bird.’

  ‘What about the other man?’ said Astrid. ‘The one with the funny crown?’ But her voice was small, and no one at the high table heard her.

  ‘The eagle could mean King Otto,’ said Knut, almost to himself. ‘The Saxon always seeks to rule the Dane.’

  ‘We don’t even know it’s an eagle,’ said Thyre.

  ‘Enough!’ rumbled Gorm. ‘Two paths for my kingdom, and Odin under attack: clearly, there is much to think on here. For now, my mind would move to other things. You have spoken for the gods, lad. Have you anything to say for yourself?’

  Astrid looked back at the boy. The discussion at the high table had given him a chance to catch his breath. He was visibly more confident as he spoke.

  ‘Honour to you, great Gorm,

  And good health to your hall.

  I’m brought before heroes,

  Borne on Odin’s longship.’

  ‘He’s a poet!’ cried Knut.

  ‘“Odin’s longship” – he means a horse,’ Gorm mumbled in delight, to no one in particular.

  The boy smiled.

  ‘Wise ears await my tale,

  Words to bring the spring forth.

  Come to pledge and praise you,

  Parched am I for malt-surf.’

  ‘Bring the boy ale,’ roared Gorm. ‘I find he has a tongue swift enough to merit much whetting!’

  ‘Very well put, o King of the Jotar,’ said the boy. A drinking horn was placed in his hand, full of a foaming liquid.

  Astrid, standing ignored at his shoulder, eyed it enviously. Not only was he hogging her father’s attention, but now he was being served before her – and she was a princess!

  ‘Share my beer horn? I’d deem it a favour.’ The boy turned to Astrid, offering the horn, eyes downcast.

  Astrid giggled nervously, and took a deep draught. Well, she thought, he did save me, after all.

  As if reading her thoughts, Haralt spoke. ‘It seems we owe you thanks, little skald, for getting this girl out of quite a mess.’

  ‘Why don’t you both join us at the table, and eat and drink your fill?’ said Queen Thyre, and turned to her husband. ‘Whatever size the debt this boy is due, it can begin with a meal, free from questions, can’t it?’

  Gorm, still chuckling to himself, nodded his assent, gesturing them forward with a sweep of one bony, jewelled hand. Now there were six at the high table: Astrid’s parents, her two brothers, herself … and the stranger.

  ‘Thanks for this, sweet Thyre; thoughtful is your judgement,’ said the boy, all in a rush. Only it sounded more like ‘thoughtful is your thudge-um’ because his mouth was full of food before he finished speaking.

  THREE

  ‘You’re not used to such fare, I’ll wager,’ growled Knut, the older prince. The boy had eaten all that was placed before him – sausage, salt beef, bacon, and bowl upon bowl of vegetable soup – and drunk his horn of ale, and now he was clearly in trouble, hands clasped over a tight-stretched stomach.

  Astrid, pleasantly full herself, looked at him fondly. He was going to be sick, she decided, if not now then later, and his face should surely be white – only his skin was so strangely dark …

  ‘No, Knut Gormsson, I’m not used to it,’ the boy said.

  ‘Well at least it’s got you talking normally, and not in verse,’ said Haralt. ‘And it appears you hold an advantage over us. For you have our names, whilst for all we know, you’re a thrall or an outlaw!’

  Haralt laughed, showing his teeth, two of which were chiselled across and filled with a deep blue dye after the current fashion. They’d started calling him ‘Haralt Bluetooth’ already – a nickname Astrid thought he preferred far more than being known as simply the son of Gorm. Now she shuddered. She knew that laugh well, and there was not a trace of kindness in it.

  ‘My name is Leif, lord,’ said the boy.

  ‘Leif what?’

  ‘Just Leif. And –’ here the boy smiled through his discomfort – ‘the story of my missing name is well worth hearing. If I could maybe step outside for a moment first?’

  ‘The bogs are that way, lad,’ said Knut, pointing down the hall. More laughter spread at the speed of his flight.

  Told you so, thought Astrid.

  Soon Leif returned, walking at a more respectable pace. Astrid had a proper look at him. He was as slim as her, but his face was all hard lines where hers was soft curves, and he had a shock of thick dark hair that rose, unruly, from his head. He was dressed in a plain but well-cut tunic belted with twine, and rough woollen hose: he could easily pass for the son of a farmer or craftsman. Not a thrall, she decided. But not a noble either. Where had he learnt to speak so well?

  ‘Let’s have your story then,’ said Knut.

  Gorm sighed in anticipation. Haralt sank back, and took out his ivory toothpick. Astrid sat close to her mother and leant in, half hoping for an arm around her shoulder. Thyre smiled distractedly, patting Astrid’s shoulder for a moment, then turned back towards Leif. The boy took a deep breath, and began.

  ‘You ask me, Haralt Gormsson, why I lack a father’s name. More than that, I lack a father. Whoever my parents were, when I was born I must have struck them as strange, for they left me in the forest, that the wolves might have something sweeter than deer for their supper that night. But it was no wolf that found me, so I’m told, but the red-furred sheep-destroyer. A she-fox poked and chivvied me, and rolled me to her earth. It may have been she had no kits, and took me for her own.

  ‘There I dwelt, beneath the ground, and suckled for a time. And there was fox’s mischief in her milk, for one day, so they say, I must have set off by myself. A tiny, naked, hairless thing, rooting round in the dark. I crawled, not up, but down that hole, pushing soil aside. I wandered long past roots and rocks, surprising worms and busy moles, driven ever deeper, seeking after warmth …

  ‘Well, when I was deeper than a baby’s ever been, I found my progress halted by a crumbling wall of loam. Either I didn’t much care for going back up, or the soft, cloying feel of that soil between my fingers gave me pleasure, but I soon broke it apart, and, blinking, pushed on through …

  ‘Only to tumble down, down, down! Down I fell through a cavern higher than this hall, and such a sight it must have been, a muddy babe flung from the skies, plummeting ever faster, till – plop! – I landed in a churn of milk!’

  Knut snorted.

  Astrid leant forward. ‘A churn of milk? Under the ground?’

  ‘Hush, child,’ said Gorm, and motioned for Leif to continue.

  ‘Stubby hands fished me out, dripping wet and white. And i
t’s this that forms my earliest memory: black and bearded faces, knobbled noses, pebbled eyes and toothy grins. Dwarfs!’

  ‘Dwarfs, indeed!’ said Haralt. ‘It’s a wonder this addled speech-maker didn’t claim to fall into the mead of Kvasir – the magic drink that gave poetry to the gods.’ But Haralt too was shushed by Gorm.

  ‘It’s they who raised me,’ said Leif. ‘And taught me rhymes, and stories too, and showed me how to work metals with my hands – but not too well, for fear that I’d teach others, and their secrets would be out. Uri and Skirvir taught me this craft, and Thulinn and Fjalarr taught me to speak. Solblindi helped me to walk in the dark, and Hilding showed me the ways of the sword. Naef gave me my name, Leif, which – as you know – means “descendant”. For, so he said, he’d never seen such a descent as when I fell from the roof! If I wanted any other name, he said, I’d have to win it for myself.’

  ‘That’s wise,’ said Knut.

  ‘Fourteen summers passed, and I saw not one,’ said Leif, ‘but lived always in that cavern. That’s where I got this swarthy skin of mine, from being raised by black dwarfs underground.’

  ‘And then what? You dug your way back up again?’ said Haralt with a yawn.

  ‘Ingi and Lofarr, and Alfrigg, who rules there, deemed it the time for my living with men. They had a task for me to do besides; it’s they who wish to honour you, King Gorm. First, I was sworn to never show the way, and then they led me by a secret path, and set me on the road to your domain.’

  ‘The dwarfs acknowledge me?’ said Gorm.

  ‘Yes – and your right to rule in all the North.’

  ‘All the North!’ cried Gorm. ‘Hear him! And why should I not still crush the Swedes, and Haakon of Norway, beneath my mighty heel?! I’m not so old as all that, after all.’

  ‘In other words,’ said Haralt, ‘you’ve come up here, a nameless child with a tall story, to chance your arm at court. You might as well have promised us the sky’s allegiance, or that of the birds.’

  ‘You know, Haralt,’ chuckled Knut, ‘those would be fine gifts indeed, if one could prove it!’

  ‘But, lords, I can. I bring a gift,’ said Leif.

  Astrid gasped. She just couldn’t help herself. From nowhere, so it seemed, the boy had brought forth a sword. How, just how, had he done that?

  Men were on their feet now, down the length of the hall, clapping at the trick, or crying witchcraft. Knut snatched up the blade.

  ‘Weland,’ he called to a man on the benches, ‘come take a look at this! I’ll swear you’ve never seen its like. Nor could you craft its twin, for all your skill!’

  The man Weland, Jelling’s smith, came up to the table. As he leant across Astrid to take the sword from Knut, she caught the reek of sulphur on his clothes and wrinkled up her nose.

  Weland whistled. ‘If any other man had spoke those words, Knut Gormsson, and about any other weapon, he’d find its point between his ribs for the offence. But this! I’ve never seen its equal. It must have been just such a blade as this that Reginn forged for Sigurd long ago.’

  He laid it down along the table, and at last Astrid could see properly.

  Well, what did she expect – it was a sword. But she knew something about swords, and couldn’t help echoing Weland’s whistle. An uncommonly bright, blueish blade, with a wicked looking edge, and the finest hilt she’d ever seen. Inscribed along the blade and picked out, all in gold, were strange and subtle characters, flowing and flicking.

  ‘These are not runes,’ she said, ‘nor Christian letters.’

  ‘Dwarf words,’ breathed Knut, his eyes shining. ‘They must hold great power.’

  Gorm brought his skeletal fist crashing down on the table, and they all leapt back from the bouncing blade, snatching away their fingers.

  Astrid risked a quick glance into her father’s face. If the impact had pained him, as she felt sure it had, his rheumy old eyes gave nothing away.

  ‘Let it be known I accept this gift,’ said King Gorm. ‘Boy, I name you Skald-Leif for your skill with words. You are to have a seat on my benches here, between Weland the smith and Arinbjorn the Unlucky, and the sword shall hang in the royal bedchamber.’

  Gorm clutched at the weapon, and shuffled from the hall. Thyre gave a tight-lipped smile to her children, and to Leif, before hurrying after her husband.

  Knut turned to the boy, patting him on the back. ‘Tell you what, little “Skald-Leif”. Since you’re so good with wolves, why don’t you come along on my hunt tomorrow, eh? Then maybe you can make up a poem about my skill! Who knows, you might even kill one yourself …’

  Knut broke off, puzzled, to find Leif sprawled on the floor. The back-pat from the prince’s huge paw of a hand had knocked him flying.

  ‘… Or, maybe you can just tag along and watch,’ Knut finished.

  Haralt’s laugh echoed from the beams above; even Astrid hid a grin. The feast was over.

  FOUR

  By rights, thought Astrid, she should have slept for days after her encounter with the wolves – an adventure wholly overshadowed by Leif’s story, and the sword. She felt dog-tired in all her slender limbs. But she had not slept. Wolves, dwarfs and brown-faced boys with bare-faced tales ran round and round her head.

  How much of what he’d said was true? But then, hadn’t he rescued her, back there at the river? Hadn’t that earned him her trust? And exactly what had happened, when the black wolf sprung?

  A quiet scurrying broke in on her thoughts. That would be Nisse, the hall-spirit who lived above her own room. She shared it during the winter with three older girls: Guma, Bekkhild, and Hyndla. The four of them slept in one of two side-chambers off the head-end of the hall. Knut and Haralt had the other, and her parents’ room was behind the throne itself. As far as she knew, Nisse was the only male spirit; those above the main hall were all female. Astrid always left milk out for the strange, unseen little creature. In return, he chased away rats, patched up holes in the roof, and – she was fairly sure of this – spied on the girls when they were getting undressed. The feast must have made him restless, and now his noise was threatening to wake the others.

  ‘Astrid?’ moaned Guma, still three-quarters asleep.

  The three girls were technically her handmaidens, daughters of some of Gorm’s jarls, over-wintering at Jelling. The jarls were the foremost men in the kingdom, so the girls were more like sisters than servants.

  But more like witches than either, thought Astrid. None of the others left Nisse anything, and in revenge he sometimes dropped acorns on their heads to keep them awake. Astrid encouraged this. The girls were the bane of her life, and could do with a sleepless night now and then.

  But right now, that was the last thing Astrid wanted, and she glared up into the rafters. She herself had given up all thoughts of dropping off – she had to put her head straight. But to lie awake, in that musty room, hemmed in by snores? Never! She had to get outside, where there was room to breathe. And if Guma woke up, she’d be sure to stop her.

  Softly, Astrid rose to her feet, tiptoed to the far wall and tugged on her supple goatskin boots. Her overdress – blue-dyed wool lined with black sable – was slung across a chest, and now she pulled it on over her linen shift, wincing at the clinking of the brooches.

  The only door led to the main hall: a man was posted there to guard the girls at night. But behind the chest, hidden by a heavy tapestry of tangled serpent-beasts, was a loose plank in the oaken outer wall. Astrid had long since worked at it with her knife, till she was sure of swinging it aside when escape was called for. One quick squeak of wood and nail, a rush of icy air, and she was free. Now, she could think about –

  ‘Astrid?’

  This time, she was sure, it was Leif who called – she’d heard enough of his voice that evening to know it by now. He was somewhere ahead of her, to the east, in the darkness. He must be by the stones.

  Of course, he would be. No one new to Jelling could resist their pull.

  ‘Can you fee
l them, Astrid?’ he called.

  She padded forward through the pale snow, gulping at the crisp night air. By the snow’s light, reflecting that of the wan moon above, she caught sight of his slight, shadowy form, closer than she’d thought. Maybe now she’d have some answers.

  ‘Hello, Leif,’ she said.

  He seemed to accept their presence out there, in the dead of night, without question.

  She didn’t. ‘What are you doing up?’

  Instead of answering her, he pointed at the three silent shapes, looming before them. ‘Tell me about the stones,’ he said.

  ‘Not until I’m satisfied,’ she said. ‘Was all that true, what you said earlier? Were you really raised by dwarfs?’

  ‘Your father took me at my word,’ he said, still not turning to look at her. ‘I’d hope that would be good enough for you.’

  ‘And your vision – the river, the two paths, all that?’

  ‘In truth I cannot really remember. It was more than a dream. But more than that … I cannot say. I have never had such a trance before.’

  ‘Next question then. The sword you brought my father, from the dwarfs: is that the only reason you came to Jelling?’

  ‘Are you questioning my motives, Astrid?’

  ‘Not really. I’m just curious. Still, if you don’t want to talk openly, I’m sure you can find someone else to tell you about the stones …’ She made as if to leave.

  ‘No, Astrid, wait!’ He caught her arm. But it was his dark eyes that held her at his side.

  ‘I had my own reasons, I admit it,’ he said. ‘It’s a chance to make my name in the world. Gorm is the richest and most powerful king in all the North, and the skald who sings his praises might do very well for himself, as well as for his king. But I’m not just out for an easy life. They say Egil Skallagrimsson, the greatest skald in all the North, has sailed for Iceland for the last time. That means there’s a chance for younger poets to win fame for themselves, and where better to try than at Jelling?’