The Yelling Stones

by Oskar Jensen

  She nodded. ‘That’s why I’d be here, if I were you,’ she said. ‘And besides, you had that vision, whatever it was about. Maybe the gods sent you as a warning of some sort.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ he said. ‘I don’t much care for being sent to do another’s will. I’d far rather forget that trance, and simply be myself.’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean,’ she said. ‘All right, one last question, then I’ll tell you what you want to know. So: of course you know my brothers’ names. The swaggering sons of the King of the Danes, everyone’s heard of them. But no one outside Jelling knows who I am. How did you find out my name?’

  ‘I guessed,’ he said. ‘Astrid means “god’s beauty”. It seemed likely.’ Well. She hadn’t been expecting that.

  ‘They’re … they’re the Yelling Stones,’ she said, to cover her embarrassment. ‘They’ve been here forever, or near enough, since before the first kings anyway, and they’re meant to be three troll-women, caught by the sun in the middle of a spell. That big-boned one at the east of their circle was a queen, I think, and the short one nearer us, and the tall one to the right, her sisters. They were shouting words of power – immense power – when they froze, and Jelling’s been a source of power ever since.’

  Without even looking, Astrid felt Leif’s eyes upon her. He was paying very close attention … She flushed, and hurried on. ‘That’s why father built his hall here: people have always been attracted to their magic. See that mound, off to the left? The land’s earliest rulers lie buried there. Hundreds of years ago, chieftains made Jelling their home. Now we’ve come here, and Father’s made himself king: it’s no coincidence. All this wealth – the hall, stables, baths and farms – you think it came from nowhere? My grandfather used to sleep with his pigs to keep warm before we came to Jelling.’

  Astrid was gesturing around them as she spoke. ‘And then there’s this broken arc of rocks – see there, and there, under the snow?’

  She pointed to a toothy string of stones, smaller than the three before them, but ancient nonetheless. ‘The giants built a stone ship here, in the old days, to sail over Bifrost Bridge and see the gods. Or something like that – I had all this off old Bragi Bragisson. He was the last skald here, before you, but he died some years back; that’s why you’ve got the job …’

  She broke off, and blushed, suddenly aware of how long she had spoken, and how poor it must have sounded to the poet at her side.

  She snuck a look. Leif was glowing with excitement.

  ‘Strange things happen at Jelling,’ she went on, encouraged. ‘We get more than our fair share of elves and witches round here: they can’t resist the lure of the stones. And Bragi – the poet who died – had this one story of an old king, buried in the mound. At every full moon, he said, the light catches the stones just so, and the whole place becomes so awash in magic that the old king’s corpse – his draugur – gets up and hammers on the mound to be let out! I half believed him at the time.’

  She half believed it even now. A long-dead king, black and massive, stirring from his rest inside the earth – it was deliciously horrible.

  ‘I’ve never seen a dwarf, though,’ she said. ‘What are they like?’

  ‘I can feel the stones, Astrid!’ He must have not heard her question. ‘Is the magic still strong, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Hah!’ She couldn’t help but shudder. ‘Just ask old Bragi Bragisson!’

  ‘I thought you just said he was dead?’ said Leif, frowning.

  ‘But can you guess how he died?’ Astrid was starting to enjoy herself. ‘Of course, I was just a little girl, but I’ll never forget it.’

  ‘So tell me.’

  ‘It’s always been said that the strength of the stones is there for the taking. That one day, someone strong enough to stand between the stones and brave the yell will come to Jelling and make himself their master. The one who harnessed that power would have the whole of the North at his feet.’

  ‘To stand between the stones? But that’s easy,’ said Leif, and stepped forward.

  The weird grey shapes were monstrous in the moonlight, and their dark embrace was a step away from Leif when Astrid leapt on him.

  ‘Stop!’ she cried, hauling him back from the silent circle.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ He looked angry, she thought, angry enough that he might hit her, and there was hunger in his expression.

  ‘That’s just what Bragi tried to do,’ she explained. ‘He spent his whole life here, learning all there was to know about the Yelling Stones, making up poems … some say he even spoke to them. And they spoke back, I mean. At last, he thought he was ready. He thought he could withstand the stones. All he did was stop up his ears with beeswax. I’ll never forget that day.’

  Astrid’s eyes were bright at the memory. She lowered her voice. ‘It was at midsummer, seven years ago. In front of all the court, Bragi walked between the stones.’

  ‘So what happened, Astrid?’

  She smiled in spite of herself. Never had anyone hung on her words like this before – let alone a proven poet. But then the memory rose before her again, and the smile sagged. She had been standing just where she was now … Back then, of course, she’d been only seven …

  ‘Bragi strode into the middle of the circle. The sun was shining; he was dressed in red; the whole court was happy, because the old skald had pledged any power he might win to Father, before he started. For an instant he stood there at his ease; it seemed like nothing could go wrong.’

  She sighed. ‘But he couldn’t do it. For all his years of work, Bragi couldn’t master the stones. First, he frowned. And then he clapped his hands to his ears …’

  It was odd. She was almost enjoying this. But it had been one of the worst moments of her life. For weeks afterwards she’d had hot, sweaty nightmares and run to her mother. And now here she was, spinning the tale to the strange boy.

  ‘… And then he clapped his hands to his ears. I could see his face crumple and crack like dry wood in a fire. He sank to his knees, writhing, eyes popping from his head. He looked as lost, as ugly, as a bawling baby left on a hillside.’

  ‘Didn’t anybody try to help him?’

  ‘What, and hear whatever he was hearing? Not likely! Anyway, in a few moments it was all over. First his skin went red as his cloak. Then it blistered. And then he was on fire, no longer a man but a flaming torch of flesh. I was forced back inside with the other children. But later, I saw what they dragged out from the circle – and I mean dragged; they used boar-spears to reach in and hook it out – and it was a charred and blackened lump, twisted as a tree root, no bigger than a year-old lamb. That’s the power of the Yelling Stones: the power, and the danger.’

  Astrid blinked as she finished, surprised to see how much lighter the night had become. It was nearly dawn.

  For a moment, neither spoke, but Leif’s eyes never left her own. His jaw had dropped open.

  So, she thought. That’s what it’s like to be really listened to. To be a skald.

  At last, Leif pulled himself together. ‘One day,’ he said, thrusting out his narrow chest, ‘I’ll step between those stones.’

  She smiled, and turned to go.

  ‘I will,’ he said. ‘I mean it!’

  ‘Oh, I believe you,’ she said, walking back to the hall.

  ‘I will though.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘No, really! Really, I will …’

  FIVE

  ‘Astrid! Time to be up!’ It was Bekkhild, of course. Who else could sound so annoying, so early in the morning? ‘We’ve got so much sewing to do!’

  A few moments later, Astrid slunk out of the hall. She hoped that, amid the general morning bustle, no one would notice Bekkhild’s whines until she was well away. Her foot still throbbed from where she’d kicked the girl’s shins, but it was a small price to pay for such an immense feeling of satisfaction.

  She emerged into brilliant sunlight: the second day of spring was more awa
sh in promise than the first.

  Fat chance of me sitting around sewing, she thought. If Leif’s going to watch the wolf hunt, then so am I, and I’d like to see anyone try and stop me.

  She paused, thinking of how she was in fact always stopped on these occasions. If Leif saw her hoisted over Knut’s shoulder like a sack of straw, and tossed back in the hall, she’d never live it down. No; this called for subtler tactics.

  ‘Ah, Astrid, there you are.’ It was Haralt. She groaned. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be working on the new tapestry for the great hall?’ he said. ‘You know – to replace the one Knut threw up over at midwinter and they couldn’t get the stains out.’

  ‘Er …’ She was caught, fair and square.

  ‘Me? Throw up? I don’t remember that.’ It was Knut, strolling from the stables, leading a harnessed stallion.

  Haralt turned to him. ‘I’m not surprised, since you passed out a moment later!’

  ‘Me? Pass out? I don’t remember that.’

  This was Astrid’s chance. As her brothers began to argue, she slipped into the now deserted stable block. Good: no one had noticed. Hestur was alert, champing, aware that something was up. Tearing strips from a discarded rag, she bound them tight around his hoofs to muffle their sound. There. He was snow-white, her cloak was dark as a tree trunk – with luck, they’d blend in with the forest.

  A mewling came from the darkness of the stall. It was Valvigs, her gyrfalcon, tethered to his perch. Astrid’s heart went out to the beautiful white bird – her best friend, after Hestur – and she slipped the leather jesses from the perch to her wrist. He’d never forgive her if she left him behind: Valvigs hated being shut up for the winter every bit as much as she did.

  ‘Just keep quiet, all right? If you go blowing our cover, then no mice for you for a month!’

  Then she waited for her brothers to end their quarrel, the words carrying clear to where she hid.

  ‘Well,’ said Haralt, ‘and where are your beaters? Your nets?’

  Knut spat loudly. ‘Real men don’t need nets. Besides, I’m not sure Thorbjorn and the rest would know what to do with them; I’d spend half my time untangling my own men. No: spears and sharp senses are all we need, isn’t that right, lads?’

  A chorus of gruff cheers told Astrid the hunt was assembled.

  ‘But surely,’ Haralt persisted, ‘some kind of system …’

  ‘You speak more like a Christ-man than a true Dane, brother! But you’ll learn in time. Which is just what I’ve not got: any more time. Thorbjorn, is everyone ready?’

  ‘Aye, sire!’ She knew the speaker: he was Knut’s right-hand man. Big. Brave. A little dim.

  ‘And, Leif, have you got that horse facing the right way yet?’

  ‘I’m working on it, lord,’ came the reply.

  ‘Then we ride!’

  The troop thundered out of the yard, sweeping south towards the forests where she’d met the wolves the day before. Astrid peered round the stable door, waiting for Haralt to storm off – it would never do to be caught a second time, especially with her brother smarting from Knut’s careless words.

  When all was clear, she swung herself lightly into Hestur’s saddle, settled Valvigs on her wrist, and sped after the vanishing hunt.

  Astrid dismounted as quietly as she could, looping Hestur’s bridle round a young birch and then flattening herself against its trunk. A few trees away were the group: a dozen burly warriors … and Leif.

  ‘We’ll leave the horses here, and hunt on foot,’ Knut was saying. ‘Oh, Leif, I see you’re a step ahead of me!’

  She sniggered: not for the first time, the boy had fallen from his horse. Not that he was the only one having trouble keeping his seat; all the beasts were snorting, tossing their heads, half trying to buck their riders from the saddle. What was it they could smell on the chill spring wind?

  Knut led off his hunting party, leaving a man behind to guard the horses. Astrid felt a pang at abandoning Hestur. ‘But let’s face it, you weren’t that much use yesterday, were you?’ she whispered. ‘I’ll make you a hot mash later, for your patience.’ And she crept off after them, the falcon on her arm, padding lightly between the thickening trees.

  She felt at home here. The northern sky, cut into shards by still-bare trunks, was hard and bright as sapphire, the rolling ground a soft blanket of white. You could imagine the forest going on forever, with never a wall to close you in.

  But it didn’t last. The more she crept uphill towards the gorge, the darker it became. A dank grey mist was rising from the ground.

  Soon she had trouble keeping the others in sight. Soon, it was like walking through cold porridge. This was never a natural mist.

  Astrid was quite alone. The crack of a branch underfoot went right through her. Which way was she to go?

  If she let her eyes drift, she could see shapes. Figures. Grey forms lurking in the corners of her eyes that would dart away when she turned. Not quite people, not quite animals. Beings made of mist, of magic, of her imagination.

  That didn’t make them any less frightening.

  Silence; total silence. Even the sound of her own breathing was swallowed in greyness.

  A dozen wolves could be watching her through the fog, and the first she’d know of it would be fangs ripping out her throat.

  And then Valvigs erupted off her wrist: a shocking noise and flurry of wings, tumbling her to the ground. By the time she’d picked herself up, heart hammering, the falcon was nowhere to be seen.

  Astrid took a few steps in what she thought was the way she’d come. Then she stopped.

  Surely, those were other footsteps, other twigs cracking, a little way off. Or maybe ‘footsteps’ was the wrong word …

  She drew her knife, more for comfort than from a belief it would really help, and hurried on. There was something keeping pace with her, a steady pad pad pad, somewhere out there, in the mist.

  No, not keeping pace – coming closer.

  She ran, not caring where she went, tripping over roots and blundering into branches. The unseen thing was gaining – it was ahead of her – and with an impact that drove the breath from her body, she ran right into –

  ‘Leif?!’ She was furious. ‘I could have stabbed you! Why didn’t you call out?’

  ‘Astrid?’ The boy was doubled over, winded. ‘Astrid? Oh gods! I thought you were a wolf!’

  ‘So did I … I mean, I thought you were … oh, it doesn’t matter. Where are the others?’

  ‘I lost them,’ he said. Once again, he had accepted her presence without question. ‘Or they lost me. This mist – I swear it makes you see things. Big, brown things. Astrid, are there bears in this wood too?’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘“Oh” what?’

  ‘Knut’s men – they’re berserkers.’

  ‘Berserkers?’

  ‘Wild, landless men – Knut’s personal bodyguard. They say that in the heat of battle, berserkers get so out of their minds with bloodlust that they throw off their human shape, and become real bears! That’s why they’re such feared warriors. I’ve never known whether to believe it – I’ve never got to see a battle …’

  ‘So you think that they were the things I saw?’

  ‘It would explain a lot. They live by themselves at a place called Hellir, not far east of Jelling. Too long at home and they get restless, and I’m not let near them.’ She wiped the beading mist from her brow. ‘Knut will have to take them raiding abroad this summer. He keeps saying he’ll go to Ireland, but he’s been putting it off these last few years.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He wants to be here in case … in case anything happens to Father.’

  ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘Hush!’ She clapped a hand to his mouth. Leaning close to his ear, Astrid whispered: ‘Don’t. Look. Round.’

  Instantly he turned, and they both saw.

  While they had been talking, six grey wolves had slunk up out of the fog, and were sitting on an outc
rop of rock, watching the pair.

  ‘I’ve got this spear,’ said Leif, looking doubtfully down at the shaft in his hands.

  ‘Not much good against six of them, is it?’ said Astrid, one eye on him, one on the wolves. Two of them dropped lazily down from the rock, trotting out to either side, red tongues lolling.

  Leif raised his spear.

  ‘Leif,’ said Astrid, her stomach sinking still further. ‘You’re pointing it the wrong way round.’

  ‘What kind of wood is it?’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The spear. What kind of wood?’

  ‘Um, ash, I think. But –’

  ‘Offspring of the World Tree,’ he muttered. ‘Kin of Ask and Embla. Giver of the sweet sap and wounding war-needle. Take this, my spark, and fly!’

  The haft of the spear burst into flame, and Astrid’s eyes bulged. ‘How …?’

  Leif leapt at the nearest wolf, waving the burning spear like a madman. She had to admire his courage. His technique, not so much.

  ‘You just … ugh … have to speak to things properly, that’s all,’ he said, as he swung the brand. ‘It’s nothing special. Take that! And that! I don’t know how the magic works … it’s never worked this well …’

  He was right. One by one the great grey brutes dropped their heads, turned tail and fled the flame, yowling like puppies. Leif sank back and dropped the spear, which had burnt up almost to his hands. It hissed itself out in the snow.

  ‘I simply try and understand a thing – a branch, a stream – and ask it what I want,’ he explained, panting. ‘And if I’m lucky, then it grants my wish. It works a lot better here at Jelling. I’m sure that you could do it if you tried …’

  ‘I –’ said Astrid. Then she stopped.

  A huge black wolf – surely, the one she’d seen by the river – was hauling itself over the crest of the rocks.

  And this time, on its back, one hand grasping the living, hissing snakes that served as the wolf’s reins, there rode a witch.

  She was grey, naked, hairy, and great tangles of hair coiled round her head. She wore an air of savagery so thick, so primal, that it might have been a cloak about her shoulders. In her wildness, and her fury, she was at once the ugliest and most beautiful thing Astrid had ever seen.