The Yelling Stones

by Oskar Jensen

  ‘You,’ said Astrid. ‘You made the mist!’

  How she had been brave enough to speak, she couldn’t imagine, but she needn’t have bothered. The witch ignored her, extending a taloned finger towards Leif.

  ‘Boy!’ she said, with a voice like an eagle’s. ‘Finally, I find you! I have message.’

  ‘For … for me?’ he said.

  Astrid could only stare.

  ‘Yes, you! It is you who matters.’ The witch leered at him, nodding for emphasis. ‘It is you who will make the choices.’

  ‘Choices?’

  ‘Three choices. The first will be right. The others … will be wrong.’

  ‘And is that the message?’

  ‘No! Is just what I can see. Any can see this! Your fate hangs about you like crows on carcass!’

  ‘And why are you here?’ said Leif.

  He was doing this very well, Astrid thought, especially as the witch seemed quite insane.

  ‘Same as you,’ said the creature. ‘Same as all. I seek power: old power of Yelling Stones. Something comes north, something new. Something very bad. I flee here. We all flee. Only magic of stones can save us.’

  ‘And is that the message?’

  ‘No!’ she shrieked. ‘Message is this!’ And she spat, full in his face, so the spittle splattered his eyes.

  Instantly Leif fell to the ground, screaming.

  ‘Not again,’ muttered Astrid. He was flailing and frothing just as before, gripped by another fit.

  ‘As for you,’ said the witch, at last turning to Astrid.

  ‘Yes?’ said Astrid, eager to be part of events.

  ‘Is no message! You not matter.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, not sure whether to feel relief or disappointment. ‘Well, in that case, I’ll just …’

  ‘Yes,’ cackled the witch, twitching her reins. ‘In that case … I eat you!’

  ‘Oh,’ said Astrid. Well, that settled it: definitely not relief. And the black wolf sprang.

  SIX

  Its heavy front paws bore her to the forest floor, claws rending her cloak. Hot breath, and slobber on her forehead, and she braced herself against the end.

  Then came a high, savage cry, and she thought it was the witch. A tremendous blow above, a howl from the wolf, and the weight was off her chest. Astrid rolled to her feet, knife raised, to see the brute scrabbling on the ground, lashing at something in its face. Valvigs her falcon had struck out of nowhere, and its talons were in the wolf’s eyes.

  The witch lay where she had fallen, slow to rise. Astrid yelled like a mad thing, hurling herself upon the creature, and buried her knife to the hilt in the witch’s heart.

  She would never forget the feel of the blade sinking deep into flesh, shearing off bone; the weight, the resistance, the slow sag beneath her.

  It was done. With an eerie rattle, the witch died, and at once the grey mist lifted. The world was bright and clear again. Astrid wheeled round, ready to rush to the aid of her falcon.

  ‘I call mine!’ It was Knut’s voice, and a spear whirred out of nowhere, transfixing the wolf with a dull squelch.

  Valvigs flew to Astrid’s wrist and she petted his head lovingly. ‘All the mice for you, my love.’ She found that her voice was still shaking with the shock of it all.

  Knut’s men were all around her now, several bearing dead wolves on their burly shoulders. She couldn’t help but notice that only Knut carried a spear, and many of the wolves had what looked like claw marks on their pelts.

  ‘That’s the last of them, I reckon,’ said Knut. ‘Curse that mist …’ Then he saw her.

  ‘Astrid? What are you doing out here?’

  ‘Oh, Knut!’ She couldn’t help it, but flung herself upon her brother, sobbing hard.

  ‘There there,’ he said, bemused. ‘What happened, little sister? Was there a witch?’

  Dumbly, she nodded.

  ‘And where is it now?’

  Astrid looked round. The body had vanished.

  ‘Hey ho,’ sighed Knut. ‘That’s always the way of it. You’d think it wouldn’t be too much to ask, just one little body to make Haralt eat his words …’

  Leif screamed again, and Astrid freed herself from Knut’s awkward embrace. Wiping her tear-stained face on one torn sleeve, she ran to her friend, remembering how her mother had addressed him last time.

  ‘Speak, Leif,’ she said, mimicking Thyre’s clear, commanding voice. ‘Tell us what you see.’

  Just as in the hall, the reply was harsh and grating. ‘A green field,’ Leif said. ‘The sun is low down in the west. Sheep are all around – some white, some black. I move among them, left and right. And now I hear a shepherd’s call: he stands before a gate.

  ‘The sheep come trotting in. The first few through the gate are white; he strokes their backs and smiles. A black sheep next – I see a knife – he strikes! The black sheep bleats its last. He has killed it. The same thing happens to sheep after sheep. The white go through unharmed; the black are slain.

  ‘The sun is setting now. And something thrums high up above: the beat of dreadful wings.

  ‘I look down. I myself am black. Am I to be killed like the rest? The awful shepherd’s nearer now, and from my throat – a bark! If I’m a dog, then I can save the sheep: can drive them back from that foul gate to where it’s safe … and dark …’ His granite voice descended into sobs.

  ‘Awake!’ said Astrid, and, for good measure, slapped him hard across the face. Then, repentant, she helped Leif to his feet. He still seemed half asleep.

  Knut was scratching his head. ‘I wish we had old Bragi here; I’m no good with visions. And it’s nothing like the last one he had …’

  ‘Both of them had beating wings,’ said Astrid. ‘And I wonder if the two paths across the river have anything to do with the two sorts of sheep. The witch said Leif had three choices to make, you see – maybe this is one of them.’

  ‘Me, I know what choice I’d make if confronted with a sheep,’ said Knut. ‘Eat it! All this hunting’s gone and made me hungry. Pull yourself together, little poet, and we’ll make it back in time for dinner.’

  Thyre was livid. ‘How dare you sneak off, risking life and limb?!’ She bore down on Astrid, tall, grim, blue eyes flashing. ‘I’ve never known such foolishness. And after your “adventure” yesterday as well! Well I tell you this, young lady: never again! Henceforth, you will stay at Jelling. You may not stray a bowshot from the hall without my leave, or Knut’s, or your father’s. And don’t even think about joining in tonight’s feast. Go to your chamber at once!’

  Astrid flung herself down on her bed, ears burning. Her mother hadn’t been this cross since that time, two years ago, when she had caught Astrid making friends with thralls. At least tonight she’d escaped a whipping …

  ‘I’d rather have been whipped,’ she thought, ‘than shut up in here while the others celebrate.’

  Her chest ached where the wolf had struck her, and her eyes were sore from trying not to cry. She snuck a glance at the three other girls, who were being made to keep her ‘company’. Bekkhild, Guma and Hyndla sat around moaning, gossiping and weaving, whilst a desultory rain pattered down outside. Doubtless they’d rather Astrid had been whipped as well …

  And tonight of all nights. This might be the final feast before all the winter guests returned home, if the snow melted in the rain. More than a hundred men, who had spent the icy months at Gorm’s hall, would scatter to their farms and villages. And that meant only one thing: a really big party. Even Nisse had abandoned his post, and snuck off to celebrate with his fellow spirits: whole strings of sausages had been known to vanish if you turned your back on nights like these, snatched by the little imps.

  Doubtless, Leif was at the centre of the fun, reliving their encounter with the witch and picking over his second vision, which seemed to make him so important in everyone’s eyes. Why did he get to be the one ‘who matters’? She never mattered.

  All the same, I do like him, sh
e thought. She was still not sure she trusted him. All right, he had twice saved her from wolves. But on the other hand, Leif and the wolves had turned up at the same time … And the witch had spoken to him, and left him unharmed. And then again, there were the visions, and the magic he had used to make the spear burn …

  ‘I don’t trust him,’ she decided. ‘But he’s brave, he’s different, and at least he’s willing to talk to me.’

  The three girls looked round. Then they tittered.

  I’ve finally done it, thought Astrid. I’ve started thinking out loud. For the love of Thor, what’s wrong with me? She glowered at the girls until they shut up and went back to their work.

  Feeling a little better, Astrid took up her harp. It wouldn’t do to just sit here mooning over a boy she didn’t even trust.

  A simple, handheld thing of oak and catgut, its six strings stretched across a bone bridge, this harp was her one real pleasure throughout the long winter – or, as now, when it rained and she was stuck inside. She sat cross-legged, her left hand cradling the strings from behind, dampening and releasing them as she played.

  First, with the nimble fingers of her right hand, she plucked the six open strings almost at random, checking the tuning, scattering a wayward hum of notes across the room. None of the others so much as cocked an ear.

  Next, she tried a scale or two, her cold and stiffened fingers warming and unbending to their task. A duff note here, a rogue buzz of string there, but the music was coming. Astrid tossed her head. Then her fingers began to trick up and down, left hand dancing a spider’s pattern, tips caressing the backs of the strings, right nails teasing out a succession of chords. Up and down, up and down, rise and fall, the breath of a ghost. She began to work a steady thrum, the progression moving forward, moving back, not yet a tune …

  Again she glanced up. Still no reaction from her companions. Or – could they be asleep? All of them? She kept up the regular, looping lull of notes. Yes – all three were breathing deeply, drooped over their needlework.

  Smiling, Astrid forgot the sleepers, forgot everything. Now, above a steady thrum of two low notes, she started to pick out a high, faltering melody. Light, tingling notes fell like droplets upon the room. Unconsciously, her playing had fallen into the rhythm of the rainfall, and now it fell deeper, the tune becoming the rain. She kept returning to one interval – such a sad pairing, the heart-stopping little leap of the tune nestling to the heart of the rain’s melancholy …

  Astrid paused for a moment, to rest her aching fingers. She could hear the revellers nearby, joking and shouting across the hall. But no rain. It had stopped upon the instant.

  Frowning, she began again. Knowing full well how foolish it was, she kept one ear out for the sound of renewed rainfall. And it came, matching the time of her playing.

  Pure chance, she thought. And besides, the tune was boring her. Raising the tempo, Astrid concentrated on the lower strings, wresting a deeper, fuller sound from the harp.

  The rain increased from a shower to a downpour, lashing against the walls of the hall. Hardly daring to believe, Astrid softened her plucking, muting the low string. Instantly, the rain slackened.

  She worked the music up again, beginning to add full strums to her picking, and heard an answering rumble from outside. She risked a swift upwards rake of all six strings with her thumbnail. It was met with the crash of lightning. She tried it again. Again the deafening strike, almost directly overhead!

  In a sudden fright she flung down the harp, and wrapped her arms around herself. What had Leif said about his magic? ‘I simply try and understand a thing … I’m sure that you could do it if you tried.’

  What if her playing worked like his words?

  Then she realised that, though she no longer even held the instrument, the storm still raged. Her three companions were awake, and cowering together in the middle of the room. She listened a while longer. Eventually the din faded back into rain, and then died away altogether. Then began again, a gentle patter.

  It was just weather. She was a silly girl, and it had nothing to do with her. Of course it didn’t. Of course.

  SEVEN

  Astrid woke with the sun, and ran out into a world made new. The storm had sluiced away the snow, and underneath was the true spring. The grass was green enough to make her champ like a horse; bare-washed trees were budding into crisp, free air. Rivulets and trickles ran all around, plashing and pockling like delicate music. Even the Yelling Stones themselves shone wet and clean as river pebbles. It was hard to believe that they could harbour any danger.

  Her mood had changed with the weather. Far from begrudging Leif his newfound glory, she wanted to find him, and talk it all over. What were the visions really getting at? What had the witch meant about choices? What was this bad, new something, that was heading north towards them?

  And then again, what about the rain, and her harp-playing? She wanted to open out her arms to him and say, ‘See this spring? I made this, last night, with my music!’

  Just north of the stones rose the low, ancient burial mound she had pointed out to Leif two nights before. And on the other side of that stood a sacred grove of tall trees. Already, catkins had appeared, fountaining from birches and hazels, and hopeful clusters of purple flowers bloomed upon the Wych elms.

  Astrid strolled towards them. She could see a shadow moving among the strangely godlike forms, and was sure it would be Leif.

  It wasn’t.

  ‘You again?’ called Knut. ‘Got a taste for trees, eh?’

  She cast down her eyes, expecting him to brush past as usual, only to see that he had stopped, and was smiling at her.

  ‘That was brave, what you did yesterday,’ he said. ‘Just don’t let Mother hear I said so!’

  She glowed at the unlooked-for praise.

  ‘I tell you what,’ he went on. ‘Since you’re so good with a blade, why not come and help me and Thorbjorn make the sacrifices?’

  ‘Sacrifices – oh, you mean, to give thanks for the end of the winter?’

  ‘That’s right – and, more importantly, to gain goodwill for any battles we fight in the coming year!’ He rubbed his hands in anticipation. ‘We’ll be making offerings to Thor, and to Odin.’

  ‘But doesn’t Father normally offer the tribute to Odin?’ she said.

  Knut stiffened. ‘Between you and me, sister, he’s had a hard winter: we won’t see Father up and about so much this year.’

  Both were silent for a moment.

  ‘So,’ she said at last, eager to keep the mood bright and busy. ‘What are we sacrificing?’

  ‘The same for each god – wouldn’t want to go offending either of them. It’s traditional to offer up the spirits of male animals. Thorbjorn’s fetching them now. So that’ll be a cockerel for each …’

  Astrid nodded again. She reckoned she could butcher a cockerel.

  ‘… Two rams …’

  Rams? Just what had she let herself in for?

  ‘… And, of course, a pair of oxen!’

  She grinned weakly.

  Knut was beaming. ‘You’ll need two things. A knife …’

  ‘Got it.’ She held up her blade.

  ‘… And a bucket.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Knut, not unkindly. ‘From now on, you just concentrate on catching the blood. Thorbjorn and I can handle the other stuff.’ Thorbjorn grinned. ‘It’s what we’re best at.’

  Astrid wanted to protest – she was up to it, really she was – but the words wouldn’t come. She swallowed, hard. Never again, she thought, will I laugh at the expression ‘running around like a headless chicken’. That was two things she’d killed with her knife in two days. How come the cockerel had been so much worse than the witch?

  But she managed to hold the bucket steady, as Thorbjorn pinned down the struggling white bird, and Knut lopped off the head as casually as if he were top and tailing a carrot.

  In fact, Astrid thought, being a man, he’s probably never prepared a car
rot in his life.

  At least this time the cockerel lay still, blood weeping from the limp, ridiculous neck.

  ‘Put it down there,’ said Knut, and strung up both birds by their legs, just at head height. Astrid placed the bucket beneath them, a little blood falling on her hand as she did so. She pretended to ignore it.

  Knut tilted his head to the skies, dropped to one knee, clenched his fists. Holding his left forearm upright in front of his face, he laid his right arm across the top, to make a ‘T’ – the shape of Thor’s hammer. ‘I pledge the body of this bird to Thor,’ he said.

  Then he rose, and mimed the throwing of a spear over the strung-up carcasses. ‘And the body of this bird to Odin.’

  He looked horrifically embarrassed. Astrid wondered whether the sacrifices were made in private, here in the grove, because it was the custom – or because Knut was afraid to look a fool in front of an audience.

  And then all three forgot their pride, and the blood, and the growing hum of insects, as an unmistakable rumble of thunder, and a single clap of lightning, came out of the pure blue sky. Astrid felt the tiny hairs of her neck quiver; her skin prickled all over, as at the touch of a thousand pins.

  The gods had accepted their offering. It was all going to be worth it.

  Even so, Astrid had a hard time getting through the rams. She tried to think of wide open spaces: seas and skies. She was far, far away, and –

  And Knut’s sax – a heavy, brutal blade – made a sickening thud as it cleaved through the ram’s neck. Blood fountained from the wound, and the poor creature slackened instantly. At least it had been quick …

  Knut mopped his brow, glancing sidelong at her. Astrid felt sick, and knew it would show, but Knut only shot her a grin, saying to Thorbjorn, ‘What courage for a lass, eh? It’s not often you find so stout a heart beneath such fine features!’