The Yelling Stones

by Oskar Jensen

  ‘She could be the goddess Freyja come again, lord,’ said Thorbjorn, and he seemed to mean it.

  Astrid felt a bit better after that.

  She even stomached the slaughter of the bulls, just about. These – legs trussed together – were secured in turn by the neck to a tree trunk. For this job, Knut had picked up a great, two-handed axe. Quietly, he stepped up behind the ox’s shoulder. And then – ugh. Trying to ignore the dumb, lowing animals, she focused on the men.

  Astrid was tall for her age, but even so Knut towered over her. He was more or less a vast bear, his shaggy brown locks and beard flowing into the furs heaped upon his massive shoulders. He was the only one of Thyre’s children not to inherit her straight, golden hair, but, like Astrid, he had her small ears and snub nose, and brilliant blue eyes. The effect of all these little features in so huge a head, atop so big a body, would have been comical, had they not made him even more bear-like. No one would dare laugh at Knut. And Thorbjorn was only a very little smaller.

  If Leif’s visions do mean there’s something bad coming, she thought, then at least we’ve the best warriors in the world on our side.

  But then the buzz of flies, and the nightmare stink, brought her mind – and body – back to the task in hand. Astrid paled.

  Luckily, they had brought a spare bucket.

  ‘When the carcasses have drained,’ Knut was saying, ‘we’ll come back for the blood, and empty the buckets – well, apart from that one – into the circle of the Yelling Stones. That’s the way it’s always been: the bodies for the gods, and the blood for the stones.’

  He chuckled. ‘You know, it makes me proud to know the gods are pleased. I never thought I’d be any good at this Gothi business, when Father first insisted I take over. Rites and rituals: I’ve no head for that stuff. But swinging an axe – now that I can do!’

  The three of them wandered to the well in the courtyard, to wash their hands. And arms. In fact, Astrid noticed, there seemed to be blood everywhere.

  Teeth chattering at the bite of the near-frozen water, she piped up from between the two men. ‘Then why didn’t Haralt become the Gothi in Father’s stead? It’s a big job, that of priest. I’d have thought he’d love all that – the power, the respect, the importance.’

  ‘Between you and me,’ said Knut, lowering his voice as far as possible – to something like the level of normal conversation – ‘Haralt’s never had much time for the gods. He’s not Thor’s man, like me and Mother, nor Odin’s, like Father. And he’s such a dry old stick, you can’t see him following Frey!’

  Astrid blushed, as Thorbjorn sniggered, trying to catch her eye. Frey was the god of fertility, and his worship was not a proper subject for princesses …

  Knut went on. ‘I’m not quite sure Haralt even believes. You heard how he took Leif’s story, two nights since. Just yawned, and rolled his eyes. I’m sure he’d dismiss those thunderclaps as just “odd weather”.’ He said the last words in an affected, squeaky, nasal voice. It sort of sounded like their brother.

  ‘Besides,’ said Knut, brightening, ‘can you see Haralt trying to sacrifice so much as a chicken? Can you even see him catching a chicken?’

  Even Astrid laughed at this; her second brother’s distaste for dirt, and any animal less lordly than a stallion or an eagle, was legendary. Already, the grim reality of the morning was fading, and her heart swelled at the attention.

  And that wasn’t the end of it. After the mid-morning meal, Knut asked her to help him and Thorbjorn wave off the departing winter guests.

  Astrid nearly choked with astonishment. ‘But – but wouldn’t you rather have Haralt with you? Or Mother? Or even Leif; he’s good with words.’

  ‘Our little friend,’ said Knut, ‘is sleeping off last night’s feast. Where he puts it all away, I’ve no idea, he’s so scrawny. But he’s paying for it now.’

  Astrid raised her eyebrows in what she hoped was a superior sort of manner. ‘And Mother?’

  ‘Mother’s personally escorting Jarl Tofi back to Baekke. She says he needs sweet-talking. And I must agree that Tofi’s getting big for his boots. He thinks he’s so grand, with his pure white robe and his close-cropped beard! Really, when will people learn he’s just a lily-livered sissy –’

  ‘And Haralt?’ said Astrid, interrupting him. She’d heard Knut’s views on what made ‘real men’ too many times before. She loved her brother, but deep down, she suspected Knut’s real problems with Jarl Tofi were his wealth, his wit … and his way with women.

  ‘Oh, yes, sorry,’ said Knut. ‘Haralt’s taking Grey-cloak and our other nephews off east to Odense, maybe even Lejre, for a week or so. He’s never liked these farewells. I’ll be bestowing many an arm-ring on our followers as parting gifts, and the sight of all that gold given away makes him sick!’

  ‘It’s strange, thinking of Grey-cloak and the rest as our nephews when they’re older than you are. Are you even sure we’re related?’

  ‘Ach, there’s no knowing what Father really got up to before he met Mother; he’s not telling, that’s for sure. Personally, all these names and lineages give me a headache. That’s why I need help seeing people off. I don’t want to anger anyone by forgetting their father’s brother’s mother’s uncle’s name. They’d only start a feud, and then I’d have to kill them – and I’ve already washed my hands once today!’

  By this time, hungover men were mounting horses, and turning north or south along the Ox Road – the ancient, unbroken and shambolic road that ran the length of the land. They would travel back along the Danish peninsular, from the German border in the south, to the seas below Norway in the north. Astrid and the two men hurried to see them on their way.

  ‘Fair riding, Eyvind. I hope the north will meet your taste for trouble!’

  ‘Gods be with you, Knut, and thanks. I’ll make sure those Norwegian rat-faces don’t dirty the Limfjord!’

  ‘A good wind to you, Ari. May you find your children taller and your wife as plump as when you left them!’

  ‘I pray to Frey she’s no fatter! Though your hospitality has taken its toll on me – see how my horse feels its broader burden!’

  And so it went on. And on. And on. By the evening, her throat hoarse and her arm sore from waving, Astrid was sick and tired of Knut’s boorish jokes and Thorbjorn’s raunchy stories. ‘They’re such boys,’ she sighed.

  ‘Not that girls are any better,’ she told herself, as she bedded down on her own for the first time in months. Though her three handmaidens had departed with their fathers, their memory – and their smell – would linger here for days. ‘In fact, there’s only one person around here who’s any fun –’ closing her eyes – ‘At least, he would be –’ nodding off – ‘if he could learn to hold his food.’

  She was sure she’d dream of the strange boy, and it was no surprise to see Leif’s shadowed face a hand’s span from her own, and to hear his urgent whisper. ‘Astrid! There’s somewhere we have to go!’

  But now she was awake, and he was still there, and it was dark and cold and how had he even got in past the guard, and was that her cloak he was holding?

  ‘Put this on. Follow me.’

  Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she did so, creeping past the loose plank in the wall – her loose plank – and out into the night. The sudden chill brought her near enough to her senses to spin Leif round and grasp hold of his hair. ‘By Sif’s sweet mane,’ she said. ‘Just what are we doing out here?!’

  ‘Shh,’ he hissed. ‘I’ve had another vision.’

  ‘Another one? What happened this time? A talking frog made you king of the mushrooms?’

  ‘Close, but no. Mind your step. I’ll explain as we ride.’

  ‘Leif, I’ve seen you on a horse. You couldn’t ride a kitchen stool.’

  ‘That’s why we need Hestur. I’ll sit behind.’

  ‘You think he’ll bear us both?’

  ‘We’re very light.’

  ‘All right. The stables are this way. Whe
re are we going, anyway?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘Ow!’ She stubbed her foot on a half-sunk stone. ‘Leif, let me tell you this much: until tomorrow morning, we’re not going to see anything.’

  EIGHT

  ‘In the trance, I was standing by the stones,’ he said.

  Astrid tried to pay attention, but she couldn’t help being more aware of his cheek against hers, his arms around her waist, as she guided Hestur down the narrow, starlit track that led south from Jelling, down to Lake Faarup.

  ‘I heard a yell – but not the stones, you see – and found a falcon staring in my eyes. It cried again, a cry to break your heart, and led me south for ages, into the fens. I picked my way among the marsh, to where a place was marked with scorched and blackened trees. I’d know my way again, it was so clear.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I saw … something. At this point it gets all confused; I only know I’ve got to go and see it in the real world, right away.’

  Trees closed overhead, shutting out the stars, the track becoming a tunnel through the wood. Astrid tried to control her temper. She failed. ‘So we’re wandering alone, at night, on one horse, headed into the fens, looking for something you saw in a trance? Leif, in case you’ve forgotten, I’ve been forbidden from having any more of these little adventures. You know, because of those two times we nearly died?’

  ‘We didn’t, though, did we? Still, if you’re scared …’

  ‘Scared? Who’s talking about scared? I’m sane, that’s what I am. Sane.’

  ‘Come now; don’t tell me you’re not having fun.’

  As they picked their way down rocky gullies, neither knew it, but both of them were smiling, in the dark.

  ‘What was that?! Was it a dis?’

  ‘That, Leif, was an owl.’

  ‘Oh.’

  For all his talk of her being scared, Leif was remarkably jumpy every time the night made a noise. Disir, landvaetter, draugurs – there was almost no sort of spirit he hadn’t thought he’d heard. It came of growing up underground, she supposed. Now a low, eerie warble came from away to their left. ‘Wow wow wow,’ it went.

  ‘A witch!’

  ‘A fox. I’d have thought you’d recognise a fox.’

  ‘Well, I was just a baby at the time.’ He paused. ‘So, tell me about that lake on our right. I could do with taking my mind off things.’

  ‘That’s Lake Faarup,’ she said. ‘It’s pretty huge, and full of all sorts of creatures.’

  ‘Then why didn’t we pass any houses? Surely there’d be fishermen living there.’

  ‘I said “creatures”, not fish. Being so close to the Yelling Stones has taken its toll on the waters: you hear stories of all manner of monsters. It’s even said – well, Bragi always said – that the bottom of the lake leads straight to Hel, and if you could only hold your breath long enough, you could swim all the way down to the underworld!’

  She thought for a moment. ‘Or, I suppose, something else could swim all the way up.’

  ‘I really wish,’ Leif said, ‘I hadn’t asked.’

  The night deepened. They were now far from the haunts that Astrid knew; this southern path, though the shorter route to the farming villages of Vorbasse, Baekke and the south, was rarely used, since it cut through bogs that were perilous even by day. She hoped Leif’s vision had been an accurate one. The night was clear, but the moon was new, and they had only the stars’ faint glimmerings to go by.

  Already, she could feel the ground softening beneath Hestur’s hoofs; they jolted less and less, and had slowed to little more than a walk. And as the familiar black presence of the trees fell away, replaced by whispering rushes and straggling gorse, even Astrid had to admit that the night calls around them were distinctly weird. No longer could she say ‘badger’ or ‘nightjar’ with anything like confidence. The wails and shrieks they now heard really did sound otherworldly.

  For a long time, neither spoke. Just once, Leif broke their silence. ‘You see that patch of bog that’s on our right? It’s odd, in all this black, how it can be so black – far darker than the night. It’s like the earth has mouths … I’ll shut up now.’

  ‘I wish you hadn’t said that,’ said Astrid. Now, every opening of the mere around them felt like a sucking, darkling mouth, ready to drink them in with one sinister squelch. If there were witches in the woods, what worse things might there be here, in this wild place of reeds and vapours?

  She began to see eyes in the darkness, too large, or too odd in number, to be those of animals. At one point she could have sworn she heard a cackling, from directly behind them, going on and on. But she was not going to look round, not on her life. And then, a little later, there were lights bobbing over blackness, from off to their left. Neither was so foolish as to even mention them.

  Surely, she thought. Surely, we must be nearly there?

  ‘Stop!’ said Leif. ‘I think I see the place.’

  Hestur halted gladly enough. Leif gestured vainly in the dark, then laid a hand on Astrid’s head and turned it to the right. ‘See there?’ he said. ‘That clump of wizened trees. They block out half the stars. It’s off the path.’

  ‘We’ll have to dismount,’ she said, and did so. A tumble and an oath told her that Leif, too, had got down – after his own fashion. She helped him up. His hand in hers was sticky and slippery with the muck of the fens.

  ‘That’s definitely the place you saw?’

  ‘Those are the trees, see? Three of them. Bare, dead, forking into the sky. Yes, it’s the place.’

  ‘I make it four trees. At least … Leif, do you feel a wind? Surely that tree’s too big to be rocking like that.’

  ‘I see five trees now. No, six. That one rose up out of the ground, I’m sure of it!’

  ‘Leif?’

  ‘Astrid?’

  ‘I don’t think those are trees.’

  ‘Astrid, let’s run.’

  They turned to where Hestur had stood a moment ago, but he was already bolting, back along the path he had trod so gingerly before. The pair wheeled back round, and froze. Looming high above them, a living mass of black against black sky, were three –

  ‘Trolls,’ breathed Astrid. ‘They’re trolls.’

  NINE

  Before Leif could open his mouth in reply, the night fell on them. Astrid felt the marsh embrace her, and then – and then oh such a dizzying rush of up and up and the thick black glooping, the suffocation, all dank and death and oozing pitch. She made to scream, and the bog was in her mouth and up her nose and how had her ribs not cracked –

  And then the earth unfolded, open skies around again. Astrid peeled open her eyes, lids thick with the heavy, cold slime, and met a giant’s gaze: two huge troll eyes, sunk deep inside a craggy face, regarding her, unblinking.

  She was standing, she thought, on a wet peat tussock, matted with sedge – but standing high in the air. From behind, she heard a sucking sound, and turned to see Leif rising once more to his feet, clambering towards her over what might have been four huge, half-sunken logs of bog-oak. She could have screamed again at the sight of him, for Leif was completely covered in mud, at one with the mere – as she must be herself, she thought.

  She turned again, back to those pooling eyes. We must be standing on the troll’s hand.

  ‘Now might be the time for you to talk to them,’ she whispered to Leif.

  She heard him gulp – she felt him tremble – but somehow, somehow he found his tongue.

  ‘Peace be on you and yours,

  Jotunn of the marshes.

  Swallower of sky-wheel,

  Seek not to cause us harm.’

  Well, thought Astrid, they haven’t eaten us yet.

  ‘Warden of the wetlands,

  We’ve come to give you aid.

  Sent by sleep-sights, we rode;

  Sought out your fell abode.’

  He stopped, teeth knocking together, quivering all over and shedding lumps of bog with every twit
ch. Astrid waited for something to happen.

  For a time, nothing. Come on, she thought. And then: No! I take it back! – for the troll’s mouth had opened.

  That terrible maw was the size of the Great Hall doors; a foul cave filled with broken, stony teeth, livid sores raised on its gums. It was dark, but she thought she saw things moving in there: small creatures crawling over and between the vicious teeth. Frogs? Snakes?

  Somewhere in the cave-dark, a glistening, globbing tongue stirred. And, unbelievably, the troll spoke.

  ‘Do I smell the wound-sweat

  Of sons of ash and elm?

  Tell me, tiny manlings,

  Truth to save your brain-walls.’

  Astrid could just make out the words – low, slow; all mulching and golloping. As far as she could follow, they were being told to speak up – or else …

  She nudged Leif, urging him to reply, but he just swayed a little. She suspected he was about to faint.

  The troll rumbled angrily.

  ‘Faster, foes of troll-kin!

  For we’ve had much grief here.

  I long to rend and lap,

  Lunch upon bone marrow!’

  There was nothing for it: Astrid had to say something. ‘Um, fair … well … troll. Sorry, I’m no good at this. But it’s true, what he said. We’ve come all the way out here, from Jelling, because of something he saw in a trance. He has these … these visions, you see. And this one told him to come here, right now. A falcon led him. He didn’t tell me any more …’

  She glanced at Leif, in time to see him flop over on the troll’s palm. He had fainted.

  ‘We know about the boy,’ said the first troll. ‘Brought news, we were, of him. “Here’s hope,” came the message. “He’ll maybe solve this wrong.”’

  Astrid’s heart sank as she realised the troll would only speak in poems. But she dredged up the courage to ask: ‘What wrong?’

  For answer, the troll turned. Astrid lurched at the sudden rush, tumbling down to land beside Leif and fearing they would both fall further. But those hoary, bog-oak fingers curled up and cupped them gently, then set them down on the ground. Astrid leapt aside as Leif rolled past her, plopping into the fetid water. To judge by the noise he was making, this at least woke him back up. But Astrid had no time for him now. She saw what the troll had meant.