The Yelling Stones

by Oskar Jensen

  ‘Now is the time: the tipping point is come! The jarls will gather here to mourn their king, and choose his successor.’

  ‘Haralt.’

  ‘Haralt. He and the priest will seek to turn their heads. You must strike now – talk to these men, draw first blood!’

  Leif shook his head. ‘That isn’t what I meant. I meant, what can I do to help Astrid?’

  ‘Tcha!’ The snake shot its head at him; reared higher. ‘Forget the girl. She is but flesh. Now is the moment for word-magic, to conquer fate, to wield true power!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?! You dare oppose our will, boy?’

  ‘You all say I’m the one who makes the choices.’ And he remembered the words of the witch-rider. ‘Three choices. The first will be right.’ It was some comfort. ‘So Folkmar and the flyting can go hang. I make my first choice, and I choose my friend.’

  ‘Fool!’ spat the adder. ‘If we fall to the priest, then you fall too. Your words, your magic, they are pagan tools. They’ll kill you as a heathen! As a witch like us!’

  ‘And yet for all that, I will choose my friend.’

  In a fury, the adder struck.

  ‘Rope,’ said Leif, with a curl of his lip, and the snake fell, harmless, to the ground. Leif turned on his heel, an idea burning in his mind. Astrid needed him. That was all that mattered now.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The snow fell and fell, and skiers as well as riders were sent to call in the jarls of Jylland. As the winter worsened they struggled in, from farmsteads and villages, from fjord and field, Ribe and Hedeby, Viborg and Aarhus, from Lindholm and Vorbasse and even Odense, for the crossing was still makeable and the ice had not yet set in.

  They came on hardy winter ponies, they came in longships drawn up down at Vejle Fjord. They even came in sledges. But they would not come from further east, from Lejre and Ringsted, Roskilde and Uppaakra, and this was bad news for Thyre, for they were her people who were cut off by the winter. The men of Jylland were the true Danes, fat and rich. They would follow Haralt’s example if they thought there was enough in it for them.

  Leif saw them pass him on the roads – Jarl Ari and Jarl Eyvind, and Jarl Tofi Ravnsson, now sporting a sky-blue cloak over his snow-white tunic. They paid him no mind, a boy on a horse, just another rider sent to call them to Gorm’s mourning. And he scarce noticed them, so taken up was he with his purpose – and with trying to stay on Hestur’s back.

  ‘This is the hardest magic I’ve tried yet,’ he whispered to the horse. ‘I’ve spurned the stones and left Jelling for this; it’s going to take blood, and fire, and time. So, please try not to dump me in the snow?’

  Hestur whinnied, halting as gently as he could for the strange boy on his back. Leif wobbled, peering through the falling white. Before them roared the sea, grey and cold and heavy. The sea had something Leif wanted, and the sea always asked a price.

  Leif shook his head. ‘You will ever ask us for the same thing,’ he said to the sea. He drew a knife, and, holding out his hands above the roaring surf, snicked the tip of the thumb, and each finger, of his left hand, so the blood ran free, whipped away into the hungry water.

  He grimaced as he bandaged the now-useless hand. But before him on the broad whiteness of beach, the sea had thrown up five slick lumps of amber. The first of six bargains had been struck.

  Astrid sat before the fire that had eaten up her harp, and stared into the flames. The fire was warm; she knew that to be true. But she felt – nothing.

  Not grief. Not pain. Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

  Did she cry? She couldn’t tell.

  Nothing.

  Leif’s pack bulged. He had spoken to the sea, to alder trees, to a store of last season’s flax, and struck bargains with them all. He had lit warming fires for a hive of bees in return for their wax. And now he could return to Jelling, where his last two deals would be made.

  ‘I need something from you as well, Hestur,’ he said. ‘Strings wound from hair plucked from a stallion’s tail.’

  The horse snorted, bucked a little. Leif leant near to its ear, and whispered what he needed it for. Hestur relaxed, and the price he asked came clear into Leif’s mind.

  A good, hot mash.

  A part of Astrid’s mind wondered where Leif was. This was the time, she knew, when he needed to act.

  The gathering jarls would elect Haralt as the new king. If he had their backing, her brother – her only brother – would take the Cross and have the whole kingdom converted. Folkmar would be free to seize the power of the Yelling Stones, and the old gods would fall. Probably, she thought, Haralt’s first act as a Christian king would be to marry her off to Folkmar. And she stopped short of imagining what that would mean.

  But if Folkmar was humiliated in front of all these men – if someone with the wit and skill of Leif could best him with words – then Haralt would never dare become a Christian. No Dane would take on such embarrassment willingly, least of all the king.

  They knew this, the prince and the priest. That was why they were walking among the new arrivals, clasping hands, embracing, giving gifts. Stealing a march on any challenger.

  So why wasn’t Leif here, doing the same thing?

  A part of her wondered this.

  But mostly, she just stared at the fire. She felt nothing.

  Leif slipped into Folkmar’s room, swinging shut the loose plank behind him. Once, that plank had swung open to reveal Astrid. The world had been younger then, and happier.

  A low-burning oil lamp shone dim on gold. At least Knut, who had died a Viking raider, would have approved, as Leif stuffed the ornate, gilded candlestick into his sack. He had all the pieces. Now, time for the real magic.

  On the other side of the door, the hall hummed with talk. Folkmar was busy making important friends. To all those men, Leif was no one: friendless, ally-less. Of all his six bargains, this had been the highest price by far.

  Astrid was still staring, into the fire. If she looked hard enough, she might make them out among the flames – father and brother, half her family, taken from her in one impossible instant.

  ‘Astrid?’ It was Leif. ‘I have something for you. A gift I made.’

  For the first time in what seemed like forever, she looked up. He seemed older, wilder, thinner. His left hand was a mass of red rags. In his right, he held something out to her.

  It was a harp.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The instrument he held was small, simple, shaped like a fan, or a quiver, or a horn. A rounded wooden butt blossomed into a backboard, long and slim, a single piece of alder wood widening to a scroll and a slant. Shined with beeswax, oiled with flaxseed. It was of a size to be laid across her knees, and had five horsehair strings that fanned out with the wood, raised above the surface, pegged with amber. The strings were stretched across a slim bar of gold.

  ‘I told you my grandmother was a Lapp,’ he said. ‘From Finland. She had one of these; they call these instruments “kanteles”. And they say there’s magic in them, that they heal a heart. That they’re best made when one you love has died, for part of them lives on between its strings.’

  He paused, uncertain. ‘I didn’t really know how your harp looked. This was the best that I could do instead …’

  She was looking at him very strangely. He knew what he was meant to say – that he was sorry for her loss, that he understood how badly she felt, that it would get better, in time – and couldn’t say a word of it. So he held out the honeyed, smooth-grained harp, and hoped that she would take it.

  Inside Astrid, something was unfurling. From stony, frozen depths it stirred, creeping upwards, touching her with its teeth and claws. Where it touched, she felt again: felt grief, and loss, and pain. At last. This, she supposed, was love. It hurt. And that was good.

  So she reached up, and took the harp. Laid it in her lap, stroking it as if it were a cat, not yet daring to pluck a string.

  ‘It has no tuning key,’ she said, surpri
sed. They were the first words she’d spoken in several days.

  ‘It shouldn’t need one. All the strings serve you.’

  He pointed to the middle of the five strings. ‘That one especially will change at will: if you’re happy, the string will tighten up. And if you’re sad, it slackens, like a back.’

  There were so many questions to ask, she thought. But then, he looked so very, very tired.

  ‘Play, Astrid,’ he said. ‘Just play.’

  So she did. She learnt her way round the five strings, teasing out chords. The first, the fourth, the fifth string – and all heads in the hall turned at the sound of that expectant, hopeful clutch of notes.

  First, third and fifth, and listeners stiffened as the major chord followed, the two together sounding like a calm but murky sea, something shifting under the waters.

  She plucked the same three strings, but now the third slackened of its own accord, the minor note wrenching the whole sound into strife. She followed, fingers nimbling, with first, second, fifth, then first, first again and fifth, and the sequence spoke of earth and grave and the certainty of darkness.

  Those five chords, over and over again. Shovel after shovel of dank soil, heaped upon hope, heaped upon joy.

  No one was speaking. The jarls had all sunk down upon the benches, heads cast low. Tofi of Baekke was already weeping loudly as the music filled the hall. It was less the sound of sadness than despair.

  Something struck Leif. If Astrid could conjure such sadness from these strings that it broke men’s hearts, then maybe it could turn their heads. Maybe this would be the way to beat Folkmar.

  And in that case, he wouldn’t have thrown everything away by his choice to make the harp. He would have helped Astrid, and saved the north lands. He could have both, couldn’t he?

  Couldn’t he?

  Astrid’s sequence suddenly jarred, both third and fifth strings going slack, and the eerie, diminished chord stirred the slumped listeners so they shifted in their seats. And now she began a new tune, lighter, with more movement, and this one was the sound of tears itself.

  Everyone was crying now. And Leif really dared to hope, that his choice had been the right one, not just for Astrid, but for the land as well.

  Even Folkmar was crying. ‘Beautiful,’ he said, wiping tears from his fat eyes. ‘Beautiful!’ He waddled across to Astrid, laying one heavy hand on her shoulder. With the other, he pawed at her hair, lovingly. She shuddered, trapped by the weight of him.

  And then he turned to the silent jarls. ‘It is a miracle,’ he said. ‘A miracle. That the girl should play like this, on today of all days.’

  ‘What day, bishop?’ said Haralt, coming back to his normal self.

  ‘Why, it is November the twenty-second, Saint Cecilia’s day. She who watches over all the musicians; she who died with a song on her lips praising Our Lord, and is now by His side in Heaven! It is Saint Cecilia who is making this music so beautiful!’ And his piggy eyes shone with emotion.

  All around, jarls were nodding.

  Oh skita, thought Leif.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘And thus Haralt, son of Gorm, is hereby elected king over us, the Danes, and over the people of the Dane-mark, and all people of such lands as shall submit to his authority by sword or by oath. Come forward, Haralt, son of Gorm, in the sight of these people, before the Yelling Stones, and receive this earth, to swear to it your love and protection.’

  Haralt came forth from the crowd and took the snowy clod of soil in his right hand. Dumbly, he sketched the sign of Thor over the earth, eyes downcast.

  ‘I swear it,’ he murmured.

  ‘Then it is done.’

  Haralt ordered that his new throne – beech wood, square and massive – be set halfway up the mound, where he sat in state above everyone. Each jarl stepped forward to swear his own oath to the new king.

  When this too was done, Haralt raised his voice. ‘Now for my first act as king. Bishop Folkmar here, who is known to you all, has told me much of Christ, the god of the Germans, Franks and English, and also of the Romans and the Emperor at Miklagard. And so, not only for my own sake, or for all of your sakes, but also out of love for my great father Gorm, whose spirit I wish to see at peace, I am of a mind to renounce the old gods, and pledge myself to Christ.’

  The crowd around the stones quivered. They had expected this – but you can see a storm coming, and it will still blow your house down.

  Astrid had lost Leif in the throng. Still clutching her harp as if it really did contain the spirits of her father and brother, she peered about. This was the moment. The tipping point. Surely he would say something now?

  A figure broke free with a swish of white wool, arm raised. Astrid blinked. It was Jarl Tofi.

  ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Do my ears deceive me? Has the king to whom I’ve just sworn my oath – an oath witnessed by these very stones, taken in the name of Odin, Thor and Frey – I say again, has this king of mine just forsaken everything that made my oath binding?’

  He flashed a brilliant smile all around. ‘Because it seems to me, that the king who would take such a spectacular risk must either be as brave as Sigurd … or the greatest fool and blockhead in the North!’

  Haralt coloured, as gasps ran round the throng. ‘I would not presume,’ he said, ‘to chance the luck of the kingdom without believing the change to be for the better –’

  ‘Aye,’ shouted Tofi, ‘that’s the point, isn’t it? Belief? And I for one will not be persuaded of the worth of that fat Saxon’s Christ –' he flapped a hand dismissively at Folkmar – ‘without putting it to the test. Let’s have a flyting!’

  ‘A flyting!’ The cry was taken up all around. Astrid could see her mother, pale and wan, looking ten years older, but managing to smile. She must have put Tofi up to this …

  ‘Where’s the skald? He’ll make the case for the old gods!’ But half of those shouting were Haralt’s men, Astrid realised.

  ‘Bring the boy forward; we’ll hear them, then decide!’

  A grim certainty settled on her: whatever Leif said now, the result had been fixed at those meetings in the hall. That was why Haralt was letting the crowd have its say – he knew where their loyalties lay already. Folkmar would win, by fair means or foul.

  And Leif emerged, small and thin between all those powerful men. A hush descended.

  Leif’s mouth was dry as a salt pit in summer. His palms itched in anticipation. So, words were the only thing he was good at, were they? Time to find out.

  At last.

  ‘As this court’s skald, I will accept this test: I challenge Folkmar in the old gods’ names.’ His eyes met the priest’s. ‘But not to a flyting. That game’s been rigged. I have in mind a different ordeal.’

  Haralt’s blue eyes were hard as glass. ‘You test my patience, boy; get on with it.’

  But now Folkmar waddled out next to Leif. Astrid watched his face, and his hand. It was opening and closing; he was practically panting with desire. Beside him, Leif was grinning. He looked as mad as a fox.

  For a moment she was confused.

  Leif and Folkmar spoke together. ‘The two of us will stand between the stones.’

  And then she understood.

  Astrid had been but a small child when Bragi had stood on that very spot at midsummer. A girl of seven. She had seen the flames, seen the shattered, twisted, blackened body. And she had stood there again on a cold spring night, and laughed at the arrogance of a strange and wonderful boy. And a third time, when Folkmar had first arrived, and stared at the Yelling Stones with the hunger of winter.

  ‘But this is madness!’ she cried, blundering forward. And, inside, she screamed, This is my fault!

  If Leif hadn’t chosen to make her a harp, he would have been ready; he could have won the flyting. He wouldn’t have had to try this – this stupid gesture …

  Oh, it was just like him!

  ‘Stop,’ she shouted again.

  But it was too late.


  Leif and Folkmar strode as one into the stone circle. Together they entered. And together … they vanished.

  TWENTY-NINE

  He was being spun like a leaf in the gale. In the hurricane. There was the dry rushing round him, and he bashed into the priest’s soft body but he never even knew.

  In his ears was the yell.

  It was all on one note, at three pitches, impossibly high, impossibly low; savage, bloody, and old beyond counting.

  It filled his ears, his head, his whole being; shook him through to bursting. His ears began to bleed.

  He was in that scream. It was thunder and lightning, waterfall and landslide, wolf’s howl, boar’s squeal, and eagle’s piercing cry. Leif could feel it ripping him to pieces.

  For a time beyond reckoning, there was nothing in the world but that scream. And then, from somewhere, there came a memory. Not of an image, of a touch, of a smell. But of a tune. Yesterday’s tune; the tune of Astrid’s heart. The notes she had played rose up, unbidden, and thrummed louder and louder within him till they were louder than the yell.

  Next to Astrid’s song, the yell left him cold. He could handle it.

  Outside the circle, the Danes milled about in shock.

  ‘Do we wait?’ someone said.

  Astrid bit her lip.

  ‘They’ve just … they’ve just gone.’

  Crazily, uselessly, Leif had shut his eyes against the sound of the stones – and his mouth, and curled his toes, clenched his fists. It had done no good. But now he had the song to hold on to, and he could relax his body, and open his eyes.

  The first thing he saw was Folkmar. The priest’s own eyes were still scrunched tight. He was passing a length of knotted rope through and through his hands, murmuring words lost in the savage noise. He seemed to have found his own way of coping. Leif was impressed.