The Buttersmiths' Gold

by Adam Glendon Sidwell

  “Once long ago in our blessed valley of Smordal, where the moon shines fairly upon us, before our fathers had learned to turn butter into gold, there came a wanderer. He was tall, with a staff in hand, dressed in a grey cloak and wide-brimmed hat upon his head that hid his face. He had nearly perished for lack of food, and our fathers brought him into their longhouse and warmed him, and gave him bread to eat.

  “When he was satisfied, he turned back his cloak and hat, and revealed that he was a one-eyed man of great strength. He gave our fathers a gift for their kindness, a single shining apple that was plucked from that very tree in Asgard which Iduna tends. He told us it would give strength and prosperity to our people if we used it in wisdom. And then he vanished.

  “There were long councils held amongst the elders of Smordal to decide what they might do with the shining apple. Some argued that they should make a sauce so delicious, each clansmen would be satisfied with only one bite. Others argued for a pie, saying that it would please the gods. A third group said they must give it to their chief to eat, to give him youth. Others said that too would fade after time. Finally, the chief in his wisdom decided the apple’s fate. He took the shining apple and planted it in the earth in Smordal, where the sparkling streams could feed it. The apple sprouted from the ground and grew into a stout and beautiful tree. The sun shined in Smordal and kissed the leaves of this tree and the clan waited for the tree to bear its fruit. And they rejoiced in the wisdom of their chief, for now they would have shining apples in abundance until the end of their days.

  “In this they were disappointed, for Iduna’s tree cannot bear fruit in Midgard, the home of men, like it had in Asgard, the home of gods.

  “The chief counseled wisely once again, and commanded them to cut the tree down, and from it, the people of Smordal carved nine wooden churns with which to churn their bovines’ milk into creamy golden butter. And those are the churns that we in Smordal use today, cut from a tree that grew from the shining apple of Asgard. The Nine Churns give our butter its magic taste, and turn the life-milk of our bovines into gold.”

  Torbjorn shifted to his knees. He had seen the churns hundreds of times. The women of the village used them to churn the milk of the herd into delicious, creamy butter. He had watched his mother spend hour upon hour pushing the wooden handle up and down inside the barrel-like chamber to stir the milk until it became thick and creamy. There were nine of them, each one carved with runes spiraling around its width and up its handle. He’d never seen such skilled woodwork, even in Viksfjord.

  Torbjorn had never been allowed to touch the churns himself. The clan held the churns in such high regard that they protected them like children. They passed them down from generation to generation. Now he understood why.

  “And such it is, my sons. When you are men soon, you will guard the Nine Churns that are the children of the tree which grew from Asgard’s shining apple,” said Father.

  Torbjorn laid his head on the sack of grain again and looked up into the stars that had just come into the sky. He did not know what to think of the lore his Father told. It was wonderful lore, and Father always told the truth, but this – this was beyond something he could imagine.

  He looked to Storfjell, who stared solemnly at Father, as if absorbing the story as it lingered in the night. “And this is why we are Smordaler,” said Storfjell. “The Buttersmiths.”

  In many ways, it made sense. Merchants and clans everywhere did seek the butter of Smordal. This would explain why it was so unique. The pride of our clan, thought Torbjorn, and drifted off to sleep.

  Perhaps he would never tell Father about the sword he might have given him.

  ***

  But he did tell Father about the sword forged by Weyland the Smith. It was brought to his memory a fortnight later, as they sailed back up the fjord into Viksfjord once again to make the final trade of the summer.

  “A sword forged by Weyland would be a prize indeed,” said Father as he tangled his fingers into the hay-colored beard on his chin. He shook his head. “But we are men of peace. Spears we keep, and shields we hold, but it is the secret valley of Smordal that protects us from raiders.”

  Torbjorn heaved a loaded basket of muffins on his back and stepped across the sand into the village. He deliberately turned left at the first road this time. He wanted to avoid the house at the end of the lane with the carved troll finger on the door. His failure there was still fresh in his mind, and he was determined to trade better this time. To make Father proud.

  He picked his way through the merchants and villagers, extra careful to hold his muffins close.

  “My friend, the one I have wronged,” said a scratchy voice in the crowd. Torbjorn turned. It was the man in the cape with the wide smile – Rotte the Righteous. He was bowing to Torbjorn.

  “I?” said Torbjorn. His stomach tightened at the sight of him. He and Rotte the Righteous had parted as enemies. He had embarrassed Torbjorn.

  “I was without hospitality when you were a guest in my house,” said Rotte. “And for that I must repay you.”

  Torbjorn furrowed his brows. This was unexpected. He had hoped not to see Rotte again at all.

  “I have no need of your sword,” said Torbjorn.

  If that surprised Rotte, he did not show it. “No, I do not wish to trade. I have a thing of great worth to show you – as recompense.”

  Torbjorn hesitated.

  “It is here, on this side of the village,” said Rotte. He swept his hand toward the end of the village opposite his house. “Please.”

  “Very well,” said Torbjorn. He followed Rotte past the second wall. It didn’t take long to reach the edge of Viksfjord. The valley was wide and flat for miles before it ran into the mountain range that guarded either side of the fjord.

  Rotte swept his arms out wide toward a field where dozens upon dozens of furrows were dug into the earth in straight rows. Torbjorn had never seen such a vast field for planting. It would yield plenty of grain for baking bread or hay for feeding herds. Anyone with a field like that could harvest a bountiful crop indeed. His clan would never go hungry or fear for winter. “It is a fine field,” said Torbjorn.

  “Can I show you how it is made?” Rotte smiled.

  “Please,” said Torbjorn.

  He took him to a lean-to lashed together with sticks on the edge of the field. There was a barrel underneath it with something tall wrapped in thick cloth. Rotte pulled back the edge of the cloth. There was a hoe inside. It had a long wooden handle with a sturdy curve to it, and an iron blade fixed firmly to the end. Rotte handed it to Torbjorn, who took it in his hands.

  The wood seemed to grow around the iron, the fitting was so tight. The blade tapered from a thick slab to a sharp edge. It gleamed. Torbjorn swung it in the air. It was balanced in his hands, so that his swing was effortless, like the hoe was heaving itself for him; he was merely guiding it. He brought it hacking down into the earth, but instead of jarring him, the blade cut into the hard soil like the ground was soft mud.

  It was fine hoe indeed.

  Rotte smiled showing a wide row of teeth under his beak nose. “It too was forged by Weyland.”

  Torbjorn said nothing. That could be. He peered close at the metal. The edge was steel, just like the sword.

  Rotte knelt under the lean-to and swept the dirt back with his hands. Buried underneath was a long wooden box. He pried open the lid. There was a large, long bundle inside. “It has brothers. Altogether they are a dozen in their family. Here are six of them,” said Rotte.

  We could double the size of our harvest with such treasures, thought Torbjorn. We could survive the winters without hunger.

  He had to know where it came from. “How did you get these?” He wasn’t sure he could ask; it was certainly a treasure beyond any he had seen.

  Rotte hesitated. His wide smile disappeared, and his mouth narrowed like a slash in the earth. “It is not for me to tell.”

  Torbjorn felt stabbed, and suddenly afraid that
he’d never know. “I will give you my full basket – the blueberry muffins of Smordal!” It was a slim hope. He took the basket off his shoulders and set it before Rotte.

  Rotte laughed. “Perhaps we are not so different, you and I!” he said.

  He speaks true, thought Torbjorn. Perhaps they weren’t so different.

  Rotte handed him the hoe. “For you,” he said. “I ask nothing in return. These hoes were a gift from Njord, the god of merchants, who brought them here because he wished Viksfjord to prosper. It is our great secret, the life of our village.”

  Torbjorn thought of the shining apples and the tree that his ancestors cut down to make the butter churns. They weren’t so different then either, Smordal and Viksfjord.

  “We have been given gifts, both of us. Your gift is truly a remarkable one,” Rotte said. He eyed the basket of butter-covered blueberry muffins that was now between them.

  “It is,” said Torbjorn. Rotte had been generous with his secret. Torbjorn wanted to repay him somehow. He had something close to his own heart he wished to say. “Our butter churns as well came from the gods.”

  Rotte smiled a slow smile. “Oh?” he whispered. He put his fingertips together.

  Suddenly Torbjorn realized what he had done. A heat welled up in his gut and rose to his neck. He’d been too quick. He’d said too much.

  “You are not a man who needs swords, when tools can serve you best,” said Rotte. “Here, take these as a gift.” Rotte bent and pulled the bundle of Weyland’s hoes from the box and held them out to Torbjorn with both arms. “Since we are as friends who share secrets.”

  Torbjorn hesitated. What was done was done. There was no taking back his words now. How he wished he could! He wanted to run. He wanted this moment to vanish.

  Rotte must have felt his reluctance. “Do you not wish for this gift?”

  What would he tell the clan when he returned with the hoes? How would he explain where they came from? “Take these,” he nearly shouted. He took the basket from his back and shoved the blueberry muffins at Rotte, knocking the hoes to the ground. At the very least he could complete the trade. He gathered the bundle under both arms and ran back toward the ship.

  When he saw it, he slowed. At least it would seem to the others that he’d made a fair trade, but in Torbjorn’s heart he feared that he’d given up the greater treasure.

  Chapter 5 — The Blodkriger

  Out of the hundreds of fjords along the wrinkled, gnarled coast of the North, the fjord that led to Smordal was the least likely of all to hide a village. In fact, it was so unlikely that some seafarer might have noticed how unlikely it was, if not for the fact that it looked just likely enough. And that was just what kept Smordal hidden for so many centuries.

  Father and the clan could not stop talking about the hoes when they sailed into the narrow fjord that led to Smordal. “We will have twice the harvest!” laughed Father.

  “And half the back pains,” shouted Mannkraft the Strong. There was an avalanche of laughter. Mannkraft was the mightiest of their clan, and perhaps the happiest about the hoes. He had dug more furrows than anyone. The hoes would make it easier for him to break the frosty ground come spring. “Perhaps I shall take up knitting with my extra time!” he shouted. They laughed again.

  Torbjorn did not laugh with them. He sulked near the stern of the ship, staring back to sea from where they’d sailed. He should not have gone into town. He should have stayed at home. He had given up their greatest secret to a treacherous stranger. He was certain nothing would come of it, but with everyone’s excitement, it was hard to shove it out of his memory. Their jolliness somehow made things worse.

  “Torbjorn, the shrewd trader! Come, man the oars with us!” called Mannkraft the Strong.

  That is when Torbjorn spotted the other ship.

  It was far off on the horizon, at the very edge of the fjord. It was smaller than the Smordal ship. It probably held no more than two dozen men, so it was lighter and faster in the water too.

  “What is that?” asked Storfjell, pointing to the ship. He dropped his oars onto the deck and left them to look. “Look! Look at its sail!” There was fear in his voice.

  Torbjorn peered harder. Then he saw it too – on the sail was painted a wolf with open jaws – much like the symbol he’d seen carved in the crossbeams at Rotte the Righteous’s house.

  Torbjorn’s heart sank. There was no denying it: Rotte the Righteous had followed him here.

  Father left his oar and leapt to the back of the ship. He grasped the railing and leaned out so far over the water, it looked like he might fall in. “The Blodkrig Clan!” he cried.

  The men shifted and shouted at the oars. The bovines stamped their feet. Mannkraft drew a spear from beside the mast and pounded its butt on the deck.

  Torbjorn had not heard of the Blodkriger, but he did not have to ask to know they were dangerous. From the stir the ship caused with the men, he could guess what the Blodkriger wanted: they were here to raid Smordal.

  “We must row with haste!” cried Mannkraft. “We must return and prepare our defense for our wives and children!”

  Father nodded. “There is little time!” he said.

  Torbjorn had never seen war before. It made him afraid. No one knew how a battle would end, what would be destroyed, who would suffer. He thought of his two sisters and his mother.

  The men pushed the bovines aside and took hold of the oars. Father began to beat the drum near the mast. The men rowed furiously in time with his beats, heaving the oars as they dipped them into the water, pulling with their whole backs. The boat surged forward with each stroke.

  Torbjorn took up an oar and rowed with them. He rowed until the sweat poured out of his helmet and into his eyes. He rowed until his hands were hot on the wood. He rowed as if somehow, by rowing, he could drive away the fear. This was the only thing he could do.

  Drum. Drum. Drum.

  They still had a long way to go before they reached the shore. The fjord leading into Smordal was several miles long, and sails were no use here. There were two major bends in the fjord, and with the cliffs so high on either side, they would lose sight of the raiders’ ship until it too passed the bend.

  They rowed round the first bend and the Blodkrig ship disappeared from view behind the cliff. They were nearly to the second when the ship reappeared, sooner than expected. They were gaining on them.

  “Row!” cried Father, beating the drums with more force. They rowed even more furiously than before.

  They lost sight of the enemy ship again as they rounded the second bend.

  Torbjorn’s shoulders burned with pain and his back ached with each stroke. Even Storfjell gritted his teeth tightly.

  Torbjorn glanced over his shoulder between strokes. Smordal. It somehow looked even lovelier and more tranquil than he remembered, nestled between the steep cliffs on either side, a field of crisp, green clover growing behind the small collection of wooden huts and houses. His clansmen were gathered on the shore, waiting to greet them. Mother and his sisters were there too.

  “Raiders!” shouted Mannkraft toward the shore. There was a cry of alarm. The Smordaler scattered, several of them running back into their houses. Wooden houses are little protection from raiders, thought Torbjorn.

  The boat scraped against the sand just as the enemy ship came into view again. The Smordaler had gained a small lead this time, perhaps because there were more of them to row, or because Father knew the best way to steer through the fjord. Whatever moments they had gained would give them precious time to prepare what meager defense they could.

  The men leapt from the boat into the sea. Torbjorn followed after, landing up to his waist in the salty water. He slogged along with the rest of them as quickly as he could until he was out of the water and onto the sand.

  Chief Gradfir strode from the doorway of the main longhouse, his helmet already on his head, his spear in hand. “Mothers, take your daughters behind the herd-house!” he shouted as he fastene
d a leather armor chest plate around his shoulders. Torbjorn had always respected Chief Gradfir, but even Gradfir had never seen battle before.

  “Bring those bovines ashore!” ordered Chief Gradfir. Someone threw the gangplank over the side of the boat and the bovines stamped their way down it into the water and up onto the sand.

  Mannkraft and the other men rushed passed Torbjorn and thundered up the sand toward the main longhouse. Moments later, half of them emerged with spears and shields. The rest came from the stables with nothing more than pitch forks and spades. They were not equipped for war in Smordal.

  Torbjorn’s two sisters cowered near the edge of the family hut. Their golden hair curled about their shoulders. Gudrunn and Eldrid, thought Torbjorn. He said a prayer in his heart for them. They were barely half his age. “Run!” he cried, and pointed toward the back of the village where the herds grazed. The fear in their eyes told Torbjorn that they understood. Mother came out of the hut, her long golden hair bobbing and fluttering as she darted to the girls, then back indoors and back out again carrying a basket and a knife.

  “Torbjorn! Storfjell!” she cried. She looked worried. Father ran to them, and pointed in the direction of the fields.

  “Hurry!” he said. He hugged them, lingering, holding them tighter than Torbjorn had seen him do before. This wasn’t like the farewell Father gave every month when he sailed to trade. This was different – and that meant that Father, the man who’d always protected them, was afraid too.

  Father let them go and pushed them toward the fields. Then he took a spear from inside the house and shoved it into Storfjell’s hands.

  Torbjorn knew what that meant. He and Storfjell would fight. It was for the honor of Smordal, and even more, for the right for his family to live. “Father, what weapon will I use?” He thought of the sword forged by Weyland that he’d left in Viksfjord.

  Father turned to him and pressed his hands on Torbjorn’s shoulders. “No weapon, son. You will not fight. You must run. Take your sisters.”