The Way of Wyrd

by Brian Bates

  I leaned over, examining the sixteen figures Wulf had sketched in the soil. Excitement bubbled inside me like a spring I felt as I had during my first days at the scriptorium, Eappa by my side, copying his calligraphy by the hour. I said a silent prayer and, with a quickening heart, began carefully copying the first runes of my life.

  Rapidly the pleasure faded, however. My runes were poor and crude copies and did not have even the fullness of shape of Wulf’s. Scrawling in the dirt was not to be compared with fine quill and vellum work in the service of Almighty God.

  Wulf erased my work, sweeping smooth the area under his runes. I copied them again—and again. I kept up the work, under his critical eye, until the sun began to fall from the sky. After each attempt, Wulf pointed out mistakes in great detail, sweetening the bitter taste of repeated failure with words of encouragement and praise. By the time he told me to stop for a rest, I could draw the shapes from memory and with reasonable accuracy.

  Wulf stood and stretched. ‘These runes are symbols of great power,’ he enthused. ‘I now want you to carve runes into willow, so that we can prepare a message for the spirits.’

  I glanced down at my last line of runes, sitting starkly in the soil below those Wulf had written. They suddenly seemed alien, sinister and dangerous and I wanted to erase them.

  ‘Hurry up,’ Wulf called from the edge of the clearing ‘The spirits will not wait for us.’

  I jumped to my feet and walked from the clearing. It was not until we were far along the trail that I remembered my injured ankle. To my surprise, it felt strong and sound. I stopped walking and stamped my foot on the ground, cautiously, experimentally. There was no pain; the ankle was healed.

  I followed Wulf through the leafy glades, dappled golden by the afternoon sunlight, and eventually we emerged into an open meadow long as an arrow shoot. Wulf pointed towards a giant willow standing massive and alone at the far end of the clearing, its leaf-laden branches climbing above the roots thickly carpeted with columbine and purple garlic.

  ‘Wait here,’ Wulf said, putting a hand on my arm.

  He trotted down the meadow, jumped up to grasp the lowest branches, clung momentarily and then hauled himself into the body of the tree. The willow seemed to swallow him whole, his progress marked only by the rustling and trembling of foliage.

  I stood alone in the glade. All around me elder and sweetbriar shrubs flaunted petals in colours softened by the filtered sunlight and breathed sweet fragrance from the flowers warmed by the summer air. Chaffinches flitted nervously from bush to bush, chattering to each other in harsh warning notes.

  Willow branches rustled, bent and shuddered back into place as Wulf dropped lightly to the ground. Thrust through his belt like a riding whip was a long leafy bough, presumably cut from high in the tree. He waved for me to join him under the willow. By the time I reached his side, he had already worked quickly and deftly with his knife to strip the bough of leaves; then he cut it into short staves, splitting each piece to reveal a flat side of freshly cut wood backed by a bark-covered, curved edge. He bevelled one end of the first stave, then cut a split into it.

  ‘This is the mouth,’ he said, shaping it carefully. ‘The runes will speak to the spirits through it.’

  When he had cut a number of staves in the same fashion, he collected them into a neat pile. There were at least a dozen of them

  ‘Now watch closely. I want you to carve into these sticks the symbols I am cutting.’

  He selected a stave and placed it on the ground, flat side facing up, then held it fast with his feet, one on either end. Holding his knife lightly in his palm, as if to throw the weapon, he cut into the wood with the point. He handled the knife with exquisite balance and accuracy and the runes were carved clearly and deeply. When he had finished he picked up the sliver, brushed and blew wood shavings from it and handed it to me. He had carved four rune-shapes very close together.

  ‘What does it mean, Wulf?’

  ‘It is a message to the spirit-world, telling them who you are and why you are here.’

  ‘Don’t they already know?’

  Wulf smiled, but his eyes remained serious. ‘It is advisable for you to have the message on your person. You may encounter spirits who do not wish to welcome you.’

  He pointed a finger towards the freshly cut staves of willow, cutting off further questions.

  ‘Copy these runes onto the sticks.’

  I selected a sliver of willow, placed it on the ground and squatted over it with my feet on either end, as Wulf had done. Slipping my knife from its sheath, I began to copy his shapes but immediately ran into difficulty. It was virtually impossible to control the length of the lines and the cuts were of wildly uneven depth. When I had completed the first stave, Wulf picked it up to inspect my work: it was a mess.

  He made no comment, but passed me another sliver and I prepared to start again.

  ‘Wait,’ Wulf said, grasping my wrist. ‘Study the wood first. You must get to know the flow of the grain. The pattern of wyrd represented by this tree is visible in the grain and you must work within it.’

  My first attempt had been so crude that I doubted whether knowledge of the grain would make any difference, but I made a show of looking carefully at the exposed side of the stave.

  ‘It is important,’ Wulf insisted, as if reading my thoughts. ‘A straight cut into one piece of wood will be curved or angled in another piece, because of the different pattern of grain. And you must remember that you are cutting runes into wood, so that they have depth as well as shape. The flow of grain is important in keeping an even depth.’

  I placed the willow stave on the ground and began working again. This time I held the knife blade at a slight angle, so that I could see more clearly the cuts I was making and I tried to allow for the direction of the grain. My cuts were more sure and direct at first, but then my second rune-shape went hopelessly wrong and I started to carve over it to correct the mistake. Again Wulf stopped me by grasping my wrist.

  ‘The wood grain will exaggerate your errors if you try to correct what you have done. It is better to continue. Do not worry about mistakes. More important is that your rune-carvings express naturally what you are trying to say, rather than conforming to some standard of appearance.’

  ‘But Wulf, I do not know what I am trying to say. I can carve the shapes, but I still do not know exactly what these inscriptions mean. I am trying to copy your runes, for they are the only ones I have worked with—surely the important thing is for my runes to resemble yours as closely as possible?’

  Wulf shook his head emphatically.

  ‘Each sorcerer has his own connections with the forces of wyrd. In the execution of the shapes subtleties, allusions and personal secrets are revealed. Once you have mastered the copying skill, you will develop your own style and in time your knife will dance in your hand. But no matter how elegant your runes become, they will never be a truer expression of your nature than they are now.’

  I continued working under Wulf’s supervision, beginning a new willow sliver as soon as I had finished the previous one. The work seemed crude and ugly in comparison with quill and vellum scripting at the monastery. I thought of the illuminated sheets that were prepared in the scriptorium, in each of which we could recognize the work of individuals expressed in the pull of the quill, roundness of figures and detail of decoration. But they were each artist’s unique celebration of the Lord, in contrast with which these inelegant carvings in wood seemed to require nothing more than mechanical skill.

  Eventually I had carved on all of the sticks except one and on the whole, each effort produced a more accurate replica of Wulf’s runes than had the preceding stave. By the standards of my first rune-stave, I was pleased with the improvement. I stretched and stood up slowly. Wulf picked up the last stave I had carved, examined it and grunted non-committally, but I could tell by his eyes that he was impressed and pleased by my efforts. He looked up at me and caught me watching him.


  ‘You have done well,’ he admitted, smiling.

  I blushed quickly, suddenly aware that I had been seeking a compliment. Now that I had received it, I felt ashamed that I had wanted it. I thought immediately of Eappa and how I used to show him my lettering in as casual a manner as possible, but full of hope for a word of praise. And every time Eappa encouraged me, I knew that he had seen through my carefully concealed pride.

  I bent again to complete my task, but Wulf stopped me. ‘Here. Use this for the last stave.’

  I stared at the handle of his knife, then back at his face.

  ‘It is better suited than yours for the cutting of runes and this last stave is important.’

  I took the knife. Despite its large size, it balanced beautifully in my hand and the feel of the haft made my palm tingle. Carefully, I cut one final series of runes and Wulf picked up the stave and examined it closely. Then he took back his knife and carefully shaved very thin strips of wood several inches down from the top, but leaving them attached to the stave. He did this all the way around the willow stick and then, gripping between the side of his blade and his thumb, he pulled the knife repeatedly along each shaving until it curled over. When he had finished, the stave looked as if it had a mass of curly hair at the end.

  Finally Wulf cut a slit a short distance from the curly end and a round circle half-way down.

  ‘These are the mouth and the heart,’ he explained, handing the bizarre piece of wood to me. ‘Always carry this stave on your body. It will protect you from the spirits. They will not harm you intentionally, Brand, but you must retain this rune-stick until you feel absolutely ready to face the spirits on their own terms.’

  I nodded my understanding, but in my heart I did not believe it. I did not see how a carved stick, lacking the blessing of the Lord, could carry with it the protection afforded by my crucifix. When Wulf turned away to tie his knife back into its sheath, I fingered the outline of my crucifix, solid and strong next to my skin. Carelessly, I slipped the small, lightweight rune-stick inside my tunic where it would remain safely trapped by my belt.

  Wulf collected up the small heap of rune-staves on which I had practised carving. One by one, he snapped the staves in half, then dug a shallow hole in the ground and buried them

  ‘Wulf, I heard all you have told me about wyrd and omens and runes. But I still do not understand how all this leads you to think you can predict the death of a warrior from the flight of the ravens.’

  Wulf said nothing, busily scraping leaves and loose vegetation over the covered hole in which he had buried the broken rune-staves. I feared that I had offended him and was trying to find a way of placating him when he suddenly stood up and started to whistle in a strange but melodic fashion. Almost at once, I recognized a convincing mimicry of the song of a blackbird. Wulf watched me quizzically, blond eyebrows raised, eyes twinkling with humour.

  ‘The birds speak to me as surely and clearly as you do,’ he said. ‘Their songs are like incantations from the spells of wyrd.’

  He resumed his inane whistling. At that moment I heard a rustling sound behind me and turned just in time to see the glossy blur of a blackbird launching into flight from a shrub; it passed directly over us and with a wet splash a lump of bird droppings streaked onto my tunic. Wulf collapsed with laughter.

  ‘If you understand the omens of birds, you would have realized what the bird was going to do.’

  His shoulders bobbed up and down, laughter bubbling out of him, spilling around the clearing and bouncing back from the trees. I felt a sudden thrill of companionship, an almost tangible warmth between us. I felt as if, long ago in some other existence, we had sat together in a forest clearing and laughed until we cried.

  ‘Come on,’ Wulf chuckled, slapping my arm playfully. ‘We have no more time for talk of runes and ravens.’

  Quickly cleaning my tunic with grass, I collected up my sack, bag and cloak and, with a final glance downriver towards the spot where the ravens had disappeared, I followed Wulf back into the forest shadows.

  Living Like a Warrior

  THE SETTING sun sat on distant hilltops like an orange-painted shield and the afternoon light began to fade. Wulf stopped on a ridge and pointed to a thickly wooded valley below, lying sea green in the descending dusk. I followed the direction of his arm and saw grey fire-smoke drifting in the wind above the trees, half-way up the opposite slope. Beneath the smoke, in a small area cleared of trees, sat a large timber hall surrounded by a stockade, with houses and huts spilling down the hill towards a stream at the base of the valley.

  We set off downhill towards the settlement and when it dropped out of sight behind the trees we followed the plumes of smoke rising above the tree line like beacons. Dense stands of beech and birch opened into fields cleared for ploughing and eventually into a meadow which sloped up towards the large hall dominating the skyline. As soon as we entered the meadow I heard a dog bark and looked nervously at Wulf; in my homeland a traveller leaving the road either shouts or blows a horn, lest he may be regarded as a thief to be killed or ransomed.

  Several figures emerged from the shelter of the buildings, stood stock-still in the shadows watching our approach and then yelled something back into the compound. To my consternation a dozen or more men came out of the gate and hurried down the meadow towards us. But far from being hostile, they approached Wulf with deference, ducking their heads and grinning like nervous dogs. A small detachment of children ran towards us, looking expectantly into Wulf’s face; suddenly one of them darted forward, touched his tunic and then dashed off, laughing and shouting with the others. Two women joined the throng and presented Wulf with an armful of dyed linen, apparently as a gift. Throughout all the excitement Wulf behaved almost regally, as if he had expected such a welcome. The whole scene was confusing to me; I could not fathom the significance Wulf held for the people of the settlement.

  Suddenly, I noticed several people eyeing me suspiciously and I realized that I would have to reveal my status as an observer of their customs and beliefs. I cursed myself for not having worked out a false identity with Wulf.

  Wulf turned towards me. ‘This is Wat Brand,’ he announced. ‘A friend. He journeys with me.’

  The perfunctory introduction seemed to result in immediate acceptance of my presence: men shook me by the hand, their eyes shy and guarded and it was clear from their demeanour that I was being accorded high status as Wulf’s companion.

  We were led up the meadow, past houses and huts and into the compound of the main hall, surrounded by a timber-stake stockade. Two goats tethered in the lee of a building stopped eating, looked up with interest and then resumed their busy munching. Clucking chickens scattered as we walked across the compound to a house adjacent to the main hall; it had a good, steep thatch and a sturdy timber weather-porch protecting the entrance. Wulf and I were ushered into the house, the door latched behind us and the excited chatter of people outside gradually faded into the distance.

  The one-room house was cool and dark, save for chinks of evening grey-light filtering through the smoke-hole in the roof and gaps around the door. Down either side of the room, against the two longest walls, ran raised benches topped with linen-covered mattresses and the centre of the room was taken up by a raised fire-pit, raked clean and laid with fresh kindling. The planked floor was strewn with dried rushes and aromatic, creamy-flowered meadowsweet. Without doubt it was a guest-house, carefully prepared as if in anticipation of an important visitor.

  I dropped my bag and sat heavily on one of the beds, feeling exhausted. Wulf hung his cloak and bag from wooden pegs set into the oak cross-beam.

  ‘Wulf, why are these people afraid of you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said, his innocent expression just too exaggerated to be convincing.

  ‘This house has been prepared for your arrival, they have given you presents and they speak to you with deference and respect. And yet I saw them watching you out of the corners of their eyes—they are afra
id of you.’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I have been of service to them in the past. As a consequence they are pleased to welcome me.’

  ‘But why are they afraid of you?’ I persisted. I felt that it was important for me to establish the basis for Wulf’s status in the settlement.

  ‘The people pay me for each task that I perform for them,’ he said softly. ‘But they also bestow gifts at the beginning and end of my season of travel. They believe that if I were not treated properly, then I could bring great misfortune to them.’

  He looked up at me, his white teeth bared in a sudden, broad grin. ‘They are right,’ he said, chuckling. I felt a shiver of apprehension in the pit of my stomach; beneath his warm and easy exterior lurked darker depths as yet unknown to me.

  Wulf stood and walked to the door. ‘I have business to attend to. You can rest here for a while. They will give us food later.’

  He opened the door and latched it quietly behind him as he left. Alone in the room, I sank back gratefully on to the mattress. Without moving from the bed, I unstrapped the bandage and leaves from my ankle and dropped them on the floor. The swelling had completely subsided and the ankle gave no pain at all. I tried to think through all I had experienced with Wulf, but I had not slept properly for two nights and drowsiness slowed my thoughts. I closed my eyes and slipped into slumber.

  I awoke with a start and peered around the candlelit room. Someone was shaking me by the arm.

  ‘Wake up!’ a voice said loudly. ‘It’s midnight. The thanes are having a hunting feast and we are guests.’

  I looked at Wulf in surprise; I had expected the familiar face of the sub-prior, touring the dormitory with lighted lantern to awaken late sleepers for prayers.

  ‘Is everybody going?’ I mumbled, groping for my shoes.

  ‘Warriors only—and us,’ he replied, creaking open the door.

  I clutched my cloak and, still warm with sleep, followed Wulf through the darkness to the main hall, looming two-storied into the night sky. Horses snorted and stamped in nearby stables and through the open door of a work hut I saw saddles and harness leather being cleaned under the light of oil lamps. The warriors must have ridden into the settlement while I slept.