by Jason Born
I limped after the king. “Who are the Dal Riatans?” I mumbled.
. . .
Though the Dal Riatans were foreign to me, I knew what a Thing was. It was common among my ancestors and was as much a part of life as the hunt. Two or three times a year free men and women gathered in a sacred place where a leader or the lawgiver guided us through the proceedings. Disputes were solved. My long dead father had taken me to them in Norway. I had attended them along with Erik, my adopted father, in Iceland. As a full free man in Greenland, I’d gone to the Thing that was, by then, led by Erik himself. In fact, it was at such a meeting at Fridr Rock, Peace Rock, in Greenland that the skraelings attacked and killed the thirteen members of Eystribyggo, hence the thirteen years of banishment for Leif and me. Their assault had been blamed on us for reasons that stray from this tale.
I say that Things were held in sacred places: groves, glens, valleys, dales, mountains, stream sides, meadows, or forests. It made sense that we did this because the spirits dwelt on such hallowed, natural ground. How else could a man hope to resolve problems peaceably without the favor and active intervention of the gods? Otherwise, man’s nature, certainly mine, was to thump a man, to rap him with my fist, a club, or to pierce him with a spear until he and his family relented. When the last happened, a man could get what he wanted. But inevitably such success unleashed the flood of the blood feud, a blood for blood, life for life, death for death exchange that spiraled on until one family overwhelmed the other or a larger, stronger family came into the picture to overwhelm the first two. So I ask again, with such proclivities, how could we hope to end problems without first being in a sacred meadow?
In Iceland the Althing was held next to the River Axe, a strange name until you understand that men hurled their axes into the flowing waters at the start of the assembly. Weapons were not permitted and the act of throwing them into the river was a solemn promise that blood would not be shed during the discussions. Heated debate often led to arguments. Arguments mixed with ale and steel brought on blood. Since there was no way to eliminate drink, long ago a wise man decided to forgo weapons.
The scoundrel-turned-jarl Erik mimicked this when he began holding a Thing in Greenland. Each year, he’d march from Fridr Rock to the pebble-strewn shingle and hurl a great war axe into the fjord that bore his name. It was a peaceful, happy gathering, that is, until the last one with the skraeling attack. But, I’ve said to you, that is for another time and another writing.
The men of Man were strange to me. To start, they called the assembly the Tynwald. In practice it was a Thing which was why the king had said as much. Why his followers called it Tynwald, I know not. Beyond the odd name for the meeting, the men of Godfrey and the people he ruled appeared foreign in dress and custom. They looked like me in most regards. Many had blonde hair or red hair. Many were fair of skin. I wore baggy, woolen trousers. Their men wore better fitting, lighter linen pants. But as we walked to the Thing, Tynwald, I reminded myself, I could think of nothing else but how peculiar it was to head into town, rather than out. I did not understand how a Thing could be held away from the trees and grasses of the gods but instead in a tightly-packed longhouse.
A great fire burned outside Godfrey’s hall. Its light illuminated a kind of town square in the middle of the walled city. The face of the remarkable hall formed one edge of the square. The king had paused and I was slowly catching up to his shadowed back. Separately, we looked at his hall’s short side, with the peak of its long, thatched roof running away from us, away from the village square. The gable end, or rake, was adorned with long planks that formed an ‘X’ at the peak and extended up into the dark sky like the antlers of a great beast. Along the surface of the planks, carvings of swirling, vine-like designs adorned. I had seen the motif before on the Isle of Man and had become used to it, though Godfrey’s hall was the only one in the town that resembled any of the styles of building with which I was familiar. His was constructed of timber. The rest were made of stone, something foreign to my original homeland of Norway.
What struck me that night was not Godfrey’s hall. What was truly weird was the combination of disparate images that made up the right and left sides of the square. On my right was a Christian church. In the middle of a community made of former Norsemen, Danes, and Swedes was a building honoring the One God. The One God! Many of my new brothers-in-arms were Christians but it was clear from the church’s prominence that Godfrey paid not a waving tribute to the new faith, but actively supported it.
“A church?” I asked dumbly while I limped around the fire.
Godfrey was having fun at my naivety. Glancing over his shoulder, he laughed at me as he had a half dozen times since I met him. “How can I, a Christian or a raider king as the case may be, attack and steal from churches in Wales, Scotland, England, and Ireland while I pay for one right here?”
“Uh, huh,” I grunted while scanning the boring stone building. There were no animals carved anywhere.
Godfrey stopped and pointed to a dark, shadowed area in the corner of the square between his hall and the church. “Do you see those markers there? They are graves. The men of Man haven’t burned their dead for many centuries. Do you see the markers? No, look. They are Christian crosses. Some of those men died four or five hundred years ago and do you see? They were Christians. I support this church because as I told you I’m a Christian, mostly, well sometimes. But my people, the natives of this island, too, are Christian.” He began strolling to the doors that sat closed at the end of his hall. “And my men, my army, what’s left of it, Christian or not, do not mind one bit if we take treasure from someone else’s church to enrich our own. It’s a world where the strongest will kill or enslave the weakest.”
The truth of his last sentiment, I knew to my core. Life was a constant struggle until a man died and entered Odin’s hall, where the warrior-poet god would entertain him.
Godfrey puffed out his strong chest and plunged into his hall where the sound of a hundred men’s voices echoed off the walls. I stayed behind and studied the church and her cemetery. It was a strange faith, I thought. Admittedly, I knew nothing of it at the time. It was foreign and I never considered for a heartbeat that I would one day be a Christian, helping another zealous king convert his subjects to the One God. Yet those days would come, later. That night, I teetered my way around and looked at the side of the square opposite the church. Across from the church were images I could understand.
Someone had erected a tall, flat stone in front of a small grove of misplaced trees. I say misplaced because, though they grew from the ground like all life, to have them inside the walls of a palisade was odd. The rock was turned so that I could see an edge and part of one face where the square’s firelight danced across it. The edge had the familiar thin etchings that were Norse runes. I knew each of the letters, but I could not read then, not even my own language. So I didn’t know what great man’s name was carved from one side, up and over the rectangular top, and down the other. I only knew that those letters formed words. The image I could see in the light was immediately recognizable.
It was Odin, his one, good eye staring out at me. His presence would mean that the small grove of trees behind the stone was a sacred place, artificial, perhaps, since it was in town, but one where the power of the old gods could be found. There was comfort in that. On Odin’s shoulder sat one of his messenger birds. I thought it might be Hugin, the raven of thought, though why it could not be Munin, the raven of memory, I do not know. From where I stood, it looked like the pair, Odin and Hugin, was under a square roof of some sort. I hobbled closer and saw that in one hand the chief god had a spear and was thrusting it down into a wolf. Aha! It was Fenrir, the wolf of the Ragnarok, the finale of the world. At the end of the gods’ time, the world would finish in a fiery furnace of destruction, with the sun and gods themselves disappearing. As I meandered closer, a sense of pride welled up inside my chest. Though I knew that the mighty Odin and Thor and all the gods I lo
ved would meet their deaths at the Ragnarok, seeing Odin fight off the beast Fenrir, who had already swallowed a part of his leg, was an inspiration. To lose a battle while struggling valiantly was no disgrace.
I stepped in front of the stone’s face so that I could see the rest of the inspiring carvings. The square roof under which Odin stood was not a roof at all. It was not a building or longhouse or other dwelling. It was the horizontal piece of the Christian cross. Odin was at war with the events of the Ragnarok under the unmistakable watch of the Christian symbol. The stone seemed to say that the One God was in charge of it all. Impossible, I thought with a smug shrug. On the other side of the cross, under that horizontal section was the carving of a different event. At the time, this scene was unfamiliar to me. A man carried a book in one hand. In his other he carried his own short cross. From this smaller cross dangled a long fish. And beneath all that, under the man’s stomping feet, was a dying serpent.
I couldn’t look at the images any longer. They unsettled my stomach. It could have been the sour ale that did its work on my belly, but it felt like the events on the stone shook my foundations. The carvings clearly showed that whoever commissioned it believed that the fall of the old gods would usher in the rise of the One God. I shuddered.
I turned, frowning. With a grunt to get myself moving, I awkwardly sauntered toward the hall where the rumbling of multiple conversations and songs inside rose and fell. I pushed the church and the stone to the back of my mind. Soon Godfrey would begin his Tynwald.
. . .
Everything was foreign. My life was in the lurch. I pushed my way into the hall and wedged between the broad shoulders of warriors, fishermen, and farmers. Free men and free women sang and drank. A couple grunted atop a mead table. A thin blanket half-covered them as the young man mounted the drunken woman. She continued drinking, ale spilling while he rutted like a mountain goat. I saw Leif’s men, those who had volunteered to come with us on our exile, and felt comfort. I walked to them and found a seat. Their bruised faces gave me weak smiles and nods.
“Let’s see if this king can rebuild a Norse army,” said Leif. He was eager, seemingly unfazed by the countless changes that had occurred in his life since we left our homes. I was envious of the way he glided from one situation to the next without a care.
“A Christian Norseman army,” I corrected, unable to stop thinking about the Christian dominance over the old gods from the stone.
Leif smiled. Like Godfrey had, he played with a tooth, loosened from the day’s battle, with the tip of his tongue. Fresh blood seeped into his saliva when he dislodged a miniature clot. “Either way, Norse and Thor or Norse and the One God, I’ve told you I mean to lead men. I mean to be a wise, moderate, and fair leader of my people. By the time we return to Greenland, it will be my turn to be jarl in place of my father.”
“Do you think Godfrey is the one to teach you all that?” A small, waifish girl came by with mugs of ale on a platter. We each took one. The barefoot little thrall gave me a snarl and walked to replenish her load.
In answer to my question, Leif flashed one of his knowing smiles. He’d done this ever since we became true friends. It was like he knew something I didn’t. Perhaps, since his birth, Leif had been able to feel confident about the future no matter the situation. But I always attributed his self assurance to the night he spent sitting atop a barrow mound – awake on a barrow mound! I say the last with emphasis because as most men know, though you may not, the spirits of the gods grant a man the powers of divination once he has spent an entire night unspoiled by sleep while perched on a man’s grave. Leif was always sure – even when the circumstances seemed to demonstrate otherwise – even when I was not. He was even more certain since that night on the grave.
Leif glanced over to where Godfrey was kissing his wife, Gudruna. The woman was pressing her lips hard against her husband’s, knowing that he had bruises and wounds from the game all over his face. Both of her hands clutched the back of his head, pulling it tightly to hers. Gudruna giggled while she toyed with her man. To pay her back the small pain she caused, Godfrey fished his hand under her brightly colored tunic and into her brown dress. He pinched one of her nipples. Gudruna yelped and slapped him on the cheek.
Godfrey and his woman stepped back from one another laughing. They snatched up their half-empty mugs of ale and finished them in one, long draught. Leif looked back to me and pointed to the King of the Isles with a tip of his head. “Probably not the one to instruct me in the ways of wise leadership, but it will be fun.”
Fun, I wondered? Or, would following the fool king lead us to an early death?
. . .
Godfrey was still laughing with his woman when Killian, the village priest, stepped to the fore and raised his hands to calm the crowd. “A Christian priest acting as the lawgiver, leading the Thing?” I asked, aghast.
“They call it the Tynwald, Halldorr,” said Leif as if that were enough to answer my question.
“Free men and free women of Ballaquayle, Kirk Braddan, Knock y Donee, Ramsey, Andreas, Balladoole, and Ballateare welcome to the Tynwald,” began Killian.
“And Doarlish Cashen!” shouted a large women with an angry face and stern brow ridge that would make any warrior afraid enough to stop dead in his tracks.
Killian was not cowed by the woman’s bluster. “I was coming to that Lady Edana!” She was far from a Lady in the traditional sense. Killian chose his words wisely, like a warrior chooses his weapon based upon the nature of his opponent and the coming battle.
The village priest was diminutive. He had dark eyes and black hair to match. I did not know the man, but had heard that Killian had a reputation for fighting, in both the traditional meaning and with words. Apparently, he did not back down from any argument. The story went that Godfrey decided to keep Killian alive when the former first invaded the island just because he admired the priest’s tenacity. Since then the two had developed a deep friendship based upon a mutual respect for strength. Godfrey appreciated Killian’s mind. Killian enjoyed the protection and brawn offered to the island by Godfrey’s might. “Had you given me but a moment, I was prepared to introduce your cause to the Tynwald first. I’m now of the mind to push off your business to the last, but since this is a congregation of free men and women I’ll leave it to them.” Killian scanned the crowd, which had fallen silent at the prospect of a raucous argument between the two.
“I’ll not be last!” Edana huffed. “I’ve waited since the last meeting of the Tynwald to plead for my divorce from that!” She pointed with a thick thumb to the lump who must have been her husband. He had long since passed out in a corner near the thrones. He still hugged a cup of ale. He’d wetted his trousers.
Loki found a spot next to our group. He appeared as battered as were we, but chatted like we were long friends. He leaned in and whispered. “The king and Killian can’t permit a divorce,” he explained. “Her husband is something of an important person. He was a minor chieftain on the island at Godfrey’s arrival. So I guess he’s a noble. He may even have relations in a powerful Irish or Scottish clan. Edana is our king’s cousin. Godfrey offered her hand in marriage to keep his back secure. Godfrey doesn’t want to disappoint men like Ketil who can build an army while we are without one. So Killian and the king delay to keep the truce in place.”
“Why not just say, no?” I asked.
Loki grinned. “This way is more fun.”
“There’s a reason you wait,” said Godfrey over the waiting crowd. The king had a saex drawn and now spun it on its tip atop a thick table. Godfrey looked at the knife, not the woman. “The priest runs this assembly with the approval of our people. You’ll abide by the decisions just like the rest.” Edana’s husband rolled over, groaning. I swore that I saw his eyes open and aware as he went.
“Who exactly is he?” I asked.
“Horse Ketil,” Loki said. “He’s mostly worthless. The king lets him nip his ale all day and all night. Once in a while Ketil awaken
s enough to go a-Viking with us. The drunken ass forever wants treasure to fall into his lap. Godfrey always feels obligated to let him come, since it was Ketil who helped negotiate the peace between his family and Godfrey. The politics of the Irish Sea, don’t you know.” Loki rolled his eyes. I didn’t know politics, but I knew that a man that felt he deserved something for nothing could be dangerous, especially if he sobered up.
Edana scowled at her cousin, the king. Killian didn’t wait for Edana to protest further. “All those who hope to delay hearing of the Lady Edana’s divorce petition until the Tynwald next meets, answer with aye.”
“What happened to going last tonight?” barked the thick-armed woman. From one side of her head her drab brown hair stuck out like the quills of a hedgehog. The other side appeared as if she had just rolled out of bed since it was matted and stuck to her temple. Just looking at her made me pull out my walrus tusk comb and run it through the hair of my beard. Though we often had to wade through filth, most respectable Norsemen and our women prided themselves on cleanliness. Not so with this creature.
“Aye,” answered nearly every voice in the room. Many of them were in some way kin to Ketil. Hushed chuckles followed.
“And so by unanimous consent, the petition will be heard when we next meet,” said Killian with a firm, dark stare. I noticed that the priest didn’t bother asking for any dissenting opinion.
Edana had experienced this same setback before. She pushed her way through the crowd and, with a massive paw, punched open the doors at the end of the hall. Several retainers, unarmed like the rest of us, followed her out. Horse Ketil stayed.