The All Father Paradox

by Ian Stuart Sharpe

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. But are they really such a threat now? Can they really reach all the way to Uppsala?”

  “A game never truly ends in stalemate. The borders won’t hold forever. And it is your family and future under threat now. You’ll come to understand Kristin treachery soon enough, with or without my advice. But their dependence on the word is both a strength and a weakness.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Kristins seek something more than this world, yes? But their holy book is not so much a guiding light as a gilded cage, with patriarchs and kings squabbling as to who owns the key. Take your precious Alkuin. He spent years arraigning bishops about whether their god was a human who became divine or whether he’d been divine all along. If you claim authority over the divine, you clearly think you stand above your fellow man.”

  “My father rides with the gods. How is he different? Surely, he stands above us all?”

  “Not so. In the North, we are all equal before the gods. We are all Óðinn’s sworn swords, even the fylkir. Your father was elected by his people at the Althing, just as you will be elected by your people. If they chose you to serve them, how can you be above them?”

  “The Kristins don’t elect their rulers?”

  “No, they are anointed. Their emperors are chosen by their god and rule by divine right. But there are two of them, each seeking to stand above the other, not to mention the five patriarchs. The West will claim ownership of the gilded cage, the East will scorn his brother as a blasphemer, and all the time, neither will dare to look inside, for fear their god lies dead at the bottom. Imagine if our godsmen debated that nonsense all day long, telling kings how to behave rather than dealing with the harvest or the feasts?”

  Botulfr nodded. Worship was a practical matter in the North, designed to put food on the table and beer in the belly. The Norse priests inspired more by deed than by word, leaving religious debate to the skaldic classes, who in turn, traded more in lewd poetry than in fervent piety. Askr of Brimarborg was probably the closest thing to a theologian in the whole empire.

  “You asked why I care for those scratchings? When a priest like Alkuin sends you a letter, claiming to speak on behalf of the gods, you would do well to be wary. Puppets always have hidden masters. Go back to their writings and learn their ways. When we reach Miklagard, we might just cut the puppeteer’s strings. That will make for a good story.”

  The sermon apparently over, the skald began to stack the wood at his feet. Botulfr started to ask another question but thought better of it. Instead he traipsed back to the shack to find the codex he’d been recommended. The Saxon always hinted at hidden Kristin mysteries, only to dismiss them as base politicking. Perhaps he’d just practice the runes. Askr had shown him how to make his own manuscripts from birch bark and he just—

  With nothing but a wild blur between that thought and the next, the prince found himself face down in the wet grass. He hoped the skald was out of sight and hadn’t seen him tumble, or he’d never hear the end of it. Askr would write it down for all the ages to snigger at. It would probably merit his very own kenning “Soil-Licker” or some such. He pushed himself up, dusted himself down and realised he wasn’t alone in the clearing. Lying close by, inches from where he had tripped, was a young woman; moist with dew, her long, dark hair plastered across her flushed face, her naked body white in the sunbeams. She arched her back, rolled onto one side and smiled up at the prince.

  “For fertility,” she said and stood up, leaving Botulfr to puzzle out the explanation. She walked up to him until they stood face to face, almost touching, their breath mingling in the morning air, her eyes scouring his face. In the moment of silence, Botulfr began to stir, his heart a drum in his ears.

  Then, still smiling, she spun on her heel and strode into the forest. “The Álfar have gone now,” she called back to him. “You scared them when you interrupted us. Tomorrow, please announce yourself first.”

  EXEGESIS III

  GOSFORTH, ENGLAND

  2017

  A HISTORY LESSON? I NEED NO such thing!”

  Michaels burst into nervous laughter again. The thought of a history lesson from this old relic was enough to end any pretence of further politeness. People had come from as far as Ravenglass and Whitehaven to hear his last talk; he was well known as the leading authority on the tribes that had thrived here, in Wordsworth’s own country. He fervently wished the old man would follow the poet’s example and go wander lonely as a cloud.

  “Now, listen to me. I don’t know what kind of Yorkshireman you are, but don’t presume to lecture me on history. Have you read any Alcuin of York? Your blessed Willehad was tutored by none other than Archbishop Ecgbert, himself a disciple of no lesser a personage than Venerable Bede. The Venerable Bede! Bastions of the faith, paragons of philosophy, fathers of English history. I have an A-Level in this stuff.”

  It was something of a bluff. The churchwarden knew the broad strokes of history, but he’d have to consult PASE to really put the old man in his place. If he could only get the database to work. He thought briefly about how he might go and do a quick search from the car then come back full of righteous indignation and furious facts. Too conspicuous perhaps. Instead, he ducked back into the porch and swiped at his phone settings.

  Vikings loved their nicknames. Eystein Foul-Fart could always be relied on to raise a chuckle—and of course, Harald Bluetooth had lent his name to the ubiquitous wireless technology. He’d read it somewhere; the founders were history fans. The first Christian King, he’d united the North just as their technology united just about everything. Not that it was working now, of course, Michaels groaned, stabbing icons on his phone and noting the irony.

  But Botolph the Black? That was a new one.

  The churchwarden didn’t like being outshone. He dimly remembered a Halfdan the Black, and then, of course, there was Olaf the Black, a sea-king who ruled the Isle of Man eight hundred years ago. You could see the island quite clearly from St. Bees Head. Michaels’ father had taken him there once, catching the ferry from Heysham. They’d made a day of it at the Manx Museum. His Anglican counterparts there had an embarrassment of riches: they had a cross too, Thorwald’s Cross it was called, and almost as many runestones as Norway—although, frankly, even thinking about them just made Michaels feel worse about the gaps in his knowledge. Perhaps he should give the old coot a ferry timetable? Knowing his luck, they’d be cancelled because of the wind. He glanced back outside.

  The visitor hadn’t moved, but the wind was threatening again, tearing through the trees on the north side of the churchyard. With the first gust, a small flock of stonechats looped above the church and off into the hills beyond. Chandler watched them go, then picked up the conversation as if no time had passed.

  “I didn’t say I was a Yorkshireman. No use for them. They disowned me.”

  The churchwarden almost blew a gasket.

  “You said you were from Jorvik!”

  “But I didn’t say when.”

  BLAKKR SAGA

  THE RUS, NEAR KŒNUGARÐR

  1041 AD

  TELL ME ABOUT YOUR MOTHER.”

  They had lain together most nights since they’d met, their bodies close as the leaves danced to the ground and twirled into a river swelled with rains. The cliffs of the Nipr valley had an abundance of caves, some used as shelters or storage by travellers, some haunted by the spirits of the land. The girl had found some great labyrinthine tunnels, dug by some long-dead hermit, and made it her home. She spoke sparingly, reluctantly almost, as if unused to conversing. She gave her name as Ellisif and clearly had some Vindr blood in her veins, but didn’t go to any great lengths to explain herself. She was escape personified, and he had fallen for her right away. Botulfr imagined they were both outcasts, a pariah prince and a forest-dweller, finding solace as the strangest of bedfellows.

  “I can’t see her anymore. Her face I mean. I remember places where she was and have memories that
she inhabits, but the details change every time I recall them; the words she said or didn’t say, a smile I wish she’d smiled. I try to picture her, and she distorts like ripples across a reflection in a deep pond.”

  The branches outside rustled in answer, whispering of sorrows and secrets. Despite the wind, they were warm and content. Ellisif unclasped her hands from his and closed his eyes with her fingers as she explored his features.

  “You are your mother’s child? These hands, these eyes?”

  “As dark as a gathering storm, my father would say. Proudly, I think. He said he could see the lightning flash in her eyes. She described me the same way sometimes. She’d tell me of her lands, where they worshipped the eternal blue sky and a goose god who made plants grow and lightning flash. Beyond the Grikk lands somewhere, far to the east. My father brought her back from a raid along the Olkoga, no doubt intended for a bed-slave. He had a wife already, although she died in childbirth. She was darker than I am, not like the blámenn, but they called her Queen Hel all the same. Partly because of her skin, as I said, but they also thought she was close to the grave and could conjure draugr. She had other children—Gudmudr died a babe in arms; Oysteinn was a mare, a rassragr, who took his own life. They said my mother’s magic was to blame for his perversion. They said the same thing about me.”

  Over the past weeks, the young, bewildered boy had kept strong by submerging his thoughts beneath the surging rivers of the Rus, beneath Askr’s flood of damp parchments and blotted letters. But now the prince began to unfurl his thoughts, trying to marshal them on the field, to show the strength of his command.

  “In fact, she was a beautiful, beautiful woman who throbbed with sadness and sorrow from a lifetime of loss. My father was cruel to marry her, foolish to think he could fix her when he was the reason she mourned. Perhaps he really believes he is the Thunderer and that he can command the storms.”

  Ellisif’s eyes were deep, dark wells. “And they killed her?”

  “I don’t know. I can see her death, smothered with furs, or slashed with knives, or drowned beneath the ice. Every time it is different. She was happier when I saw her last. She always felt freer when my father was campaigning or orchestrating his next hunt. I can’t even be sure of that, that she was happy then. I hope she was, for a moment at least. Askr and Olaf tell me my brother and uncles were conspiring. They blame spies in the pay of the Grikkir.”

  “Shameful enough to touch a woman in anger—”

  “What penalty is there for the death of an empress? My father has banished people for tilting a hat, but for his own wife? He didn’t even call out his guard. He rode off to hunt bear. As if nothing had happened.”

  “To hide his grief perhaps?”

  “What shame is there in grief? All creation wept for the death of Baldur. The Fylkir of the Himinríki has been unmanned and his son swept out to sea.”

  “You’ll return on the tide?” Her lips murmured around his neck, trailing questions, hastening the young man’s plans.

  He was a prince now, strapping on his armour, desperate both to impress and to hide the fact he was unaccustomed to the weight.

  “Olaf is fond of saying, ‘two heads cut off and thrown high into the tree have only the winds with which to scheme.’ But not yet. We’re not ready yet.”

  They clung together in silence a while, her midnight tresses shuttering his vision, her gaze engulfing him. She was heat and sweat, filled with purpose and pleasure, ardent yet absent somehow. She seemed, in that moment, to be no more real than the memory of his mother, a tangle of half-thoughts. He wondered if he was even in the cave, by the river, in the lands of the Rus. And then her distant wandering ceased, and she returned, a waif in his arms.

  He felt smaller still now, inconsequential, but forced a return to speech to cover his shame.

  “My men spoke to me of Miklagard, the city of the world’s desire, and home of my enemy. We’ll travel there, hiding in plain sight as they say. I want to see where the Kristin god lives.”

  “The Kristin god no more lives in Miklagard than Thorr lives in the oaks or the fields.”

  “I don’t mean literally. You’ve been there?”

  “I have travelled to many places. But yes, I have seen the brazen domes of their churches, heard the mournful tolling of bells, witnessed the ponderous parades of icons around their endless walls. I followed the Kristins there. I was not tempted.”

  “So why does it call to men, both in victory and in defeat? Why don’t the Kristins yield or succumb? Perhaps the City itself is their god. Perhaps their god is desire or fear, or both, a greed for glory, wealth or the life eternal. Perhaps that is why the Great City is sieged by Serkir, Bolgarar, Khazar and Húnar. I want to see their talismans, their relics, I want to understand how man may build a replica of Heaven.”

  He surprised himself with the spontaneity, but he spoke earnestly, the words bubbling up from some deep wellspring within him.

  “Why?” Ellisif laughed. She was amused now, propped up on one arm, waif become wolf.

  “Not for the wealth. Olaf wants his riches and plunder, and he shall have them. We will go to the Grikk lands, and there, I shall nest, just below the surface, burrowing into their vaults, gnawing at their fears. As they have infiltrated my inheritance, I will infest their kingdom and make it my domain.”

  “I am impressed, Son of Óðinn. Like the Allfather, you have tamed your fury; like the Wolf Foe, you have ridden far and wide; like the Blind God, you seek out knowledge. All of Midgard is your birthright,” she said. “It is time to claim it.”

  Botulfr was elated, enthralled by his own cunning and her ferocious praise. She was slavering over him again, aroused and hungry. It suddenly occurred to him that this slip of a girl had the sight. He’d been blind all right, bound by his own one-eyed god. She could see not just his swarthy skin, his foolish hide, but his very breath, his petty spirit, his lustful mind, his fabrications of fortune.

  Fjölkyngi. Magic. This woman snared spirits, haltered fates, and bound them to her will. He opened his mouth and then thought better of it.

  “Oh, don’t worry, my Prince,” she said, as if reading his mind. “You and I have only just begun.”

  “NOT THAT BIKKJUNA!”

  Harald slammed his helmet repeatedly against the side of the hut door, as if trying to knock some sense into the world. Gest tried to stay his arm, but the oak had already started to splinter, and the helmet would need a hammer taken to it before anyone could wear it. He was red-faced, and roaring incoherently, his beard flecked with spittle. Most Norse swearing involved animals, copulating with animals, or being sired by animals. Botulfr had begun to realise he had been mollycoddled—he knew most of his kin had foul mouths, and even made sport out of insults, but no one had ever sworn directly at the fylkir’s son. As Harald continued to rave, the prince caught a phrase “child born of a long-dead sow,” and he bridled, the memory of his mother still raw even after all these weeks. He glanced towards his sword.

  “If you cannot bite, never show your teeth, little man,” Harald glowered, evidently not so mad that he couldn’t spot the slight shift in the prince’s stance.

  Gest spun the dented helmet around to examine it more carefully. He laughed mirthlessly.

  “Harald has a point. Ellisif, is that her name? Well, she is a fine-looking woman, but everyone knows you should never, and I mean never, sleep in the arms of a sorceress, lest she lock up your limbs—or worse.” Gest trailed off, leaving the unmentionable to their imaginations.

  Harald made sure they didn’t miss anything. “Why does she need your pathetic cock when she has her own staff to ride? And a dozen spirits fucking her morning, noon, and night? Jarl Hakon slept with a völva and became so itchy he had two of his hird put a rope up his arse and play toga hönk.”

  Askr started to object, but Harald stared him down. Botulfr had all his answers ready.

  “First, I have no money. We have no money. I can’t pay the bride-price or afford a mo
rning gift.”

  His men groaned loudly in unison.

  “It is marriage now?! Bad enough to couple with the she-wolf, but a wedding is out of the question.”

  “She has ensorcelled him already.”

  “Careful now. A ‘no’ does not hide anything, but a ‘yes’ very easily becomes a deception.”

  Botulfr raised his voice and persevered. “Second, she speaks Grikk and has travelled to Miklagard, and further still.”

  “Oh, well that changes everything. I often thought of marrying the first person I met who spoke in a funny way. It’s a wonder you haven’t bedded Olaf.”

  “Never trust the words of a woman. Their hearts were shaped on a spinning wheel; falsehood is fixed in their breasts.”

  “I think he is fixing on her breasts.”

  “Third, I am to be fylkir and King of the Storm Halls. I am a son of Óðinn. Do you not think I can see that my marriage is fated? And she dreamt of me on Midsummer’s Eve with seven flowers under her pillow. She has the sight.”

  Askr sighed. “My Prince, this long summer I have seen you grow brains and brawn although, sadly, not beard. You were nearly a man when we invited you to join us.” He said this with no trace of irony. “You will make a fine fylkir for our people one day—if you are elected. But stripping out of your breeches and taking oaths with a Vindr and a seer is—”

  “Is no different from Óðinn, Lord of the Aesir, bedding any number of mistresses,” said Botulfr. “Your objections are noted.”

  It wasn’t a question of confidence, but he delivered the much-rehearsed line with too much petulance and felt instantly childish. In his mind’s eye, he could see himself reduced to trembling and tears again. Defeated, he turned to skulk back to the cave. He was surprised to hear Olaf interject: