The All Father Paradox

by Ian Stuart Sharpe

  “Lucky for you, young Prince, I know just where to get mead enough for your bridal ale.”

  THE ARGUING CONTINUED ALL THE way to Frigga’s Day, but the ceremony went ahead, after a fashion.

  When Norse nobility married, the watchwords were invariably opulence and abundance. Arrangements took months of negotiation at the Althing, with nobles vying for consideration with gifts of clothing, jewelry, livestock, and slaves. It was said King Ake gifted his future wife the entire land of Danmǫrk, although it soon returned to him in the civil war that followed. For the wedding itself, ancient custom demanded that the bride and groom symbolically purify themselves in the steam of the town bathhouse, required that they exchange oath-rings and ancestral swords to protect their sacred vows, and mandated the sacrifice of a living animal to the gods for health and long life.

  They came as close as they could. Botulfr and Ellisif were married in a cave after a plunge into an icy river, and they shared borrowed swords and rings of twine. The sacrificial goat escaped and fled into the hills before Askr could catch it again. At least the bridal crown was proper, woven from straw and wheat and garlanded with flowers. Botulfr was in awe that his wife glowed like spring, even as the land around was brown and fading. If he had been impetuous, her beauty was the reason why.

  Olaf gladdened everyone’s spirits throughout, hurling enough insults at Harald to distract him from all the ill omens. The Austman had procured enough mead for the whole month of the honey moon. Ellisif recited an old verse as the prince drank first, and then he passed the bowl to her and did the same. Then the toasting began, to Óðinn, to Freyja, to kinship. Olaf offered up a toast to “Praise day at dusk, a wife when dead, a weapon when tried, a maid when married, ice when ’tis crossed, and ale when ’tis drunk.” Round and round they went, telling stories as old as time.

  They were put to bed late, and when the witnesses left, splashing back to the fishing hut in the dead of night, the marriage was complete.

  In the morning, she spoke of her dreams. The Norse paid great attention to the dreams of a wedding night; the dreams of a married völva were said to deliver unrivalled prophecy. Ellisif recalled clearly: in her vision, she took a golden brooch from her cloak and hurled it out in front of her. Roots immediately writhed out and took hold in the ground. Branches then shot out from the brooch, and a tree emerged, a tree that grew so tall that she was unable to see over it. The tree’s bole was blood-red, its upper trunk green, and its branches snowy white. The branches spread out to cover all of Midgard and then on through the heavens. She saw then three witnesses, each nurturing the tree. The first lay face down in the blood-red roots, the second had climbed high up into the leafy green boughs, and the third had vaulted further still, beyond the rime and frost, touching the stars.

  Botulfr was fascinated and quickly shrugged off the blankets to look directly at his new wife and delve deeper. His questions were urgent and insistent.

  “What does it mean? Are the witnesses maids or men? We had four witnesses at our wedding. The three Nornir perhaps? The fylkirs consult with them. I am to be crowned, that must be it!”

  Ellisif was sleepy still and rolled away, leaving him with the smooth ivory curve of her shoulder. “My Prince, I am certain you will be crowned. Just as I am certain we are to have a long and happy life.”

  “Because you have the sight? You have seen my destiny?”

  She glanced back, her eyes both terrible and tender. “What do you know of the Nornir?”

  “I know their names: Urðr, Verðandi, and Skuld. Three wise giant-maids, huge and mighty, that shape the fates of men and tend the roots of the World Tree, Yggdrasil.”

  “The Nornir only reveal their fateful secrets as a life comes to its end. Not even a fylkir may peer into the future.”

  “But you can see the future? You just dreamed of it!”

  “In my mind’s eye, the Nornir are a knot, that which has happened, that which is about to be, and that which ought to be. To tease the threads apart is folly. A Jötunn may appear to be a giant, but that is not their only shape. Do not dress the spirits in the garb of angels, or the Kristins will have devoured us all.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Then let us speak of it another time. Now it is time to enjoy the present.” Ellisif clearly had other passions on her mind, but Botulfr gently rebuffed her.

  “Call it your wedding gift to me. Ellisif, please.”

  “You have a lifetime of gifts ahead.”

  “What do the Álfar say? What do they look like?”

  Ellisif propped herself up on her elbow and clasped her hand over her eyes in exasperation.

  “Only the Dökkálfar are awake, and they are as black as pitch.”

  She thought for a while, before speaking again.

  “Do you know why a rooster will crow before afternoon rain, or a cat will hiss before an earthquake? Or why dogs will bark when there is no intruder to be seen? It is because they see where men cannot. The gods are always in the skies, the Dvergr are always beneath our feet, and the Álfar are always in the trees. Most folk just don’t know how to reach them, and we have all forgotten how to follow them to their homes. But they are all around us, all the time. Now, answer me this: What does a great king look like?”

  Botulfr grinned and tried to kiss her. “Broad shoulders, muscular arms, a mighty chest, and a fiery eloquence on his lips.”

  Ellisif laughed at this, but quickly grew serious again. “A king can be grey-haired and feeble, with the shaggy beard of a priest, and still command armies. True splendour comes from the will to power, the struggle to survive. There will always be forces you cannot control. A true king doesn’t fear change, he creates order from chaos. The greatest king of all, Óðinn, bent all things to his will and made the world. Now, answer me this: Why do men follow you? It is important to know because many of them will die doing it.”

  Botulfr realised he didn’t have a good answer, and Ellisif didn’t wait for one.

  “It isn’t because you know where you are going, for you are as blind as they are. It isn’t because they can see the doors ahead of you, for you cannot perceive them. It is because they think you can give them something they want. The maids who determine the waxing and waning of men’s lives, we call Nornir, but there are many lesser seers. We come to each child that is born to bless the life ahead. Or to curse it. But only a king has the power to lift a man up from the fields and make him a jarl, or to cast him as a thrall. That is why the fylkir are said to consult with the fates. Now, another question: What do your men want of you?”

  “Riches, lands, eternal glory. What all men want.” He recognised he was only half-joking.

  “And what about your woman? Why do I follow you?”

  Botulfr sensed a trap and withdrew slightly, mumbling vague thoughts.

  “My Prince, the sight doesn’t allow me to know the future with certainty. Portents are signs that one must choose to follow or ignore. But I will answer your question, about my vision, if you will give me a morning gift of my choosing.”

  Botulfr was excited to be back on comfortable territory. All the questions had made him recognise he didn’t have many answers. Ellisif, on the other hand, seemed more worldly and regal than he could ever hope to be. She was as severe as she was beautiful, and he couldn’t have resisted her if he’d wanted. He nodded, quickly, and she coiled on top of him, caressing his broad shoulders and muscular arms.

  “The tree is your reign, your realm, and your dynasty. It will grow strong if you nurture it. If we nourish it. I will be all-wise Mímir to your Óðinn. As he hung for nine nights on the windy tree, so shall we. Menglöð has nine maidens to serve her and Ægir had nine daughters, so shall we, for all of the nine worlds we will rule. You and I will glide down from the heavens to deliver the judgement of Kings and Urðr. Together. Grant me this gift, and each of those who follow you will have their wish. All save one, who seeks to shake the tree to its roots.”

  She clambered
over him, kissing him softly. Botulfr decided he was perfectly content to be shaken to his roots.

  THEY STOLE THE HORSES AND sledges. Olaf and Gest left one day at dawn and returned before the fire was alight that evening. The horses had grown thick coats for the winter and would keep a brisk trot along the ice, pulling the two sledges in turns. They were not like the compact, bristle-maned farm horses Botulfr knew; these were long, sloping beasts, tall and powerful with a silvery sheen that caught the fading light. Olaf said they were Tork horses that could run for days, stolen from a Kangar raiding party he’d overwhelmed.

  Botulfr was duly impressed—until Gest mentioned that the overwhelming had been accomplished by copious skins of ale, dosed with henbane for good measure. What’s more, the whole scheme had been devised by Ellisif, who knew the paths the Kangar took through the forest. The prince was mildly annoyed not to have been consulted but realised he had little to add. His wife had quickly shown her worth, and even Harald had stopped grumbling. Besides, Botulfr was given cold jobs now, away from the fire and tents, work worthy of a man and not a boy, which made him feel like he had earned his place too.

  The next part of the plan required Gest and Olaf to range ahead of the party, Kangar standards hung on their spears. On clear days, at a distance, the horse and colours were a fine disguise; for the rest, the foul weather kept them concealed. Warbands were scarce and any encampments easily skirted.

  Their luck held for the first week, but on the eighth day, Ellisif gave warning that the Nornir demanded blood for safe passage. She led them to shelter by a river bluff, escaping the biting wind. No sooner had they set camp than ten horsemen cantered out of the gale, seeking to share the same spot with fellow tribesmen.

  The hirdsmenn kept their backs to the Kangar, ignoring their greetings, while pretending to feed the horses or the fire. Only when the hetman grew angry did they spring up, all sinew and spittle.

  Harald ran at the riders with a raised axe, tall enough to strike a mounted man. The first he split at the waist; he then spun around the horse’s bridle and jabbed the horn of his axe into a second throat. Askr fought with both hands. He raised one sword with his left hand and struck with the right, lunging at the hetman, taking off one of his legs below the knee. Olaf hurled a spear, and his foe fell backwards, the shaft pinning him in the snowdrift at the foot of the bluff. Gest grasped a rider with one hand on his belt and threw him onto the frozen ground a short distance off, where Ellisif sliced through his skull without a word. The horses screamed in reproach, and the remaining Kangar scattered.

  Botulfr hadn’t moved a muscle. There simply hadn’t been time. Olaf retrieved his spear with a grunt and came back to the fire.

  “You’ve heard it said, ‘From his weapons on the open road, no man should step one pace away.’ Now you understand it.” He stared at the prince from under his hood.

  “They died quietly. Without even a curse on their lips. Seiðmaðr, the lot of them.” Sorcerers. Unmanly. Gest sat down heavily.

  “That one is still gurgling,” called Harald, steadying the horses, his voiced raised against the wind.

  “I’d personally hope for some memorable last words when I die,” said Gest. “Something that can be recorded for posterity.”

  “Prick!” bellowed the giant. “Write that down.”

  “Good idea. I might just do that.” Gest got up again and began to search the bodies.

  Ellisif crept up to her husband and rested her head on his shoulder, her back against the rock. She began to sing softly, tapping her head against the stone to match the rhythm. It looked ungainly, fitful even, and Botulfr shifted so to look at her face.

  Olaf answered his unspoken question.

  “The Vardlokkur. The warlock song. She sings to protect us from the spirits of these tribes. A Serklander once told me ‘When the Norse sing, the growling sound they make reminds me of dogs howling, only the dog is more in tune’. We should be thankful there is some beauty left in the North.”

  When the wind died, they all climbed to the top of the bluff. Gest thrust a spear deep into the ground and then hefted a horse’s head onto the shaft, drained of blood and half-frozen. The hirdsman raised his voice and called to the gods.

  “Here is set this níðstang, this cursing pole, and my curse on the Kurgan of these lands. This curse I turn also on the guardian-spirits who dwell here, that they may all wander astray, never to find their home till they have driven the Kangar from this land.”

  Askr cut runes into the shaft to mirror the words, and they turned the head to face the east, completing the ancient ritual.

  “Well, I for one am terrified,” mocked Harald as they hitched the sledges and continued the journey. Ellisif slept soundly, hearing no more whispers from the fates.

  AT THE MOUTH OF THE Nipr, they traded their horses for passage by sea—the Hospitable Sea, the Grikkir called it—the crossroads of commerce for a hundred peoples. The days were cool but sunny, and the freezing rain became a thankfully forgotten memory.

  They first spied the Great City on the horizon, distant domes dotted with painted sails of foreign fleets. The company stood near the bow of their ship as she swung across the waves. Towers, palaces and churches grew from salt-soaked blurs and became a city aglow with marble and porphyry, beaten gold and brilliant mosaics. On the landward side, the city was defended by the impregnable walls of Theodosius, twenty yards tall, ramparts that vaulted the heavens, protected by the Virgin Mary herself, as well as the dauntless defenders of the Grikk Empire. The ports teemed with galleys, cogs, and ships of all sizes, including many Norse vessels with shield-hung gunwales, most Northmen being more accustomed to trading than piracy.

  Upon docking, they were poured onto streets awash with activity. A sluice of colonnaded streets, gilded arches, and cypress-strewn gardens spread before them. Liturgies rose and fell in waves as they marched past a procession of churches, through a surge of people pooled in market squares and outside exquisite baths. Bronzesmiths mixed with furriers and horse traders along the Meze, fermented fish and fresh baked bread and horseshit caking the air. Towering above it all, treasures both ancient and modern caught the sun’s rays and held them like vows.

  It was indeed the City of the World’s Desire. It all seemed to rest not on solid masonry, but on a tide of cantors and clerics, as if suspended from heaven; on the head of John the Baptist, the Crown of Thorns, nails from the True Cross. At its heart, the Church of Holy Wisdom, Hagia Sophia, beamed with a magnificent golden halo that humbled all who gazed at it.

  “Kunta, fukja, drit.” Harald was awestruck. They all were.

  Botulfr drifted through the streets, swirling in thoughts. His father’s empire was turf and iron, linen sails and wooden beams. The Grikk throne was one of much greater majesty, like marble powdered with stars. He hadn’t appreciated that until now, hadn’t seen that the true edifice of empire was tangible. Empires were full of buildings cemented by greed, and they drew on a history written in blood.

  “Askr,” said Botulfr above the tumult of the crowd. “The death of the gods, Ragnarok. Surtr and his fiery sword. Tell me the story.”

  The skald was walking slowly behind, eyes wide at the spectacle. He glanced at the prince.

  “Amid this turmoil, the sky will open, and from it will ride the sons of Muspell. Surtr will ride in front, and both before and behind him there will be burning fire. His sword will be very fine. Light will shine from it more brightly than from the sun.” The words were mechanical, delivered by rote.

  “Then there is your Surtr, your devourer of worlds.” The prince pointed to the golden dome of Hagia Sophia, then widened his gesture to the whole of Miklagard. “You were right, my friend, this place and its god are our doom. I see it clearly.”

  Botulfr could almost feel the hand of destiny. If he didn’t strike at the belly of the beast, his world would be swallowed, and its pages overwritten by the Kristin priests. History was written by the victors, and so his people would be penned as rav
agers and despoilers, malicious wolves set on destruction. The Valkyrja and the Nornir would be recast as winged angels, and Óðinn thrown down as a son of Shaitan. His world would be eclipsed as surely as the Garm-hound would swallow the sun.

  He could hear his saga in his head and was growing smitten with each chapter. There was a different future. This city would one day be his city. His eyes met those of his wife, and he wondered if she could see his thoughts. She might have nodded, or it could have been the bobbing crowds.

  The rest of the hird was apprehensive. Gest blanched.

  “They have an unearthly fire too, these Grikkir, given to Constantine by their angels. Great flames, smoke, and thunder spill from their ships and burn even on water.”

  “The dragon Nídhöggr, who feasts on corpses on the Shores of the Dead,” said Askr. “Another portent of the end.”

  Harald snorted derisively. “I thought you were trying to encourage us to fight?”

  “Óðinn gifted me the Mead of Poetry to spare you the mundane.”

  Olaf laughed at that and clasped him on the shoulder, grinning. He was the only one who seemed to be having any fun. Botulfr reached out to Ellisif, drawing her to him through the throng. The völva wore a simple woolen tunic, her hair bunched under a sheepskin cap, so as to seem to be a boy amongst Norse traders. It was a disorienting guise, especially when she spoke in her soft, sparing way.

  “Did you see this in your dream? Is the Great Temple the golden brooch? Or is it our doom?”

  “This doom or the next. There is seldom a single wave.” She shrugged and reached for her wedding ring, unthreading the twine from her finger. “A ring has no beginning, no middle and no end. They are a series of threads that can be coiled… or cut.” She snapped the twine taut to demonstrate.

  “Draumskrok. Nonsense. If it was a proper ring, it would be made of gold,” muttered Harald, towering about the seer and half-hoping his voice would be lost in the crowds.

  “Everything has threads,” she said. “Even if they are invisible to your eye. Even gold. And every disturbance is a ring. Drop a pebble into a river and make a ripple. What is a ripple but a ring of water? What is a wave but a larger ripple?”