Botulfr gathered an innumerable mass of people and sailed against his half-brother at Jorvik. King Eirik assembled a great army from England, Írland, and Skottland. Eirik had a great body of horsemen and still greater of foot people.
Then they advanced against each other, and gave battle at Vatndalar in the fells of England. Both parties had a great force, and it was a great battle. Olaf went forward bravely, and Eirik met him with his troop, and they exchanged blows with each other. Olaf did come up swinging his sword, and made a cut at Eirik, but Eirik thrust his shield so hard against Olaf that he tottered with the shock. Now the king took his sword with both hands, and hewed Olaf through helm and head and clove him down to the shoulders.
Many fell on both sides, but the most by far on Eirik’s side, for the Finlanders fought desperately, sharply, and murderously and shot right through the shields. So many arrows were shot against Eirik that his armour was altogether split asunder, and he threw it off. Whereupon, Harald threw a spear at King Eirik, and hit him in the middle of the body, so that it flew through and through him; and Eirik fell down dead. Many people fell around him. The army of Eirik then took flight to their ships and rowed away with the loss of many a man.
So great was the sorrow over the death of Olaf that he was lamented both by friends and enemies; and they said that never again would the North see such a man. His friends removed his body from the field and made a great mound in which they laid Olaf in full armour and in his best clothes, but with no other goods. They spoke over his grave and wished him in Valhal. Harald told that when he wiped the blood from the face of his brother it was very beautiful; and there was red in the cheeks, as if he only slept.
After this Botulfr gathered together a great force and prepared for an expedition to the Kristin lands. He took it much amiss that the Kristins had caused such loss in his dominions. When the fylkir sailed down to Langbardaland, he ordered all the men there to be killed and everything wide around to be delivered to the flames. The patriarch was in Rúmaborg when the Black Fleet sailed across the mouth of the sacred Tiber. He rode to them with all his army assembled in a great body and determined to defend their land and fight. He saw a great battle-array with many banners flapping in the air. Before the army of the North was riding a huge witch-wife upon a wolf and a hill-giant with an iron staff in his hands. He was a head higher than the mountains, and many other giants followed him. The patriarch fled from the ridge down upon the plain to the Aurelian Wall. There he turned himself again, and all his monks and gods-men and many troops of their men assembled there.
Then Fylkir Botulfr stood up and ordered the war trumpets to sound; on which the whole of the army of the king stood up and advanced against the Kristins. There was afterwards the warmest conflict. Harald Sigurðarson ran on before all his men to the army of the enemy and hewed down with both hands, and all who were nearest gave way before him; but Harald fell and many people with him. After that, the battle was not very long, for the Northmen were very fiery, and where they came the Kristins fell thick as tangles heaped up by the waves on the beach. Askr of Brimarborg struck at the patriarch with his axe, and the blow hit his left leg above the knee, then Gest of Groning struck at him with his spear, and the stroke went in under his mail-coat and into his belly, which was his death-wound. The Kristins betook themselves to flight and were hewed down like cattle at a slaughter. Thereupon, Botulfr went west of the Tiber to the papal palace. He lifted up his axe and struck their White Christ so that the body rolled down from its dais. Then the Northmen turned and threw down all the saints from their seats. Whereupon, Fylkir Botulfr took away the golden cross and made payments to worthy men and honoured his pledge at the Althing. From this victory, he became very celebrated.
Ellisif knew where all the Roman silver was concealed under the church of St. Peter and understood the songs by which the earth, the reliquaries, and tombs were opened to her. She bound those spirits who dwell in them by the power of her word and went in and took ornaments and relics as she pleased. Ellisif taught the most of her arts to the priestesses of the sacrifices, and they came nearest to herself in all wisdom and witch-knowledge. Many others, however, occupied themselves much with it; and from that time, witchcraft was at the heart of the empire and spread far and wide, and continued long.
Thereafter, King Botulfr carried war over all the Kristin lands, plundering some, slaying others, taking some prisoners of war, taking ransom from others, and all without opposition. Fylkir Botulfr made this law over all the lands he conquered, that all the Kristin church property should belong to the bondsmen, both great and small. In time, he returned to Miklagard and claimed it as his own.
Botulfr was a wise man, a man of truth and uprightness who made laws, observed them himself, and obliged others to observe them. In the Great City, he was proclaimed Coelestinus, meaning of the heavens and of the sky. He assembled an Almighty Thing that surpassed even that fashioned by the sons of Bor, and a vast multitude of people were assembled there. And when the Reginthing was seated, the fylkir spoke to the people and began his speech with saying that they should all renounce Kristr and should believe freely in all Gods and indulge in all sacrifices and feasts that were holy to them and their conscience. Kristin priests who refused to appear, showing an excess of madness and obstinacy, were burnt alive in their holdings. In his reign, there was no further strife, and the Urdr protected him and his realm against enemies abroad; and his nearest neighbours stood in great awe.
BOOK TWO: BEGINNINGS
EXEGESIS IV
GOSFORTH, ENGLAND
2017
WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU talking about?!?”
Michaels decided there and then that enough was enough. He wasn’t going to dignify the old man with any further response. He dangled his car keys by way of farewell and marched back to the car.
Chandler called out after him, like an old friend providing reassurance.
“I’m not going anywhere. Turns out I’ve got all the time in the Nine Worlds.”
The churchwarden slammed the door in frustration, turned the key in the ignition, then reversed quickly down the Wasdale Road. No good deed goes unpunished, he thought. He glanced back at the old coot in his rear-view mirror, and sure enough, Chandler was still there, glued to the cross. If he wasn’t gone by the time Michaels got back from the supermarket, he’d have no choice but to call the police to move him on. He considered that it might be sensible to call social services too.
He turned on the radio. It occurred to him that there might be a news bulletin about an escaped lunatic, but he dismissed the idea as a flight of fancy. There wasn’t any news on anyway, and CFM seemed to be broadcasting folk music. Ah well, he thought. That was one for the annals. The Diary of a Country Churchwarden.
Some wag had changed the road sign so the A595 now went to Hvitrhafn rather than Whitehaven. It seemed an overly erudite joke, well beyond the local Scouts. He must have really impressed them last week.
He checked his watch. He still had plenty of time before he was needed at the Village Hall, but better to be safe than sorry. He nudged the accelerator. Then immediately slammed on the brakes. Not because of anyone on the road—most of the traffic ran up the coast, not into the National Park. But there was an absence.
The rectory was gone.
Michaels opened the car door. He’d driven this road a thousand times. Parish newsletters might get blown away in the wind but not whole buildings.
He sat, bewildered, watching the sun set. Just yesterday, he’d sat right there with his friend and mentor, the Reverend Riley, having a nice cup of tea. They’d talked about lopping off the damaged branch on the old oak at the end of the garden. The tree was still there, and the churchwarden couldn’t fathom how that was possible. An act of God? He wracked his brain about the rapture and other revelatory passages in the Bible, but those surely only applied to Christian personages and not their property?
The folksong on the radio stopped. And the voice of the DJ came over t
he air
“Who is ignoring the evidence of their own eyes now?”
Michaels stopped staring at the treeline and glared, horrified, at the dashboard of his car. What was that? If this was a prank by the Scouts, they had really outdone themselves.
“I was giving you a history lesson, Churchwarden, when you so rudely left. I was explaining why I came back to this part of the world. My world, my Jörð. Before she was taken from me…”
There was something else out there, haunting the dusk. The churchwarden couldn’t see anything, not directly, but there was something there, in the corner of his eye, at the back of his mind. Something was loose where the rectory had once been.
Adrenaline seized Churchwarden Michaels, his primeval brain responding to a primordial threat. He slammed the door shut and put the car into reverse, the tires squealing louder than the wind. In desperation, he jabbed at the power button, over and over, but the voice on the radio continued.
“Don’t worry, this won’t be a trip down memory lane. See, you perceive time as a river, flowing from one place to another. For me, it’s a great eternal ocean, lapping on all the shores at the same time. You’ll feel it soon enough. Like ripples emanating from a single, solitary drop, the waves will roll though history. For a real Viking, the passage of time isn’t a corridor. It’s a surge across boundless seas…”
The voice belonged to Chandler, of course. But how? A walkie-talkie perhaps, Michaels reasoned. Something to do with Bluetooth, maybe. He rummaged through his pocket, awkwardly twisting in the driver’s seat to free his phone. Dead battery.
“Let me tell you a story. In the Year of Your Lord 625, the Northumbrian King asked the members of his court for their views on whether the kingdom should abandon their Old Gods for Christianity. Edwin of York was his name. Eadwine of Eoforwic. You couldn’t go around calling yourself Tom, Dick, or Harry in the Dark Ages. Well, okay, Thomas would work, although it’s too apostolic for my taste. Rikard and Heimric are the timeliest versions of the others. Names are old, see? They go way back, and they all mean something. You think that a rose by any other name might smell sweet, but that isn’t true. Edwin means rich friend, like there ever was such a thing…”
Michaels turned left, back onto a road that was apparently now called Vatndalrgata, without bothering to indicate. The changing sign was the least of his concerns. He was gripped by this terrible, irrational fear that St. Mary’s might have vanished too. He changed gears and drove down the darkening country lane.
“Edwin asks his question, holds his mini-referendum, albeit one where only the richest got to have their say. One noble steps up and delivers a lovely speech comparing the life of man to a sparrow flying through the king’s hall on a winter day, ‘For a short time, he is safe from the wintry storm, but after a little space he vanishes from your sight, back into the dark winter from which he came.’ Isn’t that poetic? We Northerners are very partial to some cleverly constructed lines. Don’t you think, Churchwarden? ‘Of what went before and of what is to follow,’ the noble continued, ‘we are utterly ignorant. If therefore this new faith can give us some greater certainty, it justly deserves that we should follow it…’”
There was something wrong with the car now. The dashboard lit up like a fruit machine coughing up the jackpot, and the engine choked into silence. St. Mary’s was just ahead. Momentum was his friend, as long as the wheels kept turning.
“So, my little sparrow. You are back in my hall. Back in my Midgard. Your Christianity is being ripped from the past like so much rot. You have seen the dark winter outside, the worlds of the Álfar and the Jötnar. The realms of the dead, all joined by the great World Tree. Are you so certain of what went before and what is to follow?”
Michaels rolled the car back into his usual spot and breathed a sigh of relief. He wrenched his keys from the ignition, which finally severed the vocal chords of the broadcaster.
The church was still there. The tombstones were still there. Old Man Chandler was still there.
And so were the crosses—all three of them.
MY ÁTTÚRA BÓK—A JOURNAL
ENTRY ONE
HUGSONVIK, MARKLAND, THE NEW WORLD SKAMMDEGI—“THE DARK DAYS” OF WINER 1735
HOGINANAYE-TROLLALAY, GIVE US OF your white bread and none of your gray.
On the first day of this new year my people woke me at the break of day with the discharge of firearms, the endeavour meant to wake the hill spirits and help banish the trolls to the sea; a traditional if startling beginning to my journal. For my part, I treated them with plenty of my own spirits (rum mostly) and added to their regales. I am not by nature a man inclined to superstitious thoughts, but at this great remove from civilization, I will entertain the notion that the spirit folk are at play on days like these. I should like to engage them myself should the occasion arise.
From there, we indulged in what remained of the Yule Goat and idled the days with beer and games of tablut. I had made certain to bring the game mat from my Finnmǫrk expedition; fortunately, the reindeer hide is well suited to travelling, and the embroidery has held. Herra Kyndillson delights in defending Holmgard against the Horse Lords, so much so that he has even had carved new pieces from whalebone. Herra Rothman made a proposal of a fox game instead, whereupon, Herra Rubeck took up a piece and struck him on the cheek bone for his insolence.
This quarrelsome beginning to my journal is to be expected. The guardsmen are a rowdy crew, and with the war having broken out again with the Maharajahs, no doubt they are apprehensive of being obliged to join the fleets.
After the long vicissitudes of winter, we are all eager to be moving on from Horgfell Fort and Hugson’s accursed bay on which it sits. The men have taken to calling it Dritvik or Shit Bay, on account of the all too common fog, particularly when the wind is from the east; then it drives against the high barren rocks on the shore by the fort and dissolves in torrents of rain. I am sure Heimríkr Hugson would find it apt. Another barb from the guardsmen: they call it Frey’s Own Country (I assume in homage to the god of precipitation) and they refer to themselves as the Imperial Rainguard (which I imagine is a peculiar pun on their duties as vanguards and frontiersmen). As we survey the interior, I suspect we shall be obliged to reclassify many features according to their whims and mood.
MEN OF QUICK TEMPERS SELDOM cherish rancour, but I’ll admit that it was my own quarrel that consigned me to these trackless Markland barrens.
Scholars may be compared to the trees of a nursery; often among the young plants are found some which resemble wild shoots, which when properly transplanted at a later period, deliver both a much-changed nature and the promise of delicious fruit. Having undergone so many fatigues in Finnmǫrk, I had assumed such was to be my trajectory, but for now it seems I have instead become tangled in a briar patch. In court, the Urðr labelled me ambitious, superior, irritable, and obstinate and bound me to keep the peace.
I cannot fathom why Róssteinn denounced me to the university. Envy perhaps. I had maintained the society of Finnar warlocks where all others had failed. Either that or he harbours the prejudice against male practitioners of the seið that is so commonplace. I know from his papers that the wretch scorns my methods, but in natural history, errors cannot be defended, nor truths concealed. My appeal I shall save for posterity.
I am, of course, eternally grateful that Speaker Högen wrested my sword from my hand in time to prevent the vengeful blow and thus a more permanent charge; and to a similar degree, am indebted for his interposition with the Urðr. As a reflection of that gratitude, I have determined to make the best of the reprimand I have been given; after all, the fur trade being carried on in these very distant colonies is considered of the first importance to the fylkir.
More importantly, a second appointment from the Commonwealth must be viewed as a mechanism to build on the exigencies of the first in Finnmǫrk, namely, to reinforce man’s dominion over the three kingdoms of nature. The speakers have made clear their desire to ascertain
how the much-vaunted fourth realm sits alongside the animal, the vegetable, and the mineral. How does a natural philosopher classify Álfar, Dvergar, and Jötnar? Who has ever collected a specimen? Högen believes their hidden secrets will only be revealed through the exploration of hitherto little-known lands.
I also had no great desire for a posting to Dagon, there to prop up some ailing Nawab or, worse, to chase Moro pirates around the Sulu Sea. In case the authorities had a change of heart, I packed in haste—my possessions consist chiefly of those that served me in Finnmǫrk before: a light coat of West Gotland linsey-woolsey cloth, lined with red shalloon; leather breeches; a green leather cap; and a pair of half-boots. I carry a small leather bag, furnished on one side with hooks and eyes, so that it can be opened and shut at pleasure. This bag contains one shirt; an ink stand, pencase and microscope; a gauze cap to protect me occasionally from the gnats; a comb; my journal, and a parcel of paper stitched together for drying plants, both in folio. My pocket-book contains a passport from the Governor of Uppsala and a recommendation from the university, for which I am again indebted to Högen.
The All Father Paradox Page 12