I had not proceeded more than three notes in imitation of the Finnar, when the conjurer joined me in my melody, banging his drum steadily, like the fall of feet along a trail. He too began to chant. I was dimly aware of the Beaver folk dancing around me and then felt a tremendous shaking throughout my body, followed by a rush of sweet, summer fragrances and the humming of bees. I have spent many nights trying to describe the sensation that came next. In Finnmǫrk, I observed young children sleeping in leather cradles, without any thing like swaddling clothes, enveloped in dried bog-moss and lined with the hair of the reindeer. In this soft and warm nest, they are protected from the most intense cold. For the longest moment, I felt transported into this land of slumber, safe and secured.
To my intense and increasing fascination, I then found myself somewhere else entirely, still trembling without the means to control my limbs. My surroundings were intimately familiar—the little corner of my family garden in Vittaryd, which I had so diligently cultivated as a boy. The huge triple-trunked linden tree stood guard over me, as it had done since I could remember. Of the Rainguard and the Skræling, there was no sign. The damp itself had vanished. I stood in the brightest of summer days. He Opens Door indeed!
HERE I LEFT MY WRITTEN account of my expedition in Markland. The toils and dangers, the solicitudes and sufferings, have not been exaggerated in my description. On the contrary, in many instances, language failed me in the attempt to describe them. I sat bolt upright, astounded and agitated both beyond measure, in my father’s study and tried to make sense of events. In my final analysis, I concluded that a journey of months, by ship and by wagon, had been reduced to a glimmering. This last passage was written in a frenzy and then the journal was left on the desk, forgotten in my haste and excitement. Of course, the real story was only just beginning.
My father and brother were overjoyed to see me returned so unexpectedly, but alas, in Uppsala I was treated with neglect, and even with contempt. I had forgotten that a prophet is usually less esteemed at home than anywhere else. My dilemma and eventual discredit lay in the appalling fact that I could not recreate the incantation or the trembling sensation I had experienced. Unable to provide proofs, I was ridiculed. The university speakers assumed I had absconded from my duty, and Róssteinn made sure that my attempts to publish even the briefest paper were met with derision. Even Högen found my saga too tall in the telling and wearily informed me that I had scorned my gifts.
Summoned back to court under charge of dereliction, I found the High Urðr immune to argument. I had collected my thoughts thoroughly at this juncture, and I posited that the galdar songs could, when shaped correctly, act as a key to doors as yet undreamt of. I told the court that I now saw clearly that there were not four kingdoms of Nature, but one—vegetable, animal, and mineral all inextricably linked with the spirit realm. The High Urðr charged my writings with indelicacy, laughed at my hypothesis, and called upon all the court to see if anybody understood my meaning. I implored the Urðr to write to Horgfell and introduce testimony from Herra Kyndillson or even Herra Dahl but cannot say with any certainty whether they acted in this request. The viceroy ignored my entreaties entirely, his commission doubtless dependent on his compliance with the established order. Certainly, I never heard from the Marklanders or Makénúúnatane again and have no idea what might have befallen them. I was left with cold comfort: the wretched knowledge that I had been shown the chair of the Nornir, only to have it snatched away before the hidden habitations of the cosmos were revealed to me.
In judgement, I was said to be ignorant of the gods themselves and was judged by the principles of Lœkrmann and hundreds of the vilest scribblers. As the skalds have told, I was outlawed and banished from the realm, destined to undergo hardships until the end of my days.
Stuff and nonsense, of course. Fate is the life you lead if you never put yourself in the path of greatness.
Nowadays, it has been said of me that Lind the Leaf-King was, in reality, a skald who happened to become a scholar. To my mind, I have become the Dreamer’s raven, flying over water and creating my own lands, a new progenitor, a second Ragnar if you will. Certainly, his ancient ways are now, by my instruction, made more modern. No one has written more books, more correctly or more methodically, on how to traverse the green-ways. No one has more completely changed the laws of nature and started a new epoch for humanity. No one else, save Odin himself, can claim to have named whole worlds.
With nowhere to turn, I went back to my beginnings. The War-locks of Finnmǫrk thought better of my endeavours, perhaps because they, too, were forced to subsist at the margins of the empire. As I have mentioned, by common repute, the Finnar were warlocks of distinguished eminence. They were songkeepers too. Magic was native to them, the galdar was their birthright, spirits their peculiar province. Even the lowliest practitioner could raise the wind by tying three knots in a string. When he untied one, a strong breeze blew. When he untied the second, there was a gale. If he dared unloose the third, trees would topple before the tempest and ships would rip from their moorings. They had, of course, many arts that were not so devastating, such as charms to cure disease and incantations to deter a hungry wolf.
In Turku, the distinguished Elder Törngren hosted me and assisted me with my works. At first, I entrusted my secrets to him alone. We expected a multitude of interesting discoveries and were determined they should not be subject to the control of the Urðr or the mores they contrived for imperial society. When we received the reward of our labours—for they were crowned with success within months—well, suffice it to say, that the records will show I have never sent back upon my enemies the barbs which they have hurled at me. The grins of the malicious, the ironies and attacks of the envious, I have quietly borne.
Each time I stepped into a new golden realm, a new celestial sphere stretched in infinite prospect below me. I walked through the abodes of the gods and wandered under stars seen only by Álfar eyes. Each trip was a transport of joy, a rush of nostalgia, exultation, and gratitude.
For a time, Turku became the centre of our new knowledge. Students flocked to us from all over the empire, men for the most part, all those denied a voice—veterans who had grown tired of the interminable wars with the Maharajahs, farmers denied a parcel of land by the Urðr, even Abrahamists clutching their Codices. But common among these disciples, there was a resolve to enlarge the boundaries of mankind. I refused to transcribe the songs of creation, even for those brave pioneers, but was happy to teach those who were willing to learn. I named them Verðandi, for the Norn who shows us what we might become rather than binds us to what we are.
At the time of the travels, the powers-that-were paid rapt attention to the voyages of my pupils. We cannot, of course, know what became of all of them, but some have secured a form of immortality to match my own. Ternstroem died on his voyage through Vanaheim; Hasselquist, after travelling Asgard, was lost in Myrkviðr; Forskal perished in the ice waves of Niflheim. Poor Rolander no doubt suffered most, succumbing in the Fyris Wolds just outside Uppsala on his near-triumphant return. He was likely murdered for the secrets he possessed—I know from personal experience there is no fury like an Urðr scorned. But why should I not tolerate the wretches, when I have been loaded with the praises of the fylkir himself, before whom they must bend in the dust? My age, profession, and character prevent me from waging war with my opponents. I will, instead, employ my few remaining years making useful observations.
Of all these great men, only Coc and Sparrmann are still with me in my remote garden, weary from their expedition in Nidavelir, and of course, both distinguished by the Polar Star for being first to circumnavigate the Nine Worlds. Their stories are not mine to tell, but they will be the first to remark that only by standing on the shoulders of a Jötunn have they seen further than the Jötunn himself.
EXEGESIS V
GOSFORTH, ENGLAND
2017
THE CHURCHWARDEN SPRINTED FOR THE porch. He was a large man, stout his
mother had said. He wasn’t especially fit; he’d never even dreamed of joining the Blengdale Runners on their Sunday jaunts, other than for a quick natter on the beach. But now, sheer determination propelled him forward with impressive speed. He didn’t break his stride even when he reached the first flagstone. Instead, he hurled his shoulder at the great Norman door, hoping to open it and reach safety in one fell swoop.
He decided to ignore the extra crosses. Blot them from his mind. Curiosity tended to do horrible things to cats; who knew what it might do to him? The sanctity of the church, the protection of the Mother of God—that was all that mattered.
He bolted the heavy door and staggered down the dark moat of the aisle towards the chancel. The night was suffocating. In his haste, Michaels performed a crude imitation of the gale, knocking prayer books from the pews, sending cushions and sheet music spiralling onto the floor. He careened all the way to the altar, where he tripped and fell prostrate, panting out a prayer.
The church was blessedly silent. Whatever tempest raged outside, in here there was only peace. Michaels decided that was enough for the time being. He needed to gather his wits and work out what was happening. He felt his way in the darkness to where he stored the candles, but then thought better of it.
Chandler.
It meant candlemaker. That was too much of a coincidence. He didn’t want to tempt fate.
Instead, he edged himself around the aisles, where he could feel the cold stone wall and avoid crashing into anything else unseen. He made his way along the columns to the east end, to the niche where the old tombs stood, and sat in between them. There he could at least watch the door until sunrise.
The tombs greeted him like family. He couldn’t count the times he had looked at them, enthralled. As a small boy, he’d often been distracted during Sunday service, imagining the Saint and the Warrior battling over the centuries.
He traced their patterns in the darkness, recollecting the imagery. On the larger tomb were many serpents, some wolf-headed, and at the end of the ridge, the enormous head of the World Serpent, Jörmungandr. The battle between good and evil goes on; God the Son overcomes the enemy, as Vidar, son of Odin, rent the wolf at the Twilight of the Gods. On each end of the stone was the crucified Redeemer. The White Christ is acknowledged, and the hell mouths gaped around the tomb in vain.
The smaller tomb was unique. On one side were many confused interlacing patterns; on the other, an historical scene. Two armies stood opposed, not fighting, but truce making, one leader apparently surrendering his flag to the other, whose party bore the large round shields of the Vikings.
His hand felt along the chieftain’s face, then crept to top of the ridge. The sensation was strangely hypnotic, reassuringly solid, fascinatingly old. It was almost relaxing—until it wasn’t. His hand floundered, grasping only empty space.
The stone had moved. The tomb was open.
“Careful now. You don’t want to release a draugr. Crypt-fiends are notoriously difficult to get back to sleep once disturbed.”
Michaels choked back a sob. The voice was devastatingly familiar. He couldn’t see the old man, but he knew that he was close. He could smell the sweat, the pungent earthiness of the woollen cloak.
The disembodied voice echoed around the Norman arches.
“I’m sorry, did you think I couldn’t get in? Or that your God would protect you? Perhaps he will, if you renounce all the words and works of the devil, Thunaer, Woden, and Saxnot, and all those demons who are their companions. Perhaps he won’t. It’s a god eat god world, after all.”
A candle flickered into life, guttering in some unfelt draft. Chandler stood over by the piano, next to an old pine bookcase. He stooped, made a selection, and began leafing through the pages.
“You asked me if I’d read any of those English historians. Of course I did, before they were enveloped and dispatched by time. I came across this great line from the Venerable Bede when I was planning my revenge. De tonitruis libellus ad Herefridum. Everything was Latin in the early years Anno Domini. De tonitruis libellus ad Herefridum; it’s all about divining the future from thunder. ‘If it thunders on Sunday, this is considered to presage an extensive mortality of monks and nuns.’ That’s the kind of religion you all signed up to. What kind of god would arrange thunder on a Christian’s day off? Well, Thor, for one, I suppose. Is this the Fishing Stone you told me about?”
Chandler was pacing along the wall, examining the interior decorations and commemorations.
Michaels didn’t respond. He realised he wasn’t a particularly religious man. His duty was to the land. To the monuments. He wasn’t above converting to Asatru or whatever the old man was raving about. Reverend Riley would understand, he thought, before he remembered that the vicar was probably not in a position to comment on anything. Mrs. Jones would probably treat him with newfound respect. It was worth clinging on to thoughts like those. Couldn’t be seen to be a gibbering wreck. That way madness lay.
“I see there are women priests now. I was always under the impression that, as far as Christianity was concerned, the stained-glass ceiling was more of a shit-stained floor. Have you heard of the Patriarch Paradox? The head of a woman is her husband, and the head of every man is Christ. That means Grandpa is the son of a virgin. Not a bad trick. Women must give birth to sons and yet be chaste, pure and virginal. The mind boggles as to how they are meant to achieve all that, but such was your patriarchy; old white men, preferably ones with beards, they write the rules. Did you never think to grow a beard, warden?”
Michaels instinctively shook his head, a little too vigorously, then realized that the old bear hadn’t once looked in his direction. Perhaps he didn’t know where Michaels was hiding.
“I’ll confess, your Christ taught me that lesson well. When I was young, women made the world go around,” Chandler said, perusing the wall, stepping closer to the hogbacks. Michaels tried to shrink down, out of sight, hoping against hope that the old man hadn’t spotted him.
“The Norns, three giant maidens who controlled all our fates, the fates of gods and men alike, from meddling monks to terrified churchwardens. When they called time, there was no use slamming on the brakes, or running for cover. Your candle was burned out. You were smoke in the wind. They decreed my death at Ragnarok, etched my last on the roots of Yggdrasil, the great World Tree. But of course, you know that. You have your Cross. It was all preordained.”
Michaels shifted his weight onto his right leg and tried to slide behind the larger tomb. The old man continued.
“Those ladies have the power to shape futures, to spin stories, to shatter ceilings. They were not to be denied by a glitch like Christianity. I told you names had power, and no name more so than the Norns: they ‘twine’ and ‘secretly communicate.’ These were the women who called to me and inspired me to return. They will have their Midgard back. Or so they think.”
Michaels used his hands to pull himself up, so he could squat. He could see the candle drift in his direction. Closer, ever closer. He held his breath and waited.
It was only then that he noticed the second tomb was open too.
The churchwarden didn’t recognise the sound that came from his lips, but Chandler did.
The old man blew out the candle, and Michaels felt the world around him scatter like smoke as he dropped helpless into an endless black chasm.
Sometime later, Chandler spoke.
PHILOSOPHICAL TRANSACTIONS
THE TEMPLE AT GAMLA UPPSALA
1850
IT HAD A PRETERNATURAL BEAUTY, this place. Seen at a distance, the temple shone like a beacon, radiating the brilliance of the Storm King’s Hall in all directions. The site was encircled by mountains; when arriving, you felt you had been ushered onto the stage of a vast amphitheatre, an effect accentuated by the golden chains that hung around the temple gables.
It was a bright, clear day. The snow lay in pristine piles on either side of the path, the half-melted puddles crackled under foot on the w
alkway. Sun goggles might have been sensible. Iðunn wrapped her Qiviut shawl tightly around her instead. The delicate under wool of the Arctic muskox was always warm and as light as a feather, perfect for her longer explorations. Underneath, she wore a lattice of hardened leather, padded with silk to let the skin breathe. Her arms and face were a knotwork of ash tattoos, her hair scraped back into a practical braid. She could have changed for the occasion, but she liked the pioneer look. It would give her a gravitas, an outlander authority—and it also implied that, while she would have been delighted to be asked, she hadn’t been best pleased to be summoned.
“Fuckers,” she mouthed, to whatever gods were listening.
Iðunn had always felt a loneliness to the scene. There was an anonymity to each arrival, exaggerated further by the sheer size of the embarkation suite. There were no welcoming arms or smiles, noone anxiously awaiting your return. The Urður weren’t renowned for their warmth, but even for them, it all felt rehearsed, their devotion both slavish and somehow scripted. As the Skald himself wrote, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts.” Shakageirr had distilled the posturing at Uppsala, and the whole empire, into one essential sentence. The Urður wanted the world ordered, directed.
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