Demon of Scattery

by Poul Anderson

Whitecaps suddenly sprang to life on the great brown stream. The wind raised them faster than she had ever seen it happen before, surely faster than Halldor himself ever had. Louder and louder it shrilled, strained with chill fingers at her gown as if it too would ravish her; and more and more it became westerly, streaking straight up the Shannon to overflow this island and everything around. She stood yet in sunlight, but it had grown wan; the very sun seemed to flicker in the blast. Up over the western horizon clouds lifted fast enough to see. They became a blue-black wall.

  Lightning blazed more bright and swift than flames from a burning homestead. Thunder rolled across miles. It sounded like the wheels of a giant chariot. But it is not his Thor who rules this storm. Mananaan Mac Lir is rising now in wrath. The first flung raindrops stung Brigit’s face.

  She felt herself grin. Halldor the Weatherwise did not foresee this gale.

  She must squint and shield eyes with hands to make out how the ships fared. They had gone surprisingly far while her thoughts blew about in her; they were almost out of her sight near the head of the island, distance-dwindled to toys.

  (For an instant she wondered if Halldor had carved a toy boat for Ranulf when the boy was little. Of course he had.) Doubtless the Lochlannach would reckon it shame, and unlucky as well, to give way before a mere squall. She made out how the hulls pitched and yawed.

  Their brave coloring of sails had been struck. Oars labored spidery. Not long ago Halldor had tried to render into Gaelic one of his own poems for her. It bespoke his ship as “the many-footed dragon of the swan’s bath—”

  Brigit strained to look west. Thence would come revenge. The storm-blackness had engulfed half of heaven, and still boiled onward.

  Ahead of it, wrack covered the rest. The light that trickled through was the color of brass, hard to see by; and the lightning flares beyond dazzled her eyes, left blue-white images in her vision. Yet when the thing appeared she knew.

  For an instant, terror gripped her. She had not thought to ask herself what form the anger of the land would take. Enough that her namesake, the goddess whom the Christians had tried to make a saint, had promised.

  Maybe Lugh of the Long Hand would come in his chariot with his terrible beauty, spear lifted on high; maybe the Morrigan would lead her shrieking troop of witches upon the wind—

  What swam from the sea toward the ships was longer than any hull.

  Foam seethed around the serpent coils. Lightning-light shimmered along the ebon scales. High as a dragon figurehead reared the tapering snout, flickering tongue, glistening small eyes. Jaws gaped; against the murk behind, Brigit could see how cold seafire dripped from the fangs and was whipped away on the blast.

  She knew. This was Saint Senan’s island, whence he drove the monster and which he made holy by his prayers. But his work has been undone, the last consecrate has forsworn Christ, the Old Ones are astir, and Cata the frightful is coming home again.

  These Lochlannach, at least, would harry her country no more. A joy seized her, Cuchulain’s battle joy. She raised her arms aloft and cried into the wind, “Welcome, Cata! A hundred thousand welcomes!”

  The air roared and roiled. Darkness deepened save for the firebolts that leaped among the clouds. Thunder banged as though from within her skull, rain came flying like arrows, and she could see no more across the water.

  XI

  AT FIRST HALLDOR HAD NOT BEEN alarmed, only angered. Hell take this Irish weather! Loki himself ruled over it. Every sign had been good. Well, he’d seen enough of its tricksiness not to be taken much aback, and so quick a blow ought not to get dangerous in the time his band would use for rounding the main island. (Watch out for the lesser eyot, though, when they’d nearly have drawn the lucky circle to a close. Passage through the strait between it and Scattery would be almost as trying as to go north of it with the mainland for a lee shore beyond.) Then the storm waxed, swifter than Odin’s eight-legged horse galloped of nights in the Wild Hunt. Sails fought the men who would lower and furl them, cloth flapped and snapped, loose ends of lines whipped blood from skin. Murk and lightning boiled up out of the west and over the sky. Wind raved, thrust, snatched at Sea Bear’s hull so that she kept veering broadside to; only her oarsmen brought her back in time, wielding their blades with all their strength in answer to commands Halldor bawled from the rudder. Belike the racket around and crash above often drowned him out—but they were stout lads, they knew the sea and its ways—but this wasn’t the sea, the whitecaps were becoming waves with no two alike, tide and gale and river-flow made currents, rips, chop like none he had ever met before—Through the rain and hail that began to drive about him, he saw how Reg- inlief and Shark lurched. Masts, which there had not been a chance to take down, swayed crazily against half-seen forest which the lightning whitened. The pennons at all their heads were torn off.

  The ships must find shelter, else they’d likeliest be wrecked. Halldor squinted landward. He could barely make out what lay there, but didn’t think that a safe place to beach was any part of it. Yonder was miry, reedy ground, where a hull could stick fast and be battered to pieces. Wisest would be to steer for Scattery: the south end, away from a Hog Island which had become a trap, then up along the eastern side, where the wind ought to be lessened. Maybe they could reach the haven they’d left. Or maybe they’d have to ride at anchor, which they could hardly do here, until the gale quieted.

  Either way, they’d finish the lap that Brigit had said would bless them!

  Halldor laughed and shouted his orders. Sigurd and Egil could see from their craft what he was doing and followed his lead.

  It would take seamanship to turn without being caught between weather and water. Halldor lifted his left hand off the tiller, to wave signals that would let his oarsmen work together.

  Then out of the rage ahead came the monster.

  It stabbed through Halldor: The Midgard Snake. The Weird of the World is upon us, and the gods themselves must die. Wreathed with rain and lightning, the great head seemed to lift into heaven, the writhing black coils to churn up the deeps. Was the storm really Thor on his way to meet it, slay and be slain?

  A sheet of blue-white fire across most of the sky limned it against tossing trees ashore. His sailor’s eyes took the size from that. No, it could not have lain on the bottom as a belt around the world—and no Fimbul Winter of three years’ length had foretold its arising, though today might well be the ax-time, sword-time, wind-time, wolf-time that the spaewife had said would come first… Yonder snake-thing was as long as any ship men could build, surely many tons heavier. But no more.

  No matter. It could kill him and his crew as dead as if it did bring the end of everything that is.

  It was bearing straight at Sea Bear, but not very fast. Maybe, maybe the men could outrow it; maybe it could not go on land. What else was there to do but try? Fear still made an ice-lump at Halldor’s core, for it is not easy to meet a troll; and what mightier Powers had loosed this one?

  But he mastered himself; his inwardness grew altogether cool and steady, and he gave all his mind to that which must be done.

  The bow lookout had likewise seen, and stumbled back screaming. He fell off the foredeck, down among the benches. Men missed their strokes, the ship lost headway. “Row, you scoundrels!” Halldor bellowed. The loudness tore at his gullet. “Bend to it, by the Hammer! “— if you’d have any hope of living, a whisper added from within. They heard, they saw him stand firm at the helm and send his bidding to them, the habit of years took hold and they laid themselves into the task.

  Not even as the ship was coming around and everybody saw the beast did they waver much. A rainbow shimmer ran across its scales. They thought that through wind-howl and rain-rush they could hear a monstrous hissing. Yet they brought their vessel about and raised waves of their own as they bore back upstream.

  Current was against them now, but the gale with them. For a trice Halldor wished they could spare time to raise sail anew. But no—this water was too treach
erous, too narrow—and whoever ruled the storm could aim it any way he chose—In the end, a man had naught to count on but his own strength. Halldor began the old chant, ” Tyr hold us, ye Tyr, ye Odin-” His men took it up, not loudly for they had no breath to spare, but letting it fill them and be the drumbeat that ordered their strokes.

  Halldor glanced to starboard and saw that Reginleif was also headed for Scattery. Where was Shark? Sudden horror on the faces below made him twist his neck to peer aft.

  A cry broke from him. Shark had been too awkward, had gone afoul of wind and riptides and barely made her turn before she was swamped.

  Those aboard who were not rowing were madly bailing, but she wallowed sluggish. The worm had changed course toward her.

  It was upon her.

  Its forepart reared over the sternpost. The head came weaving forward.

  A crewman dropped his bailer and thrust with a spear. The head darted, mouth agape. Through the rain driving against him, Halldor thought he could see that a fang, the size of a forearm, barely wounded the sailor through his shirt. Yet that man let go his weapon, clutched his belly, and fell. Poison—

  The head withdrew. Then, more slowly, those grinning jaws lowered again. They closed on the helmsman, the skipper. Halldor glimpsed how limbs sprattled as the snake arched its neck on high. Blood welled and was lost in the river. Sigurd passed from sight, swallowed whole: Sigurd Tryggvason, friend in this faring, troll-food.

  Shark drifted helpless. Some of her folk sprang overboard, some snatched for their fighting gear. It made no difference. The snake picked them from either place. Iron did not bite on those scales. After it had taken four or five, it attacked the ship herself. Snout battered, coils lashed and heaved. The mast broke, the dragon head tumbled off, ribs and strakes gave way. Sigurd’s proud craft became flotsam drifting down the Shannon. The beast hunted about, killing swimmers with bites and blows.

  It did not eat any more. There should be ample feeding later. It moved on upstream after the rest.

  All this had Halldor witnessed in stolen glances. Mainly he must keep aware of the ever-changing forces that ramped about him, hold Sea Bear on course with his own oar and his men’s. By the time Shark was done for, Scattery Island loomed near.

  He changed his mind about where to steer. The northern passage was tricky but the lesser holm and the closer mainland shore made a weaker current for his wearying rowers to buck. Besides, that way they would sooner reach the bay, where he knew they could safely ground.

  To slant across the river toward the strait took the whole of Halldor’s skill. Egil on Reginleif tried the same, but could not do it so well. His ship fell ever farther aft. The snake drew ever closer, until plain was to see that he would not escape.

  Across tumbling waters and lashing, hail-edged rain, Egil waved at Halldor. What he shouted did not carry through the gale, but his own crew must have heard, for they wielded their oars as one and Reginleif came around. Like a flung spear, she sprang to meet her foe.

  She rammed straight into the huge form and swung to lay alongside.

  Swords, axes, spears flashed across the rail. The snake looped clear, unhurt, lowered its head, and reaped among the vikings. Thereafter it wrecked their hull and slew whoever was left. “But you made a good ending, Egil, you and your carls,” breathed Halldor.

  They had kept the troll from him, too, while he rounded the northern spit and bore toward haven. Belike Egil had died hoping that Halldor would get home to tell his saga.

  Dim on the starboard quarter, save when lightning flared to turn the slant of rain steel-grey, the tower now rose in sight. And the monster also did, threshing through the river. “We’re almost there,” Halldor said to himself; and aloud, as loudly as he was able: “Row, row! Thrandheim waits for us!”

  The bay, the strand—the monk-huts beyond, and Ranulf lay in one of them—and Brigit abode there too—Had she witched forth the worm? She was no common kind of woman, and she had much to avenge. But—On!

  Drive Sea Bear up the shallows till her keel shocks home! Overboard, into the stream, drag her higher while Thor’s hammer smites with fire and his goats draw the thunder-car rumbling over heaven!

  Men stumbled onto what had been dry land, where rainwater swirled and gurgled around their feet. Halldor led them in making the ship fast.

  Without this last of the three, they were doomed anyway. As for the snake, if it could not come ashore, it could not move in the yard or less of depth where she lay.

  Suddenly Halldor grew aware that when he left her he had not taken his ax along. Instead, he had snatched his own hammer from beneath the foredeck, where he had returned it after the offering. Well, no weapon forged by man would help in this plight, while the tool had hitherto always brought him luck in his farings. He picked it up from the ground, having dropped it there so he might have both hands free to haul on a mooring line. The weight in his grasp was strangely heartening. He looked outward.

  Hugeness waved back and forth through the river, the head on high darted back and forth through rain. Forlorn, the Norse huddled in their sodden clothes, gripped hafts gone slippery with wetness, and waited to learn their lot. The thing had seen them. It turned. Slowly, as if wanting to keep them unknowing, it swam closer.

  Halldor could not tell whether he heard or felt that length grate upon shingle. He did see that the giant kept on coming. More and more of its barrel rippled above water. It slid past the ship; its first coil crossed the meeting of water and island.

  Somebody wailed. Somebody else broke into a run. All at once the whole crew bolted, right, left, inland, anywhere. Halldor stood alone. The snake bore on up toward him.

  XII

  WIND-DRIVEN WAVES LASHED THE island, and rain made Brigit’s gown a clammy shroud. Hailstones stung her face and hands. Some drew blood, but she paid no heed. Off in the river, in lightning-driven darkness, battle raged.

  A flash revealed the monster, its neck arched. Another flash showed a sheared mast, a splintered hull, men thrashing overboard. Darkness for a time; when lightning flared again the battle had moved closer. Again the beast reared, as a ship rammed it. Brigit clenched her fists. They eased when she recognized Reginleif. That was well done. I must grant the Lochlannach courage.

  But what of Halldor? And what is it to me if he lies dead by my witchery? Another bolt replied: Sea Bear had made harbor. Through the murk she saw men haul the ship aground, and heard, amid storm, the scrape of wood on gravel. So. He lives yet, and the battle comes ashore.

  Running, scrambling, shouts, and behind it all, a slithering. Sick light gleamed through cloud-shreds, and Brigit saw: the thing was nigh as thick as she stood tall, and stretched, it seemed, out to infinity. Might rippled beneath the gleaming black scales as the creature slid onto land.

  The crew scattered. Only Halldor stood his ground. The beast held its head high, paused, balanced as if choosing, then darted forth at a fleeing man. It drew back to wait, but the man was already down, pierced by a fang as long as Brigit’s forearm. One of Ranulf’s gang, the man had been.

  He lay still, and the rest of them fled every which way. Daintily, the beast engulfed its prey and swallowed him whole. It raised its neck and looked around for more. The lidless gaze fixed on Halldor.

  Alone in the tempest, Halldor seemed absurdly small. The creature flowed across the ground. A coil looped near where Brigit stood. Each scale was as large as her palm; she could not see over the crested back.

  The thing was close enough that she could smell its stink: musk and corruption and death. She retreated, hand over mouth. “The Serpent from Eden,” she breathed. “My God, what have I raised?” Muscles bunched and the sleek side brushed her. She screamed and fled toward camp.

  Rain blinded her, or was it tears? She tripped and sprawled. Her hands scoured across gravel; the pain shocked her, brought her back. Coward.

  You summoned it. Face what you have done.

  The monster had turned from Halldor and was stalking her. Unhum
an eyes, slit-pupilled, stared. The tongue flicked. It held its head aloft, eager, questing.

  She freed her feet from her tangled skirt and made ready to flee again.

  Then she remembered: when the vikings bolted, Cata had chosen one.

  When she ran, it tracked her. She tried not to breathe.

  At the edge of sight she tallied what lay beyond her: mostly barren ground. The nearest refuge was Ranulf’s hut, and beyond that the chapel.

  From inside it, through the wind and enormous rustling of scales, she could hear screams, prayers, and lamentation. That would be the Irish captives; they’d sought sanctuary. As well they might. The dry-stone walls were strong, and it was—or had been—the house of their God. The beast flowed closer. Its curves held terrible grace and power. Belly-plates churned the soft earth over the graveyard. They lay shallowly buried, the olden monks. Behind the serpent a shrivelled arm pointed at the sky. And still it came.

  All of it was out of water now. The finlike crest along the chine gleamed sharp; the tapering tail whisked the ground. Brigit no longer held its attention. It passed her by. She turned to watch: the monster’s head drew level with Ranulf’s hut. Save for a distraction it might have gone on toward the chapel.

  But somehow Ranulf had crawled to the doorway. Kneeling, he steadied himself on the frame. In his left hand he brandished his sword, and he cried a defiance.

  Brigit did not know if the creature heard or understood, but the great head turned, the eyes fixed on Ranulf, and the tongue flicked forth.

  Ranulf swung his sword aloft. It gleamed sharp in the lightning-glare, but it wavered in his grasp, and against the serpent was flimsy as a withe.

  “Stop!” Brigit screamed, and ran.

  The monster saw her movement and turned toward her again. Its tongue darted out, inquiring. “Stop, Ranulf! A sword is nothing against that!” She threw herself between Cata and the hut. Alarmed, the beast arched its neck and gaped its jaws. The mouth was huge; Brigit could have stepped inside. From the upper jaw gleamed two white fangs. Lesser teeth, sharp and curved, glinted through darkness. Again the tongue licked. This time it smeared across her face. She screamed and backed away. Pearls of liquid spattered from the fangs and pooled yellow on the ground. Where they touched water they steamed.