The Fabulous Beast

by Garry Kilworth

  In that fatal moment, Oswui lunges.

  The sword enters Penda’s chest, piercing that huge heart with a neat, single, pen-sharp thrust. The great king falls to the frozen ground in a shower of hoar-frost. In the following minutes he knows he is dying and looks up at his killer with mist-dimmed eyes, anger evaporated, reason returning too late to the battle-hardened brain. ‘Not to you the victory,’ he murmurs, ‘but to my own gesiths who denied me the secret of a rune-eyed beast.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s the truth,’ replies Oswui, ‘but I will take victory anyway, for the sake of an uncle and a dismembered brother, who both now lie whole in their graves, their spirits in a far kingdom.’

  ‘So,’ says the fallen king, his voice a mere rustle of reeds on a breeze-swept bog, ‘what will you do with my body now? I am after all a king of kings. My conquests are many. My deeds are great. I am entitled to a funeral of high import. You dare not do otherwise for someone as beloved of the gods as I.’

  ‘Gods? Whose gods?’ Oswui’s calm voice falls soft upon the ears of the mortally-wounded Penda. ‘You ask the nature of your fate and I will tell it to you. There is a she-wolf with her cubs, recently robbed of her faithful mate and the pack’s provider – your flesh will feed her young.’

  The Farrier’s Wife

  My grief overwhelms me.

  First, let me tell you who I am.

  My name is Aiken, which comes from the great tree that spreads its mighty branches over our land. My work is shoeing horses. I am farrier to Raedwald, our lord and king, who chose me from a number of farriers.

  ‘Aiken,’ said our lord Raedwald, ‘you have a gift with horses – they become calm in your presence. They submit to your gentle hands without fret. Henceforth you are my farrier and the farrier of my theigns and gesiths.’

  And so it was, my status grew high in the fiefdom of the Wuffings where my fellow Angles work, live and die. The land that is rich in rivers and deep-brown soil. This country where the deer and the boar run, where the wolf keeps to his own paths in the forest for fear of hunters, where the geese come back to in the winter, flying from the old land across the sea. Here we are safe where our ring-giving lord is great among warriors, gesiths and hearth-men who are fierce in battle and whose swords flash with fire when they fight.

  I had every reason to be joyful.

  And I was happy.

  Happy, that is, until my beloved wife Daegal fell sick of the shaking disease and died in the night. My mother-in-law blamed me for the death, saying I must have upset either man or god, someone who visited revenge upon me by taking away our dearest possession. I searched my mind but could find no enemies there. Who would hate a farrier? Only perhaps a man whose warhorse lost a shoe at a vital time and was unsuccessful in battle or hunt. I have never had a complaint of that kind.

  So, let us think about gods.

  Woden, the Lord of the Wild Hunt, he would not bother lowering himself to concern himself with a farrier.

  Ingui? My fertility has not yet been put to the question, my young wife dying after only three months of wedlock.

  Thunar is too busy cracking the heads of giants with his hammer to worry about a farrier who took up his craft because he was too short to become a great warrior.

  Frige, Welund, Eostre, Nerthus, Tiw – none of these have I to my knowledge offended.

  It is true that when it comes to Seaxneat, I may have said that the metal I shoe my horses with is as strong as that of a sword, but surely this claim could not have been enough to enrage the sword-god of our people?

  My mother-in-law’s tongue is as sharp as a knife and cuts me deeply, but others have taken little notice of her ravings.

  I have a friend, Scowyrhta, the maker of sandals for our people. He is a short man, with a narrow face and sharp eyes, and the warriors despise him for his weak body, but he listens as well as any tree, as well as any lake, to the sorrowful rambling of his friend.

  Others have told me to take myself in hand, to take myself in an iron grip and to shed this womanly grief. Scowyrhta does not chastise me or sneer when I weep. He places an arm around my shoulders and whispers sympathy in my ear before tenderly kissing my cheek in an attempt to alleviate my distress. Scowyrhta professes an understanding of my deepest, blackest feelings. He will sit with me all night, if I ask him to, and never complains my use of his time. Others are wary of my shoemaking friend, saying he is unwholesome to women and detested by men, but I can find no fault with his concern for my spiritual welfare.

  ‘It isn’t your fault you have lost your Daegal,’ said Scowyrhta on parting with me one day. ‘A living man cannot go against his wyrd. Wyrd rules our lives. Wyrd ruled that Daegal would go walking in the apple orchard one morning and there be elfshot. No mortal can avoid the arrows of the aelfe if they happen to be around. Aelfe arrows poison the blood and unfortunately sometimes take the life of the victim. Daegal was not a strong woman, being pale and insipid . . .’

  ‘I do not think she was insipid,’ I argued. ‘She was sweet and innocent perhaps, but I liked that about her.’

  ‘You saw her with a lover’s eyes. Others would say she was like a wilting lily before the onset of winter . . . but I have no wish to anger you, for I see you disagree with this view. I shall leave you now, before our friendship is impaired by thoughtless words.’

  Recently I shoed the horse of a warrior named Wulfgar.

  ‘Be careful you don’t show her your red-hot iron,’ said Wulfgar referring to his chestnut mare, ‘or she goes berserk. Shield it with your body as you work. She hates bright colours, especially red, ever since she was burned by an inept blacksmith. You never see me wear anything but blue and grey.’

  There are those who stand over me while I work, giving what they believe to be helpful advice. All men believe themselves to be experts at at the trade of others. Fortunately Wulfgar was not one of those fools and left me to my work. It was when I was shaping the red iron, fresh from a bed of charcoal blown to white heat with the leather bellows, that a thought came to me. The sparks flew from the shoe as my hammer clanged on the anvil and I fashioned a calkin. The beauty of sparks is transient. They are shooting stars spewed from the forge. Or souls flying on their way to the spirit world. It was this second thought that had me wondering. My wife was still here, not far from my side, separated from me only by a step from Middangeard, the realm of men, into Neorxnawang the realm of aelfe and spirits. That place of lost wights exists alongside our own world. There are men who have managed to enter it. There are spirit-beings who come out of it. The two are there together, separated only by an invisible barrier.

  That night I lay in my bed wondering, what if I were to go into the spirit world and bring back my dear wife? I had heard of warriors who had visited the place of the dead, where demons and other insubstantial creatures hold sway. True, their stories often ended in tragedy. Was I willing to take the risk, to regain her who I love above all things, including life? Very soon I made up my mind that I would attempt the journey into the unknown. The rest of the night I spent planning how I would do it.

  When Wulfgar came to collect his mount, I asked him, ‘Have you ever visited the Otherworld?’

  Now Wulfgar is one of those big, powerful men, whose chest is more suited to a boar than a man. He wears two wolf-skins for his cloak, pinned by a huge gold brooch given him by our Lord Raedwald for services on the battlefield. His sword was made especially for his own massive hand, being heavier and longer than a normal blade. His legs appear to be tree-trunks borrowed from the forest and his head might well be a hillside boulder, if it were not for the long, greasy locks.

  ‘Are you mad?’ he said, fixing me with a hard stare. ‘Has the heat of your forge boiled your brains?’

  I rapidly gathered my thoughts, knowing all men are susceptible to flattery.

  ‘It’s just that you are so famous for your deeds, being the one gesith on whom our lord can rely – so fierce a warrior and ever in the thick of the battle . . .’

/>   Wulfgar laughed in my face.

  ‘Farrier, I had honey for breakfast, I don’t want it for my lunch too. What is it that you’re asking?’

  ‘Is there a way to get into Neorxnawang?’ I asked, my breath coming out quickly.

  His eyes narrowed, but he was smiling.

  ‘What are you an ironsmith or a poet? Only poets want to go into the Otherworld, so that they can write their verses and astound and entertain us with their mystical journey. Are you bored with hammering iron? Do you want to risk death for the sake of a few magical lines?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, emphatically. ‘I have stared at flying sparks too long. I have looked into dancing flames since boyhood. And this work is too physical for an older man. I want to find another trade before my muscles slacken and my bones begin to crack.’

  Wulfgar snorted, taking the reins of his mare.

  ‘The only way I know of getting into that place,’ he said, ‘is on the back of Sleipnir – are you Woden, farrier?’

  ‘No,’ I replied, hanging my head, for the mere mention of the name of the Lord of Death and the Gallows had frightened me. ‘No, of course not.’

  As he went away, Wulfgar said over his shoulder, ‘By the way, farrier, I’m sorry for your loss.’

  Later that same day I spoke with my best friend, Scowyrhta. I told him I wanted to go to the spirit world to gain inspiration for a poem. Scowyrhta looked at me askance, with a hurt expression on his face.

  ‘Aiken,’ he said, ‘I am the poet, not you.’

  Indeed, I had forgotten that my friend wrote verses, though they were not well regarded by our lord, or by anyone really. They were not stories of prowess in battle, or great journey’s across the wide ocean, or about the mighty gods who rule our lives. They were short pieces about the beauty of flowers, and love, and the blessings of the seasons. No one really wanted to read about such things and all regarded Scowyrhta’s efforts as puny attempts at recreating a child’s view of the world.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, not wishing to offend him, ‘and a superb poet too, but I’m not talking of emulating your wonderful writings. I simply want to explore the place in which my wife now walks daily. I need something of her still and to be able to picture her surroundings would help to crush my grief.’

  This did not seem to mollify him, for Scowyrhta went away with a dark face. I sat under a plum tree all that day, ignoring any customers at my forge, and planned what I would do. In the evening I went in search of my lord Raedwald’s shaman. In my pocket were three gold coins, the total sum of my life’s savings. I found the woman in her hut, bending over some foul concoction and stirring it slowly. I gained her attention and told her what I wanted.

  She sneered. ‘You wish me to make a new wife for you – out of river clay?’

  ‘Not a new wife,’ I told her, irritably. ‘I want you to make the wife I have just lost. I want your creation to look like her.’

  The old woman laughed. ‘You’re going to fornicate with an earthen likeness of your dead wife?’

  I felt myself going red with embarrassment.

  ‘You don’t understand. I shall first go to the Otherworld. There I shall seek my wife’s soul and bring it back here. You will put her into her new body. Once her spirit is inside, she will become flesh again, isn’t that so? Our bodies came from clay and return to clay. It is only the soul which gives life to the earthy substance from which we are made.’

  ‘Ah, you have listened well to my teachings in the Great Hall. I wish others did the same. Those oafish warriors continually fall asleep before the heat of the hearth-fire. Only the women, children and poets really heed my words. Are you a poet, farrier?’

  ‘I’m beginning to think I must be. Can you do it?’

  She grinned, revealing a row of broken teeth.

  ‘Of course I can do it. But for what reward?’

  I opened my hand and showed her the three gold coins. They were swept from my palm before I could close my fist again.

  ‘She will be ready for you, when you return. If you return. I have my doubts, farrier. I think you have pig-iron for brains, but then perhaps that will help you in your quest? Those who think too much have difficulty in making decisions and are often too slow to react to danger, being ever in debate with themselves over the best course of action. Follow the example of the hare, farrier, when danger comes freeze or run. The second option is nearly always the best, unless you have a faster animal than man on your tail. Even then I have heard of those who outran a pack of wolves. Fear is a wonderful spur . . .’

  She was till yammering on when I left her hut.

  I lay on my bed of straw that night trembling with both excitement and terror. I was going to enter the Otherworld. To do that, I had to borrow the warhorse of a god. Nay, the warhorse of the god – Woden. Master of the Runes and God of Magic, could snuff my life with a snap of his fingers, and no doubt would do if he knew I planned to steal Sleipnir for a few hours. One way or another my wife and I would be together again, either in Middangeard or Neorxnawang. I hoped it would be the former and not the latter. I sent my prayers to the great smithy, Weyland, hoping he would not betray me.

  The next day there was a tremendous storm. Woden I knew would be riding across the sky on his eight-legged stallion, Sleipnir, hunting the celestial wild boar. I could hardly steal his mount while he was on its back, so I had to wait for a better time. Lightning zig-zagged from black clouds and thunder crashed over my head. It reminded me of my audacity in thinking I could play tricks on the gods. Perhaps Weyland had whispered in Thunar’s ear and the god of thunder and lightning was warning me not to carry out my scheme? I went to my forge and began striking my anvil with my heaviest hammer, a ringing strike for every clap of thunder, an attempt to placate Thunar by imitation. There are few who can resist the flattery of being copied.

  When the storm was over I climbed the highest pine tree in the forest and waited. Sleipnir would be tired after the hunt. Even the horses of gods have their limit. He would be grazing amongst the clouds, left to rest by his master. When he came close to my treetop, I intended to leap onto his back. You may wonder at my audacity and daring, but I am a farrier. My working life has been spent in constant company of horses. I know them as well as I know myself. They in their turn know me and smell the trustworthiness on my skin. Even the wildest mounts are calm under my hands. I could never have been a shoe-er of horses had I not the gift of instant friendship with each and every one of them. They know me. I know them.

  Hours I waited. A whole day.

  Then as the gloaming rolled up the hill from the river and twilight dimmed the world, Sleipnir came in on a wisp of cloud.

  My heart began to beat faster and faster. Fear flowed through my veins as I beheld this magnificent beast, his wonderful dark hide glossy with cloud-moisture; the huge muscles in his legs and thighs, along his flanks, and in that fine arched neck, glowed with strength. This was a giant of a steed. His galloping through the sky attested to the power in his form. Could I ever summon the courage to mount such a creature? I was but a puny mortal, whom Woden would crush like a cockroach if he knew of my plans. And who knew that Sleipnir would not whinny loud enough to raise the great hunter-god from his rest and down on this lowly farrier? Already I was beginning to wilt under pressure of my own making. Regrets began searing through my white-hot brain.

  But I rallied. Was I going to falter at the first fence? No.

  I watched keenly as the stallion cantered to a halt.

  He was superb. Mist spurted from his nostrils. Up close, his eyes were like the brilliant coals of my furnace. He ambled on his eight legs near to my treetop. I waited with shallow breath, praying he would move nearer, and eventually my prayers were answered. Sleipnir noticed me, smelled the horse on me, and grew curious. Closer and closer he came, until he was near enough to touch. I suddenly took my chance, my heart thumping wildly. I leapt across space onto Sleipnir’s back.

  The enchanted stallion shied, stamped, began a gallop
over that roof which the Christians call Heaven.

  Softly, softly, I whispered in his ear. I knew the words to say, I knew the sounds to make. Clinging to his flowing mane, which in the created wind whipped my face and breast with its long hair, I made my declarations in a low, calm voice. We cleared many a vaporous barrier. Many a miasma of woven mist. His hooves thundered over flat plains of blue. A monster horse – and I was but a infant child on his back. His wonderful tail lashed the very ceiling of the world: a thousand whips that left white streaks for those below to wonder at.

  Gradually, gradually the great steed slowed his gallop, fell into a canter, and thence to a trot, and finally a walk. His nostrils flared as wide as caverns as he smelled the horseness on me. He knew me.

  Once in command of the beast, I rode about the sky looking for entrances to Neorxnawang. They were not hard to find. There were many invisible gates, through which we could pass and re-pass, man and steed. We rode over the landscape I knew so well, with the river that flowed below the hoo and its surrounding woodlands. I guided my mount down to the earth and there found myself in that world that exists alongside our own, the world of supernatural beings and spirits. There, where dead men and women roamed, I had to search for my beloved Daegal. I had brought with me a leather bag which I intended to use to carry her back to my world. When I had asked the shaman if this would be enough to hold a dead soul, she had replied, ‘In life our spirits are enclosed and held secure in our bodies by our skin.’

  I hobbled Sleipnir with a piece of rope and then entered the forests of the dead. Once inside I became horribly confused, by the strange creatures I saw and by the appearance of dead mortals. The latter were not, of course, in the shapes of living men. They seemed to be fashioned of sparkling mist and floated, bewildered, over the undergrowth of the forest like lost clouds of fireflies. They paid me no heed. I could have been a tree or a bush for all they took notice.