Odin’s Child

by Bruce Macbain

  Einar Tree-Foot roused me with a jab in the ribs. Stig was calling to us from the sea-gate to hurry.

  “Right,” I said, giving myself a shake to clear my head, “let’s go before the Kalevalans leave without us.”

  When we reached Stig, I threw an arm around his shoulder and said, “Well done, Steersman. I had a bad moment when I saw Pohjolans running to the sea-gate. Did they press you hard?”

  “Not a bit. Where you and your Finnish friend dropped the crossbeam, a blind man couldn’t have missed it. So we carried it down the beach a little ways and threw it in the water where the tide took it out. Then we just laid low and listened to them run around looking for it until the Kalevalans were on top of ’em.” The corner of his mouth turned up. “Saw something else out there—on the beach. Care much for surprises, do you, Captain?”

  The others who had been with him nudged each other and snorted.

  “I’d say I’ve had my ration for the day—what now?”

  “Guess.”

  “Damn it, Stig, as you hope to live, what is it?”

  “Just step this way, Captain, out the gate.”

  “The Sea Viper!”

  Beached at the far end of the strand, where we never could have glimpsed her from inside the walls or from the fields.

  “All this time!” I cried, thumping my forehead with my fist. “The bloody bastards sailed her here and had her all along.”

  Laughing and crying, we ran—thirteen scarecrows, with our clothes flapping on us like flags, limping, hobbling, holding one another—down the beach.

  We stood close around and drank in the sight of her. It was like wine and willing women to our spirits.

  Stig said, “We went aboard her for a quick look-see. The chests and stores are all broken into but the oars and tackle look right enough. We can put to sea in her.”

  But could we? She was high and dry on the beach and the tide ebbing fast. We flung ourselves against her and pushed until we sank gasping on our knees. Meantime the Kalevalan boats were putting out, with never a backward glance at us, and the Pohjolans with wild cries were streaming out the gate behind them.

  “Odin,” I cried, “Christ and King Olaf!” (I was ashamed of myself later, of course.)

  Then Starkad said, “Look there! The filthy whore’s sons—they’ve crippled her. She’ll never go like this.”

  We followed his gaze up to her serpent’s head: each of her white eyes bristled with poisoned darts. They had blinded her because they feared the spirit in her.

  “Bengt, can you shinny up from the fo’c’sle?”

  He was up in no time, with his legs hooked around her neck, leaning far out to reach the darts.

  “Once again boys, with all your might!”

  Slowly, slowly she rocked and slid, scraping and grating, over the mossy stones, gathering speed, moving with her own will. Her stern floated free, then her bows. We swarmed aboard her and, standing on her deck again, grinned like fools.

  “Run out a dozen oars,” I ordered. “Einar, you take the helm and put her alongside the Kalevalans.” The Jomsviking could manage the tiller well enough with his one hand. Stig and I were of more use at the oars.

  I looked back along the beach.

  The Pohjolans, men and women, were crowded down to the water’s edge, watching the five Kalevalan boats pull away. In one sloop, Ilmarinen and Vainamoinen stood together, gripping the sampo and Louhi, their hostage.

  For us, it was hard work at the oars, being only a third of our full rowing strength, but we made way slowly to intercept the Kalevalans. We were a good bow-shot out from shore by the time we came alongside them.

  What happened next I cannot well describe. I, myself, rowing on the far side, saw only the aftermath of it. As for what others claim to have seen, I leave it open. But we all heard the piercing cry, and it was like the scream of a bird. And Vainamoinen, when seconds later I saw him standing empty-handed in the stern of his sloop, bore telltale marks upon him—his beard spattered with blood and red gashes on his face and hands.

  Some of my crew swear they saw black wings beating around his head and talons ripping at him. On the other hand, I remember that wicked knife that she carried concealed under her shawl. Who can say?

  By the time we came alongside, they were dragging Ilmarinen back in. And Louhi, her thin hair plastered against her face and her shawls floating out behind her, was making frantic motions toward the shore, where already the Pohjolans were racing to their boats.

  In the boats of Kalevala there was silence and blank despair. Because, sunk in the sandy bottom of the bay, deeper than an oar’s length beneath their keels, was the sampo. I suppose that Ilmarinen made a grab for Louhi—whether in bird form or human—and lost his grip on the thing, nearly capsizing the sloop and spilling him into the water.

  They stared dumbly at the spot where it had disappeared. Gone without hope of recovery. The sampo might spread its wondrous seed in the fields of the sea, but nevermore in theirs.

  Presently one of the Pohjolan boats came close and fished Louhi from the water. She lay in the bottom like a heap of wet wash while her warriors stared stone-faced. They had lost all, and they knew it.

  The same loss was written on Kalevalan faces, but to my mind, wrongly. What did they want with that foul thing? Vainamoinen singing them to sleep at dusk should have been magic enough for them—but of course they would not have heard this kindly from the lips of the viikinki.

  Floating to the surface of the water as the glue that held them dissolved, were bits of the colored cloth and gold foil that had decorated the sampo’s tip; and these the Kalevalans, reaching out with oars and hands, were trying to salvage. Vainamoinen directed the operation while gruffly fending off those who wanted to bandage his gashes and wash the blood from his face.

  Old Vainamoinen. What was it Lemminkainen had said? No one remembers when he wasn’t old. I suspected he would be old for many years—for many ages—still to come. He was everything to them.

  And not like you and me.

  I wanted a word of parting with him and, leaning over the gunnel, called his name three or four times. But he made no sign that he heard me, nor Ilmarinen either.

  The Rover heard, though.

  He stood stiffly in the prow of his tossing boat, surrounded by his foresters, many of them wounded and bleeding. He turned his hard face to me. Our eyes met and held each other.

  Between us, most of all—between us two, who loved the same dear girl—there should have been some word. But for a long moment neither of us spoke.

  At last he clapped his right fist to his heart, held it a moment, and let it drop.

  “Hyvasti, Odd.”

  I had grown so used to being always called ‘Viikinki’ by them, that the sound of my own name came strangely to my ears—stranger still, in the mouth of that man.

  “Hyvasti, Lemminkainen,” I answered. “May we meet again in happier times.”

  Vainamoinen’s voice rang out just then, bidding them make haste for home. And so they turned their prows to the south and their little boats melted into the mist.

  Behind us, Louhi’s house fell in with a crack and a roar, sending clouds of embers whirling up into the air. And with them Ainikki’s little shade, flying from its pyre. I hoped she would think kindly of me sometimes and forgive me for releasing the Pohjolan women. Surely Pohjola’s ground was blood-soaked enough already.

  And dimly through the haze of smoke beyond the hall, the Copper Mountain squatted, its cold womb ripped and empty.

  Vengeance was satisfied.

  “Pull!” I cried, bending to my oar, suddenly desperate to be away. “Einar, take her out among the skerries.”

  Was I a fool to have thought I could ever have a home among the Finns or to have believed that Ainikki could love me? Well, it made no difference now. Of one thing, though, I was certain. Just as Vainamoinen had said, it would be a fair length of time before ever I sailed these waters again.

  On the poop, by
Einar’s feet, sat the casket of silver. And being Einar, he couldn’t wait. Dropping the tiller, he fell on his knees, fumbled open the lid and dug his hand deep into the heap of coins and rings, scooping them up and watching them fall between his fingers.

  “Heh, look ‘ee! Ha, ha!” he crowed. “Did Einar Tree-Foot say he would make you rich or did he not? Come on—who have you got to thank for it all, heh? Who’s to be thanked?” Cackling, he looked from one of us to another—then frowned and gave a peevish tug to his beard. “Well, I mean to say, why do you look at me so?”

  I glanced at Stig and he at me, shaking his bristly head and wearily smiling.

  32

  Out Luck Purseues Us

  Running before a smacking breeze, we skimmed the wave-tops and put miles of green sea between us and Pohjola. I stood at the helm once more, my hand upon the tiller, and felt the Viper’s lithe body roll under my feet.

  Skerries lay all around us—many just barren rocks, humped and gray like whales’ backs, where sea-birds flocked in their thousands, others shaggy with fir, birch and alder. On the leeward side of one of these we found a sheltered inlet and went ashore, making our camp where a rivulet of cold water ran down from a cleft rock.

  What a sad remnant we were.

  Thirty-three men sailed out of Jumne Town on a spring morning. It was now the end of autumn and we were thirteen. Besides myself, Stig, Starkad and Brodd were all that remained of the Iceland crew. From Nidaros came Glum, young Bengt, and three others—Halfdan, Ivar, and Svein—all brave and capable men. And from Jumne, besides Einar, were Bolli, Lambi, and Swarozyc, of whom the first were a pair of brothers who quarreled constantly, and the last was a Wend who was never, during the whole time he served with us, overheard to say a single word.

  Taking stock of our supplies, we found that the Finns had helped themselves to whatever was worth stealing. Both anchor and chain, made of precious iron, were gone; likewise a set of hammers and chisels that had belonged to Kraki. All of our sea chests had been ransacked of anything in the way of coins, buckles, or brooches.

  Looking under the loose deck planks, where our bulkier gear was stowed, we found the ship’s awning untouched, though they had lifted all our sleeping sacks of oiled sealskin. Of ship’s stores, the water barrel was dry, the ale cask gone, and the oats and biscuit maggoty.

  But no matter, we were alive. Free.

  We peeled off our rags and splashed in the sea, washing away forever the smell of Pohjola. We picked lice from each other’s heads, trimmed our hair and beards with our knives, and cleaned our teeth and our fingernails. And that night we feasted on fresh-killed roebuck until we rolled on our backs and groaned.

  We lacked only ale and women. But those at least we had the means to buy as soon as we were among men again. For we had Pohjola’s treasure—stowed carefully away under the Viper’s deck.

  And so passed some dozen golden autumn days in hunting and playing, bathing, sleeping, and eating until our bellies filled our skins again, and all our spirits rejoiced.

  All except Glum’s.

  The berserker looked more woebegone than ever and had no more to say than if his mouth were full of water. He worried me.

  I had gone off one morning to shoot at game with my Finnish crossbow and had bagged some hares. Bringing them back to camp, I tossed them down where Glum sat moodily under a tree and began to skin them.

  “We’ll soon be dining in Jumne Town, old friend, and telling our tales to bright-eyed lassies, eh?”

  He mumbled some reply.

  “What is it then, Glum? Can’t you shake off this black mood, now that we’re free of Louhi’s spells?”

  Frowning at the big hands that lay useless in his lap, he said in a mournful voice, “Friend Odin has lost me, Odd, or I him—I don’t know which. Ever since I was a lad of thirteen I’ve felt him here under my hide”—he indicated the general region of his belly—“and knew that I was his. But now?”

  “By the Raven, can’t you see what ails the man?” Einar Tree-Foot had hobbled up while Glum was speaking and eased himself down beside us.

  Einar had been a very mother to Glum during our captivity; cheering him by day, sleeping near him at night, even, when he could manage it, stealing an extra egg or two for him, because a warrior of Odin needs more food than ordinary men. And even now that we were free, he seldom let the berserker out of his sight.

  “They stole his spirit in Pohjola with their filthy tricks,” Einar fumed, “and he hasn’t got it back, and so of course, Odin don’t know where to find him. Any fool can see that.”

  “As it happens,” I replied, “this is a subject I know something about.” And I told them about how I had lost my own soul and how the ancient noaidi had fetched it back for me. “Ask Stig, he was there. He can tell you what a different man I was before and after.”

  Stig, who sat nearby mending his breeches with needle and thread, looked up and smiled, agreeing that I had indeed been mad before and only half-mad since.

  “Odd Tangle-Hair,” said Glum, brightening, “could he find my soul, this wizard? Do you think he could?” He appealed to me with his eyes.

  “Glum, it’s ever so far to the north, I honestly don’t know where. Perhaps next summer we could try….”

  The spark of hope died, his eyes went dull again. Not knowing what else to say I turned back to cleaning the hares, when suddenly Einar snapped his fingers.

  “Glum, my lad, you don’t ken the rune-signs, do you?”

  No, Glum sighed, such things were not for his head.

  “Ah, but Odd, you have the craft, have you not?”

  “I have, Tree-Foot. Why?”

  “Well mates, now Einar Tree-Foot is going to tell you something that he don’t tell to many—and he don’t want it repeated neither, for when folks find out that a man has the craft, why they won’t leave him alone with their nonsense.”

  “Einar, what are you talking about?”

  “I mean to say,” he dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “that I have the wit to talk with Odin All-Father through the runes.”

  “You never—”

  “The runes come from Odin, don’t they? Why, even as simple a fellow as Glum knows that much.”

  The berserker gave a wan smile and allowed as how the whole world probably knew that much.

  “Well then, and there you have it. We don’t need to be running after some foreign magician—not that he wasn’t a lucky find for you, Captain, in your time of need. But it’s not for Glum. All we have to do is carve Glum’s name on a rune stave and burn ‘er, don’t you see? Send ‘er to Odin in the smoke. And by Ymir’s Eyebrows, the All-Father will know what to do then. Glum, my boy, your troubles are just about over.”

  I shook my head, disbelieving. “Einar, this isn’t—”

  “And, Odd,” he went on quickly, “this is where you come in. The cruelest blow that that scoundrel dealt me, who parted me from my right hand so long ago, was to put an end to my rune carving. I’ve never got the hang of it with this other. And so, Odd, my friend, if you’d be so kind”—reaching across Glum he took me by the shoulder and looked steadily into my eyes—“as to do that for us?”

  “Einar, for one thing, it must be carved on a rowan slip,” I protested, “and there’s none about.”

  “Rubbish! Must I be lectured by a stripling? The wise-woman who taught me had the craft from Odin’s own lips, and she never said aught about rowan. Carve from this here.” He handed me a scrap of driftwood.

  I did as he asked, wondering what foolishness he was up to. With the point of my knife I scratched the four signs of Glum’s name: kaun, the torch … logr, the water … ur, the wild ox … madr, the man.

  Bengt sidled up and eyed us suspiciously. “More deviltry?” he sniffed. “We might as well have stayed in Pohjola!”

  “Hold your tongue!” snapped Einar. “When I want a sniveling Christman’s opinion I will ask for it. Now then, Odd, give it here.”

  He brought the sli
p close to his good eye and tipped it back and forth. “You were taught fair, I’ll say that. Mind you, not as well as I was m’self.” (He was holding it upside down.) “Now, a helmet, if you please, and the use of your tinderbox.”

  As a wisp of white smoke rose from the upturned helmet, Einar uttered a string of unintelligible words in singsong fashion. Bengt crossed himself and beat a retreat while the others stood around and watched us from a safe distance. Glum stared at the piece of wood smoldering in the bottom of the helmet as though his eyes would pop out of his head.

  When it was done, Einar beamed with satisfaction, stirred the ash once with his finger, spat into the helmet, and clapped it, ashes and all, on Glum’s wondering head.

  “Done! He’s found you and he’ll have your spirit back under your hide in double-quick time. You’ll howl with the wolves again!”

  Glum’s little O of a mouth curved into a smile and his eyes lit up. “Then I’d best sharpen my old axe,” he chuckled.

  †

  That evening I drew Einar aside.

  “I know, I know. You’re a smart ‘un, Odd Tangle-Hair, I never thought to fool you.”

  “But have you thought that fooling with Odin might be a little dangerous? The All-Father isn’t particularly known for his sense of humor.”

  “Bah! Odin and I are old friends. He’ll not complain. By the Raven, man, should he let one of his own berserkers just pine away to nothing?”

  “I suppose it could have worked.”

  “If it did or if it didn’t, Glum’s feeling his old self again and it warms my heart to see it. And just bear in mind that Friend Odin is, among other things, the god of liars.” He gave his beard a decisive tug and winked.

  †

  Next morning early, Stig sniffed the air. There was a bite in it and the damp feel of snow.

  “I’d feel happier if we were snug in Jumne harbor right now,” he said.

  And so it was decided. We filled the barrel with fresh water, brought on board the deer meat we had dried, and were soon at sea.