“You sing it,” Hagen replied. “Those events warrant a better voice than mine.”
“Oblige me, brother,” Gunner insisted. “Your voice was good enough for us on that day, and it is good enough for us on this one as well. After all, a voice is a voice. Look what pleasure you brought Sigurd the last time you sang it. Surely his pleasure will be as great now.” Gunner laughed and glanced at Sigurd, who was sitting with his hands frozen over Guthorm’s new shoes, looking bewildered. His lips were parted as if to smile, but his eyes darted from Gunner to Hagen, and the smile did not come.
Gunner got up and began to pace, his harp in one hand. “Do you recall, Sigurd?” he asked, his gaze drifting to the war sword which was blazing on its ledge along the wall. “Why, you were speechless. And so you should have been. Hagen and I spent a good lot of time choosing the words and the melody for that song. We wanted to honor you properly, our brother in blood. Nothing but the best would do. And now that your song has been sung before all the Burgundians, you can be certain that it will be sung in many a hall for all the years and years until the end.”
“The end?” Sigurd whispered.
Gunner roared with laughter. “Why, the very thought of hearing your song again flusters you, I see. Surely the world will end one day and all the good things on it will pass away. What end did you think I meant? Your end? You shall have no end, thanks to Hagen and me. Your feats have immortalized you.” He stopped pacing and stood behind Hagen and stared down at the crown of his head. “Will you or will you not sing once more the praises of our immortal brother?”
“To what end?” Hagen mumbled wearily.
Gunner howled. “Everyone is distracted by ends tonight. What a vapid lot we are. To what end, he asks. I have told you to what end. To let our brother know that—”
“Enough!” Hagen shouted. “Begin the melody. I will sing.”
Gunner reached down and planted his palm on Hagen’s shoulder. Hagen looked away from it, and in the process, our eyes met—but he looked away from me, too. Gunner came back to the hearth and began to play. With his head lowered, Hagen joined in singing. His tuneless voice lent a kind of mockery to Sigurd’s quest. The first time we had heard the song, we had all been in a jovial mood and eager to hear Hagen’s words. But now, the mood of my brothers’ audience had been shaped by the lack of congeniality in their dispositions. Gunner’s grin—which was almost a sneer—expressed his true intentions clearly enough; Hagen’s singing of the song had been meant to scorn Sigurd from the onset.
The song was longer than it had been at the feast, for now Hagen added verses describing the gifts which Sigurd had bestowed on Gunner. While he sang of them, he lifted his head and looked at Gunner significantly, as if, I thought, to remind Gunner of Sigurd’s generosity. But Gunner only smiled more wildly and stared at Sigurd. Hagen’s last verse described the war sword, and I could not help but turn my head to look at the thing. To my horror, it seemed to have become even more animated, flashing there upon the wall as if it had ears to hear its praises. As if, like the Burgundians who had heard Gunner’s speech, it could be stirred to a state of excitement.
Hagen finished, and Gunner’s harp fell silent. Gunner nodded encouragingly, waiting for Sigurd to speak, but Sigurd was struck dumb. Gunner laughed; then he stopped laughing abruptly and got to his feet. He went directly to the war sword and lifted it down from its ledge and held it across his palms.
Horrified, I glanced at Hagen, but his expression told me nothing. His face seemed to be locked up, devoid of sense, almost like Guthorm’s. Gunner came back to the hearth. Sigurd’s stunned gaze clung to him. The sword flashed wickedly as Gunner brought it nearer to the fire. It was all I could do to keep from shielding my eyes from its glare. Then, in one quick movement, Gunner grabbed the sword by its hilt and jerked himself into a warrior’s stance. Sigurd gasped. Gunner laughed and eased his stance. Still laughing, he turned and replaced the sword on the ledge, laying it up there tenderly, as if he were handling a baby. “I burn with desire to take it up against my enemies,” he said. His whispered declaration seemed to fly out in all directions, to fill the hall. “And now,” he announced, yawning, “I shall retire. I will see you all in the morning, if the gods so will it.” He grunted a laugh and put out his hand for Brunhild. She bounded up to his side, smiling, the mischief come back wholly into her eyes.
I got to my feet as soon as they were gone and stood before Sigurd with my hand extended, mumbling something inane about retiring as well. I could feel Mother and Hagen watching me closely, but I kept my gaze on Sigurd. By degrees, he lifted his head. His look was as helpless as a child’s. When he took my hand, his grip was slack. I all but pulled him to the bower.
Before entering, I turned back to look at Hagen. He looked away quickly, but not before I noted that his vapid expression had become something other—sympathetic, I thought.
Guthorm was asleep on the feather mattress. While Sigurd stared down at him, stupefied, I began to unroll Guthorm’s mattress for Sigurd and me. But Hagen charged in before I could finish and scooped Guthorm up in his arms.
“Let him stay,” I cried.
“He must learn,” Hagen shouted.
We stared at each other. Then Hagen hurried out with Guthorm, pulling the curtain closed behind him.
“They have made up their minds,” Sigurd said in a voice so low that I could hardly hear it. “The song was my funeral dirge. Tomorrow they will add a final verse to it.”
I grabbed his shoulders. “Then we must be gone tonight.”
“A man does not run from his destiny. Particularly when he has fashioned it himself.”
“Perhaps we misinterpret—”
“Unlikely,” Sigurd said flatly.
He freed himself gently from my grip and sat down on our mattress. I found his arm in the dark and tried to pull him back up, but he would not be moved. I fell to my knees. “Let us go. I beg you.”
He clapped his hand over my mouth and we listened together to the strange noise coming from the other bower. At first I could not make it out, but as it grew louder, I was able. It was Brunhild—Brunhild laughing. Sigurd dropped his hand from my mouth, and we listened on, even after her laughter had subsided.
“We can wait until we are sure the others are asleep,” I whispered hastily. “Then we can flee to your uncle’s.”
“With Hagen sleeping out in the bower?”
“Then in the morning, first thing, before dawn, before the others awaken. We must stay up all night waiting.”
“It will not work,” he said almost indifferently.
“It must. I beg you. You will not go against this one wish of mine.”
Sigurd made no reply. Although I could not make out his face in the dark, I could imagine it, empty of fear now, almost peaceful, as if the life-spirit had gone out of him already.
We sat for a long time, not touching, not speaking. There was another sound. I held my breath to listen. It was the horrible retching sound of someone being sick. “Guthorm,” I cried, and I got to my feet and ran out of the bower.
The torches had been extinguished and the fire was low. In the dim light I could see Mother bending over Guthorm while he vomited. Hagen was asleep, or pretending to be, on the long bench.
“Help me,” Mother whispered when she saw me.
I ran for the washing bowl and drying cloth and brought them to her.
“Some light,” she said, and I ran to find a taper. I lit it at the hearth and hurried back to her.
Guthorm had stopped heaving and Mother was wiping his face. His eyes were bright and red and frightened. Together we got him out of his clothes and wrapped him up in rugs and lay him down on Mother’s mattress. We watched him wordlessly until his breathing became regular again. Then Mother began to cry softly. I touched her hand to comfort her, but she pulled it away from me. “The mess,” she whispered.
&nbs
p; I took the taper over to it and began to clean it up with the cloth. The odor was awful, but the sight was worse. Though much of it was fluids, there were also several meaty chunks therein. I brought the taper closer. Now I could see that some of the chunks were covered with hair and some with skin. The hair resembled the hair of the wolf, but I could not be certain. The skin was clearly snake skin. Sick with horror, I threw the cloth away from me. I looked back at Mother. She was bent over Guthorm, her shoulders trembling with her silent sobs. I reached for the cloth and finished cleaning the mess.
“We must go tonight,” I whispered as I lay myself down again at Sigurd’s side. “They have made Guthorm eat of the wolf and the snake. I do not know what it portends, but I know it is not good.”
Sigurd made no answer. The regularity of his breathing assured me that he was already fast asleep. I thought to awaken him, but then I changed my mind. Even if he could be made to flee, it could not happen yet, as Mother was still awake. She would hear us and ask what we were about. And then Hagen might awaken, and Gunner too—if they were not already awake and waiting for us to make such a move.
I stared up at the darkness, determined to stay awake until I was sure that everyone was asleep. Then I would rouse Sigurd and demand that he flee with me. We might not get by Hagen, but it was our only chance. I rehearsed the words I would use to convince him. Words and words and words came into my head, and, for a time, they kept me from thinking about the evil thing that Hagen and Gunner had done to Guthorm. But the mind is a wonder, and while I was still at work making new combinations for my petitions, I began to ponder Guthorm’s eating of foul things in earnest. I had heard of men eating such things before, in connection with spells for cunning and swiftness, those traits the snake and the wolf share. But the men who ate such things were evil themselves. There was no evil in Guthorm. Surely that was why his innocent body had rejected them.
Time passed, and there was no sound other than Sigurd’s breathing. My own breathing seemed to keep pace with it. My mind released its monsters, and, tired as I was, I began to think that our flight could wait until morning after all.
Then the light changed, or rather, a light as soft as fog came creeping into the bower to displace some of the darkness. I said to myself, Ah, at last I dream, and I marveled that I could dream when all around me there was chaos. I looked to the source of the light and saw Guthorm. This troubled me some, for although Guthorm’s presence inhabited most of my waking hours, I seldom dreamed of him. Beyond him, closer to the source of the light, was a second form—a woman, Mother. She seemed to be rising from out of the light itself, gradually at first, but then more quickly. She seemed to be wearing a mask, but when she came closer, I saw that it was only terror: terror marked her face grotesquely. Her lips were pulled back and her teeth were bared. Her pupils seemed to float. Her arms were outstretched.
I got up on one elbow to have a better look, and I saw then that Guthorm was wielding a sword. He was about to cast it. At me? But he was not looking at me. His blank gaze was fixed on Sigurd.
Perhaps I shrieked, for all at once Sigurd sat up beside me. The sword came flying simultaneously. I heard it slice the air, and then I heard a sound like a twig snapping as it bit into Sigurd’s flesh. Sigurd yanked it out, and using the motion I had seen him use so many times, he cast it back again. When he recognized his assailant, he groaned. Mother caught Guthorm in her arms just as the sword entered his neck. Sigurd groaned again and fell back. His tunic was covered with black, a spreading black reaching for the whole of him. I put my hand on his chest, to hold his life-blood in. I heard a sound which I at first mistook for a ringing in my ears, its pitch was so high. Then I realized that it was Mother screaming. I said to myself, What a dream this is! If only I could awaken. And then I remembered something of the events that had preceded my dream, so that I came to see that it was not so strange a dream to have under the circumstances.
My hands were wet with blood. How warm it is, I thought. Then, to drown out the sound of Mother’s screams, which were unbearable, I began to scream myself. And I thought that if I screamed loud enough and long enough, I would finally awaken. But my screams kept coming, and I felt no less a dreamer. My screams filled the bower and rolled into the hall to merge with Mother’s. I could not decide which was spilling out faster, my screams or Sigurd’s blood. Then there was another sound, competing with mine and Mother’s. This one I had heard before, and I quieted so as to be able to better listen to it. Ah, yes, I said to myself, That is only Brunhild; Brunhild is only laughing again.
The City of Attila
15
IT TOOK ME A MOMENT to figure out what was different in my little world. Then I realized that there was no guard riding outside my hut. Thinking that the guards must only be changing shifts—though they had always done so just outside my doorway in the past—I crawled across the floor and peeked out. Then I crawled back to wait for breakfast. But neither my breakfast nor my guard appeared, and when no one came at dinner time either, I concluded that a guard could not be spared for me now that Attila was marching and that I had better go in search of food in the morning.
Edeco had said that there would be few men left, and he was right. Other than the guards posted at Onegesius’ and Attila’s gates, and a few others scattered in between, the only men I saw were the aged ones. The City of Attila was a city of women and children now. And as I wandered through it—hungry and fearful but savoring each step of my freedom—I could not help but note that the faces I saw looked more serene than those I was used to. I had left the hut with my cloak on, in part because the air was brisk, and in part because I felt safer covered up, but the air warmed gallantly for so early in the season, and as the only reactions my presence evoked were indifference or curiosity, I soon removed it. After a time I grew brave enough to look beyond the eyes of the guards and the villagers to the bright, cloudless sky and the golden grasses swaying in the fields, as if to the rhythm of my own careless thoughts.
I was startled out of my reverie by a voice calling, “Ho! Ildico!” When I turned, I saw Eara, one of my fellow servants, sitting out in front of her hut. She had been surrounded by children, but when they saw me stop, they must have decided that my presence relieved them of their obligation to sit with the old woman, for they all ran off at once.
“My grandchildren,” Eara explained, turning her smiling face toward me. She was one of the two women who stayed on in Attila’s hall to deal with the scraps and the dirty bowls after the rest of the servants had finished their tasks. Her special status—which implied that Attila trusted her—and her brusque manner had kept me from conversing with her in the past. I could not imagine why she had called to me now, or why she looked so pleased to see me. Tentatively, I stepped forward and confessed to Eara that I was hungry and did not know where to go to look for food. Eara got up from her mat and gave me directions to the food tent. And when I thanked her and made to move away, she drew in her features in such a way that I thought she was disappointed to find me in such a hurry.
I had to go north past a good many huts before I found the line of wagons that Eara had described and the food tent just beyond it. When I entered, I found, as I should have realized, that the people working it were all Thuets. I imagined that some of them were from Edeco’s tribe, and it was all I could do to keep from saying more than ‘thank you’ to them as I went from one to another to be served. When my bowl was full, I went outside and found a place to sit away from the others who had come outside with their bowls. I had never been to this part of the village before, and though the sights were the same as elsewhere, I was enjoying the difference in perspective when all at once I heard a sound behind me—a low wail. I put the bowl aside and looked around but saw no one. Then I chanced to look where the wagons were all lined up together and espied, wedged between two of them, a woman of my age. The woman was bent over, but her face was uplifted and contorted with pain or anguish. Her suffering
passed even as I watched her, and her features relaxed. Taking a deep breath, she sat back against a wheel spoke. She was very beautiful, and, clearly, Roman.
I turned to look at the sky again, but now I was distracted. And when I heard the Roman cry out again a while later, I got up with my bowl and went toward her, between the wagons. My shadow arrived ahead of me, and she tensed as she looked upon it. But when her gaze reached my face, she smiled at once. “I heard you cry out,” I said in the Hunnish tongue, although I did not expect to be understood.
The Roman moved a dark strand of hair away from her face. “It was nothing,” she said.
I stared down at her. I had never come across a Roman woman before. I was torn between curiosity and an instinctive contempt for the people who had set the Huns on the Burgundians. “How is it that you speak Hunnish?” I asked.
She glanced beyond me, as if to see whether anyone was watching. “I am married to a Hun. And you?”
As her expression remained pleasant, so that I thought she must not mind being married to a Hun, I resolved to be careful how I answered. “I serve Attila in the evenings,” I said. “I live alone in a hut beyond his palisade. I am not married.”
We stared at each other for so long that I concluded we had nothing more to say to each other and was about to take my leave. But then I noticed that she was fingering a large green stone that hung from a chain around her neck. Unconsciously, I reached up to fondle my own stone and dropped my hand abruptly when I remembered that I would not find it. “How did you come to marry a Hun?” I heard myself ask.
The Last Wife of Attila the Hun Page 27