Because people bathed frequently, and streams of warm water flowed from the numerous springs up and down the mountainous coast, cleanliness was both widely admired and expected. Fat Grim’s advice that a clean, well-laundered supplicant would be more acceptable to the seer had been wise, and Gauk was grateful. He soaked for a long time in the purling waters.
A badkona, a bathing servant, brought Gauk’s newly cleansed garments to him, and the pretty, dimpled young woman helped Gauk into his clothing. Unused to the attention of servants, Gauk thanked her. That the servant was a comely woman made his self-conscious thanks all the more heartfelt.
“It’s all a part of my duty,” she answered, using a word Gauk knew well, morginverkin, daily duties varying from splitting wood to milking goats.
But a stiffness, a decided reserve in her tone, mystified Gauk—until he stretched his arms down his sleeves and found that the tunic’s shoulders were too tight and the sleeves too short.
“Please don’t be angry,” said the servant.
Her subservient tone, and the way she flinched when Gauk swung his arms, trying to loosen the cloth, made Gauk feel all the more self-conscious.
“I’m not at all angry,” he said. “I am a little surprised that soaking in the spring has made me bigger than I was when I last wore this garment.”
The servant put a hand to his sleeve. She said, “The laundry women were afraid the wool might shrink. And it has.”
Courtesy was wise when a traveler inquired after someone’s name, and so Gauk phrased his question using the time-honored phrase, “Whose daughter are you?”
“I am Jorunn Sursdottir,” she said, “servant to Grim.”
She was Gauk’s age, he guessed, and her pale skin indicated that she spent little time outdoors.
“My clothes have shrunken only a very little,” said Gauk. While it was true that the tunic was smaller, Gauk realized that the bloodstains were nearly gone.
“If you keep silent about this to my master,” she said, “I’ll find you a fresh tunic, of good lamb’s wool, and new leggings as well.”
“When I fasten my coat, no one will notice my long arms,” said Gauk with a laugh.
“For your silence,” she said, “I will do anything.”
The warm spring purred and simmered behind him. Gauk considered what the comely Jorunn had just said. Sexual favors were often considered a part of a female servant’s duties. Control over one’s passions was admired as well as every other form of self-control, but Gauk felt a surge of temptation.
And a certain urgent curiosity. “Are you so afraid of Fat Grim?” he asked.
“No, not of him,” she answered. “He is kind. His wife, however, is cruel,” she added, lowering her eyes, “being jealous.”
It was late in the day when Gauk followed the flowing shape of his own shadow up a wending, pebbled path to the seer’s longhouse above town.
Now that he approached this heavily timbered dwelling, far from any neighbor, Gauk felt his steps falter. His newly washed clothes were not dry, after all. Gauk felt cold, chilled by the wind whistling across the long hillside. The steam from the hot springs up the rocky slope twisted and tattered in the breeze.
He wore the sword at his side, the best weapon he had found among the seamen he had killed. As he traveled the upward slope he fastened the ill-smelling length of hide and its dangling, black-clawed forepaw around his hips. If this offends the seer, thought Gauk, so be it. He wanted to hear the truth, no matter how painful. Gauk used Whale-Biter as a staff as he climbed the hill. He knew that he was a shabby figure, his wrists jutting from his shrunken sleeves within his shaggy coat.
He wished he had an excuse to turn back, but as he looked toward town he saw more than one person gazing up after him, each face as pale as a whalebone bead. One of the far-off observers was Jorunn, leaning on her laundry paddle.
She gave him a wave.
Twenty-four
In Spjothof a visitor announced his presence by slapping the door post and calling out. In other villages a whistle was considered proper. Gauk had heard of wealthy towns where knuckles were used on a door, but in Gauk’s village this sort of knocking was considered impolite.
Ignorant of the habits of Blot, and apprehensive that the seer’s servants would turn him away in any event, Gauk fell back on ancient formula. “The son of Ara,” Gauk called, “humbly seeks to visit Jam Ketilsson.”
Impeccably polite though this was, it sounded unimpressive and even awkward sung out before a massive pine wood door. Beyond the seer’s longhouse was the expanse of wind-stripped fields, white boulders, and distant forest.
Gauk called out again, until the door creaked open.
A giant of a man, sword at his hip, stood in the light of the late-day sun.
House karls were guards who protected the home and the person of important men and women. Such men were not fighting men, as a rule, but that was largely because their very presence discouraged thieves and marauders.
This towering man with a flowing red beard had to duck his head to keep it from striking the door frame. He made no move to welcome Gauk. The hunter’s voice was reduced to a croak, and the giant waited as Gauk cleared his throat.
“I will visit the seer,” said Gauk, more assertively than he had intended. “If I may.”
The guard gave a nod to the purse Gauk wore, all the silver fragments—broken plates and wine cups from far-off lands, and even a coin or two. Coins were rare this far north, and Gauk was pleased at the price the pelt had fetched from Fat Grim.
Gauk was all too aware that the pouch was not as plump as he could wish. He held out the pigskin bag.
The house karl poured the silver into his palm. The house guard did more than count the silver. He examined each piece carefully and with little haste, and Gauk quailed inwardly. Surely he had not brought enough.
The big man met Gauk’s eyes with his own. The giant’s gaze flickered down to the bear paws at his hip, and perhaps a trace of a smile creased his features for a moment.
Gauk kept himself from flinching as the giant’s hand enclosed the top of Gauk’s head and gave it a pat, the sort of caress a man gives a frightened boy. The huge stranger’s eyes grew small with merriment.
Then the giant extended a long arm and pointed up the hill.
The horses were small, hairy steeds, still shedding their winter coats this far north. The animals bounded over the sun-gilded slush, five nearly grown colts the bright, pale color of birch wood.
A medium-sized man in a kyrtill, a hooded cloak, stood on the hoof-pocked hillside. He watched Gauk’s approach. Odin was often depicted wearing such a hood, and the sight of this figure did nothing to hasten the young man’s approach, or to make him feel less self-conscious.
Still, Gauk reasoned, there was no shame in needing advice. Stories told that the gods themselves sometimes cast lots or rattled ivory rune bones down on the forest floor to foresee who would win a battle.
To Gauk’s surprise the man threw back his dark hood and smiled. This smile faded at once, and Gauk was aware of the pendulous weight of the bear relics swinging from his hip. Gauk bit his lip. He should have secreted the paws along the trail, but it was too late now. Besides, it was the pelt—and the life implied by wearing one—that had brought Gauk to this place.
The seer was missing the thumb on his left hand, but in a world of scars and old war wounds, this minor disfigurement was not remarkable. His eyes were as blue as any in Spjothof—neither eye was missing after all. His honey-bright hair was tied behind, in the manner of a seaman.
Jarn peered at the patches of gore stains still evident on Gauk’s shaggy coat, and put a single finger on the pommel of Gauk’s sword.
He walked an unhurried circle around Gauk.
Gauk’s father had often remarked that any man could pass as a diviner if he collected evidence with his eyes and delivered prophecies that were sufficiently enigmatic. Indeed, there were many salty men of experience who scoffed at the pow
er of such seers. And for just an instant Gauk wondered if he had squandered a purse of silver.
“You’ve been at sea,” said the seer in a voice so gentle as to be nearly lost in the wind. He was a man neither young nor old, and his shy but level glance reminded Gauk of Errik the poet, a man who knew every chant and could invent new ones as lore-rich as the old.
And yet Jarn’s remark demonstrated no unearthly power, Gauk realized. How else would a traveler arrive?
“I need your help,” said Gauk, inwardly challenging this soft-voiced prophet to understand without being told.
Gauk blurted his tale quickly, not meeting Jarn’s eyes. It astonished the young hunter that words could encompass such events.
When Gauk was done, Jarn stood gazing down the hill, at the deep blue water of the harbor. It was late in the day, and fishermen were returning, their boats slow and heavy. Fishing was not an occupation that won particular glory, and while there were many poems about hunters and sailing ships, there were few stories about cod or herring, or the men who caught them. And yet the seer watched the fishing boats with interest, as though he had agreed to purchase the day’s catch.
“You felt the bear-spirit possess you,” said Jam thoughtfully, repeating this detail of Gauk’s recitation.
“Yes,” said Gauk, surprised that he still commanded speech.
“And you knew,” said Jarn reflectively, like a man verifying the story he had just heard, “that you were stronger than any human warrior.”
“Yes, I did!” said Gauk, grateful that Jarn understood.
Jarn said nothing for a long moment.
“You do not imagine,” said the seer at last, “how many young men think that simply girdling their hips with a bear paw will make them a fearsome fighter.”
Gauk chose silence.
“And you cannot guess,” said Jarn, in an even voice, “how badly you offend me.”
Before Gauk could protest, the seer turned and gave a long, sharp whistle.
At first Gauk thought Jarn was summoning one of the hairy, spirited horses. The creatures looked in Jam’s direction, their manes stirred by the wind.
Jarn whistled again, two fingers in his mouth.
The red-bearded giant appeared at the door of the longhouse. He made his way briskly, with huge strides, until he stood before Gauk and his master.
“Skall, this visitor has displeased me,” said the seer.
The wind combed the giant’s long red beard.
Jarn spoke quietly. “This fresh-faced young hunter styles himself a berserker, and believes Odin has chosen him.”
Skall gave a silent laugh.
“Test him,” said Jarn, “to see if it is so.”
The giant drew his sword.
Twenty-five
Gauk ducked the blade as it arced through the air and fell back, stumbling.
He thrust Whale-Biter toward the midsection of red-bearded Skall, but his towering assailant seized the weapon, wrenched it from Gauk’s hands, and flung it far across the horse-cropped grass.
Gauk retreated, tugging at the sword in its scabbard. The weapon would not pull free. Skall took another slice out of the air, and only Gauk’s nimbleness kept him from feeling a sharp edge cut into his limbs.
The horses scattered, snorting, kicking, losing a little more of what remained of their winter coats, the fine hair drifting, spinning in the softening wind. Jarn the Seer was a distant presence, huddled again in his hood, retreating from the violence. Gauk had tried to believe, for an instant, that this was all some rough game, the sort of manly sport that Norse folk loved. But as a blow hacked through Gauk’s shaggy outer garment, the young hunter began to realize that the fight was in earnest. The steel kissed the flesh of his arm as Gauk rolled, tumbling, still trying to free his blade from its sheath.
Skall was on Gauk, the big man’s fist seizing the younger man’s coat. The giant dragged Gauk, kicking and still gripping the pommel of his stubborn sword. All the way up the hillside Gauk struggled, the seams of his coat ripping until the ground all around was sulfur yellow and the air was ripe with steam.
Skall dragged the younger man over the crusted yellow edge of the spring and plunged Gauk’s head into the seething water.
Gauk felt the air explode from his lips, forced out of his body by the big man’s weight. He lost all the feeling from his arms and legs, deaf to everything but the roiling, scalding spring. Gauk regretted, then, not putting his arms around Jorunn and telling her that he would take her away from this town. He regretted not praying more fervently for wisdom before he approached this place.
Even then he believed that Jarn would intervene, long before Gauk’s head was boiled blind. He was sure this would all turn out to be a test, the sort warriors boast about surviving. Until he felt his body begin to die, he thought that Skall would laugh, and haul him dripping but still half-alive, the contest over.
Even now, all the air crushed from his body, the last bubble long since escaped from his lips, Gauk could think clearly. There was so much he wanted to tell his neighbors, Snorri’s parents, the jarl and wide-eyed Astrid. He would never be able to tell the strong-armed Hego that the edge he put on a skinning knife was equal to the thickest hide.
And this made Gauk very angry.
The young man looked upward through the simmering water. Skall’s red beard touched the hot spring, the giant’s features glistening with the rising steam.
Gauk’s hands awakened.
Help me, One-Eyed God, Gauk prayed wordlessly.
His hands groped their way upward, finding what they sought, losing, and finding again. They closed around the heavy beard, and drew the giant’s head down into the seething water.
Blow by blow Gauk’s fist punished the giant’s features. Skall collapsed, rolling to one side, spluttering in the steam. Gauk climbed from the hot spring, and drew his sword.
He tasted blood.
He stood over a recumbent figure, the giant man with scarlet coursing down his features. Gauk was breathing hard, drinking the cold air in great gasps, swinging his head from one side to the other, scenting the air.
Twenty-six
Hego was searching, following the tracks of a sheep.
It was bitter cold in the predawn. He marveled at the way winter kept coming back, long after the ice had melted in the fjord. Hego breathed on his cold hands to give them feeling.
He was climbing high above Spjothof again. He loved these heights. It was so early in the morning the late-melting snow was glowing blue, the sun still hidden. The freezing air hurt his lungs, and the last of his ale headache was vanishing. There had been much deep drinking in Spjothof as men bound their wounds and cursed the Danes.
The sheep was stuck on a rocky ledge. At the sight of Hego toiling upward in the strengthening light, the animal let out a plaintive bleat.
“I see you,” called Hego breathlessly, trying to sound reassuring.
He had awakened this early morning to the faraway, distant pleading of this stranded animal. It was more than compassion for this livestock that spurred Hego to climb in the darkness. The villagers had heard of Hego’s battle with the Danes and expressed admiration, but it was not the praise they would have given a seasoned warrior. They were amazed he had not been killed.
The sheep was eager, now that a human being was approaching, and its anxious hooves danced so close to the edge. Hego had to close his eyes for a moment.
“I’m almost there,” he called.
Gunnar had once told Hego that a sheep could not tell a boy from a goat. Hego could not imagine being so senseless. Nevertheless, Hego was puzzled at the curious nature of these ewes. Was a sheep stupid, or simply slow-witted and easily forgetful, like Hego himself? Why had only one of the breed ewes, driven into the high meadows the night of the attack, persisted in climbing all by itself higher and higher, until the echoes of its plaintive call were the only evidence that it was still alive?
He said, “I don’t have far to go now.”
Astrid had counted the breed ewes three times, and announced that one was missing. Old Gizzur had offered the opinion that one less sheep was of little consequence, but Hego was compelled by the belief that every lost sheep gathered in, every green timber planed and pegged to rebuild the ale hall, was another verse in the saga of Spjothof’s recovery.
Hego knew the gods had spared his life, but he did not know why. He was stiff from the fall he had suffered, tumbling off the trail under the blows of the heavy-handed Danes, but he knew this accidental fall preserved him. A few more blade strokes and Hego would have taken a sword in the neck, or the chest, or in the skull, like the blow that had all but taken the life of the jarl.
Some half-intended slip of the Norns’ hands as they wove the cloth of human destiny, some tiny thread floating one way or another, and Hego was healthy and the jarl was unconscious, oblivious to the quiet tears of his friends and his wife. Not three days had passed since the Danes had stolen Hallgerd, but no one had moved to seek ships for a mission to recapture her. It was true that just now Spjothof harbored only fishing boats and a few sexeringr, six-oared boats too small for a battle force. All the best fighting men were still off on a trading voyage, the most seaworthy warships absent with them. The village veterans had no choice but to wait. Soon Landwaster and her companion ships would stir the waters of the fjord, and then Thor, who loved just-revenge, would be their guide.
Hego reached the ledge, the gray-stone outcropping soiled with dung. The ewe bawled, even now, perhaps wondering why Hego had not clawed his way up the mountain with feed and water on his back.
“I’ll carry you down, don’t worry,” said Hego with a laugh.
It would not be easy.
The ewe bleated right into his face, the sheep’s breath white in the chilly dawn.
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