The Raven's Table: Viking Stories

by Christine Morgan

  “Of course.” His scabby lips curled in a leering grin. “Ask, then.”

  She took a moment to collect her composure. She thought of her mother, and the ailing queen’s final plea. She thought of her brothers, constant and faithful companions.

  “I once heard tell,” she said, “of seven princes, transformed into ravens. The wisest and most sagacious of scholars could find no way to restore them. How could such a spell be broken or undone?”

  “That,” said the dwarf, “is a much better mystery, though still by no means perplexing, not to me.”

  “So, it can be undone?”

  “Not easily.”

  “Tell me how, just the same.”

  “Oh, very well,” he said. “Though, as there is a fair bit to it, go on and undress as I speak.”

  Ingihilde swallowed and drew a breath. She unbuckled her belt-girdle, then unclasped her brooches, and set them on the chest-lid at the foot of the dwarf’s bed.

  “Whoever would seek to break that spell,” Troni said, gaze crawling lasciviously over her, “would have to go to great pains. First, seven bushels of yellow lake-nettles must be gathered by hand, with no help of glove or shears.”

  “And then?” asked Ingihilde, stepping out of her shoes.

  “Then the nettles must be pounded to fiber and carded like flax.”

  She removed her woolen over-dress, standing in just her linen tunic, with the heavier garment folded modestly to her breast. “And then?”

  “Then must the nettles be spun into thread, and cloth woven from it.”

  Ingihilde placed her folded dress atop her girdle and brooches. She unbound her long hair from its braid so that it spilled, shining like gold in the firelight, around her shoulders. “And the cloth?”

  Troni’s lips smacked wetly. He slid his wide tongue over them.

  “And the cloth?” Ingihilde repeated.

  “Sewn into seven shirts.”

  “To be worn by the ravens?”

  “Yes, but that in itself is not the whole of the spell.” He looked at her, waiting.

  She turned so that her backside was to him and pulled her tunic over her head. Naked, she heard his eager, snuffling snort like a boar at the trough. Quickly, she sprang into the bed and pulled high the covers.

  “What more is there to the spell?” she asked.

  “Last of all,” the dwarf said, rising from the chair to begin shedding his own grubby garments, “must four drops of blood be let fall onto each of the shirts… at hem, cuffs and collar.”

  Ingihilde saw with revulsion his turgid arousal, a meat-cudgel jutting from the base of his broad, stocky belly.

  “Whose blood must it be that is let fall on the shirts?”

  “That of whosoever was the curse-caster,” he said. “Now, it is well past bed-time. Let me lie down, and I’ll tell you the rest.”

  When he lifted the covers, Ingihilde released them. Troni crawled into the bed. His weight sunk the straw mattress so that she was tilted toward him. His skin against hers was coarse, hairy and loathsome.

  “Tell me the rest,” she said.

  “Once the blood is let fall and the shirts put on the ravens, the spell will be broken, their true forms restored.” His hand, with its thick, callused fingers and freshly-trimmed nails, groped her breasts. She felt a hard, fleshy stiffness rub along her hip and thigh.

  “What else?” asked Ingihilde in a whisper.

  “Hrmm… one more thing… whoever sought to attempt this could not, from the picking of the first nettle until the donning of the last shirt, speak… nor weep… nor laugh.”

  She uttered a gasp then and sat straight upright, the covers again clutched to her chin. “What was that?”

  “What was what?”

  “I heard something! Something outside!”

  “Only the wind.”

  “Not the wind. Are there bears in these parts? Giants? Wolves?”

  “None that come near here.” He traced the line of her spine with a fingertip.

  “I did hear something,” Ingihilde insisted. “I’m sure that I did. Do you have enemies?”

  At that, Troni paused, his look of impatience becoming one of apprehension.

  “Or I’m being silly,” she said. “It’s only the wind, as you said… a branch creaking… though it sounded more like… shh! There it is again!”

  He sat up as well, listening intently. “I hear nothing.”

  “Oh, well.” She started to recline, then a worried frown creased her fair brow. “But didn’t you say that you had a trove of rich treasure? A cask of gems, gold and silver? There… there aren’t trolls or dragons nearby, are there?”

  “No,” he said, sounding more dubious. “What did you think it sounded like?”

  She hugged herself and shivered. “I don’t know.”

  “Hrm… nothing, probably nothing, but… I’ll look, if it will set our minds at rest.”

  He clambered from the bed and went to the door, where he opened it, and looked out.

  As quickly as she’d sprung into the bed, Ingihilde sprang from it now, crossing the floor in fleet-running strides. Troni stood in the doorway, hands braced on the jamb as he leaned peering outward. Ingihilde gave him such a strong push that he went head over heels off the stoop. His bleat of surprise became a grunt as he sprawled on his face in the mud.

  The dwarf rolled and sat up, pawing at his eyes. He gaped at her. Naked and filthy, his nose bleeding, his prick wilting, he made a ridiculous sight.

  Troni bellowed in outrage as she slammed shut the door. “Wretched girl!” he shouted. “Liar! Oath-breaker!”

  “I’ve broken no oath,” Ingihilde shouted back. “Nor do I intend to. I’ll spend all this night naked in your bed as was agreed.”

  His fists hammered heavy on the warped knotwood planks, but the door and the bolt were both sturdy, and held.

  “It never was said that you’d share the bed with me,” she added.

  He tore the shutter-frame from the hide-covered window, but it was far too small to let him squeeze through.

  Then she whistled for the ravens and called down their wrath.

  They came screeching, her brothers, sharp beaks and hooked talons. Their ebony wings flapped a black storm in the night.

  Troni ran shrieking in circles. His arms flailed, frantic, in fending-off gestures as the ravens darted and struck, slashed and retreated, tore strips from his skin and gouged holes in his flesh. They went for his loins, and his eyes, and his throat.

  He fell sprawling again, then tucked himself into a ball. The seven ravens sliced with their talons and stabbed with their beaks. The dwarf howled. The dwarf gibbered. He blubbered and wailed.

  Ingihilde, fierce and naked, fair hair streaming, rushed from the cottage wielding a stout length of firewood as a club. Her raven-brothers scattered at her approach.

  She brought the club down on Troni’s head with all her strength. Once, twice, thrice—the first blow stunned him, the second knocked him senseless, and the third blow crushed in his skull like an egg.

  For seven years now, she had been a feeder of ravens… but never before quite in this way.

  As they settled to their feast, Ingihilde scrubbed herself clean of the dwarf’s blood and the lingering feel of his touch, then went naked to his bed and there spent the night. She was a king’s daughter, a queen’s daughter, a princess, no oath-breaker, and she kept to her agreement.

  The next day, she searched until she found Troni’s treasure. She filled a pouch with gold and silver and gems, and buried the rest in a thorny thicket behind the wren’s bramble-bush.

  The fifth-eldest of the seven ravens had learned, while listening to the waterfowl at the Althing of the birds, where yellow lake-nettles grew.

  They found such a place, a lake long and narrow, fed by many rivers. At one end was a town where the chieftain of the lake-men had his hall and held each year a trade-market.

  Along a curved stretch of shore, the lake-bed made a shallow bowl o
f sun-warmed water. The smooth backs of stones poked up like mussel shells, and there grew the yellow lake-nettles in profusion. So too grew cattails and reeds, and lake-lilies with flat leaves and white flowers. Insects skimmed among them, and cranes stalked on their long thin legs, and ducks paddled, and small fish flicked to and fro.

  Ingihilde and her brothers made a new home there.

  At first, they lived humbly, in the shelter of a rock outcropping which she enclosed with woven reed-mats. She wove baskets, as well, when not gathering nettles—and when her hands would allow it; the nettles cut and stung her skin until even the most diligent hard-worker would have found it a misery.

  Nonetheless, she did it and was uncomplaining. She gathered them, cutting the stalks with her knife. She used flat stones to pound them to fiber, which she then hung to dry until she could card the fiber and spin it into thread. This, like fine wire, caused ever more painful cuts upon her fingers as she spun it.

  The folk of the lake-town thought it strange, this girl living among the nettles with her attendant host of ravens. Was she a witch, some sorceress? Or perhaps a madwoman? They soon found her to be both young and beautiful, friendly, but mute. She would listen but not speak, smile but not laugh, and met any sorrow with silent tears rather than weeping.

  In time, they grew accustomed to her, even developing a curious affection to this bird-friend. They left neighborly gifts. Fishermen waved from their boats, and she would wave back. When she ventured to town, she’d be greeted warmly for all that she could only nod and smile in return. With silver from Troni’s treasure, she would purchase some goods.

  On one such visit, she learned that the townsfolk referred to her as Hrafnetl, she of the raven-nettles. On another, she met Gunnleif, the hall-chieftain’s son, a handsome young man, strong and good-natured. He had been away a’viking when she first arrived, and come back laden with battle-glories, plunder, and tales of adventure.

  Soon enough, they fell in love.

  She could not explain to him her purpose as she spun and wove and sewed the coarse and stinging cloth of nettle-fiber. Neither would she permit him to help, though she welcomed him to sit by her and talk or sing or tell her stories as she labored.

  Gunnleif saw to it that she lacked for little. He built good walls to replace the reed mats enclosing her shelter. He brought food and firewood. He brought grain for the ravens and salve for her work-scarred fingers.

  The seven ravens, for their part, were glad for their sister… though they would of course peck Gunnleif’s eyes from his head if he should ever prove false or mistreat her.

  He did not. He raised neither voice nor hand to her in anger. He held her with tenderness and loved her to both of their great and frequent satisfaction.

  One day it was that he came to her, troubled, eyes downcast, heaving with sighs. He explained that his father was reluctant to let them be married.

  “He loves you well,” Gunnleif said, “but it worries him not to know of your family. If there were but some way to set him at ease!”

  At that, Ingihilde slipped from her finger her mother’s gold ring. This, she gave to Gunnleif, to show to his father. Who had once, a barn-owl told the ravens, been among the queen’s suitors. He would recognize for himself the ring, and word of it surely must reach evil Kargrimr’s ears.

  So she intended, and so it happened.

  When Kargrimr heard of the young woman who went in the company of ravens, he knew at once it must be Ingihilde. It had long rankled, how she had eluded him. He set sail at once on pretext of attending the trade-market.

  It was a busy place, crowded with stalls offering sale-goods of all kinds. There were fleeces and leathers, salt and spices and slaves. Many people of many descriptions passed by.

  Ingihilde sat with her woven baskets on display. Hung up on a line were the nettle-shirts that she’d sewn. These, bristling as they were, causing much itching and discomfort to any who touched them, were not for sale. She waited.

  Then Kargrimr found her, and spoke her name. “Ingihilde. More beautiful than ever.”

  Her gaze fell upon him, this treacherous man who’d tricked and murdered her father, who’d brought down the spell-sickness that had taken her mother, who’d cursed her seven brothers.

  She whistled.

  Screeching, the ravens descended.

  They dove with wings whipping, talons outstretched, sharp beaks plunging. Kargrimr, caught by surprise, waved his arms and struck at them but the ravens were too fast. They slashed at his face. They ripped his cheeks through in several places so that his teeth could be glimpsed through ragged flaps in his flesh. One caught at his lip, pulling it free like a fat worm from the soil. Another punctured his eye so that it dribbled from the socket.

  All around the stall, folk stared thunderstruck with horror, or fled for their own lives. Gunnleif tried to push through, crying out for his beloved Hrafnetl.

  Kargrimr, half-blinded and pain-maddened, lunged for her as well. He crushed underfoot her woven baskets. He knocked down the line that held the seven nettle-shirts, stepping on them with hard-soled boots.

  He seized Ingihilde, and she buried her knife in his chest.

  He staggered, gasping, and went to his knees.

  The ravens swooped past. Each let drip from his wet red talons or beak Kargrimr’s blood onto the collar, cuffs and hems of the shirts. Ingihilde then snatched up the shirts, stinging her hands for the final time. She threw the seven shirts over the heads of the seven ravens.

  The moment she did so, the princes, her brothers, regained their true forms. As ravens no more, but as fine men and youths they appeared.

  But one of the shirts, upon which Kargrimr had trodden, was damaged, the sleeve torn. That one, thrown over the head of the youngest, left him so that he had one wing of a raven in place of an arm.

  Kargrimr witnessed his dark magic undone as he died.

  And Ingihilde, able to speak again at last, could tell all.

  Gunnleif, overjoyed, clasped her close in his embrace. His father, the chieftain, lost any reluctance. They were married at once, with much feasting and joy.

  Her seven brothers traveled together back to the deep heart of the dark forest, where they dug up the cask of gems, gold and silver buried beneath the wren’s bramble-bush. This, they divided fairly eight ways, a portion for each of them and the last for their dear sister’s dowry.

  They then went on, each to become in his own right a man of worth, wealth and reputation.

  The eldest reclaimed the land and hall that had been their father’s, where he ruled as a much-loved and generous king. The second-eldest became a wise and most renowned scholar, his advice widely sought.

  The third sailed the seas as a master of gull-guided ships, the fourth took to the battle-fields as a famed death-bringer, the fifth plied the rivers as a rich merchant, and the sixth became the most celebrated of minstrels.

  The youngest prince, the seventh, who kept the wing of a raven, kept also his knowledge of the speech of birds. This made him a soothsayer and the most learned of men.

  As for Ingihilde and Gunnleif, they were well and happy, having many strong sons and clever daughters. And if they have not died yet, then they are all living still.

  AS WE DROWN AND DIE

  Swift springs the longship, the high sea-swells slicing

  Proud steed riding strong on the rolling whale-road

  Striped sail wind-full, oars stowed, tall mast creaking

  Hull skimming supple over waves white-foam crested

  The fang-toothed sneering serpent’s snout rises defiant

  At the stern-post a wolf’s head snarls its sharp teeth

  As the ship lunges and leaps, a beast hungry for plunder

  Hjorleif stands at the steer-board, hand sure to the oar

  He laughs; we laugh with him, salt-spray in our faces

  His blond hair breeze-blown, his beard shines like gold

  Our lord and war-leader, battle-famed brother of kings
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  With him, we’ve seen glory, never once known defeat

  Richened our purses, been ring-gifted, made names

  Sworn to him, we will gladly fight and die by his side

  Our shields hang at the ship’s sides, brightly painted

  Beside the oar-benches, our weapons wait at the ready

  Swords and spears, axes, mail-coats and steel helms

  Edges honed and eager, blades thirsting for blood

  For bellies to slash open, guts to spill, lives to take

  Soon come the horn-calls, the clash and war-clangor

  Soon comes the dread field where reputations are won

  Through clouds, the sun’s light dances bright on the water

  A scattered sparkling, like silver strewn over blue silk

  A treasure-trove, trinkets to please the sea-daughters

  Adorning their slim throats, fair limbs and pale breasts

  Admiring themselves in mirrors made from moon-mist

  As their sweet voices sing their doom-songs to the stars

  And they comb their kelp-locks with dead finger-bones

  Some claim to have seen them, the waves’ dire witches

  Basking on surf-churned coves beneath rocky bluffs

  Feasting on fish and mussels and shore-nester eggs

  Devouring gulls in stringy messes of feathered flesh

  Stealing seal-carcasses from the very jaws of ice-bears

  Chasing corpse-whales, swimming with the cruel sharks

  And those feared wave-hunters of sleek black and white

  We made sacrifice before we made sail on the sea

  An ox, a boar, a black ram; blood-gifts to the gods

  To strong Thor of the thunder, to Njord, Tyr and Hodr

  To Odin All-Father in his glorious golden mead-hall

  Whose war-maidens will ride, choosers of the slain

  Battle-girded and bright-helmed their terrible beauty

  Spear-wielders, some of us may be seeing them soon

  If such should be in our fate, let us readily embrace it

  If to the pyre, the stone cairn, the grave-barrow we go

  Cold corpses gathered from the scarlet-stained earth