Day Of The Dead - A Viking Tale

by Petteri Hannila

paused for a moment and a hint of sadness could be seen on his face. “How is your husband? Ambjorn is well known for his ships, but not for a single warrior’s deed. Unlike his brother Thorleik. Kings may not own his boats, but his sword has gained fame both in east and west alike. Did you choose poorly between the brothers?”

  “It is not wise to anger the mistress of the house,” she replied with a hiss and moved a piece. Now a white was caught between two reds and she removed it from the game. A quick exchange of moves followed during which both sides lost many pieces and space was opened up on the board.

  The sun grew dimmer still and a cold wind started to blow from the north. The air carried with it faint sounds that resembled wailing.

  “It has started, can you hear it? The ones who died in their beds, the ones with cough and fever. Weak men, women and children, here they come.”

  Villagers had been observing the sky and the darkening sun for a while now. The sounds in the air made them to gather around each other, bemoaning and moving about nervously. Nobody seemed to know what to do next. Jofrid felt a chill in the cold wind and stood up from her bench.

  “I have to take care of the people. They need me when Ambjorn is gone.”

  “Sit down!” His demand was like a giant’s growl. Still, not one of the villagers seemed to notice it. “Game is not yet finished, and you will not rise from the table until it is.”

  She observed the suddenly angered man and wondered why nobody came to ask her advice. Nobody seemed to notice her or the man sitting across the table. Jofrid shouted for the passing people, but none of them even turned to her. Slowly she sat down.

  “Have you bewitched me man, or am I dead? Are you who I think you are? Why do you torment me?”

  “Why do the Norns spin their threads? Why even gods cannot escape from them? It is useless to ponder, so play. And play well, since a loss always carries consequences.”

  Men carried the stretcher as fast as they could in the strengthening north-wind. The wailing increased with it steadily, until the forest around them seemed to emanate the sound from all directions. Finally Ambjorn ordered the men to stop on a small hilltop that was located in the center of a glade. Nature itself had created this primitive defense, as, in the center, the grassland was pierced by ragged rocky formation of man’s height. Next to this they unloaded the stretcher and quickly released the spears so they could be used again, if necessary.

  “If the final battle is to begin this is as good place as any to meet it,” Ambjorn said.

  The men kept a close eye on the woods, hands clenching weapons. In addition to the wind and wailing now came an obnoxious smell, rotten and repulsive. A huge group of people broke out from the forest in the north. They were a ragged bunch, most of them elderly or children. Only a small number of them were in their prime and each and every one seemed to have something wrong with them: One coughed with nerve-jarring sound, another wailed softly, the third had a bad limp. Many of the children were deformed or maimed by disease. They were covered with torn and outworn clothes, not enough to keep the touch of the wind off from their skins.

  The men soon took notice of their eyes, though. They shone white and milky, but not as those of blind elders. They seemed to burn with ravenous fire, as unnatural as it was frightening and the men could not turn their gaze away from it even if they wanted. The men on the hilltop instinctively tightened their ranks, seeking shelter from each other.

  “The army of the dead,” Bert yelled. “Fight well, as this will be the last time you do it in this life.” The eyes of the old warrior flamed and hands trembled on the shaft of his spear.

  The sky went black, as the shadow that had been growing in front of the sun had reached its peak, covering it completely. Some of the men gazed up, upon the dark hole that had been ripped there in the place of the sun they knew. Its edges were engulfed in flames like the fires of the evil spirits in the swamplands. Immediately they fell to the ground, clutching their eyes as if the horrible magic of the shadow had struck them blind. And in this false night the huge mass of the wretched stormed towards the men who had taken shelter on the rock.

  Bert fiercely yelled a battle cry and the men collected the tatters of their courage together for the fight. On top of everything howled the northwind, an unnatural horn of war.

  The attackers came on like rabid beasts, yelling without soul or fear of their fate. The huntsmen shot arrows as fast as they could and felled dozens of the attackers on the glade. Their numbers were too great though, and soon the men had to drop their bows and pick up spears. They were heavy weapons, intended to bear-hunting and with them the men stood in the edges of the cliff, grinding their teeth and exhaling with cries of battle.

  The ragged bunch had no weapons better than rocks and branches, and the spear-wielding defenders killed them by the score. The attacking children were an appalling sight, trying to get to the defenders with blind rage, only to fall down on the tips of their spears. Now and then, the screaming horde managed to pull one of the defenders down from the rock into the reach of fists and rocks hungry for blood. A man who suffered this fate did not rise again, and the numbers of the defenders grew smaller and smaller.

  A large rock, thrown by a deformed old man crushed Erik’s skull and he fell down from the cliff, his arms spread wide and his grin wiped off from his face forever. As if in a salute to this, the ragged army stood still. Wind blew on to the rock that had only two men standing on it: Ambjorn and Bert.

  The men glanced at each other. Fear of death could be easily seen in Ambjorn’s, but the elder replied with a gaze full of contempt. His mouth twisted on a grin.

  “Look, this is how it is supposed to be done.”

  The old man leaped down from the cliff landing amid the awaiting horde. His hand-axe fell on them again and again, but even his might had limits. Soon the attackers stood again still and waiting, and this time Ambjorn was alone.

  A strange emptiness fell upon him. He could as well die here and now for all he cared. For his whole life, as long as he could remember, he had been different from the others. Building ships was all that mattered to him. Planing off beautiful planks and setting them on their form helped him to survive. And if he was to die today, he would not do it as his cousin did. For this once, he could choose a different path from that the members of the hunting party had chosen.

  His broken spear and his axe dropped from his hands to the rock, their iron clanging against the stone. He jumped down from the cliff.

  The stench of the army hit him like a fist, and wherever he looked he could only see white, burning eyes and maimed bodies. He rose to full height but didn’t do a thing to defend himself.

  The unnatural army waited still and so did Ambjorn. The one-armed elder, whose throwing prowess had downed Erik, picked another rock and flung it towards Ambjorn. He had a stroke of luck, as the rock knocked on the side of his head. Still he fell down on his knees from the power of the hit. He shook his head, dazed, and waited for the blow that would end it all.

  He took a breath and then another. Each time he took one he thought that it would be his last. One after another they came, however, and nothing was set to blow out the flame of life that was still burning inside him. Finally he stood up, still dazzled with the blow.

  He held on to his head with both hands, as if to stop the throbbing pain from pounding it. The sun had broken the shadow that had been cast before it and the shine cut through Ambjorn’s pain-filled head like a blade. He swayed like a drunkard, trying to fix his glassy gaze from one place to the next.

  The army had vanished, leaving only bodies that littered the glade. He could see that their faces wore stiff smiles. Wherever he turned his eyes, there would be another of the dead with the same expression – but there was also more than them; amid the trees he could see shadowy figures. They were pale women, dressed for battle and they walked among the fallen. Here and there a gray hand of a dead would meet the pale hand of a woman. The women seemed not to separate
the attackers from the defenders but treated all dead ones equally. The fallen ones rose on their feet when touched and allowed themselves to be lead away. Ambjorn tried to yell to his comrades, but it was as if he wasn’t there at all. The walking dead seemed as pale as were the maidens that were guiding them and the hard rays of the sun seemed to penetrate their ethereal bodies. The figures slowly walked into the woods and vanished without leaving tracks on the ground.

  Ambjorn shook his head once more. Bodies were still lying on the field as a mute evidence of reality of the battle. The dazed man swayed away from the glade, with a mindless, meaningless laughter.

  There were only a few pieces left on the board, but the red king was nearing the safety of the board’s corner. It was now chased from all directions by whites and only one red piece was left, next to its king. The old man smiled, and in the bleak light of the darkening sun his face looked unreal.

  “What are you willing to do to win?”

  Jofrid looked at the table and understood that she could not make it to safety with the king before capture.

  “What do you mean, a game is a game and you win or lose.”

  “There are always chances if there is will. Even beyond death.”

  “That is what you storytellers and tricksters always say. But for