Stranger from Another Land

by Hector Miller

  Assisted by the waning moonlight they scrambled over rocks and squeezed through gaps between boulders. The summit of the hill was a flat stretch of rocky ground. On the eastern side, the little plateau gave way to a sheer cliff overlooking the Hun camp five miles distant.

  At the edge of the cliff a chunk of rock remained, resembling a table.

  Atakam walked over to the frost-covered protrusion and placed the infant on the stone, still wrapped in a thin woollen blanket.

  He sat down cross-legged, ten paces from the stone and gestured to Sigizan to sit down beside him.

  On top of the hill there was no shelter to be had from the icy wind blowing in from the north. The shaman pulled his thick fur cloak tighter around his shoulders, closed his eyes and chanted softly as he swayed forward and back.

  The little one had fallen asleep during the trip, aided by the heat of the shaman’s body. Now, alone on the stone, he woke and started to cry.

  Sigizan was affected by the crying, but he knew that to interfere would spell certain death.

  After some time, the wailing stopped and was replaced by an occasional faint sob, until no sound could be heard at all.

  The silence was broken by the rumble of distant thunder, coinciding with the arrival of the grey pre-dawn light. The thunder increased in intensity until the ground started to vibrate. It was no thunder, but rather the sound of thousands of horsemen approaching at full gallop.

  The god-message that had milled around in the mind of the shaman for days could no longer be contained. Atakam stood then, mumbling the near incomprehensible words. “The child must die, so the child may live. The child must die, so the child may live.”

  He walked to the altar, opened his cloak and placed the limp form of the babe against his warm body. Sigizan was dumbfounded but wisely remained silent.

  Five miles distant, the Gepid horde overran the Hun camp. The sound of battle reached their ears and Sigizan turned to rush to the aid of his king.

  Atakam grabbed his arm.

  “I have seen the future, Sigizan, son of Akum. Your destiny lies elsewhere. So say the god of heaven.”

  To spurn the command of the sky-god would doom the spirit for eternity, so the Hun champion sat down again, resigned to his fate.

  They silently watched as the Hun camp went up in flames, cheered on by the screams of countless thousands of the enemy.

  Sigizan stood and flexed his shoulders, his hand going to the pommel of his sword. “It makes no sense, shaman. My place is with the king. I will return and die by his side.”

  Atakam did not stir, but stared back at the brutish warrior.

  Sigizan drew courage from the shaman’s silence. “The child is surely dead, shaman. Only one made of iron would have survived this night. Such a child will be worth following, but I will not desert my people for a corpse.” He turned around and started towards the path.

  In response to his words, the boy started to cry.

  Chapter 4 – Ragnaris

  The main camp of the Heruli

  Northern Moravia, close to the Moravian Gate – 464 AD

  (Present day Czechia)

  Leodis watched proudly, like I imagined a father would.

  I ran in a circle in front of the tent with the grace comparable to that of a hobbled horse.

  “I can barely notice it, Ragnaris”, he shouted, the obvious lie written all over his face.

  Sigizan stood beside the Greek freedman, scowling.

  “Look Sigi, see how well I run”, I said as I came round for another pass.

  “You run better when you are on the back of a horse, Ragnaris”, came the straight answer from the Hun.

  I stopped in my tracks. I could feel the anger rising at hearing the cruel truth of his words.

  Grandfather spoke about it many times. I heard the words of Abdarakos echo in my mind. “Within you flows the ancient blood of the warrior-god, boy. Control it, and you will be formidable; surrender to it, and you will be dead before you become a man.”

  As could be expected from a ten-year-old, I ignored the words of wisdom. I spat in the dirt. “I will show you, Sigi, you are a nithing who speak lies.”

  I might have been the grandson of the erilar, but my fate belonged to the man I had insulted.

  The fifteen paces head-start meant little, yet I made it into the saddle of my Hun horse before Sigi could lay a hand on me.

  I have heard it said many a time: “He could ride before he could walk.” In my case it was true. My crippled foot kept me in the saddle. The horse became my legs. I could not walk and run like the other boys, but when I found myself in the saddle, I was without equal.

  Sigizan was a heavily muscled warrior who always seemed to wear his full armour, which meant he was heavy. That day was the first time he failed to catch me. I rode across the plains with the wind in my hair, my horse’s lungs pumping like bellows and I left the Hun in my wake. A little boy with a crippled foot flying across the plain, feeling like a god.

  But eventually even a god has to return to his abode.

  Our sizeable tent was pitched twenty strides from a stream carrying ice cold meltwater from the nearby mountains. I stopped for a while to water my horse and gather courage.

  The round tent was the only home I had ever known. Thick woollen felt was tied over a lattice framework, topped with bent wooden poles which were held in place by a wooden crown. Tanned and oiled animal skins were laid and fastened to the roof to keep out the damp.

  Three crude pieces of timber, lashed together with leather, acted as a door frame. The thick felt flap that kept the cold out was beautifully painted. In the centre, to emphasize the power of the tribe, was the head of a snarling wolf. For protection against evil, swirling patterns symbolising the five elements adorned the edges.

  I stood in front of the door, mesmerized for a moment by the swirling patterns. Suddenly the felt parted and the snarling wolf was replaced by the face of a scowling Hun.

  Without hesitation I said: “I am a cripple, Sigizan the Hun. You speak the truth.”

  The scowl disappeared and he stared at me with a face devoid of expression. Sigizan stepped to the side, a clear gesture for me to enter the tent.

  On the inside the tent was warm, contrasting the crispness of the early autumn evening. Atakam sat next to the fire in the centre of the tent, cross-legged and deep in meditation. Leodis was stirring a copper cauldron, adding foodstuff to the already boiling water. The Greek scraped the last of the meat from the flat stone. “We were sick with worry, boy.”

  He followed my gaze to the shaman whose eyes were still closed, chanting incoherently and the Hun, who was running a whetstone along the blade of his sword.

  The Greek frowned, reading my thoughts. “They were as worried as I was, Ragnaris. They just don’t show it”, he said.

  He motioned for me to sit down opposite Atakam. I took off my right boot, revealing a bandaged foot, slightly skewed.

  Leodis sat down at my feet, a fresh linen bandage in his hand.

  “You will not see an improvement every day, boy. The leg is much improved from a year ago. We will continue with the treatment. One day you will be able to run as well as any man.”

  I had heard the words a thousand times.

  “When Greece ruled the world…”, he started, but paused when a grunt emanated from the shaman, his eyes still closed.

  “As I was saying”, he paused, but no interruption came, “when Greece ruled the world, a clever medicine man wrote about your, er… problem. It is curable, but only if we persist.”

  I nodded in acceptance of his words.

  He adroitly unwrapped the bandage and put it aside. Leodis held out his hand and Atakam handed him a small container filled with a vile smelling mixture of fat and herbs.

  He rubbed the salve between his hands to warm it then used it to massage my crooked foot. When the sinews were warm, he manipulated the foot then bandaged it tightly in the correct position.

  “You need to streng
then the foot, boy. Ride less and walk more”, he said when he had finished.

  “My foot is sore when I walk and run a lot… and people laugh”, I said, desperately trying not to become the laughing stock of the village.

  “We will start tomorrow”, I heard Sigizan say. He paused for a heartbeat, looking up from his toil with the blade. “You are slowly becoming less of a cripple, boy, and more a man.”

  I nearly burst with pride. Mayhap the words of the dour Hun that evening nudged my life onto a different path, or just maybe the gods had planned it all long before I even drew my first breath.

  “Atakam, tell us the tale of the god of heaven and the horse”, I pleaded.

  “Maybe I should tell you how he lost his eye?” the shaman replied.

  “No. I wish to hear about the horse!”

  “Again?”

  “Yes”, I said and accepted a warm cup of heavily salted milk from Leodis.

  The Greek poured a cup for Sigizan and handed one to the shaman as well.

  The healer drank deeply and smacked his lips.

  “Ulgin sat next to the hearth fire in his tent, pitched within the sea of stars.

  ‘Father’, the voice of his daughter called from outside, ‘our sister has come to visit. She brings tidings that are less than goodsome.’

  Ulgin sighed, stretched his godly legs, and walked from the tent.”

  “Tell me the names of his daughters”, I yelled, filled with excitement.

  The shaman shook his head. “No one knows their names, boy, except Ulgin.”

  “How do you know if they are real then?” I said.

  “I have spoken to them, boy. They have helped me on my journeys to the realm in the sky. They are the ones who show the path.”

  “Why then…”, I started, but the shaman held up his hand.

  “Do you wish to hear the tale, Ragnaris?”

  I nodded. The shaman took another swig of the salted milk and gathered his thoughts.

  “’There is trouble in the realm of men, father’, said the beautiful maiden. ‘Your son, Baldur, is in need of your assistance.’

  ‘Erlok, your dark brother, has ventured from the underworld, he has interfered with the travels of Koyash, the sun and Ai, the moon. He has taken them to his realm in the dark forest.’

  Ulgin whistled then. The ground started to vibrate, and from nowhere the eight-legged dreamhorse appeared. The white stallion reared, baring his teeth, cut with runes. The stallion would allow no man and no god other than Ulgin to mount him. Not even Tengri the sky-father dared to try.

  Ulgin grabbed his rune-spear and jumped onto the horse. The magical steed reared and flew into the heavens, lightning and thunder in its wake.”

  I could not contain my excitement. “Tell me again about the horse, Atakam! Tell me again.”

  The wise one smiled, aware of my love of horses, and humoured me.

  “Ulgin’s horse is twice as large as your grandfather’s, Ragnaris. When the dreamhorse traverses the realms, he breathes fire. Thunder and lightning follows in his wake.

  The runes that give swiftness are carved into his teeth, his eyes glow like the fires of the underworld.”

  “No more questions”, said the shaman and continued the tale.

  “Before long, Ulgin passed into the realm of men. He found his son, Baldur, the shining one, lord of the day, dressed ready for war.

  ‘Erlok has captured the moon and the sun, father.’ He pointed to the clouds hanging low in the dark sky. ‘He has concealed his theft form the eyes of men.’

  Baldur mounted his horse and the two rode through the dark woods which was the gateway to the underworld.

  But the forest was no place for horsemen and Baldur’s horse slipped in the mud, injuring his leg.

  Ulgin left Baldur to care for his horse and continued the chase alone.

  The sky-god fell upon his brother Erlok just as he was about to enter the realm of the dead. Ulgin cast his rune-spear, etched with the runes of power.

  Erlok, upon noticing his brother Ulgin, transformed into a bear and abandoned the hostages, fleeing into the darkness of the underworld.”

  “What about the injured horse?” I said, fearful that Atakam would forget the most important part.

  The shaman waved away my concern.

  “Ulgin returned with the spirits of the sun and the moon to where Baldur was waiting with his injured horse.

  The spirits both tried to heal the horse, chanting spells to no avail.

  When they had gratefully returned to their place in the sky, Ulgin, the wise one, chanted:

  ‘The bone is broken, the blood is broken,

  The limb is broken:

  Let bone join to bone; let blood join to blood;

  Let limb join to limb as if they were glued.’

  The chant worked and the horse healed before their eyes.

  Baldur mounted and returned home with his father. Overhead the sky was clear and the sun and the moon clearly visible.”

  All I really wanted was for the shaman to speak the words of the spell. As he did so, I rubbed my foot and prayed to Ulgin.

  It did not go unnoticed. The wise one winked at me and kept his peace.

  Chapter 5 – Journey

  (Refer to my website for links to a map applicable to the period)

  My attempt at spearing a fish in the nearby stream was yet again unsuccessful.

  On my return, I was just in time to see my grandfather trot away on his horse, with Leodis ducking back into the tent.

  Something was afoot.

  I bent down low and stealthily approached the tent from the north, as the doors always faced south.

  At the base of the tent two pieces of felt overlapped. I shifted the leather strap and pried the felt apart without making a sound. I placed my left ear as close to the slit as possible and covered my other ear with my hand.

  Inside the tent, the men were deep in discussion.

  “Abdarakos suspects that he is being cheated by the boat merchants from the north who bring the goods down the Oder River. He wishes for me to join him, to inspect the records”, Leodis said.

  “Take the boy with you”, said the shaman.

  My heart jumped in my throat from the sudden rush of excitement.

  “He is too young, Atakam. You would that we risk him? The son of the Great One?” countered the Greek.

  The Hun warrior broke the silence. “Do not fear, Greek.” He must have gestured to the stained hands of my tutor. “His hands are not soft and stained with ink. I am teaching him the way of the warrior. He has the blood of the Khan, I have seen the iron in him.”

  “And what of his foot, Sigizan? It has not healed.”

  Atakam answered, clearly siding with Sigizan. “Leave the foot to the gods, Leodis. You have done enough.”

  “It is decided then”, Sigizan said. “I will go to find the boy.”

  Silently I closed the gap between the pieces of felt, righted the rope and scrambled in the direction of the stream for thirty paces. I turned around and limped back towards the tent, faking ignorance.

  “Come, boy”, he said and waved me into the tent.

  I had heard the words they spoke of my father, but they were meaningless to me. Only later would I come to realise the importance. The only thing that filled my young mind was the anticipation of the journey. My main concern was to hide my feelings so that my eavesdropping would not be exposed.

  * * *

  We left three days later.

  Sigizan, Leodis and I were all mounted on small Hunnic horses, each leading a pack animal.

  The shaman would not accompany us. We waited outside the tent to say our goodbyes to the wise one.

  As was expected, he chanted the normal spells to protect us on the journey. We turned our horses to trot off, but Atakam’s hand held on to the reins of my horse.

  His voice took on a strange, sad tone, which unsettled me.

  “You are the iron one, Ragnaris. It has been foretold, you a
re the one who will… ”. He did not finish.

  I looked at him quizzically, but he slapped the rump of my horse with the flat of his hand and yelled: “Go with the gods, boy.”

  The strange behaviour of the shaman was soon forgotten and replaced by the exhilaration of the journey.

  The three of us trailed behind my grandfather, who was riding with fifty of his oathsworn warriors. We rode north and east, travelling at an easy pace.

  Apart from Leodis and me, all of the warriors were armed and wore full armour. Sigizan gestured to the group with his hand. “You will notice that they do not look similar, Ragnaris.”

  I nodded and he asked: “Why do you think that is?”

  It was not the first time that I have seen groups of Heruli warriors assembled. “Some wear the same armour as you do, Sigi. They look like you and carry the horn bow.”

  “They are Huns who swore an oath to your grandfather, boy. In the dark days after the tribes defeated the sons of Attila, we chose to follow the strongest. We followed Abdarakos the Heruli.”

  “And the others?” I asked.

  “Scirii, Gepids and even Goths”, he said, and thought for a moment. “But we are all Heruli now. We have taken the oath.” He rubbed his cheek, scarred with the crude cuts of the Hun, now also adorned with the circular tattoos of the tribe.

  I stared at the markings with envy. “Do not be concerned, boy. You will soon be a man and carry the sign of the warrior.”

  Small fields planted with einkorn and spelt lined the side of the road. The peasant farmers tending the fields stood frozen as we passed by on the greenway, some finding the courage to lift a hand in greeting.

  “Useless dirt-eaters”, the Hun growled.

  “They may be useless”, countered Leodis, “but they are under Heruli protection.”

  In answer, Sigizan spat in the road.

  The Greek ignored the dour Hun and pointed to a stream that had appeared adjacent to the path.

  “This small stream becomes the mighty river the Germani call the Oder. The Oder River is …”

  The Hun interrupted my tutor mid-sentence. “One day, boy, I will show you the Danube. The Oder is a mere stream compared to the Mother River.”