Folk from the trading road now crowded in. Amongst the last to come was Assur’s father. He had been tracking a lost ewe and he and the son who had found him were both breathless from their haste in coming. He pushed his way into the brew-house. Those nearest touched others in front of them, and space was yielded silently until he stood before the table that held Assur. He set his legs and stood unmoving. His clothing was ragged and his yellow hair a paler version of his dead son’s. The flesh between his eyes was pinched together, and he looked at what the table held as if he did not recognize his son.
His wife was already seated at the boy’s head, her lowered brow held in her hand, and several of Assur’s brothers and sisters ranged about on either side. Estrid saw the little girl who had had the burr tangled in her hair. She was too young to know her still brother was dead, but she kept quiet, her small fingers playing over her own face.
The story was told. Ragnfast, as eldest, went first. He drew breath before he began, and did not waver in his telling, though the odd light-headedness had not passed. Crammed into the brew-house with so many folk, he wondered he was not warmer. A glance at the body of Assur reminded him. Rannveig and Gudfrid had passed cups of ale to all, even the youngest, and that they gave to Ragnfast and Tindr they did not water.
Ragnfast told all, just as it happened. Only one thing did he omit. He did not tell how Assur had looked at Estrid when he had boasted he would climb the cliff face. Just as Tindr had no part in the boy’s end, he did not want Estrid to think she bore any of the blame for his actions.
Estrid spoke next, a confused and tearful accounting. Then Gyda spoke, telling once more the same tale they had heard from the lips of Ragnfast and Estrid.
“He was showing off,” she ended. Despite the tears still on her cheeks some anger shown in her soft voice.
Her words hung in the air. Heads nodded. Boys did foolish things all the time. This had been one of them.
The two men who had watched Assur fall spoke last. They told how Tindr had tried to reach Assur from the top of the bluff, and how Ragnfast had begun scaling its base to reach him. Either boy could have been killed in doing so.
Through it all Tindr stood at Dagr’s side. There was no time for his Da to sign to him what folk were saying, and he knew both Nenna and Da would tell him as much as they could later. Few ever looked his way, a few glances only when his cousin gestured to him, so he knew they were not speaking of him.
When all had been told Dagr asked Assur’s father if he wished to question any. The man had been standing at Assur’s feet, scarcely lifting his eyes from his son as he listened. Now he looked up at Dagr.
“I have no luck,” was all he said. His voice was strained, almost a croak.
Dagr did not take his eyes from the man’s face. Dagr knew something of luck. Truly, he thought, you are right. Your hamingja, your luck-spirit, has fled.
Chapter the Sixteenth: The Fires of Mid-Summer
IT was Mid-Summer day. Fires to honour the Sun had blazed long and bright all over Gotland. This longest day had worn on. It was now nearly midnight, and on one farm the folk had drifted into distinct camps. The eldest, along with many of the youngest, had headed indoors where they were now asleep. The revelry had begun at noon with circle dances, to the rhythm of pipe, harp, and hand-drum. Dance after dance had trampled the grasses of the meadow, until even the young people, panting and with brows glistening, begged the players to put aside their instruments and leave them rest. This was followed by a feast remarked upon for its richness by all who partook. Ragnfast's parents were known to lay a good table, and those planks set up on trestles under the pear trees were burdened with a whole roasted lamb, fish stew heightened with a green sauce of newly-picked herbs, platters of oaten cakes, and golden-crusted egg puddings. All of Spring's bounty lay there, along with a remembrance of Fall in the form of dried apples and pears made succulent by having been stewed in verjuice. The feast was a harbinger of a good Summer to come, and celebrate they did. Rannveig and Dagr had brought an entire cask of her strongest and best ale, and there was mead as well, carried from the farms of different guests as their contribution to the day.
After feasting and drinking, all returned to the fire, moving in a bit closer as the massive logs had burnt down, and the slightest evening chill could be felt. Stories were told, and songs offered, and laughter, gentle and hearty, rose from the circle. Rapp, Ragnfast's father, was known to have a good voice, and he unspooled every song of the sea, of woodland hunts, and the deeds of the Gods he possessed. The sun finally began to dim. Small children lay over their parents' shoulders, or at their feet, asleep, and these began to be picked up and taken off to the many cots Rapp and his wife had ready and waiting within their house. The oldest too had nodded off, and were awakened by a nudge and sent to bed, often times guided by their grown daughters or sons. These last, with small ones of their own, hovered near the house and its small cook-fire in the kitchen yard. There they sat, sipping broth or ale, talking in hushed tones about the year past, and hopes for that to come. Remaining out by the big Mid-Summer fire were now the several youths and maids.
The day had been a long one, yet with light still in the sky it was impossible to feel sleepy. Tired they were, tho', and as their elders left they moved in closer each to each, and their talk grew low. Ragnfast sat with his back to the family farm-stead, as if he wished to forget where he was on this shortest night. As he listened he often times leaned in and shoved another short piece of oak onto the fire, making it so hot that the others jestingly complained he would roast them. None of them moved. They had all been drinking Rannveig’s strong ale, and had enjoyed as well a small cup or two of mead, the crock of which had been taken from them by their elders when they quitted the fire. Ragnfast's younger sister was there; his eldest was wed and had a babe, and she and her husband were sitting back by the kitchen yard, already made part of the older folk. The younger sat there at the fire by the young man she would hand-fast at Summer's end.
Runulv and Ring, sons of Botair, were there, as was Gyda, from the farm next them, and Gyda's equally pretty cousin Ása. Sigrid was there, with one of her younger sisters, Steinvor; the youngest, Sigvor, who had but seven years, had been carried to the house in her father's arms. Then there was Estrid, the youngest of the maids about the fire, younger even than Tindr, who she sat closest to. This was her fourteenth Summer, and Tindr now had fifteen.
Ragnfast, their host about the fire, was a little more than three years older than Tindr, and quite a man in form. He was above mid-height, not overly tall, but had a breadth to his chest and shoulders that bespoke the heavy farm work he had grown up doing, and the calm assurance that a man who is good around horses generally bears. All, men and women both, liked him. He had clear blue eyes under strong brows, and a firm chin with a cleft. Such good looks in a man only deepen with age, and Ragnfast was already beginning to be noted for his.
The sky had darkened above them. It was now deeply night, as deep as night can be on the longest day of the year. The day had been a cool one, and sometimes misty, and the night sky wore a thin scrim of cloud. No stars could be seen through it. It was as if a curtain of some heavy woollen stuff blanketed the heavens, removing all points of reference, rendering all limitless. Ragnfast had been gazing into the bright coals of the fire, and now shifted his eyes to the sky overhead. It took some time before he realised that he would see little. There was no Moon nor star light, so effective was the layer of cloud that darkened all about and above him.
He recalled his father telling him that outside, and at night, was the most dangerous time of all. It was not fear of marauding trolls that made his father warn him. It was men themselves. At night, and out from under the cover of a roof and its symbol of home and hospitality, a man could feel there were no limits. A foolish thought could become a reckless deed. A jest could turn on a word into a blood-feud.
As he thought on these things his eyes dropped again, to rest on the
glowing coals of the fire. The Sun had died today; each day forward through the long and hot Summer to come would grow shorter. He heard the talk and laughter of his friends, but his thoughts travelled back. He thought of all who sat with him here, and those who were gone, to other fires, or to other realms. He heard the high-pitched chatter of Gyda and Ása and Sigrid and his sister, and saw them, from the tail of his eye, clustered together. Their parents, and Tindr’s, and his own, were sitting around the tables at the kitchen yard, or perhaps even asleep on cots in the house and stable. The children were long asleep, and he well recalled being picked up by his own father and being carried away, yawning, from this same Mid-Summer fire when he was small.
He looked more steadily at the girls, comely maidens all, their faces alight in the golden glow of the fire. It was Sigrid his eye returned to. She was the eldest of four sisters, who shared amongst them a pleasing softness to their persons. Sigrid wore the sash about her waist just snug enough to show the rounded line of her hips. He let himself wonder what those hips would feel like pressed against his body.
Ragnfast had known a woman's embrace but once. It happened at last Summer's Thing, nearly a full year ago. He was already working to build up a name for himself in horse-breeding, and had brought with him two young horses he hoped to sell. He was leading one of them, a bay colt of two years, to the trading stall of an iron smith who had expressed interest. It was the second day of the Thing, and his path took him by the campsite of two women, mother and daughter. The daughter was a woman of perhaps six or eight years more than Ragnfast; she had two little ones of her own near her, though there was no man about. The older woman stood spinning, feet planted, eyes lowered, stolid and unmoving. The younger was crouched by her fire-ring. She lifted her head as Ragnfast neared. Their eyes met, and he nodded as he would when one came eye-to-eye with any at the Thing. But her return look was something different. She stared at Ragnfast in a way that made him slow. She finally nodded, without smiling, back at him.
Later that night he was coming back from the fire which had been lit by a group of youths. He had drunk ale; not as much as he would have liked. Walking back to his parents' waggon he passed near to the woman's cook-fire. There she was, still sitting by it. The old woman was gone, in the tent, Ragnfast thought. His feet slowed. She lifted her head. She looked at him for a moment, then her chin lowered slightly, the smallest of nods. She rose, and Ragnfast stood as she neared him, pulling her mantle closer about her. She walked to the line of trees beyond the edge of the field where they were all camped.
Once through the trees she found a small clearing, and pushed her way past some shrubby growth, he just behind her. She faced him, and threw back the hood on her mantle. In the Moonlight he saw the age and care on her face, and saw that she was comely, too. He wished that she would speak; he wanted to smile, but her face bore a stillness that was almost grave.
He knew what she had brought him there for, but nothing else. Then he bethought him that if she were a whore, he had but little silver to offer her, for he had sold neither of the horses he had brought. His hand went to his belt and the silver pouch tucked there. He began to speak, for fear of angering her later, should what he could offer be too little. But she shook her head, and placed her own hand upon his. He stepped closer and she lifted her face. He let his lips touch hers. Her arms raised slowly to encircle his neck, and her mantle, which she had not pinned, fell from her back.
After the first touch of their lips, they did not kiss again. But she clung to him with unexpected strength, burying her face in his neck and gripping his shoulders with her fingers as they tumbled about upon her fallen mantle. They did not undress; she merely pulled up her gown, as he, with one hand, tried to pull off his knife belt and unhook the toggle which fastened his leggings. He could not see her body, for her clothing and the dimness of the glade, and she kept his face close to her own.
When it was over they both lay back, faces lifted to the night sky. She had said almost nothing; a few murmurs, a panting sigh. He began to turn to her.
“Go now,” she told him. Her voice sounded as if it came from a long distance.
He opened his mouth, but before he could speak she said again, “Go.”
He rolled to his knees, fastened his leggings, found his belt. He stood. She was still lying there, and had turned her face away from him.
He pushed through the trees and out to the field, and went to his parents’ waggon. They were both asleep within; he could hear their breathing. His sister slept in the little tent pitched just next it. He unrolled his bedding and stretched down by the fire, glad he need speak to no one. Weary as he was, sleep did not come easily, and he lay there a long time before it did. His last thoughts were flickering images of little Hedinfrid.
The following day he walked by the woman’s campsite. He had no need to go that way, and in fact his family was preparing to leave the Thing; he had slipped away for a moment, in hopes of glimpsing her again. As he neared he saw a single figure, a man, seated on an overturned wooden pail. He was of perhaps five-and thirty years, with straggled brown hair and a face that had not been shaved in days. The man held his knife in one hand and a stick in the other, and as he whittled the point the shavings dropped into the guttering fire he sat before.
Ragnfast was so startled he paused. The man looked up, saw Ragnfast, and narrowed his eyes at him. The woman now approached, from the other side of the tent, struggling with the weight of a full bucket of water. She shifted the bail from hand to hand, then glanced up and saw Ragnfast. Her eyes quickly dropped. At that moment the man sharpening the stick called out to her, a short, hoarse cry. Ragnfast went on his way, his heart beating so fast it felt that it had moved up into his throat. He circled around to return to his family.
Now, back at home and surrounded by his friends, he was thinking of none of this; or only of one small part of it, and that was what had changed in his life in the past year, from Mid-Summer to Mid-Summer. The encounter with the woman was perhaps the greatest of these.
Sigrid was sitting next him but one, and her profile was outlined by the firelight, which had grown in brightness as the Sun dimmed. He still thought her one of the comeliest maids on Gotland, and she was still unwed. Her family were sheep-raisers and wool weavers, and she would, he knew, wed none but a man who could boast a large flock of his own. But now, alive to her nearness, he would like to kiss those pink lips which now gathered in a pout as she listened to a story Runulv was telling that was going on too long. He left the fire for a moment and found a palm-sized rock, smoother than most, which he dropped at the edge of the glowing embers.
“The game of hot rock,” he announced, standing so all would take heed. The girls laughed, some in protest, and one of the youths whistled. But Ragnfast had left again, gone into the separate little room, used for tools, appended to the steep-roofed winter sheep-shelter, or lamm-gift, not far away. He came back with a pair of iron tongs and an old sheepskin, which he proceeded to tear with his knife into small pieces. He tossed two such pieces to each sitting about the fire.
Hot rock was a game of forfeits, in which a stone is heated and then thrown to the person whose name you call. If they fail to catch it, they must pay a forfeit. When the game was played amongst mixed young folk this was oftentimes a kiss. He who was owed the forfeit could also command the loser to kiss another of his choosing. If the player throwing the rock failed to make a good throw, then he or she could be made to forfeit.
All were busy working a thumb-hole into their squares of sheep-hide to help hold it in place on their palms. Ragnfast had pride of place in going first. He drew the rock from the fire and held it out in the tongs.
“Sigrid,” he said, and threw it to her. But she caught it deftly between the bits of sheep-skin in her hands, and almost without pause called out, “Ring!”
Her throw was not a steady one, and Ring had trouble catching it. I would have made sure to have missed it, and demanded a kiss from her
, thought Ragnfast. Instead Ring laughed and said, “Estrid,” then threw it to the young maid.
Tindr had seen this game before, but never played with maidens. He had watched Ragnfast and Ring and Runulv play it, the forfeits being arrows or small pieces of hack silver if one dropped the rock. He could not play himself, as he could not call out his target's name. But this night Ragnfast had passed him the sheep-skin hand protectors like everyone else. None had brought out silver or any other goods with which to pay a forfeit, and he scanned about him, wondering what payment might be exacted. He felt without understanding it the anticipation of all, and wore a broad smile on his open face.
Estrid gave a little smiling shriek, but snatched at the rock and jumped up. “Ragnfast,” she called out, and almost hurled it at him. He caught it, and almost in one movement threw again to Sigrid, naming her once more. She was caught off guard and the rock dropped into her lap. She leapt to her feet and it rolled to the edge of the fire-ring. Runulv gave out with a low whistle.
A grinning Ragnfast was already at her side. “Your forfeit,” he said, leaning in. She raised her chin and with lips pressed duly offered them. He tried to make it linger, but she pulled back.
All were laughing, and it was not the feeling he had hoped. Now it was Sigrid's right to begin the game, and she heated the rock and used the tongs to throw it. “Runulv,” she called. He caught it and tossed to Gyda, who threw it to Ring. He again threw to young Estrid. This time she dropped it.
“Ha!” laughed Ring, coming to claim his kiss. He made great show of it, taking her in both arms and bending her back from the waist, then covering his mouth with hers. It was but a jest to Ring, and when he would awaken in the morning with a bad head he would remember none of it.
Estrid had never before been kissed, and when Ring stepped away, still laughing, her cheek was crimson. Most of the others were hooting and laughing, and she herself gave the smallest of smiles, but two there were not smiling.
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