Northlands Saga 0: Spears in the Ice

"I hear it," Ulfarr responds immediately, his ears and eyes trying to pick out where the sound is coming from.

Almost without thinking he adds, "What's the girl doing? Who does Runa think she is talking to, the wind?"

But then Astrid points with only her eyes and speaks lowly again. She has found the source of the sound.

"I see it," the man says as he mounts his horse, intending to ride swiftly towards the brambles and bushes that look like something hides within them. Drawing his axe as he goes, swiftly urging his mount to action, he calls out to the daughter closest to the shivering greens.

"Get back! Something lies within, girl! There!"

Astrid does not answer Ulfarr's half-to-himself question about Runa, perhaps imagining that he is not speaking to her, perhaps more focused on the sensation of threat at the edge of the forest.

Runa, hearing Ulfarr's warning, stands and stares, frustratingly not moving away. At least she's not moving forward!

The bushes rustle again and--Ulfarr hears something else this time: a whimper, a whine.

Ulfarr knows that sound. It's precisely the cry that his sheep hound used to make when he wanted a bite from Ulfarr's dinner, but this whimper has a sharper note of distress.

Ulfarr is certain that there is a dog--hurt or otherwise in need--just out of sight in the bushes. And he's sure, if he takes a stride closer, if he pushes aside the thickest of the branches, that this is what he'll see.

Dismounting, moving between Runa and the sound, Ulf takes that stride. One hand is ready to go to his sword, but first he moves the branches aside to reveal the occupant of the bushes...

"Yes," Ulfarr says to Runa as he kneels in the brush and extends one calm, steady hand towards the dog. He knows animals well, and enough to approach the scruffy thing from below rather than above its muzzle. He lets the dog come to him rather than try to immediate pet it or lead it into the meadow.

"It's okay, boy," he says gently, sizing up it's injuries or ailments.

Oh, a dawwwwwg! cries Runa, hurtling forward as soon as she can see what was hidden in the bushes.

Ulfarr has determined that it is a dog, just a mangy mutt, so, with no concern but a sigh at the antics of childhood--and those affected in the mind--he allows Runa to clasp and tumble with the flea-ridden thing in the spring grasses. The dog seemed as eager for her embrace as she was to clasp it.

The other two girls look up with interest from where they wandered in the meadow.

Suddenly Astrid stands beside Ulfarr.

She wrinkles her nose. Oof! That dog smells! I wonder how Runa can stand it.

It's impossible that the girl heard, but she suddenly ceases her cavorting with the dog, gets to her knees, then stands up--all in one fluid motion. The dog looks up at her with a mixture of hurt and confusion at the sudden cessation of their joy.

Runa's uncanny gaze seems to pierce Astrid as pointedly as any spear. Runa's mouth opens.

A storm is coming to sweep all away. Father will die from bloodied ice. The raven calls for us all.

"Come now Girl," Ulfarr says gravely, "speak not of your father that way! Ill omens he does not need!"

Striding towards her, the man intends to pluck her from the ground, interrupt her trance and lift her up so that she rides his shoulders and will get up to no further mischief.

"Astrid," he says to his old friend, "should we call the girls back? They should have enough flowers now, and I mislike Runa's mood."

Runa breaks out of her trance remarkably quickly. Perhaps she is more aware of her surroundings than she lets on, and she doesn't want Ulfarr to get a grip of her.

But I haven't got my Freyja Flowers yet! shouts Runa, skipping a few paces out of Ulfarr's reach, the new dog playfully at her heels. And now my elf-dog can help me!

Runa promptly rolls in the grass, the dog bounding onto her. Runa scratches him under the chin, teasing, Yes, you are an elf-dog, aren't you. They sent you to me! I shall call you Bogi!

Raising his gaze to the other two daughters, Ulfarr sees that, alas, though Inga has made good and short work in gathering more flowers than she can contain in her cloak that she is now using for a sack, Fastvi merely has plucked one bloom, which seems for her own use rather than Freyja's, since it currently is woven into one of her braids.

Astrid's call rings across the glade.

You heard the man! she shouts. We've nearly lost the morning. We'll give you to midday, then we must be on our way.

"Then hurry, girl!" Ulfarr says to Runa, urgently but not unkindly as she slips away from him, like a shadow from its light. Mostly he is glad she has shaken off her reverie so quickly, and he will not be returning to her father with a stricken or limp child. "And care for Bogi, he does not yet know you, Runa!"

Checking on the other girls, he lets them know they will be heading back soon, and quietly asks Inga to help Fastvi gather what she needs. That allows the man to keep one eye on Runa as he returns to Astrid's side.

"Thank you for your help today," Ulf says politely. But then, a moment later, his tone is lower, more personal.

"Astrid, I must admit I do not quite understand what I have walked into here, pledging my axe to the Jarl."

That I deem. I am surprised that your father never mentioned to you what is between them. But then would not be meet to malign a lord to whom you must promise your service. For it is good, being a huscarl to Olaf. He is a fair jarl and Silvermeade Hall is not niggardly. I think, though, I should tell you a tale of your father’s early years with Olaf, unless you choose to learn this from another in hall. Because I’m sure you’ll suffer many the glance and catch many the whispered word.

In the field before the twain, Fastvi sullenly gathers flowers, under Inga’s direction. Runa is trying to make a sledge of Bogi’s back, but the dog, to Runa’s delight, keeps shaking off the blooms.

A breeze blows—surprisingly warm in this sheltered glade. It must be the very breath of Freyja, in this awakening spring. The grasses bend gracefully, very much like Astrid’s golden hair, under that touch.

Ulfarr still remembers Astrid's words from the alley, before they left the Jarl's steading. As a girl, her spirit was so strong. He can see that within her still, now engirded with her training, her will, with her steel. But there is a wound beneath still, he knows. Deep, and not yet healed.

"There is much my father does not care to speak of," he says as he watches Runa and the dog. Then, when the woman next to him offers to tell him more about what happened, all those years ago, the northman finds himself nodding. The hair-tousling breeze and the sunlight almost still Ulf's tongue. He would like nothing more than to simply extend this silent moment, looking at the young woman who was the girl he loved. After five, six serene heartbeats, the man finds it in him to speak.

"If you are willing, Astrid, I would hear. Already I have noticed these glances and whisperings. Better for all, I hope, if I at least understand why my presence grieves the people of Silvermeade. And I will never speak of how I come to learn these things. Easy enough for me to have heard them from my parents."

Astrid smiles at something in what Ulfarr has said, but her next words leave the cause for that mirth enigmatic.

What do you think wields the power to come between two such doughty men as Olaf and Vidar? I can see you know. Yes, Ulfarr: Love. Or perhaps we simply should say "Woman," because, in my experience, love does not have to be involved as long as a fine-limbed maid is present.

Olaf and Vidar served Køenig Ragi Steinsson, Leifsfaðir, of Hordaland. They aided Ragi's ventures against petty jarls, and accompanied him deep into Seagestreland for plunder and the taking of thralls.

Wotan favored Køenig Ragi by sending to his carls a shield-maiden--

Astrid breaks her narration, her body language perhaps cognizant of her own person, her own capacity as a shield-maiden, of the long spear she keeps at hand in a sheathe along her horse's saddle. Her expression pinkens in the cool, spring breeze.

And Olaf fell in love with her. But no man could have her. This shield-maiden--hight Hrist--vowed not to sleep with any man who could not best her in single combat. This far I ken, but I'm not sure what to believe of the matter that comes next.

The folk of Silvermeade Hall say that this Hrist used to stand her spear, of nights, before the opening to her tent or where she lay by fire. Any man approaching would be stopped by this spear--I'm not sure how. Some say that these men would feel as if they had walked into a wall, a barrier that they could not see but could feel, and no amount of blind pawing at that structure could discover a means through or around it, though they could see Hrist well enough by the embers or ken the tantalizing flap of her tent opening.

Whatever the nature of this magic, however, when a man would be stopped in this way, Hrist would wake, as if someone had spoken into her ear or touched her shoulder. She would rise, take up her spear, and fight the man for her body and her bed, and no man prevailed against her...

Again Freyja's wind blows, playing with a strand of gold that has worked free from one of Astrid's braids. Her eyes seem wet: yes, it is likely that the chill draws tears. Astrid appears to be contemplating something akin to the tale but more personal to her own experience.

Ulfarr feels that here is a moment to say something that is within his heart.

Astrid takes a breath to continue her telling...

Ulfarr is no skald, no famed orator. He is not eloquent, he possesses no silver tongue or wise words. His half-brother had these things in some measure, he remembers darkly, but the Norseman held no allusions as to his own skill in that realm.

But what he was good at was listening. Seeing. Comprehending, once just a few pieces of something were puzzled together. So the tale Astrid tells troubles the man doubly. Clearly, the woman knows this story well; she has heard it or thought on it often. Too often, given the pains it must cause the spear maiden.

There is no sense yet of what role Vidarsson's father played in all this, though soon enough he might guess.

Weighing on him, though, are Astrid's glistening eyes, the faintest of trembles in her voice. Coming around to stand in front of the woman, nay, the girl that was ruined that day, Ulf's expression is heartsick, is pained. He loved Astrid then and he knows now that he loves her now. Taking one of her hands in his, he uses his free, rough-skinned thumb to gently brush the stray hair from the blonde's face. Her tears he leaves, knowing that wiping them away will matter little in any of this.

"Astrid," he says softly, exhaling. "Would that we had such a spear that day..."

Astrid's demeanor sharpens.

Ulfarr is not sure how to read it. It's not exactly angry. It's perhaps...

Un unsettling suspicion descends on Ulfarr that Astrid is looking on him as if he is a child, as if he is the same man from so many years ago, whereas Astrid deems that she has grown, aged, matured, gathered wisdom well beyond her years and therefore far wiser than Ulfarr.

If Ulfarr wishes to speak to this thought, Astrid gives him no opportunity, her own voice filling the ensuing caesura.

A spear? Do you wish for a magic spear between us and our attackers on that day, Ulfarr? I'm afraid you may be missing the meaning of this tale. Hrist was not powerful because of her spear. Nay, Hrist's spear was Hrist's own might. No man could have her unless she willed it, and her spear was the proof of it.

Perhaps Astrid perceives a change in Ulfarr's own reflection, for she adds, as if for the benefit of Ulfarr's heart.

Listen, old friend. Yes, I consider you a friend still. I do not hold you blameable for anything that went on that day so many years ago. You couldn't have prevented it, a spear couldn't have prevented it--only I could have prevented it, and I could not at that time because I did not yet know the perils of the world, and I was not yet prepared. That's what I learned that day, Ulfarr, that I could rely on no man but myself. And surety in my reliance requires discipline, courage, adherence to an ideal.

The sun, now near fully risen above the glade, shines directly on Astrid's face, causing it to shine like a shield in battle as she looks out over Olaf's daughters.

Does my spear now stand between those fair children and the peril of the forest around us? I think not. I will do my part, because that is my ideal: to mitigate the strength of the terrible against those who lack their own. But I know if it's not the forest, if it's not evil men, then it will be something else. Disease, old age, an accident, a bad birth. We all are only accountable for ourselves, and those fair children will learn it soon enough.

She shakes her head, as if her own rising and vehement speech has shaken her out of trance.

Forgive me my speech, Ulfarr. Do you wish me to continue? I have become mazed in my mind. Do you want to know how it settled, this matter between your father, our jarl, and the spear-maiden Hrist?

Rare are the words from Ulfarr's mouth that could ever be considered artful, but a strength of his is knowing when to keep quiet. It often involves just giving the person he is speaking with their berth, letting them pace and wring their hands and their phrases. Astrid needs that now, so the man just listens. He is still childlike in some ways compared to her, but that guileless decorum is just what keep his keel in the water no matter the storm.

So he weathers his friend's lashing, such as it is, and merely nods along as she speaks of her strength, of Hrist's strengths and how he has misunderstood the allegory. When she speaks of being able to rely on no man, his heart falls. Long has Ulfarr dreamt of avenging his friend, of slaying every man present that day. The outlander knows, suddenly, starkly, coldly -- this would be an unkindness to her. Doubtless she has the same thoughts, and for better reason than he.

There is much more he wants to say.

That he loved her, that he now kens that he loves her still. That he will protect her, that he will be her second, carrying her shield and spear should she need it as they hunt and kill Bjørn and the others. Instead, he speaks briefly, and with a nod.

"Forgive me, Astrid. Please. Go on."

She resumes immediately. Ulfarr senses that it may be she is eager to put behind her her recent discursion.

Our jarl Olaf became enamored of this spear-maiden Hrist. This is understandable: Wotan's warriors are best among women. So Olaf determined to win and have Hrist.

Night after night he stepped toward her bed. Night after night she rose, took up her spear, and beat him bloody and bruised. But the nature of Olaf's spirit, then and still now, is inflexible. He would have Hrist, even if it meant he must practice deceit.

Ulfarr, from this point there are many competing versions of the tale. But in one matter all agree. One night your father, Viðar, took on the semblance of Olaf. He stepped into Hrist's magic circle. Hrist rose and fought him, and Viðar, in the appearance of Olaf, prevailed against her.

Astrid's throat seems thick, but she pushes on with her telling:

If you wish to know all the ways I have heard about how your father took on Olaf's appearance, I can share them in time. There even is some doubt about what exactly happened that first night, after Viðar won Olaf's victory. Did Viðar take his right of Hrist? Some say yes. Others say nay, that it was arranged beforehand between Olaf and Viðar that Viðar would not enjoy his prize but save Hrist for Olaf in the following night.

And on the following night Olaf came to the bed of Hrist, and on the night after, and on the night after that, until, in time, Hrist put aside her swan-wings and became Viðarsvif.

Again Astrid pauses. The tale is not fully told, but the silence lengthens, giving Ulfarr again an opportunity to speak, if he has aught to say.

Ulfarr listens intently to this story, now paying attention only to Astrid’s voice, to the words she speaks. The girls gather their flowers unnoticed, the dog yaps unheard, a breeze bring’s Astrid’s fetching scent to the man, but his loins are unmoved.

When she brings his father into the tale, the you huscarl’s gaze narrows, unblinking.

"So," he finally says, his voice hoarse. "Everyone in the steading knows this, then. The Jarl’s shame. Yet none speak of it? What became of Hrist after Olaf took her as his wife? And who magicked Vidar to give him Olaf’s countenance?"