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D. A. Houdek |
Deb Houdek Rule |
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©1994 D. A. Houdek
No reproduction or distribution without consent of the author
1992
words
"Season
of Marvels" is a dark fantasy based on the Icelandic Viking sagas of the
12th and 13th centuries. It's written largely in the style of the sagas. This
story was a near-miss story with many editors, intriguing them and gathering
interesting comments, but--alas--not contracts to purchase it.
A
SEASON OF MARVELS
by
D.
A. Houdek
It
was a season of marvels, the sorcerers said, and even the Christians agreed.
The visitations began in the darkest part of winter, near the solstice,
in the last year of the first millennia, which the Christians looked to with
dread. Those
in the district who were still friends of Thor and Odin even went so far as to
suggest that this might be the beginning of the Ragnorok, the time of the last,
great winter when the gods themselves would die.
Most scoffed at that idea though.
The marvels were meant as a warning to someone, wiser voices said, but
this too was ignored.
Kieran,
a slave of Einar the Earless, listened to the tales and speculations from a
chilly corner near the door of the long house and refrained from comment.
Because he was Irish, taken on a raid several years ago, it was thought
he was a Christian, but Kieran adhered to a far older religion, one where, like
the pagan religion of Iceland, marvels were more common than miracles.
He carved on a wooden cup, shaping the wood with intricate designs, and
said nothing.
On
this night, quiet between winter storms, Hallbjorn Half-Troll, chieftain from
two farmsteads distant, sat by Einar on the High-chair of the Main Hall telling
the tale of the ghost that visited his home.
Nearest him sat the men of the neighboring farms with a few servants and
kinsmen. The
women of Einar’s household sat among them while servants kept the drinking
horns well filled.
“It
was the ghost of my wife’s father,” he claimed, taking another swig from his
horn. With
each drink the story grew more involved, as he told it for the third time.
The children of the slaves and servants, and the first son of Sigridur,
Einar’s daughter, listened with wide eyes to every word.
Sigridur cowered, as usual for her of late, in the furthest corner of the
hall, her eyes occasionally meeting Kieran’s through the gloom.
“I knew he’d not take well to being dead when I killed him,”
Hallbjorn said, “so I hacked his legs off with my axe and raised a great
burial mound over him.
That worked well enough to hold him until three nights ago.”
Hallbjorn’s
household had been gathered around the hearth during the last gale.
The wind first blew damp from the ocean, then with an icy blast off the
Vatnajökull glacier.
Amidst the howls of the storm Hallbjorn’s wife suddenly claimed to hear
noises from the cod bin.
All were quiet as they stared toward the door and listened.
From the bin came a rustle.
None dared move as the rustling with —some said — the sound of demon
slavering continued for hours.
Finally, after a long time of silence, Hallbjorn crept to the bin and
peered in. Every
bit of the winter’s supply of fish was gone, devoured by the hungry spirit,
down to a few well-stripped bones.
Kieran
watched as Hallbjorn leaned close to the children, the glow of the charcoal
gleaming in his eyes and told them, “There’s one thing a corpse come back
for revenge likes better than codfish,” he grinned at their intent faces,
“and that’s to eat little children.”
Everyone
laughed as the children squealed and ran to hide.
Then Hallbjorn’s face darkened and his laugh stilled.
“It troubles me,” he said in a low voice to Einar, and Kieran found
an excuse to add more wood to the fire so he could lean close and hear, “if a
corpse so well dealt with as that can come back seeking retribution, what of
those that were just left to lie where they fell?”
Hallbjorn asked.
Einar
scratched his long beard as he considered the problem.
“You’ve invoked a god?”
Even
though he had been baptized a Christian, Hallbjorn still invoked Thor in times
of crisis. “Ja,
one can’t take chances when it comes to spirits.
And if sacrifices are needed I’ll gladly use some of my slaves… but
still… would you ask your daughter to say her Christian prayers over the
matter?”
Einar
glowered in the direction of Sigridur, huddled in the dark corner.
“Better to ask the slaves to say their prayers over it, than her.”
“She’ll
still not tell you who got that child on her?”
“Nay,”
Einar sighed. “Stubborn
as her mother was, that girl.
How am I supposed to find her a new husband when she’s lying about with
Odin-knows-who?”
Kieran
left the Main Hall for the loft where he and the other slaves slept.
The sky to the north was bright with dancing, ghostly lights that night.
Many murmured that there was great significance to such a portent.
As
he and his men rode home, a great chasm in the earth opened beneath Hallbjorn
Half-Troll’s horse.
Hallbjorn leapt clear but his horse was swallowed up.
As he landed, the Half-troll struck his head on a rock and died
instantly. Everyone
agreed that his father-in-law had gotten his vengeance.
Not
more than ten nights later, Kveldulf Bloodaxe, an old enemy of Hallbjorn
Half-Troll, reported that he had seen fiery lights glowing within the burial
mounds near the Markar River.
When he went closer he heard chanting.
It seemed that Hallbjorn’s corpse was in a good mood and was chanting a
verse. Others
came and when they opened the cairn they saw that the corpse had turned to face
the moon. Kveldulf
struck the head off with his halberd.
The head laughed and refused to be silenced.
Kveldulf’s halberd blade rang when he picked it up to leave.
It was a sign that predicted death.
Kieran
the Slave carried an armload of wood into the main house.
Sigridur was at her needlework and didn’t look up.
Her eyes were red from crying, he could see, and her cheek was bruised.
Kieran
quit his work and sought Einar, his master.
He found him at the edge of the woods, looking toward the glacier.
The ice glowed in the scant light of the winter day.
Einar
pulled out his sword when he heard Kieran approach.
“It
is only I,” Kieran said.
“I would ask you again to free me.”
“You’ve
not taken well to being a slave, have you?”
Einar asked.
“No,
I would rather be a free man.”
Einar
said, “As a slave you have no worries.
You have good work and good food.
A free man may starve.”
“Still,”
Kieran said, “I would rather be free.
For what price would you sell me my freedom?”
Einar
considered the slave before he answered.
“Most slaves may buy their freedom for half of their value.
But for you I would ask triple that, for it is said you have the second
sight and that could be a good thing for me.”
Kieran
replied, “It has never been tested.
But I will tell you this.
You will regret not selling me my freedom for a reasonable price.
I predict that you will lose more than you gain with your selfishness.
I will have my freedom and I will have your daughter… as I had her
before.”
Einar
was angry at this and attacked Kieran with his sword.
He struck a mighty blow, but the blade missed Kieran and imbedded in a
tree. Einar
later swore that the tree moved to stand between he and Kieran.
Kieran went back to his work and said nothing more.
Through
the winter, as the days lengthened, many in the district reported seeing ghosts
wandering the forests and fields.
One family had the ghost of the old witch Saeunn eat and drink with them
at their table.
Saeunn had been drowned for her witchcraft the previous summer and left
bits of rotted flesh on whatever she touched.
None in the family dared say anything about it to her.
After she had eaten, the witch left, vanishing as soon as she stepped
into the night.
Kveldulf
Bloodaxe fought with Thorgeir Otkellson over an insult Thorgeir had made.
Kveldulf slashed his halberd down against Thorgeir’s shield splitting
it in two and causing a great splinter to gouge out Thorgeir’s eye.
Kveldulf struck again, this time cutting Thorgeir in half.
He died instantly.
Notice
was given and witnesses were called.
Compensation for the killing would be settled in the summer.
Few
mourned, for Thorgeir was not well-liked.
He was ill-starred, many said, and a raven had flown before him as he
rode to fight Kveldulf Bloodaxe.
By
the ghostly green lights in the sky, Kieran sat among the trees and worked on
carving his wooden cup.
Around its rim he put a snake eternally swallowing its own tail.
Into the snake’s body he carved all of the runes.
Below this was Thor in his chariot, Odin and Freya with him.
The handle was Christ on the cross.
Now, working by touch, Kieran carved the Green Man’s face below the
handle.
He
ran his finger over the bare wood inside the rim of the cup and listened to the
spirits of the trees whisper to him.
That
night everyone in Kveldulf Bloodaxe’s household burned to death when a
mysterious force set the ceiling beams ablaze.
At the same time Sigridur’s second son was born at the farm of Einar
the Earless.
Einar
took the babe, still bloody and wet from birth, from his daughter’s bed.
The child’s cries stopped as soon as Einar picked it up.
Sigridur said nothing, but turned her face away.
Einar carried the baby outside with him, not even covering it with a
cloth.
None
of the slaves or servant women who witnessed the birth were ever seen alive
again.
Kieran
watched Einar carry something over the hill, silhouetted by the dancing lights
in the sky. The
lights had danced in green but streaks of red now joined in.
Kieran added another picture to his carving on the cup.
He
waited well into the night until Einar returned.
“There
is blood on your hands,” Kieran told Einar.
“Go
away, slave.”
Einar was angry.
“I
know what you did,” Kieran said.
“And so do the trees and they will whisper it to all who pass.
You left your grandchild for the foxes to devour.”
“The
illegitimate child of a slave and a harlot,” Einar said.
Kieran
said, “You’ve caused yourself much dishonor.
None will look upon you with favor.
The pagans will speak ill of your name.
The Christians will curse you.”
With
that Einar drew his sword and swung at Kieran with a blow meant to take off his
head. Kieran
raised his wooden cup and parried, shattering the blade.
Einar stared in amazement for he had never heard of such a thing
happening. He
looked in fear at his slave.
“I
make this prediction to you, Einar the Earless, unless you free me and give me
your daughter and all your wealth you will never have a moment of peace.
See there,” Kieran pointed toward the hill.
A blue fox trotted along the crest, stopped and looked toward Einar.
It raised its muzzle to the sky and cried out.
“That is the ghost of the murdered child already returned to haunt
you.”
Einar
watched the fox and listened to the trees for most of the night.
Kieran
Freedman and Sigridur went, with her first son, to live in the west country.
It was said that they had a great wealth of gold and silver.
None in the west country dared speak ill of the Freedman, but gave him
great honor.
Einar
the Earless lived ten more years at the foot of the Vatnajökull glacier and in
all those years spoke not one word.
Those who saw him said he had a finely carved wooden cup that he held for
hours, but when he tried to drink from it all that came out was blood.
Spring
was mild that year.
The trees had their leaves early and there were many new seedlings.
No further marvels were ever witnessed in that district.
THE
END
