Page 35 of Viking Warriors: Vol. 1-3
I tied the bunches tight, passing them to Helka, who climbed on Eirik’s shoulders to hang them from the rafters. Steadying herself against the great beam of wood above her head, her fingers worked nimbly to secure the thread. “The god of light, Baldur, was slain by an arrow of mistletoe and was sent to reside in the cold and misty Underworld, in everlasting night. The goddess Hel kept him, though he was a reluctant consort.”
“And did he stay there for ever more?” I never tired of hearing these stories, though they didn’t always make sense to me.
“Nothing lasts forever. It’s said that he’ll return when Ragnarok ends and the cycle of life begins again. From death, he’ll be reborn. Until then, he must endure, as we do, through winter’s grip on the frozen Earth.”
“On the first night ofJul, when the daylight is shortest, we keep vigil until dawn,” said Eirik. “No matter how fast Sól drives her chariot, fleeing Fenrir, the devouring wolf of darkness, she’s doomed to be swallowed by his ravening jaws. We must wait and watch, to show our need for her to rise again.”
There had been a time, long ago, when I’d hidden up a tree to escape a wolf. I remembered the saliva upon its fangs and the steady gaze of its pale eyes. Wolves were beautiful creatures but unpredictable, and always hungry. They were not to be trusted.
Helka reached down as I passed along more mistletoe.
“It’s the night of Odin’s Wild Hunt,” went on Eirik, “When he leads the immortal souls of our ancestors, charging across the sky on Sleipnir, his eight-legged stallion.”
The thought filled me with awe. “Have you seen this, Eirik?”
“No wise man ever has.” Eirik moved a few steps so that his sister could reach further along the beam. “It would be too dangerous to meet theÁsgardrriders. The border between the worlds of living and dead is not always fast, especially when these winter days make the Earth resemble the dark and cold of Hel’s merciless Underworld.”
“We leave gifts of food and drink in the snow,” Helka added. “So that they pass on without danger.”
I’d been raised a Christian and knew my own people would be preparing to honour the day of the Saviour’s birth. However, we had older stories not unlike these—of winter’s darkness and the light that would come again. We decorated our homes with wreaths of green and mistletoe through the months of frost to remind ourselves of the waiting Spring. We had, too, our own rituals to deter the eye of mischievous spirits that roamed most freely when the Earth became a wild and inhospitable place for man.
Helka’s stories spoke to my blood, and I sensed the truth of them.
With her foot, she nudged Eirik’s shoulder to return her to the ground. He gave me a wink then made a purposeful wobble, pretending to drop his sister, for which she rewarded him with a clip to his ear.
“Have no fear, Elswyth.” Regaining her feet upon the ground, Helka looked up to admire her handiwork. “The forces of the restless dead have no reason to harangue you.”
“Indeed, not,” I answered, but I thought of my husband, whom I’d never mourned, having never loved him, and of my grandmother, left behind across the sea. Had she passed into the next world? I had no way of knowing.
* * *
The men dug through the snow to allow passage up the hill, and the longhouse was soon filled with ribald laughter and boisterous sports. There were some I’d not seen before and some faces I knew well. Torhilde was absent but Ylva came with her mother, though she kept to the corner of the room and wore her cowl close. The blight upon her cheek was hardly visible in the dim light but I knew she would be conscious of its marking.
Eirik brought me a new gown to wear, the fabric fine spun in a becoming shade of violet blue, its bodice embroidered with pansies.
“Wear your golden hair loose, today, as Asta does.” He placed a kiss upon my neck. His own tunic was of the same cloth, embroidered with sheaves of barley at the hem.
Gunnolf donned the skin and head of a goat, sacrificing four of the sturdy animals and a pig for the three-day banquet that was to begin. Several women helped Guðrún and Sylvi prepare the victuals. I understood, then, why our pantry had been stocked so full.
My mouth watered over the abundant pots of stew and the richly scented roasting meat. Eirik cut a slice from the pig’s shoulder and fed it to me, hot and running thick with juices.
A huge log of oak burned beneath the spit, with holly sprigs and fir branches thrown atop.
“Rake through the ashes in the morning and save the largest pieces,” Asta told me. “We’ll hang them up to bring good fortune for the coming year.”
Before closing the great doors, they rolled out a giant wheel, carved from wood kept dry in the barn. Gunnolf set it aflame, and Olaf and Eirik pushed it off, to whirl down the hill—a burning symbol of the sun, cutting through the darkness, its journey ending somewhere in the meadow.
It wasn’t long before the drinking games began, the men competing against the women, while the jarl and his lady sat in judgment, deciding which rhymes and insults were most filled with wit. It was no surprise that Helka shone in weaving puns and riddles, easily gaining the better of the men who challenged her. Eirik soon held up his hands and surrendered before his sister, lifting her onto his shoulders as he’d done when they’d hung the mistletoe, parading her about the room as the victor in their battle.
It was good to see her laughing, and Astrid, too. In that atmosphere of merrymaking, the women linked me into their arms, united in sharing their drollery at the expense of their menfolk. My heart swelled with a new feeling of acceptance and, more than ever, I was glad to have made my journey to join Eirik, to begin this new life.
A tug of war followed, wives pitted against husbands, with the children watching wide-eyed as their mothers planted their feet and pulled with all their might. The women of Svolvaen were strong of arm, for the contest was a close one, though it ended with skirts flying, as they were brought to the ground by the superior brawn of their men.
“Come now, mothers, sisters and daughters,” declared Asta. “In gracious forfeit, refill their cups and embrace these men beloved. Rejoice that their strength in sport is also the strength that protects us in times of war.”
Eirik was the recipient of more kisses than seemed his due but I was content to let him revel in them, for it was a night of festivity and I’d no wish to be churlish. It was well into the night before the revellers nodded to sleep upon the benches ranged each side of the great hall, sleeping off the mead they’d enjoyed.
The dawn was thin and grey but I smiled to see it. If Odin’s terrible hunt had passed over our roof, I’d heard nothing. Through the second day of feasting, we sat again around the fire and listened to tales of man-eating trolls, giants and the gods—their cleverness and trickery, jealousies and deceits. I laughed at how Odin dressed as a bride to retrieve his powerful hammer and shivered to hear Helka tell the full story of sweet Baldur’s sojourn in the hidden world of the dead. There was much drinking and eating, the women sharing their gossip as they prepared the table.
