Yet he and his were kindly received, given food and drink and good redes about where to hunt for what they needed. Ivar told of their errand and farings, then asked
the women why they lived this lonely, as fine and fair as they were.
The oldest said into the flickering dark: “Everything has its reason, fellows. The ground for our being here is that a mighty king wooed my daughter, but she would not have him. He threatened to come and take her by force. Her father is long away at war. I thought best to hide her here.”
“Who is her father?” Ivar asked.
“She is the daughter of the Finn-King by me, a leman.”
“May I know your names?” For Finns often mislike giving these to strangers, lest a foe use them in spells.
“I hight Ingebjörg, and Hvit my daughter.”
Ivar had his doubts, those names being Norse. However, men of that kind were already in his day making trips to Finland, trading, raiding, squeezing scot of hides and furs out of those tribes; and northward-pushing settlements were slowly driving the wanderers back. There were half-breeds, and enough other folk, who knew both tongues.
The maid here did not, but Ingebjörg was good at Norse and Hvit better still, the few times that she did more than faintly smile. Ivar slept well that night on the rushes of the floor.
In the months which followed, he was often a guest at the house, bringing gifts of meat and, at last, gold. Talking much with Ingebjörg and as much as might be with Hvit, he satisfied himself that the latter was in truth the child of a strong headman if not of one whom an Uplander would call a real king. And surely she was fair; he could lie awake lusting for her. She was not learned in what becomes a queen, but she seemed quick-minded. Anyway, the Uplands were no Danish or Swedish or Göta kingdom. Theirs were a folk who would not have understood lofty manners. It might be well to have a Finnish tie, Ivar thought. Home lay far south; still, northbound traders sailed out of Oslofjord taking Uplander men along—
He did not like everything about her. Surely she was witchy. Where did she and her mother go at Yuletide? How could they fare about over the snows? True, they had skis, like all Striding Finns. Ivar wondered, though, and could not find out, why no tracks showed anywhere around. Might they have gone well inland, to those three tall rocks that overlook a river to which the Finns make offering? The rocks stand just at that place where, northward, the sun may be seen all day at midsummer and never at midwinter. Norse travelers swore that the wizards did not welcome and bless the sun, but cursed it and drove it away.
This might not be true. And Hvit was very fair; and Ivar was weary and homesick, carrying no wish to sail forth again this year.
Early in spring, when his ship was about ready, he asked her if she would like to come along and marry King Hring.
She dropped her gaze to her lap. After a long while she whispered, “Let my mother decide.”
Ingebjörg frowned before she said, “As the old saw goes, one must make the best out of the bad. I think it wrong that her father not be asked first. Your kind has never dealt well with ours…. However, I’ll dare this, to make safe her morrow.”
Ivar thought something was amiss here, the more so when the mother stayed behind. They should either have said an outright no or given him a gladder yes. But the leaves were budding, and he yearned to be off, and Hvit was very fair.
So she sailed. They had the best of passages to Oslofjord. Thence they rode to the hall of Hring and made known the woman to him. “Do you want her?” asked Ivar. “Or shall we take her back the same way?”
The king was a big man, grown gaunt and grizzled, and had himself spent a sorrowful winter. He soon fell hard in love with Hvit and married her, against the wish of some of his councillors. No matter that she was not rich, he said. She was beautiful.
But he—he was getting old. The new queen soon marked this.
II
Not far off dwelt a yeoman called Gunnar. In his youth he had long lain out in warfare, to win much renown and booty. Now, settled down with a wife, he had but one living child, Bera, a girl. As a bairn of her own age, the atheling Björn found his way over the few miles of woods, steeps, and icy fords, and became her friend. For years they played small games together and were mightily glad of each other. Later they roamed through greenwood and pinewood, scrambled panting and laughing above timberline to meadows blossom-starred between snow-peaks, lay outdoors in light summer nights which were like a lingering dream of day or stood in ringing winter chill and watched the northlights flare across half heaven.
Then once when they were undressing to steam themselves in a bathhouse, Bera suddenly reddened, and her hands fluttered across her body. Björn turned his eyes away, more flushed and awkward than she. After that they were still closer knit. Their parents smiled and nodded and began talking quietly about a betrothal some years hence.
Meanwhile the children turned into youth and maiden, both tall and handsome, he fair-haired and good at every feat of strength and skill, she brown-haired and sweet though stubborn about whatever really mattered to her. Meanwhile, also, Björn’s father took his second wife.
There was much warring to be done against wild men and neighbor kings. Thus Hring often spent many weeks away from home. Then Queen Hvit would steer the land. She was not liked, being vain, cold, and overbearing toward everyone save Björn. Luckily, most Uplanders dwelt in far-strewn steadings and little thorps, so they need not look to her for much.
A time came when King Hring was making ready for such a faring. Björn was wild to go. It would be his first
taste of battle. The queen, alone with her husband, said his son ought to stay behind and help her. He soon agreed. She had made this mighty man into a fish hooked on her line. Björn raved when he heard; but toward him Hring could still be stern. In the end, the atheling watched the host fare off without him.
Struggling not to weep, he sought the bed in the loftroom that was his. He had lain a while, staring and brooding, when the door opened, shut again and latched. Queen Hvit had entered. Her garb was a wanton’s and her locks floated loose. She came to him, stroked his forehead, and crooned, “Poor Björn. Poor dear Björn. Don’t sorrow like this. Your grief is a grief to me.”
“Well, why did you work to hold me here?” he croaked.
She smiled and fluttered her lashes. “I’ve seen you wrestle, race, practice weapon-use, meet boar and elk. You’ve no need to doubt your manhood in war. In kingcraft, though, and in … other things … you’ve a world to learn. Here’s your chance, out of your father’s shadow. Now be glad, let me gladden you, my own pet bear.” For “Björn” means “bear.”
He sat up. “Go away!” he shouted. “Get out!”
She left, unangered. In the next few days she sought him over and over. At last she whispered to him to come to her in her bower before sunrise, secretly, for she had something great to tell. Unwilling, he did.
No women of hers were in that twilit room. She cast herself upon him, moaning of her love, striving to drag him to her bed. “Behold me, my bear, me, young and alive, bound to a dry stick like Hring! Oh, come and I’ll show you the wholeness of life, I’ll bring you alive!”
Too shocked to move, he stood dumb for a bit. Then rage burst forth. His palm cracked on her cheek, sent her staggering back. “You foul slut,” he yelled, “haven’t I told you to keep away from me?”
She breathed hard before she spoke in a voice like an adder’s: “That was foolish of you. I am not used to being struck and driven off. You think it’s better, Björn, to throw your arms around a yeoman’s daughter than have
love and goodwill from me. Well, as you will. For your hard heart and … and your cloddishness … take your reward!”
Snatching a wolfskin glove, she smote him across the face with it. “Like a bear have you treated me, Björn; no more than a bear are you, nor ever shall be. No, you shall become a bear in truth, a grim and raging bear that lives off no other food than your father’s kine. You shall kill more of those than was ever heard of erenow; and never shall you be free of this shape-changing; and the knowing of it shall be the worst of all for you.”
He shrieked, that strong-thewed youth, whirled and fled. Already as he crossed the yard, he shambled. Hvit’s cat-shrill laughter followed him into the dawn.
What she did next is not known. Nor did anyone know where Björn had gone, what had become of him. Some feared he might have been taken by a huge gray bear which began harrying the king’s herds. Cattle it slew as a weasel slays in a henyard, yet it was spied only from afar by frightened men. Hunters went to search. Their numbers were few in wartime. Wilier than was right, the bear lay in wait, attacked from behind, slew and maimed and sent the rest of them in flight. They saw nothing could be done till the king and his warriors returned.
Bera wept for her sweetheart.
Summer waned. One day late in it she was out to gather berries. On her way back, in a cold wind beneath a hastening dull sky, she stopped in mid-path, dropped her basket and wailed. For out of the brush trod that great iron-hued beast.
Wildly she looked around for help, a tree to climb, anything. But the bear only stood where he was, some yards off. She heard him make a sound more like purring than growling. Step by slow step, waiting between steps as if afraid, he neared. It came upon her that here was a wonder. She braced herself and stood fast. The bear reached her. She held forth a shivering hand. He licked it. She looked into his eyes and thought, in a wave of dizziness, that she knew the eyes of Björn the king’s son.
The bear turned and trotted off. She groped after. High
they went on the mountainside, to where scrub oak grew gnarly amidst wan grasses and the eye swooped over a blue-shadowed dale to snowpeaks that seemed afloat in heaven. This eventide she saw just a chill, whistling dusk, a cave near a spring, a shape at its mouth. The bear reared … was it really a bear?
She ran to the arms of Björn.
After a while he said he must get on some clothes. Laughing, sobbing, hiccoughing, she clutched him and said she would keep him warm. When he went into the cave, she followed. On its sandy floor glowed a banked bed of coals. He started to feed it wood. She chattered that that was her task. As the flames bloomed, she saw a heap of hay and hides for sleeping, and drew very near to him.
“You must go,” he stammered. “This is not seemly. You can’t stay. I’m a man only at night. Each dawn I turn into a beast.”
“So much … the more … is it right for me to abide here … O my darling,” she cried softly.
For weeks she dwelt there. When he arrived near sundown, she cleansed his dripping jaws, cooked the torn-off ribs or haunch he had borne home, and waited for him to become Björn again. In the mornings she brushed the harshness that was his coat, kissed the terrible head, and waved farewell as long as she could see him lumber down the slope. The rest of the time she was alone with sun, clouds, rain, wind, hawks. She would sleep, gather sticks and nuts against winter, try to make the cave houselike, now and then weep a little but oftener sing.
Afterward she told no more than that of her life on the heights. It may well be that the bear did not always go ravening among men. Did she ride gleeful on his back, like the lassie she had been not many summers ago? Did he raid the bees to bring her honeycomb as overflowing as his love, and did she weave wreaths to hang around his neck?
Did he take her along when he sought out the elven folk? For surely, in light of what happened later, he knew them. Half outside the world of men, he was half
into the Half-World. The spell must also have touched Bera, in however ghostly a way. Did she giggle at the antics of a niss, or flee when a nicor gruesomely broke the surface of a moonlit lake? Did she sit at the feet of a dwarf, old and twisty and tough as her oak trees, to hear his riddles and remembrances? Did she run in fear from the earthquake stride of a troll? Did she hear the Asgard’s Ride of the dead halloo through the night sky, did she see the one-eyed spearman on an eight-legged horse who led them in their hunt?
Did she meet the elves? Tall and grave they are, though sometimes a wicked mirth ripples through them; they come from their hidden high-roofed halls, or from the gods whom they may serve, to dance by moonlight in rings of bauta stones raised ages ago; awful and beautiful are they, and weirdly do they work on the world. One woman among them spoke long to Björn of what had been and would be, far off in a land called Denmark. Afterward he needed from Bera what cheer she could give.
She held him close against the hateful dawn.
In fall, King Hring came back from his warfare and men told him what had gone on, or what they thought had. When he learned that his son was lost, belike killed and eaten by that beast which was ruining his herds more than anyone else’s, he covered his eyes. Long he sat before he went off by himself. Later the queen urged him most strongly to gather enough men and hounds to track that monster down and get rid of it. He stared sideways at her and said there was no haste about that.
To everyone he acted as if the bear did not matter much. Still Hvit kept after him, as did his friend Gunnar whose only child was likewise missing, and the kinfolk of those who had lost dear ones to the beast, and all who dreaded it. At last Hvit taunted him: “Is your manhood small where it comes to keeping the land safe
also?
Then I must betake myself elsewhere, for bad harvests will come from such a king till he’s hanged on high to the gods.”
Hring groaned aloud and turned from her. Next morn
ing he sent word out for hunters to meet from far around.
Some nights later, the bed rustled beneath Björn as he woke from sleep, turned and drew Bera to him. She lay by the knocking of his heart, smelling the hay and skins and his own beloved warmth. In darkness and wind she heard him say:
“My dream has come. Tomorrow will be the day of my bane. They are bound hither to get me killed.”
She cried out. He stopped her with a kiss and went on in that heavy whisper: “Well, I myself have little gladness any more, save when we two are together, and now that must end.