Edgar took me with him as he quietly followed the deer paths through the forest of oak and beech, and smaller thickets of alder and ash. He showed me how to judge the size of a deer from the size of the hoof prints, and how to tell whether the stag was walking, running or moving at a trot. After he had located a stag large enough to be hunted by the king’s pack, we would return again and again to note the stag’s regular haunts and observe its daily routine. ‘Look closely,’ he would say to me, pulling aside a bush. ‘This is where he slept last night. See how the grass and weeds are flattened down. And here are the marks where his knees pressed the earth as he got to his feet at dawn. He’s a big stag all right, probably twelve points on his antlers, a royal beast … and in good condition too,’ he added, poking open one of the stag’s turds. ‘He’s tall, that one, and holds his head well. Here’s where his antlers scraped the tree when passing.’
Nor was Edgar confused when, as happened, the tracks of two stags crossed in the forest. ‘The one we want is the stag who veered off to the right. He’s the better one,’ he told me quietly. ‘The other one is too thin.’
‘How do you know?’ I whispered, for the size of the tracks looked the same to me.
Edgar made me kneel on the ground and sight along the second line of tracks. ‘See anything different?’ he asked.
I
shook my head.
‘Observe the pattern of the slots’ - this was his name for the hoof marks - ‘you can see the difference between the fore and back feet, and how this stag was running. His hind feet strike the ground in front of the marks made by his fore feet, and that means he is thin. A well-fed, fat stag is too big in the body for his legs to over-reach in this way.’
It was on one of these scouting trips into the forest that Edgar came close to treating me with deference, a far cry from his earlier harassment. He was, as I had noted, someone who believed deeply in signs and portents and the hidden world which underlies our own. I did not find this strange, for I had been trained in these beliefs through my education in the Elder Faith. In some sacred matters Edgar and I had much in common. He respected many of my Gods, though under slightly different names. Odinn, my special God, he knew as Wotan; Tiw was his name for Tyr the War God, as I had noted; and red-bearded Thor he referred to as Thunor. But Edgar had other gods too, and many of them were entirely new to me. There were elves and sprites, Sickness Gods and Name Gods, House Gods and Weather Gods, Water Gods and Tree Gods, and he was forever making little signs or gestures to placate them, sprinkling a few drops of soup on the flames of the fire, or breaking off a supple twig to twist into a wreath and lay on a mossy stone.
On the day in question we were moving quietly through beech forest on the trail of a promising stag, when his slots led us to a quiet glade among the trees. In the centre of the glade stood a single, great oak tree, very ancient, its trunk half rotten and moss-speckled. At the base of the oak someone had built a low wall of loose stones. Coming closer I saw that the wall protected the mouth of a small well. Edgar had already picked up a small stone and now he took it across to the trunk of the tree and pushed it into a crevice in the bark. I saw other stones tucked away here and there, and guessed that this was a wishing tree.
‘Newly married couples come to ask for babies,’ Edgar said. ‘Each stone represents their desire. I thought a stone put there might help to bring my daughter back.’ He gestured to the well itself. ‘Before girls marry they come here too, and drop a straw down into the well, to count the bubbles that rise. Each bubble represents one year before they find their husband.’
His remark touched a raw spot in my feelings. I broke off a twig and leaned over to drop it into the well. Not far below, I could see the dark reflection of the black water. My wish, of course, was not to know my marriage date, but when I would next see Aelfgifu, for I had been pining for her and did not know why I had not heard from her. On every possible occasion I had taken the chance to go from Edgar’s cottage up to the burh in the hopes of glimpsing her. But always I had been disappointed.
Now, as I leaned forward over the well, and before I dropped the twig, something happened which was totally unforeseen.
Since I was six or seven, I have known I am one of those few people who are gifted with what others call the second sight. My Irish mother had been famous for it and I must have inherited it from her. From time to time I had experienced strange presentiments, intuitions and out-of-body sensations. I had even seen the spirits of those who were dead or the shadows of those about to die. These experiences were random, unexpected. Sometimes months and even years would pass between one occurrence and the next. A wise woman in Orkney — herself the possessor of the sight — had diagnosed that I only responded to the spirit world when in the company of someone else who already had the power. She said that I was some sort of spirit mirror.
What happened next proved her wrong.
As I leaned over to drop the twig, I looked down at the glint of black water and suddenly felt ill. At first I thought it was that sensation which comes when a person looks down from a great height, and feels as if he or she is falling and is overtaken by sudden faintness. But the surface of the inky pool was hardly more than an arm’s length away. My giddiness then changed to a numb paralysis. I felt an icy cold; a terrible pain shot through me, spreading to every part of my body, and I feared I was going to faint. My vision went cloudy and I wanted to retch. But almost as quickly my vision cleared. I saw again the silhouette of my head in the water below, framed by the rim of the well and the sky above it. But this time, as I watched, I saw — quite distinctly — the reflection of someone moving up behind me, holding something up in the air about to strike me, them a metallic flash, and I felt a terrible presentiment of fear.
At that moment I must have fainted away, because I came back to my senses with Edgar shaking me. I was lying on the ground beside the well. He was looking frightened.
‘What happened to you?’he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘I had a seizure. I went somewhere else.’
‘Woden spoke to you?’ he asked, awe in his voice. ‘No. I heard nothing, only saw an attack. It was some sort of warning.’
Edgar helped me to my feet and guided me to a fallen log where I could sit down.
‘Here, rest for a while. Is that the first attack you have had?’
‘Like that one, yes.’ I replied. ‘I’ve had visions before, but never in a calm, quiet place like this. Only at times of stress or when I was in the company of a volva or seidrman.’
‘What are those?’ he asked.
‘It’s the Norse way of describing the women and men who communicate with the spirit world.’
Edgar understood immediately. ‘There’s a person like that over to the west, a good two days’ walk. An old woman. She too lives by a well. Takes a sip or two of the water, and when the mood is on her, goes into a trance. Some people call her a witch and the priests have cursed her. But often her prophecies come true, though no one else would drink the water from this well. It gives you a bad gut if you do, and there’s something mysterious about the well itself. The waters suddenly gush up and overflow as a warning that a dreadful catastrophe will occur. The last time that happened was before Ashington Battle, when the Danes defeated our men.’
‘Were you there?’ I asked, still feeling faint.
‘Yes,’ Edgar replied, ‘with the Saxon levies and armed with my hunting bow. It was useless. We were betrayed by one of our own leaders and I was lucky to get away with my life. If the waters of the well had been able to warn us about traitors, I would have slit his throat for him, for all that he was an ealdor-man.’
I hardly heard what Edgar was saying because, as my head cleared, I was trying to puzzle out what could have caused my vision.
Then, in a sudden flash of comprehension, I understood: I was sensitive to the spirit world not only when in the company of someone who also possessed the second sight, but
by
place.
If I found myself where the veil between the real world and the spirit world is thin, then I would respond to the presence of mysterious forces. Like a wisp of grass which bends to the unseen wind, long before a human feels it on his skin, I would pick up the emanations of the otherworld. The realisation made me uneasy because I feared that I had no way of knowing whether I was in such a sacred place before another vision overcame me.
It was a week
after my vision in the forest and Edgar was in high good humour. ‘South wind and a cloudy sky proclaim a hunting morning,’ he announced, prodding me with the toe of his shoe as I lay half-asleep among my blanket in the corner of his cottage. He was very fond of his proverbs.
‘Time for your first hunt, Thorgils. I’ve got a feeling that you’ll bring us luck.’
It was barely light enough to see by, yet he was already dressed in clothes I had never seen before. He was wearing green from head to toe. I struggled out from under my blanket.
‘Here, put these on,’ he said, throwing at me in succession a tunic, leggings and a cloak with a soft hood. They were all of green. Mystified, I dressed and followed him out into the cold morning air. Edgar was testing a hunting bow, drawing it back and then releasing it. The bow was painted green too.
‘Should I get the dogs?’ I asked.
‘No, not today. We take only one.’
I said nothing, though I wondered what use it was to have a pack, feed them, clean them, exercise them, and then not use them when you went hunting.
Edgar guessed my thoughts. ‘Hunting with a pack is playtime for kings, an entertainment. Today we hunt for meat, not fun. Besides, what we are doing is much more delicate and skilled. So mark my words and follow my instructions carefully. Ah! Here they are,’ and he looked towards the burh.
Three green-clad horsemen were riding towards us. One man I did not recognise, though he seemed to be a servant. To my surprise, the other two riders were the huscarls who had accompanied us from London. I still thought of them as One-Hand Tyr and Treeleg. Edgar told me that their true names were Gisli and Kjartan. Both looked in a thoroughly good humour.
‘Perfect day for the hunt!’ called out Kjartan cheerfully. He was the one missing a hand. ‘Got everything ready, Edgar?’ They both seemed to be on familiar terms with the royal huntsman.
‘Just off to fetch Cabal,’ answered Edgar and hurried to the kennel. He returned, leading a dog I had noticed during my unhappy days as a kennelman because it was different from the rest of the pack. This particular dog did not bite or yap, or run around like a maniac. Larger than the others, it was dark brown with a drooping muzzle and a mournful look. It kept to itself and was a steady, quiet, sensible creature. I had almost liked it.
‘Mount up!’ Edgar said to me. I looked puzzled. I could see no spare horse. There were only three, and each already had a rider. ‘Here, lad,’ called out Kjartan, leaning down from his saddle and holding out his one remaining hand for me to grasp. It seemed that we were to ride two-up on the animals. Edgar had already sprung up on the saddle behind the servant. One thing about hunting, I thought to myself as I scrambled up behind the huscarl and grabbed him round the waist to steady myself, it’s a great leveller — it makes huntsman, huscarl, servant and former kennelman all equal.
‘Never been hunting like this before?’ Kjartan asked me over his shoulder. He spoke kindly and was obviously looking forward to the day’s events. I wondered how he could go hunting when he lacked a hand. He could not pull a bow, and he was not even carrying a spear. His only weapon was a scramsaxe, the long-bladed knife of all trades.