Authors: Frans G. Bengtsson
The women tittered, and nudged one another, and looked coyly hesitant. At length, however, they slipped their cloaks from their bodies and stood naked; then they walked in a line toward the raised strip of turf and began to creep under it, one by one. A terrific crash from the direction of the Finnvedings’ camp suddenly echoed through the silence of the night; then cries and groans were heard, followed by loud laughter, for an old leaning tree, into the branches of which many of the young men had climbed, had collapsed under their weight and had crushed several of them as it fell. But the women continued to creep under the turf until all of them had passed beneath it, whereupon the old man raised his arms again and cried: “This is the second! Go ye through water!”
At this the women walked down to the brook and waded out into the midst of it. They squatted down on their haunches where the water was deepest, held their hands over their faces, and, amid much shrieking, plunged their heads beneath the water, so that their hair floated on the surface, after which, without delay, they came up again.
Then the old women lit the piles of brushwood around the Stone, and when the young women had returned from the water, the old man cried: “This is the third! Go ye through fire!”
The women now began to run around the Stone and to leap nimbly over the fires. As they did so, the old man slit the throats of the goats, so that their blood ran down the sides of the Stone, while he mumbled words of ritual. Nine times the women had to run around the Stone, and nine times lap blood, that it might give them strength and make their wombs fruitful.
A great cloud passed over the moon, but by the light of the fires the women could still be seen gamboling around the Stone. Then a voice was suddenly heard to begin singing, in words which none of them could understand; and as the moon shone forth again, the magister could be seen walking up toward the Stone. He had crossed the brook and passed the sentries without being spotted, for in the darkness they had turned round to watch the women dancing. He had bound two birch rods together with osiers, so that they formed a cross, and this he held raised before him as he walked swiftly toward the Stone.
The old women began to shriek with all the force of their lungs, partly from rage and partly from fear, and the old man stood up on top of the Stone, brandishing his bloody knife like a madman and screaming in a loud voice. The women ceased their gamboling and stood still, not knowing what to do; but the magister walked through their circle, held the cross up toward the old man, and cried: “Get thee hence, Satan! In Jesus Christ’s name, depart, thou unclean spirit!”
The old man’s face became convulsed with fear as the magister threatened him with the cross; he shrank away, his foot slipped, and he toppled backwards from the Stone to the ground, where he remained lying with his neck broken.
“He has killed the priest!” shrieked the old women in confusion.
“I, too, am a priest,” cried the magister, “and a better priest than he!”
Heavy footsteps were now heard approaching, and a powerful voice demanded to know what all this screaming might be about. A tremor passed through the magister’s body, and, gripping his cross in both hands, he placed himself with his back against the Stone. Pressing the cross against his breast, he closed his eyes and began to mutter in a rapid monotone: “I am ready! Christ and all ye holy martyrs, receive me into your blessed kingdom. I am ready! I am ready!”
The sentries remained motionless at their posts, despite the screams of the old women. They had been put there to see that no Göings or drunken Finnvedings came to meddle with or gloat at the women of their tribe, and it would have been unseemly for them to come near to other men’s naked wives on open ground, lest by doing so they might provoke strife.
But a man now came from the Virds’ camp, tall and powerfully made, who appeared not to be worried at the prospect of coming near naked women. He wore a broad-brimmed hat and a blue skirt of costly cloth and carried a red shield by its strap, while his sword dangled from a broad belt of silver. The women looked bashful as he approached them, and tried to cover their nakedness as well as they could. Some took grass to cleanse the blood from their mouths; but all remained where they were.
The newcomer glanced along the line of them and nodded.
“Have no fear,” he said in a friendly voice. “Such things do not bother me, save in the springtime, and then women who take my fancy have no need to prance through fires. One thing I will not deny, now that I see you at close quarters, and that is that several of you are more comely naked than clothed—which is as it should be. But who is this shivering fellow who stands with his eyes closed in the midst of your circle? Does the sight of you displease him?”
“He is a Christ-priest!” cried the old women. “He has killed Styrkar!”
“It is the nature of priests to fight one another,” replied the man calmly, “I have always said so.” He walked up to the body of the old man and stood with his thumbs in his belt looking down at it. He rolled it over with his foot.
“Dead as a herring,” he said. “So here you lie, Styrkar, for all your cunning and trollcraft. I do not think many people will mourn you. You were an evil-minded old snake, as I have told you more than once; though no one can deny that you were a crafty priest and full of learning. Go, now, to the trolls, to whom you belong; for the gods will kick you from their door if you try to gain admittance there. But you, my good women, why do you still stand naked in the night air? Your stomachs will surely suffer for it.”
“We have not completed the rite,” they replied. “We still have half our laps to run around the Stone. But what shall we do, now that our priest, Styrkar, is dead? Must we depart, having gained nothing? We do not know what to do.”
“What has happened has happened,” said the man. “But do not grieve at it, for it is my belief that you can find better remedies for your emptiness than frolicking around this Stone. When my cows bear not, I change my bull. That usually does the trick.”
“No, no!” wailed the women sorrowfully. “You are wrong, you are wrong! We are not so foolish as you think; this is the only remedy left to us!”
The man laughed, turned round, and clapped his hand across the magister’s shoulders.
“I stand here talking foolishly,” he said, “though you all know that I am in fact the quickest-witted of men. Your priest Styrkar is dead, but we have here a Christ-priest to replace him. One priest is as good as another; believe me, for I have come across every variety.”
He seized the magister by one leg and the scruff of his neck, swung him up, and deposited him on the top of the Stone.
“Use your tongue now,” he said, “if you have priest-words in your mouth. Up with your chin and spout the best incantations you know. Whether we shall then kill you or let you live depends on how you acquit yourself. Spell boldly, and spell children into the wombs of these Vird women; if you can make it twins, so much the better.”
Standing on the Stone, the magister trembled, and his teeth were heard to chatter. But the man who stood beneath him, sword in hand, wore a dangerous and purposeful look. So the magister held the cross before him and began desperately to gabble prayers; and once he was properly under way, his voice rang out manfully.
The newcomer stood and listened; then he nodded.
“This is a real priest,” he said. “I have heard this sort of talk before, and there is much strength in it. Start your antics again, women, before he grows weary and the fires die to ash.”
Screwing up their courage anew, the women began again to prance around the Stone; and once the magister had got over the worst of his fright, he acquitted himself nobly, dipping his cross over their heads as they came up to the Stone to lap the blood, and blessing them with his finest blessings. The women trembled as the cross touched them; and when the ceremony was completed they agreed unanimously that this was a good priest, and that they had been more sensible of his sacred power than they had been of Styrkar’s.
“Let us not kill this man,” they said. “He shall come with us and be our priest in Styrkar’s stead.”
“If it is your wish,” said the man in the hat, “let it be so; and may he bring you better luck than Styrkar did.”
But as he said this, a powerful voice was heard to roar from the direction of the brook: “Give this priest to me!”
Orm and his men had seen the old priest fall down from the Stone and a few minutes later the magister standing there in his place, which had filled them with amazement.
“It may be that he had gone crazy,” said Father Willibald, “or, on the other hand, it may be that God’s spirit has entered into him. That is a cross he holds in his hand.”
“It does not take much to drive him to a place where women are,” said Orm darkly. “None the less, it would be a shameful thing if we allowed him to be slaughtered like a goat.”
They took men with them and walked up from the stream. The moon was clouded over, and as Orm shouted up toward the Stone, not much could be seen. The women turned back nervously toward the camp, and the magister descended from the Stone. But the man in the broad hat strode down toward Orm, accompanied by several of the Vird sentries.
“Who is that who screams in the night?” he said.
“Give me back that priest,” said Orm grimly. “He is mine and has not my permission to depart.”
“What loud-mouthed fellow might you be?” asked the other.
This was a mode of address to which Orm was not accustomed, and he was seized by a fury such as seldom came over him.
“A man who is not afraid to teach you manners,” he cried, “and that straightway.”
“Come over here,” said the other, “and we shall see which of us is the better teacher.”
“Have I peace from your following?” said Orm.
“You have peace from us,” said the Virds calmly.
Orm drew his sword and leaped across the brook.
“You come here nimbly,” said the other, “but you will be carried back.”
Orm charged at his adversary, and their swords met so fiercely that sparks came from them. Then the hatted man said:
“Dame Red-Jowl,
Thou hardly forged one,
Hard the fight
When sparks fly from thee.”
Orm took a fierce slash on his shield, and his voice was changed as he replied:
“Friend, thy word
Was timely spoken.
Know, Red-Jowl
Hath joined with Blue-Tongue.”
They lowered their swords and stood motionless.
“Welcome, Orm Tostesson, chieftain of the sea. What do you among these Göing savages?”
“Welcome, Toke Gray-Gullsson, warrior of Lister! What do you among the Virds?”
Both of them now began to talk eagerly and simultaneously, laughing with joy; for the friendship between them was very great, and it was several years since they had last seen each other.
“We have much to talk of,” said Toke. “And it is fortunate that you are swift at composing verses, the way I taught you to be; for if it had not been so, we two might have hewn at each other for a while longer, and might have suffered thereby. Though I do not think your verse was so good as mine.”
“In that you may claim superiority without offense,” said Orm. “I have had but little practice at making verses since last we parted.”
Toke drew his finger along Red-Jowl’s edge.
“There is a dent here, where our swords met,” he said. “She was never dented before.”
Orm likewise passed his finger along his blade.
“It is the same with mine,” he said. “Andalusian-forged iron can only be dented by Andalusian blades.”
“It is my hope,” said Toke, “that they will not kiss edges again.”
“That is my hope also,” said Orm.
“It would be good to know whether she who gave them to us is yet living,” said Toke. “And how our lord Almansur now fares, and where his great war-banners now wave before him, and whether his luck still holds.”
“Who can tell?” said Orm. “That land is far from here, and these things happened long ago; though it is true that my thoughts often turn to him. But come with me now, that we may talk alone; I wish I had ale with which to bid you welcome.”
“Have you no ale?” asked Toke in alarm. “How can we talk without ale? Ale is the best friend of friends.”
“Nobody has brought ale to the Thing,” said Orm. “Ale is the provoker of quarrels—which I think you know as well as the next man.”
“Our luck is good tonight,” said Toke, “and yours is better than mine. For one man has brought ale to the Thing, and I am he. You must know that I am now a great man among the merchants of Värend, and I deal particularly in skins; and no skin-sale can be arranged without ale. I have brought five pack-horses to the Thing, all laden with ale, and I shall not be taking any of it home again if all goes as it should; for I intend that they shall carry nothing but skins. Therefore come with me.”
“It shall be as you wish,” said Orm. “Perhaps I shall find my lost priest there, too.”
“The women took him with them,” said Toke. “They said they liked the sorcery he practiced, so you need not worry your head about him. He looked to me to be a bold fellow, the way he went for Styrkar with his cross. Though what will happen to him for killing the old goat is a matter for the Thing to decide.”
“I have another priest with me here,” said Orm, “an old friend of yours.”
Father Willibald had come across the brook to discover what had happened to the magister. Toke greeted him joyfully.
“I remember you well,” he said. “You shall come with us and sample my ale. I owe you a great debt for the way you mended my leg in King Harald’s castle, better than any other man could have done. But what are you doing here, so far from the Danish court?”
“I am God’s priest to Orm’s household,” said Father Willibald. “And my mission is to Christianize heathens in this wild outpost of the world, as I have already Christianized him. Your turn likewise shall come, though I remember you as a man deep in godlessness; it is the finger of God that has led you here to meet us.”
“That is a point that might be argued,” said Toke, “but what is certain is that we three shall now sit down together in friendship.
Bismillahi, er-rahmani, er-rahimi!
as we used to say when we served my lord Almansur.”