Odin’s Child (10 page)

He came to rest puffing and blowing in front of us. When he spoke, the voice, coming from that cavernous chest, was surprisingly light. “Good morning to you, friends. What a pity that it takes a sad business like this to bring us together at last, eh? But where is he? Where is my
old comrade? I'm told he was at Law Rock yesterday, though I didn't see him myself.”

“Thorvald is ill,” replied my uncle. “I speak for him and his sons.”

“Hoskuld Long-Jaws, of course! Upon my life, man, I am deeply hurt you did not call upon me yesterday. What now—am I to be treated as an enemy? Blind me! I'm no such a thing.”

“You mean you deny being Strife-Hrut's ally?”

“Why, absolutely. I've only joined the fellow's suit to soften his harsh nature. Why, I should like nothing better than to see us all friends again.”

“Yes, well, that is kind of you, Snorri-godi,” my uncle, won over in an instant, began to stammer. “I mean damned kind, taking this line. Of course, we—”

“And these are the sons!” cried the battleship, abandoning Hoskuld with his mouth open and turning his smile on us. “Gunnar, is it? Blind me, what a fine looking young man. Father's pride, I'll wager.”

He swung his gaze then to me. “And you're Odd!” He squeezed me by the upper arm just hard enough to cause pain. Noticing the Thor's Hammer hanging on my breast, he said, “What is that, boy—you don't mind saying, do you? Is that a cross or a hammer, boy? Would it be rude of me to ask what you believe in?” He held it between thumb and forefinger and pulled on the cord until it began to cut my neck. I locked my knees against the force.

“I believe in my own strength, Snorri Thorgrimsson.”

“Heh? Hah, hah! Listen to him. Spoken like a viking! Yes, that's how the old pirates used to talk before they got religion. You're Black Thorvald's son, boy, blind me if you aren't!” He laughed and let go of the hammer, smiling all the time, but there was no mirth in those ice blue eyes.

I said, “What do you want with us, Godi?”

He put on a look of mild surprise. “Why, nothing much, Odd Thorvaldsson. I'm sorry your father isn't here. Perhaps, if he could be asked to attend us, sick as he is? It's a little thing but a nagging thing. You see, he had hard words for me once, thoughtless words, said in the hearing of many. No doubt, you've heard somewhat about it? And it has occurred to me that thirty years may teach a man wisdom. Humility even. Now, if he should regret those hasty words of his and beg my pardon in front of these jurors and this crowd of onlookers, and if he should oblige me further by becoming my thingman, deeding his land to me, and living as a
tenant on my home farm. If he should do all that, why I venture to think that Strife-Hrut will settle for a modest return on his son's life.”

So that was it. Only that to save us.

Not that I picture Snorri brooding over Thorvald's harsh words all these years; he would have had to be as mad as my father to do that. But when the chance to pay off an old score dropped into his lap, neither was he the man to let it slip away. And it was Snorri, of course, who had recruited the other godis. My father, it turned out, had been right exactly where he seemed most foolish: his old enemies were uniting around Hrut to bring him down.

There was a long moment's silence. “Brother,” I said, “what are we to tell this great godi?”

Gunnar, smiling, answered, “Bag of guts, start your trial!”

Snorri's mastiff, sensing anger, bared its teeth and growled in its throat. In a swirl of red sail, the battleship put about and sailed back to his own side.

Then the trial began.

At a sign from the jurors, Strife-Hrut stalked into the clearing before the benches to swear his oath and name his witnesses.

“Kalf,” Hoskuld said quietly, “just run over to the booth of Hall Thorarinsson and ask what is detaining him.”

The crowd of onlookers, which was sizable now, stood on tiptoe to hear Hrut tell how we two lawless ruffians had set upon his defenseless boys for the purpose of stealing his whale meat, how we had murdered his son and hired man, and, to excuse our crime, concocted some revolting charge of rape and murder of a little girl, which on his word before Almighty God he flatly denied.

After that, Mord took a turn at describing how we had ambushed and overpowered them, despite the fact that he, Mord, fought like a lion until all hope was gone.

All this took time. The sun inched up the dome of the sky. Hoskuld paced and gnawed his lips.

Then, “Look over there!” cried my mother. We looked to our left and saw a tall young warrior splendidly equipped and behind him, rank upon rank of armed men advancing at a trot.

We clapped our arms around each other, we whooped. But ahead of them sped Kalf. He was white-lipped and could scarcely speak. And
Hall Thorarinsson marched past us to take his place with Snorri and the others. He did have the decency, I will say, to avert his eyes as he passed Hoskuld.

Maybe he'd even meant his promise when he gave it. Maybe Snorri had not gotten to him yet.

Then, all the godis on Hrut's side stepped forward one by one to take their oath on the truth of Hrut's story, and to urge these honest jurors to pass the sentence of outlawry upon us.

Hoskuld's face was the color of tallow. He sagged against his sister's strong shoulder.

“Uncle,” I said, “I will speak for us. I have the words.”

He nodded. He could make no sound.

“You think words can save us now?” asked Gunnar bitterly.

“Sigmund's testimony is all we have. At least the truth will be told before we go down fighting.”

The words came out somehow—“lawful feud … a life for a life”—they aren't important. But I remember what a sudden hush there was as I faced Hrut and told him there was a witness to his crime. “Hrut Ivarsson,” I cried, “do you recognize your own man?”

That was Gunnar's cue to seize Sigmund, push him into the circle, and tear off his hood.

Hrut took a menacing step towards us, looked hard at the cloaked figure, and began to laugh. Then Snorri, too, and the thingmen, and the jurors, and the crowd—all held their sides and laughed.

For it wasn't Sigmund Tit-Bit at all. It was a bald, toothless old man, frightened out of his wits, who piped, “That fella give me this copper penny just for to wear his cloak and stand back there…”

“How long ago?” I screamed, shaking the old man till his few teeth rattled.

“Not long, sir, on my life! About when the young godi marched by. You won't kill me, sir?”

“Gunnar, find him!”

“Where, for God's sake?”

“Don't bother,” came a voice from behind us. “Here's your lost dog.”

“Father!” Dragging Sigmund by the scruff of his neck, Thorvald marched into the clearing. “He came sneaking up to Hoskuld's booth to help himself to the last wineskin and a fast horse. He found me instead.
And so….” my father looked around him, blinking, as though seeming to notice for the first time where he was. “And so, I've brought him. Heard the end of your speech, boy—fine speech. Now you make him talk, and I'll … and I'll wait at camp.”

He had fought down thirty years of dread to get this far. Our desperate need had given him the strength to come face to face with his enemies—but only just. His nerve was failing him again, he couldn't stick it. Releasing Sigmund, he took a faltering step backward.

“Father, look out!” I yelled.

Hrut, with his sword in his fist, covered the space between us in a few bounding steps and flung himself with a curse upon Sigmund. The blade took off the top of the man's skull in a shower of blood and brain. Whirling, he came at my father, who stood flat-footed and helpless, with a dazed look in his eyes. Hrut aimed a blow, and then things happened fast. Black Thorvald bent low and drove his shoulder into Hrut's stomach as he rushed in, and Hrut made a circle in the air and landed hard on his back.

Bystanders scattered in all directions. Two of Hrut's men were right behind him, and they went for my father, who—I saw with horror—had not bothered to strap on his sword. Gunnar was quicker than I. With a warning shout, he threw his spear butt first at father. Thorvald plucked it from the air, and in two swift movements drove it into one and then the other of his attackers.

But this was a hopeless fight. In a moment they were all over us. Gunnar, father, and I crouched inside a steel hedge of sword blades, awaiting our death.

But death didn't come. Instead, the hedge parted and Snorri stood before us. His thingmen, too, rushed in between Hrut's fighters and us, shouldering them out of the way. At a word from Snorri, some held up their shields to protect us, while others wrenched away our weapons and twisted our arms behind us.

What were they saving us for?

“Black Thorvald,” Snorri smiled. Malice glittered in his eyes. “What a long time you've made me wait. I won't lose you now. If I let our friend kill you, why, these good jurors might call the honors even and dismiss his suit. And that would be a pity. Gunnar, tell your father what I require of him.”

My brother bit his lips and said nothing.

“Perhaps the young troll will oblige me,” said Snorri indicating me.

I turned my head away.

“The wife, then?” Snorri barked, letting his exasperation show.

The shield wall parted to let in Jorunn, with Hoskuld behind her. Tears streaked her cheeks. “Husband, he wants you to ask his pardon, and if you do, he'll make Hrut give up the suit. I've been a true wife, Thorvald. These thirty years I have shared your misery. I ask you this one thing now—save my sons for me.”

I hated her at that moment.

“Brother-in-Law,” Hoskuld urged, “do one sane thing to redeem your wretched life. There's no shame in begging pardon of a Christman. It allows him to forgive you, and so God loves you both.”

Thorvald turned his face to them, his bull's chest heaved.

“Father, don't!” I cried.

Cowardice had become a habit with him, and Snorri's scorn was nothing compared to the scorn he felt for himself. What spirit had he left to fight them with? But he had fought! Just for a few moments, thirty years had dropped away and he had wielded his spear like a young viking on the deck of his ship—
the viking he had been
.

“Husband, I beg you,” Jorunn pleaded.

“Odin!” He screamed his god's name. With a twitch of his big shoulders he shrugged off the two men who held his arms. Snorri threw up his hands to defend himself, but Thorvald had him down, tumbling over with him on the ground, searching for the man's jugular with his teeth.

It took the bullmastiff and five men to get him off, while others forced Gunnar and me to the ground. All the while, Snorri, in a hoarse voice, was shouting, “Don't kill them! Don't kill them!”

It would have been too easy a death, you see. He wanted to give us time to see it coming, to taste the fear.

†

The trial was soon over.

Poor foolish Hoskuld, gabbling his legal gibberish, was shoved aside. The jurors looked grim. They knew what was expected of them. Gunnar
and I were dragged forward to hear sentence passed against us: “For the unprovoked slaying of Brand Hrutsson and the hireling Bork, exile for life, to be accomplished within two weeks from this day, the penalty for refusal, forfeiture of your land and your lives to any man who cares to take them.”

While these words were being spoken, Hrut crowed and capered about, showing us his backside and screaming filth. Snorri watched him for a moment with an expression very like disgust, then turned and strode away, his spearmen falling in behind him.

†

The next hours I pass over quickly—they aren't very clear in my mind. Perhaps I said with bitterness to Hoskuld,
We never had a chance, did we, lawyer
? Perhaps I only meant to say it. Kalf touched my arm, but I spun away from him—I cannot bear the sight of friends when I most need them. In that way, as in so many, I am like my father. Thorvald, Jorunn, Gunnar, and Vigdis—I suppose we said words to each other. Somehow the tents came down and the horses were loaded up.

Then we were crossing Thingvellir Plain and parting where the way divides—one track to Hawkdale, the other to Hekla. I don't think anyone called, “Farewell.”

That ride home still finds its way into my dreams. A storm had been brewing all day and it erupted with booming thunder and sheets of rain that beat the meadow grass flat: such a wild, unseasonable storm as Black Thorvald might have conjured up out of his own black heart had he really been the sorcerer he was said to be.

“Please, husband,” cried my mother, her voice almost lost in the roar of the wind, “Vigdis and the baby, pity them at least.” All she could do was beg. For better or for worse my father had made himself master of our house again. He ignored her pleas and rode like a man with a demon at his back. And we followed over forty miles of rain-lashed heath and five swollen rivers, stopping only once to cram handfuls of sodden bread down our throats.

As I shrank in my saddle from the driving rain, long-buried memories of those wild childhood rambles with my father crowded in upon me—his fearsome description of the Doom of the Gods, which would be heralded
by great whirlwinds and the falling of the sky. In the state of mind I was in, I half feared and half hoped that I was seeing it now in real truth.

It might have been midnight or noon when we reached the farm. I had lost all sensation of time in the indistinguishable grayness. My horse was stumbling from exhaustion, and all I knew was the clawing wind, the ache that throbbed from my buttocks to my shoulders, and the numbness of my fingers frozen to the dripping reins.

Then Ulf, our yellow-toothed hound, came howling up the ridge to meet us. His barking roused the thralls, who gathered round us, watching silently. They weren't fools, they wouldn't stay to be slaughtered. Soon they'd begin to slip away, hoping to join some bandit gang. Even Morag. I saw it on her face.