The Saga of the Cattle Killerby Bertil Falk |
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| part 2 of 3 |
“I do not know. Maybe it is her idea. That family is a strange one. His wife Gunnlaug is cunning, and she has some magic spells up the sleeves of that long, gray sark she is wearing. She ran after me many years ago, but I was never attracted to her. She tried to put a love-spell on me through the invocation of Odin. But even though she knew some tricks, she was not skillful enough. It never worked on me.
“When I married my wife, Gunnlaug had to give up. She hates me for that. Up to then she had turned down Sigfather many times. When I was out of her reach she married him. She tried to instigate him to pick a quarrel with me, but he never dared to come forward against me openly.
“I guess that he could not swallow the annoyance that she preferred me to him. I think that was why he killed my horse. She on her part never really liked him. Do you know that she now and then spends her nights with that blind fellow in the stalls?”
“What about their daughter?” Gardar said, while he took the interesting tidings into his mind.
“She is a wild little thing. I feel sorry for the man who may fall for her. You take care.”
“Me? I have not even seen her. She seems to be afraid of me. Or maybe she is shy?”
“She afraid? Or shy? She is a deceitfully good-looking wench. And she knows exactly what she wants. Keep that in mind.”
“And what about you? Don’t you have anything against Sigfather Sigtyrsson after he killed your horse?”
Svavar coughed and spat. “He came to me and paid me damages. I told you. He is not a very brave man. I may have that against him.”
“I see your point,” Gardar said.
Gardar caught glimpses of Sigryn a couple of times during the day. She still avoided him even though it was obvious that she was interested in what he was doing. It was still not dark, when Gunnlaug at the end of the day came and told him that it was time for his supper. He finished his work and left the chisel and the hammer by the rock.
“Shall you not take them inside?” Gunnlaug asked.
“Why should I?” Gardar replied. “I will continue using them again tomorrow.”
That night, sitting by the hearth, he recited the poems of Odin. With his loud voice, he told them how Odin for three times three nights was hanging bleeding from a branch of Yggdrasil, the world-tree at Upsala, offering himself to himself. How Odin in order to become wise left one of his eyes as a pledge to the giant Mimer by putting the eye into Mimer’s well. He told them the old stories about the Allfather and his wisdom, his sorcery, his untrustworthiness.
They all listened to him in silence, not asking any questions. And he knew that in the darkest of corners Sigryn was listening as well. But the one who listened most carefully to his words was Sigryn’s mother. Gunnlaug was obviously thrilled by the stories about Odin.
Once again, Gardar experienced Sigfather’s negative attitude towards Odin. Even though the name Sigfather itself was one of the many kennings by which Odin was named, Sigfather Sigtyrsson was obviously unpleasantly affected by the stories.
When Gardar fell asleep that night, his head was filled with thoughts. He dreamt of Odin, the master of Runes, who partly blind and disguised as a hooded wanderer walked among common men while his mind in the form of the raven Hugin and his memory in the form of the raven Munin went out through the world collecting tidings for him.
Gardar suddenly woke up from his dreams in the middle of the night. The touch of a slight draught had awakened him. Someone had entered the house or left it. In the darkness he tried to count the bodies sleeping around the long hearth. Nobody seemed to be missing, and as far as he could see there was no addition either. But it was too dark to tell. Maybe someone was simply answering the call of nature. Nevertheless, Gardar got up and walked out, leaving his cap and cloak behind.
It was still very dark. The new moon was not waxing yet. The bright stars threw little light over the clearing. He remained standing. Nothing happened. He walked over to his place of work. The hammer was there, but to his surprise the chisel was missing.
Then he saw him. At a short distance, Sigfather Sigtyrsson was kneeling beside something. Gardar heard him uttering an oath. After that Sigfather slowly came to his feet and walked back to the house.
Gardar went over to the place where Sigfather had been on his knees. There was a dead goat. One of its eyes was poked out. There was blood dripping from a wound.
By the side of the head was his own chisel. It was obvious to Gardar that it had been used for poking out the eye, while the wound was caused by a knife. He cursed the fact that he had left the chisel by the rock instead of bringing it with him into the house.
Beside the wound there was no trace of any knife. He took his chisel, went to the brook and cleaned it. Darkness was now slowly giving way to dawn.
As Gardar walked back towards the house, he suddenly saw two people coming out of the stalls. They did not look in his direction, but they whispered to each other. One of the men was Harald the Blind. He went back inside, while the other person disappeared into the forest.
Gardar pursued him. The man walked along the brook until he came to a place where roe deer were drinking water. Here the man came out of the shade. Gardar saw him sharply outlined against the red light of dawn.
It was Svavar the Gray-haired. He raised a crossbow and aimed. Gardar heard the whizzing sound. An arrow went through the head of one of the roes. Gardar had seen enough. He did not go back to sleep. When the cock crowed he worked on his runic spell.
“You work at an early hour,” Gunnlaug said, when they had their morning-meal.
“It is not easy to sleep in a house where so many things happen during the night,” Gardar replied, and he was not surprised to see that a slight blush colored the tanned face of the housewife.
Inspired by that, he continued. “It seems to me that activities at this place are even more hectic during the night than they are in the daytime. I think that there is more to this place than the killing of livestock.”
His words were followed by a long silence until Sigfather Sigtyrsson said, “You may be right, Gardar, son of Varin. However, another one of my animals was killed during the past night.”
“I know,” said Gardar. “ I saw someone kneeling by its side.”
“Then you know who is the perpetrator,” a clear voice said.
For the first time Gardar heard the voice of the invisible daughter of the house. It came from the darkest corner of the room and the melodic character of her voice thrilled him.
“If the one I saw is the killer, then I know who it is,” Gardar replied.
Sigfather Sigtyrsson seemed not to be disturbed by the remark.
That day she came out of the shades and sat by his side, while he chiseled the rune-staffs. She wore a simple sark, gray with no colors, but that did not matter. Her long dark hair, clear black eyes, thick, red lips and white teeth could not be matched by colors and jewellry.
“I saw you sneaking out during the night,” she said with her melodic voice.
“I was not the only one,” he replied.
She nodded. “Mother went out before you. She often does.”
“Why?”
“I would be shameless if I told you.”
Gardar smiled at the beautiful wench. “I guess that your father is not that fit for things like that any more.”
“Then you know,” she said. “How are things where you live?”
“It is a small village. Well, it is bigger than this place, but still a small one. I am seldom there. There is not enough work for me where I live. In order to make a living I have to walk from village to village. To begin with, it was not very profitable, but nowadays I am doing well.”
“I would like to live a life like that,” she said. “But I am not even as good at witchcraft as my mother is.”
“I do not consider her that good,” Gardar said.
“How do you know?”
“I have been here long enough to understand that she is a dilettante, but since you all are without proper knowledge, you are not able to see through her.” He smiled at her. “That is the way it is. But tell me. Who else went out last night?”
She looked at him with her big, black eyes. “I won’t tell you,” she said. “I won’t put any ideas into your head.”
“You have already done that,” Gardar replied.
But he did not tell her that the most tempting idea, which she had put into his head, was that the rumor of her beauty was very pale beside herself.
Days passed. Seemingly the busy night traffic had ceased. No more animals were killed. Gardar worked hard. Since they had decided that Thor and not Odin should be the preserver of the monument and the protector of the animals, Gardar had written a scaldic verse in the dróttkvaett metre, using the god of thunder as not only the leading but the only character. The first half of it was now cut in stone.
He who holds the hammer
may shield the house and fields.
The toller of thunder
will not kill the cattle.
Usually, a dróttkvaett poem should be more complicated and only understood by those who are well versed in language, faith and metric cleverness. But Gardar decided on the compromise to use the most complicated meter as well as a language so simple that even ignorant peasants, servants and thralls would understand its meaning. Thus he used no difficult kennings.
He was now more than halfway through his work. During that time Knut, the son of Harald the Blind, had been occupied with so many things that Gardar never got an opportunity to talk to him. But one day Knut came to the rock while Gardar was working on the last part of the inscription.
“What do you think, Knut? Will this be good enough?” Gardar asked.
The young man of Gardar’s own age was simply dressed and he was enveloped by different smells of animals.
“It looks good,” he said. “But...” He paused. “I will save my opinion until I know whether it works or not.”
Gardar looked surprised at the thrall. He had not expected such eloquence from him.
“You seem to be a smart one,” he said. “Maybe you have an opinion about the killings?”
“If I have, I am wise enough to keep my thoughts to myself.”
“You are smart,” Gardar said. “Maybe you could give me a clue as to what is going on here.”
“Depends on what you mean. So many things happen here. They may not be related, but they are certainly intertwined in one way or another.”
“That’s what I think too,” Gardar said. “It is about time to put an end to these things.”
“How?”
“You will see, when I have finished the inscription.”
Soon afterwards, Gardar completed his work. He spent one last day painting the rune-staffs and the arabesques in the colors red, blue and white. Having finished his work, he invited everyone, including Svavar the Gray-haired, to the consecration of the monument.
They were all there. Sigfather Sigtyrsson was angry with Gardar for inviting Svavar the Gray-haired, but Gardar had told him that his neighbor’s presence was necessary in order to get the spell in a workable mood. Sigfather’s wife Gunnlaug Egilsdaughter stood with her arms folded and looked very grim. Their daughter Sigryn was obviously curious and impressed by the colorful creator of this piece of spell-binding artwork.
Svavar the Gray-haired had reluctantly agreed to come, and one could see on his face that he experienced the gravity of the situation. Harald the Blind stood by Knut, who had guided his father across the clearing to the rock with the inscription. Around them were servants and thralls and some other neighbors who had heard of the occasion.
Gardar and his artwork were the most colorful things on the spot. All the others were dressed in dull gray garments. Gardar raised his hand and demanded silence. The murmur of voices died out and they all looked expectantly at him.
“We are here today in order to make sure that all the bad things that have been going on here for the last couple of summers and winters will cease once and for all.
“But before that, I want all you people here to swear that if you learn something you did not know before, you will never, ever use it against anyone, and you will never more hold any grudge towards any person who is here today. If you are not prepared to swear that, then tell me openly here and now.”
“What is all this about?” said Knut Haraldsson.
“Before you leave this place, you will all know that,” Gardar said. “Do you not want to swear, Knut?”
“It is not that. I am just puzzled.”
“I can’t blame you for that. The situation here has been puzzling for a long time now. If no one is against it, I will now administer the oath to you.”
Gardar was very observant and when he saw that Sigfather Sigtyrsson and Svavar the Grey-haired did not move their lips, he angrily shouted at them.
“A fool is he who does not listen to wise advice, even though it comes from the mouth of a young fool.”
The two men understood his words. Then Gardar had no problem in administering the oath.
“And now,” he said. “I will tell you the relevance of this monument. On the top of it, I have inscribed the futhark. It consists of the f-rune, the u-rune, the th-rune, the a-rune, the r-rune and k-rune. These six runic staffs constitute the sacred futhark, and the futhark is in itself a protective spell.
“Look at the red hammer in the middle of the stone: it is another protective device. The hammer of Thor. You can see that it hits the head of the Midgaard-serpent. The poem I have written is formed by the red runic staffs within the meandering body of the serpent! Can anyone read it?”
Nobody replied.
“Then I will read it to you.”
Copyright © 2009 by Bertil Falk
