A sample from an early work, based on a medieval Icelandic saga.
© 1975 by asotir. All rights reserved.
This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License
Swan-Maiden: Six
THAT NIGHT SWANHILD lay abed in a fine bed-shift Olaf had won years before when he had gone over the seas eastaways. Beneath her the dry straw of the mattress crumpled softly. The curtain of her shutbed was drawn across, so that she was alone. Above the curtain-pole was the faintest glow, shifting and fading, of the embers off the smoke: it made the wooden walls, low-falling roof and curtain seem all the blacker and closer. Of a sudden, up swept Swanhild: put back the curtains all the way open. Then she lay back.
Through the opening gleamed the long red line of the fire and before it the huge black hulk of the highseat. There was a sound from the back of the hall of someone using a pot. Away somewhere else were whispering and rustling: one of the guests had beguiled a serving-girl. The sounds came to an end and there was silence – then they began again. One man groaned, dreaming. Ulf the house-dog padded by to find a spot closer to the fire. The embers of the longfire hissed somewhat when they fell apart.
The sounds crept slyly into the little room. Swanhild’s black eyes glinted with the glow. She put forth her arm as if she would draw the curtain back: then halted. She drew the blankets over her head. She threw them back again. She lay now upon her side, now her back, now the other side, while the hall-noise slowly lapsed. Far away, it seemed, the winds of the storm rose and fell, whispering and groaning through the old turf roof.
