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: Nine
AT HOF THE hall was all astir, readying Olaf and Gudruda’s wedding. So busy was it there that Olaf, sitting moodily with both legs stretched out from the highseat, was in the way of all who went by. At length, after the third bondmaid had tripped over his feet, he stood, girt on his sword and a brown cloak and went into the day.
They slaughtered a swine there: in the sunlight the men and women shone in the plain white linen tunics of the newly-baptised. For a full week must they wear these, in a sign of steadfastness for their vows. Olaf let hitch the hay-cart: drove it with some down to the strand, and filled it with the driftage; but Swanhild and Erik had already gone from there. Against the black sands those men all seemed ghosts. When all the wood was in they drew it up to Hof.
In the garth Olaf could see new ponies tied and saddled: that meant more of his neighbors and thingmen had come to ask if the news were true. He shook his head, let the others bring down and stack the wood, and rode off to the north. On the top of a hill he went by the old temple that Hardbein Oxen-Hand had built up and upheld. The temple had given the stead its name: Olaf’s kin had been the leaders at offerings ever since. Olaf rode from there farther upland.
He rode by a tongue of the glacier, up beneath the Svinafell. Many streams, swollen by the rain, cut down the sides of the high fell. Skillfully Olaf led his pony through the scrub-woods. The trail cut back, and Olaf came out from the green up onto the upper reaches of the fell. The winds were stronger here; the airs brisker, chilled by the great glacier beyond. Before him rose a great broken cliff and ice-walls, gray and blue, hollowed out by many a low and darksome cave; behind him the land fell steeply off on all sides. A short ways before him a spread of grass rolled with big built-up mounds: they might have been the turf-roofs of round houses sunken in the risen earth-sea of the fell.
Olaf stepped down onto the grass. Thoughtlessly he stroked his pony’s muzzle, then let her roam. He walked up to the mound-field. Half-sunk in the ground was a lava-rock: there sat Olaf, his back to the faraway sea, and gazed upon the grassy knolls. His eyes were red and clouded, and he sneezed. He wiped at his nose with the back of his hand. A hawk flew overhead, and went into the fell.
A sound came from the wood below; half Olaf turned: saw who it was and turned back. Swanhild stepped down from her pony and walked up beside him. She was well dressed in a black-blue gown and deep red undershift. Her long hair was braided: the ends of the braids were bound with dark red ribands and tucked beneath her belt. That was a belt of goodly workmanship, cunningly wrought out of silver and gold, of beasts’ heads, jaws and tongues and looping leaf-work.
‘I knew I should find you here,’ she said.
‘It is maybe where I belong.’
She sank to her knees and sat upon her heels. ‘I like this place,’ she said. ‘This seems more truthful here. If I ever wed, it is here I will look for my husband.’
He laughed gloomily at that, and took her hand. ‘Little life will you find in him then. Yonder is where your mother lies.’
She frowned, and answered, ‘No, father. Do you not remember? There is Hardbein – there Sigurd – there Ragnhild – Bui – Grim – Glum. That one there is mother’s howe.’
He took the braids of his beard in hand and tugged at them. He shook his head. ‘You know them better than I,’ he muttered. He coughed and spat. ‘Swanhild, he said, ‘you know it is time and beyond you took yourself a husband. Many girls younger than you have children already afoot. And yet, it is not for want of asking.’
‘I have found no man that pleases me. And I liked the life at Hof.’
‘Yet now I have a new wife, you find it not so fair. Now you do not always get your way. Yet if you were wed, you would run your own household.’
‘Now you have a new wife,’ she said after him. ‘You went winters enough without a wife before: life was better then. Why did I not go to the Althing last summer? Orvar-Odd might have seen to those sheep.’
Olaf coughed again. The sun was wheeling down in the west, and the shadows grew and gathered up around them, stretching toward the cliff beyond. ‘You do not give Gudruda what you ought, Swanhild. Kindly she is and strong – stronger than I, though you will gainsay that. And when I saw her, then there was an Easterling preaching, and there was such a look in her eye... An old man gets cold in his bed a’nights, and needs a proper helpmeet.’
‘Was not Rannveig enough for you?’
‘Sweet is Rannveig, and warm-breasted: as fair now as when I first took her to bed. But she has no kin. And tell me then, if you deem her able to run the stead.’
‘It is true, she has no head for figures. Yet I did make up for all she lacked.’
‘You will not be with me always, daughter. Soon I hope will you meet a man comely and strong enough for your pride; then you will leave, and I will fare on alone. But now I have Gudruda, and need not fear that, and may hope for it as I ought. And who knows? She is still of a childbearing age.’
‘Father, tell me again of the first time you met her.’
He was still for a space, to show he knew it was not Gudruda she had meant. ‘That too is a tale you know better than I,’ he said. ‘I could not tell it fairly now: that is not my mood. Besides, it is not seemly. This is my wedding-eve.’
She let go his hand and fell still. Then lowly she bade him, ‘Tell me then of Skarphedin Kalfback’s-son.’
‘Ah.’ He looked down and took the hem of his tunic in his fist. ‘I feared you would hear of that. He will not come back. A man of such a heart would win great wealth in the courts of kings; – that, or death. What could he look for here?’ The girl said nought, waiting. ‘How much do you remember of him, daughter?’
‘Only the name. Nought else.’
‘Once he held you on his knee and gave you a field-flower he had plucked: then you blushed, and went to the far side of the fire. Then your mother was yet alive, and Skarphedin a wild, roistering lad. Well: I shall tell you the tale then. That will fit my mood well. You will like it: your mother has a part of it. So I will tell it you, even in the right saga style:
‘The beginning of it is that there was a man named Yngvar: he dwelt in Norway in the Uplands. He was a carle there; but his wife died and his herds sickened, and he had little luck withal. One summer he took all his land in fee and got faring to Iceland. That was in the rule of Haakon Athelstane’s-Fosterling; but in the next summer there fell King Haakon at Stord, when Gunnhild’s sons won again the kingdom of Harald Hairfair.’
‘Yes,’ said Swanhild, ‘that King I know: Harald bade the English King Athelstane foster him, and Athelstane must swallow that. Was not this Haakon a Cross-man, and would have nought to do with the gods? But then the bonders grumbled, and the men of the Thrandlaw slew the Christ-priests and made the King stand over all blood-offerings. Was he not this one?’
‘Yes,’ said Olaf shortly. ‘Yngvar came aland at the Hornfirth. He had cattle and timber but little silver; but he found all the land thereabouts was held.
‘Thorold Skeggison was then godi over the Breidamerkur, and was the greatest of landowners in the Side. He was a big man, great of strength and fame: and he harried as a youth all the sea-ways of Norway and the Western Isles, and got great fee therefrom. And Thorold takes in Yngvar for that winter with his kin. Thorold was an Odin’s-man, but Yngvar vowed by none but Thor.
‘Thorold was a man not to matched for strength: greatly he loved the glima. That winter he wrestles Yngvar on the ice-pond below the stead. Thorold was so great of bulk he was not to be moved; yet not for that might he budge Yngvar. Then Yngvar went somewhat slowly at Thorold, so the onlookers thought he held off, and called words at him. Then says Thorold, ‘That you should not go light-handed with me, Yngvar: for in nowise can such as you throw me. Never has any man had the putting-down of me, not even the champions of King Erik Bloodaxe.’
‘Then Yngvar wiped his nose, and huffs and puffs till his cheeks were all round and red. Then he grips Thorold about the waist, and takes him up and hurls him to the ice. Thereat was a great sound of cracking. But Thorold stood, albeit slowly: shook the snow from his head and owned Yngvar the win. Yngvar says that never had he a harder lifting than that, and it seemed to him his arms were loose in their joints. At that Thorold lightens his mood, and there was cheer again.
‘They held drinking-bout then, those next three nights: this was about the Yule. But here Yngvar was nowise an outstanding man, and Thorold drank off his horns quick as curds, and seemed nought the worse for it. Then they had sport with Yngvar, Thorold and his men; Yngvar smiled fondly and let them have their way. At the end of the feast Yngvar gives to Thorold a goodly cloak, of that stuff we call ‘crimson:’ bound it was with a pin of gold-work, and fairer far than any Yngvar was seen to wear. Thorold took this, but said no more than was needful.
‘That summer Yngvar let gather his goods, to seek some place where the land was not all taken. But Thorold said that nowise would he let such a man go to another district: gave him land up beyond Breidamerkursfell beneath the Oraefajokull, and it looked over Jokulsa’s lake: that place Yngvar names, Jokullsknoll. Thereafter Yngvar and Thorold were the fastest of friends. Thorold gave Yngvar his son Njal to foster, in hope that Njal should grow up with goodly strength – thus Njal was reared in Yngvar’s hall with Yngvar’s son Skarphedin. And between these brethren too was fair friendship.
‘That summer Yngvar drove his cattle up to Jokullsknoll; and he came to a spot in the river where it was full so that the cattle durst not cross. Each time Yngvar drives them to it, then shy they away; then he gathers them again and drives them to it again, and again they shy away. Not Summer’s-day in the Finnmark should be long enough for this.
‘It happened Thorold rode by and watched Yngvar. Then Thorold rode down and spoke some words with Yngvar, and asks him how it was. Yngvar tells him. There was a low ford down the stream, but Thorold will not tell him that. ‘Well,’ says he, ‘so it seemed to me last winter, Yngvar, that you were a stronger man than to be bettered by two cattle.’
‘Then Yngvar wiped his nose, and huffs and puffs, and lifted one of the cows in his arms. Then he walks to the stream and takes up the other cow: half over his back they were. Then he wades across the stream, and not even middle-stream is enough to halt his step. He sets the cattle on the far bank, prods them with his stick and went on to Jokullsknoll. And from this they called him Yngvar Kalf-back.
‘Skarphedin grew, and was every bit as strong of body as his father; but little work he did on the stead. Yngvar worked each day in the fields, for he had no man to help him. But Skarphedin slept to forenoon, and sat about the hall, and drank and played at draughts. Sometimes Njal went to help Yngvar in the field, but mostly he did as Skarphedin. Thorold called them two coal-biters; but Yngvar said nought.
‘One night they sat about the fire and a cow got in Skarphedin’s way. That was the Mother Night, and the snow fell in great dark drifts up on the fell. Skarphedin nudged the cow with his foot but the cow lay down and did not budge. Then Skarphedin put his arms about the cow’s legs and threw it over the fire at the door, so that its head struck against the door-stone and all its brains gushed out: and that was the death of that cow.
‘Skarphedin sat him down in place again, and Yngvar said no word. Only Njal said aloud, ‘It seems to me there will be less milk for us this winter.’
‘Then Yngvar did not hold his peace but said, ‘That was a hard throw, Skarphedin: but somewhat better would it be if you did more with your strength hereabouts than lift cows.’
‘Quoth Skarphedin, ‘Rare is son unlike his father.’ But they spoke no more on that. There was the greatest wonder at Skarphedin’s strength, for he was not yet man-grown.
‘That winter they played ball on the ice-pond by Breidamerk. Skarphedin went against Raud, a thrall of Thorold’s and a big man: they were a good match for strength, and there the greatest interest lay. Njal was matched with Einar Four-fingers, a boy much the stronger: self-willful and nasty in anger. Njal was not so big nor strong, but quick and sharp-eyed, and clever at tricks.
‘It fell out that Raud hit the ball and Einar went fast to catch it on his bat; it was on this the game hung. But Njal strikes Einar’s bat with his and the ball goes past. Then Einar put down his bat and threw Njal down on the ice and says, ‘That was a sly trick, but needful. For had I caught the ball I’d have struck it so strongly none would have stopped it.’
‘‘You should not have struck it half so strong as this,’ says Skarphedin, and smites him with his bat so hard his head broke off his body, and that is his death-sore.
‘Then Thorold laughed – I was there to see it – and gave Skarphedin a penny and a blue cloak. ‘Nor need you worry as to Einar’s kin, nor fines nor lawsuits,’ says he, ‘but I will undertake your defense so that they will be dropped.’ Then Njal came back from staring at the body, and Thorold sets them both on the seat opposite his, and toasts the boys thrice. Njal was somewhat pale, but Skarphedin drank his ale like a full man. So they go back to Jokullsknoll for the rest of winter.
‘Folk looked for great things from Skarphedin after this; but in the summer he showed no more willingness to work than theretofore. He went up walking on the fells a’nights, and that was thought no good thing. But that summer Njal went oftener out into the fields, and hung about Skarphedin less. Yngvar spoke thankfully to Njal for his help, but for Skarphedin had few words.
‘That was late in the hay-making, that a storm came off the glacier, dark and fearsome. Great was the hail and sodden the fields. When it was done, then comes Yngvar back into the hall and flings a mowing-axe at Skarphedin’s feet. Then says he, ‘The stack would be full high now if you but knew the use of this.’
‘Skarphedin took up the mowing-axe and put on his blue cloak; went out of the hall, but said no word.
‘There is an outlaw in the fells; Ketil Lambison was his name. He was outlawed for the killing of Flatnose Arnbjorn. Ketil wrote love-verses about Arnbjorn’s wife and Arnbjorn struck him; but Ketil lived from that, and Arnbjorn did not. In the law-court Ketil had no support, for Arnbjorn had been a kinsman of godi Yrsi; and besides, Arnbjorn’s blow was deemed proper after those verses. Afterward Ketil could get no faring out of Iceland, nor none durst shelter him, not even his half-brother. Then he went up into the fells, and he wrought much ill on the wethers and all travelers; and none had thought Ketil a good fighter until now. It was said he was berserk-gang and that no weapon would bite him, and he had offered-up his son to Odin. Yrsi put a price upon his head, of twenty-four ounces of silver, or three marks. And nine men did Ketil slay that went against him.
‘Skarphedin fared unto the cave and found him Ketil Lambison. Skarphedin had now twelve winters, but was of such growth you would have took him for a full man: all but his beard. Ketil saw him and laughed and said, ‘Do they send me women now, and I need not even write them love-verses?’
‘‘Yes,’ says Skarphedin, ‘and here in my hands I hold your dowry.’ Thereat he rushes upon him and deals him a blow with the mowing-axe, and that was the bane-wound of Ketil Lambison. Then Skarphedin dragged the corpse down to the strand and buried it below the tide-mark, beneath a cairn of stones. Then he went home.
‘Then there was peace in the East Firths, and none heard more of Ketil; whereat folk wondered. That was the end of summer, near the winter’s day offering, that a many men went up to the fells, and found the outlaw’s cave. Then one at length went in: he found no Ketil, only his goods. There on the floor was a field-axe, and it was brown with blood, and lay beneath runes upon the wall. So the stave went:
Weary I was with farm,
Work fit more for thralls.
Fared I to the earth-isles
Fit for more than hay-ties;
Met the ravens’ cook
Did mighty sea’s-bestrider
(The wound-flow would not halt):
The wand return this winter.
‘These were a riddle to them: they had not the wit to read the verses. They went to Thorold and spoke the stave to him. Thorold rises out of his seat and asks to see the field-axe. Straightway he knew it for one of Yngvar Kalfback’s and says, ‘I have no mind now but that Skarphedin slew Ketil. He it is who merits the fee.’
‘From this Skarphedin had great fame, and the greatest love Thorold showed any man. But when the word went to Yrsi he said, ‘It seems to me that men are grown big with pride, that are nought but the sons of poor men. Surely Skarphedin now will deem himself above all others and unmasterable. But it was the head of Ketil I vowed fee for, and where is that?’ And nowise would he pay the silver to Skarphedin unless the body were shown or witnesses to the deed. But the crabs ate Ketil’s body, and so Skarphedin got nought. That next summer some verses went round, and all of them scathed Yrsi vilely; none knew who had made them, but it was thought it was Skarphedin. After this there was coldness between Skarphedin and the men of Yrsi’s district.
‘After this Yngvar died; Skarphedin and Njal went and dwelt with Thorold. Thorold set two thralls to work Jokullsknoll, and did not ask Skarphedin to do any work. Thorold tried to get the silver from Yrsi for Skarphedin, and there was a lawsuit; but Yrsi won that, and put sharp words on Thorold, and now is a harshness between the Breidamerkurs and the East Firthers. Afterward matters waxed no better. Skarphedin was the strongest and boldest of men, and a good friend to your mother and me: but still he was a man of short word and long deed. Three men of Yrsi’s he slew, but got off on all suits. Njal was now a clever lawyer, and defended his foster-brother most skillfully; and the end of that was, that those suits not undone on flaws in the proceedings were overcome by Njal’s shrewdness and the strength of his father’s following. But not for this went things any the more peacefully.
‘Yrsi had a son, and he was called Hoskuld, and by all men deemed the gentlest of men. One winter was both harsh and long, and many were like to starve. But Hoskuld gave out meal and hay to them. Yrsi betrothed him to Hallgerd, she was the daughter of Vemund Agnar’s son: she was the fairest of maids, and her brow could have matched Balder’s; but hard of heart, and overproud. This saying she laid down to Hoskuld: that he would never have the enjoyment of her until he had paid off these slights against his father. Hoskuld took an oath on it and sought Skarphedin.
‘Hoskuld came to Breidamerk, and with him went three men: and they all wore blue cloaks. They found Skarphedin before the door of the hall. Hoskuld held in his hand a birch-switch, and asked if Skarphedin would go apart with him. But Skarphedin laughed and said wolves need not fight hall-dogs without cause. Hoskuld leaned over and laid the switch up against Skarphedin’s cheek so that the blood spurted out. Then he asked whether this were cause enough. Quoth Skarphedin, ‘Only a slave takes vengeance right away; only a coward never. And I think I see a woman’s skirts behind this.’ Now Hoskuld was unwilling to press the matter any further, so he must go back home and seem only the worse for it.
‘For three nights Skarphedin abode there at the hall, and seemed very restless. On the third night, Skarphedin takes three men, and rides in secret up to the East Firths. This was of a summer, and men were in the shielings. Hoskuld was there with them. Skarphedin came to the shieling so swift none was ware of him: then he and his men laid up stones against the doors and kept watch so none within might venture forth or reach the privy. Five nights Skarphedin held them so: then scattered their sheep and went back to Breidamerk. Hoskuld was not quick to venture down again; and when he did, then he was made the greatest mock of...’
FOR A SPACE Olaf was still. Then Swanhild asked, ‘Yet father, what of my mother in all this?’
‘Well,’ Olaf answered, ‘great was the friendship between those twain; and some said your mother thought up that prank for Skarphedin: she often gave him counsel. Then came time for the offering for a mild winter, and we bade Skarphedin to the guesting and he came. It fell out that a ship was in to the Hornfirth, and half the shares of it were mine, and half Thorold’s. So I went to bring in the lading and share it out with Thorold. Word of that went up to the East Firths and Yrsi. Hoskuld wastes no time but gathers straightway a great force of men and goes round Vatnajokull and so down by the sand road. But there was a man, Sigfus, and he knew them: came down to Hof and told where they lay. Skarphedin wanted to fare back to Breidamerk. Your mother too would go, and with her four men. Skarphedin said it was not his way to have a women for a shield; but your mother only said, ‘That you may think and say of this what you will: but I shall now go to Breidamerk and come back at my husband’s side. And there is little you may do about that.’
‘So off they go eastaways. When Hoskuld saw them he knew your mother right off: then he seemed unwilling to go on. But those others behind him muttered and said, ‘We knew Yrsi well enough, but the son ill. And like as not there is a saddle that must be cleaned when we are back to home.’ Then Hoskuld waxed red down to the collarbone, and drove on his horse. They fought there, at that spot you know so well, because there your mother fell. Struck through with a lance and crooked in the rime, and cold: that was how I found her.
‘When Hoskuld saw that she was slain, then he lost all heart and turned back; his men went after him, and Skarphedin followed after them. He cut Hoskuld down out of the saddle, and scattered the others: but Skarphedin went onwards swiftly to Yrsi’s hall and laid a millstone up against the door. Then he set the hall afire and rode up into the fells where none might find him. That summer they gave notice of the suits: they sought the greater outlawry for Skarphedin. Yrsi offered me atonement for your mother; I took none of that. Then I waxed hot and cold, but might think of no deed harsh enough. Ah, that summer was cold, and too many storms rode in off the sea...’
Awhile the old man sat quiet on the lava-stone. The black-haired girl stared at the grave-howes, and did not look at her father.
‘And then?’ she asked at length.
Olaf coughed and scratched his beard.
‘Well, Thorold sent lesser men of his up into the fells, and they bore food and words to Skarphedin. And Njal saw to the defense of his brother. Thorold bade him so play the thing, that Skarphedin should get off with the lesser outlawry. Hoskuld was let fall with no atonement, for that blow and the death of your mother; that was deemed very shameful. But Skarphedin had few friends withal, and some say that Njal did not defend his brother so skillfully this once as he had theretofore. So Skarphedin got the greater outlawry, and he went abroad to work his quarrels: and that was nine years ago and more. Of what he has done in those years, scant tales only have come hither; none at all for some while now. Some said he harried in the Western Isles and died. And now daughter, do you know enough of Skarphedin the outlaw?’
‘No,’ she answered. She looked round, and saw gleams from her father’s eyes. Then she looked away and closed her face. ‘Only father, is that why they name my mother Unpaid-For?’
Olaf looked down as if he had been stuck. Then he coughed vilely and answered, ‘Yes. And do you call to mind how I bore her body into the hall and laid it down upon her bed? Or how I kept her body so all that winter, until the ground should be soft enough to dig up yonder great howe? Why else would you wear her belt now? But if Skarphedin does come back to Iceland, then that is one man I will not be sad to see cut down to death before me. For I hold no other man so blameable for her death. Now chew on that hair, and I will wipe these tears I have no shame of. And as for me, I have wept and now shall be merry: for this turns out to be my wedding-feast.’
The old man stood and loomed over his daughter against the sunset and the last winkings of sunlight across the sea. One last sign he gave to the howe-mounds to hallow them: then clambered up on his old strong pony, and rode down off the fell.
His black-haired daughter watched him for a bit. Then she sat down on the worn stone in his stead.
