Northern Fiction - The Saga of Freydis Eiriksdattir
Chapter 3
“My freckled faced friend, I need you and your friends to get me safely from this hall,” said the dwarf. He was indeed a dwarf and of good Trondheimian ancestry. He was rightly proud of his heritage too, even if he sounded somewhat defensive to Magnus. The brief exchange, although it had sounded on the edge of hostile, somehow seemed to bring them quickly to a working relationship.
“Why did you come here at all?”
“Why are you here at this orgy, church-boy. I was curious. What else be said?”
“How did you get in? Go the same way out. I don’t know. Just walk out. What is the issue?”
Shaking his overly-large head, the small lad remarked; “You’re none to bright. The air must be thin way up there where your head sits on that skinny neck with the bobbing Adam’s apple. I ‘got in here’ before the feast, see? I arrived before the invited company crowded in for the free eats and wassail.”
Magnus: “Leave after everyone has passed out or left.”
Shaking his head, “I must leave now. Now! I must tell Papa at once.”
“Papa! There are more of you here?”
Thjodrerir:"No. We spontaneously appear. Like Barnacle Geese we a born from a shell! Yes. I am here at Norumbega with my Papa, Mjollnir.”
“Mjollnir, as in ‘Thor’s Hammer’ . . .?”
“Yes, yes, Yes. Yes!. Why, what else would you name a dwarf smith? Should he be called ‘Flower’ or some other un-dwarfish sounding name? Like the skalds say:”
Laugh not maliciously at the guest,
Scoff not at the traveler, nor chase him from your gate,
But assist the wretched, the lonely, and forlorn
Magnus: “Sindri? There is another of you little fellows here?”
“Yes. I, that is we, must get to my father.”
Magnus: “You’re here with, what did you say, ‘Sindri’? You ‘must see Mjollnir’ at once. What is happening here? I was always told that dwarfs were imaginary. Now they are filling the hall! Enough. Tell me. What’s the problem? If you want my help, fill me in, tell me. How do I know, you might be tricking me into betraying a loyalty.”
Thjodrerir assured him: “We are real people. Small, but not ‘wee’ imaginary folk. Yes, we are often smiths by calling. And, no, this does not involve a ‘trick’ on you or your company. I just need a youth who I can trust.” He waved his arm expansively: “Look at these people! I cannot ask these drunks for assistance! Homicide is an entertaining pastime for them. Look at them all armed to the teeth with swords, axs, spears and daggers, and thats their party clothes!” Gesturing broadly: “To them, I’m just something to hang on the wall, like a deer head. A weird little trophy! Please help me get away to Papa.”
Nodding in agreement, Magnus said, “You see them clear enough.” Then brightly: “You’re right, you would make a good stuffed trophy.” Then he patted Thjodrerir on the head, much to the dwarfs disgust. “Nah. Too small, I’d have to throw you back! Very well. I’ll help you. What would you have me do?”
The young dwarf stood on tiptoes and grasped his red-headed friend’s freckled ear and whispered: “Go back to your seat. I’ll find your friend, the big blond boy.” With that, he darted back under the table and scurried along to a point where he had seen Aran sneak behind the canopy.
Magnus stood at the low end of the table scratching his head. He jumped, suddenly startled, when a large drunken reveler poked him in the shoulder: “Who was that you were talking to under there boy?”
Magnus turned with a look of disbelief: “You saw that too? Thank God. I thought I was drunk!”
The large bleary-eyed man responded, “Well I know I am! That looked like a dwarf to me!” Then he stood, swayed, and passed out falling face first into a large bowl of herrings, onions, and sour cream on the table. Snores came from the bloated red face, and bubbling noises from the bowl, as the drunk breathed contentedly into the sour cream and enjoyed a brief respite from the revelry.
“Thank you Lord!” Magnus, turned and stumbled back to his seat where he found Halfdan and Haakon behaving like two silly drunk teenagers at an adult gathering (which after all was about right on all counts). “Listen, you two. We’ve got an adventure. Be calm. Don’t make a scene. Tell me: Have you seen Aran?”
Haakon and Halfdan babbled in chorus of tipsey giggles and laughter: “Look, look under the table!” They pointed to where three more young dwarfs had gathered at their knees.
“Sindri,” Said one.
“Motsognir,” said another.
“Habrok,” the third one said, introducing himself to Magnus with a polite bow.
“This is getting out of hand,” thought Magnus, “that little runt said ‘a’ friend. The place is overrun with goddamn dwarfs.” Again, desperately: “Where is Aran?”
Behind him, a “pisss’t” caused him to turn. He could just see Thjodrerir peeking from behind a curtain.
“And now,” Snorri said to the company, “let me tell two stories of our blessed martyr, saintly hero, and king, the brother to Harald Hardrahdi, Olaf. He who brought sweet Christ to Norway and saved our souls from eternal damnation in the wicked ways of paganism.”
The assembled feasters looked at each other with mixed emotions as many were pagan, and others practiced both religions as time and tide required. However, as most regarded Olaf as a hero-king, even if he had been merciless in repressing Odin worship in Norway and the northern islands, they loudly expressed their approval of Snorri’s selection.
When the drinking horns had passed around once, and another series of toasts drunk to each and every occupant of the two dais tables at the high seats, Snorri cautioned the company:
And, recalls all that transpired.
“Now,” whispered Magnus. Halfdan and Haakon, and Sindri, Motsognir, and Habrok all scurried from the table to the curtained alcove while the attention of the company focused on Snorri’s story.
Snorri went on: “Then Harald was put into a tower dungeon. The next night a lady came to the prison with two servants who scaled the wall of the tower and lowered a rope to Harald. When he had scaled the rope the lady greeted him saying that she had been healed by the saintly Olaf from blindness. Therefore, when the saint had suddenly appeared to her directing that she rescue his brother she obeyed without hesitation.
“Harald then went to the barracks of the Varagians, where he was warmly received. He led them to the palace and gouged out the eyes of Michael Calaphates. The empress Zoe seems to have been done with Michael anyway, and he was replaced with a new husband and emperor named Constantine Monomachus. When he decided to leave Miklagard the new emperor, Constantine Monomachus, would not give him leave. It was rightly suspected that Harald had stashed away vast treasure belonging to the Greeks. Which indeed he had, for Harald had sent a vast treasure to his foster-father Yaroslav the Wise, a man he trusted as the father of his promised bride, Elizabeth.”
“Harald made good his escape from Miklagard by sailing over the harbor chain. He’d ordered his men run to the stern of his boat to lift the bow, then rush to the bow to slip the stern clear, and the vessel tipped over and free. Another ship that tried the small manuover broke its back on the chain. Harald was lucky that way.”
“That is how the departed. Olaf had miraculously saved his brother. Olaf was by then called ‘Saint,’ but as we recall in his lifetime he was called ‘Olaf the Fat’ by the people who knew him well,” Snorri concluded. The now bleary-eyed company laughted over-loudly and then applauded Thorir’s story. This, indeed, was a proper example of how a true Viking saint should conduct a miraculous rescue: Effect an escape, blind the enemy, and provide as a bonus treasure and noble bride.
The rousing cheer was accepted by Snorri and Thorir called for another round of ale for the company.
Thjodrerir awaited the others in the alcove where the sight of Aran in a heap with his trousers around one foot brought a round of ribald comments and embarrassed tittering from all the youths. “Nice buns!” Thjodrerir said with a laugh, and then woke Aran with a fierce pinch on one of his exposed buttock cheeks. “Wake up. Enough sleep, pretty boy. Time for adventure little stud.”
Aran jerked up his head and Magnus quickly put a hand over his mouth. “Just listen Aran, don’t call out.” Then, with a nod at the bizarre crew standing about, he filled in the story and made introductions all around.
“Are you out of you mind?” Aran asked Magnus, as he untangled his pants from his foot and awkwardly dressed before the gawking crew. Finally managing to pulled on his trousers, he said: “I think we all had a bit to much to drink.”
Magnus objected: “Sober or drunk they’re real. You don’t get group dreams from ale and mead. They’re not going away that easily, either. Listen, this is real, it’s an adventure! That’s a lot better than singing psalms by far. My family is Viking stock! So is yours. Where is your spirit of adventure? This is real.”
Aran to Thjodrerir, boldly,: “What do you want from us?”
“A way out. I’ve got to get to Papa.”
“You’re dwarfs! Dig your way right out through the sod wall. Tunnel out, for Christ’s sake. If Odin could bore his way through the wall into Suttung’s Hall with a gimlet, then you dwarfs can dig your way out from here.”
“Why didn’t you think of that!” hissed Sindri.
Motsognir: “If you had a brain in that hair-hill of yours, Thjodrerir, you would be dangerous. If only you had thought to dig us out of here, we could have been kept secret. Now everyone knows about our existence.”
Habrok added: “Your papa, he’s gonna be pissed. Bet he whamps you good, real good. Yeah, he’s gonna whamp you. Beat you purple. Smack! Right in the head.”
Motsognia and Sindri seconded the notion, adding a few choice words of their own, then they fell to slapping each other. As they enacted their version of Thjodrerir’s reception at home, Thjodrerir looked on in dismay. They were quite young and rather more foolish than the general run of adolescent dwarfs.
“Yeah. Why didn’t I think of that!” said Thjodrerir. “See, we really need you. What’s your name, er. . . ‘stud-puppy’? . . No, oh yeah, it was Aran.” He waved his arms (which he did often because he thought it made him seem bigger): “See you’re a natural born leader.” Then, turning to Magnus, “So my smarty-friend, what the hell is a gimlet?”
Halfdan interjected, “That’s easy. It is a tool used to bore holes in things with a screw at one end and a cross handle at the other and . . .”
“Got one?” interupted Thjodrerir.
“Got what?”
“Got any of those ‘gimlet’ things. Tools! Any tools?” said Thjodrerir, shaking his head slowly.
“Tools?”
“Yeah, tools. We need tools. What did you think, we were gonna burrow our way out or something? We’re dwarfs you know, yup, we dig stuff, sure enough. But, we’re not goddam moles ya know.”
Aran, hooking a thumb: “Take those swords, there, on the wall.”
Sindri: “See! There you go again. What a leader. Bless you.”
Thjodrerir: “I could have thought of that.”
“When?” Sindri asked, “We would sure as shit like to get the hell outta here now. You know, ‘fast’ as in right away.”
<< Previous Page Next Page >>
© 2004-2007 Northvegr.
Most of the material on this site is in the public domain. However, many people have worked very hard to bring these texts to you so if you do use the work, we would appreciate it if you could give credit to both the Northvegr site and to the individuals who worked to bring you these texts. A small number of texts are copyrighted and cannot be used without the author's permission. Any text that is copyrighted will have a clear notation of such on the main index page for that text. Inquiries can be sent to info@northvegr.org. Northvegr™ and the Northvegr symbol are trademarks and service marks of the Northvegr Foundation.
|