Northern Fiction - The Saga of Freydis Eiriksdattir
Chapter 4
Aran swallowed hard. He tried to remain under control, appear brave, set an example, but most of all he just tried not wet his trousers at the sight of the emerging figure. Its head was large and ugly, very ugly. Bushy black brows arched over beady little red-rimmed eyes of jet that scanned the forge area suspiciously. Long pointed ears emerged from the sides of the sloped and tapering skull and a bramble of unkempt hairy patches covered its’ head, face, and jaws. Protruding from the hairy briar was an enormous nose that twisted to the right and ended with a mole from which sprouted a single hair, thick as a dog’s whisker, that pointed straight forward from his face. Large yellow teeth and a lolling tongue completed the almost troll-like visage. It was male. While undoubtedly a dwarf, his chest and trunk were massive and burly. Muscle knotted arms dangled from enormous shoulders and huge callused hands formed powerful fists that almost knuckled the ground. A pair of short muscular legs were set on bare giant-sized feet long and twisted nails that seemed almost like claws. Even from across the room, Aran could smell a breath that immediately brought to mind the stench of a possum that had died a long time ago below the cloister ambulatory. Aran thought: “If this is an adult ‘dwarf’ it’s certainly no cute wee pixie.”
“My name is Mjollnir. This is my home. Please, young sirs, accept my greetings. Strangers, yes, such fine generous gentle young men. No. Heroes! My boy tells me you saved his life. I humbly offer you my heartfelt thanks.” His voice was sweet, his manner most gentle. “I have seen you about the area, you are the church-boys. I am Freydis Eiriksdatter’s smith, her jarnsmoir. Come, sit down.” Turning to the hanging: “Hladgud, bring out the wineskin for our guests.” Then to the company, Mjollnir announced: “Meet my help-meet. My wife. The mother of my son.” Following that introduction, the ‘swan maiden’ Hladgud shyly appeared from behind the hanging balancing a heavy wineskin on her shoulder. She was even uglier than her husband, if that was possible, but with enormous breasts. A shaggy wolf-skin dress seemed to be a continuation of her long matted hair, however, an exquisite gold and pearl earring dangled from her long left earlobe.
“Hello,” stammered Aran. Magnus, and the two other boys, timidly emerged from behind Aran’s shoulders, where they had taken refuge at Mjollnir’s entrance. They offered greetings to the burly, but soft spoken, dwarf couple.
“I have some soup. Are you boys hungry?” asked the lady of the house, indicating a simmering cauldron on the hearth.
Aran stared grimly into the cauldron and bleakly contemplated the bubbling contents; Phineus had surely been served better fare by the Harpies. “So that’s dwarf soup,” he mused, “I think I’ll pass on the experience.” Then brightly to his gracious hostess: ““Thank you very much, but no ma’am. I’m just thirsty now. Heroics, you know are a very thirsty business.”
“Certainly my dear, I’ve heard many men say the very thing. Please, tell us about how you saved our boy. It was indeed heroic of you, and him a total stranger too.”
Aran launched into a “Hrolf” tale by way of explanation. “There was a young man named Hallvard of Husaby. He lived about thirteen years after Saint Olaf died, and he grew up the son of a Christian family. He had been taught good concepts of justice and knew right from wrong. One day, May 15, 1043 AD, Hallvard was about to cross the Drammenfjord when a poor woman ran up and begged him to help her. She was trembling with fear. She said that some men had accused her of stealing from them and now they were chasing her intent on murder. Hallvard asked her if she had stolen from the men. When she denied any guilt, he took her into his boat.”
“As he cleared the shore, three men came running to the fjord bank. They took a boat that was there, and rowed after Hallvard and the woman, calling out: ‘Stop. That woman is a thief. She stole from our brother.’ Hallvard asked: ‘Did you see her steal?’ They answered: ‘No, she broke into the house.’ He questioned them as to how they knew it was the woman who had stolen, if no one had seen the crime. They said she had wrenched away the bolt and took his goods. It had to be her, she was the maid. ‘If the bolt was broken, it could not be this weak woman,’ he replied.”
“Hallvard was a quick witted young man,” said Hladgud. “Well spoken, too.”
“Alas, the men killed Hallvard and the woman. Then they tied a mill stone to Hallvard’s body and dumped it in the fjord.”
“How terrible.”
“But God would not let the crime go unpunished. The corpse floated even with the weighted stone about it, the corpse was discovered, and the body was buried by his family. Immediately miracles were reported at his grave and Hallvard was granted martyr status by the local bishop. He was declared a saint and his body now lies in Christ Church in Oslo.”
Suddenly it occurred to Aran: “God, I am starting to sound like Hrolf. No. Even worse. I sound like my mother!”
“You thought all about this when you saved my son? The risks. The danger. Yet you acted bravely anyway?”
“Well not really. I just remembered about Hallvard now. I acted because I was badgered into doing something. I really did nothing. You son dug his way out on his own.”
“Such modesty. A true hero. Thank you Aran. I thank you for my family. I thank you for Thjodrerir’s life.”
“You’re quite welcome ma’am. Thank you ma’am, I will have some wine. We all will. Yes, ma’am,” said Aran in his best company manner. He glared at the other boys who were tittering in a state somewhere between hysterical terror and giddy disbelief at the situation in which they had suddenly found themselves. He glibly lied: “Please, excuse these boys’ manners. They seldom meet strangers.”
“Thjodrerir can be the same way with Freydis. She terrifies him. Yes. Please do have some wine,” Hladgud murmured, as she handed the wineskin to Aran. “Home made. Stamped it out myself,” she said looking down at her large dirty feet proudly. “No sense in living in Vinland if you don’t make some wine.”
“The only wine I get is sacramental wine, when we have some to spare. Hrolf drinks wine at dinner, but we boys usually have ale or cider. Sometimes I have a bit of wine before bedtime to put Hrolf and me in a jolly mood. I suppose we should not be drinking the Holy wine for pleasure or carnal sport, but, er . . that is. . . er. I’m running on here,. . . yes, I will have some wine, thank you.” Then he said to Mjollnir: “You know the art of wine making?”
“Not really. But there are some Germans here at Hop. They know how to make wine. They traded me some for work I did. They told Hladgud how it is made. She’s made it ever since. Not bad stuff. It’s good strong wine, harsh and raw, not like that weak stuff from Normandy or Italy that is served at the homes of kings and jarls. I tasted some at Freydis’ hall one holiday,” he told them proudly.
“It’s strong all right,” Aran declared. He thought it tasted like something used to dress a salad or maybe clean a boil. The boys agreed it was strong and greedily passed the skin around several times. They quickly mastered the technique of drinking wine from a skin as it was much like drinking the water stored in skins on shipboard. The main difference was that the water was usually just nasty and greasy tasting while the wine was sour and strong. It also made them feel silly right away.
Idle talk continued for a few minutes before Aran announced that they had to go back to Saint Olaf’s. “Thjodrerir, I will see you again. It has been one night.”
“Indeed it has,” agreed the young dwarf. “Thanks again, for saving my life. Saving all our lives,” he said.
He waved his arms broadly with one of his sweeping gestures. He meant to include the other young dwarfs in his thanks for they were already curled up near the forge for the night. Piled in a heap like a litter of puppies they seemed to have gone to sleep at once.
Mjollnir reached out his hand and gave Aran a ring of gold: “This is for you. You were wolf-bold and bright as Fafnir’s Hoard of Rhine-gold. You saved Thjodrerir’s life. It is not the Brising Necklace, made by the dwarfs for Frigg, but it is good red gold.”
Then Hladgud grasped Aran in a great bear-hug and urged him to come around anytime and have some soup. She said:
Go often to his house:
Grass and brambles quickly grow,
Upon the untrod track.
Aran responded: “You are a true kingly ring-giver. I thank you both and I will come to visit. I promise.” Making a mental note to avoid the soup: “If their breath is any indication of the soup, I want no taste of it.”
He turned to go and bumped into another dwarf staggering with a lumpy burden in his arms. “How many are there hereabouts? I never believed in dwarfs, and now they are everywhere!” Aran mused, then put the thought aside as he realized that the “lumpy burden” was two other dwarfs and something was terribly wrong.
The two dwarfs that were carried into the forge had been shot through with iron barbed Norse arrows. Most dangerously, one arrow entered, but did not emerge from the trunk of one of the limp bodies. The entire household was immediately thrown into turmoil as the young dwarfs were noisily aroused from sleep and the church-boys began to babble once more amongst themselves and look about with wide staring eyes. Hladgud and Mjollnir bustled about clearing a space for the two wounded figures to be placed beside the hearth.
After a brief look at the wounds Hladgud said to her husband: “You must go and ask Lady Freydis to come at once. She alone can help these youths.”
Mjollnir paled beneath his forge-grime. He gave a shutter. “She will come. I know that. But, dare I wake her at this hour?”
Hladgud gave him a penetrating stare that told him she would not accept a “no” for an answer. He exited and scurried across the yard to the main hall while Hladgud tried to make the casualties as comfortable as possible. Time past. Lives ebbed with the silent flow of unstaunchable blood. Everyone hunkered down in the dim red glow of the banked down forge-fire. Finally, shuffling sounds and wheezing breathing could be heard from across the yard. Bowing almost to the ground, Mjollnir entered walking backward as he invited the Lady Freydis into his forge.
She entered regally, slowly and stately, head held high. An impassive expression on her face. She said, “Crowded in here. Who are all these people in my forge?” and looked at Hladgud for answer. In response she received only a groveling curtsey from the forge-wife. Deep bows all around from the assembled dwarfs, who had all jumped up at Freydis’ entrance, and now cowered in the corners. The church-boys did not grovel like the dwarfs, but all bowed proper greetings to the great lady. When her attention turned to the church-boys, she smiled at Aran in recognition: “You are Hrolf’s little playmate. You are a fine handsome youth, all young-eyed innocence, and firm young limbs. I could eat you up myself.”
He turned fiery at the allusion, but held his tongue.
She turned to Thjodrerir, “You always look like I am about to turn you into a toad.”
“Can you do that?” he asked, head cocked to one side and wide mouthed in wonder.
“Want to find out?” She pinched his cheek just a bit viciously.
“No Lady. Please, no. Mercy,” he squealed
“No little pet. I only tease you because you stare with those little beady mouse eyes all the time.” Then to his mother: “What is this? Your husband babbles so. Oh, I see, Ull’s handiwork. The god of archery has been busy this night.” Stepping to the prone forms by the hearth she muttered, “Time for women’s work of healing, if that be possible.”
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