Book I
I
In the red light of the fire in the midst of the hall, the age-browned pillars of the high-seat stood forth strongly lit in the middle of the main wall, against the background of smoky darkness which spread behind. The bright glow threw into relief the carved images of the gods, weird and grotesque shapes which kept changing as the fire blazed up or sank in its embers.
Upon the broad seat between the pillars of the high-seat, with the dragon-ornaments and gaping beast-heads of its back towering above and behind, sat Orn, a broad, grey-haired warrior, leaning forward over the table, his strong, coarse fingers buried in his thick, white beard. Upon the table at his side stood a great carved drinking horn. Orn sat in silence. It was seldom that he drank much in the evening.
One step below, and opposite him, on the other side of the fire, was the table round which his men-servants sat. Only now and then a low-voiced exchange of words between man and man broke the silence of the hall. Otherwise there reigned an oppressive stillness. Often they glanced towards him, but each time looked uneasily at one another afterwards. For he sat very still, with a fixed, absent look in his eyes. A shiver passed through them as they thought that perhaps he saw something which they could not see. It was not comfortable in the hall that evening. All the more swift was the circulation of the beer-mugs. But they were not set down on the tables with a bang, as was the rule when they were empty, but cautiously placed on one side.
On a dais at the end of the hall, farthest removed from the entrance door, sat women at work, spinning and carding wool in silence. For once silence prevailed on the women’s dais. Only a faint rustle was heard now and then when one of them rose to help another or to fetch more wool.
The only one who did not feel depressed by the silence in the hall was a fourteen-year-old boy, seated at the table right opposite the high-seat on the other side of the fire. He was content to make holiday by sitting quietly with his thoughts, and felt easy and unoccupied in mind. He sat quite still, letting his gaze linger alternately on his father and the pillars of the seat. He had little resemblance to the stalwart figures round him. His skin was as clear as a young girl’s, and his long, bright yellow hair fell in heavy locks over his neck. On his face, with its regular features, there lay an expression of peculiar calm. The mouth under his straight nose appeared firm and composed. The look of his blue eyes was tranquil and fixed.
It was Ingolf, Orn’s son. He often sat thus, especially of an evening. His attention was particularly taken up by the pillars of the high-seat. They seemed so strangely alive in the red light of the evening fire.
By day they were quite dead. It seemed as if the breath of the gods had crept into the hard, dry wood. Perhaps the gods slept by day, or had they possibly flown on adventures to other countries and lands? The gods had tiresome habits, for all that they were gods; one never knew exactly where to find them. Anyhow, the pillars stood by day as though they were empty.
But in the evening they came to life again. Either the gods returned, or breath issued at any rate from the inner part of the wood and seemed to wander over the surface.
Already in the gloaming, when shadows were gathering in the deep carving, they began to live.
But it was a strange, deceitful, and threatening life, as though the gods were ill-humoured on first awakening, as men are sometimes in the early morning hours. Ingolf did not like to stay alone in the hall in the evening before the fire was lit. He had a certain consciousness of the gods’ discontent in the twilight, and felt by no means sure that they might not cherish some evil purpose. And when the gods were wroth or morose it was best to keep at a respectful distance. But as soon as the fire was kindled on the hearthstones, it became bright and comfortable in the hall. The fire sputtered with a cheerful crackling which seemed as though it were chatting pleasantly with the gods; it blazed up and cast its bright light over them, and diffused a kindly penetrating warmth. Then the gods recovered their good-humour; they smiled openly, and their eyes grew somewhat more friendly.
Then one ventured to look at them calmly and to sit near them. Ingolf liked to sit quietly and look at the images carved on the pillars. Certainly those in the temple were far more splendid, decked as they were with costly clothes and heavy rings of gold and other valuable metals. But the gods in the temple were those to whom they prayed at solemn festivals and offered sacrifices. It required enormous daring to approach them, for one hardly ever saw them, and knew them but little. Although they were the same gods, they seemed strangely distant in the sanctity of the temple. The gods on the pillars of the high-seat, on the other hand, were house-gods. He had grown up in their company, he had seen them in daily intercourse, as far back as he could remember. He had long been confidential with them; they were his and the family’s friends. They were quiet and peaceful and made no demands. Maybe they had fits of ill-temper in the evenings. But for the most part they were almost like men, saving, of course, that as gods they were naturally higher than men.
But one ventured—it was indeed a duty—to count them as friends, as belonging in some degree to the family. One could safely rely upon them, and that led to everyday familiar intercourse with them.
They constituted, besides, so to speak, the axis of the home. They were the immovable real centre round which all things revolved. They were the persisting element. They were the visible sign of the family and of the family’s continuance.
They had become dark brown in the course of time, nay, almost black, and hard as stones from age. Ingolf knew well how they felt. He had once, after a long inward struggle, ventured to touch them.
And it was not strange that old age could be both felt and seen in them. For no one knew how old they were, or whether indeed they had any age at all. Whether they were of the race of gods or men was therefore doubtful. From time immemorial they had belonged to the family. They had passed by inheritance from father to eldest son since as far back as there was any tradition, probably from the earliest dawn of time. The pillar on the right of the throne represented Odin, the All-Father, the old, one-eyed, and wise. His ravens, Hugin and Mugin, sat on his shoulders and whispered wisdom and knowledge to him. The ravens told him everything, past and future. So wise was Odin that nothing found him unprepared.
Odin was the Head of the Gods, consequently the most important to have as a friend. The place on the right side of the high-seat belonged justly to him. The pillar on the left side represented Thor, the Wielder of the Hammer, the slayer of giants, the one whose goats amid thunder-claps kicked fire from heaven when he drove to battle with the giants. Proudly stood Age-Thor, with his legs planted wide apart, his arm lifted up to smite, and in the bent fingers of his mighty hand he gripped the hammer, Mjolner.
And there in the chief seat, on whose brown, worn plank only the cushions and the sitters changed, sat his father. Ay, there he sat, cheerful and comfortable between his gods.
Every evening he sat there, when he was not out journeying or visiting, with his men sitting at tables round him, a step lower down. He sat calmly, stroking with weather-tanned fingers his thick, white beard, talked wisely, or was silent. There he sat at the feast with the chief guest by his side. And when it chanced that he raised his voice, his ringing tones filled the hall, and an attentive silence prevailed as far as the outer-most seats. Though his father, Orn, did not often talk in a loud voice, yet when he did, what he said was weighty. He seemed then to Ingolf to have a certain resemblance to Thor, especially when he raised his powerful clenched fists over his shaggy head. Otherwise, when he sat silent and meditated, he reminded him most of Odin, except that he had two eyes.
In the chief seat his father was at home. There he sat, friendly and comfortable in the place of his ancestors. There had sat his grandfather, Bjornulf, who together with his brother, Roald, had been obliged to quit the old family estate in Telemarken on account of having slain a man. And there had sat also before him, his father, Romund Greippson. All high-spirited, strong men, whose names were remembered with reverence.
And some day he himself would sit there. And after him again his son, and his son’s son. Generation after generation, family after family, till the earth vanished.
Whenever he thought of the time when his father would be no more, and he himself should assume the place between the throne-pillars, his cheeks flamed, and a strange, anxious shudder robbed him of strength and will-power.
It was this knowledge that he would have to assume a responsibility, and one which he had long ago sworn to sustain with honour, and which he waited to assume with a mixture of joy and suspense, that had impressed on his countenance a composure and on his whole nature and bearing an air of assurance far beyond his years. Even before his bones had fairly hardened, he had had impressed on him by his mother, whom he now only indistinctly remembered, who he was and what he should become. With his mother’s milk he had imbibed the unbroken traditions of the family. Before he understood what was really involved, he had learnt to understand that his life was only partly his own. Already, for a long time past, it had become clear to him, that not only his own, but the honour of the dead and the unborn was committed to his hand. For a man without honour cast shadows on two sides. Both his ancestors and his descendants had a peremptory claim on him—the claim of honour.
And he had no intention of disappointing either himself, the dead, or the unborn. Just then it was very quiet in the hall. The confidential crackling of the fire was the only sound audible.
Then suddenly came the sound of tramping steps without. Orn raised his head and was again wide awake. All sat still and listened. There was a knock at the door. Orn made a sign to the porter, who pushed back the bolt, and in came Rodmar, Orn’s kinsman, followed by his son, Leif, and some servants.
The peace and quiet of the hall was suddenly interrupted. Orn rose with a dignified air. Stately of mien, he left the high-seat and went to meet his relative. His ceremonious “Welcome, cousin,” sounded cheerful and hearty. Ingolf sprang up and ran round behind the seats to meet Leif. He greeted his relative, who was his junior by two years, with a kiss and very sincere friendliness.
Orn laid both his hands heavily on Rodmar’s shoulders. “I was sure you would come, cousin.”
“Such important news should be looked into,” answered Rodmar seriously. “We have had prosperous though chequered years. What will happen now?”
“The good times are passed,” answered Orn gloomily. “I guess what will happen. Follow me to the high-seat, cousin.”
Orn seated Rodmar at his side, and called for fresh beer. They drank to each other with deep draughts. When Rodmar had sucked his beard dry, he turned to his kinsman, who was a little older than himself, and asked: “Do you think there will be trouble in the country?”
“Trouble there will be,” answered Orn, speaking slowly and solemnly. “After peace and prosperous years follow hard times. We have had the good times; now we shall have to face the bad. Only it may be that the struggle will not reach these parts. We are getting old, Rodmar. Our swords are rusty, our arms stiff. And our sons are at the worst age possible—old enough to entangle themselves in difficulties, not old enough to manage them.”
“I see that you cherish fears for the future, cousin. What do you advise?”
“I advise that you stay here with Leif and as many of your servants as can be safely spared from home. We should be prepared for everything. In times like these most unexpected things can happen.”
“I will follow your advice, as I always did. Do you think of seeking light on the future from the gods?”
“One should not trouble the gods before necessity demands it. But we should offer them sacrifices diligently and without stint.”
It was only a week since Rodmar and Leif had driven home from the winter festival at Orn’s. But for Ingolf and Leif it had been a long week. They had found it difficult to be apart. They had had a cushion drawn up to the fire and lay there on their stomachs right opposite each other, each with a host of things to ask about and report.
Leif was a tall, loose-knit fellow with a long, bony face, browned with freckles and discoloured by wind and weather. He had a large nose, and a broad mouth with thick lips. The expression of his sparkling grey eyes changed suddenly, and constantly shifted from close attention to distant dreaminess, from icy coldness to beaming warmth. Red curly hair hung in long locks down both sides of his smiling face.
When the most important news had been told, he could keep quiet no longer. With a teasing look in his eyes, he stretched his head forward and asked in a whisper: “Say, Ingolf—did your gods dine on the Yule meat?”
Ingolf gave a start of annoyance. His smile disappeared, and over his face spread an expression of vexed seriousness. He looked anxiously round, but discovered to his relief that no one was listening.
He made no answer, but looked angrily and warningly at Leif. Leif laughed softly and in a contented fashion. Then he made a funnel of his hands and whispered again: “They are fat, overfed animals, your gods!” He laughed deep down in his stomach, enjoying Ingolf’s wrath.
“And such gods! A decrepit, one-eyed old creature, who has to get his wisdom from ravens! And a stupid braggart who is so poor that he has to drive with goats because he has no horse.”
Ingolf clenched his fists and pressed his chin down hard on his whitening knuckles.
“Hold your tongue, Leif!” he said threateningly, in reply.
Leif laughed as before. Then he sprang up suddenly. By their side stood Helga, Ingolf’s sister, a slim young girl with long, light-yellow hair, shining blue eyes, a small bright face, and a happy smile on her childish mouth. Leif, whose gladness at meeting again this girl friend of his own age beamed from his face and was visibly impressed on his whole bearing, embraced her, and saluted her with a kiss. Then he suddenly let her go, grew red and embarrassed, and began in his confusion to kick the burning logs.
Helga watched his action with quiet, smiling eyes. “You are scorching your boots, Leif,” she said, and laughed softly.
He stood straight up, turned towards her, and looked at her. And the smile in her eyes put his embarrassment to flight. Immediately he was himself again. Beaming over his whole face, he seized her two hands and swung her arms apart.
“I should give you greetings from the cat and from old Jorun. I have nearly forgotten to do so. The cat caught a huge quantity of mice at Yuletide, and then became fat and lazy—just like old Jorun, but she can’t bear to be told so.”
“Surely you haven’t said so to her.”
“Yes. I couldn’t help seeing it. And when I saw it, I couldn’t help saying it.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Leif. Have you forgotten how kind old Jorun has been to you since you lost your mother, and how many stories she has told us?”
“I can make up better stories myself. Old wives’ tales are wearisomely long,” answered Leif in a quick tone, which concealed the slight wound in his conscience.
“Do you believe she makes them up?” asked Helga, with an air of curiosity.
“She talks about gods, trolls, and giants as though they really existed. The other tales are lies too, I suppose.”
“You are a stupid boy. How do you know that there are not trolls and giants?”
“Well, you never see them, anyhow.”
Helga was already thinking of something else. “Are you not going back at once?” she asked in an expectant tone.
“I hope to stay here the rest of the winter and all summer too!”
Suddenly both were silent, and found no more to say. For a while they stood and looked at each other and were very happy. All at once Helga became aware that Ingolf lay there, and had not once lifted up his head. She cast herself on her knees beside him and peered into his face. Ingolf avoided her glance, but she could see he was depressed. Suddenly she knelt up and looked penetratingly at Leif. The smiles and brightness had vanished from her face. “Now, you have been vexing Ingolf again, Leif,” she said in a tone of deep reproach. Leif avoided her look, and took his place, a little embarrassed, at the end of the cushion. He felt ashamed, but wished to laugh it off. When he did not succeed he bent his head, and whispered so low that only they two could hear: “He ought not to get angry because I say what I think. You know quite well that I do not believe in your gods.”
“But you ought not to laugh at them, when you know that you hurt Ingolf by doing so,” whispered Helga angrily in reply.
Ingolf lifted his head and looked at them. He spoke calmly, and his voice was quiet and sad.
“It is not that alone,” he whispered. “I do not mind so much that Leif mocks at the gods. But I grieve to think that the gods will some day take vengeance on you, Leif, for your mockery.”
“When I do not believe in the gods, you cannot expect me to be afraid of their vengeance,” answered Leif, with quiet defiance.
He sat with downcast eyes, and a discontented and vexed look in his face.
“You can say what you like in return,” he continued. “Why may I not say what I like? I cannot bear the gods. And I cannot endure that you should believe in them either. But since you make so much of them, I will say nothing.”
“Yes, you promise that now,” said Helga. “You will have forgotten it tomorrow.”
“Can I help being forgetful? Then I will promise again tomorrow.”
For some minutes they sat silent and out of humour. Then Helga took Leif’s hand. “Don’t be cross, Leif. We have wished so much to see you again.”
Leif raised his head suddenly. He raised himself on the cushion, made a place by his side, and looked up at Helga with a smile. All ill-humour had passed away from his face.
Soon after, all three were lying together confidentially discussing their own affairs. The hall was full of the hum of many voices and a stronger odour of beer. The fire burned yellow and bright. And the images of the gods on the carved pillars looked down as if following all that passed with a slow content, and waiting, calmly wise, for what should come.