Hakon's Saga

Chapter 7

After the morning meal, a group of Erik"s hirdmen escorted Gunnhild northeast into the woods that lay behind Erik"s estate. Few ventured alone into those trees, for they encircled the mountain called Ulriken, which cast a sinister and ever-present shadow upon the canopy of pines. More than that, the shadowy forest was home to wild beasts and strange hermits like Arnkell the Wise, the priest who administered the ceremonies on Erik"s estate. It was the perfect place for the quiet, misunderstood godi to live, a place where he could spend his days practicing his dark art beyond the prying eyes of any that might be brave enough, or fool enough, to venture near his home.

As the group marched into the woods, Gunnhild"s mind turned to the previous night and the dream that plagued her. The dream had kept her awake until the morning, tormenting her with images that persisted even now. And yet, what bothered her was not so much the actual images, but the meaning behind those images and the inexplicable feeling that she was heading toward something beyond her control.

Slowly the path angled up and away from Erik"s estate, and Gunnhild thanked the gods that the rain that had so recently visited the land had decided to hold off this day. Eventually her mind turned to the sounds and sights of the forest: the songs of larks and robins, the rays of light that shot down through the canopy of summer leaves like magical, dancing pillars. She had always loved the forest. Something about its power and unseen dangers stimulated her senses and made her feel alive. She supposed it was the same attraction that drew her to Erik.

By midmorning, the group arrived at Arnkell"s dwelling, no more than a dilapidated shed that stood on a small rise. Chunks of daub had fallen away from its walls, exposing the vertical pine beams and interwoven wicker. A tiny wisp of smoke drifted from a hole in the tattered thatch that was its roof, carrying with it the smell of boiled onions. Behind the shack and half-hidden among the trees was another such dwelling that Arnkell used as a storage shed for his food and his herbs. In the space between the two structures, Arnkell had built a small pen that housed a couple of chickens and a few goats. These last announced Gunnhild"s arrival with a shake of their heads that rang the bells fastened to their necks.

“Wait here,” she instructed Erik"s warriors. “I will not be long.”

The bent figure of Arnkell appeared at the doorway of his home before Gunnhild was halfway across the small clearing. He squinted in her direction as he scratched the long wisps of gray hair that clung to his pointed chin. In one hand he held a gnarled staff upon which he leaned, while from the other hung a long-handled knife with a curved blade. “Who is there?”

Gunnhild stopped and smiled. “Have no fear, Arnkell. It is I, Gunnhild. I have brought some supplies.” She removed the sack from her back and held it out to him, though she knew Arnkell could not see it from this distance.

Arnkell"s toothless mouth twisted upward into a grin as he stepped forward to greet her. “I expected you earlier, my lady.” His voice cracked with age.

Long ago she had learned not to be alarmed by Arnkell"s powers of foresight. It was a harmless gift that could not be explained, or taught, and only came in handy for occurrences as mundane as expecting visitors or forecasting weather.

She kissed his prickly, weatherworn cheek. “Your skills must be getting rusty, then.”

“Hah! Rusty, you say. My eyesight might leave me. My hearing might go. But death will take me before my skills falter.” He turned and walked with Gunnhild toward his home. “So tell me. What brings my favorite student out today?”

“A dream.”

“A premonition?”

Gunnhild shrugged as she ducked under the doorway and stepped into the musty darkness beyond. “Perchance a premonition. Perchance not. That is what I have come to find out.”

Arnkell grunted his understanding, then moved to the cauldron that hung from a tripod over his small hearth. He grabbed the long spoon within it and stirred a few times. While he did, Gunnhild looked around at the dwelling she knew so well. Beyond the hearth, on the opposite side of the room from the doorway, lay a small bed of straw covered with a bearskin blanket. Two three-legged stools, one short, the other tall, rested on either side of the fire. Next to the tall stool, and illuminated in the eerie glow of two cod-oil lamps, stood a long table upon which were spread clumps of herbs, roots, and dried flowers, vessels of all shapes and sizes, and a small hand-quern. More dried herbs and flowers hung from two ropes that stretched down opposite walls.

Gunnhild moved to the table and cleared a space for the supplies she"d brought: a thick wool blanket and a new cloak. “I thought you might be able to use these.”

Arnkell moved to the table and peered at the gifts, then ran the material of the blanket between his gnarled thumb and forefinger. “Soft.”

She smiled, knowing that the small compliment was the only thanks she would receive. “One of my women made them. She has a special way with wool.”

Arnkell grunted and moved back to the fire. “Are you hungry? I have made some goat"s blood broth with onion and radishes.”

Gunnhild politely declined.

Arnkell grabbed a bowl that lay beside the fire and held it over the cauldron. Slowly, he spooned the broth into the bowl, then sat on the small stool and began to slurp at his meal. After two such slurps, he looked at Gunnhild and pointed to the larger stool with his spoon. “Bring the stool over here, Gunnhild, and tell me of this dream.”

Gunnhild did what she was told and recounted the dream to Arnkell exactly as she remembered it, leaving no detail unspoken. Arnkell listened in silence, interrupting only to spoon more of the broth into his toothless mouth.

When she was through, Arnkell nodded in understanding. “And you would like to know if this dream portends something ominous?”

Gunnhild nodded.

Arnkell scratched at his thinning beard and worked his jaw in a rotating manner like a chewing cow. Then, without a word, he stood and moved to the table, where he shifted through the mess until he located what he was looking for: a small leather pouch. He fumbled with the pouch"s strings until he had it open, whereupon he emptied the contents into a small clay vessel. This he carried back to the fire and handed to Gunnhild.

As she expected, it contained a number of ivory squares, yellowed with age, upon which were carved different runic inscriptions. These were Arnkell"s runes and the most prized possession in his home. They were an heirloom from his father, who in turn had received them from his own father, and on down the line as far back as the dawn of time. The ability to read the stones was a gift possessed only by a small number of people, and received, so men said, directly from Odin, the first being ever to use runes. Gunnhild had learned the craft while living with the godi in Finnmark, but was by no means a master.

While she fingered the runes delicately, Arnkell held his curved blade over the flames until the metal glowed orange from the heat. “Give me your finger,” he commanded gently.

Gunnhild did as she was told, though she tensed in anticipation of the pain she knew would soon follow. Deftly, Arnkell brought the blade to Gunnhild"s finger and drew it quickly across her skin. She sucked in her breath involuntarily as a drop of blood bubbled up where the blade had been. Holding the bowl between her legs, she grabbed her finger and pressed until nine drops had fallen onto the runes. Nine was the magical number of Odin, for He had hung nine days from the World Tree, Yggdrasil, where the runes first came to his possession.

Gunnhild handed the bowl to Arnkell, who stuck his fingers into it and mixed the blood with the runes. As he did so, his ancient voice mumbled the incantation spoken by Odin so long ago:

“Runes you will find and rightly read,

Runes you will find and rightly read,of wondrous weight,

of wondrous weight,of mighty magic,

of mighty magic,which I have dyed with my blood,

which I have dyed with my blood,which were made by the holy host,

which were made by the holy host,and were etched by me.”

and were etched by me.Nine times Arnkell repeated the incantation. When he finished, he beckoned to Gunnhild. She moved to his side and knelt. “Close your eyes and concentrate on the images of your dream. When you are ready, choose three runes from the bowl.”

She did so and placed them in a horizontal line before her, inscribed side down.

Arnkell bent over the runes and flipped the first, which represented Gunnhild"s present situation. The old godi fingered it carefully, his jaw once again in motion. “Inguz. I see this in your dream.”

Inguz“How?”

“The tree that falls can be looked at as ancient, or as "the old way." Inguz is a sign of change or a signal that the old ways are about to end. Your dream and this rune are closely related.”

Inguz“I must be prepared, then, for change?”

Arnkell held up a finger to stop her. “It is more complicated than that.”

Gunnhild looked at him, confused.

“Think of change as a layer of ice upon a lake. Change is the ice. Dangerous, yes, but manageable, if you are prepared. That which lies beneath is the real threat to your safety, for it is that water below that can kill you. Spoken another way, you must be prepared for change, but more importantly, you must be prepared for that which spawns that change. You see, change is unalterable — its course has already been woven by the Norns. Do you understand?”

Gunnhild nodded. “Aye.”

“Good. Now, flip the next rune.”

The second rune stood for the action to be taken as a result of the first rune. Gunnhild did as she was told, aware now of the beating in her chest. She recognized it instantly and understood without having to be told that the message here was danger.

Arnkell confirmed her thoughts. “Hagalaz. The rune of disruption.”

Hagalaz“The change will bring disruption.” Gunnhild struggled to contain her anxiety, but her trembling voice betrayed her.

Arnkell scratched his chin, then rose and moved to a jug that stood on the table. He grabbed two cups, blew into them to remove the dust, then poured some of the jug"s contents into each. Without a word he shuffled back to the stool and sat, then passed Gunnhild a cup. Before speaking, he drank deeply of his own. When he was through, he pointed his chin at Gunnhild. “Drink. It will calm you.”

Gunnhild"s impatience bubbled. “I have no wish for calm. What does this rune mean?”

He sighed heavily. “In the context of your dream, it means that the falling of the great oak will disrupt. Be that gradually or quickly, I do not know. But the rune you have drawn can be as subtle as a realization or as powerful as a complete life change. In other words, death in one form or another. Flip the last rune.”

“Death?”

“Careful,” Arnkell warned. “I said death in one form or another. Not all death is bad. Does the caterpillar not die when it becomes a butterfly? Do new shoots not grow from frozen ground?”

Gunnhild was not calmed by Arnkell"s comparisons and frowned deeply.

“Come now,” Arnkell urged. “Flip the third one.”

Her heart sat in her throat as she unveiled the third rune.

“Ehwaz. Movement.”

EhwazGunnhild studied Arnkell"s face. “I do not understand.”

“Nor do I. All I can glean is that this disruption will force this movement, which, as you know, can be physical or mental in nature. A new way of thinking. Or a new dwelling place.”

“But how does all this together tie to my dream?”

Arnkell took another long draught from his cup, then spat at the fire. It hissed back at him. For a long time, he stared into the flames, until Gunnhild began to wonder if he"d ever answer her question. She opened her mouth to interrupt his thoughts, but Arnkell held up a hand and stilled her. “Silence. I am thinking.”

Angered by the rebuke, Gunnhild tipped her own cup to her lips and made to drink, but withdrew her face sharply when she smelled what swirled inside. She glanced into the cup but could not discern its contents. Whatever it was, it smelled strong and sour. Disgusted, yet mindful of her host"s feelings, she set the cup aside.

“I believe your dream to be the portent of a monumental change, a change wrought by the fall of the giant oak. In my mind, that oak represents a king, and the boar, his claimant to the throne. The boar will have a large army and will spill the blood of all who stand in his way. This change will disrupt your life, though for better or worse is not clear. And in the end it will require a move, though what sort of move I do not know.”

“My husband"s lineage has been called a great oak. My husband told me so,” she whispered when she had regained her wits. She gazed at Arnkell. “Is he to fail? Is another line of kings to rise?”

Arnkell raised his old hands. “Careful. We know not what fate the Norns have woven for your husband. Not even the gods know. What we do know is that your husband is, in name and title, king of the North after Harald"s abdication. But his brothers have also named themselves kings in their respective lands. Now, Harald yet lives, and as long as he lives, his sons, including your husband, are content to accumulate their power where they rule. When Harald dies, your husband and his brothers will vie for the High Seat, for that is the way of things. So then, at this point there is only one true king to fall. Harald. I believe him to be the tree at the center of the forest, for it was he who spread his seed far and wide and it is his rule under which we all live, like plants beneath an oak. Do you understand my words?”

Gunnhild smiled, feeling somewhat eased by the old man"s explanation. “So you think that the fallen king will be Harald?”

“Aye.” Arnkell sat quietly for a moment. “I am rather certain of it.”

“How can you be certain?”

Arnkell focused on Gunnhild. “Have you ever heard the tale of Queen Ragnhild"s tree?”

Gunnhild knew only that Queen Ragnhild was Harald Fairhair"s mother and that Gunnhild"s own daughter had been named for the woman. “I know only a few details of her, but I know nothing of a tale about a tree.”

“Ah,” Arnkell said. “Then let me tell you. Like you, Ragnhild dreamed, and it was said that quite often these dreams came to pass. In one dream, Ragnhild was standing in her garden and plucked a thorn from her gown. As she held it, the thorn grew, so much so that one end went into the ground and became deeply rooted. The other end grew higher than the eye could see. So high that it vanished into the clouds. It was said that the nethermost part of the tree was blood red and that its branches spread all over the North and farther still. Does this tree sound familiar to you?”

Gunnhild nodded dumbly.

“Shortly after this dream, Queen Ragnhild and King Halvdan had a boy child, whom they named Harald.” Arnkell finished the story with a lift of his eyebrows and a long draught from his cup.

“That is a strange coincidence,” murmured Gunnhild.

Arnkell grinned. “I believe it is more than a coincidence.”

Gunnhild nodded. “If Harald is the oak, who then will be his successor? The boar?”

At this, Arnkell smiled his toothless smile. “Think you for a moment. Did you not say the boar comes from the direction of the setting sun? The west?”

“Aye.”

“Which of Harald"s three sons now ruling in the North resides in the west? Which son has been chosen to rule upon Harald"s death?”

Gunnhild"s heart leapt. “Erik!”

Arnkell nodded. “Aye. Now, bring me some more of that mead. My throat hurts from all this talking.”

Gunnhild guffawed as she stood. “Mead, you call that?”

“Hah! Then if you think it bad, bring some the next time you require my services. I am tiring of your cloaks and blankets.”