Poul Anderson: Star of the Sea

“Yeah. Think, though, think about everybody who will not die, if we work this right.”

“Can we, now? What will Burhmund think?”

“Let him wonder. Tell Edh not to answer any questions about it. An apparition of her, when she’d been miles away—the man who wanted no end to violence, dead by it—Veleda speaking for peace—The mystery will lend force, though I suppose people will draw the obvious conclusions, which’ll be a big help.”

Heidhin lay still. He looked shrunken. Blood pooled around him and soaked into the ground.

“It is Edh we must help first,” Floris said.

She went to the other woman, who had risen and stood numbed. Blood had splashed onto Edh’s cloak and gown. Heedless of it, Floris laid arms around her.

“You are free,” Floris murmured. “He bought your freedom with his life. Cherish it.”

“Yes,” Edh said. She stared into the dark.

“Now you may cry peace over the land. You shall.”

“Yes.”

Floris warmed her for a while and a while.

“Tell me how,” Edh said. “Tell me what to say. The world has gone empty.”

“Oh, my child,” Floris breathed into the graying tresses. “Be of good heart. I have promised you a new home, a new hope. Would you like to hear about it? It is an island, low and green, open to the sea.”

Life stirred a little in the answer. “Thank you. You are kind. I will do my best . . . in your name.”

“Now come,” Floris said. “I will bear you back to your tower. Sleep. When you have slept your fill, send forth that you would fain speak to the kings and chiefs. When they are gathered before you, give them the word of peace.”

New-fallen snow covered ash heaps that had been homesteads. Where junipers had caught some of it in their deep green, it lay like whiteness’s self. Low to the south, the sun cast their shadows across it, blue as heaven. Thin ice on the river had thawed with morning but still crusted dried reeds along the banks, while bits of it drifted in midstream, slowly northward. A gloom on the eastern horizon marked the edge of wilderness.

Burhmund and his men rode west. Hoofs struck muffled on hard ground beneath, baring the ruts of a road. Breath steamed from nostrils and made rime in beards. Metal gleamed frosty. The riders spoke seldom. Shaggy in wadmal and fur, they rode from the forest to the river.

Ahead of them lifted the stump of a wooden bridge. Piers jutted naked out of the water beyond. On the opposite shore stood the other fragment. Workers who demolished the middle had rejoined the legionaries ranked on that side. They were few, like the Germans. Their armor gave back the light but kilts, cloaks, legwear, all cloth hung worn and dirty. The plumes of officers’ helmets were faded.

Burhmund drew rein, got down, and stepped onto the bridge. His boots thudded hollow over the planks. He saw that Cerialis already stood in place. That was a friendly gesture, when it was Burhmund who requested a parley-though it did not mean much, because the understanding had been clear that they would hold one.

At the end of his section, Burhmund stopped. The two thick-set men regarded one another across a dozen feet of winter air. The river clucked below them on its way to the sea.

The Roman unfolded his arms and lifted his right hand. “Hail, Civilis,” he greeted. Accustomed to addressing troops, he easily cast his voice the needful distance.

“Hail, Cerialis,” Burhmund responded in like manner.

“You would discuss terms,” said Cerialis. “That is difficult to do with a traitor.”

His tone was matter-of-fact, his words an opening. Burhmund took it. “But I am no traitor,” he replied gravely, in Latin. He pointed out that this was no legate of Vitellius with whom he met; Cerialis was Vespasian’s. Burhmund the Batavian, Claudius Civilis, went on to number the services he had rendered over the years to Rome and its new emperor.

Gutherius was the name of a hunter who often went hunting in the wildwood, for he was poor and his acres meager. One blustery day in autumn he set forth, armed with bow and spear. He did not really expect to take any big game, which had grown scarce and wary. He would set snares for squirrel and hare, then leave them overnight while he pushed on in hopes of knocking down a capercaillie or the like. However, should he come on anything better, he would be ready.

His path took him around a bay. Surf dashed wildly over the reefs outside and whitecaps chopped on the half-sheltered water, although the tide was in ebb. An old woman walked the sand, stooped low, searching for whatever she might find, mussels laid bare or a fish dead but not too rotten. Toothless, fingers knotty and weak, she moved as if every step hurt. Her rags fluttered in the bitter wind.

“Good day, granny,” said Gutherius. “How goes it?”

“Not at all,” said the crone. “If nothing turns up for me to eat, I fear I cannot creep home.”

“Well, now, that would be a pity,” said Gutherius. From his pouch he took the bread and cheese he bore along. “I will give you half of this.”

“You have a warm heart,” she quavered.

“I remember my mother,” he said, “and it honors Nehalennia.”

“Could you spare me the whole of that?” she asked. “You are young and strong.”

“No, I must keep that strength if I am to feed my wife and children,” said Gutherius. “Take what I give and be grateful.”

“I am that,” said the old woman. “You shall have reward. But because you withheld some of it, first you shall have woe.”

“Be still!” cried Gutherius. He hurried onward to get away from the ill-omened words.

Reaching the forest, he set off on trails he knew. Suddenly from the brush bounded a stag. It was a mighty beast, well-nigh big as an elk, and snowy white. Its antlers spread like an ancient oak. “Halloo!” shouted Gutherius. He flung his spear but missed. The stag did not leap in flight. It poised there ahead of him, a dimness against the shadows. He strung bow, nocked arrow, and shot. At the thrum of the string, the animal fled. Yet it went no faster than a man could run, and Gutherius did not see his arrow anywhere. He thought maybe it had struck and he could chase the wounded quarry down. Recovering his spear, he dashed in pursuit.

On and on that hunt went, ever deeper into the wilderness. Always the white stag glimmered just in sight. Somehow Gutherius never tired, the breath never failed him, he ran without cease. He was drunk with running, beyond himself, everything forgotten save the chase.

The sun sank. Twilight welled up. As light failed, the stag put on a burst of speed and vanished. Wind piped among the trees. Gutherius came to a halt, overwhelmed by weariness, hunger, and thirst. He saw that he was lost. “Did yon hag truly curse me?” he wondered. Fear blew through him, colder than the oncoming night. He rolled in the blanket he carried and lay wakeful the whole of the dark hours.

All the next day he blundered about, finding nothing he recognized. Indeed this was an eldritch part of the forest. No beast scuttered in its undergrowth, no bird called from its depths, there was only the wind soughing in the crowns and tearing dead leaves loose. No nuts or berries grew, nor even mushrooms, only moss on fallen logs and misshapen stones. Cloud veiled the sun, by which he might have taken bearings. Wildly he ranged.

Then at dusk he found a spring. He cast himself on his belly to quench his withering thirst. This gave him back his wits, and he looked around him. He had entered a glade, whence he got a sight of the sky, which was clearing. In violet-blue shone the evening star.

“Nehalennia,” he prayed, “have mercy. To you I offer what I should have given freely.” Thirsty as he was, he had been unable to chew his food. He scattered it under the trees for whatever creatures it might help. By the spring he lay down to sleep.