Tim Severin - Sworn Brother

At that moment I must have fainted away, because I came back to my senses with Edgar shaking me. I was lying on the ground beside the well. He was looking frightened.

'What happened to you?'he asked.

'I don't know,' I replied. 'I had a seizure. I went somewhere else.'

'Woden spoke to you?' he asked, awe in his voice. 'No. I heard nothing, only saw an attack. It was some sort of warning.'

Edgar helped me to my feet and guided me to a fallen log where I could sit down.

'Here, rest for a while. Is that the first attack you have had?'

'Like that one, yes.' I replied. 'I've had visions before, but never in a calm, quiet place like this. Only at times of stress or when I was in the company of a volva or seidrman.'

'What are those?' he asked.

'It's the Norse way of describing the women and men who communicate with the spirit world.'

Edgar understood immediately. 'There's a person like that over to the west, a good two days' walk. An old woman. She too lives by a well. Takes a sip or two of the water, and when the mood is on her, goes into a trance. Some people call her a witch and the priests have cursed her. But often her prophecies come true, though no one else would drink the water from this well. It gives you a bad gut if you do, and there's something mysterious about the well itself. The waters suddenly gush up and overflow as a warning that a dreadful catastrophe will occur. The last time that happened was before Ashington Battle, when the Danes defeated our men.'

'Were you there?' I asked, still feeling faint.

'Yes,' Edgar replied, 'with the Saxon levies and armed with my hunting bow. It was useless. We were betrayed by one of our own leaders and I was lucky to get away with my life. If the waters of the well had been able to warn us about traitors, I would have slit his throat for him, for all that he was an ealdor-man.'

I hardly heard what Edgar was saying because, as my head cleared, I was trying to puzzle out what could have caused my vision.

Then, in a sudden flash of comprehension, I understood: I was sensitive to the spirit world not only when in the company of someone who also possessed the second sight, but by place. If I found myself where the veil between the real world and the spirit world is thin, then I would respond to the presence of mysterious forces. Like a wisp of grass which bends to the unseen wind, long before a human feels it on his skin, I would pick up the emanations of the otherworld. The realisation made me uneasy because I feared that I had no way of knowing whether I was in such a sacred place before another vision overcame me.

It was a week after my vision in the forest and Edgar was in high good humour. 'South wind and a cloudy sky proclaim a hunting morning,' he announced, prodding me with the toe of his shoe as I lay half-asleep among my blanket in the corner of his cottage. He was very fond of his proverbs.

'Time for your first hunt, Thorgils. I've got a feeling that you'll bring us luck.'

It was barely light enough to see by, yet he was already dressed in clothes I had never seen before. He was wearing green from head to toe. I struggled out from under my blanket.

'Here, put these on,' he said, throwing at me in succession a tunic, leggings and a cloak with a soft hood. They were all of green. Mystified, I dressed and followed him out into the cold morning air. Edgar was testing a hunting bow, drawing it back and then releasing it. The bow was painted green too.

'Should I get the dogs?' I asked.

'No, not today. We take only one.'

I said nothing, though I wondered what use it was to have a pack, feed them, clean them, exercise them, and then not use them when you went hunting.

Edgar guessed my thoughts. 'Hunting with a pack is playtime for kings, an entertainment. Today we hunt for meat, not fun. Besides, what we are doing is much more delicate and skilled. So mark my words and follow my instructions carefully. Ah! Here they are,' and he looked towards the burh.

Three green-clad horsemen were riding towards us. One man I did not recognise, though he seemed to be a servant. To my surprise, the other two riders were the huscarls who had accompanied us from London. I still thought of them as One-Hand Tyr and Treeleg. Edgar told me that their true names were Gisli and Kjartan. Both looked in a thoroughly good humour.

'Perfect day for the hunt!' called out Kjartan cheerfully. He was the one missing a hand. 'Got everything ready, Edgar?' They both seemed to be on familiar terms with the royal huntsman.

'Just off to fetch Cabal,' answered Edgar and hurried to the kennel. He returned, leading a dog I had noticed during my unhappy days as a kennelman because it was different from the rest of the pack. This particular dog did not bite or yap, or run around like a maniac. Larger than the others, it was dark brown with a drooping muzzle and a mournful look. It kept to itself and was a steady, quiet, sensible creature. I had almost liked it.

'Mount up!' Edgar said to me. I looked puzzled. I could see no spare horse. There were only three, and each already had a rider. 'Here, lad,' called out Kjartan, leaning down from his saddle and holding out his one remaining hand for me to grasp. It seemed that we were to ride two-up on the animals. Edgar had already sprung up on the saddle behind the servant. One thing about hunting, I thought to myself as I scrambled up behind the huscarl and grabbed him round the waist to steady myself, it's a great leveller — it makes huntsman, huscarl, servant and former kennelman all equal.

'Never been hunting like this before?' Kjartan asked me over his shoulder. He spoke kindly and was obviously looking forward to the day's events. I wondered how he could go hunting when he lacked a hand. He could not pull a bow, and he was not even carrying a spear. His only weapon was a scramsaxe, the long-bladed knife of all trades.

'No, sir,' I replied. 'I've done a bit of hunting on foot, small animals mostly, in the forest. But not from horseback.'

'Well, wait and see,' Kjartan said. 'This will be part on horse and part on foot. Edgar knows what he is doing, so it should be successful. We only have to do what he says, though luck plays a certain part, as well as skill. The red deer are just getting into their fat time. Good eating.' He began humming gently to himself.

We rode into the forest to an area where Edgar and I had recently noted the slots of a red-deer stag and his group of four or five hinds. As we approached the place, the dog, which had been running beside the horses, began to cast back and forth, sniffing the ground and searching. 'Great dog, Cabal, good fellow,' said Kjartan. 'Getting old and a bit stiff in the limbs, but if any dog can find deer, he can. And he never gives up. Great heart.' Another besotted dog lover, I thought to myself, but I had to admire the serious attention that old Cabal was giving to every bush and thicket, running here and there, sniffing. From time to time he halted and put his great muzzle up into the air, trying to catch the faintest whiff of scent.

'There!' said Kjartan quietly. He had been watching Cabal and the dog had dropped his muzzle very close to the ground and was moving forward through the forest, clearly tracking a quarry. 'Silent as he should be,' grunted Kjartan approvingly. When I failed to appreciate the compliment for the dog, he went on, 'Most dogs start to bark or whine when they catch the scent of deer, but not old Cabal. Specially trained to stay silent so as not alarm the quarry.'

We had slowed our horses to the gentlest of walks and I noticed that the riders were taking care to make as little noise as possible. Kjartan glanced across at Edgar, and when Edgar signalled with a nod, our little group stopped immediately. The servant dismounted, took Cabal's leash and led the dog quietly to where he could fasten the leash to a sapling. Cabal, still silent, lay contentedly down on the grass and lowered his head on his paws. It seemed his job was done.