Tim Severin - Odinn's Child

'Tell me about Thorvall,' Snorri asked, and I found myself describing the cantankerous old hunter - how he had placed his trust in Thor, and vanished mysteriously, and was believed killed by the Skraelings. Snorri made no comment, except to ask an occasional question that encouraged me to talk further. When I told Snorri about Tyrkir and how I had worked alongside him in the smithy and learned something of the Old Ways, Snorri cross-examined me about Tyrkir's background, what the wizened German had told me of the various Gods and of their different legends, and how the world was formed. Occasionally he asked me to repeat myself. It was difficult to guess what Snorri was thinking, but eventually he stood up and told me to follow him. Without another word, he led me out of the house and across to one of the cattle byres. It was little more than a shed and from the outside looked like a typical cattle stable, except that it was round not oblong, and the roof was higher and rather more steeply pitched than usual. Snorri pushed open the wooden door and closed it behind us when we went in, shutting out the light.

When my eyes had adjusted to the dim interior, I saw that there were no cattle stalls. Instead the building was empty. There was only a bare earth floor and rising from it a circle of wooden poles supporting the steep cone of the roof, with a hole at the apex to let in the light. Then I realised that the poles were not necessary to the structure of the building.

'I built this four years ago when I moved here from my father's home,' Snorri was saying. 'It's a bit smaller than the original, but that does not matter. This does.' He had walked to the centre of the circular earth floor, and I now saw there was a low, round stone, very ancient and almost black, directly under the sky hole. The rock seemed to be natural, and was not carved or shaped in any way. There were irregular bumps and protuberances so that it was slightly misshapen. There was a shallow depression on its upper surface, like a basin.

Snorri walked over casually and picked up something which had been left lying in the basin. It was an arm ring, apparently made of iron and without any markings. Snorri handled its smooth surface, for it was much worn, then slipped it on his right arm, pushing it up just above his elbow. He turned to me. 'This is the priest's ring, the ring of Thor. It was my father's, and it is as precious to me as the cross of the White Christ. I continue to use it because

I know that there are times when Thor and the other Gods can help us here in Tung as they did my father and my grandfather before him.'

He was standing in the shaft of light that came in through the smoke hole so I could see his expression. His voice was utterly matter of fact, not in the least mystical or reverential. 'When Kjartan and the others came to ask my advice about the hauntings I went to the temple and put on the arm ring. Thinking about the hauntings and deaths, it came into my mind that the deaths might have something to do with the bed hangings that your mother left. She had said they were to be burned, but Thorodd, egged on by his wife Thurid, failed to do so. They kept some of the bedlinen, and somehow that brought the deaths and sickness. So I ordered that every last scrap of linen, sheets, hangings, drapery, everything, should be taken down and committed to the flames, and when that happened the sickness and death stopped. That is how Thor helped me to understand.'

'And did that stop the hauntings also? Was my mother ever seen again?' I enquired.

'Your mother's fetch was never seen again. The other hauntings ended when the White Christ priests went to the house and held a service to drive out the draugars and ghosts they like to call godless demons,' Snorri told me. 'They knew their job well enough to perform the matter correctly in the old way. The ghosts were summoned to appear and stand trial, just like in a law court, and told to leave the house. One by one the ghosts came, and each promised to return to the land of the dead. If the Christians believe that the White Christ himself appeared as a draugar after his death, then it is not so difficult to believe in ghosts that rise up through the floor as seals.'

Snorri slid the ring of Thor off his arm and replaced it on top of the altar.

'What made Thorvall and Tyrkir take so much trouble to teach you about the Old Ways?' he asked.

'They began after I became a uniped,' I said, and explained how my childish game had led them to believe that I could spirit-fly.

'So it seems that, like your mother, you do have seidr powers. That's how it usually is. The gift passes down through the family,' Snorri commented.

'Yes, but Tyrkir said that my spirit, my inner self, should also be able to leave my body and travel through space to see what is happening in other places. But that has never happened. It is just that at times I see people or places in a way that others do not.'

'When was the last time?' Snorri asked quietly.

I hesitated because it had been very recently. On the way to Tung I had stayed overnight at a large farm called Karstad. The farmer had been away when I called at the door and his wife had answered. I had explained that I was walking to Tung and asked if I could sleep the night in a corner of the main hall. The farmer's wife was old-fashioned; for her a stranger on the road was always to be given shelter, and she had put me with the household servants, who had provided me with a wooden bowl of sour whey and a lump of bread. Shortly before dusk the farmer had come in, and I was puzzled to see when he took off his cloak that the left side of his shirt was heavily soaked with fresh blood. But instead of enquiring what was the matter, his wife ignored the bright red stain and proceeded as if everything was normal. She produced the evening meal and her husband sat at the table, eating and drinking as if nothing was the matter. After the meal he walked over to be nearer the fire, pulled up a bench and began mending some horse harness. As he walked across the room, he came right past me where I was seated, and I could not keep my eyes off his bloodstained shirt. The gore still glistened. 'You see it too?' asked a thin, cracked voice. The questioner was so close that I jumped with fright. Turning, I found that an old woman had seated herself beside me and was looking at me with rheumy eyes. She had the mottled skin of the very elderly. 'I'm his mother,' the old woman said, nodding towards the farmer, 'but he won't listen to me.'

'I'm sorry, I'm a stranger,' I replied. 'What won't he listen to?'

I expected to hear the usual ramblings of an aged mother about her grown-up son, and I was preparing to invent some sort of an excuse — that I needed to visit the latrine — so that I could avoid this crazy old crone, when she went on, 'I've warned him that he will be hurt and hurt badly.'

Suddenly I felt giddy. Did she mean that she also saw how the man was bleeding heavily? And why had she spoken in the future tense? The blood seemed real enough to me.

I glanced across at the farmer. He was still unconcerned, pushing the awl through a broken horse harness. His shirt was sticking to his side it was so wet with blood. 'Why doesn't he take off the shirt so someone can attend the wound and staunch the bleeding?' I said in a low voice.

She laid a withered hand on my wrist and held tight. 'I knew you could see,' she said fiercely. 'I've been watching your face just as I've been watching that stain on his shirt for nearly three years past and still he won't listen to my warning. I told him to kill the creature, but he hasn't done so.'

This did not make sense, and I began to revert to my idea that the old woman was addled. 'Haven't you heard it?' she enquired, still holding me with her claw of a hand, thrusting her head forward until it was only a few inches from my face.