Tim Severin - Odinn's Child

Late one evening, when the butt of the shaft was finished, neatly flattened across the base and precisely squared on each of its corners ready to be dropped into its socket on the base, Saer Credine cut some marks which puzzled me — they looked like scratches, twenty or thirty of them. He made them after the other workmen had left, and he must have thought himself unobserved when he took his chisel and lightly chipped the lines across one of the corners. He made the marks so delicately that they could hardly be seen. Indeed, once the shaft was set into its socket hole the lines would be buried. Had I not observed him doing the work, I would not have known where to look, but I glimpsed him stooping over the stone, fine chisel in hand. When he had gone home I went to where he had been working and tried to puzzle out what he had been doing. The lines were certainly nothing that the abb and his monks had ordered. At first I thought they might be rune writing, but they were not. The lines were much simpler than the runes with which I was familiar. They were straight scratches, some long, some short, some in small clusters and several at a slant. They had been cut so that some were on one face of the squared-off stone, others on the adjacent face, and a few actually straddled both faces. I was completely baffled. After gazing at them for some time, I wondered if I was missing any hidden details. I tried running my fingertips over the scratches and could feel the marks, but they still made no sense. From the ashes of the midday cooking fire, I took a lump of charcoal and, laying a strip of cloth over the corner of the shaft, I rubbed the charcoal on the cloth to reproduce the pattern on the material. I had peeled the cloth away from the stone and laid it out flat on the ground so that I could kneel down and study it, when I became aware of someone watching me. Standing in the shelter of one of the monks' huts was Saer Credine. He had not gone back to his house, which was his usual custom, but must have returned to check on the final details for the stone shaft which was to be erected next day.

'What are you doing?' he demanded as he walked towards me. I had never heard him so gruff before. It was too late to hide the marked strip of cloth as I scrambled to my feet.

'I was trying to understand the marks on the cross shaft,' I stammered. I could feel my face going bright red.

'What do you mean "understand"?' the stonemason growled.

'I thought it was some sort of rune writing,' I confessed.

Saer Credine seemed surprised as well as doubtful. 'You know rune writing?' he asked. I nodded. 'Come with me,' he stated bluntly and set off at a brisk walk, crossing the slope of the hill to the site where many of the monks had been buried, as well as visitors who had died on pilgrimage to the holy place. The hillside was dotted with their memorial stones. But it was not a monk's last resting place that interested Saer Credine. He stopped in front of a low, flat, marker stone, set deep in the ground. Its upper surface had been carved with symbols.

'What does that say?' he demanded. I did not hesitate with my reply. The inscription was uncomplicated and whoever had cut it used a simple, plain form of the futhark. 'In the memory of Ingjald,' I replied and then ventured an opinion, 'he was probably a Norseman or a Gael who died while he was visiting the monastery.'

'Most of the Norse who came to visit this place didn't get a memorial stone,' the stonemason grunted. 'They came upriver in their longships to plunder the place and usually burned it to the ground, except for the stone buildings, that is.'

I said nothing, but stood waiting to see what my master would do next. It was in Saer Credine's power to have me severely punished for touching the cross shaft. A mere slave, and a heathen at that, who touched the abb's precious monument could merit a whipping.

'So where did you learn the runes?' Saer Credine asked.

'In Iceland and before that in Greenland and in a place called Vinland,' I replied. 'I had good teachers, so I learned several forms, old and new, and some of the variant letters.'

'So I have an assistant who can read and write, at least in his own way,' said the stonemason wonderingly. He seemed satisfied with my explanation, and walked back with me to where his great cross shaft lay on its trestles. Picking up the nub of charcoal I had left behind, he searched for a flat piece of wood, then shaved a straight edge with his chisel.

'I know a few of the rune signs, and I've often wondered whether the runes and my own writing are related. But I've never had a chance to compare them.' He made a series of charcoal marks along its edge. 'Now you,' he said, handing me the wooden stick and the charcoal. 'Those are the letters I and my forebears have used through the generations. You write your letters, your futhark or whatever you call it.'

Directly above my master's marks I scratched out the futhark that Tyrkir had taught me so long ago. As the letters formed I could see that they bore no resemblance to the stonemason's writing. The shapes of my runes were much more complicated, cut at angles and sometimes turning back on themselves. Also there were several more of them than the number of Saer Credine's letters. When I had finished copying, I handed the stick back to Saer Credine and he shook his head.

'Ogmius himself could not read that,' he said.

'Ogmius?' It was a name I had not heard before.

'He's also called Honey Mouth or Sun Face. Depends who you are talking to. He's got several names, but he's always the God of writing,' he said, 'He taught mankind how to write. Which is why we call our script the ogham.'

'It was Odinn who acquired the secret of writing, according to my instructors, so perhaps that is why the two systems are different,' I ventured. 'Two different Gods, two different scripts.' Our conversation made me feel bolder. 'What is it that you wrote on the cross shaft?' I asked.

'My name and the name of my father and my grandfather,' he replied. 'It has always been the custom of my family. We carve the scenes that men like Abb Aidan decide for us, and we take pride in such work and we do it as well as our gifts allow. But in the end our loyalty goes back much farther, to those who gave the skill to our hands and who would take away that skill if we did not pay proper respect. So that is why we leave our mark as Ogmius taught. The day that this cross is set in the foundation stone I will leave him a small offering beneath the shaft in thanks.'

Saer Credine gave me no hint of what he must have decided that evening when he learned that I could read and write the runes.

Three days later I received word that Brother Senesach wanted to speak with me. I knew Brother Senesach by sight and reputation. He was a genial and vigorous man, perhaps in his fifties. I had seen him frequently, striding around the monastery grounds, ruddy-faced and always with an air of unhurried purpose. I knew that he was in charge of the education of the younger monks, and that he was popular with them on account of his good nature and his obvious concern for their well-being.

'Come in,' Senesach called out as I paused nervously at the doorway of his little cell. He lived in a small hut made of wattle and daub and furnished with a desk, a writing stool and a palliasse.

'Our master stonemason tells me that you can read and write, and that you take an interest in your surroundings.' He looked at me keenly, noting my ragged shift and the marks left on my wrists by the manacles from Clontarf. 'He also says that you are hardworking and good with your hands, and suggested that you might one day become a valuable member of our community. What do you think?'

I was so surprised that I could scarcely think what to reply.

'It's not only the sons of the well-to-do who join us,' Senesach went on. 'In fact we have a tradition of encouraging young men of talent. With their skills they often contribute more to our community than the material gifts which the richer recruits bring.'