CHAPTER VI
HOW OLAF FOUGHT WITH ODIN
It was the eve of the Spring Feast of Odin. It comes back to me that
at this feast it was the custom to sacrifice some beast to Odin and to
lay flowers and other offerings upon the altars of certain other gods
that they might be pleased to grant a fruitful season. On this day,
however, the sacrifice was to be of no beast, but of a man--Steinar
the traitor.
That night I, Olaf, by the help of Freydisa, the priestess of the god,
won entrance to the dungeon where Steinar lay awaiting his doom. This
was not easy to do. Indeed, I remember that it was only after I had
sworn a great oath to Leif and the other priests that I would attempt
no rescue of the victim, nor aid him to escape from his prison, that I
was admitted there, while armed men stood without to see that I did
not break my word. For my love of Steinar was known, and in this
matter none trusted me.
That dungeon was a dreadful place. I see it now. In the floor of the
temple was a trap-door, which, when lifted, revealed a flight of
steps. At the foot of these steps was another massive door of oak,
bolted and barred. It was opened and closed behind me, who found
myself in a darksome den built of rough stone, to which air came only
through an opening in the roof, so small that not even a child could
pass it. In the far corner of this hole, bound to the wall by an iron
chain fastened round his middle, Steinar lay upon a bed of rushes,
while on a stool beside him stood food and water. When I entered,
bearing a lamp, Steinar sat up blinking his eyes, for the light,
feeble as it was, hurt them, and I saw that his face was white and
drawn, and the hand he held to shade his eyes was wasted. I looked at
him and my heart swelled with pity, so that I could not speak.
"Why have you come here, Olaf?" asked Steinar when he knew me. "Is it
to take my life? If so, never were you more welcome."
"No, Steinar, it is to bid you farewell, since to-morrow at the feast
you die, and I am helpless to save you. In all things else men will
obey me, but not in this."
"And would you save me if you could?"
"Aye, Steinar. Why not? Surely you must suffer enough with so much
blood and evil on your hands."
"Yes, I suffer enough, Olaf. So much that I shall be glad to die. But
if you are not come to kill me, then it is that you may scourge me
with your tongue."
"Not so, Steinar. It is as I have said, only to bid you farewell and
to ask you a question, if it pleases you to answer me. Why did you do
this thing which has brought about such misery and loss, which has
sent my father, my brother, and a host of brave men to the grave, and
with them my mother, whose breasts nursed you?"
"Is she dead also, Olaf? Oh! my cup is full." He hid his eyes in his
thin hands and sobbed, then went on: "Why did I do it? Olaf, I did not
do it, but some spirit that entered into me and made me mad--mad for
the lips of Iduna the Fair. Olaf, I would speak no ill of her, since
her sin is mine, but yet it is true that when I hung back she drew me
on, nor could I find the strength to say her nay. Do you pray the
gods, Olaf, that no woman may ever draw you on to such shame as mine.
Hearken now to the great reward that I have won. I was never wed to
Iduna, Olaf. Athalbrand would not suffer it till he was sure of the
matter of the lordship of Agger. Then, when he knew that this was gone
from me, he would suffer it still less, and Iduna herself seemed to
grow cold. In truth, I believe he thought of killing me and sending my
head as a present to your father Thorvald. But this Iduna forbade,
whether because she loved me or for other reasons, I cannot say. Olaf,
you know the rest."
"Aye, Steinar, I know the rest. Iduna is lost to me, and for that
perhaps I should thank you, although such a thrust as this leaves the
heart sore for life. My father, my mother, my brother--all are lost to
me, and you, too, who were as my twin, are about to be lost. Night has
you all, and with you a hundred other men, because of the madness that
was bred in you by the eyes of Iduna the Fair, who also is lost to
both of us. Steinar, I do not blame you, for I know yours was a
madness which, for their own ends, the gods send upon men, naming it
love. I forgive you, Steinar, if I have aught to forgive, and I tell
you, so weary am I of this world, which I feel holds little that is
good, that, if I might, I'd yield up my life instead of yours, and go
to seek the others, though I doubt whether I should find them, since I
think that our roads are different. Hark! the priests call me.
Steinar, there's no need to bid you to be brave, for who of our
Northern race is not? That's our one heritage: the courage of a bull.
Yet it seems to me that there are other sorts of courage which we
lack: to tread the dark ways of death with eyes fixed on things
gentler and better than we know. Pray to our gods, Steinar, since they
are the best we have to pray to, though dark and bloody in their ways;
pray that we may meet again, where priests and swords are not and
women work no ruin, where we may love as we once loved in childhood
and there is no more sin. Fare you well, my brother Steinar, yet not
for ever, for sure I am that here we did not begin and here we shall
not end. Oh! Steinar, Steinar, who could have dreamed that this would
be the last of all our happy fellowship?"
When I had spoken such words as these to him, I flung my arms about
him, and we embraced each other. Then that picture fades.
It was the hour of sacrifice. The victim lay bound upon the stone in
the presence of the statue of the god, but outside of the doors of the
little temple, that all who were gathered there might see the
offering.
The ceremonies were ended. Leif, the head priest, in his robe of
office, had prayed and drunk the cup before the god, dedicating to him
the blood that was about to fall, and narrating in a chant the crimes
for which it was offered up and all the tale of woe that these had
brought about. Then, in the midst of an utter silence, he drew the
sacrificial sword and held it to the lips of Odin that the god might
breathe upon it and make it holy.
It would seem that the god did breathe; at least, that side of the
sword which had been bright grew dull. Leif turned it to the people,
crying in the ancient words:
"Odin takes; who dare deny?"
All eyes were fixed upon him, standing in his black robe, and holding
aloft the gleaming sword that had grown dull. Yes, even the patient
eyes of Steinar, bound upon the stone.
Then it was that some spirit stirred in my heart which drove me on to
step between the priest and his prey. Standing in the doorway of the
chapel, a tall, young shape against the gloom behind, I said in a
steady voice:
"I dare deny!"
A gasp of wonderment went up from all who heard, and Steinar, lifting
himself a little from the stone, stared at me, shook his head as if in
dissent, then let it fall again, and listened.
"Hearken, friends," I said. "This man, my foster-brother, has
committed a sin against me and my House. My House is dead--I alone
remain; and on behalf of the dead and of myself I forgive him his sin,
which, indeed, was less his than another's. Is there any man among you
who at some time has not been led aside by woman, or who has not again
and again desired to be so led aside? If such a one there be, let him
say that he has no forgiveness in his heart for Steinar, the son of
Hakon. Let him come forward and say it."
None stirred; even the women drooped their heads and were silent.
"Then, if this is so," I went on, "and you can forgive, as I do, how
much more should a god forgive? What is a god? Is he not one greater
than man, who must know all the weakness of man, which, for his own
ends, he has bred into the flesh of man? How, then, can he do
otherwise than be pitiful to what he has created? If this be so, how
can the god refuse that which men are willing to grant, and what
sacrifice can please him better than the foregoing of his own
vengeance? Would a god wish to be outdone by a man? If I, Olaf, the
man can forgive, who have been wronged, how much more can Odin the god
forgive, who has suffered no wrong save that of the breaking of those
laws which will ever be broken by men who are as it has pleased him to
fashion them? On Odin's behalf, therefore, and speaking as he would
speak, could he have voice among us, I demand that you set this victim
free, leaving it to his own heart to punish him."
Now, some whom my simple words had touched, I suppose because there
was truth in them, although in those days and in that land none
understood such truths, and others, because they had known and loved
the open-handed Steinar, who would have given the cloak from his back
to the meanest of them, cried:
"Aye, let him go free. There has been enough of death through this
Iduna."
But more stood silent, lost in doubt at this new doctrine. Only Leif,
my uncle, did not stand silent. His dark face began to work as though
a devil possessed him, as, indeed, I think one did. His eyes rolled;
he champed his jaws like an angry hog, and screamed:
"Surely the lord Olaf is mad, for no sane man would talk thus. Man may
forgive while it is within his power; but this traitor has been
dedicated to Odin, and can a god forgive? Can a god spare when his
nostrils are opened for the smell of blood? If so, of what use is it
to be a god? How is he happier than a man if he must spare? Moreover,
would ye bring the curse of Odin upon you all? I say to you--steal his
sacrifice, and you yourselves shall be sacrificed, you, your wives,
your children, aye, and even your cattle and the fruit of your
fields."
When they heard this, the people groaned and shouted out:
"Let Steinar die! Kill him! Kill him that Odin may be fed!"
"Aye," answered Leif, "Steinar shall die. See, he dies!"
Then, with a leap like to that of a hungry wolf, he sprang upon the
bound man and slew him.
I see it now. The rude temple, the glaring statue of the god, the
gathered crowd, open mouthed and eyed, the spring sunshine shining
quietly over all, and, running past the place, a ewe calling to the
lamb that it had lost; I see the dying Steinar turn his white face,
and smile a farewell to me with his fading eyes; I see Leif getting to
his horrible rites that he might learn the omen, and lastly I see the
red sword of the Wanderer appear suddenly between me and him, and in
my hand. I think that my purpose was to cut him down. Only a thought
arose within me.
This priest was not to blame. He did no more than he had been taught.
Who taught him? The god he served, through whom he gained honour and
livelihood. So the god was to blame, the god that drank the blood of
men, as a thrall drinks ale, to satisfy his filthy appetite. Could
such a monster be a god? Nay, he must be a devil, and why should free
men serve devils? At least, I would not. I would cast him off, and let
him avenge himself upon me if he could. I, Olaf, would match myself
against this god--or devil.
I strode past Leif and the altar to where the statue of Odin sat
within the temple.
"Hearken!" I said in such a voice that all lifted their eyes from the
scene of butchery to me. "You believe in Odin, do you not?"
They answered "Aye."
"Then you believe that he can revenge himself upon one who rejects and
affronts him?"
"Aye," they answered again.
"If this be so," I went on, "will you swear to leave the matter
between Odin and me, Olaf, to be settled according to the law of
single combat, and give peace to the victor, with promise from all
harm save at the hands of his foe?"
"Aye," they answered, yet scarcely understanding what they said.
"Good!" I cried. "Now, God Odin, I, Olaf, a man, challenge you to
single combat. Strike you first, you, Odin, whom I name Devil and Wolf
of the skies, but no god. Strike you first, bloody murderer, and kill
me, if you can, who await your stroke!"
Then I folded my arms and stared at the statue's stony eyes, which
stared back at me, while all the people gasped.
For a full minute I waited thus, but all that happened was that a wren
settled on the head of Odin and twittered there, then flew off to its
nest in the thatch.
"Now," I cried, "you have had your turn, and mine comes."
I drew the Wanderer's sword, and sprang at Odin. My first stroke sunk
up to the hilt in his hollow belly; my next cut the sceptre from his
hand; my third--a great one--hewed the head from off him. It came
rattling down, and out of it crawled a viper, which reared itself up
and hissed. I set my heel upon the reptile's head and crushed it, and
slowly it writhed itself to death.
"Now, good folk," I cried, "what say you of your god Odin?"
They answered nothing, for all of them were in flight. Yes, even Leif
fled, cursing me over his shoulder as he went.
Presently I was alone with the dead Steinar and the shattered god, and
in that loneliness strange visions came to me, for I felt that I had
done a mighty deed, one that made me happy. Round the wall of the
temple crept a figure; it was that of Freydisa, whose face was white
and scared.
"You are a great man, Olaf," she said; "but how will it end?"
"I do not know," I answered. "I have done what my heart told me,
neither more nor less, and I bide the issue. Odin shall have his
chance, for here I stay till dark, and then, if I live, I leave this
land. Go, get me all the gold that is mine from the hall, and bring it
here to me by moonrise, and with it some garments and my armour. Bring
me also my best horse."
"You leave this land?" she said. "That means that you leave me, who
love you, to go forth as the Wanderer went--following a dream to the
South. Well, it is best that you should go, for whatever they have
promised you but now, it is sure that the priests will kill you, even
if you escape the vengeance of the god." And she looked askance at the
shattered statue which had sat in its place for so many generations
that none knew who had set it there, or when.
"I have killed the god," I answered, pointing to the crushed viper.
"Not quite, Olaf, for, see, its tail still moves."
Then she went, leaving me alone. I sat myself down by the murdered
Steinar, and stared at him. Could he be really dead, I wondered, or
did he live on elsewhere? My faith had taught me of a place called
Valhalla where brave men went, but in that faith and its gods I
believed no more. This Valhalla was but a child's tale, invented by a
bloody-minded folk who loved slaughter. Wherever Steinar and the
others were, it was not in Valhalla. Then, perhaps, they slept like
the beasts do after these have been butchered. Perhaps death was the
end of all. It might be so, and yet I did not believe it. There were
other gods besides Odin and his company, for what were those which we
had found in the Wanderer's tomb? I longed to know.
Yes, I would go south, as the Wanderer went, and search for them.
Perhaps there in the South I should learn the secret truth--and other
things.
I grew weary of these thoughts of gods who could not be found, or who,
if found, were but devils. My mind went back to my childhood's days,
when Steinar and I played together on the meads, before any woman had
come to wreck our lives. I remembered how we used to play until we
were weary, and how at nights I would tell him tales that I had
learned or woven, until at length we sank to sleep, our arms about
each other's necks. My heart grew full of sorrow that in the end broke
from my eyes in tears. Yes, I wept over Steinar, my brother Steinar,
and kissed his cold and gory lips.
The evening gathered, the twilight grew, and, one by one, the stars
sprang out in the quiet sky, till the moon appeared and gathered all
their radiance to herself. I heard the sound of a woman's dress, and
looked up, thinking to see Freydisa. But this woman was not Freydisa;
it was Iduna! Yes, Iduna's self!
I rose to my feet and stood still. She also stood still, on the
farther side of the stone of sacrifice whereon that which had been
Steinar was stretched between us. Then came a struggle of silence, in
which she won at last.
"Have you come to save him?" I asked. "If so, it is too late. Woman,
behold your work."
She shook her beautiful head and answered, almost in a whisper:
"Nay, Olaf, I am come to beg a boon of you: that you will slay me,
here and now."
"Am I a butcher--or a priest?" I muttered.
"Oh, slay me, slay me, Olaf!" she went on, throwing herself upon her
knees before me, and rending open her blue robe that her young breast
might take the sword. "Thus, perchance, I, who love life, may pay some
of the price of sin, who, if I slew myself, would but multiply the
debt, which in truth I dare not do."
Still I shook my head, and once more she spoke:
"Olaf, in this way or in that doubtless my end will find me, for, if
you refuse this office, there are others of sterner stuff. The knife
that smote Steinar is not blunted. Yet, before I die, who am come here
but to die, I pray you hear the truth, that my memory may be somewhat
less vile to you in the after years. Olaf, you think me the falsest of
the false, yet I am not altogether so. Hark you now! At the time that
Steinar sought me, some madness took him. So soon as we were alone
together, his first words were: 'I am bewitched. I love you.'
"Olaf, I'll not deny that his worship stirred my blood, for he was
goodly--well, and different to you, with your dreaming eyes and
thoughts that are too deep for me. And yet, by my breath, I swear that
I meant no harm. When we rode together to the ship, it was my purpose
to return upon the morrow and be made your wife. But there upon the
ship my father compelled me. It was his fancy that I should break with
you and be wed to Steinar, who had become so great a lord and who
pleased him better than you did, Olaf. And, as for Steinar--why, have
I not told you that he was mad for me?"
"Steinar's tale was otherwise, Iduna. He said that you went first, and
that he followed."
"Were those his words, Olaf? For, if so, how can I give the dead the
lie, and one who died through me? It seems unholy. Yet in this matter
Steinar had no reason left to him and, whether you believe me or no, I
tell the truth. Oh! hear me out, for who knows when they will come to
take me, who have walked into this nest of foes that I may be taken?
Pray as I would, the ship was run out, and we sailed for Lesso. There,
in my father's hall, upon my knees, I entreated him to hold his hand.
I told him what was true: that, of you twain, it was you I loved, not
Steinar. I told him that if he forced this marriage, war would come of
it that might mean all our deaths. But these things moved him nothing.
Then I told him that such a deed of shame would mean the loss of
Steinar's lordship, so that by it he would gain no profit. At last he
listened, for this touched him near. You know the rest. Thorvald, your
father, and Ragnar, who ever hated me, pressed on the war despite all
our offerings of peace. So the ships met, and Hela had her fill."
"Aye, Iduna, whatever else is false, this is true, that Hela had her
fill."
"Olaf, I have but one thing more to say. It is this: Only once did
those dead lips touch mine, and then it was against my will. Aye,
although it is shameful, you must learn the truth. My father held me,
Olaf, while I took the betrothal kiss, because I must. But, as you
know, there was no marriage."
"Aye, I know that," I said, "because Steinar told me so."
"And, save for that one kiss, Olaf, I am still the maid whom once you
loved so well."
Now I stared at her. Could this woman lie so blackly over dead
Steinar's corpse? When all was said and done, was it not possible that
she spoke the truth, and that we had been but playthings in the hands
of an evil Fate? Save for some trifling error, which might be forgiven
to one who, as she said, loved the worship that was her beauty's due,
what if she were innocent, after all?
Perhaps my face showed the thoughts that were passing through my mind.
At the least, she who knew me well found skill to read them. She crept
towards me, still on her knees; she cast her arms about me, and,
resting her weight upon me, drew herself to her feet.
"Olaf," she whispered, "I love you, I love you well, as I have always
done, though I may have erred a little, as women wayward and still
unwed are apt to do. Olaf, they told me yonder how you had matched
yourself against the god, with his priests for judges, and smitten
him, and I thought this the greatest deed that ever I have known. I
used to think you something of a weakling, Olaf, not in your body but
in your mind, one lost in music and in runes, who feared to put things
to the touch of war; but you have shown me otherwise. You slew the
bear; you overcame Steinar, who was so much stronger than you are, in
the battle of the ships; and now you have bearded Odin, the All-
father. Look, his head lies there, hewn off by you for the sake of one
who, after all, had done you wrong. Olaf, such a deed as that touches
a woman's heart, and he who does it is the man she would wish to lie
upon her breast and be her lord. Olaf, all this evil past may yet be
forgotten. We might go and live elsewhere for awhile, or always, for
with your wisdom and my beauty joined together what could we not
conquer? Olaf, I love you now as I have never loved before, cannot you
love me again?"
Her arms clung about me; her beautiful blue eyes, shimmering with
moonlit tears, held my eyes, and my heart melted beneath her breath as
winter snows melt in the winds of spring. She saw, she understood; she
cast herself upon me, shaking her long hair over both of us, and
seeking my lips. Almost she had found them, when, feeling something
hard between me and her, something that hurt me, I looked down. Her
cloak had slipped or been thrown aside, and my eye caught the glint of
gold and jewels. In an instant I remembered--the Wanderer's necklace
and the dream--and with those memories my heart froze again.
"Nay, Iduna," I said, "I loved you well; there's no man will ever love
you more, and you are very fair. Whether you speak true words or
false, I do not know; it is between you and your own spirit. But this
I do know: that betwixt us runs the river of Steinar's blood, aye, and
the blood of Thorvald, my father, of Thora, my mother, of Ragnar, my
brother, and of many another man who clung to us, and that is a stream
which I cannot cross. Find you another husband, Iduna the Fair, since
never will I call you wife."
She loosed her arms from round me, and, lifting them again, unclasped
the Wanderer's necklace from about her breast.
"This it is," she said, "which has brought all these evils on me. Take
it back again, and, when you find her, give it to that one for whom it
is meant, that one whom you love truly, as, whatever you may have
thought, you never have loved me."
Then she sank upon the ground, and resting her golden head upon dead
Steinar's breast, she wept.
I think it was then that Freydisa returned; at least, I recall her
tall form standing near the stone of sacrifice, gazing at us both, a
strange smile on her face.
"Have you withstood?" she said. "Then, truly, you are in the way of
victory and have less to fear from woman than I thought. All things
are ready as you commanded, my lord Olaf, and there remains but to say
farewell, which you had best do quickly, for they plot your death
yonder."
"Freydisa," I answered, "I go, but perchance I shall return again.
Meanwhile, all I have is yours, with this charge. Guard you yonder
woman, and see her safe to her home, or wherever she would go, and to
Steinar here give honourable burial."
Then the darkness of oblivion falls, and I remember no more save the
white face of Iduna, her brow stained with Steinar's life-blood,
watching me as I went.
