Читать книгу Kama - Terese Brasen - Страница 16

LAST DAY KIEV 934 CE

The darkness had deepened, and the cycle of time brought the city to the longest night of Year 934. The Norse people knew the world was much older than the sun and the moon. The earth had formed out of the great emptiness, when the fire world met the cold frozen north. Fire on ice. The melting ice had become Ymir, the giant, father of all giants. And from Ymir’s body, the world had formed, Ymir’s flesh becoming the soil, his bones the mountains and stones, his hair the grasses, and his blood the sea. His skull formed the sky, his brain the clouds. Later on the gods had created time, sending sun and moon in chariots across the heavens. With each moon, the sun would plummet deeper into the darkness below Middle Earth. Like Odin, the god of poetry, the sun craved quiet and darkness and would rise only briefly each day to warm and brighten the earth.

Silver and goldsmiths had fashioned chariots to remind the Norse people of the gifts of sun and time. A chariot stood outside the Big House. Taller than Kama, it showed two horses pulling a bronze sun. The chariot’s wheels had four gold spokes to remind earth dwellers of the endless cycle of seasons, turning winter to spring, summer to fall, year after year.

That night, the last day of 934, the doors to the great hall inside the Big House were thrown open to everyone. Torches glowed throughout the room. Mead was on every table, and in the very center of the hall boars roasted on spits, their mouths stuffed with prunes, their meat spitting grease into the flames. Pine branches hung on posts, brought inside to remind the townsfolk that life would return to the icy city. The fields would become green again. Flowers would bloom. The evergreen scented the room, mingling with the aroma of roast boar and the yeasty smell of mead.

Kama was with Inga. They shared a table with several men, including a man named Bjorn with a square face and blonde beard. “Kama,” she said, introducing herself, “daughter of Sigtrygg, son of King Gnupa and Astrid the Dane.” Kama gave all the details, just in case this man knew about Sigtrygg, the mighty chief who had just died.

“Quite a mouthful,” Bjorn smirked. “My father was Eric the two-time loser. Left Dane land because he couldn’t make a go of it in the city. Moved to Sweden but couldn’t make a go of it there either.” Bjorn raised his mead to his lips and turned back to his comrades, entertaining them now with stories of Christians, how he and his fellow Vikings had attacked them at sea. "We tossed their holy books into the sea and very nearly tossed them. But they’re persistent bastards. Half a year later, they arrived in Birka on foot, ready to convert us all."

Across from Bjorn sat another berserker. Black grit stuck to his teeth. Dirt darkened his fingernails. His long stringy hair would break any comb. Bjorn’s neighbor was having a private conversation with his mead. He had a gray sallow look and the smell of clothes that never got washed. “So she goes off to Norway,” his neighbor went on, speaking to the group now. “I wrote all these songs. You should hear some of them. They would make you cry.” Bjorn jumped in before the singing could, but his neighbor had already begun crying in his mead as he mourned the loss of the one woman stupid enough to keep him company.

Then the bard began.

"We have heard of the thriving of the throne of Dane land," he said, a chorus of men banging their shields lightly—a rhythmic clapping that drew everyone's attention to the front of the hall. Noisy voices quieted, until the entire hall was watching the small man with a large voice. The bard's skin was leathery and dark, tanned from crossing the land by sleigh, horses pulling him into the wind. He was a traveler, his clothes collected from other lands, red pants and a fur-lined vest, birds painted on the dark suede. His shoes were cloth with bells on pointed toes, treasures from far beyond Constantinople. His voice was like a horn sounding, and soon onlookers were beating the tables to the rhythm.

We have heard of the thriving of the throne

of Dane land

How the folk kings flourished in former days,

How those royal kings earned that glory.

Was it not Godfred who sacked the halls

Torched the mead benches and taught

encroaching foes to fear him?

That was good king.

Around the hall, women nursed their children to sleep. Younger children played hide and seek, their shrieks of joy interrupting the storytelling. Kama knew the story of Godfred the Famous. People said he had been so big and powerful no one could match him. He had been an exceptionally able ruler and warrior who rose early every morning to supervise his men and oversee his ships and fortresses.

The story of Godfred was just a beginning. Soon the bard took a torch from its stand and held it close to his face. The light cast shadows over loose skin. His cheeks drooped with sadness. The torchlight reflected off the bard's gray eyes, so his eyes shone like silver mirrors. With fire in hand, he moved through the hall. His voice boomed as he began a new unheard story of Henry the Fowler sailing north with his army, over the North Sea, arriving in Dane land one stormy night. The bard's voice woke sleeping children. Cries ripped through the hall. Fear breathed through the hall's semi-darkness.

That night, Kama learned that Hedeby was in flames. The Saxons had invaded the distant city and pushed back the Danes and Swedes. The enemy had arrived, 300 ships in all. The Danish king Gnupa had sounded the attack, but the onslaught was fierce, and the dead piled up so thickly that the victors could walk across the corpses to the great wall, the Dannevirke. They had built a huge pyre on top of it, and when it was ablaze, they had used long pitchforks to hurl the burning timbers down into the town.

In the great hall that night, the evening of celebration had turned solemn. Torches burned but the banging of fists and swords subsided. Kama sat in disbelief. She wanted someone to tell her she had heard wrong. All she had now was Hedeby, and now that home was gone too.

Then came the piercing sound of the horn flute, fingers dancing, sending melodies through the room. Many joined in with deep-throated sounds full of both hope and lament. Others swayed to the music, young girls circling their heads, swinging their hair all too close to the fires. Kama covered herself in her fur and exited through a side door, almost tripping over bodies lying face down in the snow, young men unaccustomed to bottomless pints of mead. It was a new year but there was still no visible sign of the returning sun. Stars watched over her as she followed her well-worn path along the stones to the townhouse, her feet finding their way despite the darkness. The familiar steps belied the fact that nothing was normal anymore.