Tag Archives: Norse

The Way it Happened

There now, I have chopped off half the winter.’ Traditional tale ending.

Chapter 33: The Way it Happened

The old man sat back in his battered armchair and groaned. ‘Ah, my bones. This cold has made them worse than usual. They ache like a seawife’s heart for her drowned sweetheart.’ Snorri wore a thick Icelandic cardigan, patterned with snowflakes and sunflowers.  His craggy face was like a map of sorrow and hardship, and yet there was a spunk of fire in his eyes beneath the kindling of his eyebrows. In contrast to his stiff, jagged body his hands were mercurial, conjuring gods and monsters out of the air with the simplest of gestures.

Around him in the Harbour Master’s Office, where he had temporarily taken up residence, sleeping in the lighthouse, and running a scratch school in the office while the main school remained closed, were the children of the community, those ‘not too old’ for stories or too young to understand, although some infants lay curled against their mothers, who helped run a makeshift nursery between them. Others had ‘called by’, on some vague errand, and lingered in the doorway, eavesdropping with a mixture of scepticism and amusement.

Snorri’s afternoon story sessions were becoming a popular fixture of the community. In the gulf left by online entertainment folk had taken to making their own again – board games, singalongs, drumming circles, and storytelling.

‘So, nobody wants another story do they? You look tired. Perhaps you should all go home and have a nap…’

‘One more story. Please…!’ cried the children.

He raised his bird-hands in mock defeat. ‘Very well then. Only one more mind. Then it’s hometime. Otherwise I’ll be run out of town, for leading you all into the hillside of tale like some Pied Piper. Which one shall it be? Scary? Sad? Funny?’

‘Tell us about the end of the world again!’ someone cried, and others joined in, echoing the sentiment.

Snorri laughed, stroking his fox-like beard. ‘The one I told yesterday? And the day before that? Ah, you have appetites worse than Thor! Y’know, once he dressed up as a woman to fool the king of the Frost Giants and win back his hammer, Mjolnir. Thrym liked the look of this fine figure of a woman – bearded and bicepped – so much he decided to marry her. At the wedding feast Thor ate a whole ox from tail to horn, eight mighty salmon, all the cakes and sweets, and two barrels of mead, which impressed Thrym even more!’ Everyone laughed and Snorri went to get up and leave.

‘Stay! We want our story!’

‘What?’ He smacked his forehead. ‘Plain forgot! My memory! It’s like a Swiss cheese in a colander!’ He settled down again, scanning the eager faces, lit by the candles set up around the room. ‘Very well, then. Let me tell you about the end of the world. This is the way it happened…’

‘Our Eddy, yes! Eddy Leif Redcrow of Gimli, Manitoba! Icerider! He who had crossed the Atlantic Ocean on his iron steed! Friend of giants and foe of demon raiders! He had a difficult job to do! He had to reach Law Rock, the ancient rock in Thingvollr, the crack in the world, where all the laws of Iceland were proclaimed. Why? Because there he had to recite the Runestone given him by his grandfather, my old dear pal, Running Bear, may his spirit be at peace in the arms of the Great Creator. If he could he could bring an end to the war of the gods that had locked the world in an icy embrace. He could bring an end to the end. Unfortunately, between him and his goal there was that loathsome trickster, Loki, and his hellish hordes: wolves! worms! trolls before them! Ice Force shock troops behind! The chasm of the sundered world below!’

The audience gasped in delightful terror.

‘But our hero was not alone! Oh no! He had mighty friends! Odin One Eye, the Allfather, riding his eight-legged steed, Sleipnir! Tear, god of war, who, with one hand could do more damage than a ten men with twenty! Rig, the guardian of Bifrost, blower of the great horn that woke the gods! And the rest of the Raven god’s crew – Will and Way, his powerful brothers! Fearsome Frey! And let us not forget the formidable Fenja, the frost-giant’s daughter who had melted Eddy’s heart! They led the Wild Hunt into battle – the final battle that they would fight! Many others had been lost along the way. It had been a hard road. But soon all would be reunited in Odin’s hall! This was the day foretold by the Weird Sisters! Ragnarok! The twilight of the gods! The world had endured the terrible Fimbul-Winter! Frost giants had walked the Earth, crushing humanity beneath their big boots! The Death Ship, Naglfar, made from the untrimmed nails of the dead, had sailed. The legions of Hel herself had sallied forth, raining down fire on the world! Surt woke up and his breath choked the sky! The Sons of Muspel rode out and nowhere was safe! Even Gimli!’

He looked around at the adults, who now were hooked too.

‘Yet Gimli was foretold to be where survivors of the end of the world would live … it is the place protected from the fire! We’re tough! We fight! And we protect our loved ones! But without Eddy’s bravery we would never know safety! The place more beautiful than the sun would always live in the shadow of conflict! And so the Wild Hunt had to do what they did, for us all. For communities like us across the world. For people who didn’t even believe in them, who didn’t even know they existed! Their sacrifices that day would be forever unknown if not for the one who survived … but I get ahead of myself! All things in order. Everything and everyone must play their part in the web of wyrd. Ask the Weavers!’ He pointed at the women in the room. ‘They know! They understand! The warp and weft… there must be a pattern to it, a sequence!’

‘We’d better not let you near a loom then!’ one of them called, and they all cackled.

‘Harrumph!’ His frown melted into a smile. ‘So, the Wild Hunt fought against Loki and his lackeys – and what a battle it was! There, where the world is sundered. If it was not already so, the force of their clash would have broken it in twain! What a sound! The Earth shook!’ He stamped his feet up and down on the floor-boards, making a dull rumbling sound. ‘The sky was shattered by lightning!’ He weaved his hands back and forth, his rings glinting in the candle-light. ‘Crash! Boom!’

The young audience gasped in mock-terror and delight, while some of the adults rolled their eyes.

‘The outcome of such a battle was very close. Very close indeed. Such valour! Such deeds were seen on the Plains of Vigrid that day! It was the ultimate Holmgang—’

‘What’s that?’ asked a wide-eyed child.

‘Well, little one, I’m glad you asked. Holmgang is a Norse custom for settling disputes. The two feuding parties would go to an island to sort out their differences – only one was allowed back. It was a fight to the death. As it was that fateful day! One by one, the mighty gods fell – like tall trees in the forest. The Allfather is eaten by Fenris the Wolf in gigantic gulp…’ Roaring, Snorri used his arms to mime the jaws snapping shut. ‘Like that!’

The audience gasped.

‘Tear is torn apart from Garm, Hel’s own hound, while slaying it with his dying breath!’ Snorri growled and howled. ‘Frey and Surt destroy each other. Biff! Bash! Pow! And Rig, wily Heimdal, runefather and friend to all, falls at the hands of Loki, even as he delivers a fatal blow to that double-tongued trickster! And like trees in a storm, the rest of the Elders of the Wild Hunt topple. But they’re deaths are not in vain! Eddy reaches Law Rock, guarded by Fenja! He pulls out the runestone and … he can’t read it! It’s all in runes! A fatal flaw in the plan! All their deaths in vain!’ He smacks his brow in disbelief.

‘No!!!’ the children cried out.

‘Except … Fenja, she blows wisdom into his mind – puff! Like that! And suddenly, he can understand the markings! A-ha!’ He points a finger up in the air.

‘A-ha!’ the children echoed, mirroring his gesture.

‘He starts to recite the runic inscription, as the gods die around him, and the remains of Loki’s horde swarm towards the rock! Fenja fights them off as best she can, but she is hideously outnumbered. She can only hold them off for so long… All seems lost…’

Snorri looked around and saw even the adults were awaiting his next words with baited breath. The candle-light seemed frail in the gloom. This golden circle of humanity, so precious, so fragile.

‘Then Eddy’s words, spoken with power – he’s not a rocker for nothing – were finished. There was a vacuum of noise into which all the din of battle was sucked.’

Snorri paused for effect. You could hear a pin drop.

‘And then a great blast of energy rippled out from Law Rock across the Thingvollr, across Iceland, across the Atlantic, across the world! KA-BOOM!’ He clapped his hands. ‘Eddy released the Ragnarok runes, encoded on the Vérendrye Runestone, lost but found, right here in Manitoba! Preserved for centuries by the Redcrows! The tablet crumbled to dust and blew away in an icy breath of wind. Whoosh!’ He flicked his hand.

‘Whoosh!’ the children copied.

‘Eddy lay unconscious on the Law Rock. All was still and silent. Slowly, painfully, he revived. A patch of blue appeared in the sky overhead, and a shaft of sunlight pierced the gloom. Sunlight! Golden, like the hair of his beloved… Fenja! He got up and saw her at the foot of the rock, her broken body on a pile of the demon hordes. “No!” he cried, and stumbled down to her. Her body was limp and lifeless. He held her in his arms and wept. They had won, but at what cost?’

Snorri looked slyly about the room and saw there was not a dry eye. Satisfied, he continued. ‘Eddy sat there for a long time, holding the body of his sweetheart, amid the corpse-strewn battlefield, a feast for crows. If the Valkyries moved among the valiant, taking them to Valhalla, he could not see. All he saw was the white landscape running red with blood, his heart as black and as cold as the rock he sat upon. Then a slit appeared in the freezing air, glowing bright blue. It widened and heightened until a giant was framed. It was the King of the Frost Giants! Eddy was too weak, too bereft, to move, to react. If his time had come, so be it. But the frost giant wept too – tears of ice – and, reaching down, tenderly picked up Fenja and, turning back into the portal, carried her away.  ‘Wait! Stop!’ he cried, but it was futile. The King disappeared into Jötunheim, but, strangely, the portal remained open – and looking closer, Eddy could see, on the far side of the mountainous plateau, another portal, and through that, he saw … home! Gimli!’

 A cheer went up.

‘And so he took his leave of that place, where his words had healed the wound of the crack in the world. He stepped through the portal and …’

The arrival of another made Snorri stop and everyone looked up.

In the doorway, looking weak, but alive, was Eddy Redcrow.

‘Hey there! Am I missing anything?’

***

Extract from Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

A GROWL OF THUNDER

Thunder Road: Prologue (part 1)

Earth shall be riven
and the over-heaven.
11th century Skarpåker Stone, Sweden

The sky was a slaughterhouse. The ice-crowned crater dominated the tortured landscape, smoke broiling from its broken temple like dark, troubled thoughts. From treacherous fissures steam swirled, reeking and scolding. At the threshold of a lava tunnel stood the crone, wreathed in scorched rags. A gnarled hand wrapped around a warped staff as though carved from the same piece of storm-blasted wood. Eyes blinked open, white and sightless, yet sensing something beyond the spectrum of human vision. Beyond the howling of the wind subtle ears picked up a different sound. The old woman tilted her head – iron-grey plaits stretching to her shrivelled thighs restless in the biting gale – and smiled a black-toothed smile.
            In the distance, a growl of thunder, growing louder. Then, out of the blackness, a beam swept across the broken land. At the foot of the mountain, where the dirt trail ended, the bikes converged. One among them got off and ascended – his large figure picked up in the headlights which helped to light his way – casting a giant shadow before him.
            The crone waited for him to climb to her.
            Finally, he was before her – a giant of man, clad in rank leathers. A leather eye patch, decorated with a grinning silver skull, covered one side of his face. His long white beard was whipped by the wind. From beneath his cut, bristling with studs, he pulled a fistful of glittering treasure and flung it at the crone’s feet.
            ‘Witch, give me a vision!’ he roared, his voice carrying over the storm.

‘No sweet words? Once you tasted of my spring and I gave you a gift of the Futhark.’

‘And I lost my eye as a result!’
            ‘Nothing is without cost, Bolverk One Eye. Kneel!’
            Slowly, he knelt before her – not taking his one good eye from her, its cold orb a sun of fierce ice.

She placed her claw-like hands over his head, fingernails digging beneath his leather eye- patch into the ruined socket. ‘An eye for an eye…’
            One Eye tensed, but did not recoil. He bore the white flashes of pain.

Her white eyes swirled with colour and her form blurred. At times she seemed young, a sparkle of youthful allure and mischief in her eyes; then suddenly, a woman in her prime, powerful and confident; next, in a juddering smear, the crone showed through once more – the skull beneath the skin.

‘Each of us wears many faces, but our soul remains the same. Do not forget who you truly are, Bolverk One Eye, even if the world does. Your name will be chanted at the end of days.’
            Swaying, wailing, and frothing at the mouth, the hag-mother-maiden started to recite his many names.
            Each one was a chisel and mallet to the tomb he had made of his life. A hammering, growing louder until a vision exploded into his mind. A vast tree, growing between the worlds. Nine spheres of shadow and mist, flame and frost. Mighty races of gods and giants, monsters and men. A bridge of seven colours stretching across the worlds from a realm of gleaming halls, flowing with mead served by proud swan-maidens. Warriors boasting of their deeds before the throng. Then a dark cloud covering all. The dream shattered by the crowing of three roosters – golden-crowned, red-billed and black. The howling of a monstrous dog. Vast armies marching to war. Cities shattered by terrible battles.

‘Aarghh!’ he cried.

Her claw dug deeper. Writhing in her skin, the sightless seeress chanted:

‘Behold Ragnarok!

It sates itself on the life-blood
of fated men,
paints red the powers’ homes
with crimson gore.
Black become the sun’s beams
in the summers that follow,
weathers all treacherous—

  She sensed his restlessness. ‘Sorry. Am I boring you?’
           One Eye hissed through gritted teeth: ‘Get on with it, old woman! But speak up! My hearing isn’t what it used to be!’

Grumbling, the crone enunciated her prophecy:

‘Brothers will fight
and kill each other,
sisters’ children
will defile kinship.
It is harsh in the world,
whoredom rife
– an axe age, a sword age
– shields are riven –

a wind age, a wolf age –

before the world goes headlong.
No man will have
mercy on another.’

One Eye gritted his teeth as the hellish vision flashes into his mind. Mountains shook, oceans rose … a winter without end … Old enemies awoken … one by one they fall… The Earth split asunder … all was consumed in flames, smoke and steam – until he could bear no more.
            Crying out, One Eye pulled back: ‘Aargghhh!’ He crumpled on to the floor, breathing ragged. From his ruined eye a line of blood trickled down his face. ‘What I have seen … Will it come to pass?’
            The crone looked at him with inscrutable eyes. ‘This is the wyrd of the world. Only a fool would try to prevent it. Even the gods must die. Their end has come.’
            The mountain shook beneath her. From the summit, smoke and ash billowed, crackling with lightning.
            ‘Ragnarok is nigh!’ she cackled. ‘You have slept for too long, Bolverk One Eye. As have I. Time to awaken! Humanity has neglected us for too long! Man has fouled my body; treated me like his thrall; abused my sisters. But no more! It is time for him to pay! To know the wrath of the goddess! Katla awakes!’
            The long-dormant volcano erupted, vaporising the glacier plugging it in a massive fire-cloud, which sent material thousands of feet up into the air. Molten debris rained down upon the the slopes. From deep within the lava tunnel they stood in came a blast of searing heat.

            ‘We’ve got to get out of here!’ One Eye roared.

            ‘Run, Bolverk One Eye! Run as though you wear magical breeches!’

            One Eye dived out of the tunnel just as a river of lava gushed forth from the volcano’s bowels. The old woman was not so fast – or chose not to escape her fate. Her ragged cloak caught alight and she was wreathed in flames.
            Zigzagging down the mountain, boots sliding on the scree, One Eye made for his men. Gobbets of hot ash and cinder fell around him, bouncing off his cut displaying the three interlocking triangles of the Wild Hunt patch.
            The dark riders gunned their engines as their leader leapt on his metal steed – a beast of chrome, snorting fire. Tyres cut black crescents into the fallen ash as they skidded out of the path of the hypercaustic cloud rolling down its flanks. One Eye led them at speed away from the mountain of fire – spewing high into the night sky, a she-wolf raging against the heavens, howling with hate.

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

Continue reading…

Thunder Road: Prologue (part 2)

Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring – available soon!

Vikings and Fairies

21-22 April

Image

Last weekend (20-21 April) took the Great Road North (well, rail – enduring the so-called ‘quiet carriage’) to visit charmingYork (all cobbles and cream teas), where I gave a talk on my book Turning the Wheel on Saturday at PF NE, alongside my fellow Awenaut, Karola Renard. We went up on the Friday and met up – doing the tourist thing and visiting the Jorvik Centre to get a whiff of life in York (literally) in the Viking Age. The faint aroma of a Viking midden assailed our nostrils as we entered – all part of the experience! The exhibition felt a bit virtual at first – all computer screens and a ‘discotheque’ perspex floor revealing the level of the city in the Viking Age (showing the foundations of a house from that period – well, a reconstruction of one excavated on the site). Fortunately live interpreters were on hand to stop it getting all too cyberspacey – and they knew their stuff. We were ushered onto a kind of ghost train by a cunning woman – and taken around a Viking village, inhabited by lifelike hairy folk in their respective domiciles. Pretty impressive, if surreal.

Later, we hooked up with some of the delegates in the authentic Fifteenth Century Inn, The Black Swan – complete with ‘drunken’ stairs and resident ghost (nothing unusual in York – which has created a tourist industry from its spooks). The pagans seemed friendly enough – especially after a couple of local ales (Brainsplitter, or some such). Ola and I were kindly put up by respective hosts and met again in the morning at the conference in Priory Street. We were on straight away – something of a strain after a lively night and lack of breakfast. I managed to grab a coffee and a pastry – which I munched as audience filtered in. Couldn’t get the projector to work – but I didn’t need it. I can waffle for Britain on any of my books.

Afterwards, I browsed the stalls and chatted to some creative folk, including FAE artist Tamara Newman.

I couldn’t stick around for the end of the day – my pumpkin carriage awaited – to ‘whisk’ my back to Stroud (four hours later…)

It was interesting to visit York – a fascinating picturesque city – which features in of my yet-to-be-published novel, Thunder Road – a contemporary fantasy about Vikings, Bikers and the end of the world.

The next day I did a big rideout – all around Oxfordshire – visiting sites connected with my collection of Folk Tales (commissioned by The History Press, and due out in November). I recorded half a dozen stories in situ – which was very resonant. It was an effective way to commune with the genius loci and ‘give something back’ – returning the art to the source of its inspiration. It was definitely a sense of ‘full circle’ – as I circumnavigated the county over eight hours – hitting a monsoon-like downpour on the way back (perhaps Thor was making his presence felt…).Yet, despite the soaking it was worth it – I had visited the original ‘rabbit hole’ (Binsey’s treacle well); the birthplace of the Otmoor Uprising; Garsington; Clifton Hampden and Wittenham Clumps – the latter, the location for one of the stories I performed the following night with my fellow Fire Springs members at Hawkwood College for our Spirits of Place show. It was powerful to tell the story of the Raven of Sinodun Hill there, on the Clumps – especially when a large raven circled over me just as I departed.

There seems to be an ‘ecology’ connecting ‘fairies’ and spirits of place – indeed they seem to be one and the same in some traditions. In Hellenic Mythology every stream, spring, cave, tree and mountain had its resident spirit or spirits: undines, naiads, sylphs, etc. These  elemental nymphs become the fairies of the Celtic Tradition – residing in ‘Fairy Thorns’, sacred wells and so on. When Nature is littered, polluted,  exploited or tamed – they whither, leave or die.

The ‘fairies’ of York are well looked after by the supernatural tourist industry there – the ghosts are fed by the energy of the hordes of visitors and the oxygen of the stories. They love to hear about themselves. I hope the spirits of place of Oxfordshire will be kept happy by my efforts.