Day Of The Dead - A Viking Tale

Day of the dead – A Viking tale

  Petteri Hannila

  Copyright 2013 by Petteri Hannila and Creativia (https://www.creativia.org)

  Translated from the Finnish short story “Kuolleiden päivä”.

  Cover art: Anne Petelius

  Translation: Peitsa Suoniemi, Petteri Hannila

  Editor (Finnish): Jenny Peräaho (Kirjalabyrintti)

  Editors (English): Peitsa Suoniemi, Anthony Farnden

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, and locations are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

  https://www.fargoer.com/

  Additional thanks to Usva-spring camp 2013 and your suggestions for the short story.

  The man was tall as an oak, and his frame had been beaten by countless winters. His back was still straight, though, and strong legs moved him forward without any limp or hindrance. His long spear, which also worked as a staff, swung beside him, but he walked without its support.

  In the first light of the morning he climbed to the top of a hill and shaded his eye while looking at the dawn sky. The socket of his missing eye was covered with a dirty leather patch. Maybe because of this handicap his intact, greyish eye was exceptionally sharp when it gazed at the sky.

  When the man saw a raven soaring high above him, his bearded mouth curled into a wry smile. He lowered his gaze and saw a small village, sitting cozily by the hillside. The thatch and moss of the well-tended roofs and smoke rising from the morning fires encouraged the traveler to step closer.

  Hunters moved side by side along with the dawn that was slowly crawling over the hilltops. In the first rays of the sun the forest looked pale and colorless. The warmth of the past summer was waning and took with it the green and life it had carried. Soon the green of the summer would be replaced by the flashing colors of the autumn. Only pines and spruces held onto their color, as the last islets of green against the inevitable winter.

  There were twelve men altogether. They walked through the forest with sure steps and rightly so, since they were only few hundred paces from their village. In the front walked a large, red-bearded hulk of a man. His name was Ambjorn Styrsson, a fitting name for his bear-like proportions. His brown eyes, warm and pleasant, were in contrast with his threatening frame.

  The brothers who walked next to him were cast from the same mold. Erik and Bert were their names and, even after many long years, these cousins of Ambjorn were avid huntsmen. Both had a huge, leashed, dog walking in front of them. The shaggy beasts pulled at their leashes as much as their necks could take and their breaths hissed against the collars.

  The remaining nine were simple villagers, silent and reliable hunters in their own right. Skalds would not sing songs of their deeds, but each and every one of them filled the circles of their own lives. They carried bows and heavy spears and were dressed in green and gray, to blend into the autumn forest.

  “Damned dogs pull like evil spirits,” said Bert, wiping gray wisps of hair from his furrowed brow. “Should we set them free?”

  “Not just yet. We must first get to the spot where the beast was last seen. Otherwise the dogs will go after any tracks they cross their path with.” Ambjorn had a dose of impatience in his voice.

  “We’ll listen to the lad,” Erik replied. He resembled his brother in many ways, but the man himself was often filled with more joyous spirits. The two teeth he had left could be seen whenever he smiled, and it happened often.

  “All right, but we’d better catch it. No sheep or calf of mine will be eaten anymore, that I swear,” snorted Bert.

  Ambjorn ignored the bickering of the brothers and instead glanced at the other hunters that were following them. He let his mind drift back to their home village. Even now he could be carving planks for a longboat and observing the festivities that were being prepared for tomorrow’s celebration of Freyr. But no, one damned animal had spoiled it all and now he was forced to run after it in these bushes with the other men of their village.

  The bear, preparing for the winter, had killed a few animals of the village herd, and this shared loss had ignited the hunters’ zeal. Bear-hunting was considered an honor, thus leaving Ambjorn with the role of the leader. And, despite his opinions, the reasoning was just, as he was the most notable men in the village, imbued with prosperity and famous for his work.

  They reached the spot where, the evening before, men coming back from harvest had seen the beast, just a glance in the dusk. The hunters now found clear tracks and dogs were set free upon them. They vanished into the woods like two gray arrows shot from a bow and the men rushed after them as fast as they could in the thick undergrowth.

  The old man walked down the hillside entering the busy village. Most of the people were already on the move, doing their chores despite the early hour. The village consisted of five large households and an observer could easily see that poverty or need did not bother these people. The longhouses were grand and littered amidst them were smaller buildings as well. The dwellers didn’t need to spend the long winter months next to their animals as there were separate shelters built for them, made out of logs and clay.

  Wherever the man passed a villager he could see them stop their work and give a warm greeting in his direction. He replied as custom demanded, but did not stay longer for a chat, causing many to watch after him with a keen eye. The man approached the longest of the houses until, right at the doorstep, he almost collided with a yellow-haired woman who came out of the house. She continued a heated exchange with a worker who carried a notable moustache and brown hair.

  “I say you have to work harder, you lazy maggots. Feast starts tomorrow and I want our house to cast a shadow over the others. Begone!”

  The man left on his errands as fast as he could. The woman turned from the worker only to see the old man coming her way with sure steps.

  The woman was like a late spring blizzard that cuts through the promise of a coming summer. She was tall and well-built and her yellow locks reached all the way down to her waist. From her belt hung the keys of her house. The golden hair framed a face that could have easily been shaped by the hands of a great sculptor, save the deep-blue, piercing eyes. More often those eyes flashed with cold judgment than inviting warmth. Everyone was afraid of her, and for a good reason as she was quick to anger and slow to forgive. Despite her noble birth she was no stranger to hard work and she didn’t waste her time on fiddling with her jewelry and treasures. Because of this her household, as well as the whole village, thrived and their prosperity was known by many.

  “Woman, I salute you and your house. Your husband, a famous shipbuilder, the man called Ambjorn, is he home?”

  “He is bear-hunting. In his absence I, Jofrid Olafsdaughter, am the head of the house and ask you what is your name and business?”

  “My name is of no importance as I have very little family in this world. But my business I can share with you, if you share a drink with me as is the way between men. And as everyone knows, when a man is out of his house, the mistress is then equal to the man.”

  “You chose a poor time for your visit, Unnamed One. As you might know, tomorrow is the day of the harvest feast and blood will be spilt in honor of old man Freyr. Tomorrow you could feast on the sacrificial horse and flush it down with the best mead you can find. But today... today you will only get thin beer and an angry woman preoccupied with burdens of the feast. But let no one say that Jofrid is not a friend of old customs or generous hospitality.”

  She called a slave to bring beer and another to fetch some water so the guest could wash his face and refresh himself. After he was done she showed the way to
a terrace that was built right next to the house. She guided him to sit and took herself the place of the master of the house.

  Barking of the dogs cut its way through the clear autumn air and the huntsmen stopped once in a while to listen for the direction it was coming from.

  “The beasts have found it, you can hear it from the barking,” Bert said. He breathed heavily due to their fast pace. Next to him Ambjorn leaned against a tree. He chose catching his breath over replying.

  “You should carve less and hunt more, you have gained some weight,” Bert mused. Hunting seemed always to loosen up his tongue.

  “The jarls pay with silver for the boats I build,” Ambjorn replied. “A huntsman has holes in his shirt.”

  “Holes, there be holes,” spat Erik cheerfully and laughed on top, while fingering the worn pieces of his own shirt. The old geezer seemed to recuperate from the run with sheer gleefulness. They continued their way towards the barking.

  “They are