The bandy-legged man pulled thoughtfully at his long cheek-beard and exchanged a word or two with the wounded man who had brought them. Their talk sounded to Orm’s ears more like the clucking of owls than the speech of men, but they seemed to be able to understand each other without difficulty. Many of those who stood watching grinned broadly at Orm and took out their knives and drew them across their throats. This, said Orm afterwards, was the worst moment of his life, for he took it to mean that they had already cut the throats of their prisoners, though he hoped that it might merely signify that they intended to perform the operation on him. This seemed to him by far the lesser evil, if, by allowing this to happen, he could enable Blackhair to go free.
He said to the scribe: “Ask him whether his two captives are still alive.”
The bandy-legged man nodded, and shouted to three men, who stepped forward. These were the men who owned the prisoners.
Orm said: “Tell them that I wish to buy their prisoners for much silver. They are my sons.”
The three men began to jabber, but the bandy-legged man said that it would be best that Orm and the scribe should go with him to the chieftains. They came to three tents that were larger than the rest, and followed the little man into the center one.
Three old men, wearing furs and with shaven heads, were seated on a sheepskin on the ground, their legs crossed beneath them, eating a mess from a large clay bowl. When they had entered, the bandy-legged man halted and signed to Orm and the scribe to remain silent. The three old men ate greedily, blowing on their spoons and smacking their lips with relish. When the bowl was empty, they licked their spoons and stuffed them into holes in their furs. Then, at last, they condescended to notice that somebody had come in.
One of them nodded at the bandy-legged man. He bowed to the ground and began to speak, while the chieftains sat listening with dull expressions, giving vent to an occasional belch.
The one who sat in the middle was smaller than the other two and had very large ears. Tilting his head to one side, he stared piercingly at Orm. At length the bandy-legged man stopped talking, and there was a silence. Then the little chieftain croaked a few words, and the bandy-legged man bowed reverently and went out, taking the scribe with him.
When they had gone, the little chieftain said slowly: “You are welcome here, Orm Tostesson, though it is better that we should conceal the fact that we know each other. It is a long time since we last met. Is Ylva, King Harald’s daughter, who played as a child upon my knees, still alive?”
Orm drew a deep breath. He had recognized the little man as soon as he had begun to speak. It was Felimid, King Harald’s Irish jester.
“She is alive,” replied Orm, “and remembers you well. It is her son who is one of your prisoners here. This is certainly a strange meeting, and one that may prove lucky for us both. Are you a chieftain among these Patzinaks?”
Felimid nodded. “When one is old, one must take the best that comes,” he said. “But I cannot really complain.”
He spoke to his two fellow chieftains, turned round, and shouted toward the back of the tent. A woman entered with a great drinking-cup, which they passed around and which soon became empty. The woman filled it again; then, when it had again been emptied, the other two chieftains rose with difficulty to their feet and tottered out.
“They will sleep now,” said Felimid to Orm when they were alone. “It is so with these people that they easily become drunk, and then they at once fall asleep and remain thus for half the day. They are simple souls. Now you and I can sit and talk here undisturbed. You have had a long ride and are, perhaps, hungry?”
“You have guessed rightly,” said Orm. “Since I recognized you my anxiety has been lightened, and the three things that I long for most are to see my son again and to eat and drink.”
“You shall see him as soon as we have decided the question of his ransom,” said Felimid. “This will, I fear, cost you silver; for if I commanded otherwise, the whole tribe would become enraged with me. But first you shall be my guest.”
He shouted orders, and six women entered and began to set out food on a mat that they spread on the floor of the tent.
“These are my wives,” explained Felimid. “They may seem a lot for an old man, but such is the custom here. And I must have something to keep me amused, now that Ferdiad is dead and I can no longer practice my art.”
“This is sad news about your brother,” said Orm. “How did he die? And how did you come here?”
“Eat, and I will tell you; I have already eaten enough. We have no ale, alas, but here is a drink that we make from mare’s milk. Taste it; you have drunk worse.”
It was a clear drink, with a sweet-sour taste, and Orm thought it would be difficult to find kind words to say of it; however, he soon noticed that there was good strength in it.
Felimid made Orm eat all the food that had been brought, and shouted to the women to bring more. Meanwhile he told what had happened to him and his brother since they had trudged away from Gröning.
“We roamed widely,” he said, “as we told you we would when last we parted; and finally we came to the great Prince in Kiev. We remained in his palace for two years, delighting all men with our arts and earning great honor; but then we began to notice that we were putting on flesh. At this we were greatly afraid, and determined to leave, though everybody begged us to remain, because we wished, while our skill yet remained to us, to perform before the great Emperor at Miklagard, as had been our intention from the beginning. But we never reached him, for at the weirs we were taken by the Patzinaks. They found us too old to be of any use and wanted to kill us, so as to be able to set up our heads on poles, as is their custom. But we displayed our arts before them, the simplest that we know, until they prostrated themselves on their bellies in a circle around us and worshipped us as gods. Nevertheless, they would not let us go; and as soon as we had learned something of their language, they made us chieftains, because of our wisdom and knowledge of witchcraft. We soon grew accustomed to our new life, for it is easier to be a chieftain than a jester; besides, we had realized for some time that old age was, at last, beginning to stiffen our limbs. The great Archbishop Cormac Mac-Cullenan spoke truly when he said, long ago: ‘A wise man, once he is past fifty, does not befuddle his senses with strong drink, nor make violent love in the cool spring night, nor dance on his hands.”’
Felimid took a draught from his cup and nodded sadly.
“He spoke too truly,” he said, “and my brother Ferdiad forgot this warning when one of his women produced male twins. Then he drank deeply of this yeasty mare’s-milk and danced on his hands before all the people, like the King of the Jews before God; and in the midst of his dance he fell and remained lying, and when we lifted him up he was dead. I mourned him deeply, and mourn him still, though nobody can deny that it was a worthy death for a master jester to die. Ever since then I have remained here with these Patzinaks, in peace and contentment. They are like children, and venerate me deeply, and seldom oppose my will except when they go head-hunting, which is an ancient custom with them which they will not abandon. But now tell me how it has been with you and yours.”
Orm told him all that he wished to know. When, however, he came to speak of the treasure at the weirs, he thought it best to mention only the three sacks of silver; for he did not wish to pay more than need be when it came to fixing the ransom for Black-hair and Ulf. Lastly he described the battle with the Patzinaks. When he had concluded, Felimid said: “It is lucky that your son and foster son were taken alive. This was because of their youth; the men who captured them hoped to make a good profit by selling them to the Arabs or the Byzantines. You must therefore be prepared to pay a large price for them. It is lucky that you have the treasure within easy reach.”