Bjarni nodded.?Of course, he?s an Odinsman. Why, the High One claimed him in person! That?s a great honor, though not one I envy; I?ll stick with my old friend Thor.? ?And if he?s good enough for Odin, he?s good enough for me,? Heidhveig said, with an odd half-chanting tone in her voice.
When they looked at her she shrugged.?Classical reference. Now, we were speaking of Kalk Shipwright… Kalk?s stubborn-more now than ever, he?s even older than me!-and he won?t want to risk a ship. Most are laid up this time of year. But I think he?ll listen to me. And if not to me, then to the High One. Though he offers mostly to Njord and Freyr, himself.?
They spent some time thrashing out the details; when Rudi?s party would leave, how Bjarni would help with the journey to the coast, and how to send out messages warning the rest of the Norrheim tribes that trouble was foreseen. The conversation wound up as the celebrations began again in earnest.
Rudi joined in the laughter and applause as thirteen masked youths in gaudy-raggedy costumes entered and cut capers, tumbling and playing pranks.
Then the children in the hall called out their names, seeking to chase them down and tag them: ?Stiff-Legs!? one cried, and clutched the sleeve of a figure who had stilts under his too-long breeks.
The others were caught one by one, some trying to climb the pillars until they dropped back into the shrieking crowd: Gully Gawk, Shorty, Ladle Licker, Pot Scraper, Bowl Licker, Door Slammer, Skyr Gobbler, Sausage Snatcher, Window Peeper, Sniffer, Meat Hook and Candle Beggar.
When they were captured the tumblers handed out shoes stuffed with toys and candied nuts and other treats. Harberga carried a broom around the hall and beat them forth with it, the youngsters following in a chain dance, before relenting and announcing: ?Come, those who wish to come; stay, those who wish to stay; and farewell, those who wish to fare away, harmless to me and mine!?
That brought the rest of the grown folk in for the evening meal-which for a Yule feast started in midafternoon. ?We drink sumbel this evening,? Bjarni said to Rudi when it was well under way and his wife was away putting their daughter to bed. ?You know that custom??
Rudi nodded.?My half sisters? mother, Signe, is a follower of your Gods and so are many of her folk,? he said.?I?ve been at sumbel in Larsdalen, and the other Bearkiller holds. Perhaps you do it a bit differently, though.? He grinned.?For a start, they like to drink it with wine; they?ve many fine vineyards there. The western side of the Willamette is better for the grape.?
Bjarni sighed.?I?ve never drunk wine, except a few bottles found by Vikings… salvagers. They sound like an interesting lot, these Bearkillers of yours. With a fine fair land.?
Then Bjarni?s smile grew crooked:?Perhaps they?re more interesting in a tale of far away than as neighbors!? ?They?re not my Bearkillers, as Lady Signe would be the first to tell you! Though I?ve many friends among them, my uncle Eric for one, and my blood father?s young namesake by Signe is a very likely lad. And they are a warlike lot,? Rudi admitted.?But only in a cause they think righteous.?
Bjarni snorted.?I?ve seen a fair number of fights, Rudi Mikesson, over matters great and small. But never one yet where both sides didn?t think they?d rightful cause to bash the other.? ?A point, a very palpable point,? Rudi agreed.?But I?m certain and sure they were always wrong if they fought against you, my friend!?
Bjarni bellowed laughter.?True!?
Harberga returned.?Swanhild?s sleeping hard,? she said.?They do, at that age,? she added to Rudi. ?That they do!? ?You don?t have children yet, surely?? she asked, her eyes flicking to Mathilda. ?No, but the little lass reminds me of my youngest sister at that age. Fiorbhinn will be turning ten now; it?s a grief to me to miss so much of her life in the swift-changing years. Her hair and eyes are just that shade, and she was always active as a squirrel, until she drops in her tracks.? ? Fiorbhinn,? Harberga said, as if tasting it.?A pretty name. What does it mean?? ? True-Sweet, in the old tongue,? Rudi replied.?After a famous harp, you see. And well named, for she could sing true almost as soon as she could talk at all. And Swanhild?? ?Swan-battle. Also well named, especially since she learned the word no!?
The last remains of pies and pastries were cleared away, the last children not quite old enough for the ceremony shepherded off to their beds, and horns and horn rests were set out-like Bearkillers, the Bjornings considered that the proper vessel for solemn toasts, oaths and boasts. Four youths and four maidens brought in a litter; on it was a gold-sheathed wooden image of a boar done life-size, with the tusks of a real one and a wrought golden ring in its mouth. They carried it around the inside of the long rectangle of the tables, and folk did it reverence.
When the golden boar was set before the chieftain?s seat, Rudi noticed that it stood in a wooden tray of dirt. ?That?s earth from the first hof?-which meant temple, more or less-?of the Bjorning kindred, that my father brought north and mixed with the soil here at the land-taking,? Bjarni said.?We swear all the greater oaths on this boar, the Oath-Swine of the Bjornings.? ?That?s a strong rite,? Rudi agreed. ?Yes, it?s the holiest we have; and this the season for the most powerful oaths.?
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Father Ignatius politely taking his leave, and frowning a little when Mathilda and Odard shook their heads and stayed. Rudi wasn?t too concerned; he?d gathered that there were still some Christians around here, and that they came to this type of ceremony, if not the blot -sacrifices. It would be difficult to be a member of the community if you didn?t.
Bjarni rose and spoke: ?Bjornings and guests! Now we drink sumbel; to the Gods, in memory of the ancestors, and to make boast and oath. Take care when you do, for to make oath before all is to lay your words in the well of Wyrd, binding the fate of all. My uncle Ranulf Waltersson shall be thul of this sumbel? An older warrior in his forties nodded, with his arms crossed across his tunic; he was darker and leaner than his nephew, but had a family look of him.
– ?and none shall dispute his judgments. Let the Valkyries fill the horns!?
Harberga and Gudrun led a group of women-kin of the chief, for this was a duty of honor and high regard-to pour mead from the pitchers they carried. Most of the drinking so far had been ale, and usually not very strong ale at that; this mead was heady, smelling of flowering meadows gone, and itself a boast of sorts-being made from honey it was expensive in this land where life lay sparely, and only a great chief could bestow it so lavishly.
Bjarni?s horn was bound and tipped with rune-graven gold, and bore a carving of a woman carrying a horn to a man who rode a chariot pulled by goats. He held it high: ?I drink to Odin, to Freyr and Freyja, to Njord, to almighty Thor, and to all the Gods and Goddesses. Hail, Aesir, hail Asynjur!? ?Wassail!?
Rudi raised his horn and drank; the mead was dry and strong, and left a slight catch at the back of his throat. There was nothing in his faith that forbade it. Some of the dwellers signed the Hammer over their horns before they lifted them; a few used the Cross. Some touched the mead with a finger and then their foreheads rather than drinking; Harberga did, he noticed, probably for the unborn babe?s sake.
Bjarni lifed his horn again:?I drink to our ancestors, who made Norrheim with their might, their main, their craft and luck. Most of all, I drink to my father, Erik Waltersson, Erik the Strong. Drink hail!? ?Wassail!?
The Bjorning chieftain paused and took a deep breath. When he spoke his voice was matter-of-fact. ?Most of you were here when the seidhkona took the high seat last night. Through her the Allfather spoke, and laid a duty on all those who would stand with the Gods to aid our guest, Rudi Mikesson of the Mackenzies, called Artos, Son of Bear and Raven.?