Two years had passed since that Christmas-eve in the cloister of
Pfalzel. A little company of pilgrims, less than a score of men, were
travelling slowly northward through the wide forest that rolled over the
hills of central Germany.
At the head of the band marched Winfried, clad in a tunic of fur, with
his long black robe girt high above his waist, so that it might not
hinder his stride. His hunter’s boots were crusted with snow. Drops of
ice sparkled like jewels along the thongs that bound his legs. There
were no other ornaments of his dress except the bishop’s cross hanging
on his breast, and the silver clasp that fastened his cloak about his
neck. He carried a strong, tall staff in his hand, fashioned at the top
into the form of a cross.
Close beside him, keeping step like a familiar comrade, was the young
Prince Gregor. Long marches through the wilderness had stretched his
legs and broadened his back, and made a man of him in stature as well as
in spirit. His jacket and cap were of wolf-skin, and on his shoulder he
carried an axe, with broad, shining blade. He was a mighty woodsman
now, and could make a spray of chips fly around him as he hewed his way
through the trunk of a pine-tree.
Behind these leaders followed a pair of teamsters, guiding a rude
sledge, loaded with food and the equipage of the camp, and drawn by
two big, shaggy horses, blowing thick clouds of steam from their frosty
nostrils. Tiny icicles hung from the hairs on their lips. Their flanks
were smoking. They sank above the fetlocks at every step in the soft
snow.
Last of all came the rear guard, armed with bows and javelins. It was no
child’s play, in those days, to cross Europe afoot.
The weird woodland, sombre and illimitable, covered hill and vale,
table-land and mountain-peak. There were wide moors where the wolves
hunted in packs as if the devil drove them, and tangled thickets where
the lynx and the boar made their lairs. Fierce bears lurked among the
rocky passes, and had not yet learned to fear the face of man. The
gloomy recesses of the forest gave shelter to inhabitants who were
still more cruel and dangerous than beasts of prey,--outlaws and sturdy
robbers and mad were-wolves and bands of wandering pillagers.
The pilgrim who would pass from the mouth of the Tiber to the mouth of
the Rhine must trust in God and keep his arrows loose in the quiver.
The travellers were surrounded by an ocean of trees, so vast, so full
of endless billows, that it seemed to be pressing on every side to
overwhelm them. Gnarled oaks, with branches twisted and knotted as if
in rage, rose in groves like tidal waves. Smooth forests of beech-trees,
round and gray, swept over the knolls and slopes of land in a mighty
ground-swell. But most of all, the multitude of pines and firs,
innumerable and monotonous, with straight, stark trunks, and branches
woven together in an unbroken flood of darkest green, crowded through
the valleys and over the hills, rising on the highest ridges into ragged
crests, like the foaming edge of breakers.
Through this sea of shadows ran a narrow stream of shining
whiteness,--an ancient Roman road, covered with snow. It was as if
some great ship had ploughed through the green ocean long ago, and
left behind it a thick, smooth wake of foam. Along this open track the
travellers held their way,--heavily, for the drifts were deep; warily,
for the hard winter had driven many packs of wolves down from the moors.
The steps of the pilgrims were noiseless; but the sledges creaked over
the dry snow, and the panting of the horses throbbed through the still
air. The pale-blue shadows on the western side of the road grew
longer. The sun, declining through its shallow arch, dropped behind the
tree-tops. Darkness followed swiftly, as if it had been a bird of prey
waiting for this sign to swoop down upon the world.
“Father,” said Gregor to the leader, “surely this day’s march is done.
It is time to rest, and eat, and sleep. If we press onward now, we
cannot see our steps; and will not that be against the word of the
psalmist David, who bids us not to put confidence in the legs of a man?”
Winfried laughed. “Nay, my son Gregor,” said he, “thou hast tripped,
even now, upon thy text. For David said only, ‘I take no pleasure in the
legs of a man.’ And so say I, for I am not minded to spare thy legs or
mine, until we come farther on our way, and do what must be done this
night. Draw thy belt tighter, my son, and hew me out this tree that is
fallen across the road, for our campground is not here.”
The youth obeyed; two of the foresters sprang to help him; and while the
soft fir-wood yielded to the stroke of the axes, and the snow flew from
the bending branches, Winfried turned and spoke to his followers in a
cheerful voice, that refreshed them like wine.
“Courage, brothers, and forward yet a little! The moon will light us
presently, and the path is plain. Well know I that the journey is weary;
and my own heart wearies also for the home in England, where those I
love are keeping feast this Christmas-eve. But we have work to do before
we feast to-night. For this is the Yuletide, and the heathen people of
the forest are gathered at the thunder-oak of Geismar to worship their
god, Thor. Strange things will be seen there, and deeds which make the
soul black. But we are sent to lighten their darkness; and we will teach
our kinsmen to keep a Christmas with us such as the woodland has never
known. Forward, then, and stiffen up the feeble knees!”
A murmur of assent came from the men. Even the horses seemed to take
fresh heart. They flattened their backs to draw the heavy loads, and
blew the frost from their nostrils as they pushed ahead.
The night grew broader and less oppressive. A gate of brightness was
opened secretly somewhere in the sky. Higher and higher swelled the
clear moon-flood, until it poured over the eastern wall of forest into
the road. A drove of wolves howled faintly in the distance, but they
were receding, and the sound soon died away. The stars sparkled merrily
through the stringent air; the small, round moon shone like silver;
little breaths of dreaming wind wandered across the pointed fir-tops,
as the pilgrims toiled bravely onward, following their clew of light
through a labyrinth of darkness.
After a while the road began to open out a little. There were spaces of
meadow-land, fringed with alders, behind which a boisterous river ran
clashing through spears of ice.
Rude houses of hewn logs appeared in the openings, each one casting a
patch of inky shadow upon the snow. Then the travellers passed a larger
group of dwellings, all silent and unlighted; and beyond, they saw a
great house, with many outbuildings and inclosed courtyards, from which
the hounds bayed furiously, and a noise of stamping horses came from
the stalls. But there was no other sound of life. The fields around lay
naked to the moon. They saw no man, except that once, on a path that
skirted the farther edge of a meadow, three dark figures passed them,
running very swiftly.
Then the road plunged again into a dense thicket, traversed it, and
climbing to the left, emerged suddenly upon a glade, round and level
except at the northern side, where a hillock was crowned with a huge
oak-tree. It towered above the heath, a giant with contorted arms,
beckoning to the host of lesser trees. “Here,” cried Winfried, as
his eyes flashed and his hand lifted his heavy staff, “here is the
Thunder-oak; and here the cross of Christ shall break the hammer of the
false god Thor.”
Withered leaves still clung to the branches of the oak: torn and faded
banners of the departed summer. The bright crimson of autumn had
long since disappeared, bleached away by the storms and the cold.
But to-night these tattered remnants of glory were red again: ancient
bloodstains against the dark-blue sky. For an immense fire had been
kindled in front of the tree. Tongues of ruddy flame, fountains of
ruby sparks, ascended through the spreading limbs and flung a fierce
illumination upward and around. The pale, pure moonlight that bathed
the surrounding forests was quenched and eclipsed here. Not a beam of it
sifted through the branches of the oak. It stood like a pillar of cloud
between the still light of heaven and the crackling, flashing fire of
earth.
But the fire itself was invisible to Winfried and his companions. A
great throng of people were gathered around it in a half-circle, their
backs to the open glade, their faces toward the oak. Seen against that
glowing background, it was but the silhouette of a crowd, vague, black,
formless, mysterious.
The travellers paused for a moment at the edge of the thicket, and took
counsel together.
“It is the assembly of the tribe,” said one of the foresters, “the great
night of the council. I heard of it three days ago, as we passed through
one of the villages. All who swear by the old gods have been summoned.
They will sacrifice a steed to the god of war, and drink blood, and eat
horse-flesh to make them strong. It will be at the peril of our lives
if we approach them. At least we must hide the cross, if we would escape
death.”
“Hide me no cross,” cried Winfried, lifting his staff, “for I have come
to show it, and to make these blind folk see its power. There is more to
be done here to-night than the slaying of a steed, and a greater evil to
be stayed than the shameful eating of meat sacrificed to idols. I have
seen it in a dream. Here the cross must stand and be our rede.”
At his command the sledge was left in the border of the wood, with two
of the men to guard it, and the rest of the company moved forward across
the open ground. They approached unnoticed, for all the multitude were
looking intently toward the fire at the foot of the oak.
Then Winfried’s voice rang out, “Hail, ye sons of the forest! A stranger
claims the warmth of your fire in the winter night.”
Swiftly, and as with a single motion, a thousand eyes were bent upon the
speaker. The semicircle opened silently in the middle; Winfried entered
with his followers; it closed again behind them.
Then, as they looked round the curving ranks, they saw that the hue of
the assemblage was not black, but white,--dazzling, radiant, solemn.
White, the robes of the women clustered together at the points of the
wide crescent; white, the glittering byrnies of the warriors standing in
close ranks; white, the fur mantles of the aged men who held the central
palace in the circle; white, with the shimmer of silver ornaments and
the purity of lamb’s-wool, the raiment of a little group of children who
stood close by the fire; white, with awe and fear, the faces of all who
looked at them; and over all the flickering, dancing radiance of the
flames played and glimmered like a faint, vanishing tinge of blood on
snow.
The only figure untouched by the glow was the old priest, Hunrad, with
his long, spectral robe, flowing hair and beard, and dead-pale face,
who stood with his back to the fire and advanced slowly to meet the
strangers.
“Who are you? Whence come you, and what seek you here?”
“Your kinsman am I, of the German brotherhood,” answered Winfried, “and
from England, beyond the sea, have I come to bring you a greeting from
that land, and a message from the All-Father, whose servant I am.”
“Welcome, then,” said Hunrad, “welcome, kinsman, and be silent; for
what passes here is too high to wait, and must be done before the moon
crosses the middle heaven, unless, indeed, thou hast some sign or token
from the gods. Canst thou work miracles?”
The question came sharply, as if a sudden gleam of hope had flashed
through the tangle of the old priest’s mind. But Winfried’s voice sank
lower and a cloud of disappointment passed over his face as he replied:
“Nay, miracles have I never wrought, though I have heard of many; but
the All-Father has given no power to my hands save such as belongs to
common man.”
“Stand still, then, thou common man,” said Hunrad, scornfully, “and
behold what the gods have called us hither to do. This night is the
death-night of the sun-god, Baldur the Beautiful, beloved of gods and
men. This night is the hour of darkness and the power of winter, of
sacrifice and mighty fear. This night the great Thor, the god of thunder
and war, to whom this oak is sacred, is grieved for the death of Baldur,
and angry with this people because they have forsaken his worship. Long
is it since an offering has been laid upon his altar, long since the
roots of his holy tree have been fed with blood. Therefore its leaves
have withered before the time, and its boughs are heavy with death.
Therefore the Slavs and the Wends have beaten us in battle. Therefore
the harvests have failed, and the wolf-hordes have ravaged the folds,
and the strength has departed from the bow, and the wood of the spear
has broken, and the wild boar has slain the huntsman. Therefore the
plague has fallen on our dwellings, and the dead are more than the
living in all our villages. Answer me, ye people, are not these things
true?”
A hoarse sound of approval ran through the circle. A
chant, in which the voices of the men and women blended, like the shrill
wind in the pinetrees above the rumbling thunder of a waterfall, rose
and fell in rude cadences.
O Thor, the Thunderer
Mighty and merciless,
Spare us from smiting!
Heave not thy hammer,
Angry, aginst us;
Plague not thy people.
Take from our treasure
Richest Of ransom.
Silver we send thee,
Jewels and javelins,
Goodliest garments,
All our possessions,
Priceless, we proffer.
Sheep will we slaughter,
Steeds will we sacrifice;
Bright blood shall bathe
O tree of Thunder,
Life-floods shall lave thee,
Strong wood of wonder.
Mighty, have mercy,
Smile as no more,
Spare us and save us,
Spare us, Thor! Thor!
With two great shouts the song ended, and stillness followed so intense
that the crackling of the fire was heard distinctly. The old priest
stood silent for a moment. His shaggy brows swept down ever his eyes
like ashes quenching flame. Then he lifted his face and spoke.
“None of these things will please the god. More costly is the offering
that shall cleanse your sin, more precious the crimson dew that shall
send new life into this holy tree of blood. Thor claims your dearest and
your noblest gift.”
Hunrad moved nearer to the group of children who stood watching the fire
and the swarms of spark-serpents darting upward. They had heeded none of
the priest’s words, and did not notice now that he approached them, so
eager were they to see which fiery snake would go highest among the oak
branches. Foremost among them, and most intent on the pretty game, was
a boy like a sunbeam, slender and quick, with blithe brown eyes and
laughing lips. The priest’s hand was laid upon his shoulder. The boy
turned and looked up in his face.
“Here,” said the old man, with his voice vibrating as when a thick rope
is strained by a ship swinging from her moorings, “here is the chosen
one, the eldest son of the Chief, the darling of the people. Hearken,
Bernhard, wilt thou go to Valhalla, where the heroes dwell with the
gods, to bear a message to Thor?”
The boy answered, swift and clear:
“Yes, priest, I will go if my father bids me. Is it far away? Shall I
run quickly? Must I take my bow and arrows for the wolves?”
The boy’s father, the Chieftain Gundhar, standing among his bearded
warriors, drew his breath deep, and leaned so heavily on the handle of
his spear that the wood cracked. And his wife, Irma, bending forward
from the ranks of women, pushed the golden hair from her forehead with
one hand. The other dragged at the silver chain about her neck until the
rough links pierced her flesh, and the red drops fell unheeded on her
breast.
A sigh passed through the crowd, like the murmur of the forest before
the storm breaks. Yet no one spoke save Hunrad:
“Yes, my Prince, both bow and spear shalt thou have, for the way is
long, and thou art a brave huntsman. But in darkness thou must journey
for a little space, and with eyes blindfolded. Fearest thou?”
“Naught fear I,” said the boy, “neither darkness, nor the great bear,
nor the were-wolf. For I am Gundhar’s son, and the defender of my folk.”
Then the priest led the child in his raiment of lamb’s-wool to a broad
stone in front of the fire. He gave him his little bow tipped with
silver, and his spear with shining head of steel. He bound the child’s
eyes with a white cloth, and bade him kneel beside the stone with his
face to the cast. Unconsciously the wide arc of spectators drew inward
toward the centre, as the ends of the bow draw together when the cord
is stretched. Winfried moved noiselessly until he stood close behind the
priest.
The old man stooped to lift a black hammer of stone from the
ground,--the sacred hammer of the god Thor. Summoning all the strength
of his withered arms, he swung it high in the air. It poised for an
instant above the child’s fair head--then turned to fall.
One keen cry shrilled out from where the women stood: “Me! take me! not
Bernhard!”
The flight of the mother toward her child was swift as the falcon’s
swoop. But swifter still was the hand of the deliverer.
Winfried’s heavy staff thrust mightily against the hammer’s handle as it
fell. Sideways it glanced from the old man’s grasp, and the black stone,
striking on the altar’s edge, split in twain. A shout of awe and joy
rolled along the living circle. The branches of the oak shivered. The
flames leaped higher. As the shout died away the people saw the lady
Irma, with her arms clasped round her child, and above them, on the
altar-stone, Winfried, his face shining like the face of an angel.