Twelve good hours I slept that night without stirring, and woke
feeling like a new man and fit for aught. The first thing I noticed
was the strange calm which brooded over all things, for the wind
had gone down, and the long, steady roar of the surf was far off
and all unlike the ceaseless rush and countless noises of the
labouring ship at sea. There came a little drone of chanting from
the chapel a hundred yards away, and there was now and again the
bleat of a sheep, and the homely crow of the cocks, sounding as if
shut up somewhere still. For a time I stayed, enjoying the unwonted
calm, and then the sunlight crept into the little window, and I
rose, and went out. My two comrades still slept.
It was a wonderful morning after the storm. The coast of the
mainland across the narrow strait seemed close at hand, piled with
great, soft, green mountains above the black cliffs, tier after
tier of them stretching inland as far as the eye could see. In the
valleys between them nestled forests, dark and deep, and in one
place I saw the thin lines of smoke rising, which told of houses.
The hill which made the best part of this island barred my view to
the westward, but it was not high enough to hide the mountain tops
on the mainland altogether. There was a fire lighted on it this
morning as if it might be a beacon. I minded that Phelim had said
that they would call the fishers from the mainland to come over for
us when they might venture, and I supposed that this was their
signal.
I looked across, past the tall, black cross to where Gerda's hut
stood, and it was as I had last seen it. The folds of the curtain
at the door had not been moved, and Phelim's crook stood where he
set it. The pigs were shut up somewhere even yet. Then the bell on
the roof of the little chapel rang once or twice, and I went near.
But this morning there was a closed door before me, the only door
in all the place. I know now that it was the hour of the morning
mass, but wondered at the time why the door was closed and why the
bell rang.
My going out woke Bertric, and he joined me, saying, half to
himself, that he should have been in time for the service. He, too,
looked all the better for the rest, and I dare say that the help of
the comb, which Fergus lent us in sheer compassion overnight, had
worked no small change in that direction.
We wandered down to the shore and looked at the wreck. The ship had
broken up in the night, and nothing but her gaunt ribs stood in a
deep pool on the wet sands. On the beach at our feet lay the gilded
and green dragon's head from her stem, and all along were strewn
oars and planking, and the like. It was pitiful enough. But the
brothers had toiled till light failed them, for they had saved the
other boat and the sledges, and also the sail, together with
smaller things, among which was the cauldron of our first meals,
which was a treasure to them. Inside it, on the sand hill, was the
little silver cup from the penthouse, too, and the empty wine
pitcher lay hard by.
"There are men who would pray for a wreck like this every week,"
said Bertric, with a short laugh. "But it will be all that we can
do to get these good men to keep what they have saved, even if the
things are of any use to them. They need little and covet naught."
Presently he heaved a great sigh, and half turned from the sea, as
if impatient.
"As good a little ship as ever was framed," he said. "And to come
to such an end. Mishandled on a lee shore."
"Why, there is no blame to us," I said. "We were helpless."
"It lies heavy on my mind that we ought to have weathered the point
yonder; I held on too long. At best I knew where she was strained,
and should have gone on the other tack first. And the canvas we got
on her! We might have done better than that."
"It did not seem so at the time," I answered, laughing. "It is easy
to think now of what might have been done."
"So it is. But for all my days I shall feel it in my bones that I
threw the ship away. I shall dream that I am weathering the island.
Two ships I have lost running."
"One by war and the other by sheer misfortune," I answered. "You
make too much of it altogether."
He laughed ruefully. "Well, think what a voyage we might have had
if we had chanced to pick up a crew."
"It was your own doing that Heidrek did not pick us up," I said.
"Maybe that thought will comfort you somewhat."
"I was never glad of a fog before," he answered.
And there that matter ended, for now we had wandered to a place
whence we could see the strait between us and the mainland, which
we must cross presently.
That was not yet possible, for here the currents, as the tide rose
and swirled round either end of the island, were like a mill race,
while the heavy sea which still beat on the shore made the turmoil
still wilder as it set across the narrow opening.
"Here we have to bide till that mends," said Bertric. "We must make
the best of it, for a day or two. Maybe it matters little, for
Gerda needs rest. And Dalfin will sleep till midday if we let him.
He is worn out."
"He was full of all that would happen when we came as honoured
guests to his father's place, as we talked last evening," I said.
"That all sounds well enough for a time. But thereafter--what are
our plans to be?"
"In what way?" he answered, staying his steps, and looking gravely
at me.
Now this was the first chance we two had had of private talk. As
may be supposed, we had been drawn together much during the voyage,
partly as seamen, and also partly because Norseman and Saxon are
kin, while the Irishman was almost as much a stranger to me as to
Bertric. Moreover, Dalfin was at home once more, and we were
wanderers. So I spoke plainly, not seeing any need to beat about
the bush with this quiet friend, of whom I surely learnt so much in
the long days of peril together.
"I have no plans beyond those I may make for the help of Gerda," I
said. "If your home does not call you maybe it is well for her."
"There are none who will trouble much concerning me until the
autumn," he answered. "I am a free man in that matter, and it need
not trouble you. Let me work with you in this, for, indeed, I shall
not be happy until I have seen her in safety again, and in her own
land, if that may be what she wishes."
"That will be her first wish," I answered, being sure thereof.
In those last days on board the ship, when I was not taking my turn
at the helm, I had spoken much with Gerda, sitting on the deck just
without the little shelter we had rigged for her aft, and ever her
thoughts had gone back to Norway and a home there.
"You and I must see this through together," Bertric said frankly.
"I knew that this would be your one thought, and you will be none
the worse off for someone to help. 'Bare is back without brother
behind it,' as your old saw goes."
I held out my hand to him on that bargain with a great relief, and
he took it and laughed.
"Maybe we are making much of what need be little trouble," he said;
"but we cannot tell. We are in a strange land, and, from all I ever
heard, a troubled one. A lady is no light charge. Let us see if we
can find her before Dalfin wakes. I think we must plan apart from
him for a while, for he is full of our biding always here in
Ireland. Which, of course, is out of the question."
Now we turned back to the village, and as we went I asked Bertric
what he would do when our end had been gained, and Gerda was once
more in Norway, and at rest.
"Make my way home," he answered. "There will be ships who will be
glad of a pilot into English ports, if none happen to want a
master. That is easy for me. What of yourself?"
"A Norse king is always glad of a courtman," I said. "Or the Orkney
earl will not let me be idle if I go to him."
"Aye," he said, "a man can always find a place. I do not think you
will have to seek far."
We found Gerda up the glen, watching Fergus milk the little black
and white kine which had their byres in that sheltered place. Among
the trees wandered half a score of goats, and the ground was white
with the wind flowers everywhere. She was bright, and seemed very
fair that morning, rejoicing in rest and the peace that was all
around.
"See," she said, after our greeting, "even the birds are not feared
of us here. They are the little brothers and sisters of the
hermits."
So indeed it seemed, for the wood birds flew to us, seeking the
food which the brethren never failed to bring them. Gerda stretched
out her hand with some crumbs of bread, and they perched thereon,
fearless, while Fergus looked up at us and smiled a good morning.
"Have you found your breakfast, my sons?" he asked. "We set it in
your cell; but the prince slept still, and we did not wake him."
We had not looked into the hut, and so went back slowly, Gerda with
us. And on the way we asked how we might try to plan for her.
"Oh, if you will but do so," she said eagerly. "In any case, let me
go back to Norway as soon as I may. Yet I do not know where to look
for a friend who can help me to my own there."
"We had thought of Harald Harfager, the king," I said. "He was
Thorwald's friend, as you told us. He will act as your guardian."
She looked at us in some surprise.
"Have you heard naught from Norway of late?" she asked.
Bertric had heard none, and we in Caithness were out of the way of
news.
"Harald has been dead these six months and more," she said sadly.
"Now his son, Eric Bloodaxe, reigns unquietly. Men hate him, and
with reason. That terrible name of his may tell you why. Arnkel,
who tried to burn me, is hand in glove with him."
Then Bertric said:
"Have you heard naught of Hakon, that son of Harald, whom our king,
Athelstane, has brought up in England?"
"No," she answered, shaking her head. "We have heard naught. We
would that we had, for all men speak well of him, and it was hoped
that he would be back rather than that this terrible half-brother
of his should take the throne."
"I know him," Bertric said. "It were well for Norway if he did
return. Good warrior and good Christian he is, and that means good
friend, moreover."
"We must make for Dublin," I said. "We must go to the Norse king,
Sigtryg, who is there, and ask him for help. It will be hard if we
cannot find a ship to serve us--even if not men who will sail to
set a queen in her place once more."
"If that fails," put in Bertric, "we will go to England and speak
with Hakon himself. Maybe he will take you back to Norway when he
sails. For he will sail."
Gerda laughed, and shook her head again.
"You make too much of me. Hakon would not heed so small a matter.
No, take me to Norway, and I will find my cousins who are in the
south, and there I may be welcome. At least, I shall be no burden
to them, and they are folk who live on their own land. It will be
the quiet life of the homestead and the saeter which I love."
She sighed, and there was a far-off look in her eyes as if she saw
again the Norse mountains and streams and the flower-edged
glaciers, and heard the song of the maidens on the pastures round
the saeters, and the homing call for the cattle, and longed for
them.
"What of yourselves?" she said presently, and a little timidly as I
thought.
"We shall not be content till we have seen you in safety, and in
Norway if that may be," I answered. "That is all we have to think
of now."
"We are two men at a loose end if we have not you to follow as your
courtmen," added Bertric. "We would pray you not to turn us off."
"It is good to hear you speak so," she said, with a smile that was
of sheer relief. "But it is a barren service, though I would not
part with you if it must be put in that way. I think that I could
not have found better friends, and I fear nothing while you are
near."
So she went on to thank us for all our thought for her, as if we
did something wonderful, and we were fain to laugh and make light
of it.
"Now we are bound for Norway," said Bertric. "What shall be done
with all this troublesome treasure? We cannot hale it all over
Ireland."
We thought it best to leave the bulk of it with the hermits, taking
enough for all possible needs in silver coin and in the rings and
links of gold, which were easily carried and hidden. For we had
heard from Dalfin how that between the courts of the Irish kings
and that of Sigtryg of Dublin was little intercourse, save when
fighting was on hand. But of that there was no need to tell Gerda,
there being peace at present, so far as the hermits knew, and good
reason for at least civility when she was concerned. As for the
things we left here, they might he picked up on our way to Norway.
So we planned, and thereafter went back to the cells and to Dalfin,
who woke at noontide or thereabout with a great hunger on him.
So that day wore on in utter quietness and rest, while the wind and
sea fell. Late in that afternoon, when the tide was at its lowest
and the slack water was more still, Phelim came hastily and told us
that there were fishers on the way from their village to us.
Whereat we wondered; for still the sea ran high, and we ourselves
had not dreamed of putting out in our boat.
But when we reached the rocky shore which looked on the strait, so
it was. Rising and falling on the waves came a tiny craft with two
men in it, and I have seldom seen a boat better handled in a sea
way. Yet when they came close, it was but a wicker framework,
covered with skins, the two men kneeling on the floor, and using
narrow, single-bladed paddles, one on either side or both on the
same side as need might be.
They came carefully alongside a flat rock which they were wont to
use as a landing place, and one leapt out, running to Father
Phelim, and kneeling to him for his blessing. It was hard to make
out his rough speech, but it was plain that his folk had feared
lest somewhat should be amiss with the hermits. Phelim told them
that their prince was here, and then there was much homage done of
a humble sort to Dalfin, who took it as a matter of course, though
the manner of it was more cringing and excited than any Norseman
could have put up with. Presently, when all that was over, they
asked him what his commands were, knowing that they had been
summoned for his service.
He told them that they must go to his father, their king, and ask
him to send a guard to meet us as soon as possible at their
village, with all that was needed for our journey to the court.
Thereafter they were to send their largest boat to ferry us across
to the other side. Then he dismissed them, bidding them use all
speed, and again they did homage after their manner, and bent
before Phelim, and so paddled out among the waves as swiftly and
skilfully as they had come. There was never a word of pay or even
reward spoken. It would seem to be enough for them that they should
be honoured in serving their lord, or else they had no choice but
to do his bidding. Maybe that last is most likely.
Now we had to wait for their signal that all was ready for us, and
how long that might be we could not tell. It depended mostly on
where the king was holding his court, which the fishers did not
know. In the end it came to pass that we had to wait four days
here, and I will not say that they went at all quickly.
Dalfin waxed moody before the next day was over. He was one of
those who loved excitement, and are only happy when one thing
follows another fast, caring not what it may be so long as there is
somewhat, even danger. I think it was as well that he was a mighty
sleeper, being content to lie on a warm sand hill and slumber
between his meals. Bertric and I built a pig stye out of wreck wood
for the hermits, which pleased them mightily, and was certainly
better than doing nothing. Gerda watched us quietly, and then we
would climb to the top of the hill and look out toward the land in
hopes of seeing the fire which the fishers were to light when all
was in order for our going.
So it chanced on the second day that she and I had been up the hill
together, and were coming back to Bertric and his work down the
little glen, when we came suddenly on the old superior, who was
walking with bent head among the trees of a clearing, musing. We
had not seen him since the day when we came ashore.
He started when he saw us, and looked at us as if it was the first
time that he had met us; and we were about to pass him quickly,
with a little due reverence. But he spoke, and we stopped.
"I remember," he said. "You are the Lochlannoch who were cast
ashore. Is all well with you?"
"In every way, father," I answered in the Gaelic.
He looked hard at me for a moment, and his face flushed slowly. It
had been white before with the whiteness that comes of a dark cell
and long biding within it. Only the warm sun had taken him out
today, for Phelim said that he was close on ninety years of age.
Then he set forth his hand to me, and laid it on my arm.
"Tell me who you are," he said.
"We are Norse folk, cast ashore here by mischance in the gale."
"Norse?" he said. "Yet you speak the tongue of my childhood--the
kindly Gaelic of the islands which is not that altogether of the
Erse of today. It is full sixty years since I heard it."
"My mother was a Scottish lady," I answered. "My own name is
Malcolm."
"Tell me more," he said eagerly. "Let me hear the old tongue again
before I die."
Now, it is in no wise easy to be told to talk without a hint in the
way of question on which to begin, and I hesitated. Gerda asked me
softly what was amiss, and I told her in a few words. The old
hermit looked kindly at her, but did not speak.
"Tell him of your home," she said. "Tell him without saying aught
of the end of it."
I did so, slowly at first, for the words would not come, and then
better as I went on. The old man listened, and the tears came into
his eyes.
"Ah, the old days," he said, when I stopped. "Your voice is a voice
from the days that are gone, and the old tongue comes back to me,
with the sound of the piper on the hill and the harper in the hall,
with the sough of the summer wind in the fir trees, and the lash of
the waves on the rocks. Oh, my son, my son, I would that you had
never come here to make me mind the things that are dead."
Now he was trembling, and I took his white hand and set it on my
arm to steady him. His hand felt the cold touch of the great gold
bracelet Gerda would have me wear, and he looked at it, and turned
it in his fingers.
"Jarl, and son of a jarl," he whispered. "War and flame, and the
cry of the victors! Oh, my son, you mind me of bitter things."
"I and mine have never hurt Christian folk, father," I said,
knowing what he meant.
The sword and fire had fallen heavily on the Scottish islands when
the Norseman first came thither. But surely he could not mind that.
Thereafter Phelim told me that he thought the old man spoke of the
burning of some monastery on the mainland of Scotland, whence he
had fled, with those of his brethren who escaped, to Ireland,
coming hither at last to end his days in peace. But I heard no more
from himself now. What I had just spoken turned his thoughts
afresh, and I was glad.
"Then you are a heathen; and this lady also?"
"We are Odin's folk," I answered. "I suppose that is what you mean,
father."
"Yet I think now that I saw you once in the chapel."
"You may do so again, father, if it is permitted by you. I have
heard naught but good words there."
His eyes brightened, and he smiled at me.
"You know nothing of the faith then?" he asked.
I shook my head. I had heard never a word of it until I met my
friends.
"We will teach you," he said eagerly. "Sit here, my children, in
this warm place, and let me tell you somewhat thereof. It may be
the last time I may teach the heathen. Aye, I have done it in days
long ago."
I spoke to Gerda then, telling her what the old father wished, and
she smiled at the thought.
"We have naught to do," she said, "and if it will give him pleasure
we may as well bide here."
So we sat down on the bank in the sun amid the quiet of the
woodland, and listened. The wood flowers carpeted the ground, and
Gerda plucked those that were in reach and played with them while
the father began his words. Presently he saw that Gerda was paying
no heed, and he bade me translate, hearing that she did not
understand. And by that time he spoke the old tongue of his youth,
and the Erse way of speaking was forgotten.
Then he told us things which every Christian child knows; but which
were new and wonderful and very good to hear, to us two. Soon Gerda
had forgotten the flowers, and was listening, and presently asking
questions as might a child who hears the sweetest tale ever told.
So still we were, and so soft the voice of the old man, that the
birds the hermits were wont to feed came close to us, and a robin
perched on the shoulder of the father, and he smiled at it.
"See," he said, "the breast of the little bird is red because it
had compassion on its Maker as He suffered, and would pluck the
cruel thorns away."
And so with all homely words and simple he taught us, and we were
fain to listen. Odin and the Asir seemed far off at that time and
in that place, and I half blamed myself for harkening.
"What of our Asir?" I said at last.
"Heroes of the old days," he said. "Heroes whom their sons have
worshipped; because a man must needs worship the greatest whom he
knows."
"And what has become of them?"
He shook his head. "They are in the hands of the true Allfather,"
he answered. "I cannot tell more than that. It is enough."
"I have heard it said," I went on, for here was somewhat which
troubled me, "that you Christians hold that we worship fiends--that
the Asir are such."
"That were to wrong the heroes of the past, my son," he answered.
"It is meant that you know not what you worship under those
honoured names. There are those among you who know that the Asir
were your forefathers. Did you ever hear that Alfred, the wise and
most Christian king of England, was ashamed of that ancestry of
his?"
"I myself cannot be ashamed thereof. I am from the line of Odin," I
said. "If you speak truth, father, one count against Christians has
passed, from my mind at least."
But now Gerda spoke timidly, for she too had her question at this
time.
"What of women, father? Is there a place for them in the heaven of
which you speak? Was it won for us?"
"Most truly, my daughter. It is for the woman as for the man. There
is no difference."
I saw her face light up with a new wonder and joy, which told me
that here was no idle listener. And so the old teacher went on in
all kindly wisdom, never hurting us in aught he said of the old
gods, but leading us to see the deeper things which our forebears
had forgotten. I listened, and thought it all good; but betimes
Gerda wept quietly, and would fain hear more and more. The little
bell on the chapel rang for the vespers or ever we ended that long
talk, and the old man must go. I raised him up, for he was very
feeble, and again the touch of the gold put a word into his mind.
"Jarl, and son of Odin," he said, smiling, "no need for you to wait
that dim Ragnarok fight of yours for warfare against evil. That
fight has begun, and in it you may take your part now, that you may
share in the victory hereafter."
Then I said, for I minded how useless to me seemed this life here:
"What part have you therein, father--you and the brethren?"
"We pray for those who have forgotten to do so for themselves," he
answered. "And we are of those whose sorest fight has been against
evil within."
So we went into the chapel for the vespers with him, and the day
was done. But in the morning there hung on the black cross on the
green grass a wreath of white flowers which no brother had set
there.