THE WITCH'S DEN
Moderately wise
Should each one be,
But never over-wise:
His destiny let know
No man beforehand;
His mind will be freest from care.
Ha'vama'l
Because it was Yule Eve, the long deserted temple on the plain was
filled with light and sound. Fires blazed upon the floor; the row of
gilded idols came out of the shadow and shone in all their splendor. The
altars were reddened with the blood of slaughtered cattle; the
tapestried walls had been spattered with it. The temple priest dipped a
bunch of twigs into the brimming copper bowl, and sprinkled the
sacrificial blood over the people who sat along the walls ... They
raised the consecrated horns and drank the sacred toasts. To Odin! For
victory and power. To Njord! To Frey! For peace and a good year ... Eric
of Brattahlid laid his hands upon the atonement boar and made a solemn
vow to render justice unto all men, whatsoever their transgressions. The
others followed him in this, as in everything.
Because this was happening in the temple, Brattahlid, the source of
light and good cheer, was dark and gloomy. In the great hall there was
no illumination save the flickering firelight. Black shadows blotted out
the corners and stretched across the ceiling. The long benches were
emptied of all save Leif's followers and Thorhild's band of women. The
men sat like a row of automatons, drinking steadily, in deep silence,
with furtive glances toward their leader. Leif leaned back in his
high-seat, neither speaking nor drinking, scowling down into the flames.
"He is angry because Eric keeps up the heathen sacrifice," the women
whispered in each other's ears. "He has all of Eric's temper when he is
angered. It would be as much as one's life were worth to go near him
now." Shivering with nervousness, they crouched on the bench beside
their mistress's seat.
Thorhild leaned on the arm of her chair, shading her brow with her hand
that she might gaze at Leif unseen. Sometimes her eyes dwelt on his
face, and sometimes they rested on the silver crucifix that shone on his
breast; and so great was her tenderness for the one, that she embraced
the other also in a look of yearning love.
When the house-thralls had cleared away the tables, they crept into a
corner and stayed there, fearing even to go forward and replenish the
sinking fire, though gusts of bitter cold came through the broken window
behind them.
Little as they guessed it, something besides cold was coming through the
hole in the window. Even while they shivered and nodded beneath it, a
pair of gray Saxon eyes were sending keen glances through it, searching
every corner.
As the eyes turned back to the outer darkness, Alwin's voice whispered
with a long breath of relief: "I am certain they have not noticed that
we have gone out."
From the darkness, Sigurd's voice interrupted softly: "Is Kark there?"
"I think he is still in his comer. The light is bad, and the flames are
leaping between, but it seems to me that I can make him out."
They emerged from the shadow into the moonlight, and it became evident
that Sigurd was shaking his head dubiously.
"It seems to me also that I heard the door creak after us, and saw a
shadow slip past as we turned this corner. He is always on the watch; it
might easily be that our going out aroused his suspicions so that he is
hiding somewhere to track us. More than anything else in the world, is
he desirous to catch you in some disobedience."
Alwin tramped on doggedly. To all appearances, the court was as deserted
as a graveyard at midnight. Not even the whinny of a horse broke the
stillness. They passed into the shadow of a storehouse, and Alwin dived
into, the recess under the steps and began to fumble for something
hidden there. When he drew out a pair of skees and proceeded to put them
on, Sigurd burst forth with increased vehemence.
"Alwin, I implore you to heed my advice. My mind tells me that nothing
but evil can come of meddling with Skroppa. There will be no limit to
Leif's anger if he--"
"I tell you he will not find out," Alwin answered over his shoulder.
"His mind is so full of Eric's ill-doings, that he will not notice my
absence before I am back again. And to-night is the only night when I am
not in danger of being spied upon by Eric's men. It is my only chance."
"Yet Kark--"
"Kark may go into the hands of the Trolls!"
"It is not unlikely that you will accompany him. You are doing a great
sin. Harald Fairhair burned his son alive for meddling with witchcraft."
Although his toes were thrust into the straps of the runner-like skees,
Alwin stamped with exasperation. "You need not tell me that again. I
know as well as you that it is a sin. But will not penance make it
right?"
"You will dishonor Leif's holy mission."
"I shall not cause any quarrel, nor offend anyone. What harm can I do?"
Sigurd laid his hands on his friend's shoulders and tried to see his
face in the dark. "Give it up, comrade; I beseech you to give it up. If
you should be discovered, I tell you that though a priest might win you
a pardon from Heaven, no power on earth could make your peace with Leif
Ericsson."
Alwin said slowly: "If he discovers what I have done, I will endure any
punishment he chooses, because I owe him some obedience while I eat his
bread and wear his clothes. But I am not his born thrall, so I will have
my own way first. Urge me no more, brother; my mind is fixed."
Sigurd released him instantly. "I will say nothing further,--except that
it is my intention to try my luck with you." Stooping into the recess,
he drew out an-other pair of skees and began to fasten them on.
At the prospect of companionship, Alwin felt a rush of relief,--then a
twinge of compunction.
"Sigurd, you must not do this thing. There is no reason why you should
run this risk."
"There would be no reason why you should call me your friend if I did
otherwise," Sigurd cut him short. "Do you think me a craven, to let you
go alone where you might be tricked or murdered? Have you a weapon?"
"Leif will not allow me so much as a dagger, so to-night I borrowed from
his table the old brass-hilted knife that Eric gave him in his boyhood.
It is unlikely that he will miss that. I have it here." Throwing back
his cloak, he showed it thrust through his girdle.
"Come, then," said Sigurd curtly. "And have a care for your skees. You
are not over-skilful yet."
He caught up the long staff that acts something like a balance-pole in
skeeing, and darted away. Alwin followed, with an occasional prod of his
staff into a shadow that seemed thicker than it should be. By a
side-gate, they left the courtyard and struck out across the fields,
where the snow was packed as hard as a road-bed. Noiseless as birds, and
almost as swift, they skimmed along over the snow-clad plains and
half-frozen marshes.
As was to have been expected, the young Viking was an expert. To see him
shoot down a hillside at lightning speed, his skees as firmly parallel
as though they were of one piece, his graceful body bending, balancing,
steering, was to see the next best thing to flying. Alwin's runners
threw him more than once, lapping one over the other as he was
zigzagging up a slope, so that he tripped and rolled until a snow-bank
stopped him.
As he regained his feet after one of these interruptions, he made some
angry remark; but beyond this there was little said. It was a dreary
night to be on an uncanny errand, with a chill in the air that seemed to
freeze the heart. A fitful, spiteful wind drove the clouds like
frightened sheep, and strove to blow out the pale patient moon.
Sometimes it seemed almost to succeed; suddenly, when they most needed
light to guide their six-foot runners between the great boulders, the
light would go out like a torch in the water. The gusts lay in wait for
them at the corners, to leap out and lash their faces with a shriek that
chattered their teeth. The lulls between the gusts were even worse; it
seemed as though the whole world were holding its breath in dread. They
held theirs, darting uneasy glances at the glacier wall glittering far
ahead of them.
When a long, low wail smote their ears, their hearts leaped into their
throats. They were travelling along the edge of a black ravine. Halting,
they stood with suspended breath, staring down into the darkness.
The cry came again, yet more piercing; then suddenly it split into a
hissing sound like a kettle boiling over. Alwin broke into a nervous
laugh. "Cats!" he said.
But Sigurd stiffened as quickly as he had relaxed. "One of Skroppa's!
She swarms with them. See! Is not that a light down there?"
A sudden flicker there certainly was,--if it was not a ghost-fire. The
last cloud scurried from before the face of the long-suffering moon;
before the wind could bring up another fleecy flock, the pale light
crept down into the hollow and revealed the dark outline of a cabin
clinging among the rocks.
Alwin slipped out of his skees and made sure of his knife. "That, then,
is her house. We will leave the skees here."
"Though you never were known to heed advice, I will offer you another
piece," Sigurd answered. "We must go softly; and if we find the door
unlocked, enter quickly and without knocking. Otherwise it is possible
that we will stay outside and talk to the stones."
It was a tedious descent, yet somehow the time seemed plenty short
enough before they stood at the threshold. The stillness at the bottom
of the hollow was death-like; only the flickering light on the window
spoke of life. Silently the door yielded to Alwin's touch.
Darkness and a dying fire were all that met their eyes. They thought the
room empty, and took a step forward. Instantly the space was alive with
the green eyes of countless cats. The air was split with yowlings and
spittings and hissing. Soft furry bodies bounced against them and bit
and clawed around their legs. From the farthest corner came the lisping
voice of a toothless old woman.
"Who dares interrupt my sleep when the visions of things I wish to know
are passing before me? Better would it be for him to put his hand into
the mouth of the Fenriswolf."
Alwin said slowly, "It is the English thrall."
After a pause, the voice answered crossly, "I know no English thrall."
"How comes it, then, that more than a year ago you told something
concerning him which made Egil Olafsson his mortal foe?"
Out of the darkness came a sudden cackling laugh. "That is true. I told
the Black One that the maiden he loved would love an English thrall
instead. And he wished to stick his sword through me!"
"Is that what you told him?" cried Alwin, in amazement.
Sigurd echoed the cry. Yet as their minds ran back over Egil's strange
actions, they could not doubt that this was the key that unlocked their
mystery.
From an invisible corner came a stir, a creak, and then the sound of
feet lighting softly on the floor. A tiny figure appeared on the edge of
the shadows beyond the dying fire. The light fell upon furry gray feet;
and Alwin's first thought was that a monstrous cat had dropped down.
Then the flames leaped higher, and showed a furry cloak and a furry
hood, and from its fuzzy depths protruding, a sharp yellow beak for a
nose, and a hairy yellow peak for a chin. Of eyes, one saw nothing at
all.
Out of the fuzzy depths came a lisping voice. "When a thrall of Leif
Ericsson, who is also a Christian, thinks it worth while to risk his
life and his soul to consult me, I forgive it that I am wakened at
midnight. It is a compliment to my powers that I do not take ill. Say
what you wish to learn from me."
Alwin felt Sigurd touch him reproachfully, and shame burned in his
cheeks; but he had gone too far to retreat. He said bluntly: "I wish to
know whether Helga, Gilli's daughter, is to be given to Egil. Each time
he speaks across the floor to her, I am as though I were pricked with
sharp knives. I have endured it through three feasts; but I look upon
her with such eyes of love, that I can bear it no longer."
"I will dull those knives, even as Odin blunts the weapons of his
enemies. Helga will not be given to Egil, because he is too haughty to
ask for her since he knows that she loves you instead of him."
It had seemed to Alwin that if he could only know this, he would be
satisfied; yet now his questions piled upon each other.
"Then do you promise that she will be given to me? How am I to save her?
How am I to get my freedom? How long am I to wait?"
The Sibyl sank her head upon her breast so that her nose and chin quite
disappeared, and she stood before them like some furry headless beast.
There was a long pause. Alwin nervously followed the pairs of eyes,
noiselessly appearing and disappearing, from floor to ceiling, in every
part of the room. Sigurd set his back against the door and carried on a
silent struggle with the heavy lumps, hanging by teeth and claws upon
his cloak.
At last Skroppa raised her head and answered haltingly: "You ask too
much, according to the time and the place. To know all that clearly, I
should sit on a witches' platform and eat witches' broth, and have women
stand about me and sing weird songs. Without music, spirits do not like
to help. I can only see bits, vaguely as through a fog... I see your
body lying on the ground I see a ship where never ship was seen before I
see--I see Leif Ericsson standing upon earth where never man stood
before. It seems to me that I read great luck in his face... And I see
you standing beside him, though you do not look as you look now, for
your hair is long and black. The light is so bright that I cannot...
Yes, one thing more is open to my sight. I see that it is in this new
land that it will be settled whether your luck is to be good or bad."
She stopped. They waited for her to go on; but soon it became evident
that the foretelling was finished. With all his prudence, Sigurd began
to laugh; and Alwin burst out in a passion of impatience: "For which,
you gabbler? For which? I can make nothing of such jargon. Tell me in
plain words whether it will be for good or ill."
Skroppa answered just one word: "Jargon!"
Alwin stormed on unheeding, but Sigurd's laughter stopped: something in
the tone of that one word chilled his blood and braced his muscles like
a frost. He strained his eyes to pierce the shadow and make out what she
was doing; and it seemed to him that he could no longer see her. She had
disappeared,--where? In a sudden panic he groped behind him for the
door; found it and flung it open. It was well that the moon was shining
at that moment.
"Alwin!" he shouted. The yellow face was close to the thrall's
unconscious shoulder; one evil claw-like hand was almost at his cheek.
What she would have done, she alone knew.
While his cry was still in the air, Sigurd pulled his companion away and
through the door. Up the steep they went like cats. Near the top, Alwin
tripped, and his knife slipped from his belt and fell against a boulder.
It lay there shining, but neither of them noticed it. Into their skees,
and over the crusted plains they went,--reindeer could not have caught
them.