Chapter 11 #2
Njord led Elfi down the plank, with Lugh escorting úlvhild, followed by Njáll and Luna, then Bodo and Sif.
“The stairs are slick from seaweed,” Njord hollered over the crashing waves and cawing gulls.
“Grab hold of the rope.” The stone steps carved into the cliffside were indeed slippery from the frothy spray, but a thick rope, rough with salt and age, ran along the rock face, lashed to iron rings driven deep into the stone.
úlvhild gripped it tightly as she climbed with Lugh, her legs wobbly from the rough voyage, her damp woolen cloak snapping in the strong, frigid wind.
At the crest of the cliff, the salty gusts struck harder, stinging her face with frozen mist, sharp as shards of ice.
Siguresholl loomed ahead—broad and dark against the grey sky, its timbered walls weathered by sea gales, its steep roof rising like a ship’s hull turned skyward, dragons carved along the high peaks, their fanged jaws open to the sea.
Perched close to the cliff’s edge, the Great Hall commanded the craggy coast, the black raven of Sigurd’s banner flapping furious wings against the incessant wind.
Far below, waves crashed against the dark rock, spraying white foam high into the storm-bitten sky.
Behind the hall, smoke curled from the chimneys of four guest lodges built of weathered timber like the jarl’s Great Hall.
Two larger communal longhouses meant for warriors stood nearby, their enormous wooden entrance doors and support pillars carved with curling serpents and snarling beasts.
Along the outside of the timbered walls, painted shields with metal bosses hung on wooden racks.
Further inland, the bustling village stirred to life.
A blacksmith worked over an open forge, the clang of his hammer ringing out as sparks flew into the morning air.
A cluster of shops and booths lined the trodden dirt road, where early traders were laying out their goods—fur pelts, finely worked bronze, fresh fish, carved bone, amber beads, and dyed wool.
Jubilant children scampered about, chasing dogs and chickens, their joyous laughter lost beneath the seabird cries, the crashing waves, and the ever-present wind.
Flanked by his eight armed guards, the mail-clad bryti turned to face them, bowing his head to show respect and raising his booming voice above the howling wind.
“I am Eysteinn, bryti of Siguresholl. Jarl Sigurd bids you welcome to Orkneyjar, and to his hearth. Your lodgings are made ready. Follow me.”
As she and her group followed Eysteinn and his guards toward the row of four small timbered lodges, úlvhild spotted the crews and warriors from each of their three drakkar ships climbing the stairwells at either end of the cliff.
Led by more of Jarl Sigurd’s men, Njord’s warriors filed into the two large communal longhouses where they could store their gear and rest.
When Eysteinn arrived at the first wooden guest house, he withdrew a heavy key from the metal ring upon his belt and slid it into the wrought iron lock.
The ornately carved wooden door creaked open, and he gestured for a female servant to slip inside.
“My lady,” he said to úlvhild, “you’ll find the hearth already lit.
Should you require aught, the servant Thora will be close at hand. ”
úlvhild spoke quietly to Elfi. “I will not come to dagmál. My belly is still heaving like the waves. I need to sleep for a while before meeting Jarl Sigurd and his daughter. But I will attend the feast this evening. In my most glorious volva attire.” She forced a reassuring smile, then bowed her head slightly to Eysteinn, who unlocked the second guest house and ushered Luna and Sif through the opened door.
“I’ll come check on you later.” Elfi squeezed úlvhild’s trembling hands.
“Try to sleep now. Rest will restore you.” Concern and compassion shining in her blue green eyes, Elfi followed Sif, Luna, and Jarl Sigurd’s two servants into their timbered cottage while Eysteinn and his guards guided the Ljósálfar males into one guest house and the úlfhéenar warriors into another.
“I’ve stoked the fire, my lady, and opened the shutters to let out the smoke.
” Thora, the grey-haired servant assigned to attend her, gestured to the two small windows on opposite walls of the guest house.
Apparently shaken by úlvhild’s presence—for a volva was equally respected and feared—she seemed eager to leave the timbered cottage.
“There is a pitcher of fresh water on the table, with chamomile soap and a basin for you to wash.” She wiped weathered hands on her linen apron, worried eyes flickering to the open door. “Shall I fetch anything else?”
“Nei, I need nothing more. You may go.” As Thora ducked out of the cottage, Njord appeared in the doorway, úlvhild’s leather-wrapped staff cradled protectively under his arm.
Behind him, two of his Danish warriors gripped the handles of her wooden trunk.
She stepped aside to allow them in, pointing to an area on the earthen floor near the narrow bed piled with blankets and furs.
“Set it there, against the wall. Thank you.”
The two rugged Danes, leather armor gleaming in the firelight, bowed respectfully to úlvhild, then turned to Njord, awaiting orders.
“Carry Lady Elfi’s trunk—and her maid, Sif’s—to that cottage,” he said, indicating the adjacent guest house.
Njord grinned at the sight of two of his wolf brothers approaching, lugging a heavy wooden chest between them.
“I see that Bodo and Njáll have brought Luna’s.
” He turned back to úlvhild, who had unwrapped her moonstone staff and leaned it against the wall near her bed. “Do you have all that you need?”
úlvhild was grateful for his solicitous attention, but eager for him to leave.
She wanted to seek a seier vision and needed both solitude and silence.
“Indeed I do. Thank you, Njord.” She strode across the rush-strewn floor and closed the shutters on the windows.
“Please tell the others I do not wish to be disturbed until after the sun has set. And please make my excuses to Jarl Sigurd, for I am too ill to accept dagmál. But I shall be honored to attend tonight’s feast.”
“As you wish, úlvhild. Until this evening. I hope you rest well.” Njord inclined his head and departed, closing the heavy wooden door behind him.
With the windows now closed, hazy smoke filled the air inside the dim hut.
úlvhild poured water from the pitcher into a ceramic basin, washing her hands and face with the sweet-smelling chamomile soap, for purity was essential when seeking visions from the Otherworld.
After drying with a clean linen cloth which Thora has thoughtfully left on the table beside the basin, úlvhild fetched her satchel of herbs and sheathed dagger from the wooden trunk near the foot of the bed.
Setting the jeweled scabbard upon the wooden table near the flaming hearth, she opened the leather satchel and searched among the small pouches of berries, selecting three whose contents were identified by charms and beads attached to the drawstring closures.
One by one, she opened them and selected three berries from each.
Deep blue juniper, for enhanced sight.
Fiery red rowan, for wards of protection.
And dark purple elder, to summon spirits and open the path between worlds.
Three berries from each of the three pouches. The sacred number nine. úlvhild tossed them into the fire and deeply inhaled the intoxicating blend of resinous pine, sweet spice, and earthy woodsmoke.
She selected a small pan from a wooden shelf on the wall near the hearth, filled it with water, and set it upon a large flat stone near the recessed fire in the hearth. Returning to her leather satchel, she selected herbs, adding a pinch of each to the pot and muttering under her breath.
“Wormwood, to enhance divination.” She added three silvery leaves with a cluster of tiny yellow flowers to the pot. “Mistletoe and vervain, to promote visions.” úlvhild dropped three white berries and three tiny purple flowers to the steaming brew.
She returned to her leather satchel and withdrew the elk bone container of henbane, placed it upon the table beside the dagger, and unsheathed Freyja’s Whisper, the sacred weapon she reserved for seier rituals.
With the sharp tip of her knife, she carefully scraped away the hardened beeswax seal and pried the birchwood stopper free.
Three seeds. One for each of the Norns. That they may reveal my fate.
úlvhild dropped the tiny black henbane seeds into the simmering pot. She would need the entire day to recuperate from the poisonous herb, which was why she’d told Njord that she was not to be disturbed until after sunset.
She retrieved a smooth piece of ash wood from her satchel.
The small sprig was from the sacred grove of étretat, where Elfi’s brother Dag lay buried near the castle of le Chateau Blanc.
With the sharp tip of Freyja’s Whisper, she carved a trio of overlapping runes—a bindrune— into the twig which she’d brought from the Pays de Caux.
Three runes, to bind the vision to me.
Ansuz, for divine insight.
Algiz, for protection.
Nauthiz, to control the deadly power of henbane.
With a pair of metal tongs hanging on a hook near the stone hearth, úlvhild carefully removed the simmering pot and placed it on a flat stone to cool.
She fetched her gemstone studded silver chalice from the wooden trunk on the floor and brought it to the table.
Wrapping her hands with the linen cloth, she lifted the pot and poured the contents into the ornate goblet, which she set upon the table near the bed.
Three henbane seeds for the Norns. Three runes to bind the vision. And now, the final trio, forming the sacred number nine.
Three drops of my blood. A divine offering to Freyja, the Norse Goddess of Seier.