Chapter 46
Wolfsong
Elfi stood in the moonlight atop la Tour d’écume, the Foam Tower named for the frothy spray that splattered the pale limestone walls with thunderous waves from la Porte d’Aval—Aegir’s Gate, as the Norse called it—the portal to the underwater realm of the sea, whose relentless surge crashed against the craggy cliff below the tower where she would soon give birth.
It had been nine days since Njord sailed west on the Narrow Sea to the mouth of the Seine.
The sea battle had not yet begun—she sensed it in her mermaid heart—yet she knew the Frankish ships, bolstered by Rus raiders and Dokkálfar allies, would soon attack the nine ships defending the sea entrance to Paris.
She couldn’t sleep, so she had come up here, to watch the moonlight dance on the rolling waves and breathe the cleansing scent of the sea.
And pray for her beloved white wolf.
Elfi touched the glittering gems at the base of her throat.
The necklace Njord had given her as a bridal gift had once belonged to Rán.
As her fingertips caressed the turquoise, emerald, and lapis lazuli stones which glimmered in the moonlight, she whispered a fervent prayer to her sea goddess grandmother.
“Amma, hear my call. Bless my husband Njord—Wolf of the Nordic Seas—and the crews of his nine ships. Shield them in battle. Bring them safely home. And bless my child, soon to be born. Grant me the strength of the sea, that I might endure, as I bring Njord’s daughter into this world.”
Behind her, the heavy wooden door leading onto the observation deck creaked open. The armored guards lowered their swords at the sight of úlvhild—the volva who shared Elfi’s private chambers on the floor below, where she would also give birth.
On the third floor of the five-level tower, Ylva and Vivi slept soundly in their shared room, while Vilde, Sif, and Oda occupied the second level above the ground floor, which housed both servants and guards.
As the gusty wind whipped Elfi’s long hair and her intermittent pains continued, úlvhild approached with a steaming cup and a reassuring smile.
“Chamomile tisane,” she murmured, offering the ceramic mug. “To calm you and help you sleep.”
Elfi inhaled the sweet, floral scent and sipped the warm brew, grateful for úlvhild’s nurturing care, yet remorseful for having disturbed her rest. “Thank you, úlvhild,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry I woke you. I couldn’t sleep.
I’m so uncomfortable... my back aches, the pains come and go, and I feel like a beached whale. I cannot wait to have this child.”
“You will very soon. Your labor has just begun. With a first child, it takes longer for your body to prepare.” She placed a comforting hand on Elfi’s shoulder. “Come, let’s go back inside. You should rest while you can. Your time is near.”
Elfi let úlvhild guide her back inside, down the small stone stairwell which led from the open deck atop the tower to the private chamber they shared.
The vast room had windows on all walls, giving magnificent views of the moonlit sea.
The banked embers glowing in the hearth near the entry warmed her chilled bones.
She sank down onto her bed of soft furs and sipped the fragrant herbal brew.
When she’d finished, úlvhild tucked her in bed like a small child and bent to kiss her cheek. “Sleep now. It will soon be morning. Perhaps tomorrow your daughter will be born.
White gannets soared in the cloudless sky as golden sunlight streamed into the chamber.
Waves crashed against the white cliffs below the tower, sending salt spray and sea foam high into the air.
Wind whistled through the partially opened windows, carrying the briny tang of the sea as Elfi sat up slowly and stretched her limbs.
From the lower level of la Tour d’écume, the scent of barley porridge and lingonberries made Elfi rush to the chamber pot and hurl the contents of her empty stomach into the ceramic bowl.
When she rose shakily to her feet, her lower belly cramped in a tight vise of excruciating pain.
Bracing herself against the wall with both hands, she leaned into the agony like a wave crashing over her, and sagged with relief when it finally subsided.
úlvhild had been right. Her daughter would be born today.
Ylva appeared at the door, with Vivi close behind. She smiled at Elfi. “Would you like to come down for dagmál, or should I have a tray brought up?”
“Neither,” Elfi whimpered as an overwhelming pain buckled her legs beneath her.
Ylva’s eyes widened as recognition dawned.
She turned to Vivi. “Tell úlvhild that her pains are stronger. Have Vilde and Sif prepare herbal tonics of yarrow, chamomile, and raspberry leaf, to help open her womb and ease the birth. And bring nine gems, for the sacred chant to invoke Frigg. Three each of moonstones, lapis lazuli, and clear quartz.”
“Oui, Maman.” Vivi nodded and dashed from the room.
Ylva stoked the hearth and added firewood, tossing crushed herbs into the fire. “A trio of herbs for protection,” she whispered to Elfi. “Juniper, for purification. Thyme, to strengthen your courage. And mugwort, for safe passage of your child as she emerges from your womb.”
As another wracking pain tore Elfi apart, like the waves slamming against the white chalk cliffs below, úlvhild slipped into the sunlit room. Her velvety voice was calming and soothing. “Float in the waves… let the pain wash over you. Each one brings your daughter closer to being born.”
Oda, Vilde, and Sif quietly entered the room. Vilde—the wetnurse who had nourished and nurtured Elfi like a mother—placed a cool cloth on her damp, sweaty brow.
Oda kissed her cheek and brushed strands of hair from Elfi’s flushed face. “Drink,” she urged, handing Elfi an herbal tisane. “úlvhild said it will help open your womb and renew your strength.”
Sif attempted a reassuring smile.
Elfi sipped the steaming brew, the bitter bite of yarrow and the tang of raspberry leaf sweetened by the floral taste of chamomile. The warmth spread through her belly, easing the edge of the pain… until another wave crashed over her, wrenching her in its unyielding grip.
Vivi returned with the nine stones, which she, úlvhild, and Ylva arranged in an alternating pattern at the base of the curving wall, forming a sacred circle around the room.
“Moonstone… for cycles, tides, and safe childbirth. May the moon and the sea guide your daughter safely into the world.” úlvhild placed the pearlescent stones along the floor of Elfi’s chamber, their pale glow shimmering softly.
“Lapis lazuli, for the strength of the sea—to nourish your sjóvaettir spirit,” she continued, guiding Vivi’s hand as the young priestess set each deep blue gem, its golden veins glimmering in the morning sun, beside the moonstones.
Ylva followed, completing the triple pattern with crystalline gems. “And clear quartz, for clarity and protection—to amplify the divine light of the goddess Frigg.”
Elfi groaned as another wave of pain smothered her, stealing her breath. She bent over the bed, head hanging down, arching her back against the clamping vice of her belly.
úlvhild, Vivi, and Ylva began to chant, their melodic voices mellow as mead and light as lyres and flutes. As they sang a vardlokkur to call forth the protective spirits, úlvhild thumped her moonstone staff on the polished oak floor.
When their song faded into the salty wind streaming through the open windows, úlvhild lifted her staff and whispered an invocation.
“Frigg, Goddess of Birth and Motherhood,” she murmured, her voice ethereal and otherworldly, “Guide this child into the world and guard her mother Elfi. Shield them both from harm.”
“Breathe,” úlvhild murmured, her faraway voice drifting to Elfi through the endless fog of pain. “Let the sea, the stones, and the sacred smoke bless both you and your babe.”
* * * *
The morning sun glimmered on the waves of Narrow Sea at the mouth of the river which led to l’ íle de la Cité—the island of Paris in the heart of the Seine.
Njord had arrived with his fleet of nine ships and coordinated with Jarl Rikard and Hugh Capet.
After final farewells to the úlfhéenar, Ljósálfar, Haldor, Thorfinn, Skadi, and Skjold—who had marched with the army of mounted men, headed into battle near Noyon—he now stood at the prow of Drakkúlfr, waiting for the enemy to appear.
The brackish breeze of the estuary ruffled the white wolfskin fur of his cloak, his sensitive ears twitching against the gusting wind. The nine ships of their small fleet now stretched across the narrow channel, anchored and chained together so that no hostile vessel could pass through.
The iron chains creaked under the pull of the tide, groaning like ancient beasts as waves slammed against the weathered oak hulls.
Sea foam sprayed his thick beard, harsh wind biting his salty skin, as he scanned the dim horizon.
In the distance, from the east, black shapes moved steadily toward them.
Four Frankish warships, with their Rus raider allies in eight sleek snekkja –like Skugga’s fleet which had attacked them in ísland—swinging oars and raising shields.
Crouched along the rails, cloaked in dark hoods against the rising sun, were the sinister, shadowed forms of Dokkálfar, their golden eyes glinting like venomous snakes about to strike.
Twelve enemy ships against their nine.
The grim odds sent a ripple of dread shivering up Njord’s spine.
The first volley of arrows and javelins flew, hissing through the brackish air.
Njord roared, “Shields up!”, and his crew braced behind a defensive wall of painted blue wooden shields, each bearing the snarling face and fangs of a fierce white wolf, blackened runes etched into the polished metal rim.
The projectiles thwacked and clanged as they embedded in hulls, splintering timber as chains rattled and ships shuddered under the relentless barrage.