Hypatia — or New Foes with an Old Face, Charles Kingsley [thriller novels to read TXT] 📗

you hear a saga?’

‘If it is a cool one,’ said Agilmund; ‘about ice, and pine-trees, and snowstorms, I shall be roasted brown in three days more.’

‘Oh,’ said the Amal, ‘that we were on the Alps again for only two hours, sliding down those snow-slopes on our shields, with the sleet whistling about our ears! That was sport!’

‘To those who could keep their seat,’ said Goderic. ‘Who went head over heels into a glacier-crack, and was dug out of fifty feet of snow, and had to be put inside a fresh-killed horse before he could be brought to life?’

‘Not you, surely,’ said Pelagia. ‘Oh, you wonderful creature! what things you have done and suffered!’

‘Well,’ said the Amal, with a look of stolid self-satisfaction, ‘I suppose I have seen a good deal in my time, eh?’

‘Yes, my Hercules, you have gone through your twelve labours, and saved your poor little Hesione after them all, when she was chained to the rock, for the ugly sea-monsters to eat; and she will cherish you, and keep you out of scrapes now, for her own sake;’ and Pelagia threw her arms round the great bull-neck, and drew it down to her.

‘Will you hear my saga?’ said Wulf impatiently.

‘Of course we will,’ said the Amal; ‘anything to pass the time.’

‘But let it be about snow,’ said Agilmund.

‘Not about Alruna-wives?’

‘About them, too,’ said Goderic; ‘my mother was one, so I must needs stand up for them.’

‘She was, boy. Do you be her son. Now hear, Wolves of the Goths!’

And the old man took up his little lute, or as he would probably have called it, ‘fidel,’ and began chanting to his own accompaniment.

Over the camp fires Drank I with heroes, Under the Donau bank Warm in the snow-trench, Sagamen heard I there, Men of the Longbeards, Cunning and ancient, Honey-sweet-voiced. Scaring the wolf-cub, Scaring the horn-owl out, Shaking the snow-wreaths Down from the pine-boughs, Up to the star-roof Rang out their song. Singing how Winil men Over the icefloes Sledging from Scanland on Came unto Scoring; Singing of Gambara Freya’s beloved. Mother of Ayo Mother of Ibor. Singing of Wendel men, Ambri and Assi; How to the Winilfolk Went they with war-words— ‘Few are ye, strangers, And many are we; Pay us now toll and fee, Clothyarn, and rings, and beeves; Else at the raven’s meal Bide the sharp bill’s doom.’

Clutching the dwarfs’ work then, Clutching the bullock’s shell, Girding gray iron on, Forth fared the Winils all, Fared the Alruna’s sons, Ayo and Ibor. Mad of heart stalked they Loud wept the women all, Loud the Alruna-wife; Sore was their need.

Out of the morning land, Over the snowdrifts, Beautiful Freya came, Tripping to Scoring. White were the moorlands, And frozen before her; But green were the moorlands, And blooming behind her, Out of her golden locks Shaking the spring flowers, Out of her garments Shaking the south wind, Around in the birches Awaking the throstles, And making chaste housewives all Long for their heroes home, Loving and love-giving, Came she to Scoring. Came unto Gambara, Wisest of Valas— ‘Vala, why weepest thou Far in the wide-blue, High up in the Elfin-home, Heard I thy weeping.’

‘Stop not thy weeping, Till one can fight seven, Sons have I, heroes tall, First in the sword-play; This day at the Wendels’ hands Eagles must tear them; While their mothers, thrall-weary, Must grind for the Wendels’

Wept the Alruna-wife; Kissed her fair Freya— ‘Far off in the morning land High in Valhalla, A window stands open, Its sill is the snow-peaks, Its posts are the water-spouts Storm rack its lintel, Gold cloud-flakes above it Are piled for the roofing. Far up to the Elfin-home, High in the wide-blue. Smiles out each morning thence Odin Allfather; From under the cloud-eaves, Smiles out on the heroes, Smiles out on chaste housewives all, Smiles on the brood-mares, Smiles on the smith’s work: And theirs is the sword-luck, With them is the glory— So Odin hath sworn it—

Who first in the morning Shall meet him and greet him.’

Still the Alruna wept— ‘Who then shall greet him? Women alone are here: Far on the moorlands Behind the war-lindens, In vain for the bill’s doom Watch Winil heroes all, One against seven.’

Sweetly the Queen laughed— ‘Hear thou my counsel now; Take to thee cunning, Beloved of Freya. Take thou thy women-folk, Maidens and wives: Over your ankles Lace on the white war-hose; Over your bosoms Link up the hard mailnets; Over your lips Plait long tresses with cunning;— So war-beasts full bearded King Odin shall deem you, When off the gray sea-beach At sunrise ye greet him.’

Night’s son was driving His golden-haired horses up. Over the Eastern firths High flashed their manes. Smiled from the cloud-eaves out Allfather Odin, Waiting the battle-sport: Freya stood by him. ‘Who are these heroes tall— Lusty-limbed Longbeards? Over the swans’ bath Why cry they to me? Bones should be crashing fast, Wolves should be full-fed, Where’er such, mad-hearted, Swing hands in the sword-play.’

Sweetly laughed Freya— ‘A name thou hast given them— Shames neither thee nor them, Well can they wear it. Give them the victory, First have they greeted thee; Give them the victory, Yokefellow mine! Maidens and wives are these— Wives of the Winils; Few are their heroes And far on the war-road, So over the swans’ bath They cry unto thee.’

Royally laughed he then; Dear was that craft to him, Odin Allfather, Shaking the clouds. ‘Cunning are women all, Bold and importunate! Longbeards their name shall be, Ravens shall thank them: Where the women are heroes, What must the men be like? Theirs is the victory; No need of me!’

[Footnote: This punning legend may be seen in Paul Warnefrid’s Gesta Langobardorum. The metre and language are intended as imitations of those of the earlier Eddaic poems.]

‘There!’ said Wulf, when the song was ended; ‘is that cool enough for you?’

‘Rather too cool; eh, Pelagia?’ said the Amal, laughing.

‘Ay,’ went on the old man, bitterly enough, ‘such were your mothers; and such were your sisters; and such your wives must be, if you intend to last much longer on the face of the earth—women who care for something better than good eating, strong drinking, and soft lying.’

‘All very true, Prince Wulf,’ said Agilmund, ‘but I don’t like the saga after all. It was a great deal too like what Pelagia here says those philosophers talk about—right and wrong, and that sort of thing.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

‘Now I like a really good saga, about gods and giants, and the fire kingdoms and the snow kingdoms, and the Aesir making men and women out of two sticks, and all that.’

‘Ay,’ said the Amal, ‘something like nothing one ever saw in one’s life, all stark mad and topsy-turvy, like one’s dreams when one has been drunk; something grand which you cannot understand, but which sets you thinking over it all the morning after.’