Maroboodus: A Novel of Germania (The Goth Chronicles Book 1) (9 page)

‘She saw bones,’ I said stiffly and pulled myself from his grasp. ‘Bones. Not even bear bones. Damned cow, I think.’

‘Horse,’ Aldbert whispered near, ‘Saxon horse,’ but we ignored him.

‘You threw the bones, and there was a terrible warning in them,’ Hulderic continued sternly. ‘One you should heed. Your grandmother thinks you are the Bear, and the Bear is the herald of evil times, my son. She thinks you might be the weak pebble that will cause the boulder to shudder, to move, and finally to roll. She thinks that men Woden created were cursed so that this world, Midgard, the gods, their Nine Worlds will be swallowed should they fail to be as noble as Woden is, and the evil of the vile gods who hated Woden—still do hate him—will come to pass. We shall be no more. And the Bear, it will be there, at the beginning, and that is why she fears. And why I do, as well.’

I stared at him aghast. I swirled to look at Aldbert, who looked sheepish. He had told the poet. Why
?
I decided it didn’t matter and tried to think about what Hulderic had said. The end?
Ragnarok,
I thought. End of the Nine Worlds. It would be the final battle, the bane of the gods and their lands. There would be horrible destruction of the Aesir and the Vanir and even the wily Jotuns, and finally, the birth of a new, lesser world.

I quaffed. I had promised myself to believe, but this?

Then I laughed and everyone turned to look at me with astonishment, and then frowns of deep disapproval. I could not stop, and tears ran down my cheeks, until I managed to stifle the roaring, shaking laughter into barely controlled chuckles, now anticipating a slap from Father, which never came. He was shaking his head.

‘You damned fool,’ he said sternly. ‘I don’t see anything funny about that. You live amongst the miracles of the gods, and seek to outdo them in arrogance. You really don’t believe in them, do you?’

I got a full hold of myself and sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I want to. I killed two men in the battle, and perhaps they do occasionally help us. But not everything is magic, Father. I was sitting on the hillside the day before yesterday, looking at Maino strutting in his gear, and the dolts,’ I nodded at Dubbe who chortled, knowing somehow I had meant him, ‘and I was thinking how I’d never amount to anything. Now I am “The Bear”, terror of the shaking gods and the Bane of Midgard! And that’s because I kicked a plate of horse bones to the dust and the dogs didn’t want them? Perhaps they were sated. Even dogs can be full.’

He did not see the humor. ‘Well, think about this, then. You are not the first one.’

‘There are other fierce bears in the family, ready to gnaw on the old Midgard’s bones?’

‘Yes,’ he said darkly. ‘There are. Were. Have been. In this cursed damned family, when a völva or a vitka of the blood sees such terrible signs it is no small matter to be ignored and made fun of. Ask Hughnot, if you wish. They had a brother like that, wild, unruly, and he, Maroboodus, was given to Donor and the god took him and now he is dead. Boat-Lord condemned him. There are boys and girls who have been sacrifices all through the ages.’ He frowned at that and waved his hand weakly. ‘Or sent far, far away. And let me say this again. Understand. Listen. Some have been sacrificed to the gods. Laugh at that, Maroboodus.’

‘You … ‘ I began and sputtered. ‘You mean Grandmother wants to kill me? Because of some gnawed gristle?’

‘She loves you,’ he said thinly. ‘I … we do. But there is no denying it. She had a terrible vision in the bones, a terrible one, be they horse bones and greasy gristle or indeed god’s fine lots. She saw Draupnir’s Spawn, she saw you reaching for the ring, and she saw battle and death and you trying to slay kin for power, against my wishes. She saw you roaring in rage, and she thought she saw a Bear roaring in your voice, it’s evil vision over your shoulders. She said if this comes to be, she wanted me to make the … decision. If you will not bow to my wish for obedience—‘

I glowered at him. ‘And all of this damned threatening because I hate Maino more than I’d hate the worst enemy of the Goths and like the girl he stole? And if I decide my honor is more important than giving Maino a humble, girly smile, you’ll listen to Grandmother’s raving mad—’

‘Kingdoms have toppled for less than unruly adelings,’ he said with a pale grin. ‘Remember what I said. Endure. Be patient and heed me. You have been warned.’ Hulderic whipped his horse’s flank and the beast surged ahead with a snort. ‘Pray and obey,’ he called out.

Aldbert rode next to me, his eyes never leaving Father. ‘You should take care, Maroboodus. He is not joking. I know he can
laugh
at jokes, but he rarely tells them. Keep that in mind, my friend.’

‘I’m his son, I know he is a dour block of ice,’ I said.

‘He is a good father,’ Aldbert said. ‘Wish I had one. Even to warn me of a prophecy that seems very real to me.’

‘Did he tell you about this thing yesterday, when he dragged your skinny ass with him? Did he scheme with you, hoping you would make a lamb out of me?’

He smiled slyly, pulling at his beard. ‘I’d not make a lamb out of you, lord. Who would fight my fights then? And as for him, your father, anyone can see he is utterly serious about this. Do not threaten their plans, Maroboodus. I also think your grandmother is not addled, or an idiot. She really had a vision.’

‘Have
you
had a vision?’ I asked him, pulling my horse away from his as they tried to nibble each other. ‘Ever? How would you know she had one?’

He smiled wistfully. ‘I’ve had some when I’m too drunk. It’s usually all very confusing, and not very informative to be honest. Your grandmother wasn’t drunk.’ He looked startled. ‘Or was she? No, I don’t think so. She is very sensible. Hulderic would let you go to your death if he thought you a risk.’

‘I’m his only son. I doubt he would,’ I told Aldbert darkly, ignoring his attempts to guide me to calmer, more sensible waters. No, I wanted the storm. ‘The Bear! It’s just a ruse they are trying to use to hammer the girl out of my head.’
And my other plans
, I thought, though I was not sure what they were, yet. Rescue the girl? Find a home? What more? Could she be trusted? If not, what could I do to survive both my relatives and her people, if they would not have me?

Aldbert shook his head over dramatically, his thin beard swaying. ‘The three spinners are holding your strings tight, I feel it. I have sense in these matters. Poems and songs do not come to those who do not think deep and listen to omens. I saw her. Your grandmother is a seer. She truly sees these things. And I see them in her. I …’ He hesitated.

‘Yes?’ I asked, amused.

‘I have, sometimes, a glimpse of truth when I sing, do galdr, spell-songs of the higher worlds, my friend. Perhaps I’ll approach the gods for you. I’ll speak to them and sing a spell. I’ll—‘

I cursed him. ‘I have but one friend, and it’s you. You should be on my side and now you pretend to be a vitka. You know I hate them. Perhaps I’ll make new friends,’ I grumbled and he patted my back happily.

‘
I’m
your friend. Ever since you gave me your last mead when we were six, I’ve been on your side, or at least behind your back, even when you are mulish and stupid. I’ve not been happy these last years, but you have been my friend. I’ll always help you. So I swear.’

I smiled at him thinly and nodded in thanks. I was selfish. ‘Not happy?’

He sighed. ‘I’ve endured Erse’s smiles at—‘

‘You like Erse?’ I asked with a surprised laugh. ‘Does she like you?’

‘She liked my voice,’ he said stiffly. ‘But thinks I’m not really a prospect.’ He looked very unhappy and I clapped a hand on his shoulder.

‘She will,’ I said weakly, not sure she would.

‘She won’t,’ he whispered. ‘I’m no fool. They gave me a shield and a spear, but she is after something else. Perhaps someone high? But I will try.’

I shook my head. ‘I’ve thought about her, but now—‘

‘I know! You’re not that high! She liked them older.’

‘Father?’ I said.

‘Shut up!’ he hissed, too loud and looked down as the others glanced at him. He looked stricken and I felt sorry for him. Perhaps he was right. Erse was a great mystery, but she
did
like Father.

I decided to humor my miserable friend. ‘So, you know the spell-songs of the gods, then? What galdr do you know, Aldbert?’

‘Woden knows songs against biting—‘

‘Biting? I’m not going to fight a horse. Or a woman,’ I told him with a laugh.

‘Fight?’ he said with worry. ‘So, you will make trouble.’

‘Only if trouble finds me,’ I said darkly. ‘I heard Father, but I’ll not budge. I will not kiss his ass. Maino’s. Father’s.’

‘If you need galdr to fight Maino, best not fight at all. I have no guards against spears and swords, though yes, perhaps one against biting. I only know one useful that is not meant for battle, really. Perhaps it’s only good to avoid battle?’

‘What’s that?’

‘I can speak with the dead,’ he said with a pale face.

‘Damned liar,’ I said. ‘You cannot walk straight and you can speak with the dead?’ I laughed, but still felt cold claws of terror rake my back. ‘You shouldn’t speak like that.’

He was silent, then humming uncertainly and I wondered if he was to try to do his galdr-song right there, but then he spoke. ‘Meet me in the woods this night. There is a copse of oak near the hall, holy and ancient, said to be devoted to Freya, the Red Lady, goddess of wisdom and war and from her, I shall find guidance.’

‘On what, exactly?’

He nodded at Hulderic. ‘On if he is right. Let the dead tell you what you should do, friend, and I’ll help you endure.’

I didn’t agree. But I knew I’d not be able to resist.

H
ulderic and his men enjoyed a small, intimate feast. There was convivial chatter in the smoky, dark wooded hall of Birmhelm, where a near deaf Goth with two pretty daughters, served us smoked bass with greasy gruel, and famous ale brewed by some secret old recipe, something the old man had been perfecting since he was beardless. It was an excellent drink, with a thick wheat taste, and always left you yearning for more, and Birmhelm was not a rapacious host and shared the drink willingly. The man’s hair was white and long, and it brushed his plate as he leaned forward to hear what Father was telling him in a low voice, apparently scheming and gathering allies for possibility of war as Birmhelm sent a man out with a message. Another man, perhaps Birmhelm’s son, a large, fat man with a savagely scarred face kept nodding at Father’s words. Dubbe was dozing on a bench, Sigmundr and Harmod were sharpening their axes by a small workspace in the corner and mostly it was a very homelike place and strangely comforting.

The shingles sputtered angrily set in some trunks by the fireplace and I waited for Aldbert to get up. Mostly, he just slurped on the ale, and seemed to be muttering to himself, and I realized he expected to perform his poem for Friednot, or a song and it would be requested during the Thing, or before the funeral, after the blessing and sacrifices of the coming day. It left him listless with worry. I chuckled as he slapped his forehead, berating himself mercilessly, and left a red welt as he had forgotten to put down his drinking horn. I sat there, admired the two pretty girls, and waited, though my patience was growing thin. Talking to the dead? Gods above, but he was crazy. After an hour of looking on as he kept suffering, I saw his face tighten, and he drank down his mead. ‘It’s time,’ he said like a wounded hero of old and got up, looking grave as a stern father about to berate a boy for having let the cows escape, and I hoped he was not too drunk to amuse me. He burped and smiled sheepishly, caught my eyes, and nodded for the door. I nodded back at him and pushed back the bench, which drew an inquisitive smile from our host. I bowed to him and indicated a need to piss, and went out under Hulderic’s long, speculative gaze.

The night was windy, and some specks of snow were coming down, riding the breeze forlornly and I saw Aldbert marching resolutely for the darkness, carrying something. ‘The bastard doesn’t even know this place,’ I murmured and cursed I had left without a spear. Had he not gotten lost in Timberscar just last month? And there were wolves about, no doubt. They smelled the feast, and they were always hungry. And perhaps there was something else, something on two legs as well? I walked after him, nonetheless. We went on, until he stopped to look back at me, clutching a huge sack and nodded with reverence for a dark wood, not far.
Damn him
, I thought. We had vitka, and völva to perform such magic during the high rituals, and sometimes they took a life to give to the gods in return for the wisdom. These woods looked just like something that had been dedicated to the Aesir or the Vanir. While I had mocked ravens just that day to Father, it was a different matter to do so in the depth of a night. No Germani was a disbeliever when walking dark, lightless woods. Woden’s ravens would be skulking around indeed, eyeing our progress, the boar Lord Freyr and his bloody-handed sister Freya, they would stir as the fool made a mockery of everything our people considered holy, and Donor and Woden would probably send down a plague or a lightning bolt before Aldbert would understand to stop the charade.

He scuttled for the thickest part of the woods, took a wrong way, one that was hopelessly entangled with branches and had to come back a ways before finding the right path, looking flushed, but still I followed. I felt danger lurking in the shadows, saw gleaming, small eyes, and some larger ones. A night bird, probably an owl fluttered ahead, its shadow splitting the few specs of light from the settlement, and despite the foolish company of Aldbert, I felt alone and afraid in the wood. It was the sort of child-like fear you remember from your past, a terror lurking on the edges of your memories, a fear of creatures in a dark room with you, things you have been told are not actually there, but you are absolutely sure they are, nonetheless. My belly twitched with the fear, and I was cold, strangely cold, and resisted the urge to rub my arms. Were there vaettir there? The sprits of evil men, destined for the dark lands, but still lost, having been abandoned by the Valkyries, or perhaps just not welcome in Helheim at all? It was night, it was a very holy month, and the vitka said the spirits were close to our world during the weeks that led to the Yule feast.
Then again, they seemed to think every month was like that,
I thought. I walked past stumps of trees and dodged low hanging boughs that wetted my face.

Then, a skull swung in the air and slapped into my chest.

I squawked, then changed the terrified noise into a cough and heard Aldbert chucking somewhere in front of me and I bit my tongue, and slapped the clammy, brittle thing away, as I stepped away from it. I hung from a rope and looked oddly alive. I kept staring at it, still unreasonably suspicious it might jump at me as I moved away, ready to latch into my neck for a late evening snack. It was brown, stretched skin hung from it in tatters, and it looked sinister as Hel’s dead eye. ‘Are you going far? Isn’t
this
creepy enough? Does it have to be a certain bit of this crappy wood or can we just sit down here?’

‘They were sacrificed to Woden a year ago,’ he laughed hollowly. ‘Svear. They cannot hurt you now. Later, perhaps, but not now. Slap them out of your way and they will not hurt you.’

Hurt me later?
I thought and cursed him, this time aloud and clear and crudely. ‘You salt-faced charlatan. I’ll slap
you
if I have to wet my shoes in some damned stretch of swamp,’ I growled and then found him. He was slouching over a stool, trying to make it stand in the wet, half-frozen moss. ‘Seriously, you brought a seat? In that sack?’

‘Yes. A self-respecting poet does not squat in shit,’ he sniffled as he finally managed to find a proper position that held promise not to topple him to the perfectly good grass. ‘This is rickety, so don’t mope. Not comfortable. And you might have brought one yourself. Not my fault if you have fewer tools inside your bony skull than I do.’

‘Last time I’ll fight your fights, poet. Seriously, you didn’t bring me one?’

‘You won’t need one. I’m supposed to sit higher than you, Maroboodus. I’m the respectable medium between you and the gods, and you are the humble, if ugly warrior whom they might or might not hear out.’

I poked a finger in his chest. ‘Hear me out? Aldbert, I don’t know
why
we are here. I wanted to see
you
speak to the dead, but you seem to think the dead can do something for me. What, exactly, should I wish from the things? Will they tell me how to kill Maino? And I won’t sit below you. I’ll stand.’

He shook his head, as if trying to find an answer. ‘I don’t know. With everything that’s happened these past days, I think it might be a good idea to ask for their guidance. You need it. And no, not on how to kill Maino. Just ask them what you should do. Obey your father? Rebel like an idiot? Ask them! The dead can be very helpful, if they feel so inclined. They have helped make me a better poet.’

‘In that case,’ I told him maliciously, ‘they have enjoyed a grand joke. And I don’t want to join that herd of fools who think they are special enough to have the ear of the dead and the gods—‘

‘Can you please give them a chance, Maroboodus?’ he breathed. ‘Here,’ he said, and showed me a horn full of mead, stoppered with a leather cover. ‘It’s a very good sacrifice. Hold it!’ He handed it to me as if it was the blood of the highest king in Midgard.

‘I think they might enjoy a drink, but perhaps also a human sacrifice?’ I asked with a growl, holding the horn.

‘Don’t be tedious,’ he answered. ‘I spared that bit when you guzzled everything down, little thinking you might have to sacrifice something for the answers. And you mope after a stool, when I go thirsty?’

‘Damn liar. My heart breaks. I’ll just laugh over here, by the tree,’ I told him with a wry grin. ‘And you ask the spirits on what the future holds for me? Ask them that, eh? That’s what I want to know.’ And then I waited, as he sat there. I did so for a few minutes, and realized he was trying to figure out what to do. ‘So,’ I said, eyeing the woods where I saw many skulls hanging from the boughs. ‘What now? You have no clue what your galdr-song is like, no? You’ve never spoken with the dead, only a mug of ale where you saw spirits and tits. Admit it.’

But he didn’t and I bit away the rest of the mockery. I saw he was actually afraid, shaking as he gathered courage and I looked away, feeling sorry. ‘Now, be ready,’ he said, breathing heavily. ‘I’ll risk much for you, you ungrateful lout. I’ll ask the hidden spirits to help you. To guide you in your way. Us, in fact, as I am stuck with you, a damned fool that I am. They will aid us. Both of us. Pour the mead on the ground. Do it respectfully, slowly.’

I did. I rued the waste, but I let it trickle down to the frosty dirt, and Aldbert looked on with a critical eye, until I was done, making sure I saved not a drop for myself.

‘Go ahead then, sing them a merry song,’ I told him, though I tried to avoid looking at the skulls that were now hung with small icicles. Had they been there just now? No, only regular skulls, and no ice. The air was chilly, and the leaves and pine needles were icy, but I was sure the skulls hadn’t been so afflicted with the rime and ice before. I put my back against a heavy pine trunk. If the dead answered, they’d be creepy and deadly shadows, resentful of the warm blood in our veins and I’d make sure they could not sneak up on us. And if Aldbert’s head was not full of cow turds, and actually spoke the truth about his galdr singing, his ability, I’d be sure to knock him out if he lost control of it. I clutched a sturdy branch to be used as a cudgel and tried to concentrate on thoughts of a happy, warm hall’s fire, a pleasant summer morning, but instead, I had to focus on Aldbert. I couldn’t help it. His act looked very genuine indeed. Far too much so.

He was speaking gutturally, spitting words between his teeth, his weak beard swaying as he shook with an aggressive spell-song’s casting. And that was not all. He was rubbing a strange-looking wand with pale green leaves. It was a rough bit of wood, and I shook my head in wonder as it was truly a magical wand, like the vitka used, being wand carriers, and even the female völva, when they practiced their dark magic in places much like this, carried such things. I had not seen the latter take place, of course, as the völva would be truly dangerous, but the vitka carried their wands brazenly to the sacrifices and used them for their spells and for sprinkling blood, of course. Aldbert’s was made of dried oak and he took ridiculous, meticulous care to make sure he rubbed every inch of it with the leaf. He even rubbed the stubs and the shoulders of the tiniest branches as well as he could, his eyes crossed, but all that time, he was speaking the spell-words with a rhythmic voice. When one leaf predictably developed a hole, he grabbed another from the pouch with such practiced movement, I was beginning to believe he was actually onto something. Then he was humming, looking relieved, as if after a good shit and his voice grew in power and determination slowly, hypnotically. His voice changed, slowly, resolutely, until it didn’t resemble his own anymore. It was thrumming in the woods and across the ferns, carrying a strong tune and he stared away from the wand towards a pile of tinder. I gawked at it.

              Had it been there before? Surely it had. If it had, who put it there? If it hadn’t, then there were beings there I could not see. Alfs? Dead? Something that never lived? I grasped the club and felt my hand shake with anxiety, and sweat trickled down my forehead.

Then I cursed myself for a fool.

Of course, he had brought it there to begin with, earlier, when we had arrived. Or had someone bring it. Or perhaps the real vitka left it there, whenever they were done with their strange spells.

But it was dry.

I saw it. The pile was not wet or frosty in the least bit. Surely it would be, if we had been—

It burst into flames. Blue and red licks of heat grew up from it like aggressive lizards and Aldbert’s eyes were large with wonder and fear. An act? He was mumbling again, almost apologetically, swaying like a boat in a tide, and praying to the great spirits, the old gods that live deep in the earth. He called for Woden, the All-Father, for hammer god Donor, for Tiw the just, and finally, with great fear and reverence, to Freya, the Red Lady, goddess of wisdom and war
both,
the odd duality of the goddesses’ nature evident in her titles. He tapped his wand in the blazing twigs, hurling fire around, causing a small storm of angry sparks to sputter across the near woods, like mad flaming flies out and lost and then he slumped into a sack-like shape, his hands lax on his sides.

His voice sang, and it was weird, guttural, and then suddenly clear, bright as rain with an oddly mocking note.

‘Yea, you mortals,

hear the gods chortle.

Twigs and skull,

and an old, rotten hull.

The Bear shall choose,

between a woman and a noose.

A surprise for the murderous lord,

and death at the end of the sword.