Cat Skard

“A poem. A poem. First a poem.”

Jeers and calls followed Cat as she was pushed roughly into the centre of the cavern.

“Come, Cat Skard. Show us your poetic magic.”

Cat’s brain was working overtime; she knew she must calm herself and try to remember those poems they’d done at school but all she could hear was Harry muttering in class: “Sissy, wimpy stuff. What good is learning this?

“What good?” thought Cat. “Harry, I’ll tell you what good if I ever get out of here.” The cavern became quiet. Facing Fjalar, Cat sat as she had seen the Skard on the very first visit. Desperately she searched her brain trying to remember poems she had read at school. Nothing came to mind in fact her brain seemed to have shut down in fear.

“You can do it Cat,” whispered her friends.

Cat forced herself to calm down, she would have to make something up. She took several deep breathes and then after some moments in a small voice Cat began...

The mistletoe is a baleful plant

It caused the death of our Baldur

He was our golden God of Youth

Alas he is no more

The Gods received promises from everything

Not to harm our golden boy

Alas the mistletoe was forgot

No longer did it bring joy.

Baldur felt sure that he was safe

So a challenge he did employ

Inviting all the Gods to fight with him

His life to try to destroy.

But Fjalar noticed Baldur’s blind brother

Was careful not to take part

Fjalar whispered to the God Loki

How Baldur could be taken apart.

So Loki fashioned a spear made from the mistletoe

Fjalar gave it to the brother showing him how to throw

The spear once thrown flew straight and true

Through the clear blue sky

Pierced Baldur quickly through the heart

And Fjalar watched him die.

Murmurs around the room seemed to Cat to indicate enjoyment.

“Now a story, Cat Skard,” Fjalar demanded, adding slyly, “one we haven’t heard before.”

“That’s unfair,” protested Sharon. “How are we supposed to know which ones you’ve heard?”

“Quiet!” Like a whiplash the word was spat out. “Remember, your lives depend on this.”

Cat settled and began:

“Once upon a time there was a young Viking boy named ‘Nog’. Although he looked just like any other boy he had special skills. Like Fjalar he could do magic and was being trained as a powerful Skard. One day Fjalar , feeling particularly evil gave Nog a task to test these skills. He had to fight a formidable dragon to retrieve a magical, golden egg. Bravely, Nog accepted the challenge.

The night before his task Nog sat down to think about this trial. What he needed was a great deal of wisdom. He looked through an old spell book once owned by Frost Giants and stolen by Fjalar. There he found just the right potion. When the blood of a wise owl and the drink mead were mixed together then wisdom came to those who drank it.

Magic words conjured up the potion and Nog took a sip. In a moment he knew exactly what he must do to overcome the dragon.

The following day in front of all the black Elves and Fjalar Nog walked towards the entrance of the cave. To one side of the entrance, crouched over the egg was the dragon. His scaly wings were wrapped around his body, his slitty yellow green eyes glared at Nog. He was a monstrous black, scale covered lizard, with a huge spiked tail and to Nog he looked enormous.

Nog took a deep breath. He cleared his mind; this was his only chance. He raised his arms repeating a special incantation out loud.”

Cat’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“Nothing happened. Nog lowered his arms and the Elves began to laugh. The laughter changed abruptly as before them Nog began to change shape. Now a golden casket hovered in the air before slowly making its way towards the cave.

The golden light and movement caught the attention of the dragon. Slowly it unwrapped its wings and laboriously lumbered towards the cave, Fjalar moved to follow but was barred by an explosion of flame and heat at the cave entrance.

Deep inside the cave Nog changed back and stood waiting for the dragon. He didn’t have long to wait. The huge body filled the cave as the dragon stopped a few feet from him.

“Do you understand what I’m saying Dragon?” asked Nog.

The Dragon’s huge head nodded.

“I don’t think you’re a true dragon,” Nog guessed, as he took a step towards the beast. Large tears dropped from the evil eyes, and the huge head shook from side to side.

“Are you a man?” Another shake.

“Giant?” No.

“Dwarf?” No.

“Elf?” A nod.

Nog took another step forward and gazed into the watery eyes.

“If you can stop your fire for five minutes then I think I can help. Come forward a little more so that I can walk around you.”

The dragon obeyed, moving slowly as space was difficult to find. He stood, head held low, mouth closed to prevent flames escaping.

Nog waived his hands and a beautiful haunting song began to fill the cave; low at first but with each phrase growing stronger and stronger. It mesmerized the dragon. Its eyes closed, and its body swayed with the rhythm.

Nog stroked the coarse scaly body then plucked a knife from the air. It had a long thin silver blade with carvings etched into its surface. Strange shapes glowed on the surface of the hilt and as the music grew louder so the glow intensified.

Slowly Nog cut deep into the dragon’s dark skin until he found pink flesh. From there he hacked his way towards the tail until a line of pink flesh travelled the length of the body.

Dropping the knife Nog scaled the dragon’s back. He grasped the mound of dark flesh by the head and, with a great heave began to peel the dragon.

He was covered in sweat by the time he reached the tail, and surrounding him on the floor lay the stinking dark flesh.

The song came to a crescendo, and with it a golden light began to surround the dragon. The long body shimmered in the unearthly light and began to change shape.

Dragon features disappeared; the body now standing upright turned from a form of fear to one of silver fantasy as a tall shining good Elf took its place.

The song stopped as suddenly as it had begun, but the light remained.

Nog dropped on one knee in homage. He may be a Viking boy but with the power of the wisdom potion inside him he knew an Elf King when he saw one. The Elf King gently embraced Nog and together they left the cave.

Howls of despair rang out from the black Elf audience waiting outside the cave. Anger registered on the face of Fjalar for here was a mere Viking boy who had conquered his magic.

Nog gave thanks to the Gods and the wisdom potion which had made everything possible.

As years went by, stories and poems were told of the deeds young Nog had done. Now he was seen as a hero; quick witted, skilled in magic and clever. People saw how inspiration and wisdom were all connected, and mead has continued to be drunk to the present day.

Triumphantly, Cat finished her tale and sat back on her heels, giving a quick glance to her friends who were nodding their support. She turned back to the elf audience. The silence was overwhelming. She waited , and waited.

Silently the elves rose and trooped out of the cavern, leaving Fjalar alone. Then, slowly, he too rose and followed the elves.

“Landvaettir.” The word floated back into the dark, dank cavern.

The ceiling moved and under invisible hands rose. Clean, fresh air gently blew over the children. A steep passage formed from the cavern floor towards the mouth of a newly formed hole. Quickly, the children scrambled up the incline and out into the fresh air. They kept on running until, breathless, they tumbled to the ground.

Kiert was the first to regain his breath. “Cat, you were wonderful. How did you manage such a story?”

“Don’t ask,” puffed Amanda. “She is always reading!”

“Never knew reading could save your life though!” added Sharon, “And from now on I’m going to call you ‘Cat Skard’.”