‘I see you, Kjartinsdottir.’
Unn started as the witch spoke. The old woman’s upper lip was curled and she seemed to sneer as she said the second name the Icelanders called Unn. A moment before she had seemed on the verge of sleep, sitting cross-legged before the fire with her fingers barely closed around the shaft of her iron wand. Unn’s eyes flicked down to the wooden bowl that sat on the floor beside the witch. It still contained some dregs of the potion she had made earlier in the evening, a concoction of seeds, herbs and dried twigs steeped in warm water. The more the witch had drunk of it, Unn noticed, the wilder her predictions had become, the vaguer her mutterings, the more unfocused her eyes. All that now seemed to have vanished in an instant.
‘The way you speak my name,’ Unn said, keeping her voice low, conscious as she was of the many sleepers around her in the darkened longhouse, ‘it sounds as though it leaves a bad taste in your mouth.’
The older woman shrugged and looked away as if she did not care. ‘I know it isn’t your real name,’ she said. ‘I know it isn’t the name you call yourself.’
Both women were past their prime, though while the witch was ancient and grizzled, Unn still held onto some of her looks. Her cheeks were starting to sag and crows had left their footprints around the edges of her dark eyes, but it was still plain to see that in her younger days she had been stunning.
The witch, or vǫlva as the Icelanders called her, had arrived the day before. She was a wanderer who moved from farmstead to farmstead, sustained by the generous hospitality of the people. She had been in Iceland for some years now. Before that she had been in Norway and before that who knew where. Unlike some of the magic-weaving seidhr – women who liked to travel with a retinue of young girls who helped in the rituals by beating drums, burning scented herbs, singing holy songs and chanting spells, Heid travelled alone. Her reputation preceded her though, and every self-respecting homestead in Iceland wished for a visit from her. The arrival of the vǫlva at your door was a sign that you were judged important enough to warrant her visitation and wealthy enough to pay her fees. Her predictions were impressive in their accuracy, her charms unfailing in their effectiveness and, besides all that, who would dare to turn away one so practised in magic? Her curses were as effective as her cures.
Unn knew all about curses.
‘I’ve finished my work,’ the old witch said, tilting her head back and peering down her nose at Unn. ‘The spirits have gone. There is nothing more to say. You should have come earlier like the rest.’
Unn nodded and was about to get up again. Then she stopped and took a deep breath. She had to ask her question.
‘I've given you food and shelter for the night. I paid you well with silver to entertain my guests,’ she said, her voice shaky but determined. ‘They also gave you many gifts. I am owed my turn.’
‘Entertainment?’ the witch said with a sniff. ‘Is that how you regard my gift?’
Unn bit her lip. Perhaps she had gone too far? She did not share her neighbours’ faith but she had been brought up to believe that it was never a good idea to insult anyone who could talk with spirits of the otherworld. Even demons and devils sometimes spoke truth. Also, while her neighbours acknowledged her different faith, the Laws of the Land said she must not be seen worshipping her own God outside her own house. Tolerance only stretched as far as those who knew her, she was well aware.
The witch looked at her for a moment. Then, quick as a hunting cat striking for a mouse, her blood-splattered arm flashed out across the dying fire. Unn, not expecting such speed from a decrepit old woman, had no time to move. The old woman's fingers clawed past the neck of Unn’s dress, probing and seeking like a bony spider. A finger hooked the leather thong around Unn's neck. With a flick she pulled out from under Unn’s dress the amulet that hung from a thong.
The vǫlva’s upper lip curled once more at the sight of the amulet. It was the outline of a fish made by the intersection of two overlapping semicircles of silver. The workmanship was impressive.
‘I knew it,’ Heid said as she released the amulet and sat back down. ‘You worship the Christ God. I am a child of Odin. Why do you come to me?’
Unn shook her head. ‘It’s not for me that I ask,’ she said. ‘You’re right. Where I grew up we followed the Lord, Jesus Christ. But we were taught to respect the powers of wise women and seers. When you were telling fortunes earlier—’
‘Why do you seek to hide where you’re from?’ The witch cut her off. Her eyelids had narrowed to rheumy pink slits. ‘I know you aren’t from here. I know you are neither of our folk nor our faith. What accent is that? Iriskr?’
‘Never you mind what it is,’ Unn said, casting a hurried glance around the room. ‘Where I came from is none of your concern.’
The witch gave a little chuckle.
‘How do you know these things?’ Unn hissed in a course whisper.
A scowl creased Heid’s brow in irritation at what she clearly saw as a stupid question.
‘I’m a witch, remember?’ she said. Then she gazed at her with a vicious intensity. A sly smile crept across her lips. ‘I know many things. Not just from the spirits. I travel around. I stay here and there. I listen and I hear. Often I hear things I’m not supposed to. I am a spæ-wife who spies into the future but there are those who pay me well for what I spy on today. Perhaps I have news you may be interested in?’
‘What interest could I have in the idle gossip of my neighbours?’ Unn said. ‘Perhaps Hrafnkel Hallfredrsson’s prize horse has died? Or maybe Bjarni Njalsson’s goat has wandered onto Gretir Gunlaugsson’s summer pasture?’
Heid grunted. ‘Perhaps you would not be so sarcastic if I told you I met a merchant from the Orkney islands in a farm to the south four nights ago.’
Unn did not reply. Her jaw dropped open slightly. The witch smiled. ‘Ah! I thought that might interest you,’ Heid said. ‘We were both lodging with Thorkill at Mostar. Thorkill was talking about the amazing Unn Kjartinsdottir, the still beautiful Irish woman who runs her own farm with just the help of her son. The merchant was very interested in that news. Very interested indeed. He asked a lot of questions. When did you come here? Were you of our faith? Things like that. He said the Jarl of Orkney would be very interested to hear about all this.’
Unn frowned. She looked down at the embers. Her breathing became heavier and she switched her gaze from the fire to the shadows that hid the roof rafters above. She bit her bottom lip. Her shoulders sagged and for a moment she looked crushed.
‘I wish I could say I thank you for this news,’ Unn said. Tears sparkled in her eyes. She shot another nervous glance around the room.
‘I knew that would interest you,’ a smile of satisfied triumph spread across Heid’s face. ‘This son of yours—’
Unn’s demeanour changed in an instant. ‘What about Einar?’ her teeth flashed white in the firelight.
The old woman chuckled quietly to herself. Irritation crossed Unn's face.
‘A fine boy,’ Heid said. ‘Strong and tall. Quite the poet too. The skald looked jealous when your lad sang the drápa of Hrolf Kraki.’
Despite her trepidation in the uncanny presence of the witch, Unn felt a swell of pride as she recalled how earlier in the evening Einar had held the whole gathering spellbound while he chanted the poem. Snorri Thorketelsson, the professional bard Unn had paid to entertain the feasters, had indeed seemed more than a little put out. Her satisfaction was a little clouded by the amount of ale Einar drank afterwards but there was no doubt that her son had a special gift for the art of poetry.
‘I notice he did not come to me to hear his fortune,’ Heid continued. ‘Perhaps he’s a good mother’s boy and did not want to be seen by you having his fortune told by a witch?’
Unn grunted. ‘If only that were so. He drank too much. He’s snoring in his bed. But that is why I am here now. Not for me. For my son. I want you to tell me Einar’s fortune.’
The witch raised an eyebrow. ‘You are sure? Sometimes those who learn about the future regret it.’
Unn bit her lip and nodded.
Heid sighed. ‘Very well.’
She lifted the wooden bowl and drained the last dregs of her potion before setting it down once more and lifting her purse. It was soft and silky, made from the black and white pelt of a cat. The witch closed her eyes. Her lips began moving as she muttered incantations. Then she tipped the purse, spilling out a jumble of little bones onto the floor before her, each one carved with a different rune. Unn could not help noticing that the bones were small enough to be from the fingers of a child.
The witch opened her eyes and gazed down at the rune-carved bones, noting each one in turn. For a long while she said nothing. A hush as deep and silent as the grave settled on the longhouse. The only sound was the buffeting of the wind outside.
Then Heid closed her eyes and sat back. She began to chant.
‘Ice and fire clash. The sea rages but twelve come forth, from the home of the Gods. They sail south; led by lightning, the Whale Road becomes a battlefield. Fields unsowed, bare ripened grain. Baldr and Hoth will dwell in Hropt's Valour Hall. Then Hönir will win the prophetic wand, and the sons of the brothers of Tveggi abide in Vindheim’
Unn frowned. What nonsense was this?
‘A bloody axe waves,’ the witch continued. ‘Woe to the Irish. Woe to the Norse. Skulls are cleaved.’
Unn’s eyes widened. She sat forward.
‘Warriors walk across the sky. A ship as fast as Skíðblaðnir crosses the northern sea,’ the witch continued. ‘There is blood on the ice. Einar must leave Iceland. He must seek the truth about his father. It is his fate. I see him in a forest. He runs with a company of wolves. Einar is not an only child. Urth, Verthandi and Skuld watch. Laws they make. Laws are broken. Life is allotted to the sons of men. Their fates are set. Men inside a burning house. Jarls and kings play a game of war in the Irish sea. Odin laughs. The son fights with the father. One kills the other.’
This time Unn took a sharp intake of breath.
Heid blinked. She looked at Unn as if surprised to see her. Bewilderment crept across her face. She raised a hand to touch her own cheek.
‘What… what was I saying?’ The witch looked at the fire, her eyes once more becoming glazed and unfocused.
‘You were talking about Einar,’ Unn said. ‘What does it all mean? You talked of the Skull Cleaver. Einar must leave? A son fights with his father?’
‘Did I…?’ Heid shook her head. All of a sudden she looked like the decrepit old crone she was.
Unn frowned. Had the old woman indeed been taken by a devil? Had it been the spirit that was speaking through her lips and now it had departed, leaving her confused as to what had been going on? Or was this some sort of ruse?
‘Go!’ the witch cried. ‘I am too tired for this. I will speak no more.’
Unn stared at Heid for a long moment as she realised any further discussion was useless. The old woman looked utterly shattered. She was not pretending.
She stood up, smoothing down the front of her dress and taking a deep breath as she tried to collect herself.
‘It‘s late,’ Unn said. ‘Time we all got to bed.’
She was sure, however, that there would be no sleep for her that night.