Botolf was out on his rounds, harvesting scandal from his neighbours and gleaning the details which would enrich his verse and make his listeners hungry for more. As was Skarfr’s habit on such occasions, he sneaked out to the beach, revelling in solitude. Free to roll sand over his feet, then wriggle his toes, leaving tracks like sea-serpents. Free to inspect shells and marine skeletons caught in the curves of sea wrack patterning the beach. Free to talk to the cormorant.
Today was promising. Shimmering from the receding tide, the sand was rippled in the sea’s pattern. Waves everywhere. A confusion of glitter as reflected clouds flitted across the wet sand: Týr, the sky god, was whirling his nebulous cloak and Aegir, the sea god, danced with him until the land became a dazzle of watery heavens.
Skarfr picked up a stick, charcoal black from its time in the sea but not yet too fragile to use for drawing. He drew a zigzag in the wet sand. The sun rune Sól, his name-letter. In defiance of the dancing wave-curves, his straight lines said, ‘Skarfr carved these runes.’ He was here.
His runes were those Botolf taught him, their Old Country shapes different from his homeland short twig letters but he could read and write both. Botolf said the best skalds and sagas came from the Old Country, also known as Island or Snaeland, so Skarfr must become a Snaelandman in his ways. He must learn by heart the tales of gods, giants and heroes that would make him welcome at any lord’s hearth and earn him good coin. Maybe one day the Jarl would break his ring and give a silver piece to Skarfr for his work. If he was second-rate as a skald, he could always be first-rate as a praise-singer. That was often a more remunerative occupation.
Botolf said Skarfr was crippled as a poet by what his homeland lacked. No mountains, no forests, no rivers, no wolves. How could such an impoverished land create poets?
From wide skies and water, burns and heath, cormorants and sea-eagles, Skarfr did not say. He had learned the hard way to rein back his words unless told to speak.
‘You must travel to the Old Country when you come of age; leave this primitive outpost of posturing peasants,’ was Botolf’s constant refrain. The long tuft of grey hair, lonely on his otherwise bald head, would swing as he ranted, his mouth ugly.
Why don’t you go back there if you love it so much? Skarfr did not ask.
Instead, he communed with the cormorant, which was sometimes one oiled black body and sometimes another. Skarfr was not naive enough to think a mere bird had saved his life. He knew of shapeshifters and spirit guides from the verses Botolf made him learn. There were usually several cormorants fishing together in the bay but Skarfr always knew which cormorant held his spirit guide at any moment by the way one looked at him, wise beyond bird nature. Goddess or Valkyrie, he cared not, as long as she watched over him and listened, while he poured out his lonely heart.
Crouching, lost in contemplation of the trickle of seawater outlining his name-rune, Skarfr was unaware that he was no longer alone, so he jumped at the sound of a girl’s voice.
‘What are you doing?’
Skarfr looked up and blinked. Bright-haired against the sunshine, a girl screwed her face up in puzzlement, making her eyes so small he could barely distinguish their colour. Stormy grey. Even against the sun, her skin was curdled milk, speckled as Botolf’s roan pony with so many freckles they joined into blotches. He’d never seen a girl so ugly but then he hadn’t seen many girls at all. Brigid’s, face scored with suffering and fatigue, occasionally bore traces of the raven-haired beauty she must once have been.
‘Nothing,’ he replied. At which stupid reply, the girl opened her eyes fully, the better to bestow contempt on him.
‘You shouldn’t talk to me. Or even be seen with me,’ she informed him with hauteur. ‘I’m going to skim stones.’
While Skarfr still sought appropriate words and found none, she selected pebbles carefully, for flatness and size, and walked into the waves. She was barefoot like himself but her girl’s apparel was less convenient for paddling. Although she’d rearranged her wool belt to hitch up both her pinafore overdress and her longer undergown, the hems of both must be getting wet.
She didn’t seem to care about anything but her success in beating her own numbers.
‘Not a good start,’ she muttered, as a marbled grey pebble skipped three times and sank.
When she achieved seven skips, she gave a humph of satisfaction. ‘I’ll stop there.’
She jiggled her remaining stones.
Then hurled one straight at a diving cormorant.
‘No!’ shouted Skarfr, suddenly freed from his paralysis. He rushed her from behind, made her stumble and lose the rest of her pebbles. Her clothes dipped full into an oncoming wave, that broke around them in a froth of laughter, mimicking the girl. She pushed past him to get out of the water.
‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘Nothing,’ he replied, flushing. He couldn’t help glancing out to sea. Spear-straight, his cormorant dived again. In the time it took a stone to skip seven times, she surged up, far from where she’d entered the water, silver wriggling in her mouth before she contorted her long throat and swallowed the fish. She was fine.
The girl was staring at him. He felt like a fish wriggling.
‘Do you always spoil the fun?’ she demanded, her face as red as her hair, her clothes dripping.
‘No,’ he said.
He considered his answer then, ‘Yes,’ he said.
Then, ‘That’s none of your business.’
He liked that answer best because he could repeat it to any other question she asked.
His second impression of her was that she was rude as well as ugly. Although there had been a moment, when she was skipping stones, that she resembled a sea sprite, fire dancing in the water with her blaze of long curls and her russet dress.
‘I’m Hlif,’ she said, and waited.
And waited, apparently disappointed at his lack of reaction.
‘My father murdered Jarl Magnus, who’s a saint now,’ she told him and stuck her chin out. ‘So I’m cursed. And you touched me so now you’re cursed too.’
Skarfr surprised himself by speaking the truth. ‘It won’t make any difference,’ he said. ‘Things couldn’t be worse. You can call me…’ he hesitated, ‘Long-throat.’
‘Well then, Long-throat, as it’s too late for you to run away and you owe me compensation for my wet clothes and spoiled game, you can keep me company while I dry out. I shall tell you my story and you shall tell me yours.’
Skarfr should have gone home but the word ‘story’ held a fascination for him. He was trained to be a skald after all and if wanting to compose great verse were enough, he would be the best. But a man can recognise what’s great without achieving it.
What a story Hlif must have. Everyone knew that Orkneyjar must be ruled by two jarls, because ‘One jarl is for himself and rules by fear but two must heed their people.’
She picked her way over the sands like a gull, holding her skirts bunched in each hand as if she would curtsey at any moment. Skarfr stumbled in her wake, his feet sinking further as he reached dry sand, which shod his wet feet in abrasive grains. His body seemed dense, his footsteps a struggle, whereas Hlif was still an airy sprite, despite her sodden hemline.
She didn’t look back once as she headed up the beach, away from the ebbing waves towards the tussocks in the dunes. She chose a sandy dip, sheltered from view by golden oat’s ears, cushioned by marram grass, and she threw herself to the ground, her flame hair spread around her matted grass pillow and her skirt shaken to its fullest so it could dry out.
Cautiously, Skarfr lay down beside her, enjoying the light breeze and sun playing on his face. He shut his eyes and instantly relaxed.
This is how stories should be heard, he thought. In the dark, so the mind can make its own pictures.
‘So, Long-throat. What have you been told about how Saint Magnus died?’ Dissociated from red hair and mocking face, the voice already had a storytelling cadence, slower and more dramatic than speech. Unexpected in a child unless of course the child had trained with Botolf. But this was no moment to dwell on his inadequacy. Skarfr tried to match Hlif’s tone, to show the skills beaten into him as he retold the story he’d heard so often from Botolf. When Magnus was jarl, his yokemate as ruler had been Hakon, whose jealousy and greed led him to murder his popular rival. Jarl Magnus died with a martyr’s courage, blessing and forgiving his executioner.
Then, so the tale was told, a blinding light appeared above Magnus’ burial-place. Incurables were healed and certain doom averted for those who prayed to this new saint.
Such events were mere rumours during the life of Jarl Hakon, from respect – or fear. But Magnus’ miracles were acknowledged after his death and his sanctity confirmed by Bishop William.
And now, in nearby Kirkjuvágr, their own jarl, Magnus’ nephew and successor, was erecting a cathedral to his saintly uncle. A cathedral that would dazzle men with the splendour of the One God, splendour that would also bathe Bishop William in its radiance – and bring considerable income. Their jarl had promised the cathedral to the Orkneymen to win their support for his accession to the jarldom and they were paying heavily for their saint’s resting-place.
This is what everybody knew. But what if Hlif’s tale was different?
Skarfr finished the story of Saint Magnus, in grand style.
‘Shriven and in prayer when Hakon caught up with him, Magnus made three offers.
To go for a pilgrim and never return.
“No,” said Hakon.
To go to Skotland and be a prisoner there with the two men who still kept him company.
“No,” said Hakon.
To be maimed and blinded, thrown into the deepest dungeon, sparing Hakon the sin of murder.
“Yes,” said Hakon.
“No,” said his chiefs. “Enough of this rivalry. One of you must die this day.”
Then Magnus accepted his doom and knelt to receive his deathblow.
Hakon ordered his standard-bearer to do the deed but the man refused in great anger.
Then Hakon forced his cook Hlifolf to take an axe to Magnus. Hlifolf shook with sobs and Magnus calmed him.
“Be quick,” he said. “There is no dishonour to you but only to him who commands such a task.” He took off his rich tunic and gave it to Hlifolf in token of forgiveness.
After prayer and confession, Magnus said, “Stand before me and cut the tree of my head with all your strength, a noble death for one of noble birth. God will forgive you as I will intercede on your behalf.”
Then he made the sign of the cross, the axe fell and his soul ascended to heaven. Greensward replaced the moss and stones where his body had lain, the first of many miracles. And Hakon became sole ruler of Orkneyjar.’
In the silence, Skarfr heard only seabirds squabbling and the melody of a skylark distracting strangers from her nest. He was pleased with himself. This was the first time he’d enjoyed narrating a story, lost himself in the telling. He almost expected his audience to shout their praise. Then he remembered who his audience was. He sneaked a glance and quickly shut his eyes again. Was she asleep?
‘No dishonour,’ Hlif said slowly. ‘If I believed one word of that then I’d hate Saint Magnus for lying.’
Shocked by her blasphemy, Skarfr waited.
‘Do you believe it?’ she challenged him.
He stuttered, ‘Everybody says—’
He tried again. ‘Sagas need to lift us, be bigger than life – but that doesn’t mean they’re not true, in their own way. And this is Magnus’ story.’
He followed a difficult train of thought, important but only half-grasped. ‘Maybe Hakon’s story would be different. Everyone says he ruled well and there was peace with only one jarl, despite the proverb. And he did go for a pilgrim so maybe he was forgiven.’ He wasn’t sure how Christian forgiveness worked.
‘Well,’ said Hlif, ‘it’s all lies. My father told me his story, Hlifolf’s story. Not a heroic saga, skald-boy—’
How did she know who he was? Skarfr flushed, wondering what stories were told about the remarkable skald Botolf and his charity towards an orphan.
‘No, this is the truth, the reason I’m cursed. Hlifolf’s daughter lives a half-life in a jarl’s hall because of her father’s crime. Forgiven? No. Never. He’s lucky to have left this world and I must keep paying for what he did.’
None of this made any sense to Skarfr but he half-listened. He saw no point in stories of ordinary men. No inspiration, no passion, no heroism.
His attention was jolted back to Hlif when she asked him, ‘How do you think Hlifolf was forced to be a murderer when the standard-bearer said no and yet lived? And how does a man find time for so much prayer, confession and forgiveness, even a mass? While his enemy patiently holds the axe over his head, waiting till he’s finished before smiting the deadly blow? Your arm would drop off from wielding an axe so long. My father told me what really happened.’
Eyes shut, Skarfr pillowed the back of his head on his hands and let the disembodied voice carry him on choppy waters to Egilsey. That day of betrayal and dishonour – but whose? His eyelids felt shade and light as clouds hid, then uncovered the sun, nature’s way of dramatising the tale.
‘Hakon’s men shamed Ofeig the standard-bearer, for his cowardice.’ Hlif’s tone was low with doom and Skarfr shivered. ‘When Jarl Magnus pleaded for his life, the tortures he suggested in lieu of death might well come to his mind for he saw them enacted. Who could deny Hakon’s right to obedience from his men? ‘Riddle me this, young skald-boy.’
Skarfr frowned at both the insult and the interruption to the story but he was intrigued and listened.
‘Two jarls met that day to make peace. Both wanted peace in our land. Which one achieved what they both wanted?’
Skarfr understood her well enough but disliked being led to an answer like a pony to a trough. He refused to drink. For once he could follow his own reasoning without a beating to teach him the required response.
‘Both did,’ he declared, as much to show off his cleverness and annoy the girl as because it was what he believed. ‘One brought peace on earth and one brings us peace in heaven. By Saint Magnus’ martyrdom and grace, Hakon ruled well in his earthly domain – and died.’
‘So you think Saint Magnus is the story,’ she continued, unperturbed. ‘Maybe you are right and maybe you are wrong.’
Her voice deepened again, ominous. ‘Betrayed by his standard-bearer, Hakon turned to his loyal cook Hlifolf and asked formally whether he was a man of honour.
‘My father had served Hakon with oar and axe, never failing him and he welcomed the name offered to him by his lord, to pass on honour to his lineage.
‘I wasn’t born then and my father still hoped for sons,’ she interrupted the story in her natural tone, then carried on, ‘“Men will call you Gall-Cleaver, Cancre-Cutter, Peace-Carver,” said Hakon to Hlifolf.
‘Jarl Magnus stopped pleading and cast a bane instead. “My killer shall pale from the murder that haunts his sleep and his touch will spread corruption from him to his children and to their children.”
‘He was in mid-curse, shouting at Jarl Hakon, when my father rushed him from behind and swung his great axe, carving in Magnus’ head the simple rune used for his name, Hlifolf. Magnus dropped to his knees, fell sideways and my father swiped again, unable to hew a clean blow, dragging his axe in a ragged line along the other side of Magnus’ head, like the slash of a sword but deeper.
‘Then Magnus’ ragged breaths ended but his curse still lived and found its aim. My father felt it lodge in his heart and Hakon’s words confirmed his fears.
‘“There is no honour in dealing such a messy death,” said Hakon. “Let us go to our homes and bring the peace to this land that has had such a foul beginning.” He would not look at my father nor ever did again.
‘Hlifolf gazed long at the blood pooling on earth and pebbles while his comrades headed back to their ships, sombre, bearing Magnus’ corpse.
‘The two companions who had stayed with Magnus had been left unharmed and would tell their story of sainthood across the isles from that time on. One of them, Holbodi, spoke to my father. “You have murdered a saint and will die a miserable death.”’
Matter-of-fact again, Hlif concluded, ‘My father endured the years left to him and the comfort he took with his wife was his undoing for it created me, the continuation of Magnus’ curse. And in recompense to his sainted uncle for the manner of his death, our Jarl Rognvald brought me to his Bu, his home in Orphir, as his ward and his prisoner. I am to be his housekeeper and never marry. The only child and last of the cursed line of Saint Magnus’ murderer.’
Stunned into silence, Skarfr wondered what to make of this girl. Unnatural and touched by the gods? He sat up and opened his eyes. As if they were two dolls on one string, she had lain back and shut her eyes, her face a red and cream version of the dappled marram grass and sand. Smoothed out now, unwrinkled, her tale told.
Cursed girl, thought Skarfr. But he wasn’t worried about her infectious corruption. His life couldn’t get much worse. And he was curious.
‘Why did you tell me?’ he asked.
‘I tell everybody who’ll listen.’ Her eyes flashed open, reflected clouds scudding across the grey gaze. ‘I know you’re the skald-boy so I thought you might. But mostly people don’t. Or they laugh. But they stay away from me, which is good.’
Skarfr picked a long spike of grass and chewed on it absently, pondering truth as the splash of cormorants and a whisper of a breeze played a background to his thoughts, which were as blasphemous as Hlif’s story.
‘Do you believe in Magnus’ saintliness?’ He held his breath.
‘Of course I do,’ she retorted. ‘But when did he become a saint? When he lived? Or when he died?’
Skarfr shook his head and turned to more practical matters. ‘How are you going to get the curse lifted?’ he asked. He wondered whether he was now cursed too, so the answer was important.
‘I need to get Saint Magnus to pardon me. He’s the one who cursed my family in the first place.’
That made sense. Skarfr dropped to his stomach in the long grass, the better to concentrate on how they would get Saint Magnus to lift the curse. He was too intrigued to miss out on the next part of the story.
That’s when he realised that the sea noises had changed. There was a regular splash and creak, men’s voices coming nearer. He peeked through the grass and thought Hlif’s story was coming to life: they would be chased to a church, hacked to death. But there weren’t eight longships coming towards the beach. There were three and the pennants above the sails were not Hakon’s. Eight leather-clad men jumped into the shallows and hauled the first boat till its keel stuck.