Tindr Read online

  Tindr is the Fifth Book in The Circle of Ceridwen Saga by Octavia Randolph

  Copyright 2016 Octavia Randolph

  ISBN 978-1-942044-03-1

  Bookcover design: DesignForBooks.com

  Front cover photo: Landscape image by Michael Rohani. Deer image © photographer Spe/Dollar Photo Club. Textures, graphics, photo manipulation, and map by Michael Rohani.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests beyond this, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions” at [email protected]

  Pyewacket Press

  The Circle of Ceridwen Saga employs British spellings, alternate spellings, archaic words, and oftentimes unusual verb to subject placement. This is intentional. A Glossary of Terms will be found at the end of the novel.

  Tindr

  Octavia Randolph

  Contents

  List of Characters

  Tindr Map Year 881

  Preface

  Chapter the Second: Another Island

  Chapter the Third: Njord and Skaði

  Chapter the Fourth: Apples

  Chapter the Fifth: The Boy

  Chapter the Sixth: The Song

  Chapter the Seventh: Ragnfast

  Chapter the Eighth: Assur

  Chapter the Ninth: Of the Hunt

  Chapter the Tenth: The Trading Road

  Chapter the Eleventh: Estrid

  Chapter the Twelfth: Growth

  Chapter the Thirteenth: Of the Lady

  Chapter the Fourteenth: The Wreck

  Chapter the Fifteenth: The Accounting

  Chapter the Sixteenth: The Fires of Mid-Summer

  Chapter the Seventeenth: Dagr is Called

  Chapter the Eighteenth: The Skogsrå

  Chapter the Nineteenth: Strangers

  Chapter the Twentieth: Sigvor

  Chapter the Twenty-first: The Golden Cross

  Chapter the Twenty-second: I Would Fly Away

  Chapter the Twenty-third: Call On Your God

  Chapter the Twenty-fourth: Is This Treason

  Chapter the Twenty-fifth: Game Great and Small

  Chapter the Twenty-sixth: Winter

  Chapter the Twenty-seventh: Leave-taking

  Chapter the Twenty-eighth: Eirik

  Chapter the Twenty-ninth: The Cove

  Chapter the Thirtieth: The Sámi

  Chapter the Thirty-first: The Memory Stone

  Chapter the Thirty-second: A Chieftain’s Daughter

  The Wheel of the Year

  Anglo-Saxon Place Names, with Modern Equivalents

  Glossary of Terms

  About the Author

  List of Characters

  Dagr, a fisherman of Gotland

  Thorkel, a prosperous farmer on the island of Öland

  Ladja, a woman of the Rus

  Rannveig, a skilled brewer of ale

  Tindr, son of Rannveig and Dagr

  Ragnfast, Tindr’s cousin

  Estrid, the daughter of Ragnfast’s neighbour

  Assur, a newly arrived Svear boy

  Ceridwen, a Welsh-Saxon woman, formerly of Kilton

  Sidroc, a Danish warrior, formerly Jarl of South Lindisse

  Sigvor, a young woman of Gotland

  Ceric, Ceridwen’s son

  Hrald, Sidroc’s son

  Sparrow, a freed Frankish slave, formerly of Tyrsborg

  Eirik, a wastrel

  The family of Osku, a Sámi chieftain and trader

  Tindr Map Year 881

  Preface

  The island of Gotland lies near the middle of the sea known as Baltic. Of old it was an enchanted land, rising out of the sea each morning, only to be drowned by salt waters every night. Not until man brought fire to Gotland did it stand firm against the sea that embraced it. Njord the sea-God relented then, pulling back his watery cloak. After this great forests arose on the island, and the Gods Freyr and Freyja learnt to love it as their own.

  The Baltic lapped also the amber-rich shores of the lands of the Danes and that of the Svear. Their young men became fierce warriors, the Danes sailing far West and the Svear East to win silver, gold, and slaves. It was the Danes that caused such grief during the reign of the famed King, Ælfred of Wessex; but the greatness of the young King was such that he halted their ravening and shared out land to these Danes. Many settled there in Angle-land. A warrior named Sidroc was one.

  The lands of the Svear and Danes were wracked too with fighting, as war-chiefs arose and called themselves Kings.

  But the island of Gotland knew unusual peace. It had no King, and no large settlements to plunder. Its coasts were ringed with mighty limestone rauks, the twisted bodies of giant trolls which had petrified when the Sun caught them in their night-wanderings. Its forests sheltered the noble red deer, which ran leaping from fen to glade.

  A young man would roam these forests. His parents called him Tindr.

  Island of Gotland

  The Year 845

  DAGR had not yet seventeen years when he went with his father to the Thing up in the middle of the island. The folk of Gotland regarded the island as having three parts, for the very first Saga of the Gutes tells how the founding man on Gotland, Tjelvar, had three grandsons, and each of them held sway over one third of the island.

  Each third had their own Thing, or Summer law-gathering, and Dagr's people were of the South. Yet Dagr's father had received a summons from an angry farmer further north, and go he must. The prior Spring he had sold a ram to this farmer, a good animal and a proven sire of hearty, long-fleeced twins. In due time word had come back that the farmer wanted the four ewes back that he had traded for; the beast had acted randy enough but had thrown no lambs. The aggrieved party had the right to be heard in their own third, so Gunne resigned himself to the trip. They would make it by ox-drawn waggon; Gunne was of an age at which his bones hurt if he walked too long, and he thought it best to take the four ewes along with him, should he lose in the dispute. If he won he could sell them at the Thing for another ram, or carry them back with him if a bargain could not be struck, and at any rate he wanted them in good condition so that his trouble over them was not doubled. He would welcome the comfort the waggon could provide, for the journey would take two days, with all the kit that entailed, and then at his age he could not expect to rest easy on the ground as he had when he was younger. So he and Dagr packed the waggon. The ewes were easy to pick out from the rest of his flock, as they bore the same notches in their ears they had come with, along with that nick he had added. As Dagr drove them up the ramp into the waggon bed Gunne reflected on the ewes' fineness; he was even then regretting their loss.

  Dagr was his youngest son and eager for the adventure, and the farm was already in the hands of Gunne's eldest boy, who had himself four children. Dagr was one of eight offspring, all of whom had lived, and for this Gunne was known as a most fortunate man. But Dagr’s mother had died not long after his birth, and he had been raised by his father and sisters. Now most of these sisters were wed, only the younger two remaining. As the farm always went to the eldest son, Dagr and his brothers knew from an early age that their Fate was to go as fare-men; to make their way in life through fishing, trade, or if they were fortunate, through the wedding of a maid who had a farm to her name. Indeed, his brothers had already left home to seek their way. But Dagr was thinking of none of this as they set off, the ewes firmly penned behind the rails of the waggon,
his father perched on the narrow plank seat at its head, and he walking alongside the big spotted oxen.

  Besides his eldest brother and his family, Dagr walked away that day from his father's brother, Ake. He was well into his sixth decade, bent of back, bandy of leg, and nearly blind, and a great favourite with Dagr, as Dagr was with him. Ake had had no sons, only daughters, long gone now to the farms of their husbands, and his brother's youngest had become a kind of son to him. All of Gunne's stock were hard-workers, but Ake had besides the soul of a skald, and could recite long passages of Saga tales to liven the slow-passing nights of Winter. From Ake, Dagr had heard at length of the wonders of Asgard, realm of the heavens which held the halls of the Gods, and of the strange ways in which the Gods lived and moved in their midst here in Midgard, this middle-place where men trod. Ake too, as eldest, made sacrifice on behalf of the whole farmstead at every Blót, that blood-time of Offering.

  As his sight dimmed from the milky film in his eyes, Ake became a man who saw in his dreams. He had once told Dagr his Fate was held in water. They were by the well when the old man told him this, and Dagr's brother, hurrying by, had chortled and reminded Dagr not to take all day about hauling up the bucket wanted in the kitchen yard. Now, bidding fare-well to his brother and his son as they left for the distant Thing, Ake squeezed his bleary eyes shut a moment. “You will lose something,” he warned. “Take care.”

  The Thing for the middle third was held in a broad meadow at the crossing of the two main tracks heading East and North. There was a fast-running brook, and the wood at the edge of the meadow was generous in giving up kindling. The Thing was always called when the first Moon of Summer was at its fullest, to give light with which to travel should it be a long day on the road, and also to make gathering around the many camp-fires the more cheerful for the assembled. The work of the Thing, tho', was always done by daylight, as was only right when dealing with matters of justice. The Law-Speaker, the man who knew and remembered the laws, sat and listened as each case was presented in turn, and made his decisions, which were always binding. The rest of the Thing was a three-day festival of eating, drinking, gossiping, and trading, looked forward to by all who could afford the time and travel. It was also a chance for young folk who had not mingled for a while, or who had never before met, to eye each other from their respective family campsites, and for their elders to make discreet inquiry about the character and fortunes of prospective sons- and daughters-in-law.

  Dagr and his father arrived at the Thing late in the day. They had been on the move for two full days and most of a third; the rains had been heavy that Spring and there was still much mud to slow the big cart-wheels in the ooze-filled ruts that had formed. They had missed the best campsites and so needed to set up across the track from where the Law-Speaker’s circle was. Outside this were the stalls of traders who made it a point to attend each of the three Things in turn in a three-year cycle. These had with them some of the finer goods that came ashore at the various trading posts on Gotland – furs and seal-skins from far North, heavy bars of Frankish or Svear iron, cast bronze shield-bosses, box-locks, and ornaments, even gleaming silks from the furthest reaches of the East. One or two might even have the priceless beads of pepper-corn, curling sticks of red cinnamon, or the hard and fragrant nuts called all-spice.

  Beyond the stalls were the camp-sites of the families who had made the journey; some seeking justice, others fleece, wool-wax, grain, tallow, beeswax, or honey to sell or trade. As Gunne had the ewes with him, and they needed grass, they rolled the waggon to the outermost margin of the Thing-place, not far from where the horses of the well-to-do were paddocked, and turned their oxen into the common ground with the beasts of the others. The sheep they entrusted to a farmer who had brought his dogs with him.

  Gunne was weary, and aching too, from the jostling of the long journey, and as soon as they had supped he crawled into the waggon, beat up a mass of straw, and pulled a tarpaulin over his head. Dagr sat up a while on the hard ground outside, arms looped over his drawn-up knees, until their slight cook-fire sputtered and died. He could hear the blowing of the oxen not far away, and see them too, for the long Summer nights have a lingering dusk. As the day finally died, the campfires across the meadow winked the brighter. Snatches of song could be heard, a few drifting words, some distant laughter. He would know no one here, but he thought he might go out and walk about and see what he could see.

  The darkening meadow was marked with the peaks of small pitched tents, and the larger forms of the wains and waggons that had been driven there. The cooking-fires of many were nearly burnt out, but around a few of them folk still sat talking, glad to poke another handful of sticks into the coals and visit with friends they had not seen for several seasons. Near the margin of the woods burnt a larger fire, and Dagr could hear from the raucous laughter that a group of young men sat around it. There would be ale there, and perchance he might be invited to join in a cup.

  The talk and laughter had an ebb and flow to it, and as he drew nearer he saw why. Several women, all young, had paused not far from the fire, and the men were calling to them. Dagr thought them all to be maidens, both from their youth and the way they had stopped to listen. They each held a bucket or crock in their arms, and he reckoned that they had been to the spring for water, and were heading back to their families’ camps.

  “Our ale is good, and would only be better if you would share it with us,” tempted one of the men, addressing the maids from across the fire ring. The fire was a large one, and Dagr was able to see the maidens he spoke to better than the men themselves, most of whom had their backs to him.

  “This water is sweeter, and knows no lies,” returned one of the maids, which Dagr thought a clever retort. She stood in the middle and in front of the other girls, and he gauged her to be perhaps the eldest, and certainly their leader.

  “To taste our ale would take you but a moment,” coaxed another of the men, holding a cup out to them. In answer the maidens only laughed, then whispered amongst themselves.

  Dagr looked at the men about the fire. There were six or seven youths, some long-haired and with finely trimmed beards, others beardless, ranged about on stools and scattered benches. From a few sparkled the glint of silver jewellery, a wrist cuff, a neck ring. And all were arrayed in their best; even in the low light Dagr could see a few of their tunics were embellished with coloured thread-work. The cups they held were of the sort taken on travel, wood; for they were light in weight and unlikely to break. At one side sat a small, tapped cask. From the way the drinkers’ speech sounded Dagr knew the cups had gone round quite a few times.

  “If your ale be as sharp as your voice, 'twould make my lips pucker,” answered the maid who had spoken before. It was said in a tone of light mockery, and though she half turned her back on the men as if to lead the rest of the maids away, she did not move off. Two of the youths hooted at the double meaning of her words, and Dagr stepped further from the shadows to make the speaker out.

  She was of mid-height, with a white, broad brow, small nose, and a mouth that had returned to a smile. Her hair was so long it touched the sash tied at her neat waist, and Dagr did not think it was only the fire's glow that made it look red. The paired brooches pinning her gown at her shoulders were deeply embossed, and from them hung a row of polished amber beads of no little size. Something about the way she stood her ground with these youths made Dagr think she had been raised to have a high opinion of herself, and looking at her, and listening to her banter, he admitted that she deserved it.

  The jesting and coaxing went on. “Our ale, I admit, is not as good as that which you might brew,” tried one, a husky fellow with dark hair and a full beard.

  “I brew no ale,” sauced back the red-haired maid, “and if I did you would be unlikely to be offered a drop from my hands.” The drinkers groaned, and laughingly shook their heads.

  “If you will not drink with us, at least tell us your names so that we may speak
to your fathers in the morning,” one of youths called out, which drew loud hoots from the rest of the drinkers.

  At this the girls looked ready to move on, and the one in front shifted the crock she held.

  “You shall never know my name,” she said with a smile.

  As she turned to leave she caught sight of Dagr, standing behind the fire. Their shared look lasted but a moment, but it was enough to make three or four of the drinkers turn and notice him.

  Dagr, for his part, did not move his eyes from her face. He took a step closer to the fire and addressed her with a few lines he recalled from his Uncle Ake.

  “Red is her hair, like fire, like the sunset beam which crowns the peaks of Asgard, where Frigg the Queen awaits.”

  At first there was silence. Then, “Whose pup are you?” sputtered one of the drinkers, who looked to be no older than Dagr himself.

  Dagr was not yet grown to his full height, but was even then well-knit, and as he took a stride forward he cocked his fisted hand on the leather of his belt. His broad shoulders thus looked even broader, and of the brawn of his arm he thought none could find fault.

  “I am Dagr, son of Gunne, of Öja,” he told them. “Here to settle a dispute about a ram,” he added, as if both ram and the settling of the dispute were strictly up to him.

  One of the long-haired youths stood up. “Öja?” he repeated, with a ready smile. He was a bit unsteady on his feet, but the silver bracelet on his wrist and the shine of his knife's hilt marked him of a rich family. “A Southerner, then, and deserving of our hospitality. Also a poet, and worthy of our ale. Welcome, Dagr.”

  Dagr grinned back to his host and moved into the circle. The girls took this chance to make their escape, though one of the youths slurred out, “Stay, O lovely Frigg” in a feeble attempt to keep them longer. But indeed no light remained in the sky, and behind them all had heard questioning voices calling out, no doubt seeking the needed water and the daughters who bore it.