The Death of Bjarni
by Sir Egil Njalsson
(November 1996)Too much knowledge can be a dangerous thing. The wisdom of the ancients can burn us poor mortals. I have seen the future... and I fear it.
As you know, I am a priest of two gods. Of the gods of the vikings, I serve Tyr One-Hand, who seeks to bring justice to the world. The other is the Christ.
Yet I also attempt to learn what I may from the other gods. Of particular help to me is Odin the All-Wise, keeper of the powers of the runes, from whom I have learned some of the secrets of the powers of the universe. Together, Tyr and Odin have been my main strength in helping me to become the powerful druid I now am.
Long ago, when the worlds were young, Odin consulted the long-dead earth goddess Erda to learn of the fate of the gods, and discovered the truth of Ragnarok -- the final battle in which the nine worlds will be consumed in flame; and from which only a handful of gods, and two humans sheltered by the world tree Yggdrasil, will survive to start anew. Though the knowledge weighed heavy upon him, Odin valued knowledge for its own sake and thus treasured his visit to the keeper of knowledge of past and future.
Foolishly, I sought Erda myself to learn of my own fate.
I travelled north to the mountains, and found myself deep in a dark, rocky valley which seemed almost supernaturally devoid of any life besides myself. "Erda!" I called into the stillness, "Rise, and speak to me!"
At first, only the echoing of my voice returned to my ears. As the echoes died away, they were met by the distant call of a raven, echoing back from an unseen direction. I felt the gaze of Odin, and then of Tyr, but heard no response from above or below. Both of these gods -- my allies and guides -- had remained silent earlier, when I had told them of my plans. Their silence continued now, though I felt their presence.
As my awareness expanded into the rock of the valley floor, I felt, then heard, a faint rumbling. A large rock before me, standing waist high, fallen long ago from the slopes of the mountains, began to tremble. Clouds began to gather overhead, casting a gloom upon the valley. A green glowing haze rose from the rock's surface, and the top began to ripple as if it were the newly-disturbed surface of a pond. With the sound of a thunderclap, a human-like figure began to rise slowly from its center.
The creature shed small stones and dirt as it rose through the stone, as if it had been pushing up through the earthen floor to arrive at this destination. The stench of death surrounded the green torso, clad in shredded raiment. Head lowered, she raised her arms, and the gloom descended to envelope us, as if she had pulled it down as a comforting blanket. At last, she lifted her head from her chest and locked her death-weary eyes on mine. A low, rough, long-unused voice rumbled, "You have disturbed my fitful rest. What do you wish of me?"
I bowed to the apparition, then met her gaze boldly. "Erda, I seek knowledge. I know that you can give it to me. The past and the future hide nothing from your sight."
"Fool mortal," she growled, "you do not want the knowledge I have. Such knowledge weighs heavily upon even the strong shoulders of one such as I. It would surely destroy you."
"Erda, I must know. Tell me of the future. What is my destiny?" I stepped forward slightly, accentuating my earnestness and my eager desire for knowledge.
"And why should I tell you? What can you give me in return for this information?" She turned her face slightly, still keeping her eyes locked on mine. The hard expression on her face told me she did not expect a satisfactory answer. Yet I had come prepared.
"Into your unhappy death, I bring you this," I called. Raising my runestaff, I began to trace patterns of runes into the air. I began with Eihwaz, the rune of the yew tree, to initiate my tapping into the powerful magical forces which would soon come. As I completed it, the gloom permeating the valley lifted slightly. Side by side, I carved Beorc and Ing, the runes of female and male fertility, and capped them with Tyr, the rune banishing the injustice which had been done to the valley. Finally I signalled for Ehwaz, the rune of swift change, and I both felt and saw a powerful blue glow envelope me.
Suddenly, almost violently, I spread my arms, and with a loud thunderclap a shock wave radiated outward from me, flooding the valley. As its blue border spread along the ground, all of the barren land the magic touched was suddenly alive with vegetation. Plant life was springing from the ground as if suddenly released from a long imprisonment. Within seconds, the entire valley floor had turned green with new life. The clouds retreated, and the gloom was dispelled. Warm sunshine flooded in.
Erda cowered momentarily, flinging up her arms to cover her face, surprised by the magic and the sunshine. Slowly, she lowered her arms and looked around, slightly dazed. The warmth of the sun, long forgotten, filled her being. She closed her eyes, the better to feel its invigorating energy.
I lowered my arms, and gazed steadily at the goddess. "Erda," I said gently, "into the misery of your death, I bring a moment of life."
At first she did not move, and her eyes remained shut. Then, slowly, I saw a single tear emerge from her left eye and roll softly down her cheek.
Her eyes opened, and she met my gaze. "Mortal," she said quietly, "I shall grant you that which you seek. You do not believe me when I say that you do not want my knowledge. Therefore, since you wish it, I will share it with you. Know that my vision of the future is of that which will happen -- you cannot change it, but knowledge of it can help you to prepare yourself to meet it. Yet before I tell you of your own fate, I must see if you are capable of bearing its weight. Therefore I will begin by telling you the fate of your only son.
"The year, as you now reckon it, is 1065. Your son Bjarni is now 24 years old, and a great admirer of Harald Sigurdsson, also called Harald Hardradi or Harald the Ruthless, king of Norway. Next year, in the spring of 1066, you will grant Bjarni's request to let him travel to Norway. He will join the army of his idol, King Harald, who will be seeking to unite all of the northern kingdoms of Europe into one great nation.
"On January 5th of that year, Edward the Confessor will die, and Harold Godwinsson will assume the throne of England, though many will contest his right to do so. Toward the end of that summer, Harald of Norway will lead his viking army to the northeast coast of England, in an attempt to reclaim the throne which once belonged to the his viking forebears. He will harry the coast, and city after city will surrender to him and acknowledge him as the true king of England.
"Working his way south, he will reach York. On September 24th, the town leaders will surrender without a fight. As a sign of good faith, they will ask him to return in the morning to collect hostages to guarantee their allegiance. Harald and his army will retrace the seven miles overland to their ships to spend the night. That very evening, unbeknownst to the vikings and unexpected by the men of York, Harold Godwinsson will arrive in York with his English army, which he will have force-marched north for a week in order to get there in such a short time. The roads in and out of York will be shut down to prevent any word of the English army from reaching the vikings encampment.
"The vikings will awaken the morning of the 25th and prepare to pick up the hostages. Bjarni will suggest to Harald that, since it is a long walk on a hot day, and since the city has already surrendered, they should leave their armor and half of their men with the ships. Harald will agree, smiling at the young warrior who has become one of his favorite subjects. The remaining half of the army, carrying weapons and shields but no armor, will make the journey to York.
"At Stamford Bridge, they will be surprised by the vast English army. Rather than run, Harald will order his men to form a circle around his banner, "Land-ravager." They will lock their shields together to the sides and overhead, forming a virtual shield mountain with spears protruding from every angle to kill any horses and riders which dare to approach. The battle will be hard fought, and great numbers of Englishmen will fall before the vikings are defeated. Bjarni will die at Harald's side, his eyes filled with tears at the knowledge that he has unwillingly betrayed his king and is responsible for the death of the greatest viking who ever lived. The reinforcements from the ship will arrive too late, and many will die of exhaustion from running the seven miles in full armor. Others will shed their armor in order to fight more freely, and will be cut down easily. To the end, the vikings will fight rather than accept defeat. Harold Godwinsson will eventually abandon the attack to take his army back south to meet William of Normandy at the Battle of Hastings. Of the 300 viking ships which arrived on the English coast, only 24 will make the journey home. The Battle of Stamford Bridge will be remembered for all time as the end of the viking age."
Erda's voice grew still, her words ringing in my ears. I stood, stunned, in the silence.
Finally she spoke up. "I will now ask you a question I once asked Odin. 'Well, would you know more?'" She grinned evilly.
For a long time, I did not move.
"No," I whispered, more to myself than to her. "No," I screamed, "NO!!!"
Turning, I fled from the valley, her chuckle seeming to follow me as I ran. Tears filling my eyes, I continued on, not caring where I went, until I dropped, exhausted, several miles later.
I sat, weeping, beside a quiet stream. The forest creatures -- my friends -- gathered around me, but were unable to bring comfort.
A raven -- one of Odin's, I am certain -- circled over me, then flew away to the north. I felt the presence of the gods slowly lifting from me as they journeyed onward.
I knew now why they had remained silent. Had they warned me not to seek Erda, I would not have accepted their advice or believed their stories of the dangers of her knowledge. There are some things a man must learn for himself.
I sank, helpless, to the ground, my fingers clutching the mossy streambank. At last my consciousness left me, and I fell into a fitful sleep.
(Note to the reader: This is a work of historical fiction. All historical, legendary, and runic information is correct as presented here. The fictitious aspects are the inclusion of Egil and Bjarni into the tales.)
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