The Last Berserker

Wrote the short story printed below a few days ago, to go with several other Norse Heathen short stories which I've been writing over the years. Can't take much credit for this, as the bulk of the story is the retelling of an old Norse folk story. Am a tad preoccupied with death at the moment.
It called 'The Last Berserker'. The word 'Berserker' means 'bear scinned' or 'bare scinned', which is ambiguous, but the general idea is that they are warriors dedicated to Odin, who fight with no regards to their own safety. This sounds rather heroic, but in the sagas, Berserkers spend most of their time turning up at parties and starting fights... 

The woman tended her fire with slender, wind tanned hands.

Outside her home of wooden timbers and thatch, the howling of wolves competed with the howls of the wind.

It was lonely in her dwelling, after the Grim Reaper had taken her husband and children away. She put another few sticks on the fire and rubbed her hands together in the hope of stopping there shaking.

Then she flinched as she heard three pounding knocks on her door, like the blows of a mighty hammer. Visitors to her home were rare, especially on such a foul night. She touched the bronze cross that lung around her neck, and found the strength to open the door.

Outside she saw a beast of a man. A head taller than her, and twice as broad. Despite the snow which dusted his long dark hear and beard, he wore only a fur jerkin, woollen breeks and high leather boots. His eyes blazed from his scarred, brass tanned face like a polished blade under a summer sky. An upside down cross made of bone hung from his bull neck and thick silver torcs adorned his wrists. A Broad Sword hung on one side of his belt, and a long dagger from the other. His bare arms bled from a dozen minor wounds, and blood soaked through his jerkin.

‘Christ preserve us!’ she gasped, but she did not flinch from the creature which she thought must be a demon.

‘Odin made the world,’ the man muttered back.

For a moment they stared at each other with mutual disgust.

‘Who are you, and what do you want?’ she managed to say.

‘Thorfast Sigurdson of Whale Fjord seeks hospitality.’

Then she knew that he was no demon, but a heathen, which was just as bad, and rarer in those days. But she knew that Christ that said to ‘Love Thy Neighbour’, and spoken of Good Samaritans. She remembered the great importance which her grandmother- a Hell-bound pagan, but a good woman- had placed on hospitality. And she did not remember a priest ever telling her that heathens had asked permission before pillaging and ravishing.

‘Enter, Thorfast of Whale Fjord,’ she said defiantly.

He nodded, shuck the snow from his hair like a dog, and strode in.

‘Sit by the fire, there is a little stew left over,’ she told him.

‘Thank Odin,’ he grunted.

‘There will be no Devil worship in my home,’ she snapped.

For a moment his eyes blazed like fire in fury. She clutched her cross, but faced him, staring up, her face inches from his own. Then the fire faded from his eyes, and he laughed, deep and dry.

‘My Gods fight monsters far worse that your demons,’ he stated.

She smiled at that, and the tension left the air.

‘Sit down,’ she said, and he did.

In the warm fire light he could see that she was not the miserable crone that he had first thought. She was not old, and still pretty, and the waves of her red hair glistened in the light like a gentle sea under the sun.

In the light she could see that one of the wounds on his arm was deep, and that there was more blood coming through his jurkin.

‘Let me dress your cuts,’ she said, ‘I have needle and thread, and a few herbs, and-‘

‘It is too late for that.’

There was such weariness and determination in his voice, as though he was patiently waiting for death; that she knew not to argue. For a moment she felt pity for the man, then that was overwhelmed by curiosity.

‘What is your business here?' She asked him.

‘Odin already knows of the deeds that I have done, and He has a seat waiting for me in his hall, with a tall glass of mead in front of it. My father waits on the right hand side of my seat, and the prettiest of valkyries waits on the left. There is no need for me to boast of my life to you,’ he said proudly, then he saw the disappointed look on her face, and spoke more kindly. ‘But I can tell you another story, if you wish, to pass the time.’

‘That would be kind.’

He poured some of the stew from the bowl to his mouth, then wiped his beard with a blood stained hand. The wolves outside had ceased their howling. The distant wind and the crackling of the fire comforted the lady.

‘This is the story of The Troll’s Cave,’ he began. ‘There was a young man, lets call him Olaf, who had heard that troll’s lived in a cave on the fells by his home, and that they had a mighty hoard of silver. He decided to find the troll’s cave, and rob them.’

‘What is a troll?’

‘A monster made of stone, who prowls the land at night.’

‘A demon?’

‘No, a Troll... After searching for most the day, Olaf found a rock which blocked the door of a cave, on the top of a fell. Opening his strength-hoard, he pushed the rock aside, and climbed down into the cave. It was a big cave, and it led down into the earth. He lit a torch and followed it down for a long time. Then he heard a voice calling for him to halt. He had his dagger ready. “What brings you here?” the voice asked. Olaf did not think it could be a troll’s voice, for it was soft- like a woman’s. “I am looking for trolls” he said. “Then come closer,” said the voice. He did, and then he saw a tall man, with a pretty face, like an elf or a southerner. The man was dressed in silk robes and wore a fine sword. “Come to our hall and feast with us”, the pretty man said.

 ‘Olaf was lead to the hall in the cave. It was the finest hall he had ever seen, fit for a king it was. Great piles of silver sat on the floor. And a king’s hall it was indeed, for a king sat at the head of the table, another tall, slender, pretty man. A queen sat beside him, who was also slender and elfin, and more beautiful than any woman Olaf had ever seen- and he had known many. But the princess that sat next to them was prettier still. “Be seated, feast and drink with us”, the king said. So he did.

‘Then after the feast, the king excused himself, and told Olaf to sleep because they all had to leave, and he must not follow them. When Olaf woke the next day, he found even more silver in the hall. The pretty people asked him to join them for another feast, so he did. Olaf stayed with them for many days in their cave, and they slowed him great kindness. The princess fell in love with him, and they were married, and the king showered him with gifts- rings, and swords and furs and more.

‘It was only on the bridal bed, when all that should be done was done, that Olaf understood what is hosts were… They were trolls. But in their own land, the trolls were pretty and kind, and only became ugly and cruel when they emerged into the world of men.’

There were so many questions which the lady wanted to ask, but she could not bear to interrupt the story.

‘Olaf lived with his fine troll princess wife for a few more days. And every day he was given a mighty feast. But, he noticed, there was never any rosemary to season the meat at the feast. “I will go up and get us some rosemary, for I want it on my meat,” Olaf said. He walked out of the cave, put the rock back behind him, and began looking for wild rosemary. What he found instead was a puddle. Looking at himself in the puddle, he saw an old man staring back. He had been in the cave for only a few weeks but he had aged many generations. He staggered back, then saw a herdsman, and ran to him. “Who is king here?’ Olaf demanded of the herdsman. “Foolish old man, everyone knows that Sven Redbeard is king”, the herdsman said. “That cannot be, last I was here, Erik Thorgrimson was king,” he said. “I have heard of Erik Thorgrimson, he was Sven’s father’s, father’s father,” the herdsman said. Olaf fled in horror. He ran back up the fell and tried to find the troll’s cave. But he could not. He reasoned that he must be on the wrong fell, so he searched another and found nothing. For the rest of his life, Olaf searched for the door to the troll’s cave, but he could never find it.’

The lady felt sorry for Olaf, but she had liked the story. She looked at Thorfast’s face, which was now very pale, with a new admiration.

‘There is a lesson in that story,’ she said.

‘There are many,’ he replied, ‘some I have learnt, and some I have not. But I go now to the hall of kings, and I will not complain if they lack for rosemary.’

He pulled his sword gently from its scabbard, and held it tight with both hands. Then he lay down on the floor and closed his eyes.

‘Valhalla’, he said once in a voice thick with pride, and then never again.

A raven called out once from the distant winter sky.