Chapter XVII—The Wood-Sun Speaketh With Thiodolf

The House of the Wolfings, by William Morris, [1889], at sacred-texts.com

CHAPTER XVII—THE WOOD-SUN SPEAKETH WITH THIODOLF

Now the Markmen laid Heriulf in howe on the ridge-crest where he had fallen, and heaped a mighty howe over him that could be seen from far, and round about him they laid the other warriors of the kindreds.  For they deemed it was fittest that they should lie on the place whose story they had fashioned.  But they cast earth on the foemen lower down on the westward-lying bents.

The sun set amidst their work, and night came on; and Thiodolf was weary and would fain rest him and sleep: but he had many thoughts, and pondered whitherward he should lead the folk, so as to smite the Romans once again, and he had a mind to go apart and be alone for rest and slumber; so he spoke to a man of the kindred named Solvi in whom he put all trust, and then he went down from the ridge, and into a little dale on the southwest side thereof, a furlong from the place of the battle.  A beck ran down that dale, and the further end of it was closed by a little wood of yew trees, low, but growing thick together, and great grey stones were scattered up and down on the short grass of the dale.  Thiodolf went down to the brook-side, and to a place where it trickled into a pool, whence it ran again in a thin thread down the dale, turning aside before it reached the yew-wood to run its ways under low ledges of rock into a wider dale.  He looked at the pool and smiled to himself as if he had thought of something that pleased him; then he drew a broad knife from his side, and fell to cutting up turfs till he had what he wanted; and then he brought stones to the place, and built a dam across the mouth of the pool, and sat by on a great stone to watch it filling.

As he sat he strove to think about the Roman host and how he should deal with it; but despite himself his thoughts wandered, and made for him pictures of his life that should be when this time of battle was over; so that he saw nothing of the troubles that were upon his hands that night, but rather he saw himself partaking in the deeds of the life of man. There he was between the plough-stilts in the acres of the kindred when the west wind was blowing over the promise of early spring; or smiting down the ripe wheat in the hot afternoon amidst the laughter and merry talk of man and maid; or far away over Mirkwood-water watching the edges of the wood against the prowling wolf and lynx, the stars just beginning to shine over his head, as now they were; or wending the windless woods in the first frosts before the snow came, the hunter's bow or javelin in hand: or coming back from the wood with the quarry on the sledge across the snow, when winter was deep, through the biting icy wind and the whirl of the drifting snow, to the lights and music of the Great Roof, and the merry talk therein and the smiling of the faces glad to see the hunting- carles come back; and the full draughts of mead, and the sweet rest a night-tide when the north wind was moaning round the ancient home.

All seemed good and fair to him, and whiles he looked around him, and saw the long dale lying on his left hand and the dark yews in its jaws pressing up against the rock-ledges of the brook, and on his right its windings as the ground rose up to the buttresses of the great ridge.  The moon was rising over it, and he heard the voice of the brook as it tinkled over the stones above him; and the whistle of the plover and the laugh of the whimbrel came down the dale sharp and clear in the calm evening; and sounding far away, because the great hill muffled them, were the voices of his fellows on the ridge, and the songs of the warriors and the high-pitched cries of the watch.  And this also was a part of the sweet life which was, and was to be; and he smiled and was happy and loved the days that were coming, and longed for them, as the young man longs for the feet of his maiden at the trysting-place.

So as he sat there, the dreams wrapping him up from troublous thoughts, at last slumber overtook him, and the great warrior of the Wolfings sat nodding like an old carle in the chimney ingle, and he fell asleep, his dreams going with him, but all changed and turned to folly and emptiness.

He woke with a start in no long time; the night was deep, the wind had fallen utterly, and all sounds were stilled save the voice of the brook, and now and again the cry of the watchers of the Goths.  The moon was high and bright, and the little pool beside him glittered with it in all its ripples; for it was full now and trickling over the lip of his dam. So he arose from the stone and did off his war-gear, casting Throng-plough down into the grass beside him, for he had been minded to bathe him, but the slumber was still on him, and he stood musing while the stream grew stronger and pushed off first one of his turfs and then another, and rolled two or three of the stones over, and then softly thrust all away and ran with a gush down the dale, filling all the little bights by the way for a minute or two; he laughed softly thereat, and stayed the undoing of his kirtle, and so laid himself down on the grass beside the stone looking down the dale, and fell at once into a dreamless sleep.

When he awoke again, it was yet night, but the moon was getting lower and the first beginnings of dawn were showing in the sky over the ridge; he lay still a moment gathering his thoughts and striving to remember where he was, as is the wont of men waking from deep sleep; then he leapt to his feet, and lo, he was face to face with a woman, and she who but the Wood-Sun? and he wondered not, but reached out his hand to touch her, though he had not yet wholly cast off the heaviness of slumber or remembered the tidings of yesterday.

She drew aback a little from him, and his eyes cleared of the slumber, and he saw her that she was scantily clad in black raiment, barefoot, with no gold ring on her arms or necklace on her neck, or crown about her head.  But she looked so fair and lovely even in that end of the night- tide, that he remembered all her beauty of the day and the sunshine, and he laughed aloud for joy of the sight of her, and said:

"What aileth thee, O Wood-Sun, and is this a new custom of thy kindred and the folk of God-home that their brides array themselves like thralls new-taken, and as women who have lost their kindred and are outcast?  Who then hath won the Burg of the Anses, and clomb the rampart of God-home?"

But she spoke from where she stood in a voice so sweet, that it thrilled to the very marrow of his bones.

   "I have dwelt a while with sorrow since we met, we twain, in the wood:
   I have mourned, while thou hast been merry, who deemest the war-play good.
   For I know the heart of the wilful and how thou wouldst cast away
   The rampart of thy life-days, and the wall of my happy day.
   Yea I am the thrall of Sorrow; she hath stripped my raiment off
   And laid sore stripes upon me with many a bitter scoff.
   Still bidding me remember that I come of the God-folk's kin,
   And yet for all my godhead no love of thee may win."

Then she looked longingly at him a while and at last could no longer refrain her, but drew nigh him and took his hands in hers, and kissed his mouth, and said as she caressed him:

   "O where are thy wounds, beloved? how turned the spear from thy breast,
   When the storm of war blew strongest, and the best men met the best?
   Lo, this is the tale of to-day: but what shall to-morrow tell?
   That Thiodolf the Mighty in the fight's beginning fell;
   That there came a stroke ill-stricken, there came an aimless thrust,
   And the life of the people's helper lay quenched in the summer dust."

He answered nothing, but smiled as though the sound of her voice and the touch of her hand were pleasant to him, for so much love there was in her, that her very grief was scarcely grievous.  But she said again:

   "Thou sayest it: I am outcast; for a God that lacketh mirth
   Hath no more place in God-home and never a place on earth.
   A man grieves, and he gladdens, or he dies and his grief is gone;
   But what of the grief of the Gods, and the sorrow never undone?
   Yea verily I am the outcast.  When first in thine arms I lay
   On the blossoms of the woodland my godhead passed away;
   Thenceforth unto thee was I looking for the light and the glory of life
   And the Gods' doors shut behind me till the day of the uttermost strife.
   And now thou hast taken my soul, thou wilt cast it into the night,
   And cover thine head with the darkness, and turn thine eyes from the light.
   Thou wouldst go to the empty country where never a seed is sown
   And never a deed is fashioned, and the place where each is alone;
   But I thy thrall shall follow, I shall come where thou seemest to lie,
   I shall sit on the howe that hides thee, and thou so dear and nigh!
   A few bones white in their war-gear that have no help or thought,
   Shall be Thiodolf the Mighty, so nigh, so dear—and nought."

His hands strayed over her shoulders and arms, caressing them, and he said softly and lovingly:

   "I am Thiodolf the Mighty: but as wise as I may be
   No story of that grave-night mine eyes can ever see,
   But rather the tale of the Wolfings through the coming days of earth,
   And the young men in their triumph and the maidens in their mirth;
   And morn's promise every evening, and each day the promised morn,
   And I amidst it ever reborn and yet reborn.
   This tale I know, who have seen it, who have felt the joy and pain,
   Each fleeing, each pursuing, like the links of the draw-well's chain:
   But that deedless tide of the grave-mound, and the dayless nightless day,
   E'en as I strive to see it, its image wanes away.
   What say'st thou of the grave-mound? shall I be there at all
   When they lift the Horn of Remembrance, and the shout goes down the hall,
   And they drink the Mighty War-duke and Thiodolf the old?
   Nay rather; there where the youngling that longeth to be bold
   Sits gazing through the hall-reek and sees across the board
   A vision of the reaping of the harvest of the sword,
   There shall Thiodolf be sitting; e'en there shall the youngling be
   That once in the ring of the hazels gave up his life to thee."

She laughed as he ended, and her voice was sweet, but bitter was her laugh.  Then she said:

   "Nay thou shalt be dead, O warrior, thou shalt not see the Hall
   Nor the children of thy people 'twixt the dais and the wall.
   And I, and I shall be living; still on thee shall waste my thought:
   I shall long and lack thy longing; I shall pine for what is nought."

But he smiled again, and said:

   "Not on earth shall I learn this wisdom; and how shall I learn it then
   When I lie alone in the grave-mound, and have no speech with men?
   But for thee,—O doubt it nothing that my life shall live in thee,
   And so shall we twain be loving in the days that yet shall be."

It was as if she heard him not; and she fell aback from him a little and stood silently for a while as one in deep thought; and then turned and went a few paces from him, and stooped down and came back again with something in her arms (and it was the hauberk once more), and said suddenly:

   "O Thiodolf, now tell me for what cause thou wouldst not bear
   This grey wall of the hammer in the tempest of the spear?
   Didst thou doubt my faith, O Folk-wolf, or the counsel of the Gods,
   That thou needs must cast thee naked midst the flashing battle-rods,
   Or is thy pride so mighty that it seemed to thee indeed
   That death was a better guerdon than the love of the Godhead's seed?"

But Thiodolf said: "O Wood-Sun, this thou hast a right to ask of me, why I have not worn in the battle thy gift, the Treasure of the World, the Dwarf-wrought Hauberk!  And what is this that thou sayest?  I doubt not thy faith towards me and thine abundant love: and as for the rede of the Gods, I know it not, nor may I know it, nor turn it this way nor that: and as for thy love and that I would choose death sooner, I know not what thou meanest; I will not say that I love thy love better than life itself; for these two, my life and my love, are blended together and may not be sundered.

"Hearken therefore as to the Hauberk: I wot well that it is for no light matter that thou wouldst have me bear thy gift, the wondrous hauberk, into battle; I deem that some doom is wrapped up in it; maybe that I shall fall before the foe if I wear it not; and that if I wear it, somewhat may betide me which is unmeet to betide a warrior of the Wolfings.  Therefore will I tell thee why I have fought in two battles with the Romans with unmailed body, and why I left the hauberk, (which I see that thou bearest in thine arms) in the Roof of the Daylings.  For when I entered therein, clad in the hauberk, there came to meet me an ancient man, one of the very valiant of days past, and he looked on me with the eyes of love, as though he had been the very father of our folk, and I the man that was to come after him to carry on the life thereof. But when he saw the hauberk and touched it, then was his love smitten cold with sadness and he spoke words of evil omen; so that putting this together with thy words about the gift, and that thou didst in a manner compel me to wear it, I could not but deem that this mail is for the ransom of a man and the ruin of a folk.

"Wilt thou say that it is not so? then will I wear the hauberk, and live and die happy.  But if thou sayest that I have deemed aright, and that a curse goeth with the hauberk, then either for the sake of the folk I will not wear the gift and the curse, and I shall die in great glory, and because of me the House shall live; or else for thy sake I shall bear it and live, and the House shall live or die as may be, but I not helping, nay I no longer of the House nor in it.  How sayest thou?"

Then she said:

   "Hail be thy mouth, beloved, for that last word of thine,
   And the hope that thine heart conceiveth and the hope that is born in mine.
   Yea, for a man's delivrance was the hauberk born indeed
   That once more the mighty warrior might help the folk at need.
   And where is the curse's dwelling if thy life be saved to dwell
   Amidst the Wolfing warriors and the folk that loves thee well
   And the house where the high Gods left thee to be cherished well therein?

   "Yea more: I have told thee, beloved, that thou art not of the kin;
   The blood in thy body is blended of the wandering Elking race,
   And one that I may not tell of, who in God-home hath his place,
   And who changed his shape to beget thee in the wild-wood's leafy roof.
   How then shall the doom of the Wolfings be woven in the woof
   Which the Norns for thee have shuttled? or shall one man of war
   Cast down the tree of the Wolfings on the roots that spread so far?
   O friend, thou art wise and mighty, but other men have lived
   Beneath the Wolfing roof-tree whereby the folk has thrived."

He reddened at her word; but his eyes looked eagerly on her.  She cast down the hauberk, and drew one step nigher to him.  She knitted her brows, her face waxed terrible, and her stature seemed to grow greater, as she lifted up her gleaming right arm, and cried out in a great voice.

   "Thou Thiodolf the Mighty!  Hadst thou will to cast the net
   And tangle the House in thy trouble, it is I would slay thee yet;
   For 'tis I and I that love them, and my sorrow would I give,
   And thy life, thou God of battle, that the Wolfing House might live."

Therewith she rushed forward, and cast herself upon him, and threw her arms about him, and strained him to her bosom, and kissed his face, and he her in likewise, for there was none to behold them, and nought but the naked heaven was the roof above their heads.

And now it was as if the touch of her face and her body, and the murmuring of her voice changed and soft close to his ear, as she murmured mere words of love to him, drew him away from the life of deeds and doubts and made a new world for him, wherein he beheld all those fair pictures of the happy days that had been in his musings when first he left the field of the dead.

So they sat down on the grey stone together hand in hand, her head laid upon his shoulder, no otherwise than if they had been two lovers, young and without renown in days of deep peace.

So as they sat, her foot smote on the cold hilts of the sword, which Thiodolf had laid down in the grass; and she stooped and took it up, and laid it across her knees and his as they sat there; and she looked on Throng-plough as he lay still in the sheath, and smiled on him, and saw that the peace-strings were not yet wound about his hilts.  So she drew him forth and raised him up in her hand, and he gleamed white and fearful in the growing dawn, for all things had now gotten their colours again, whereas amidst their talking had the night worn, and the moon low down was grown white and pale.

But she leaned aside, and laid her cheek against Thiodolf's, and he took the sword out of her hand and set it on his knees again, and laid his right hand on it, and said:

   "Two things by these blue edges in the face of the dawning I swear;
   And first this warrior's ransom in the coming fight to bear,
   And evermore to love thee who hast given me second birth.
   And by the sword I swear it, and by the Holy Earth,
   To live for the House of the Wolfings, and at last to die for their need.
   For though I trow thy saying that I am not one of their seed,
   Nor yet by the hand have been taken and unto the Father shown
   As a very son of the Fathers, yet mid them hath my body grown;
   And I am the guest of their Folk-Hall, and each one there is my friend.
   So with them is my joy and sorrow, and my life, and my death in the end.
   Now whatso doom hereafter my coming days shall bide,
   Thou speech-friend, thou deliverer, thine is this dawning-tide."

She spoke no word to him; but they rose up and went hand in hand down the dale, he still bearing his naked sword over his shoulder, and thus they went together into the yew-copse at the dale's end.  There they abode till after the rising of the sun, and each to each spake many loving words at their departure; and the Wood-Sun went her ways at her will.

But Thiodolf went up the dale again, and set Throng-plough in his sheath, and wound the peace-strings round him.  Then he took up the hauberk from the grass whereas the Wood-Sun had cast it, and did it on him, as it were of the attire he was wont to carry daily.  So he girt Throng-plough to him, and went soberly up to the ridge-top to the folk, who were just stirring in the early morning.