Frey and His Wife

by Maurice Hewlett

"Better to have been hanging on a green tree in the warm and living air than to slowly fritter away into corruption, and become bleached bones here in the dark and cold." He looked back with wistfulness to such a genial death. "Sigurd would have piled a cairn for me. He would have grieved for me, and said prayers to his new God in the king's new temple. Well, hanging is a man's death, as battle is. But to fight the dark, to grow weak by chill and hunger, to be so lonely that not a raven troubles about your dead eyes! This is a death for wolves—but not for men who love to lie snug among their fellows."

These were his thoughts at the worst; at the best he felt that before long he must hit upon a sign of life.

He was now on level ground, and true it was that he came at last upon a clearing. A broad green road ran on either side of a ford in the river. Here he stood and looked up at the blue sky, and saw how the sun made the tree-tops seem cut out of gold. He forgot his emptiness, his loneliness and dark forebodings. "Oh, now I see that the sun is a God who loves men!"

As if that was true, and he was to be assured of it, a shaft of sunlight struck the ford and turned his eyes that way. It clarified the water and brought the stones into sight. Presently he saw a better thing: a goodly fish lay in the deeper part, faintly swaying his tail. Gunnar made a wide cast over the river and crawled up the bank on his belly. He lay motionless, watching his prey, and then, inch by inch, approached his hand to the belly of the fine fish. Inch by inch he went upwards to the head; then, judging his time, snapped his fingers together into the gills and jerked him out of the water. Here truly was a prize awarded him by the sun. The fish was good eating. He ate him all but the head and bones.

Now he must decide what to do, whether he should follow the river or the road. If he followed the road, by which hand should he be guided? He was not long in deciding the first issue. The sun and the sky were too dear to him to be lost again. For the second, he was for following the sun, which was high in the heavens. If it was noon, the road which ran into the sun would lead him to the South. On the South also was the sea. Besides all that there was to be said that the road had been cleared by men, and must lead to the dwellings of men.

Strong in this assurance, he went briskly along a good green track. Now he could tell night from day; now he saw birds flying overhead; presently a fox trotted across the way in front of him, saw him and sat up to watch. He barked shortly once or twice and then galloped into the thicket. But Gunnar felt enheartened by the sight of him. After that he heard wolves howling afar off, as their custom is at sunset. But the great event of all was on the next day, when he saw two things, one after the other, which made his heart beat. The first was a dog, which the moment he caught sight of him pelted away up the track with his tail clapped to his hinder parts; the second was a young woman. As he came round a curve in the road she was standing in the middle of it at a bowshot's distance. She was very pale, black-haired, short-kirtled and barefoot. He stopped immediately to watch; but at that moment she saw him and slipped among the trees. Gunnar ran with all his might; he called; he shouted. No answer. He couldn't find her anywhere. No matter. Sweden was inhabited. He would not die lonely. His heart was high to be sure of that, and he went on rejoicing.

Next he came to an open place, a clearing in the trees where men had lately been. He saw the ashes of their fire, bones, the skin of a goat. He saw leaves and branches which had been slept upon; he saw the prints of hoofs—ponies' or donkeys' hoofs. So he journeyed on, and at last smelt the friendly smell of burning wood. "Now to accost the Swedes," he said. "What will they make of me? Or I of them?"

Guided by the smell he was not long before he saw men about a great fire. There may have been eight of them there. They looked black, and he knew that they were charcoal-burners—which in fact they were. Taking his life in his hands he went directly towards them, and when they saw him, and scrambled to their feet in amazement, he lifted his hand in greeting and came among them. They were cooking over their fire; a great pot was bubbling. Their dogs came smelling about his calves; but they themselves stood speechless where they were. "Do these blacks intend my death?" he asked himself. He hoped not, but did not draw the sword.

Seeing that they did not move, and that their very dogs had now withdrawn themselves and were barking uneasily at a distance, Gunnar advanced with friendly gestures. Hereupon the men with one accord fell to their knees and stooped their bodies until their faces touched the earth. "Good souls, they take me for a God," he thought. He was now fairly within the line of them, and stretching his hands over the fire. The smell from the pot tickled his nostrils and brought water into his mouth. How long was it since he had tasted cooked food? It was too much for him. Forgetting the dangers of manhood and the honours of godhead alike, he fished in the pot for a morsel, sat down and began to eat. He found himself ravenous, and in good case to better himself; he might have eaten the contents of the pot, but that by cautious degrees the charcoal-burners began to consider him. He found bright eyes peering at him from between sooty fingers. Finally one bolder than the rest lifted his head, and fairly asked him if he were a man or a God. He spoke hoarsely, but could be understood.

"Friend," Gunnar said, "you may see by my procedure that I am a man and a hungry one, though not now so hungry as I was."