536: VOLCANIC WINTER

YAWNING OF THE DEEP

“For the sun gave forth its light without brightness”

-Procopius

“In the beginning, when naught was,
there was neither sand nor sea nor the cold waves,
nor was earth to be seen nor heaven above.
There was a yawning of the deep, and green things nowhere.”

-Völuspá (mixture of translations: Vigfússon & Powell 1883; Bray 1908)

Scandinavia

536 A.D.

The wind was bitterly cold, the earth hardened its heart to those who tended it. A blue-grey veil covered the sky and the sun, the stars had dimmed. The whole world was poised for the end.

Footsteps, tempered by calf-skin boots, crunched over fallen leaves and snow. A girl paused at the entrance of the farm. She held milk in one hand and water in the other. With cornflower blue eyes, the girl stared into the forest. Naked trees banded together like fish bones. A group of muddied men huddled further up the path. Their torches cast a hellish halo in the fog and dust. One of them caught her eye. He grinned and stuck out his tongue.

She pulled her headscarf tighter. It was difficult to avoid attention, now. Dagmaer had grown lithe and willowy. She’d hoped that her father would find someone to marry her off to; that she would be safe in someone’s home. The prospect of marriage now seemed as distant as the Jǫtunheimar¹.

A raven crowed.

“Dagmaer!” cried her father. “Come in at once.”

As Dagmaer returned to the house, she felt the man’s gaze burning into the back of her head. She hunched and shuffled so her dress fell around her body in an unflattering fashion. Dagmaer’s sight fell upon the ground. Shadows were absent. Sköll², son of Fenrir, it seemed, already swallowed them. Turning her face to the hazy sky, Dagmaer wondered when the wolf’s jaws would snap her up.

It was smokier in the longhouse than out of it. Some months ago, it was a place full of laughter and song. Merchants and travellers stopped here in Father’s hall. Stories and goods were traded.

Though impossible to believe now, life had been good.

But these days were harsh. Merchants long-ceased their visit. Many of those living near their land left. The little gold and precious metals they possessed had been stripped and thrown into the chieftain’s pile³. Sheep, pigs, and cows were slaughtered for the gods, but grain still withered on the stalk.

Dagmaer cast her eyes to a dark corner, where her mother lay—and had lain—for about two weeks. Mother had not risen from her bed since her brother, Kåre, left. She faced the wall and was silent.

Dagmaer resisted the urge to grind her teeth.

It wasn’t fair that Kåre was free to roam as he pleased. Worse still, he’d gone and not taken Dagmaer with him.

Swallowing the acrid taste of anger, she approached the fire. There her father sat on a fur-covered bench. He stared at his hands with a blank expression.

Dagmaer placed down her pails. “It is the last of the milk,” she whispered.

Father did not stir.

She repeated herself, louder this time. “Father, there is no more milk.”

He blinked and raised his head. “What?”

“The cows are all dead.”

“How?”

Dagmaer ran her calloused palms down the front of her linen apron-dress. “They came and took the last one.”

“For the Alföðr?”⁴

“Já, for the Alföðr.”

He nodded and turned back to the fire. “Then it will be worth it.”

Worth it? The high flickering flame persisted behind a fog. It mattered not whether Odin was satisfied. They remained at the mercy of the adder and the wolf, whose season was so clearly upon them.

Day after day Dagmaer continued her tasks about the farm as though normal. She toiled beneath the half-sun. Well, now that there were no cows, this was hard to do.

Dagmaer rubbed her hands together, feeling the friction of life’s labour between them. “It is the end of August, Father.”

“It is.”

She placed her hands at her sides, eyeing her mother’s form beneath the blankets. “Ash and frost have taken the crops” said Dagmaer. “There is nothing to do. Everyone else has gone South, gone with Käre.”

His tone was flat as he responded. “We will remain steadfast.”

Something about the answer reignited Dagmaer’s rage. “Odin will not return to us, but Skarde, son of Orm, will,” she snapped. “He will wring us dry. Our final three chickens will hang wasted.”

His eyes sharply turned toward her. “And what would you do, girl? Leave your brother behind? Kåre will not know where we have gone!”

“I tell you, he has abandoned this place and gone South!”

Father released a bitter, humourless laugh. “South, you say? South. Ha! How right you are, my daughter. Your keen eyes see much without seeing. Yes, my eldest boy has gone South.” He spat on the floor and did not raise his eyes to her again.

It was silent save the crackling of logs.

Dagmaer wiped the angry tears from her eyes and glared out the open door to the path Kåre had taken; into the forest.

Father shifted, wood creaking underneath his weight. “The gods have been kind until now,” he mumbled. “I must…. I must find a way to stay. If Skarde’s belly is full, then he must’ve pleased Odin. Haven’t I done the same? Perhaps I should do more.”

She left her father to his mutterings. With a soft sigh, she perched on the edge of her bed. Her younger siblings slept soundly on it. Without food, there was little energy for other activities.

Dagmaer removed her scarf and detangled blonde strands from her braids. Her eyes slid to the children. Bothild, Ása, Arnví…

One—the boy—was missing. His shoes were gone from beneath the bed too.

“Where is Leif-mín?” she called across the room.

At the sound of the boy’s name, a wail filled the longhouse. Without words, Mother beat her chest while rocking back and forth.

Dagmaer’s hair stood on end at the sound. She looked to her father, hoping for some sort of explanation.

Father oriented his body away.

In the night, Dagmaer gathered her things and the final three of her siblings. The fire burned low and Father had fallen asleep with his back against the wall.

She would go through the forest and head south. Dagmaer knew the way. When things were good and the sun shone, traders used this road. They’d go to Auðrfljót where Mother’s kin lived.

Dagmaer pulled the girls’ dresses over their drowsy towheads. At two years old, Bothild was not yet old enough to walk far. Dagmaer swaddled the girl in a woollen blanket and placed her securely upon her back.

This was best, so Dagmaer repeated to herself over and over.

Yet, on a night without the moon nor stars to guide her, Dagmaer grew uncertain. She paused at the edge of her family’s home, gazing into the mist. Neither the men from yesterday nor their torches could be seen.

Kåre had left just like this: without a word in the night.

Dagmaer cast a single glance over her shoulder at the faint outline of the longhouse.

Then, her stomach growled.

This was best.

With Ása and Arnví clinging to her skirt, Dagmaer crossed over the low stone wall.

“Is Mama coming?” whispered Arnví.

Dagmaer ignored the question and pushed deeper into the trees. None of the girls asked anything more.

They walked in silence. All the while, Dagmaer’s eyes flicked to and fro. She was searching for the tell-tale torches of men. The small dagger on her belt would do little to defend herself. They should move through the forest quickly.

The bruiséd grey join of two days endlessly stretched before them. Neither night nor day; on and on it went. With growing anxiety, Dagmaer wondered whether she’d made a mistake. When at last the light was firmly more blue than black, Dagmaer was satisfied they’d reached the next morning.

She paused, peering off the path into a little ditch. The boughs creaked and a raven’s cackle filled the silence. It would be a good place to stop. Her sisters did not complain, but Arnví was beginning to stumble. They were cold, they were hungry, they were tired. Dagmaer gnawed her lower lip. She couldn’t carry them all. They needed to continue through the day. Moving by night once again might be dangerous so deep in the woods. Wolves had pushed their territory outward since menfolk abandoned their towns for lands across the sea and to the South.

Dagmaer wrinkled her nose. Something smelled.

Ása tugged her sleeve.

“Hm?” grunted Dagmaer.

“What is that?” asked Ása. She pointed up into the canopy. Dagmaer felt something brush the crown of her head. She glanced up and recognized a small pair of shoes swinging just above eye level.

Nine for the holy grove, nine for the trees, nine for Odin.

“Don’t look,” Dagmaer barked.

The girls jumped.

Dagmaer held fast to her sisters, shielding their faces with her skirts as she forced them onward. “We will play a game,” she whispered. “You must shut your eyes tightly—as tight as you can! Now, you must tell me exactly what you want to eat when we get to Auðrfljót.”

None of the three girls answered.

“I will start,” said Dagmaer. “I want hot honey meade and I will have a big bowl of meat stew.”

“Venison!” cried Arnví.

“With?” Dagmaer prompted. “What do you see on the table?”

“I see… a large fire with many candles,” said Ása. “Yoghurt with honey and berries.”

“Bread the size of little Bothild!” Arnví added.

So they continued until nightfall and the nine swinging from the trees were long behind them.

Dagmaer started a fire. Little Bothild played with Ása for a short time. They ate a few pieces of meat and dry bread which improved everyone’s moods.

Then, they grew sleepy. Dagmaer cleared out dry leaves from the hollow of a tree. She checked for adders. There were none. Then, Dagmaer arranged the girls close to her within the hollow and wrapped her cloak about them all. They stayed in the fire’s glow and warmth, but were far away enough that—should one come looking—they would not notice the group of girls.

After some time, Dagmaer’s eyes shut and she fell asleep.

A twig snapped.

Dagmaer awoke with a start. The fire had burned down to embers. Her eyes strained against the blackness of the night, searching for the source of the noise. All seemed still.

Yet Dagmaer was unconvinced. She pushed herself upright, detangling herself from her sleeping sisters.

When she leaned out from the tree, her eyes perceived a figure some paces away. Dagmaer recognized him. She knew the young man by his silhouette, by his fair and curly head.

“Brother!” she cried.

She scrambled to her feet and out from the tree, leaving her sisters. Dagmaer went to Kåre, but as she reached out her hands, he was gone.

She stopped.

“Kåre? Brother?” she whispered.

She stoked the fire and the flames leapt to life within a few moments. She grasped a dry branch and lowered its end to the flames.

Turning, she raised her torch. There was Kåre. He stood just outside the light, beckoning for her to follow. Then, he turned his back and walked into the forest.

Dagmaer cast a look over her shoulder. She would return before they awoke. Of course, she’d need to understand what it was Kåre wanted. Hopefully, she could convince him to travel as a group. Or maybe he was showing her where he’d found a new home.

With soft and quick steps, Dagmaer chased after her elder brother.

He drew her ever deeper into the woods until the fire that marked her camp was a tiny pinprick.

Dagmaer halted. “Kåre, I cannot leave our sisters.”

Kåre did not speak but pointed with fair hand. She followed the gesture toward a stone well. The hair on the back of Dagmaer’s neck prickled. Then, like smoke in the wind, he was gone and she was alone.

Thorny brambles surrounded the clearing and the ground beneath Dagmaer’s feet was soft and wet. A scent filled her lungs; something of moist earth and ancient age. Here, the trees were different. The trunks were contorted painfully. Their branches rattled and shook in the wind like instruments. Upon their stark white bark were carved many runes. Some Dagmaer recognised, others she did not.

She stood in the clearing, unsure. Her hand clutched her torch tightly. She took a small step toward the well and then stopped. I should go back, she thought.

Just as Dagmaer began to retreat, a voice emanated from within the well. “Dagmaer…” Tone and texture breathed like a sigh, like wind on water.

Dagmaer froze.

“Fair and lovely Dagmaer!”

Holding her breath, she came to the edge. Dagmaer did not yet dare lean over the stone lip.

But Kåre led me here, she thought. So, it cannot be dangerous.

She steeled herself. Drawing a hasty breath, Dagmaer lifted her torch and peered down into the yawning well. There was nothing. Water caught the firelight and spat her reflection back at her.

Dagmaer felt a twinge of disappointment. “Hm.”

Before she could turn away, however, a breeze stirred the clearing. It was cold—colder than usual. Then, a man’s face appeared upon the water as though a reflection of an obsidian mirror. His hair was grey. A single blue eye glittered from the surface. He was missing the other.

The man called out to her. “Dagmaer, fair maiden!”

Dagmaer gasped, gripping the edge of the well. “Who are you? How is it that you know my name?”

The water’s surface rippled. “Wisdom, fair Dagmaer.”

“Where is my brother?” she demanded. “Where is Kåre?”

“Here with me,” the man answered simply.

“Give him back.”

“I’m afraid that I cannot do that, fair Dagmaer.”

Dagmaer’s breath grew shallow. “Give him back.”

“A gift given can never be returned.”

With a cry of despair, Dagmaer threw herself upon the ground.

Wings beat the air and a raven settled some feet away. It turned its black eyes one way and then the other, taking in Dagmaer. It jeered and laughed. “Skull picker,” Dagmaer hissed. “Corpse vulture! Devilish thing!” She cast a stone at the bird. It took to the air with another raucous cry.

Wicked, wicked soul wounding acts abound. What was to be done?

She wept.

The voice carried up the well, echoing on damp moss-covered walls. “Fair girl, I can give you something far greater.”

Dagmaer sniffled. “I want my brother.”

“Listen here. I shall give to you the gift of wolf-wine ever flowing. Look at the foot of my stone, dear girl.”

Her eyes fell upon a group of mushrooms at the foot of the well. A dark vision came to Dagmaer; a vision of returning and sharing the last of the milk with Father and Skarde and the other sons of Orm. She’d be there when they drank it. She’d leave their bodies to rot.

Her hands closed into fists beneath her chin, teeth grinding hatefully.

Rising, Dagmaer once more peered into the well. “What would you want from me?”

“A girl, fair maiden. A girl in exchange for the sky’s great flame and the wolf-wine.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Who are you that claims to have power over heaven’s candle?”

When he smiled it was with pointed teeth. “The one to whom they offer blót⁵.”

---

I love writing short stories as it gives me a chance to try something new! This story was prompted by

Andrew Smith

’s Macabre Monday post on notes:

My response was the Volcanic Winter of 536 AD. While I did research, I’m positive that this story is rife with inaccuracies. We’ll just call those mistakes/exaggerations “creative liberties”.

This story is rather dark, but this story is much longer. I cut the scenes for maximum impact, but there is a definitive ending for all the characters involved.

I hope you enjoyed!

Kindly

M.E. Beckley

1. “Refer[s] to either a land or multiple lands respectively in Nordic mythology inhabited by the Jötnar”

2. “[A] wolf that, according to Snorri Sturluson's Prose Edda, chases the Sun (personified as a goddess, Sól) riding her chariot across the sky.”

3. The Year 536 and the Scandanavian Gold Hoards by Mortan Axboe

4. Alföðr: Old Norse for “All-Father” or Odin

5. Blót and human sacrifices in the Viking Age