Berenger crept from behind the tree and approached the sacred grove. The fires had now burnt low, although the greasy smoke from the offerings hung in the still air. The priests had entered their trance states, two had passed out and lay around the fire in fitul sleep, mumbling and drooling as they snored. One sat before the fire, gaunt and naked, his hands scooping up and dropping earth between his fingers. His voice sang as he did this, his eyes unseeing of his surroundings, in animated conversation with the otherworld, either in prayer or weaving spells, the young man watching knew not.
Benenger decided to make his move. He had sworn to his friends that he had the courage to see through his boast, and he could not go against his word, but there was another there, one he didn’t recognise.
This other priest was sat leaning against the Irminsul, the huge oak pillar that dominated the grove, his hood drawn over his head. He must have joined in the revelries, drank the dream inducing mead as the others had, and now sat as one asleep. He hadn’t moved for almost an hour. He must be asleep. Berenger broke cover and walked into the grove, careful of every footall. The singing priest ignored him, his eyes blind to this world, the others slept on. The traveller was as still as he had been.
On a stone the mead cup could be seen, a plain clay vessel, left for the gods to imbibe. Berenger approached it, a smile on his young face as he saw it was half full still. He would have but a little, he would leave plenty for Wotan, the priests would never know.
“So”, the voice broke the silence, “You’ve found your courage at last. I’ve been watching you lurking in the green shadows.”
Startled Berenger swung around his eyes seeing the traveller who still sat unmoving, his hood over his eyes.
Berenger was about to run, fearing the priest’s anger, the best he could expect would be a beating from his father, the worst something terrible, at the hands of the priests.
“Do not run Berenger, I’ve been expecting you.” The priest said a smile forming between his grey moustache and beard.
The young man’s head swam, this priest knew his name. His friends must have betrayed him, he was doomed.
“Forgive me lord”, Berenger stammered, “I do not know you.”
“Do you not?” the priest smiled broadly and threw his hood back. “Perhaps you do now?”
The priest had long grey hair that matched the colour of his long beard. Under bushy brows one eye sparkled with mischief, the other eye socket was empty and black. The priest laughed as he saw the realisation grow on the young man’s face, the laughter echoed by the cawing of two ravens flying down from the tree branches above, to alight of the priest’s shoulders. They spoke in their strange gurgling croak to the priest in each of his ears. He nodded in understanding.
“Grimnir!” Berenger said in wonder and horror falling to his knees before the manifestation of
Wotan, the All-Father. “I do not understand, what brings you here?”
“You do Berenger. I have watched you all your years, watched you run wild in the forests, heard every argument with your father, every youthful boast.”
As Grimnir said this his sparkling eye flicked to the cup upon the stone. “Go on then wild child,” he said. “Do what you came here to do.”
“Forgive me All-Father”, Berenger said his eyes held by the god’s mischievous stare, “it was a foolish errand to embark upon. I merely wanted to see elves, yet here I am talking with a god.”
Grimnir waved such concerns away, his one eye fixed hard upon the young man. “Tell me now, what do you know of the world? What befalls the borders of this land of the Saxons?”
“I know the Frankish king wishes to add us to his empire. He wishes to have domain between the seas. My father, Lothar, speaks of it often, that they will come and rob us of our freedom and…” Berenger stopped, his eyes dropping to the ground.
“And?” Grimnir asked, smiling at the boy’s discomfort.
Berenger looked up meeting Grimnir’s piercing gaze. “Our gods, the Franks would rob us of our gods, in favour of their white Christ, who died on a tree.”
Grimnir chuckled, “Unlike the white Christ I hung for nine days and nights on the world ash. I sacrificed myself, to myself, yet here I sit before you. Die I did not. Now try me not, drink the potion in the cup, what was once a foolish dare, is now a godly duty. I would see if you are, indeed, worthy of me.”
“Yes Lord”, Berenger said standing and reaching for the cup. He looked at it in the dim light, the gold of mead with herbs and mushrooms floating on its surface. He took a sip, the sweetness of the mead barely masked the harsh, earthy bitterness of the other ingredients.
“Finish it lad,” Grimnir said. “It was left for me, but I bequeath it to you. I command it.”
As he drank Grimnir rose from his seating position. The two ravens flying this way and that. To Berenger the god seemed to float silently to his side, as he struggled to drink the contents and fought the urge to retch.
The singing priest’s words swam in Berenger’s head, the god by his side echoing the song, the words whispered in his ear. To Berenger his heartbeat was a drumbeat accompanying the song, and between the stanzas Grimnir spoke, “Behold the Irminsul.” He waved his hand bidding Berenger follow where he indicated.
Berenger looked upon the mighty oak pillar, its smooth wood glowed and its golden grains he beheld streaks of red, as blood oozing down from its heights to its roots. He felt a rush as if falling forward yet his eyes remained fixed upon the Irminsul. His feet found the ground and he was falling no more. The edge of the pillar shimmered with the gold of dawn and it grew before him. Branches reaching outwards, its smooth wood covered with rough bark. Roots sinking deep in the earth. It was a living oak, mighty and broad set within a woodland glade, different from where he stood in the real world.
This was an ancient place; a massive flat stone was set before the tree. Around he heard chanting of many voices welcoming the dawn. Berenger looked about but it was not the priests in the glade, these were different individuals and there were many of them, as well as warriors, bloodied and fierce. Then he heard screams in a tongue he recognised from hearing somewhere before, other warriors in strange garb and short hair being dragged forward, the captives of war. Iron helmets and coats of mail were stripped from them and added to a growing pile of armour and weapons.
Berenger then realised. the captives spoke in the same language used by the followers of the white Christ. Some cried and moaned in fear, one however, hurled defiance at their captors and scorn at their comrades who had yielded to their fear.
One of the priests pointed at the brave defiant, foreign warrior, he was dragged to the great stone. It was then Berenger saw the rock was stained red with blood, made dark crimson by years of bloody sacrifice. The warrior was hauled onto the stone, his tunic and leggings hacked away. He struggled but others held his arms and legs. He shouted curses at his captors his voice strident and fierce.
Unperturbed an old priest came forward, every step he took was measured as if dancing to an unheard melody, his eyes were crazed and maddened, he was in a divine frenzy, possessed by the gods. His grey unkempt beard was stained with blood and mead. His fingernails were as talons, long, dirty and ragged. One hand clasped the prisoners face, his palm across his mouth stifling the screams.
“Oh Wotan, you are Hangytr, God of the hanged, Sigfodr, Father of Victory. We give tribute to you of these invaders; in honour of the victory you gifted us. Their gold eagles have fallen, the men who followed them mark their way with their corpses. Wotan, you who sacrificed yourself to yourself, now accept these offerings.”
The priest removed his hand from the face of the prisoner who now continued his curse laden tirade against all those around, his captors and to his fellow prisoners, Berenger could only admire the warrior’s defiance and courage. But it was to no avail as his voice was being drowned out by thebeating of drums all around him and the harsh singing of the warriors gathered in this place.
The old priest swayed this way and that, mirroring the drum beats, his eyes rolled, foam and froth issued from his mouth, he growled and hissed, possessed with madness, his hands found the knife that hung at his side, with a deft move it was withdrawn from leather sheath and held above his head, both bony hands around the handle. The drum beat increased its tempo and the knife plunged down into the captive’s abdomen.
The captive screamed as the priest sawed this way and that, slicing down to the man’s groin. One hand then plunged inside the bloody hole, lifting forth entrails like bloody grey snakes. The captive’s scream was high-pitched, his body spasming in shock. Blood poured forth, spilling on the stone, his scream died as blood loss caused him to lose consciousness.
The priest let the man’s entrails fall to slop and spill across the belly of the dying captive. He signalled to those holding the now limp limbs and pointed to the tree. The prone body was hauled from the rock altar, the disembowelled corpse dragged across the grass to the great oak, the entrails behind him as some terrible train. Rope was lashed around the corpse, and he was hauled upward into the branches of the tree, a trail of blood marking his passage up the trunk.
“Wake up boy!”
A foot slammed into Berenger’s stomach. In shock Berenger sat up, lost and confused, not knowing where he was, his eyes bleary. Then in horror he saw the angry face of the priest glaring down at him.
The glade was lit with dawn’s golden light, the air full of bird song and the murmured singing of the priest by the ashes of the now dead fire.
“It’s Berenger, isn’t it? Lothar’s son? Oh, he will tan your hide boy, but only after we have punished you for this transgression. This is a sacred place, devoted to the gods, what were you…?” The priest’s eyes espied the empty cup by Berenger’s side. “Sacrilege!” he exclaimed, “You have drunk the sacred draught? All of it? You should bleed for this! Aye, and your father shall be punished for your crime as well!” The priest reached for his knife, fury written across his aged face.
“Lord, I came to taste but a little, it’s true, but it was Grimnir who told me to drink it all.”
“Heresy!” the priest snarled. “How dare you say such a thing!”
“Lord, its true”, Berenger pleaded. “He was sat against the Irminsul there. He said that he had joined your ritual and was waiting for me. I knew it was him, he had one eye and his two ravens were perched one on each shoulder.”
By now the other priests had joined the angry one looking down at Berenger. One was running his hand over his beard. “We did invoke the All-Father last night; it is fitting that he should honour us with his presence.”
The angry one scowled. “The boy lies, merely an excuse to try our sacred potions.” He turned back at
Berenger. “It’s not just mead to get drunk on, boy. It’s a way to talk to the gods and you used it like you were stealing your father’s ale.”
Berenger’s head span and throbbed. He swallowed in fear, his stomach felt like he wanted to retch, as he recalled the foul taste of the brew. He just heard his heartbeat, all sounds had died away, the birds and the singing of the priest by the dead fire.
“Lord”, he pleaded, “Was I supposed to deny the wishes of Wotan? I saw the Irminsul as a mighty living tree, saw it decorated with the dead hung in its branches; captured warriors of long ago, made tribute to the All-Father. Their armour, swords and shields piled high under the oak. Eagles of gold made heirlooms.”
The angry priest hissed a curse under his breathe, and his comrades gave gasps of shocked surprise.
The one who had spoken before, spoke once more. “We know of what he speaks brothers. The victory of Arminus over the Romans, long ago.”
The angry priest held his hands up to the air in exasperation. “This boy must have overheard this tale somehow.” Yet his words had lost their assuredness from before.
“We know this is impossible, we are told this tale of the Irminsul upon initiation, whispered but once and never spoken of again. “
“But why would the All-Father single out this boy? We all reached out to the gods last night, yet I was told nothing of importance. Were you?”
“In the guise of Grimnir, the All-Father walks among us mortals. Not all of us meet him and some don’t recognise him when they do. I received no instruction from the gods either, but our very ritual may have enabled him to be here and now. This boy may have received instruction to be here last night, although couched in boyhood bravado. Perhaps this boy is the answer to our quest for answers?”
The discussion was interrupted by coughing and retching as the entranced priest, his song sung, vomited on the ground. The man groaned and shivered as he spat the last of it out. One of the priests went to him placing a bearskin cloak over his shoulders and passed him a cup of water, which he readily drank and swilled out his mouth.
The priest nodded his thanks to his brother, his eyes gradually focusing on the world around him, the otherworld fading from his vision, then he espied Berenger. He smiled.
“He is here then! They said he would be”, he said between shivers, as he stood, gathering the cloak around himself. “Brothers we sought guidance and see it has been given.”
“This foolish boy?” the other priest asked incredulously, his anger now subsided. “We face enslavement by the Frankish king, our ways extinguished by their white Christ. How can this boy be the answer?”
The gaunt priest spat once more and walked forward. “The gods vie for him, he stands at the meeting of roads, but Wotan has lain claim to him. He will lead us to resist the predations of the Franks. We must teach him; the ways of the forest, the ways of war, the ways of Wotan. What is this boy’s name?”
His courage returned, Berenger spoke proudly. “My name is Berenger, son of Lothar.”
The gaunt priest smiled, “That name shall be forgotten, son of Lothar. Henceforth you shall be
Widekund, the child of the forest.”
