RAGNAR’S FUNERAL PYRE lifted high up into the air like no pyre Einer had ever seen before. It was almost as large as the Midsummer fire.
‘There you are,’ his mother’s voice cut through the crowd. Her slender fingers touched Einer’s arm to make him turn away from his friends, towards her.
As always, she looked almost too elegant for the occasion, even for a grand funeral like this. Her long golden hair was braided in the old style, and her dress looked as though it had been embroidered by the goddesses themselves, for it was almost too perfect to belong in Midgard.
Einer gave her the hug she asked for, and together they walked up the slope towards Ragnar’s funeral pyre.
‘Are you ready to sail off tomorrow?’ his mother asked as they walked past a flowery field where a stallion galloped around. The black horse looked like night against the sunny day. Its mane whipped in the wind. It knew both tölt and flying pace, and was a beautiful horse with a fitting temperament.
‘Ja. All packed,’ Einer said. He attempted to find Hilda in the crowd.
At the middle of the stacked wood, lay Ragnar’s corpse. Ragnar looked older than he had alive. Flies had settled on his wrinkled, grey face. His clothes were decorated with gold and around him lay the offerings: his sword, two daggers and a seax; golden cups filled with mead; food for Ragnar to enjoy on his journey; and rings, neck-rings, arm-rings and jewels. Nothing lacked.
The stallion stopped galloping.
Relentlessly Einer searched for Hilda’s blonde hair and blue hairpiece.
‘Einer.’ His mother forced them to stop up. She looked at him with her unavoidable stare that meant she was about to say something very important. ‘I had a visit from Ragnar.’
‘Ragnar? Before he passed on?’
‘Afterwards. In my dreams.’
Einer gulped and listened more carefully. His mother’s dreams always came true, like the visions of a runemistress, and if she mentioned it, there and then, instead of waiting until tonight when they were alone, then it was important.
‘He said it was time.’
‘For what?’
She brought forward something she had hid in her palm. It was an old neck-ring with a bracteate attached, a big gold coin, onto which the image of the oldest tree in the nine worlds had been hammered. A clear image of the sacred ash, Yggdrasil.
‘Wear it. Always,’ his mother instructed, as she lifted the chain over Einer’s head.
Although the bracteate was light, it felt like a heavy burden, and although Einer wanted to ask its significance, people were moving into position for the funeral, and there was no time.
A stone bowl as big as two palms stood on the grass five arm-lengths north of the pyre. Einer walked to it and took his position behind it, with his parents. He checked that his shield was safely strapped to his back and that he could reach it for the song.
The villagers moved into a large circle surrounding Ragnar’s funeral pyre. Not a single freeman, woman or child had stayed home. Everyone had come to honour Ragnar Erikson. Ragnar had meant a great deal in northern Jutland.
The horse he had seen earlier neighed and then Einer noticed Hilda, at the stallion’s side, leading it in a full circle around the pyre. In front of Einer and his father, she stopped up and struggled to make the horse stand still.
Foam dripped from the stallion’s muzzle as it was brought before them. It was big, and its back was so tall that it reached Hilda’s shoulders. She attempted to hold it still, but Einer could see that she was nervous by the way her eyes darted around; Hilda normally always had focus.
Their eyes found each other. She gestured to the horse. He nodded. Hilda rarely asked for help, and Einer gave it willingly. He walked to the horse’s side and stroked its neck. The stallion’s black hair-coat was drenched in sweat and white from foam. It did not turn its head to look at him, but its ears twisted back and forth, and its hooves marked the ground. It knew.
Einer positioned himself in front of the horse. It turned its head away from him, breathing heavily. He waited for it to settle. The stallion neighed and cast its head upwards, away from Einer. Its ears were flattened back.
With both his hands, Einer clasped around the bridle, brought the horse’s head back down, and waited for the animal to steady. He held it still so the horse could no longer look away. The whites were showing in its eyes as it tried to battle free, and it stomped its hooves. Einer kept its head fastened between his hands, waited, and gave it time to realise that it was forced to settle and look at him. Its nostrils continued to flare, but not with the same intensity. Its ears moved around, quicker than he could follow. They settled in Einer’s direction. The horse looked at him. Under his fingers, he could feel the blood race through its body.
Einer tried to ignore the hundreds of people watching, imagined that there was only him and this stallion, nervously stomping. It no longer resisted Einer, and did not look away. He let go of the bridle with one hand, closed it into a loose fist and held it out for the horse to see. Then he lowered it to his hips. He knelt and guided his hand further down towards the earth. The horse followed and knelt down with him, its front legs to begin with, and then the rest of its body until it lay down entirely on its side. Einer could not help but smile at the success.
He had not trained horses since he was a boy shy of raids, but he had not forgotten the ways.
He grabbed the bridle again, careful not to startle.
‘Blót,’ Hilda called out.
The horse kicked and attempted to get up, startled, but Einer held its head so it could not move, and calmed it under the stare his mother had once taught him.
‘Blót,’ hundreds of villagers repeated in loud roars. Einer’s father sounded the blowing horn.
The stallion kicked again. Its ears darted back and forth, but its eyes stayed on Einer. It would be all right. With his thumbs, he caressed the side of its head to calm it.
The warriors brought out their round shields. They began to tap them, more and more joining in, so the sound rang all around.
The stallion neighed, shook its head and its eyes showed the whites again. Einer clasped his hands tighter around the horse’s head.
‘Many summers will pass before we find another skald as great as Ragnar,’ Einer mother announced to the crowd. Ragnar had been born to tell stories.
‘Aesir and vanir hear us,’ Einer’s father called out to both kinds of gods, following the rhythm of the taps on shields. ‘High Odin, in your honour we offer our strongest stallion, allow it to accompany our skald, Ragnar Erikson, son of Erik Ivarson, on his last journey. Allow him to ride to Hel so he will not have to walk.’
In death, Ragnar would have more greatness in front of him.
Einer’s father crouched down, touched the stallion’s stomach and guided his hand further up, to the neck. The horse flinched but quickly found Einer’s gaze.
On the other side of the stallion, Hilda crouched down too, ready with the stone bowl. It looked as though it had been made for her; was the exact size of her two palms, and when she held it her fingers spread out prettily like flower petals.
Einer’s father knelt in front of the horse, grabbed his dagger with both hands and lifted.
The stallion breathed rapidly. Its nostrils blew warm air on Einer’s forearms. The rhythm hastened as the warriors tapped their shields faster and faster, with as much force as they could, until they were tapping out of pace.