“Maybe he was a fisherman,” put in Farman. “Just as the walrus was a walrus and the skoffin was a foolish boy afraid of keeping watch on his own.”
“I asked her—did he not want a reward? He could have taken her home. Her kin would have paid him, if not her husband. She said he just left her. I pressed her on this, I asked her to remember every detail. She said one more thing.
“When the stranger got her to shore, she said, he pulled the boat up on the beach and looked at her. Then she felt suddenly weary and lay down among the seaweed. When she woke, he had gone.”
Thorvin looked round. “Now, what happened when she lay in this sleep we do not know. I would guess that a woman would know by some sign if she had been taken in her sleep, but who is to say? Sigvarth had been with her not long before. If she had any suspicion, she would have nothing to gain by mentioning it. Or remembering it. But that sleep makes me wonder.
“Tell me now.” Thorvin turned to Farman. “You who are the wisest of us, tell me how many gods there are in Asgarth.”
Farman stirred uneasily. “You know, Thorvin, that is not a wise question. Othin, Thor, Frey, Balder, Heimdall, Njörth, Ithun, Tyr, Loki—those are the ones we speak of most. But there are so many others in the stories: Vithar, Sigyn, Ull…”
“Rig?” asked Thorvin carefully. “What do we know of Rig?”
“That is a name of Heimdall,” said Skaldfinn.
“A name,” mused Thorvin. “Two names, one person. So we hear. Now, I would not say this outside the circle, but it comes to me sometimes that the Christians are right. There is only one god.” He looked round at the shocked faces. “But he—no, it—has different moods. Or parts. Maybe the parts compete against each other, as a man may play chess, right hand against left, for sport. Othin against Loki, Njörth against Skathi, Aesir against Vaenir. Yet the real contest is between all the parts, all the gods, and the giants and monsters who would bring us to Ragnarök.
“Now, Othin has his way of making men strong to help the gods when they shall stand against the giants on that day. That is why he betrays the warriors, chooses the mightiest of them to die. So they will be in his hall the day the giants come.
“But it is in my mind that maybe Rig too has his way. You know the holy story? How Rig went through the mountains, met Ai and Edda and begot on Edda, Thrall. Met Afi and Amma and begot on Amma, Carl. Met Fathir and Mothir and begot on Mothir, Jarl. This jarl of ours has also been thrall and carl. And who is the son of Jarl?”
“Kon the Young,” said Farman.
“Which is to say Konr ungr which is konungr.”
“Which is King,” said Farman.
“Who can deny our jarl that title now? He is acting out the story of Rig in his own life. Of Rig and his dealings with humanity.”
“Why is the god Rig doing this?” asked Vestmund, priest of Njörth. “And what is Rig’s power? For I confess, I know nothing of him but the story you tell.”
“He is the god of climbers,” replied Thorvin. “And his power is to make men better. Not through war, like Othin, but through skills. There is another old story you know, about Skjef the father of Skjold—which is to say, Sheaf the father of Shield. Now the kings of the Danes call themselves the sons of Skjold, the war-kings. Yet even they remember that before Skjold the war-king there was a peace-king, who taught men how to sow and reap, instead of living like animals by the chase. What I think has happened now is that a new Sheaf has come, however we pronounce the name, to free us from sowing and reaping and living only from one harvest to the next.”
“And this is ‘the one who comes from the North,’ ” said Farman doubtfully. “Not of the blood or tongue. One who has allied himself with Christians. It is not what we expected.”