The House of the Wolfings
"I have said that the minutes of this night are dear, and they are
passing swiftly; and it may be that thou wilt have much to say and to do
before the host is astir with the dawning. So come thou with me a little
way, that thou mayst hear of new tidings, and think what were best to do
amidst them."
And without more ado she took him by the hand and led him forth, and he
went as he was led, not saying a word. They passed out of the camp into
the wood, none hindering, and went a long way where under the
beech-leaves there was but a glimmer of the moonlight, and presently
Thiodolf's feet went as it were of themselves; for they had hit a path
that he knew well and over-well.
So came they to that little wood-lawn where first in this tale Thiodolf
met the Wood-Sun; and the stone seat there was not empty now any more
than it was then; for thereon sat the Wood-Sun, clad once more in her
glittering raiment. Her head was sunken down, her face hidden by her
hands; neither did she look up when she heard their feet on the grass,
for she knew who they were.
Thiodolf lingered not; for a moment it was to him as if all that past
time had never been, and its battles and hurry and hopes and fears but
mere shows, and the unspoken words of a dream. He went straight up to
her and sat down by her side and put his arm about her shoulders, and
strove to take her hand to caress it; but she moved but little, and it
was as if she heeded him not. And the Hall-Sun stood before them and
looked at them for a little while; and then she fell to speech; but at
the first sound of her voice, it seemed that the Wood-Sun trembled, but
still she hid her face. Said the Hall-Sun:
"Two griefs I see before me in mighty hearts grown great;
And to change both these into gladness out-goes the power of fate.
Yet I, a lonely maiden, have might to vanquish one
Till it melt as the mist of the morning before the summer sun.
O Wood-Sun, thou hast borne me, and I were fain indeed
To give thee back thy gladness; but thou com'st of the Godhead's seed,
And herein my might avails not; because I can but show
Unto these wedded sorrows the truth that the heart should know
Ere the will hath wielded the hand; and for thee, I can tell thee
nought
That thou hast not known this long while; thy will and thine hand have
wrought,
And the man that thou lovest shall live in despite of Gods and of men,
If yet thy will endureth. But what shall it profit thee then
That after the fashion of Godhead thou hast gotten thee a thrall
To be thine and never another's, whatso in the world may befall?
Lo! yesterday this was a man, and to-morrow it might have been
The very joy of the people, though never again it were seen;
Yet a part of all they hoped for through all the lapse of years,
To make their laughter happy and dull the sting of tears;
To quicken all remembrance of deeds that never die,
And death that maketh eager to live as the days go by.
Yea, many a deed had he done as he lay in the dark of the mound;
As the seed-wheat plotteth of spring, laid under the face of the
ground
That the foot of the husbandman treadeth, that the wind of the winter
wears,
That the turbid cold flood hideth from the constant hope of the years.
This man that should leave in his death his life unto many an one
Wilt thou make him a God of the fearful who live lone under the sun?
And then shalt thou have what thou wouldedst when amidst of the
hazelled field
Thou kissed'st the mouth of the helper, and the hand of the people's
shield,
Shalt thou have the thing that thou wouldedst when thou broughtest me
to birth,
And I, the soul of the Wolfings, began to look on earth?
Wilt thou play the God, O mother, and make a man anew,
A joyless thing and a fearful? Then I betwixt you two,
'Twixt your longing and your sorrow will cast the sundering word,
And tell out all the story of that rampart of the sword!
I shall bid my mighty father make choice of death in life,
Or life in death victorious and the crowned end of strife."
Ere she had ended, the Wood-Sun let her hands fall down, and showed her
face, which for all its unpaled beauty looked wearied and anxious; and
she took Thiodolf's hand in hers, while she looked with eyes of love upon
the Hall-Sun, and Thiodolf laid his cheek to her cheek, and though he
smiled not, yet he seemed as one who is happy. At last the Wood-Sun
spoke and said:
"Thou sayest sooth, O daughter: I am no God of might,
Yet I am of their race, and I think with their thoughts and see with
their sight,
And the threat of the doom did I know of, and yet spared not to lie:
For I thought that the fate foreboded might touch and pass us by,
As the sword that heweth the war-helm and cleaveth a cantle away,
And the cunning smith shall mend it and it goeth again to the fray;
If my hand might have held for a moment, yea, even against his will,
The life of my beloved! But Weird is the master still:
And this man's love of my body and his love of the ancient kin
Were matters o'er mighty to deal with and the game withal to win.
Woe's me for the waning of all things, and my hope that needs must
fade
As the fruitless sun of summer on the waste where nought is made!
And now farewell, O daughter, thou mayst not see the kiss
Of the hapless and the death-doomed when I have told of this;
Yet once again shalt thou see him, though I no more again,
Fair with the joy that hopeth and dieth not in vain."
Then came the Hall-Sun close to her, and knelt down by her, and laid her
head upon her knees and wept for love of her mother, who kissed her oft
and caressed her; and Thiodolf's hand strayed, as it were, on to his
daughter's head, and he looked kindly on her, though scarce now as if he
knew her. Then she arose when she had kissed her mother once more, and
went her ways from that wood-lawn into the woods again, and so to the
Folk-mote of her people.
But when those twain were all alone again, the Wood-Sun spoke: "O
Thiodolf canst thou hear me and understand?"
"Yea," he said, "when thou speakest of certain matters, as of our love
together, and of our daughter that came of our love."
"Thiodolf," she said, "How long shall our love last?"
"As long as our life," he said.
"And if thou diest to-day, where then shall our love be?" said the Wood-
Sun.
He said, "I must now say, I wot not; though time was I had said, It shall
abide with the soul of the Wolfing Kindred."
She said: "And when that soul dieth, and the kindred is no more?"
"Time agone," quoth he, "I had said, it shall abide with the Kindreds of
the Earth; but now again I say, I wot not."
"Will the Earth hide it," said she, "when thou diest and art borne to
mound?"
"Even so didst thou say when we spake together that other night," said
he; "and now I may say nought against thy word."
"Art thou happy, O Folk-Wolf?" she said.
"Why dost thou ask me?" said he; "I know not; we were sundered and I
longed for thee; thou art here; it is enough."
"And the people of thy Kindred?" she said, "dost thou not long for them?"
He said; "Didst thou not say that I was not of them? Yet were they my
friends, and needed me, and I loved them: but by this evening they will
need me no more, or but little; for they will be victorious over their
foes: so hath the Hall-Sun foretold. What then! shall I take all from
thee to give little to them?"
"Thou art wise," she said; "Wilt thou go to battle to-day?"
"So it seemeth," said he.
She said: "And wilt thou bear the Dwarf-wrought Hauberk? for if thou
dost, thou wilt live, and if thou dost not, thou wilt die."
"I will bear it," said he, "that I may live to love thee."
"Thinkest thou that any evil goes with it?" said she.
There came into his face a flash of his ancient boldness as he answered:
"So it seemed to me yesterday, when I fought clad in it the first time;
and I fell unsmitten on the meadow, and was shamed, and would have slain
myself but for thee. And yet it is not so that any evil goes with it;
for thou thyself didst say that past night that there was no evil weird
in it."
She said: "How then if I lied that night?"
Said he; "It is the wont of the Gods to lie, and be unashamed, and men-
folk must bear with it."
"Ah! how wise thou art!" she said; and was silent for a while, and drew
away from him a little, and clasped her hands together and wrung them for
grief and anger. Then she grew calm again, and said:
"Wouldest thou die at my bidding?"
"Yea," said he, "not because thou art of the Gods, but because thou hast
become a woman to me, and I love thee."
Then was she silent some while, and at last she said, "Thiodolf, wilt
thou do off the Hauberk if I bid thee?"
"Yea, yea," said he, "and let us depart from the Wolfings, and their
strife, for they need us not."
She was silent once more for a longer while still, and at last she said
in a cold voice; "Thiodolf, I bid thee arise, and put off the Hauberk
from thee."
He looked at her wondering, not at her words, but at the voice wherewith
she spake them; but he arose from the stone nevertheless, and stood stark
in the moonlight; he set his hand to the collar of the war-coat, and
undid its clasps, which were of gold and blue stones, and presently he
did the coat from off him and let it slide to the ground where it lay in
a little grey heap that looked but a handful. Then he sat down on the
stone again, and took her hand and kissed her and caressed her fondly,
and she him again, and they spake no word for a while: but at the last he
spake in measure and rhyme in a low voice, but so sweet and clear that it
might have been heard far in the hush of the last hour of the night:
"Dear now are this dawn-dusk's moments as is the last of the light
When the foemen's ranks are wavering, and the victory feareth night;
And of all the time I have loved thee of these am I most fain,
When I know not what shall betide me, nor what shall be my gain.
But dear as they are, they are waning, and at last the time is come
When no more shall I behold thee till I wend to Odin's Home.
Now is the time so little that once hath been so long
That I fain would ask thee pardon wherein I have done thee wrong,
That thy longing might be softer, and thy love more sweet to have.
But in nothing have I wronged thee, there is nought that I may crave.
Strange too! as the minutes fail me, so do my speech-words fail,
Yet strong is the joy within me for this hour that crowns the tale."
Therewith he clipped her and caressed her, and she spake nothing for a
while; and he said; "Thy face is fair and bright; art thou not joyous of
these minutes?"
She said: "Thy words are sweet; but they pierce my heart like a sharp
knife; for they tell me of thy death and the ending of our love."
Said he; "I tell thee nothing, beloved, that thou hast not known: is it
not for this that we have met here once more?"
She answered after a while; "Yea, yea; yet mightest thou have lived."
He laughed, but not scornfully or bitterly and said:
"So thought I in time past: but hearken, beloved; If I fall to-day, shall
there not yet be a minute after the stroke hath fallen on me, wherein I
shall know that the day is won and see the foemen fleeing, and wherein I
shall once again deem I shall never die, whatever may betide afterwards,
and though the sword lieth deep in my breast? And shall I not see then
and know that our love hath no end?"
Bitter grief was in her face as she heard him. But she spake and said:
"Lo here the Hauberk which thou hast done off thee, that thy breast might