The Vikings of Helgeland - LightNovelsOnl.com
You're reading novel online at LightNovelsOnl.com. Please use the follow button to get notifications about your favorite novels and its latest chapters so you can come back anytime and won't miss anything.
DAGNY. Ay, but thou----
ORNULF. I? I am not cold.
DAGNY. Nought hast thou eaten today; wilt thou not go in? The supper-board stands ready.
ORNULF. Let the supper-board stand; I have no hunger.
DAGNY. But to sit here so still--trust me, thou wilt take hurt of it; thou art ever wont to be stirring.
ORNULF. True, true; there is somewhat that crushes my breast; I cannot draw breath.
(He hides his face in his hands. A pause. DAGNY seats herself beside him.)
DAGNY. To-morrow wilt thou make ready thy s.h.i.+p and set forth for Iceland?
ORNULF (without looking up). What should I do there? Nay, I will to my sons.
DAGNY (with pain). Father!
ORNULF (raises his head). Go in and let me sit here; when the storm has played with me for a night or two, the game will be over, I ween.
SIGURD. Thou canst not think to deal thus with thyself.
ORNULF. Dost marvel that I fain would rest? My day's work is done; I have laid my sons in their grave. (Vehemently.) Go from me!--Go, go!
(He hides his face.)
SIGURD (softly, to DAGNY, who rises). Let him sit yet a while.
DAGNY. Nay, I have one rede yet untried;--I know him. (To Ornulf.) Thy day's work done, say'st thou? Nay, that it is not. Thou hast laid thy sons in the grave;--but art thou not a skald? It is meet that thou should'st sing their memory.
ORNULF (shaking his head). Sing? Nay, nay; yesterday I could sing; I am too old to-day.
DAGNY. But needs must thou; honourable men were thy sons, one and all; a song must be made of them, and that can none of our kin but thou.
ORNULF (looks inquiringly at SIGURD). To sing? What thinkest _thou_, Sigurd?
SIGURD. Meseems it is but meet; thou must e'en do as she says.
DAGNY. Thy neighbours in Iceland will deem it ill done when the grave-ale is drunk over Ornulf's children, and there is no song to sing with it. Thou hast ever time enough to follow thy sons.
ORNULF. Well well, I will try it; and thou, Dagny, give heed, that afterwards thou may'st carve the song on staves.
(The men approach with the torches, forming a group around him; he is silent for a time, reflecting; then he says:)
Bragi's[1] gift is bitter when the heart is broken; sorrow-laden singer, singing, suffers sorely.
Natheless, since the Skald-G.o.d gave me skill in song-craft, in a lay loud-ringing be my loss lamented!
(Rises.)
Ruthless Norn[2] and wrathful wrecked my life and ravaged, wiled away my welfare, wasted Ornulf's treasure.
Sons had Ornulf seven, by the great G.o.ds granted;-- lonely now and life-sick goes the greybeard, sonless.
Seven sons so stately, bred among the sword-blades, made a mighty bulwark round the snow-locked sea-king.
Levelled lies the bulwark, dead my swordsmen seven; gone the greybeard's gladness, desolate his dwelling.
Thorolf,--thou my last-born!
Of the bold the boldest!
Soon were spent my sorrow so but thou wert left me!
Fair thou wast as springtide, fond towards thy father, waxing straight and stalwart to so wight a warrior.
Dark and drear his death-wound leaves my life's lone evening; grief hath gripped my bosom as 'twixt hurtling targes.
Nought the Norn denied me of her rueful riches, showering woes unstinted over Ornulf's world-way.
Weak are now my weapons.
But, were G.o.d-might given me, then, oh Norn, I swear it, scarce should'st thou go scatheless!
Dire were then my vengeance; then had dawned thy doomsday, Norn, that now hast left me nought but yonder grave-mound.
Nought, I said? Nay, truly, somewhat still is Ornulf's, since of Suttung's[3] mead-horn he betimes drank deeply.
(With rising enthusiasm.)
Though she stripped me sonless, one great gift she gave me-- songcraft's mighty secret, skill to sing my sorrows.
On my lips she laid it, goodly gift of songcraft; loud, then, let my lay sound, e'en where they are lying!
Hail, my stout sons seven!
Hail, as homeward ride ye!
Songcraft's glorious G.o.d-gift stauncheth woe and wailing.
[1] Bragi, the G.o.d of poetry and eloquence.
[2] See note, p. 175 [The "Nornir" were the Fates of northern mythology.]
[3] Suttung was a giant who kept guard over the magic mead of poetical inspiration.
(He draws a deep breath, throws back the hair from his brow, and says calmly:)
So--so; now is Ornulf sound and strong again. (To the men.) Follow me to the supper-board, lads; we have had a heavy day's work!
(Goes with the men into the boat-house.)
DAGNY. Praised be the Mighty Ones on high that gave me so good a rede. (To SIGURD.) Wilt thou not go in?
SIGURD. Nay, I list not to. Tell me, are all things ready for to-morrow?
