Gift of the Gestr

Gudmund bit his lip as he watched his wife stretch her rough hand toward his new battle ax hanging on the wall, but Hildeburh stopped just short of making contact. He wanted her to take it from the wall and wield it. To feel the heft of its weight and the precise balance he forged it with. But her hesitation said it all.

She turned to him and drew the corners of her mouth down into a show of extreme disappointment. “You used the bones of Egil to make this, didn’t you?”

“I did,” the blacksmith replied.

“Why didn’t you exhume my father’s and use them instead? The fiery flames would surely have released his spirit into the metal for strengthening.”

“I let him rest in peace.”

“Ha,” she scoffed, “you never liked him.”

“I liked your father…enough. But resting in peace is something I hope never to do.” He hardened his expression and continued. “Besides, I am the one who chooses which, if any, bones from the family burial mound are joined with my work.” Gudmund quaffed the rest of his morning ale and set the soapstone mug onto the table with a loud smack. As he stepped outside beyond their humble dwelling of wood and clay, cool air sent a shiver down the back of his thick neck.

Hildeburh followed him. “But what do you say about the use of our meager savings on that expensive iron?”

“I needed higher quality metal for this particular forge.”

“The weapons you sell are good enough, aren’t they?”

“My dear. They are wrought from bog-iron which tends to break in battle. Because this new axe is for me, I needed it to be stronger.”

“Hmmm,” she said, blocking his way along the dirt path. “And why don't you fashion wooden shields instead?” she asked. “You could use one yourself, you know, covered with nothing but scars.”

“My hide is tough because of your words, woman.” He made a sharp turn at the rear of the house.

She trailed behind. “Back to my first question,” she said. “Why use Egil’s bones?”

“It came to me in a dream. Good enough?” Gudmund eased himself onto a massive tree stump in the yard, grateful he had chopped it down last sumarr. “I see that confrontation is unavoidable with such a wildebeest as yourself.”

She placed her clenched fists against her wide hips and stared back.

He let out a slow breath. “Remember how we took Egil in those ten winters ago? I had never seen a man with such gray skin and enormous eyes. Lucky he didn’t die in the snare I found him in. He was ever so sickly and small. I thought someone had left a deformed child to die. “Strange though,” Gudmund continued, “how he appeared during the odd lights in the night sky. Must’ve been the wolf Hati in pursuit of Mani for all I know.”

“Yes, the heavens smiled upon us that night,” she said.

“I liked him,” Gudmund said, “But a warrior he was not.” Gudmund chuckled. “Even after he recovered to health, the poor maðr couldn’t make his way out of a shallow fighting pit. Regardless, we made him family, and family bones are what I wanted for my new axe.”

Gudmund stood to leave. “Now, can I leave for work?”

The sun shone now, beaming its life-giving rays across the crisp morning sky. Hildeburh turned away, scanning the red and yellow horizon with eyes glossed over as if not really seeing the vast landscape before her at all. “He lived but one season,” she whispered, “but it was enough.”

#

The following Torsdag, Gudmund readied for work and moved to leave, as usual, but Hildeburh blocked the front door.

“I accept that forging weapons is noble,” she said, “but that’s all you do. There is also the mending of the house. And the raising of our son.”

At that moment little Aelfled ran by in a mad dash of play. A nearby wood plank fell off the wall, landing with a thud onto the pounded earthen floor.

“I’ll tend the house,” he replied. “But the raising of Aelfled is your job. At least until he is old enough to accompany me on a hunt, or into battle.”

Her face flushed with her imagination, obviously running wild. “He won't be ready for a long time.”

Once Gudmund stepped outside the house, leaving his wife standing in the front door, he halted and cast a low glace back in her direction. “We each have a part to play in this life. For you are much like the forge, having to endure the intense pain of childbirth. But I am the smithr with heavy concerns of my own. I am responsible for molding and shaping weapons of war, be that iron or flesh. Please try and understand, woman; it is my job to make sure our weapon, our son, will be victorious.”

#

Late afternoon found Gudmund in the hot smoke of his workshop. After he handed a customer his repaired double-edged sword, the hairy grumbling brute scrutinized the blade while questioning the quality of Gudmund’s workmanship.

It had been a tough day of bending and pounding molten metal and wiping constant sweat from his brow, so instead of accepting the blade back for further repair, engagement seemed the better answer to Gudmund. He only meant to show the durability of his repair by wielding his own newly forged battle axe against the customer’s sword. But the axe leapt to life in his hands much faster than expected and cleanly removed two of the man’s fingers.

The customer gave a muffled cry of pain as he dropped his sword and grabbed at the stumps.

Gudmund had to think fast. He said, “Instead of reporting this minor incident to the jarl, how about I thicken the blade for you… with nei another forkbeard for payment?”

The man’s snarl changed into a more agreeable visage, but soon the look of fear quickly replaced that when he regarded the axe. For it now hummed with a faint and strange song. “Well?” Gudmund asked.

Once the man made a quick nod of agreement, Gudmund retrieved the severed fingers from the floor and wrapped them in the cleanest cloth he could find.

The whimpering man took his independent digits and made haste to the door. Most likely to get boiled honey applied to stave off infection, and maybe even some female sympathy.

Alone and in the quiet of his shop, Gudmund pondered the axe he held in his grime caked hands. It needed a name; this deadly tool of war. Born more than just from out of the finest wood and iron. Much more.

#

After little Aelfled was asleep, the mood in the one-room household soured. Tension mounted until Gudmund ventured out into the frosty night air to get more chopped firewood, even though there was enough next to the hearth.

On his way back into the small house and through the iron and wood door, she said, “Well, hurry and shut the door!”

He knew what she feared at the moment. Neither of them wanted to catch sickness from the frigid night air, but that did not scare him as much as if he were to succumb to it. To die in any other way besides battle would surely mean a trip straight to Hel. A fate he wanted no part of.

“There is something strange about that axe,” Hildeburh said.

“Like what?” He said as he plunked his stout frame into a large, fur-covered chair.

“It sings in the night.”

“Hadn’t noticed,” Gudmund replied as he rested the weapon on his lap. It was a small lie he hoped would downplay the phenomenon. But he had heard it too, thrumming angelic waves of song just beyond his comprehension. Admiring the handiwork of the finely etched wooden handle he had given it, Gudmund said, “You know, I will most likely get rewarded with a high-guard position because of this.”

“Good. Then afterward you can bury it.”

He reached out from his seat and used his free hand to pitch another log onto the crackling fire. Its light playing across the walls and firing glints of flame off the gleaming axe-blade. “I would most certainly not. Even for you.”

He expected a sharp reply, but received none. Realizing the harshness of his words, he laid the axe aside and took her rough hand into his. “Any more gröt?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Because I like your gröt.”

“There’s more to that axe, isn’t there?” she asked. “So tell me.” She handed him a wooden bowl filled to the rim with thick, oat-laden porridge.

He took in the steamy and lightly fermented odor while she peppered it with bits of spice and dried fruit. After emptying the dish, Gudmund belched, then said, “It has a name.”

Hildeburh raised one bushy eyebrow in wait.

He sighed. “I call it Isenslöjd.”

“Regardless of what it has done for us, I’m still worried about you.”

“Me too. The latest expedition across these frigid waters is not going well. It seems all the lands we’ve reached so far are well defended. And our weapons are no match against the higher quality metal of our Anglican foes.”

“They may have stronger spears, my husband, but you have the better might.”

Gudmund clasped his palms behind her neck, tenderly drawing their faces close. She held his wrists. They touched their foreheads with eyes closed.

The next morning, Gudmund rustled Aelfled’s hair on his way out of the door, telling him to look after his mother. Afterward, he slung Isenslöjd onto his back and left for battle.

#

Upon a week afterward, Gudmund’s good friend, Frode, stepped over the threshold of Hildeburh’s door while bearing an unconscious Gudmund in his arms.

“What happened?” she asked.

Frode laid Gudmund on the bed. “He fought valiantly, but too many were upon him.” Blood-stained battlefield bandages covered Gudmund’s abdomen. The silent warrior still gripped Isenslöjd tightly across his chest. The instrument’s razor-sharp blade shone clean from a recent wiping.

“Do not fear, dear Hildeburh. For he has indeed secured his place in Valhalla.” After lighting a beeswax candle, Frode murmured an appeal to the gods for Gudmund’s safe passage into the afterlife. When finished, he shook his head and left.

As Hildeburh and Aelfled approached the warrior’s bedside, he drew in a sudden gasp of air and opened his eyes. “Don’t worry, wife,” Gudmund said. “It’s merely a flesh wound.” Then, and with much visible effort, Gudmund lifted the axe and thrust it handle-first into his son’s hands.

Aelfled held a steady grasp on the weapon as a veteran warrior would. His eyes fluttered while the axe hummed to life with beautiful and unearthly tones. After the song subsided, Aelfled’s face shone with new confidence. He set the weapon aside and moved to his father’s bedside. “I now understand the legacy bestowed upon me, father, but by the one you called Egil.”

Gudmund looked over at his son, then moved his gaze back to Hildeburh. After furrowing his brow for a moment, he said, “He is not of my blood, is he?”

Her gaze lowered away from him. “I had yet to bear a child those ten winters past. It was then the gestr came to me and we united. Later, I denied it had happened by telling myself it was a dream. But he gave something to me that night, a son.”

She wiped at her eyes, tears streaming. “Do you hate me?”

“No, my eiginkona. I could never hate you.” He stretched out a trembling hand for her. She clasped it with both of her own. “I have always suspected Aelfled as being apart from mine own blóð,” he continued, “but I still regard him as our own.”

Gudmund held out his hand and Aelfled clasped it within both of his. “You are, and always have been, my son,” Gudmund said. “Please, speak the knowledge of your legacy. I must know.”

“As you wish,” Aelfled said. He stood and addressed both his parents. “I possess ancient memories that are not my own. They flow through me from countless generations before. The lifeblood of the ones from the stars. I can even feel them through the touch of Isenslöjd.”

Gudmund tried to sit, but could not rise. “I knew it,” he cried. “I knew my son was wise beyond his years.” He looked to his wife. “I am sorry that I did not use your father’s bones in the smithing of Isenslöjd’s blade, but I’ve no regret using Egil’s because all this was meant to be. Can you forgive me?”

“Of course, my love.”

Gudmund coughed. A streak of dark blood staining his chin. “I must leave you, now.”

His wife threw herself upon him. “But it’s not your time, elskan mín.”

“Ah, but it is. And I will go wherever Odin or Freya take me. Now stand, woman.”

Hildeburh stood and wiped the blood from her husband’s chin. Then she wiped her eyes with the same cloth.

“Father,” Aelfled said. “Somehow, I am also aware of an unoccupied and lush continent, yet undiscovered. Hidden in ice across the sea, it lies in wait for all our people to make a new home there. I will lead our people there. And they will thrive in that place.”

Gudmund’s voice grew faint. He said, “You are indeed my son, and a most incredible gift that the gestr has bestowed upon this family, and our people.”

Aelfled linked his hands with them until forming a circle of three. He closed his eyes and prayed aloud to bind the soul of his father to Valhalla, and to protect him in the fight against Helheim. After opening his eyes, he looked down upon Gudmund’s strained face, and said, “I will construct a forge the likes no one has ever seen. And your bones will enter it, along with Isenslöjd’s. Both to become re-forged anew. It will be the most powerful and special blade yet. I promise this, father, on your own burial mound.”

With that, Gudmund closed his eyes, yet he still could see a path of light leading to the paradise of his longing.

A smile fixed upon his face.

No meaningless end to life.

No resting in peace for him.