The bright sun turned black. Whirlwinds, thunder. Fiery beasts lit up the
sky, their shrieks piercing the steady crash of waves against the surf.
Blood rained down. The stench of blasphemy filled the air, poisoning our
minds. God's hand of doom was surely raised against us.
Did we feel like abandoning the monastery out of shame? Or did we want to
interpret these events as the devil's handiwork, another challenge to our
faith? We did not know, and so we brooded.
And then came the Norsemen.
Their arrival was not entirely unexpected. The ancient geographer Pytheas
had written of a land he called Thule, and the belief in the existence of
this place was strong, though its precise location remained vague. For
many years, trading between the empire and the Norsemen had been conducted
through merchant tribes in Bohemia.
We understood something of the violent nature of the enemy, that they had
been sea-raiders since before the time of Christ. That during the spring
they had committed unspeakable acts upon the lesser monastic settlements
along the coast of Shetland. That they were continually at war with
Christ's children. But it wasn't until that dark summer, when the Norsemen
grew wicked enough to violate the dead saints' bones, that we learned the
true extent of their viciousness.
Ours was a lovely, peaceful monastery, founded on the island of Gandisfarne
in the year of our Lord 674. We were simple monks, subsisting on fish,
seabirds' eggs, and prayer. There was little altar silver in so remote a
holy place. The only riches and jewels were draped on the body of Saint
Orkney, sealed in his coffin. But our church was built of stone and glass
and offered side-chapels, an upper storey, and spacious living quarters,
enough for nearly forty monks.
Inside, we studied and cared for the books, the sacred paintings and
relics. Outside, an immense wall enclosed a few head of livestock, which
we also maintained. It is too awful to consider how these meager things,
things we used to help bring ourselves nearer to the mystery of Christ, led
to our suffering at the sadistic hands of the heathen.
How terrible their warcraft looked! Dragon-carved prows. Blood-red
shields racked on their gunwhales. Black weather vanes flickering like the
tongues of Satan. Despite the speed and agility of their ships, they were
in no hurry to destroy us. They had figured us as puny, defenseless monks
who could offer little resistance. And they were right. It was a murky
twilight when they rounded the island from the north, giving us early
warning.
We felt like looking away, like pretending we hadn't noticed, but we could
not tear our gaze from their awful presence. From our watchtower looking
out over the islands, we discerned their approach, their heavy oars
powering them through the causeway, visible at low tide across the sands
from the mainland. Darkness embraced them as if they were its children.
They put in and ignited a bonfire, no doubt in praise of their pagan gods.
Their wretched singing; the rancid smell of their foodstuffs. We had but
little time to prepare.
Blathdar assembled us in front of the wooden farmhouse at the edge of the
settlement. Contentment had spread through his angular face. He brought
his hands together and raised his head to the sky. "Our red martyrdom," he
announced, "is within reach."
We all gasped, though we recognized it the moment the Norsemen's masts
appeared on the horizon.
If any monk among us were ready for martyrdom, it would have been
Blathdar. He was the most fearless, the most devout, the first to rise in
the morning, the last to snuff his worktable's candle in the evening. He
was also handsome, sturdy as a draft horse, and fairly cunning--or so we
had thought. Secretly we envied his perfection, but our envy did not
tarnish our respect.
Columcille was the abbot and our leader in spiritual matters, but now that
the Norsemen had come to spatter our blood we looked to the Blathdar's
physical mastery for guidance. It was a silent admission, and Columcille
made no protest. Blathdar would show us how to die like martyrs, with
piety and honor.
"Join me in my vow, brothers," he continued. "Though the heathens will
swarm us and we will suffer the scars of Christ, we must become like
lions. Let us resolve to face the hand of sacrilege with brave hearts.
Let us rejoice to have to stand up against the raging sword. Tomorrow,
when the golden dawn dispels the darkness and the glittering sun shines
again, we will kneel before the altar and celebrate mass and offer
ourselves up as soldiers of God."
We were moved by his words and grew determined to act according to their
power; and as we joined together in prayer we tried to recall the vows of
our youth, the smell of the incense, the image of Christ on the cross.
Some talked openly of fleeing the island. Some foolishly presumed God
would intervene and smite the Norsemen. A few hoped that God might
convince the heathen warriors to lay down their swords and convert. But
most of us held no such delusions. The omens had been everywhere.
We did our best to steel ourselves. Columcille invited us to pray with him
in the chapel until dawn, and many did. Meanwhile, Blathdar enlisted those
who were tall and robust to help sharpen the farming implements: hoes,
shovels, pitchforks--the objects with which we had so innocently worked in
the fields.
It was Walafrid who hit upon the idea of hiding the sacred bones of Saint
Orkney in the ancient mound, the House of the Dead. He did not explain his
reasons, and as we observed him tethering the coffin to a mule for
transport, we doubted the integrity of his mind. Saint Orkney was highly
venerated, but we knew better than to fight amongst ourselves at a time
when we should be united. And so we left Walafrid to his own furtive plans
and concentrated on prayer and the sharpening of tools.
None slept, and when the cock crowed and the sun began its ascent, they
were upon us, the bonfire they had lit on the shore providing an infernal
backdrop.
Hideous imitations of men. Hairy, foul-smelling animals bent on murder.
There were ten of them. They were tattooed with pictures of trees and
demons. They each wore boots and leggings of rough wool, and over this a
coat of heavy fur, which reached to the knees. The horns of their metal
helmets were revolting. The sight of their cruel weapons was enough to
cause us to clutch our chests.
The worst among the Norsemen was their leader, who we later learned was
called Ivar the Boneless. He came from the deepest, darkest reaches of
hell. Not even we monks--who spent our days reading and copying the
world's oldest and most complete books on the subject of the abyss--could
have imagined a monster like Ivar. On his belt, he carried what looked the
freshly severed fingers of his most recent victims. His sword was stained
with blood and hair, and yet its edge was sharp, and in his huge arms it
seemed like a pendulum waiting to be swung.
As they lumbered toward us, we gripped our farming tools and commended each
other's souls with prayers and tears. Blathdar was alone in being silent
and fearless; instead he looked straight at them, returning their mindless
stares with one of courage. He was armed with a hoe and he canted his
shoulders slightly, the way a warrior does when he is ready to swing down
his sword. Though we were as good as murdered, Blathdar's defiant posture
inspired in our hearts the faintest bit of hope. But could 40 weak-kneed
monks beat back a force of ten bloodthirsty Norsemen?
They halted when they reached the crest of the knoll, their eyes glowing
with disgust and ferocity.
Then Blathdar spoke. "If you're here to plunder our monastery," he said,
"then you test the mettle of God's army."
His decree was met with laughter.
The Norsemen laughed so hard they swatted their legs. They laughed so hard
they nearly dropped their weapons. They laughed so hard they choked. They
laughed so hard that tears streamed down their beards. They did not laugh
at Blathdar's words, because they did not understand exactly what he'd
said. Rather they laughed at the sentiment behind his words, and we did
nothing but stand there, watching helplessly, listening to their mocking
noises.
Ivar alone refrained, his face twisted in hatred. It was he who spoke
next. His voice was guttural, bear-like, and his tongue was as appalling
as his visage. He indicated his disapproval, and the others ceased their
ridicule. Then they all began to beat upon their shields with their
swords.
And then they ran at us.
Blathdar died first. They carved a blood-eagle on his back, and cut away
his ribs from his backbone and tore out his lungs. Nennius was next,
impaled on a heathen spear and lifted into the air, an unholy banner.
Krayke had his arms severed and rolled in the dirt for a while before all
his blood poured out of him. Columcille had his entrails detached from his
body and Jarrow's skull was smashed into pieces by Ivar's sword.
We tried to fight back, but our terror and our weak limbs - limbs
accustomed only to the demands of handling quills and leather-bound books -
made us easy victims.
Indeed, we fell like dogs before their savagery.
Some of us they slew outright, some they carried off in chains. The
greater number they stripped naked, insulted and cast out, and we scurried
to the miserable shelter of the ancient mound.
When they were through with us, then turned their attention to the cattle,
which they quickly slaughtered, and they erected fires to cook the meat,
and it wasn't long before they were feasting.
They desecrated the sanctuary of God, drinking and spilling the wine and
devouring the bread. They laid waste to our house of hope, trampling the
blessed things under their polluted feet. They hacked in half all the
crosses. They broke apart the altars with their blades, and plundered the
church's scant treasures, the goblets and plates, the painting and relics.
They took even the books, whose gold inscriptions they no doubt expected to
melt down. They set fire to the chapels and left nothing behind save the
bare, unroofed walls.
From the mounds, we watched, huddling together, naked and scared and
ashamed. We had proven useless to each other and to the service of God.
The wind chilled us, saddening us even further, and we knew the Norsemen
would soon exhaust the monastery's treasures and rations and grow bored.
Soon they would hunt us down and kill us until their desire for malicious
pleasure was sated. There was nowhere for us to flee except deeper into
the mound, and that was insufferable.
The ancient mound was a place no one dare trespass. It had been built
centuries ago and possessed a sanctity distinct from the monastery. The
pre-Christian kings of neighboring islands had been buried there, in the
outpost of the afterlife where dwelt the pagan god of power and his goddess
wife. The tombs had been revered as portals to the otherworld by the Irish
Celts since prehistoric times. Entry through the narrow stone tunnels into
their dark interiors was barred by ancient taboos, and whatever grave goods
they contained had lain undisturbed.
We took scant interest in the mound, and what little we knew came from
listening to Walafrid tell stories in the late evening after we had
finished our chores and prayers. He had read many ancient texts on the
history of the island and its former inhabitants. He revealed how the
ancient mounds housed the dead, pagan warrior-kings whose souls had never
encountered the word of Christ, whose souls had no true place in heaven or
hell, whose souls lay restless in their rotting bodies, waiting to be
reawakened by the living.
It was a strange story, but it nonetheless stirred fear in our breasts, and
we were wary of pushing our way deeper into the tunnels. But then we
remembered that Walafrid had come here to conceal Saint Orkney's remains,
which meant he was the only one of us to have explored the mound.
"Can we go further?" Patrick asked him.
Walafrid did not answer. He shivered, his skin pink from the cold, his red
eyes were fatigued, glazed with some secret purpose we had yet to fathom.
He was staring out at the Norsemen as they pillaged our church.
"Answer me," insisted Patrick, hoarse with fear.
Silently, Walafrid left the shelter of the mound and made his way towards
the enemy, who were grouped around a fire, chewing on charred flanks. At
that moment we felt in our spines a first faint flutter of true dread as
the lone and mad monk went willingly to his doom. Oh, it was a nightmare
from which we were trying to awake!
When he reached them, he gestured in our direction, to the ancient mounds,
and now the treachery was too much to endure. He was telling the Norsemen
of the coffin of Saint Orkney! The sacred bones would be defiled, the
treasure stolen! Clearly, these enemies of God had no qualms and would
happily stoop so low as to raid the House of the Dead. We wanted to cry
out: bite your tongue! don't do this! but we remained mute, afraid. It
occurred to us that we had never trusted Walafrid; we had always been
suspicious of his esoteric studies, of his weird knowledge; for if he were
not akin to us, how could he ever have been an authentic disciple of
Christ?
They listened to him intently, and when he was done they smiled their
terrible smiles, and Ivar commanded an executioner to cut off Walafrid's
head. At once, the traitorous monk was half-dead, and before his breath
was gone they threw him into the fire, and when the reek of his burning
flesh reached our noses, we grew sick.
But we did not have time to be sick, because they were headed for us again,
in search of the treasure sealed in the saint's coffin. They brandished
torches for the cave's darkness, no doubt intending to burn us along the
way.
We had nowhere to go, so we pushed deeper into the mound.
The darkness was absolute and infinite - so dark and deep that at many
points we almost turned back around to face the demon horde. Would we
reach the very depths of the underworld?
Screeching bats and the smell of guano. Rats underfoot, tripping us. The
drip drip drip of water.
We had nothing to light our way, and we scraped our hands along the cave's
rough edges, and we gouged our legs on rocks and outcroppings, and we
whimpered to God. There was no reply. The only sound in the tomb's cool
interior was our hurried breathing.
And then we realized that it was not our breathing but something else's.
We stood stock-still, listening to the loathsome noise. We heard it behind
us, and in front of us. Then we heard it from another side, then another,
and another.
"Is it Ivar?" someone whispered. "Has he found us already?"
"Worse," said someone else.
Afraid to go any further, our hearts pounding, we waited, but whatever
horrible creature was lurking in the tomb, it did not strike at us.
"Hush," said the first voice. "Here they come."
Lights began to flicker, and into the passageway stepped the heathens,
swords clanking and mail clattering. Yet still we did not move, and when
they saw us they chuckled fiendishly, but their attention was short-lived.
Soon there were enough torches so that we had to shield our eyes, and when
we squinted it was obvious that we had reached the central catacomb.
The ancient kings and queens lay peacefully in the richly carved walls of
the catacomb, and their uncorrupt appearances were more like that of men
and women who had fallen asleep standing up. The vestments in which they
were clothed were not entire, but they exhibited as marvelous a freshness
and sheen as they had done when they were new.
But the Norsemen paid no attention to this miracle; neither did they glance
at us. Instead they were stricken with the sight of Saint Orkney's
bejeweled coffin, which sat in the middle of the room, where Walafrid had
left it for reasons we had yet to fathom.
It was Ivar who used his sword to pry open the lid. Inside was the
skeleton of the dead saint and his dazzling ornaments.
Their gold-lust rivaled their bloodlust.
They snatched at the jewels like seagulls on crumbs of bread, knocking
against each other and spilling the coffin's contents onto the cavern
floor. Now, on their hands and knees, they grabbed and punched and cursed
and laughed like wild animals. Over what? Mere trinkets. And we felt a
sharp tug of disappointment, which changed at once to shame, deep shame,
for we were not sufferers to a Satan-directed conspiracy against Christ's
followers. Rather we were victims of an overestimated company of
brigands. Indeed, these were not the harbingers of the day of reckoning;
these were well-armed pickpockets masquerading as demons. The omens were
wrong, or we had misread them. Ours was to be a pathetic fate: dispatched
by smelly bandits. How would we be remembered? Surely not as blessed
saints, but as the weakest of God's warriors. But perhaps there was a
chance that the church would make the mistake of seeing us as more in a
long line of martyrs.
By this time the breathing had grown louder, as though the terrible thing
had been engaged in strife. Suddenly rocks crashed and part of the wall
gave way as the monster got into motion.
Ivar's mighty figure bolted upright and stepped sidewise. And as he drew
his sword, his beady eyes were sharpened for sight of the peril that rushed
him.
The size of the horror was shocking, as tall as five men. It smashed
through the heavy stone like a battering ram, causing the Norsemen to
scatter like rabbits. Its hide had a pebbled look, somewhat like a
crocodile. Its rear legs were massive, and it used its great tail to
balance itself. The two forelegs were frightful claws, tiny in proportion
yet still thicker through by far than Ivar's body. The most ghastly aspect
of the thing were its teeth; they armored a blunt, revolting snout, from
which emanated the odor of a carnivorous thing--the stench was of decaying
flesh.
The Norsemen were frozen, startled, and it was Ivar alone who gave a
curdling scream to wake the dead and swung his giant sword.
As he did, the creature struck, severing his arm, chewing it down
hungrily.
Ivar shrieked and fell to his knees, his face a mask of agony. Blood
spattered the walls of the tomb and his fellow heathens, hissing as it came
into contact with the torches.
But now the monster had trod between us and the heathens. Agitated by the
light, it seemed unaware of our presence in the shadows. The Norsemen were
its prey, and for them to escape they would have to fight their way past
it, and when they joined the battle their shouts mingled with the monster's
noisy breathing. There was terror and confusion and great wracking and
rending of the tomb.
Quietly we made our way out of the cave.
The screams of the dying Norsemen pursued us through the darkness, our bare
feet broken and cut by the jagged terrain. We banged our heads and saw
brilliant white spots like stars before our eyes, and we thought we would
be faint, but we did not. We had to push on. We heard in each other's
ragged breathing that there was no hope for delay. How long before the
creature was finished with the Norsemen and hungry for more helpless food?
Those screams--even if they came from our enemy--will haunt us for the rest
of our days.
Finally we reached the blessed sun, though it was weak enough so that we
could look straight into it. At the mound's entrance, we used our feeble
shoulders to pitch a moderate boulder, causing an avalanche and sealing the
Norsemen and the monster they'd awakened inside the House of the Dead.
Afterward, we debated as to whether we should record the event as it truly
happened. Should we have confessed that our lives had been rescued by a
snake-like monster spawned in the inferno? A monster that one of us had
been keeping as a pet inside the burial mound of the ancient warrior
kings?
Not likely. Instead we recorded that Blathdar and the others had died
heroically in the service of Christ--that is, as martyrs. That Walafrid
had used the coffin of Saint Orkney to lure the heathens into the cave and
told us to close the entrance with stones, thereby sacrificing himself.
This last part was mostly true, of course, and allowed us to feel better
about the larger falsehood.
It was no surprise that the Norsemen continued their raids against the
empire that summer, but our island would be free of intruders for many
years. Word had no doubt spread to the countries in the far north that
ours was a place of death for those who dare trespass. We were assessed as
soldiers in the army of God, ready to decimate Satan's minions with no
quarter given, and woe be to they who test our mettle!
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