EGIL
FIRST PART
Egil was an ugly man,
Bald as a mountain in Japan,
And very big. When he was seven
He sent another boy to heaven
For beating him at wrestling. And
His mother said, ‘This boy will stand
Out. He is fearless, he converses
With elves.’ Then Egil spoke these verses:
‘My mother says I am so striking
I will grow up to be a viking,
And I will have a ship with oars,
And make my way to foreign shores,
As the commander, in the prow,
With the spray breaking on my brow,
As we come rushing into harbour,
And I kill one and then another.’
Egil left Iceland, where he had
Been born. The large and scrappy lad
Was now a man of poetry
And fighting. So he crossed the sea
With a fierce band of friends to Norway,
To blag his way in through the doorway
Of the wide world. His keel scraped sand
On a poor barren spit of land
And they trooped stiffly up a hill
To where there was a wooden hall.
It was a cousin of the King
Who was the Lord there. He could sing
And so they called him Bard. He opened
The door and welcomed in the rope-end
Of Iceland’s population. ‘But,’
He said, ‘we are not in a glut
As far as beer goes. Please don’t slaughter
Me straight, but I have only water
To offer you tonight. ‘No matter,’
Said Egil, and he shared a platter
Of cheeses with his men. But later,
Erik Bloodaxe arrived, a greater
And grander guest, the King of Norway,
And not to greet him in a poor way,
Bard, by a miracle, discovered
Barrels of brown beer in the cupboard,
And Egil sank so much that night,
The King was put to shame – sheet-white,
He threw the towel in. So the Queen,
And Bard, to get revenge, unseen,
Dripped venom into Egil’s horn,
And as the day began to dawn,
Urged him to down it. But he knew
There was some problem with the brew –
He sensed it. So he took his knife
And carved runes favourable to life
Into the horn, then slashed his hand,
Rubbed blood into the symbols and
Said this: Now we shall plainly see
What health our host has drunk to me.
And the horn shattered in his paw,
And the beer fizzled on the floor,
And Bard stepped up and laughed, ‘Well son,
You better have another one!’
So Egil stuck him through the stomach
With his broadsword. ‘Heap up a hummock
On this dishonest host,’ he said,
And with an elfish grimace fled
Into the night. Then he was outlawed.
He’d killed the cousin of the stout Lord
Of Norway, and he had to creep
By night across the sea and leap
Ashore by moonlight. And one night
As he was looking for a fight
Under the stars, he spied a ship
And whispered to his men to grip
Their oars and with their own boat ram
The other, and they cracked it slam
Amidships, and it sank. The son
Of Erik was on board, the one
The King loved most, and he went down,
And the Queen put on a black gown
And a deep curse on Egil, that,
When he returned to Iceland, flat
Though it was not, it would feel squashed
Like a wide pastry desert, washed
Netherland, and he would cry out
For change! The urge to stick his snout
Into new creeks, would kick and prick him
Out of his country, dreams would trick him,
By the Queen’s curse, to loathe home skies,
Till he had looked her in the eyes
Again. And Egil did not know
About the curse, but he was so
Furious at the wretched dead
That he hacked off a horse’s head
And stuck it on a hazel pole,
And spoke these words out of his soul:
In a crevice of the rock
I set this scorn-pole up to mock
King Erik and Queen Gunnhild. And
To scorn the spirits of this land,
Driving them all out of the places
Where they delight to hide their faces.
And they shall range in great commotion,
Finding no place on land or ocean
Until King Erik and his wife
Have left this land or left this life.
Then he carved runes into the wood
And sailed as quickly as he could
Over the sea to Iceland. And
The next year Erik left that land,
With his Queen Gunnhild, having lost
The Kingdom. They were tempest-tost
To England, and King Athelstan,
Grandson of Alfred and a man
Of might in his own right, no cleric,
Offered Northumbria to Erik,
To keep it from the Scots. He did
Homage to Athelstan, and slid
Into an earlish life in York.
Egil, meanwhile, hungered for talk
Of anywhere but Iceland, sighing
At the pale winter seagulls flying
Nowhere. And when the first good weather
For sailing came, he broke his tether,
And steered a course for England, aiming
For Athelstan, his friend for taming
The Scots the time his elder brother
Died in the fight – but that’s another
Story. Now Egil and his friends
Sailed north of Orkney where the world ends
For some. But then a freak storm drove them
To the North English coast, and stove them
In on the beach. The ship was shattered,
And the crew staggered out, foam-splattered,
Onto a beach. Then Egil heard,
Something that made his vision blurred:
His ship – now turning back to lumber -
Had hit the outlet of the Humber,
And he was close to York, the lair
Of Erik. Fate had set him where
He did not wish to be. He wondered
What to do next. What if he blundered
Through falling night towards the border?
He would be captured in short order,
His face was famous and his figure
Well known, his flesh would bear the rigour
Of inching death while Gunnhild chuckled.
So he did something so white-knuckled
As to be almost past believing:
In a black hood like someone grieving,
He rode to York that night. His cousin
Arinbjorn, one of half a dozen
Noblemen who had stood by Erik
When fortune flipped and in hysteric
Rage howled him south, was in the city,
And Egil, whistling a ditty
Through clenched teeth, found his door and called,
And Arinbjorn emerged, appalled
To see the broad and goblin face
Of Egil grinning in that place.
Arinbjorn hurriedly considered,
Then in a measured voice delivered
His verdict: that they should go straight
To Erik’s court and supplicate.
Erik was sitting at a feast,
Like the sun blazing in the east,
His Queen beside him like the moon,
With the constellation spoon
Parting her lips, when suddenly
She dropped it with a crash and he
Blackened, as Arinbjorn appeared,
Bringing a friend whose presence jeered
At their bereavement. Arinbjorn
Put the best case he could, that, torn
By guilt and grief, his cousin had
Abandoned friendly Iceland, glad
To risk the foaming sea’s frustration,
Reaching for reconciliation.
The Queen said nothing but, ‘This man
Must die.’ Then Arinbjorn began
Bailing. ‘To kill a man at night,’
He said, ‘is not considered right.’
Then Erik spoke. ‘So in the morning
He may resume this form of fawning.
Let him bed down with Arinbjorn
And come again to us at dawn.’
Egil and Arinbjorn walked quickly
Back to his house. The moon shone sickly,
And so did they. ‘This is my thinking,’
Said Arinbjorn, ‘the King is sinking
Out of the grace he once enjoyed.
Surely his spirit would be buoyed
If you could stay awake tonight
And make an ode about his might.’
‘An ode in praise of Erik?’ said
Egil, and sadly shook his head.’
‘Can you not glean some inspiration
Out of your fatal situation?’
Said Arinbjorn - ‘can your invention
Not fake a genuine intention
To save your neck? Can you not force
Your genius to be a horse
And ride you out of here to make
True poems elsewhere, for God’s sake?
What use will frankness be to you
When you’ve been neatly cut in two?
How will you wield your biting wit
When you’ve been pitched into a pit?’
‘Well I will try,’ said Egil, and
He shook his cousin by the hand.
Arinbjorn and his men sat drinking
While in the garret Egil, thinking
Of England, shut his eyes and struggled.
Arinbjorn, after he had juggled
Seventy drinks into his head
Before he made his way to bed,
Went up to check how things were going.
Egil stood still, his hearbeat slowing
To nothing. ‘Is it finished yet?’
Asked Arinbjorn. ‘No, I can’t get
A word in edgeways with that swallow
Twittering in the window. Hollow
Me out and you will find no word
Of praise to Erik. Blast that bird!’
Arinbjorn stepped across the floor
And out onto the roof. He saw
A shapeshifter – an evil creature,
Flutter away, in form and feature
Exactly like a swallow. Then
Arinbjorn, most steadfast of men,
Sat on the rooftop with sword drawn
Until the chorus of the dawn,
And from the quiet that he guarded,
Egil distilled his ode, strong-worded.
But Erik, in the light of day,
Glared death at Egil, and a ray
Of darkness beaming from the Queen,
Told Arinbjorn that he had been
Deeply mistaken to imagine
Egil emerging from that region.
When the Queen said so, Egil’s cousin
Announced that he and his ten dozen
Followers were prepared to perish
Defending Egil. Then with relish
The Queen said, ‘Treason.’ But the King
Said that he found it sickening
To think of Arinbjorn’s destruction:
Then Egil, in the King’s direction,
Took a tremendous step, to show him
He was about to start this poem:
Once I came west across the sea
With a boatload of poetry,
Gift of the war-god – over waves
Of song to him who fills the graves
I set my course; towards the shore
That foams with poetry and war.
The welcome of the warrior
Was warm. I was not sorrier
For having carried Odin’s Mead
Of poetry in my oak steed
To England’s meadows! I will praise,
If he will listen to my lays.
Looking at gold a man’s eyes glisten,
Songs make the mind’s eye bright, so listen.
The world has heard about the actions
In battle of this King when factions
Mingled their dead and Odin sa
Through his one eye the work of war.
When the swift battle like a ring
Of ripples issued from the King
As he strode forward through the flood
And rush of unreturning blood.
And the earth trembled at the trudge
Of the tall banners through the sludge.
The dead men lay in the cold mud.
Erik was famous for their blood.
When the King stepped into the pounding,
Misery multiplied around him,
White sword-edge smashed on shield’s black rim,
And sword on sword, bright seraphim
Of battle blunting whetstone’s wearer,
Poison-edged wound-spade, armour-tearer.
(Stout woodsmen felled the oaks of Odin
With scabbard icicles. Foreboding
Came true, in the game of iron and iron
That was a dance of lion and lion.
Armies of ravens flocked towards
The crimson splashing of the swords.)
The sun danced bravely on the blades.
Erik was proud of those parades!
Spears like hooks plucked souls like gobies
Out of the rockpools of their bodies.
Smeared shafts kept going, draped with guts,
As the destroyer of the Scots
Fed the grey wolf that trolls ride. Hel,
Daughter of Loki, came as well,
(To tread on eagle food. The cranes
Of battle perched on the remains
Of men, the wound-birds did not thirst,
But gulped blood till they almost burst.
Wolf bolted flesh, and raven stained
His prow red in the waves he drained.)
The wolf, troll-steed, could eat no more,
But Erik was not sick of war!
The battle-maiden with her biting
Keeps the exhausted swordsman fighting
When his ship’s hull, the shieldwall, shatters
Under the pressure of sharp waters.
Shafts buzzed and hummed and struck their stings
As dark bees swarmed from flaxen strings.
(Spears soared and sank and peace lay quartered.
As the elm bent the wolf’s mouth watered.
With skill the King beat back a blow
That would have killed him. The yew bow
With its sweet note cut through the battle
As through the panicking of cattle.)
Bees from his yewbow buzzed and tore –
Erik called back the wolves for more!
Yet I intend to spread the story
Not simply of the King’s war-glory,
But of the things he gives. I call
The soul of praise into this hall.
He is the most unthrifty giver,
His fingers bleed a flaming river
Of gold. And yet he holds his lands
Tight as a vice in his two hands.
He flings the armfire, golden rings,
Out of his life, he gives the things
No rest! (He shakes off gold like straw
From the hawk’s cliff, his wrist, yet more
Keeps coming. And whole fleets are gladdened
By what the dwarfs have ground. Praise-maddened,
My heart must speak. This battleship
From his gold-heavy mast lets slip
Places where spears can lay their heads –
Shields – and the brooches that he spreads
Everywhere, star the world. ) yes certainly The star
Of Erik sparkles near and far.
Even in Iceland they have heard.
King, do not think my praise is stirred
By nothing. Though my lips have spoken,
The sea of silence they have broken
Is deeper. It is Odin’s ocean
Of song that I have set in motion,
To lift my ode out of the shadows
Into the dark of the ear’s hollows,
Cutting it with my skill to fit
The ones I now see wearing it.
Out of the castle of my laughter –
My mind - I lifted to the crafter
Of war, an ode. And as I planned it,
Most of those present understand it.
‘Egil should die,’ said Erik, ‘but,
If I kill him then I must cut
Arinbjorn and his men to pieces.
The pardon of the one releases
The many from the threat of slaughter.
Let him ride over Humber’s water
To his friend Athelstan. But not
Reconciled! May my right eye rot
If I or any of my people
Ever set eyes on this man-steeple
Again, and do not make him measure
An average height, and lose the treasure
Of life!’ Then Egil, off the cuff,
Composed this piece of sterling stuff:
My head, the hill on which I set
My hat, is hideous, and yet –
For beauty though I would not choose it,
From Erik I will not refuse it.
What man on earth, noble or peasant,
Ever received a nicer present?
Let them fault Erik if they can,
His father was a famous man!
Then he thanked Arinbjorn, and strode
Out of the hall in which his ode
Had flown, and passed across the Humber
As evening turned the green hills umber,
To Athelstan, who asked his friend
How he had left things in the end
With Erik. Since there were no swallows,
Egil replied in verse as follows:
That little cheat, that nasty spiller
Of pools of blood for rooks, that killer
Of time, let Egil keep his black
Eyebrows: my cousin watched my back.
Now as before the sea-lord’s hat,
The cliff, my head, is mine to pat,
Though the stab-giver grudged his permit.
And on that throne I set my helmet.
SECOND PART
Egil was indestructible.
Once, in a forest on a hill,
Threatened with ambush, just in case,
He lashed a stone with flaxen lace
Onto his chest, a huge flat rock,
And menhir-stepped, in that thick frock,
Hard-edged into the hornet’s nest,
Scattering arrows off his chest,
And handing round a heap of gashes,
As the blades banged out brilliant flashes
In the tree shadows. Further on,
Ambushed again, he climbed the crown
Of the black hill, and dropped his thick
Breastplate – and other rocks in quick
Succession, on the snapping twigs
Of his pursuers’ arms and legs.
Another time, when he was taken
And dropped into a pit, forsaken
By the big shaggy beast of luck
That mostly saved his muscley neck,
He got away by heaving up
The post that he was tied to – hup
And it was out, and he slid off
The end, and gnashed the twiny stuff
That tied his wrists. And halfway home
To his safe ship and the seafoam,
He stopped and said, ‘This isn’t right –
Creeping off sheepish in the night!
I ought to say goodbye and thanks.’
So he went back, and heaped up planks
Against the door of the big hall,
Where those who’d buried him were all
Feasting – and, lacking for a match,
Flung a firestick into the thatch,
And burned the bunch of them to ash.
So that was Egil, brown bear brash,
Not known for his respect for kings,
Trolls, wolves, storms, blood-bespatterings
In single combat with berserkers,
Who bite their shields and howl, skilled workers
In the wound trade. So that was Egil,
Who would have duelled with the devil
Happily, who, though elfish-clever,
Made no allowance whatsoever,
When making plans, for reefs, or curses,
Or any of the veiled reverses
That can bring down a man from giant
To drowning insect in an instant –
Who actively embraced disaster,
Because it made his mind stream faster
In the pursuit of verbal gold,
Rubies of wit, not bought or sold,
But always stolen from the moment,
Crushed into being, like a diamond,
By meteor-strike. This combination
Of poetry and force his nation
Adored so much, left fate, in fact,
Without a plan – it was uncracked,
His tower, that stood on endless ground,
And death, the dog, ran round and round,
Sniffing for weakness, but each time
It scratched a hole or tried to climb,
Was expertly and fiercely met
Either by power or by wit -
Or both. And Egil stood, self-manned.
So what could be the way to land
This fast swordfish? Well it was this:
Egil had captured with a kiss
His brother’s widow, and their daughters
And sons, most grown up, worked the waters
And walked the hills. One son had died,
Limp and sweat-heavy when the tide
Of fever rose and dragged him under.
There was a daughter, loud as thunder,
Thorgerd. But what improved his health
Most, was a son just like himself,
Except that he was handsome – called
Bodvar. He wasn’t huge and bald
Yet – but he looked just like his dad
At the same age – and it was sad
And good to see in him, as well,
Thorolf, the striding pine who fell
In England, Egil’s older brother,
Fighting the Scots, far from their heather.
And Egil floated on a sea
Of love for this young him, and he
Looked at his father as the land.
They were the ocean and the sand.
Now Egil bought a nifty load
Of timber at a fair – no road
Led from that place, except of water,
It was an island where a freighter
Had moored. So Egil sent an eight-oared
Flit boat to fetch it, with the great lord
To be, his son, in charge. High tide
Was after sunset, so they sighed
And waited, then embarked by starlight.
But the tide got into a barfight
With the pissed wind, a loud sou’westerly,
And they contested most aggressively,
As often happens in the fjord,
And the broil banged the boat to leeward
And it flipped over, and all hands
Went down. At Einarsness’ bright sands
Bodvar was washed up. Egil went
Straightaway, found his son, and bent
And picked him up, and laid him briefly
Across his knees, then rode, not roughly,
With him to Digranes, and opened
Skallagrim’s mound, and in the hope-end
Earth, by his father, laid his son,
And the tight tunic that was on
Egil, burst open. Then they closed
The mound – and it may be supposed
That night had fallen. Egil rode
Back to his house at Borg, and strode
To his bedroom, and locked the door,
Lay down and then lay down some more,
All the next day, no drink, no food –
And no one dared to say a word.
On the third day, when it was light,
Asgerd, his anxious wife, took fright,
And sent a messenger on horseback
Galloping down the golden gorse-track
To Hjardaholt, to tell their daughter
Thorgerd, the news, and to exhort her
To come back quick. She did – she rode
Right through the night. As the cock crowed,
She stepped into the house. ‘Have you
Eaten?’ her mother asked. The blue
Sky in the doorway drowned the moon.
‘No mother, I will lift no spoon
Or fork, I will not eat a bean,
Till I am dining with the Queen
Of heaven, Freya.’ This she said,
So as to penetrate the head
Of Egil in his thick-skulled room,
Not in a whisper but a boom.
‘I think my father has it right –
Since we have entered endless night,
Best to lie down and sleep. How could I
Live with my father dead? Why should I
Breathe in a world without my brother?
Breakfast? You must be joking, mother.’
Then at his door she said, as loud,
‘Open up father, I am proud
Of you, this gesture is not hollow –
Where you are going, let me follow.’
Egil unlocked the door. She stepped
In, and as light as autumn leapt
Onto another bed, by his,
And Egil said, ‘Dear heart, this is
Wonderful. You are showing me
Great love. You see what I can see,
Feel what I feel. With so much sorrow,
There is no possible tomorrow.
What a good girl, who would much rather
Die than do different from her father.’
Then they were silent, and the room
Was a huge stomach stuffed with gloom
And nothing else – and it grew vaster
And emptier, emptied even faster
Than it expanded – but a rhythm
Seemed to be in the bedroom with them,
Butterfly-soft, and like the shift
Of sand beneath wet feet, that lift
And tread – the sound of someone chewing.
‘Light of my heart, what are you doing?’
Said Egil. ‘Chewing seaweed,’ said
Thorgerd – ‘it helps you to be dead
Quicker, they say – or else the wait
For death, the snail, could start to grate
The nerves.’ ‘Is it a poison kind,’
Said Egil. ‘Yes, it blows your mind,’
Said Thorgerd, ‘then you fade away
Quick as the stars into the day.
Would you like some?’ ‘Well I could fit
A fraction, for the sake of it.’
He chewed. Then silence took the floor
Again, but smaller than before,
Less infinite at least, and shorter.
Then Thorgerd shouted out for water,
And she was brought some. Egil said,
‘This salt sea cabbage of the dead
Makes you so thirsty.’ ‘Do you want
A sip,’ said Thorgerd, ‘from this font?’
She passed the drinking horn and he
Swallowed a little inland sea
In one great gulp. Then Thorgerd licked
Her lips and said, ‘We have been tricked,
Father – this liquid is white silk!
It wasn’t water, it was milk!’
Then Egil in his anguish bit
A chunk out of the horn, and spit.
‘What shall we do?’ said Thorgerd, ‘death
Has been false-started, our last breath
Vastly deferred. The end is far,
Suddenly, as a tiny star,
That was as close and big just now
As a hog husband to his sow
Bride on their wedding night! Wound tight
Into a spring, time stretches right
Out again. What to do with it?
I know! Could boundless sorrow fit
Into a poem? Yes it could,
I think – and probably it should.
Your one surviving son, I know him,
Thorstein, he couldn’t write a poem
To save his life, like you could, on
The glory of the fallen one -
Two, rather. It would be a crime
If there was nothing down in rhyme
For them to be remembered by –
Only the speechless seagull’s cry.
And you and I will not be here
To tell our memories – no fear,
When the half-week this milk has won
Is over, and the poem-son
Is born, and carved into a stick
In runes, we two will vanish quick
Over the western edge! Alright?’
Her father said, ‘It will be quite
Difficult, such a poem-cry.
It may not work, but I will try.’
And so instead of dying he
Composed this piece of poetry:
‘My tongue is stuck, a beached blue whale.
What can I place into the scale
To make my heavy poem lift?
Odin flew homewards with the gift
Of poetry, the dwarf’s blood-mead,
Swelling his stomach, and my need
Is equal, but I cannot find
Eloquence anywhere in my mind.
Since the occasion of my verse
Is the slow motion of a hearse,
I cannot get the heaven-drink,
Snatched by Frigg’s husband from the brink
Of giantland for his divine
Children, to flow - enchanted wine
From the mind’s root. I only heave
Up sobs, monotonously grieve.
Strange distillation, that the dwarf
Had to surrender when his wharf
Was the bare skerry, where the blood
Of the felled giant rose in flood
From his ripped throat, so that the swell
Crashes against the gates of Hell!
Blood of the perfect man, blind sea
Of light, where are you, poetry?
I am all pushed out to the edge,
Like a man trembling on a ledge,
Or like the forest’s fringe of trees
That the storm pulls apart with ease.
It does not put light in your head,
To lift you child from his deathbed,
Or any other member of
Your family, the ship of love.
Yet I will walk into the wood
Where they are to be found, the sad
Deaths of my parents. Funny but
That is the place where I must cut
Planks for my poem, adzed and deft,
But with the leaves of language left.
Into our line, the old seawall,
The waves have swung their wrecking-ball,
And even as I speak they run
In through the breach that was my son,
Whom the sea stabbed. The goddess of
The deep has given me a shove,
Ripped off my cloak of love and severed
The tough heartstrings that kept me tethered.
If I could hit him with my hewer,
I would hack down the old storm-brewer,
Green seagod, hammer of the shore,
Big wind’s big brother, boot that whore
Off the seabed, his wife, but as
Everyone knows, an old man has
Few friends, I am too weak to win
Justice, bring the ship-strangler in.
The sea has robbed alot from me,
The hedgegaps of my family
Are a harsh sound ripped out of me,
Since our shield-bearer suddenly
Fell back along the gods’ bright road.
I know – it is my overload –
That he was growing up to be
Significant – a shining tree
Of shields, who could have held his head
High, in Valhall, with the wardead.
He always valued my opinion
More than the rest, although ten million
Hailstormed against. He was my buttress,
He was my strongest, safest fortress.
Often my brother by his absence
Makes my head chaos, like the conscience
Of a moon-bear, a howling giant
Whose mind is wind. Childish-reliant
In the warzone, I gaze around me,
Wondering why he has not found me,
And whether there is any other
Warrior who will be my brother.
I need him often, since I often
Stare into eyes not quick to soften.
As friends diminish, I grow cautious,
Fly a bit lower, caw less raucous.
There are not many honest fellows
Under the leaves of Odin’s gallows,
The Tree of Worlds – because down here,
He who, dark-minded, kills his dear
Brother, can turn his blood to gold.
And it’s impossible, I’m told
To get the cost of a lost son
Back, till you have another one
Who men respect as much. Oh well,
They can all gaggle off to hell,
These human beings. I have got
Nothing against them, but the great
Son of my wife has gone to call
On friends in One-Eye’s feasting hall.
And the god-chieftain of the oceans
Has broken off negotiations
And ranged against me, foaming savagely,
His entire green and white-maned cavalry.
And I can’t seem to lift my head -
Horse of my thoughts, it turned to lead,
Blank background of my face, the day
A wave of heat dragged him away,
That son of mine, the one who could
Never condone what was not good,
Never say anything degrading –
Yes I remember when you raised him
Into your world, Wargod, the ash
Sprung from my trunk, the branch of flesh
For the grandchildren of my wife
To bud from. I had bound my life
To the undying Lord of Spears,
To be his prophet all my years,
His absolute believer, but
He threw away my faith, he cut
The rope of friendship, Warden of
The war-carts, Butcher of the dove,
Victory-builder. I do not
Offer to him the blood-black spot
Of my despair, in sacrifice,
Wall of the gods, Lord of the Dice –
Though he has often helped me too,
Reached down a hand out of the blue.
Friend of Intelligence, to mend
My shipwrecks he has been my friend.
He who fights Fenrir, fatefully
Wrestles the Hell-wolf, gave to me
This perfect craft, and eyes to strip
Enemies of their false friendship.
And now the way ahead is hard.
Death, sister of the wolf, stands guard
At the headland, and she controls
All of our bodies and our souls.
But I will stand, without remorse,
Firm, till she comes for me in force.’
Egil got better making that.
When it was tucked under his hat,
He called his daughter and his wife
And farmhands. What had saved his life
He spoke to them, then left his bed
And sat down on his seat, not dead.
He called the poem, How I Lost
My Sons, and, careless of the cost,
Held an old-fashioned feast for them.
He had a rock, a priceless gem.
When Thorgerd left for home, he gave her
This as a gift, his daughter-saviour.
THIRD PART
Egil! He reached a great old age
before his words ran off the page.
And did he die a hero’s death,
kenning pure gold with his last breath?
No, his descent into the mud
was mad, and bad and full of blood,
though he was blind, and deaf, and stiff
when he at last stepped off the cliff
of his last minute. He did one
good thing, which was to help his son
Thorstein, his last surviving male
offspring, who was beyond the pale,
as far as Egil was concerned,
because the young man had not burned
a single enemy in his hall,
or slaughtered anyone at all,
but was a peaceful, thinking spirit –
qualities specious to inherit
from Egil, Egil reckoned – but
when, in a stubborn land dispute,
Thorstein, for such a long time lax,
got handy with a battle-axe,
and stove the heads in of two slaves
belonging to his neighbour, waves
of love at last began to move
in Egil for his son, to prove
which, he got eighty men together,
hard eggs in shells of iron and leather,
and at the parliament, the Thing
as it was called, the gathering
of landowners to make a judgement,
he tipped the scales, at the right moment,
in Thorstein’s favour; old greybeard
with a barbed spear, he was still feared
then, but soon after found it hard,
Egil, to walk across the yard
at his step-daughter’s place, where he
was living – it was suddenly
a tilting slippery deck – he fell
crash, very nearly down the well,
and women who were watching laughed –
‘A tiny wind capsized this craft!
Almighty Egil, what a fall,
knocked down by nobody at all!
This is the end!’ His son-in-law
Grim, who was passing by and saw
everything, said – ‘When we were young,
they sang a sweeter kind of song,
women – but now they think us fit
less for their love than for their wit.’
Egil said, ‘Yes, it’s come to that.’
Then he got up, put on his hat,
and spoke this verse: ‘my wobbling head
nods like a bridled horse, old Ned
jerking against the bit. It falls,
bald as the best of bowling balls,
into a heap of junk. My cock
dangles and dribbles like a sock
hung up to dry, while both my ears
are now as soundless as dry weirs.’
Then he went blind. And now began
his battles with the cook. Poor man,
one winter day when it was cold,
he went to huddle by the gold
eyes of the fire, and she, hard-pressed
by hungers, was not much impressed
and said she was surprised, quite frankly,
to find a famous face so blankly
blinking beneath her feet, when she
had got to serve the world its tea.
And Egil said, ‘Do not be harsh
if I stretch out the freezing marsh
of my old flesh and bones to dry
here. We can polka, you and I,
around each other.’ But she said,
‘Put your beached whale-carcase to bed,
so we can do our work!’ And he,
great sprawled old fallen-down oak tree,
picked himself up and shambled off
to bed. And through a cavernous cough
said this in verse: ‘I blundered blind
towards black heat. The fire was kind,
but the fire-woman would not make
peace. How I wish I was a cake.
Suffering’s arrows hit the spot
between my eyebrows, where they knot.
And once a King, lord of wide lands,
poured giant-wealth into my hands,
silver and gold – because his head
was crowned by every word I said.’
He crept back to the fire soon after,
and the cook scalded him with laughter,
saying, ‘Do not forget to turn
your legs, my lamb, or they will burn!’
He said, ‘They do not always do
exactly what I want them to,
but I will try. This being blind
messes up everything, I find.’
And then he spoke this verse: ‘Time creeps,
here where I lie between two sleeps,
soft in the head, alone, and old.
My legs are two stiff widows, cold
and hard – they need a bit of heat,
poor dears, to get them on their feet.’
Now the year stumbled out of spring
into the season of the Thing,
the parliament – and everyone
was getting ready for the fun
of riding to the moot. The slow
old man thought he would like to go,
and he told Grim, and Grim, wise man,
could see some problems with this plan,
and had a conference with his wife,
Egil’s step-daughter Thordis. Life
had left the blind old Viking nothing
that he loved better than discussing
things with this woman, so Grim said
to her, ‘Find out what’s in his head;’
and Thordis asked him, ‘Old hero,
Grim tells me that you want to go
to the Thing. What will you be doing?
Give me a sip of what you’re brewing!’
And Egil said: ‘Now this is clever.
Listen. I have two chests of silver
Athelstan gave me, King of England,
after I saved that golden ring-land
from the Scots, when your father died,
dragged by the battle from my side.
This is my plan – to have them hefted
to the Law Rock, these coins, iron-chested,
and, when the crowd is at its height,
fling out the loot and watch them fight!’
‘What a fantastic plan!’ said Thordis,
‘immortal sagas will record this!’
Then she told Grim, who said, ‘That bear-
man is not going anywhere.’
So Egil had to stay behind
while the folk gathered, his trapped mind
brooding apocalypse. One night,
just at the dying of the light,
he told two slaves of Grim’s to heave him
onto a broad packhorse and lead him
to the hot springs up on the hill,
so he could wallow for awhile.
And he took with him, for good measure
his hefty friends, the chests of treasure,
and off they went, across a field
and up the slopes, that soon concealed
their onward progress. And now Egil
made them change course, towards the level
and moonflat swamps they have at Mosfell,
where Grim’s farm was, deep sumps impossible
to ford. They crossed a ridge and down-
trudged to the waste beyond, green-brown,
and the obedient slaves stopped there
and helped the mad blind old man-bear
dismount. Then Egil heaved the chests
into the swamp, and there it rests,
Thorstein’s inheritance. And then,
he flailed around and grabbed the men,
the slaves, and fed them to the brown
bitch of the bog, that gulped them down.
Now, in the night, the blind man clung
to the lead-rein, that sweetly swung
into his grasp. There was, of course,
nobody left to lead the horse,
the horse led him – it had a mind
to sniff around the hills and find
something it wanted. And the Viking
had to surrender to its liking,
stumbling along. And as he went,
he shouted out this testament:
‘Listen! Eight men at once I fought!
Quick as a thought from throat to throat
my bird-blade flashed. I had the valour
to send eleven to Valhalla,
twice! With fresh meat I fed the wolf –
me, me! I killed them all myself!
That was tough dealing and rough trade,
shield for shield shattered, blade for blade!
I was a tree that with a cry
flung back the lightning at the sky!
But once my saviour was a girl,
when I was working for the earl
in the wild country! In the house
of blasted Armod, that sweet mouse
his daughter, warned me that the drink
was not so soft as I might think,
but meant to smash me like an axe,
so I would stop collecting tax!
And my companions, one by one,
sank to the night-place of the sun,
and the snow bridle-deep outside,
and the land friendless far and wide,
and every moment from my host
an unrefusable new toast –
‘To your health, Egil!’ Suddenly
my stomach was a flood in me,
and I stood up, and crossed the floor,
and pushed my host against the door,
and gushed my guts. His mouth was full,
and his beard poured like sheep-dipped wool,
drenching his chest! He gasped for air,
and then shot back his own fair share
into my face – a good reply,
and his men roared at me that I
had gone too far, and should have stepped
outside to let my guts erupt,
but I shot back that it was clearly
house manners, since their boss had nearly
flooded the place himself! I broke
wind, called for drink, sat down and spoke
this: ‘For your hospitality,
I paid you what you gave to me,
which bulged my cheeks – it was in sore
need that I heaved across the floor
my tub of guts. Most guests say thanks
with sweeter speech than what the tanks
of my intestines gushed – but then,
I think we will not meet again,
anyway. Armod’s beard is thick
with brown beer-dregs for him to lick.’
Then Armod ran outside, and I
carried on drinking blissfully,
draining the horns, till it was time
to sleep – not long. By dawn’s light I’m
waking up Armod with my blade,
to kill him. But his daughter prayed
for his salvation, so I cut
off his big beard and then gouged out
one of his eyes, which made him shriek.
I left it hanging on his cheek,
and went my way into the white
glare of the woods, into the fight –
at every thicket we were ambushed,
but I bent down and like a ram pushed
through, in stone armour stormed the pass!’
Now the horse stopped – there was sweet grass
under it, and the rein fell slack.
Egil stared hard into the black,
the double darkness, and he said:
‘One life I saved. She would be dead
if not for me, that woman, sick
from bad runes. I removed them quick,
shaved the whalebone into the fire,
carved better ones, not by a liar
prescribed, and put it back again
under her sickbed pillow. Then,
it was like rising from the deep
underground lake of her last sleep
into the air, and she was well.’
Now the horse moved along the fell
again, and Egil stumbled after,
sometimes exploding into laughter,
other times crumbling into tears,
part-payment of his life’s arrears.
Then he was scrambling over scree,
boasting about his poetry:
‘I woke up early with the birds
to hand up sturdy planks of words
to my speech-slave, my tongue, to build
echoing halls of song, light-filled!
I have heaped up a mound of praise
that will see out the end of days,
in the green field of poetry.
A man of valiant action, he
always inspired me on the spot
to stirring verse, but misers not.
For truth I would unshut the doors
of praise, but liars locked my jaws.
From throne to throne, from friend to friend,
with songs for thanks, world without end,
I wandered, always tearing down
flattery in its golden gown.
A poet, with a poet’s cause,
to live according to the laws
of truth! I once offended one
of Norway’s kings – I drowned his son.
But did I sail away from that?
No, I pulled down a forthright hat
to my black eyebrows, and I went
to see the warlord in his tent,
I mean his palace in the city
of York, from which he ruled, small pity
in his iron mind, for that rain-hammered
region. I could have stood and stammered
at the inferno of his face,
that was a very dangerous place,
and there was terror, to be sure,
when death-light poured across the floor
from the twin moons, his eyes, hell-bright
as phosphorescent snakes, green-white!
But all I did was take my time,
and have a word with him in rhyme,
the love-prize Odin claimed by snaking
in through a tight rat-hole and taking
the giantess! The frothing horn
of poetry his loving won,
that quenches every thirsty ear.
Not for its beauty was the beer
praised, that my kenning won for me
then – my big head I mean, with free
eyebrows thrown in, and two bright-blazing
jewels beneath them, and the praising
mouth, that had paid the rhyming ransom,
and a tough tongue I took home, and some
tooth-flints, and ear-flags, crammed with sounds –
all this was better pay than mounds
of silver from a King more famous
would have been. Nobody could blame us
for taking pride in that, my cousin
and me. My heart remains unfrozen
thanks to that friend, who stood beside me,
when there was nothing bright to guide me
out of the pit, except my trust
in him – whose blade he did not rust,
so that he grew, by good faith, bigger
than any royal treasure-giver!
With a strong grip he lifted me
out of the blackly scrabbling sea
of the King’s anger – and in that,
he was his Lord’s true friend, would not
make himself safe by shrivelling
his soul to magnify his King,
so that the best and bravest men
gathered around my cousin then,
flocked to his flag from everywhere
under the upturned cup of air,
Arinbjorn, pillar of the poor,
friend to the teachers of the law
of life, the priests, and therefore friend
of all the gods! Wealth without end
flowed to his vaults, and he as fast
gave it away. For life to last,
we need such men! A legion needs
many spear-shafts, and fortune breeds
endless necessity, but the broad
field of his life was sown, by sword,
with many seeds of war, which cropped
gold, till by steel his heart was stopped.
There are not many of them left
now, the big men whose speech was deft
swordstrokes, who scattered gifts of gold
like the sunrise – the open-souled,
where are they now? Beyond the brightness
that stirs around the earth, its lightness
nailed down with islands, once they snowed
silver into my hands, pay owed
for praise, and made the hawk’s perch blaze.’
So Egil wandered till the rays
of the next day revealed him to
the farmworkers – he came in view,
wandering up and down the hill
east of the farm, the slow horse still
leading him. So they fetched him home
to wander under the sky-dome
of his grey skull, asleep. He never
told where he stowed his English silver,
though he did say he’d killed the slaves,
and that its bank-vault was their graves.
That autumn Egil caught the fever
from which he died. When it was over,
Grim dressed him up and had him carted
to Tigranes, the dear departed,
and in a mound, no pomp denied him,
laid Egil with his blades beside him.
When Christianity was made
the law in Iceland, Grim displayed
his faith by building, from hill-stones,
a church, and Thordis moved the bones
there, it is said. And this was proved
years later when the church was moved.
Under the altar human bones
were found - extremely massive ones.
Skafti, the priest, picked up the skull,
weft with thick ridges like the hull
of an old ship. He put it down.
Heavy as hell it was, dark brown
as peat. The minister, impressed,
hefted a fair-sized axe to test
the thickness of the skull, and hit
hard – but the big blade only bit
a thin white smiling line. Imagine
how hard it would have been to smash in
that skull when it was scabbed with scalp
as well – you would have needed help.
So Egil’s bones were buried at
the edge of the new churchyard, guilt
washed off by Christian words, soft-spoken.
In the churched earth he lies, unburied.