so. The question is what do we do about it? Look at the sky, Ari, the sun is forcing its way through the clouds and the snow has almost stopped. We can go ahead without fear of being trapped by a spring blizzard in the valley. Or we can return home right now and tell about what we’ve seen. Tyrkir will no doubt be able to explain it.”
“I wish I were sure of that,” Ari responded. He was silent for a minute and then continued. “If we go back, though, we won’t be any the wiser.”
Rigg laughed and slapped his friend lightly on the shoulder. “I agree. Let’s have a look in the valley. We may make a great discovery. And we can escape in a hurry if it comes to that.”
Ari nodded. His face wore a faint smile. “I can see you’re just as frightened as I am, and, oddly enough, that makes me feel better.”
They laughed together, then embraced quickly, as if to reassure each other. Each young man stopped to check his bow and arrows; each examined the long knife at his belt. Just to touch their weapons, to make contact with their solid reality, made them both feel much better. All the same, Rigg wondered: would such weapons suffice if they were really on the track of a hamrammr, someone with the power to change his shape into the form of an animal? No doubt Ari was thinking the same thing.
Cautiously, they made their way forward, following the wolf tracks, which led steadily onward, across a rocky outcropping lightly dusted with snow, toward the valley beyond. Now the sun had come out in earnest and the sky had cleared. Dazzling light struck the high cliffs; tufts of snow gleamed on airy ledges. Two reindeer sprang from an alley of boulders and scampered away toward the valley entrance. A white-tailed eagle soared above the massive rocks. Rigg and Ari shielded their eyes and pressed forward, keeping sight of the wolf tracks, while half-expecting them to disappear or to change in some weird fashion into something else.
Within minutes, the two young hunters stood on the loose stones that marked the rocky threshold of the Valley of the Nine. From there they could see that even at its widest part this valley was a fairly narrow place — not more than a few hundred yards across. Yet its steep sides rose fortresslike and daunting, while directly before them, a short distance away, stood the birch grove that gave the place its name.
When they first came to Greenland the Vikings had cut much lumber, and the already-bare landscape had become all but treeless. Yet they had protected this small grove in their sacred valley as a ceremonial place. Rigg was surprised at the valley’s luxuriance. Despite its high cliffs and smooth, barren slopes, the valley floor was carpeted with scrub willow herbs that would bloom red in summer, with wild thyme that in a few weeks would be ready for the pot, and with crowberry bushes whose fruit in season made a favourite sweet dish of the Vikings.
A host of memories flew into Rigg’s mind. He recalled the last of his childhood visits: Fianna patiently explaining some of the ceremonies, his grandfather’s booming voice and solemn manner, the fear and awe in the eyes of the Norse explorers as the sacrifice victims were hung up in the sacred grove. That had all taken place almost nine years ago — before long it would be time for a ceremony of renewal, for another victim.
Rigg shivered, wondering who might be chosen. He gazed into the sacred valley, reached down, and touched the amulet on his neckchain. This was a runic wheel, or insigil. Inscribed around the edges of the amulet was the rune Raidho, representing both the first letter of Rigg’s name and the wheel of life.
Beside him, Ari too had stopped in his tracks and was gazing far down the valley. He seemed to be bracing himself, looking warily around, and not thinking of the past, for he had never been in this place. Nor did he touch his amulet, which he wore only to please his mother and which was inscribed with some obscure alphabet from the Baltic lands that none of the Greenland Norse, not even Tyrkir, could decipher.
“The trail continues,” Ari murmured, bending over some scratchings in the snow. “Tracks here and over there.”
“They lead toward the grove,” Rigg observed.
“Perhaps the wolf has sacrificed itself to Odin and Freyr.”
“A bad time for such jokes,” Rigg cautioned.
They walked forward together, watching left and right for some ambush or surprise. But the valley seemed peaceful, almost asleep in the afternoon’s fresh sunlight, and the shadows beneath the cliffs were hardly threatening.
As they walked, an old rhyme came into Rigg’s mind, a rhyme he hadn’t thought of for many years. It had something to do with the nine years’ sacrifice and it seemed that he had first heard his mother recite it in this very valley, to calm him when he, as a mere child, had asked why a man must be killed with the other sacrificial animals. Now he dragged the words from his memory, speaking them aloud, and after a few seconds of verbal stumbling, he recalled the whole rhyme.
“Three pigs in a tree,
Three goats and a sheep.
Seven plus an old dog
Will make a man weep.
The man makes nine,
And his soul must go
To the gods who give life
And make the crops grow.”
Ari looked at him in amazement. “You didn’t just make that up? I’m the poet, remember.”
“It’s something my mother taught me — a long time ago.”
“Well, the grove stands there before us, and I see nothing but some well-tended birch trees, and quite a few of them at that.”
“Let’s go a little closer.”
They approached the starkly bare grove, where the trees formed an enclosure, trunk upon trunk, branch over branch, making a majestic tangle of shining birch wood. It was now evident that the trees had been planted or cultivated to make a series of rings, with the widest circle at the outside and each ring narrowing as you approached the centre. Trunks thicker than any Rigg had yet seen on the island formed an effective screening or barrier fence, and the sunlight playing across the twisted branches made curious patterns on earth and wood, snow and stone.
At the edge of the grove the two friends found a large stone, well worn by storm and sun, on which was carved the Berkana — the birch tree rune — associated with the old earth goddesses and the returning spring.
“Now what?” Ari demanded. “Look here! There are no more wolf tracks. They stop right here at the marker.”
“Perhaps the sun melted them,” Rigg ventured. But he felt a certain tingling at his scalp. Despite the sunlight and the quiet, there was something uncanny about this valley.
“Let’s make a prayer to Odin and Freyr and enter the grove,” Rigg suggested.
“Perhaps that’s the best way,” Ari agreed, and immediately bowed his head.
Rigg too bowed his head and prayed to the gods to forgive them for entering this sacred place.
After a few minutes they mustered their courage and walked forward among the trees.
CHAPTER THREE AMBUSH
