the fire into the night sky. I felt embarrassed for him. His obvious sincerity diluted slightly the revulsion I felt for his erroneous story of the Creation, but almost certainly he had not intended to open his heart so readily to a stranger.
‘We are taught a truth very different from the story you have told me,’ I said at last, hoping to draw him out of his sadness and back into conversation. ‘I cannot imagine ever encountering your gods.’
Wulf turned to look directly at me, his eyes twinkling brightly through the gloom.
‘You already have,’ he replied, in a voice strangely flat and toneless.
I frowned in puzzlement.
‘This very night,’ he prompted, raising an eyebrow knowingly.
The terror of the horse-head dream and the huntsmen flooded back into my body and my whole world fell in. Wulf’s knowledge of my ordeal in the forest spun me into confusion and I suddenly felt totally unprotected and vulnerable, as if he could read my thoughts and know my deepest secrets.
Wulf leaned forward, his eyes never leaving mine, his face crinkling into a smile. He spoke in a whisper.
‘I know, because my reality is the sorcerer’s reality. I can enter the world of spirits and they showed me what happened to you as clearly as if I were watching images moving in a still pool.’
Dumbfounded and frightened, I desperately wanted to fill the silence with a statement, reply, question: anything. But I could say nothing.
‘The spirits of death acknowledged you,’ he said with conviction. ‘If Woden had not swept his huntsmen over your forest camp, then I would not—indeed could not—have served as your guide. I waited on the hilltop until Woden marked you out.’
He jumped up and paced energetically around the fire. All melancholy thoughts of the giants seemed to have left him.
‘Woden is greybeard among our gods,’ he continued animatedly. ‘He is god of the magic song, incantations, words of power. For nine nights Woden hung on the Tree of Knowledge, swept by the wind of destiny. He was pierced by the spears of Knowledge but he did not bleed. He hung there without food or drink; he hung there in a fast until he was transported to the mountain of the gods. There he was shown the secrets of the runes and the incantations that unravel the secrets of Middle-Earth.
‘This is why Woden had to mark you out. Only he chooses who may be guided to the secrets.’
Wulf stopped pacing and stood facing me, feet astride, thumbs hooked into his woven leather belt, casting his face in dramatic, moving shadows.
‘Brand, when Woden marked you out I knew that I could guide you. You have been granted access to the spirits.’
I stared at his face in the moving fire shadows, looking desperately for clues, signs, reassurance—I knew not what.
‘The spirits?’ My voice sounded tiny and cracked and I coughed to camouflage it. Wulf looked at me from under half-closed lids—a devastating look, full of craft and cunning.
‘The spirits are the custodians of our knowledge. If you wish me to guide you to our gods, then I can show you secrets your masters never dreamed of. But I warn you: the secrets of the spirits cannot be encompassed by words passed between us. You must encounter the spirits directly.’
I was still stunned by Wulf’s knowledge of my ordeal with the spectral huntsmen, but talk of spirits served only to compound my terror. I had survived the spectres in the forest, with the help of God Almighty, but to purposely seek them out smacked of evil. Spirits were devils, agents of evil, to be dismissed from the minds of pagans and supplanted by the Seed of Truth, the Word of God. Indeed, Eappa had warned me that pagan sorcerers steal the souls of the peasants through pacts with the devils. What Eappa had not told me—what he could not know—was that my guide was a sorcerer.
Wulf scrutinized me steadily as my thoughts whirled and spun.
‘Wulf, couldn’t you just tell me about the spirits? All I wish to know are
‘We are taught a truth very different from the story you have told me,’ I said at last, hoping to draw him out of his sadness and back into conversation. ‘I cannot imagine ever encountering your gods.’
Wulf turned to look directly at me, his eyes twinkling brightly through the gloom.
‘You already have,’ he replied, in a voice strangely flat and toneless.
I frowned in puzzlement.
‘This very night,’ he prompted, raising an eyebrow knowingly.
The terror of the horse-head dream and the huntsmen flooded back into my body and my whole world fell in. Wulf’s knowledge of my ordeal in the forest spun me into confusion and I suddenly felt totally unprotected and vulnerable, as if he could read my thoughts and know my deepest secrets.
Wulf leaned forward, his eyes never leaving mine, his face crinkling into a smile. He spoke in a whisper.
‘I know, because my reality is the sorcerer’s reality. I can enter the world of spirits and they showed me what happened to you as clearly as if I were watching images moving in a still pool.’
Dumbfounded and frightened, I desperately wanted to fill the silence with a statement, reply, question: anything. But I could say nothing.
‘The spirits of death acknowledged you,’ he said with conviction. ‘If Woden had not swept his huntsmen over your forest camp, then I would not—indeed could not—have served as your guide. I waited on the hilltop until Woden marked you out.’
He jumped up and paced energetically around the fire. All melancholy thoughts of the giants seemed to have left him.
‘Woden is greybeard among our gods,’ he continued animatedly. ‘He is god of the magic song, incantations, words of power. For nine nights Woden hung on the Tree of Knowledge, swept by the wind of destiny. He was pierced by the spears of Knowledge but he did not bleed. He hung there without food or drink; he hung there in a fast until he was transported to the mountain of the gods. There he was shown the secrets of the runes and the incantations that unravel the secrets of Middle-Earth.
‘This is why Woden had to mark you out. Only he chooses who may be guided to the secrets.’
Wulf stopped pacing and stood facing me, feet astride, thumbs hooked into his woven leather belt, casting his face in dramatic, moving shadows.
‘Brand, when Woden marked you out I knew that I could guide you. You have been granted access to the spirits.’
I stared at his face in the moving fire shadows, looking desperately for clues, signs, reassurance—I knew not what.
‘The spirits?’ My voice sounded tiny and cracked and I coughed to camouflage it. Wulf looked at me from under half-closed lids—a devastating look, full of craft and cunning.
‘The spirits are the custodians of our knowledge. If you wish me to guide you to our gods, then I can show you secrets your masters never dreamed of. But I warn you: the secrets of the spirits cannot be encompassed by words passed between us. You must encounter the spirits directly.’
I was still stunned by Wulf’s knowledge of my ordeal with the spectral huntsmen, but talk of spirits served only to compound my terror. I had survived the spectres in the forest, with the help of God Almighty, but to purposely seek them out smacked of evil. Spirits were devils, agents of evil, to be dismissed from the minds of pagans and supplanted by the Seed of Truth, the Word of God. Indeed, Eappa had warned me that pagan sorcerers steal the souls of the peasants through pacts with the devils. What Eappa had not told me—what he could not know—was that my guide was a sorcerer.
Wulf scrutinized me steadily as my thoughts whirled and spun.
‘Wulf, couldn’t you just tell me about the spirits? All I wish to know are
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