The Thread Upon the Loom, pt. III

III.

Behold this flood before us, friends, that fills the plain
And threatens death by overwhelming waves of men!
Behold the helms that gleam with fearsome rays
Reflected from the glowing eyes that glint beneath!
Behold the ash-poles tipped with iron tongues—
Tongues that thirst to lick the blood of fallen foes!
Their spears and swords upraised, and hatred writ upon
Their faces—no mercy there—death is in their eyes!
Behold the dragon banner that before us proudly flies
And taunts us with his flaming gilded visage fell!
The grim clouds lower grey and veil the heavens,
Sending hail upon our heads. Breast the windy waves of rain
Like our ships upon the sea, or the petrel in the gale—
The fiercer that the rain strikes, firmer set your face against it;
When grim skies glower, grin a grim defiance.

Now turn and gaze upon each other, at these men
With whom you have fought and bled and died;
Turn and look upon our crimson banner, bathed in blood
Of fallen friends and foes, with the black death-bird upon it flying.
See his cousins circle above in raucous ranks;
Behold the ravens, hear their rasping cries:
Welcome, harbingers of death! Thy beaks have torn the
Fallen bodies of our fellows and shall feast on ours today—
We hope not for life. It is enough that in our death
You feed on us as well and join us to our friends.
The valkyries ride among the wheeling flock
To take us to the hall of Odin when we have breathed
Our last. Welcome! We are but few, and they are great,
But hope we yet to feed thee well.

Behold our band together! Like a well-wrought sword
Forged by Thor’s great hammer, of the iron men of Denmark;
Hammered on the battle's anvil,
Tempered in the swirling, scarlet spray of blood,
One body and one edge we show; we hold or we shatter.
If one flees, he is as a splinter which was
Never melded in the molten metal, and is foreign to the iron.
Sparks may fly, but we hold or break as one.
He who wishes may thus flee; we shall not stop him,
But the one who flees shall save his life, and also lose,
For in that day, the bond of blood is broken, and he dies.

How many years have we lived as one, friends?
Ten, and twice as many times have our sea-birds
With the dragon prows flown us upon the waters.
Leaving the long halls upon the Northern cliffs,
We wandered to the land of Saxons, to burn halls and gather gold.
Some would stay behind; their wives bade them,
And their families grew; perhaps they now are jarls
Or even kings, descended from the gods of Asgard.
Perhaps they play at games, and honor Tyr—
I think the greater honor for that god is on the battleground,
And likewise men; to make the games of war
In halls or in the kin-strife brings no glory
And empties manhood of its strength.

Ten times now, as the sun’s rays rose
And festivities to Frey for spring began,
Ten times did we gather and arm ourselves for raids.
We cleaned our helms, which covered naught in winter, only carried mead,
We sanded them until they shone with gleaming fierceness.
Then we sharpened spears and swords, and our great axes,
To cleave more yielding trunks than wood.
Blood-thirsty from their wait, our weapons
Hummed as on the forge they hardened once again.
Then our chain-shirts we donned, linked rings
To hold the thrusting spears from our heart’s home.
We girded on our swords, and grasped our ashen spears;
Upon our shoulders hoisted linden shields
Marked with runes to boast of our brave exploits,
And on them pranced painted bears and wolves,
The beasts we strive to match in strength.
And finally our helms, with fierce carvings and beasts upon them,
Flew upon our heads to ward from them the striking steel.

Ten times now, with our armor all aboard our ships,
Did we spread our sails and catch the wind to draw us
To the Saxon’s shore. Ten times now have we sighted land
And roved up quiet rivers to disembark and seize upon
An unsuspecting hall. Then wandered inland, through the hart’s home,
Among the oaks and ashes, cousins of our ashen spears,
Over fells and moors, in search of towns to plunder.
We found them, and fell with fury on all we met.
Great wealth we found: ten times came with empty hands,
Nine did we return with fewer hands, but full.
Nine times, as the leaves turned brown,
Did we return to our waiting ships
And set our sails and oars for home.
Our scything prows cut swathes in the water-field,
And left a gleaming wake behind, in promise
Of our return by the same road.
Then our sea-dragons stretched their wings
And flew until they reached our fjords.
There we furled our sails, our ships
Nestling in their lairs with folded wings.
Nine times did we return burdened with cups and helms,
And golden rings to decorate our hands,
And shields to hang upon our walls,
Mutely speaking of our deeds to all who visited.

We passed the winter at our boards,
Drinking mead within our halls and telling of our battles;
Skalds heard the tales and repeated them in song—
So did we feast in winter. The cold north wind
Blew from the mountains and, howling,
Drove the wolves unto our door, their gasping growls
Reminding us of battle and rousing us to war
Against them, to drive these foul demons
Back into their forest home. Then we tired of this
And gladly waited spring, and when
The flowers and green gave word
That Frey had come again, we sailed forth.

Now in the eighth spring, the country all inflamed
Rose in anger against us and all our fellow raiders—
We hold this not against them; all must fight.
We fought with them in battle, and the slain filled many fields.
The swords had great play then; they bit each other
In the air, then tore the flesh of fated men,
Sating their thirst for flowing blood.
Our spears released the breath of many
Who gladly would have kept it in its prison.
The axes fed the ravens and sang as they split
Life from body. Fell deeds were done.

Dost thou remember the ford in Sussex?
How Thurstan stood struggling against a Saxon band?
In our sleep, the Saxons stole upon us
And alone he held them off, like Odin on Ygddrasill
Was hung upon a tree nine days
And pierced by spears to reach the runes, so did this son of Thor
Stand like a river-stone, and held the Saxon spears
At bay; finally they fled in terror at his iron axe,
And he stood still. The stream began to ebb,
And with it, did his life. We carved a stone
With runes and raised it at that ford for him.
I know not why his thread was cut, and not our own;
I know not why he did not live; he wished that raid
To be his last, and end his roving days to stay at home with Freda.
Many, I think, would lengthen that cord if so they could:
The Saxons felled beneath him would, as well.
But they cannot, nor can we: our time is told.

Fate weaves weird patterns in her web;
I know not why we stand upon this hill,
Or why another Norseman sits safe in peace at home,
But simply that our destiny has wrought
Infallibly our steps to bring us here,
And our doomed part to play is to play that doom to death.
We have no hope of winning; before the sun
Will set behind the hill, our bodies pierced will lie
Beneath the banner, and the ravens on our flesh will feed.
The wolves will join them, the valkyries swoop,
Taking those they choose and no others.
Yet that we have no hope of living matters not:
Yea, still the struggle’s worth the fighting,
For rest content that all our deeds fulfill
What has been written for the world
And bring it ever closer to its foretold end.
Before this blood-bound band of fated men I stand, and here appeal:
Come death and Hel, or else Valhalla, hold ye fast and fight!