When now my dear father was dead, whom I myself had slain, I wept bitterly, and lay all night by the side of the dead.
And when the sun again arose I considered what I should now do.
At first I thought I would drive the flock to the monastery, which lay some six stages distant, and relate all to the monks, and confess how I had, all unwittingly, slain my own father; and beg for absolution for myself, and for a Christian grave for my dear father.
But I bethought me that the monks would not bury my father with Christian honours, since he had died a heathen. And neither would they allow me to burn him, after the custom of the heathen people, because the heathen gods would thus be brought much into remembrance. And they would certainly throw him, unhonoured, into the sea, as they had already done to a heathen from Zealand.
So I resolved to be silent about it all, and not to betray my dear dead father to the priests.
And thus could I neither confess the death blow, nor receive counsel respecting my guiltless crime.
And from thence was the beginning of my freeing my mind from the monks and their creed.
And I knew, quite near, of a cavern, which was known only to me, for it had a very small entrance, and I had only discovered it because I had followed a stone marten which had slipped into it. A fallen block of stone concealed the entrance, and I found many ashes and remnants of bones within the spacious cavern, which opened towards the sea. In early days, no doubt, the heathen Scots had burnt their dead here. Thither I carried, not without much difficulty, my dear dead father, and set him upright in the cavern, his face turned towards the sea. The roots of the oaks and ashes which waved above the cavern, penetrated through the stone downwards almost to his head. Above him roared the forest, before him roared the sea. There did I place my dear father, and rolled the stone again to the entrance.
But even his hammer, his only possession, I dared not keep. Even should I tell the monks I had found it, or bought it from sailors--they would not have left it with me, for strong heathen victory runes were engraved on the haft.
So I laid then the hammer also close to the right hand of the dead. "Guard it for me, dear father," I said, "till I need it again. Then will I fetch it."
But from that hour there came a great change over my disposition.
That which had most delighted me, to fight for my sheep with wolves, bears, and birds of prey--that attracted me no more.
Rather the question which had driven my dear father even to madness, if there be a God, or Gods? And how it could be that such fearful things should come to pass as are here set down in this history, from the vow upon the Bragi cup, on to this great horror, that the son had slain his own father. These questionings seized upon me, and would not let me rest, any more than my dear father.
And as my dear father of yore looked up to the stars, and implored the heathen Gods for enlightenment, so also did I look up to the stars for illumination, praying to Christ and the saints.
But to me also the heavens were dumb.
Then I said to myself--"Here on the sheep pastures, and from the roar of the sea, and from the light of the stars, wilt thou find no answer all thy life long, any more than thy dear father.
"But in the books of the monks, the Latin ones and those others, with the crinkled runic flourishes, lie hidden all holy and worldly wisdom.
"And when thou can'st read them, all will be clear to thee in heaven and upon earth."
And so I took leave of my dear father, gathered my sheep together, and drove them to the monastery.
"Art thou gone mad, Irenæus?" asked the porter, as he opened the door for me and my bleating charge, "that thou drivest home before shearing time. They will scourge thee again."
"I was mad," I replied, "but now I will become a scholar. Now another may scare the wolves. I will learn Greek."
And thus I also said to the good Abbot Aelfrik, before whom I was at once led for chastisement.
But he said--
"Lay the scourge aside. Perchance the boy, who has always been a heathenish worldly Saul, has become suddenly a Paul, through the grace of the holy Columban. He shall have his wish. If he holds to it--then it is a work of the saints. If his zeal flags, then it is a wile of Satan, and he shall go out again to his sheep."
But I kept silence, and said nothing about the reason for which I wished to learn.
And my zeal did not flag, and I learned Latin and Greek, and read all the books that they had in the monastery, the Christian ones of the church fathers, which they call theology, and many heathen ones, of the old world wisdom, which they call philosophy.
And I soon perceived that often, in one church father, was found just the contrary of what was in another church father.
And that Aristotle reviled Plato, and that Cicero tried to make sense of it all, and could not.
And after that I, in three, four years, had read through all the books which they had in the monastery, and had contended all night long with all the monks in the monastery, I knew no more of that which I wished to know than on the day when I had buried my dear father.
The old good-natured fat Abbot Aelfrik however--he was of noble race, and had formerly been a warrior at the court of the Scottish King, and loved me--often said to me,
"Give up these searchings Fridgifa"--for he willingly called me by my heathen name when we were alone. "Thou must believe, not question. And drink often, between whiles good ale or wine, and sing a song to the harp"--for he had taught me harp playing, in which I had great delight, and which he loved much, and everyone said that none could play the harp like me in all Scotland; "and forget not either often to throw the lance at the target in the monastery garden. Much book reading withers the body."
And I remembered that my dear father's last words had been just the same. And often and often I stole away to my dear father's hill, brought forth the hammer, exercised myself in hammer throwing by star light, and sat then for hours before the cavern, and listened to the roar of wind, wood, and wave.
And now it often seemed to me as if, in such moods, I came nearer to the truth than through all the books of the Christian priests, and heathen philosophers.
And I almost believe I shall not stay much longer in the monastery.
Especially since, lately, a skald from Halogaland visited the monastery, and told of the life at the court of King Harald; of his lordly royal hall, in which twenty skalds by turns play the harp.
And how the boldest heroes ever willingly enter his service.
And how year by year his warlike expeditions are crowned with victory.
And of Gunnlôdh, his wonderfully beautiful golden-haired daughter, who pledges the bravest heroes and the best skalds in the horn.
Since then, my inclination no longer turns towards psalm-singing and vigils.
But certainly they will not easily let me leave the monastery.
For because I can write Latin and Greek well, Aaron, the new Abbot, the Italian, who has succeeded the good peace-loving Aelfrik, makes me unceasingly write out manuscripts, which they then sell for a great price, in Britain, and even in Germany.
And Aaron is very sharp upon my track, because I seem to him to lack true Christian zeal.
And did he know that upon these parchment sheets, whereupon I ought to have written out, for the seventeenth time, the treatise of Lactantius "de mortibus persecutorum," I have, by night, written out the history of my dear father--it would not pass without many days' fasting, and some score of penitential psalms.
Lately he actually threatened me to have "some one" scourged, who ever again came too late for the Hora.
That "someone" was I. For I had just begun to write about the battle on the Singing Swan, and could not tear myself away from it when the Hora bell called.
But ere the son of Halfred the Sigskald endures scourging on the back,--rather will I slay Aaron and all his Italian monks.
But for slaying I need something different from this copying style.
* * * * *
Thus far had I written by Good Friday.
For a long while could I not contrive to write further. For the hatred, jealousy, and mistrust of Aaron and his hangers-on--there are many of his Italian countrymen come with him from Rumaberg--grow constantly greater. He has forbidden me to write by night.
Only by day, and in the library, no longer in my cell, may I write. And the transcript of Lactantius I am to deliver to him on the appointed parchment by Whitsuntide, on pain of seven days' fasting.
My resentment increases against this priestly tyranny.
Only rarely, and by stealth, can I get at these pages. Also I can only with great difficulty reach my dear father's hill. They track my lonely wanderings.
It will soon come to open war. At any rate I will provide myself with a sure weapon.
* * * * *
With difficulty did I, yesterday evening, in the sleeve of my frock, bring my dear father's hammer into the monastery. I have hidden it in the outer court, but where--that I do not trust even to these pages. I think much over the question of my dear father, and I believe that soon I shall find the truth.
* * * * *
For three days I could not write at all. The skald from King Harald's court has again been a guest in the monastery.
I have made him tell me all about the life at that court. It is just as in my dear father's days. Certainly King Harald and all his courtiers are heathens, and their warlike expeditions are mostly against Christian kings and bishops. But that does not make me waver in my purpose, which is firmly resolved. He told me much about Gunnlôdh.
In twenty nights a ship of King Harald's will sail again into the harbour from...
* * * * *
I know now the answer to Halfred's question.
There are no heathen Gods.
But neither is there any Christian God, who, almighty, all merciful, all wise, allowed that the father should be slain by the son.
Rather, that only happens upon earth which is necessary, and what men do and do not, that must they do and not do; as the north wind must bring cold, the south wind warmth; and as the stone thrown must fall to the earth. Why must it fall? No one knows. But it must.
But men should not sigh and question and despair, rather rejoice in hammer throwing and harp playing, in sunshine and Greek wine, and in the beauty of women.
For that is a lie that it is a sin to long for a beautiful woman. Otherwise must the human race die out; if all become so devout as no more to long for a woman.
And the dead are dead, and no longer living.
Otherwise had the shade of my dear father long since appeared to me, at my earnest entreaty.
Of what alone, however, man should believe; of that I will speak hereafter.
Without fear shall he live, and without hope shall he die.
In this monastery, however, will I remain no longer than----.
Thus far had he written, the God forsaken Brother Irenæus. Here fell the righteous judgment of Heaven upon him.
I, Aaron of Perusia, called by the grace of God to feed these lambs of the holy Columban, had also the grace given to me to drive the diseased sheep from the flock.
Long was I on the track of him and his worldly, heathenish, sinful, ungodly, yea God-blaspheming doings; his guilty conscience had rightly boded this. Step by step I had him watched by Italian brethren, full of godly zeal, without his observing it. The most pious of them, Brother Ignatius of Spoletum, succeeded in winning his confidence--for stupidly unsuspicious are they--these barbarians--through often allowing him to entertain him with harp playing, Irenæus begged from him one day some ink powder from his store, as he had used up his appointed portion, and from the "Head of the Pharisees"--thus the shameless sinner termed his abbot and chief shepherd--could not obtain fresh supplies, without delivering over what he had written with the former supply.
Brother Ignatius at once, as was his pious obligation, told all to me, his abbot. But the ink powder he gave to him, with that wisdom of the serpent which is well pleasing to God in his priests.
Soon thereafter the sinner set out again upon one of those secret expeditions which have ever been his wont, remaining out the whole night when some errand had allowed him to escape from the monastery. I never forbade him to go out, for I hoped through one of these secret expeditions, most easily to discover his hidden doings. I sent, spies after him every time; but every time he suddenly and mysteriously disappeared among the wooded crags along the shore.
This time I myself sent him out, and as soon as he had left the monastery court I at once made a most rigorous search through the whole of his cell.
There at last I found, after much labour, these blasphemous pages, written very small, in his accursed graceful handwriting, and artfully hidden in a crevice between two stone slabs of the floor.
I took the devil's work with me, and read and read, with growing horror. So much sin, so much worldliness, so much heathenish delight in fighting and singing, in drinking and carnal love, so much, finally, of doubt, of unbelief, of naked blasphemy, had, under the roof of the holy Columban, under my pastoral staff, grown up, and been written out!
Abhorrence seized upon me, and holy indignation.
Forthwith I summoned the Italian brethren to special secret council and judgment. I pointed out to them the deadly poison of these writings, which indeed were full of the seven deadly sins; and the unanimous sentence was pronounced. First, three hundred lashes with the scourge; then immuring in the chastisement cell, with vinegar, water, and bread, until repentant contrition and the fullest amendment were made manifest.
Impatiently we awaited the return of the accursed sinner.
With the vesper bell he entered the door of the monastery court.
Immediately I placed myself before the door, shot the iron bolt, and called forward the Italian brethren. The greater number, the Anglo-Saxons, who were well disposed towards the blasphemer, on account of his sinful harp playing, and lukewarm in zeal for the Lord, I had before collected in the refectory, and locked up until the offender should be secured.
Hastily the Italians came, and behind them several armed bondmen of the monastery. Then, in place of all accusation, I held up these pages before the miserable wretch, and pronounced the agreed upon sentence.
Then, ere we were aware, the God-detested criminal sprang with lightning speed to the cistern in the court, and drew forth from behind it a frightful horrible hammer.
"Dear hammer of Halfred, aid his son today," he cried in a threatening voice.
And the next thing was--it seemed to me as though the Heavens fell upon my head and neck--I sank upon the ground.
Only after a long while did I awake again.
Then I lay upon my bed, a man given up, and the brethren from Italy lamented around my couch; and recounted that the furious Samson had, with a second blow, shattered the bolt on the door, and made his escape. The monastery servants, indeed, followed him, and several of the brethren, led by brother Ignatius. But when the fugitive suddenly turned, and slew the foremost of the pursuers, one of the monastery servants, who would have seized him, with the frightful hammer, and struck down brother Ignatius, severely wounded, the others gave up the pursuit. At once he again disappeared, as always, among the cliffs and woods.
Never have we seen him since, although from the very day of my awakening I had him carefully searched for all along the coast. The cavern of which these accursed pages speak could we not find. I would have had the bones of the old heathen murderer thrown into the sea. Probably the son concealed himself there, until he could leave the island on some ship. I however, in consequence of the blow from his hammer, which shattered my shoulder and collar bone, on one side, have to suffer all my life long from a hideous twist of the neck, which is exceedingly prejudicial to the dignity of an abbot.
This sinful book of abominations however, I sent to Rome, to the holy Bishop, with the question, whether we should burn it, or preserve it, to aid in tracing and convicting the escaped monk, should we succeed in capturing him again?
For a long long time came no answer.
But after many many years the book came back from Rome, with the command to keep it--only the blasphemous passages therein were erased--and as a warning example to others, was the Abbot of St. Columban to append to these pages an account from an accompanying letter of the Archbishop Adaldag of Hamburg, of how dreadful a fate had, through the righteous judgments of God, ended this apostate's sinful life of the highest earthly enjoyment; which he--this may console us--will doubtless have to expiate in the eternal torments of hell.
From the Archbishop's letter it appeared there could be no doubt that our perjured Brother, Irenæus, is none other than one who, in all the courts of the north, has been for many years celebrated as a warrior and singer, and crowned with all earthly fame and happiness, Jarl Sigurd Halfredson; who appeared suddenly at the court of King Harald of Halogaland--none knew whence he came--with one of the skalds of the King, and through hammer throwing, and harp playing, soon won for himself such renown that King Harald gave him three castles, the command of all his armies, and his daughter Gunnlôdh in marriage.
But King Harald was the most furious Christian hater, and the bitterest opposer of the Gospel in all the North.
And for long years Jarl Sigurd led the troops of King Harald, and always led them to victory.
The Lord at that time tried his own with severe affliction. He had turned his face from them, and the vassals of the Bishops, and of the Christian princes of the North, could not stand before Jarl Sigurd, and his dreaded hammer.
But the end of this man of blood was horrible, and therefore it has been--by the command of the holy Father--copied from the letter of the Archbishop, as a fearful warning to all who read these pages.
As he, that is to say, after once more in a great battle overthrowing the Bishop's troops, was pursuing them in sinful joy, and shouting "victory, victory!" he was mortally wounded by an arrow in the breast.
King Harald caused his heathen priests and the skalds to draw near to the right side of the death bed, to console him with songs of Valhalla.
The wounded man waved them away with his hand.
Then drew near, on the other side of the dying, three Christian priests, who had been made prisoners in the battle, and would have given him the holy last Sacrament, if he acknowledged the Lord.
Indignantly the godless sinner repulsed them with his arm. And when King Harald, astonished, asked him in whom then he believed, if not in the heathen Gods, nor in the white Christ? he laughed and said--"I believe in myself, and my strength. Kiss me once more, Gunnlôdh, and give me Greek wine in a golden cup."
And he kissed her, and drank, and said--
"Glorious it is to die in victory"--and died.
But he remained unhonoured and unburied by heathen priests and Christians, since he had defiantly rejected both.
So then it is certain and set forth as a warning to all--but to us a righteous consolation--that the God accursed soul of this most blasphemous of all sinners must burn in hell for ever and ever--Amen.
What I here wrote down, years since, as my belief concerning the fate, after death, of this abandoned sinner, has been fully confirmed by a delightful testimony.
That is to say, Brother Ignatius--who lately died--and certainly in great sanctity--was before his death honoured by a wonderful vision.
Saint Columban, himself, in a dream, led him by the hand into hell, and there he saw, in the deepest pit of sulpher, Brother Irenæus, burning whole and entire.
But upon his left shoulder blade, on the spot where he struck me, his Abbot, sat an infernal raven, and hacked unceasingly through the shoulder even to his blaspheming heart.
Of this has Brother Ignatius assured us before his death. And therefore have I hereunto add this also, about the raven and the shoulder blade, in order that all who read these pages, but especially the disciples of the holy Columban in this monastery, may learn the chastisement which awaits him who lifts heart and hand against his soul's shepherd, the Abbot.
Footnote 1: "Oski," in reality one of the special forms of Odin, is, in the Scandinavian mythology, the god who fulfils all the desires of men.
Footnote 2: Here the parchment is pierced through, and with different ink three crosses are signed over the burnt out part.
Footnote 3: Cup sacred to Bragi, the god of poetry. At the Yule feast the heathen were wont, while the Bragi cup was passing round, to pledge themselves by vows to the performance of deeds of special danger or renown. They swore upon the Bragi cup, or upon the boar's head, which was the principal dish of the feast.
Footnote 4: A poetical expression of the Edda for the beginning of drunkenness.
Footnote 5: "Brisingamene," the necklace of Freya, the goddess of love, was the symbol of female charm and attraction.
Footnote 6:i.e.Peacebringer.