Kama. Terese Brasen

in his mead as he mourned the loss of the one woman stupid enough to keep him company.

      Then the bard began.

      "We have heard of the thriving of the throne of Dane land," he said, a chorus of men banging their shields lightly—a rhythmic clapping that drew everyone's attention to the front of the hall. Noisy voices quieted, until the entire hall was watching the small man with a large voice. The bard's skin was leathery and dark, tanned from crossing the land by sleigh, horses pulling him into the wind. He was a traveler, his clothes collected from other lands, red pants and a fur-lined vest, birds painted on the dark suede. His shoes were cloth with bells on pointed toes, treasures from far beyond Constantinople. His voice was like a horn sounding, and soon onlookers were beating the tables to the rhythm.

      We have heard of the thriving of the throne

      of Dane land

      How the folk kings flourished in former days,

      How those royal kings earned that glory.

      Was it not Godfred who sacked the halls

      Torched the mead benches and taught

      encroaching foes to fear him?

      That was good king.

      Around the hall, women nursed their children to sleep. Younger children played hide and seek, their shrieks of joy interrupting the storytelling. Kama knew the story of Godfred the Famous. People said he had been so big and powerful no one could match him. He had been an exceptionally able ruler and warrior who rose early every morning to supervise his men and oversee his ships and fortresses.

      The story of Godfred was just a beginning. Soon the bard took a torch from its stand and held it close to his face. The light cast shadows over loose skin. His cheeks drooped with sadness. The torchlight reflected off the bard's gray eyes, so his eyes shone like silver mirrors. With fire in hand, he moved through the hall. His voice boomed as he began a new unheard story of Henry the Fowler sailing north with his army, over the North Sea, arriving in Dane land one stormy night. The bard's voice woke sleeping children. Cries ripped through the hall. Fear breathed through the hall's semi-darkness.

      That night, Kama learned that Hedeby was in flames. The Saxons had invaded the distant city and pushed back the Danes and Swedes. The enemy had arrived, 300 ships in all. The Danish king Gnupa had sounded the attack, but the onslaught was fierce, and the dead piled up so thickly that the victors could walk across the corpses to the great wall, the Dannevirke. They had built a huge pyre on top of it, and when it was ablaze, they had used long pitchforks to hurl the burning timbers down into the town.

      In the great hall that night, the evening of celebration had turned solemn. Torches burned but the banging of fists and swords subsided. Kama sat in disbelief. She wanted someone to tell her she had heard wrong. All she had now was Hedeby, and now that home was gone too.

      Then came the piercing sound of the horn flute, fingers dancing, sending melodies through the room. Many joined in with deep-throated sounds full of both hope and lament. Others swayed to the music, young girls circling their heads, swinging their hair all too close to the fires. Kama covered herself in her fur and exited through a side door, almost tripping over bodies lying face down in the snow, young men unaccustomed to bottomless pints of mead. It was a new year but there was still no visible sign of the returning sun. Stars watched over her as she followed her well-worn path along the stones to the townhouse, her feet finding their way despite the darkness. The familiar steps belied the fact that nothing was normal anymore.

      RAM MONTH KIEV 935 CE

      Beach fires were burning along the riverbank outside the front gates, lighting one part of the wide, ice-covered waterway. Every winter evening became a festival with women, men and children strapping blades to their boots. An ancient mode of transportation had become a pastime and a game. Men who preferred to be sailing and marauding brought ball nets down to the ice to play a winter version of ball. Sticks pushed a small stone. Bodies shoved roughly as they fought for control of the object. The game often became a full brawl with fists mercilessly pounding each other. Grown men grabbed at beards. They screamed like children and then laughed at their own bloodied faces. Kama preferred the other end of ice where Ula sat on a wooden trunk playing a lyre. Her simple songs were like gentle kisses that made Kama enjoy every push her blades made on the ice. Forward and backward, she turned and glided. The moon, stars and fires agreed that this moment was connected to all time, to everything that had always been and would always be.

      That night, Kama joined in a new game, boys against girls. A line waited on each side until the whistleblower let out a sharp call. Each line rushed, bent down. Skaters pushed their blades into the ice, hoping to reach the other side untouched, unhurt and uncaptured. Kama was forgetting herself in the game, when bodies collided. With a crash, the game ended. Her back hit the ice hard. Reaching to break the fall, her elbow crashed against the ice. A piercing scream. At first, she didn’t realize it was her own, and then he was there, trying to help her up. He smelled of onions, different from the cold sweaty scent of the skaters. Kama was only wearing a short dress, like a man's tunic. Wool stockings covered her legs.

      Kama didn’t want his help, but she was in too much pain. The man helped her off the ice to the bench where people often sat as they buckled on their blades. He removed one of her skates and used it to chop off a piece of ice from the riverbank, then placed the cold block against her arm. He held it there. The relief was immediate. Soon she was following him, her skates unbuckled, her good hand clasping them, two blades in one hand. He had promised her a special tea, something to make the pain subside.

      He led her towards the school and then into his room. It was dark except for two candles burning in large silver candelabra that stood by the fire pit. The flames sputtered and flared then shrank, moving their light across the ornate carpets that covered the floor and walls. Kama had never seen such a crowded room. Between the pillows, stood stacks of books and scrolls of papyrus beside silver boxes—at least half a dozen cases, large and small, with colored stones ornately placed over the lids and sides.

      The room was icy.

      “Isn't that dangerous?" Kama asked, about leaving the candles burning while he was out and the room unattended. And why had he let the fire itself burn out on a winter day when the stores of milk and cheese could freeze in a few hours?

      He took off his boots, and Kama followed his lead, although it wasn't her custom to remove her shoes inside the house. But this was different. The rugs were as ornate as tapestries and too fine for footwear. He took her to several large pillows. His hands gently pushed her down until she felt comfortable. The fire was out, but the water in the kettle was still warm. He dipped a cloth in the water, wrung it out then wrapped it inside another cloth and placed it on her arm. He had a small nose and black beard. So much about this man was small and thin, small brown eyes, thin hands. He wasn't strong or tall, just a miniature man who spent too much time in the dark reading, yet his hair was a mass of unkempt curls that radiated up and out, like thoughts determined to escape.

      He made tea and they sipped and talked about her pain. After a while, he lifted a shawl from one of the pillows, unfolded it, draped it over his shoulders, then unrolled one of the scrolls and put it down on the floor beside the pillows. He licked his small thin fingers, as though the scroll was too dry to touch, then knelt and despite the darkness began chanting in a strange language. Kama failed to recognize any of the words although the sounds were like the chanting at weddings and funerals. They were a flowered fragrance that marked the present as out of the ordinary.

      “My father was a high priest, which means I am a high priest,” he said. Between each phrase, he paused, took a breath, and then started again. Words spilled from his mouth, as though each day he had composed thoughts and sentences that he could finally speak.