Peace-Weaver

Dear Travelers,
As an apology for missing last week's regular post (I was sick and couldn't bring myself to write anything), I thought I'd do a double post today. The first is this freebie short story that I wrote while in college and then published with Z Publishing House in 2019.

This is based on a few lines in Beowulf. I've fictionalized some of the characters and events for the sake of this story (so any Beowulf fans can calm down. I know it's not all accurate to the original story.)

I hope you enjoy!

Peace-Weaver

By Kayla Nelson

The trees whispered of the end. The attacks started the night the ships left and they were due to return within the week. The Heorot would fill with feasting, drink, and song and Freawaru would leave with the enemy. If all went well, she may see her family in a year or two-- likely with a child on her hip and another on the way. It was her duty. Her father had decided for her. Assuming, of course, the monster didn’t eat everyone before then.

 Through the forest and away from the cliffs, Freawaru trekked to the lake. Every day she walked the same path, yet the brush never bent out of place and the earth never held her footprints. The lake was wide and deep with brackish waters that murmured with the wind. A warning to humans to stay away. Nothing lived here, no water fowl, no frogs, not even a dragonfly to skim across the surface. The sight of the water and the smell of decay sent a shiver through the girl’s narrow frame. She pushed the fear aside and knelt by the water’s edge, imagining blood oozing from the mud to stain her skirt.

Finding the lake had been an accident. The first night of the monster’s attack on the Heorot left everyone stunned. Freawaru had done her duty in helping to remove the gore from the mead hall, scrubbing the floors until the wash water turned crimson. Afterwards she stumbled into the forest, the pain welling up in her chest, into her throat until she couldn’t breathe, and finally ripping free in body wracking sobs. Poor Balli, sweet, charismatic little Balli; the youngest of her brothers. All they found was his bloody and broken shield and part of his jaw. Not even a body to bury.

When she lifted her head, she found herself by a lake with water as still as death. A strange woman sat on the bank, feeding sticks to a small fire. She promised the princess protection from the curse, all in exchange for a few personal trinkets. What did she have to lose?

“It’s good to see you, Freawaru,” a honey laced voice called. A woman-- or something that was once a woman-- sat by the waters, a thick cloak tossed over her head and shoulders. “How is your father today? Still set on sending you off to that Heathro-Bard?”

Freawaru struggled not to wrinkle her nose at the woman’s stench. She watched as the woman adjuster her cloak, the too long fingers a pale blue from the cold with dirt staining her nails. “My wedding gown is nearly finished.”

“You didn’t expect him to change his mind, did you?”

“I’ve come to make my payment.” Opening the purse that dangled from her belt, Freawaru pulled out a fine bone comb, some socks she’s knitted the previous winter, and a set of blankets she’d woven the day before. What a Fae wanted with trinkets was beyond her but she chose not to question it. Passing each to the woman, she waited for anything, a word, a frown, a light in her dark eyes either of memory or recognition, but there was none. After all the items were given over, the woman passed her six pouches, no bigger than the palm of her hand.

“As usual, place them near the ones you wish to protect and do not look inside.”

Freawaru stood, placing them into her purse before giving a sharp nod of her head and departing without a farewell.

Returning to the Heorot, she slipped into the sleeping quarters of a few of the serving girls, the ones who were her closest friends, and hid a pouch under their sleeping mats. Only the men who rested in the mead-hall at night fell prey to the monster but if it ever wandered to the back of the hall or found its way into the sleeping quarters instead of the main hall, Freawaru shuddered at what the morning scene would hold. She slipped away from the servant’s quarters undisturbed and went to her mother’s chamber, hoping it was empty.

Wealthrow sat by a window, straight backed as her fingers flew through her needlework. She looked up when her daughter entered the doorway. “Where have you been?” Her sharp eyes fell to the mud stains on the princess’s skirt. “Is that how you intend to present yourself to your husband?”

“No, Mother,” Freawaru brushed at the stains as she approached. “But the Heathro-Bard won’t arrive for some time.”

“Sooner than you wish,” her mother grumbled, motioning for her to sit and take up her sewing. “There is still your dress to finish and your lessons to complete.” She sighed and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “At least you will be far from all of this.”

Laying a cloth over her skirt so she didn’t ruin her work, Freawaru picked up the yellow fabric and began stitching the hem, embroidering it with a fine gold thread. Everything had been arranged. The Danes and the Heathro-Bards would stop their war in exchange for kinship. The princess would marry their king, a young fool called Ingeld who sought to prove himself to his people, and peace would last between them. If only the Heathro-Bard were there, the monster could kill them and the whole ordeal would be over.

Wealthrow leaned over to examine her daughter’s work. “Your stitches are uneven. Take them out and redo the hem.”

Freawaru sighed but began ripping out the stitches. “Do you truly think this marriage will end the raids?”

“If Ingeld breaks the peace pledge then nothing will protect him from your father’s revenge.”

“What about the monster? If it continues to attack our men, Father will not be strong enough to fight our enemies.”

“Hush. It is not our duty to worry about the war. It will be your duty to prevent it.” She tied a knot in her thread. Her embroidery was envied by every Dane woman. Some whispered she learned from the winter spirits who embroidered the forests and waters with ice.

“Did you succeed in preventing a war?”

Wealthrow stiffened. She did not look at her daughter and her hands hesitated in their work. Freawaru took note of the dark circles under her mother’s eyes and the lines on her face that deepened with worry. She could not remember if the lines were always there or if the appearance of the monster had aged the queen in a matter of months.

Sighing, Freawaru set aside her work and produced a pouch from her purse. “I went out to see the seiokona who is staying in the woods. She gave me this.” I passed it to her. “She said to keep it near you and Father as you sleep to keep the monster away.”

“And how did you pay for this?”

“I took care of it. Please,” she pressed the pouch into her hands, “for my own peace of mind.”

Wealthrow didn’t speak at first but she tucked the pouch into her own purse. “Back to your sewing. I’d like to finish this gown today.”

The day continued with their regular duties. Sewing and cooking, Wealthrow tutoring her daughter in the ways of a courtly lady. “Do not slouch,” she scolded as Freawaru bent over her weaving, “you must always appear confident, a sturdy cornerstone. But also be gentle. And guard your tongue,” she added before the princess could argue, “Gods, how did you come to be such a critical creature.”

“By example, perhaps.”

The queen met her daughter’s gaze with equal ferocity. “Quips like that will kill our men in battle.”

Freawaru frowned, wanting to say more, but she kept quiet. Her struggle was not with her mother.

As night fell, the tense but determined nature of the Heorot vanished with the sun, locking the hall and houses in its terror grip. Freawaru lay awake, listening to the sounds of her home as the night progressed. The stationed guards shifted at their posts, their armor clinking as they moved. Everyone knew they would slip away as the night deepened. No one wanted to be near the hall when the monster struck. The demon Grendel, her father had called it. Not even the moon or stars watched as the Danes listened and waited.

At times, Freawaru thought she heard the creak of the main door, bolted and barricaded against another attack. She sat up when she thought a shadow passed by her window, but no physical being ever appeared before her eyes. In the previous nights, the monster had only murdered the men, but if it tired of man-flesh, there was little to protect the women-folk. Eventually her eyes grew heavy and she slept, a long limbed creature with red stained teeth looming over her crept through her dreams.

Dawn was a bittersweet sight. The terror of the night gave way to the sorrow of the day. Freawaru joined the women as they dutifully cleaned the mead-hall. Five of the king’s men were lost; their benches blood-splattered and the floor covered with their slaughtered flesh. When the attacks started, Freawaru had felt sick at the sight and smell but now she cleaned the red stains from the wood as she would remove dust in the spring.

Wails from some of the women filled the halls. Girls crying for a lost father or brother or lover. They would be cared for, protected. But there could be no funerals, a cruel fate for the dead, too cruel even for a hated enemy. Freawaru let the others comfort the women. After the first three nights of this horror, she felt sympathy but nothing more, not enough to tend to the crying and quiet the sobbing with words of better times or empty promises of revenge. What was the point when more would die the next night?

Once the gore was cleaned from Heorot, Freawaru slipped away, gathering more trinkets for the seiokona. A hat and mittens she made for her brother, a loaf of bread, and a few jewels her father had given her from one of his raids. Why the unearthly woman would want such things, she couldn’t guess, but a few trinkets for the safety of a few of her house was better than anything else she could afford.

She left Heorot, taking the path down to the coast before circling back up to the cliffs and forest and finally to the lake. The woman sat on the bank with her fire as usual, waiting for her.

“A pleasant morning, Freawaru,” she said, motioning for the princess to sit. “My son asked me to thank you for such a filling meal last night.”

Rage should have burned its way up Freawaru’s throat to her ears and the crown of her head, stung her eyes with tears, or compelled her to rise and leave the woman without another word. But she felt none of this and sat, careful to protect her skirt with a thick apron. “I’ve come to make my payment.”

The woman grinned, twisted with yellowing teeth.

Freawaru passed her each of the items without a word but the woman did not give her any pouches right away.

“They will be ready shortly. Sit with me awhile.”

The two women looked out across the lake. The wind sent small waves across the surface and from the sea; a bird screamed its fury at a rival over a fish. If the horrors of the past nights and the unearthly feeling that filled the air disappeared, the lake would be a nice spot to relax. Freawaru recalled the places she used to escape to in the forest when she was a child, dry creek beds and old hollows; Balli used to tell her he’d seen goblins and fairies in the forest.  She wondered if her new home would have similar places where she could hide away in.

“I am curious,” the woman broke the silence, “why would you come to me for aid? You know what my son is.”

Freawaru shifted. “I need to protect my people.”

“You are protecting them by marrying the Heathro-Bard. Why ask to delay the wedding and live through the attacks every night?”

“Why is your son attacking us in the first place?”

“To exact revenge against the earth for Cain’s sins against Able.” There was a pause, and then the woman snickered. Her shoulders shook until she threw her head back and cackled. “Honestly, what a ludicrous thing to think! Of course your men would claim such a thing. As if my kind would care for anything you humans do.” She laughed again.

Freawaru frowned. The anger flickering in her felt more like an annoyance at the old woman’s laugh and less at her words. “Then what? Have we insulted or angered you in some way? Or are you and your son cruel devils bent on our destruction?”

The laughter died as instantly as it started. “Do not pretend you know anything about my kind. My son must eat and you and your people are a convenient source of food. Nothing more.” Reaching into the water, she withdrew six more pouches and passed them to Freawaru. “How many can you save before your wedding and what will happen once you are gone? Do you believe you are making a difference in their fates?”

“You said you could end this curse. When are you going to fulfill your end of the bargain?” Freawaru faced the woman, suddenly braver than she had felt in a long time. “What will it cost me to stop Grendel from slaughtering my people?”

The woman grinned again. “In time, dear. If you wanted results immediately, it would cost more than you’re able to pay.”

“How much?”

“Your soul.”

“What?”

“Losing one’s soul all at once is quite painful and leaves you empty and cold, over a period of time, though,” she held up the comb Freawaru had given her the day before. The bone glowed blue. “It works like a charm.”

Shooting to her feet, Freawaru glared down at the creature. She wanted to hit her, to tear out her ugly eyes and throw them into the lake. “You bitch. You ugly, foul, cruel demon-whore.”

“Hmm, you have a spirit of a warrior. Not a good sign for a peace-weaver.”

“Tell your son to wait until the Heathro-Bards return. He may gorge himself on them and their idiot king, but if one more of my people come to harm by either of your hands, I will personally gut both of you and feed you to the corbies.”

The woman’s yellow teeth glinted in the morning light. “You think we orchestrated this plot against you. There are two of us, my son and I, your soul is not enough to share.”

Blood drained from Freawaru’s face. She turned on her heels and marched away, the woman’s cackling laughter following her into the woods.

Freawaru marched straight to the Heorot, not caring if anyone saw where she emerged from the forest. Anger and fear fueled her. As much as she did not want to admit it, the woman was right. If the demon wasn’t stopped, her people would keep dying and even if he was defeated, they would die from the war that she was sure she could not prevent. Was one fate crueler than the other? And if someone from the Heorot truly wanted the monster to kill them, then what was to stop them once she left?

Once in her room, Freawaru threw off her apron and withdrew the pouches. Soft leather with hair drawstrings, they appeared so plain and unremarkable. She pressed one between her thumb and forefinger, rolling it to feel what was inside. Something small and round and smooth. Against her better judgement, she opened one of the pouches and poured its contents into her hand. It was a river stone, dark and smooth, not even a rune or string tied around it. Nothing remarkable or powerful. She threw the pouches into the fire and turned away.

Wealthrow burst into the room. “Where have you been?” She glided to the trunk at the foot of her daughter’s bed. “We have to get you ready. Your father is preparing a feast for some Geats who have arrived on our shores.”

“Geats?” Freawaru frowned. “Why are they here?”

“Supposedly to rid us of this Grendel-demon, as if a man can stand against those foul creatures,” Wealthrow selected an elegant dress, the exact one her daughter wore when the Heathro-Bards had come to arrange the marriage. “But our alliance with them is important, especially with your marriage coming.”

“It won’t work,” she whispered.

Wealthrow looked at her. For a moment, the worry and pain flooded her face, years of anger and fear and sorrow surfacing from some dark pool in her mind. “We need this to work. Everything has gone wrong. Too many have died. Grendel hasn’t stopped the wedding and he hasn’t killed the real villain. I’ve lost--” She swallowed to steady her voice. “Everything I do, I do to protect you.”

“What have you done, Mother?”

The moment passed. Wealthrow set the dress in her arms and turned away to select a hair comb to match.

Saying nothing, Freawaru and her mother dressed for the feast, arranging their hair, adding charcoal to their eyelids to emphasis their dark beauty, decorating themselves with jewelry. The Danes were a proud and powerful people-- under normal circumstances-- it was important to remind visitors of their military might by showing all they could provide for their women.

The feast lasted long into the night, the men exchanging gifts and stories to strengthen their military bonds while the women smiled and served the food and mead. Freawaru followed her mother, offering the leaders and warriors drinks from a goblet. The Geat leader looked strong, but so had many of the Dane men who fell to Grendel. The monster would eat well tonight.

After the feast, Freawaru lay awake, listening for a sound, a creak of wood or a shuffle of feet outside. Instead, she heard an unfamiliar snoring and the wind shifting the thatch of the roof. Turning on her side, she looked at the remains of the fire and the charred stones that lay among the ash. Why would river stones protect her people from the monster’s attacks? Had she ruined her chance to save them by burning the stones? Would it be better for everyone to die before the Heathro-Bards arrived? Fear whispered all its cruel promises in her ear as she closed her eyes and waited for sleep. She felt as if she was being watched. Swallowing, she kept her eyes closed and waited for the inevitable. The morning would bring more sorrow. She would feel a little less, and she would lose her soul either to a demon or to a pointless marriage.

A sound in the mead-hall drew her from her thoughts. She knew which life she preferred. Slipping from her bed, she grabbed a shawl, throwing it over her shoulders as she crept from her room and towards the main room. A roar, the crash of bodies and armor; she froze.

Wealthrow appeared at her side. They exchanged a glance before stepping into the hall.

It was dark. There was a foul stench but not like the smell of gore they had come to know. The Geat leader stood at the other end of the hall, panting. Wealthrow sucked on her teeth. “Stupid man.”

Freawaru swallowed. Fate had chosen for her. “I’ll be alright, Mother.”