The Child Without A Shadow (a short-story)
by S.C.O. Tidemand
About a Norse farmer in Medieval Greenland, and what happened to him and his clan after he struck a certain bargain…
Greenland, 1364 AD
It was a howling, harrowing night when Bor Fenrison lost his wife.
The winter that year had been long and hard, and just as spring approached, it tossed upon the beleaguered household of Nyvikgard one last, ferocious blizzard. It was during the storm, as Hedda’s water broke, that the roof of the barn collapsed.
While the women took his wife to bed, Bor and the men raced into the storm. The livestock that had not been crushed had scattered, mad with panic. As one, the men herded what beasts they managed to recover within the white madness back into the Hall. Those who had strayed too far would have to be considered lost.
When Bor, at last, closed the door behind them, he turned to his assembled kinsmen. His sister, Embla, the family midwife, stepped forth, her hands and front caked in crimson. The look on her face made his heart stop.
His voice was nonetheless steady as he said: “Where is she?”
Embla directed him to the bedroom, where — on the bed that he and Hedda had constructed, in which they had consummated their marriage and planned their future — she lay. They had closed her eyes and folded her hands over her chest. She could have been sleeping if it was not for the sweat-drenched shift, and the cold red mess on the bed, testimonies to the brutality of Eve’s curse.
“And the baby?”
Embla pointed to Hedda’s chest. A tiny shape lay curled up beneath her hands.
His voice was still even as he said: “I would like to be alone, Embla.”
“Of course,” and he heard her and the other women comply, closing the door behind them.
Bor wasn’t sure how long he stood there, his eyes fixed on what remained of his family on the bed. Some distant part of him heard his kinsmen retire to their beds in the Hall, he even heard their whispers:
“I’ll go fetch Father Jonas and Svein the Undertaker in the morning.”
“Poor man and they had been trying for so long.”
“He was not there in her last moments.”
“Did you see him, though? His wife and baby die, and he doesn’t even blink.”
“Aye, you never could tell with him.”
“Be quiet!”
Someone doused the non-essential fires, and then all was silent. It was around that time that Bor left the bedside, passed through the Hall, and made for the exit. He wrenched the door aside, letting in the icy noise and fury, then shut it behind him, giving himself up to the blizzard.
Wordlessly, he pushed and shoved his way through the storm, fighting towards the outskirts of his farm. Once he was far enough away, he fell to his knees, and the scream he gave out was drowned by the storm, just as Hedda’s had been.
As the air left his lungs, he waited for the snow to bury him.
Then something caught his eye.
A looming, quadruped shadow staggered through the haze towards him. As it got closer, Bor caught a glimpse of greyish-white, frost-tipped fur, and an elongated face ending in a coal-black snout.
The wolf, the biggest Bor had ever seen, came to a shuddering halt before him.
Then, through the wind and flurry, Bor heard the beast utter two word: “Help me.”
And with that, it collapsed on its side.
Bor stared at the fallen beast, uncertain of what had just happened. But in the state he was in, there was little room for surprise.
He reached out and, with a titanic effort, dragged the wolf back towards the farm, and then on into the Hall. Once inside, Bor dropped the wolf next to the central fire, then proceeded to find fresh fuel. He threw a blanket over the beast, then pulled up a stool and waited, watching, his father’s axe on his lap.
Time rolled by, the silence broken only by the crackling fire and the storm outside, while Bor’s eyes watched the beast’s bulk rise and fall as it regained its breath.
“Thank you,” whispered the wolf, unmoving. There was a pause. “Where am I?”
“Nyvikgard, on the Western Settlement of Greenland.”
“My, that storm blew me well off course.”
“Where were you headed?”
“My cousins. They won’t appreciate me being late.” He peered up from the floor. “Still, to whom do I owe my life to?”
“Bor Fenrison. Yours?”
“Call me… Amagoq.”
“And what are you exactly?”
From the floor, the wolf peered at Bor with one amber eye. “I’m a wolf, last I checked.”
“Wolves don’t usually come and ask for help in storms. What are you then, some demon lost on the way back to the Pit?”
The wolf snorted, but didn’t say anything. Then it sniffed the air. “Whose death do I smell in this house?”
“My wife, Hedda Tyrsdottir. Died trying to bring our firstborn into this world.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Boy or girl?”
“Girl.”
“Had you settled on a name?”
“One, if it was a girl. Not that it matters anymore.” Bor shifted in his seat, looking into the fire. “Hedda’s at peace now, though. She was a good Christian woman, I see no reason she shouldn’t be welcome to Our Lord’s fold. But our child… because of the storm, we were not able to call a priest to baptise it in time, and so it died outside of God’s Grace. Our child is lost to the Abyss.”
“Not necessarily.”
Bor frowned. “Pardon?”
“Your child doesn’t need to remain lost.”
“How so?”
Amagoq moved into a sitting position. “Give me your child’s body, and I will bring her back to you at dawn.”
Bor stared at the wolf. “In exchange for what?”
“You’ve given me shelter and a place by your fire, I’m simply offering something in return.”
“I’ll not be tricked, Wolf. I’ll not put the bodily and spiritual health of my house at risk.”
“Peace, my friend, you risk nothing. Give me what I ask, and when you wake up tomorrow, you will have a hale and healthy daughter.”
“And how will I know it’s my daughter?”
“You’ll know.”
Bor watched Amagoq, who stared back.
Wordlessly, Bor got to his feet and went towards the bedroom.
Then he got up from his stool and headed for the bedroom. Hedda was still where he had left her. His eyes rested on her face for a moment, then moved to her hands and what lay beneath them.
What would she have wanted?
Amagoq the Wolf was waiting for Bor as he returned, silhouetted against the fire.
“Here,” Bor said, kneeling before the beast, holding his decision out, cupped in his hands.
The wolf sniffed his offering. “When dawn breaks, Bor Fenrison, you will be a father.” Then it opened its maw and put the infant between its jaws. Next, it turned and made for the door, which it unlatched with a paw, then walked into the now still night.
Bor stared after them for a while, before he then closed the door.
He went back to the hearth, watching the flames until he fell asleep, hoping to never wake up again.
He woke up as a cry shook the Hall, and as he got to his feet, he watched, along with the rest of his household, as Embla emerged from the master-bedroom, holding something wrapped in her apron.
“Bor,” Embla choked through streaming eyes. “I can’t explain it but… it’s a miracle.” And she held the crying bundle up for Bor to see. There, among the folds, was the same tiny, red creature Bor had seen lying lifeless on his wife’s breast, but now very much squalling, writhing, grimacing with life.
With shaking fingers, Bor reached out and took the child, speechless, eyes watering. “It’s… it’s…”
Then his eyes fell on the ground. There were still some embers left in the hearth behind him, and in their shifting light, he saw his and Embla’s shadows, but that his was holding nothing.
A living, breathing child, was in his hands, and yet there was no shadow on the floor next to his.
“You’re right, Embla,” Bor croaked, pressing the baby to his chest. “It’s a miracle.”
The bells were ringing as Sunday Mass finished, and Bor had settled himself on a bluff to watch his daughter, Alfhild. With their spiritual health tended to, several in the flock had gone back to their farms to manage their livestock, including several of Bor’s kinsmen. Others stayed behind to stretch their social muscles which these weekly journeys to church allowed.
As Bor sat there, he glanced up as Embla approached.
“Mind if I sit here?” she asked.
“Not at all.”
A burst of laughter from the yard in front of the church made them both look up. Alfhild was standing with a group of fellow farm-girls, talking animatedly about something rather funny. Even from here, Bor could see how the light in his daughter’s pale-blue eyes danced, while her raven hair beat like wings in the sea-borne breeze.
“Fifteen years ago, those bells rang as we brought that girl here to be baptised,” said Embla. “I’ve never seen you so eager to get to church, brother.”
“One doesn’t tempt fate; I wasn’t sure how long I would have her.”
“You and all the rest of us. So many mothers and babies don’t make it, and yet here for once, God chose to grant us a sliver of mercy.”
“Hmm.”
“It was hard to image she was ever lost. The lungs on her when she was in her crib. The stubbornness — I remember how she refused to let anyone feed her but you, Bor. And when she could walk, Heaven preserve us, she was ready to put the lot of us in an early grave.”
Bor smiled. “And when she learned to talk?”
“Why is the sky blue? Why do lady-goats have horns and not lady-sheep? Is the sea bottomless?”
“She could talk Father Jonas’ ear off,” Bor chuckled. “Still can.”
“And how she just wouldn’t stand still. She was always wandering off whenever we tried to first teach her to spin, loom and sow, or cook and clean. I remember Elsa prophesying she would make a lousy wife someday.”
“She wants to be a pirate,” Bor mused. “Like Princess Alfhild in the stories.”
“Please tell me you’ve taught her the difference between ambitions and fantasies?” Embla sighed.
They watched Alfhild, who was now in the process of talking with one of the boys from the other side of the fjord.
“A lot of boys are going to fight over her,” Embla observed.
Bor didn’t say anything to this.
“Still,” Embla continued. “Could be worthwhile to start considering her options. Look at Harald Haraldson over there — the family are rich in sheep, and their farm’s not too far away from ours. Or there’s Eirik Jalmarson over there. He’s a few years older, but the family have excellent connections among the seasonal merchants. And then there’s Svein Olufson — he’s a walrus hunter, and they make good money selling ivory and hide-rope in Scotland, Denmark or the Empire.”
Bor gave another “Hmm” but that was a mistake as Embla rounded on him. “Bor, can you at least pretend to be thinking of your daughter’s future? You’re not the only one who cares about her, but she’s almost sixteen and quite fetching. She’ll be leaving us either way.”
“When a worthy man asks for her hand, I’ll arrange for the wedding.”
“And who exactly constitutes as a ‘worthy man’ in your eyes?”
“None of those bone-heads gawking at her, or any of those prick-headed shepherds I’ve had to chase away from her since spring.”
Embla raised her hands in exasperation. “Well, I guess she could always join a convent. Surely God is worthy of her.”
“Hard to say when he’s absent most of the time.”
“Bor!”
“Everything alright here?”
Both of them looked up to see Father Jonas, dressed in his white-and-black habit, and the plain wooden cross hanging from his neck like a lure over a black ocean.
“Everything’s fine here, Father,” Embla said. “Thanks again for the lovely service.”
Jonas bobbed his head, smiling. “Say, Embla, might I speak with Bor for a bit?”
“Of course, Father,” Embla said, curtsying. “It’s probably high-time I took Alfhild and the others home.”
“Alfhild can stay,” Bor said. “We’ll follow you shortly.”
As Embla left, Jonas replaced her. “How are you today, my son?”
“Personally, Father? I’m fine. But the farm’s not doing too well. It’s getting colder, there’s less for the goats and sheep to graze on.”
“You’re not alone. Lots of families are facing similar struggles. Some are talking of finding ships and setting course for Iceland.”
“There’s been talk of that among my kinsmen as well. Especially from Einar. But our families been here since the time of Eric the Red, and we’ll be here long after he’s been forgotten. Things will get better.”
“And speaking of your family, my son, what of Alfhild?”
“She’s in a separate compartment of my mind, Father: I’m always thinking of her.”
“As every father should,” mused the cleric. “From external and internal dangers.”
Bor looked at the priest. “What’s this about, Father?”
“Alfhild has been coming to me for confession,” Father Jonas began. “Normally I would never tell, but if it bodes something ill I feel it my duty as a shepherd to come forward.”
“Then speak up.”
“Alfhild’s been having nightmares. She dreams she’s in a dark, frozen underworld, surrounded by people she cannot see, and then a wolf snatches her and takes her away. She says she’d had this dream various times in her life, but never as frequent. She’s scared, Bor.”
Bor kept his voice calm as he said: “We all have nightmares, Father.”
“Bor, is everything alright in your household?”
“Everything’s fine, Father.”
“Any heated disputes? Any transgressions? Any worries?”
“I say again, Father, everything is fine.”
For a moment, it looked as if the cleric would take the hint until he said: “why doesn’t she have a shadow?”
Bor’s blood turned to ice.
“I’ve noticed it on occasion, not sure anyone else has. At first, I thought I was imagining it, but when she stands in the sunlight, nothing is trailing her like the rest of us. Have you noticed?”
“Can’t say I have, Father,” Bor said, regaining his composure and getting to his feet. “Good-day, Christ be with you.”
“Bor, what really happened that night Hedda died?”
“Good-day, Father.”
“Bor — if you’ve put the spiritual wellbeing of your house on the line then you must-”
“Alfhild!” Bor called out. “We’re going home.”
The girl perked up. “I’ll be with you later, Daddy.”
“We’re going NOW!”
Reluctantly, Alfhild said goodbye to her friends and came over to him.
“There’s a name too,” Father Jonas said from behind him. “She hears someone screaming it before the jaws close around her: ‘Amagoq’. I asked Roar the Hunter, he frequently meets with the passing Skrælings and I asked him if he’d heard the name.”
Bor began walking.
“It’s the name of a spirit — a wolf-demon of some sort.”
Bor kept walking, meeting Alfhild half-way.
“Something wrong, Papa?” She asked.
“Nothing, darling,” Bor said. “I was just impatient to get home.”
She glanced back the way they had come, likely seeing Father Jonas staring after them.
“He told you?”
“Aye. His mouth’s getting too big for his own good.” Bor said. He looked at her. “I wish you’d told me, Alfhild.”
“I didn’t want to worry you, Daddy. But there’s something wrong with me, I think.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you, child.” He said, enfolding her in an embrace which she returned. “Nothing at all.”
The first snows had barely fallen when they found the blood.
The autumn of that year had been marked by a strange series of phenomena: dogs barking at nothing, and livestock growing nervous even though no wolves or bears had been sighted in the area; and when the men had gone out to hunt caribou, they found tracks around Nyvikgard, though no-one had been spotted passing by.
Things came to a head when Einar, Bor’s brother, went missing on a hunt.
After waiting through the night and the whole of the next day, Bor had decided it was time to mount a search. Teams of two were formed and whale-blubber lanterns were dispensed. Bor was partnered with one of his nephews, Leif, and they struck north, calling out for Einar.
“Could he have really just gotten lost?” Leif asked as they walked.
“Hard to believe. He knows the wasteland North of the fjord better than anyone. If he’s not returned, it’s because something happened to him. EINAR! EINAR!”
“UNCLE EINAR! UNCLE EINAR ARE YOU OUT THERE!?”
Their call echoed across the dark scrublands, already covered by a sheet of virgin snow.
As they went deeper into the night, Bor glanced up just in time to see the glacier. The moon was high, and its rays danced against its pale, fractal breadth, a wave frozen mid-spill into the fjord.
It was as he saw the glacier, that Bor noticed something on the ground lit by the halo of his lantern.
A mess of disturbed, red snow lay before him, and from it was a shallow trench that led deeper into the night — as of something having been dragged away.
“Caribou?” Leif asked. “A bear maybe?”
Bor knelt down and picked up something folded in the snow.
It was Einar’s bow.
“Merciful God!”
“The trail leads towards the glacier,” Bor said. “If we hurry, he might still be alive.”
“We’re going after them?”
“If it’s a wolf or a bear, it’s going to have gotten a taste for human, and then none of us is safe. We must find the den so we can plan how to kill it.”
Leif looked ready to protest, but he stopped himself and nodded. “After you.”
A low, northern wind had started blowing, casting snow into their eyes as they pressed on, walking alongside the trail.
Onwards and onwards it led, while the glacier grew ever more immense before their eyes. At last, they felt their boots scrape against frozen water as they reached the lagoon that formed the base of the glacier, and their gristly trail pointed them right to the foot of the ice-berg.
“Look, Bor,” Leif said, pointing. “There’s a gap in the glacier.”
“And that’s where it’s taken him.”
“Uncle,” Leif said, his eye focused on something behind them.
“What is it?”
“Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“Voices…”
“What are you…” Bor trailed off. He heard them as well, a low chatter audible despite the wind, and like Leif, he could not pinpoint where it was coming from. Then his eyes moved to the ice-cave, an open maw of darkness.
“I think it’s Einar,” Leif said, looking to the cave. “EINAR!”
“No, boy, don’t-” but Leif had already shot off into the cave.
“EINAR! EINAR!”
“Leif, come back here!” Bor hissed, going after him.
“EINAR — EINAR — EINAR!” Leif’s voice echoed inside the cave, a twisting, knobbly shaft like a frozen organ. He could see his light dancing ahead, framing Leif’s body against the icy dark.
“Leif!” Bor called, his own call bouncing against the walls and into the depths. Leif’s light was suddenly a ball, then a pin-prick, and then it was gone.
“Leif? LEIF?! God damn it, just stay where you are, I’m going to get…” he trailed off as he heard soft steps in the dark, coming right towards him.
“God’s blood, Leif, you can’t just run off like that.”
He raised his lantern, expecting to see his nephew.
There was no-one there, but as Bor stared, he saw a shadow piercing the circle of light, starting with two unseen feet planted right in front of Bor.
Bor started. “Jesus! Who… what are you?”
“We are tarriassuq,” said a voice in the air ahead of him — faint as an echoing breath, and ice-cold.
“What do you want?”
“Where is she? Where is my daughter?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Suddenly more shadows materialised around him.
“Don’t play coy,” said the voice. “We’ve seen her at your farm. In a different skin. We have come to take her back.”
“You’re not making any sense. Alfhild is my child.”
A low weeping issued from somewhere in the darkness and a new figure emerged. “She’s mine. I carried her, I gave her life, I held her — and then one night the Trickster-wolf came and took her away from me. We’ve been searching for her all this time.”
“You’re mistaken, she’s nothing like you. She can’t be yours.”
“LIAR!” A chorus of voices from unseen mouths rippled through the cave.
“The proof of the Wolf’s deceit,” said the first voice. “In disguising our daughter, he took away her shadow. Once she returns to us, it will be restored.”
“She’s not yours!” Bor cry rolled like a thunder-clap, making him jump. “My child died; I gave the Wolf her body, and he brought her back. I am sorry for you losing child, but Alfhild is not her.”
“Don’t you see, Norseman,” said the weeper, “You’ve been tricked. The wolf did not return your child to you, but someone else’s, disguised as yours.”
“No — It isn’t true.”
“Your daughter, your true daughter, remains lost.”
“YOU CAN’T HAVE HER!” and he threw his lamp at the shadows. As the light spun through the air, Bor turned on his heels and raced for the opening, hearing the lantern crash and the wails of rage as he shot out into the night.
Running blind, Bor nonetheless pushed on like a sinner fleeing judgement.
He could still hear the wails of the shadow-folk hard on his heels, but as he pressed on, he could hear them falling behind, but he knew it was only a matter of time before they caught up with him.
As he spotted the lights of Nyvikgard and his kinsmen came out to meet him, he ignored their questions and simply gasped: “Skrælings! Dozens of them! They’re going to attack!”
Embla stared. “What?”
“They killed Einar and Leif, I only just escaped. They’re coming. They’re going to kill us all.”
“What shall we do?”
“Get inside the Hall, all of you, and barricade the door.”
“We should ring the bell — call back the hunters.”
“There’s no time. All of you move!”
As the women and children hurried inside, hauling in animals and weapons, Bor tracked Alfhild down among the crowd.
“Come with me, darling.”
“Wait, Daddy, what are you-? “
He grabbed her hand and led her towards the beach. Once there, Bor flipped the beached fishing-boat upright, then pushed it into the water. “Take the boat and get to the other side of the fjord. Find shelter at one of the farms, I’ll find you.”
“But what about the others?”
“They’ll be fine, Alfhild. Please, just get in.”
“But why aren’t they coming as well?”
“Alfhild, just- “
“NO! Why me? Embla and the others are in danger, and I will not run out on them.”
“They’re not the ones the Kalals are looking for,” Bor blurted out before he could stop himself.
“Why? Why, father? Why are they looking for me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Father, please just tell me the truth.”
He grabbed her front and held her up inches from his face. “Listen, I’m your father, and by God you will do as I say. Now get in the boat.”
It was too dark to make out her expression, but wordlessly she climbed aboard, and Bor pushed the boat the last few feet, then let it bob away. He felt a spark of relief as he heard the oars dip into the water, and the low creak of the locks as Alfhild began to row.
“I love you,” he half-spoke — half-called.
No response came.
“It’s for the best,” Bor said to himself, then he turned and ran back up the hill towards the farm.
The yard was empty when he got back, and the doors of the Hall were shut.
His heart pounded in his chest as he drew his father’s axe and looked around.
“Where is she?” hissed unseen shapes from about the dark yard.
“You won’t get her. You hear me — you won’t get her!”
“She belongs with her people.”
“She belongs with me! But go ahead and do your worst to me — I won’t tell you anything.”
“So be it.” Then the voice gave a cry, and next thing Bor heard was a series of sharp sounds in the distant, followed by a low hiss above. He looked up, and his heart stopped as he saw a rush of flaming arrows arcing through the night sky.
He barely had time to cry out when they landed on the Hall — piercing the turf-roof, which caught fire.
The cry that did break free from Bor’s lips as his home began to burn was stifled as he felt an icy pain in his lower back. Instinctively, he lashed out and felt his elbow connect with something that might have been a face. As he raised his axe for a killing-blow, another sharp sensation exploded from his side as a second assailant struck. Bor brought his axe down and felt it cleave through something soft and screaming, though he didn’t see what.
He glimpsed the Hall, now entirely wreathed in ravenous fire, while burning arrows continued to rain like falling stars.
Just then, the doors of the Hall flew open, and Bor watched as women, children and animals ran out.
“NO!” Bor roared, then a fist connected with his head and he toppled. From the ground, where shadows played in the blazing light, he watched as unseen shapes began striking down his kinsmen, cutting them down with spears and knives.
Everything seemed to slow down before Bor’s eyes, as he saw his family’s legacy, his legacy, his duty, be consumed by fire, or get struck down by unseen assailants, and he could not heard their cries or the roar of the fire — only a dense ringing in his head.
Hand enfolded him, and at first Bor tried to resist, but then he thought he heard a voice through the din: it was Embla, clutching him close, calling out his name.
“ENOUGH!”
Bor felt as if he had been shaken from a dream. Suddenly everything got clear as glass, and he stared as, from where he lay, he saw a lone shape standing against the roaring inferno that had once been Nyvikgard. Alfhild was standing there, facing the shadow folk, who had suddenly stopped what they were doing, and now looked upon her as one. She — among all those assembled — had no shadow cast by the fire.
“If you want me, I’ll come with you. Just leave them be.”
“Alfhild” Bor tried to call, but it came out only as a choked gasp.
“I’ll give you whatever you want, just don’t hurt them anymore.”
Then one shade moved forward and stood where Alfhild’s own shadow would have been. Alfhild stared as an invisible hand touched her face.
“Alfhild!” Bor called, now with more force.
Alfhild’s fingers then wrapped themselves around an unseen hand, and she let herself be guided out into the night.
“ALFHILD!” Bor cried, ignoring Embla’s words and the pain of his wounds. “ALFHILD!”
He watched as the shadow people retreated back into the darkness at the edge of the light. He watched as his daughter seemed to fade as she followed them. She looked back, tears streaming down her face, as she met her father’s eyes.
Then she was gone, and now, instead of one lone shadow, there were two walking, hand in hand, into the night.
Bor was standing on the bluffs, overlooking what was left of Nyvikgard. A blackened, skeletal husk was all that remained of the Hall, along with the other buildings once the fire had spread to consume the rest.
Even from here, he could still see the blood that had congealed in the snow.
Beyond Nyvigard, he saw a boat, into which goods and animals were being loaded by what was left of his clan.
“Accursed!” they had shouted, hurling stones at him.
“Devil-bringer!”
“Godless!”
“Go! And may the devils and beasts take you!”
Bor watched, hollowed-out, unruly, broken, as what was left of his kin pushed off and began rowing down the fjord, intending to reach the sea before the coast frozen solid.
He continued to watch, even as their ship became a dot on the horizon, and when that was gone, he got to his skeletal feet, and began walking.
Night approached as he reached the glacier, and the gaping tunnel at its foot.
With his axe at his side, and a torch in hand, Bor Fenrison, made his way into the dark.
THE END
