Haf son of Hrafn was a good king, fierce and proud. His wives were happy, giving him many stout daughters and sons. He journeyed north and laughed like a bear gone witless. After he left his first-son Refr became king.
- from the ancient records
He closed his eyes. In fog so thick, his ears were better friends.
Straining to hear anything from in front of him - footfalls, the splash of creek-water, a muffled cough - he crept ahead of Úlfr and all but did laugh, so glad he was to be living.
Old Hrafn would've shaken his head. Not there, my haughty son. Hear and heed the tales. Leave Óunnr untaken - a small land of the sea.
But he was dead and burnt now, and Haf-son-of-Hrafn did rule.
He did take wives from the lands to the south and southeast. Drifa, his sister was happy with Mörd, the northern king. After they rode out to answer the raids by Feigr and his weak fools, Haf and his men slew the easterners - every foe within a days' hard ride, by Úlfr's counsel - and it was glorious. The name of their land would make all others loath to but draw their swords...
The borders were safe, and would be for many years.
And so, seeing all things were good, he had thought long about taking Óunnr...
Ride did he, with eight trusty men, to the house of Mörd. Drifa was joyful and ruddy, a handsome sight for his eyes.
But Mörd did laugh rude when he heard the plan. "Not to the coast, young brother-king. You know ships must sail far out into the sea to avoid the hungry rocks."
"But we ride," Haf said lightly.
"Ah," and then Mörd shook his head and smiled, much like Hrafn did sometimes, "Even with my tribute, you will ride west too, as you go north. The land reaches out into the waves there. And fog hides it ever."
"How many days' riding?"
"Maybe two hard days... or three, into a hard gale," his host said. "But mark this, Hrafn-son, I know of the Óunnr-tales. Wild babblings of treasure, true - but the guards are swift and strong. It is said also that the eyes of the living see them not."
"Grog-tales. Mooncalf," Haf sneered.
"Perhaps. Have a care."
"Huh. You will not ride with us?"
"I need no magic to give thought to me.... when Drifa is joy enough." And she giggled then, from behind the door.
"Clever," Haf told him, with a grin. She loved to hear nice things, and most of all about her. Their rut would surely be fierce and fine that night.
They were feasted well, and Haf made rough sport with his bedwarmer - she looked as if she had the blood of the cowardly easterners in her - before thinking of the fog-cloaked land of ghosts and untold tales, and then off to sleep.
The journey was of three days, and then did Auðr kept watch on the horses, so the others could go forth.
They did keep back from the few huts they saw, having not men enough to fight. Haf wanted more to know, and see. Next time, he did tell himself - spears enough to take tribute.
But the fog was a hard thing. Living, it seemed, and thick nigh unto wool. It was naught like their own land.
"Stinks of magic," Auðr had said. Haf then did look at him hard, knowing magic was but a thing in tales and eddas. There was no magic left in the world. He was cursed with womanish men, truly...
With great care, they found a longhouse. The smell of meat cooking in that place of dreams was cheering and good. If guards were out, they must have drowsed.
They walked on like cats, seeing two more huts and no more. It could be another day's walk to the next poor village...
Haf was angry. There were no treasures here to be taken. Raid the longhouse, and back for home? No sport in that. He looked hard around. Fog and more fog. No waves to be heard, or small ones at best - Óunnr was named well. Tales of spoils - bah.
He had wished to know this place better, and so now did he. Mörd did not say all he knew.... or likely it was that Mörd knew not himself. This land was scarce worth raiding -
Then Ljótr crept back to them. He had been a long spear-throw ahead, looking for danger. The land grew, he said, and there stuck out in the sea like a finger...
Came they to a stone house. As high as three or four men, with thick rocks fitted together and mudded. It cheered them, for a house so made could be rich. They were all restless... but only seven men. What an edda to make, if they could win and take the spoils from such a fine place - without needing armour - and then load up the house's own ship with all they desired.
The door was not even barred.
Cold the halls were, and fogged also. A strange thing, but still did Haf sent four of his men to search the rooms below, and bid the rest follow him. Up the stone steps -
Metal rang.
"'Ware, King!," a man did call out.
Haf turned -
There were swords in the air... held by no men.
Hanging, as clouds did? Well, Such a thing could not be. Haf did draw his blade, and roar, charging back down.
The swords all moved - some at Haf, and the rest at his men. Quickly did they move, howsoever it came to be that they flew. The men all jumped back. Still did the blades come at him, clashing together. Haf moved until the good stone was at his back -
There was a new sound. A door opening, behind, and heat, woodsmoke smell.
Hands took Haf, then, and did pull him back. Their hands were strong. He roared, swinging his arms, but he touched none of the men who dragged him -
Then did the door swing out. Haf saw another thing, was no more sensible than the living blades...
A pair of hands were pushing the door. Black and smooth, animal-hide, with the right number of fingers. It seemed to him that if a jerkin were made, just for the hand, it might have the look of what he saw. But no man was there beneath the dark hands.
But his eyes failed him then, for a leather sash was pulled over them.
There was great power in the men who took Haf. He was mighty, but those others took him with ease. It filled him with rage, but he could do naught...
Down he went. On his back, with furs below. The smell -
The men did take both arms and legs, then, and held them fast.
New sounds, and things felt - but Haf came late to know what they were. More of the animal-skins, fashioned into belts, or lashes.
When the binding was done, he could roll or move not at all!
Fury, which had nought failed before, was marred with the amazement. Things had happened that could not be. An enchanted sword, strong hands which pressed down on him - hide fashioned into the shape of hands, too quick and numble as they turned, and worn by no man!
He fought like a beast.
But still could he move not.
As he waited for strength to rise anew, there was something that pulled at him. Legs -
Deepening his wonder, Haf came to know that his boots were being taken away. Peeling down to where the hide-strips wrapped...
A cutting sound. The bewitched hand-shapes did ruin his best boots!
He did roar and tussle, but they stopped not. His woolen socks were being taken from him. Wet and rent they were, and then gone.
Then a dark mood did take Haf. Of all the strange things he had known this cursed day... to be held thus, with only his feet undressed - it was perplexing, and even more. Dire. The room was warm, and yet he did shiver, knowing not why he did.
So did he pull and fight, and yell for his men. They answered not. Was it the master of the charmed house that did keep them off? It could be even that they had been put to flight, disgracing Haf. Leaving him...
No. He believed it not. Men but did drive them back, back, into the woods and fog. Some varlet had wished to catch him, and array him so.
A touch came. Swift.
Haf snapped at the devices which held him, and howled with rage -
And the other foot. As if a finger did move there, on the long side, and down. But smooth, not as his own finger -
The hides, shaped in the manner of hands. Yes.
They could not be.
He did yell - but once, in some manner loath to do it. Pulling did not help, and his men were not there -
The finger did return. Surely it was so. Fingers...
Haf did pull sternly. And some new thing was in him, up from his feet, as the touch stayed and moved.
A wail, as from a trapped animal, did issue from him.
Then the hands did leave...
More pulling, even as he sought to foil it. His head -
The sash was taken. He could see. So did he lift his head, to see them.
Floating hands.
And what was it they had they done, with their touch? His feet did seem odd to him, held as they were. Too alive...
As he studied them, the hide-hands did retreat but a little.
A new hand came - and it held a feather.
He knew not what to think of that.
As the tip of the feather was moved, he did wish hard for his men to come, or the hide-straps to break, not seeing why those wishes were so fierce in him...
It was moved, then, to his foot. Dragged down -
Haf did jump, and was wroth that he did.
Perchance he had gone mad, then. The acts done were not of a healer. No...
But the feather moved and moved.
The strange wish in his feet did become as a fire, then.
Kicking, and kicking, he tugged like a man. The heavy straps did hold his hands down - and his fevered feet also.
Never had such a thing been done to him!
Yelling anew, he fought with all he had. The victory was not his. It came, as it seemed, to the hide-hands, maddening him with a simple feather.
Haf growled, and then did groan. A deeper sound, that long moan...
Then did he start to laugh.
That spurred his rage, again, but he could do no else but pull, kick - and make the sounds of mirth. And he could stop not! It was crude to make merry with no sport or joke.
He tried to leap up again, and did fail.
Though his eyes made water, Haf did see another thing of awe. Three more of the accursed hands did bring feathers.
He yelled, but it was of a sound that seemed womanly.
All of the fiery touch did increase, then, on his feet - and he laughed as one dotty, wild with it, willing himself to hold his tongue and work harder at the straps. But the feel of the feathers was all he could study, laughing like a fool at the will of his new lord.
After a time which was surely enchanted, longer than he knew home to measure, the keepers brought him water. It was not in a bowl, but some other shape. Clear, like ice, and yet soft. The water had a flavour which was odd.
This house was full of sinister wonders.
Wrong, all wrong -
"S-stop it, stop it, I order," Haf roared. "I am the king!"
The feathers came again, and did their work...
The fits did take him, and he howled like a beast.
When Haf was able to open his eyes again, he knew fear - for his garments were gone. His shirt - they had worn no mail-chain, looking for no fight - and, more dire, his leggings also.
He studied his manhood, which did stand tall.
There was one reason only for the hands to strip him. It was not to be borne, even the image of it... but he did know the truth. The feathers and hide-hands would ride all over him.
How he pulled and kicked at the hide-straps.
"I c-curse you," he said to them. The work was so hard, fighting not to laugh in order to say the words, but he did it. "Go b-back to the underw-w-world where you belo-on-ng..."
The feathers did move yet more quickly, then!
How will I stop them?, he thought, roaring with more power than if he had been besotted.
The answer came swift to him, and a choking rage took hold. He would not stop them. He would laugh harder, and harder...
Much later, the feathers had not yet stopped.
His fate was clear to him, and hard as amber. More of the fire. More, and more, and more... until his men came back. There were no swords talking that Haf could hear. If they had been driven off, they must find the house anew, in the fog. Until that day - Haf would burn, and laugh.
Those words did come back to him, over and over.
Each time the touch of the feathers was a little worse.
I am King Haf, he did tell himself, as his voice sounded like that of a old man. Haf, the Chain, binding my enemies.
Mighty Haf...
There was more water given him, and then did he but wait for the feathers, again.
But no. Something -
His eyes flew open. No, no!
And even as he knew fear, still did he look to see.
The cursed fingers were holding him.
Sides, knees - and two were ready to belabor his feet. No feathers.
Each of the hide-hands did shine as if the sun were on them. And he knew, yet wished to believe not that they were slick with oil. No, no...
They moved - and Haf screamed his laughter. Hardy, even as it was quiet and worn. He knew not how to laugh as much as the fire demanded, the hands of power rubbing him without mercy, and no fight was moving him out of their touch.
After he did sleep, the hands feasted him - strange food, and no hafre cakes, not even shard bread - and took up new tools.
Brushes and stones - rubbing without cease! Some odd tallow was smeared all over him, rubbed and rubbed, and the touch did make him more daft then...
Yet none else was as fiery as that long, deep work of the hide-hands.
Haf did know, after many hard hours, that some of the tools were taking away the hard skin. His feet, and his hands, were softer.
The fire in him ever grew.
Not even the rubbing of his member, and the vierr-water spraying out, was as confounding as the slow work of care on his feet.
There were new wonders. Sticks which dragged and took away the hair from him. Other sticks that made the sound of beetles, making fire that stopped Haf from laughing - so intense was that joyful burn, as if the feathers were able to move at the speed of humbirds. And there was fire that touched smaller than a feather, but burned as if a flock of feathers did rub the spot.
Many other tools were there to hold his member, or rub it. Maddening, ever more and more maddening, even as the fire was put also to his feet, or under his shoulders...
A time came when Haf did know that his teeth hurt him not. There was a new feel, there, to his tongue, and strange tastes.
Glad that the pain was no more, the thing still brought him fear. What kind of spirits were these, to pain him with rubbing, and then cure ills?
After much thinking he saw a reason. It was not a kindness - not by these hands. No. The master of the house wished instead for its prey to keep hardy.
There would be much more fire poured down on him.
And the days followed other days.
He had fought well, but the thick hides and other devices were too cunning for him. Silent as a fog he laughed and laughed, covered with fire.
At times they chained his arms up, and did continue the rubbing. Seats of a curious nature had become traps, keeping him still, hanging him, ever holding his hands where they could not help, made so that his sides and legs were not able to guard any small spot from the fire and the punishing tools.
He had cursed the hide-hands, and they did not ever stop. Even as he set his will not to beg them, like a sad old crone - yet he had done it. Water had leaked from his eyes, and over the days he had said all manner of womanish things...
And so did the rubbing go on.
There was a full season of it.
Of that he was sure, but thought no more of other times and places. There was no other house left in all the world, it seemed. Not for Haf. New tools, all manner of fire-rubbing - and no other wish or idea did stay in him when the hands were doing their work.
And when he looked upon the moon - there above the face of good Ljótr, watching down - Haf did marvel at the sight. It had been nights without number since he had dreamed of anything but the rubbing-fire, and the fearsome ways of all the hide-hands.
The people did rejoice when their King walked up the lane. None knew all of his story. Haf set his face to look as proud and strong as ever...
But it was still a hard thing for him to wear garments. The touch of them made him laugh, and not stop. Over many days, Queen Drifa did care for her kinsman, healing and listening to his tale. For her only did he let her trothmate live on, who knew more of the danger than he had foretold. It was whispered that Mörd had once been kept in the house of magic, even as Haf had. But at his sister's beseeching Haf did swear an oath to leave her husband be.
One of his wives did not hide her scorn when he took her - and laughed, hardy, as he did. So he sent her and her children back to her father's house.
Haf made two more daughters and another stout son. Refr, his oldest boy, grew strong and brave, and the people did love him...
One warm night, in the fourth year after Haf returned, lone he walked by the river near his castle.
He and his men had all returned from battle two nights before, and they killed a band of easterlings. His people were safe. All of his wives and children were hale, and Refr had fought like a man.
The king was proud, and life was a thing most good.
He came to a place where the trees did not hide the moon - and saw them, black as they were.
Hide-hands.
They did come to him, swift, to catch.
Ever had he dreamed of what they had done...
And as their hands did hold him again, he had no true surprise in it.
He woke up, yawned, and looked at new wonders. The same fear and anger filled him, but the straps moved not.
It was a white room. He had not seen it before, but some of the benches were like unto those that had held him before. This was not the enchanted place in Óunnr...
And Haf was in it.
Much of the benches and the chains did shine as if the full light of the sun was on them. Stronger than wood - he had known that, before, when he tried to break the chains. These were more stout -
The hide-hands were oiled and waiting.
Shelf upon shelf held the feathers, and tools, and oils.
Surely this house was not in his own lands.
He looked at all of the rubbing tools, and the thick white walls...
As he did, Haf chanced to think that the whole world, here, was new. The devices and marvels around him were of a far place, and different. Here he would be rubbed for their sport, in a place the hide-hands made ready, and did catch and take him.
The fingers moved. Flying down, to his feet, his manhood, his belly...
And move they did.
Rubbing.
The fire, hardy straps - and his own shouts of laughter, as he had known them, and ever had known he would hear again.
04jul04