In the Nick

SIF STRODE OUT TO THE COURTYARD. Ash trees leaned over the wall, leaves quivering in the breeze and casting speckled shadows across banquet table and gilded chairs. “Bryn,” Sif called. “Have you seen my husband?”

A dark-haired young woman looked up from the dagger she was whetting. “No. What has he done this time?”

Sif tossed her golden tresses. “Do I look upset? Just curious. See what I found in the household treasure chest!”

Sif set out a board and markers

“A hnefatafl game,” Bryn said, sheathing her dagger. “Made of gold! Has he been dealing with the dwarves again?”

“I don’t know. None of my jewels are missing, so he must have won this some other way. Play a round?”

photo of a hnefltafl game board and pieces, by Vinicius “amnx” Amano on Unsplash

The two women tossed a golden die to see who would field a king and defenders, and who would man the attacking army. Bryn’s thin lips sharpened into a predatory smile. She gathered up her game pieces. “I have yet to lose when I invade.”

Sif bristled. “I have yet to lose when I defend. Feel like wagering on the outcome of our game?”

After much dickering the two agreed on their stakes. A magnificent ruby on Sif’s part, and on Bryn’s, the pick of the loot from her next foray to Midgard.

The golden die rolled on the banquet table’s inlay, chiming like a bell. The players placed their pieces, one by one. Bryn made her moves with swift sure steps, her attackers clicking like talons on bone. Sif took longer on her turns, sliding the defenders with the softest of whisks.

Sif lost ground, then regained it. Bryn cursed, and songbirds scattered.

Footsteps tromped about inside the hall, and a voice thundered, “By Odin, what thief dares break into my chest?”

“Out here, husband dear,” Sif called. “No one’s stolen anything. I found it and came looking for you, but thought I’d give it a–“

“Fool woman, put that down!”

Sif scowled at the hulking redbeard in the doorway. “It can wait a moment. I’m just two steps from winning–“

“No, you’re not.” The Valkyrie Brynhildr rose with an invader piece in hand. “Because I’m just one step from–“

Thor whirled his hammer, though he did not release.

Brynhildr staggered back, and the game piece went flying.

“Put,” Thor shouted, “those–pieces–down!” With each word-blast he stomped a great stride across the courtyard.

Both women meekly obeyed.

“Now gather them back to the starting positions,” he ordered.

High above Asgard an eagle screamed. Two ravens circled Odin’s watchtower. A squirrel nattered in the ash branches.

Thor listened to the tidings, then turned to his wife. “This board came from the Norns, the spinners of fate. Your idle game here set in motion a war in the world of mankind. We nearly lost our greatest flock of adherents! But truce has been called, in the nick of time.”

Sif sniffed. “Men and their toys!”

“Walhall,” about 1905, by Emil Doepler (1855-1922)

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Loosely based on Norse mythology. The Old Norse played hnefltafl, a distant cousin of chess. Attackers and defenders had different numbers of playing pieces, and the board was marked with areas of refuge or blockade.

text: © 2022 Joyce Holt

artwork: early 20th century century painting. Public domain info here.

Tiny Wings

~ Celtic March ~

The wren came late to the gathering – his tiny wings meant not for speed but for slipping easily through hedges and thickets. He fluttered about the great oak. All the roosts, already taken by birds of greater size.

Higher up the oak he flew while the pipings and warblings and cackles of debate filled the air. The whole realm of bird-kind had assembled to choose a king, crowding every branch, shrieking their pitches for how to make such a choice.

The Birds’ Concert, ca. 1640, by Frans Snyders (1579-1657)

At the oak’s highest reaches, the wren spied a mistletoe tendril like a crown atop the king of trees. He settled there on the flimsy perch, bobbing in the wind, panting from the long wearying flight.

Not far below the mistletoe, on the last sturdy branch, a golden eagle preened and posed. Whatever challenge would come, he was sure to win. Unless, the wren thought with a wry flick of his tail, they all agreed the king should be the one to fly quickest through a tangled thicket.

“Eagle’s Head from Life,” 1870, by John Ruskin (1819-1900)

For all his preening, the eagle had missed the patch between his shoulders where two feathers plumed up like the antennae of a huge moth. The wren chirped laughter.

“The highest flight! The highest flight!” came a chorus from below. The feathered gathering had reached agreement, finally, on the test for the crown.

The wren flicked tail in scorn. Why bother with this assembly? No question who would win. Who would fly highest but the golden eagle?

The peregrine was swiftest in stooping, that swift plunge from the heights, but had to labor as hard as any other to fly upwards.

A wren had no chance. No worth among this assembly. No value in the sight of the kingdom of birds.

“Kingfisher,” 1871, by John Ruskin (1819-1900)

The oak shook with the screeching that burst from every throat. Yes, this contest would decide the king. Whichever bird flew the highest. The raven would give signal with his raucous croak.

The wren turned one bright eye toward the sky. He wouldn’t go far with his own wee wings.

Not his own, then. He peered down, watched the eagle bunch in readiness. The wren fluttered down to land soft as a leaf between the eagle’s shoulders.

Raven croaked.

“Raven,” by John James Audubon (1785-1851)

The eagle exploded into flight. The wren clutched with beak and tiny claws to his host’s feathers while the muscles beneath heaved and stretched as the eagle climbed the wind.

A host of crows, hawks, herons and dippers rose with them. The peregrine kept pace for a while.

One by one the other birds fell away, but the eagle kept beating onward. Higher and higher the great raptor flew, but the wing-thrusts grew slower. Beneath his feet, the wren could feel great gasps for breath.

The eagle caught a high current, rested a few moments on outstretched wings, cocking his head to peer at all his rivals below. He shrieked triumph, angled wings for descent.

The wren launched from his mount’s back and clapped for all his worth, higher and higher, out of reach of the exhausted eagle, in view of all the watchers below.

And so the wee wren won the crown as king of all birds.

“Bewick’s Wren,” by John James Audubon (1785-1851)

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Folktale known in Celtic lands all across Eurasia. Both the wren and the mistletoe portray the triumph of the small over the large.

retold by Joyce Holt © 2021

Watch for more Celtic folklore all through March!