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.

Warrama

YAJARRIL HEARD THE BOYS long before he came to the clearing.  He crept along as silent and watchful as a lizard, peering through the rainforest’s dense greenery. 

Trees loomed like monsters on all sides.  As Yajarril edged through the jungle, he startled at every hidden sound.  So different this was from the airy aisles further inland where eucalyptus trees cast dappled shadows over grasses waving in light, dry breezes.  None of this stifling, shadowy dampness.

detail from “The Letter,” 1884, by Frederick McCubbin (1855-1917)

Dangerous business to venture into the lands of a different clan.  Dangerous and baffling.  With no grass growing in this dim, vine-strangled forest, there was no foraging for kangaroos.  With no kangaroos to hunt, what did the folk of the Ngadjonji clan eat?  How did they survive?

Now the oddly-accented words came clearer.   

“Faster, faster!” 

“He’s an arm-length higher now. Hurry or you’ll lose!”

Peering into a glade, Yajarril saw a group of heedless boys younger than he.  Gazing overhead, they gathered around two towering trees.  High up the naked trunks, two boys raced toward the canopy, each one scooting upwards with help of a cord passed around the tree.  They leaned back, walked their feet along the bark, then flipped the cord higher for the next few steps.

Yajarril gaped.  Surely one boy or both would slip and plunge to the ground.  But no, they kept scrambling higher and higher like koalas fleeing a fire.

One reached a bunch of knobby fruits.  He lashed one end of the cord around his thigh, took a hatchet from clenched teeth, and hacked at the prize.  The boys below caught the dropped fruits, laughing and counting.

Did these youngsters know the proper manners for greeting a messenger?  Or would they attack an intruder?  It would do Yajarril no good to run.  Give him a stretch of open flatland and he’d outdistance them all.  But not here where vines and roots grabbed at feet.

As the tree-climbers skidded down their trunks, Yajarril clambered up the standing, slab-like roots of another forest giant.  From that vantage point he could use the message stick as a club, if he must.  He raised the carved stick overhead.  “Greetings from Ngarrabullgan!” he called. 

The Ngadjonji boys leaped back, startled, then bristled with battle-hunger, raising hatchets in threat as they surged forward in a mob.

“I come in sacred truce,” Yajarril proclaimed.  “Djungan clan calls warrama!”

“Warrama?” the tallest boy echoed.  “A festival of the tribes?”  He studied Yajarril a long moment, then lowered his hatchet.  He nodded.  “Come down off the magurra’s knees.  Bring your good news to our village.”

“We’ll feast tonight!” a younger boy cried. 

Yajarril halted halfway down. 

At his look of alarm, the tall one laughed, tucking his hatchet into his belt.  “We’re not the man-eating folk of the northern islands.  Do not fear.  We honor the truce.”

“We’ll feast on the first ripening guwaa fruit,” said another, holding up one knobby sphere.

Yajarril traded appraising glances with the boys, then smiled.  “Gladly I will come.  Never before have I tasted fruit that grows in the clouds.” 

“Violet and Gold,” 1911, by Frederick McCubbin (1855-1917)

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text: © 2021 Joyce Holt

artwork: 19th century painting. Public domain info here.