Fenrir

21

‘Confessor. Confessor. God. Saint.’

The voice called him back to consciousness, though Jehan could sense that it would not be for long. He felt as though he was on the brink of an abyss, his thoughts teetering and threatening to fall into nothing.

Where had he been? In a dark, deep place where the rocks sweated moisture and his enemy waited.

‘No, Vali, no. You are a different thing now, trapped by fate. You are the ending, the destruction.’ It was a woman’s voice, speaking in Norse. It was Aelis’s voice. ‘Vali.’ He recognised the name. She had infected his mind with her touch, set a vibration in him that had shaken the mental structures he had built through denials, willing and unwilling. He wanted her and God was showing him a vision of the hell to which that love — no, Jehan, call it by its rightful name — that lust had condemned him. The lady had said she feared she was a witch and, like a witch, with a touch she had turned him into something else.

‘Confessor. Priest.’ The voice again. He was in agony, his skin felt too tight for his body. The wounds he had taken were beginning to swell and ache dreadfully. The worst was his eye, throbbing and raw. The pain filled him up; he could think of nearly nothing else. He forced himself to speak, though his jaw was bruised and swollen from where the hanging rope had pulled up under his chin, and he hardly had the strength to move his mouth. His tongue was thick and swollen but his will was strong and the confessor made himself talk.

‘You are a Norseman — I know you by your speech. Are you of the faith? Are you a priest? Say mass so I might pass over.’

The confessor gave a cry as something brushed his torn nose. The Norseman couldn’t hear much of what he was saying and had pressed his ear to Jehan’s mouth.

‘What is mass?’

‘The body and the blood of Christ. Anoint me in blessed oil and prepare the way.’

‘You are dying.’

‘Yes. Give me unction so that I may be more certain of heaven.’

‘What is unction?’

‘You are no man of God. I will die unshriven. Forgive me, God, for I have been a prideful and arrogant servant to you. What is your name, Norseman?’

‘Saerda, priest. Your friends have left you.’

‘Then be a friend to me. Allow me to bring you to Christ and then pray for me.’

Even at the last, Jehan wanted souls for Jesus.

‘How shall I come to Christ?’

‘Partake of his body and blood with me. Let me bless you as I bless myself.’

There was a snort from the Norseman. ‘I will help you perform the ritual.’

‘You have the bread?’

‘That becomes the flesh? Is it true you drink the blood?’

‘Yes, the wine that becomes the blood, the bread that becomes the flesh.’

‘I have bread.’

Jehan thought. He didn’t have the oil to anoint and purify the seats of corruption, his hands, forehead, feet and genitals, but he would have to do what he could while he had strength.

The confessor felt his whole body shaking as he repented his sins, the pride in his holiness, the pride in his strength in accepting his affliction as God’s will, his presumptuous certainty that he was intended for heaven. He asked for pardon and recited the Apostles’ Creed: ‘ Credo in Deum…’

Jehan could hardly get the words out. He said the Lord’s Prayer and then he was ready for his final mass. Calling on Agnus Dei, the Lamb of God and, amending the words to fit his terrible situation, he said, ‘Bring me the bread to bless it.’

There was a short laugh, a wet sound and a low groan. Then a noise like the slapping of lips. Jehan, who had to use his ears where his eyes had failed, recognised the sound as the cutting of meat. Then the man came to Jehan and cradled him in his arms.

‘Say your words.’

Jehan spoke: ‘This is the Lamb of God, that takes away the sins of the world. Happy are they that are called to his supper. The body of Christ. Give me the bread so I can bless it and eat it. You must put it to my lips; I cannot raise my hands.’

Jehan felt something slip into his mouth. It wasn’t bread. It tasted of blood. He choked and coughed.

‘Animal flesh will not do!’

‘That is not animal flesh,’ said Saerda.

‘What is it?’

‘Your brother monk.’

Jehan tried to spit but he couldn’t. His body twitched and convulsed; his lacerated tongue tried to push away the corruption that was in his mouth but the blood taste would not go. He called out, but his cry was nothing beyond a whisper.

‘Your friends are gone. Our man Hrafn is seeing to your lady; your merchant has fled, and your monk is your supper. I will perform your dirty ritual, you flesh-eater, who cowers in the face of his enemies and calls it virtue.’

‘Our father-’ Jehan began the Lord’s Prayer.

More of the filthy stuff was pushed into his mouth, fingers shoving it past his tongue. He tried to bite, but his mouth would not close and he realised his jaw must have been broken by the rope. The agony went right through him as Saerda forced open his mouth. There was something else in there, something slick and wet, which slid into his throat like a bloody oyster. Saerda had his hand on the confessor’s nose, clamping shut his mouth.

‘It’s one of his eyes, holy man. Come on, priest. This is the body, this the blood. Here, drink and eat to go to your god.’

He threw the confessor back on the ground and for a second Jehan thought his ordeal was over. It had only just begun. Saerda called out the names of the parts as he forced them into Jehan’s mouth — the liver, the kidney, the heart and the balls. Jehan vomited but the slick meat was only shovelled back in.

‘Do you think you could eat all of him, priest? Think how holy you would be, think.’

Jehan’s thoughts were scrambling under the horror he was enduring. In his mind he saw a plain with a hollow, dead light, a body in front of him, its armour torn, its spear broken.

Saerda was pacing around him, now, taking his time.

‘Stop!’

‘I won’t stop. I lost my king and my horse tonight; the Raven’s taken a lady who could have brought me riches, and all I have is whatever I can get for your useless bones. That has put me in a fearful bad temper. You’ll eat until that temper’s spent.’

He pushed something more into the confessor’s mouth, wrenching back his head. He cursed as the monk convulsed and shook from his grasp. Saerda pulled him up by his habit but the monk wrenched back in a terrible spasm, tearing away from his fingers to lie trembling and jabbering on the floor. Jehan saw a cave, saw himself lying unable to move, not because of illness but because a rope, terribly thin and strong, wound about him, lashing him to a great rock. He saw the Virgin and heard her screaming at him that his destiny was to kill and to die.

‘You broke my bastard finger!’ said Saerda. ‘Now you really are going to pay for that.’

The berserker took up the glittering rope of Abram’s bowels, sat astride Jehan’s chest, and thrust it into the confessor’s face, forcing as much as he could past his teeth.

‘You’ll eat, you’ll eat and you’ll eat again,’ said Saerda.

The monk’s whole body twisted and writhed, and Saerda could not hold him. Jehan threw him off. The monk felt as though every muscle was trying to break free of the bone. His head turned and shook, his legs kicked, driving him around in a wild spin. His lips foamed blood. All he could think of was blood, Christ’s blood, streaming in the sky. The sun was blood, the moon blood, the air blood, the water and the light blood. He heard the words of the Bible in his head:

He hath led me, and brought me into darkness, but not into light.

Surely against me is he turned; he turneth his hand against me all the day.

No, God had not turned against him; God had loved him and marked him out as special. But the words would not stop rattling through his head like a rat in an attic.

My flesh and my skin hath he made old; he hath broken my bones.

He hath set me in dark places, as they that be dead of old.

He hath hedged me about, that I cannot get out: he hath made my chain heavy.

Also when I cry and shout, he shutteth out my prayer.

The words seemed to speak to him, telling him something that was more bitter to him than any torture, any affliction or pain. God had deserted him. He could not believe it to be so. It was the work of a devil. Hell had set a worm in his mind.

He hath filled me with bitterness, he hath made me drunken with wormwood.

He hath also broken my teeth with gravel stones, he hath covered me with ashes.

And thou hast removed my soul far off from peace: I forgot prosperity.

And I said, ‘My strength and my hope is perished from the lord.’

Jehan screamed, more in his mind than with his voice: No! No! No! The Lord is my portion, saith my soul; therefore will I hope in him. The lord is good unto them that wait for him, to the soul that seeketh him. The words were like a high and melodious music but underneath them something deeper beat out a dark poetry.

Much have I fared, much have I found,

Much have I got of the gods,

What shall bring the doom of death to Odin,

When the gods to destruction ride?

He had never heard that verse before but he knew the answer, it was on his lips.

Saerda drew his knife and leaped at the confessor’s chest, pinning him down, shoving the point into the side of his cheek.

‘Shut your rattle. You’ll eat him or you’ll eat yourself. I’ll cut you up and stuff you down your own throat.’

Jehan saw himself. He was lashed to the rock, his fetters tourniquets, his mouth wedged open by something sharp and strong. He knew the answer, knew who it was who would bring death to the pagan god.

The wolf shall be the bane of Odin,

When the gods to destruction ride.

Jehan reached up his hands and found Saerda’s head. He saw that cave in his mind, felt the sharp thin bindings cutting his flesh and pinioning him to the huge rock. The wolf, the wolf would bring death to the god. It was all he existed for, all that he did. There was a sensation of release and freedom. He was the wolf.

‘The fetters have burst,’ he said, and he broke the Viking’s neck.