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Orm was always a sound sleeper. His mother grumbled that even a fire in the house would not have woken him, but he was happy with it: he was not disturbed by the conversations of adults, nor by his father's snoring when he spent the night at home, nor by the bleating of sheep, as now. This year he was old enough to help one of his older brothers tend the flock. In midsummer, when it was hot, the sheep were taken out to pasture at night, and Orm liked to imagine that he was not in the meadow not far from the farmstead, but traveling through unknown lands. Every tree or large boulder turned into a fairytale monster in the twilight, and a stick he picked up along the way turned into a magic sword, just like in the stories of gods and heroes that his grandfather told him.
Orm dreamed of the sea. There was a storm, and the little ship on which the brave hero Orm was sailing was rocking on the waves, and then a huge sea serpent rose from the depths, illuminated by flashes of lightning, and roared terribly…
Orm woke up and found that he was being shaken by the shoulder, and somewhere nearby Thunder, their shepherd dog, was growling. He wanted to protest, but opening his eyes, he saw the frightened face of Kalle, his brother, who was looking after the sheep while he slept. Kalle gestured towards the flock. Orm looked there, and all his sleepiness immediately passed.
The full moon shone brightly, illuminating everything around. The sheep were not grazing the grass, scattered all over the meadow, as usual, but huddled together not far from the fire and bleated in fear. A tall figure in a black cloak was approaching them from the road. The closer the man came, the better Orm could see him in the moonlight, the stronger the feeling became that something was wrong with him. Thunder sat in front of the boys, blocking them with itself, and growled in his direction, pressing its ears to its head.
That was definitely a stranger. Sometimes travellers stayed at their farmstead—merchants, storytellers, people heading to the nearest settlement on various business... This was common, not far from their lands there was a road leading from the coast to the capital and further, to the north. There was nothing strange in approaching the shepherds to ask for directions. But no one usually travelled at night, and Orm had never seen animals react to a man like that.
In the moonlight the stranger seemed to glide over the ground rather than walk, so smoothly did he move. His hair was long and fair, not braided like most men's, but hanging freely, and he had no beard. If it had not been for his tall stature and broad shoulders, he might have been mistaken for a woman. The stranger stopped near the sheep, frozen in place, and looked at the boys in silence. The shadows fell on his face so that it seemed as if his eye sockets were black holes. Orm felt himself becoming numb with an incomprehensible fear. Then the stranger threw aside the hem of his cloak and drew a long sword from its sheath at his belt.
They should have run. Both boys had knives, but against a grown warrior with a sword, even the two of them had no chance. But they had a chance to run away, the distance between them and the swordsman was small, but if he was tired enough after the night's journey, he might not catch up. But Kalle couldn't move either, he only pressed himself closer to his brother, clutching the handle of his knife.
But the stranger seemed to have lost interest in them. Instead, he turned to the nearest sheep, put his sword under its throat—the sheep had stood rooted to the spot the whole time, not even bleating—and slaughtered it in one motion. Hearing the dying animal's wheeze, the rest of the flock came to their senses, and the sheep rushed away, bleating loudly, bumping into each other. The stranger threw his sword on the grass and fell to his knees next to the sheep's carcass, holding his cupped hands under the blood pouring from its slit throat. Then he raised hands to his mouth and began to drink greedily.
Orm, as if hypnotized, watched as he repeated these actions over and over again. His movements were no longer smooth, but jerky, abrupt, as if he were tormented by a terrible thirst that he could not quench.
Finally, he finished, wiped his hands on the grass and stood up. His mouth and chin were all bloody and looked black in the moonlight. The stranger picked up his sword from the ground, wiped the blade and sheathed it, then turned and headed back to the road.
Even when he disappeared behind the hillock, Orm did not dare move at first. Only when Thunder began to lick his face did the numbness finally recede.
“Was it… a draugr?”1 Orm asked in a whisper. Besides the stories about gods and heroes that he loved so much, there were other stories that were told on long and dark winter evenings: about evil creatures lying in wait for careless people in the mountains, in the forests, by the water... And among them were living corpses, dead warriors who know no peace and attack people and cattle at night.
“I don't know,” Kalle answered, “but certainly not a man. Who would drink sheep's blood?”
They did not close their eyes until the morning.
The family did not believe their story right away. But then the workers went to the pasture and brought back a dead sheep, then Grandpa Leif asked the boys to describe in detail what they had seen, frowned, whispered something to their father, who, together with several other men, hurried off somewhere, taking weapons and horses. They returned only in the evening, and at Grandpa's questioning look, their father only threw up his hands and shook his head.
For the next few weeks, the cattle were only grazed during the day, and children and women were strictly forbidden to leave the farmstead after dark. Orm understood from the adults' conversations that his father had sent someone to warn the neighbours to be careful, too. Grandfather, in response to all the children's questions, grumbled that it was none of their business, and if they saw such a stranger next time, they should run without looking back, and not stare at him.
But time passed, no more news of the mysterious stranger appeared, and gradually life on the estate returned to normal. People stopped peering into every shadow, began talking about harvesting, about the approaching autumn fair, where folks would come from all the surrounding lands. Even Kalle became cheerful again. The father taught him to fight with axes, and Kalle bragged that if next time he met someone who encroached on their sheep, he would hit him right in the forehead with this axe, and that would be the end of it.
Orm became quieter and more thoughtful from then on. At first, he often had nightmares. Sometimes he dreamed that he was alone in the middle of a night meadow, immersed in silence, and the draugr—Orm was sure that was what they had seen—was gliding closer and closer to him. In the dream, he was floating in the air, and his cloak fluttered behind him, although there was no wind. Sometimes in the dream, the draugr wandered along the roof of the house, or loomed outside the window in the night, staring at Orm with empty eye sockets, or knocked on the door—once, and not thrice, as was customary among people. Orm always woke up before the living dead reached him, sweating and with a pounding heart.
As the years passed, the dreams came less and less often. Orm learned various jobs on the estate, learned the tricks of hunting, picked up an adult weapon for the first time, and for the first time a pretty girl smiled at him at the fair. The awkward boy, skinny and dishevelled, grew up and became a young man, well built, strong and agile. The encounter with the stranger gradually turned into a half-forgotten childhood memory. Only his sleep remained light, and he didn't like sleeping in the open air anymore.
Orm walked briskly through the forest, whistling a simple tune under his breath. It had been a good day, with several hares caught in the snares.
His path home took him along a stream, past rocks where there was a small cave. He had once taken refuge in it from the rain. A sudden feeling that someone was watching him made Orm stop and peer into the darkness. The bright sun made it difficult to see anything inside, but he thought he saw movement. He took a cautious step toward the cave... and the one inside took a step toward him.
A tall man in a black cloak with long, flowing blond hair stood before him. He was breathing heavily, staring at Orm with an unblinking gaze, and then he bared his teeth. Orm froze in place, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. The "man" had long, sharp fangs. And then the "man" rushed towards him with impossible speed. Orm did not have time to step back, and the creature would have grabbed him, if not for—
If not for the sunlight. The light fell on the creature's hand, and its face grimaced with pain. The hand jerked back into the darkness. And then a hoarse voice came from the cave. The creature spoke with difficulty, and seemed to have an accent, but the words could be understood: “Do not come closer... hunger... I cannot stand it.”
In fairy tales, evil creatures have always been afraid of the sun. The sun turned trolls to stone, made ghosts disperse like morning mist. And the stranger, who obviously also belonged to them, was no exception and could not leave his hiding place until sunset. Orm, realizing that nothing threatened him, looked at the stranger, unable to tear himself away. He looked quite young, Orm would not have given him more than thirty years. His face would even have been handsome, if not for the deep shadows under his eyes, the deathly pallor and his fangs. His clothes were worn, but not poor: a cloak of good wool, leather boots, a tight-fitting black doublet, belted not with rope, but with a good belt with a metal buckle. On the hilt of the sword hanging from the stranger's belt was visible some kind of coat of arms, but from a distance it was impossible to make out the details. On the silver clasp of the cloak was engraved a flower, the likes of which Orm had never seen. He would have said that he saw before him a foreigner, a wandering warrior, if not for his inhuman features and the circumstances of their meeting.
"Wasn't it you I saw in the meadow not far from here, about ten years ago?" Orm asked. "My brother and I were herding the flock at night. Someone very much like you killed our sheep and drank its blood.”
“Perhaps…” the draugr responded. “I come to these lands sometimes… lost track of time.”
Orm thought he heard a note of sadness in his voice. It was strange to see the nightmare that had so frightened him as a child before him in the flesh and in such a pitiful state. He was still breathing heavily, his mouth slightly open, and leaning his hand on the rock as if it were hard for him to stand. Something akin to compassion stirred in Orm's heart, as if he was looking at a wounded animal. After all, he thought, the draugr had not touched him and his brother then, and there was nothing to stop him from doing so during the night.
“You only drink blood, right?” he asked, scratching his head. “I have a hare here that I just killed, and I only need its skin. Perhaps I could throw it to you, and you could have a bite of it, and then throw it back to me? If you're that hungry.”
The draugr stared at him in surprise, his eyes widening, then he nodded slowly. Orm pulled the still-warm hare carcass out of his sack, swung it, and threw it into the cave. The draugr caught it effortlessly with one hand. Orm watched, fascinated, as something predatory flashed in his eyes again, his mouth opened wider, and his fangs sank deep into the carcass, piercing the skin. He drank as greedily as he had then, as if the taste of blood brought him indescribable pleasure. Orm couldn't help but think that, had he been less fortunate, he might have been in the hare's place. When the draugr had finished and thrown the drained hare back to Orm, he looked calmer and more collected... more human.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, “it's so rare that someone wants to help me.”
“You speak strangely, friend,” despite everything, Orm was overcome with curiosity. It's not every day that you encounter the undead, especially those who are prone to talking. “Where are you from?”
“Haven't talked to people for a long time... Forgot how to do it,” the draugr shrugged, slightly embarrassed. “Where am I from... To the south of here there is a country unlike this one, it's warm, and the stars seem closer there, and roses bloom in the gardens...”
His voice sounded dreamy, although there were hoarse and hissing notes in it, and Orm listened with rapt attention. He had not yet taken part in military campaigns and raids; while his father and older brothers were away, at least one of the male members of the family had to remain at the estate. But he desperately dreamed of traveling, and his interlocutor talked and talked, about majestic castles standing in blooming valleys, about populous cities where houses were built of stone, about powerful kings, about women of unearthly beauty...
“You tell wonderful things! I hope that one day I will see all this with my own eyes. But what are you doing here, in the north?” Orm asked finally. Then he caught himself: “Oh, I didn’t even ask your name. I am Orm, son of Hakon, and who are you?”
“I am glad to meet you, Orm Hakonson,” the swordsman nodded, “but I no longer have a name. Who am I... The one who failed in his duty, failed to protect his love, forever damned for his sins, neither alive nor dead,” he smiled bitterly, his gaze became absent again, as if he saw images from his memories before him. “Far from here she sleeps, among the ruins of an ancient castle, in an overgrown garden... And I wander in the night, without direction or purpose. This is a good land to wander on, vast, cold and empty.”
“So you are a cursed man? But every curse can be lifted somehow. Do you know how to lift yours?” so it was in the tales and legends that Orm heard as a child.
“Alas... If only I knew,” his interlocutor spread his hands. Orm noticed that his nails were long and pointed.
Something was scratching anxiously at the back of Orm's mind, and he finally realized that: he began to see the nameless swordsman better, because the sun, leaning towards the sunset, hid behind the ridge of the cliff and stopped blinding his eyes. He had come here in the afternoon, and the journey to the estate was not short... All those stories came to mind, where a man spoke to some mysterious creatures in the forest, and nothing good came of it. The swordsman's gaze suddenly seemed unpleasantly intent, fixed—he did not even blink.
Something told Orm that protective spells against him would not work, and he would have to rely only on his hatchet, if anything, but if the swordsman was skilled in handling his weapon, then Orm would most likely have a hard time...
“Isn’t it time for you to go home, Orm, son of Hakon?” the draugr suddenly asked. The fangs in his mouth gleamed wetly as he spoke, and Orm imagined again how easy it must be to bite through a human neck with them. “I stay away from human habitations and will not disturb your home… but you really should go. And hurry. ”
“Well, good luck with your curse, and I really will go,” Orm turned, ready to follow the advice.
“Good luck to you in your future travels, Orm,” came from behind him, quietly but clearly, “and if you meet me again at night, run away at once.”
Orm walked quickly away, and when he turned the path, he could not resist and broke into a run, and ran until he saw the gates of the farmstead in the distance.
He did not tell anyone about this encounter: no one would believe him, and even if they did, they would be terrified for nothing. But one thing bothered him: everyone knew that draugar could predict the future. He told Orm about future travels.
At the end of the summer, his father and brothers returned from a raid, with rich booty, but Kalle was no longer cheerful—he returned badly lame on his right leg. Then Orm remembered the draugr's words again: it meant that the following summer it would be his turn to step aboard the ship with a weapon in his hands.
There was a deep silence in the house, everyone was asleep. Only the old man could not sleep; over the years his sleep had become more and more restless, and the pain in his shoulder was bothering him—a reminder of an old battle wound. Having grumbled discontentedly, he got up, wrapped himself in a warm sheepskin-lined cloak, took a lantern and went outside to breathe some air.
The night was clear and frosty, the snow crunched underfoot, and the green and blue northern lights shimmered in the sky, marking the border of the world of the living and showing the way for the souls of the dead among the stars.
The old man froze, admiring the spectacle. Awakened by the sound of his steps, the dog Blackie came up to him and, yawning, sat down next to him, nuzzling his hand with its muzzle. The old man looked down, about to scratch the dog behind the ear, and suddenly stared at the top of a small hill that towered above the buildings of the estate on the north side. On the hill, a single yellow light flickered, as if from another lantern. The old man frowned and walked quickly towards the gate, from which a path rose up. The dog trotted along with him.
When he reached the top, the one holding the lantern turned around.
“It’s you again!” the old man exclaimed in excitement. Then he quickly glanced at the dog—it was standing next to him calmly, showing no signs of fear.
“Is that you, Orm, son of Hakon?” asked the nameless swordsman. In the light of the lantern, it was clear that he had not changed at all over the years, not a single wrinkle had appeared on his face.
“As you can see, life has worn me out,” Orm grinned. “You advised me to run away without looking back if I met you again, but I have already run enough over all these years. As you said then, I have had my share of travels! But it is better to die in my homeland.”
“You can approach without fear,” the swordsman answered, “for I have found a way to curb my hunger.”
Orm stood next to him, looking at the multi-colored flashes of heavenly lights.
“Have you managed to lift your curse?” he asked.
“Partially. I promised at the grave of my beloved that I would rid myself of evil before I visited her again. Now, at last, I will be able to appear before her not quite as a monster.”
His words were full of sadness. Orm was silent for a moment, lost in memories. Ten years had already passed since the funeral pyre carried his Guda into the sky. But Orm lived out his last years surrounded by his children and grandchildren, in his home that had seen generations of his ancestors, and the swordsman wandered alone for only the gods know how long…
“Oh, how tired you must be, my friend,” Orm muttered.
“Of course I am,” the swordsman said. Blackie reached out to sniff his hand, and he thoughtfully stroked the dog’s head. “But tell me, Orm, where have you been travelling? Have you been to the south?”
“Of course! Do you want to hear the old man’s stories about his glorious past?” Orm grinned.
"Compared to me, you're still young," the swordsman's pale lips curved into a smile. "I haven't been to my native lands for a long time, and I wouldn't mind hearing a story or two about them. I myself am heading there.”
"Well then, listen...”
And the mortal man began his story, and the immortal wanderer listened, while the silver disk of the moon rose into the sky from the horizon. It was so good to hear a human voice again. Beautiful was God’s world that spread out around him, with its heavenly lights, its sparkling snow underfoot, its untouched white expanses, a world created out of love. Love called the wanderer home, made him move forward, seek salvation, hope that he, too, would eventually be forgiven. And even though God did not answer his prayers, that night was peaceful and bright.
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1 Draugr (Old Norse: draugr, pl. draugar; Danish and Norwegian: draug) is an undead creature from the sagas and Scandinavian folktales. They are revenants, or reanimated corpses, close to vampires. [ ▲ ]