Toke woke up in the dark. He often woke up in the dark now, as the days grew shorter and shorter now that the summer season shifted into winter. In just a few months, the sun would stop rising altogether, casting Halogaland into darkness, the sky only occasionally illuminated by soft blue and pink for a few hours a day as the sun approached the mountains to the east, never showing her face. It would be a dreary time, when dark thoughts visit the mind and stay there far longer than they should, like unwanted guests are wont to do.
Toke sighed and sat up, swinging his legs off the bench. The air was cold. He pulled on his wool over-tunic, and shuffled over to the fire pit. He blew on the coals, was rewarded with a faint red glow, and fed a bit of kindling to the fire. It caught. Toke was tempted to build the fire up and just sit there, staring at it, waiting for the sun to come up, but he could hear the dogs whining just outside the door, asking to be fed. Sun or no sun, animals had to be taken care of, the house prepared for the cold winter, boats and nets repaired. Plenty of work for the few hours of daylight.
Toke set to his chores, doing work he had done on hundreds of other mornings; his hands knew the routine well, and his mind started to wander. Given the opportunity, Toke’s mind usually wandered to Hilda, who lived in a village not far away. Toke was planning to approach Hilda’s father and propose a marriage; but such things were best done after winter released her hold on the land, so these coming long nights he’d have to spend by himself. Quite a few lads around spending nights by themselves this winter. A worry arose in Toke’s mind: what if one of them also fancied Hilda? What if several did? He’d need to make himself stand out as a suitor. Something that makes him better than the others – braver, of nobler stock, more capable of providing for the girl and the family they would make. Something that would make him look like more than a simple fisherman… A sword! Noblemen broke into ancient barrows to fetch swords of their ancestors and give the storied blade as a gift to their bride, to hold in safety for their future son. And if they could do it, so could Toke. Imagine that, Toke, come bearing an ancient sword, just like a fancy lord’s son. That would certainly set people talking and put the odds in his favor.
Toke realized he hadn’t moved for several minutes as he day-dreamed. He could do this. There was a burial mound in the forest – not far, maybe a couple hours’ hike from his cabin. If he started now, he could be back before sunset. Tomorrow, the day would be shorter, and the next one shorter yet… no time like the present. Toke put down the net he was repairing and went into the house to get supplies: a bag with food for the road, a skin of water, a long-handled adze. Daylight was just breaking. Toke felt good; he felt excited. His stomach tightened, and his hand gripped the adze with nervous strength. He was really doing this. He was going on an adventure. Toke shook his head, smiled a little at himself, and set off into the forest.
The sun was bleaker in the woods. The further he went into the trees, the fewer rays penetrated the dense canopy of pine and alder. Toke was used to the open expanse of the sea, the gentle murmur of the waves. Here in the woods, the sound of his footsteps did not travel the same way, and the trees seemed to wall him in, their roots snaking through grass to trip him, their branches slapping him in the face, barring his way. He expected to hear noises, but nothing accompanied his slow trek up the hillside except the occasional twig cracking under his feet, or a branch he pushed out of the way twanging back, showering him with pine needles. Toke thought about the burial mound, what he might find there. Old folks said that in the darkest winter nights, they could see strange lights dancing on the barrow, a sure sign of a haugbui, a barrow-wight. Just stories, he thought. Stories to keep ambitious strong lads like Toke from breaking in.
A bird exploded from a bush as he passed it, creating a sudden cacophony. Toke jumped, and felt his heart beating urgently against his chest, goose bumps puckering on his skin. He froze in place, unable to control his own body which seemed to just want to stop and disappear. A minute passed, then two, and all he could feel and hear was the nervous energy coursing through him, the drum beat of his heart barely slowing down. He shivered, even though the day had gotten warm, and he was sweating from walking uphill just a moment earlier.
Toke slowed his breathing, willed his fists to unclench, his eyes to see the forest for what it was – just trees, just grass, just a stupid bird. Toke breathed out through the mouth, loudly, and adjusted his shoulder bag. He looked up the hill. A bit further to the north east, and he’ll come out on the overgrown path; the mound, he knew, wouldn’t be far from there. The sun was higher than he expected; at this rate, he thought, he would barely return by sundown. Toke hurried.
By the time he finally stumbled to the path, his knee hurt from scraping on a rock one of the many times he fell, tripped by the gnarled roots. His hands were covered in dirt, and there were streaks of dirt on his face from wiping it, half to get sweat out of his eyes, half from frustration. He must have gotten turned around and gone in circles three times before making it here. The hike was turning out far from pleasant; but Toke took pride in being stubborn, and he kept reminding himself that the next day would be only shorter, and the risk of Hilda’s father finding another man more worthy, only greater. Showing up with an ancient sword from the great barrow mind would make him stand out as a suitor. No one could equal this feat! Toke imagined the surprise in Hilda’s father’s face, the pleased and admiring look on Hilda, and walked faster. This is worth it, he thought. Not so bad. Just a forest.
Days are short in the North once winter comes, and the change sets in quickly. It was dusk by the time Toke finally made it to the great burial mound. He gazed at it in wonder, and no small amount of trepidation. Nothing but some patches of thin grass grew on it, although the forest stood tall and silent all around. No birds sang; no field mice skittered. It was just there, big, heavy, silent. Toke did not want to be here at night. But to turn around empty-handed? What a fool he’d think himself. Plus, it had gotten too late. If not on the mound, he’d be in the forest when the night was darkest – and the forest turned out to be unwelcoming even in the middle of the day. Toke sat down and pulled some bread and cheese from his bag, drank a bit of water from the waterskin. It was clear what he needed to do, even if he didn’t like it. The forest at night was not an option. The interior of the burial mound offered protection from the elements and predators that stalked at night; and he didn’t really believe in haugbui, did he now? A small part of him did. Toke silenced that small part, pulled out his adze, and set to work.
Toke worked fast, spurred on by the sun’s rapid decline. Soon enough, his adze struck something solid, a dull thud telling him that an empty space lay beyond. Toke worked faster, clearing more earth around the wooden boards buried under the dirt: the roof of the burial chamber. He sped up, working at a furious pace now, striking, pulling, reaching in to pull up the framing, kicking down to break through. Toke was seized with urgency, the coming darkness bringing with it a threat he could not verbalize, could not stop to think about – the only thing he knew was that he desperately needed to not be here on the mound when night came. He had to hide, he had to escape. A hole finally opened up, and the stale smell of the ancient grave hit Toke’s nostrils. This had to be better than being out here, exposed to the terrors that haunted the night. The sun set behind the forest. Toke crouched, put his hands on either side of the gap he opened in the roof, and jumped in.
He landed awkwardly, one foot hitting some tall object while the other kept going. Instead of landing like a cat, he tumbled, stuck out an arm to catch himself, and hit it hard, pain shooting through his left wrist. A strain? A break? He wasn’t sure. It was dark inside the barrow. Toke lay on his back and stared up at the patch of evening sky visible through the hole he made in the roof. There were a few stars out. Everything was quiet. His wrist throbbed. Toke rummaged in his pouch with the other hand, and pulled out his fire kit. Carefully, he made a small nest of shredded bark, placed a small bit of touchwood on a chunk of flint, and gripped it as best he could in his left hand. He held the steel striker in his right, and chopped at the flint, hoping for a spark to catch the touchwood. The high pitched sound of steel striking flint sounded wrong in this still place. The touchwood caught, and Toke rushed to get it into the bark nest, and blew into it, ever so gently. The bark glowed red, faint wisps of smoke rising. Toke added a few slivers of wood, and finally found some sticks long enough he could light one end and hold another. With light in hand, Toke started looking around the chamber.
The barrow was shaped like a ship; long and narrow, wider in the middle and coming nearly to a point at both ends. A raised platform, which he clipped on his way down, lay in the middle of the ship, covered with what may once have been rich furs, but was now a ragged mass of dirt and hair. The ancient hero was laid out upon it, surrounded by precious objects to accompany it to the afterlife: drinking cups, board games and dice, a leather bag with chisels for carving stone, stirrups and a bridle. A painted shield leaned against the platform. The body of a thrall, killed to serve the hero in the afterlife, lay at the stern. And there, clasped in the warrior’s skeletal hands, lay the sword. No scabbard, no wrappings – the sword was naked, silver inlay on the hilt strangely untarnished, bright in the reflected firelight.
Toke approached the body. He wondered who this was, a mighty warrior buried here generations ago, revered so that his people built him a ship so far away from the sea, buried him here with all these riches. Gently, Toke lifted the skeletal left hand from the sword hilt and placed it to the side. He then reached for the right hand, its fingers wrapped around the fine leather-covered grip. The finger bones still held together, and he started uncurling them one at a time: the pointer finger, the middle finger… A glint caught Toke’s eye. Green light reflected off the blade. He looked up, and saw that northern lights came, broad splashes of celestial paint dancing in the sky: greens, yellows, even pink. He stared through the small gap he made in the roof of the mound, mouth agape, filled with the wonder of it all – him being here, next to an ancient king, his hand on the ancient sword, as gods painted the sky. The colors flowed and moved in the sky fluidly, and the mound seemed to respond. Dots of light appeared on the walls, on the strakes of the ship, around the gap in the ceiling – a few at first, then more and more. Like the light in the sky, they were green, but a different green, an unhealthy, pestilent green; a green that did not breathe wonder into one’s soul, but despair. Burial mounds that glow are not burial mounds a sensible man would be anywhere near at night, much less inside of.
An awful smell suddenly assaulted Toke: a musty, thick smell. A smell like that of rotting meat, but more sour. A smell that sent Toke’s mind reeling, made him crouch, pushed out all thoughts but to run, to get away. Toke fumbled at his water skin, splashed water on a piece of disintegrating cloth laid next to the body – a richly embroidered tunic once, no more than a rag now – and held it to his mouth and nose. The stench was still overpowering, but doing something at all, aside from crouching, helped him regain his bearings.
Toke knew what this smell was, he’d heard the stories from when he was the smallest child: a haugbui awoke, a draugr, a barrow-wight. He knew, too, that beheading the waking corpse would stop it in its tracks. Toke grabbed at the sword and pulled, hard, no longer bothering to treat the corpse gently. Phalanges and knuckle-bones flew from the platform in the eerie green light. Was it his imagination, or did the body move? Toke lifted the sword above his head, grabbed hold of the skull and quickly, before it had a chance to rise and grab him, brought the sword crashing down. The blade hit at an awkward angle and turned in his hand. The skeleton shifted from the impact. Panicking, Toke raised the sword again, and hacked at the neck again, over and over, until at last he heard a crack and saw the upper vertebrae had been severed. The head came away from the body. Toke lifted it up and stared at the empty eye sockets; they were lifeless. Cold sweat soaked Toke’s tunic; his whole body felt clammy, yet vibrated with nervous energy. He let out a small laugh. So much for the might of an ancient warrior, for the terror of a haugbui. If he felt uncertain about his right to the sword before, he was sure now: he earned it by sending this evil spirit on its way. Toke threw the skull to the back of the boat. “Begone, you evil thing,” he shouted into the green mist that had filled the cavern. “I am Toke Ulfsson, and I claim this sword and these riches!” Toke danced a small triumphant jig, shaking his hands in the air, careless of rotting wood under his feet.
The rancid smell engulfed Toke. A heavy hand grasped his shoulder as another scooped him up at the knees. Some being of impossible strength lifted him as if he was a small child, and threw him onto the platform, right on top of the skeletal remains. Ancient ribs cracked under Toke’s body. The green mist swirled in front of him, mighty hands pushed him down, and that smell, that terrible, overbearing smell filled his nostrils. Toke retched and coughed, swung his legs wildly… and then it was atop him. A lean figure, dressed in white robes, long black hair streaming from a skull covered in desiccated skin mounted him, sat on his chest, driving air out of his lungs. A woman, slight, but unnaturally heavy, immovable, no matter how much he thrashed. Her thin hand grabbed him by the jaw in an iron grip, turned his head so that he could do nothing but stare at her lifeless oculars. “I see you, Toke Ulfsson,” she said a jagged, hoarse whisper that froze Toke in place. There was no struggle to be had. The haugbui had him.
“I see you, Toke Ulfsson,” the creature repeated. “And you see me. How do you feel, Toke Ulfsson? What is it like, to know you cannot escape, that your life and death are mine to decide on a whim?” The pressure on Toke’s chest was monumental. He struggled to take the shallowest of breaths, to swallow the stench-filled air. His eyes watered. He kicked his legs, uselessly, and stopped, knowing this only wasted what little life force he had left. “Do you know who I am, Toke Ulfsson?” asked the haugbui and tilted her head. Toke just stared. “I am Groa. A thrall. Just a thrall.” The creature wheezed in a halting, terrifying way, and Toke realized she was laughing. “I died here because my master died. A sacrifice, like the cups and the tools and the bridle. My life was theirs to decide on… or so they thought. He stayed dead, and I did not. I waited a long time for someone to come and listen to me, Toke Ulfsson. Even before I died, they took my name away. But his name is now forgotten, and I am still here.” Her voice was a horrid, raspy sound, monotonous, words coming out slowly as if they had to travel a long and difficult way. “I had no one to talk to for a long long time, even before I was killed and buried. You will stay with me and listen, won’t you, Toke Ulfsson?” The haugbui leaned in close, looking at Toke socket to eye. The stench filled his nose, the vise grip on his jaw threatening to crush his teeth inward. His bladder emptied, but this gave no relief to the pressure her unnatural weight was putting on Toke’s body. “Stay with me, Toke Ulfsson. Stay the night, and listen to old Groa for a while.”
And so he stayed, pinned to the platform, on top of some warrior’s skeletal remains, its bones digging into his back and thighs. The undead thrall loomed over him and whispered, croaked, groaned her tale. As she spoke, Toke felt every pain she felt, every ignominy she suffered. Nights are long in Halogaland in winter, and Groa the thrall – the draugr, the haugbui – had a long tale of misery and pain to share. Many hours passed until the first rays of light reached into the cavern and fell onto Toke’s tear-streaked face. He’d stopped struggling, his body in agony, his mind alternating between fear for himself and a strange sense of pity and sympathy for his tormentor. Groa finished the story of her life and sat heavily on his chest, her body still, thin wisps of green mist swirling about her. She stared into Toke’s face. “What do you want?” Toke finally croaked through his dry, cracked lips. “I want my name to be remembered,” came the reply, and the haugbui’s face rushed towards him. Toke felt his nose break as the skull hit him, a white flash of pain blinded him, and the world went dark.
Toke awoke to the sounds of birds chirping merrily, and the sun beaming on his battered face. His face was covered in dried blood from his broken nose. He was bruised all over, his chest tight. His arms hurt to bend and unbend. Toke looked around; he was at the foot of the burial mound, next to a large rock. Next to him was the ancient sword, and the leather bag of a stone-carver’s tools. He pulled out a chisel and a hammer and stared at them. He sat there, staring, for what seemed like a long time. After a while Toke stood up, put the chisel on the stone, and struck. “Groa came from the land of the Svears”, he began.
Historical Notes
This short story was written rather quickly, and the historical inputs to it came mostly from the wonderful website “Viking Answer Lady”, http://www.vikinganswerlady.com . Christie Ward created a great resource there – articles on a variety of subjects, detailed, readable, and thoroughly documented, with extensive bibliographies. The bit about noblemen breaking into graves is real – or as real as any conclusions we can make from sagas and similar documents are; more about that at http://www.vikinganswerlady.com/wedding.shtml. Haugbui and draugr show up in Norse sagas a fair amount; they have been known to make lights appear on a barrow mound, to smell terrible, and to occasionally crush their victims with their incredible weight: http://www.vikinganswerlady.com/ghosts.shtml.