Harold : the Last of the Saxon Kings — Complete by Lytton (rm book recommendations .TXT) 📕

“Bringer of sleep am I, and the baths I prepare are in the halls of Valhalla. Offer not to the Vala the bath for mortal weariness, and the wine and the food meet for human guests. Sit thee down, daughter of the Dane, and thank thy new gods for the past that hath been thine. Not ours is the present, and the future escapes from our dreams; but the past is ours ever, and all eternity cannot revoke a single joy that the moment hath known.”

Then seating herself in Godwin’s large chair, she leant over her seid-staff, and was silent, as if absorbed in her thoughts.

“Githa,” she said at last, “where is thy lord? I came to touch his hands and to look on his brow.”

“He hath gone forth into the mart, and my sons are from home; and Harold comes hither, ere night, from his earldom.”

A faint smile, as of triumph, broke over the lips of the Vala, and then as suddenly yielded to an expression of great sadness.

“Githa,” she said, slowly, “doubtless thou rememberest in thy young days to have seen or heard of the terrible hell-maid Belsta?”

“Ay, ay,” answered Githa shuddering; “I saw her once in gloomy weather, driving before her herds of dark grey cattle. Ay, ay; and my father beheld her ere his death, riding the air on a wolf, with a snake for a bridle. Why askest thou?”

“Is it not strange,” said Hilda, evading the question, that Belsta, and Heidr, and Hulla of old, the wolf-riders, the men-devourers, could win to the uttermost secrets of galdra, though applied only to purposes the direst and fellest to man, and that I, though ever in the future,—I, though tasking the Nornas not to afflict a foe, but to shape the careers of those I love,—I find, indeed, my predictions fulfilled; but how often, alas! only in horror and doom!”

“How so, kinswoman, how so?” said Githa, awed yet charmed in the awe, and drawing her chair nearer to the mournful sorceress. “Didst thou not fortell our return in triumph from the unjust outlawry, and, lo, it hath come to pass? and hast thou not” (here Githa’s proud face flushed) “foretold also that my stately Harold shall wear the diadem of a king?”

“Truly, the first came to pass,” said Hilda; “but——” she paused, and her eye fell on the cyst; then breaking off she continued, speaking to herself rather than to Githa—“And Harold’s dream, what did that portend? the runes fail me, and the dead give no voice. And beyond one dim day, in which his betrothed shall clasp him with the arms of a bride, all is dark to my vision—dark—dark. Speak not to me, Githa; for a burthen, heavy as the stone on a grave, rests on a weary heart!”

A dead silence succeeded, till, pointing with her staff to the fire, the Vala said, “Lo, where the smoke and the flame contend—the smoke rises in dark gyres to the air, and escapes, to join the wrack of clouds. From the first to the last we trace its birth and its fall; from the heart of the fire to the descent in the rain, so is it with human reason, which is not the light but the smoke; it struggles but to darken us; it soars but to melt in the vapour and dew. Yet, lo, the flame burns in our hearth till the fuel fails, and goes at last, none know whither. But it lives in the air though we see it not; it lurks in the stone and waits the flash of the steel; it coils round the dry leaves and sere stalks, and a touch re-illumines it; it plays in the marsh—it collects in the heavens—it appals us in the lightning—it gives warmth to the air—life of our life, and the element of all elements. O Githa, the flame is the light of the soul, the element everlasting; and it liveth still, when it escapes from our view; it burneth in the shapes to which it passes; it vanishes, but its never extinct.”

So saying, the Vala’s lips again closed; and again both the women sate silent by the great fire, as it flared and flickered over the deep lines and high features of Githa, the Earl’s wife, and the calm, unwrinkled, solemn face of the melancholy Vala.