The Saga of Adis Raudfeldr

By Siobhán Clark

Abandoned in the unforgiving Scandinavian wilderness as a child of a disgraced father, young Adis learned to fend for herself. Aware as she grew of the cost of trusting strangers and manipulative mother-in-laws, she escaped her fate twice and set in motion events which shake the forest, the lake and two cultures who must learn to trust each other. 

Amidst the compelling landscape of Viking Era Scandinavia, and awealth with Trolls, evil spirits, luck deities and draugr, Adis comes to live for herself, and then who to allow into her inner circle in this incredible tale of strength, womanhood and folklore. 

Those who enjoy historical fiction, mythology, Norse & Icelandic sagas, the Viking Age, and elements of fantasy and the supernatural, would enjoy this book. As would those who have an interest in ancient Sámi mythology, and how they might have interacted with neighbouring groups.

This saga is told from the perspective of female characters within a patriarchal society, and how they maximized their agency. This is becoming an increasingly important and current topic for many. However, it also looks at relationships between people who have been stripped of their identity, men and women alike.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vraeyda Literary
• Release date: Oct 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9781988034348

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The Saga of Ádís Rauðfeldr

Siobhán Clark

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Vraeyda Literary

Copyright © 2022 by Siobhán Clark

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information browsing, storage, or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Edited by Lis Goryniuk-Ratajczak Cover by Sapha Burnell

ISBN 978-1-988034-34-8 (eBook)

ISBN 978-1-988034-35-5 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-988034-36-2 (Hardcover)

Vraeyda Literary sends authors to events, virtual events, Book Clubs & interviews. For promotional consideration, large-volume orders, please contact Lorie at [e-mail].

Contents

Dedication

Long Have I

A Gift from the Gods

1. Rauðvig Íssherðar, daughter of the Jotnar

2. Ádís, daughter of Geir Rauðfeldr

3. Mór, son of Bera

4. The marriage of Mór and Ádís

5. Ádís the wanderer

6. A woman alone

7. The enduring nature of Ádís

8. No loyalty in lies

9. Movement, the Other

10. A stranger at the door

11. Shelter for the wayward

12. The bone flute

13. The herd

14. Dáidu of the dark tales

15. Dáidu & the wolf of mist

16. Solitude is broken

17. Ulfr

18. A wolf by any other name

19. The end of things

20. Ibbá the Trollkäringa

21. Halldís the Stone Maiden

22. A burning light

23. A tale is told

24. Bones

25. No place for a man

26. An antler for an adze

27. The Draugr

28. A fire to warm the corpse at her door

29. What the draugr sang

30. From the lips of Geir

31. A merciful death

32. In the hours of sorrow and anguish

33. A parting of ways

34. In a cave on the mountainside

35. Viðr of the Ironwood

36. The mask of Hallgríma

37. The wretched and the damned

38. The last words of Ibbá the Trollkäringa

39. Darkness came upon him

40. What Ádís did not see

41. The wood-woman of Myrkviðr

42. The Varðlokkur

43. In the shadows with Ruotta

44. The man in the mound

45. A Gathering

46. What must be broken

47. Rauðvig the Dís

48. What came to be

Glossary

Afterword

Acknowledgments

About Siobhán Clark

Also By Vræyda Literary

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Time runs like the river current

Tíminn es eins ok vatnit

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For Graeme, with whom I share this journey in a world of myth, legend, and lore

Long Have I

Long have I been searching for the stories of our past

And so, this tale has come to me, a scribe of ancient lays, of that which must not be forgotten

Let me recount for you those days, when the first kings stretched forth their swords and claimed the land with iron, when Viking ships sailed over the billowing waves, and magic was a fire still brightly burning

For this is a saga belonging to those who are still searching…

The wandering players…

Ádís In awe of the dís

Rauðvig Íssherðar The red battler of the ice

Ibbá the Trollkäringa The terror of trolls

Halldís The stone maiden

Hallgríma Of the stony mask

Myrkriða The one who rides in the dark

Bera The bear

Geir (Gellir) Rauðfeldr The spear (yeller) of the red cloak

Ulfr The wolf

Bjarni Flatnefr The flat-nosed bear

Mór The barren moor

Rangr & Rangi Those who are unjust

Dáidu Bearer of knowledge

Ávvu Joy & honour

Viðr of the Jarnviðr One of the Ironwood

Ruotta Spirit of sickness

A Gift from the Gods

In the beginning, the sun knew not where to dwell, the moon had no place to roam. The stars, for all their beauty, were drowned in an unending expanse of darkness. The realm of Niflheim lay in the north; vast mountains of ice, and Hvergelmir, the source that wept eleven rivers. To the south was the realm of Muspell that was the unyielding flame. Into the chasm of Ginnungagap all things flowed be they rivers, ice, fire or ash. At the centre of Ginnungagap, the perishing cold and merciless flame met. It was there, where life first drew breath, and Ymir was his name.

This giant of the frost knew only of things evil and poisonous, but as he slept sweat dripped from his body, and Ymir found he no longer existed as one. They called him Aurgelmir, for now he was the father of the frost giants.

The rime brought forth another, Auðhumla, and from her milk was Ymir nourished. As the giant fed, Auðhumla licked the rime-stones and a man emerged; his name was Buri. From this man came a son named Bor. There was a giant called BolÞorn who had a daughter named Bestla. With Bor she had three sons, they were named Óðinn, Vili and Ve.

The sons of Bor had love neither for Ymir nor the frost giants. As time passed dislike became hatred, words soon fashioned themselves into weapons, and the sons of Bor slew Ymir. Blood flowed from Ymir’s wounds, crimson rivers that drowned the frost giants until only two remained. The hrímþursar Bergelmir the mountain-bellower, son of Þrúðgelmir, and his wife lived on and it is they who are the ancestors of the Jǫtnar.

The sons of Bor were not yet done with Ymir. Upon their backs they carried his corpse to the centre of Ginnungagap, and so began the creation of the world. The flesh they moulded into earth, muscle and sinew becoming the valleys and plains. The blood of Ymir flowed all around, encompassing the world with oceans vast and deep. The seas swelled and flooded the land forming lakes and rivers. The shoreline, pebbles and gravel, fashioned from the giant’s teeth and cracked misshapen fragments of bone.

Yet more was crafted; the sun and moon found their home under the dome of Ymir’s skull, for the sons of Bor shaped the sky. The stars, once Muspell’s spark and flame unconfined, were fixed above the world so the journey homeward might be found simply by gazing towards the heavens. But the world was not yet free from giants, so the sons gave them a land in which to dwell, the name of which was Jǫtunheim. The sons of Bor, knew well the nature of the giants, and to protect the realm of Miðgarðr from those who might bring doom upon it, a fortification was made.

A realm with none who reside within, is a forgotten place, and so one last thing remained to be done. It so happened that Óðinn, Vili and Ve were walking along a shore where the land met the sea. There they found two trees uprooted, as if ripped from the earth and tossed aside, one was an ash and the other an elm. From these trees the sons of Bor made the first woman and man. Into them Óðinn breathed life, consciousness and movement came from Vili, and from Ve was imparted hearing, sight, and a voice.

Still more was crafted and hidden from sight, save only for those rare occasions when the veil is lifted, or the need is great. For the realm of Miðgarðr is home to far more than mankind.

To men and women, the gods gave that which would follow them until the end of their days. None are born equal in the realm of Miðgarðr, the course of life does not permit it to be so, yet all who bear life do not do so alone. This is what was given; the hamr - it is form and shape, the skin that swaddles us from the womb to the grave. There are those who are not bound to one form all their lives, slipping their skins, from man to bear or wolf. The hugr - it is the mind, and courage. For what use is form without thought, or the will to live each day in wait of fate’s arrival? The fylgja - the follower, that which is bound to us from birth. It too has shape, therein lies the truth found in the heart, for the form it takes reveals much about a person. Lastly, the hamingja - it is fortune and luck, and no small matter. Granted by fate, a hard path one must walk if fortune is in small measure, luck is a potent thing desired by many.

Of all the spirits that dwell beyond sight, there is one this tale must mention; the Dísir. In a place where time has little meaning, where the worlds above and below meet upon water, where the mountains become Jǫtunheim and Saivo, one dwells whose reach falls upon the heads of many. For this dís bore the gifts of the gods, and when little was left of her being, there still remained a voice, and her song…

1

Rauðvig Íssherðar, daughter of the Jotnar

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Long ago, within a valley etched deep into the earth and far from the eyes of the realm, a woman dwelled alone. Rauðvig was her name, because she was born of blood and battle. Her mother was a follower of the warriors who once swept towards the mountains. These men sought the Jotnar, pursuing legendary names and glorious deaths for themselves, and understanding very little of the world. When upon the frozen earth and swaddled in snow, came Rauðvig from her mother’s womb, not one cry did she utter. She lay surrounded by the slain as crows gathered over the torn flesh of the dead. A pair of black eyes as smooth as polished glass spotted the child, and flew towards the rocky peaks of the mountains, coming to rest on the shoulder of a Jotunn.

The Jotnar came down from the highlands and took Rauðvig. They were dismayed to find her heart half frozen and the skin of her back blackened by the frost. A Jotunn woman took the foundling in her arms and breathed into its mouth so the child might live another day. They named her Íssherðar, Ice-Shoulders, for the markings never faded from sight.

Seasons came and went. As Rauðvig grew, she found she was lacking in ability when those around her surpassed expectation. Her body, in comparison, was weak and she knew nothing of the realms save what they told her. The very same Jotunn who had breathed life into Rauðvig, took it upon herself to teach the woman all that was out-with the reach of Miðgarðr. What men called spells and incantations the Jotnar knew as threads of existence. Rauðvig soon came to learn that to pull upon a thread meant consequences to all living things. One should not take what one cannot return. When all learning had been exhausted, the Jotunn bid farewell to Rauðvig, who felt she could no longer live with those she fell so short of.

She built a home on the edge of a vast lake formed by the cut of a glacier and walled in by stone. When the winter arrived, she walked out onto the ice, hacked at the frozen surface with the sharpened point of an antler, and lowered her hook into the water. She waited alone, with a sinew line wrapped around her fur-mittened fist. Life went on like this for an unmeasured period of time.

There came a night when a man appeared at her door, and Rauðvig let him in. He said his name was Ulfr, he had come in search of a death that matched how he had lived his life. As Rauðvig drew close to the man she hissed in his ear, ‘If there were Jotnar in the mountains, they would not come to battle with one as feeble as you.’ Ulfr was insulted and demanded to know what feat he could perform to impress upon her his prowess. Rauðvig’s heart thawed somewhat despite her resentment of one so eager to die. She told him to return with the finest wool so that she might weave a cloak. This he did. Then she told him to return only when he had found the root of a certain plant, which he did. Finally, Rauðvig told Ulfr he might sit at her fire once more when he brought her the heart of a bear.

Many nights passed while Rauðvig spun the threads of the wool, her skill unmatched by human hands. She neither ate nor drank as the hours became days while she sang as she sat weaving. She ground the root of the madder plant and dyed the cloak blood red. But the mixture stained her hands so that no amount of scrubbing could remove the red dye from her skin. Still, she had made a rauðfeldr red cloak even the gods would be honoured to wear, yet she took little satisfaction in the garment herself.

She waited for Ulfr to return, many a reindeer hoof passed before his footsteps were heard outside the doorway. Ulfr fell over the threshold, his clothes and flesh torn, but in his hand was the heart Rauðvig had asked for. As she bathed his wounds the true damage of the fray between man and beast was revealed. Stricken by his harsh tokens of war the man remained by the warmth of the fireside, as she walked into the woods and peeled the bark from the trunk of an ancient tree. There Rauðvig scored markings and said sacred words. Returning to her dwelling she ground the flesh of both the ash-tree and bear, before mixing it with wild grain. She baked the unleavened bread on the hot stones of her fire. Ulfr slept quite beyond the reach of those devouring wolves, and so silently that Rauðvig thought him quite dead, until she pressed an ear to his chest and heard beating.

‘Why have me slay a bear for its heart?’ Ulfr asked.

‘To see if you could.’ Replied Rauðvig.

‘You’ll do nothing with it then?’

‘I used it to bring you back to life, we ate bread of bark and flesh, now we are cursed and I’m sorry for it.’ Said Rauðvig.

‘Cursed?’ Ulfr asked, feeling dread settle upon his chest like a lead weight.

Rauðvig told Ulfr she had pulled upon a thread. She had asked him for the heart, he had taken a life, and in turn his was almost taken. That should have been the end of the matter. Rauðvig should not have intervened where fate had set the course. She had used a magic so old and unremembered there was no way of escaping its hold. Now Rauðvig and Ulfr were bound together, to this place, and there was naught to be done about it.

‘In time you will find a way,’ said Ulfr. ‘You have knowledge and skill surpassing all in Miðgarðr, in time you will release us from this spell.’

‘Time, has little and everything to do with it.’ Replied Rauðvig.

Though Ulfr did not understand, he found himself unwilling to leave her, and the two lived together for a while. Often Ulfr would roam the woods behind Rauðvig’s home, wandering without cause. When he returned, he would slide under the furs and warm himself beside Rauðvig, often pondering why her back was so discoloured.

Once, Ulfr found himself troubled when he could not find his only companion. Eventually, he spotted a distant form on the ice, crouching over a hole, waiting for a bite on her line. From that day on he asked her to always wear the red cloak she had made, so that he might find her. She did so and for a short time they enjoyed a sense of peace in each other’s arms.

The seasons came and went, winter returned, and once more Ulfr took to wandering alone. His bewilderment grew as the snow began to fall, for he was uncertain what to make of himself. He roamed for too long, and when he returned Rauðvig was gone. All that remained was her red cloak and a bone flute lying beside an unlit fire, in her small dwelling in a valley scored deep within the earth.

2

Ádís, daughter of Geir Rauðfeldr

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There was once a norðmaðr Norseman who went by the name of Geir Rauðfeldr, or as some might have remembered it; Geir Gellir the screamer . None knew his father and he had no kin to speak of. He was a large highhanded man, with hair the colour of fire and a temperament as tempestuous as those storm-happy daughters-of-Ægir. His flesh bore the marks of battle but he spoke little of how his wounds were made. Weary was this man. Still, he offered his sword-arm to a chieftain named Bjarni Flatnefr flat-nose , and became so well loved that he married Flatnefr’s daughter. For a time, all was well, then winter approached.

The chieftain held a feast in his hall, as was the custom during the long bitter nights of ice and snow. Many travelled great distances and were well received. Some men arrived and made a nuisance of themselves with too much drinking and merriment. Bjarni Flatnefr sent for Geir Rauðfeldr, instructing him to dispel the rabble, but by no means was he to put a blade between them. The men continued, ignoring Geir and insulting their host. The eyes of Geir’s wife widened, dread twisting within her like a coiled serpent, certain as she was that this night would end in the ban-of-laughter. The last straw came when one man, the son of Bjarni’s kinsman, threw his cup and struck Geir on the back.

Though Bjarni roared at the men to drop their arms, blood was spilled, nonetheless. The son of his kinsman was slain. Despite wise counsel, Geir refused to offer compensation for the death, proclaiming Bjarni as nothing but a fool.

‘A man might be slain, but it is your reputation that is dead! These fools sicken me, as do you!’ Said Geir.

‘You are the husband of my daughter, but I’ll not stand for this, make amends and we can put this matter to rest.’ Bjarni replied, a thick finger stabbing and slicing the air.

‘Better it would be, if you surrendered your title to me! You’re an old man, incapable of controlling guests in his own hall, and unable to stop me from taking these lands as mine!’ Geir proclaimed as disbelief drained the ruddy hue of his kinsmen, their mouths agape as tongues swollen with drink refused to form words. The furtive glances of the women fell upon Geir’s wife, who sat laden with the storm-of-the-eyes at her husband’s words, the nails of one hand filled with the flesh of her palm.

A number of men stood with a nod from Bjarni Flatnefr, who said, ‘It seems to me, you’re a man with few choices, and would do better to flee while you still can. Since my daughter uttered not one word against her husband, you shall have company on the road.’

And so, Geir Gellir was made an outlaw, nevermore to be known as Rauðfeldr. His honour was shackled by humiliation, hubris had robbed his family of a noble life, and he could not forgive himself. Still, he took his wife and sons, and a daughter named Ádís with him into the unknown, for he dared not leave them to the mercy of Bjarni Flatnefr.

It was a bleak existence. They roamed the far north, where few ever strayed, and were destitute. The land was barren, the soil little more than gravel, boulders and rocks the cattle that never fed. Always upon their trail a shadow of what they had once been. The wife of Geir died in the first winter, his sons perished in the second, and when the third came there were no more tears to shed. Among the men who dwelled beneath Óðinn’s gallows, Geir knew there were few worthy of his trust, should he return to the south he would be killed on sight. The northlands were unknown and his daughter, he feared, was too frail and weak to survive the journey. With some measure of regret he severed those last remaining bonds of loyalty and removed the burden slung around his neck. While his daughter slept in their shelter one night, Geir abandoned her, setting off on foot into the darkness. To where, none know, or can recall.

He did do one thing; in Geir’s possession was