LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

back,

       And said: "Thou hast gotten us venison, and the bread shall nowise lack."

      "Yea," quoth Sigmund the Volsung, "hast thou kneaded the meal that was yonder?"

       "Yea, and what other?" he said; "though therein forsooth was a wonder:

       For when I would handle the meal-sack therein was something quick,

       As if the life of an eel-grig were set in an ashen stick:

       But the meal must into the oven, since we were lacking bread,

       And all that is kneaded together, and the wonder is baked and dead."

      Then Sigmund laughed and answered: "Thou hast kneaded up therein

       The deadliest of all adders that is of the creeping kin:

       So tonight from the bread refrain thee, lest thy bane should come of it."

      For here, the tale of the elders doth men a marvel to wit,

       That such was the shaping of Sigmund among all earthly kings,

       That unhurt he handled adders and other deadly things,

       And might drink unscathed of venom: but Sinfiotli so was wrought,

       That no sting of creeping creatures would harm his body aught.

      But now full glad was Sigmund, and he let his love arise

       For the huge-limbed son of Signy with the fierce and eager eyes;

       And all deeds of the sword he learned him, and showed him feats of war

       Where sea and forest mingle, and up from the ocean's shore

       The highway leads to the market, and men go up and down,

       And the spear-hedged wains of the merchants fare oft to the Goth-folk's town.

       Sweet then Sinfiotli deemed it to look on the bale-fires' light,

       And the bickering blood-reeds' tangle, and the fallow blades of fight.

       And in three years' space were his war-deeds far more than the deeds of a man:

       But dread was his face to behold ere the battle-play began,

       And grey and dreadful his face when the last of the battle sank.

       And so the years won over, and the joy of the woods they drank,

       And they gathered gold and silver, and plenteous outland goods.

      But they came to a house on a day in the uttermost part of the woods

       And smote on the door and entered, when a long while no man bade;

       And lo, a gold-hung hall, and two men on the benches laid

       In slumber as deep as the death; and gold rings great and fair

       Those sleepers bore on their bodies, and broidered southland gear,

       And over the head of each there hung a wolf-skin grey.

      Then the drift of a cloudy dream wrapt Sigmund's soul away,

       And his eyes were set on the wolf-skin, and long he gazed thereat,

       And remembered the words he uttered when erst on the beam he sat,

       That the Gods should miss a man in the utmost Day of Doom,

       And win a wolf in his stead; and unto his heart came home

       That thought, as he gazed on the wolf-skin and the other days waxed dim,

       And he gathered the thing in his hand, and did it over him;

       And in likewise did Sinfiotli as he saw his fosterer do.

       Then lo, a fearful wonder, for as very wolves they grew

       In outward shape and semblance, and they howled out wolfish things,

       Like the grey dogs of the forest; though somewhat the hearts of kings

       Abode in their bodies of beasts. Now sooth is the tale to tell,

       That the men in the fair-wrought raiment were kings' sons bound by a spell

       To wend as wolves of the wild-wood, for each nine days of the ten,

       And to lie all spent for a season when they gat their shapes of men.

      So Sigmund and his fellow rush forth from the golden place;

       And though their kings' hearts bade them the backward way to trace

       Unto their Dwarf-wrought dwelling, and there abide the change,

       Yet their wolfish habit drave them wide through the wood to range,

       And draw nigh to the dwellings of men and fly upon the prey.

      And lo now, a band of hunters on the uttermost woodland way,

       And they spy those dogs of the forest, and fall on with the spear,

       Nor deemed that any other but woodland beasts they were,

       And that easy would be the battle: short is the tale to tell;

       For every man of the hunters amid the thicket fell.

      Then onwards fare those were-wolves, and unto the sea they turn,

       And their ravening hearts are heavy, and sore for the prey they yearn:

       And lo, in the last of the thicket a score of the chaffering men,

       And Sinfiotli was wild for the onset, but Sigmund was wearying then

       For the glimmering gold of his Dwarf-house, and he bade refrain from the folk,

       But wrath burned in the eyes of Sinfiotli, and forth from the thicket he broke;

       Then rose the axes aloft, and the swords flashed bright in the sun,

       And but little more it needed that the race of the Volsungs was done,

       And the folk of the Gods' begetting: but at last they quelled the war,

       And no man again of the sea-folk should ever sit by the oar.

      Now Sinfiotli fay weary and faint, but Sigmund howled over the dead,

       And wrath in his heart there gathered, and a dim thought wearied his head

       And his tangled wolfish wit, that might never understand;

       As though some God in his dreaming had wasted the work of his hand,

       And forgotten his craft of creation; then his wrath swelled up amain

       And he turned and fell on Sinfiotli, who had wrought the wrack and the bane

       And across the throat he tore him as his very mortal foe

       Till a cold dead corpse by the sea-strand his fosterling lay alow:

       Then wearier yet grew Sigmund, and the dim wit seemed to pass

       From his heart grown cold and feeble; when lo, amid the grass

       There came two weazles bickering, and one bit his mate by the head,

       Till she lay there dead before him: then he sorrowed over her dead:

       But no long while he abode there, but into the thicket he went,

       And the wolfish heart of Sigmund knew somewhat his intent:

       So he came again with a herb-leaf and laid it on his mate,

       And she rose up whole and living and no worser of estate

       Than ever she was aforetime, and the twain went merry away.

      Then swiftly rose up Sigmund from where his fosterling lay,

       And a long while searched the thicket, till that three-leaved herb he found,

       And he laid it on Sinfiotli, who rose up hale and sound

       As ever he was in his life-days. But now in hate they had

       That hapless work of the witch-folk, and the skins that their bodies clad.

       So they turn their faces homeward and a weary

Скачать книгу