2010 ACM William Blake Award Cody Milner
The Athanatos Christian Ministries 2010
William Blake Award
goes to
Cody Milner
Reydon, OK
Third Place
(category: High School)
Bio:
Cody Milner was born and raised in Western Oklahoma. He has been homeschooled for nine years, and recently graduated from Junior High. Cody has enjoyed writing since age 10. A few years later, he was introduced to the Lord of the Rings, Narnia, The Door Within, and Inheritance Series. Now he recognizes the immediate need for good Christian fiction. For the past three years, Cody has written historical fiction and Christan fantasy novels.
To contact Cody Milner you may request his contact information through the contest administrators by sending an email to director@athanatosministries.org.
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The Young Viking
By: Cody Milner
Copyright 2010, All Rights Reserved
Ships sliding onto the beach……tall warriors charging the village……screams of women and children as the bloodthirsty raiders demolished the Gaelic settlement….. Joran the chieftain hopelessly battling the enemy in the bloody mist…….smoke rising from the burning village.
Scenes from the previous day flashed through Matthias’s head as the unconscious lad lay on the hard wooden deck. Suddenly, he woke up, feeling lightheaded and nauseated. Blood had run down in the hollow of his right eye, drying and making it hard to hold open.
As he staggered unsteadily to his feet on the rolling ship, it all came back. Vikings had attacked the small village on Beårnaraigh, one of the isles of the Hebrides. His father, Joran, king of the island, had fallen trying to buy time for his people to escape to safety. Matthias had paused in his flight to watch his father‘s battle, when suddenly something smashed into his head and knocked him unconscious.
As Matthias’s vision cleared, he saw the shores of Beårnaraigh swiftly falling behind them as the longship quickly left the area of its recent raid. Beside the young man was a double row of heavyset men with flowing blond hair. Norse. Matthias thought with a sinking heart. I am a prisoner.
The lad rushed to the stern to leap in the sea and swim away, but realized that his feet were tied together so that he could only take short steps. The rowers noticed his predicament and began laughing.
“Only one place to go boy, the bottom!” one of them called in a thick northern accent.
Matthias reluctantly lowered himself to the deck and sat with his back to the bulkhead. The stories he had heard about the vikings cruelty to their prisoners flashed through his throbbing head. Some were said to be offered as sacrifices to the false Norse gods. Others were said to be put through all types of torture so that the false priests could supposedly look into the future. Which will happen to me? wondered Matthias.
Gingerly, he placed a hand over the deep axe-wound in his head. Whatever happens, it can’t feel too much worse than the agony I’m going through now.
The young man scooped up a handful of saltwater from over the side of the ship and washed the dried blood out of his right eye. The stinging salt brought his wandering mind back into context. Matthias stood up and viewed his surroundings.
The ship he was on was a large viking longship, with a crew of about forty vikings. A large, gold-gilded dragons head adorned the prow. The ship crested the white-capped waves with great speed, as did the five other similar ships it was sailing alongside of.
The vikings rowing this particular had ship stripped off their armor and weapons and deposited them under the planks which served as seats. There were ten oars on each side, with two vikings on each oar. A navigator stood at the carved stern, keeping a steady hand on the tiller.
At the front of the ship sat a young man about Matthias’s age. He still wore his knee length shirt of chain-mail, and carried at his side both a broadsword and a long knife known as a seax.
Matthias sat back down in his place, and soon fell into a fitful sleep.
The sun had passed its zenith when the Gaelic lad re-awoke. The fleet of viking ships were floating calmly on the open sea while the crews took a meal and slight rest. While Matthias had slept, Beårnaraigh had already faded out of sight.
Seeing his prisoner awake again, the young man who seemed to be the captain of this ship strode to the stern and sat beside him.
“Welcome to my ship, Master Scot. I trust you will find your stay comfortable.” The viking’s voice carried little Norse accent when he spoke in Gaelic, but his voice was heavy with sarcasm. “I am Bjørn Thorsanson. My father has said you will be my personal slave. What is your name?”
“Matthias. W-who is your father?” Matthias stammered, slightly taken aback by the boldness of the young Viking.
“Thorsan the Seaking, the Terror of the Waves, leader of the Vikings from Cimbria. He sails in the ship over there,” Bjørn pointed, “the Great Serpent. He gave me command of this ship, the Diamond Sword, and told me I could take the prisoner from this raid for my personal attendant. You are a native of Bjarnaray, I suppose?”
Matthias had recovered his coolness by now.
“No, I come from Beårnaraigh, where you captured me.”
“Oh,” the viking laughed, “my father named that island Bjarnaray, which is Bjørn’s Island in my language.”
Rage filled Matthias. The naming of his beloved island after some viking boy seemed unfair and cruel. After a moment, he calmed himself to listen to what Bjørn was saying.
“You don’t need to worry too much about your slavery. It won’t be too harsh. Mainly, I would like someone to keep me company while we are sailing. Leif over there,” he nodded at the steersman, “is always too busy to talk with me, and the others aren’t of high blood.” He eyed Matthias curiously. “Are you?”
Color flew to Matthias’s cheeks.
“Yes, I am!” he snapped, leaping to his feet. The other vikings, used to squabbles, did not pay the two young men any attention. “My father was king of Beårnaraigh! And a much better fighter than your vikings were! It took ten of you to kill him!”
Laughing merrily, Bjørn rose to his feet.
“By Thor, that axe wound has not slowed you down much! I think that you will do nicely for me. Do you know how to play chess?”
Matthias, worn out by his angry tirade, meekly answered that he did. Bjørn strode to the prow and soon returned with a checkered board and hand carved pieces. Matthias slowly set up and played the game, but his heart was not in it. For the moment, his thoughts were centered on his mother, two younger brothers, and baby sister. Had they all survived the attack and reached the fortress in the mountains? Or were they dead on the beach, or lying in one of the other ships.
Matthias stayed up all night praying, praying to the God of his father.
Lord, I know that I do not serve you as I should, but please make sure that my family is safe. Amen.
As Matthias and Bjørn played chess the following day, the Gaelic voiced a question that had been nagging him.
“You live to the north. So why are we going south?”
Bjørn moved a rook, which was fashioned to look like a longship, before answering.
“Do you think we would return after raiding one poor village? We go now to Iona. You have heard of that, have you not?”
Of course Matthias had. Iona, the monastery of the great warrior-monk, Columba. Iona, the wonder of the world for its great knowledge and wealth. Iona, where Joran, his father, had studied under the monks before returning to Beårnaraigh to become king. Matthias had dreamed all his life of going to Iona; but not this way! Not as part of a raiding band of vikings.
“Tonight we will stop on the northern tip of Tyrvist.” continued Bjørn.
There was a name Matthias recognized. It was the Norse name for Tiree, a large island about forty miles southeast of Beårnaraigh, and less than twenty miles north of Iona. Matthias shivered at the thought. Tomorrow night, he would be watching Iona being attacked.
Matthias moved one of his bishops, or ‘priests’ as Bjørn called them. Bjørn quickly related by moving a knight, or ‘jarl’ forward to threaten the bishop. Matthias smiled slightly. Bjørn’s king was hemmed in by its own pawns. A rook shot across the board, trapping the king in checkmate.
Bjørn laughed. “It looks as though I got a bit cocky that time. You did well.”
The two young men stood up and watched the approaching shore of Tiree. The difference in them was great, one a dark-headed, serious minded Gaelic; the other a fair-haired Viking with laughing blue eyes and a merry attitude. Nature demanded that these two be mortal enemies, but Matthias couldn’t help but feel a slight feeling of friendship toward the other.
Bjørn began talking again with his usual random statements.
“This is my second voyage, but the first to command a ship. I remember that we came to Tyrvist before and sacked a village on the northern end. That is probably where we are going tonight.”
Matthias’s feelings of friendship vanished, and he felt slightly sick. Joran was a great Christian, and had raised his children to be lovers of peace. The young viking talking about the destruction of an entire village as if it was an everyday thing made the Gaelic lad quite queasy. He decided not to say anything else until they were ashore.
“Why?”
Matthias was swathed in a heavy cloak and lying between the roots of a huge oak staring at the twinkling stars. Beside him, Bjørn was playing a soft tune on a small flute-like instrument.
“Why what?” Bjørn’s gentle voice came back to him after the song ended.
Startled, Matthias sat up. He hadn’t realized that he was thinking out loud. But now that he had started, he might as well finish.
“Why can you Norse not live like other people, farming or trading or hunting, living in peace?”
Bjørn sat upright with a sigh. There was some time before he answered.
“I do not know, Matthias.” he said softly, almost sadly. Intrigued by the strange tone, Matthias darted a glance and found the young viking with a bowed head.
“I almost wish that we could.” Bjørn went on. “I do not know if every viking feels as I do, deep inside; or if I am a throwback. But I do almost wish that we could live in peace. Many times I have promised myself that I would never fight again. But every time I hear ‘Go A-viking!’ I forget my promise and draw my sword again.” He raised his head and stared at his servant. Matthias noticed with shock that his blue eyes had no trace of laughter in them, rather they seemed to be mourning. “At one time, it was necessary for the Norse to raid. You see, Matthias, our land is far too rocky and cold to farm well. So we began to raid other countries so we could get food to survive. But now we are prosperous, there is no need to raid. I do not know why we continue to. Perhaps because the gods are always at war, and we feel as though we should be, too.”
Matthias shook his head slowly.
“That makes no sense. Why must you fight simply because your false gods fight?”
Bjørn’s head snapped back up.
“Oh, you are one of those Christians.”
If I could only be sure of that. Matthias thought. But he swallowed his misgivings and spoke.
“Yes, I am. I believe in a God that is the true God. He wished that we live in peace.”
“I know, I know. Another of our servants is a Christian. By Thor, you have strange teachings! One God, three forms, a God that died, and a God that doesn’t even demand sacrifices.” Bjørn laughed scornfully.
“Yes, our God does demand sacrifices!” burst Matthias. “But no sacrifice on earth was good enough to please Him. So He sent His only son to die as a sacrifice, so we would never have to sacrifice again!”
Bjørn stared at him in amazement.
“He……sacrificed…. His son? That was an amazing thing to do!”
“Not only that, but after three days, the son came back to life!” Matthias stumbled on, excited to share the gospel with this strange raider. “He also said that whoever believed in him would receive the Holy Spirit, and would live with him forever after they died!”
Bjørn was silent for a moment, running the sagas of his gods through his mind. Finally he shook his head in bewilderment and muttered,
“None of the Asas ever did anything like that.” The viking lumbered to his feet.
“I must think about this. I will return in a moment.” he told Matthias.
The Gaelic native watched his companion stride off towards the main camp, no doubt to find out when they would leave in the morning. Other vikings were huddled about heaping bonfires, playing different rough games, mainly dice.
Bjørn paused for a moment at one of the fires and commented to a player in their own heavy language. A roar of laughter went up from the vikings, evidently finding the remark hilarious. Bjørn turned away and continued his walk. As Matthias watched, the insulted player silently rose to his feet, and drew a slim throwing knife from his belt. When he took aim at the young raider’s back, Matthias realized in horror what was about to happen. A single glance told him that none of the other vikings had noticed the assassin draw his blade. The viking drew his arm back, ready to throw.
Time seemed to slow as Matthias ripped off the cloak and hurled himself forward screaming.
“Bjørn! Duck!”
Matthias threw himself at the burly viking, knocking the knife out of his hand. With a quick movement, he twisted the sword arm behind the viking’s back, popping it out of place with a quick yank. Then he wrapped both arms around the raider’s throat, trying to choke him into submission.
A scream of pain sounded, then a strong hand grabbed Matthias’s shoulder, and yanked him off of the viking’s back. The Gaelic lad hit the ground in a rib-cracking fall. He rolled over in agony as the viking awkwardly drew his sword with his left hand.
A commanding voice bellowed out an order, and a dozen other men leaped up and restrained the viking from stabbing Matthias.
Bjørn hurried quickly to his servant lying on the ground. His voice cracked as he spoke, showing his concern.
“Matthias, are you alright?”
“My side….” Matthias moaned.
Bjørn lightly touched Matthias’s left side. The slave cried out in pain. The young viking commander called out orders, and Matthias was gently carried back to the oak tree.
After the carriers left, Bjørn crouched at Matthias’s side again.
“A man who knows how to treat wounds is coming.” he whispered.
Matthias nodded slightly. There was a moment of silence, and Matthias began wondering if he was going to die that night. Then Bjørn spoke again.
“Why did you do it?”
“Wh-what?”
“Your are my slave. I have been mean to you. I have made fun of your religion. You have every reason to hate me. Why did you save me?”
Matthias forced himself to speak through the pain.
“Jesus, th-the son of God, once said that a man could have no more love, than to lay down his life for his friend.”
If the Gaelic slave had not been in so much pain, he would have seen tears glistening in the Norseman’s eyes.
“A friend…no greater love…lay down his life….for a friend.” Bjørn muttered to himself. After the camp was silent and everyone else asleep, Bjørn began sobbing openly for his friend’s pain.
Matthias awoke on board the Diamond Sword, lying on a pallet at the stern. Bjørn was sitting nearby, honing the edges of the swords, knives, and axes of the crew. Matthias was surprised to see that it was late in the afternoon.
As he sat up, Bjørn noticed that he was awake.
“Matthias,” he exclaimed, rising to his feet, “you must stay still!”
Matthias laughed for the first time since he had been captured. It felt good to laugh, and he laughed again.
“I feel good.” he said to the young viking. “Shall I help you?”
The two sat cross-legged on the deck, sharpening weapons.
Bjørn averted his eyes from those of Matthias, as if in shame. Finally, he spoke.
“You know what these will be used for, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do,” Matthias replied, “but Jesus, the son of God, told his followers that slaves should be subject to their masters, so I won’t attempt to talk you out of this.” The young Gaelic cut his brown eyes across to meet the blue eyes of his friend. “He also said for soldiers to be contented with what they had, and not to take money by force.”
Bjørn’s head dropped and he continue to slowly sharpen the axe he was holding. The rest of the voyage passed between them in silence.
Towards nightfall, the six ships slipped into a bay on the northern side of Iona. No one was allowed to go on shore, and a strict guard was set over the crews.
I must warn the monks at the monastery! thought Matthias frantically. But how? As always, he was sleeping beside Bjørn. Any move he would make would wake the viking up! Then there were the two guards with bows and arrows. How was he to leave the ship without attracting their attention?
Matthias worked himself into a sweat trying to get away to warn the monks. Every time he began to move, Bjørn would stopped snoring, or one of the guards would see him and nock an arrow. Just before midnight, he gave up the idea and tried to sleep.
Suddenly, Bjørn rolled over and muttered under his breath,
“The guard changes at midnight. Go then.” Immediately after he said this, he rolled back over and feigned sleep again.
In a few moments, the two guards went to the prow and shook two other vikings awake to take over the guard. While they were bending over the new guards, Matthias rose to his feet and slipped into the water silently.
Matthias had been raised on the coast of Beårnaraigh, and had been able to swim as long as he could remember. He held himself against the hard side of the longship for a moment while taking his bearings, then took a long breath and struck out for shore.
In his mind, he visualized what ships he was swimming under. Unfortunately for him, the Diamond Sword was the farthest from shore, and the Gaelic lad was forced to swim under the five other ships to reach the beach.
Matthias’s lungs were burning for air long before he had reached the sandy beach.
Get air, get air! one side of his mind screamed, while the other side reasoned desperately, Not here! Guards will see you and shoot you!
Closing his eyes, Matthias tried to remember where he was. As near as he could guess, he was more than halfway to the shore, near the Great Serpent.
He opened his eyes again and tried to swim forward, but found that he scarcely had the strength to continue moving. His limbs felt like lead, powerless to move at all. No! cried his brain. Keep moving! You must! Keep moving!
Mind and body were at conflict, one demanding to go on, and the other yelling to go up. Gradually, Matthias’s sense began to fade. No! Stay awake! screamed his brain. But Matthias was beyond consciousness, and but dimly felt himself floating upward, towards the surface of the water, towards a quick death.
Suddenly, Matthias’s head grated on some hard surface. Out of instinct, he reached out and propelled himself past the object and towards air.
With a blast of coldness, he broke through the water and into the cool, delicious air. Matthias sucked in several long breathes before realizing that he didn’t have an arrow in his back.
Treading water, the Gaelic boy turned around to a hard shock. He had come up right beside the Great Serpent!
The deck creaked just a few feet above his head. Matthias risked a quick glance upwards, which told him that there was a viking standing directly above him, scanning the watery surface of the bay anxiously.
Matthias’s heart was pounding so hard that he thought it would wake up every viking in the Hebrides. Finally, the guard moved away, and the young man was able to relax.
Matthias glanced away with a long sigh. He was now only about fifty yards from the shore, a simple swim for such a swimmer as himself.
“Sanctuary!”
The heavy wind which was blowing the dark rain clouds closer, ever closer, tore Matthias’s cry from his lips. No one came to answer the large door of the world-renowned monastery. Doubtlessly, all the brothers had retired to bed, having no idea of the carnage which was waiting them on the morrow. Matthias broke a large branch off a nearby tree and began beating on the brass-studded door, alternately yelling ‘Sanctuary!’ in order to rouse the gatekeeper.
A small window high above the door opened and a voice called out,
“Who goes, that rouses God’s holy monks from their well-needed slumber?”
Matthias dropped the branch and stepped back so he could see the silhouette of the monk in the window.
“I am Matthias, son of Joran of Beårnaraigh, and I come with important news!” he called up to the holy brother.
“Give me a moment.” came the answer before the window was shut again.
Matthias shivered in the cold north wind as the monk began unfastening the bolt.
Matthias darted inside the monastery as soon as the door creaked open. The monk, a short man with twinkling eyes slammed the door shut and shivered.
“Pacatis.” Matthias returned the greeting for peace. Before he could tell his story, the monk continued talking.
“It is quite cold tonight, is it not! I am called Brother Bartholomew, the gatekeeper. I was an old friend of your father while he studied here. Come in, come in!”
The bubbling little monk led Matthias into a side room where a large fire burned in the fireplace.
“Now,” he said, once he had put Matthias in a chair with food before him, “what is your news?”
Matthias took a deep breath, then began his tale. The cheerful monk turned quite grave as the story unfolded.
“So there are at least several hundred vikings?” Matthias nodded, and Brother Bartholomew leaped up.
“I must go tell the holy father immediately!”
“Wait!” called Matthias before the monk charged off down the corridor. “I must go back to the fleet!”
Brother Bartholomew halted quickly and came back.
“My son, why in the world would you go back there?”
“My friend, Bjørn, he will be in trouble if it is found that he let me escape and warn you.”
“Your friend?” the monk’s tone was shocked, to say the least. “A viking, as a friend?”
Matthias squirmed guilty in his chair.
“Well, yes, it is a long story.” he finally said after a moment of silence. Brother Bartholomew smiled.
“Yes.” he said softly. “I understand. I had a friend like that once.” The faraway, sad look in his eyes surprised Matthias.
“What happened?” he whispered.
“He died, a pagan.” Brother Bartholomew looked unhappily at Matthias. “That is why I came here to be a monk.” Suddenly, he started back to life.
“But come. We must get you back to the ships.”
The monk slid the bolt back, allowing Matthias to leave again.
“Peace be with you!” the brother called after the retreating youth. Matthias turned to reply the same, but the door was already shut.
After a few moments, the dark clouds began to drop their wet load, soaking everything over the entire isles. Matthias had no problems returning to the Diamond Sword.
Thorsan the Warlord was a fierce looking warrior. Just after daybreak, he led vikings off of his ship to form battle array on the still-soggy beach. The leader of the fleet was clad in a long hauberk made of iron mixed with silver and gold. His fancy helmet was covered in interweaving bands of gold engraved into the steel.
Matthias helped Bjørn struggle into similar armor.
“I have thought about your words, and I am not going to fight today.” the young viking had confided to his friend earlier that morning, “But I must still lead my warriors.”
As the slave buckled on the belts with the different weapons on them onto his master, Bjørn asked him,
“What weapon do you wish to carry?”
The question caught Matthias off guard. He straightened up quickly and faced the raider.
“I told you, I am against fighting.”
Bjørn blew out a long, exasperated breath.
“Yes, yes, I know, but you must come with me. You do not have to fight, just come. That is one of the duties of an attendant.”
Matthias quickly shrugged into one of Bjørn’s spare shirts of mail and set a conical helmet on his head. He grabbed a long spear and buckled a seax at his side. God forbid that I ever have to use these!
Finally, the crews of all six ships were on the beach and ready to fight. Thorsan bellowed an order, and the small army started forward.
Matthias marched alongside of Bjørn, nervously glancing at the huge vikings on every side of him. What if the monks weren’t ready to repel the assault? What if they were not strong enough, even if they were ready? That didn’t even bear thinking about.
The mile to the monastery was covered swiftly. The fighting force stopped just behind the final hill while Thorsan gave out his orders in the brutal Norse language.
The army spread out until it was in the shape of a half circle around the radius of the monastery.
Matthias crawled up the slope of the hill beside Bjørn. The Gaelic lad could tell that his master was becoming excited, in spite of himself.
Then the army was on the summit of the hill. As one, the vikings leaped up and begin roaring out all sorts of barbaric warcries and screaming ‘A-vikiiinnnnnnnnngg!’
The Norse raiders charged down upon the monastery. In the daylight, Matthias realized how much the building looked liked a castle.
The ranks of vikings slit open and two score carrying a freshly cut battering ram charged at the gates. Suddenly, a rain of arrows came from the windows of the monastery and felled half of the vikings on the ram.
“Saint Columba!” the cry went up from the monks inside. Volley after volley of the barbed death flew down to slay the vikings. In vain did the raiders plant scaling ladders, in vain were the grappling hooks thrown over the wall. Every attack was repulsed with a great loss of the Norsemen.
The battle raged on for most of the day. Finally, Thorsan ordered a retreat. The vikings fell back in disarray to the boats.
After raging about for an hour, Thorsan ordered camp to be made on the beach.
“He won’t rest until Iona has been breached.” Bjørn told Matthias as they were taking their armor off.
“That may be a while if it continues like it did today.”
As they two young men relaxed over a short game of chess, Thorsan and a seer called Lélanin strode through the camp towards them. They halted before Matthias and two guards yank the Gaelic lad upright. Lélanin peered into Matthias’s face for a moment before turning to Thorsan and saying something in the Norse language. Thorsan appeared satisfied and went off to attend other matters in his army. At a word from Lélanin, the guards forced Matthias towards an ash tree, where they tied him and left him.
Bjørn sprang towards his slave after the guards left.
“Oh, Matthias!” the terror in his voice struck a cord deep in Matthias’s heart, “Oh, Matthias, they intend to sacrifice you to Tyr, the god of war, to help win the battle!”
“Sacrifice….” Matthias’s voice trailed off, but his mind kept working.
Be sacrificed to a false god? No, Lord, no! Please, do not let that happen! Please, Lord Jesus!
All of a sudden, the young man was overwhelmed. Everything that had happened in the last five days fell onto his mind, crushing down his thoughts until he collapsed into unconsciousness.
“Wake up!”
Bjørn’s whisper was urgent. Matthias slowly raised his groggy head. It was in the middle of the night, and the viking camp was sleeping. Bjørn made sure that his slave was awake, then sliced the bonds with his seax. With a cry of delight on his lips, Matthias fell forwards and began earnestly chaffing his numb wrists.
“Quiet!” muttered Bjørn. “Come with me!”
The young Gaelic slave rose to his feet and followed the fair-headed viking around the slumbering raiders and out of the camp. He did not notice Leif, the old steersman of the Diamond Sword following them.
Bjørn went several hundred yards out into the woods that lay beside the camp, then turned and headed towards the beach. A small, canoe-like boat was drawn up on the beach, with two pairs of oars and a bag of provisions inside.
“Climb in.” muttered Bjørn. Matthias obeyed although he was mystified. He seated himself in the stern, and picked up a pair of oars.
Leif materialized out of the gloom, and Matthias stifled a scream at being discovered. But it soon became evident that the old viking was part of the plot.
Bjørn said a few words in the Norse language to Leif, then embraced the old man. Leif patted him on the shoulder, then shoved the boat off the shore once Bjørn had climbed inside.
The two young men banked the boat about and began rowing away from the island. After they were sufficiently away not to be heard from the island, Matthias asked,
“What will Leif do?”
There was almost a chuckle in Bjørn’s voice when he spoke.
“When the guards find out that you have escaped, Leif will come stumbling into camp claiming that you have escaped and I am chasing you around the island. He will then lead my father on a wild chase around Iona.”
Matthias laughed, which sounded strange and out of place at the time. Then he thought of something else.
“Where did you get this boat?”
There was a moment of hesitation before Bjørn spoke.
“I went into the monastery.”
Matthias gasped. This viking, his master, had risked his life just for Matthias?
“You what?”
“I climbed over the wall and met someone named Bartholomew. When I mentioned that you were in danger, he told where to find the boat to save you.”
Thank you, Lord.
“Why did you save me?” persisted Matthias. Bjørn swiveled around and looked at his slave, a crooked smile on his lips.
“You said that the Lord said, ‘No greater love has a man than to die for his friends.”
Matthias’s heart thrummed excitedly. Had Bjørn actually decided to forgo being a viking lord?
“Where are we going?” Matthias asked.
“To Beårnaraigh. To our home.”
The viking and native islander floated in the warm sunlight halfway inbetween Tiree and Beårnaraigh.
“And so, Jesus called the blind man to his side and said, ‘Your faith has made you well’. Immediately, the blind man could see again!”
“That is amazing!”
“Aye.”
The two men basked idly in the sunlight. In the last two days of fleeing Iona, they had spoken much of the Scriptures and of Matthias’s faith.
“Matthias….”
Matthias sat up.
“Yes?”
“I-I want to believe in your god. Is that alright..”
Matthias’s heart sung with praises to the Lord.
“Alright? Bjørn, that is wonderful! I have been praying for this!” Matthias bowed his head suddenly and said a prayer.
Lord, thank you so much for allowing Bjørn to come to you. And thank you also for letting me share the good news with him, for it has made my faith firmer as well. I now see that everything had a purpose. Amen.
He looked back up at the Norseman, grinning broadly.
Bjørn smiled weakly. This was the greatest, and hardest, decision of his life, Matthias decided.
“Tyr will hate me from now on, and so will Odin and Thor. So I may as well follow your religion and see if it’s the real way.”
“You will not be disappointed, I promise you that!” Matthias said joyfully.
There was silence again for a moment. Then a hoarse yell brought both young men to their feet.
“What is it?” muttered Bjørn to his companion. Matthias, shading his eyes, could see better than the viking.
“It is the ships!” Matthias screamed in horror. The two men grabbed the oars and began rowing away to the North, towards Beårnaraigh.
The ships came, one by one, over the edge of the horizon, sails flapping in the wind, oars hurling them through the water, the glistening dragonheads shining in the morning sunlight. It would have been an almost spectacular sight, had not Matthias known that they were coming for him.
Soon his breath was coming hard, but he couldn’t slow down.
After a grueling hour’s chase, Bjørn and Matthias were forced to stop.
“Should we just give up?” asked Matthias, worried for his friend’s life. “I mean, you would not be in danger that way.”
“Actually, I would be in trouble; but do not fear, I will never give you up.” His back straightened and he pointed. Some five miles to the northwest was a dim haze on the horizon. An island!
The boys began rowing again, but the ships were still gaining on the small canoe. Bjørn sighed deeply.
“There is only one way left.” He turned to Matthias. “When the Great Serpent comes alongside us, keep rowing.”
Bjørn had taught Matthias many Norse words while on their escape, and now Matthias hear Lélanin behind them yelling,
“Praise Thor and Tyr! We have caught them!”
The Great Serpent was almost on top of the canoe when Bjørn stood up.
“Save your voice, old man!” he yelled to Lélanin. “You should be giving praises to the real God!”
With that, he swung his small, heavy, waraxe at the planks of the Great Serpent. Once, twice, thrice; then suddenly a board snapped and water poured into longship. Bjørn dropped back into a sitting position and screamed desperately,
“Row!”
Matthias bent into the shove, lungs heaving like bellows. Water churned around his oars, making it difficult to retract them for the next sweep, but
Matthias’s muscles surged and he propelled the boat onward stroke after stroke.
After some two hundred yards, his heavy breathing and sore hands forced him to slow down slightly.
Behind him, he heard the snapping of wooden planks as water cascaded into the doomed Great Serpent.
Bjørn halted for a moment, and glanced behind him to the drowning ship that had been his father’s.
Matthias could tell what he was thinking, ‘I have shattered my last tie with the vikings.‘ Reaching forward, he patted the golden-headed youth reassuringly.
“Let us go to my home.”
“Our home.” corrected Bjørn, but his voice was sad and listless as he stared at the place where his father had drowned.
The rest of the journey to the island was completed without mishap; though it was night when the small boat finally reached their destination.
Matthias flung himself on shore, thankful to finally be back on his native ground. Bjørn hauled the boat up onto the beach so it would not float away.
“Are you sure that this is Beårnaraigh?” Bjørn asked. Matthias smiled to himself. Ever since the escape and time that Bjørn’s heart had begun to turn, he had referred to Matthias’s home as Beårnaraigh instead of Bjarnaray.
“Oh, aye, it is.” the former viking said as he caught sight of a rune-engraved pillar embedded near the shoreline. Bjørn
peered briefly at the words which spelled ‘Bjørn’s Island’. Then he uprooted the stone slap and cast it into the dying tide.
“For now, and for evermore, this will be Beårnaraigh.” He cast a sly glance at his friend, his old sense of humor coming back. “Beårnaraigh, the home of the Saint Matthias.”
Laughing, Matthias chased the young Norseman through the charred remains of the burnt village.
“Halt, viking!” rang out a voice high above them. Bjørn was not fast enough to obey the command, and the muted note of a bow spoke high on the hill.
Time slowed as Matthias saw the Gaelic arrow hurtling down towards the former viking. He hurled himself through the ground separating them to stand in front of Bjørn.
“No!-”
A burning pain smashed into his chest! Agony burned his chest and he grappled for air, then fell to the ground.
Bjørn was right beside him tearfully yelling at him,
“No Matthias! You can’t!”
There was a snapping in the undergrowth, and a tall man with a bow leaped into the clearing with an arrow on the string. Through the pain, Matthias rolled over and screamed,
“No, Uncle Jornæn! He is-” he was seized with a sudden pain and it was a moment before he spoke again. “Uncle, he is my friend!”
Joran, the chieftain, hobbled into the burnt village; head and side bandaged. Seeing his son lying on the ground, he broke into a stumbling run.
“Matthias!”
The old man fell on the ground beside the younger man. Matthias was having spasms of shaking, as the effects of the arrow destroyed his body, but he gasped out
“Father!Y-you’re safe!” He fell into a fit of coughing, but struggled to say one last thing.
“Father, this is B-Bjørn. He wants to become a Christian. Father, all these things happened so he would come to the Lord!” The young Gaelic man was seized with a further spasm as his body deteriorated further.
Joran, realizing that his son’s spirit almost was gone, leaned forward and whispered,
“Son, do you see Him?”
Matthias began to relax as his soul left this world.
“Aye! He has come! And Father, it is wonderful……”
Bjørn slowly got to his feet as Joran sobbed over his son. Finally, the old man rose to his feet and embraced Bjørn.
“The Scriptures say that all things work together for good to them that love the Lord.” The Gaelic chieftain looked carefully at Bjørn’s dry-eyed face. “Do not think that this, though a blow at the time, is bad. This is rather a double blessing. You have come and made the greatest decision of your life, the decision to follow the true God. And Matthias has gone to be with the Lord. Do not fear, he is in a much better place. He will meet us on that final day, when the trumpet sounds, and we are raised. The day upon which there will be no sadness……”
The early morning sun rose and shed its rays on the former viking sitting at the feet of an old islander, receiving the Good News. It was a beautiful dawn to be saved on. A beautiful dawn. A beautiful day. A beautiful eternity of love for God.
(Comments are accepted but please reserve criticism and feedback to the forum)
Tags: Bjørn, Christians, matthias, norse, Thor, Vikings
Filed under: 2010 Winners
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