The House of the Wolfings

W >> William Morris >> The House of the Wolfings

THE HOUSE OF THE WOLFINGS
A TALE OF THE HOUSE OF THE WOLFINGS AND ALL THE KINDREDS OF THE MARK
WRITTEN IN PROSE AND IN VERSE
by William Morris


Whiles in the early Winter eve
We pass amid the gathering night
Some homestead that we had to leave
Years past; and see its candles bright
Shine in the room beside the door
Where we were merry years agone
But now must never enter more,
As still the dark road drives us on.
E'en so the world of men may turn
At even of some hurried day
And see the ancient glimmer burn
Across the waste that hath no way;
Then with that faint light in its eyes
A while I bid it linger near
And nurse in wavering memories
The bitter-sweet of days that were.




CHAPTER I--THE DWELLINGS OF MID-MARK


The tale tells that in times long past there was a dwelling of men beside
a great wood. Before it lay a plain, not very great, but which was, as
it were, an isle in the sea of woodland, since even when you stood on the
flat ground, you could see trees everywhere in the offing, though as for
hills, you could scarce say that there were any; only swellings-up of the
earth here and there, like the upheavings of the water that one sees at
whiles going on amidst the eddies of a swift but deep stream.

On either side, to right and left the tree-girdle reached out toward the
blue distance, thick close and unsundered, save where it and the plain
which it begirdled was cleft amidmost by a river about as wide as the
Thames at Sheene when the flood-tide is at its highest, but so swift and
full of eddies, that it gave token of mountains not so far distant,
though they were hidden. On each side moreover of the stream of this
river was a wide space of stones, great and little, and in most places
above this stony waste were banks of a few feet high, showing where the
yearly winter flood was most commonly stayed.

You must know that this great clearing in the woodland was not a matter
of haphazard; though the river had driven a road whereby men might fare
on each side of its hurrying stream. It was men who had made that Isle
in the woodland.

For many generations the folk that now dwelt there had learned the craft
of iron-founding, so that they had no lack of wares of iron and steel,
whether they were tools of handicraft or weapons for hunting and for war.
It was the men of the Folk, who coming adown by the river-side had made
that clearing. The tale tells not whence they came, but belike from the
dales of the distant mountains, and from dales and mountains and plains
further aloof and yet further.

Anyhow they came adown the river; on its waters on rafts, by its shores
in wains or bestriding their horses or their kine, or afoot, till they
had a mind to abide; and there as it fell they stayed their travel, and
spread from each side of the river, and fought with the wood and its wild
things, that they might make to themselves a dwelling-place on the face
of the earth.

So they cut down the trees, and burned their stumps that the grass might
grow sweet for their kine and sheep and horses; and they diked the river
where need was all through the plain, and far up into the wild-wood to
bridle the winter floods: and they made them boats to ferry them over,
and to float down stream and track up-stream: they fished the river's
eddies also with net and with line; and drew drift from out of it of far-
travelled wood and other matters; and the gravel of its shallows they
washed for gold; and it became their friend, and they loved it, and gave
it a name, and called it the Dusky, and the Glassy, and the
Mirkwood-water; for the names of it changed with the generations of man.

There then in the clearing of the wood that for many years grew greater
yearly they drave their beasts to pasture in the new-made meadows, where
year by year the grass grew sweeter as the sun shone on it and the
standing waters went from it; and now in the year whereof the tale
telleth it was a fair and smiling plain, and no folk might have a better
meadow.

But long before that had they learned the craft of tillage and taken heed
to the acres and begun to grow wheat and rye thereon round about their
roofs; the spade came into their hands, and they bethought them of the
plough-share, and the tillage spread and grew, and there was no lack of
bread.

In such wise that Folk had made an island amidst of the Mirkwood, and
established a home there, and upheld it with manifold toil too long to
tell of. And from the beginning this clearing in the wood they called
the Mid-mark: for you shall know that men might journey up and down the
Mirkwood-water, and half a day's ride up or down they would come on
another clearing or island in the woods, and these were the Upper-mark
and the Nether-mark: and all these three were inhabited by men of one
folk and one kindred, which was called the Mark-men, though of many
branches was that stem of folk, who bore divers signs in battle and at
the council whereby they might be known.

Now in the Mid-mark itself were many Houses of men; for by that word had
they called for generations those who dwelt together under one token of
kinship. The river ran from South to North, and both on the East side
and on the West were there Houses of the Folk, and their habitations were
shouldered up nigh unto the wood, so that ever betwixt them and the river
was there a space of tillage and pasture.

Tells the tale of one such House, whose habitations were on the west side
of the water, on a gentle slope of land, so that no flood higher than
common might reach them. It was straight down to the river mostly that
the land fell off, and on its downward-reaching slopes was the tillage,
"the Acres," as the men of that time always called tilled land; and
beyond that was the meadow going fair and smooth, though with here and
there a rising in it, down to the lips of the stony waste of the winter
river.

Now the name of this House was the Wolfings, and they bore a Wolf on
their banners, and their warriors were marked on the breast with the
image of the Wolf, that they might be known for what they were if they
fell in battle, and were stripped.

The house, that is to say the Roof, of the Wolfings of the Mid-mark stood
on the topmost of the slope aforesaid with its back to the wild-wood and
its face to the acres and the water. But you must know that in those
days the men of one branch of kindred dwelt under one roof together, and
had therein their place and dignity; nor were there many degrees amongst
them as hath befallen afterwards, but all they of one blood were brethren
and of equal dignity. Howbeit they had servants or thralls, men taken in
battle, men of alien blood, though true it is that from time to time were
some of such men taken into the House, and hailed as brethren of the
blood.

Also (to make an end at once of these matters of kinship and affinity)
the men of one House might not wed the women of their own House: to the
Wolfing men all Wolfing women were as sisters: they must needs wed with
the Hartings or the Elkings or the Bearings, or other such Houses of the
Mark as were not so close akin to the blood of the Wolf; and this was a
law that none dreamed of breaking. Thus then dwelt this Folk and such
was their Custom.

As to the Roof of the Wolfings, it was a great hall and goodly, after the
fashion of their folk and their day; not built of stone and lime, but
framed of the goodliest trees of the wild-wood squared with the adze, and
betwixt the framing filled with clay wattled with reeds. Long was that
house, and at one end anigh the gable was the Man's-door, not so high
that a man might stand on the threshold and his helmcrest clear the
lintel; for such was the custom, that a tall man must bow himself as he
came into the hall; which custom maybe was a memory of the days of
onslaught when the foemen were mostly wont to beset the hall; whereas in
the days whereof the tale tells they drew out into the fields and fought
unfenced; unless at whiles when the odds were over great, and then they
drew their wains about them and were fenced by the wain-burg. At least
it was from no niggardry that the door was made thus low, as might be
seen by the fair and manifold carving of knots and dragons that was
wrought above the lintel of the door for some three foot's space. But a
like door was there anigh the other gable-end, whereby the women entered,
and it was called the Woman's-door.

Near to the house on all sides except toward the wood were there many
bowers and cots round about the penfolds and the byres: and these were
booths for the stowage of wares, and for crafts and smithying that were
unhandy to do in the house; and withal they were the dwelling-places of
the thralls. And the lads and young men often abode there many days and
were cherished there of the thralls that loved them, since at whiles they
shunned the Great Roof that they might be the freer to come and go at
their pleasure, and deal as they would. Thus was there a clustering on
the slopes and bents betwixt the acres of the Wolfings and the wild-wood
wherein dwelt the wolves.

As to the house within, two rows of pillars went down it endlong,
fashioned of the mightiest trees that might be found, and each one fairly
wrought with base and chapiter, and wreaths and knots, and fighting men
and dragons; so that it was like a church of later days that has a nave
and aisles: windows there were above the aisles, and a passage underneath
the said windows in their roofs. In the aisles were the sleeping-places
of the Folk, and down the nave under the crown of the roof were three
hearths for the fires, and above each hearth a luffer or smoke-bearer to
draw the smoke up when the fires were lighted. Forsooth on a bright
winter afternoon it was strange to see the three columns of smoke going
wavering up to the dimness of the mighty roof, and one maybe smitten
athwart by the sunbeams. As for the timber of the roof itself and its
framing, so exceeding great and high it was, that the tale tells how that
none might see the fashion of it from the hall-floor unless he were to
raise aloft a blazing faggot on a long pole: since no lack of timber was
there among the men of the Mark.

At the end of the hall anigh the Man's-door was the dais, and a table
thereon set thwartwise of the hall; and in front of the dais was the
noblest and greatest of the hearths; (but of the others one was in the
very midmost, and another in the Woman's-Chamber) and round about the
dais, along the gable-wall, and hung from pillar to pillar were woven
cloths pictured with images of ancient tales and the deeds of the
Wolfings, and the deeds of the Gods from whence they came. And this was
the fairest place of all the house and the best-beloved of the Folk, and
especially of the older and the mightier men: and there were tales told,
and songs sung, especially if they were new: and thereto also were
messengers brought if any tidings were abroad: there also would the
elders talk together about matters concerning the House or the Mid-mark
or the whole Folk of the Markmen.

Yet you must not think that their solemn councils were held there, the
folk-motes whereat it must be determined what to do and what to forbear
doing; for according as such councils, (which they called Things) were of
the House or of the Mid-mark or of the whole Folk, were they held each at
the due Thing-steads in the Wood aloof from either acre or meadow, (as
was the custom of our forefathers for long after) and at such Things
would all the men of the House or the Mid-mark or the Folk be present man
by man. And in each of these steads was there a Doomring wherein Doom
was given by the neighbours chosen, (whom now we call the Jury) in
matters between man and man; and no such doom of neighbours was given,
and no such voice of the Folk proclaimed in any house or under any roof,
nor even as aforesaid on the tilled acres or the depastured meadows. This
was the custom of our forefathers, in memory, belike, of the days when as
yet there was neither house nor tillage, nor flocks and herds, but the
Earth's face only and what freely grew thereon.

But over the dais there hung by chains and pulleys fastened to a tie-beam
of the roof high aloft a wondrous lamp fashioned of glass; yet of no such
glass as the folk made then and there, but of a fair and clear green like
an emerald, and all done with figures and knots in gold, and strange
beasts, and a warrior slaying a dragon, and the sun rising on the earth:
nor did any tale tell whence this lamp came, but it was held as an
ancient and holy thing by all the Markmen, and the kindred of the Wolf
had it in charge to keep a light burning in it night and day for ever;
and they appointed a maiden of their own kindred to that office; which
damsel must needs be unwedded, since no wedded woman dwelling under that
roof could be a Wolfing woman, but would needs be of the houses wherein
the Wolfings wedded.

This lamp which burned ever was called the Hall-Sun, and the woman who
had charge of it, and who was the fairest that might be found was called
after it the Hall-Sun also.

At the other end of the hall was the Woman's-Chamber, and therein were
the looms and other gear for the carding and spinning of wool and the
weaving of cloth.

Such was the Roof under which dwelt the kindred of the Wolfings; and the
other kindreds of the Mid-mark had roofs like to it; and of these the
chiefest were the Elkings, the Vallings, the Alftings, the Beamings, the
Galtings, and the Bearings; who bore on their banners the Elk, the
Falcon, the Swan, the Tree, the Boar, and the Bear. But other lesser and
newer kindreds there were than these: as for the Hartings above named,
they were a kindred of the Upper-mark.




CHAPTER II--THE FLITTING OF THE WAR-ARROW


Tells the tale that it was an evening of summer, when the wheat was in
the ear, but yet green; and the neat-herds were done driving the milch-
kine to the byre, and the horseherds and the shepherds had made the night-
shift, and the out-goers were riding two by two and one by one through
the lanes between the wheat and the rye towards the meadow. Round the
cots of the thralls were gathered knots of men and women both thralls and
freemen, some talking together, some hearkening a song or a tale, some
singing and some dancing together; and the children gambolling about from
group to group with their shrill and tuneless voices, like young
throstles who have not yet learned the song of their race. With these
were mingled dogs, dun of colour, long of limb, sharp-nosed, gaunt and
great; they took little heed of the children as they pulled them about in
their play, but lay down, or loitered about, as though they had forgotten
the chase and the wild-wood.

Merry was the folk with that fair tide, and the promise of the harvest,
and the joy of life, and there was no weapon among them so close to the
houses, save here and there the boar-spear of some herdman or herd-woman
late come from the meadow.

Tall and for the most part comely were both men and women; the most of
them light-haired and grey-eyed, with cheek-bones somewhat high; white of
skin but for the sun's burning, and the wind's parching, and whereas they
were tanned of a very ruddy and cheerful hue. But the thralls were some
of them of a shorter and darker breed, black-haired also and dark-eyed,
lighter of limb; sometimes better knit, but sometimes crookeder of leg
and knottier of arm. But some also were of build and hue not much unlike
to the freemen; and these doubtless came of some other Folk of the Goths
which had given way in battle before the Men of the Mark, either they or
their fathers.

Moreover some of the freemen were unlike their fellows and kindred, being
slenderer and closer-knit, and black-haired, but grey-eyed withal; and
amongst these were one or two who exceeded in beauty all others of the
House.

Now the sun was set and the glooming was at point to begin and the
shadowless twilight lay upon the earth. The nightingales on the borders
of the wood sang ceaselessly from the scattered hazel-trees above the
greensward where the grass was cropped down close by the nibbling of the
rabbits; but in spite of their song and the divers voices of the men-folk
about the houses, it was an evening on which sounds from aloof can be
well heard, since noises carry far at such tides.

Suddenly they who were on the edges of those throngs and were the less
noisy, held themselves as if to listen; and a group that had gathered
about a minstrel to hear his story fell hearkening also round about the
silenced and hearkening tale-teller: some of the dancers and singers
noted them and in their turn stayed the dance and kept silence to
hearken; and so from group to group spread the change, till all were
straining their ears to hearken the tidings. Already the men of the
night-shift had heard it, and the shepherds of them had turned about, and
were trotting smartly back through the lanes of the tall wheat: but the
horse-herds were now scarce seen on the darkening meadow, as they
galloped on fast toward their herds to drive home the stallions. For
what they had heard was the tidings of war.

There was a sound in the air as of a humble-bee close to the ear of one
lying on a grassy bank; or whiles as of a cow afar in the meadow lowing
in the afternoon when milking-time draws nigh: but it was ever shriller
than the one, and fuller than the other; for it changed at whiles, though
after the first sound of it, it did not rise or fall, because the eve was
windless. You might hear at once that for all it was afar, it was a
great and mighty sound; nor did any that hearkened doubt what it was, but
all knew it for the blast of the great war-horn of the Elkings, whose
Roof lay up Mirkwood-water next to the Roof of the Wolfings.

So those little throngs broke up at once; and all the freemen, and of the
thralls a good many, flocked, both men and women, to the Man's-door of
the hall, and streamed in quietly and with little talk, as men knowing
that they should hear all in due season.

Within under the Hall-Sun, amidst the woven stories of time past, sat the
elders and chief warriors on the dais, and amidst of all a big strong man
of forty winters, his dark beard a little grizzled, his eyes big and
grey. Before him on the board lay the great War-horn of the Wolfings
carved out of the tusk of a sea-whale of the North and with many devices
on it and the Wolf amidst them all; its golden mouth-piece and rim
wrought finely with flowers. There it abode the blowing, until the
spoken word of some messenger should set forth the tidings borne on the
air by the horn of the Elkings.

But the name of the dark-haired chief was Thiodolf (to wit Folk-wolf) and
he was deemed the wisest man of the Wolfings, and the best man of his
hands, and of heart most dauntless. Beside him sat the fair woman called
the Hall-Sun; for she was his foster-daughter before men's eyes; and she
was black-haired and grey-eyed like to her fosterer, and never was woman
fashioned fairer: she was young of years, scarce twenty winters old.

There sat the chiefs and elders on the dais, and round about stood the
kindred intermingled with the thralls, and no man spake, for they were
awaiting sure and certain tidings: and when all were come in who had a
mind to, there was so great a silence in the hall, that the song of the
nightingales on the wood-edge sounded clear and loud therein, and even
the chink of the bats about the upper windows could be heard. Then
amidst the hush of men-folk, and the sounds of the life of the earth came
another sound that made all turn their eyes toward the door; and this was
the pad-pad of one running on the trodden and summer-dried ground anigh
the hall: it stopped for a moment at the Man's-door, and the door opened,
and the throng parted, making way for the man that entered and came
hastily up to the midst of the table that stood on the dais athwart the
hall, and stood there panting, holding forth in his outstretched hand
something which not all could see in the dimness of the hall-twilight,
but which all knew nevertheless. The man was young, lithe and slender,
and had no raiment but linen breeches round his middle, and skin shoes on
his feet. As he stood there gathering his breath for speech, Thiodolf
stood up, and poured mead into a drinking horn and held it out towards
the new-comer, and spake, but in rhyme and measure:

"Welcome, thou evening-farer, and holy be thine head,
Since thou hast sought unto us in the heart of the Wolfings' stead;
Drink now of the horn of the mighty, and call a health if thou wilt
O'er the eddies of the mead-horn to the washing out of guilt.
For thou com'st to the peace of the Wolfings, and our very guest thou
art,
And meseems as I behold thee, that I look on a child of the Hart."

But the man put the horn from him with a hasty hand, and none said
another word to him until he had gotten his breath again; and then he
said:

"All hail ye Wood-Wolfs' children! nought may I drink the wine,
For the mouth and the maw that I carry this eve are nought of mine;
And my feet are the feet of the people, since the word went forth that
tide,
'O Elf here of the Hartings, no longer shalt thou bide
In any house of the Markmen than to speak the word and wend,
Till all men know the tidings and thine errand hath an end.'
Behold, O Wolves, the token and say if it be true!
I bear the shaft of battle that is four-wise cloven through,
And its each end dipped in the blood-stream, both the iron and the
horn,
And its midmost scathed with the fire; and the word that I have borne
Along with this war-token is, 'Wolfings of the Mark
Whenso ye see the war-shaft, by the daylight or the dark,
Busk ye to battle faring, and leave all work undone
Save the gathering for the handplay at the rising of the sun.
Three days hence is the hosting, and thither bear along
Your wains and your kine for the slaughter lest the journey should be
long.
For great is the Folk, saith the tidings, that against the Markmen
come;
In a far off land is their dwelling, whenso they sit at home,
And Welsh {1} is their tongue, and we wot not of the word that is in
their mouth,
As they march a many together from the cities of the South.'"

Therewith he held up yet for a minute the token of the war-arrow ragged
and burnt and bloody; and turning about with it in his hand went his ways
through the open door, none hindering; and when he was gone, it was as if
the token were still in the air there against the heads of the living
men, and the heads of the woven warriors, so intently had all gazed at
it; and none doubted the tidings or the token. Then said Thiodolf:

"Forth will we Wolfing children, and cast a sound abroad:
The mouth of the sea-beast's weapon shall speak the battle-word;
And ye warriors hearken and hasten, and dight the weed of war,
And then to acre and meadow wend ye adown no more,
For this work shall be for the women to drive our neat from the mead,
And to yoke the wains, and to load them as the men of war have need."

Out then they streamed from the hall, and no man was left therein save
the fair Hall-Sun sitting under the lamp whose name she bore. But to the
highest of the slope they went, where was a mound made higher by man's
handiwork; thereon stood Thiodolf and handled the horn, turning his face
toward the downward course of Mirkwood-water; and he set the horn to his
lips, and blew a long blast, and then again, and yet again the third
time; and all the sounds of the gathering night were hushed under the
sound of the roaring of the war-horn of the Wolfings; and the Kin of the
Beamings heard it as they sat in their hall, and they gat them ready to
hearken to the bearer of the tidings who should follow on the sound of
the war-blast.

But when the last sound of the horn had died away, then said Thiodolf:

"Now Wolfing children hearken, what the splintered War-shaft saith,
The fire scathed blood-stained aspen! we shall ride for life or death,
We warriors, a long journey with the herd and with the wain;
But unto this our homestead shall we wend us back again,
All the gleanings of the battle; and here for them that live
Shall stand the Roof of the Wolfings, and for them shall the meadow
thrive,
And the acres give their increase in the harvest of the year;
Now is no long departing since the Hall-Sun bideth here
'Neath the holy Roof of the Fathers, and the place of the Wolfing kin,
And the feast of our glad returning shall yet be held therein.
Hear the bidding of the War-shaft! All men, both thralls and free,
'Twixt twenty winters and sixty, beneath the shield shall be,
And the hosting is at the Thing-stead, the Upper-mark anigh;
And we wend away to-morrow ere the Sun is noon-tide high."

Therewith he stepped down from the mound, and went his way back to the
hall; and manifold talk arose among the folk; and of the warriors some
were already dight for the journey, but most not, and a many went their
ways to see to their weapons and horses, and the rest back again into the
hall.