Harald Skidmark Carves a Runestone

by Lexi Leafe

This piece is part of the CJ Sansom Memorial Event, coordinated by the illustrious

Holly A Brown

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Here begins the tale of Harald Skidmark, who was commissioned by King Bluetooth to carve a runestone commemorating the king’s glorious Christian conversion. When the work was nearly complete, Harald Skidmark summoned the stoneworkers, and together they walked around the stone to inspect it. Before he could pass his eyes over the entire piece, Harald Skidmark stopped short and clutched his head. "We're dead. We're all dead. The king will use our entrails as decorative streamers."

Beside him stood Rolf, his faithful cockeyed assistant. "It could be worse."

"How? How could this possibly be worse?"

Amid the lettering, a tableau of images depicted the king engaged in activities with farm animals no Christian king should think of.

"The goat could be wearing the king's crown," Rolf pointed out. "That would be treason on top of blasphemy."

The royal procession wasn't due until sunset, which gave them enough time to either fix the desecrated monument or flee to the farthest reaches of Norway.

"We need help," Harald said, backing away from the stone.

"We need a miracle," Rolf corrected, his wandering gaze briefly uniting in a moment of terrifying clarity.

What they got instead was Hild stomping toward them. Hild was the finest female stone carver in the land, a woman whose skill with a chisel was matched only by her talent for creative profanity and her preference for men's clothing. "What unholy mess have you two walking disasters created now?"

Harald Skidmark got in her face. "It wasn't us! We found it like this! Someone defaced the king's stone overnight!"

Hild narrowed her eyes and examined the carvings. Her expression shifted from skepticism to grim recognition.

"Thorvald," she pronounced with the same tone one might use to identify a nasty intestinal parasite.

Harald gaped at her. "Thorvald? The king's pious Christian advisor?”

"The very same," Hild said. "I'd recognize his work anywhere. Nobody else carves goat buttocks with that distinctive heart shape." She spat on the ground. "It's his signature."

"But why would he—"

"Because," Hild cut him off. "He's creating scandals to frame the old believers. Making it look like pagans are desecrating Christian monuments so he can justify harsher measures against them."

A long moment of silence fell as they all contemplated the trap they'd stumbled into.

"So we're looking at a religious conspiracy involving the king's right-hand man, craftily executed goat pornography, and approximately—" Harald glanced at the sky. "Two hours before we're all executed for a crime we didn't commit."

"One hour," corrected a new voice, soft as a blade sliding between ribs.

They whirled to find a small woman in a simple Christian habit watching them with the weary expression of someone who has seen too much of humanity's capacity for absurdity. Sister Agatha, kidnapped during a Viking raid and recently freed, now found herself an unwitting witness to the collision of faiths that had upended her life.

"The king's procession has already left the hall," she said. "And Thorvald is with him."

"Then we're truly doomed," Harald moaned, sinking to his knees in despair.

Sister Agatha frowned. "Not necessarily," she said, rolling up her sleeves. "I've had some experience correcting inappropriate illustrations. The novices can get very creative with the marginalia."

Rolf's eyes widened, momentarily achieving parallel focus in his excitement. "You'll help us?"

"I'll help you, because watching you try to fix this yourselves would be like watching children attempt to put out a fire with buckets of oil."

Harald scrambled to his feet. "What's the plan?"

Rolf suddenly stiffened, and his eyes rolled back as he collapsed to the ground in convulsions. The others watched with varying degrees of alarm as he spoke in a voice entirely unlike his own. "ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴜᴇ-ᴛᴏᴏᴛʜᴇᴅ ᴋɪɴɢ’ꜱ ᴍᴀʀᴋ ꜱʜᴀʟʟ ꜱᴘᴀɴ ʙᴇʏᴏɴᴅ ꜱᴇᴀꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴛᴀʀꜱ!” he bellowed. "ᴛɪɴʏ ɢᴇᴍꜱ ᴡʀᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ʙʏ ᴅᴡᴀʀᴠᴇɴ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ꜱʜᴀʟʟ ʙᴇᴀʀ ʜɪꜱ ꜱʏᴍʙᴏʟ! ᴍᴇɴ ᴡɪʟʟ ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʙʀᴇᴀᴅ ꜱʟɪᴄᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱʜɪɴᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜɴ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴏᴠɪɴɢ ᴛᴀᴘᴇꜱᴛʀɪᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴀᴛꜱ ᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴄʟᴏᴛʜᴇꜱ!"

Harald sighed with the weary resignation of a man who had witnessed this spectacle far too often. "He does this sometimes. Just ignore him until he—"

"No," Sister Agatha interrupted, watching Rolf with narrowed eyes. "He's given me an idea."

Sister Agatha eyed the obscene carvings. "We don't have time to erase what's there. We need to transform it."

"Into what?" asked Hild, already reaching for her tools.

"Into something that appears different depending on where you stand," the nun said, a gleam of unholy inspiration in her eyes.

Hild attacked the stone with the fierce concentration of a warrior in battle. Sister Agatha made corrections that transformed crude images into something altogether different. Harald Skidmark was on lookout duty, a task he performed with twitchy vigilance.

The unmistakable sound of horns interrupted their work.

"Positions!" Sister Agatha barked. "Harald, go stall them. Hild, finish up. Rolf—" she eyed him, "—do what you do best."

"Stand around looking confused?" he asked.

"Have another vision," she said. "A big one. The kind that makes people too uncomfortable to maintain eye contact."

Rolf nodded, his eyes already beginning to drift in separate directions. "I can do that."

As Harald scrambled toward the approaching procession, his mind raced through possible excuses. Diplomatic illness? Religious ecstasy? Spontaneous choreography?

He settled on a combination of all three. He flung himself to the ground in front of the king's horse and thrashed around while shouting about Odin's ravens. It bought them exactly four and a half minutes—the precise amount of time it took for King Harald Bluetooth's curiosity to transform into irritation.

"Enough!" the king bellowed. "What is the meaning of this display?"

Harald scrambled to his feet, bowing so deep he nearly headbutted the ground again. "We were just preparing your stone for your most gracious and divinely ordained inspection!"

The king's eyes narrowed.

Thorvald, the king’s advisor, pushed his way forward. His pinched face wore an expression of pious concern. "Perhaps, my king," he suggested with silky malice, "we should see what these individuals have been doing to your holy monument."

Harald Skidmark managed a steady voice. "Yes! Let us show you. If you would be so kind as to view it from the special platform we've prepared."

The scene that greeted King Harald Bluetooth was not promising. The workers scrambled to tidy their tools, and the king squinted to look past their figures blocking the stone from sight.

Harald Skidmark stepped forward with the stiff dignity of a man walking to his own execution. "If you would kindly step onto this platform, you will see the true glory of your monument."

There was a moment—a breath, a heartbeat—when it seemed the king might simply order their immediate beheading and be done with it. But curiosity is a powerful force, even in monarchs, and with a grunt, King Bluetooth mounted the small wooden viewing platform.

The effect was remarkable. From this precise angle, the modified carvings aligned to present a noble scene of the king's conversion to Christianity. Anatomically unlikely sheep had transformed into kneeling subjects, and the explicit goat had become a symbolic representation of pagan beliefs being cast aside.

"Extraordinary," the king murmured.

"And now," Harald Skidmark said with growing confidence, "if the king would observe it from where your subjects will stand."

From ground level, the image shifted. The Christian symbolism remained, but interwoven with elements of traditional Nordic imagery, a visual representation of the king bridging two worlds, two faiths, in a harmonious blend.

The king's eyes widened. "This is outstanding craftsmanship. A stone for all my people."

Thorvald's face had transformed from smug certainty to the sickly pallor of a man watching his plans collapse. He pushed forward, his voice tight with desperation. "My king, these people have deceived you! They have desecrated your monument with pagan filth!"

"That's a lie!" Harald Skidmark said, emboldened by the king's apparent approval. "We discovered the stone had already been defaced and were attempting to restore it!"

"Preposterous!" Thorvald stomped. "Who would dare commit such sacrilege?"

It was at this moment that Rolf chose to have another prophetic episode. He rose from the ground, eyes rolling back to show mostly the whites, and bellowed in that unnervingly deep voice:

"ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏʀᴅ ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋꜱ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴍᴇ! ᴛʜᴏʀᴠᴀʟᴅ, ᴡʜʏ ʜᴀꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴏᴜ ᴄᴀʀᴠᴇᴅ ꜱᴜᴄʜ ꜰɪʟᴛʜ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏʟʏ ꜱᴛᴏɴᴇ? ᴡʜʏ ᴅɪᴅꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴏᴜ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴏᴀᴛ ꜱᴜᴄʜ ᴅᴇᴛᴀɪʟᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴀᴛᴏᴍɪᴄᴀʟ ꜰᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ? ᴡʜʏ ᴅɪᴅꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴏᴜ ᴘᴏꜱɪᴛɪᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʜᴇᴇᴘ ɪɴ ꜱᴜᴄʜ ᴀ ᴅᴇᴇᴘʟʏ ꜱɪɴꜰᴜʟ ᴍᴀɴɴᴇʀ?"

The crowd gasped, partly at the accusation and partly at the descriptive detail.

Thorvald's face contorted with fury. "That is not how I carved it at all!" he shouted, then froze as he realized his fatal error.

A silence fell.

The king turned to his advisor with glacial slowness. "Not how you carved it?" he repeated, his voice dangerously soft.

Thorvald's face fell. "I didn't mean—”

"Seize him," the king commanded, and the guards moved in.

As Thorvald was dragged away, the king turned back to the unlikely quartet. "You have done me a service today," he declared. "Harald Skidmark, I offer you a permanent position as royal stone carver."

Harald bowed again, his mind racing. A royal appointment meant security, status, and most importantly, a dramatic reduction in the likelihood of being executed for various misadventures. On the other hand, . . . he glanced at Rolf, who had recovered from his prophetic fit and was now attempting to use his crossed eyes to look at his own nose, an endeavor doomed to fascinating failure. He looked at Sister Agatha, who had somehow maintained an expression of pious dignity despite having just carved over what was essentially stone-age pornography. And at Hild, who was already eyeing the horizon with the restless expression of someone who finds royal service unappealing. "The king honors me," Skidmark said carefully, "but I believe my talents might be better employed in more varied pursuits."

The king raised an eyebrow but nodded with what might have been respect. "Very well. But know that you have earned my favor this day."

The royal procession departed, and the four stood in stunned silence, collectively processing their unlikely escape from certain death.

"Well," Sister Agatha said finally, brushing stone dust from her habit, "that was an experience I shall be confessing for approximately the next seven years."

"What now?" Hild asked, wiping her hands on her trousers and eyeing the departing royal procession with relief.

Before Harald Skidmark could answer, a commotion rang at the edge of the clearing. A merchant, his fine tunic askew, shouted about stolen silver while waving his arms with the frantic energy of the recently robbed.

"Fifty silver pieces to whoever recovers my strongbox!" he roared. "Stolen by a one-handed man!"

Harald and Rolf exchanged a look.

"You're not seriously considering—" Sister Agatha began.

"Solving mysteries for profit?" Harald said, a slow grin spreading across his face. "It seems we have a talent for it."

"Your talent," Hild pointed out dryly, "appears to be getting into trouble and then escaping through increasingly improbable means."

"Exactly!" Rolf nodded enthusiastically, his eyes momentarily aligning in excitement. "That's a very marketable skill!"

Sister Agatha shook her head with the resignation of someone who can see disaster approaching but is too fascinated to look away. "And what of your religious duties?" she asked, though whether she was addressing the others or reminding herself of her own obligations remained unclear.

"I consider keeping these two from dying spectacularly to be a form of charity," Hild said, already gathering her tools. "Surely that counts as a good deed in your god's ledger."

The nun opened her mouth to argue, then closed it, considering. These heathens clearly needed someone with a modicum of common sense and a working relationship with God. "I suppose," she said finally, "that the Lord works in mysterious ways."

"Speaking of mysterious," Rolf said, and his expression shifted into that unnervingly intense look that preceded his prophetic episodes, "ɪ ꜰᴏʀᴇꜱᴇᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴜᴇ-ᴛᴏᴏᴛʜᴇᴅ ᴋɪɴɢ'ꜱ ᴍᴀʀᴋ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴏɴᴇ ᴅᴀʏ ᴀᴅᴏʀɴ ᴛɪɴʏ ᴄʀʏꜱᴛᴀʟ ꜱʜᴀʀᴅꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴏɴɴᴇᴄᴛ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴀᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ᴠᴀꜱᴛ ᴅɪꜱᴛᴀɴᴄᴇꜱ. ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴄʀʏꜱᴛᴀʟꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴇᴀʀꜱ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴍɪɴɪᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ꜱᴇᴀꜱʜᴇʟʟꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀɪʀ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇꜱ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴛʀᴀᴠᴇʟ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ɪɴᴠɪꜱɪʙʟᴇ ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴅꜱ ᴡᴏᴠᴇɴ ʙʏ ᴅᴡᴀʀᴠᴇꜱ!"

Harald clapped him on the shoulder with affectionate exasperation. "Yes, yes, and next you'll tell me these magical ear-crystals will also play music."

"ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ—" Rolf began.

"No," Harald cut him off firmly. "Just no."