The setting is Sweden, around 1520 CE. Stone circles of menhirs are found all over Europe. In Sweden they were called Judge Circles. In a farm courtyard, a girl notches an arrow ...
Judge Circle
Sweden – about 1520
The arrow thrummed through the air and smacked into the hay
bale. The girl watched for a while, standing with her feet planted
asunder, as white feathers drifted past. She pulled up another
arrow from where it was stuck in the snow next to her boots,
drew the string back steadily, keeping her left arm straight and
still, and a moment later the second arrow quivered right next to
the first. A white chicken feather settled on her hair and another
touched her cheek. She brushed it away and turned.
“See, Inge, I’m getting really good.”
The young woman sitting on folded sacking on the steps
leading down from the kitchen, smiled.
“You are, Eira, you are. Mind you don’t get too cold now.”
Inge’s breath floated in the air. She rubbed her fingers together
to keep the blood circulating. Plucking a chicken couldn’t be done
wearing mittens, just as shooting an arrow couldn’t. Her
fingerless gloves helped, but the cold seeped up from the frozen
stones below her. She stood up, clutching the half-plucked
chicken to her pinafore and stamped her feet, before sitting down
once more. Feathers floated off in all directions and settled in the
rutted snow of the large courtyard.
Charcoal, the children’s black cat, had emerged from the
warmth near the kitchen range and nuzzled her. She shoved it
away and it skittered down the steps before walking, tail erect,
towards the nine-year-old archer.
Eira landed another arrow close to the first two and walked
over to retrieve her shafts. The sound of hoof beats caused her to
stop and stare across towards the archway at the far end of the
yard. The wooden doors to the courtyard stood open. A man rode
in, ducking slightly under the archway. His dappled grey horse
whinnied and skittered sideways a pace or two.
“Stable-boy, ho,” he shouted, turning the horse to ride out
towards the front of the house.
Inge stood-up when the gentleman arrived, for Kaleb
Pettersson was an important man, the biggest landowner in these
parts and someone known for his abrupt manner and short
temper. The chicken bounced off her knees and landed on the
thin snow and frozen mud of the courtyard.
Ralf came out from the stables at the far side of the yard, with
a pitchfork in his hand. “Did someone call?” He addressed Eira,
who just shrugged and nodded towards Inge.
The young woman retrieved the chicken, brushed it down
and pointed to the gate.
“Get on with you, Ralf, Mr Pettersson won’t brook no waiting
now,” said Eira.
Ralf looked stricken and, dropping the pitchfork, loped across
the yard and disappeared under the archway. Inge grimaced
slightly and yanked more feathers out of the increasingly
denuded bird.
“The sooner you’re in the pot the better for us all,” she said to
the lifeless head that bobbed around on her knees, as a freezing
gust of wind lifted the feathers up towards the leaden sky. Inge
surveyed the dull heaviness of the clouds and concluded more
snow was possible before the day was through. A thaw had come
three weeks back, and then a further freeze. “Will this winter
never end?” she grumbled to the chicken.
The boy hung the two rabbits from a low branch of a twisted old
tree and made his way across the snow towards the dark-grey
stones, standing like huge sentinels in private conversation, each
topped with a slight crusting of snow, like so many moody old
men. The Judge Circle of tall stones had stood forever. Possibly
built by the frost giants, according to his mother, although she
smiled when she said so. No one really knew how the standing
stones, arranged in a rough circle, had come to be at the base of
Torsberg, the hill rising at the far end of the clearing. The jagged
rocks of the hilltop could, in a certain light, look like a vast
hammer smashed into the crest or, some said, a kneeling giant.
Both their farmhouse, the bridge over the river and the small
town two miles beyond could be seen from its peak. Down by the
Circle, Håkan’s view was circumscribed by the forest of birch
trees that crept towards the stones but never reached them, held
back by some troll magic, he didn’t doubt.
The snow had been disturbed around the stones. Someone
had ridden a horse there not long ago, for the tracks were fresh,
as was the dung that hadn’t yet frozen solid. Whoever had
trespassed had ridden completely around the Circle without
entering it. The snow encircled by the stones themselves was
unblemished and glowed a dull white, reflective of the ash grey
sky above.
Håkan pulled his gloves tight and carefully gripped one of the
tallest of the stones, much taller than the height of a tall man, but
one that he could climb. His felt boots were not designed for
rock-climbing and he eased them against the fissures to ensure a
good grip. He didn’t fancy falling. Gaining the top he stood,
flexing his knees and swaying slightly. The air, so still until a few
moments earlier, now had a slight breeze. His breath drifted
away in front of him; the highest branches of the birches waved
to each other slowly; a clump of snow tumbled from a branch
nearby. Otherwise the silence held.
This was where the boy had appeared, if boy he was. He’d
appeared and just as quickly, disappeared.
Håkan had been standing very still, watching a boar who’d
emerged from the trees on the far side of the clearing. It snorted
around but didn’t detect him, as the wind carried the pig’s
boarish stink across to where Håkan clutched his bow, arrow
notched and half drawn. The boar did see the strange boy as he
walked within the stone circle. It snorted and lowered its head.
The boy, dressed in the oddest clothes Håkan had ever seen,
looked at the boar and then towards him. He took another step
and promptly vanished. But not entirely, for his tracks remained
in the snow. When Håkan looked again the boar had also gone
but he could still be heard crashing through the undergrowth.
Håkan surveyed the area carefully. No troll boy today, just the
tracks from the horse and rider. He could now see where some
man had dismounted for a while and relieved himself in the
snow. Håkan shook his head to clear both mysteries, and
surveyed the other ten stones. Each one would take a small army
to lift. He doubted their wagon would be sturdy enough to carry
the weight of the smallest, even if it could be pulled out of the
frozen ground. In fact, the stone he stood on would be longer
than the wagon, and that was only the bit he could see above the
ground.
He checked the snow behind him. His bow and arrows leant
against the next rock, well out of the way. He didn’t wish to land
on those. He took a breath, feeling the chill burn across his teeth.
He positioned his feet and extended his arms, as he had been
taught. Turning his face towards the clouds, that seemed but a
hand’s breadth above Torsberg, he bent his knees, fell backwards
slowly and then jumped sharply. Keeping his body extended he
made a graceful arc, turning completely in the air and landing on
his feet, facing the tall stone on which he’d stood moments
before. His feet punched into the crisp snow. He wiggled his
boots to free them. Heart racing and grinning to himself, he
collected his bow and arrows and set off to pick up the rabbits.
In half an hour it would be dark and he wanted to be home well
before then.
Inge had just completed pulling out the final feathers when the
door to the kitchen burst open. She heard the cook say something
and a man’s voice raised in anger. Pettersson swept out through
the back door, ignoring Inge, and shouted for his horse. It took
Ralf a few moments before he led out the dappled grey.
“Bring it here, boy, and look sharp about it, I don’t have all
day.”
Pettersson stood on the small landing that extended from the
kitchen door, the stairs descending to one side.
“‘s Blood, mind, girl,” he said, forcing Inge to take a couple of
steps down, while he swung his leg onto his waiting mount. He
turned the horse without a word of thanks to Ralf, and trotted
towards the archway. As he passed through, an arrow embedded
itself in the wooden doorpost. If he heard he made no sign.
“That was very, very naughty,” said Inge to Eira, as the girl
strolled over to retrieve the arrow.
“No, he was very, very rude,” said Eira, “and I’m a good shot.
He was in no danger.”
The arrow thrummed through the air and smacked into the hay
bale. The girl watched for a while, standing with her feet planted
asunder, as white feathers drifted past. She pulled up another
arrow from where it was stuck in the snow next to her boots,
drew the string back steadily, keeping her left arm straight and
still, and a moment later the second arrow quivered right next to
the first. A white chicken feather settled on her hair and another
touched her cheek. She brushed it away and turned.
“See, Inge, I’m getting really good.”
The young woman sitting on folded sacking on the steps
leading down from the kitchen, smiled.
“You are, Eira, you are. Mind you don’t get too cold now.”
Inge’s breath floated in the air. She rubbed her fingers together
to keep the blood circulating. Plucking a chicken couldn’t be done
wearing mittens, just as shooting an arrow couldn’t. Her
fingerless gloves helped, but the cold seeped up from the frozen
stones below her. She stood up, clutching the half-plucked
chicken to her pinafore and stamped her feet, before sitting down
once more. Feathers floated off in all directions and settled in the
rutted snow of the large courtyard.
Charcoal, the children’s black cat, had emerged from the
warmth near the kitchen range and nuzzled her. She shoved it
away and it skittered down the steps before walking, tail erect,
towards the nine-year-old archer.
Eira landed another arrow close to the first two and walked
over to retrieve her shafts. The sound of hoof beats caused her to
stop and stare across towards the archway at the far end of the
yard. The wooden doors to the courtyard stood open. A man rode
in, ducking slightly under the archway. His dappled grey horse
whinnied and skittered sideways a pace or two.
“Stable-boy, ho,” he shouted, turning the horse to ride out
towards the front of the house.
Inge stood-up when the gentleman arrived, for Kaleb
Pettersson was an important man, the biggest landowner in these
parts and someone known for his abrupt manner and short
temper. The chicken bounced off her knees and landed on the
thin snow and frozen mud of the courtyard.
Ralf came out from the stables at the far side of the yard, with
a pitchfork in his hand. “Did someone call?” He addressed Eira,
who just shrugged and nodded towards Inge.
The young woman retrieved the chicken, brushed it down
and pointed to the gate.
“Get on with you, Ralf, Mr Pettersson won’t brook no waiting
now,” said Eira.
Ralf looked stricken and, dropping the pitchfork, loped across
the yard and disappeared under the archway. Inge grimaced
slightly and yanked more feathers out of the increasingly
denuded bird.
“The sooner you’re in the pot the better for us all,” she said to
the lifeless head that bobbed around on her knees, as a freezing
gust of wind lifted the feathers up towards the leaden sky. Inge
surveyed the dull heaviness of the clouds and concluded more
snow was possible before the day was through. A thaw had come
three weeks back, and then a further freeze. “Will this winter
never end?” she grumbled to the chicken.
The boy hung the two rabbits from a low branch of a twisted old
tree and made his way across the snow towards the dark-grey
stones, standing like huge sentinels in private conversation, each
topped with a slight crusting of snow, like so many moody old
men. The Judge Circle of tall stones had stood forever. Possibly
built by the frost giants, according to his mother, although she
smiled when she said so. No one really knew how the standing
stones, arranged in a rough circle, had come to be at the base of
Torsberg, the hill rising at the far end of the clearing. The jagged
rocks of the hilltop could, in a certain light, look like a vast
hammer smashed into the crest or, some said, a kneeling giant.
Both their farmhouse, the bridge over the river and the small
town two miles beyond could be seen from its peak. Down by the
Circle, Håkan’s view was circumscribed by the forest of birch
trees that crept towards the stones but never reached them, held
back by some troll magic, he didn’t doubt.
The snow had been disturbed around the stones. Someone
had ridden a horse there not long ago, for the tracks were fresh,
as was the dung that hadn’t yet frozen solid. Whoever had
trespassed had ridden completely around the Circle without
entering it. The snow encircled by the stones themselves was
unblemished and glowed a dull white, reflective of the ash grey
sky above.
Håkan pulled his gloves tight and carefully gripped one of the
tallest of the stones, much taller than the height of a tall man, but
one that he could climb. His felt boots were not designed for
rock-climbing and he eased them against the fissures to ensure a
good grip. He didn’t fancy falling. Gaining the top he stood,
flexing his knees and swaying slightly. The air, so still until a few
moments earlier, now had a slight breeze. His breath drifted
away in front of him; the highest branches of the birches waved
to each other slowly; a clump of snow tumbled from a branch
nearby. Otherwise the silence held.
This was where the boy had appeared, if boy he was. He’d
appeared and just as quickly, disappeared.
Håkan had been standing very still, watching a boar who’d
emerged from the trees on the far side of the clearing. It snorted
around but didn’t detect him, as the wind carried the pig’s
boarish stink across to where Håkan clutched his bow, arrow
notched and half drawn. The boar did see the strange boy as he
walked within the stone circle. It snorted and lowered its head.
The boy, dressed in the oddest clothes Håkan had ever seen,
looked at the boar and then towards him. He took another step
and promptly vanished. But not entirely, for his tracks remained
in the snow. When Håkan looked again the boar had also gone
but he could still be heard crashing through the undergrowth.
Håkan surveyed the area carefully. No troll boy today, just the
tracks from the horse and rider. He could now see where some
man had dismounted for a while and relieved himself in the
snow. Håkan shook his head to clear both mysteries, and
surveyed the other ten stones. Each one would take a small army
to lift. He doubted their wagon would be sturdy enough to carry
the weight of the smallest, even if it could be pulled out of the
frozen ground. In fact, the stone he stood on would be longer
than the wagon, and that was only the bit he could see above the
ground.
He checked the snow behind him. His bow and arrows leant
against the next rock, well out of the way. He didn’t wish to land
on those. He took a breath, feeling the chill burn across his teeth.
He positioned his feet and extended his arms, as he had been
taught. Turning his face towards the clouds, that seemed but a
hand’s breadth above Torsberg, he bent his knees, fell backwards
slowly and then jumped sharply. Keeping his body extended he
made a graceful arc, turning completely in the air and landing on
his feet, facing the tall stone on which he’d stood moments
before. His feet punched into the crisp snow. He wiggled his
boots to free them. Heart racing and grinning to himself, he
collected his bow and arrows and set off to pick up the rabbits.
In half an hour it would be dark and he wanted to be home well
before then.
Inge had just completed pulling out the final feathers when the
door to the kitchen burst open. She heard the cook say something
and a man’s voice raised in anger. Pettersson swept out through
the back door, ignoring Inge, and shouted for his horse. It took
Ralf a few moments before he led out the dappled grey.
“Bring it here, boy, and look sharp about it, I don’t have all
day.”
Pettersson stood on the small landing that extended from the
kitchen door, the stairs descending to one side.
“‘s Blood, mind, girl,” he said, forcing Inge to take a couple of
steps down, while he swung his leg onto his waiting mount. He
turned the horse without a word of thanks to Ralf, and trotted
towards the archway. As he passed through, an arrow embedded
itself in the wooden doorpost. If he heard he made no sign.
“That was very, very naughty,” said Inge to Eira, as the girl
strolled over to retrieve the arrow.
“No, he was very, very rude,” said Eira, “and I’m a good shot.
He was in no danger.”
