35- Here Begins the Writing of Athelstan

Excerpt from The Story We Lived — By Athelstan 

The air still held the warmth of summer, but Bjorn's voice carried the weight of the cold months ahead. I watched as he gathered the strongest hands of Kattegat and spoke straight to them.

"We cannot wait for the cold to take us by surprise. We must build now, and we must prepare our fires."

Then he looked around at everyone and said something strange, almost like he expected them to understand, but they didn't. "Winter is coming."

He smiled like it meant something important, but the others just blinked and nodded, clearly missing the meaning.

And so did i.

Bjorn's a strange one. I don't think we had a clue what he was on about.

Anyway the work began.

Groups of men took to the forests, felling the trees Bjorn had marked out, they were tall oaks, thick pine, and nothing was wasted. About a hundred and twenty trees in all were brought down.

Six new longhouses were raised from them, they were solid structures with turf roofs, designed to hold warmth and stand through storms.

Each longhouse took a team of thirty to forty men working in shifts for about four weeks. No one pushed too hard, but no one slacked either. The work was loud, and constant.

I helped count the logs and supplies. It felt good to be useful, even if just with numbers.

Bjorn added a detail I hadn't seen before. Under each longhouse, he made them dig out space for dry storage; insulated areas where food and tools could be kept from rot. It's something the villagers hadn't done before. A few questioned it. After the first rain, when the dry pit stayed dry, no one questioned it again.

By the time the nights started cooling, all six stood ready. We moved grain barrels into two of them and bedding into the rest.

But shelter meant nothing without heat.

So while some built, others turned to firewood. Sixty, sometimes seventy-five men a day rotated through the woods, cutting, hauling, stacking. The goal was five hundred carts' worth. Some said it couldn't be done.

We hit two hundred by mid-September.

The stacks grew high and wide beneath the covered sheds Bjorn designed; raised off the ground so the logs wouldn't soak from underneath. Most of the villagers thought firewood was just firewood.

Bjorn showed them how wet wood wastes more fuel and gives less heat.

He doesn't yell when he teaches. Just says, "This way's better," or, "Try it like this."

It's strange how people listen to him, not out of fear, but because he sounds sure and decisive. Like he's already lived through a dozen winters and remembers every mistake.

I started writing all of this down not just for my memory, but because I think someone needs to. He doesn't keep scrolls or scratchings of his own. I don't think he cares about records of his life. But I do.

If he's right, and I think he is, people one day might need to know how we got through this.

Excerpt from The Story We Lived — By Athelstan

The food effort began while the houses were still being built.

Bjorn gathered us again and gave the numbers: six months of food for a thousand people. That's enough to fill several wagons every week, which is more than a dozen oxen could carry. Nobody said it out loud, but I think half the men there thought it was impossible.

Still, they started.

The fishing boats; eight of them, sometimes more, went out daily. The fish came in heavy and quick at first.

Cod, flatfish, herring. It filled the docks.

The smell hit you in the chest, it was strong and sour. I'll never forget it. They cleaned and gutted everything right there, then sent it off to be smoked or packed in salt.

Three smokehouses burned almost non-stop. I helped one day, just stacking wood. The heat inside was worse than a forge. Sweat soaked everyone to the skin, but no one slowed down.

Old women ran the racks faster than the younger men. They turned the fish just right, kept the fires low and steady, didn't say much.

Meat came from culling; mostly pigs and goats too weak to last the winter. Everything was used. The bones were boiled for broth, the fat stored, the rest smoked or salted. We had only two barrels of salt, so most of it was buried or hung to dry.

The older women and some of the children helped in the fields. We pulled barley, turnips, garlic, and onions. A few pits caved in after heavy rain.

Bjorn made them dig trenches and raised the lids off the ground. He didn't just order it, he grabbed the spade and showed them himself.

Again, There's something odd about him. He doesn't speak like these people. I don't know if he worships the Pagan Gods. He never talks about them in private, only in front people.

I wonder what that says about my own faith. I still pray. I say the Lord's Prayer every morning. But sometimes it feels like I'm speaking into cold air. The others call to Odin and Freyr and Thor out loud, unashamed.

And I....I stay quiet.

Sometimes I think God sent me here to be tested. Other times, I wonder if I've already failed.

Still, I write.

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Mid-September, 793 A.D. — Kattegat

The first voice came from the ridge.

"A sail!"

Not shouted in fear, more like someone calling to a neighbor across a fence. The wind caught it and carried it down to the village, where it blended with the sound of hammers and clucking hens and firewood being chopped.

No one stopped. Not at first.

The blacksmith raised an eyebrow but kept his rhythm, hammer hitting hot iron with dull, steady clanks. A child near the water barrel turned to listen, then went back to chasing a wooden hoop. One of the older women by the drying racks turned her head, squinting toward the bluff.

It came again. Louder this time.

"A sail! South fjord, no banner!"

That got a few more heads to turn.

A bucket dropped. Goats bleated as a young herder paused mid-step. Someone by the smokehouse leaned outside with a fish gutting knife still in hand, wiping it absently on a rag while looking south.

"Did he say no banner?""Could be traders.""Not this late, surely.""One sail? Just one?"

The usual murmur started; half concern, half habit. People had seen ships come before. Some friendly. Some not. It didn't take long for the murmurs to turn into sideways glances.

And then came the runner.

Barefoot, breathing hard, cutting across the square with a hand on his chest.

"Ship coming in! South fjord, unknown sail, heading this way!"

He didn't stop to explain. Just kept going straight for the longhouse.

That's when the pace of things shifted.

The apprentice in the forge set his hammer down. A boy handed the goats off to his brother and followed. Someone stepped out from the weaving hall, wiping her hands on her apron.

Doors opened. Curtains were drawn back. People didn't panic — but they paid attention now.

The group near the well exchanged a few words. No shouting. Just that low, shared understanding that it might be something, and it might be nothing, but either way… they ought to be ready.

And when no horn blew, and no word came back from the longhouse, a few began walking that way.

Not rushing.

Just going, because that's where decisions were usually made.

They reached the Earl's longhouse just as the sun began to dip behind the treetops.

They reached the Earl's longhouse just as the sun dipped behind the treetops.

The door was open. Inside, the hearth glowed low and steady, filling the space with the smell of pine pitch and smoke. There wasn't urgency in the air.

Ragnar was near the long table with his arms crossed, listening to a quiet report from one of the older men. His face was calm.

Lagertha stood a few paces back, leaning lightly against the post beside the hearth. A thick shawl wrapped her shoulders, and her hand rested on the small swell of her belly. She didn't speak, just watched the doorway like she was already expecting someone to appear with news.

The runner stepped in, cheeks red from running.

"There's a sail," he said. "South fjord. No banner."

Ragnar looked at him for a second, then nodded once. "We heard the call."

Behind Trygve, a few more villagers filed in quietly but attentive.

An older man near the door asked, "Do we raise the horn?"

Lagertha spoke before Ragnar could answer.

"Let's see what we're dealing with first." She sounded tired.

Another voice: "Could be nothing. Could be traders."

Ragnar didn't argue. He stepped toward the door and peered out toward the fjord with his eyes narrowing slightly.

"No oars?"

"None," Trygve replied. "They're drifting slowly."

Ragnar turned to one of the men standing by the door. "Take three men and go to the ridge. Stay low, and don't draw unless they land."

The man nodded and left.

A short silence followed. Then, from the back:

"Where's Earl Bjorn?"

The question wasn't urgent.

Ragnar didn't flinch. "He went out early. He'll hear soon enough."

And that was enough, for now.

There was no shouting or panic. Just quiet eyes and patient hands, waiting to see what the wind brought in.

Lagertha stepped back from the post and eased herself into a nearby chair. She didn't say more, just rested her hand again on her belly and stared toward the door.

-------------------------------------

The wind blew harder up here. Not enough to bite, but enough to make the trees lean and the tall grass shiver.

Bjorn crouched behind a low patch of rock and brush, his hood pulled forward. He didn’t move. His eyes were fixed on the sail drifting through the fjord below.

One ship.
No banner.
Just gliding with the water.

He didn’t look worried. He just watched. Quiet, steady, measuring the distance like a carpenter might measure a beam of wood.

A few paces back, Hrafn stood with his arms crossed, spear resting against his shoulder. He said nothing.

They'd been here a while.

Boots scuffed against the dirt behind them. Four men coming up from the village — slow, careful steps. Bjorn didn’t turn his head.

The scouts spread out near the ridge, ducking low behind some stones. They hadn’t seen him yet.

“It’s still there,” one of them muttered. “Just sitting.”

“Not rowing,” another whispered. “Are they waiting for something?”

Einar, the oldest, leaned forward and rested both hands on his knees. His brow was pulled tight. He didn’t speak.

Bjorn finally stood. Not fast. Just enough to be seen.

One of the younger men jumped a little. He nudged Einar, who turned and blinked in surprise.

“My lord,” Einar said, standing.

Bjorn gave a small nod.

“You just arrived?” he asked.

“A short while ago,” Einar said. “We saw the sail. No sign, no movement. Figured we’d take a closer look.”

Bjorn glanced back toward the water. The ship was still there, steady in the current.

“They haven’t landed,” one of the younger scouts said. “Just floating.”

Bjorn didn’t answer. He watched as the ship slowly began to turn, like it had no place to be. In a few minutes, it would be gone around the bend.

Only then did he speak, voice low, almost like he was talking to himself.

“They’ll start talking by sundown.”

Hrafn gave a small nod behind him. Neither man smiled.

Bjorn turned and walked back down the path.

The fire in the center of the village burned low, more for comfort than light now.

People gathered as they always did at the end of a long day. Not in a hurry, not as a crowd. Just small steps. One by one. Quiet feet on packed earth.

Bjorn sat near the flames, pulling at a piece of dried bread, elbows on his knees. He didn’t call anyone over. But the square slowly filled.

Ragnar was there first, not saying much with his arms crossed, standing off to the side with a fur cloak thrown over one shoulder. He gave Bjorn a glance but didn’t interrupt.

Lagertha came next, wrapped in a shawl, her hand resting briefly on her growing belly before she lowered herself onto a bench near the fire. Siggy sat beside her, eyes sharp, always watching the way people moved, not just Bjorn, but the ones behind him too.

Rollo leaned on a post behind them, chewing something and frowning like he wasn’t sure if this was serious or not.

Athelstan stood a little apart with Birchwood in hand, not writing yet.

More faces came. A few older men. Two women from the smokehouse still smelling of smoke and salt. Some of the ridge-watch. A boy still holding the horn he’d never blown.

Bjorn didn’t stand.

He just looked at them. Then spoke plainly.

“The ship was ours.”

A ripple went through the crowd. Not fear, just confusion. A few heads turned.

Rollo raised an eyebrow.

“No banner. No horn. No warning,” Bjorn said, flicking the bread crust into the fire. “I sent it.”

Ragnar’s arms stayed crossed, but he gave a small nod, like he already suspected.

“It was a test,” Bjorn went on. “To see how fast we’d notice. How fast we’d move.”

He looked at no one in particular, but everyone felt it.

“Some of you moved fast,” he said. “Some… waited. Some didn’t know what to do.”

He shook his head.

“That’s not on you. That’s on me.”

Lagertha glanced sideways at Ragnar, then back to the fire. Siggy leaned in slightly with her lips tight.

“We have one post on the bluff. It’s not enough. If that ship had been real…” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

“We’ll build towers,” Bjorn said instead. “Two. Maybe three. High enough to see what’s coming. Early enough to do something about it.”

Rollo finally spoke.

“With what? We’re already short on hands for winter prep.”

Bjorn nodded. “We’ll build it in teams. Small ones. Doesn’t need everyone, just the right ones. It won’t pull us away from the food.”

Someone near the back muttered, “The true danger isn’t from far-off lands, but from those who look like kin."

That earned a few quiet laughs.

Athelstan finally scribbled something down.

Siggy asked, “What if they come at night?”

Bjorn replied. “We’ll build tall towers,” he said simply. “Fires on top, so nothing sneaks up on us.”

He let the words hang for a moment before adding, “We’ve got to see first. Be ready.”

He stood then. “Tomorrow, I’ll show the builders where.”

That was it.

No orders. No shouting. No ceremony.

People sat a while longer, murmuring among themselves, tossing bark into the fire, thinking it over.

They were aware now that there was work to be done, and someone had already started it.

And when the fire burned lower still, they began to drift home quietly, like they always did.

Excerpt from The Story We Lived — By Athelstan 

The evening after the false alarm, I sat by the fire with a strip of birchwood and a stick of charcoal.

Bjorn’s test had done its job. The village had seen where their watch was weak — and there was no going back now.

Plans were made quietly, not with shouting or grand speeches, but with steady hands and clear heads.

Bjorn pointed out the spots where the watchtowers would stand. Simple wooden towers, tall enough to see far across the fjord and the hills beyond.

The strongest and most skilled builders were chosen, but everyone helped where they could — hauling wood, gathering rope, sharpening tools.

The work went slow and steady. No one rushed. Everyone knew the cold was coming, and these towers would be their eyes when snow and darkness covered the land.

Day by day, the towers climbed a little higher.

Bjorn never asked for thanks. He worked alongside them when he could, steady and focused.

And I kept writing it all down, tracing the story on birchwood strips for those who come after.