The First Christmas Tree | Page 7

from England, beyond the sea, have I come to bring you a
greeting from that land, and a message from the All-Father, whose
servant I am."

"Welcome, then," said Hunrad, "welcome, kinsman, and be silent; for
what passes here is too high to wait, and must be done before the moon
crosses the middle heaven, unless, indeed, thou hast some sign or token
from the gods. Canst thou work miracles?"
The question came sharply, as if a sudden gleam of hope had flashed
through the tangle of the old priest's mind. But Winfried's voice sank
lower and a cloud of disappointment passed over his face as he replied:
"Nay, miracles have I never wrought, though I have heard of many; but
the All-Father has given no power to my hands save such as belongs to
common man."
"Stand still, then, thou common man," said Hunrad, scornfully, "and
behold what the gods have called us hither to do. This night is the
death-night of the sun-god, Baldur the Beautiful, beloved of gods and
men. This night is the hour of darkness and the power of winter, of
sacrifice and mighty fear. This night the great Thor, the god of thunder
and war, to whom this oak is sacred, is grieved for the death of Baldur,
and angry with this people because they have forsaken his worship.
Long is it since an offering has been laid upon his altar, long since the
roots of his holy tree have been fed with blood. Therefore its leaves
have withered before the time, and its boughs are heavy with death.
Therefore the Slavs and the Wends have beaten us in battle. Therefore
the harvests have failed, and the wolf-hordes have ravaged the folds,
and the strength has departed from the bow, and the wood of the spear
has broken, and the wild boar has slain the huntsman. Therefore the
plague has fallen on our dwellings, and the dead are more than the
living in all our villages. Answer me, ye people, are not these things
true?"
A hoarse sound of approval ran through the circle. A chant, in which
the voices of the men and women blended, like the shrill wind in the
pine-trees above the rumbling thunder of a waterfall, rose and fell in
rude cadences.
O Thor, the Thunderer, Mighty and merciless, Spare us from smiting!
Heave not thy hammer, Angry, against us; Plague not thy people. Take
from our treasure Richest of ransom. Silver we send thee, Jewels and

javelins, Goodliest garments, All our possessions, Priceless, we proffer.
Sheep will we slaughter, Steeds will we sacrifice; Bright blood shall
bathe thee, O tree of Thunder, Life-floods shall lave thee, Strong wood
of wonder. Mighty, have mercy, Smite us no more, Spare us and save us,
Spare us, Thor! Thor!
With two great shouts the song ended, and a stillness followed so
intense that the crackling of the fire was heard distinctly. The old priest
stood silent for a moment. His shaggy brows swept down over his eyes
like ashes quenching flame. Then he lifted his face and spoke.
"None of these things will please the god. More costly is the offering
that shall cleanse your sin, more precious the crimson dew that shall
send new life into this holy tree of blood. Thor claims your dearest and
your noblest gift."
Hunrad moved nearer to the handful of children who stood watching
the red mines in the fire and the swarms of spark-serpents darting
upward. They had heeded none of the priest's words, and did not notice
now that he approached them, so eager were they to see which fiery
snake would go highest among the oak branches. Foremost among
them, and most intent on the pretty game, was a boy like a sunbeam,
slender and quick, with blithe brown eyes and laughing lips. The
priest's hand was laid upon his shoulder. The boy turned and looked up
in his face.
"Here," said the old man, with his voice vibrating as when a thick rope
is strained by a ship swinging from her moorings, "here is the chosen
one, the eldest son of the Chief, the darling of the people. Hearken,
Bernhard, wilt thou go to Valhalla, where the heroes dwell with the
gods, to bear a message to Thor?"
The boy answered, swift and clear:
"Yes, priest, I will go if my father bids me. Is it far away? Shall I run
quickly? Must I take my bow and arrows for the wolves?"
The boy's father, the Chieftain Gundhar, standing among his bearded

warriors, drew his breath deep, and leaned so heavily on the handle of
his spear that the wood cracked. And his wife, Irma, bending forward
from the ranks of women, pushed the golden hair from her forehead
with one hand. The other