The people could not take such amazing good fortune quietly. They hugged themselves and one another, and cried out and leapt with joy at the prospect of so much wealth within such easy reach. They acclaimed their king and his wisdom and foresight. Here was a king, truly, who knew what was best for his people.

"For this reason," Harald said when the outcry had spent itself once more, "I will forgive the yearly tribute, which is due me as your lord!"

Again, the king was overwhelmed by a seatide of acclamation, and was forced to wait until it had abated before wading on.

"I will forgive the yearly tribute," he repeated, speaking slowly. "Not for one year only will I forgive the tribute. Not for two years! Not for three years-or even four!" he cried. "But for five years will I forgive the tribute to any man who will arm himself and follow me to Miklagard."

Oh, he was a shrewd lord. I do not think that anyone even noticed the subtle trap he had laid for them in his words. All they heard was that the king was forgiving the tribute for five years. They did not yet perceive that in order to receive the benefit of the forgiven tribute, they all had to follow him to Miklagard and help him fill his treasure chests with raid and plunder.

Harald called them kinsmen, he called them brothers. He bade them to fly to the south where wealth beyond measure awaited them. He made it sound as if they had but to take shovels and scoop it off the ground. He flung wide his arms once more. "Who is with me?" the king cried, and they all shouted their approval, surging forward, fighting among themselves to be the first to pledge support for the inspired plan.

Having won his way, Harald quickly declared the council ended, lest, I believe, any dissenting voices should be raised to spoil his impressive victory. Yet, who would have dissented? Even Ragnar left the council ring with his scowl of protest softened into a thoughtful, if not benevolent, smile.

The king then declared that the day should be given to feasting and drinking. To this end, he caused three great ale vats to be placed in the centre of the camp with orders that every vat should be continually replenished from his shipboard store throughout the remaining days and nights of the gathering. He then offered three oxen and six pigs to be roasted for the feeding of his people.

The celebration following Harald's bold decision complimented the king's exuberance full well. That night the daring Jarl's name and far-thinking, even visionary, abilities were lauded in cup by one and all. Around each fire-ring, men, their faces glistening with grease from the rib bones in their hands, licked their lips and proclaimed Harald Bull-Roar the finest king who ever trod the earth on two legs. They hailed him a true and noble lord; a kindly ruler whose only thought was ever for the benefit and uplifting of his people; a man among men, wise beyond his years and beyond his time; a brave and courageous, yet essentially sympathetic, sovereign who could dream and dare great things on behalf of his people.

They had, of course, the king's skald, Skirnir to help them remember these flattering sentiments. The skald roved the meadow, hopping from camp to camp to sing songs in praise of his patron, finding willing, if somewhat bleary-eyed, listeners for his spirited performances.

When the day was done and the last reveller collapsed onto his fire side pallet, it was agreed that this year's theng was the best since Olaf Broken-Nose killed an ox with his bare hands.

And that night, as the deep summer stillness lay heavy upon the sleeping celebrants, I dreamed again.

A tawny owl swept low over the meadow on silent wings, eyes wide in surprise at finding so many humans strewn over its hunting ground. With a muted shriek of irritation, the bird flew off along the river.

The wind rose, gusting gently, rippling the meadow grass and making a strange, fluttering hiss. I heard the sound and stood up from my mat of rushes and looked around. Gone were the tents and fire-rings; gone were the people sleeping on the ground; gone was the theng-stone and gathering place. Even as I watched, the meadow changed and became a sea: the slow-waving meadowgrass became billowing waves and the pale flowers flecks of foam scattered over a rising swell.

I wondered how it was that I should stand upon the waters, but the ground I stood upon had become the curving deck of a ship. The ship itself could not be seen in the gloom, but I heard the wind-snap of the sails, and the slash of its sharp prow through the waves.

The sky above was dim; there was neither sun, nor moon, and the few stars were strangely configured. The ship carried us swiftly over dark, unknown waters, the rest of the seafarers and I-for though I could not see them, I could hear the others working nearby, talking low in muttered whispers to one another. I stood at the rail, gazing out into the misty distance toward an unseen horizon.

I do not know how long we sailed; a year, a day, an age of years…I cannot say. The wind did not fail, nor the ship alter its course. But the waters gradually changed from the cold grey of northern storms to a deep brilliant blue. I searched the far flat horizon for any sign of land-a rock, an island, the clouded hump of a hill or mountain-and I searched in vain. All was sea and sky and queer stars in alien skies. Still the ship ran boldly before the wind, swift-gliding as a winged gull.

Gradually, the sky began to change; it softened and grew pale, then blushed with pearly light the colour of rose petals. The hue deepened and became seamed with gold which swirled and brightened, fusing into the arc of a great, shining disk of blazing light, still half-hidden below the sea line. It was then I knew I faced the east, and we flew towards the rising sun.

On and on we sailed. The sun rose higher, its rays piercing the eastern sky with swordblades of shimmering light-so bright I had to close my eyes and turn my face away. When I looked again, it was not the sun I saw, but a vast golden dome: the enormous rising sphere of a palatial roof, supported on pillars of white marble the size and girth of the tallest trees. I marvelled that a palace so huge should float on the fickle sea. But as we drew swiftly nearer, I saw that this eastern extravagance rested on a spit of land; the contours of the palace's walls and many-chambered halls hugged the steep hump-backed hill. This hill rose from the sea to divide three vast waterways, and three great peoples.

A sound arose from the sea and land. At first I thought it must be the soughing of the water upon the rocky shore, for the soft thunder rose and fell with the regularity of waves. Closer, the sea thunder resolved into human voices singing in a curious, breathless chant.

And then I was standing inside an enormous chamber wrought of many-coloured stones whose roof was vast as the great curved bowl of heaven-so large that the sun and stars burned in its high firmament. Light poured down in curtained shafts and I moved from the shadow of a mighty pillar towards the light, treading across stone polished smooth by centuries of slow, reverential steps.

As I walked forward, I heard someone call my name. I looked up into the dazzling light and saw the face of a man. He gazed on me with large, sad eyes, and an expression of infinite love and sorrow. "Aidan," he said gently, and my heart moved within me for I knew it was Christ himself who spoke.

"Aidan," he said again, and oh! my heart melted to hear the sadness of his voice. "Aidan, why do you run from me?"

"Lord," I said, "I have served you all my life."

"Away from me, false servant!" he said and his voice echoed like the crack of doom.

I squeezed my eyes shut and when I opened them again, it was night once more and I was lying on the ground beside a fire burned to embers.