It is nearly evening, yet the day is still waxing and the sun still hangs high in the blue sky half-shaded by steely clouds. It would not set tonight; it would only descend, bright copper, and roll along the hilly horizon to rise again in the dead of the summer night. By the fields of barley and oat rippling in the wind, by the grassy hills dotted white with sheep, by the wide strands of Mjǫrs lake at the foot of Hundorp i Dalom, amid farm houses cluttered together, the crowd is watching a ceremony in solemn piety.

A man is in their midst. A mystic. A seiðmaðr.

Dressed in dazzling yellow robes, he stands out amid the crowd like sun rising from the silvery lake. His hair dark and sleek, shaven on the sides and fashioned in a braided tail at the back. A black cape of raven feathers upon his shoulders, fastened on his chest with a belt dangling with rune charms, while rows of beads and gems adorn his neck. At his feet, a boar piglet led on a leash by a woman, his aide. A staff of wood and brass in his right hand. A bundle of herbs in the other, dipped in blood, sprinkling red drops upon the house and the sheds, the animals and people, upon crops and gardens.

Gracefully, the seiðmaðr's slender body moves like in a dance. Rhythmic. A subtle dance weaving to the chant sounding from his lips. Varðlokur - guardian chants, to drive evil spirits away and bless the household. A small procession of villagers following in spell-bound reverence. The airy robes swishing above his bare feet as he is walking in dust and soft flowery grass. Walking backwards, one foot behind the other, as if time were reversed.

On an altar decorated with charms, healing stones and tools of leech-craft, an old man is laid before the seiðmaðr. An old fighter crippled in battle, a worn-out cane now his only support.

The seiðmaðr blends his herbs and oils: crushed roots, pansy and elm-rind, white of seagull eggs, boiled petals and roasted seeds. He anoints the man's lame leg, placing along it magical runes carved on tree bark, tying a charm of bones around his ankle. His eyes closed, his hands waving like wielding something unseen, the mystic calls out towards the sky - thrice to the Æsir and thrice to the Vanir – bidding them hear his humble prayer. Then, he opens his arms and commands the cripple:

“Walk!”

The old man stands up, a confused – incredulous – look on his face, and sets his unsure feet on the ground. He takes a few steps and, with a groan, he stumbles and falls. The woman at the seiðmaðr's side, his aide, helps the man back to his feet. One step, two, five – a dozen steps and more the man is now taking!

The audience gasps and claps – the old man's wrinkled face is lit up by the ovations, so he exclaims, enlivened:

“I am healed! I am healed! Blessed be the gods! Blessed be...” his trembling voice stammers as he looks towards his benefactor, unsure.

“Eyolf Sólhrafn! Eyolf Sólhrafn, the Wonder-Worker!” cheers the crowd in delirium. “All hail Eyolf Sólhrafn!”

The seiðmaðr's lips plump coquettishly in a self-sufficient smile.

Only one man in the audience seems unaffected by the spell: tall and broad-shouldered, chin held high in a kingly posture, silver-blonde hair falling upon a rich long tunic the colour of the night. Yngvar Eindride of the exiled Ynglings, the Icelander. He stands aside with his twelve men, scrutinizing the procession but not taking part. And on his stone-rigid expression, in his bright eyes lined with black coal, there is a faint hint of displeasure.

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seiðmaðr - Practitioner of the magic called seiðr, which involves knowing the future and influencing the minds and health of others. (Old Norse)