by Yorvald He had missed the massacre at the woodcutter’s hut by mere minutes. In the dusk-dark of the hut, Yorvald Bungleboot found the woodcutter lying hacked to pieces next to the wide-eyed corpse of his wife. Though spared the indignity of dismemberment, the woodcutter’s wife had probably known a violation of a different kind – her torn, bloody dress and the position of her body made his gorge rise. The blood stood out on her pale, lifeless cheeks; stains of scarlet imperfection on luminous alabaster. A brief touch revealed that she was still warm. “Bagarm,” said Yorvald.