Thorfinn and the Witch's Curse

by Jay Veloso Batista

  Clack, clack, their mock battle sounded in the morning air. Parry, thrust, parry, clack, clack, whack! Finn grunted as Sorven smacked him on the shoulder, turned and ran, quickly out pacing him, turning occasionally to swing and tease his pursuer. He circled under the oak at the edge of the pig pen, ducked under the fence, and then wound scrambling through the berry bushes whose yellow leaves fluttered loose in their wake. Sprinting, the two ran past Whitenose the old welsh mountain mare, tied to a post at the corner of the stable and slowly cropping the turf along the side of the building. Dropping their leaves in yellow puddles, the birch trees at the end of the barn stood white and slender. Sparrows fluttered in the thin, black branches.

  Breathless, the two brothers collapsed against the stable wall, the older squatting on his haunches, the younger splayed out on the turf. Sorven, taller by a head, rubbed a thin scar under his right eye. Inside the stables a horse snorted and pawed, and the boys could smell the warm hay and manure. The pasture gone to seed, its grass lay horse trampled, yellowed and tipped with flecks of frost. Fallen leaves collected against the stable wall, musty red and orange. Wispy clouds flew high overhead.

  “Do you think we’ll get in trouble?”

  “For giving stinky old Yeru a bath? It’s bath day anyway. Nah, no one cares about her,” the elder ruffled his brother’s hair, “besides, they have too much to ready to worry about us.” Sorven stood and stretched. “Hear that horse stamping? I bet Gaute is saddling Wierflyer now, and he’ll let us help.” Dropping his pretend sword, Finn scrambled to follow his brother around the building into the stables.

  Black as jet, the Friesian stallion stood in the center of the stalls, his mane combed straight and lustrous, his tail knotted warrior fashion and a beige wool saddle blanket arranged on his back. Their father’s favorite, Wierflyer remained the last battle tested war horse in the stable and Gaute doted on the beast. The Dane knelt at his foreleg, carefully checking a hoof, his bald head shining with sweat, his fingers black from working grime from the stallion’s hooves. Animal warmed and musty, the room glowed warm yellow from the high loft overhead where sunlight splashed across the piles of early cut hay. Over the door hung a carved figure of a woman with claws and jagged hair.

  “You ought to take that down,” Sorven pointed at the idol.

  “Old Epona?” Gaute chuckled, “Not that any good east man would pray to a Celtic goddess, but it never hurts to pay homage when in a foreign land…” Finn looked uneasily at the image with its painted red eyes. On a bench sat a tabby cat, preening and licking. Dolly, the Fell Pony mare with dappled withers, stuck its head out of its stall to pluck at a clump of hay with long, flexible lips.

  Sorven whistled and clucked his tongue, the horses stomped and swung to him, perked up their ears and whinnied. He stroked their necks and offered handfuls of oats while Finn followed his brother through the stalls, careful not to get underfoot, warily watching the big animals.

  “Ho, just in time there. Boy-o, get me the snaffle bit,” Gaute asked and Sorven jumped to obey. Fitting the bit into the horse’s mouth, Gaute motioned for the boys to come close, a wide smile on his florid face. “Finn, you hold ‘flyer while your brother and I saddle.” Finn gingerly held the bit, cautious of the stallion’s sharp teeth and prancing hooves. Gaute, as round as he was tall, leaned close to Finn.

  “Show him a stronger hand, boy-o.” Grunting, he pulled down Agne’s heavy leather saddle and hoisted it high over his head to slip over the horse’s broad back. Sorven, trying to help, struggled to hold his end up. “I love these as much as my dear daughters, but still you must keep them in line.”

  Finn stood holding the leads, the horse looking down at him with a skeptical eye. Wierflyer snorted, tossed his head, and blew Finn’s hair. Ducking low under the horse’s belly, Gaute whistled as he tightened the saddle straps.

  “Should be busy, busy day, Boy-o,” he squatted to check the buckles. “Your Father’s got trade goods for the market, hart and hare hides, jerky from outer Mercia, bearskins from that summer haulage, Frankish iron from trades and fine wools from the Saxon farms along the western front where your father is a welcomed lord and friend, on account of your mother’s family.” He stood and wiped his hands on his apron. “Perhaps he will trade for some new linen, or downy feathers for new beds and, should we be really lucky, a bit of that Scots life-water. Probably take Mog along to seal a good deal, he’s best at dickering, is sly Mog, and then there’s you two. You, boy-o, heard tell he’s ready to start you as apprentice to the Ironsmith on the high street, so that you can learn the craft before you come home to manage this here farm. And you, young Thorfinn,” he winked at the boy standing under the horse’s nose, “you being just a year away from the age yourself, ‘tis time he found you a craft following as well—we hears you are to be introduced at the Norse Hall to a master craftsmen. What a pick they’ll find in you, eh, little Finn?” He pat the boy’s head as he took the reins and led the horse into the yard, where he tied him to a post and let him nose a water trough. The brothers followed him outside where they found three of their father’s men rolling a cart from the shed, the wagon already heaped with goods for the market. Gaute untied Whitenose’s tether and lead the sturdy mare to the cart where the men began strapping on the harness. Sorven followed to stroke the old mare’s nose, Finn holding back.

  “Slow and solid,” Gaute murmured, “A beauty of a Welsh Dartmoor, descendant of the original pony from your mother’s dowry—different from all the Zetlands and Fells so common here in Northumbria.” Chickens scratched about the yard, skittering around the men and horse’s feet. The two shed granaries stood across the yard, fowls and pigeons caged beside them, a small goat pen for cheese and milk and the long, low sheep shed, and beyond, their mother’s herb garden set around with snares to keep sneaky rabbits at bay. Outside the open gate the boys could see the stubble of the harvested barley fields and half-mowed hay fields with sparrow nets hung across the fence. Next to the barn were two large tanning kettles, a pit man-deep for sawing lumber into beams, an open tool shed with rakes, sickles, hand planes and saws. Gaute returned to the stables to get another horse ready for the trip. Carrying a basket of laundry, Mae crossed the courtyard to the gate headed to the stream that ran along the southern edge of the Alfenson freehold. A few working men paused to watch her, one tall man awkwardly pulling off his felt hat. She smiled at his nod. Sorven and Finn stepped aside to stand at the paddock, knowing well not to get in the way of the working men and the animals. The younger watched his brother and followed his every move.

  Down the courtyard, their father and mother stepped out of the hall, their father belting on their grandfather’s great sword Wolftongue, and the men around the boys quickened their efforts. Their mother helped Agne dress in his chain mail vest, a scarlet coverlet, and he donned his silver armbands, given to him for bravery in battle service to Lord Ivar long before the boys were born. His red hair tied back behind his head, Gurid braided his graying beard in two forks. At his side stood his oldest son Cub, almost as tall as his father with a wooden mallet strapped to his side. Their mother seemed dressed to travel as well, smart in her white linen skirt and a blouse embroidered with flowers and ivy, a blue woolen wrap pulled around her shoulders, her blond hair chastely covered by her white hustrulinet. Hilda their seven-year-old sister clung to her skirt, her head a tangled mass of feathery blond hair. Father strode towards them, a broad smile on his face, followed by Mog his first man, looking formidable in his leather armor and his helm with the red-bird wings, and Mog’s skinny wife Ursep, mincing quietly behind them all. Agne moved fast across the yard with a sure step and a warrior’s swagger. The horse cart turned around to face the gate, and Gaute led the other stallion Surefoot out of the stable and into the yard.

  “Are you ready, boys?”

  “Yes, sir,” they answered as one. Pursing her lips, their mother straightened Sorven’s tunic and pulled a leaf from Finn’s hair. “What will I do with you?” She smiled at
him as she tugged an unruly curl and tried to tuck it behind his ears. Behind her, back at the hall doors and still damp from their trick, Yeru glared at the boys. Gaute stepped forward and led Wierflyer to Agne, who mounted quickly and took the reins. With a flourish, he spun the horse around to face his household.

  “Today, to Jorvik,” and he smiled at his wife and Ursep. “Put the boys on the wagon behind the mare, and Ned, you walk beside them.” Ned, tall in his felt hat, helped Agne’s three sons climb the loaded wagon. “Bjorn, get old Gyn out of bed and look to the last of the hay. Try to get it all in before night fall and stack it along the fence to the north of the hall as a wind break. Gaute, take Tom and slaughter a suckling, for I believe we will be celebrating upon our return.” He looked at his sons on the wagon. “Gurid, my love, have your girls mind the greens and check the ale kegs and mead,” He gave her a wink.

  “Mog, let’s away” and he clucked his tongue to urge Wierflyer forward. Gaute and Tom ran ahead to the stockade gate and pushed it wide. The wagon rattled forward, Ned at its side, carrying a long stave as a walking stick, one hand holding Whitenose’s lead. Cub jumped up to the bench. Mog followed last on Surefoot, tilting his helm to honor his wife, who shrugged her shoulders and scrunched up her face in a weak attempt at a grin. Finn noticed Ursep had tears in her eyes.

  Sitting on the bundles in the wagon, Finn looked back and waved to his mother at the gate. Sorven laughed out loud.

  “I can’t believe father let us skip weapons and chores this morning,” Finn whispered to his brothers. “Rain or snow, we always practice….”

  “Maybe we will get to skip our bath,” Sorven mused.

  “No, you’ll get a bath,” Cub joked, “No way to hide your stink!”

  The road away from the Alfenson Hold cut through their fields, turned at the forest edge, rose through hillocks, dipped down by a stagnant smelling duck pond, then passed through a stand of firs and scrub oak before joining the old Roman road west.

  “Why was Ursep crying?” Finn whispered to his brothers.

  Cub hissed and shook his head. “She thinks these roads are treacherous, said something about Grandad. But we are safe, father and Mog travel this way often, and Fishergate is the most important city in Danelaw.”

  The wagon rolled slowly up a gentle rise in the road. Trees and brush had been cut back from the way. A few stone cottages, squat and low with heavy thatched roofs and narrow slits for windows, stood back from the road. Sun warmed, the raw wool began to smell of rams and ewes and muddy fields. Finn tried to use the bundle as a pillow, but soon pokes and itches began to crawl down his neck and he sat up and twisted to scratch at his back. Jostled, Sorven complained and gave him a rap on his head. Cub laughed at his little brothers’ squabbles.

  Soon the forest dropped away, and houses began to cluster the roadway, wattle huts, stone long houses, thatched cottages and split-log halls. They passed a boy with ducks on a string, an old man in rags, and a cow with cropped horns. Everywhere they saw people, digging in pits, chopping wood, carrying water in leather sacks. Cook fires burned trailing smoke across the way, and Agne and Mog dropped back to ride beside the wagon.

  “Is this Jorvik?” Finn asked quietly.

  Mog snorted, and his father smiled, “No, son, Fishergate is a way to go yet.”

  Finn watched the houses and building grow closer to each other, closer and closer, until only narrow alleys divided a few, the rest leaned against each other, stacked like firewood for the winter. The road ran smooth here, for the way had been covered with rushes and mud, the cart ruts not as severe. More people seemed to join them on the road, and Mog dropped behind the wagon to keep his eyes on the livestock and trade goods. To Finn’s surprise, a toothless old woman smiled directly at him. He dropped his eyes. Their father rode high in his saddle, his mail gleaming in the sunlight. The boys noticed that people gave way to their approach. The horses slowed their pace.

  Sorven spied it first, a high wall built upon a stone base with wooden ramparts above, towering over the houses on either side and straddling the road way.

  “There’s the gate!’ he pointed for his little brother. The roadway crowded thick with people, many carrying goods on their backs, or pulling carts stacked with vegetables, staves, or cloths. Set between tall wooden stockade walls the iron bound gate measured twice the size as their compound’s, the doors themselves wider than Finn’s arm from elbow to fingertips. Men in helms watched over the wall at the crowd—Finn could see their teeth sparkle in the shadows beneath their nose guards. Two shapeless forms dangled from ropes strung atop the wall, tattered remains of clothing fluttering in the wind and crows bickering over them. Agne saw Sorven’s questioning look and leaned close, “Those are thieves, captured, hung and left to rot. A warning to those who might think to follow…” Looking up, Finn caught sight of a ragged, skeletal face, jaw slack and tongue swollen black, and he quickly looked away.

  Pulled aside for market day, the massive gate stood open and while the heavy portcullis had been fully raised, Agne and Mog had to duck their heads to pass underneath on horseback. A guard house stood just inside the walls, and five men armed with spears nodded to Agne and Mog as they entered the city.

  Jorvik roared with noise: bells, shouts, and cries, rumbling wagons, lowing cattle, calling women, crying babes, the fleeting sounds of song and harp, gulls cawing and screeching, and squealing pigs roped and hung for butchering. Most spoke Danish or English, but here they heard strange words too, dialogues from Skane and Agder, Welsh and Jute, Cornish and Friesian, and even occasional Frankish as well. Awash with water, mud, slops and stale beer, the streets were jammed with traffic, the way forward slow; dust fell from windows or rose from men at long saws, and a smoky haze from cook fires and steam from piles of trash hung like a mist in the air. Jorvik smelled of open latrines and stretched hides tanning, sweating men, drying fish, roasted meats and piles of cut flowers. Somber men dressed in blackened leathers led laden pack horses, hunched backs hauled bursting sacks off wagons and jolly, florid women drank and waved from windows. Children dodged under the cart, no shoes, patchy hair and squealing in delight at their dangerous game. A lanky youth with a pock marked face beat his stubborn mule with rushes, while shaved headed monks in gray robes stood in a ragged line before a ramshackle shrine.

  Dirty beggars scrambled out of the cart’s way, a hunched back woman led four children hand-in-hand—the Agneson boys clung to their wagon, glad their father knew his way. Signs hung from the ramshackle buildings advertising cobblers, armorists, coopers, and smiths of different metals. A group of street players, jugglers and rope walkers, dingy and dressed in tattered clothes, amazed Finn with their antics. Criers stood hawking on corners, and a lonely singer crooned, plucking a melancholy harp. A sullen group of laborers seeking for day work leaned against a long porch, watching the wagon trundle past.

  On a corner stood a man with a bushy black beard, a sun-burnt face and a white scar that crossed his forehead, eye and cheek, and he peered with his one good eye at the boys as they passed. A glimpse down an alley showed the boys docks on the riverside, tall masts and loosely furled sail cloth towering over stacks of barrels, nets and overloaded carts.

  Agne led his sons, wide eyed and slack mouthed, through the narrow streets to a great stone building with carved mantels above its doors and fancy shutters over tall windows. At the far end of this grand building, a wooden arch housed a stable of twelve stalls, a cart of manure tipped over next to its entrance to the street. Here Agne dismounted and handed his reins to two pages that stood at the ready and slipped them a few bits. They bowed to him and led his horse into a stall.

  Agne picked up Finn and lifted him to the ground, Cub and Sorven jumping down beside them. He turned to Mog and Ned.

  “See Darrow the weaver before you go to market. Last I heard, he was still selling his finest to the Jarl and the southern king’s men. I sent him a sample to card a fortnight past. He may take all the wools. Mind you, command a fair
price.” Mog smiled at this. “Once you are done, return and join us in the hall.”

  “As sure as certain, it won’t take long,” He tugged his reins and pushed his horse down the crowed street. Ned touched his hat brim to Agne and the boys and flipped his reins to start the carthorse trundling after Mog. Agne led them away through the crowded street.

  He stopped under a sign of two crossed battle axes on a field of green, the door to the hall marked with runes declaring it a Guild hall for Danish sailors. Years of traffic had worn down the oak doorstep. Agne led the boys into the hall where he greeted an old man in an alcove at the entrance. Smooth shaven with bushy gray eyebrows and missing teeth, the proprietor waved Agne inside with a warm greeting. Inside the entry widened into a long, tall room with tables arranged in a U-shape and benches along each, centered on a fire pit set into the wall. Ornamental wooden shields filled the walls, each embossed with a family crest or sigil, a bear, a wyvern, a unicorn, an eagle head, a black raven, an outstretched wing on a field a blue. The stale doughy smell of ale pervaded the dim hall, and a feeble flame flickered in the ashes, all that remained of a roaring fire from the previous night. As they entered two men stepped toward them, one smiling and calling Agne’s name. Cub, Sorven and Finn remembered him—Agne called him ‘brother’ and he often visited their freehold, bringing gifts for their father and staying a week or more. The boys knew him as ‘Uncle’ Err Kenjason, a fellow east man freeholder in the Danelaw. Thin shouldered and lean, Err leaned down to hug Agne, grasped Cub’s hand and shook Sorven and Finn by their shoulders. He squinted his eyes when he smiled, his beard close cropped and peppered gray.

  “Alfenson, well met,” He held Agne’s shoulder, “you are looking fine and healthy. The gods are happy with you, eh?”