by Sandra Hill
The most alarming thing to Magnus was the lack of farmland, or open spaces where cultivation of the land would be possible. What would he do in this new land if he could not farm?
The people who were gathering along the shore were strange, as well. The hair on most of the men was short, in the Frankish style. Some of the women had short hair, too, which made them look rather mannish. And the clothing! Not a man in sight wearing a belted tunic over braies. And the women! Some of them wore men's breeches, and some wore short gunnas that were so tight as to be a second skin, ending barely beneath their womanplace.
"For the love of Frigg!" Torolf exclaimed, as his eyes riveted on the same scandalous attire of the women. Soon an appreciative smile spread across his son's face. "Could this be a land of harlots?" He did not appear displeased at the prospect.
"I would like to be around when one of them bends over to churn some milk or feed the chickens," Magnus remarked, not often sharing such lascivious thoughts with his son, but too shocked to restrain himself.
"Nay, Faðir, did you misremember your vow? 'Tis best that you not view such sights and be tempted. I will look for both of us."
Magnus glowered at Torolf, but the cocky cub just laughed.
But women were not the only ones in the gathering crowd, and some of the men arriving looked angry, especially those with matching dark blue sherts and braies with shiny, star-shaped brooches on their chests. They carried objects in their hands that Magnus suspected were weapons, though they were not the spears or battle-axes with which he was familiar.
"I sure hope they are not as vicious as those natives in Vinland," Torolf commented, noticing the direction of his stare. He fingered his sword, Skin Slicer, as he spoke. "I have grown accustomed to a hairy scalp on my head." Torolf had a misplaced sense of humor betimes.
Just then Magnus's attention was drawn to a movement overhead. "Hamr, get away from there this instant. If you climb that mast pole one more time, I am going to chain you in some dungeon till you are at least"—he had to quickly do a mental count to remember the rascal's age—"six years old."
"Which dungeon, Fadir?" Hamr called out, an impudent grin on his face as he slid down the pole. "Do they have dungeons in this new land?"
"I have no idea," he said in a snarl. "If they do not, I will build one… just for the likes of you."
"Goo!" Lida said with a wide toothless grin. Drool drizzled down to her chin. The brave imp, who was teething, almost never cried. Thank the gods for another small blessing!
Kirsten and Dagny were behind him, cowering in fright, and weeping as they had been doing ever since they'd left the Norselands. Storvald and Njal were wrestling on the ship's plank floor, trying to settle one insult or another that had been uttered just to start such a wrestling bout. Jogeir was making some observation about the ocean here not really being an ocean at all. Kolbein was clinging to Magnus's thigh like a barnacle. Every time Magnus tried to move, it felt as if he were dragging an anchor with him. And wasn't that another odd thing? Suddenly his longship, which had been drifting through a dark, eerie fog for a day and more, had discovered its anchor and stood firmly in place now, as it should have been back in the waters off Vinland.
"GET… OFF… THE… SHIP!"
Magnus jumped at the sound.
"GET… OFF… THE… SHIP!" was repeated once again, at an exceedingly loud pitch.
He looked left and right, trying to discover the source of the order that passed through the air like a roar from the heavens. Was it one of the gods calling for him? Finally he ascertained that the noise came from a large horn being held by a man on the shore. Over and over the order was repeated through the horn, as if he were deaf and could not hear properly, or as if he were a dunderhead. He would like to purchase one of those horns to take back with him when this adventure was over. It would be useful when laying siege to a Saxon castle, as King Olaf was ofttimes wont to do.
"COME… AND… GET… US," Magnus yelled back, as loudly as he could, which was nowhere near as loud as the man with the horn. All of his children could swim, except for Lida, of course. But he was not about to get them or himself wet needlessly. Nor did he want to risk their drowning. Many a skilled swimmer had sunk in strange waters with undertows and other unknown perils.
At first he did not think he was heard, or understood. But then the man with the horn muttered something like, "Arrogant bastard!" He had no time to be offended because a small boat with two oars was being launched to come for them. He still kept his sword drawn, though, as did Torolf. They were taking no chances.
No sooner did the two men in the boat climb up the rope ladder to his ship than the white-haired one of foppish appearance stepped forward, obviously the leader. He motioned to his companion, one of the men in all-blue attire with the shiny chest brooch, to put down his weapon, even though both of them were eyeing the swords he and Torolf still carried with some trepidation. "They're just props," the leader told his comrade.
Magnus glanced quickly at his broadsword, then Torolf's, and wondered what they might prop up with their swords… except for some enemy's gullet. Was that what he meant?
"I'm Darrell Nolan," the chieftain explained, "as if you didn't already know. Ha, ha, ha! Great publicity stunt, young man. Great publicity stunt! Ha, ha, ha! Although why you brought along all these children is beyond me. Well, whatever! An interesting touch, I suppose. Ha, ha, ha! I must admire your enterprise in avoiding the usual audition procedure. Great job! What is that putrid smell, by the way?"
Lida said, "Goo."
Dare-all turned slightly green with comprehension, but then he made a deliberate effort to smile widely at Magnus, exposing the whitest, most perfect teeth Magnus had even seen on a man his age. Not a bit of wear or staining. Most Viking teeth were worn down somewhat by the time they reached old age because of the bits of stone in their bread, which resulted from the stone-quern process of milling the flour.
The man was still smiling after a prolonged silence.
"I think he's waiting for a response from you," Torolf prodded in an undertone, out of the side of his mouth.
"Huh?" was Magnus's brilliant response. Thor's toe-nails! He understood much of what was spoken in five languages, and he was fluent in three of them, including the Saxon English. But this English that Dare-All No-Land spoke was different. Surprisingly, Magnus could understand most of it, except for some words, such as pub-less-city and odd-itch-on. Even his children seemed to understand what was being said. How odd! But then, how odd was it to be overcome by a weird fog and end up in a new world?
"Is this hell?" he asked of a sudden, deciding to ignore the smile on the man's face—a smile that implied that Magnus was a tasty morsel he'd just been handed. That made Magnus mighty distrustful.
"I beg your pardon?" Dare-All said.
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why are you begging my pardon? Did you do something that needs pardoning?" Yea, he'd been right to be wary of this ingratiating miscreant. Was he a sodomite? Nay, he did not think that was it. Perchance a pirate out to rob him of his longship and treasures? Yea, that was more likely. Best to be on guard. He gave Torolf a quick eye signal to indicate that he remain on guard, as well. "Be prepared," he whispered.
"I need a sword," Hamr said.
Magnus swatted him on the head. "Not now, halfling."
"Let's go get Faðir's spare sword, Heart Piercer," Njal offered. He was too far away for Magnus to swat.
"I have a big piece of wood I was going to start carving. We could use that for a club." It was Storvald speaking now as he squinted at the two visitors on the longship.
Magnus groaned. Does life get any better—or worse— than this?
"Good idea, Stor." Hamr patted his older brother on the back. "And I warrant there are bows and arrows somewhere on this ship. Someone keeps hiding them from me."
Guess who? "I have a better idea," Magnus said. "How about I drop three bothersome boys overboard for a good dunking?"
Dare-All shook his head as if to clear it. "Let's start over," he suggested, and extended his right hand toward him.
Magnus took one step backward. What now? Did Dare-All want him to hand Lida over to him? That hardly seemed likely after his grimace at her odor. Ha! It must be his sword. "I am not handing over Head Lopper. So just forget about that."
"Head… Head Lopper?" Dare-All stammered.
"My sword."
Dare-All turned rather green again, but then he regained his composure with a nervous laugh. "You seem almost like a real Viking. I swear, if this is acting, you've got a job. What's your name, by the way? Are you union?"
"My name is Magnus… Magnus Ericsson," he revealed, but said no more. 'Twas best not to give the enemy—or potential enemy—too much information.
"Are you from LA.?"
"Ell-aye?" Magnus shook his head slowly. "Nay, I am from the southwestern coast of Norway. Vestfold, to be precise."
"Norway?" Dare-All exclaimed. "My God, you are too good to be true. A pure-blooded Viking, to the bone. Hey, those are some armrings you're wearing, buddy. Look like solid silver, but of course they must be fake. Right? They sure look authentic. Holy shit! And I love those tunics you and your 'sons' are wearing. Couldn't get Dirk Johansson to wear anything resembling what you've got on. Too plain."
Plain? There is naught plain about me. "Dirk?" His head was starting to hurt from all the questions bumping about inside his brain. That and the sun. "Dirk is a new name, even for a Viking, and we have some of the oddest in the world. Halfdan of the Wide Embrace. Ragnor Hairy-Breeks. Ivan the Ignorant. But ne'er have I heard of a man named for a knife. Dirk. Hmmm. I like it." Now, why he had decided to home in on the peculiar name, rather than all the other things this strange man had said, was a wonder to Magnus. Probably because his brain was being baked in this hot sun.
"Yeah. Dirk the Jerk. Dirk the Dick. You get it? Ivan the Ignorant. Dirk the Dick. Ha, ha, ha!"
This fellow was acting a bit demented. Magnus wasn't sure he wanted to be associated with him. Narrowing his eyes suspiciously, he asked, "What country is this?"
"Are you for real? This is carrying the stunt a bit far, don'tcha think? Oh, well, I'll play along. It's America. Ha, ha, ha!"
"Ah-mare-ee-ca," he sounded out. "Is that anywhere near Vinland?"
"Vinland? Where the hell is Vinland? Oh, you mean that place where the Vikings were supposed to have discovered America about a thousand years ago."
A thousand years ago? Yea, this man is barmy as a bat. "Look, Dare-All, my family and I have been aboard this longship for days. May we board your small boat to go ashore and get our land feet, and perchance refresh ourselves afore departing for other shores? A small repast would be much appreciated, as well. In all truth, I am sick of gammelost and moldy manchet bread."
At first Dare-All appeared confused, but then he brightened. "Sure. Sure thing. Let's all go ashore and get a repast. Ha, ha, ha!"
Dare-All's incessant laughter was beginning to grate on Magnus's nerves. Besides that, he suspected that if he looked up, he would see a five-year-old, soon-to-be-arse-paddled young boy at the top of the mast pole… swinging his father's second-best sword.
In less than an hour they were all ashore, though not without much grumbling and consternation—the latter on his part. Dare-All had balked at the idea of his taking four heavy wooden chests into the small boat. "Why the hell do you need those chests? And how did they get on my longship anyhow?"
"Your longship?" Magnus had asked in an icy voice. "I beg to differ. This is my longship, Fierce Dragon. It was built by my brother Geirolf five years past, and a better ship has never sailed the seas." He deliberately failed to inform the man that the chests contained much treasure, which he intended to use in whatever new land he settled… obviously not this one, which was already settled.
Dare-All had said, "Whatever!" Then he'd quickly added, "But, please, put those freakin' swords away. There are laws against carrying weapons in public places, you know?"
He and Torolf had sheathed their swords, though they had not understood half of what Dare-All had said. What was a free-can sword? And what weapon laws?
"Let's go up to my office," Dare-All suggested.
Magnus wasn't so sure he wanted to visit any of this man's orifices, but perhaps he'd misunderstood. Meanwhile, dozens of people were milling about, gaping as if he and his children were freaks of nature, when in fact the onlookers were the odd ones.
Just then he noticed Hamr trying to climb atop one of the horseless vehicles standing at rest by the roadside. He grabbed the child by the scruff of the neck and shook him. "Behave yourself, boy. Do I have to tie you to my other leg, like Kolbein here?"
Hamr looked horrified.
One lady, apparently aghast at his treatment of his son, chastised him. "Is it necessary to be so violent with that child? He's only a little boy."
Hamr cast her a sweet smile.
"Perhaps you need some anger management classes."
"Perhaps you need to mind your own business, you old biddy."
"What is that putrid smell?" she said, then looked at Lida. "When was the last time you changed her Pampers?"
"When did I last pamper her? Blód hel, I pamper her way too much, if truth be told."
"I think she's referring to her diapers," Dare-All explained, still smiling.
"And what, pray tell, is a die-purr?"
"The cloth you put on the baby's ass to catch the piss and shit," Dare-All practically shouted, finally becoming exasperated with him.
"Well, why did you not say nappy to begin with?" he told the woman, who was slack-jawed with amazement. "I used the last one yesterday."
The woman gasped some more. "Oh… oh… oh! Is that boy limping? Did you hit him… or kick him… or something?"
Magnus glanced at Jogeir, who was blushing profusely at being singled out in such a way because of a handicap he chose to ignore. If this woman were a man, Magnus would call him out for such an insult. He would never kick a child. Never.
"Someone ought to call Child Protective Services."
Really, he had had enough for one day… in fact, for one year… and what he did not need was a meddling crone telling him what to do. On the other hand… hmmm… "Are you interested in employment, my good woman?"
"Em… em… employment?" she sputtered out. "As what?"
"A nurse maid for my nine children, that's what."
"Nine? I'll have you know, I'm a noted chef in one of the city's most exclusive restaurants. I'm just touring the studio."
Magnus hadn't a clue what she'd just said.
"I think a chef is a kind of cook… for royalty and such," Kirsten explained to him. His daughter fancied that she was an authority on the lifestyles of the royal families of not just Norway, but England and Frank-land, as well. Probably hoped to wed some prince, or at least a lower level atheling.
"Well, I would not mind a nurse maid who could cook a fair meal, too," Magnus told the woman.
"You have some nerve," the woman said, and stormed away. That was what women did whenever they knew they had lost an argument with a far more intelligent man. He had made her a perfectly reasonable offer, after all.
"Step away, everyone. Go back to work," Dare-All ordered, and surprisingly people began to obey him. He must be a chieftain here, after all, though Magnus could hardly credit that possibility. The man had no muscles to speak of. But then, Magnus knew of one Danish jarl, Sven Spear Thrower, who was short and stout, which he made up for by being mean as a snake.
As the crowd parted, Magnus got his biggest surprise of the day. It was a woman. But not just any woman.
"Good Lord!" the woman murmured.
Did she think he was a lord? Well, he would correct that notion later. And good? He would hardly describe himself in that way, though he was not bad, either.
Even as he puffed out his chest at her blatant inspection of his body, every fine hair on Magnus's body stood at attention.
Just looking at this woman made his bones turn to pudding and his fingers itch to reach out and touch her to see if she was really… well, real. In all his thirty and seven years, he had never been affected by a female in such a way… and definitely not on a first meeting.
Is it a spell?
Is it a conjuring by the white-haired woman with the prayer beads?
Is it a joke by that jester god, Loki?
Does it matter?
She was staring at him as if equally poleaxed by the intense emotions swirling between them. Everyone around them probably noticed, but he did not care. Something important was happening… what, he could not say for a certainty. He just knew his life was about to talk a major turn.
This woman was no longer young. She was at least thirty years old. But comely. Nay, more than comely. Beautiful. Masses of curly black hair surrounded a heart-shaped face. Her parted red lips were full and sensuous and immensely kiss-some. To the right of her mouth was a small black mole, which, rather than being repulsive, was sinfully tempting. Oh, the things that could be done to that very spot by the tongue of a man with expertise in the love arts… which he had in excess. Thick black lashes shadowed eyes of so dark a brown they appeared black.
She wore a two-piece garment of white silk, which left the creamy skin of her neck and part of her chest bare, where a small gold cross on a thin chain rested tantalizingly. She was tall for a woman, but curvy. The hem of her garment ended just above her knees. Her long legs were covered with transparent silk hose, and on her feet were black leather shoes with thin, high heels. If his hands were not occupied with the babe, he would be unable to restrain himself from touching that long, long stretch of winsome leg. Not just touching, either. Licking would be good, too.
