And there she discovered something even more alarming about Joe…something that would change her world forever.
Chapter Twelve
The Bayside Medical Center released Joe the same day with a stash of antibiotics and extra-strength painkillers.
Maggie suspected that the only thing keeping them from admitting him to the hospital was his lack of medical insurance. Despite her being part of the medical establishment, she had to agree with the majority of people in this country: the health-care industry and its concern with the bottom line was deplorable.
She had a hard time keeping the girls away from him in the den, which had been transformed into a sickroom. Finally Maggie sent them to a Saturday movie matinee with a girlfriend and her mother. By the time they returned at dinnertime and went upstairs to listen to tapes, Joe was sleeping restlessly. He was still extremely sick, though his temperature had gone down.
Then the telephone rang. “Joe Rand, please,” a male voice on the other end of the line said.
“He’s not available right now. Who’s calling?”
“This is Dr. Zalvanchic from Bayside Medical Center.”
“Joe is asleep right now. In fact, he’s been sleeping since we left your office this morning. Is that OK? I mean, I assumed that sleep was the best thing for him. He still seems to have a fever, but his temperature has gone down a bit.” She had stopped at a pharmacy that morning and bought one of those high-priced thermometers that were placed in the ear, thus allowing her to check his temperature even while he slept.
“That’s good. That’s good. It means the antibiotic is working,” the doctor said, but there was a note of worry in his voice.
“What are you keeping from me?” she demanded.
“Ms. McBride, what’s your relationship to this man?”
She bristled. “Friend.”
“Does he have any family nearby? Wife? Parents? Siblings?”
“No,” she answered hesitantly. Why would he ask such questions? Was it a privacy issue? Or something more?
“Where’s he from?”
Oh, God! How should she answer that? “Norway, I think.”
“Hmmm.”
“What’s the problem, Doctor?”
“Well, you see, we’ve got a puzzle on our hands here. The lab work came back, and the blood tests show a rare strain of virus that I haven’t seen ever, and I’ve been in practice for forty-odd years.”
“It’s not the flu?”
“It’s most definitely not the flu.”
An alarming thought occurred to her, something she should have considered immediately with two daughters in the house. “Is it contagious?”
“Not at this stage. Nothing to worry about there.”
“Is it a serious virus?” Her throat closed over as she choked out, “Terminal?”
The doctor laughed softly. “No, nothing like that. It’s just that this particular virus hasn’t been around for hundreds of years…maybe even a thousand years.”
“Huh? Hey, even I know that there were no blood tests back then.”
“I realize that, but there were specific symptoms mentioned in some of the Anglo-Saxon medical journals for a disease called Seafarers’ Lament. Mr. Rand’s unusual symptoms fit that disease to a tee. And they don’t fit any modern virus we have on record.”
“Unusual symptoms? Like what?”
“Swelling in the armpit and groin areas. Distinctive blotches on the skin…pink patches with white dots. Tremors in the thighs. Excruciating headaches at the base of the skull. Shrinkage of the tongue. Dilation of the pupils with a purplish shading to the cornea. A red tint in the urine sample. In those days, the malady was most often fatal, but today…well, modern treatments should work. You say that he already appears to be improving? Well, it’s pure luck that we hit on the right drug for his virus so quickly.”
“Yes, but now I’m really worried.”
“I think we should admit him to the hospital, if only for observation. I have colleagues at Johns Hopkins University who would love to study this chap.”
Suddenly, in the midst of the information the physician was relaying, one thought came through loud and clear: Joe really was from the tenth century. No, she amended, Jorund really was who he had told her he was, though she’d have a hard time thinking of him as anything but Joe. The man was a time traveler from a thousand years ago.
How was that possible?
And, of more immediate importance, how could she subject him to the public scrutiny that would surely ensue if she allowed them to admit him to a hospital? He would be like a freak on display.
But how could she not admit him if his life was in danger?
“Doctor, would it be possible for me to treat him here at home? I have some medical training, and as I told you, he already seems to be improving. Besides, he has no insurance and no money to pay for an expensive hospital stay.”
“Well, I suppose. As long as you follow my instructions carefully, and call me, or my service, the minute you notice any changes for the worse, I suppose it would be all right. To tell you the truth, we’re understaffed here with the holiday weekend. Yes, I think your suggestion would be satisfactory…for now. I want to see him first thing Monday morning, though.”
Maggie agreed, but what she thought was, No way! She would not go back to that hospital unless there were a medical emergency. After getting detailed directions from the doctor, Maggie went down the hall to the den once again. For a long time she sat on the edge of the bed, bathing Joe’s face and chest and bare arms with cool cloths. The whole time, Maggie’s mind reeled with the enormity of what she’d just discovered.
Joe really was a Viking.
Two weeks later…
“Can we stop at McDonald’s?” Joe asked from the passenger seat as her car zoomed by the popular fast-food restaurant.
Maggie had come home from work today to find Joe dressed and ready for a ride to Orcaland, which was closed for the season. He had wanted to stand by the fence and try to commune with some invisible whale off in the distance. Apparently the whale was out of range, or ignoring him.
Maggie had trouble accepting the fact that the man had telepathic talks with a whale. But then, she’d had trouble accepting him as a time traveler, too. That was an issue she hadn’t yet discussed with him. She told herself she was avoiding the conversation till Joe was well, but deep inside, she was afraid that, if she spoke the words aloud, she would have to accept that they were really true.
“Did you hear me? Stop at McDonald’s.”
“No!” she exclaimed much too loudly. The man was driving her batty with his constant requests…and questions—oh, yes, especially the questions. He was like a toddler who’d just learned to talk and couldn’t stop jabbering.
His monologues usually went like this: “Drive me to the bay. Buy me some beer. What’s a condom? Oh. Well, buy me some of those…several dozen, at least. No? Then sell my arm ring so I can have money of my own; I’ll buy the damn condoms myself. Where’s the TV Guide? Why can’t I watch you shave your legs? What’s wrong with practicing my swordplay in the living room…with Rita? Now, if I were practicing the trick my uncle, King Olaf, taught me, where I play with three swords at once, with one of them always being in the air…then you might have cause for concern. What’s a thong? No, I did not lock Rita in the bathing room…really. Sit down and watch TV with me. It does not make you brain-dead. Is oral sex what I think it is? How do they get toilet paper on the roll? I’m randier than a goat. When are you going to make love with me?”
The last had become a continuing refrain, ever since he’d started to feel better. Most ridiculous of all his statements had been, “I would probably recuperate more quickly with a good swiving or two.”
“You’re too sick,” she had told him.
“Then oral-sex me.” The man was impossible.
But that was then. Now his fixation was on food. “Why can’t we stop at McDonald’s? The girls would be happy to have such pr
ovender.” During the past two weeks of Joe’s recuperation, he had somehow discovered Big Macs and french fries, for which he’d developed a passion. Even Beth, who was not normally a meat eater, had become addicted to the junk food, especially chicken nuggets.
“We’re going to have dinner at home. It’s important that my girls and I sit down at the table together for a home-cooked meal…at least occasionally.”
He groaned. “We’re not going to have that tough-you again, are we? It makes my stomach cramp. I do not want to hurt your feelings, dearling, but that stuff is worse than jail-low.” Maggie could feel herself go dreamy-eyed every time he used the term dearling, and she suspected that he tossed it into conversations fairly often for just that purpose.
“It’s tofu, and it’s good for you.”
“Bedplay is good for me, too, and I don’t see you passing any of that about. I don’t suppose”—he flashed her one of his devastating grins, the kind that he probably knew made her insides melt—“that you would come to my bed tonight and demonstrate thongs for me?” So, he had known what thongs were, after all. The lout!
“Not a chance!”
He made a low sound of disgust and sank down in his seat so his head was resting on the seat back and his knees were raised in the cramped space.
“Besides, I need to talk with you, seriously,” she said, further explaining her refusal to stop at the restaurant. “Since the girls will be late tonight—they have choir practice—I wanted some time alone with you.”
“Alone?” He straightened and his face brightened with hope.
She shook her head at his persistence. “To talk.”
He slumped again. “Serious talk?”
“Very serious.”
“I’m not going to give you my sword.”
“It’s not that.”
“I won’t marry you.”
She stiffened with insult, and the brute didn’t even have the sense to know he’d offended her. “Who asked you?”
“Females need forewarning about such things.”
Oooh! The man could make her go from happy to mad in two seconds flat. She clenched the steering wheel and refused to rise to his bait.
Then he turned his head to the side, still resting on the headrest, and winked at her.
Maggie’s hormones kicked up a notch with just that wink. She pulled her car into the driveway and turned off the ignition. Only then did she tell him, “You are too good-looking for your own good, do you know that?”
“I know,” he said, and dazzled her with another of his grins. They both unbuckled their seat belts but had yet to open their car doors. Out of the blue, he stated flatly, “You want me.”
“Yep.”
“But you are going to continue restraining those base impulses?”
“’Tis not good for the temperament to—”
“Don’t even bother with that line,” she advised with a soft laugh. “It’s as old as the hills, and as ineffective as a butter knife cutting an ice cube.”
“I presume I would be the knife and you the ice?”
“Uh-huh,” she replied hesitantly.
“Ah, but sometimes the knife is hot enough to melt the ice,” he announced with a sweeping gesture of one hand toward his genital area.
“That was so bad.” She wagged a finger at him reprovingly.
“I apologize for my crudity, m’lady. I can only attribute it to an overabundance of male need.”
She laughed. “That line’s as old as the hills, too. ‘Testosterone made me do it.’”
“Kiss me,” he commanded, leaning closer. All humor had left his face.
And God help her…despite the seriousness of all she needed to discuss with him, Maggie yielded to the demand. He angled his head over hers and put a hand to her throat, just where a slow pulse beat her erotic response to his nearness. She pressed her lips to his, and let him master her into wet, clinging compliancy. Then he forced her lips open with his thrusting tongue.
The kiss was short…just long enough for him to prove his point: this Viking was hot.
“You are a Viking,” she accused.
They were sitting at her kitchen table. Mag-he was sipping a cup of herb tea in a delicate porcelain cup…raspberry, he would guess by the fruity scent. He was sipping a beer, straight from the can.
“Of course I am a Viking. Have I not been telling you such since I first landed in this godforsaken country?” Then the implications of her words sank in. “Do you now believe that I have time traveled here?”
“Yes…no…I don’t know what to believe.” She released a long sigh. “Actually, I do accept now that you are who you claim to be. The logical side of my brain says it can’t be true, but I do believe in miracles. So that’s the explanation I choose to give for it.”
“You consider me a miracle?”
“In a way.”
He laughed. “See, wench, we really should engage in bed sport. We would no doubt make miraculous love.”
She laughed, too. “While I’m thinking of it, Joe . . . You don’t mind my calling you Joe, do you? I’ve referred to you that way for so long that Jorund would come hard to my tongue.”
“I rather like the idea of coming hard to your tongue.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” she said.
“In any case, it matters not whether you call me Joe or Jorund.”
“What I started to say was that you really shouldn’t refer to a woman as a wench. It’s sexist…comparable to the word babe.”
“Babe, wench…I prefer to think of those as endearments of a sort…like heartling.” If she believed that, he had a sunny beach on a northern fjord he would like to show her. “But tell me why you now believe my story, but would not afore.”
She explained…a complicated tale involving the physician who had healed him and Seafarers’ Lament. It was a malady he was already familiar with: his cousin and two of his brother Rolfs sailors had died of it three years past. No doubt
he’d contracted the disease from that bloody whale, Thora, who’d made him ride atop her back in the cold, disease-ridden seas.
“Tell me about yourself,” she urged all of a sudden.
“What do you wish to know?”
“Everything.”
“I already told you everything afore.”
“I wasn’t listening closely then.”
He gave her an exaggerated glower. “There is not much to say, to my mind. I am one of four living children born to Eric Tryggvason, a high jarl of Norway, and Lady Asgar, a Christian of Saxon birth who has adopted the northern ways these many years.”
Mag-he stared at him, transfixed, her chin propped in the cup of two hands, her elbows resting on the table, her tea forgotten. “You’ve already mentioned your older brother Magnus, the farmer. He’s the one with the big ears and an overabundance of women and children, right?”
“The selfsame once.” He missed his brother, just speaking of him. Had Magnus returned to Norway by now? Jorund hoped he had not stayed at sea searching for him.
“And you’ve also talked of your younger brother, Rolf…the one you were searching for. A shipbuilder, you said. But who was the fourth sibling?”
“My sister, Katla. She was married a dozen or more years ago, at age thirteen, to a Viking prince from Normandy. I have not seen her in many a year, though I hear that she fares well.”
“Thirteen! Your sister was married at age thirteen?”
He shrugged. “Women wed young in my land. Their lives are not usually as long as those of women in your country. Mostly they die of childbirth fever. ’Tis the reason why my ancestors first began the practice of more danico, I warrant.”
“More danico meaning polygamy, I presume?”
“True, but let us not argue that issue again. Suffice it to say, the countries and the times are different.”
“Tell me about your wife.”
He stiffened.
“Did you love her hopelessly? Do you miss her still?”
He p
ut a hand to his chin and rubbed thoughtfully. “I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, but Inga was a conniving witch. She and her brothers decided that I would make a suitable husband, based on my wealth and that of my father. So they invited me to a feast and showered me with mead. The next morn, I found myself with a big head and a naked woman in my bed…no longer a virgin. Inga, that is…not me. Soon after, I was forced to announce the wedding banns when Inga’s monthly flow stopped and she was breeding.”
“Surely you can’t lay all the blame on her.”
“I did then, but I mellowed toward her later. After all, most marriages are arranged in my time. And woe to the party who will not comply. I recall the time King Olaf wanted his sister, Astrid, to wed Erling Skjalgson, a man of good lineage and fine looks. But Astrid refused since Erling was not a prince, of equal station to her. The next day, so wroth was Olaf that he had Astrid’s pet hawk taken from her, and he returned it to her that eventide with all the feathers plucked off. Needless to say, Astrid soon agreed to the marriage.”
Mag-he was staring at him in horror. “That’s awful.”
“Nay. That is life in my land.”
“Back to your own marriage—did you ever forgive Inga?”
“Yea. In time. She was young. I was old enough to know better. And besides, she gave me a great gift.”
“Your twin daughters,” she guessed.
“Yea, that she did.” He did not want to speak of them. It was too painful. But Mag-he was like a puppy tugging on a man’s boot. She would not let up. “I was there at the birthing…which is not the usual practice in my land. I saw them first, as they emerged from the womb, wrinkled and blue and more beautiful than anything I had ever seen afore, or since.”
“You loved them from the start then?”
He nodded. For the first time in a long time, he allowed his memories to spill forth. “In many ways, Greta and Girta are similar to your twins. Girta was a daredevil, as you say in modern language…outspoken and adventuresome. Greta was the gentler soul, but willing to try anything her sister dared her to. They loved me unconditionally. I loved them madly.”
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