by K. C. Julius
Fynn found his mother seated at her dressing table. She was wearing the crown Teca had woven, and her face bore no trace of last night’s tears.
“Haavya Midsommer, my son!” she said to his reflection in her looking glass. “Are you ready to go? It must be almost time for the rites.” In truth, neither of them cared much for this part of the day’s celebrations, but all Restarians were expected to attend. “Afterward,” she added brightly, “we’ll dance around the majstång, then I’ll cheer you on while you run your hoop!” She held up a slender circlet of greenery. “And look what Teca made for you!”
It was a headdress, woven of oak leaves, as was suitable for a Helgrin man. Fynn stood before the mirror as his mother settled the wreath on his brow. The face gazing back at him had narrowed in recent months, and the crown made him look somehow taller.
He caught his mother’s startled expression. “What is it, Mamma?”
“Nothing… It’s just—you look so much… like your father.”
Fynn searched his face for the resemblance. His father was blond and blue-eyed, while his own hair was dark and his eyes hazel. But he thought perhaps he had Father’s nose, and he hoped he’d develop the same powerful frame.
“Come,” Mamma said briskly, taking up his hand. “Let us go to the Grove.”
* * *
At the bridge, they joined the other Restarians streaming across the river, pipers in their midst. All the women and girls were dressed in helgadrakt—the traditional fest-day gowns—and wore floral wreaths, while the men wore oak-leaf crowns like Fynn’s.
“We forgot Teca!” Fynn cried when he spied some thralls among the crowd, flowers tucked behind their ears.
His mother looked surprised. “What do you mean?”
“She has a Midsommer wreath, too! I made her one. She should be here to wear it.”
“You’re ever thoughtful, my son. I’m sure she’s grateful.” She lightly squeezed his hand. “Teca is feeling unwell, but she can come down later, once I return home.”
They entered the sacred clearing, where a line of Helgrin men stood, dressed as if for battle. Aetheor Yarl stood at their center, Jered at his side. Fynn felt a surge of pride as he started toward them, only to be caught up short by his mother’s restraining hand.
“Let’s find a place somewhere here,” she suggested, “not so close to where the sacrifice will be made.”
Fynn followed her gaze and saw the yarla standing beside the stone table.
The rites were much the same as at the last solstice—some speeches, some prayers, and then the sacrifice of the deer. This one still had its spots, and Fynn looked away as they lifted it to the table, but he couldn’t shut out its frantic mewling and its short, pitiful scream as the knife slit its throat. He was relieved when the ceremony ended and they could leave, for the rank smell of the deer’s death turned his stomach.
But after that unpleasantness, the day’s events moved on to merriment. Fynn ended up dancing around the Midsommer pole after all, with Jana guiding him gracefully through the steps, then he and Einar raced across the fairgrounds with the other boys to climb the sloping hill down which they trundled their wooden hoops. Father had once told him that in the Before, it was the men of Restaria who raced the wheels, and it was done as part of the sacred rites, as the wheel symbolized the circle of the year. But now it was just great sport for the boys of the town.
Neither Einar or Fynn won the wheeling. The honor went to Boggvir, Otkell’s younger brother. Afterward, all the young contestants gathered around a tun of beer Fringeirr Olisen had pilfered from his father’s cellar, and raised their glasses to Boggvir’s victory. Einar glugged down two big mugs, but Fynn, fresh from his recent experience with mead, drank only enough to quench his thirst.
“Let’s go to the river!” said Einar, his round face flushed from exertion and the undiluted alcohol. “It’ll be cooler there, and the synda is about to begin.”
The synda was the Midsommer swim out to the small isle of Hafnen across the bay and back. Only the fittest young men of the town participated, for the sea was cold and could be rough. It was supposed to be more of a rite than a race, but there was fierce competition among the men to be the first back.
Fynn spotted his mother across the fest grounds. She held her head high, but she cut a lonely figure standing apart from the other women. “I’ll just be a moment,” he said, then made his way to her side.
“Ah, there you are!” Mamma said gaily. “The wheeling looked like fun! You were much faster than last year.” She cast a fleeting glance past him, to where the yarla and her women were clustered. “I was thinking I’d go back up the hill now. That way I can mind the house while Teca joins in the celebrations.”
She was leaving because of the yarla. It made Fynn sad to know the scowling woman was the reason Mamma would miss the rest of the Midsommer fun. “It’s still early, Mamma. Later they’ll light the bonfires, and there’ll be singing.”
His mother gave him a swift hug. “I’ll see and hear it all just as well from our veranda. Go on now, and enjoy yourself with your friends! If I’m asleep when you get home, you can wake me and tell me all about it.”
Her bright smile and cheery words reminded Fynn of her performance for Father the previous night. As she turned up the trail toward home, he almost ran after her, but then Einar was tugging on his sleeve, pulling him toward the river.
* * *
Although only the men of Restaria joined in the synda, it was traditional for the unmarried young women to “spy” on the swimmers as they stripped down and dove from the bridge. A goodly number of matrons always joined them, for as Einar’s mother quipped, “Why should the girls have all the fun? I fancy an eyeful of the strapping lads as well!”
But Fynn and Einar arrived too late to witness the dive. By the time they reached the bridge, the swimmers had already stroked away, and the women had moved on to the harbor to watch from there.
“Oh fiddle, we’ve missed the start!” Fynn said. He peered after the bobbing heads, shielding his eyes from the light glinting off the water. Two swimmers were far in the lead. He hoped one of them was Jered.
He turned to see Einar pulling his tunic over his head. “Einar?”
His friend grinned. “Let’s dive from the bridge!”
Grinning in return, Fynn tugged off his own shirt.
They hid their discarded clothes behind a clump of bushes on the riverbank, for it was not at all uncommon for a swimmer to return only to discover that his garments had “disappeared,” forcing him to reclaim his breeches, naked, from whichever mischievous girl had taken them hostage.
“One, two, three!” Einar cried.
They dove in unison, and the cold water brought Fynn gasping to the surface. Einar had already struck out downriver.
“Hey!” Fynn called after him. “Where are you going?”
“Joining the synda!” Einar shouted back. “Come on!”
Fynn knew the swim to the harbor would be easy, for they would glide with the current. But beyond that…
He kicked his feet, propelling himself upward so that he could see ahead. The water in the bay shimmered with diamonds of light, which meant that at present the sea was calm. Fynn was an excellent swimmer. Einar was generally not as confident in the water… though today, this seemed to have changed.
Fynn knew his mother wouldn’t want him to make the swim. Which was what decided him. He was tired of being treated like a baby. If I complete the synda, Mamma and everyone else in town will have to acknowledge me as a man. Then Father will take me raiding.
With this reward in mind, he struck out, easily catching up with Einar. The river carried them into the harbor, where the water was even colder. From here, Hafnen Isle didn’t look too far away, and some of the fastest swimmers were already closing in on it.
The boys swam after them. Fynn cut t
hrough the water, measuring his breath in time with his rising and falling arms, his kick strong and steady. They had reached mid-harbor when the breeze kicked up and a bit of chop began to stir the sea. It slowed their progress, and Fynn felt a hint of strain in his arms. He pushed doggedly onward, maintaining a constant, slow rhythm.
When a wave took him full in the face, he turned, sputtering, and saw that Einar had fallen behind. Fynn called to him encouragingly, then treaded water until his friend drew close.
“Are you all right?” Fynn asked.
It wasn’t the Helgrin way to admit to weakness, but Einar’s labored breathing and pinched expression made it clear that he was struggling. As did his failure to reply.
They were not quite halfway to the island.
“Let’s float on our backs,” Fynn suggested, and to spare Einar any embarrassment, he added, “I could do with a rest.”
The cloudless sky above was the deep blue of his mother’s eyes. As the water lapped in Fynn’s ears, he imagined how impressed she’d be to hear of his swim.
With a grin, he rolled over and saw Einar, still afloat, but just barely. For a heart-stopping moment, his friend sank under the waves, then came up sputtering.
“Einar!” Fynn cried, grabbing his arm.
“Cramp,” Einar gasped. “My leg.”
“Here, hold on to my shoulder!” Fynn urged. “Lean on me, and breathe slowly. It will pass.”
Einar accepted his offer. But all too soon, his weight began to drag on Fynn, forcing him to kick harder and harder just to stay afloat.
“It hurts!” Einar complained.
A surging wave slapped into them, and he gripped Fynn tighter, nearly choking him.
Fynn looked anxiously across the water to see if any of the swimmers were near, but through the rising waves he could see nothing. The light breeze had become a gusting wind, and whitecaps now crested the sea. One of them knocked Einar loose of his hold on Fynn’s shoulder.
“Don’t leave me!” Einar cried. He lunged at Fynn and his weight pulled them both beneath the surface.
Unprepared, Fynn swallowed a great gulp of seawater and came up coughing.
“Stop thrashing about!” he cried. “You’ll drown us both!” He tugged his arm out of Einar’s grip and kicked away to put some distance between them.
“Fynn!” Einar shrieked, and Fynn watched in horror as Einar again sank from sight.
“Help!” Fynn shouted. “Help!”
He dove after Einar, who came flailing toward him, his eyes wide with terror, and wrapped his arms around Fynn’s neck.
Fynn fought panic as Einar kicked and writhed, trying to scale Fynn’s body to reach the surface. When his knee punched into Fynn’s stomach, Fynn struck back at him in a desperate measure to fend him off, but with no effect. Einar’s grip was strangling him. Stars appeared before his eyes, and his lungs felt close to bursting.
Clawing at Einar’s hands, he broke free at last, but Einar lunged at him again, this time catching him around the waist. As his friend dragged him down, Fynn thought fleetingly of his mother, alone on the hill.
Then he was wrenched out of his friend’s deadly grip and propelled toward the light.
Breaking the surface, Fynn sucked hungrily at the air. Jered had a firm hold on him, and beside him, Einar, coughing and gagging, was in Ragnarr’s grasp.
Fynn threw his arms around his half-brother’s neck with a sob of relief.
“What were you thinking, Fynn?” said Jered. “This is no contest for boys!”
Fynn pressed his cheek against his brother’s shoulder. “I… I don’t know.”
Einar hiccupped loudly. “It was my idea,” he managed to croak between gasps. “Fynn could have made it, if it hadn’t been for me.”
Surprisingly, Ragnarr laughed. “Well, it takes a brave man to admit when he’s at fault.” He tilted his chin in the direction of the other swimmers driving toward them from the isle. “You go ahead, Jered. I’ll get one of the others to help me haul these two fried fish back.”
Jered shook his head. “No—Fynn’s my responsibility. Between us, he and I can manage Einar. Go, Ragnarr! Don’t let Kafli or Blar get the glory!”
“They’d have to swim through me!” Ragnarr growled, then struck out with long, sure strokes.
Fynn hadn’t thought he could feel any worse, but knowing his foolhardiness had cost Jered the chance to be the winner of the synda compounded his misery. They paddled in silence back toward the harbor, Jered trawling the limp Einar. Fynn barely heard the calls of the other swimmers as they surged past them, and he was grateful that by the time the three of them waded ashore, the competitors were already on their way back to the bridge to claim their clothes, their admiring ladies trailing in their wake.
Einar trudged ahead of them, then dropped to his knees. “Jered and Fynn Aetheorsen, I owe you both my life. It’s a debt I won’t forget.”
Einar’s vow brought home to Fynn the seriousness of their folly. If it hadn’t been for Jered and Ragnarr, he and Einar would be on their way to Cloud Mountain.
He made to kneel as well, but his brother held him upright.
“There’s no need for that,” Jered said. To Fynn’s surprise, he looked neither angry nor particularly disappointed that he’d been sidetracked by their foolish escapade. “You’re both alive, and hopefully a bit wiser. We’ll say no more about it. Come,” he added, “look on the bright side. The worst of your ill fortune today is behind you.”
Then he turned and sauntered up the beach.
Chapter 10
Despite their harrowing experience in the water, Fynn decided that crossing the town naked to get to where they’d left their clothes was even worse. Jered strolled nonchalantly under the admiring eyes of Restaria’s womenfolk, but raucous jeers and mortifying laughter followed Fynn and Einar. There was little chance that “nothing more” would be said about their failed attempt to join the ranks of Helgrin men.
Einar, red-faced, quickly tugged on his garments and with a mumbled farewell headed east on the trail circling the settlement road. It was the long way to his home, but he would avoid town that way.
Fynn sat alone by the river, glumly tossing stones into the slate-green water. He was wrung out from the long swim, the aftershock of his near drowning, and the humiliation of running without a stitch of clothing through the town. But when a group of men appeared on the other side of the bridge, Fynn’s father among them, Fynn quickly got to his feet.
“Fynn! Come join us!” Father called.
The men were coming from the Grove, so his father had not likely heard of Fynn’s escapade. But he would find out soon enough. Fynn had seen the yarla among those ridiculing him and Einar as they scampered across the fairgrounds.
The men, all in high spirits, swept him along in their party, and he could smell the anise and caraway from the strong Midsommer snapps they’d been drinking. Olgar Hendersen, a beefy, grizzled warrior with a booming voice, burst into song, and several of the men brought their pipes to their lips. In this lively company, Fynn passed mercifully unremarked back into town.
In the crowded town square, he decided it would be best if he headed back up the hill before his father caught wind of the day’s misadventure. But as he slipped from the group, he ran headlong into Jered and Ragnarr, each with a pretty girl on his arm.
“Ho, Flipper!” cried Jered, his eyes bright with drink. “You certainly lived up to your nickname this day!”
Fynn felt his face flush. He looked over to see if his father had overheard, but the men had moved on, clutching frothing mugs of ale and singing at the top of their lungs.
Ragnarr leaned unsteadily toward Fynn, having wasted no time in celebrating his victory. “You’re a right ballsy scrod, just like your brother!” He scooped a mug of ale off the tray of a passing thrall and swung it in Fynn’s direction. “Respect t
’ you, Flipper!”
Fynn blinked. Was it possible today’s mishap hadn’t been a complete disaster?
Ragnarr wobbled and grabbed the shoulder of a passing boy for support. It was Nols, his younger brother. “See here, Nolsi!” Ragnarr slurred. “D’you see Flipper here? He’s not all brag and no breeches, like some I could name!” He threw back his head and laughed, sloshing ale on the girl tucked under his arm. Ignoring her shriek of protest, he pointed his mug at Fynn. “This laddie swam the synda today with the men, and he’s only…” He turned his reddened eyes back to Fynn. “How old’re you, Flipper? Eight?”
“Eleven,” Fynn mumbled.
Nols, unimpressed, shrugged off his brother’s hand and disappeared into the throng.
“Come on, then,” said Jered, and he flung an arm around Fynn’s neck.
They headed down Markket Street, where the biggest of the bonfires had already been set alight. The flames leapt high into the purpling sky, casting tall black shadows. Farther down the lane, smaller fires lit the way back to the harbor. In the old days, bonfires had been set on the hills as well, until one left unattended by drunk revelers had burned down a whole swath of forest west of the settlement. After that, the old yarl, Fynn’s grandfather, had decreed that Midsommer fires could only be lit within town, and that water barrels and buckets stand close at hand by every pyre.
All around them, the Restarians cavorted in Midsommer abandon. More than a few celebrants were already passed out in doorways or slumped along the wall skirting the river. A low boom echoed over the water, and the first of the fireworks illuminated the lavender sky in spirals of light that whirled overhead. Ahead, the water reflected the golden glow of the bonfires, and the sprays of fire across the sky were like the breath of dragons searing the night.
When the last of the rockets had been fired, they took a table outside the Kaupanger Inn. The mild night rang with song and laughter, and Fynn cheerfully accepted a mug of ale, although he was careful to sip it slowly. He was less hesitant when a platter laden with herring and potatoes was plunked down before him, and gorged himself with the best of the men, feasting until he thought he might burst.
