“Captain Abigail Young, shield maiden! You are here!” He swept toward her, Abigail sure he was about to crush her in a bear-hug, which she would not allow. But what he did instead surprised her.
Rolf stopped short, bowed to her, took her hand and held it to his forehead. He muttered some runic phrase. “I see you and obey you, milady Freyja. I pledge my loyalty to you.” Abigail thought she had disbursed of his beliefs about her royalty, but now he was using a name from Norse mythology in referring to her. This had to stop.
“Rolf Knudsen.” She began in Norwegian. “I appreciate your loyalty and your friendship, but I am not a royal lady, and I have no connection with the goddess Freyja. Please. I am a Christian. I cannot be associated with gods and goddesses.”
Rolf grinned. “Whatever you desire, milady. But you do remind us of Freyja, especially your ability as a warrior. However, I will bow to your requests. Captain Young.”
Rolf then bellowed. “Mead! This lady requires mead!” A large buckler of mead, still partially chilled, magically appeared in front of Abigail.
“I am not an alcohol drinker, Rolf. Though our Prophet now says small amounts are fine, I am not one to drink more than near beer.”
“Just a small taste. To be connected with our people, who you are a part of. Please, just a sip.”
Abigail smiled. His happy demeanor was infectious. “Oh, alright. Just a drink. I am curious how it tastes.” She found it a nice, sweet drink from honey, but with an edge to it that Abigail recognized as alcohol. This nice tasting drink could easily get a young woman in trouble, so she quickly handed it back to Rolf.
“Thank you, sir. That is nice and quite refreshing. But, as Major Bender will tell you, I’m a ‘lightweight’ and would soon be intoxicated should I continue.”
Rolf grinned broadly. “Maybe next time. I will eventually convince you of the heavenly qualities of mead.”
Meanwhile, Ichiro had managed to convey to the Sons that they needed to leave some food for the rest of the visitors to come, but that there were other activities to experience. He pointed to the rickshaws and explaining about the fun race, which soon looked like it was a mistake. Bellowed Norwegian drew Rolf’s attention, as well as Abigail’s. She followed him to the one hundred yard race track, where the Norseman were milling around two male Japanese soldiers and Sumie, still in geisha attire.
Ichiro explained the rules in English for the contest.
“I have two experienced Japanese soldiers who, to be fair, have been practicing racing with the rickshaw. Sitting in the back will be the young lady in geisha attire, Lieutenant Sumie Sato. The purpose of this race is not only to win, but to insure the passenger in the back has a safe and pleasant ride. If you tip the rickshaw over, you must stop, reseat the lady, and then continue. So careful technique is required. I will give anyone so desired a small head start to handicap the more experienced Japanese personnel.”
“So,” Rolf asked “We pull this small wagon with one of our women in the back, up to the end of the one hundred yard track, turn around, and race back. That is the race?”
“Yes, my large friend. That is the race.”
Sumie had been standing demurely by, coyly using her Japanese fan to cover her smiles, flirting with the large Nordic males to put them off their game. Then, one of them, apparently well into his cups, tried to grab her rice paper fan.
“Here, sweet thing. Let me try your fan out. It does not seem to be big enough…” The large bearded male was unable to finish his statement. One second he had a grip on Sumie’s hand, the next second he was flat on his back. A foot sweep trip, twist and throw, too fast to follow to the unenlightened, and the large Son of the North was looking at the sky, with Sumie’s dainty foot on his throat.
For a second, everything froze. Abigail thought an uncharacteristic ‘Oh, shit!’, certain violence was about to break out.
Then, uproarious laughter. The Sons of the North began to laugh and point at their fallen and embarrassed comrade. Sumie, for her part, quickly stepped back, bowing low to the fallen Viking. “Please, Sir. I am sorry. It is just this fan is a family heirloom. I am quite attached to it.” She put out her feminine hand, manicured nails and all, coquettishly smiling, to help the large man up. He took it and jumped to his feet.
“You have hidden shield maidens, I see,” Rolf bellowed. “Small, but deadly. Eric there will learn his lesson about being rough with strange women.” Rolf and his comrades clustered around Eric. They slapped his back, pushing him, unmercifully ribbing him about being taken down by such a small lady.
“I am sorry they are so rough and crude, Ichiro. They’re acting as if they never grew up.” Abigail was worried that Ichiro would think less than kindly about some individuals who claimed her as being of ‘their people’ yet were acting like dolts.
Ichiro smiled. “Many of them are soldiers, to be facing death very soon. In fact, most of them grew up the last few years facing death on a daily basis. If not the Squids, then it was your Long Winter that threatened your survival. We in Japan faced little in comparison, other than food and energy rationing, now the occasional ‘visit’ by some young Tschaaa warriors looking for a duel. Which we handle quite well.”
He shrugged. “So if they chose to ‘let off steam’ as you Americans would say, so be it. My personnel can take care of themselves, as you can see. The traditional Viking and Samurai warrior societies were probably not all that different in some respects. Though I have never heard of a Viking composing haiku poetry.” Abigail and Ichiro both laughed, once again looking into each other’s eyes. And once again, the moment was interrupted by Rolf suddenly yelling about the race.
In a few moments, the two Japanese soldiers were in place in front of their rickshaw. Rolf demanded that he assist Sumie in mounting the passenger area of the transport. The Japanese officer demurely smiled, once again using her fan and body language to transmit exactly what Rolf could expect and not expect. He seemed captivated by this small woman; this soft feminine creature one moment, a deadly snake the next. Abigail then realized what Sumie was doing. Much as Aleks and her spy sisters did, she was playing Rolf like a large fiddle, using her femininity to extract just the right behavior. But behind the silk glove was an iron fist. She was an intelligence agent, pure and simple. Someday, when she felt more comfortable, she would ask Ichiro, and maybe Sumie, about her true position. If Aleks were here watching, she could probably tell.
After helping Sumie into the rickshaw, Rolf addressed the other. He positioned himself in front of the rickshaw. Then he bellowed, “Brynhildr.” One of the statuesque blondes appeared and proceeded to settle into the rickshaw. Ichiro noticed that only Rolf was standing in front of the rickshaw, checking the rail handles.
“Rolf-san, you need a partner to help pull. Otherwise, you will be at a disadvantage.” The Japanese had lengthened the front rails so two persons could pull the rickshaw in tandem, turning it into more of a racing machine. They had also been braced a bit to prevent breakage during repeated races. This would be the first race of the day, so Ichiro wanted to make sure it went off well.
Rolf laughed. “Have you noticed how large I am? Your soldiers are the ones at a disadvantage.”
Ichiro shrugged, then attended to his two rickshaw trained soldiers. Abigail, standing nearby, thought she heard Ichiro say something about not holding back. Maybe they had originally thought to throw a race or two in the beginning so as to generate interest, and not anger their guests. That concept apparently had just been shelved. The Japanese had apparently decided that the lithe runner’s body structure the two soldiers had would blow Rolf Knudsen out of the race.
Ichiro approach the front of the two racing machines and stood between them on the center double stripe between the two racing lanes. “On the count of three, the race will begin. No contact is allowed between the two teams is allowed. This is not chariot race as in the movie Ben Hur.” This produced some laughter. “You will race one hundred yards, turn, and race back to this p
oint. Remember, you also have to provide a safe trip for your passenger. If she falls out, you must stop and pick her up before resuming the race.”
Someone yelled from the crowd of onlookers, “I’ll pick up that geisha and run off with her myself.” More laughter as Sumie demurely and coyly smiled, covering her mouth partially with her fan. Anybody trying to run off with her would be sorely surprised.
“Any questions?”
“Yes,” bellowed Rolf. “What is the prize for winning?”
Ichiro had not really considered a prize, thinking the race was strictly for fun.
“I had not considered a prize. What do you suggest, my large friend?”
“When I win, the two men must drink a full mug of mead. If by some chance the gods are angry with me and you win, I will…”
Sumie suddenly yelled out in perfect English and in a surprisingly loud voice, “Let me ride around on your shoulders for an hour. I would like the view from up there.” Everyone laughed, Rolf the hardest.
“I may just have to lose on purpose.” With that comment, Brynhildr growled something at him to the effect that if he lost on purpose, he would be walking stooped over, unable to give anyone piggyback rides. Rolf winked at her, chuckling. “It’s a deal.”
“So then, we are agreed,” Ichiro stated. “Are the teams ready? You are both ready. At the count of three, the contest begins. One, two... three.”
In professional sports, especially American football, there was the concept of “fast twitch”, or explosive muscle types. This meant that even three hundred pound linemen could develop and be trained in the use of explosive power, shooting out from the line with great speed despite their size. They may not have the traditional sprinters more slender physique, but the linemen made up for it in fast twitch muscle mass. Rolf gave everyone present a demonstration of the concept.
The six foot six blonde giant shot out from the starting line, reaching the twenty-five yard line strides ahead of the two surprised Japanese. The lighter load of Sumie compared to Brynhildr did not matter. In fact, the Viking maiden was bellowing encouragement and instructions to Rolf, which seemed to make him run even faster. Rolf made it to the one hundred line three full lengths ahead. He swung hard around, Brynhildr leaning out on the side of the rickshaw as if she was in a motorcycle sidecar race, keeping the transportation device from tipping over. They began the return leg.
The Japanese team threw everything they had into the brace, turning at epic speed, yelling ‘kiyis’ as they strained to catch up.
Brynhildr yelled at Rolf, “Move, you fat cow! They are catching up.” Rolf gave a loud Norwegian war yell and barreled toward the finish line. It was not even close. He won by almost four full lengths.
The Sons of the North exploded in jubilation, with their maidens joining in. Ichiro had a genuinely shocked look on his face. How this large, tall man could move so fast was a mystery to him.
He approached the winded Rolf, bowed in respect, then offered his hand. “Well done, my large friend. I was completely overconfident.”
Rolf, between gasping breaths, replied, “Little brother, your people play well. Come to our great hall, any time.” He stood up straight, and started to call for a drink of mead or ale. But his face was a bit pale, and he seemed to be woozy. Suddenly, Abigail was in front of him. “Rolf, please sit down.”
“What?”
“I said, sit down. Before you fall down.” Rolf sat, plunking down hard on the grass.
“Could someone find me some cool water, and a rag?” She looked into Rolf’s face. “Why must men be so stubborn, so hard headed? You have been drinking alcoholic drinks all morning, which does not hydrate you well. Then, even in this cool weather, you begin to sweat because you cannot do anything at half speed. You are in need of some water, not mead, and to sit for a minute.”
Rolf grinned sheepishly. “Yes, little mother.”
“I am not your Mother! Does someone have that water?”
Sumie magically appeared with a pitcher of cool water, and handed Abigail a colorful silken scarf. Abigail soaked the scarf, put it on the back of Rolf’s neck, then made him take sips of water from the pitcher, which looked like a beer mug in his huge hands. Sumie leaned over and whispered in his ear. “You would make a great sumo in my country, Rolf Knudsen. You have the heart of a samurai. It is pleasure to have met you.”
Rolf’s first impulse was to grab Sumie and lay a large kiss on her mouth. But, to everyone’s surprise, her gently took her hand and kissed it. “You would make a perfect elfen princess of the old ways, milady. You are invited along with Major Yamamoto to our great hall. Anytime.”
Sumie bowed, lightly kissed him on his brow, fluttered her fan a bit for effect, and was gone.
Just then, a commanding female voice called out in Norwegian. “Rolf Knudsen. Where is my grandson?”
“Here, grandmother.” Rolf bellowed back, then tried to stand up, only to feel two surprisingly strong hands pushing him back down.
“Oh no you don’t, private. You will sit for few minutes more.” Abigail ordered him.
“Excuse me, Captain, but my brother and I are Corporals now.”
“Well, congratulations, then. But stay seated. They can find you.” Abigail stood up straight and glanced around her. She saw the oldest woman she had seen in a long time approaching her, flanked by two middle-aged women. The Invasion, and the Long Winter that followed, had been deadly on the old and the young especially. Many children had been harvested in the early days after the Tschaaa arrival, many others dying due to lack of food and adequate shelter. The old, needing medicine, food, shelter, died even when there was no harvesting in the area. So, the aged, the seniors, were not well represented in the general populace.
“There you are. What trouble are you in now? I see a young lady has taken you in tow, as usual.”
“Grandmother, this is the woman I was telling you about. The shield maiden.” Rolf knew he had screwed up the moment he used that term again. But Abigail did not seem to notice. She quickly stood in front of Grandmother Knudsen and performed a remembered curtsy, despite being in blue jeans rather than a dress.
“Elder mother, I greet you. It is an honor.”
Grandmother Knudsen broke into broad smile, still showing healthy white teeth. Her face showed wrinkles, her hair was gray, but she still stood straight, almost as tall as Abigail. “Ah, you are one of us. I thought my big oaf of a grandson was exaggerating again. You speak Norwegian like a native born. How about Danish and Swedish?”
“Some, Ma’am. But I am only half Norwegian. The other half is Romanian.”
“But you have a big chunk of Norwegian, the North, in your heart. I can feel it. May I take your hands, young lady?” Abigail held her hands out and Grandmother Knudsen took them.
“My God. You have strong hands. But they still look like a woman’s. Your forearms are strong too. You have been raised as a warrior.” The older women gazed into Abigail’s eyes.
“You have other special gifts. You will be a unifier, not just a soldier. And I feel you are…sensitive to certain things, able to see into people, and tell who they are. Am I right?”
“Yes, Ma’am. I…see things sometimes. I especially can tell things about pregnancies. I can sense twins, and such. You have similar abilities, true?”
“Yes, young lady. We are a lot alike.” Grandmother Knudsen then leaned forward and kissed Abigail on the cheek. “I would be honored if I could call you granddaughter. I have adopted many in the past six years. Only Rolf and his twin, Gunnar, are truly of my blood. We are the last ones of our specific family to survive. The rest were lost in Minnesota.”
Abigail had a small lump in her throat. She had no elder relatives left, other than her uncle, wherever he was. The thought of having an actual grandmother created a yearning in her soul—a yearning for family. “I will be the one who feels honored, Grandmother Knudsen. So yes, you may call me granddaughter.”
Grandmother Knudsen beamed. “Please stop
by the great hall of the Sons of the North. I am there most days. I can begin to teach you some traditional womanly pursuits—like sewing, knitting, and baking—in the old ways.”
Abigail smiled back. “I would like that. Thank you.” Abigail knew the older woman must sense her lack of knowledge in non-warrior pursuits, so there was no need for additional explanations.
“Now, my dear, please excuse me as I round up my wayward grandson and his friends. They need to help with the displays and demonstrations at our pavilion.”
“Rolf. Come with me. Time to leave.”
“Yes, grandmother.” Rolf, now recovered from his weakness, called to round up the men and maidens. As the unofficial leader of the group, he seemed to have all their respect.
Rolf approached Ichiro. “I thank you for your hospitality and competition. Please come by our pavilion, sample out culture. And stop by our great hall off base any time. All warriors are welcome.”
Ichiro bowed. “Thank you. Please give our best wishes to your honored grandmother. We Japanese know how precious the elders are.”
Rolf clapped a large hand onto Ichiro’s back, almost knocking him over. “I like you more every minute. Sons and daughters of the North, time to leave.” The raucous group made their way back to their cultural display area. As they made their way, Rolf conversed with his grandmother.
“See, Grandmother, I told you Abigail was one of us. She would make someone a great wife.”
“But not for you, grandson. I am sorry.”
Rolf frowned. “Why not? Am I not good enough for her? Or she for me?”
The older woman sighed. “Grandson, trust me. Her path is in another direction. She has special tasks to accomplish. Besides, you have a host of young ladies already fighting for your attentions. Do not waste your time pining for something you cannot have.”
Rolf kept frowning. Then he sighed. “You have never been wrong, Grandmother. I will heed your advice.” He suddenly broke into a wide grin, and swept his grandmother into his arms.
The Tsunami Page 27
