by Derek Nelsen
She just shook her head. He did have a way about him—even in this crystal land, where even some of the trees were white, and icicles as long as men made them bow to the ground like skinny priests in robes of snow. He made it feel like this could be a good place, despite her troubles.
As he ate his meager lunch—oh, how his stepmother neglected this boy—she told him a story.
“Have you ever heard of angels?”
“No,” he replied. “Are they gods or men?”
“Neither.” She thought for a moment.
“Real or made up?”
“Shut your mouth and I’ll tell you. Go on, eat your terrible lunch.” She caught a chill, so she stood up with the staff and started to walk to get her blood moving again. “The priest in my village told us one Sunday about a war in Heaven.” That seemed to get Erik’s attention. She knew he liked stories with fighting. “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.”
“Are we talking about Jesus here, or another God?”
“God and Jesus are the same thing. There is only one God.”
“So why don’t you just call him Jesus, so I don’t get confused? And our story about how everything began is better, when the realm of fire collided with the realm of ice and there was a cow who licked the ice, because she was thirsty, and uncovered a giant who drank from her udders. And he birthed the first gods and giants from his armpit, and after the gods killed the giant the dwarfs came out of him like maggots, and four dwarfs hold his skull into the air even now, which made the sky, and-”
“Do you want to hear my story or not?” She couldn’t believe she got him to stop mid-sentence.
“Ja, of course I want to hear it, but you’re confusing me.”
“You’re confusing me. I’ve heard that story you were trying to tell, and something is wrong with the way you're telling it.” Erik was a dreadful storyteller. He told them too fast and jumped all over the place. Kiara wondered if her stories were as confusing to him as his were to her. “All right, I’m starting again. Just so you know, for this story the Bible says God, the priest says God, and both of them say that Jesus was God, so I’m just going with the priest and calling him God for now, all right?”
Erik chewed his onion and waved for her to go on.
“All right.” She had to remember what she was saying. This was usually when Toren would threaten Erik if he interrupted again, but he wasn’t there. She didn’t mind being alone with Erik, that wasn’t it—even though she thought he liked irritating her. Pretty sure he did it to everyone. She started walking again. “Right. So, God created everything in Heaven, which is where he lives, and everything on earth.”
“Which is the same as Midgard.” Erik looked very proud of himself. “Where we live.”
Kiara could feel a smile coming on, so she turned her back to him and started telling again, hoping he wouldn’t interrupt her at least long enough for the smile to wear off.
“God created the angels to help him care for his creation. My priest says we each have our own guardian angel.”
Erik acted like he was going to choke, but Kiara held up her finger to stop him. “Do you want me to tell the story or not?”
He shook his head and then gave her a look like a boy who was made to sit in the corner by his mother.
She had to turn her back on him again. No one else had ever bothered her the way he did. “One of the most famous angels, Lucifer, was the most beautiful of all God’s creation. And he was jealous of humans.”
“Why was he jealous of us?”
“Because we were special to God. He gave us souls and wanted us to be his children. For those of us that find him in this world, where he cannot be seen, he has prepared houses for us. And the angels, who are greater than us here, will be lesser than us there.”
“If you’re saying they’ll be our servants in Heaven, then I don’t blame them for being angry at us,” said Erik.
“I’m not sure if they’re angry at us, or at God.” Kiara was stung by the irony of what he said. Should she hate Erik—or his stepmother, or father, or the village? Or just the Vikings? She was not always a servant, either. She pulled out her soul ring and looked at it. It was not pretty like Runa’s. Only the priests covered theirs in gold or silver where she was from.
“I don’t think the angels were jealous of us because they were going to be our servants in Heaven. I don’t even know if that’s how it works. I think they were jealous because God didn’t give them souls—that they would never be his children, no matter what they did for him.”
“Well, here having your soul ring just means you’re old enough to vote at the village thing. It also means that you’re a man.” He looked at her and smiled. “Or a woman.” She didn’t know if he did it on purpose, but his eyebrows raised when he said it.
That, oddly enough, did not make her smile. “When do you become a man, then?”
His right eyebrow fell. “This year, when it’s really cold.” He cocked his head to one side, as if a chill went down his spine. “The gothi performs the ceremony every winter solstice.” Then he tried to make his voice sound deep and serious. “The day the light defeats the darkness, and the days begin to get long again.” His voice went back to normal, which was still pretty deep. “But I can never tell. It takes a long time before I notice the days getting longer again.”
“After you get your ring, you’ll be able to attend village assemblies?” she asked.
“Then, I’ll be a man. With all the rights that come with it.”
She tucked her soul back in her shirt. Kiara’s freezing fingertips grazed her neck and goose bumps erupted down the length of her back. “Where I’m from you get your soul ring while you’re still a baby.” She started pacing back and forth.
Erik picked up one of the staffs and started swinging it like a sword. “What a terrible thing to do to a baby. They don’t even know what’s happening.” He winced a little as he said it.
“They want to bless the baby early—in case it doesn’t survive. Since a baby can’t ask God for forgiveness of their sin, the parents ask the priests to bless their souls to make sure they go to Heaven if they die.”
“I wouldn’t let one of your priests near my children. That ring’s got nothing to do with religion,” Erik protested. “Children lose teeth, too, but I wouldn’t ask a priest to pull one out before it was ready just because he says it’d make a god happy, would you? What kind of a place is Ireland, anyway?”
She could have said some things about how she felt about the place he’s from, but she didn’t have time for that conversation. “Someday I’ll tell you what they do to baby boys,” she smiled. “You really wouldn’t like that.” She handed him the staff she’d been holding, then pointed to the tip that he’d shaved down like a handle and raised her eyebrows.
His brow furrowed in confusion and maybe a little concern.
“I’ve got to go,” she said. She didn’t mind smiling at him now. “I’ll tell you about circumcision another time.”
“What about my angel story?” he asked as if he really wanted to know.
“There was a war in Heaven and God cast out a third of the angels to live here on earth until he cast them into the pit for all eternity. Now I’ve got to go. Runa doesn’t give you enough food that it ought to take this long to eat. She’s going to notice if her servant girl is gone too long.” She could feel him watching her as she picked up the basket. “I thought you said you had somewhere to go,” she reminded him. “Where is that?
Erik jumped to his feet, grabbed up the sticks, and rolled them into a horse blanket. He was so quick to leave, until a sword slid right out the back.
He turned to grab it, but his eyes met hers. Then they both stared at it.
“What are you doing with that?” Kiara’s heart pounded in her chest. She hadn’t seen a sword like that since they took her from Ireland. “You’re planning to join them, aren’t you?” She thought she was going to vomit. She started walking back to
ward the house. Where she was a slave to these heathens.
“Kiara!” Erik yelled, but he didn’t follow.
She turned back once, but he was already gone. All the pain she’d thought she’d buried with her family welled back up, salting her eyes as tears. Alone in the woods, far, far away from home, Kiara sobbed. She wanted to be angry, but it hurt too much for that. She thought she’d cried all of this out already. How could she still feel all this pain after all this time? How could she have trusted that stupid boy. She hated herself for it, but as the tears slowed, she began to worry. She took the empty basket, turned it upside down, and gave it a shake. Crumbs fell to the snow. She could hardly believe there were birds that could survive in this cold place. And as Erik so proudly assured her, it would get worse before it got better. She shivered just thinking about it.
That stupid, stupid boy.
Training Vikings
Erik was late. He arrived just in time to see Magnus run behind a tree. None of the boys liked getting hit with the stick, and Ubbi was about to remind them why. The Viking had that look again, the one that meant he was no longer training. He was fighting.
Ubbi was the opposite of Orri, more what a Viking was expected to look like. He was a berserker and a brute—thick chested and broad shouldered. Orri said the boys would be like that someday, after training and putting in their time at the oar. Erik figured it’d been a long time since fat Orri’d rowed a boat.
Ubbi hunched over, allowing his long black hair to fall heavily to one side to cover his face in hair and shadow. For the most part, the boys had little idea what he looked like, but when he fought, they could see the black tattoos running up his throat continued up into the shadows masking his face.
Crack! Erik winced as Ubbi’s stick snapped across the flaking, spindly birch. Better the birch than Magnus’s ribs.
“You win,” Magnus pleaded.
Don’t beg, you idiot. Attack. Hadn’t he learned the Viking went berserk when he smelled fear? It was as if Ubbi hated weakness more than sticks. Erik hated standing there watching, but he couldn’t look away. He thought about helping his friend, but how many times had Magnus laughed out loud when he retreated?
Ubbi jerked the staff Orri was leaning on out of his hands and came back at Magnus with something akin to a hardwood longsword. His eyes were as focused as a bull moose chasing a cow during the rut. Tor had taught him to stay clear of moose chasing a reluctant cow, and in the same way, he would stay clear of Ubbi chasing Magnus.
Orri the Fat, who usually couldn’t stop running his mouth, turned out to have very little useful guidance for his young pupils. He wasn’t completely useless. He would often explain Ubbi’s beatings from the sidelines. And he’d keep the fire going, usually while cooking a chicken or eating his share of whatever Magnus or one of the other boys could steal them for lunch.
Between mouthfuls, he’d just wince along with the rest and tell the gawkers what he would do if he were the one taking the beating. He would lean in to say things like, “His knees are exposed,” the grease surrounding his lips doing its part to renounce his authority in all things unrelated to food or spirits. “He should’ve ducked there,” he would advise too late.
While the boys were fighting for their lives, they could hear him talking. They just didn’t find any of his advice to be particularly helpful. And with all his talk, he didn’t even try to convince Ubbi to slow down or show mercy.
At first, it sounded like a good idea when Orri made the offer. “If you’re going to sail with us in the spring, I’ll have to teach you how to fight like a Viking, turn you into warriors, and make you strong enough to pull an oar all the way to lands beyond the sea.” So far, he hadn’t done a thing except organize when and where to meet and who was bringing lunch. Ubbi did all the training.
Erik knew his father wouldn’t approve, so it worked out well that he’d been off hunting in the mountains. If Tor had spent more time at home, maybe he’d have been the one to teach Erik how to swing a sword. No, he’d had plenty of time— he just didn’t want to. It was like he didn’t want Erik to have options—to know anything useful other than how to milk a goat. No, it was better this way. Erik and his friends were being trained by real Vikings now.
The boys guessed that Ubbi never listened to their cries for mercy because the men who cut out his tongue probably didn’t listen to his. It was hard to imagine this man begging for anything, but at that time he must have, right? The thought of it sent a chill up Erik’s spine. Or was that the cold? Hard to tell on a morning like this.
Ubbi made the boys use heavy wood for training. Orri called them sticks, but they were more like clubs. So thick, Orri had the boys trim down the handles so they could get their hands around them.
Orri explained, “They will make you warrior strong, which is different from farmer strong.”
“Is that different than gut strong?” Erik whispered to the others. Lars laughed so hard snot bubbles came out of his nose.
“What was that?” Orri asked.
“I said Magnus is fighting like a girl,” Erik elbowed Lars to get him to calm down.
Erik could feel Orri glaring. Had he heard?
“Warrior strong is more in the neck and shoulders,” he continued. “When you get your hands on an iron sword, you’ll need to be able to wield it against many men. You never get to fight just one in a real battle. Not if you’re fighting Vikings, anyway.”
Erik ignored Ovid’s attempt to make eye contact. He felt a little sick at the prospect of upsetting Orri. He had a feeling that these Vikings knew how to hold a grudge. And how to get even.
Ubbi and Orri had been training Erik and Magnus to fight since they recovered from their swim. That’s what Orri liked to call it. The swim. And as a reward for near drowning in the fjord? To get hit with sticks, repeatedly, by Ubbi. Ubbi did not know how to train boys, but he did know how to beat them. The ultimate lesson seemed to be—everyone gets hurt in a fight. Except Ubbi.
Three times a week for the past month, Ubbi had tried to break one of those sticks on every boy Erik and Magnus convinced to come out. They were glad that Ubbi hadn’t figured out that after the first week the boys had carved a weak spot into every one of his handles, usually a well-placed knot would do the trick. It felt better sparring with Ubbi knowing that his stick was weaker than his stroke.
So far, Erik and Magnus had only recruited Bor’s sons Ingjaldr and Ivar, and Thorfinn’s sons Lars and Ovid. There would be more eventually, but for now, Orri wanted to start small. He only wanted boys who had no inheritance or land claim in the village. Boys like them.
During one of his teaching moments, Orri explained why. He planned to invite the older boys after he had a group of younger brothers competent enough to defeat them. He wanted them to want to fight, even if only to keep from getting pummelled with a stick by kids they’d been bullying all their lives. He meant to shame them into joining.
He also hoped that once the village saw how many of their sons were with the Vikings, anyone not on their side might reconsider. Ubbi always looked at Erik when Orri said things like that.
Even though these same boys had pretended to sword fight with sticks their entire lives, this was different. Ubbi was not a good teacher. He couldn’t talk, for one, so his main way to correct a bad decision was to walk up and expose the weakness with a crack of a stick. Every lesson was learned with a bruise. Get off balance, and he would try to break a stick on the back of your leg. Overreach, and he would try his best to crack one of your ribs. Too light a grip, and with a quick snap he’d disarm you with a downward swing and then come back to get your forearm. He tried to avoid the face and fingers.
Orri didn’t want anything that might be noticed at the dinner table. Mothers knew the boys horsed around and sometimes got hurt, but an eye swollen shut or a broken bone that may keep them from completing their chores might inspire unwanted attention. The Vikings were trying to win people over, and pissing off the mothers would not help t
he cause.
Magnus had hidden himself inside the limbs of a fallen pine.
“I yield!” he shouted again, but Ubbi still pursued. When Ubbi got like this, they’d all learned to run. He was strong, but he didn’t have the lungs or the patience for a chase. He would get his shot in eventually, even if it was while they were taking a break by the fire. Better to be blindsided while resting than let the Viking get you while he was berserking.
Lucky for Magnus, today Erik showed up with a distraction. He unwrapped the bundle of sticks he’d brought to practice, and hidden at the bottom, he pulled out his father’s sword. Tor would kill him if he knew.
“Ubbi!” Orri dropped his chicken leg. “Leave that boy alone and come take a look. Young Erik wasn’t kidding. He’s brought us a blade.” Orri reached out to take the sword, but Erik stepped back. Instantly, he wondered what he was doing. It was as if seeing Orri take interest in something he’d clearly done to gain his attention ruined it somehow.
Why did he feel the need to impress these men? Was it to gain some favor? So far, nothing he’d done for them, including taking the swim, had done anything for him except gain him a lot of pain and bruising.
Ubbi had stopped his pacing around the fallen tree and made his way over. That just proved that the fat Viking could’ve said something to stop Ubbi’s harassment. Now Erik really wondered what he was doing. Kiara was right, he shouldn’t have brought it.
Magnus clambered to his feet but stayed near the downed pine. The other boys came in close, but that only made Erik feel trapped. They were in an open forest and he was the only one holding a sword, yet somehow, he felt cornered. That was the moment he realized he was a long way from being a warrior. Erik’s fingers felt numb around the hilt, as if he might drop it. “It was my grandfather’s.”
