by Derek Nelsen
“Many of our men are now sleeping with the daughters of Rán. We too...” He looked back at Vidar, who was still staring into his cup. “We too figured we’d be sharing her icy bed at the bottom of the sea.” Orri took another drink. “Then we woke up here.”
Vidar held up his cup and cut in again. “Here on this barrow atop Helgafjell, this holy mountain.”
Erik had been watching. Vidar had drunk enough already to kill a normal man, but he barely slurred his words. “I wasn’t even sure I was alive. I must have been fading in and out for a long time, But I remember seeing Anja who was caring for me. I thought she was a beautiful Valkyrie.” A huge gap-toothed smile broke out across his face, and he raised his cup and winked at the girl.
Toren put his arm around her. His brows furrowed his eyes down to slits. What his big brother thought he might do to stop that giant from taking his girl, Erik would never know. But if looks could kill, his would’ve been arrows to the eyes.
“I thought I’d made it to Valhalla.” Vidar nudged Pedar and winked, as if he’d appreciate the complement to his daughter. Pedar’s cheeks turned red, and he just sat there, impotently staring into his cup while whistling and whooping erupted from some of the younger men in the crowd.
Kiara emerged from the kitchen and took her seat next to Erik. She pulled away when he put his hand on her arm. A misguided attempt to bring her comfort. He realized then, she had never talked about what happened in Ireland, or while they were at sea.
Old Afi stood. “You and your men are gifted storytellers.”
Erik wondered if the old man realized one of them didn’t even have a tongue.
Old Afi continued, “I don’t think there are many skalds who could’ve captured the village’s attention as well as you.”
Erik looked at his father, and he did not look happy.
Mud in the Eye
“I have a question.” Tor couldn’t believe his neighbors were so simple. These men were admitting to raiding a village full of innocents, and maybe because it was people across the sea, his neighbors were acting as if their journey was harrowing for them. As if they were the victims. “What happened to your other men? Your crew?”
The giant’s jaw tensed, then loosened. Then he nodded to his mouthpiece.
“The storm took our sail, and many of the men as well.” Orri looked at Vidar for direction.
Vidar, never taking his eyes off Tor, whispered something to Ubbi. Ubbi nodded. Vidar nudged Orri on.
Tor recognized Vidar—he looked just like his mother. But he got his angry eyes from his father, Tor’s best friend, Olaf. Well, that was many years ago. Olaf could cut a man down just with his eyes, too. But his son didn’t realize it would take more than a harsh look to get to Tor Ovesen.
Orri continued, “After the sea calmed, while we were adrift, those that remained began to starve or thirst to death. That was much worse than the storm. That’s no way for a Viking to die. Not many of us survived.”
“But somehow you three made it. Didn’t you, Orri?”
“What’re you getting at?” Vidar growled.
The more anger Tor got from Vidar, the more he pushed. “My boys told me the men who rescued you didn’t find any bodies, but I visited your ship. The ice was clear as glass. There were some broken bones.” Tor watched as Orri looked to Vidar, as if for once in his life he didn’t know what to say. The room had fallen silent. Some of the women held their children close. “Whatever is there will still be there in the spring,” Tor added. “As long the dragon doesn’t sink as soon as the ice lets it go.”
Vidar polished the meat off a chicken leg and kept watching Tor.
Orri never could stand silence. “We were at sea for a very long time. We nearly starved to death, all of us.”
Vidar held up his hand to stop Orri from saying more. “Many of the men didn’t make it, Tor. You know how it is. And those of us who did were lucky, indeed.” Vidar punctuated his point by cracking the chicken leg with his teeth. Then he proceeded to suck the black marrow from the end of the fractured bone.
“Do these people know who you are Tor Ovesen?”
“You don’t even know who I am, Vidar.” Tor replied. “You were just a little boy when I left the Viking life.”
Vidar’s face began to boil. Vidar was so young, and so ready to fight, it would not be difficult to show him for what he was.
“I knew Tor,” said Orri. “And Ubbi did, too. Did you tell them why you left? Does your family know?”
Tor expected to be outed by these men. He knew his reputation was done as soon as they arrived, but he had no idea what Orri was going to say next. He had done a lot of bad things in the past.
“He left, because he’d gotten a Christian slave pregnant, and then became a Christian, so they could be married in a church, somewhere over in Ireland.”
That fat bastard. Was he out to ruin Tor’s marriage or to destroy Toren and Erik?
The hall erupted. Runa ran to the kitchen, humiliated. She, of course, already knew. Runa was seventeen when her father took Tor and his young family in. But she hated anything that didn’t make her life look perfect, especially in front of the neighbors. Toren and Erik just stared. Tor guessed they were wondering how it took this stranger trying to smear their father’s reputation for them to find out the truth about their real mother.
Tor wished he could have told them. But it was better for them not to know. Runa would’ve been even worse to them if they’d ever let any of this slip around their friends. Kiara just shook her head as if she was disappointed. She knew he was Viking, everybody did. What did everyone think that meant—that Tor must have been one of the good ones?
“These Christians have probably kept this village from receiving the blessings of the gods,” Vidar laughed.
Tor watched as Skadi, a very devout pagan, kicked her husband, Pedar, under the table as if he had something to do with Tor’s choice in gods.
“I will not deny my past. And I’m done running from it.” Tor announced. “I’ve lived here in peace for thirteen years, and I’ve tried to be a good neighbor to you all, but these men just arrived. They’ve done nothing but take—take our food, our beer,” then Tor held his arms out wide, “and our hospitality. And yet, they’ve been secretly training our sons to be warriors. I didn’t know about that. Did you, Bor? How about you, Thorfinn? Because Lars and Ovid were there.”
Orri raised a cup as if appreciative of the food. Ubbi and Vidar kept eating as if there was nothing to be alarmed about.
The fathers of the boys gave them stern looks, but other than that, no one seemed concerned. How would they know what Vikings are capable of? Then Tor got an idea. “Alright, let me tell you the story about how Ubbi lost his tongue.”
Ubbi cautiously pushed his long black hair over his shoulder. His face was hard and heavily tattooed, each indecipherable mark an attempt to cover or highlight thick scars that looked to have been slowly and painfully made. The scar unseen was the one across what was left of his tongue, and everyone looked like they wanted to hear how it happened.
Tor walked over toward the Vikings. He needed them to show these people what they were capable of. He would count on his neighbors to break up the fight before he was killed.
“All Vikings know the story of Ubbi the Tongueless.”
Ubbi pushed himself back from his plate, just as he was about to put the lingonberries on his lefse.
“This man, who was much younger and prettier back then, was captured by the villagers he was planning to maim and kill. It was a failed raid.”
Pedar, who was sitting next to Vidar, hid his face in his cup as if he wasn’t paying attention. Orri looked at Vidar and Ubbi, as if wondering why they were letting him tell this story. Tor wondered the same thing.
“Before the daughters were taken from their cribs, or unarmed old men could be cut down from behind, and before any young boys could be abused or mistreated, they were stopped. The men of the village killed all of Ubbi’s stupid f
riends before they could do any of those things. They didn’t realize that seven Vikings and a Pictish Prince couldn’t take an entire village of farmers who were willing to stand up to them.” Tor cast and angry eye at Orri. “Like many here, Ubbi was a young man who wanted to play Viking, and it cost him his tongue. It should have cost him his life.
Ubbi threw his cup of beer at Tor. The cup missed but the beer doused his face.
Orri was unlucky because he was closest. Tor grabbed him by the ear and caught him across the nose with his fist. It was the second time he broke a Viking’s nose that week, and the blood spattered when he followed through and smeared it again with his elbow.
Ubbi jumped across the table and tackled Tor, only this time it was Tor’s knee that did the cracking when they both came crashing down. Ubbi let out a muted “Unggh,” and fell easily off to one side. Before he could get up, Orri drove Tor toward the door. Tor wasn’t sure if one of his neighbors opened the door, or what, but the sunlight temporarily blinded him when he found himself outside. Orri had gotten him down, but other than pinning him down on his back, he was still almost useless from that shot he took across the nose.
Tor smashed elbow after elbow against his head until the fat man let him go. They both staggered to their feet. Tor couldn’t believe no one was helping him. They were watching as if two against one was a fair fight.
Ubbi pushed his way out into the sunlight before making a hard, limping stride toward Tor. The effect of the knee Ubbi’d taken to the groin gave Tor just enough time to turn Orri into a human shield. It worked, and Orri caught the brunt of Ubbi’s shoulder in his kidneys. Now he could try pissing blood, too.
When Ubbi started limping toward Tor again, Erik and Toren put him to the ground. Then some of the neighbors started pulling them off, as if them joining the fight had finally taken things too far.
“Erik, stop biting-” Before Tor could get the words out of his mouth a massive hand grabbed him around the throat. Both his hands instinctively went to pull it off. He couldn’t breathe. No air. Tor felt like his head was going to explode from the pressure. Then he was off his feet, dangling like a child’s toy. It was as if Vidar was going to pull him in half; one hand had his throat, the other had his calf. Then, mercifully, he let go of his throat. He felt a push on his leg. Tor flipped downward.
The heavy traffic into the hall that day had turned the deep snow into deep mud. The first thing to hit the mud was the back of Tor’s neck, then everything else followed. He didn’t roll. It was as if his hip was racing the heels of his feet to see which could get to the ground first, but the winner was his ribs that found the stone base of the well, purposefully placed outside the hall for days just like this, when water would be needed for cooking and drinking and tending to the sick and dying.
Tor felt like he was dying.
He was glad to see some of his neighbors putting themselves between him and Vidar. The pain was agonizing, where the fight had moved inside him. From the choking Tor was dying for air, but with each gasp his ribs, already cracked and tender from the fight in the woods with Ubbi, punished him for every breath.
“Vidar, please. It’s over.” It was Pedar. Tor didn’t expect him to be the one to step up to the Vikings. “Tor, are you alright?”
Tor nodded his head. It was a lie.
“Vidar, are you alright? Orri? Ubbi? Good. Come to my house. I’ll get Elsa to take a look at that for you.”
Tor coughed—the pain was excruciating. “That’s alright, Runa will see to me.”
“I’m glad,” said Pedar. “But I was talking to Orri and Ubbi. On behalf of all of us, we are sorry if Tor caused you any embarrassment.”
“What?” The sun was still hovering above the trees, and it was in Tor’s eyes.
“Erik, Toren, you should help your father back to your house.”
“Tor,” it was Old Erik, “you were out of line with those men.”
“Did you see what happened to me? Three against one? Vidar all but said he was going to take the throne, or gift it to his father.”
“You were goading them.” Old Erik nudged him with the butt of his walking stick. “You basically called them baby killers. What did you think was going to happen?” As he walked on, Tor could hear the old man reaching out. “Pedar, would you mind if Vidar rides with me back to my house. I’d like to talk to him, alone. See if there is something I can do to make all of this right. If you want to send someone out to fetch him in a couple of hours, I think I should be done with him before dark.”
Tor couldn’t believe what he was hearing. They were apologizing for what he did to the Vikings? The insults kept coming, too. As the throng piled back into the hall to continue celebrating, Tor was peppered with faceless jeers from voices coming from the crowd. He was accused of picking fights, of being Christian, and of embarrassing everyone in front of the jarl’s son. The faces he did see didn’t look like they were very sympathetic to his pain, either.
Runa was angry with him, too. “I hope you’re proud of yourself. You decide to ruin our family’s reputation during the second biggest celebration of the year. Are you drunk?”
Even his own sons added to his torture, insisting on helping their father to his feet, as if seeing him beaten embarrassed them. Tor didn’t mind. He had been beaten before. Right now, he didn’t care about his wife or his neighbors or his reputation. He just wanted to lie there a little while longer, in the ice-cold mud, the only thing bringing him comfort in his misery.
Old Erik
Vidar did not like Old Erik. His eyes were mismatched, and he looked at him as if he knew him. That old goat didn’t know any more than the rest of the peasants. Old Erik? Didn’t he know that even his name was an insult? Vidar had always told his men that if he ever lived long enough to get gray hair, just put a sword in his hand and put him out of his misery. And whether they liked the idea or not, he promised he’d do the same for them.
There were few things more annoying than an old man. They’d done everything, seen everything, and knew more about everything.
Vidar definitely didn’t want to spend time alone with an old priest, any more than a trader or a farmer. But alone they were. The old man even drove the horses slow. It was like Vidar had been invited along to witness Old Erik’s leisurely sledge to the graveyard.
Once they were far enough in the wood the old man started talking. “Do you miss your soul ring, Vidar?”
Uff-da. Priest talk. Might just kill him now, put them both out of their misery. “What do you know about that, you old goat?” Vidar ran his large fingers along the scar on his chest that his father had given him when he was just a boy. It was burning. Never done that before.
“I have it, you know,” the old man said, his eyes drilling into him. One was blue and the other glowed an emerald green, the way a cat’s eye reflected the light of a fire. Vidar couldn’t look away.
“I think you’re confused, old man.” Vidar was afraid he wasn’t, but kept on anyway. “I gave my soul to my father.”
“Ja, ja. And in return he gave you that gold arm ring, the top one on your right arm, the one fashioned as Jörmungandr, the world serpent chasing its tail.”
How could he know? The arm ring was hidden under layers of warm clothing.
Old Erik continued, “I’m sure you’d have given him anything for that arm ring. It meant he accepted you, as a son, and as one of his warriors. You wanted to make him proud that day, didn’t you?” The old man smiled and looked like he was chewing his tongue or something. “Well, you didn’t.”
Old Erik’s green eye seemed to quiver. He pushed the reins into Vidar’s hands. Vidar considered wrapping them around the old bugger’s throat.
He was right of course. Vidar had always known he’d been a disappointment to his father.
“He was proud of you that day, of course. But he was even more proud of himself. That’s the thing about pride, it’s always about...” The mismatched eyes held him in their unrelenting gaze. “It’s a
lways about you.”
If he strangled him, the gothi, Old Erik’s brother, would have him outlawed for murder. No, better to bring the horses up to speed and push him into a tree. A man as feeble as that could probably break his neck from climbing out of bed in the morning. Surely falling from a sled wouldn’t be a surprise to anyone.
The old man touched Vidar’s knee. He flinched.
“He was proud of himself for how cheaply he was able to get your soul. For the price of what? Acceptance? I was always impressed by your father for figuring that out. For that small gesture he got your allegiance, and your ring.
“You know, once he told me he’d have never bowed to his own father. He hated his father. I suppose he expected the same from you. Ironic, isn’t it, the fact that you don’t hate him may be what he hates about you the most.”
Was this man insane?
“Of course, he loved you, too. All fathers love their children, at least while they’re young. But it is very difficult to balance love and pride. Pride is a wolf, and love is a fawn. Pride preys on the innocent. It is a love killer.”
The pupil on Erik’s green eye was the size of a pinpoint. “Your brother Egil always favored Olaf more than you. You are more like your mother.”
“My father would never give away my soul ring. Get a man to give you his soul and you have his loyalty and loyalty represents power. My father loves power.”
“You’re right, you’re right, but I couldn’t have taken it from him, now could I? Unfortunately, even I don’t have that kind of power. You can’t just take a soul. It must be given. And he gave it to me for the same reason you gave it to him—
“He wanted something.”
“You’d better tell me who you are old man, and why I shouldn’t cut you down.” His hand reached for the hilt of a sword that wasn’t there. Old Erik had him so vexed that he’d forgotten he was unarmed.
“Ah, pull up over there, put the horse in the barn, and meet me inside. I have something special for you.”
