Viking Lost

by Derek Nelsen

  Who Do You Think You Are?

  Vidar burned inside. Put up the horse? What am I, the old man’s slave? Still, he obeyed.

  Too many years had passed since the house had been built. Whether by design or time it was hard to tell, but what was left of the structure was half buried, like its master should have been.

  The only parts not covered in earth were the front and maybe half of the sides. A blanket of snow made it all blend seamlessly into the mountain. The roof was held up by two hazel posts that seemed to grow up through the wooden porch to hold up the earthen roof.

  The door creaked like an old man’s spine as Vidar ducked inside. With two hands Old Erik strained to pick up a cylindrical stone. Every house had one like it. They were heavy and used for grinding pine into flour.

  The old man sat at a wooden table, rough-hewn but worn smooth from an eternity of use, and laid the grinding stone on an empty plate. When he pulled his hand away it wasn’t the stone he left behind, but a loaf of fresh bread. Instantly the little room filled with the smell of it. It smelled delicious.

  Vidar stiffened. “Magic?”

  “Sit. Eat. You look thin. Once you gain your strength, you will be so much more useful. You’re nothing compared to the types of giants I’ve seen.”

  Vidar wanted to leave but found himself sitting at the table across from the old man as directed. The old man filled his cup.

  Vidar drank some mead, burped, and picked up the knife. It was a butter knife, but it was sharp enough. Again, he thought of the ways he could kill this man. Again, he couldn’t figure out a way to do it. It was like he was as lost as a babe in the woods whenever he tried to act on his own free will.

  Instead of cutting the magician, he slathered the end of the loaf with butter and bit into the crust. The bread was real, and it was good. Better than what was served at the festival feast.

  “Who are you?” Vidar growled, mouth full. Crumbs flew out from it, but he didn’t care. It was the only outward expression of his disdain for the old man he could manage.

  “Like your father, I am a lord.” Old Erik broke the bread, coated it with butter, and pushed the plate and the knife back in front of his guest.

  I have many sons, many daughters.

  They like to quarrel like you and your older brother, Egil.

  And like you and your brother,

  they too think they’re ready to take my throne.

  But I am more than your father.

  My dominion is vast.

  I am Pride, Ruler of All.

  I feed Arrogance and Self, like carrion to ravens.

  And after the bones are picked clean,

  they look to me, never satisfied.

  I know what it’s like to want, so my way is easy.

  Then Old Erik held up a flat, circular, hollow object. Vidar’s jaw loosened. He recognized it immediately and wanted it. More than his treasure, more than any woman, more than freedom or power. It called to him, and he heard it as clearly as a mother hearing the cry of her own child.

  “I know what you’re feeling,” Old Erik said. “Every being recognizes the sound of their own soul, when they only take the time to listen. This is probably the first time you’ve ever really seen it. It doesn’t look so trivial in the hands of a stranger does it? Do you know what it is, Vidar?”

  A chill ran up Vidar’s spine, and he pulled the animal hide he was wearing tight to his shoulders.

  Old Erik continued, “Your flesh is more than that massive physique that impresses men so much. It is an anchor to this world, as if you weren’t meant to fly. And when you die, it will return to the earth, and all that will be left will be this ugly, stained, cracked little ring.”

  Vidar did see his ring, the way he saw it the day it was cut from his chest.

  “But the experiences of the flesh that affect your mind, your gut, and your heart, those things that make you who you are, your soul ring binds to your spirit for all eternity.”

  Too big to fit on a finger, too small to fit on an arm, Vidar’s ring, once coated in purest gold, was now exposed for what it was—cracked and stained, mottled with shades of brown and black.

  Seeing his soul again was like finding something precious he hadn’t even realized was lost.

  “Of course, I had the gold your gothi had it dressed it in burned away. I find those adornments unnecessary, adding needless weight to something that’s already a lot to bear.”

  Vidar yearned to hold what he’d so willingly and foolishly given to his father—never receiving the love and acceptance he believed his gift would bring in return.

  The old man spun around on his heels, showing an unexpected agility. For the first time, he gave a half toothless smile, as if proud of his masquerade, before continuing to tell his story.

  “I’ve eaten from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.

  “I’ve offered its fruit to men, and they have gorged on it—lowering themselves to that of the animals.

  “There is a price to pay for such gifts. I gave my eye for wisdom, thinking it would bring me peace. Now, the same way you gave your ring to your father for acceptance, you will leave it with me in exchange for power!”

  Old Erik pulled back his eyelid, and with knotted, calloused fingertips he tugged at the green eye until it snapped out of his head with a squishy vacuous pop—the gaping hole left behind, a window to distant constellations.

  Eyes fixed on the emptiness, Vidar’s throat tightened, and he felt a cold line of sweat run down his temple.

  He hated this feeling. It was fear.

  The old man kept talking as if pulling an eyeball out of his head was something people did every day.

  “I drink the blood of Kvasir.

  “I can be all, or I can be nothing. Either satisfies me.

  “I am anything I need to be. I am the graven image.

  “To some I am the world. To others I am nature, itself.

  “I am the serpent. I am the wanderer.”

  Vidar only understood that the old man was a poet, and probably wasn’t an old man at all. His attention had moved to the eye. The green thing had a stalking appendage coming out of the back like a black leech, probing until it found purchase. Latching onto the web of Old Erik’s hand, between his thumb and forefinger, its pupil constricted as it focused on the giant from between Erik’s fingertips.

  Vidar had never been quick of mind, but that eye—

  Odin!

  Vidar dropped to one knee.

  The old man flipped the green eyeball into his palm and lifted Vidar’s chin with his open fingers until he was back on his feet. Vidar’s vision blurred as his eyes locked onto the thing staring back at him from the old man’s palm, now less than two inches from his nose.

  “Stand up. You will show reverence for me later. We have much to discuss. Why are you here?”

  “My ship got caught in a storm.” Vidar didn’t understand the question. “I would have said it was by your good favor, but now—well, I guess it was luck.”

  “Let me tell you a secret, Vidar. Nothing happens without a purpose. Only a fool believes in luck.” Old Erik pulled his hand away from Vidar’s chin, dipped the eye in his cup like a teabag, and pushed it back into its empty socket. “Good or bad. You are here for a reason, and I will turn it to my own advantage.”

  “Excuse me, Lord. My ring?”

  “What about it? Do you want it back? Do you still want it now that you know I’m not just an old fool?”

  “It’s just that, well, I can feel it,” replied Vidar. “Ja. I want it back.”

  “Yes,” Old Erik hissed, “I know you do. Not so insignificant to you now, is it? Worth more than your father’s approval? How about a god’s?” The green of Old Erik’s eye strained to find its target, bumping around in its socket like a fish trying to escape a shallow pool. “What do you think he sold it to me for?”

  “What?”

  “You don’t think your father just gave your ring to me without a price, do y
ou? Do you think him that cold?”

  Vidar’s father was that cold. He was sure of that. Other than inheriting his large stature, being the son of Jarl Olaf hadn’t granted Vidar many favors in life. He might’ve even been worse for it.

  “Olaf included your ring as part of a sacrifice, over which he prayed that he would be able to build a great kingdom, that he would live a life worthy of being remembered, that he would receive a warrior’s death, and a place at the table in Valhalla.”

  “A prayer worthy of a Viking lord,” Vidar replied. His father always did have a way with words. Neither Vidar nor Egil had inherited that gift.

  Old Erik slammed his fist on the table. “The same prayer every Viking who’s ever whetted a blade, lord or common, prays—as if to blame all of their treachery on the religion they chose. I’ll gladly accept the blood sacrifices of men on the battlefield, but they will be responsible for their own sins. If riches, power, and glory are what they wanted, then that will be their reward. But guilt is the cost, and that will be their debt to pay—not mine!” The old sorcerer’s green eye twitched wildly as he sat back and emptied his cup. The drink did its work, and the old man seemed to calm.

  “What made your father’s sacrifice so interesting was when he gave me your ring, he asked that I grant your brother, Egil, and his sons after him, rule over his kingdom until Ragnarok come.”

  “He sacrificed my soul for the sake of my brother’s line?” Vidar felt hollow inside.

  “Surprising, yes? I agree. For we both know what’s most important to your father is your father, and that if his line, by either son, continues to reign then he will never be forgotten. But he made his plea for your brother. I’ve seen fathers do worse for the sake of their first-born son.”

  An eerie calm set in, like the sea on a windless night. There was no feeling, no sound, no anything. Then a storm began to gather, and the emptiness began to churn. Olaf had not been a good father. He’d barely even been around until his sons were old enough to go a‘Viking. He had often expressed his disappointment in them.

  Now it was Vidar’s turn.

  It was like the man he respected the most had opened his chest and ripped his soul out again in this very spot. How could his father’s treachery still have this kind of affect on him? He wasn’t even here. Vidar hated him for that, too.

  “Are you alright, Vidar?” Old Erik’s face was solemn, but something in his mismatched eyes had turned wicked.

  “You know, he barely ever mentioned the gods unless he was cursing or about to wield a sword in battle.” He wanted to hurt his terrible father—and Old Erik, too. “Are you really Odin?”

  The old man smiled. “You seemed so sure. Not what you expected?”

  “You asked me why I’m here. Now I’m asking you why you’re here. I mean no disrespect, but I just woke up from a long nap, and I don’t think I can solve a riddle right now. I need to hear it plainly. Are you Odin? And if you are, why are you here?”

  Beer soaked into the old man’s beard as he emptied his cup. It was the first thing he’d done the way Vidar pictured the old god would. “I’m here, because Old Afi has lost his way. I want a leader to take the throne and make these people yearn for a beautiful death. I want their souls.”

  “Why? There is no glory here. Does Asgard have farms that need tending?”

  “I am a collector. I’m not the only one.”

  Vidar’s eye’s narrowed. “Why would you collect souls?”

  “It’s like a game,” replied the old man. “Nothing to concern yourself with other than one thing: I’m keeping yours.”

  The Flask and the Flagon

  “Your soul was mine the very moment you gave this ring to your father. It was mine every time you killed a man for your own sake, every time you hated your brother or your father. You gave it to me every time you decided which of your men would live or die on your ship. All were sacrifices to me. Let me ask you, Vidar, did you recognize the flavor of the marrow Elsa puts in her broth?” Old Erik’s green eye glimmered like a fire had been lit behind it.

  “So, I’m keeping your soul, the one you gave to me more times than you’ll ever know. But you are one of the fortunate ones, for I have bigger plans for you.”

  Vidar’s gaze only left the ring when the old man put it in his pocket. As if a spell was broken, the longing lessened as soon as he lost sight of it.

  Vidar looked around at the broken-down shack half buried in the mountain. It was nothing like how Valhalla was supposed to be. Maybe all fathers, even the Allfather, eventually disappoint their sons.

  No, this was Odin, he assured himself. Odin, the great warrior, the father of the gods. And Valhalla was grand, with beautiful Valkyries and tables overflowing with food and drink. That place was reserved for his army of the glorious dead. Vidar would have to earn a seat at that table on the battlefield. Now was a time to watch. A time to learn from the god who gave an eye for wisdom. Still, both of Vidar’s eyes lingered on the pocket that held the hole he now felt in his chest.

  Old Erik used his forearm to clear a space on the table. Vidar just managed to save his mug of ale before the old man knocked it onto the floor along with the butter and bread.

  Two ravens flitted down from nowhere to jockey for the scraps.

  Old Erik licked his thin lips as he pulled out two containers, one red crystal flask, the other a blue glazed ceramic flagon.

  The flagon had two red rings about the choke of its neck. He hummed to himself as he pulled the leather stopper out with his corrupted teeth and poured two small ceramic cups quarter full, before taking a swig directly from the jug.

  “What are we drinking, Father?” Vidar asked.

  Old Erik smiled—his green eye straying to peek down at the silver-colored beer.

  “You will think of me as your father after you drink what I offer. This,” he said, handing Vidar a cup, “is the blood of Kvasir. I offer you something many have sought, but few received.”

  “Why would you offer me such a gift?”

  “Because I need you to lead for me. And right now, you are stupid, and that will never do.”

  Vidar’s jaw tightened, but the old man touched his hand. Ice ran down his veins, colder than the winter gale that carried him to those very shores. Even the tears that old Erik’s touch was ringing from his dry eyes refused to fall, like a maid trying to squeeze milk from a frozen goat’s teat.

  “How do you think your father got to be jarl?” the old man whispered.

  He’d been eating onions.

  “Do you think it’s because he’s so mighty? Hmmm? So good with an axe? Did you ever wonder why he was so terrible to you and your brother? It’s because you reminded him of his own weakness—what he was before he sold me his soul. But since he doubts his bargain, I now offer the same terms to you. After all, a gift for the son is a gift for the father. Every good father would agree with that. Was your father a good father, Vidar?”

  Vidar did not like this game. Olaf may have been a dreadful father, but it was his sword that made him jarl. Was this old goat going to try to claim all his successes, too? He wanted to flip the table—to remind Old Erik he was no ordinary man—but couldn’t even blink his eyes.

  “Calm down, Vidar,” replied the old snake, smiling. “Your glory will remain your own. It’s souls I’m after.”

  Did the old trickster know his thoughts, now? Vidar’s veins thawed as Old Erik touched his hand again, and he managed to shiver. He could move but didn’t dare try.

  “No longer will you lead men because of your father’s name, or because you are a brute. This drink, this mead of inspiration, will give you what you desperately lack—wit and the silk tongue of a skald. You will add generations of warriors to my army.”

  Vidar hated his father for selling his soul, but for Egil? With eyes locked on Old Erik’s, he wrapped his fingers around the cup, slowly lifted it to his mouth—and drank. The mead was sour, and by the time he finished it his taste buds began to burn. His head fe
lt dizzy as if he’d been drinking for hours. He cowered when the empty cup hit the table like a clap of thunder. He smelled the lye in the soap Elsa used to wash his beard, felt the dampness of the sweat breaking from every pore of his skin, from his forehead to the balls of his feet. The scents from the world outside overwhelmed him. Fish were curing in a distant barn. The chicken house almost turned his stomach. The stench of dung was so strong it was as if the cows were milling around in the old man’s bedroom.

  More sounds filled his head. The echo of a distant axe splitting wood had Vidar covering his ears. The fibers of the tree screaming as they splintered.

  Every plink or creak hammered his senses. Every aroma made his stomach churn. Textures were like knives raking against his skin. The vibrancy of color crowded him, and the darkness of every shadow weighed him down. Old Erik smiled a toothless grin as he refilled Vidar’s empty cup with a red liquid from the crystal flask.

  Vidar gagged at the dried buttermilk on the old man’s beard mixing with the fermented honey, malt, and yeast riding on every breath that passed through the gaps in the old man’s foul teeth.

  “What’s wrong, Vidar? You look like you could use a drink.” He motioned to the cup.

  Vidar didn’t dare shift in his seat for fear of stimulating his heightened senses. The drink swirled and the ripples reflected the fire, until Vidar imagined the cup too hot to touch. The liquid shone crimson like blood, though thin like water. It smelled of svovel, covered by a hint of cinnamon, which burned the tips of the hairs in Vidar’s nostrils as if he’d been inhaling fire.

  He thought he’d forgotten how to cry, and now the mere act of sitting, breathing, and listening roiled his senses and made such thoughts run through his head that he feared if he didn’t he might die from the pressure welling up inside.

  “The mead of inspiration will drive you mad and eventually kill you. Ironically, firewater is the only way to quench its burning.” Erik pushed the cup closer. “This isn’t that watered-down stuff your father’s men got from some witch or the piss from some berserker. This was brewed from the finest virgin bloodweed, never having seen the sun’s light, blood-fed and harvested from places barely known by living men.”