by Jon Garett
Part Two
In his renowned life of adventure, Seamus Tripp had traveled the world and seen all sorts of mystics and relics, hidden treasures and forbidden tombs, holymen and old crones. He had certainly seen enough to know a threat when he saw one, but now that he saw the gathering upon the hill on the edge of town he was reasonably certain that the small bonfire was no threat to a man of his stature.
So as he and Gort and Elie crept about the bottom of the hill, like a gang of burglars casing a bank, he grew increasingly frustrated with their guide, his old friend Erik Hansen. Erik had grown up in these parts but had left as a newly minted pastor to see the world, joining up with the same unit of Spanish Irregulars that Seamus had. At the time, Seamus was attempting to infiltrate a Berber cult safeguarding the entrance to a Carthaginian crypt. The differences in their motives notwithstanding, the companionship of another English-speaker was a relief and a comfort to both out in that dreary North African desert.
Now, scant less than two decades later, and Erik had apparently become something of a homebody; preaching at lutefisk dinners, succoring nervous local politicians, and adopting the most ludicrous middle-western American accent in the meantime.
“You betcha,” Seamus said to himself, not really meaning for it to be out loud.
“What was that?” said Erik, turning from his crouch behind the trunk of a big leafless maple tree.
“Nothing. Just practicing my speech to the locals.”
“I wouldn’t take it too lightly.” Hansen whispered, shushing Seamus to speak in a quieter voice. “There are forces at work in town. Things I don’t fully understand yet.”
“What’s to understand? Farmers with nothing to do during the winter. Probably rediscovering some pagan Nordic winter festival.”
“Now there you go again,” said Hansen. Seamus could not tell if the accent was meant to be funny. “It’s more than that. Stand still for a moment and focus on that bonfire.”
Seamus looked up the hill through the torchlight, which seemed to dim as he concentrated on the center blaze. He knew in an instant what Erik meant: something was emanating from that point. A dark, psychic, malevolent probing.
“What is it?” said Elie, startling Seamus. He had forgotten the children were waiting quietly behind them.
“Not sure,” said Hansen.
“Definitely something from atop the hill,” said Gordon. He had moved up around Elie and the four were now in a loose circle, still all crouched behind the tree.
“If your uncle and I move closer can you two stay here and wait for word before coming out?”
“Ya, sure,” said Gordon. Seamus narrowed his eyes. The boy did have a knack for language and accent.
“Then stay here and wait for us,” said Erik. “Won’t be long.” He motioned Seamus to follow and started out across the snow toward another tree a quarter-way up the hill.
As soon as they had stepped out of cover, the full intensity of the power at the center of the fire struck Seamus. He did not give it much thought until they had reached the next point.
“It’s a village witch,” he said. “She’s enthralled some of the townsfolk, and she’s calling for them.”
“Agathe.”
“Who’s that?”
“Agathe Erickson. New blood. Widow. Owns a lot of land southwest of here. Raised in Norway. She’s even expressed some interest in local politics.”
“New blood?”
“Not even thirty years yet in town.”
“Children?” said Seamus.
“None. Old Lars died not a year after bringing her back from the Old Country.”
“But she’s a witch? Aren’t those Norwegian witches supposed to be virginal and unwed and such?”
“Made the wedding a bit of a scandal, no doubt about it. Story has it that folks knew right off that there was something dark about her. And Lars’ untimely death made the whole episode that much darker, don’t you know.”
“Darker, indeed,” said Seamus. “Well, there’s naught to do but confront her. Break the spell now.” Seamus stood up straight before Erik had a chance to object. “I know a threat when I see one, and this ain’t…” He stopped and cocked his head. Three figures were descending the hill directly toward them. Looked to be three men.
“We best be on our way,” said Erik, seeing the men, and the fear in his voice gave Seamus pause. Surely Erik also knew a threat when he saw one. And then Seamus saw, in the light of the moon on the snow, the red glow of the figures’ eyes.
“D’accorde,” he said, and just like that they were retracing their steps toward the big maple at the base of the hill, first at a quick walk and then at a run. “Children! Run!” called Seamus as they approached the tree. Elie looked out from one side of the tree, Gordon from the other.
“Behind you!” called Gordon, as if Seamus and Erik were simply jogging through the snow on a lark.
“Run!” said Seamus again, and the four fell into pace down the hill together.
Elie was initially in the lead, running out on to the deserted main street that ran through the center of town. The other three struggled to catch up to her, a necessity since, as Elie had no doubt forgotten in the excitement of the chase, she did not know whither she ran.
Seamus looked over his shoulder. The three figures had fallen behind slightly, but he was alarmed to note that they had also grown in stature. By this time Erik had chased down Elie and was guiding the group across the town’s small central square.
Seamus gasped in the cold air but managed to shout a warning to Erik that their pursuers appeared to be getting bigger.
“Draugr,” Hansen said, as if to explain. Seamus did not know the term.
“Viking zombies,” Gordon said between breaths.
“Should we be nervous?” said Seamus. Before anyone could answer a log the width of his thigh crashed into the cobblestones to their right. Seamus glanced back again: one of the draugr had uprooted a tree and was tossing pieces of its trunk up the street at the group. All three figures looked well over twelve feet tall now.
“We need shelter,” said Seamus to Erik as they turned left past a drugstore and bakery.
“Hannah Hanson,” he responded. Seamus looked to Gordon for explanation, who just shrugged. “The other witch in Nininger,” Erik said.
They ran out the west side of town to a small farmhouse a few hundred yards farther down the road. The draugr had fallen so far behind now that the projectile tree trunks were falling well short of range. Seamus saw with relief that lamps within the house were lit, as if the occupant was expecting visitors in the middle of the night.
They alighted the front porch and the door swung open. A diminutive woman, about Erik’s age and with the blonde hair typical of these Scandinavians, welcomed them in, sat them in the parlor before a warm hearth, and offered up cups of warm chamomile tea. Not the kind of thing Seamus generally drank, but a delight after the cold and exhausting run through town.
“The draugr will not bother you here,” said Hannah Hanson after the group had rested and sipped their tea, though no one had brought up the topic. Seamus looked around the parlor, at the subtle symbols painted into the wallpaper border and the tokens and seals affixed over the doors and window. “You seem surprised by those symbols,” she said, watching his face.
“Yes. Though I don’t know enough Norse witchcraft to speak to it.”
“I do,” said Gordon unhelpfully, pointing to the same painted symbols on the wallpaper. “You can see runic characters for protection there and…”
“Not the point I was getting at,” said Seamus. “I had taken Hannah’s practice to be – how can I put this delicately? – pagan. Wodan and Loki and all that.”
“And you’re surprised the town’s Lutheran pastor would guide you here?” said Erik.
“Yes. Though, again, perhaps there’s a depth of Christianity lurking beneath the veneer of Old World paganism that I don’t see.”
“No, there’s not,” said
Gordon. “No Christianity here…”
“Who cares?” said Elie, mercifully cutting Gordon off. “Yahweh, Allah, Odin, Whoever. Those draugr probably don’t care one way or the other what you call it when they’re chasing you.”
“My thought exactly,” said Erik. “There are certain truths, and threats, that transcend the differences between faiths.”
Seamus thought back, just for a moment, to the hot, dry days in Tunisia: despite his personal faith, Erik had always effectively connected with the various contingents of their Irregulars battalion: Catholic Germans, Presbyterian Scots, Muslim Moors, and the smörgåsbord of North African tribal religions.
“Our fears are borne out,” Erik was speaking to Hannah while the others listened. “It’s Agathe, without a doubt. The gathering was yet bigger this evening.”
“And you raised her attention?”
“We did. Unintentionally.”
“Then we must act. Now that she is revealed - and knows we are aware of her power - she will intend to take action immediately, especially given Sogaard’s election.”
“My sense,” said Seamus, “is that the townsfolk are just a touch ensorcelled. Breaking the witch will break the spell.”
“How do you break a witch?” said Elie.
“That is what we must discuss,” said Erik, and he began to describe how he could combine his power with Hannah’s to confront and defeat Agathe.
“A ‘flyting’?” asked Elie when he was done.
“It’s a bit hard to describe,” said Erik, turning to Seamus. Seamus, for his part, did not have a clue what the term meant and
