Thorfinn and the Witch's Curse

by Jay Veloso Batista

  Thorfinn and the Witch’s Curse

  Jay Veloso Batista

  Copyright © 2019 by John “Jay” Veloso Batista, Jr.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  To Nick, my Jorvik boy

  who reminded me:

  “Do what you love.”

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to:

  •Norman Gaither, fellow author and friend, for impetus to complete my bucket list;

  •My wonderful editors, Hannah Haines, Kate Ford and Harriet Diener, and my dedicated crew of reviewers.

  •And most of all, my always supportive and ever constant partner, companion and friend, my wife Annette.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  Dramatis Personae

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Raga

  I am not a bird.

  Of course, I know what you are thinking.

  It’s easy to see how you would be mistaken, seeing me pressed into this thatch above that smoldering hearth, scratching at mites in these pin feathers, smoke smarting my eyes, listening to that rabble in their cups.

  But I assure you, I speak the truth.

  I am not a bird.

  See that Saxon down there, hungrily watching me? …She would have surely eaten me weeks ago. Good thing I chose this raven form, those east men calling me “Hugin” and “Munin,” holding me sacred to their one-eyed god, allowing me this roost unmolested. It’s been moons since I found him, down there…you can see him through the haze, the son of that petty chieftain.

  Not that boisterous, swaggering boy barely sporting fuzz on his chin, nor his toady brother slinking there, holding his father’s horn and smiling weakly at the men’s crass jokes.

  No, that timid one, the youngest lad, a bit slight for his age, sitting on the bench by his old nurse maid, that tipsy gray-haired biddy the east men are pressing to tell her favorite story, to recite the lore of their founding father. See how he listens with honest care, as if it’s a newly minted fable, although he’s heard the tale many times and can repeat the ominous ending in unison with that old sow.

  He is the one I have sought across centuries. He will lift my curse...

  I have foreseen it.

  Yeru

  “Yeru, tell us a story.”

  Bjorn started first. Ned sputtered his drink, waved his greasy knife and called, “Yeru! Yeru!” Cub, tall for his age, pushed up from his bench and waved his horn, “Wise choice, Bjorn.”

  “Yes, nurse, speak of the old times,” Agne called from his end of the long table, Gurid Blue Eyes curled under his arm, his leather tunic opened to air his ruddy chest.

  “Tell us of the warring gods, Thor’s hammer and Freya’s beauty,” Bjorn sloshed his drink, his copper bracers flashing the candles and firelight.

  “Loki’s treachery!” another shouted.

  Flushed a bit with drink and feigning fatigue to hide her satisfaction at being called to speak, she waved her hand around her cap as if to decline. Everyone cheered her, pushing for some entertainment, especially the farmers and their wives invited inside for tonight’s feast. Old Gyn, a daft smile from too much ale and eyes squinting from cook fire smoke, leaned over the table to pound and point at her. “Ye-ru! A story of the gods!” He splashed his drink across the rough-hewn table top.

  “No, Yeru, listen,” Cub cried over the rowdy gathering from his seat at his father’s side, “Listen. I want to hear the story of how Grandfather killed the witch.”

  “Ah, Alf Ironfist!” Sven tugged his long mustache, “Good choice young cub, we haven’t heard that old acorn in a basket o’ moons, and it grows in grandeur with each telling!” Agne’s men joined in his laughter and raised their horns for another round. Ursep weaved among the guests to pour brown ale and distribute the remaining hard, brown bread. Gurid, next to Agne in the high chair, her youngest asleep in her arms, felt a chill and motioned with her free arm for Mae to close the shutters, while silver haired Tima bent to re-kindle the embers in the fire pit, sending sparks into the rafters and startling the old raven perched in the chimney hole.

  “All right,” Yeru stood, tucked her loose hair back under her cap’s fillet, and cleared her throat theatrically. “All right, let me begin properly….” The hall settled slightly in anticipation and she noisily cleared her throat again.

  “In the dim time between the fall of Deria and Danelaw, the coast of Northumbria was ravaged by rovers,” Yeru began in a sonorous voice and the high language she had learned from her father who had been a traveling poet to Jarls. She practiced this story many times, confident in its telling and her recent embellishments, “Vikings they were--Harbingers of the Great Army destined to conquer East Anglia, they arrived in long boats with carved wyrm or bear faced prows, fierce warriors with battle hardened mounts, Danes and Jutes, Nords, Frisians and sons of Skane, full of lust for blood and glory.” Yeru paused dramatically and lowered her voice—she had her audience’s attention—even Mae had stepped up to the table and leaned forward in expectation.

  “For the native Saxons, it began with a rare sighting, a single sail on the horizon at dusk, a whisper here, a mysterious footprint there…but, for those a viking,” she smiled at the grinning faces around the room, “word quickly spread through the east men, our brave sailors of the North Sea, word of defenseless riches waiting, unguarded by Saxons or Britons, Picts or Angles, feeble, ill-fed and unwashed heathen who squandered their treasure and warred among themselves…and soon the long ships came, as predictable as winter turns to summer. It was a season all of itself, the grand raid, and the peoples of East Anglia feared our Vikings.” Many in her drunken audience applauded these words.

  “It was during this raiding time that four Jutland long ships of seventy stout east men agreed to work together to raid the walled city of Eoforwic, built upon the old battlements of an ancient fortress.”

  Old Gyn whispered hoarsely to Sorven and young Thorfinn, “That we call Jorvik now, Fishergate.” The boys nodded in unison.

  “To our cousins, this was rich plunder, a chance to topple a grand city ripe with glories to be won, as there were none in living memory who could speak of its prior fall. Their plan was a brazen assault relying on surprise and the strength of arms to carry the day. Armed in loose alliance, the four flat keeled ships turned inland at the river Humber, following its tributaries, rowing deep into the heart of Northumbrian lands. Soon they followed the narrow river Ouse north, to where rumors told them lay the grand city.

  “The captains had Friesian mounts, big, black and glossy, so these horses were pulled over the bulwarks into the choppy river water, and the men ported their long boats high onto the shore, under scruff trees that slung low over the riverside. Their loyalties uncertain, each captain called his team to his side and gave them sage directions, while the crew checked their shields and walked the mounts to restore their land-legs. One passionately implored to Thor in a loud prayer, another called on Odin and challenged his men by name so that the Valkyries could hear and note each, one drew lots to choose a ship guard and listed the tasks of readying for a fight, and one quietly left a grain cake by his mast to appease his boat troll while his me
n stretched and joked amongst themselves. A single warrior was sent over the hills to spy the lay of the land, and he returned faster than expected with a description of two roads, one heading north along the shore, and one tending west, following the humped hills and skirting a copse of ragged pines. They had landed just north of the crossroad but spied no buildings or farmhouses. It was a desolate, empty place—all the more to serve their purpose.” Yeru paused with a deep breath. The collection of warriors, farmhands, wives, and children quieted.

  “The four captains held conference, and it was agreed that the northerly way was most likely the road to Eoforwic, but to be certain a group would be sent, and sent with all haste, along the other path, to report back if they should chance upon their intended goal. To allow them time to investigate and return, the main contingent would take a slower pace and conserve energy for their upcoming fight. Now as you can imagine, none wanted this scouting mission, for if the road was indeed the wrong way, there was a chance that they would not return in time to join the battle.” Around the table, the men shook their heads and a few women rolled their eyes. “So,” Yeru drew the word out, pointing at those seated before her, “lots were drawn to choose the men—one, two, three! Three being a lucky number, the first was the sly Dunst Ornson, the second the tall Alf Ironfist, who claimed tie to the House of Scylfingar, the Skanish Kings of yore,” here, Yeru paused as the men gathered around the long table lifted their horns, pounded the wood and stomped their feet, and roared a salute, “To Alf Ironfist!”

  “Good old Alf!”

  “Ironfist, hurrah!”

  “…and Haerl Garfennsen, called Haerl the Mad, for like other bear shirts, he foreswore armor and became blind and terrible in the heat of battle lust, a danger to foe and friend alike. Bearing the taunts of their crew-mates, the three shouldered their shields and started off to follow the westerly road.

  “Winter had changed to summer in East Anglia in shades of green and…”

  “Mud!” shouted Ned. The Danes guffawed and hooted.

  Ignoring the interruption, Yeru continued, “As the three warriors marched over the byway, the sky overcast with dark, heavy clouds, and soon a chill rain began to spit. Dunst, son of Orn strode with his war hammer ready in his hand, its grip turned in leather and its head oak banded with iron. Behind him Haerl, bare chest damp in the weather, grumbled loudly at their errand, followed by Alf, occasionally snorting in laughter at Haerl’s moaning complaints. In the distance they saw a poor farm, a wattle and daub shed tucked against a break-wind of cedars, with a weak trail of white hearth smoke to tell of inhabitants and a single, thin cow lowing in the field. Not willing to waste their time, Dunst led them at a swift pace, head down and eyes squinting against the blowing wet. In less than a mile the road entered a wood and it became difficult to judge if the road held true to its original direction. The forest floor was humped with hills and ravines, and small paths crossed the main path at odd angles. Under the mossy old trees, the light grew dim and shadowed, and the road became strewn with the litter of the winter past, piles of fallen sodden leaves, broken branches, pale spindly weed sprouts and corpse white mushrooms poking from the brown rot. Dunst slowed their march, listening carefully to the gloomy forest. The three startled a hart and its escape was unexpectedly loud as it crashed through the brush. Even grouchy Haerl fell silent.

  “The three came to a crossroads in the deep wood. Here stood a wooden post carved with symbols, not unlike runes, but none among them could read the mysterious carvings. Mossy and worm mined, the post seemed to indicate the way. Impatient Haerl called for them to take the new way, for in his view, it was a marker on the road to Eoforwic. Dunst studied the marks, and noted that each side held a different set, one seeming Saxon to his eye. Nothing indicated the symbols for Eoforwic, which he had seen before on his captain’s map of the coast, a Saxony sketch on stretched leather, gathered in a prior raid. Alf and Haerl had never learned to read, so they stood scanning the roadways, watchful for potential dangers although the woods seemed to be empty save for birds, dripping rain and rustling leaves. Dunst puzzled a while over the marker and the question of whether to continue on the original route, take the new path or turn back and retrace their steps. If only they could see the sun and get a sense of direction… Haerl pleaded for them to turn here, for he feared retracing their steps would put them far behind the main force, and they would miss the battle. Surely taking this new road is the way to Eoforwic?”

  The audience barked agreement! Calls of “Don’t miss the fight!” and “Watch out for that witch, she’s a tricky one!” brought laughter from all sides. Yeru continued, “Why miss all the glory and plunder? Had not they wasted enough time? Persuaded, Dunst turned …to the new road.” Yeru nodded, locking her eyes with those around her one by one, and held up her hands to quiet the rowdy men. She looked down at young Finn at her side and pointed at his wide eyes.

  “This was the choice,” she said in her most commanding tone, looking directly in Finn’s eyes. “This was the choice that sealed their fate and the fate of generations to come. For the post was not a road mark, but a warning to men that most could read, as well as to advertise to the few who seek evil: The runes warned travelers away from this route, for it led to the keep of the Warlock and his brood of witch daughters. Skilled in ancient Druidical ways and conversant with nymphs and pixies, the last remaining daughter of the old shape-shifter lived in the stone tower that her father’s slaves had built. Her name was Kellanthia, and she had watched her father and sisters each claimed by old age in their time, but she had committed herself to cheating mortal death and had gathered more arcane knowledge and skills than any that had come before her! She had faithfully kept the family totems of power, a silver tray and silver scissors for the Mid-summer eve ceremonies, and a golden eye-shaped fob on a slender divining chain, but her most prized possession was an iron bowl, inset with runes at the rim. This blackened pot had been cast by her Father from the very stone under their tower, and had held the blood of many enemies, sacrifices, and even a minor imp who had dared to steal from them, as well as years of arcane admixtures.” Sven lowed like a cow at this statement, and Agne choked, strangling his laughter.

  “The day faded, and the evening grew dark under the cloudy skies. The three warriors followed the road as it coursed through the ancient wood, as it rose up a steep hillside and emerged on a craggy promontory where across a rocky field a stone tower rose before a steep ravine. Haerl growled at the sight, for it seemed to him a watchtower and clearly evidence that they had happened on the proper track, and with a shout, he drew his short sword and charged forward to the tower. Black rain clouds pressed down on the clearing and thunder rumbled in the sky. Dunst and Agne held back, cautious, for there seemed something awry with the place—the grass was matted and yellowed, not fresh with summer’s green, and the tower was surrounded by tall poles with strings and bits of rope and scraps of cloth fluttering in the wind. Vigilant, they separated and circled the field, Dunst evaluating the ravine, a deep cut dropping to a cataract, and Agne searching for evidence of protectors, but instead finding an overrun garden of odd plants and thorns and vines. Upon examination the poles were strung with small bird bones, bits of yarn, dried frogs and lizards, and many of the rocks and boulders that rose like headstones in the yard were topped with weathered skulls of animals. A sense of foreboding overcame Ironfist.

  “Dunst met Haerl at the tower’s base, facing the entry door. Heavy planks covered with strange marks, banded by iron and set into the stone work, it seemed a formidable redoubt, but as Haerl gripped the handle, it slid easily in its groove and the door swung open to a darkened room. Sword raised high, the berserker advanced. More careful, Dunst stepped up to the entry and peered into the gloom. Alf, prudent and still hanging back, found himself blinded by the rain suddenly falling in sheets.”

  Yeru stepped away from the table and moved about the long hall, placing her hand on Cub’s shoulder, “Your grandfather Alf could he
ar Haerl cursing and smashing about inside the tower. From the corner of his eye, he caught a movement at its top, so he stumbled back and shielded his eyes from the storm to gain a better look…There!” She pointed into the dim light in the rafters, “There! A flash of lightning illuminated a scrawny hunchbacked shape in windswept robes raising hands to the sky. His heart leapt, for the figure’s eyes glinted red and peered straight at him like a wolf.” Yeru paused—she could remember Agne’s father recite the tale, and always at this point in his grand story he hesitated, as if he refrained from telling all. She looked around the hall, the table still scattered with the remnants of the boar and bits of chicken bones that had not yet been thrown to the dogs, the odor of close company and the roast mingling with the smoke from the hearth.

  “Dunst,” She continued, “his eyes growing accustomed to the darkness, entered the siege tower, a single round room filled with a clutter, drying herbs hung from beams, rough wooden furnishings, a table piled with leathers, scrolls of parchment carefully stacked in holes carved in the stony walls. The place smelled sour and chemical, stale and musty, and all the piles muffled sounds. The room seemed more confused since Haerl had bashed through, and the burly Viking stood before a dim, smoky fire on a wide hearth, shaking the rain from his hair. Dunst rummaged through the piles and pulled loose a thick scroll, which, crossing to the fire, he held in the coals until it caught and made a crackling torch. With light the room became stranger still, as the flickering flames illuminated mysterious runes painted on the walls and beams, some faint and pale, others crimson bright or azure blue. Suddenly bursting into the room, Alf Ironfist’s shout of warning broke the silence—'They are on the tower, I have seen them!’ Haerl reacted first, griping a ladder lashed to the wall, and climbing one-handed wielding his sword, his shield slung across his shoulder. Dunst held the burning scroll high to light his way. Haerl charged up the rickety ladder, and without hesitation burst through the square roof door, clambering up and out of sight. Dunst waved the fiery scroll, scattering bits of ashes, and motioned for Alf to follow the bear shirt. Above they heard Haerl howl and heard his heavy tread pound the ceiling.” Yeru stomped her feet on the plank floor of the longhouse.