Thorfinn and the Witch's Curse

by Jay Veloso Batista

  “Mistress, we are astonished to find such a high-born lady as yourself here, upon this windswept stone. How did you come to be here…?” Jormander asked, tilting his head in deference.

  “I am Marta Svendottir,” she hesitated, furrowed her brow, then continued, “…for my own protection, I was set on this sea-rimmed hillock by my brother, Maru, son of Sven. Maru is bannerman and shield bearer to the Jarl of Zetland, as our family has been for generations. Zetland is pledged to Tangle-hair and his Father before him, you’ll be welcome there.” She turned away from them to the sea—from this post at the peak of the hill, one could see for miles across the ocean. She explained in a quieter voice. “Blessed by Vanaheim, I have the true sight. It is a blessing… and a curse. My brother removed me from the Jarl’s court when too many of my prophesies came to pass, especially those unwanted. Men are funny creatures, to desire knowledge of the Fates’ designs, but to fear comprehension. Of course, the small-minded blame the seer….” Karl watched some emotions play across the unscarred side of her face. “When I saw you coming, I thought you were my brother’s men in a new boat. They bring supplies when I run low,” she looked at Karl, “like now.” Karl nodded and looked directly in her eyes so she could read the truth of his words, if indeed that was her gift.

  “We don’t have a lot, but you are welcome to share our meal with us, Marta Svendottir of Zetland. If there is any service we can render while we are ashore, speak and we will gladly support you. My burly mates have need to stretch and work their backs while we rest on this solid stone.” She sized up the two men, Jormander eye-to-eye, brown hair and beard cut close, and Karl a head taller, barrel chested, his thatch yellow hair pulled back from his broad forehead and cinched with a thong, his clear blue eyes and his beard full as a bird’s nest. Laughter lined in his face. She noted the ornate gold ring around Karl’s arm, a memento of service to a powerful Jarl.

  “Your manners are a tribute to your people and your education, Karl Alfenson, son of Ironfist,” Marta declared. “Your offer is kind, but I have no need to accept. I have enough for myself, little as it is, and, besides, some find my appearance…. less than appealing.” She touched her scarred cheek. Glancing at Jormander, she continued, “As for services, I have no need of a skald, my dreams provide entertainment enough, and there is no labor here that can occupy your crew.” When she smiled, her face crinkled lopsided, as one side was expressive with deep dimples, and the other frozen by the angry scar. “Go sup with your men. There is plenty of potable water here, spring fed, it runs down to the sea, so help yourselves and fill your stores. If you wish to rest the night, you may stay upon the shore.” Karl bowed his head to thank her.

  “And if I would seek to gain advantage by your true sight?”

  At this request her brow knitted, her crooked smile fading. “It is not easy for me, for in the casting I learn what I would not know. True sight is not easy for you either, east man. It is not an easy burden to carry, knowing one’s fate. Some have not appreciated the prophesies I have laid at their feet, as you can no doubt tell from my little gift,” she touched her scar, “and to tell you true, often readings are wrapped in mystery, only apparent in the last moment as they manifest….”

  Karl stood quiet, his face impassive. She looked at the scars on his arms and knuckles, the mark of a battle seasoned warrior. She considered Jormander, unarmed as far as she could tell, a leather bag slung over his back, the wide smile on his face belying his penetrating, inquisitive gaze. Not common rabble, these could be expected to treat her with respect, regardless of the significance of her reading….

  “I have decided, Karl Alfenson,” She raised a hand and placed it on Karl’s chest. “Return to me, the both of you, as the sun begins to set over the sea. Bring me a token to remember you. The skald stands witness, and I shall tell your future, son of Skane.”

  The crew rested, satisfied with a warm meal, the stores replenished with clear water and a few lines set to fish in the surf, Karl nominated two as sentries, one on the snekke and one to pace rounds between the boat and the fire on the shore. Climbing up the cliff and fending off swarming, angry bonxies, Marn gathered a basket of fresh eggs for the voyage.

  Both men washed in the surf and changed into clean linen tunics, and Karl combed out his beard and tamed it with sweetened oil. He selected a small gift from their cache, a leaf shaped silver clasp. At the appointed time, Karl and his skald returned to the hilltop stand of trees. The sky remained clear all day, and from the hillside they could glimpse smoke rising from Zetland Isles to the Southwest.

  Marta watched them climb the hill, and greeted them, ushering them into the stand of windswept rowan trees. In the center of the wind stunted grove a small clearing sheltered a stone walled cottage with a plank roof and small windows which stopped heavy weather with wooden shutters. Jaundiced moss grew on the roof and walls. Inside, the cramped space held a table, a hearth in the corner with a fire hole cut in the wall, and bedding rolled against the wall. Three chairs hewn from rough stumps sat beside a rickety table. A single shelf faced the entry, and it held two mud brown bowls, some linens and a woolen scarf. Pegs on the wall held miscellaneous clothes, skirts, an oiled overcoat, hats and home spun shawls. Tapers sat in little crevasses in the stone walls where the flickering light could illuminate the room. Dried herbs hung from the plank roof, giving the room an odor of rosemary, hearth ashes, candle grease and a subtle scent of the woman. On the linen covered table she laid a wooden platter, its edge carved in strange runes.

  “Sit there, son of Skane,” She directed Karl to the table, and motioned for Jormander to sit to the side where he could watch. Karl placed the clasp on the table next to the bowl and Marta nodded.

  “Once I begin reading, you must remain silent and do not break my concentration. And when I take hold of your hands, do not break the contact until we are finished, no matter what happens or what you feel—Do you understand?” Karl answered yes. Sitting across from him, Marta took her fish knife from her belt and held it up to Karl. “I must take a clip of your hair…” Karl nodded and turned his head. She reached out and deftly cut a curl free and placed it on the wooden platter. Pulling a small purse from her belt, she opened it and sprinkled some powder on the hair. “Spit in my palm,” She said, holding out her hand. Karl obliged, and she rubbed the spittle into the powder and hair, smearing until it formed a paste. She plucked a cloth from the shelf, slowly and deliberately wrapping the knife in the cloth while mumbling under her breath. Only the tip of the blade poked out of wrappings.

  “Now, prick your finger and put a drop of blood in the center of this altar,” Karl looked at Jormander who merely shrugged. Reaching out with his hand, he tapped his finger on the blade tip and squeezed a drip onto the paste. Sitting opposite Karl, the soothsayer passed the wrapped knife around the wooden plate nine times and set the blade down in front of Karl pointing at the paste. She reached to one of the alcoves, took down a candle stub, and mumbling to herself, she touched the flame to the platter between them. The substance sparked and burned fitfully, smelling of burnt hair, brimstone and an unidentifiable spice. She placed her hands palms up on either side of her little altar, indicating with a nod that Karl should take her hands. Now she began to chant in earnest, Jormander watching the ceremony carefully—her eyes closed as she stopped her muttering and her breathing grew shallow.

  They sat this way, quiet and unmoving for a considerable time. Karl began to get impatient, scowling at Jormander in the gloomy light. Jormander shook his head, indicating with an open hand that his captain should remain patient. When Marta opened her eyes, she stared off into the distance, seemly blinded by a milky haze that spread like a cataract over each orb. She began to hum tunelessly, and her voice grew in volume and strength. Her voice rang hollow, pitched in a low register from deep in her throat.

  “Karl Alfenson, seventh child and third son of Ironfist, while your brother sit on the high chair in your Father’s freehold, the heritage of a true Scylfinga
r is yours.” Karl raised his eyebrow at Jormander, as if to ask how had she learned these bits of his personal family history?

  “Prowess in arms and strategic in battle, generous with treasure and reward, you shall always be beloved and trusted by your close companions.” She paused and shuddered, and Karl felt a curious itching on the back of his neck. Following her command, he remained still in his seat, holding her hands. The candles guttered in the drafty room.

  “Enemies shall fear you, adversaries shall hate you and foes shall plot your failing all of your days, yet while breath is yours to draw, no tricks, treacheries or deceits shall trap you.” The subtle emphasis in her tone indicated to the watchful skald that while Karl himself could be assured he would remain safe against his enemies’ plots, that prophesy may not be the same for all who followed him.

  “Alfenson, your name shall be renowned. Three Jarls shall acclaim and pledge you, and skalds shall sing your praises.” Marta took a wheezing breath and rolled her head uncontrollably. “Son of Skane! Many shall die by your hands, many shall die in your arms. Through quest and deeds, you shall be known as shape-shifter’s bane,” She moaned as if witnessing a terrible scene. Jormander leaned forward to watch their faces and listen closely.

  “Two of the thunder god’s chores shall be set before you, and a mighty dragon head shall carry you to achieve your tasks.” The prickling at the base of Karl’s neck grew in strength and passed through an itch to the feeling of biting ants to the twinge and smart of stinging wasps. Remaining still became difficult, but he set his jaw against the growing annoyance and gripped her hands tighter.

  “Inn mátki munr, ‘the mighty passion’ of love, deep and true, will come only once to your heart, but children, your children will be seeds of sorrow. Wisdom and old age shall elude you, yet Karl Alfenson, you are known in Valhalla, watched by the maids of the hall, and when in glorious battle you fall the Valkyries shall carry you to the great banquet. The son of your brother shall save your life three times, and he alone will stand to cry by your grave.”

  The last smutty tendrils of smoke lifted from the wooden platter and Marta pitched her head forward over the table. Karl felt her hands go limp and the pain in his back quickly faded to a lingering warmth.

  “You squeezed my hands tight, warrior,” she lifted her head with a weak smile, “Many let go and break the spell, but not you. You held fast…I think you may have bruised me.” Karl released his hold. She placed a hand on his forearm.

  “I have told you true, Karl Alfenson, although much confuses me in your telling,” She shook her head, “You east men are much the same, probably happy that the Valkyries await your bloody end.”

  “Thanks to you Marta,” Karl stood and pushed the silver clip across the table to her. “It is a small token but keep it to remember me. We shall remember you and this service you have provided, and as we pass this isle we will stop and share bread with you.” He rose from the table and placed his hand on her shoulder for a moment, then pushed past and out the cabin door. Jormander nodded to the seer and followed Karl into the cool night air. “Until we meet again.”

  Starlit and clear, a brisk wind whistled through the hilltop grove overlooking the sea. Wrapped in a shawl, Marta stepped out of her hut to watch the men make their way down to their longboat.

  “Fare well, east men,” she murmured.

  As they moved out of earshot, Jormander chuckled.

  “So, Harald is not to be your only patron, and big lightning himself is going to set you some tasks.”

  Karl harrumphed. “I wonder, what means this ‘Shape-shifter’s bane?’”

  Jormander grunted back, “You’re asking me? Most of it was nonsense: ‘often readings are wrapped in mystery,’ isn’t that what she told us this afternoon? At least it was entertainment for an evening…”

  Karl thought about the strange itching sensation during the ceremony and felt the back of his neck, still warm to the touch.

  “Well, from the sounds of it, I’d best go find my nephew….”

  Chapter 2

  Yeru

  “Oh, you mischievous scamps!”

  Flung wide with a splash of water, the door banged the wall, followed by a shapeless sack of a woman. Gales of wild childish laughter accompanied her awkward stumble.

  “On a day like today,” Yeru sputtered as she propped open the door with her ample hip, shaking the cold water from her face and shoulders, “on such an occasion, such foolishness! Why, I’ll catch a death of chill!” She shivered theatrically, and shook her wet head, “Such foolishness!” She waved her rush broom with one hand and swung at their heads in vain, as the two boys ducked past her into the yard, the older swinging a dripping wooden bucket.

  “Mind you stay close! It’s the first day of Gormanudur and we’ll have the slaughter feast tonight. No more horseplay—your father will want to leave soon.” Empty, the bucket clattered against a water trough. The two towheads ran to the horse paddock, disappearing around a wattle fence, and with a sigh the old nurse brushed at her wet woolen smock. Grizzled hair drooped from under her cap, hung in her eyes and stuck to her cheek.

  “They’re just full of Iounn’s blessings,” slender Mae slipped past, carrying a full slop bucket in each hand, “and excited for today’s trip, too.” The daughter resembled her mother, the same green eyes and upturned nose, the same brow line, but much younger, slightly taller and slender like a vine. Unmarried, Mae’s hair hung uncovered, combed to the middle of her back.

  “Well, the god of youth can keep them--more likely Loki the trickster has their hearts! Ah, I have enough to do without cleaning up pranks and foolishness!” Grumbling, Yeru latched the door wide to air the smoky hall and began to sweep away windblown leaves with a vengeance. “To think I nursed those bear cubs, I held each in my arms, such tiny, perfect babes, and now…”

  “Don’t go making one of your grand stories….”

  The old woman sighed, and spotting the raven at the roof apex, she waved the broom and cried, “Scoot!” The bird on the roof peak simply turned its back to her.

  A single, lanky dog followed Mae, skulking low to avoid angry broom swipes. Yeru opened the second, wide door and shook out her broom, raising dust and a cough. Hens scattered and clucked angrily at her, and the cur rounded Mae and crept across the yard. Yeru stepped back to admire the carved support beams framing the wide entry.

  Mae set her bucket down and leaned against the open door. Yeru nodded at her daughter, “Those boys don’t know the hard work, the real effort that built this place. This great long hall has been my home since I was taken under Ironfist’s protection, back when he first settled this freehold.” She pointed at the long house. “I remember when they set the first foundation stones.” Mae rolled her eyes. Yeru whacked her broom, loosening leaves from the support beams and lintel above her head, brushing dust from the carved wooden frame, decorated in the Nordic fashion with dragons and intertwined oak leaves. Bound with black iron and hobnails, the heavy doors required chocks to let the great room air, and because the women gathered ashes from the stone-lined fire pit, disturbed soot set floating motes into the morning sunlight in clouds. “Get Ursep and shake out those sleeping pallets against the back wall, and when Agne leaves his private room, collect the night water from there as well.”

  Across the courtyard Tima carried an armful of damp laundry up the dirt mounded against the big barn’s foundation walls to hang it on pegs. Mog drank from the bucket tied to the well. Smaller pit houses with large X-shaped beams framing their entrance door backed against the stables. The smell of baking bread and a hint of herbs lingered around the outside kitchen. Clanging sounded from the smithy beyond the barn. The door to the single men’s lodge banged open, Ned stretching as he stumbled out to join Mog at the well.

  “Men!” Yeru grunted, “wish I could sleep away the morn…. Here,” she offered to take one of the buckets on the stoop.

  Mother and daughter carried their loads around the barn, careful not to
spill their contents. Beyond the paddock stood two open walled buildings used for temporary stowage when Agne transshipped wares, and at the end of the stockade lay a long, low boat house with its separate yard, a narrow building for drying out longboats home from the sea. They followed a well-worn path in the grass beneath the ten-foot palisade of sharpened posts and slowly carried their burden to the latrines dug in the back corner against the compound wall. One at a time, each slipped through the woven willow privacy fence to dump the night water in the trench.

  Yeru smiled in satisfaction and led the way back to the longhouse stoop. The buckets set aside, she picked up her broom and stirred the dust away from the doorstep.

  Mae retrieved the boy’s empty bucket and stood by the well. “Do you think it’s true, that Gurid will allow it?”

  “The word is Agne looks favorably on the match. Willa is of age.”

  “Willa is Gurid’s favorite. She’ll pine if that girl leaves,” Mae sulked.

  “She’s got three more maids to keep her company. Lass, you only think of yourself!” Yeru swept the flagstones to the well, and poked her crooked finger at her daughter, “You are in waiting for Willa, and in waiting shall you stay until the finest match can be made!” Yeru clicked her tongue, “Tsk, tsk. I have seen the way you flirt with those Jorvik boys who come to work the fields. You best be watching yourself! Don’t you worry about Willa.”

  Yeru leaned on her broom and smiled, “Although, a wedding would be nice, wouldn’t it? Dress the place up and hold a grand feast. Agne would spare no expense for his eldest.”

  Finn

  “Wait for me.”

  Sorven easily dashed ahead of his little brother, past the horse walks and the smith furnace, across the yard between the men’s huddle and the shed for their wagons. He stopped to grab two wooden stakes from a pile next to the pigsty, tossed one to Finn and swung his like a sword.