Thorfinn and the Witch's Curse

by Jay Veloso Batista

  “Err, it is good to see your smiling face and hear my father’s tongue again.”

  “Aye, and how is your beautiful Blue Eyes? And the farm?”

  “Old One-Eye has smiled upon us again this year, for we have a good harvest, plenty in store and two yearlings to train to the bit and yoke. Our caravans are still demanded, and my banner is still trusted. Mog is here for market day, and we hope to celebrate good trades tonight as well as the first day of Gormanudur.”

  “May you gain Odin’s wisdom without paying his price, old friend. This,” Err stepped aside to introduce his companion, “this is Olaf, Son of Dorn, a man of Jutland come to Britannia seven summers past, slayer of Gormak the Saxon, sworn man of King Eohric in his time and now a settled land holder a day’s ride north of Jorvik. His men are true, and his skills are many, especially his mastery of wood craft and forestry. He is the one I recommended to you.” Agne nodded his head. Olaf, shorter than Agne, had a bull face, a broad, wide nose and long ears. Err continued with the formal introduction.

  “Olaf, this is Agne Alfenson, the son of Alf Ironfist, a hero in conquered Jorvik, descendent of Ongentheow, House of Scylfingar, a son of Skane. As a youth of only fifteen years, Agne swore allegiance to Ivar the Boneless and fought beside him in the campaigns against Alfred the usurper of Wessex, then supported Eohric against East Anglia and Mercia. As you can see from his arm bands, his valor is acknowledged, and his honesty is well known. Agne holds land east of Jorvik and is the keeper of Wolftongue, his father’s blade.” The men clasped arms at the elbow and sized each other up. Agne waved at his boys.

  ‘This is my eldest, Agne Agneson, of fifteen summers and my heir, my second son Sorven, of twelve summers and apprenticed to Hajax the iron smith to learn a trade. And this,” he pulled Finn forward, “is our Thorfinn, now ten years of age.”

  “Ah,” Olaf leaned forward to peer at Finn. He took Finn’s chin in his hand and turned his head to look at his profile, then pinched his shoulder. Finn smelled onions and sour milk on his breath, “Looks to be a strong lad.”

  “Sit, sit,” Err waved the group to the table and clapped for service, a pale man in a leather apron slipping out from behind a curtain. ‘Bring us some fare and porridge for the boys. What have you…?” He waved his arm in an impatient fashion and the man ducked back behind the curtain. Agne signaled for his boys to sit beside him, while Olaf and Err circled the table to face them. Agne straddled his bench with his back to the boys, and from his seat he could watch both his new acquaintance and the open door. Three men entered the Norse hall, filling the room with boisterous laugher until they realized others shared the hall. Nodding to Err and Olaf, the three stumbled to a far bench and began conversing in low voices and muffled chuckles.

  Olaf began to describe his holdings, and his wood craft, how long it took to learn a pattern, how to choose wood to cure, how to measure its grain. “My work is in demand during these peaceful times. Not just our Danish brothers want illuminated doors and posts, even Saxons have hired me to carve windows and signs. I have had call to do rune posts.” He pulled a flat carved panel a hands breadth wide from his bag and passed it to Agne—finely wrought, the board displayed artfully carved birds and flowers twined in a Nordic pattern. He pulled out a small plaque chip carved with the hammer symbol of Thor. Both Err and Agne admired the work and passed the objects to Finn. Sorven pulled them from his little brother’s hand to get a look, while Cub lounged on the bench, listening to the men.

  A red-headed man with face tattoos and a barrel belly entered the hall, nodded to Olaf and Err and ordered a drink to nurse in a quiet corner. More men filed into the hall, some greeting each other and some solitary. A bark of surprise caught Finn’s ear, and he noticed a newcomer saunter across the room watching their group closely, his eyes so closely set they appeared crossed, his thin beard braided with beads that dangled under his chin. He scowled at their group, and slowly circled the room to sit directly across from his father, his hands on the table before him. As his father continued talking, more men entered the meeting hall, some calling out to Agne or Err, a few waving good naturedly. Others joined the angry looking man across the room and leaned their heads together to whisper. The old man at the door greeted each by name, calling them all honored guests and offering his porridge, cold beef and ales.

  Finn had never been with his father outside their homestead. Men acknowledged him as they entered the hall, waving in recognition. Two stout men who had eyed them for a time, crossed the room to speak with Agne.

  “Are you Agne, son of Ironfist? I am Egil and my brother Bain, sons of Sven Boronson, who fought alongside you in Ivar’s army. Perhaps you remember him?”

  “Yes, I remember your father well, a fine warrior. You both resemble him.”

  “Is it true your trade caravans travel to Mercia under the protection of the Jarl of Eddisbury?”

  “Our next trip will be in the month of Ylir. The Mercians are in want of turnips and onions, and wheat for bread, and linen. They also ask for copper and have Cornish tin to trade. Do you have any of these staples? What have you to barter?”

  The brothers looked to each other before replying. “We have Frankish beads and jewelry, and we can arrange for a wagonload of wheat.”

  “We also have bolts of silk…two bolts.” The shorter brother passed him a swatch of crimson cloth.

  “Silk, you say?” Agne rubbed the snippet of cloth between his finger and thumb, handed it back and sipped from his bowl, while he carefully sized up the men. “So rare…where did you get silk?”

  The taller brother answered quickly, “We recently returned from a long voyage where we traded ivory and furs with the Moors for goods from the east. They said the silk was from the Holy Roman Empire in Constantinople. We bartered for all they had.” Finn could see his father seemed satisfied with their answer. Olaf cocked his head to listen to the conversation.

  “Exotic goods are hard to find—should demand a high price. Be ready when the moon month turns, we shall meet at the east gate to caravan. I will have my bannerman Bjorn meet with you to plan the details. You understand you pay for protection and I take a portion for my part?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “You have been recommended as the best and most trusted,” the shorter brother emphasized.

  “Where do you stay in Fishergate?”

  The brothers named a boarding lodge on the wharf. Agne knew the place, and they clasped hands on the arrangement. “I will send Bjorn to you, no later than coming Tyr’s day.” Satisfied, the brothers thanked Agne and moved around the table back to their place.

  A huge man ducked under the door lintel and Finn heard Err murmur “son of a giant”—white blond and fair, his skin a bit pasty in the dim light, and an open, beardless face with florid cheeks, with arms as wide as his father’s legs. The servant came back, carrying a plank with bowls of grain porridge, three horns of Ale and a slab of greasy meat. He left a sharp knife on the table and went to see the newest arrival. The boys helped themselves, using their fingers to scoop up the sticky meal. Olaf opened negotiations.

  “I was thinking a fair price for the training would be two of your famous Fell Pony foals and five silver pieces a year for the boy’s keep, with a...”

  “Two ponies!” Agne countered, “I can’t see any training is worth two ponies, in fact one pony would be too much for this skill. After all, it’s not a fighting skill. I was thinking five silver per year and a sword of my own working upon completion.”

  “A sword? A sword, for a skill that will keep a man fed for a lifetime? No, no, I think we are far apart, far apart.” He shook his head and cut a hunk of meat from the joint on the table. “A man of your husbandry skills should recognize how a fine animal is a more fit payment for a craft that will last a lifetime, for a horse will bring value every year that it lives, just as my craft will serve the boy.”

  Err winked at Finn. Both men enjoyed dickering, taking swigs from their bowls and chewing hunks of meat as
they continued to haggle. While they argued more men entered the hall, one stopping in the doorway in recognition, blocking the entry to glare at Agne and the boys. Finn, leaning against his father to listen to the discussions, felt his Father’s back muscles tense as he saw the man enter the hall. The man and his tall companion crossed the room. A servant brought out more planks of food and a second server had joined him, carrying kindling to rebuild the fire. Wringing his hands in a dirty towel, the proprietor kept an uneasy watch from the hall entrance and the room filled to capacity for the midday meal.

  The boys finished their porridge and Err stepped away to settle payment for the meal. Olaf, first to tire of the back and forth, agreed to Agne’s offer of three silvers per year and a foal upon completion of the training. They spit in their hands and shook to seal the deal, and Err, standing over them, witnessed the agreement. The room around them crammed with men, men loosening armor and resting helms on the table, noise and laughter slowly increasing in volume. Waving his horn, a man with a broad, flat nose and wide brass arm bands stood and banged the table top, calling for a toast in heavily accented Danish. Ragged shirt and wispy hair, he had an angry red boil high on his cheek.

  “Oh Brothers, all raise your drink to Freyr, masculinity and virility, idyll of us all!”

  “To Freyr,” the crowd called, happily drinking to the god. The speaker still held the floor, and he sloshed his ale as he waved his cup. “To the god Njoror who brought us safe to harbor,” He pointed at a server and at the room, indicating he purchased a round of drinks, and the room erupted in another cheer, “and to my eastern brothers, may we always stand fast together!’ Another hearty roar burst from the gathered men. Cub lifted his glass along with the crowd.

  “Spending his shore pay all in one stop,” Olaf smiled, leaning across the table. The sailor stumbled to the end of the room, his head cocked to the side.

  “You, brother,” he pointed at the man who had seemed to recognize Agne when he entered, ‘Why won’t you drink to your gods and your brothers?” The man grumbled something surly.

  “Wha…?” the sailor leaned across the table. Sorven craned his neck around Cub to get a better look.

  “I said I’ll not drink with the brother of Karl Alfenson,” The man growled. Err hissed and looked to Agne who calmly kept his eyes on Olaf.

  The boys looked at each other—what was this? Taken aback, the sailor glanced about the hall, his eyebrows raised in confusion. Finn leaned forward to get a better look at the man across the room. He stood behind his table, one foot on the bench. Squat and muscular, his eyes set back under bushy brows and his hair standing from his untamed head, he prominently displayed his long sword and a heavy leather belt like a sash hung across his chest. Finn could see one of his ears visibly notched, cut in half in some fight, and he wore one wide silver band with Thor’s hammer on it. His slender companion had a prominent, clean-shaven chin that he jutted forward as if he was pointing. Heavy rings on his fingers, a sax short sword at his belt, the skinny man puffed out his chest in a weathered vest and stood feet spread in heavy hobnailed boots, a fighting stance. Shaking his head at Agne’s table, the shorter man scowled at them from his seat next to the hunched, cross-eyed man.

  “Now, Gani Magnuson,” the old proprietor stepped out of his alcove, “everyone knows that Agne is not his hot-headed brother, and he dutifully paid the wergild to compensate your loss. There is no bad blood here….”

  “Word is Karl Alfenson has been seen on the Northumbria coast,” the stump of a man countered, ignoring the attempt to quiet him. “He dares to show his murdering face here among good men! My clan leaves this Agneson alone, for he has paid the law’s proper due, but no code shall hold me from revenge for my brother’s death. That is my right.” Some men seated near him nodded in agreement. The man with the jutting chin leaned menacingly. Finn kept his eyes on Gani, whose face reddened as he spoke, his eyes wild. His crazy look made Finn fidget and cling closer to his father. “I say, that is my right!”

  The proprietor worked his way through the crowd to Magnuson, motioning to placate him. Finn leaned forward to watch his father, who continued to hold Olaf’s eyes and kept a thin smile on his face, but beneath the table he saw his father grip his sword hilt. Err slowly rose to his feet, watching the red-faced Magnuson glare at Agne from across the room. Cub stared calmly back at the angry man. Finn glanced to Sorven, who made a slight shrug to show he didn’t know how to react.

  A gray headed Dane dressed in a leather smock like a smith, rose to his feet. “Gani Magnuson, I vouch that Agne Alfenson did not come here with his young sons…” he paused to draw attention to the boys, “to goad or insult you, and, even though he had no part in the history, he paid the law’s due for the error of his brother. He is a solid, worthy man and holds your clan no ill will. Let there be no grudges betwixt you. He has never had a quarrel with you or your family.” Grumbles of approval rose around the room. More people entered from the street, a man with creased, dark skin, and another with a shaved head and buck teeth who blinked in the dim light. The proprietor clung to Magnuson’s side, easing him back into his seat.

  The old Danish man continued, “We all know it would be foolhardy for his brother Karl to return after the public vows you have made, and we do not think less of you for mastering your anger over the injustice your family has endured.” More voices agreed, and the proprietor managed to sit the ill-tempered Gani back on his bench.

  Err leaned over the table and whispered quietly to Agne, “It’s Gani’s mother, Shada who does the goading—she’s behind this foolishness. Everyone knows she demands blood for blood. Gani follows her lead like a dog eyes a joint passed along the table—that Gani was never the smartest of his brothers.” He nodded toward the door, “I see Mog has joined us—perhaps it’s time to take the boys home, eh?” Agne shifted in his chair to glance at the door—Mog had entered the hall, his helm under his arm and Ned behind him, peeking over his shoulder.

  “Yes,” Agne stood and offered his hand to Olaf, “It is time we were on the road back home. Well met, Olaf Dornson, we shall see you when the winter turns to summer to begin the apprenticeship.”

  “Well met, Agne Alfenson,” Olaf smiled, squinting, “and you too, young Thorfinn Agneson. I look forward to our next meeting.” Finn nodded, his eyes on the floor.

  Err followed them to the door, mussing the boys’ hair and giving them friendly shoves. He hugged Agne, “Promise you will visit me soon, and bring Blue Eyes to keep Annalyn company.”

  “I will, old friend, I will. Thank you for this. Thorfinn will thank you one day, too.”

  Finn eyed the man Magnuson as they walked to the door. His face blotchy, he glowered at them, intent on every move. Two men leaned close to him, one with a hook nose and a thin, wispy beard that whispered in his ear. Agne ignored them all. The proprietor bustled up to them as they were stepping into the street, “Now, Agne Alfenson, don’t let Gani put you off. He’s not himself—and he never speaks for our hall. You and your shield men are always welcome here. Come back whenever you wish a moment’s rest or a fine ale,” and he patted Sorven on the head, who ducked in annoyance.

  “What has happened?” Mog pursed his lips, “I was hoping for a meal before the ride back…”

  “Magnuson,” Agne answered. Mog rolled his eyes.

  The cart stood under the arch, loaded with sacks of grain. “These we carry back to the miller, and this,” he held up a small leather bag and jingled its contents, “this is for his goats.”

  “And our barters?” Agne asked.

  Mog smiled, his cheeks creasing, a sparkle in his eye, “We did better than expected.” He passed a larger purse to Agne, who hefted it and seemed satisfied with the weight. “You were right about the wool—Darrow took it all. The meat went fast as well, and I found a Friesian who wanted all the hides. Then there is this.”

  Beside the wagon leaned a wasp of a boy almost grown to manhood, greasy brown hair pulled back and tied behind his head,
his eyes dark and moody. A scar on his chin had healed wrong leaving a caterpillar shaped lump and his near-sighted squint made him appear surly. Ned stepped forward, “Ah, Agne, this is my cousin’s boy, we can call him nephew. Dundle, a good lad, looking for work. I knew you were looking for another hand, and he is starting off in the world, needs to get out from under his mother’s skirt. My sister sent him to meet us in the market. I know he looks…,” Ned doffed his felt hat, and continued, “Well, sir, he needs a bath and better clothes, I admit. But he’ll clean up fine. I will take care of that, don’t you worry. We were just hoping that you could see fit to bring him on. I vouch for him.”

  “Does he work as hard as you do, Ned?” Agne asked, sizing up the youth. Bruises on the boy’s arms as if he had been beaten, he looked about sixteen years of age, gangly and underfed.

  ‘I’ll make sure of that.”

  “Then we will try him for a fortnight.”

  The two stable hands fastened the halter to Whitenose, and Wierflyer had been brushed down, his coat glossy. Agne handed them another coin and mounted.

  “Let’s go home.”

  Raga

  Flying.

  Flying is such a pleasure, more than you could know.

  Soaring in the sky. Drifting on winds, my feathers fluttering, one eye on those east men below, another scanning for the occasional hawk, such a troublesome nuisance. Patient, calm and peaceful.

  I was never patient as a youth. Always rushing, never resting, driven, driven, ready to conquer the world’s mysteries. It led to many wonders, led to fantastic skills, led to loves and enemies and grand adventures, and many problems, too, and, in fact, led to my current predicament….

  Yet I have learned, watching and waiting through all these years, to find a deep patience, even a serenity as I persevere.

  I saw the boy and his family enter the city there below. Long ago I learned dangers lurk in those cramped streets, where a mage in his familiar form can be snatched for food or worse, held captive for an unnatural time. Up here I can watch for them, safe from the hungry crowds, circling on the breezes, although I do admit it galls me to be excluded from their gatherings.