Thorfinn and the Witch's Curse

by Jay Veloso Batista

  Imagine how it was when I first arrived here. They speak a muddle of tongues, of course, the Danish here in the Danelaw, the Angles and Saxons with all their vowels, that guttural multi-syllable gibberish from the northern tribes, some bits of Romany here and there, some Gallic and Frisian and even Hibernian, and gods only know what to make of the barking of those Picts. I can tell you it wasn’t easy—it’s amazing how this place they call Fishergate even works at all. This Jorvik is awash with people of all lands, traders and warriors and missionaries. I spent my first few months here huddled in the chimney listening to Agne and his family, just getting my ears used to the words, teasing out meaning and learning vocabulary.

  They call themselves ‘east men,’ not north men—it is the Saxons who label them ‘Norse.’ They are fair minded, these conquerors, and much cleaner than the locals, to be sure. They bathe every week. I have grown to enjoy them, their love of poetry and a good story, their generosity and loyalty, their idyllic pastoral lives, punctuated by an occasional bloody battle, and their deep commitment to their family and clan.

  I especially like this Alfenson. He is fair minded and educates his boys, at least what knowledge he can pass along. Do you know in this slave culture, he keeps none? No stranger to shackles in my youth, I know how deep the practice burrows in the avaricious hearts of men. It is a mystery to me, but I find I like him more each day.

  It is close to the time for the boy, just as I foresaw. I can tell. My skills may be fading with all the time that has passed, but my divination still runs true. You wonder why I don’t just take possession of his lich? Ah, long ago I tried to possess—let me tell you, it is truly hard to manage two inside a corpus, and I will not damn my soul by murdering another to leave an empty shell for me! I have seen wizards that follow that dark path, their spirits withered, wretched and evil, no, not for me I say.

  No matter, I see them now, there below, leaving by the same gate they entered, the boys straddling the back of that wagon and the men on horseback or walking the cart. Look there, it seems the party has grown a new member. If I wait a bit, I can fly down closer and listen in…

  Finn

  “Uncle Karl?”

  Finn whispered to Sorven in the back of the cart. Ned led Whitenose and the wagon trundling along at a steady pace, his nephew walking behind them, kicking at stones. Ahead their Father and Mog rode, heads bent in a private conversation. Cub lounged across the bench, eyes closed, face to the sun, ignoring his little brothers.

  “Yeah, Uncle Karl, do you remember him? He left years ago,” Sorven glanced ahead, “Nah, you probably don’t remember him. I think I was eight. You were a kid. Father never talks about him.” Finn vaguely remembered a tall, wide man with a barrel chest and a deep laugh who had bounced him roughly on his knee.

  “That Magnuson wanted a fight.”

  “Yes, but father didn’t.” The wheels creaked in rhythm with the horse’s steps.

  “Am I apprenticed to a wood worker?”

  “Seems that way,” Sorven looked back at Dundle marching along, head hung, watching his feet. “Wonder what he’s about…?” They rode a long way in silence, glancing back at the older boy as he trudged along behind them. Ahead, their father and Mog quietly spoke, too distant for the boys to hear their conversation. The boys sweated in the afternoon sun.

  Hrald the miller met them at his gate and happily received his payment for the goats. Two of the miller’s young men and Dundle unloaded burlap sacks of grain, piling it against the mill house. To thank Agne and Mog for their help, Hrald returned sacks of milled barley and wheat. Agne offered him a meal should he visit the farmstead, and Dundle sat in the back of the empty wagon for the rest of the ride, saying little more than grunts to the boys. Sorven ignored him, but Finn stole furtive glances his way during the trip. The empty cart bounced considerably more on the road home. The older boy breathed through his mouth in a noisy fashion.

  The sun slipped behind the barn as they reached their homestead—even Finn noticed the days grew shorter with the approach of winter. At home, preparations for the Blot Feast seemed well underway. Tonight they honored the God Freyr and thanked him for their harvest bounty.

  The hall opened, shutters clipped back with leather thongs, all loose ashes swept out into the garden, Finn could see the meal spread on the tables. The women gathered dry laundry from ropes strung across the courtyard, and men, sweaty and dusty with sickles in the crook of their arms, returned from the hay ricks. Gaute had hung the butchered piglet on a post by the hall door, and a few lazy flies circled the trophy. The air smelled of cooking, and old Gyn rolled an ale keg from the storage shed to the hall, his back hunched over the heavy keg.

  Ned took his morose nephew to the men’s house to change his clothes and clean him up to meet the family. Cub jumped down and strode into the family hall.

  “Finn!” Hilda, their little sister ran out to meet them, “Finn, come see what we’ve done,” and she insistently pulled Finn from the wagon. “Did you like Jorvik? Was it really big? Was it fun? What did you see? What did you eat?” Finn cast a sideways glance at his snickering brother who sprawled on the wagon bench as Gaute loosened Whitenose’s yoke. Much to his embarrassment, their sister adored Finn while Sorven enjoyed teasing about her infatuation. Hilda tugged at her reluctant brother.

  “I’m coming,” Finn grumbled. Cut flowers piled on each table in the hall, the ladies set wooden plates at each place and stacked the fire pit with a pyramid of fresh wood. Strands of ivy woven into garlands hung from the roof beams, intertwined with white and yellow daisies and cowslips from the edge of the pasture, pine sprigs and fronds of spearmint for a fresh scent and branches of oak leaves for decoration. Finn could smell bread baking in the ovens. Agne called to Gurid and Cub to join him—Finn watched them step into their parents’ back room, his mother hurrying a bit to catch up with the others. Hilda pulled Finn back to the door.

  “I picked these with Tima,” Hilda pointed to the flowers. “We went to the pasture. I carried a basket, too. I saw a caterpillar, but Tima said it was just a worm. I don’t know--it looked like a caterpillar. There were lots of birds, lots and lots. And Mother cut those.” She pointed to the ivy garlands. ‘We are having a party.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Finn moped, wondering why he was left to tend to his little sister.

  Tima came bustling out of the kitchen, carrying an armload of ale horns and drinking bowls, “Get that piglet on the spit, old man, or it’ll not be done in time!” Finn could hear Gaute outside, whistling as he collected the meat to carry to the fire pit that they used in the summer months to keep the cooking heat outside the hall.

  “Who’s that? He’s tall,” Hilda pointed to the door. Dundle hesitated in the opening, pausing as his eyes adjusted to the darker room light.

  “Dundle,” Finn called. “Come meet my sister.” Dundle wore a clean tunic and breeches, and while the dirt had been washed from his face, hands and legs, his bare feet still looked black and grimy. The older boy stepped up and bowed to the small girl, making her giggle.

  “Pleased to meet the lady o’ the house,” he winked at her, surprising Finn. This is the most Dundle has said since we met, Finn thought, but washed up, he seems presentable. Tima set the drinking cups around the tables and stopped to appraise Dundle with hands on her hips.

  “You Ned’s nephew?” More a statement than question, she continued before he could answer, “We can use you in the kitchen now—follow me.”

  “’Til I see more o’ you, little lady,” Dundle nodded his head to Hilda, and followed Tima back to the kitchen. Hilda twittered at the new boy, and immediately reached for Finn’s hand.

  “Come on, let’s play,” and she pulled him to an alcove in the hall and a board game she had laid out for them. “Let’s play sixes and nines.” Finn plopped down on a pallet and fluffed the blankets to get comfortable. Back in the main hall, preparations for the celebration continued. With his sister babbling a mostly one-sided conversation at his sid
e, he dozed off in the warm room.

  Finn awoke to a clatter of wooden plates. The smell of roast pig filled the room and the tables had been stacked with apples and wild carrots. Fresh loaves of bread lay by each plate. Hilda left him sleeping, back to holding her mother’s skirt. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Finn wandered over to sit at his place next to Sorven. His older sisters Willa and Kara stood quietly behind Gurid, Kara with a sleeping baby Neeta in her arms and Willa with her gold kransen circlet holding her long brown hair back from her face. All his father’s men and women gathered in the hall, along with the farmer tenants and their wives. Old Gyn made rounds with a wide mouthed bladder, sloshing full the ale horns and smacking his lips in anticipation of the suckling pig.

  Agne held up his hand for quiet. “My dear family and household, it has been a good summer and a prosperous year. Well prepared we are for the coming winter. We have opened a new pasture and added eight rams and twelve ewes to our flock. Thanks to Gefjun, goddess of the fields, our land produced a grander harvest than years past and we have more stores than needed while Hoor of the winter realms holds sway. Thanks to Mog, the wolf that stalked our herds is now a rug by our hearth,” some chuckled at this, “and the second wagon rounds we service seems to move new neighbors’ goods each week. So busy, we have added Dundle, Ned’s nephew to our drivers! By Freya’s blessings, the foals we sold in the spring have been replaced for three of the mares are quickening. And, I am happy to say Olaf, Son of Dorn, slayer of Gormak and swordsman of King Eohric, has agreed to apprentice young Thorfinn as carver in the ancient art of rune smith and woodwork.”

  Agne took his wife’s hand and squeezed it, “So, to show my thanks for your work and our kinship, I have gifts! Gifts for each of you!” Smiling, he waved to Cub, who, struggling with the weight, carried an ebony chest from his parent’s private room into the great hall. Agne lifted the chest from his eldest’s arms and centered it on the table. The bright fire light made Agne’s beard flame red.

  “Mog, son of Yrso, you are the first of my men and closer than a brother, to you I give this fine silver circle,” he pulled an armband from the chest, the wrought silver hand shaped to depict the face of a baying wolf, “this they call howling wolf, although with your reputation we should call it wolf’s bane, eh?” Everyone cheered Mog and the fine gift.

  “And Ursep, not to forget the force behind the man,” sour faced Ursep brightened when he called her name and leaned across the table to look to Agne. “Here is an embroidered Frankish shawl and a fine linen tunic to match.”

  Agne paused as the women cooed over the gift. Mog held the band up to admire it flashing in the firelight. Agne continued, “And as this winter turns to summer, after the first planting, we shall build you a separate home, in the glen we named ‘tree-fall’ where the storm had knocked down the pines. We will take axe to the forest and claim two more fields for your holding, next to ours and a part with ours. And with this,” He motioned to Cub, who held up a shield to present it to Mog, “we only begin to show our thanks!” Agne hugged his friend with a grunt, and old Gyn slipped among them with two horns of ale, waving them and calling for a toast. Ursep’s lower lip trembled with emotion, her eyes bright with tears—Mog smiled widely and displayed the silver work of his arm ring. Finn slipped under Mog’s arm to get a closer look at the shield.

  “Gaute and Tima,” Agne called, and Gaute stepped forward, Tima behind him, her children clinging to her apron. “My reliable Danish horse master and his bride, this year your trusty service has brought us riches, have they not?” Gaute nodded and wiped his bald pate. “Yes, of course they have, not just working our fields and hauling for our neighbors but providing sturdy foals to sell. It is because of you that we continue in our neighbors’ good grace, and our haulage increased so much we have work to press Ned’s nephew into service! For you and yours we have these gifts, two woolen smocks for your children, a fine embroidered blouse for you, Tima, and this,’ Agne held up a sax, a short sword in a leather scabbard, the leather tooled and painted with flying birds. ‘This is a Frankish sword, the blade folded fifty times and sharpened to a razor. A real weapon to protect your family!” Overcome, Gaute mouthed his thanks, and bowed his head, a flush making his bald head bright red. Finn noticed that he didn’t even look at the gift, just kept croaking thanks. Reaching to him, Agne pressed a small purse into his hands. As Agne patted Gaute on the back, Gurid quietly walked around the room, passing each of the serving maids a small gift, a clasp, pin or broach.

  “Bjorn, Ned, Sven and Gyn,” the men leaned forward from their seats at table, across the fire pit. ‘Finer shield bearers I could not wish for, each solid and hard-working, contributors to our hearth and hold. Each of you shall have these,” from the chest he pulled four pairs of leather boots, each high laced with double soles. Next to each he laid a silver dagger with prong-horn hilt and as they came forward to collect their gift, he handed each a small purse. Ned hefted the purse and smiled broadly, Sven thanked him, Bjorn peeked inside his pouch while old Gyn thrust the coins into his pocket without a second look. Each slowly admired the blades, Bjorn wetting his with a tentative tongue. As the three returned to their seats, Agne called forward Dundle and gave him a silver coin because he was part of the family now. The gangly boy smiled a lopsided grin, flipped the coin and caught it in mid-air.

  “Tom and Alfi, though you have been with us only two summers, you have earned your place at our hearth and will winter with us in our stockade. For you I have this,” and he motioned to Cub, who stepped forward with a set of leather cap and gloves, an iron buckle and an iron pin for each.

  “Now, my dear Yeru and her beautiful Mae,” Mae blushed at this comment and shyly stood behind her mother. “For years you have nursed our children, cleaned our hearth and most of all,” Agne looked around the room with a sparkle in his eye, “with your stories, tales and poetry, kept us from an utter and complete boredom!” Everyone laughed at this remark, old Gyn calling out, “And tonight we deserve a good one, eh?!”

  “For you, dear skald daughter, we have this scarf,” Agne flourished the brightly patterned shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders. Made of kids’ wool, she admired it and held it up for the other women to see, soft and fine and edged with glass beads that sparkled in the torch light. “And this, a walrus tooth carved with a picture of a Viking ship, that opens like a locket, and see…” he held the little box open, “there’s a little something for you inside as well.” Silver glittered inside.

  “Mae, who has grown to be a young maid,” Agne looked to Gurid and smiled broadly, “For you, dear little Mae, we’ve have decided to give you something you can’t hold, but we hope it will mean much more. This spring we will take a foal, ten silver pieces and six sacks of grain, and establish this as a dowry, so much more than the ‘poor man’s bride price.’ For you, I myself shall stand as fastnandi in your late father’s stead and haggle a fair bride price with a fine family.” Yeru gasped, and Mae’s jaw dropped, her blush draining away to leave her face blanched.

  “Oh, ‘Jarl’ Agne,” Yeru fell on him, wrapping both arms around him in a bear hug. “Oh, it is more than we can ever expect, Oh, oh…” and she started to cry on his chest. Gurid stroked her hair and Tima took Mae’s hand to pull her aside. Finn looked around the happy faces. He noticed Ned bite his lower lip watching Tima pull Mae aside.

  Finn gnawed a carrot from the table and slipped closer to listen to his mother as she whispered to Willa at her side— “What a difference the years have made. I still remember my cousin flushed and red eyed, her hair a knotted mess and belly swollen with child, her husband lost in battle and my Aunt pleading with us to take her into our household. Today, dear Yeru is closer than a sister ever could be.”

  Willa whispered, “Why is she not remarried?”

  “A question I have pondered myself,” Gurid whispered back. “Raised by her grandmother in the old ways, she was more than a beauty: she had a lovely singing voice, witty and intelligent, and foll
owing her Father, she could recite long poems and the sagas like any court skald. She was the life of any party. I would visit my Uncle’s hall, and I remembered how popular Yeru was, how she was pursued by so many eligible men, how beautiful she looked when she prepared to meet them. You know, Yeru’s bride price was a family legend. Her father settled with a land-holder of renown, one Haldan son of Haldan. But less than a year after the marriage, her husband was carried to Valhalla at the battle of Timon Downs, and his land was passed to his half-brother who had no use for a pregnant sister-in-law and returned her to her family. Home was no place for widow heavy with child, for her father had grown sickly and Yeru, sad thing, could not stop weeping for her lost husband. My aunt was the one who convinced us to take her as my handmaiden. All that prolonged mourning stole her beauty, her eyes prematurely lined and hollow. By the time Agne had settled my bride price with my father and brothers, she was suckling young Mae. We kept her with us and soon she was wet nurse to you all.” Finn looked across the fire where his old nurse stood weeping and waving her scarf and scratched his head, having difficulty imagining her as a beautiful young girl. Agne finished speaking with his men.

  “Now, my boys,” Agne called Cub, Sorven and Finn closer, “For each of you we have this,” he pulled needle-bound stockings and embroidered caps from the chest. He pressed a silver coin in each boys’ hand and gave them a small leather pouch. Inside were ivory dice and counters. Finn shook them out into his hand, then carefully fit them back into their pouch. His father handed a linen wrapped package to his oldest brother Cub and watched as he unwrapped his own sax. Dundle wandered close to Cub, admiring the blade.

  With a broad grin Agne pulled a leather ball the size of a melon from the chest and tossed it to Sorven, admonishing him, “Share this with your little brother.” Finn put his new dice on the table and chased after his brother, kicking at the ball and ducking around the benches. As they played, Agne made his way around the room, speaking to each farmer and their families, handing them a small purse and thanking them for their service over the past year.