Thorfinn and the Witch's Curse

by Jay Veloso Batista

  “It was a grand battle, settling the southern boundaries of Danelaw for Guthrum as he carved out a holding from Mercia and Wessex. Guthrum had the notion to take and hold his own kingdom from the heart of Mercia—Guthrum’s kingdom, we call it Danish Mercia today. The Alfensons led a force of thirty shield bearers to join Guthrum’s army. Your father carried a shield and a spear—this was long before he carried Wolftongue, your grandfather’s blade. In the pitch of battle, your father was nearly run down by a man atop a stallion, but he dodged the charging horse and with a curse, threw his shield in a wild toss. Smack! It struck the rider square in his helm and knocked him clean off his mount, face down into the muck. Off ran the horse and his attendants charged in to protect him, but Agne, Mog and I made quick work of them until the few that remained threw down their weapons and surrendered. Gathering them up as war slaves, Agne noticed that the rider was wearing well tooled leather armor, and when his helm was removed, you could see he was barely as old as we were—so he made the captives carry the unconscious man rather than leave him to be robbed and murdered like the other wounded on the field.

  “That night Agne petitioned your grandfather for these captives—you see, he had an idea this was the son of some West Mercian thane, and rather than ransom the boy and keep the rest as slaves, your father wanted to try something different. When the boy woke, we fed him and his men, and Agne even had him tattooed with the same battle memento he had tattooed on his own shoulder—I can tell you, that boy was both afraid, confused and more than a little angry—he couldn’t speak a word of Danish and kept calling out to his men in that gutter talk the Saxons use. He was so angry when we held him for the tattoo, I was sure his head would burst like a boil. But when he saw it wasn’t a slave mark, and it was the same as Ange’s, well then, he shut his mouth. Mostly just brooded after that. We kept them and fed them for a week, time to let their wounds heal well enough for travel.

  “Your father had the boy’s armor and weapons cleaned and he put the boy on a horse with his hands bound, and then we escorted the lot of them southwest to Mercia, carrying their weapons on pack horse in the back of our line. The march took six days and when we reached the frontier, the prisoners got the idea and began to indicate the way.

  “Well, the gods smiled on your father that day, for the first of many times I tell you—this boy wasn’t the son of a petty village thane, this here boy was the son of one of the jarls of Mercia, bannerman to the King Ceolwulf himself!” Err laughed, Cub looked at Finn in surprise—neither of them had heard this story.

  “Agne rode right up to the fortress, and yes, it was a real fortress, a stone walled keep and a surrounding picket wall with guarded towers and archers, protecting a village the size of Jorvik or even larger, and your father rides right up to the gate and declares, in Danish of course, that he has brought this ‘lost’ boy, that they had glorious fun playing at war, but now it was time to go home! We nearly pissed ourselves laughing at his boldness. We were young and stupid and daring, standing before an enemy gate with no armor nor shields and few weapons.”

  “Well, you see these Mercians had a bed slave, a Danish girl who overheard Agne’s words and interpreted for the guards, and to our surprise, the gate pushed open, and men came out like skittish cats, helped the boy and his men gather their things, and returned to the fortress and carefully closed the gate. And that was it—we turned around, we went home and for a while we thought that was all to the story.”

  “It was about a year later Eanulf of Eddisbury, for that was the Mercian jarl’s name, sent a messenger to Ironfist. He thanked him for the treatment his son Cerdic had enjoyed while captive and offered to host a delegation to discuss things of mutual interest. Things such as trade across the border and a way to join forces to stop the banditry that had taken root in the forests on the edge of our frontier. That was the beginning of Ironfist’s relationship with West Mercia, all the trade goods, all the cattle and cloth, and of course, that was when your father really became fast friends with Cerdic, and when he first met Gurid, Cerdic’s sister. Honestly, it was a good match, a second son to a second daughter, even though her beauty stole your father’s eyes right out of his head, worse than any witch’s spell! One look at her and he could see no others! Ruined a lot of fun for Mog and me, I can tell you!

  “This is your family, both Dane and Saxon intertwined. It was your Uncle Cerdic that rode with a force to protect the family hold after your grandfather and uncle were murdered. It was Gurid’s bride price that was spent to rebuild after that tragedy. Agne has built a reputation as an honest broker and he is trusted to handle property in Danelaw, Mercia, Guthrum’s holding and even Wessex. All come to him for a fair deal. And that is what Tormod seeks, a family connection with his western neighbor Cerdic who is now the Jarl of Eddisbury in his Father’s place, as well as a stronger relation with his trading partner Agne Alfenson, and, between us, I believe old Tormod needs to rein in that young buck Espen to keep him out of trouble, and a good bride has a way of managing a man through his bed.” He winked at Cub, who smiled weakly while Finn just tilted his head, confused. “Time we get back to our duties, eh boys?” and pointed at Hilda, who was waving to get Finn’s attention. Yeru had told him to go keep Hilda and Gisle company. Thanking his Uncle Err and tucking his new knife in his belt, Finn crossed back to the table and took his seat with his sister and their guest. His food cold, he played with it, carving at it with his new gift.

  After the servers cleared the meal, Finn played dice with Gisle and Hilda, letting Hilda win every other game in an unspoken agreement with his guest. Dressed in woolen leggings and a knitted jumper dyed cudbear red, Gisle stood taller than he although he heard they were the same age. She chatted with his sister, asking all sorts of questions about the mead hall, the silver plate hung on the wall, the size of their farm and what Hilda did for fun. In turn she told the little girl about their farm between a pasture and a river, about their flat boats and fruit trees, leaving Finn to listen and occasionally announce the start of a new game.

  “We even have an arbor,” she said, “where we grow grapes and make wine. It is shady and cool in the summer. You would like it—you can come and visit me there, come summer.”

  “Can I bring Thorfinn?”

  “Yes,” Gisle coyly smiled, “You can bring your brother, if he is nice…”

  “Oh, he is very nice,” Hilda assured her with an honest expression.

  “I am not too sure, see how many times he beats us?” She looked at Finn sideways. “Do you think he is cheating?”

  “I am not a cheater,” Finn defended himself. Both girls laughed at him.

  With a gust of chill air, the door pushed open and Yeru entered, clutching an empty bowl to her chest, her wrap fallen from one shoulder, dragging behind her. Finn noticed she looked uncommonly pale, her lips drawn and tight, leaves stuck to her dress and even one in her hair. Something is not right, Finn thought. She swung the door shut behind her and crossed the room directly to Cub, pulling him up by his tunic. As Finn watched, she whispered something in his ear, he shook his head and smirked at her, she poked him with her finger and confided more to him. Cub rubbed his forehead, frowned and leaned closer to her. Finn checked his father and mother, still locked in conversation with Tormod and Inga, ignoring the room. Willa, Espen, Kara and Mae still sat at the table, listening to Espen discuss sailing, Willa pretending to be interested in the finer points of tacking, the others acting polite. In the other corner the men gathered around a cask, pouring more drinks and guffawing over coarse tales. Yeru pointed at Finn, and Cub glumly crossed to get him.

  “Come on, we got a job to do,” Cub grumbled.

  “What is it?” Finn handed his dice to Hilda.

  “Just come along.”

  Finn shrugged at Gisle and Hilda and followed his brother to the door. Cub looked back at his father at the table and gave him a wave, and they stepped outside.

  “Yeru says there is a beast after Sorven,” Cub led Finn
around the barn, smacking his arms against his sides in the cold air. “She’s crazy, thinks it’s a mare, but I am not going to argue with guests in the house. A scene will make father angry. Come on, we are going to keep our eye on Sorven.”

  Cautious, Cub crept up to the shed door and slowly opened it. Mae had brought new coals for the brazier not too long ago. Still a little smoky, even with the shutters cracked, the coals lit the room with a faint, orange glow. Sorven lay wrapped in the blankets as they had left him. Easing the door shut behind them, Cub leaned over and checked his brother. “He’s still sleeping….”

  Finn sat on his bed roll and Cub propped his bedding against the door and leaned his back against it. He took his sword from his belt and laid it across his lap with a determined look on his face.

  “Do you think Sorven’s alright?”

  “He’s fine, it’s just a bad cold. All this worry for nothing.”

  “What did you think of Espen?”

  “I don’t see how he was much of a warrior. He isn’t big and doesn’t look that strong to me. He seemed more interested in ladies.”

  “Well, he is here to ask for Willa.”

  “Yeah, there’s that,” Cub yawned. “The story of his raid, though, I don’t know. I think he’s stretching the truth of it. You know, bragging.”

  “Why say that?”

  “Did you watch Tormod’s men during the telling?” Finn shook his head. “When we all clapped for Espen’s story, they were quiet. I think they don’t believe him. After dinner Dundle and I spoke with Tormod’s shield men. They are warriors, been in real battles and fought for the Danelaw. They don’t want to talk about fighting much, like father….”

  “Willa seems to like him.”

  “Yeah, there’s that….” Cub sniffed and nudged the night water bucket with his boot. “Get some rest Finn. I will watch Sorven for a while and keep my eye out for Yeru’s beast.”

  Finn laid out his bedding and kicked off his boots, rolling over to wrap himself in the blankets. Laying still, he listened to Sorven’s quiet breathing. The ladies served a weak draught that night, distilled because everyone considered water untrustworthy for drinking, but the big meal made Finn sleepy, so he closed his eyes and drifted into a dream.

  In his dream he played dice with Sorven. Old Gyn hung washing with the women in the yard. They sang an old tune, a melody he remembered from childhood. His father and Cub stood at the stockade wall, looking out the gate at the forest, talking about his sisters. His mother held Neeta and Hildie in her arms beside them. Sorven stopped playing and hung his head, and behind him stood the witch ghost. Finn could see it, a horrible ancient hag and claw-like hands. She reached for his brother, and in the way of dreams he and Sorven suddenly stood in the ruined root cellar on the hilltop, no one with them, all alone. The witch crouched behind Sorven and he smiled, unaware. She clutched at his throat and Finn couldn’t stop her, Sorven hung in her grasp and Finn froze helpless, unmoving.

  He gasped and jerked awake. How long had he slept? Cub, his chin on his chest, snored softly. Finn shuddered, still shaking off the fright from his bad dream. He took a deep breath and held it. The room cooled down as the coals burned low, a dull red glow from the pot in the center of the floor. The shutter on the window creaked, swinging slowly back and forth with the wind. A slice of moonlight shone through the window on the floor.

  He rolled on his side and glanced at Sorven.

  Sorven…

  The bedding pulled aside, a black shape huddled over his brother, so large that he could only see his brother’s pale hand and a bare foot. The shape throbbed, heaving, and he could hear a faint slurping sound. A smell like sour eggs and the pigsty, foul and sickening, filled his nose and throat. The smell gagged him, and Finn jerked back, scrambling away from the dark thing into Cub’s outstretched leg.

  Alerted by the sound of Finn’s movement, the shadow turned and crept forward into the moonlight. A skeletally thin horse face with a long, tubular mouth ending in bloody fangs. Soot black, glossy leathery skin. Piercing blood red eyes, a bulging, distended torso over short muscular legs and savage eagle-like talons. With a shriek the horror spread its great bat wings and filled the room.

  “Ymir’s bones!” Cub cried aloud, his sword clattering from his lap to the floor. The creature shrieked once more, leapt with a sinuous grace to the open shutter and squeezed through the window. The boys laid panting in shock, listening to the sound of its wings flapping away.

  “Did you see it?” Finn cried.

  “Of course, I saw it,” Cub felt around in the dark to pick up his sword. “Gods, old Yeru was right, it was a night mare, come to feed on Sorven…”

  “No,” Finn whispered. “It’s that ghost. The witch ghost, she sent it. I saw her in a dream.”

  Cub stood and cracked the door, peering around it into the yard. He turned back to Finn and Sorven, letting the moonlight from the open door fall across his sick brother. His clothes lay opened and his chest exposed, a ragged sucker mark on his side where the beast fed. Dropping to his knees, he listened to Sorven’s shallow breaths. Cub dressed and covered him with the scattered bedding, tucking it under him tightly. Finn nervously paced the small room, looking suspiciously in every corner.

  “Close that shutter and put the peg in place to hold it closed,” Cub directed Finn. “Jam it in good.”

  “Cub,” Finn picked up the spilled brazier and placed it on the table. “Cub, you need to stop this...the witch is going to kill Sorven.”

  “Pull to the door,” Cub said is a hushed voice. “Poor Sorven, he is so weak….”

  “Cub?”

  In the darkened room, Cub sat quietly at his brother’s side.

  “Cub, this is our fault.” Cub didn’t answer.

  “Cub, she is going to kill Sorven, then she will come for us. It’s the curse.” Still Cub did not reply. He put his hand on Sorven’s forehead. Finn got down next to him and touched Sorven’s cheek, his flesh chilled.

  “Cub, I’m afraid.” Cub put an arm around his little brother and Finn whispered, “We should tell father. He will know what to do.”

  “No,” Cub responded sharply. “We will fix this. We started it, we will stop it….”

  “What do we do?” Finn whined.

  “Stop your sniffles…I don’t like this one bit, Finn,” Cub admitted. “I don’t believe in witches, but now I see…yes, we must have done something on that hill to trigger this curse. We need to go back there and stop it. Stop that black thing. We need to go… and we need to go now, before that monster comes back and kills Sorven…we need to take action.”

  Cub stood and gathered his sax, slipping it through the leather frog at his belt. “Put your coat and hat on. We need to get some help.” He pulled on his scarlet cap.

  Cub closed the shed tightly behind them and headed back to the feast hall, Finn following closely. The front door gapped slightly, and he cracked it wider and peeked inside. Quiet and barely lit by the embers of the dying fire, a few men still sprawled on the benches or lay face down on the table. Cub pointed at Dundle propped against the back wall, and crept over to his sleeping form. He shook the sleeping boy. It took a few shakes to wake him, bleary eyed and quite drunk.

  ‘Wha…?” Dundle struggled.

  “Shhh,” Cub put his hand on his mouth to silence him. “We need to go,” he whispered in is ear.

  “Go?” Finn could see Dundle struggled to wake, swinging his head from side to side.

  “Come on,” Cub pulled him to his feet. “No questions, we will explain on the way…”

  “Where?” Dundle stumbled up and out into the yard with Cub pulling his arm. Finn carefully closed the door.

  In a hoarse whisper, Cub answered, “We need to go back to the witch’s place.”

  “No,” Dundle stopped and dug his heels into the yard, “I not go back there, not there.”

  Finn grabbed Dundle’s other arm, both whispering urgently over each other.

  “It’s Sorven, he�
�s sick and it’s the work of the witch. We got to stop her.”

  “Sorven’s caught the curse. Yeru said it’s a night mare. The ghost has him. You got to help.”

  Dundle balked, his eyes widening in fear, looking from brother to brother.

  “Ghost? Witch? No, I ain’t...I ain’t going,” and like petulant child, his rubbery legs gave out and he slumped down into the yard. Cub grabbed him by the shoulder, yanked him into a sitting position and leaned close to his face. His breath smelled of sour ale.

  “Are you a coward?” Cub demanded. “Be a man, Dun. Come with us and set this thing aright.”

  “Say as you will,” Dundle closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around his head. “I not go back there.” Cub pulled at his arms and tried to lift his dead weight, Finn struggling beside him. “You be smart to not go,” Dundle continued, “Not safe. That witch is real. I say, done is done.”

  “But Sorven…” Finn implored. Dundle wrapped his arms tighter over his head and ducked lower into his lap. The brothers stood and stared at him, shaking his head side to side under his own arms.

  “Done is not done,” Cub gave him a kick, but Dundle only hugged himself harder.

  Cub snorted derisively and told Finn, “Leave this coward, we will go on our own.” He took his brother by the arm and led him to the barn, sliding the door open enough that the moonlight would illuminate the stalls. He pulled a snaffle bit down from the wall pegs and pulled a horse blanket from the pile. Tormod’s black Friesian snorted and kicked as they passed. They found Whitenose in the third stall, brushed down and munching on some oats from her trough. Cub tossed a heavy woolen blanket over the horse’s back, and slipped the bit over her head, leading her from her stall into the yard. He boosted his little brother onto the horse’s back.

  “Hey coward,” Cub hissed at the prone form. “After we leave, pull the gate to. Do not wake my father.” Dundle merely moaned in response. Cub slid the gate hasp aside and leaned his shoulder into the heavy gate, pushing it wide enough for the horse to pass. He vaulted up behind Finn and, glancing back to see if Dundle followed his instructions, he dug his heels into to the old fell pony’s side and snapped the reins. From the open gate, Dundle sullenly watched them trot off into the darkness.