“I’ll be right back,” she said. “You just wait here, and I will check the boys.” Pulling her wrap from the wall, she haphazardly threw it over her shoulders and holding her cupped hand around the candle flame, she stepped through the open door and used her backside to swing it closed.
A hard frost made the grass in the yard stiff and crunchy. Outside she could hear doves coo in the eaves, and a few early birds chirp the beginning of their morning chorus. Thin smoke rose from the men’s dormitory, and she heard coughing as she passed it, rounding the barn to the shed. She hesitated before the door, holding her candle higher and looking for the black shape that had so frightened her the night before. The roof seemed empty, no sign that anything ever perched there. Unlatching the door, she stepped into the shed.
“Thorfinn?”
“He’s not here,” Sorven sat upright, his face ruddy in the candle light. “Neither is Cub.”
“Not here?”
“That’s what I said.” Sorven climbed up, wrapping a blanket around himself. “I woke up and they were gone. Don’t ask me where.”
Yeru frowned. She nudged the bed rolls with her foot. Her mind began to race…
“Yeru,” Sorven smiled at her, “I’m hungry. Can we go eat?”
Yeru muttered to herself and nodded at the boy. Sorven seems to be more his old self, she thought, at least his appetite is back. Sorven darted to the door.
“Let’s go.”
“Wait, tell me: when did you start to feel better?”
“Well,” Sorven bit his lip, “I had some really bad dreams last night, but I woke up a while ago and I feel really good now. Cub and Finn were gone, and I was waiting for them to come back, then you came in….”
“Do you remember the dreams? Were Cub and Finn in your dreams?”
Sorven pulled at her arm. “No, I don’t remember anything, it was only bad dreams. I don’t know where Cub and Finn went…Let’s go eat!”
Yeru blew out the candle and followed the boy as he rushed out into the dawn. No sun had risen but the sky quickly turned to blue, the stars fading in the growing day light. The full bird chorus greeted the dawn. Sorven dashed ahead around the barn. As she turned the corner the stockade gate pushed open, Cub walking Whitenose into the yard with Finn draped across its back. Yeru stopped in surprise. She watched as Cub shook the younger boy awake and set him on his feet. Drowsy, Finn crossed the yard and pulled the door wide open, standing on the threshold for a moment. Yeru hurried to follow.
Inside, Finn walked slowly across the room, scraped the bench away and sat at the table. Gurid, her mouth hanging slack in shock, croaked “Finn?” and with a loud sigh, he slumped forward onto the table. Yeru stared at the boy in amazement. All seemed too eerily familiar. Gurid and Yeru moved quickly to check the child. Covered in dirt, with fragments of moldy leaves still tucked in his hair, Finn profoundly slept, their touches of examination in no way interrupting his slumber. He snored softly, arms limp on the table top. Gurid placed her palm against his forehead.
“He feels feverish.”
“I caught Cub bringing him back through the stockade gate, riding that old gelding.”
Gurid raised an eyebrow and cocked her head, “Coming in?”
“Yes, returning…” Yeru hissed, “Up to no good, I imagine. And after I specifically told them to keep their eye on their sick brother.” They both glanced across the room.
Sorven smiled at them, his mouth stuffed with sliced bread, only slightly curious about his sleeping brother. Working his way around the hearth, he sniffed the porridge and poked at it with a wooden spoon.
“He looks quite recovered this morning,” Gurid commented. A clatter sounded at the door—Cub quickly entered, crossing immediately to his Mother and her cousin.
“How is he?” Cub gestured at Sorven.
“Where were you?” Yeru demanded.
Cub hung his head. “We had…an errand.”
“An errand?” Yeru rolled her eyes in disbelief. “In the middle of the night?”
Gurid put her hand on Cub’s shoulder. “Agne Agneson, we will talk about this.” Cub kept his eyes on the floor. “Later. Everyone is rising now, and we have guests to attend.”
“Take your little brother back to the shed and let him sleep.” Yeru pointed at the prone form. “You will have to carry him…” Sorven crept up next to his older brother, listening, his cheeks full and porridge on his chin.
“And no more ‘errands’ while Tormod and his family are our guests, do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, mother,” Cub muttered.
Agne pulled the privacy curtain aside and stepped from his alcove. He stretched with arms spread, rising on his toes and reaching toward the ceiling beams, yawning and scratching. His blonde hair disheveled from a heavy sleep, a crease from his blanket pressed across his cheek—Gurid clucked her tongue, “I must go comb Agne’s beard and make him presentable. You take you brothers and go now.”
“Brothers?” Sorven whined through his full mouth, “Why do I need to go? I’m still hungry.”
“Guests come first,” his Mother smiled at him, “and now that you are feeling better, you can come help us keep Gisle and Heigl company. We will call you when it’s your turn.” Sorven scowled. Yeru, hands on her hips, glared at the boys until they hung their heads and turned away.
Cub picked up Finn and Sorven held the door for them. Yeru followed. Finn moaned, feebly struggling in his dreams. The morning sun topped the horizon and sliced through the trees, and with a whistle Gaute led the horses out to the yard. The old raven sat on the roof peak, clucking at Cub as he carried the sleeping boy to their temporary housing in the pit house. Cub gently laid him on his bedroll, taking Sorven’s loose blanket to cover him. The room still smelled of the brazier charcoal. Cub, Yeru and Sorven stood over the sleeping Finn.
“See how he struggles in his dreams…” Yeru looked at Cub. “What did you do last night?”
Ignoring the question, Cub knelt next to Finn. The rising sun cast a harsh light on the sleeping child. Finn slept fitfully, tossing and turning and mumbling.
“Look, his hair…”
The three leaned close where Cub pointed. Sunlight on his face, a frown on his lips, Finn shook and mouthed words, but his hair… as they watched, his hair blanched before their eyes.
Finn’s hair bleached white in the winter sun.
Yeru made the sign against evil and whispered a prayer to Freya under her breath.
Karl
Venison slung over their shoulders, the hunters briskly marched back to MacDonnell’s village, arriving in good spirits, ready for a meal, some ale and a warm room for sleep.
The villagers and his sailors met them with smiles and sincere congratulations. Mud still crusty in their hair and the folds of their clothes, they passed the preparations off to those assembled and jumped into the bay to dunk and wash in the chill salt water. They undid their braids and one of the women brought them good soap. Everything washed in the sea, clothes rinsed clean and stripped to dry, and bodies scrubbed fresh, good tempered horseplay and laughter filled the air. Late in the afternoon, fresh cut green pine boughs were carried down the hill to start small, smoldering fires. The villagers stripped venison from two of the carcasses in thin slices and draped it across fish racks to smoke cure. Some of the women tended the smoky flames, carefully turning the meat to dry each strip. Nearby, a spit held a haunch over a roaring fire to roast with a mouthwatering smell. Karl stood with MacDonnell in the square under his home’s eaves—MacDonnell silently watched the townsfolk and Karl’s sailors prepare for a feast. As the hunters retold the tales of their chase and ambush, MacDonnell and his people grew solemn. Eyes glanced from the jolly warriors to the boon of fresh meat, to MacDonnell who sat impassive on his bench, wrapped in his rug. Karl noticed their quiet caution but made no comment to their host.
A real celebration began at sunset. Opening his house and setting a roaring fire, MacDonnell welcomed the hunters, their companion s
ailors and his townsfolk around his hearth. The villagers used a wooden mallet to tap a cask, and a tin flagon filled everyone’s bowls. Not a true hall, MacDonnell’s home could not seat the entire gathering. Many gathered at the door or stood in the little square between the squat stone buildings. Women sat on benches and sipped their small cups. Children bounced on laps or dodged under foot, and the few maids, watched close by haggish aunts and mothers, blushed at the rough men’s attentions. Marn carved a slab of venison on a wide plank and passed it from hand to hand, everyone taking a share and washing it down with ale.
Clearing his throat with a grand wave of his hands, Jormander stepped to the hearth and began a recitation. First thanking the hosts and wishing them well, as the moon turned to his month the skald gave thanks to Odin and offered his poetry in his name. He chose the song of the hero of the Geats and how he saved Hrothgar’s mead hall through skill and valor. A long poem, an old, well-known song, yet Jormander’s talent as a skald and his practiced words weaved the story anew, especially capturing the hearts of the towns people. The children gathered at his feet in rapt attention. Goorm too loved this particular story, and he moved to a bench close to the fire, loosening his scarf in the heat, captivated by the storyteller’s art.
Having heard Jormander recite this particular tale many times, Karl turned his attention to his men and the elder MacDonnell. The somber villager sat tending his fire, using a stick to knock errant coals back into the bank after each pop and crackle spit them out of the flames. He stared at the burning logs, lost in thought. Hagbard, Sorli and Sven devoured handfuls of the greasy meat, happy talking and joking with their mouths full. Hamdir and Vermund quietly sat in a corner, nursing their drinks. Rurik spoke to the town elders, and Erik, his falcon capped for the night, sat by the open shutter, enjoying the cool air and carving a bit of wood with his knife. All the men relaxed, enjoying a good meal. Havar pushed through the doorway dwarfing the townsfolk around him and motioned to Karl to step outside. Karl nodded and worked his way across the room, chewing on a piece of venison gristle and wiping the grease from his beard.
Outside, the chill wind wafted a salty ocean smell through the village square. The few villagers who could not fit into MacDonnell’s hall gathered by the entrance or milled about the square. Everyone seemed to have a slice of venison in their hands and a smile on their face.
“Captain,” Havar began, bending his head in a confidential way, “These folks are afraid.”
“More than usual?”
“Yes, a bit more. And not just afraid of us. They didn’t like that we raided the swamp for the deer. When we talk of it, it sets them on edge.”
“I noticed MacDonnell was quiet on the subject.”
“There is something they are not telling us…”
Karl nodded. “The old man told me that the bog was treacherous. I took him to mean the way was difficult.”
“What do you mean?”
“May be treachery is the shape of a big man and his strange pets…”
“Captain,” Havar pursed his lips, “my thoughts exactly.”
“I will speak with MacDonnell and learn what he knows of this.” Karl placed his hand on Havar’s arm, “Strap your axe to your belt and drink lightly this eve. We may have needs to keep our wits.” Havar nodded in agreement.
Pressing through the crowd at the door way, Karl noted that Jormander had reached the point in his epic where the hero fought and defeated the beast, the crowd subdued, hanging on every word. When the Geat triumphed by ripping the monster’s arm free, Goorm, two children on his lap, led the cheers. Karl smiled to himself and worked his way across the room to MacDonnell, still tending the hearth. As he passed Jorn, taking bites from a steak spit on his knife, he sent him to speak with Havar and Jorn complied with a shrug.
Karl wound through the crowded room and retrieved his drinking bowl from the table. MacDonnell nodded to him as he approached, bald head down over the coals. Karl leaned close. His face florid from the heat, MacDonnell set his lips in a taunt, thin line.
“Elder,” he started, “At such fine feast, you seem reserved…Do you not like venison? My lads have noticed you are not at ease with our bounty….” MacDonnell grumbled and poked the fire.
“You mentioned the bog was treacherous. We found merely swamp and fen, sedge and reeds, stunted pines, not much more….”
“People,” MacDonnell held his gaze. “People claim that place. For generations, it’s been their land…”
“We may have seen them.”
“No doubt they saw you… and your hunt. We avoid them, steer clear of their land and their treachery.”
Karl shrugged indifference, “They had no commerce with us.”
“Those bog men count every head their lands. Hart, hare, even sparrows. They consider it theirs to own, theirs to harvest.”
“They raised no alarm nor stopped us from our hunt. There is plenty of game, we let most run free.”
“Did ‘he’ see you?
“The big man?”
“Yes,” the old man sighed. “The ‘big’ man, that would be him….”
“He did, we only noted him at the end of our run. He stood in the distance and did not approach. What of him?”
“That is Baenoth, him they call bear-man. He is the leader in their clan. There will be a reckoning.”
“What do you mean…” Karl lowered his voice, “…a reckoning?”
“We took from him, he must take from us,” MacDonnell hung his head, nut brown age spots highlighted on his pale scalp, “It is his way. …I should have warned you away, I should have been firmer….”
“Has this happened before?”
“In my father’s time, and his father’s afore him. It is not easy to explain. If you had lived here all your life you would know. We keep clear of those bog men. They will feel affront. Baenoth will extract a payment, perhaps a girl of breeding age, or perhaps some fresh meat of their choosing….”
Karl grunted, “What meat of their choosing? What meat do we have? Will they take back the venison?” The old man glanced meaningfully around the room. Karl looked incredulous, “…Are you saying they feast on the flesh… of men? That they would consider a few does equal to a man from this village?” The old man poked at the banked coals. “And you allow this?” The old Scot hung his head lower.
Across the room Jormander chanted to pace his story slower, snapping his fingers to set a beat, the crowd hanging on his words and swaying slightly to his rhythm.
“We will not allow this,” Karl hissed.
“He is not like you and I, he is not a man like us,” The old man whispered, glancing side to side at his crowded hall, “When he comes, he will wear the skin of a bear, an angry and unpredictable beast. He cannot be stopped. He will have his way.”
“We are battle hardened. We have our own hair-shirts, we are not frightened by size or sorcery.” Karl could see that his words had no effect on the elder, who seemed both frightened and resigned to their fate.
“They are fae, his people,” MacDonnell said, “Our ways, our reason does not apply. He will seek a reckoning…”
“And I reckon he will get one.” Karl set his jaw. As the verses chanted and the crowd swayed to the beat, they sat in the heat radiating from the roaring fire. Then Karl stood, found a bone to gnaw on the table and left the stuffy room for the clear square air. Pushing through the crowd, the door still stuffed with villagers listening to the skald weave his tale, Karl drank in the clear night air. By the well in the center of the square stood Jorn and Havar.
“Wyrm slayer,” he called to them. “MacDonnell tells me we should expect unwanted guests tonight. I think we should ready to greet them properly.”
Havar smiled broadly and patted his axe.
Finn
Finn woke in the hall, standing in the corner by coat pegs, uncertain as to how he got there.
The room full for an early morning, Tormod and his family sat at the table in places of honor, his father s
miling and nodding to young Espen, his mother and older sister Willa serving sliced bread, smoked fish and porridge. Kara stood behind them, holding Neeta in her arms and cooing at the baby. He felt drowsy from a deep sleep, a little confused. As usual, no one paid any attention to him. Not wanting to interrupt his father and Tormod, he wandered around the table where Mog and Tormod’s men stood chewing dried fish and discussing a trip to Jorvik. They ignored him while he stood next to them listening to their conversation. Tormod’s man wanted to get away from the routine, perhaps find a game or some lasses free for a bit of fun? Finn wondered what he meant…Mog chuckled as he listened, wagged a finger and joked about getting into trouble. Finn stood by Mog, only slightly taller than his belt. The men made plans to leave after Mog handled his chores. Glancing at Tormod and father, Mog turned and shuffled to the door. Tormod’s men settled on a bench and chewed their dry breakfast.
Finn wandered further around the room. Ursep swept quietly, humming to herself, and he danced around her swings. Mae, with a platter of dried fish on her shoulder, stood just out of earshot of his family, speaking in a quiet voice to Ned about meeting later this morning, out at the edge of the pasture where they could be alone. Ned said he would bring a blanket and seemed very insistent, while Mae acted coy and bat her eyes at him, acting like Willa with Espen last evening. He stood next to Mae and noticed how Ned kept trying to touch her hand, but she carefully avoided him. They stared intently into each other’s eyes, disregarding Finn at their side. This is boring, he thought.
Circling behind Mae and Ned, Finn moved across the room to the bench across from Inga who slumped over her bowl, stirring her porridge with a bit of crust. Still sleepy and feeling hungry, he dropped into his seat, somehow misjudging the distance, rocking the bench and knocking the table.
Thorfinn and the Witch's Curse Page 14