Thorfinn and the Witch's Curse

by Jay Veloso Batista

  Finn studied the strange garbed soldiers march through the trees. “The first law is never speak to a ghost here.”

  “That, my boy, is absolutely correct,” Raga tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. “Never interact with any here in the Realm Between. No talking, no touching, no leaving them messages or directions or trying to help them with their plight. They are merely passing through to another realm or they are lost. Often these adrift have lost more than their way. They are dangerous, especially dangerous to you who can walk freely in both realms. No good can come from them so avoid them at all costs.”

  “You tell me this every night...”

  “Yes, the truth of it bears repeating often, repeating often and forcefully, young Thorfinn. You can go far, accomplish great deeds, reap riches and knowledge, but it can all be ruined in an instant, should one of these sad creatures snatch ahold of your hug and leech your life essence from you!”

  Finn watched the column of men silently disappear among the trees. The air seemed calm. Finn doesn’t feel the winter chill, although he sees frost settling on the grassy field and on the tips of the sharpened boles that form the stockade wall. They perch on the walkway built around the top of the outer wall, with the palisade itself forming a balustrade waist high. One of his Father’s men will make rounds and pass them by, never noticing them—odd and surprising the first time it happened, Finn struggled with the idea that people in Midgard really couldn’t see, hear or even sense him here in this land between realms. Only a rare few seemed to notice when he was near them, like Hildie and his mother….

  “What is the second law of this land?”

  “The second law of the Realm Between is to never enter another realm without a guide.”

  “Correct, Thorfinn. Never try to push into a new realm without a guide, a map or a known and trusted way to return. Never cross the great gray rivers that well up from Hvergelmir like the river Gioll, those that I would call Styx, Acheron and Lethe, never seek Mirmir’s well of wisdom in your realm of the Jotun giants, never seek the knowledge and power of the Vanir or the dark elves. I must remind you, this was my error. The lure of other lands is strong and compelling, but hear me young Thorfinn Agneson, not only are the denizens of those other realms hunting hugs to ensnare, even time itself behaves strangely in other realms, for a single hour in Vanaheim can be a lifetime in Midgard! The other realms are filled with perils and snares for ones such as us, traps to imprison and hold us from our homes and families. This law is critical, heed me well, my boy.

  “And the third law?”

  “Guard your lich.”

  “Yes, guard your physical body and keep it safe, for it is your way home, back from this place between realms.” Raga leaned close to Finn, holding his gaze. “Where is your lich now?”

  “You know where it is! It’s safe, Raga. I am sleeping with my brothers in the shed.”

  “Yonder shed?” Raga rolled his eyes, “Do you know it’s still there? How do you know it hasn’t been moved?”

  “Raga! It’s fine, I am with my brothers.”

  “Are you?”

  “Raga!” Finn swung playfully at Raga, who stepped back and chuckled.

  “Ah, little Thorfinn, you are a trusting soul.” Raga waved at the field, “We have been working for a week of nights, and you are a good pupil, absorbing everything I give you. You have learned the laws, you understand the basics of the Realm Between. You can pass unnoticed and move unmolested through the world. There is more to learning than memorization. I think it is time for a little adventure, eh young one? Get out in this Realm and see the world. Learn by doing. The rest of tonight you and I shall have a wander… I believe we should go to Jorvik.”

  “Really?”

  “Would I joke about a night on the town?” Raga snapped his fingers and waved his arm in a flourish, fixing his raven familiar to a spot on the barn roof to wait for his return. Lifting himself over the wooden stockade wall, he gently dropped to the ground outside the compound and glanced back at Finn, “Besides, it’s all part of your training.” He motioned with his arm, inviting Finn to join him. With no hesitation, Finn jumped, landing lightly on his hands and knees, his cheeks dimpled in a wide grin.

  “Let’s run. Run as I taught you, faster than a horse,” Raga pointed in the direction of the city. “It’s there. Are you ready? Let’s go!” and grabbing his hat to pin it to his head, his robe flowing behind him, Raga sprinted off across the field, gracefully clearing the split rail fence in a single leap. Finn followed, determination and effort making up for his shorter stride. In a few moments he caught Raga and side by side they plunged into the forest, ignoring the spectral trees and passing through the misty landscape.

  Finn sees well in this midnight forest. As he had learned the previous night, in the Realm Between the wood is filled with fairy fire, will-o-the-wisp lights floating in the branches above, glowing green and blue mushrooms on the loamy forest floor or worming up tree trunks. Raga called this light ‘foxfire,’ and said Finn should collect it by day and keep it fresh to use in dark places when traveling the realm. It cast an eerie green glow as they passed. Everywhere the woodland glimmers and sparkles with strange lights and odd shapes, reminding Finn that, despite similarities, this is not really home.

  With surprising swiftness, they moved through the stand of trees and joined the old cobbled road to Jorvik. The way clear and open, Raga slowed his pace, Finn falling into step at his side.

  “This is the old roman road to Eboracum, the town you now call Fishergate. Jorvik. It was originally known for its wild boars; did you know that? The place of wild boars,” Raga stomped his foot, “Say what you will about the Emperors of old, they could build a solid road. This place, Fishergate, it was built as a military fort on the spot where the rivers Ouse and Foss meet. See there, we will cross that bridge ahead, that tributary drains into the Ouse…”

  Finn found the way familiar, the same route he had traveled to Jorvik with his father and brothers to apprentice to the master carver Olaf. It seemed like a long time ago. Mice or voles disturbed by their passing skittered and chirped in the grass. As they crossed the wooden bridge, Finn noticed glowing eels swimming in the stream below, the water flashing and sparkling in the moon light. Ahead torches in iron baskets lit the high stockade wall surrounding the city, the night gate closed and barred, blocking their way.

  “Stay close to me,” Raga led them away from the main road to east of the gate fortifications and alert guards. “We could easily pass there, but there are dogs and they will mark our passing.”

  Walking along the wooden palisade, Raga stopped and pressed his ear to the wall, holding his hand in the air to halt Finn.

  “What do you hear?”

  “The guard has marched past, no sounds of dogs or cats,” Raga turned to Finn. “This seems a good place,” and with a wink, he pushed with both spectral arms and popped through the fortifications, his dangling robes the last to disappear from sight. Finn swallowed, cocked his head, set his jaw and pushed with both arms, stepping through the solid wall. He felt nothing in the passage, only his thoughts made him uncomfortable when passing through objects like a specter.

  A narrow street lay on the other side of the wall, two story buildings leaning precariously over the alley, a man sleeping at their feet in a puddle of his own making, and a single torch casting a harsh light on shuttered shops.

  “Let’s go this way,” Raga strode off down the lane. Finn stuck to his heels, looking over his shoulders and checking every shadowed alcove. The alley opened on a wider street, which in turn led to a small square with no outlet.

  “Should we go back and find another way?”

  “Back?” Raga sniggered, “Don’t be silly… we go through!” and marching to a closed door on a building facing the square, he pushed his way into the house. Finn scrambled to follow. They entered a humble room with a man, his wife and three children crammed in a corner hay bed, the remains of their meal on the table, and
a pile of dusty masonry tools stacked haphazardly by the entrance. The ceiling hung low and blackened with soot, and the family huddled under worn, moth chewed blankets, gently snoring and snuggled together for warmth. Disturbing nothing in his passage, Raga continued across the room and passed through the opposite wall, Finn clinging to his robe tail and ogling the prone figures.

  Beyond, the room dazzled their dark accustomed eyes, warmly lit by tapers and cherry red coals in a brazier. Smoke gathered thinly along the ceiling, and slowly drifted out a shutter propped wide to the fresh night air. A woman hunched over her table, long hair undone and draped down her back, waving a comb in the air. She whispered to a thin faced man on a pallet near her feet, “…after the winter rains, when you head back to the barge and I am left alone, Mera shall visit and….” Continuing unnoticed, they passed through the front door and into a new street.

  Despite the hour, people wandered in pairs or stood in doorways, mostly women bundled against the cold weather, the street cobbled, well swept and lit with torches. Cheeks chapped with cold, lips winter raw, their dresses a bit worn at the hem, heads wrapped in scarves and gloveless hands tucked under armpits, they seemed jolly enough, laughing and joking with passersby. Three city guards, off duty and stumbling from drink, rounded the corner ahead and began to sing a Danish drinking song that Finn recognized from his father’s hall. Some of the women immediately crossed to them and struck up a conversation.

  “Oh, I know this place,” Raga held his hand up to stop Finn. “This is not a place for you, boy. Let’s turn here—I think we can find the main road to the docks,” and he ducked down an alley, quickly leaving the crowd behind. With a little weaving and dodging wanderers, and Finn hanging close to his heels, Raga led the way into a wide boulevard, large enough for two-way traffic, well lit with torches and iron baskets filled with burning kindling. Finn smelled the fishy riverside odor of docks. Gulls cried over head. Sailors dressed in leathers and carrying rough spun sacks milled about in groups by open doors to public houses. Warm orange fire light casts shadows in the street and steamy heat escaped in clouds from the doorways. The sounds of men singing, clapping and women’s laughter echoed down the avenue.

  “I know this place.”

  “You do, eh? Where do you think we are?”

  “The Danish guild hall is up ahead, I recognize that sign,” Finn answered, pointing to a placard of a grey horse swinging overhead.

  “A Norse Hall? Have you been there?”

  “Once, with my father and brothers.”

  “Thorfinn, my lad, you are full of surprises. Let’s go in and see this guild hall, don’t you think?”

  Finn shrugged, “It’s that place, there…”

  The familiar sign, two axes on a green field, marked the entrance, and by the door stood the gap-toothed old proprietor, scowling out at the street from under his bushy brows. A discarded boot propped open the door a hand’s breadth. In a playful mood, Raga confronted the bent elder, bowed mischievously and floated past him through the cracked doorway. Finn slipped around the old man a bit more carefully, trying his best not to touch him, and pursued Raga through the opening.

  Immediately the sounds of the place overwhelmed Finn, a loud jumbled mess of men all talking at once, calling over each other, arguing, laughing, interrupting, shouting and singing. While the hall remained as he remembered it, the rough hewn tables, benches and stools, the wide hearth and a wall of many-colored shields, tonight a mob packed the room tight, more people than Finn thought could fit into the space.

  Happy in the noise and mess, Raga cackled as he entered the crowded room. Jammed with late night revelers, men and boys pressed into corners and in every seat, elbow to shoulder, side by side. The room smelled of unwashed men and the stale yeasty odor of spilled beer, sticky ale splashed on the tables and floor. Scattered on wooden platters with carving knives stuck in their backs like flags, joints of cold beef lay forgotten. Servants shoved through the mob holding leather pitchers of beer over their heads. A broad, well stoked fire roars in the hearth, crackling and popping and spitting tiny embers, and many of the guests sweat, florid faced from the close heat and too much drink. A few even sleep, sprawled across a table top or tucked in a corner with their chins dropped to their chests. Raga laughs at the bedlam, reveling in the wild disorder. Finn hovered beside him, his jaw slack and his eyes wide.

  “This is surely a raucous place! I like it! How is it you’ve never mentioned it before?”

  “It wasn’t like this when I came before…”

  “I would think not! Your upright and stiff-necked father would never take his boys to a place so wild and unmannered,” He barked a laugh, and began to walk through the crowded tables, leaning in to listen to conversations and examining the carousing Danes. Finn clutched his robe tail, awkwardly stumbling along through the crowd and occasionally begging pardon as he passed through a stranger’s lich. A stumbling man careened directly through Finn, startling him and stopping him in his tracks.

  “Sorry!”

  “They can’t hear you, you know.”

  “What?”

  “Finn, they can’t hear you, or feel you, or even notice your passing. We are less than ghosts to these, drunk as they are on strong ale and sporting sleepy eyes from full bellies. We can do as we like here, go where we like here, see what we want to see….” Finn trailed Raga through the teeming room, listening a bit to each he passed. A man next to Finn confided to his friend....

  “She is more beautiful than the flowers of summer, I tell you. She would put Frigg to shame.”

  “Watch yer tongue, no blasphemes! And you know she’s spoken for, ye fool!”

  “She is like the full moon marking Solmanudur, a welcome beauty that shines glory on all who see her….”

  “Aye, I warrant she’s fair, but listen, she loves Anders. He told me so.”

  “It matters not to me,” the man hung his head over his mug. “I tell you, I can challenge him. I tell you, I can take him in combat, then she’ll see.” Standing next to them, Finn realized the truth of Raga’s teaching, in the Realm Between they stand completely unseen—yes, they are in the hall, but not really here, at least not here for these drunken east men... He straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath, allowing Raga to step away into the crowd. These two men are toasting with brennivin, the dark, strong schnapps called ‘black death.’ Its aromatic scent tickled his nose. Raga moved ahead, wandering among the mass of sailors and guildsmen. Finn turned away from the love-sick man, pausing at another table to listen to a wizened fellow with his beard braided in two long, gray forks.

  “I know that captain, one Conred—ja, he’s got a Saxon name, but he’s a Dane none-the-less. I vouch for him. He’s trustworthy, and a skilled pilot. It would be smart to take berth with him.”

  “I hear he plans to go a Viking when the summer comes.”

  “Ja, he is taking on extra crew. If you want, I put in a good word for you…”

  Finn worked his way deeper into the crowded hall, away from the fire into the darker corners. A loud commotion drew his attention, men swarmed around a table blocking his view. He pressed through the onlookers and found two men arm wrestling, snorting and growling through barred teeth, while the throng about them urged them on and placed bets on the outcome. A short knife is set on the table beneath each struggling arm, propped so its sharp edge angles up at the wrestlers. A slip or a loss ends in a painful cut—Finn wiggled nearer, thinking I’ve never seen such a game! He pressed closer to the table, ignoring the bodies that step on and through him. Those gathered around jockey for better viewing, elbowing each other and slamming bits and whole coins on the tabletop to place their wagers. The watchers hooted and heckled the players, smacking their fists on the table, spilling more ale. Finn smiled, watching the combatants strain and groan over the sloppy table. Finn ducked to sidestep a burly sailor who pushed his way forward to place his bet, still uncomfortable with the idea of occupying the same space as another, and turnin
g to look behind, he froze…

  There, a few tables away, sat the very men that threatened his father, the men that declared their hatred of his Uncle Karl…what was his name? Yes, that is Gani, Gani Magnuson.

  Gani bent over a leather mug, a bit of froth on his upper lip. With him sat the man with the jutting chin, heads close together in a whispered discussion. And beside him a third sprawled across the table, a new face, a hard looking fellow with a scar up his left arm from wrist to shoulder, short cropped hair and a squinting left eye. Cautiously, Finn wormed his way closer, carefully leaning his head near to eavesdrop.

  “…And I hear the old Tor-man agreed to the bride price.”

  “No!”

  “Espen is a fool, I guarantee.”

  “Why align with Alfenson, when all know that they fall soon?”

  Gani shushed the speaker. “No names, no names here.”

  “I hear word that the brother has been seen off the coast of Northumbria.”

  Gani snorted, “Let him show his face, I warrant he’ll join his father and eldest brother in Niflheim.”

  “We need to flush the prey.”

  “You know,” the man with the jutting chin spat on the floor, “The wedding…The wedding will bring them all.”

  “Ah, there’s an idea,” Gani’s scowl turned slowly to a grin, “We can set a trap for that murderous slug at the wedding, when he is sure to drink strong ale with the bride and groom. Sure to be in his cups.”

  “Not a bad idea, Gani.”

  “Yes,” the man with the close-cropped hair agreed, “We can set a trap for the night of the wedding.”