Thorfinn and the Witch's Curse

by Jay Veloso Batista

  “What happened?”

  “What do you think? Like everything I touched, I was uncommonly successful.” Raga waggled his fingers. “Beyond dreams or expectations. I used my true name and the words of power that Madisgar taught me to open a gate from the Realm Between to Vanaheim. It was a wondrous place, absolutely beautiful, filled with mystery and high adventure, and there I did learn the art of divination from an old Vanir master, a great dark elf with a sly smirk that I did not truly understand until I returned from my journey. My skills,” Raga paused and peered at the shaggy tree trunks around them, “This way I think,” and he led them deeper into the wood. “…my skills and powers increased until I knew I was a master of the art of prophesy and astral travel, experienced in the paths between the realms and ready to take my place as a wonder in my master’s household.

  “To this day I imagine the old elf had a good laugh at my youthful foolishness. I spent less than a year, nine moons as you count, in Vanaheim, but as I have warned you, time moves differently in each realm. Nine months was a lifetime back in Constantinople. My master was dead, his sons were gone too, and most distressing, my lich was tossed aside and left to rot—there was no ‘home’ to return to. I found myself stranded here in the Realm Between!

  “Now I understood why that old elf always smiled at me and my folly. Here I am, a true prophet trained in secretive mysteries, stranded like a ghost in this between place. Well, Thorfinn, for many, many years it was a lonely life I led, listening to men of the true world fight and dance and live their myriad lives, just watching the spirits of men pass from one plane to the next. Then I was reading the threads and I saw that you could join me, that you would join me, you my boy, a student, a companion and a true friend. I used my skills to call a familiar and travel the physical world to meet you, and well, here we are.” Raga smiled at Finn.

  “Will you teach me my true name?”

  “Perhaps one day we will find a way to learn it. This is not a skill I possess, nor will I follow Madisgar’s method of trap and torture, and the inherent curses that follow…” Raga dipped his head and searched the forest floor. He kicked at the brush with little effect, moving his ghostly leg in a wide, sweeping motion.

  “This is a black walnut grove,” he indicated the branches overhead. “We need to find a heart nut. We shall know it because it will be in both realms…it will move if we kick it,” and he continued to kick at the brush. Finn joined him, swinging his foot back and forth, holding his hands cupped at his chest to keep the salamander safe. Winter frosts had pressed the loose leaves into the loam, and piles of dirty nuts were scattered everywhere beneath the trees. Following Raga’s example, Finn kicked at the fallen twigs and unshelled walnuts, working his way through the trees. Swish, swish, their feet swung back and forth but did not connect with any of the fallen nuts. They searched, each quiet in their thoughts.

  “Here,” Raga called. Finn jumped through the undergrowth to his side. Raga nudged a walnut with his toe. “Can you pick that up as well?”

  Finn struggled for a moment, carefully moving the small creature into one loosely clasped fist, then he bent to pick up the nut. Covered with forest grime, Finn held it like a small stone between his thumb and forefinger. Raga leaned over his hand and started a quiet incantation. The nut split along its side, a sparkle flashing from the separation line, and it opened like a petal, flipping its top half back as if hinged. Finn watched as Raga chanted and the small nut grew in size until it filled his fist, a pair of wrinkled half shells brimming with nut heart. He tapped the jewel on his forehead and tapped the nut, turning the center to a dusty powder.

  “Shake that out,” Raga told him. Finn turned the shells upside down and shook the nut, the meat crumbling and falling to the forest floor. “That’s it, empty it.” It took a few shakes and a thump against his chest before all the bits of the nut fell free. Finn turned the nut over, two empty bowls linked together at an edge.

  “Looks good, eh?” Finn nodded.

  “Go ahead, put your worm in there.” Finn carefully put his blue salamander in the bowl, lifted the other side of the container and closed it—it snapped closed with a click and held fast.

  “How do I get it back out again?”

  “Whisper this: Oh, tree child, tree child, unclasp your heart for me.”

  Finn whispered the words, and with a pop, the nut opened wide for him, revealing the small blue creature, no worse for the experience and seemingly just as unafraid as when Finn first retrieved him. Finn eased the cover shut again and cautiously held the case to his side.

  “A little useful magic, eh?”

  “Can I learn to do that?”

  “In time, my young Thorfinn, in time. First, you must learn the ways of this place, and then we can teach you simple spells, if you have the aptitude of course. We shall see, we shall see,” Raga pointed, “Our way home is that direction.” Finn fell in behind Raga as he led their march.

  “Time is a funny thing, young Thorfinn,” Raga began again. “The Philosophers say it flows like a river, but differently in each realm. Speed of its current varies. Here in between, time follows the nearest realm, a mimic. Yet, in my travels I found a place where one could perch and gaze into another realm as if peering into the depths of a murky lake, a place where you can see the passage of time like a rushing stream, the seasons turning in the span of a candle’s life, trees flowering, fruiting and flashing gorgeous autumn colors as you gaze into the depths….” Finn followed, holding his sax hilt with his right hand and the magicked walnut in his other.

  Raga talked a lot. Finn tried to follow his words, his ‘lectures’ as he called them, but long, unfamiliar and confusing, Finn struggled to follow Raga’s speech. Luckily, he stressed and repeated the important stuff so that Finn would remember. Sometimes Finn just liked to hear him talk, his voice rising and falling in a lilting and soothing way. Raga chattered and gestured, leading them through the wood back to his family compound. Finn half listened to him, thinking instead about the giant they had seen, such a frightening creature. A real monster, more frightening than Yeru’s stories, much bigger than he expected. Much bigger…What if it had seen them following? What if it had watched them through the gate, if it knew they were spying? Here in the Realm Between were ghostly specters and giants, and Raga had said there were elves and dwarves and the hidden folk too. Yeru’s stories were all true, there were sprites and evil creatures hiding everywhere, scheming to trap and harm, just like in the sagas. Finn eyed the dark wood on each side, the glimmers of fairy fire illuminating the path. Was there more here he should fear…?

  “Raga…” He interrupted. The wizard turned.

  “Yes, Thorfinn?”

  “Will that giant come back?”

  “Back? I doubt we shall see him again. That was a rare and auspicious sight. In all my years between I have only glimpsed a giant twice before. Yes, a most rare opportunity.”

  “What if he does? Will he look for us?”

  “No, I think not. That old beast was simply passing through, passing from one realm to another, using this place as a stepping stone. No, I think we shall not see the likes of him again.”

  “Raga, is there…” Finn swallowed, “Are there others I should, we should take care to…should we hide from?”

  “Hide? Oh, I think not. Nothing of significance is seeking us, we are but two tiny wayfarers a wandering in the between, no my boy, there is nothing that threatens us. We have no need to hide.”

  “But what of the elves, and… dwarves?”

  “Ah,” Raga stopped and regarded his companion. “Of course, you are a mere boy of ten summers. A boy who has lived his life in a tight-knit community with little education, mostly combat training and oft retold tales whispered around the campfire. People like to frighten children….” He leaned close and spoke in a serious tone. “Thorfinn, there is nothing to fear here. We are of little consequence to those who voyage this realm. Nothing wants us, no creature is seeking us, nor will most ev
en care if they come across us. We have nothing that any dwarf or elf or any creature of the many realms would even want. We are insignificant to them. You have nothing to fear here or in Midgard.”

  He locked eyes with Finn, “I am here to protect you. No harm shall come to you. I have warned you to steer away from the ghosts that wander here. They are easy to avoid, and you will have no trouble from them. They do not chase you nor do they come for you. They are simple-minded wandering spirits, mostly sad and confused. There is nothing here to harm you… and you have naught to fear while I am by your side. Do you hear me, child? I will protect you. You have nothing to fear.”

  Finn grit his teeth. Raga smiled and patted his shoulder. “Come Thorfinn, let’s head back home with your prize.”

  Finn thought about Raga and his assurances. The forest passed from winter to summer, green sprouts pushing through the loam, fern fiddleheads unrolling, newly opened tiny flowers dramatic against the darkness. Sensing something unusual, nesting wood hens clucked uncomfortably at their passage. They walked back in silence.

  Upon reaching the stockade, they found the gate closed as they had left it, one of Agne’s men making rounds with a spear in one hand and a torch in the other. Raga and Finn easily leapt to the top of the wall. Finn grabbed hold with his free hand, while Raga lightly perched on the sharpened tips of the log wall.

  “You did well tonight, Thorfinn. Remember, there is nothing to fear here in the Realm Between. Call for me and I will protect you. Go get some rest and I will see you on the morrow,” and he hopped off his post, deftly bounced across the yard, and up to the roof of the long house where his familiar rested waiting for his return.

  Finn jumped down carefully, holding his magicked shell in both hands to not jostle the creature inside too much. The yard lay still and quiet, the sliver of moon high overhead, the guard circling the wall on the opposite side of the compound. The guard’s flickering torch cast strange shadows around the dark yard. Finn heard the horses whinny and buck in their stalls as he passed the barn. The horses seemed extra sensitive to him lately. Listening to the horses snort and bang, he nearly ran into it.

  A face, an old woman’s face traced in gray runes and dimly glowing like faded foxfire. Floating free in the air along the long house wall, it hovered outside the door to his pit house, where the dirt sloped up to the low stone foundation. There were no eyes, just black holes.

  “I see you.”

  The voice startled Finn! He quickly searched for its body, glancing to all sides and grabbing his sword hilt with his free hand.

  “What…?”

  “I see you, Thorfinn Agneson!” Finn jumped back from the apparition. It knew his name! Not waiting to hear a word more, with his heart beating wildly in his chest he ducked past the strange specter, opened the door to his shed and focusing all his efforts, pushed the door as hard as he could until the latch slid in place.

  Yeru

  Yeru checked the bee skeps along the edge of the southern field. Ursep followed, carrying a basket over her arm, mincing her steps and humming to herself. The woven domes of straw sat on low, stable benches and the hives swarmed with activity in the warm sunlight. Early season flowers had luckily brought the hives to life, but Yeru worried about the quantity and quality of this early honey harvest. She sent word out to the neighboring farms and homesteads—Agne paid well to gather all they could find. She grumbled to herself as she observed the progress—This is my biggest worry, finding enough honey and fresh herbs to brew the bridal ale, and not just for the wedding feasts: the bride and groom need enough mead to last their first moon together, their entire ‘honey moon,’ else it is a bad omen.

  Men smoked skeps to clear the hive and harvest the sweet goo, and two of Agne’s farm hands cut up the combs and placed them in a sack to hang over a large wooden bowl designed to catch the draining liquid. The first drain of raw honey brewed the finest quality mead destined to serve the bridal party and honored guests, and after the first drain had dripped its last, the waxy combs boiled in water would draw out the remaining essence, leaving honey water for a weaker draught for less important guests. Inside the compound a hired cooper from Jorvik crafted casks and barrels as fast as he could to prepare to store the mead, beer and ale they brewed in the boat house. Brewing underway for weeks, the stocks mounted steadily.

  Drowsy insects swarmed and buzzed in the warm air, the trees new leaves red and yellow with hints of green. Flower buds swelled on the fruit trees, hinting their colors and soon to open. A beautiful time of the year, Einmanudur, the last moon before summer, but not the most bountiful…Yeru shared her worries aloud.

  “Why they didn’t wait for harvest season, I surely don’t know.”

  “Hmm,” Ursep nodded beside her.

  She turned her attention away from the hives and continued past the beekeepers. A newly cut pathway through the forest stretched out before them, a narrow, straight path where four men could walk abreast.

  “Watch for stubble or stray roots that could trip the bridal party. The groom will be riding in on his horse, but we don’t want Willa to topple and spill her crown.”

  The path led to the glade selected for the marriage, where men scattered straw over the freshly widened clearing and tied an oiled tarp in the trees, a meager cover in case of rain. Bird song rang from the trees, chirps and whistles and long repeating tunes. In the clearing a circle of carefully set stones centered on a heaped pile of rocks that stood waist high. In the middle of the pile a stump stabilized the stones and provided a flat table-like surface. The pile of stones would serve as the altar—an old man bent over the wooden stump, carving runes in its rim with a short, sharp blade. Whittling carefully, he ignored the two women. Many of the felled boles pulled down to widen the glade lay arranged in rows as seats for the witnesses and honored guests.

  “Do you think we will need another awning?” Yeru asked. Ursep shrugged. Yeru walked the circle, checking every stone set in place. She watched the men tramping down the straw and yanking the ropes to tighten the stretched tarp.

  “It seems nice, mmm?”

  “Yes, I think it will do,” Yeru stepped back to admire the grove. “I think we should cut some mistletoe and hang it, there and there,” she pointed to both sides of the altar. “They will not spoil and will add a nice touch. I will have Mog send a man. We have only a week left before the first Frigg’s day under the moon of Harpa, and there is so much still to do!”

  “Yeru, you worry too much,” Ursep smiled and shook her head. “All is coming together, hmm?”

  “Better I worry than all goes astray.”

  “I wonder how old Tormod is preparing his boy. Maybe he has yet to meet the family Aptrgangr?”

  “His ancestor’s ghost? Ha, I bet that Espen pisses himself when confronted by the sword bearer.”

  “I wonder who’s grave he will be sent to rob, a grandfather or an even older ancestor, hmm?

  “As long as he brings the ancestral sword to gift to Willa, it doesn’t matter where he gets it. Tradition demands that he present it on the altar for her first-born son, to carry his name, legacy and bloodline.”

  “I am certain the story will be told at the wedding dinner, hmmm? Especially if it embarrasses the boy.”

  The men tying the tarp completed their work and, coils of rope tucked under their arms, headed back to the homestead. The carver grunted at his work.

  “Now, enough of this. Go collect those mushrooms and try to fill your basket full. We need delicacies for the feasts.” Ursep wandered past the altar and pushed her way into the undergrowth, stepping slowly and methodically searching for morels and hens of the forest.

  Yeru turned back to the compound, carefully checking the path for signs of irregularities in the walkway. A stumble on the way to the ceremony would be embarrassing but after, during the bride running, a stumble could end in injury and curse the union in a different way. So many rules to observe, she thought as she shuffled down the path. At least the men had done
a good job spreading straw on the walkway. They had prepared a clear and safe path. The field before the stockade paced out for tents and a pavilion, stakes marked the spots for poles and the processional lane. She nodded in approval of the preparations.

  Back at the gate, she stopped to review the construction of the bridal sauna. Men hammered planks in place with iron nails, forming a box with a single door, surrounding a wooden tub that the cooper had made for them. Yeru went over the process to herself: In a few days’ time they would begin the wedding preparations by sequestering Willa, stripping her of her old clothes and her kransen, and ‘locking’ her away in this bathhouse. Willa would prepare here, first bathing in the steam from hot stones placed in a small tub, then bathing in waters prepared with herbs and flowers. They would switch her back and arms with birch twigs to induce a sweat and symbolically wash away her maidenhood—they must find some fresh birch…And to end the preparation, she would be plunged into cold water to close her pores and end the cleansing. She would be dressed in long white gowns and her food brought to her, carefully keeping her out of the sight of her family, friends, and most importantly the groom and his family. In the days leading up to the wedding day, Yeru and Gurid needed to coach her about the realities and challenges of married life, how to manage your man and the rigors of childbirth. They would teach her the ancient invocations to be recited at the ceremony.