“And what of me, Captain?” A big, barrel chested man pushed up to the table from where he stood near a support pillar. “Did you forget about me?
Karl laughed along with his crew, “How could we forget about you? You are almost too big to fit through the door! Clearly, we will have to make a special place for you at the table! Everyone, meet Odin’s blessed, Goorm Bloodaxe, our hair-shirt berserker,” and he waved the people at the table aside, getting them to move so Goorm could join them on the benches. As he passed, Goorm reached out and patted Yeru’s big back side in a familiar way. Surprised, she turned to find him smiling in her face and staring directly in her eyes, and she felt a flush rise to her cheeks and just as quickly as she had turned, she dropped her gaze. He rubbed past her and straddled the bench.
Agne waited until the room quieted and asked, “And what of the others, Arthi, Tornvald, Erik and his birds, Thorson, Honix, and the rest?”
“Needs be we left Erik and Arthi, and two others you don’t know, Budli and our archer Vermund, in a Scots village to wait our return. It is a long story, best left for another time. The others,” Karl took a gulp, “our brothers have gone before us to Valhalla. They died a warrior’s death, and surely were carried off by the Valkyrie in glory. This we have witnessed.” The crew grew somber and nodded along with his words, lifting their mugs and bowls in silent respect for the departed dead. “I can give you an account of each, the manner of their death and the glories they won. Yet, this is a happier time, a welcome home and a wedding, let’s postpone these tales…”
Mae and Ursep passed loaves of bread down the table, as Karl locked eyes with his brother, “We didn’t just bring home a new ship to dry.” He leaned down and confided, “I have many gifts we can add to your daughter’s dowry, brother. A long voyage, aye, yet these men come home with fortunes each.” Agne nodded, smiling at Jormander and Snorri.
“And now we can press Jormander into singing at the wedding,” Gurid added, “after all, your poetry is now world renown.”
Jormander laughed, “Aye, Gurid Blue Eyes, still as beautiful as the day we met, it would be my honor to sing for your lovely daughter Willa and her groom. Although I see him not, nowhere to be found to defend his betrothed from wild and wooly lads returned from eastern lands!” Agne raised an eyebrow at the skald’s bold flattery, but Karl leaned close and Yeru heard him whisper something about ‘bed slaves’ and ‘calm and happy,’ and Agne nodded in agreement.
“Maybe a taste of what we’ve missed these years past?” Gurid held up her hand and motioned for him to stand. Jormander bowed his head, stood and took a long swallow from his bowl.
“No love poetry, for it is forbidden as witchcraft to a skald,” Jormander winked at young Hilda resting on the table before him. He raised his sonorous voice, the ringing tenor quieting the room, “yet even Odin himself teaches all, be kind to wanderers, for one never knows when a god walks among us. As Havamal sung before me:
“Hail, ye Givers! a guest is come;
Say! where shall he sit within?
Much pressed is he who fain on the hearth,
would seek for warmth and weal.”
The local farmers and their families, pressed into the room behind the table and seated on the benches along the outer walls, listened to the skald recite. Jormander turned to face all sections of the room, in turn looking straight into the eyes of his audience. Each locked his gaze with the poet for only a moment, and while some caught their breath at that instant, after everyone swore that he sang directly to them. Such a rare treat to have one so talented perform—Yeru sat enthralled.
“Let me sip Kvasir’s blood, delightful mead of wit,
To tease, to teach and fill my tongue
Old Suttung’s thirst a’ quenched.
Aye, fair Hvergelmir, sprung in waves
o’ chill and dismal Elivagar,
course the plains of Ginnungagap,
come feed life’s tree, come lift our sap;
As Gerd’s nine days hexed
her poor and godly groom,
Our peace weaver needs
no haunting maiden tune.
Cast forth your marrow, hearty barrow,
Hark, ancestral mound! A worthy foil disgorged
With lessons o’ our fore bearers
In steel of bygone forged…”
Jormander dipped his head toward Willa, who had passed her baby sister to Kara. She knew the poem spoke of her marriage, and she shyly gathered her long, silky hair and pulled it over her shoulder, twisting it in her hands. Karl’s crew, accustomed to Jormander and his sharp tongue, tapped their mugs and bowls to the rhythm of the poet’s chant and smiled at his double meanings.
As the poet sang on, Yeru cast about the room. The younger boys huddled around their mother, Cub sitting next to his Uncle—like the farmers and field hands, they too enjoyed Jormander’s elegant delivery and his style—he really is a talented skald. Maybe the best I have ever seen…my Father would have appreciated his gifts, his presence, his controlled and skillful hand motions, highlighting a passage yet never distracting from the poetry or cadence. I am merely a good storyteller in Jormander’s presence. No jealous thoughts, she warned herself, we all have our part to play.
Seasoned warriors and seamen, she noted gold bands on their arms, indications of regal rewards. Karl sported the broadest and most intricately carved, but not alone in honors, for Thorvald beside him wore a fine-spun linen tunic flecked with scarlet trimmings, and around the table the Viking’s hands glittered with rings set with gemstones. Indeed, this crew brought home treasures. And their arms, necks and faces showed the mementos of conflicts and clashes, scars and scrapes and dark-inked tattoos. They sprawled on the benches, tearing off hunks of the fresh bread and passing along the loaves, some happy to be home, others satisfied with a place to rest in the safety of Agne’s hold. She watched as they eyed her daughter handing out dried beef strips and fish cakes, her maiden face flushed with the excitement of visitors, and thought, oh, no, this is more work than I deserve. Looking down the room, her eyes crossed the big man Goorm, who locked eyes with her again and smiled, a lost tooth a gap in his grin. She frowned and quickly moved her gaze along the room, but she could feel his eyes lingering on her. It’s clear what’s on his mind after months at sea, but really, she thought, why me? Merely an unsettling feeling after all these years of disinterest, still his attention stirred her stomach and raised heat to her cheeks. Frigg! she thought, am I my Mae? A silly goose, a foolish girl, to be whisked away by strength and valor? She stomped her foot and purposely turned away.
Finding Ruinda seated at the end of the room, Yeru noted that the old woman sat as vigilant as she, observing the crowd, the sailors and warriors lounging at their cups, the farmers, their wives and hired hands gathered in the long hall. Old Silverhair motioned to her, and with a hand signal indicated she wanted to talk. Yeru gave a sharp nod to show she had seen the call, and Ruinda pointed at Agne. Yeru understood, and moving her hand to get Agne’s attention, she indicated with a slight movement of her head for him to look down the table where he saw Ruinda expectantly waiting. Agne reached across the table, patted Gurid on her hand and tussled Hildie’s mop of hair, then leaned to his brother and whispered for a moment. Karl nodded as Agne signaled Yeru to join him. As the poet continued his wedding dedication, the two of them worked through the crowd and followed Ruinda to Agne’s private chambers where she waited at the doorway.
Agne closed the door behind them.
“Yes, Silverhair, is there news?”
“Jarl Agne,” Ruinda tottered over to a chair and eased herself down on the seat, tender with pains in her old bones. She looked tired, her cheeks saggy and wrinkled. “You have honored me with your generosity and allowed me free rein as I studied this ghostly problem. These weeks I have watched. I have learned bit by bit and I have held my tongue, measuring the weft of this tangled skein. And often I have called for assistance from beyond this realm.”
Yeru
crossed to sit on a bench across from Ruinda, tucking a loose locket under her cap. Agne stood before the old woman, Yeru recognizing nervousness in his stance. Ruinda lifted her rheumy eyes to Yeru.
“I have answers now. It took time, it took careful voyages beyond our Midgard. I ken these mysteries, these obscurities that surround and haunt your family, and the assistance I require has finally answered my call.”
“Explain,” Agne’s tone harsh, betraying his feelings. She gazed at him towering over her.
“It was as Yeru described,” Ruinda leaned forward and spoke quietly, “The youngest boy is haunted by a vardoger, the spirit they call a fyreferd, the forerunner ghost. I have seen it.”
Agne set his jaw in a grim and determined expression.
“But, not to fear, Lord Agne, for this ghost is no foreign phantom, come to leech his life away. It is the very boy’s hug itself that has slipped its moorings and floats free of his lich. In day it runs before him, a nuisance and a scare, but, at night while his body sleeps, it wanders free….”
“Finn’s own hug….” Yeru murmured.
“Wanders, you say?”
“Yes, the fyreferd leaves his body and drifts, sometimes near, sometimes far. As far as Jorvik, as close as this hall. Every night it roams. I have witnessed its passage. It listens, it watches, it gains more ease in the land of ghosts, and it returns before dawn, returns before its lich awakens.”
“Odin’s lost eye,” Agne shook his head, “Is this safe? I mean, for Finn, is it safe for him to wander about like that…?
“There are always dangers in the spirit realms, even to a vardoger.”
“At night, by himself, what does he do?” Yeru asked.
“There is another.”
“What do you mean?”
“There is another, a spirit that travels with the boy’s hug. It seems to have befriended little Thorfinn. No harm it causes him, but it must harbor some purpose undivulged. I have watched the two pass by together, I have witnessed them in company, night after night. I fear this strange specter leads him astray.”
Agne frowned and rubbed his forehead. “Another ghost, eh?”
“Yes, an ancient and elder spirit, I have witnessed it.” They sat quietly, listening to laughter and clapping in the mead hall.
“Is there anything we can do?” Yeru earnestly asked.
“I have thought on this and I believe yes. Yes, there is a remedy.” Yeru watched Agne’s face carefully as he reacted. Relief spread across his brow.
“What is your cure? How do we fix this vardoger curse?”
“What can I do? Tell us, we are at the ready…”
Ruinda held up her hand to hush the anxious father and Yeru.
“Now I tell you, the fyreferd can listen when we least expect, he can know of secrets and hidden confidences because a wandering hug can walk through walls, stand in our midst and listen like a bug tucked in that thatch above us. After all, it is a ghost of sorts. We must take care and not betray our plans to him, else all may go awry. The only way to ensure the vardoger is not listening is,” she smiled, wrinkles deepening around her mouth, and tapped her forehead with an age-curled forefinger, “we keep it all locked away here.”
“How do we know he is not here now?”
“Finn is awake,” Ruinda waved a dismissive gesture at the door and the noise hall beyond, “He is sitting with his mother in rapt adulation of that pirate skald. I don’t believe his fyreferd awakes during the day. From all I witnessed, the forerunner is ‘asleep’ while the boy is awake.”
Agne solemnly nodded. “And when the boy sleeps, the ghost awakes….”
“Yes,” Ruinda stirred in her seat, “This I have come to see.”
Yeru leaned forward. “You can at least tell us what parts we play…”
“I want to help.” Agne held his open palms out to Ruinda, “So will his mother, that is, if we can.”
“It is best I keep the details to myself.” Ruinda wet her lips. “But I will tell you this much to satisfy your curiosity. His companion, that ancient ghoul employs a familiar here, to travel in Midgard. This is his weakness—when the time is ripe, we shall capture the familiar and trap the other within it. We must banish his influence over young Finn’s hug. Trapping it physically here in Midgard will keep it from reaching or warning the boy. Then I will use my skills to weave a special snare and trap the boy’s hug as it passes. With Finn’s hug trapped, we can use enchantments to tie it back to its lich, to stitch the body and soul together again.”
“How do you know your trap will work?”
“Ah, Agne,” Ruinda pushed herself up, standing humped backed before him, “I am wiser than you give me credit. To earn your reward, and I expect it will be grand, I need to be sure that I can affect events beyond Midgard. I must be sure the boy’s hug will fall into my trap.” She held a crooked finger up to his face. “I have spent the last weeks searching for a spirit, a ghostly acquaintance of my own, one who has served me well in the past, a being I trust. After my moon of calls, early this morning I finally heard an answer. She has found us, here in your forest. Now, I have my own ghostly hands beyond this realm.
“I assure you, Agne Alfenson, I will trap your boy’s hug and lift this vardoger curse.”
Chapter 9
Yeru
The wedding preparations began on Thor’s day with Willa separated from her family and sequestered in her hastily constructed sauna, her kransen formally removed from her head to be returned to her father. Only her mother and Yeru accompanied her into the small wooden bath house. Once shut inside the tiny cabin, the older women stripped her clothes from her and discarded them in a heap in the corner. Instructed to kneel before the two wooden tubs the girl watched as smoldering hot field stones fresh from the fire dropped into the smaller tub’s water to create clouds of steam. As the sun set, she baked in the sauna, the women of the household supplying a steady supply of heated rocks from the fireplace and buckets of water to replace that which the tub lost to vapor. A small sliding door set in the wall by the steam tub allowed access for the heated stones and buckets, the larger tub filled with chilled water to end the sauna with a cool bath. Armed with birch twig bundles, their new leaves recently opened like tiny flowers of green, Yeru switched the girl’s arms, sides and back to stimulate her skin and increase perspiration. Lots of sweat symbolized the washing away of her maidenhood, so Yeru worked tenderly but thoroughly. The steam hung thick in the close room and Gurid and Yeru stripped to simple linen tunics that stuck wetly to their sides. Willa’s hair hung damp down her back, and her arms and neck glowed a rosy red from the heat and sweat and switches.
“It is time for me to impart my mother’s wisdom to you before your marriage.” With a finger wet from the bath, Gurid drew on the wooden slat wall as she instructed her daughter in the mysteries.
“A wife must know the runes of power, the ale runes, this and this,” she traced the symbols on the wall and pressed Willa to practice the strokes and learn the runes. “The first is to protect his health and the second is ‘increase,’ as in increase in all things. You must remember these symbols and use them every day, marking his bed, his food, his bath, his clothes. Should he fall ill, make the ale runes on his palms, and on his joints. You should trace this rune of increase on his first cup of ale before you serve him.” Yeru leaned close to the girl and traced the rune again, slowly showing where Willa missed the design.
“This is the birth-rune, to be traced on your sheets as a child quickens within.” Gurid took two fingers to make a thicker line and drew the symbol larger than the first two, prompting Willa to follow her lead. The two traced the symbol together, the wet marks rapidly fading from the wall in the steamy room. “Now, make it on your belly, yes...like that. This will protect you and the child, and carry you safely through the river of pain, when we women are at the most risk, closest to Niflheim.
“This is the speech rune, to ward away hate from strangers and jealous neighbors, and to protect against f
alse accusations and bring fair justice.” They practiced the symbol together, dark wet marks on the wall boards.
“This is the branch rune, the core magic of a healer, to aid and salve wounds, especially those gained in warfare. And this is the wave rune. You must bless any ship he pilots, and you may burn this symbol into the oars of a newly hewn boat to bless and speed its safe passage through the sea.” Willa’s brow furrowed in concentration and her shoulders slumped as she made a mistaken line.
“Don’t worry, you have all evening to practice,” Yeru spoke gently.
“This is the thought rune.” Gurid looked knowingly into her daughter’s eyes. “Make this magic to expand his wisdom, to increase his knowledge and clear his eyes to ken truth from chaos or deceit.”
“And this, this is the most powerful,” Gurid spoke somberly. “This is the Victory Rune, to be marked upon his hilt and on his forehead before a battle. Only a true wife can give this blessing and it is an honor and a responsibility. Now, practice the mark with me….” Willa followed Gurid’s instruction closely, watching how she held her hand and how she made her marks.
“This is a women’s wisdom, passed from Mothers to daughters upon their wedding day,” Yeru said in a quiet voice. “Just as my Mother taught me, now your Mother teaches you and you shall teach your daughters in turn.”
“It is an unbroken chain, down through the generations,” Gurid added. Willa nodded solemnly, her eyes wide.
“Remember, dear daughter, that you must never betray him. His bed will be your honor and your refuge, and should all come to naught, your honor will be all that sustains you in divorce.”
“Your honor, and your morning gift.” Yeru added. “That treasure is yours after he has taken your maidenhood and you never have to share it unless you desire.”
“Yes, once you have the morning gift you should hide it in a protected place, for it could be your only support in widowhood.”
Thorfinn and the Witch's Curse Page 24