Thorfinn and the Witch's Curse

by Jay Veloso Batista

  Espen pulled a small sack from his belt and handed it to the shaman, who took two rings from it and dipped them in the sow’s blood. Holding her gift sword by the blade, Willa let the elder place a ring on the hilt, which she offered to Espen. He acknowledged the offering, lifted the ring from the hilt and slipped it on his finger. In turn he took his gift sword in the same manner and offered the ring to Willa on its hilt. She took the ring and fit it on her finger. They crossed their swords at the hilts and held hands to recite their vows.

  “I, Tormod, Tormodson, take you Willa daughter of Agne, to be my wife and lawful partner, equal in all things; to protect you, to fight for you and to honor you all the days of our lives. This oath I make freely before my family and witnesses, including the gods called here to oversee and bless our union.”

  “And I, Willa Agnesdatter, take you Tormod son of Tormod, to be my husband and lawful partner, equal in all things; to bear you fine sons to continue the Tormod legacy, to protect and honor you all the days of our lives. This oath I make freely before my family and witnesses, including the gods called here to oversee and bless our union.”

  “This sacred ceremony, blessed by Freya and witnessed by Thor, is complete. You are husband and wife,” the elder declared. Espen immediately enveloped Willa with both arms, the hug the first time they had truly touched each other, their faces filled with emotion. Holding tight to each other, the nervous stress of being on display coupled with a rigid ceremonial adherence where a mistake could doom the union and embarrass their families, drained away, and they caught their breath, sagging a bit in each other’s arms.

  After a pause, the newlyweds turned to face their audience. A cheer rose from the crowd. Yeru, feeling a little sentimental, wiped a tear from her eye and put her arm around her daughter’s waist. Sorven handed Willa a scabbard and she sheathed her sword and fit it into the frog on her belt, holding the shielded blade close to her thigh. Espen slipped his new sword into his scabbard as he eyed her, a mischievous grin on his face. The shaman collected the ceremonial implements from the altar. Willa put her hands on her hips, and smiled knowingly at Espen, who feinted a step towards the circle of stones, then rocked back on his heels. With a girlish giggle, Willa grabbed her crown with one hand and hoisted up her skirt with the other.

  “Are you ready, Husband?” Willa moved towards the stones that marked the edge of the hallowed space. Espen smiled at her, acting nonchalant.

  Mae leaned close to her mother, “Who will go first?” She bent forward in anticipation, ready to jump to her feet and follow.

  Some voices in the crowd called out, “Run, girl!” and “You can beat him!” Setting her jaw, Willa turned from Espen and dashed across the stone markers, beginning the bride running. Kara handed her little sister to her mother, quickly at her sister’s heels. Mae followed, along with children from both families, scrambling after the bride. The young maidens and children from the farmers’ families joined in the pell-mell race, stumbling, laughing and calling encouragement to each other. The older adults cheered them, shouting and laughing as the bridal crown bobbed and swayed down the pathway. Espen jumped to his saddle, pulled the reins free of their branch and dug his heels into the horse’s side, goading it to gallop. Quickly he outpaced the runners as they dashed back to the stockade and the longhouse door. The wedding party ran behind the bride and the children, a riotous scramble.

  Panting, Yeru fell behind as the crowd rushed forward to watch the bride run to the bridal feast. No longer able to keep up in a bride running, Yeru tottered on her swollen ankles, much too heavy for the race. A few men passed her headed in the opposite direction with a wheelbarrow and sharpened knives—these were to butcher the sacrificial sow to be roasted and served to the bride and groom at tonight’s feast. Many of older guests took their time wandering back to the wedding celebration. Haughty Inga and her lady friends strolled along the path, and Inga nodded to Yeru as they passed. She could see Gurid ahead holding her brother’s arm, deep in conversation. Agne and Karl caught up with her on the path.

  “…despite the wergild, Magnuson nurses a grudge,” Agne related, “he spoke out against us in the Fishergate guild hall.”

  “Now you sound like little Finn.”

  “No doubt he has foreseen some danger.”

  “Seen some danger? Not you, too?”

  “We have proof. The forerunner is among us,” Agne squinted at his brother. “We are taking steps to cure him.”

  “Brother, if I didn’t know you better, I would say… you are more an old woman than Yeru here,” Karl laughed, slapping her on the back, but Yeru and Agne did not join him. “The little one needs a good sauna and a swim in the sea, and as for me, I have nothing to fear from that slug Magnus and his ilk. These are tales for the fishmonger wives, you worry for no reason.”

  “Don’t be brash, Karl,” Agne put his hand on his brother’s forearm. “Our brother Alf was headstrong and had no worry for danger, and that was his undoing.”

  “Alf,” Karl dipped his head. “He would have loved this, your daughter’s wedding, drinking with Cerdic and our clan.”

  “Aye. There was nothing he loved more than a good feast…” They plodded up the path, exiting the forest into the field, the straw strewn path churned and disturbed by the bride running.

  “We will drink to his memory.”

  “Yeru, do you think she beat him to the hall?”

  “Brides never win the race,” Yeru grumbled, “We’ll be serving the in-laws tonight, the race is contrived to always end that way.”

  As they neared the gate, they could see the crowd milling about the courtyard, Espen standing on a stool before the entrance to the mead hall, his wedding sword pulled from his scabbard and held across his chest to guard the entrance. Willa stood waiting before him, occasionally glancing back over her shoulder with an impatient look. Agne waved at her, the last of the wedding party had arrived. She spoke to Espen who sheathed his ceremonial sword. With care, he lifted her in his arms and carried her over the threshold and led the family into the hall. The crowd dispersed, the family and wedding party entering the long hall, farmers, guests and associates heading out the gate to the tables spread across the open field before the stockade. Karl stopped to speak with some of his sailors, only Jormander and a handful of his men invited to the longhouse for the bridal feast.

  Yeru and Karl entered the hall last and pulled the doors nearly closed, two of Cerdic’s guards at the ready outside the threshold. Yeru made her way to the tables, watching Espen circling the Barnstoker pillar, the main pillar supporting the roof beams—this post, carved with scrolls and dragons, was the child tree, the post that birthing women, including Gurid, held during labor. Espen drew his blade and with an inarticulate shout, plunged his sword into the pillar, sinking the tip deep into the wood. This followed the prescribed ceremony—the depth of his blade’s bite displayed his virility as well as foretold the depth of the marriage.

  “Good swing, young Tormod.”

  “A fine show of manly prowess,” Jormander spoke, his voice carrying over the crowd. “This bodes well for your first night, Willa.” Laughter filled the hall, and the men began ribald jokes at the bride and groom’s expense. Yeru worked her way over to where Willa stood with the holy man from Jorvik and his bowl. Mae helped Willa fill her special two-handed cup, a wooden bowl carved as a loving cup for two to share. They dipped into a cask of the bridal mead, the strongest and best tasting honey ale brewed especially for this feast. Dipping his wand in the congealing blood remaining in his tarnished silver bowl, the shaman chanted and dripped a few drops of the sacrificial liquid in the loving cup. Willa grinned at Mae and Yeru, made a slight hand movement over the cup marking it with a wife’s rune of power, and ignoring the catcalls and hoots from the men at the table, she carried the cup to Espen who sat in the place of honor where her father usually sat, a seat higher than the rest. Everyone quieted as she reached his side.

  Holding the loving cup out to him, she recit
ed in a strong, clear voice the poem toast from memory.

  “Ale I bring thee, thou battle oak,

  With strength blended and honor bright;

  Mesmerized with magic and mighty songs,

  With goodly spells, wish-speeding runes.”

  As Espen drank, the crowd cheered him. He reached down and taking Willa’s hand, he pulled her up to sit next to him. Making the sign of Thor’s hammer over the drink, he passed the loving cup to her. She took a deep drink and finished the mead, holding the empty cup by both hands over her head to more shouts of encouragement.

  “Careful now little Espy, she drinks better than you!”

  “A lioness with the mead!” Laughter and clapping filled the room. Espen held his arms up to quiet everyone.

  “Bring the hammer, the bride to bless!”

  The holy man stepped forward with the war hammer that Espen had carried to the ceremonial glade, and Espen held it up to the room and turned to show it to all sides. Her seat high enough that those gathered can see her lap, Espen placed the heavy hammer squarely on her lap, its head between her legs.

  “On my maiden’s lap lay ye Mjolnir,” he called out in the prescribed way, “In Thor’s name then our wedlock hallow!”

  Agne stood next to his new son-in-law, “Welcome family and friends, and honored guests! We welcome Tormod and Inga and my newest son to this wedding feast! Let us drink and be merry on this day that honors their union! May the union be fruitful and happy forever!” With this proclamation the feast began. Mae, Ursep, Tima and the farmer’s girls pressed into the day’s service weaved through the hall with their pitchers dispensing mead and ale. Yeru directed two serving men to carry out the first course of roast lamb, loaves of fresh bread and quail pie. She collected a slumbering Neeta from Gurid and carried her through all the noise back to her crib in Agne’s private room, stopping at the door to survey the festive table. Cerdic, Karl and Tormod sat at one end of the table, Inga Hansdatter and her ladies beside them, and the children Heigl and Gisle next to Hildie and Kara, Thorfinn standing quietly behind them. In the center of the table on their raised dais sit Willa and Espen, flanked by Kara, Sorven in his scarlet tunic and cap, Cub, and Jormander who has his hand in the air, probably in the midst of a poetic recounting of their nuptials. Beyond them Tormod’s men, Sven Gornson and Mono, Err and Agne and Karl gather in a knot, drinking and slapping at each other as men do, across from Mog and Gurid sitting with Gaute and a handful of Cerdic’s men. Karl brought Lars and Snorri who joined his raids from Agne’s household, as well as Jorn the one they call “wyrm slayer” and the big man Havar. Typical, Gurid held the men around her spellbound, polite and gentile next to her beauty. Tom, Ned and Agne’s Sven joined Bjorn at the far end of the table. Three women sat with them, some of the girls that Karl brought for his men who have found a way to slip into the main hall and enjoy the bridal ale. No matter, she thought, a few free-spirited girls will add to the levity. In the back of the hall three musicians sat tuning their instruments. The room is hot, she warned herself, I should open the shutters—the fire banked to spit roast some hares, and the sparks and smoke circled the chimney cut through the thatch, and as to be expected, Finn’s ratty bird roosted tucked in a corner of the chimney hole.

  The servers expertly worked the room, the horns and bowls topped full at every pass, wooden platters passed along and serving knives set for each diner. Bustling around the room, Yeru stepped into the alcoves and propped the shutters wider, the afternoon sun brightening the hall.

  In the last alcove she found Ruinda, sitting quietly in a corner.

  “Ruinda, come join the party.”

  “No, my child, I am watching our boy…” and she lifted a bony finger to point at Finn, still standing behind Hilda, shyly watching the commotion all about him.

  “He seems harmless, doesn’t he?”

  Ruinda sighed, “He is more than he seems…much, much more.”

  “I must about my duties—if you need anything, call.” Not waiting for an answer, Yeru headed back to the table. Roars of laughter sounded, and Agne pushed back on his bench, toppling Err and Mono who shared it with him. Both landed on their backsides, splayed out on the plank floor, but neither seemed to mind the indignity as they howled with laughter.

  “You know those scaly, green ship worms that grow like a beard from the keel?” Agne asked Karl in a stage voice projected so all could hear. He hooked his finger at his brother and wiggled it in front of his face. Yeru saw Gurid roll her eyes. Oh, Yeru thought, the flytings have begun already. At least the brothers chose each other rather than one of Tormod or Cerdic’s men.

  “Aye, brother,” Karl choked back laughter.

  “Well, I’ve heard tell she prefers those slimy wrigglers over what you hide in your trousers!”

  Karl shouted over the guffaws, “Is that your best, big brother?”

  “No, no, I would not use my best insult on the likes of you.” Agne stuck out his jaw, “Why should I? We must have pity for men who on bathing day are mistaken for a maid!” Even Gurid smiled at this jab, barely maintaining her composure. Jormander banged on the table by Espen.

  “You Alfensons interrupted my poem dedicated to the newlyweds.” The laughter died down to chuckles and snorts as the room leaned forward to listen to the skald. Jormander pouted, acting insulted, “I guess this was to be expected, from two brothers with skulls as empty as the kettle Odrerir and the tub Bodn after Odin had drunk all the mead of poetry! But even as old one eye transformed to escape the giant Suttung, his eagle droppings lent the power of bad poetry to those who gobbled them, so I shall bless you with the power of true and proper flyting. If you want to be really good at insults, all you need do is open your mouth and, like the Aesir before me, I will leave my glorious droppings there!” and he hiked up his tunic as if to squat. The room convulsed, Cerdic pounding the table and even the maids serving stopped to laugh.

  “Your shit is not so sweet, skald!” Karl shouted over the hoots and whistles and held up his empty horn for Mae to refill.

  “Oh captain, my captain, bring me a godly awl like vartari to sew my ears shut to your clumsy flyting. My words like gems glitter in the ears of those who recognize their value,” he waved his arms indicating the rest of the room, “yet for you they stubbornly refuse to sparkle. It is the curse of being born a log head like your brother, for no jewel or bright star will ever shine through the eternally thick timber that is your deep and woody mind, a boggy backwater of Niflheim has more intelligence and wisdom. The elven of Alfheim cry to Valhalla in pity when you pass, and while some believe your brooding silence connotes a mysterious and empathetic soul, we, your family gathered here, know it really marks you as thick as your oaken shield, a solid, sap-filled beam more husky and heavy than this barnstoker that holds your new son-in-law’s stem.” While the room broke into raucous shouting and foot stomping, eyes turned toward the bride, and Willa suddenly blushed as the skald’s double meaning dawned on her—all except the youngest children understood the central post holding Espen’s sword also referred to the child tree, and that tree symbolized her and another of Espen’s weapons. With a toothy grin, Karl bowed to Jormander, who winked back at him.

  “You are bested, Karl Alfenson!” Cerdic stood and raised his glass. “Jormander, you rascal, remind me to never let you attend my daughter’s wedding! To the young couple!”

  Gurid, tears in her eyes, squeezed Yeru’s hand. Yeru’s cheeks hurt from smiling, and she leaned down to say, “Time for some music, eh?” Gurid nodded.

  Yeru signaled the musicians to begin. They started with a lively tune on the cow horn recorder, a hunched man keeping rhythm with a jaw harp and his foot tap-tapping on a skin head drum, and the singer plucking a Tagelharpa and filling the room with his clear tenor voice. Agne rounded the table and pulled his wife to her feet, high stepping and dancing before the musicians, arm in arm. Soon Espen and Willa joined them, and Sven with one of the Jorvik girls. The men at the table clapped in tempo with
the song’s beat, and the dancers spun to the music. The girls passed through the hall serving everyone bridal mead, including the children whose apple cheeks and reddened ears showed the strong honey wine already made them tipsy.

  More food served the table, full wooden platters passed along the length of the hall. Jormander persuaded the prettier of Inga’s ladies, one with creamy skin and black eyebrows, to join in the dance. Holding her closer than usual propriety would allow, he spun her to the song and whispered in her ear. He returned her to her seat at the table breathless and smiling, watching him from the corner of her eye. The musicians changed tunes. Gurid sank to her seat and fanned her face with her palm. Not dissuaded and still enjoying the music, Agne danced with Kara and switched partners for his little Hildie, carrying her in his arms and swinging her from side to side with each drum thump. Espen held Willa close and they danced slower, ignoring the beat and staring happily in each other’s eyes.

  At the table the good-natured flytings continued, the men practicing their best insults on each other. Bjorn challenged Mono to arm wrestle and wagers began. Cerdic realized he knew the song, and began to sing along, which convinced a number of others to join him. An impromptu chorus filled the room.

  Yeru filled a platter with food from the table and took it to the guards outside the hall door. From the open doorway she noticed the feast outside the gate seemed well underway, the farmers, neighbors and guests, and all of Karl’s Vikings drinking ale and enjoying the roast beef. The warriors in particular seemed to be enjoying themselves, telling stories, singing songs and enjoying the company of farm girls and Jorvik women. She perceived Cerdic’s men not only guarded the longhouse, they stood watchful at the stockade gate and at the corners of the field. Not wanting to forget those sentries, she ducked back into the mead hall and returned balancing four platters, instructing the man to her left in unpracticed English to help her pass out the meals. Karl’s man big warrior Goorm smiled and waved at her as she passed, but she ignored his advances. Everyone fed, she checked the position of the sun in the sky—it would be a while yet before the sow cooked fully, ready for presentation at the ceremonial wedding dinner.