by G M Eppers
Assembling on deck, we were directed to line up along the rear edge of the hold, and the hatch was again closed and locked. I glanced up at the rigging they’d installed to hold up the sails. It clearly was not functional. I saw no slip knots or pulleys and their arrangement was exactly the same as when we’d boarded, as near as I could tell. They hadn’t been adjusted to changes in the wind or furled to slow their speed. The sails were for decoration only, to make them feel like Vikings, and were neither powering nor directing the ship. Last out of the hold was McGrone, his uniform pouched in front as if he had a pot belly. I saw him take note of the torch so near him and willed him not to be so foolhardy as to spoil our surprise too quickly. He looked down the line of faces and saw me watching him. He took a deep breath, and stood at attention.
Xerxes, also carrying a torch, stood in front of us looking stern. His fifty or so crewmates were scattered over the deck, all facing us, swinging their axes impatiently. Some of them had a bow slung over one shoulder and a quiver strapped to their backs as well. They were all standing, some higher than others on storage boxes or odd deck protrusions, ready to leap into the fray. They wore mismatched iron helmets, crudely made, some with nose pieces, some with wooden crowns, and some with extensions covering the eyes like goggles.
The night air was salty after the musty hold and the ship’s slow speed provided a gentle breeze that tickled the hair on my legs. I was kind of wishing I hadn’t been wearing shorts when this little adventure began. I didn’t like the idea of this much exposed skin when I fought. The heavy cloth sails above us snapped gently. The ecru cloth reflected the firelight, helping to illuminate the deck. Agnes stood next to me and I took her hand in mine. The fake dynamite at the small of my back made it a little hard to relax. Breathing heavy or slouching in the slightest might make it bend, rendering it less convincing. But I was going to have to extract it in a hurry. Absently, I unbuckled my belt and then undid the top button on my fly, as if I’d just eaten a huge Thanksgiving dinner. The slightly gaping waistband was hidden by the tan shirt I was wearing, but it relieved the pressure behind.
Xerxes began speaking, in Norwegian, occasionally raising his torch for a moment as if making a toast. He moved it back and forth in front of him, then angled it and pointed to each of us in turn as he spoke. I couldn’t understand much of what he said, but I did catch a few words. He mentioned Thor and Loki, names of Norse gods. I glanced down at Badger, who was translating for his neighbors on either side, Roxy and McGrone. The night breeze and the crackling of the flames ate his words before they got to me. From what little I recognized, Xerxes was either praying or critiquing The Avengers movies.
The others, scattered around on all the levels on the deck, chanted phrases with him, saluting with axe, spear or torch. The prayer, such as it was, was punctuated by a perfectly synchronized beat as the spear holders all thumped the end of the handles on the deck at once. For a moment there was only the crackle of the fire and the buzzing of some nocturnal insects.
I’ve often heard the phrase “all hell broke loose” but always felt it was an overstatement. The Viking battle that followed came as close to it as I could imagine. A Norwegian from the rear of the group climbed higher, pulled an arrow from his quiver, and loaded it into his bow with lightning speed. He fired deliberately over our heads and the arrow stuck into a wooden mast lashed to a metal support that held up an observation deck behind us. It must have been something like the starter firing the gun at an Olympic 400-meter race. A second later arrows were flying everywhere, but at least they weren’t flaming. That would be a bad idea on their own ship. Norwegians rushed forward swinging their axes and poking their spears. “Scatter!” I yelled. The fight was on.
I took a step backward and grabbed the arrow. It was firmly embedded, but I didn’t have time to test its weight limit. I pulled myself up, using my feet against the platform base to take most of my weight, and launched myself onto the observation deck. Higher ground was usually desirable. Instantly, I dropped to my stomach, knowing that climbing was also making me an easier target. An arrow flew over me and off the aft of the ship into darkness. Battle cries coming from the Norwegians drowned out any small plop the arrow might have made when it plunged into the ocean.
I stayed down, the lip of the deck protecting me, and observed the fight. Sadly, Badger was already bleeding from his shoulder as he ducked under the arm of a Norwegian woman and tried to grab her around her ample waist. He pushed against her, but she stood firm as a redwood tree. Still, with him that close there were no good angles for her to swing her axe that wouldn’t endanger her own skin. Badger pulled at her fur, managing to dislodge it from her shoulder and tossed it over her head. She dropped her axe to claw at the fur that was blinding her, and Badger watched for an opportunity to go after it.
Meanwhile, Sir Haughty had somehow commandeered a spear and was engaged in an ersatz fencing match with his opponent. Mostly, he was blocking jabs, using his spear to push the other right or left to avoid getting stabbed. In the process, he was trying to drive the burly man backwards. Several feet beyond him, Sir Haughty was eyeing a burning torch in a holder on the starboard bulkhead. I couldn’t tell where he had hidden his bundle of Pule dynamite, but his progress was spotty. He found himself backing up almost as often as moving forward.
I couldn’t watch more because just then a pair of boots landed with a thud to my left and there was a guttural battle cry at full volume. I rolled away, certain that some kind of weapon was coming down on me. I wasn’t disappointed. As I got out of range, an axe descended full force where my chest had been and stuck in the observation deck. The deck wasn’t wood, like some of the framing around it that supported a group of sails, but some kind of composite that chipped and cracked. Still, she had to wiggle it a bit to get it free again. I recognized her. It was the shapely blonde that been aboard the deck boat. While not as husky as many of her female shipmates, she was still surprisingly muscular and agile. All I knew was I wanted that axe. Badly. And not just to get it away from her for my own self-defense. I had a plan forming in my mind.
She swung the axe back to her left shoulder, preparing for another strike as I got to my feet and ran to the far end of the observation deck. I jumped up into the rigging and climbed a dozen feet into the lowest level of the sails. Looking back, she followed me effortlessly, holding on to the rigging with one hand and grinning like a maniac. I kept climbing. I hadn’t intended to go very high, but I needed to stay ahead of her. I slid over a cross beam, passing over her head, a large ecru sail below me and a smaller one above, not realizing it was a dead end. The end of this sail wasn’t tied to a beam but held by an anchor rope tied to a cleat on the bulkhead. There was no way to go higher. By the time I realized this, she was on the cross beam with me, swinging the axe in a large, threatening circle. I had no choice. Wincing ahead of time, I grabbed the thick rope with both hands and zip lined down it barehanded. Naturally, I let go in a hurry, stinging rope burns across both palms. But the blonde couldn’t follow me with the axe in hand and I had reached the deck too quickly for her to cut the rope to make me fall. I’d have to find another way up. And another way to get an axe.
I’d come down in a fortunate position, knocking a Norwegian over the side. The Viking wannabe had been about to use the broken shaft of a spear to pierce Roxy’s bare throat. She held the tip in her hand, but the attached shaft was only about four inches long. “Thanks, Billings!” She yelled. “Duck!” I bent forward as ordered as another Norwegian leapfrogged over me. He stumbled sideways and plunged his right cheek squarely onto Roxy’s spear tip. Howling in pain, he whirled away, trying to pull the weapon out of his face, but the barbed tip was ripping his cheek from the inside out. I saw Roxy’s eyes light up and I thought she had an idea, but it was just flames reflecting in her enjoyment. She had spotted a torch and started moving toward it. As she passed me, I could see the speck of red wax that was all that showed of her Pule dynamite through her big poofy bow.
> Turning to find another way up into the sails, I saw Sylvia apparently chatting with one of the Norwegians. I couldn’t just stop and watch without becoming a target, but my curiosity was too strong. My eyes kept going back to her as she seemed to be trying to defeat her opponent with wits. I found a low crossbeam that led her way and swung onto it, my back against a sail as I looked down. I felt relatively safe from axes, but had to keep an eye out for spears or arrows.
Sylvia pretended to sneeze, covering her face with both hands for just a split second. When she brought her hands down, she had removed her artificial eye, leaving a sudden, raw-looking socket. This usually got her the element of surprise at the very least, but the Norwegian laughed, taking out his own artificial eye in response. He laughed some more, waving over two other Norwegians. After a few words, they each removed an eye as well. Sylvia stood there for a beat, stunned, but not revolted, then hastily put her eye back in and ran away, launching herself onto the crossbeam with me. “That was your secret weapon?” I asked.
“It’s never failed me before,” she complained, breathless.
The Norwegians were slapping each other on the back in delight. One of them slapped too hard, causing his shipmate to drop his eye just when another Norwegian, who I presume actually had both original eyes, came racing through the small group with the twins giving chase, each trying to jab him with an arrow. The dropped eye, like Sylvia’s, shaped like part of an eggshell, got kicked and went flying. The Norwegian who had lost it screamed and began beating up the man who had hit him on the back, quickly trying to follow the eye through a forest of running legs. “Looks like your record is clean,” I told Sylvia. That’s when an arrow punctured a hole in the sail about three inches above my head. “Oops.” Sylvia jumped back down to the deck in search of an opponent and I moved to the edge and maneuvered to the other side of the sail, following the beam across the ship. I didn’t want to go back down yet.
Another arrow narrowly missed me. There were Norwegians on both sides of the sail that were tracking me, apparently. I had to keep moving. Unlike the old style sailing ships they were trying to emulate, none of the rigging actually moved. I couldn’t swing a beam and transfer over to another sail. Above me, wind began to whistle through the hole the first arrow had made. I was beginning to realize the odds of my getting an axe were getting slim, which meant my plan was going to take longer to execute than I would have liked, especially while dodging arrows.
Out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly saw a suspicious looking spark. Roxy had reached the torch, extracted her bundle of Pule dynamite, and lit the fuse. It wasn’t a strong spark, and it sputtered, threatening to go out altogether. She didn’t have long before they realized the dynamite was fake and she had to sell it. “Everybody stop!” she yelled, getting their attention.
A second later, Sir Haughty had gotten to another torch on the other side and lit his bundle, and Agnes and Avis each had a sparking stick in hand as well. I had nothing to light mine with. I looked around for McGrone, who had the third bundle, but he was sitting on top of a Norwegian, who was bucking like a bronco, and punching him ineffectively in the beard. The rest of the Norwegians stopped in place, staring at the sparking sticks. Several of them, but not all, screamed, dropped their weapons, and jumped overboard, at least five or six from each side of the ship. Xerxes, however, was not fooled. He walked right up to Sir Haughty and ripped the cheese construction from his hand. It squished in his strong grip and he growled. Xerxes yelled something in Norwegian and some of the crew went to the sides to peer over, watching for the jumpers to return. They yelled and waved, directing their crewmates to the location of an external ladder, I suspect.
While the rescue effort was underway, I quickly sidestepped down the length of the beam. “Avis!” She was on the deck a dozen feet below me. Near her was a discarded axe. “Get me the axe!” Both Agnes and Avis swiveled their heads around in different directions until they spotted the weapon and ran over to retrieve it. Fortunately it was situated with the handle toward them. As soon as they reached for it, a Norwegian man swooped in ready to grab it as well. The twins were a microsecond faster. Agnes got her right hand around the handle and brought it up in a swing. The Norwegian watched in horror as three of his fingers separated from his hand and flew away, trailing blood that looked like ink in the darkness. Screaming, he grabbed his injured hand with the other and sank to his knees. Avis finished him with a sturdy kick to the chin, snapping his head back. He fell at an angle and lay there quietly.
The twins turned to me with the axe still in Agnes’ hand, but didn’t want to chance throwing it up in the air. I pushed one leg under the sail to straddled the beam, leaning over onto my stomach to reach down as far as I could. They stood on tiptoe and Agnes held onto the top, blunt edge of the blade to send the handle in my direction. I stretched an arm out, but it wasn’t going to make it. I needed more length and there was only one way to get it. I wrapped my legs tighter around the beam, the rough wood scraping the skin of my bare legs, and swung upside down. The rope burns on the palms of my hands protested as I stretched, barely grasping the very end of the handle. But I had it. The Pule dynamite stick tucked into my now loose waistband came out and tumbled to the deck, landing with an uncharacteristic splat. It didn’t matter. That tactic was finished. Maybe one of the Norwegians would slip on it and fall. Upside down, I saw fur clad Norwegians coming toward us at a run, one with a spear and the other nocking an arrow as he went. The twins turned and ran and the Norwegians gave chase, passing underneath me. I swung the axe arbitrarily and it sliced cleanly through the taut line of the bow, which was now useless. They went by too fast for me to get the spear as well.
Swinging myself back up onto the beam, I looked up at the huge sail. Three holes were scattered in its surface. The top edge was secured to another higher beam. Watching for incoming weaponry, I moved to one end of the beam and used the axe to sever the rope tying the bottom corner of the sail to the beam. The rope was pretty thick and it took two whacks to do it, but in no time the corner flew free, the metal grommet sewn into it now empty. Going over to the other end of the beam, I did the same thing, though my grip slipped slightly and I ended up having to swing the axe three times. Before the wind could blow the sail out of my reach, I grabbed the corner. For the moment, I slipped two fingers through the large grommet so it wouldn’t pull away.
I looked up. The top edges would be more difficult, but a falling sail would cause some useful mayhem down below. The question was how to climb the sail without dropping the axe. Tugging on the sail to test its weight tolerance, I had to take a leap of faith. I put the handle of the axe lengthwise into my mouth and bit down hard. The head overbalanced and I had to push the handle further, moving my mouth closer to the bottom of the blade. If it slipped, it was sure to cut me somewhere on the way down. I bit down again, and it almost set off my gag reflex, but I managed to contain it. Then I grabbed the edge of the sail in each hand and lifted my feet, grabbing the sail between my knees as high as I could get them. One hand at a time, I scaled the outside edge, heading for the upper beam. At least the canvas sail didn’t scrape my legs like the beam had done, but grasping the edge of the sail was aggravating my rope burns. I hissed around the axe handle and kept going.
Half way up, I had to stop for a moment and rest. Against common practice, I looked down. I was very high above the action now and no one was watching me. The Viking wannabes that weren’t fighting were at the gunwale, helping their drenched crewmates struggle over the side after their dive into the ocean. I noticed Roxy using the long ribbon that had once been her bow to blindfold a Norwegian as she whacked at his neck with her high heeled shoe. With a small twist of her wrist, she tangled the heel into the massive curly hair of his beard and yanked as hard as she could. With her fingers inside the bed of the shoe, she had very good leverage. The heel stuck fast in the curly hair and the man didn’t know whether to work at the blindfold or on the attack on his facial hair. “Keep them
busy, guys,” I whispered to no one as I resumed my climb.
I was thankful to reach the top beam and straddle it again, leg scrapes or not. It was still more secure than hanging from the flapping edge of the sail. Removing the axe from my mouth, I stretched my sore jaw muscles and took a moment to catch my breath. The view was spectacular. Although it was dark, we were far from the lights of civilization, and the stars stood out in all their glory.
“Is this a bad time?”
I almost fell from my perch, and nearly dropped the axe, though I managed to slam the handle against the beam before I lost it completely. After a panicked breath, I wrapped my fingers around the wooden handle more securely. I was above the sail now, in the open, and there was no canvas to lean against. Mom had appeared sitting sidesaddle on the beam in front of me. “Yes,” I said. “It’s a bad time.” Hastily, I added, “but don’t go away.”
In the darkness, she was little more than a shadow, and I couldn’t tell how she had faded. It was better that way, I thought. I didn’t need the reminder that her time as a ghost might be limited. I thought of my shoulder bag sitting on my bunk on the Ike and wondered if I would ever hold it again. Would it fall to someone else, someone who had never met her, to find a final resting place for her cremains? I couldn’t let that happen.
“I just thought I’d tell you, you’re facing the wrong way.”
“What do you mean?” I realized right away, of course, that it was a stupid question. But I was right on the edge of the beam. There was no room to turn.