The Very Virile Viking

by Sandra Hill

  "Eoforwic? Where is that?" she asked, turning the coin over, examining both sides carefully.

  "That is the Saxon name for Jorvik… or York. Jorvik is the Viking capital of Britain. And as far as I know, those coins were minted last year. Does it not have an imprint on it of Aethelred the Unready, the British all-king?"

  She stared at him for a long time before asking in a suffocated whisper, "Who… are… you?"

  Chapter Five

  No rest for the weary, or confused…

  It was almost midnight, and Angela sat exhausted at her kitchen table, reading over the day's mail as she sipped from a stemmed crystal glass filled with a fine 1997 Blue Dragon zinfandel.

  Her "guests" were asleep in their assigned beds or pull-out sofas. Magnus and Torolf were in her king-size bed, with Lida between them. Njal, Jogeir, and Hamr were wrapped in comforters on the floor. In her second bedroom, in twin beds, slept Kirsten and Dagny, who'd gotten teary-eyed when she'd first shown them the soft pastel sheets and flowered wallpaper. Even clothes hangers and closets had made the girls almost swoon. Storvald and Kolbein were on the sleep sofa in her den, while the living room sofa was all hers. She'd already taken all the necessary clothes out of her bedroom so she could leave for work by seven the next morning without awakening anyone in her room.

  What a day she had had! What a night she had had!

  She had thought she'd seen everything at the Wal-Mart, but it had gotten worse. First she'd had to get the motley crew from the van in her condo parking lot up to her fourteenth-floor apartment. Her doorman took one look at the lot of them and almost swallowed his false teeth. Magnus had balked at getting into the elevator, but not his kids. They had been game for anything, especially those rascals Njal and Hamr. Finally, after a hair-raising, white-fisted climb upward amidst much squealing and laughter and requests that they do it again, they had reached her apartment, all of them carrying bags from Wal-Mart along with Magnus's numerous wooden chests.

  While her "guests" had walked about touching everything, asking question after question, she had called Domino's and ordered pizzas and soda for their supper. The television in the den had, of course, been the biggest attraction. To say the children had been stunned was a vast understatement. While most of them sat watching cartoon after cartoon, alternated with MTV videos, Angela herded them one at a time into the shower, which was another fascination to them… that and the toilet, which they kept flushing and flushing. The girls she had put into old flannel nightshirts of hers and the boys into loose jogging pants or nylon jogging shorts. Meanwhile she had dumped their clothes into the washer and dryer—two loads thus far. She had no idea how the leather tunics would come out, but she was giving it her best shot.

  Lida, the little darling, had been toddling about the apartment in nothing but a diaper, falling, then pick-ing herself up over and over, till Magnus had caught up with her and tickled her and rolled with her on the carpet. The scene—all of it—overwhelmed Angela's well-ordered mind, not to mention her previously tidy apartment. And the way he interacted with his children—whether it was tenderness with Lida, or gruffness with the needy Kolbein, or sternness with the rascals Hamr and Njal—something deep inside her melted, then grew. She could not give it a name. In fact, she was afraid to examine the new emotion too closely.

  The pizza was something else again. She'd been in the bathroom, trying to explain to the girls that the shampoo was a concentrate and they needed to use only a dab of it, not half a bottle, when the delivery guy knocked on the door. Magnus, who answered, apparently almost frightened the young man to death with his massive size. Then he forgot his earlier experience at Wal-Mart and tried to pay for the food with a gold coin. In the end he had paid for the six large pizzas and three six-packs of Coke with a hundred-dollar bill. She assumed the stunned delivery guy had just kept the change as a tip. All she knew was that he was gone by the time she came out. Magnus and his children had devoured the pizzas in a short period of time, declaring it food of the gods. Even Lida had gummed a crust happily, though Angela had given her some canned vegetable soup just before that. Afterward they'd had ice cream for dessert—three half gallons of it, strawberry, butter pecan, and chocolate.

  These people had taken over her life.

  "I am sorry," she heard a gruff male voice say behind her. She jumped with surprise and almost spilled her wine. She'd thought everyone was asleep by now.

  "Sorry for what?" she asked over her shoulder.

  Magnus walked around the table, into her line of vision, then sat down in a chair across from her.

  "You're naked!" she accused him. "Go cover yourself."

  "I am not naked," he said. "I have wrapped one of your towels around me, and I am wearing a pair of those jaw-key shorts under that. Wouldst like to see?" He stood and was about to remove the towel.

  "No!" she shouted. Holy moley! Could her heart really stand such an intimate view of six-feet, five inches of drop-dead-gorgeous bare skin and muscle? Angela had never been wowed by good-looking male hunks. They were a dime a dozen in Hollywood. But this man… well, all she could say was, Holy moley!

  "No?" he repeated, and sat back down.

  "Why are you sorry?" she managed to get out, trying to look everywhere but at his bare chest, which was—okay, let's admit it—pretty near spectacular.

  "For putting you to this inconvenience. Oh, do not mistake me; I believe this is where I am supposed to be. My destiny. I but regret making you unhappy."

  She accepted his apology with a nod, then homed in on one word: "Destiny? What could you possibly mean? By the way, would you like a glass of wine?"

  "I prefer mead or ale, but thank you, yea, I would."

  She rose and poured wine into another glass for him. When he took a sip and smiled his appreciation, she told him, "It's from my family's vineyard."

  "Really?" He was clearly surprised. "Why would you live here in this crowded city when you could live on your family lands, which are presumably not so crowded?"

  "My salary here helps to keep the vineyard going." Now, why had she revealed that to him?

  "The vineyard is not self-sufficient?"

  "It used to be, but we ran into some problems a few years back, especially after my grandfather died. We stopped making wine, but we still grow the grapes in hopes that we can start up again someday. My grandmother is the only one left there, but it is her fervent desire that the Blue Dragon wines will be made once again." She shrugged to indicate the matter was out of her hands.

  "I know a little about growing grapes," he offered, twirling his wine about in his glass before sipping it speculatively.

  "You do?" Angela's heart skipped a beat at his words, and she had no idea why.

  "I am a farmer. There are many similarities betwixt farmers and grape growers. Both depend on earth, sun, rain, love of the land… luck." He shrugged. "It is what I do."

  "You're not an actor?"

  "What is an act-whore?"

  "Please don't play these games with me."

  He gazed at her with absolute sincerity.

  "If you aren't an actor, what were you doing on a movie set? Why are you here, then?"

  "You… I think." He took one of her hands in his. The sharp contrast between his huge hand and her much smaller one was startling. She should have been repelled, but instead she felt a strange thrill at the difference. "You are the reason I am here in this country."

  "I beg your pardon," she squeaked out. Despite all logic and all her best instincts… despite everything she knew about good-looking men and their lines… despite all that, her heart began to beat madly.

  "Wait here. I want to show you something." He got up and walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. She was too upset by the idea of his not being an actor even to notice his state of undress. When he came back, he was carrying a small framed photograph that had been sitting on her mantel. "Who is this person?"

  She cocked her head to the side. There was an ominous buzzing i
n her head, and it wasn't due to the wine, either. Something important was about to happen… she just knew it.

  "It's my grandmother, Rose. Why do you ask?"

  "By your leave, m'lady, she is the one who called me here."

  A glass of wine later…

  Angela waited till Magnus had gone off to bed again and, bolstered by another glass of wine, she dialed the cordless phone that sat on the table before her.

  "Grandma? Sorry to call you so late. Were you asleep?"

  "No, honey. The older I get, the more trouble I have sleeping soundly at night."

  Angela knew the insomnia was mostly due to her grandmother missing her grandfather, who had been gone these past five years.

  "Actually, I was reading in bed. The latest Maeve Binchy." Grandma seemed to catch herself then. With concern in her voice, she asked, "Is something wrong?"

  "No, I just wanted to tell you that the movie people will be there next Thursday."

  "Ah, that's good. Did Mr. Nolan meet your price?"

  "He might go up to seven hundred thousand."

  She could hear her grandmother's gasp over the phone line. "You are a wonder woman, Angela. How is that possible?"

  "It's complicated. We can discuss the details when I see you in person."

  "You're coming with the film people?"

  "I'll be there, all right. Actually, that's the real reason I called… and the reason Darrell Nolan is being so accommodating. He wants a favor… from you."

  "Uh-oh. I can hear the nervousness in your voice."

  "Can I come out to the Blue Dragon tomorrow and stay for a few days—" she started to say, all in a rush.

  "Angela! Of course you can come, anytime. Why would you even ask?"

  "I wasn't finished."

  "Oops, sorry."

  "Can I bring some guests with me?"

  "Of course. How many, dear?"

  "Ten."

  There was a telling silence. Then Angela heard the strike of a lighter and the deep inhale of her grandmother's breath before she continued: "How many men? Women? Couples? I'll need to know so I can make sleeping arrangements."

  "One man. Nine children."

  Grandma started to laugh.

  "What's so funny?"

  "You. I'm trying to picture you with all those children. Where are they now?"

  What would you say if I told you there was a six-foot-five-inch hunk in my bed this very moment… actually, two hunks? Angela really, really hated to admit the predicament she was in. With a groan, she confessed: "Here. In my condo."

  "Angela! You truly amaze me. How long have they been there?"

  "One day." So far.

  "Amazing," her grandmother murmured. "What are the ages of the children?"

  "The six boys are three to sixteen. And the three girls are fourteen months to fourteen years."

  "A baby! Fourteen months is practically a baby. My goodness, dear, you have a baby with you? Oh, this is going to be such fun!"

  Yeah, great fun!

  "How long do you think they'll stay?"

  "I was hoping for a day or two, but the way things have been going, I suspect it will be till next week, when the film crew arrives for the property inspection."

  "And the man, Angela… what about him?"

  Angela's grandmother was too perceptive, by far—even over the telephone. "His name is Magnus… Magnus Ericsson. Darrell wants to put him in one of his movies, but he has to keep him under wraps for a bit. He doesn't want the press to get a whiff of him yet. Does that name ring a bell? Magnus Ericsson?"

  "For heaven's sake, no. Should it?"

  Whew! "Well, he claims you are the reason he is here. He says he saw you in a dream or a fog or some such thing, and you were conjuring him here with some prayer beads."

  "Conjuring? Now, that's a strange way of saying it."

  "Saying what? Do you have an explanation for this?"

  "I do, Angela. At least, I think I do."

  "Come on, Grandma. No secrets here. I can hear the self-satisfaction in your voice. What's your explanation?"

  "God works in mysterious ways."

  Three days in the New World, and almost barmy…

  "I think I am in love," Torolf said with a long sigh.

  "Now where would you have had the opportunity to meet a wench—uh, lady—in this new world, confined in this prison con-dough as we all are?" Magnus was just entering the den, where he banged his head for about the hundredth time on the low archway. "Ouch!" he exclaimed, followed by a crude expletive.

  This "new world," as Magnus had come to regard the country where they had landed, was full of marvels, but, truth to tell, he was all marveled out. Three days! And not a clue as to where exactly they were. Vikings were not meant to be indoors all the time. Soon his muscles would soften. His brain was surely already turned to gruel.

  And there was another truth to tell: Magnus was randier than a bull, with all this time to sit around and ponder his favorite subject. He needed some good, hard exercise to expend his energy.

  He had just put Lida down on the big bed for a nap. He guessed she was all tired out from watching Bert and Ernie on the tell-a-vision box, or waddling endlessly about the place like a duckling. They were all becoming more adept at this country's form of the English language, thanks to the tell-a-vision, but his children were also learning some foul words, which he'd had to halt a time or two already. A great number of them were gleaned from Hamr and Njal's latest hero, a rascally little fellow called Bart Simpson. Some of the words, like free-can, Magnus had decided couldn't be too bad. But he still misliked the word suck as an expletive. In fact, he wasn't sure what it meant when someone said, "That sucks!" So he'd told the children they could say "free-can" but not That sucks!" Of course, the most perplexing one was "friggin'." Since Frigg was a goddess and the wife of Odin, he could not figure how "friggin'" became a bad word; so he'd decided to forbid that word, too, if for no other reason than to avoid offending the gods.

  "Did you hear what I said, Father? I am in love."

  At your age, young men are always in love… or lust. Same thing. "I heard you, Torolf. I heard you."

  Torolf was lying on the low pallet, known as a sofa, arms crossed under his neck. He was watching some loud music event on the tell-a-vision box. Kirsten and Dagny were stretched out on the rug watching as well. The three of them seemed oblivious to the screeching that was taking place in the living chamber where Njal and Hamr were practicing something called kung fu, which they had learned on the tell-a-vision box from a person known as the Carrot-y Kid.

  Only soft murmurs came from the kitchen, where Storvald was teaching Jogeir and Kolbein how to do a puzzle, which Angela had left for them. Nay, it wasn't the kitchen whence their murmurs emanated. It was the bathroom… again.

  "If anyone flushes that toilet again," he shouted, "there is going to be a young Viking boy going down the hole with all that water."

  Immediately he heard the bathroom door slam and murmurs traveling along the corridor and back to the kitchen. "No one ever lets us have any fun," Storvald grumbled.

  "Let us make some mica-wave popcorn," Kolbein suggested to his brothers.

  "Do not free-can burn it this time. The building master said we are in big trouble if we make the free-can smoking alarm go off again," Jogeir said.

  "That is the object of my affection." Torolf, who somehow managed to ignore all the noise emanating from the other rooms, nodded his head toward the tell-a-vision screen, where a nubile young woman was gyrating and shaking her female parts as if she were having a fit… an erotic fit, he had to admit." 'Tis Britney Spears."

  "Britain Spear? Ha! That will be the day I allow my son to align himself with a Saxon wench. And a warlike wench she must be, too, if she carries a spear in her name."

  "Daaa-aaad!" Kirsten groaned.

  "Dad? What is this 'Dad' business?"

  "Dad is what children in this land called their fathers."

  "We are Vikings, no matter whe
re we are. You, my Viking maid, will call me Father."

  "Father, then," Kirsten conceded. "It's Britney.. not Britain."

  "Same thing," he said. "By thunder, is that young woman really wearing so little clothing?" The girl's skintight braies started below her hips and barely covered her nether cheeks. On top, only her breasts were covered… just barely.

  "Yea, is it not great?" Torolf grinned up at him and winked mischievously.

  "It is grate, all right. Grating on the nerves, if you ask me. Is there no soft music in this land? Why does it have to be so raucous all the time?"

  "I love it," Dagny said. "Can I get my navel pierced, like Britney? Can I, can I?"

  "Why would you want your navel pierced when no one is going to see it? Because I am telling you now, Dagny, afore you ask… you are not purchasing such nonattire."

  Dagny gave him a look foreign to her usual biddable self. If he did not know it afore, he did now: this land was having a bad influence on his children.

  "I am considering a tattoo," Torolf said. "Mayhap a dragon or a hawk. But I do not know whether to put it on my shoulder or my thigh."

  "How about a jackass on your buttock?" Magnus suggested. And he was serious.

  "Well, if I were going to be pierced, I would rather have a gold ring in my nose. Just a small one. On the left nostril. I saw a girl on Sex and the City with one, and it was so cooool. No one else at Uncle Olaf's court would have the same. What do you think of that, Da… Father? May I put a gold ring in my nose? May I?" Kirsten asked. And she was serious, too.

  "Only if you intend to moo and give milk into a wood bucket twice a day," he told her. "And, by the by, I thought I told you girls not to watch that sinful program on the tell-a-vision."

  "I saw the nose ring afore we turned it off," Kirsten said, but he could tell by the blush on her face that she was telling an untruth.

  Magnus could hardly blame her. There were too many temptations in this New World. And the biggest, as far as he was concerned, was the black-haired witch who locked them in every day before she went out to work, promising, "Just one more day."