The Very Virile Viking

by Sandra Hill

  "Not unhappy, precisely. I do not understand half of the marvels of Ah-mare-ee-ca. There is so much more wealth than in the Norselands, so many more efficient ways of doing things, so much entertainment for your vast amount of free time. And yet I have been dissatisfied here. Until now I did not realize why. There are just too many people crowded into too small a space, too much ease and excess, too many complications that add nothing to the betterment of everyday living."

  "But those are the things that make life better. High-rise buildings. Televisions. Cell phones. Cars."

  He shook his head adamantly. "All a man really needs is home and heart... and occasionally a bout of a-viking when adventure calls, or fighting when warrior skills are required by one's king." And lovemaking… good lovemaking... often… preferably twice a day. Aaarrgh! There I go again. My brain in the bed furs. "I am a farmer at heart, and the land is what I have missed most."

  She laughed. "I'll tell you one thing, Magnus: if this is all an act… you are bound to get an Oscar someday."

  "I would not mind a car, though I do not know what an oss-car is, but you could not pay me to live in one of those high-rise keeps. Pretty prisons, they are, if you ask me."

  "You are really a strange person," Angela said with a laugh.

  Strange, eh? Well, leastways she did not say I was a repulsive person. Or a slimy toad, as Inga once called me. Yea, I was correct. She likes me. "Good strange or bad strange?"

  "I'm still trying to figure that out."

  Or mayhap not. He looked at her and could tell she had answered honestly. Good enough… for now, he thought.

  The children were chattering away, having given up on the tongue game. They too were excited about finally reaching the end of their journey.

  "Look over there," Dagny shrieked. "It is a pond. And those trees… their leaves look like green hair. Dost think fairies live there?"

  "Or trolls," Njal offered, making a scary face at his sister.

  "Those are weeping willow trees," Angela told them. "I loved those trees when I was a child. I have so many memories of playing games under their wispy branches. Personally, I think they resemble fine ladies with flowing dresses, especially when there's a breeze." Angela's face turned pink then, as if she were embarrassed at revealing so much about herself.

  "Weeping willow? What a pretty name for a tree! We do not give trees such fanciful names in our country," Dagny said dolefully. "We just call them oak, pine, or elm."

  "Are there fish in that pond?" Jogeir wanted to know.

  "Yes. I think so," Angela answered, to Jogeir's delight.

  "There is a swing hanging from one of the trees."

  Kolbein pointed out. "Are there children living here?"

  "No," Angela said. "It was my swing when I was a little girl."

  "It must be a really old swing then," Kolbein blurted out, then turned red-faced when everyone laughed at his blunder.

  "Not that old, young man," Angela remarked when she was able to stop laughing.

  "I have never seen so many wildflowers together, and so many colors. It is beautiful." Kirsten's nose was pressed to the window on her side.

  "Where are all the free-can dragons? That's what I want to know?" It was Hamr speaking. Who else!

  "They are off stoking up the fire in their bellies so they can flame little boylings like you," Magnus said.

  Angela made a teeing sound. "Do you think it's wise to scare children like that?"

  "Are you scared, Hamr?" he asked.

  "Bloody hell, nay! But I will tell you what is scary: sending a wee boyling off to fight dragons without a bow and arrow."

  Magnus exchanged a quick smile with Angela, who must be starting to understand his son's persistence about owning a weapon.

  In the far distance Magnus could see row after row of grapevines, many, many hectares of land… all filled with growing things. And, if his eyes did not play him false, there was a large vegetable garden closer to the house. He couldn't wait to explore everything.

  He turned slightly in his seat and his eyes connected with Jogeir's. He saw the same appreciation of the land reflected there. My little farmer boy. They both smiled.

  But first there was the Blue Dragon keep and its mistress, Grandmother Rose, to be met. He glanced at each of his children in turn, cautioning them to be on their best behavior. After all, this might very well be the goddess who had called them here.

  The van came to a stop. He took Lida out of her car seat and stepped out onto the cleared area in front of a large wooden house of a most unusual design. It had covered verandas all around and highly carved eaves and rails. His blood began to race, and there was a peculiar buzzing in his ears as he observed his surroundings.

  Of a sudden he noticed the very lady from his dream fog—an older replica of Angela with white hair. But this goddess was wearing full-length, shoulder-to-ankle den-ham braies, and she had a smoking stick dangling from the fingertips of one hand, which she immediately dropped to the ground and stomped on with one white cloth-shod foot. Then she held both arms out wide, not for her granddaughter, Angela, but for Lida, crooning, "Oh, you adorable baby, you. Come to Grandma Rose."

  And Lida, to everyone's surprise, did just that, with a wide, smiling, "Goo!"

  Grandmother Rose took Magnus's measure then, head to toe, with a pause at his armrings and Viking attire. Then she nodded to her granddaughter. "You're right. He's like a tree."

  Magnus arched an eyebrow in question at Angela and mouthed, A tree?

  Angela shrugged at him with a winsome blush on her face.

  His other eight children began to pile out of the van, and Grandmother Rose's eyes grew wider and wider at the sight of each of them.

  "For the love of a troll!" Kirsten exclaimed. "They have a horse which they keep indoors."

  Everyone turned to see the large animal loping down the wooden steps in front of the keep. It must have emerged from inside the building.

  "Kirsten, you are such a lackwit," Njal declared with a superior sniff. "That is a dog, not a horse."

  It was indeed a dog—the size of a small horse—and it was licking the face of each of the children, wagging its tail in a friendly fashion.

  "It's Jow," Angela told them, laughing as the giant dog licked her in welcome, too.

  "Jowl. 'Tis an odd name for a pet," Magnus said.

  "Not Jowl, Jow. It stands for Just One Week. That's how long he was supposed to stay."

  That made as much sense as anything else that had happened to him in this land… which was not much.

  Angela smiled at him as she spoke.

  He hated when she smiled at him like that. It made his stomach knot and his lungs go breathless.

  Between the dog licking, which gave him certain carnal ideas, and her winsome smiles, he was going to be in a sorry state before the afternoon was over.

  Finally, as the barking and giggles and squeals died down a bit, and Angela stopped smiling at him, the grandmother shook her head as if to clear it of the amazing scene unfolding around her. Then she returned her attention to him. Stretching out an arm, she shook his hand firmly, "Hello, there, young fellow. Welcome to the Blue Dragon. I'm Rose Abruzzi. You can call me Grandma Rose."

  He nodded and said, "I am Magnus Ericsson. And these are my children." He pointed to each of them in turn. "Lida, Kolbein, Hamr, Jogeir, Njal, Dagny, Stor-vald, Kirsten, and Torolf."

  She laughed merrily as she nodded one by one at his children, concluding with a loud kiss on Lida's cheek. Then she turned back to him and said, "It's about time you got here, boy."

  Looking for trouble…

  It was dark when Angela emerged onto the back veranda of the house, searching for Magnus.

  Torolf, Kirsten, and Dagny were in the library watching an action-adventure film on TV, with a worn-out Jow laid out at their feet, on his belly with his legs widespread like a rug. The other boys were in an upstairs den playing a computer game. Grandma was upstairs, too, putting Lida down for the night.


  Juanita was cleaning up in the kitchen after their sumptuous supper feast—chili-lime quesadillas, nachos and guacamole, blackened chicken, a family version of Spanish rice, better known as "spicy-dicey ricey," a nickname that delighted Magnus's children, shrimp chimichangas, taco salad, and cinnamon-topped Mexican fried ice cream for dessert. No one complained about how spicy the food was. It was a good thing Juanita and her grandmother had prepared such a large quantity because the children and Magnus seemed to have insatiable appetites. Heck, she did, too. There was a special dry red wine served to the adults and frosty tumblers of lemonade for the children.

  Both Juanita and her grandmother had done nothing but smile and fuss over the children since they'd arrived. They were delighted when every bit of food disappeared from the table. They didn't even frown at the noise the children made. Truly this house was made for children, as her grandmother had always said.

  "Miguel, have you seen Magnus?" she asked now as the manager approached the house. He'd eaten with them earlier, then had gone out to make his nightly inspection of the vines, taking Magnus with him.

  Miguel walked wearily up the steps to the porch, nodding the whole time. "He's still over near the west vineyard. Who is this man, chiquita? He is amazing."

  "Magnus is an actor—I think—although he claims to be a farmer."

  "The man knows a lot about the land—not grapes, of course, but he has a great curiosity about them. So many questions. The right questions. How long is the growing season? The hazards of growing grapes? How dependent are we on climate? How profitable are grapes, compared to oats or vegetables?"

  "You're impressed," Angela commented in a surprised tone. It took a lot to impress Miguel, who could see through phonys in an instant.

  "Yes, I am. You did good, little one."

  "Oh, no! You misunderstood, Miguel. There is nothing between us. He's just a visitor here. He'll be gone in a few days… a week at most."

  Miguel looked skeptical. "He says you are his destiny."

  Angela's heart swelled with some strange emotion, despite herself. "You must have misunderstood," she said weakly.

  Miguel still looked unconvinced. Then he shrugged as if it were no concern of his. "In any case, your visitor has asked me to teach him everything about grape growing. Starting tomorrow he will be my assistant." Noting the distress on her face, he added, "Just while he is visiting here, of course. And he will work for no pay. Where else can we get a no-salary worker? Ha, ha, ha!"

  Miguel went into the house then, leaving her behind on the porch, poleaxed by the Viking—again, even when he wasn't present. But then she heard Miguel talking to his wife through the open window.

  "The Norseman looks like a tree, Juanita. He picked up the back of a tractor all by himself when I wanted to check the oil pan. Can you imagine the Italian-Viking children he and Angela would make together?"

  Juanita giggled, then cautioned, "Shhhh! The worst thing you can do is tell that stubborn-headed Angela that you like her young man."

  He's not my young man, Angela wanted to shout. And he's not my destiny, either.

  With that thought in mind, Angela went stomping off in search of her… destiny.

  Here comes trouble…

  "Magnus, we have to talk."

  Magnus had just turned off the lever of the hollow metal rod that came up out of the ground spurting water. He'd washed his hands and splashed water on his face. Now he wet-combed his hair behind his ears with his fingers as he watched Angela approach. Uh-oh! he thought. When a woman tells a man she wants to talk, it usually means she has a long list of grievances to lay on him. And she's stomping. Yea, stomping and a desire to talk are sure signs of a riled-up woman.

  "Shall we sit down… to talk?" he inquired, pointing to a nearby bench. "I can tell I am in trouble."

  She frowned in confusion, even as she sat down. "Why do you think you're in trouble?"

  "The stormy expression on your face. Either I have done something wrong, or my children are the culprits. Either way I am bracing myself for a lengthy tirade." He sat down beside her and was immediately assailed by her woman scent, a combination of some light floral perfume and her own female essence. Magnus loved women… and he loved each and every individual scent they carried. That alone had probably contributed to his downfall.

  "No one is in trouble… exactly," she started to say, then practically jumped off the bench when he slid his arm along the back and took a strand of her raven-black hair in his fingertips. He rubbed the silky filaments sensuously. "I mean, what I'm trying to say is… uh… hmmm… uh… you've been saying and doing some things I object to, but, uh, once I set the record straight, I'm sure there will be no more, uh, trouble." She groaned softly at the end of her sputtered explanation, which was no explanation at all. She almost leaned into his palm, which was caressing her hair, then pulled back sharply, as if correcting her baser instincts.

  Like a skittish mare, she was. Mayhap even a mare in heat, he thought. Skittish mare? He was too earthy by far… or so he had been told by more than one female, usually when they were about to spread their thighs for him. His crudeness came from being a farmer, he supposed. But if there were two things he knew well and good in this world, it was women and farm animals. This woman was fighting his appeal, crude or not.

  "Don't you look at me like that. Don't you dare," she said, and shuffled her rear end a bit to remove herself from his touch. Her hair slipped from his fingertips as she'd intended, and she raised her chin in challenge.

  Never challenge a Viking, my dear. Never. He immediately shuffled his own rear end, closing the distance between them. This time he slid his hand under the long skein of her hair and cupped her nape, drawing her closer. "How am I looking at you, dearling?"

  "Like a horny toad about to hop my bones."

  Inga called me a slimy toad. Now Angela calls me a horny toad. Next time I see a mirror I must check myself for warts. And what does she mean about hopping bones? Oh. She must mean I want to lay my body on hers and have… For a moment—only a moment— he was shocked by her blunt words. He supposed women could be earthy, too, but he was not sure he liked it. After a brief two seconds of pondering, he decided he did… in moderation. With that in mind, he chuckled and pulled her resisting body even closer. "I am not all that horny… yet. I merely want to thank you for bringing me to your home… to the Blue Dragon. It is truly a paradise."

  "Do you think so?" she asked, clearly pleased at his appreciation of her beloved homestead.

  He decided to take advantage of her momentary lapse in guardedness and took her by the waist, lifting her onto his lap. Angela's head came only to his shoulder. He wanted—nay, needed—to have her body parts better aligned with his.

  After a surprised squeal of dismay at his quick maneuver, she squirmed and shoved and tried to escape his embrace. "What do you think you're doing?"

  Oh, lady, you do not really want to know. "Thanking you. I told you that I wanted to thank you for bringing me here, and that is what I am doing."

  She stopped wriggling for a second and stared at him with wide-eyed question. "This… this is your way of thanking me?"

  It is a beginning. "Nay, this is," he said, and lowered his mouth to hers, softly at first, gentle and persuasive. "A thank-you kiss."

  Her lips were full and slightly parted with surprise. The two of them fit together perfectly, like dovetailed pieces of wood that his brother Geirolf used in crafting his ships. Like two pieces of a cracked pottery jug, whole again. Like the age-old mold created by the gods, joining man to woman.

  The air was charged, as if with sparks during a summer lightning storm. Something momentous was happening—or about to happen—and he was joyous to be part of it.

  At first Angela resisted, but he held her tightly by the nape and waist. He sensed the moment of her surrender when her entire body seemed to soften and lean into his. He did not need her moan into his open mouth to know that she wanted him… perchance as much as he wa
nted her. Nay, his want was greater. Nothing could surpass its intensity.

  He brushed his lips back and forth across hers, shaping her. Against the dewy wetness he whispered, "Thank you."

  To his immense satisfaction, she reciprocated by tracing the tip of her tongue along the outline of his mouth and whispered back, ever so softly, "You're welcome."

  Well, he was a Viking, and he was virile. Hell, he was a man. He needed no more invitation than that. He plundered her mouth with his hot tongue, thrusting in and out, imitating the sex act itself. Instead of foiling his efforts, she opened her mouth wider for him and put her arms around his shoulders. The whole time, she was brushing her cloth-covered breasts to and fro over his tunic-covered chest. They did not need to be bare-skinned. So heightened was their arousal that even fabric could not lessen the delicious sensations.

  "Too fast," he said on a groan.

  "Too slow," she said on a groan.

  Everything was happening too fast, no matter what she said. Furthermore, in the back of his mind was a nagging reminder of something important that he could not for the life of him recall now. Besides, with her words of encouragement, he did not even want to think of anything that might put a damper on these spreading fires.

  He lifted her by the hips so that her legs in their den-ham braies straddled his thighs, her knees on the bench. Then he adjusted her so that her buttocks rested on his thighs and her woman cleft rode the hard ridge of his manhood.

  In the light of the full moon, he saw her eyes go huge with wonder. And her lips parted and stayed open on a long sigh, which then evolved into soft panting breaths.

  His hands moved upward from her waist, over her tea-shert, along her rib cage. His hands remained at her sides, but, with just his thumbs, he skimmed the sides of her breasts.

  She arched her back so that her head was thrown back and her breasts thrust forward. "More," she demanded huskily.

  More? Any more of this love play and I will come in my breeches like an untried youthling. "More what?" he choked out, as if he did not know… as if he wanted to torture himself.