The Very Virile Viking

by Sandra Hill

  Where can this relationship possibly go but nowhere?

  Why has this one man become so important to me?

  So what did Angela do about her misgivings?

  She had almost-sex with Magnus midmorning against a tree in the empty west vineyard. She would never smell chardonnay grapes again without certain memories.

  Then she repeated the almost-sex that afternoon on a picnic table in the orange grove.

  That night, not to be outdone, she slipped into Magnus's third-floor shower with him—wearing panties, of course—after all the kids were asleep. Her knees could barely hold her upright by the time she crawled into her own bed. She was going to lay down the law… tomorrow.

  Tomorrow, tomorrow… tomorrow is another… yeah, right, Annie!

  Magnus was having second thoughts. Not just about the constant loveplay of the last twenty-four hours. But about his own feelings.

  He had told the witch that he loved her. By thunder! Magnus racked his brain and could not recall ever having told a woman that before. Had she put a spell on him?

  As to all the "fooling around," as Angela called it, he had to ask himself certain questions.

  Who is she?

  What am I doing, tempting myself so dangerously?

  When will this sexual yearning end?

  Where will I be tomorrow, or next week, in this strange journey I am on ?

  Why can I not keep my hands off the woman?

  Enough was enough! Well, not nearly enough… but enough lest he go insane from an overabundance of nonsex… which came close to nonsense, to his mind. Nonsex, Nonsense, same thing. So he was off to set some ground rules with Angela about this nonsense. No more "making it." Or was it "making out"? Whatever!

  But he got waylaid in the kitchen, where Juanita—the goddess of cooking—was whipping up batter for blueberry waffles, his favorite morning feast in this land… next to scrambled eggs, Froot Loops, fried ham, strawberry jam, fresh orange juice, and toasted, butter-dripping muffins, that is. If he was not careful, he would soon lose his fine physique. And wouldn't that be an outrage—a fat Viking?

  Until the meal was ready, he decided to crawl under the table and play hide-and-find with Lida. Hamr, Kolbein and Njal were under there with Magnus, pretending to be quacking ducks. It was amazing the way the reticent Kolbein had lost his shyness now that they were at the Blue Dragon. The boyling no longer felt the need to be attached to his father like a bothersome burr. Kirsten and Dagny were doing an outrageous Britain Spear-type dance around the kitchen to some raucous music on the raid-he-oh, trying further to distract Lida. Jow was barking wildly, making sure he was part of the activity. Torolf and Jogeir had aprons on and were helping Juanita serve up the food. Grandma Rose was no doubt off in the downstairs bathing room smoking one of her toe-back-hoe sticks in her usual surreptitious manner, as if she were fooling anyone.

  That was when Angela walked into the room. Her eyes practically bugged out at the scene they all presented; then she burst out laughing. But he'd also seen the gleam in her eyes as she'd watched him playing with his children. Angela liked him. She really liked him.

  Therefore, Magnus did as any thinking man would do. Or was that nonthinking man? Whatever! He took Angela's hand and discreetly led her off with him to the nearby pantry, where he locked the door behind them. Then, hoping they'd be momentarily forgotten in all the chatter and activity of a huge breakfast, he and Angela engaged in some more nonsex. And that was before he had eaten any blueberry waffles… which was saying a lot.

  His resolution to end this nonsense was further thwarted that afternoon when Angela came out to the machine shed, where Miguel was teaching him how to check over the motor of a clanking tractor. She was wearing a white tanking-top over den-ham braies that were cut off practically at her woman parts, and skimpy leather sandals on her bare feet. He wasn't sure which made him randier, the nipples visible through her tanking-top or the pink toenails peeking out of the sandals. Not that it took much to make him randy these days. Randy could become his second name. Magnus the Randy. Aaarrgh! Naturally he and Angela ended up having more nonsex on the seat of the vibrating, still-running tractor when Miguel went off to buy a new car-burr-ate-whore.

  That night, he was determined to end this nonsense before he did something really foolish, like break his vow. In fact, it would be more than foolish. It would be dishonorable. That, he would not—could not—do.

  His downfall, this time, was a guard-her belt… the most scandalous, tempting garment ever invented by man… or woman. Whooee! The things a man could do to a woman in a black lace guard-her belt with sheer black hose and high-heeled shoes. By midnight, when Angela had left his third-floor bedchamber, the bed linens were in a shambles, his knees were scraped raw, his lips were swollen, his legs were shaky, his cock ached from lack of a female sheath, and his muscles were tense and trembly. In essence, he felt wonderful. No wonder he forgot what it was he had been going to tell Angela.

  All shook up…

  Magnus was shaken the next afternoon, upon returning from his vineyard work, to learn that Angela had gone back to the city where work presumably beckoned her.

  Apparently Dare-all had called and canceled his visit for the next day, postponing it till the following Monday. That gave her some free time to go back to work in her office and earn more money, or so Grandma Rose explained. He could have given her any money she needed, he had started to say, but halted himself, knowing Angela was a prideful woman and probably wouldn't accept what she would consider charity from him. If their positions were reversed, he would feel the same way.

  It was all for the best, he supposed. They needed some time apart… a resting period during which each could evaluate this irresistible force that drew them into a fiery sexual maelstrom every time they were within kissing distance of each other.

  But then Miguel took him up to the old winery, which had been closed down the past few years. That was when Magnus's world came apart with a crash.

  Miguel, with tears in his eyes, held up a bottle of wine from the last vintage, six years past, and pointed out the label to Magnus. It read, Blue Dragon Vineyard, Sonoma, California, 1997.

  Magnus was thickheaded at times, 'twas true. So it took several moments for the fact to sink in that the wine label read 1997—supposedly six years past— which would mean that this was 2003. In other words, if he was to believe what he was seeing, an entire millenium had passed since he'd left the Norselands.

  "Miguel, what year is this?" he asked, just to make sure.

  "Two thousand and three," Miguel said, casting him an odd, questioning look.

  "Are… are you sure?"

  Miguel nodded. "Magnus, are you all right?"

  "Nay, I am not all right," he murmured as he staggered out of the winery and off toward the house.

  How was it possible? A thousand years! Impossible! But so many perplexing things about this land began to make sense to him now. Like the turning pages of a book, he saw the modern inventions that he had tried to explain away as just the innovations of a different land and culture, the peculiar manner of speaking English, the intuitive sense he had had all along that there was some puzzle to be figured out All these things, and more, convinced him that the answers had been there all along, and he had not recognized them.

  But if he accepted that he was living a thousand years in the future, then he would have to accept that he and his children had traveled through time. Paradoxical. Wasn't it?

  Torolf caught up with him at the pond, where he was sitting on the grass, staring off into space. Miguel must have sent for Torolf, concerned about Magnus's behavior over a mere wine bottle he had shown him.

  "Faðdir?" Torolf asked, sinking down to the ground beside him and placing a hand on his back. "What is it?"

  "We are time travelers," Magnus informed him bluntly.

  "What?" Torolf squawked at him.

  Ha! He would have squawked at anyone who'd suggested such to him, too, if he wasn't see
ing evidence of that fact all around him.

  "I have just learned that this is the year two thousand and three We must have traveled somehow into the future a century and more from our own time of one thousand."

  "I cannot credit that notion," Torolf said, shaking his head from side to side. "Oh, I know that the old sagas speak of such, but I always thought they were mere folklore."

  "Me, too," Magnus agreed. "Me, too."

  "Why? Why would such a thing happen to us?"

  Magnus shrugged. "Methinks it is our destiny. All along I assumed that Grandma Rose and her prayer beads cajoled the gods into bringing us to a strange country. Little did I know that her prayer beads could bring us across time."

  "But what will we do now that we know?"

  "We must bide our time and see what happens. What will be will be," Magnus said philosophically.

  "Now that I think on it," Torolf mused, "something Juan told me about one of the greatest inventions of all time begins to make sense. Of course, I did not believe him at the time, but if we have indeed time traveled, mayhap it really is possible."

  "What great invention?" Magnus asked with little interest. What did he care about another modern marvel when his world had been turned upside down?

  "Birth control."

  "Birthing control?" Magnus asked, his interest piqued in spite of himself.

  Torolf nodded vigorously. "Not only do they have pills that women can take to prevent conception, but men can wear extremely thin sheaths over their man parts called cone-domes, or men can even have a cutting operation performed that prevents them from impregnating a woman. And none of these interfere with the man's or woman's pleasure."

  Magnus literally gaped at his son. "Can this be true?"

  "I see no reason why Juan would lie to me."

  "As a jest?" Magnus suggested.

  Torolf thought a moment, then shook his head. "Nay. At the time, Juan was telling me about his girlfriend, Anna. They are both call-ledge students with three more years to go till graduation. They practice this birth control so they will not have children afore they are able to marry."

  The implications of all that Torolf had told him suddenly began to sink in. "She knew! She knew, and she did not tell me!" he exclaimed, standing suddenly in outrage.

  "Who knew? And what?"

  "Never mind!" he said. But what he thought was, Someone is going to pay for this withholding of information. Someone is going to pay for torturing me needlessly. Someone is going to find out just what it means to be my destiny.

  Then he recalled his vow. Even if he had known about this modern birthing control, there was still his vow to be reckoned with.

  "Where are you going?" Torolf called after him as he began to walk away, not toward the house, but in the direction of the road leading away from the house.

  He turned around and informed his son, even as he was backing away, "I must needs find an expert on vows."

  "With all due respect, Father, have you lost your senses?"

  "Probably."

  Chapter Ten

  Give me a vowel… I mean vow…

  Grandma Rose was sitting on the side porch off the kitchen peeling apples when he walked up the steps. Juanita was sitting across the table from her snapping string beans. The apples made his mouth water, because he knew they would probably go into a pie or some such sweet delicacy to end the dinner meal. The string beans on the other hand, he could do without. Although he was a farmer, and should appreciate fresh produce, he still contended that they served far too many vegetables in this land. Even worse were the greens that they put in salads; no matter how they tried to hide them under various sauces and dressings, they were still weeds.

  Torolf scurried up the steps to stand beside him. His son was sticking to him like a thorn in a bear's behind, not to be helpful—oh, nay, not that—but to see what kind of mess his lack-witted father would end in next. Magnus couldn't wait to see himself. Still, he told Torolf, "Best you wipe that smirk from your face, son. I am still bigger than you are."

  "Not by much," the impudent lad countered, and continued to smirk at him.

  Magnus shook his head at Torolf's silliness and turned his attention to the ladies on the porch. "M'lady Rose, I come to you seeking advice."

  "Yes?" she said, always eager to help.

  "I must needs speak to a man about some vows," he started out, "and I was wondering if—"

  "Vows!" Grandma Rose exclaimed, exchanging a quick glance of happiness with Juanita. They both beamed as if he'd offered them a plate of gold.

  "Yea, vows. There is an important matter regarding vows that I must discuss with… well, the appropriate person."

  "A priest?" Grandma Rose and Juanita suggested at the same time.

  "A God man? Hmmm. That might work. Since vows are usually made in the name of the gods, or a specific god, like your Christian One-God, I assume that a representative of that god would be the man I need. Where might I find such a person?"

  "There's one in the village. Father Sylvester at Saint Agnes Church."

  "Ah, I recall passing it on our way here."

  "Have you discussed this… uh, vow business… with Angela?" Grandma Rose inquired.

  "Not yet, but you can be sure that I will."

  Grandma Rose practically swooned at his words. She must need a toe-back-hoe stick, she was acting so strangely. "See, Juanita, I told you my novena would work."

  "I did not tell you, Rose, but I have been saying novenas, too," Juanita admitted.

  "Do you think it would be too soon to plan a ceremony for September, right after the harvest?" Grandma Rose was tapping a forefinger against her closed lips, as if deep in thought.

  "That would be perfect, but all the planning! Ay-yi-yi!"

  "Would that be enough time?" Grandma Rose asked him.

  "Huh?" He had no idea what these two were talking about. All he was concerned about was his celibacy vow. But what he said was, "Sure." That was a shortened way that people in this country denoted, "For a certainty." He liked that word almost as much as whatever! He stood, not about to waste any more time prattling about unimportant matters when he had to see a priest about a vow—a vow that could affect the rest of his life. "Well, I am off to see the priest, then." He began to walk away. Grandma Rose and Juanita barely noticed, so busy were they with planning some ceremony… to celebrate the harvest, he presumed.

  "That church is at least five miles away," Torolf reminded him. Apparently the thorn was still sticking to his backside.

  "Go away."

  "You are going to walk that far?"

  "I am."

  "Why?"

  "If you were not such a half-brain, you would know. Because a priest is God's representative on earth. I need to speak with someone in authority about vows."

  "And the breaking of them?" Torolf asked with a laugh.

  "That, especially," Magnus conceded. "If I have traveled through time, hard as that is to believe, and endured all the rigors and hardships of such a mind-boggling journey with nine bothersome children, including one especially bothersome, insolent sixteen-year-old, I must deserve some compensation." Torolf was still laughing as his father stomped off.

  Goin' to the chapel… uh, rectory…

  "Are you the God-man?"

  The man sitting on a stone bench in the backyard of Saint Agnes's rectory reading a Bible practically jumped out of his monk garb at Magnus's simple question. "Ga… ga… ga…" he sputtered, looking up the long length of Magnus's frame to his impatient face. He did not appear frightened by his size, just stunned. "God man?" he finally got out.

  "Yea, I am looking for the priest named Father Sylvester… the God-man."

  "Oh. That would be me. Ha, ha, ha! What can I do for you, son?"

  "I need advice on vows."

  "Sit down, please. I'm getting a crick in my neck." The priest motioned for Magnus to sit on another stone bench facing him. "Now, tell me, what kind of vows do you have in mind? Baptismal vows? We
dding vows?"

  "Holy Thor, nay! A celibacy vow."

  "Aaahhh," the priest said. "You are considering taking religious orders and are not sure if you can handle the celibacy vows. Well, I can only tell you of my own experience and that of my fellow priests."

  "Huh?"

  "As a first step, I would suggest making an appointment with the bishop of our diocese. After an initial interview, he may or may not recommend a seminary for you. I personally like—"

  "Halt, halt, halt, halt, halt!" Magnus held both palms out in front of him to stem the priest's words. "I am not interested in entering the priesthood. For the love of Frigg, I have bred thirteen children of my loins. 'Tis a little late to consider such a path in life."

  "Thirteen children! Well, well, well! You certainly take the church's ban on birth control seriously, don't you?" The priest laughed jovially. Bloody hell even priests know about birth control. Am I the only person in the world who did not? Then the priest added, with another laugh, "Thirteen children and you now want to take a celibacy vow? Isn't that like closing the barn door after the horse has fled?"

  "Sarcasm ill suits your priestly role," Magnus snapped. "Let me explain myself better. I made a celibacy vow after having all these children because I did not want to have any more. At that time and place, 'twas a wise decision. I had no knowledge that there was any other method of birth control besides abstinence."

  "Where have you been living, boy? Another century?"

  "You could say that." Magnus explained further, though not bothering to tell of his time-travel theory.

  He was having trouble believing it himself. What might a stranger think?

  The priest nodded his understanding of the situation thus far. "Go on, my son."

  "My question is, Can a vow be broken when the circumstances surrounding the vow have changed?"

  "Surely you do not expect me, a priest, to say that it is proper to practice birth control. You know the Vatican's rule on that, don't you?"

  Actually, Magnus did not, but that was neither here nor there. "I do not come to you soliciting your sanction of birthing control. I merely want to know how the gods—your God in particular—feel about vows. Are they ironclad?"