by Mariah Stone
Rachel shifted closer to the spindle. Her heart beat as if someone tapped a wooden mallet against her chest. She was soaked through from sweat.
Her hand crawled towards the spindle. She could almost feel the cool metal despite the sun.
“God, help me,” she whispered. And with a sinking stomach, she covered the spindle with her hand and yanked it under her jacket.
But as soon as she touched the metal, the world around her disappeared. Her head spun like laundry in a washing machine, her skin hurt, the hair on her whole body stood up, and something sucked her in, as if a tornado had descended just for her.
Through terror and panic, a thought came: Is this my punishment? Am I dying?
And then there was nothing.
Chapter Three
Buskeland, Norway, September 874 AD
Rachel felt cool drops hitting her face. She cracked open her eyes to the gray light of a rainy day. She lay on the ground, and around her, pines shot into the sky like spears, their green branches looming over her like a dark ceiling. The sweet smell of rotting leaves and wet earth crept into her nose.
Her body ached, her arms and legs shaking with small spasms. Warm, sunlit Navy Pier was gone, and cold seeped under her clothes and into her bones.
But it wasn’t until Rachel heard something in the distance that she became fully alert, blood returning to her fingers, her heart beating faster. Animals mooing, bleating, squawking.
This could not be Chicago.
Where was she?
She sat upright, and her hand shot to her neck, searching for her necklace. Feeling the comforting shape of the locket under her fingers, she took a steadying breath. Next to her stood a big rock with a carving that looked like a long, uneven circle of a railway track with runes.
Surprisingly, Rachel understood what they said: “This rock is raised for Odin and Thor and Freyja, and the three Norns who rule people’s fates. Time is the answer.”
She shook her head. What in the world did that mean? Even more bewildering was the fact that she understood the words!
She looked around, and some distance down the hill, down a footworn path, stood wooden houses, long and windowless, with thatched roofs. Voices came from that direction. Beyond the village, she saw a giant snake of water that curved between the looming mountains; Viking-looking ships were docked by the shore.
Rachel’s skin buzzed and panic gripped her throat till it hurt. How did she get here? The last thing she remembered was stealing the golden spindle, and then it was as if she got sucked in…where?
Was she like Dorothy in some Viking Land of Oz?
Rachel forced herself to take a deep breath, then another one.
And where was the spindle?
She looked around the grass, in the bushes and behind the rock, but it was nowhere to be found. A voice from the village rang closer than before, and Rachel froze, then darted for the woods.
She leaned against the trunk of a pine, hyperventilating, heartbeat thrashing in her ears. She felt like she had landed in a nightmare, or a weird virtual reality. She needed to find a way to return to Chicago. If she thought logically, maybe someone had picked the spindle up without seeing her nearby, and perhaps it was down in the village.
Deep breath in, deep breath out.
Rachel peeled herself off the tree and sneaked through the woods down the hill towards the houses. After a short while, she reached the first house in the village and leaned against the wall. It felt rough against her fingers and smelled like fresh lumber, tar and woodsmoke.
Rachel peeked from the corner through the branches of a bush. Further away between more houses was something like a central square, where people stopped to talk in front of stands with goods, one of them for jewelry. Rachel squinted to see if she could spot the golden spindle, but from this distance, all she could see was silver and iron.
Men wore tunics, baggy trousers, and knee-high stockings held up by laces wound around their legs. Cloaks of wool and fur were fastened over their shoulders by big silver brooches. Many had swords and axes tied to their belts, and a tingling swept up the back of Rachel’s neck at the sight of the weapons. Women wore long, rectangular dresses suspended from shoulder straps and held up by silver and iron brooches.
Here, it seemed, most people were of different shades of blond, from dark honey to almost white. If she stepped onto the street, she’d stand out with her modern black jacket and jeans, her auburn hair. This all looked so strange! As if Rachel had suddenly turned up on a historical movie set.
With a sinking stomach and on shaking legs, she crept around the edge of the building, staying low. The ground, wet and muddy, clung to the soles of her shoes. Someone walked out of the house, and she darted back into the bushes.
“Guard them with your life, Kolbjorn,” a low male voice said.
Rachel panted so hard, she had to put a hand over her mouth, afraid that they would hear her. Two men stood there, both giant, mountains of muscles. The one who spoke stood with his back to her, his blond hair reaching his shoulder blades. He stood with his legs wide apart, one hand on the battle ax hanging on his belt. Everything about his posture screamed power.
“I am surprised you are asking me, Father, and not your lawful sons,” the younger man said. “You wanted them to deal with the jeweler and the king.”
The sight of him made time freeze. Kolbjorn… What a strangely beautiful name.
He was taller than the older man, built in the same mighty way, his shoulders like rocks. His curly chestnut hair was cropped short, a short beard the color of chocolate covered the lower part of his face, and Rachel’s fingers itched to touch it to see if it would brush soft or hard against her skin.
Hazel eyes, high cheekbones—he could be a movie star in her world, whichever world that was. Every cell in Rachel’s body took him in. It was the way he held himself, his back straight, his brows knit together, his eyes squinted slightly at the man in front of him, that made her breath catch.
Something was so familiar in him, she thought that he must be a rock, a home, and a protector, and she felt like she could trust him.
Shut up. Why would I trust him?
She’d never seen him in her life, and if all went well, never would again. She did not need another person to care about.
“Deal with, yes, Son. But there is no one else who I trust more than you to keep the jewels safe. Especially these jewels, gold, and silver. Truthfully, you are a better warrior than your half-brothers, and I know you would rather die than let me down. Wouldn’t you?”
Sweat covered Rachel’s palms. Golden Viking jewels… Could the spindle be somewhere there among them?
Kolbjorn straightened his shoulders, his face lit up in determination. “I will, Father.”
“Good. Now. We only have four moons till Jul, and the jeweler is working hard. We should have enough to make sure the king wants to be our ally. The Necklace of Northern Lights will make Freyja, herself, want to become the king’s concubine.”
The older man guffawed and slapped Kolbjorn on his shoulder. “Let’s go have a dagmal. You can leave the chest. No one knows it’s there, and no one would think of stealing anything from the most dangerous warrior in Norway in broad daylight.”
Something sounded odd in this relationship, Rachel thought. But it was none of her business. As the two giants walked further away down the street, surprisingly a small part of her did not want to see Kolbjorn go.
When they were far away, she straightened. She had to go in to look for the spindle, and her stomach dropped at the thought. She turned around the corner and walked to the door. Probably, no one was there, but she knocked with a trembling hand to be sure she would not get any surprises. If someone answered, she would say she was looking for an old lady with snow-white hair who liked knitting.
Nothing happened, and she slowly opened the door and peered inside. It was dark, the only light coming from the dying fire on the long hearth in the center of the house. The smell of wood
, hay, and dust hung heavy here—and something else, something masculine.
The walls were covered with swords, axes, shields, and leather armor. Helmets lay on the wooden chests that stood by the wall. Rachel darted to the chests, her stomach fluttering. Maybe the golden spindle would be in one of them. She raised a lid, and there were just clothes and furs. The next one had kitchen utensils. But the third one…
The contents gleamed golden in the dim light of the fire. There were necklaces, pendants, neck rings, brooches, rings, and wide bracelets that would probably fit around a big man’s arm. Rachel sank her hands into the chest, the metal sharp and cool against her fingers, and took two handfuls, like a pirate.
She brought her hands closer to the light and studied the details of the jewelry. Most of the pieces had no gemstones, though a few had amber. The jewelry consisted of coils of twisted silver and gold, heads of snarling beasts, wavy, twisted branches, snake’s bodies, patterns of leaves, carefully placed dots and microscopic pimples on the smooth surface. It was not even and symmetrical like modern jewelry crafted by machines. Every piece was unique, as if made for a different person.
This jewelry would go for so much at the antique auctions.
Well, Rachel had become a thief today. Now that she’d crossed that line it felt easier to take the next step. This was what would save her mother.
Rachel filled the pockets of her jacket. She took every last piece, though guilt curdled in her stomach. What would happen to Kolbjorn? No, she couldn’t think about that. His life did not hang by a thread. Her mother needed it more.
When the chest was empty, she snuck back towards the door and peeked outside. Now that her pockets were full of stolen jewelry, she felt like she was walking on eggshells. She hadn’t found the spindle, but it was too dangerous now to look for it. She had to get the hell out of here.
She’d go back to the woods and hide everything there, then try to come up with a more solid plan. It wouldn’t do to be caught with her pockets full of stolen jewelry. She had a feeling Kolbjorn’s dad wouldn’t be too forgiving.
Luckily, the street was still empty, and she walked out, turning to take the path through the woods up the hill. Then her luck ended. Kolbjorn appeared from behind one of the houses.
Their eyes locked, just for a moment, and the sight of him knocked the breath out of her. She froze, and the world around her disappeared—there was only him and her and eternity. He seemed to have been affected, too, his lips parted, his eyes piercing her.
But she shook off the feeling. If he caught her, she’d be dead. As would her mother.
She must look strange to him in her modern clothes, but maybe if she just acted natural he’d let her pass. What would be the most normal behavior here? She swallowed and gave him a small nod. His eyes widened, but Rachel turned around and walked up the path as if she had business she needed to attend to. It took all her willpower not to dart into a jog.
Please, please, do not follow me.
No one screamed or called after her; there was no sound of quick footsteps behind her. Further and further she went. After a while, she looked back as imperceptibly as she could, and even though she was already far away, he was still standing, watching her, and the skin on her back itched.
As she walked towards the clearing, she saw the rock again and remembered the words, “Time is the answer.” Could there be some clue, some key to returning, hidden around the rock? Her heart pounded, her blood vessels tingled with adrenaline.
The writing said the rock was for Odin, Thor, and Freyja. She remembered Odin and Thor from comic books and movies, they were Viking gods, right? Freyja must be one, too. Rachel’s head spun, everything in her screaming that she had gone back in time and raided Vikings twice her size with sharp axes and swords, whose profession was to kill people.
She could never, ever return.
With her pulse beating in her temples, she stepped towards the rock. She gasped, feeling the pull of it, the sensation of being spun. Maybe she didn’t need the spindle at all…
When she laid her hands on the rough surface, the world disappeared and so did Rachel.
Chapter Four
Buskeland, Norway, December 874 AD
A sharp gust of snow hit Kolbjorn’s face, and thoughts of a beautiful auburn-haired woman evaporated, leaving his heart feeling empty. She had consumed his thoughts ever since he had seen her three moons ago. He’d asked about her in the village, but there always were a lot of visitors near the end of the raiding season and nobody knew who she was. Modolfr had suggested that she might be a merchant’s daughter.
Kolbjorn’s dreams of her made him feel drunk, and the futile hope of seeing her again made his heart shrink in disappointment every time he thought he saw a slim figure dressed in all black.
Kolbjorn stood guard by the jeweler’s workshop in the dim light of the winter morning. His eyes watered from the cold, and his nose was wet from the condensation of his breath against the bear fur of his winter cloak.
It was still calm, but a snowstorm was coming. Kolbjorn felt it like he always felt the shift of the ship deck right before meeting a good wave. The village looked empty under the dusting of snowflakes, everyone huddled in the warmth of their dwellings. He wished he was huddled by a fire with the auburn-haired beauty.
Kolbjorn had been hearing clay dishes clanking from the house behind him for a while now—the jeweler must have been making porridge and having breakfast.
Kolbjorn was probably a fool for standing here in this weather, but ever since his father had appointed him to guard the jeweler two weeks ago, Kolbjorn had only paused for a short sleep or to go to the privy. He even ate here, thanks to Una and Modolfr—they were the only ones brave enough to come near the cursed house.
A Viking was not afraid of death, but there was nothing he feared more than bad luck. Newly made jewelry had disappeared four times from the jeweler during the last few moons—and in the strangest ways…
Previous to that, of course, the jewelry had been stolen from Kolbjorn’s house. He had never seen his father so furious.
“I should ban you from the village.” Jarl Bjorn’s eyes had thrown lightning bolts. “I should make you an outlaw. The gods have never been so ashamed than when looking at you, and neither have I.”
Kolbjorn had wished for the earth to open up under his feet and swallow him. His whole body must have glowed like a red-hot coal from embarrassment. He had failed the biggest and most important task his father had ever given him. He had let his jarl down. Fury and desperation had made bile rise in his stomach.
Jarl Bjorn had forbidden him to come near the mead hall and had taken away his every possession: his silver, his house, all his weapons but one ax and one sword, and his armor.
For the last three moons, he had lived with Modolfr’s parents on their farm. He had helped them with the animals to make himself useful and thank them for letting him in, but his every move and every breath was soaked in desolation.
The only thing that had given him strength and energy was the hope of finding the auburn-haired girl. He had been torn between the burning desire to find her, just to talk to her, and the hope that his father would forgive him and invite him back to the village. He had stayed put. They could have no future. Being a bastard, he could not give her and their potential children an honorable name…if things progressed that far. And now he didn’t even have a house, or a piece of silver to buy bread.
But the opportunity to redeem himself had come much sooner than he’d expected, when Modolfr had arrived to take Kolbjorn back to the village.
When Kolbjorn had stood before his father, the jarl had said, “I will forgive you and give back your status and your place on the raiding ship if you make sure no more jewelry disappears. The master will finish the king’s gift, the Necklace of Northern Lights, right in time for Jul.”
Hope had burned hot in Kolbjorn’s chest. “I won’t let you down, Jarl. Have me killed if I let anyone—or anything—touch the
necklace.”
But in the two weeks that Kolbjorn had guarded the house, nothing out of ordinary had happened. From the men who had guarded the jeweler before, he’d heard stories of how the jewelry had disappeared.
The first time, it had been at night. The jeweler never noticed an intruder, but in the morning the jewels were gone.
The second time, food and drinks from Valhalla had appeared on a cart by the market square: smoked sausages so aromatic they’d made men’s mouths water two streets down, honeyed pies that looked like clouds, dark-brown breads that smelled like Loki’s sin, drinks so sweet and bubbly they seemed as if they came from the fountain of wisdom by the roots of Yggdrasil.
The third time, a transparent woman had appeared from thin air, so beautiful it must have been the goddess Freyja herself, dancing in the air, removing her clothes, sending kisses to them. She had sent them howling like hungry wolves, and they had seen nothing else but her.
The fourth time, a giant wasp had flown in front of the guards. It looked like it was made of red iron. It had four wings that buzzed and moved like those of a dragonfly, and it had one eye. The men had chased it with axes and swords—futile of course—and while they were away, the jewelry had disappeared again.
The village witcher, who had witnessed the whole thing himself, proclaimed that the jeweler’s house was damned and that the giants and the evil spirits wanted the jewelry for themselves.
But Jarl Bjorn was ready to fight anyone, even the gods, for what was his.
And Kolbjorn did not know who was stealing the jewelry, but he did not believe it was spirits. Whoever it was, he’d catch the thief and make him pay.
Through the thickening snowfall, Kolbjorn saw a slave approaching, his eyes wide. The boy stopped five feet away. “Jarl Bjorn invites the jeweler to breakfast in the mead hall. It’s going to storm soon, nothing to do but wait and feast.”
“Why don’t you tell him yourself.” Kolbjorn chuckled. He was not afraid of spirits. He was afraid to let his father down again.