Sandra Hill - [Vikings II 02]

by Madly Viking Truly

  How can this be? he had asked Thora yestereve. It was an indication of his sorry state that he sought advice on his mental condition from an animal.

  Click, click. Squeal, squeal. Click, squeal, click, squeal, the whale had answered him in ever-changing patterns. In other words, Men question too much. Listen with your heart; speak with your heart, my friend.

  I ask for help, and you give me riddles, he’d wailed silently. I don’t understand. He need not speak aloud for the whale to hear him—another amazing happenstance.

  With her usual clicks and squeals and chirps, Thora had told him, You will; you will. Then, just before the whale had swum off, she’d added, Open your heart, man. Only then will there be no barriers of country or animal…or time.

  Time? What has time to do with this?

  “Jorund, has your mind gone awandering again? Are you all right?”

  Jorund blinked and reined in his thoughts. His brother’s big paw of a hand was resting on his shoulder with concern.

  Am I all right?

  Nay, I am not all right.

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  But he was not fine, he soon found out.

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  “Bld hel!” he and Magnus exclaimed at the same time, then repeated, “Bloody hell!” A number of his sailors, who followed both the Christian and Norse religions, were making the sign of the cross on their broad chests. All of them stared gape-mouthed out to sea.

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  Thora was using her huge tail fins to whack the far side of the longship.

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  She must be playing with them—some kind of strange killer whale game—for it was clear she was not employing full force; otherwise the vessel would have tipped over. Even so, the impact of the powerful tail hitting the wood sides was enough to set the boat rocking side to side. A little harder and the wood might splinter.

  Jorund tried to listen in the way the whale had taught him. There was a loud, grinding noise in response, almost like a rusty door closing, and he thought he heard her say, It is time, Viking.

  “Time? What time?” Jorund asked.

  “Huh?” Magnus tilted his head in question.

  Jorund realized that he must have spoken aloud and felt his face heat with embarrassment. Magnus would make great mock of him if he even suspected his brother was communicating with an animal.

  The whale swam off a short distance and floated atop the water, just watching him with her big, beady eyes. And the groaning noise continued.

  “Jorund? Are you all right?” Magnus repeated with concern.

  He nodded.

  “Something odd is happening here,” Magnus contended. “You have not been yourself since learning of Inga’s and the girls’ deaths.”

  “I do not want to speak of that,” he said icily. “Best we pull anchor and get rid of this bothersome whale. If we cannot move quickly enough to lose her, then we must kill the beast.”

  He thought he heard a squealy voice in the distance say, Ha! I would like to see you try.

  Closer at hand, Magnus was not about to drop the subject. “Some people think a man must talk of his heart-pain, lest it eat away at his innards…turn him mad with grief.”

  “Are you implying that I have gone berserk?”

  Magnus pursed his lips and tugged at one of his big ears pensively. “Mayhap. Leastways, a little barmy.”

  Jorund grunted with disgust.

  “Oh, I know you harbored no great affection for Inga, but your daughters…well, ’tis clear they held a special place in your soul.”

  “Have a caution, Magnus. You go too far,” he warned.

  But as always, his brother failed to heed sound advice and blathered on. “I know that I would surely tear out my hair in mourning if I lost my son…or daughter.”

  “And which son—or daughter—would that be?” Jorund asked with a hint of humor. It was hard to stay angry with his well-meaning brother.

  “Any one of my sons…or daughters,” Magnus answered, lifting his chin defensively. His brother followed the old custom of more danico and had two wives, in addition to three current mistresses…or was it four? All told, his seed had produced eight sons and five daughters…all with big ears.

  Jorund made a tsking sound at his brother, whom he loved dearly, despite his nagging ways.

  “I will work out my own problems in my own time and way,” he told Magnus. “For now we must make haste and try to outrun this killer whale.” They had anchored offshore in a small cove the night before so that they could draw fresh water from a stream on a nearby island. There were no human inhabitants that they could see. Still, they had slept aboard ship as a precaution.

  Turning away, he gave orders to his crew to pull up the anchor and man their sea chests. His longship, built by his brother Rolf, was not an over-large vessel. There were thirty-two oar holes on each side, manned by as many men who sat on their own personal sea chests rather than benches. Next to them were another thirty-two seamen, who would relieve them when their arms grew weary.

  “It won’t come up,” a seaman soon informed him. “The anchor must have caught in some seaweed when the whale bumped us.”

  In the meantime, the whale was back to prodding the ship with its tail fins and snout. Enough of this nonsense!

  Jorund said a foul word and began to remove his clothing—mantle, tunic, skin boots, braies—knowing he was going to have to dive below and try to loosen the tangled anchor. He could have sworn he heard a high-pitched peal of laughter, but when he glanced about the longship, he saw naught but his sailors staring back at him with worry.

  “Becalm yourselves, men,” he told them. “We will soon be on our way. I am an excellent swimmer and have great fame for holding my breath underwater. Leather-lunged, my father used to say of me.” He was not boasting, merely stating a fact to put them at ease.

  Once he was naked, except for his sheathed sword, which was attached to a wide belt at his waist and secured to his thigh with a leather thong, he dove into the water. It was surprisingly warm near the surface. Though the sea became colder the deeper he went, it should have been frigid near Iceland. He would have to ponder that puzzle later. Even so, ’tis icy enough to shrivel even the grandest cock into a nub, he thought with a shiver.

  And what makes you think yours is so grand? he heard the whale remark with a laugh.

  Oh, God! You again? Jorund commented dryly to himself as he sawed with his sword at the seaweed wrapped around the rope and anchor. He soon discovered that there was no way he could disentangle the metal anchor from the grassy tentacles. The more he tossed aside, the more seemed to appear in their place. He would have to cut the rope.

  Stealthily, the whale had swum underwater and was watching his endeavors with interest.

  For some reason he felt no fear…just disgust that this animal was causing him so much trouble.

  Putting his sword back in the scabbard, he swam to the surface and took several deep gulps of air.

  Magnus and all the seamen were staring over the side rail at him. Seabirds were whirling overhead in anticipation of some tasty morsel. He hoped it was not him.

  “Is it free?” Magnus asked.

  Jorund shook his head, still breathless. When he was able to speak, he informed his brother, “It’s that special seal rope that Rolf insists on using. It will take me a little longer.” Many ship owners bought the prized seal rope in the markets of Birka and Hedeby. Known for its sturdiness, it was cut in one single strip, like a spiral, from the hide of a seal or walrus. Unfortunately, it was difficult to slice through with a sword.

  With one last deep inhalation of air, Jorund dove under the briny depths again. As expected, the whale was waiting for him. This time, as he sawed away with haste, the whale began a new game—butting Jorund’s bare arse with its big nose. That was all he needed…a randy she-whale!

  Finally the rope broke free. He sheathed his sword and was about to swim back to the surface when the whale
shot forward and took him in her mouth, his head sticking out one side of her mouth and his flailing legs out the other side. He could feel the whale’s massive teeth pressing against his stomach and buttocks, but Thora must be holding him with extra gentleness, for the teeth did not pierce his skin.

  “Unteeth me, you lackbrain whale.”

  The only response was a chirping laugh.

  He should have been mortally afraid. He was not.

  At first he laughed silently at the great trick. The skalds would be telling this saga forevermore. No doubt there would even be a praise-poem honoring Jorund, the warrior who rode in the cradle of a killer whale’s mouth and lived to tell the tale. Soon his mirth disappeared, however, when he realized that he could not hold his breath much longer and that the whale was swimming at great speed…away from the longship. Once, when the whale came to the surface briefly, Jorund noted with distress that the longship was already far away…much too far for him to swim back. Unless the whale returned him.

  But no. Thora had other plans.

  With a squeal and a chirping noise of glee, the whale submerged again, and all of Jorund’s silent screams and flailing limbs could not dissuade her.

  Soon water rushed into his nostrils and all the orifices of his body. He could no longer hold his breath and took in great swallows of seawater. As his long hair came loose from its queue and swirled about his face, blinding him, a light-headedness overtook him, which was not altogether unpleasant. And he thought, So I will break the raven’s fast thus—by sea, rather than battlefield? So this is how it ends?

  Not quite, the whale answered. The Fates have other plans for you, Viking.

  Chapter Two

  2000 A.D. Galveston, Texas

  “Star light, star bright,

  First star I see tonight,

  I wish I may, I wish I might,

  Have my wish come true tonight.”

  Maggie McBride was about to enter the bedroom of her daughters, Suzy and Beth, when she heard them reciting, in unison, the childish rhyme. She’d already tucked them in and given them their customary good-night kisses, accompanied by the usual tickle. It wasn’t surprising that the minute she’d departed, they’d jumped out of their beds, up to some harmless mischief…and it was no big deal, really. Maggie had learned to pick her battles when it came to her kids.

  With a smile, she stepped back into the hall, then peered around the doorjamb to see them leaning out their bedroom window, gazing at an especially bright, flickering star. Their young, nine-year-old voices carried a breathy tone of wistful belief in the magic of the constellations as they repeated the old nursery rhyme.

  Was I ever that innocent? Did I ever believe in miracles?

  Shimmying their tummies back on the windowsill, they stood and adjusted their respective nightshirts—Suzy’s a shocking pink image of Ricky Martin, and Beth’s a rendition of Keiko, the killer whale—no less an idol to her than her sister’s rock star du jour. Aside from their opposite personalities and interests, the girls were identical twins, both flashing brand-new shiny braces on their teeth and both sporting long mops of naturally curly hair, which was braided for sleep now into single tails down to their shoulder blades. They’d inherited their bad bites and honey blond locks from a father they’d never met—Judd Haskell. Maggie’s hair was coal black and straight as a pin…and thanks to a recent hair adventure gone awry, G. I. Jane short. But they did have her cornflower blue eyes.

  “My wish was that Mom would finally find a husband,” Suzy confessed to her sister. They still hadn’t noticed her standing in the hallway.

  Beth nodded gravely. “Mine, too.”

  Maggie cringed. Not again!

  “I am not spending one more Christmas at Grandpa Haskell’s farm, I’ll tell you that,” Suzy declared vehemently. “All he does is give us sermons on how bad it is here in the city, and how we should come live with him and Grandma. As if! And no disrespect or nothin’, but I’m tired of all those stories about our dad before he died in that skydiving accident. What was a doctor doing skydiving anyhow? You’d think he was a saint the way Grandpa talks. ‘If your father was alive, this…’ Or, ‘If your father was alive, that…’ Sheesh!”

  “If he was so wonderful,” Beth pointed out, “how come he never married our mom?”

  “Right,” Suzy agreed.

  Maggie barely stifled a gasp. How did they know that Judd had refused to marry her when he found out she was pregnant? Having a wife and family never would have fit into his high-risk, free-as-a-bird lifestyle. She prayed God they were unaware of an additional fact: that he’d wanted her to get an abortion. No, there was no way they could find that out. She’d never told anyone. Soon after that horrible meeting, Judd had died, the result of one of his never-ending adventures.

  “And Grandma is no different,” Suzy went on. “She keeps harping on single mothers, as if it’s Mom’s fault she had to raise us alone.”

  “I know,” Beth said with a groan. “Last time, Grandma was quoting statistics she heard on some TV commercial about how daughters who are raised without a father often don’t finish high school, and lots and lots of them get pregnant before they’re sixteen.”

  Beth and Suzy exchanged a look at that last bit of information. “Gross!” they both exclaimed at the same time. Boys weren’t even of interest to them yet, let alone sex or anything leading to babies.

  “But, you know,” Beth offered thoughtfully, “I betcha we could make Mom search for a dad a little harder if she believed all that stuff. She keeps saying school is so important.”

  “And I betcha we could stay home this Christmas if there were a dad in the house,” Suzy added.

  “Yep, a dad wouldn’t let them badger Mom into giving in. He’d tell them”—here Beth’s voice dropped into a low, masculine tone—“‘Sorry, folks, but the girls can’t come for Christmas this year. We’re a family now, and we need our girls to stay home for a family Christmas. My girls have gotta help me go out into the forest and chop down a tree. Maybe we’ll even chop us a load of firewood to bring back in the pickup truck.’”

  “That would be so perfect,” Beth commented, “especially if there was snow. A dad, a real tree, a fire with our stockings hanging on the mantel, and snow!”

  The audible sighs that followed were poignant with dreaminess.

  As distressed as Maggie was over this wistful conversation, she had to smile. There were no forests in their neighborhood. An artificial tree had done them nicely for nine years now. They had no fireplace for that truckload of wood or the stockings. Nor was her driveway big enough for her Volvo and a truck. As for snow in Galveston for Christmas…Forget it!

  Despite her half smile, she felt like weeping.

  “Mom keeps saying she’s happy the way things are,” Suzy complained.

  I am. I am. Oh, it gets lonely on occasion, but let’s face it: I’m thirty-two years old, and I’m not about to give up my hard-earned independence at this late date. It’s taken me too long to get where I am now. Besides, I gave up on the Prince Charming dream a long time ago. If only my two munchkins would give up on the perfect-dad dream.

  “But I’m not happy, you know. Not one bit.”

  “Me neither,” Beth agreed.

  Maggie’s heart went out to her two precious daughters. There was a hole in their lives without a father. She knew that. But sometimes no father was better than a bad father. And Judd would have been a terrible father, no doubt about it. Besides, she’d done a darn good job playing mommy and daddy to them, and raising herself up by the bootstraps as well to the point where she could now proudly proclaim herself Dr. Margaret McBride, psychologist.

  “Mom is so beautiful. Just like Demi Moore,” Beth added. “Everyone says so. Even with that haircut. And especially since she got that rad belly-button ring. I still can’t believe she did it. She could get any man she wanted.”

  Maggie didn’t know about getting any man she wanted, especially since she couldn’t remember the last time s
he’d had a real date. But she was with the girls on one thing: she couldn’t believe she’d gotten the belly-button ring, either. It was so out of character for her.

  When Maggie was a young girl, she had developed earlier than her friends and was the brunt of many taunts from adolescent boys based on the mistaken belief that big breasts meant hot babe. Of course, the rest of her body had eventually caught up with her breasts—though she was far too curvy for her taste, despite constant dieting—but she’d never gotten over the habit of overcompensating for her endowments with full-cut clothes and an almost prissy social lifestyle. Until recently, that was.

  The haircut had been her idea…a breaking free of the old when she’d received her doctorate degree last spring. Who knew the beautician would go so wild?

  The belly-button ring, on the other hand, had not been her idea. It was the price she’d had to pay for losing a bet with her daughters, who had amazingly come through with straight As for two semesters, and completed a daily regimen of household chores. Dr. Spock would have been horrified at her lack of parenting skills in using a bet to motivate her daughters. It was worth it, though. Not because of Beth, who loved school, but because of Suzy, who usually cruised along, content with C grades. And having the dishes done and the laundry folded without an argument had been nine months of heaven.

  The belly-button ring could be removed.

  “Yep,” Suzy agreed.

  Huh?

  “Mom is so beautiful she could get any man she wanted,” Suzy continued.

  Oh. That.

  “Even Ricky Martin.”

  The two girls giggled at that outlandish prospect: Maggie the psychologist and Mr. Teenage Heartthrob. Actually, that wasn’t quite true…he appealed to lots more than adolescent girls.