Oh, may God and all his angels weep! Where did that thought come from? I will never wed again. I will never breed babes again. Never, never, never! The joy of parenthood will ne’er be mine again.
Ironically, the recital ended then with a loud rendition of “Joy to the World,” accompanied by the blare of trumpets. Was it a sign? And that clicking noise….surely it was just a clock ticking somewhere in the church vestibule.
Afterward they were driving home—Jorund in the passenger seat, Sue-zee and Beth in the backseat. There was a warm feel to the comfortable silence that surrounded them. Forevermore, Jorund knew he would associate this kind of hushed tranquillity with Christmas. Perhaps this was what was meant by peace.
“Mom…” Sue-zee said.
“Hmmm?” she responded.
“This is the best Christmas ever.”
Beth agreed, adding, “Like a dream come true.”
Misty-eyed, Mag-he glanced over at him and murmured, “Thank you.”
He looked at her, back at the girls, then at her once again. “Nay, heartling, I thank you.”
Chapter Sixteen
Christmas was almost over in the Muck-bride household, and Jorund should have been at peace. He wasn’t. Not anymore.
Oh, it had been one of the most wonderful days of his life. He could not deny that. Perhaps that was why his spirits had plummeted. Perhaps it was as simple as the fact that he did not want the day to end. No, he knew it was more than that. No matter what happened tomorrow, or some tomorrow down the road, this was a day he would never forget.
It was that inevitable tomorrow that was brewing unrest in him now.
First there had been the gift exchanging, followed by a special yule breakfast of bacon, “dippy” eggs, toasted bread, and pancakes shaped like Christmas trees, covered with butter and syrup, along with pitchers of milk and orange juice, and cups of black coffee, a bitter brew he could not like, no matter that it was a favorite beverage of adults in this time. Later they’d had a feast of baked ham with roasted potatoes, vegetables, and let-ass, a staple of practically every meal, but which was little more than grass, if you asked him.
After that, they had watched a move-he on the TV world box called It’s a Wonderful Life. Mag-he and the girls had gone weepy-eyed at the end, to his dismay, but they had told him it was “good crying,” whatever that was.
The gift exchanging had been the best part, with the girls exuberantly exclaiming over each gift, big or small, and Maggie breaking out in tears over the antique gold, heart-shaped pendant on a chain that he’d given her. The heavy gold was etched with writhing animals in the Viking style. Inside there was an inlay of amber and a somber photograph of himself, which Sue-zee and Beth had helped him make in a machine at the shopping mall.
The girls had given their mother numerous small gifts—bath oils, perfume, a leather carrying bag for her papers, a music box that played her favorite song from a move-he about a sinking ship. Mag-he in turn gave them clothes and wrist rings and music CDs and stuffed animals. Of course, they had pretended that the gifts came from Santa Claus, but they weren’t fooling him. He knew Santa was a myth. He had closed the flue on the fireplace chimney last night, and when he’d checked this morning, it was still closed. Not that he’d been foolish enough to give that legend any credence.
Jorund loved to receive gifts—he would not deny that—and the girls had made him hand-crafted cards with poignant sentiments that shot straight to his already melted heart. In addition, they’d given him fun presents, like a miniature Ricky Martin doll, which they claimed resembled him, only younger; a sweatshirt that said, Proud to be a Texan; a scale model of a Viking longship; and a glass bowl of green Jell-O cubes that could be held in the hands and eaten that way. Good thing that last had been a jest, for Jorund did not think he would have been able to eat even one, especially after imbibing that horrible egg nog that Mag-he had claimed was a traditional yule drink. What is wrong with good old mead as a yule drink, I ask you?
Even the annoying Rita had not been left out of the gift giving. Mag-he had given her a feline foo-tawn bed, which was a type of comfortable couch. The damn cat was spoiled too much, in his opinion, and he didn’t feel that way just because the beast had taken an extreme dislike to him at first sight. She shed her fur all over his garments. She hissed when he approached Mag-he. She coughed up hairballs into his running shoes.
In any case, aside from the ridiculous foo-tawn, Mag-he had also given Rita a Santa hat, which she deemed the latest in “cat coo-tour.” Jorund had barely been able to stifle his chuckles of delight at how ludicrous the cat looked.
Sue-zee gave Rita blowing bubbles that had catnip in them, and Beth gave her a Christmas wreath made of tuna-flavored leaves to place above her new bed. The wreath played a meowing version of “Jingle Bells.” To be sure, that smelly wreath was going to be lost before morning. “Jingle Bells” was bad enough. A meowing “Jingle Bells”? Never.
Not wanting to be considered a cat hater, which he no doubt was, Jorund had purchased a cat present, too: a feathery kitty wand, which had a heavy metal disc for a base that suctioned to the floor, and a tall, thin metal pole from which numerous bird feathers were suspended. Cats apparently took great pleasure in trying to catch the elusive, fluttery feathers. The good thing about this one was that every so often, when Rita batted at a feather, the wand would swat back, causing the cat to fall on her fat rump with a shriek.
Mag-he had eyed him suspiciously, obviously wondering if he’d deliberately bought a toy that would drive Rita half-mad.
He’d just smiled innocently at her.
Of course, there was no explaining away the second gift he’d bought for Rita: a food bowl with the words, The Cat from Hell, emblazoned on the side.
Mag-he’s gift to him had been a tooled leather belt to hold the scabbard for his sword and a set of books about Vikings, with fine gold-edged bindings. He could not easily read the books yet. But every day he was getting more proficient at recognizing written words and phrases. He was deeply touched that she’d given the books to him. It was as if she expected him to be here long enough to learn to read English well. And that was what was causing his low spirits.
He had not expected to care so deeply ever again. It had happened so quickly, as if predestined. That scared him mightily, because he sensed that he was soon going to have to make a decision: to save his brother and leave this land and those he had come to care for; or to stay and see how these affections might develop, and thus abandon his brother and his father’s mission.
“Joe, you’re not paying attention,” Sue-zee complained.
He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, playing her new video game with her. It was a gruesome battle of gremlins against giants. “And they say Vikings are bloodthirsty,” he grumbled good-naturedly. “They ought to see a nine-year-old girl with a game clicker in her hand.”
Sue-zee jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow and hooted. “You’re not going to give up, are you?”
“Yea, I am.”
“Chicken! Bock, bock, bock!”
“You win, sweetling.” With a wink, he declined to rise to her bait, and instead stood and arched his back to remove the kinks.
“Joe, could you come over here?” Beth urged. “You, too, Mom.” Beth was playing with the new laptop come-pewter he’d given her. Truly, it was a magic box. And he’d seen only a few of its marvels which Beth had demonstrated that morning. A-oh-ell. The Enter-net. Webbing sites. E-mail. Chatting rooms. Whale research sites.
Beth was a truly remarkable child, with her fierce protectiveness of the killer whales…especially one particular whale named Keiko. On her own, she had established her own Webbing site where she was garnering support among young people all over the world. He would bet a Viking king’s booty that Thora would love this girl.
Mag-he put aside the book she had been reading in the comfortable chair next to the fire—one of the Viking books she had given him. It was the end of December, but in
Tax-us the weather was still fairly warm…certainly not cold enough for a fire. But Mag-he and the girls had insisted that it wouldn’t be Christmas without a fire, now that they actually had a fireplace; so they’d put on the air conditioner, a device that magically cooled the house, and had him make a fire.
It struck him as odd that people would want a fireplace in their homes when fire was not used for heat or cooking. But then, this was a country that encouraged cutting down live trees and bringing them indoors to shed their pine needles.
The girls also yearned to have snow for Christmas—another strange tradition in this country—which was almost impossible in this part of Texas. He had told them with a laugh, “A fireplace I could produce for you, but not snow. I am not a god.”
“I think you’re a god,” Mag-he had whispered in that husky sex-voice of hers.
She made him feel like a god.
Now she came up to stand beside him, behind her daughter, who was sitting on a chair in front of a piece of furniture called a desk. She was staring at the colored screen of the laptop, which showed words and colored pictures.
He put his arm around Mag-he’s waist, then let his hand sidle lower to palm her buttock. It seemed like forever since he’d last had the freedom to touch Mag-he, even though it had been only a week.
She gave him a startled sideways look, slapped his hand away, then let her gaze wander till she took in the fact that neither Sue-zee nor Beth had noticed. Only then did she reach over and pinch his buttock. “Behave,” she ordered in an undertone.
“What did you say, Mom?” Beth asked. She was doing some complicated maneuvers on her laptop. Sue-zee had started another game by herself, and the sounds of zing-zing-zap could be heard in the background.
“Nothing,” Mag-he replied innocently. “What did you want to show us, sweetie?”
“Vikings.”
“Vikings?” he and Mag-he said at the same time.
“Yeah, I know how interested Joe is in Vikings…coming from Norway and all that,” Beth explained. He and Mag-he had agreed not to tell the twins about his having time traveled, but instead to let them think he was a man of Norse heritage with a special interest in the tenth century. “Well, I did a search on Yahoo—that’s a search engine—and came up with a zillion sites on the Internet. Then I narrowed my search to tenth-century Vikings, and you won’t believe what I found. Are you interested?”
Jorund looked at Mag-he, and she looked back at him. Was he interested? Bloody hell, yes. He pulled an extra chair over next to Beth.
“Lots of the stuff you’ve told us about King Olaf is true.”
“Of course it’s true. Did you think I would lie?”
“Well, sometimes the things you say are pretty off-the-wall.”
“Name one thing.”
“That your father is—was—a Viking king.”
“Well, he is—was—not really a king…rather a minor king. Actually, his title is jarl, which is similar to the English earl.”
Beth skipped from one site to the next, showing him histories of tenth-century Vikings, along with pictures of their longships, jewelry, clothing, and native fjords. Jorund was fascinated. And he was also homesick, just seeing the images of his homeland.
He didn’t realize that Mag-he had placed a hand on his shoulder, but she was just as captivated as he was, leaning over him. “Honey, do a search under the Viking histories for Vestfold. And then for Jarl Eric Tryggvason.” She squeezed his shoulder. “Isn’t that where you said you come…I mean, where your people come from? The southeastern section of Norway?”
He nodded.
Soon Beth had even more detailed information, though she declared that the tenth century was practically the Dark Ages and not much data had been collected in written form. The person who owned this particular Web site, a member of some group called the ess-see-a, claimed there was a man called Jarl Eric Trygvasson, brother to King Olaf Trygvasson. Apparently there was a grave mound in modern-day Norway with his father’s name on it in runic symbols, dated the year 999. Beside it on one side was a smaller grave mound commemorating the death of Eric’s daughter-by-marriage, Inga, and his two granddaughters, Greta and Girta. Jorund had already seen the latter, but the former…well, it must mean that his father had died one year after he’d last seen him in 998. Had there been an accident, or had his father fallen in battle?
If that wasn’t heartbreaking enough for Jorund, the next screen showed a large stone with runic symbols on it. Before Beth had a chance to read the text for him, Jorund began translating aloud the inscription, “‘This stone is dedicated in the year 998 to the memory of my sons, Karl Geirolf Ericsson and Karl Jorund Ericsson. They died at sea, brave of heart. May I join them one day in Valhalla.’”
More important, there was a picture there of Jorund’s sword, Bloodletter, which had been buried in the grave. Surely that was a sign that he had returned home, for there was no duplicate of this specially crafted weapon.
Jorund was staggered by this news, and he could tell that Mag-he was, too, by the way she squeezed both his shoulders. Did this mean that he would never return home to his time? Or would he return after his father’s death? Wouldn’t he have removed the fallacious gravestone, if he had? On the other hand, mayhap he’d been too grief-stricken to care. No, the most damning evidence was his sword. He would be returning to his time.
Mag-he leaned down and whispered in his ear, “We’ll talk about this later.”
“Oooh, oooh, oooh!” Beth exclaimed. “Look at what I found.” She’d moved to another Webbing site. “‘Rosestead: A Viking Village.’ See. Some guy and his wife built an authentic Viking village in Maine. And it’s a working village, too.”
Picture after picture was shown of the inhabitants at work…building longships, operating farms, caring for livestock, weaving textiles, making soaps, crafting jewelry, brewing mead, pattern-welding swords. It was like gazing back in time, and yet all of this was apparently taking place today somewhere in this country. Amazing.
“’Tis odd,” he commented tentatively, “but the icon marking each of these pages is identical to my family crest—writhing dragons wrapped around a cross. It represents the Vikings of my father and the Christians of my mother.”
“It’s probably just a coincidence,” Mag-he observed.
“And that longship shown there. ’Tis called Fierce Raven. The ships my brother Rolf built all had the name Fierce in them, like Fierce Destiny, Fierce Pride, Fierce Dragon.”
“That’s probably a coincidence, too.”
“Yea,” he agreed finally. “If people have no compunction about robbing graves, they would not hesitate to steal a family crest or a ship name, as well.”
Beth read some more and told them that the village was originally started to preserve the Viking culture, since there was no true Viking country today…Iceland being more Viking in nature than Norway was. Because Vikings were assimilated into the countries where they conquered or settled, they had no real homeland of their own. In addition, Beth read that Rosestead also served as an orphanage for inner-city homeless kids.
“Wouldn’t it be nice to have a place like that for mental patients, like the ones at Rainbow?” Sue-zee suggested from behind them, where she was still playing her game. She must have been listening to them and playing at the same time.
Everyone turned with surprise.
She shrugged. “It was just an idea. Lots of the people at Rainbow aren’t dangerous or anything, and look how well some of them are doing, just being around Joe, who’s kind of a Viking.”
“Who’s kind of a Viking?” he protested. “I am most definitely a real Viking.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Sue-zee said, and went back to concentrating on her game.
“It’s an interesting thought,” Jorund remarked to Mag-he.
She nodded and appeared to be considering all the possibilities. Not that it was really possible. He would be long gone before any such project could be undertaken. Wouldn’t he?
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br /> “They even have a visitors’ program six months of the year, when outsiders can come in and tour the place. They’re closed November through April,” Beth went on. “Maybe we could go there for vacation next year, huh, Mom?”
“Maybe,” Mag-he conceded, but her mind still seemed to be elsewhere.
For some reason the computer shut down on them momentarily, and when it came back on, they had lost the Rosestead Web site. But Jorund had seen enough.
“I must needs tell you something that I have just now decided. Methinks it will be glad tidings for you all.” Jorund could scarce contain his excitement in making this announcement.
They all stopped what they were doing and stared at him expectantly. Mag-he tilted her head; she was a little suspicious.
He didn’t know where the notion had come from, or why he was so convinced that it was the right thing to do. It just felt right.
“We’re going to Maine.”
Pandemonium broke loose. Joe was jabbering away excitedly. The girls were jumping up and down, thrilled at the prospect of a road trip with their beloved father figure. And Maggie was seething with fury.
“No!” she finally screamed to get their attention. When everyone calmed down enough to listen, she softened her voice. “We are not going to Maine.” And she gave Joe a meaningful glower to indicate that it was cruel for him to have made the suggestion without consulting her first.
He just lifted his stubborn chin in defiance. The dunce didn’t have the sense to realize his blunder.
“Mom!” Suzy and Beth whined.
“No!” she repeated, more firmly this time. “It’s out of the question.”
Then to Joe, she said, “Number one, it’s too far away. Number two, we have to be here on New Year’s Eve—remember, we promised to be at the talent show at Boot Scootin’ Cowboy to support Natalie. Number three, that Rosestead place isn’t even open in the winter. Number four, the girls have to be back in school the day after New Year’s Day—that’s only nine days from now. Number five, it’s cold—very cold—in Maine this time of the year.”
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