Vulgar the Viking and the Rock Cake Raiders

by Odin Redbeard

  COCK-A-DOODLE-DOOOOOO!

  The cockerel’s cry tore through the early morning air.

  In a messy bedroom, in a small hut, somewhere near the centre of the sleepy town of Blubber, a young boy named Vulgar threw back his covers and leapt out of bed.

  His covers gave a loud, grumpy woof as they landed in a heap on the floor.

  “Sorry, Grunt,” said Vulgar, looking down at the shaggy dog who had been sleeping on his legs. “Forgot you were there!”

  Grunt gave a low growl of annoyance and scratched his ear with his back leg.

  Vulgar smoothed out his leather tunic and tightened the string belt of his seal-skin shorts.

  He’d slept in his clothes last night, because today was a big day and he didn’t want to waste a moment of it getting dressed.

  Vulgar kicked open his bedroom door and hurried along the narrow passageway that led to the kitchen.

  As he bounded into the room, Vulgar spotted a huge, dark figure standing in the corner.

  The figure was so tall and so wide it looked like a small mountain.

  It blocked the kitchen window, leaving the whole room in almost total darkness. In its hand it clutched a large, sharp axe.

  “Morning, Mum,” said Vulgar.

  “By Odin’s beard!” boomed Vulgar’s mum, Helga, her voice making the flames of the fire quiver and shake. “What’s got you out of bed so early?”

  “It’s History Day!” said Vulgar excitedly. Behind him, Grunt padded into the room. The dog gave a snort as he slouched down on to the floor beside the fire, before falling asleep again.

  “History Day?” repeated Helga, splitting a log as tall as Vulgar with one blow of her axe.

  “I’ve told you about it a hundred times,” said Vulgar. “It’s a whole day of learning about Vikings.”

  Vulgar’s mum frowned. “We are Vikings,” she said.

  “No, proper Vikings!” cried Vulgar. “Like in the olden days. You know? All looting and plundering and adventure on the high seas.” He shook his head sadly. “Not like the Vikings who live in Blubber, all snoozing and gardening and … and … knitting.”

  Helga’s frown deepened. “Nothing wrong with knitting.”

  “Yes, there is,” groaned Vulgar. “It’s boring, just like everything else around here. Except History Day.”

  “I’ve never seen you this excited about learning stuff before,” said Helga. She eyed her son suspiciously. “Are you up to something?”

  “No.”

  “Because you’re usually up to something.”

  “I’m not up to anything,” Vulgar said, sighing. “It’s just … it’s History Day! About real Vikings.” He puffed up his chest and clenched his fists. “Just like I’m going to be.”

  “Well, Mr Real Viking, before you go anywhere, you can get in the bath and wash that hair of yours. It’s filthy.”

  “But Mum,” groaned Vulgar. “It’s supposed to be filthy. Whoever heard of a Viking with clean hair?”

  “What about your father?” Helga asked him. “Your father always has clean hair.”

  “Dad?!” spluttered Vulgar. “Grunt’s more of a Viking than he is.”

  At the sound of his name, Grunt opened one eye, chuffed loudly, then went back to sleep.

  “Right, fine,” sighed Helga, turning back to the log pile. “But wash your hands before breakfast. You look like you’ve been juggling elk poo.”

  Vulgar looked at his hands. His mum was right. Then again, he had been juggling elk poo. It was one of his favourite hobbies.

  “No way,” said Vulgar defiantly. He folded his arms in front of him. “Vikings don’t wash their hands. We’d sooner have them cut off.”

  Helga hefted her axe and stared hard at her son’s skinny wrists. “That could be arranged,” she growled.

  Vulgar gulped. His mum didn’t make idle threats. She’d once dangled him upside down from the window for refusing to cut his toenails.

  She’d strapped him to a boulder and rolled it down a hill when he’d refused to eat his sprouts. But surely even she wouldn’t go as far as chopping his hands off?

  Would she?

  “OK,” he grumbled at last. “I’ll wash my hands. But just this once.”

  Helga lowered the axe. The corners of her mouth curved into a smile. “Wise move,” she said, turning back to the log pile.

  Stepping over the sleeping Grunt, Vulgar approached the large wooden basin the family used for washing. Everything got washed in the basin, from faces to clothes to dirty dishes. By the end of the day, the water would be a dark, murky grey, but at this time in the morning it was crystal clear.

  Please, thought Vulgar, as he drew closer to the basin, let today be the day…

  Taking a deep breath, Vulgar stretched on to his tiptoes and looked at his reflection, shimmering on the water’s surface.

  Thor’s bum-fluff, he thought, staring crossly at his smooth, hairless chin. Still no beard.

  Vulgar wanted many things in life. He wanted a broadsword with a skull for a handle. He wanted a shield made of solid gold and silver. And he wanted to be strong enough to lift both of them without falling over.

  More than anything, though, Vulgar wanted a beard. And not just any beard. He wanted a proper beard, like proper Vikings used to have. A big, red beard that forked into two at the bottom, like a horned helmet for his chin.

  He waggled his fingers in the water, chasing his reflection away. No beard today. Maybe tomorrow.

  Vulgar turned back into the kitchen. A lump of mouldy cheese and a hunk of stale bread lay on the table.

  “Breakfast,” said his mum. “Get it while it’s … there.”

  Vulgar pounced on the food, snatching it up before the mice could whisk it away. As he was shoving it into his mouth, the door opened and a skinny man with very clean hair shuffled inside.

  “Morning, son. Morning, wife,” said Harald, Vulgar’s dad. He stretched up to his full height and tried to plant a kiss on Helga’s cheek. Being far too short to reach, he only managed to kiss her elbow, but they both seemed happy with that.

  “How were the toilets this morning?” asked Helga, returning to her work.

  Harald shuddered. “Ooh, they were proper blocked,” he said. “Up to my elbows I was, trying to get them unclogged.”

  Crossing to the basin, Harald dipped his arms in the water. It immediately turned a murky shade of brown.

  “You’re awake early,” he said to Vulgar. “Are you up to something?”

  “No!”

  “Because you’re usually up to something.”

  “That’s what I said,” Helga told him.

  “I’m not up to anything!” insisted Vulgar. “It’s History Day today. When we learn about proper Vikings.”

  Harald dried his hands on his thin, wispy beard, then wrung them together nervously. “What, plundering and adventuring and stuff like that?”

  “Exactly!”

  “I tried it once,” said Harald. “Not my cup of tea. All those big waves. I get seasick just doing the washing-up, don’t I, dearest?”

  “That’s your usual excuse,” grunted Helga, not looking round.

  “You don’t want to bother with all that old-fashioned stuff,” said Harald, with a wave of a brown-stained hand. “You want to get a proper job. Like me.”

  “Cleaning toilets?” spluttered Vulgar. “That’s not a—”

  “Vuuuuuuulgaaaaaaar!”

  The shout came from outside, stopping Vulgar mid-sentence.

  “Knut’s here,” said Vulgar, cramming the last of the bread in his mouth.

  “Coming!” he cried to his best friend, spraying crumbs all over the
kitchen table. “Grunt! Walkies!”

  At the sound of the word, Grunt’s ear twitched, and the shaggy old dog leapt bolt upright.

  Still chewing, Vulgar grabbed his cloak and helmet from the peg on the wall, threw open the back door and bolted out into the garden, not bothering to say goodbye.

  This was it.

  History Day had finally begun!

  Vulgar and Grunt dashed along the path and cleared the garden gate in a single leap. Vulgar’s best friend, Knut Knutson, stood on the dirt track that ran past the hut. He was almost a whole foot taller than Vulgar, even though they were both eight, but Knut always slouched so the boys looked almost the same height.

  Knut didn’t have a beard either. In fact, he looked even less like a proper Viking than Vulgar did. For a start, he was far too skinny. Proper Vikings needed to be broad-shouldered, with chests like rum barrels. Knut looked like a garden rake, with a turnip on top for a head. Even his helmet looked wrong. It was much too big. And Knut had accidentally broken off one of the horns. He’d stuck it back on, but because he wasn’t paying attention – Knut hardly ever paid attention – he’d put it back the wrong way up. Now one horn curved upwards, and one horn curved down. It made Knut look like he had a giant letter “Z” stuck through his head.

  “History Day!” announced Vulgar. “Excited?”

  Knut shrugged. “S’pose.”

  They hurried off in the direction of the Great Hall, with Grunt trotting along behind them.

  “I wonder if there’ll be demonstrations,” said Vulgar.

  “Demonstrations of what?” asked Knut.

  “You know – proper Viking stuff. Like … like … pillaging!”

  Knut considered this. “What exactly is pillaging?”

  “Well,” began Vulgar, waving his hand about vaguely. “It’s like … um … it’s a bit like stealing. Only more, er…”

  “More pillagey?”

  “Exactly!”

  “Here, Vulgar,” said Knut, “maybe they’ll pillage us?”

  Vulgar stopped in the middle of the dirt track, his eyes suddenly wide. “That. Would. Be. Brilliant!”

  He hurried on, moving even faster than before. The track took them through the town, past old women weaving on their front steps, past younger women scrubbing moss from the wooden walls of their thatched huts, and past men of all ages tending their rock gardens.

  “Look at that lot,” muttered Vulgar. “Weaving. Cleaning. Growing vegetables.” He shook his head in disgust. “I mean … vegetables!”

  “Someone’s got to grow vegetables,” said Knut.

  “Yes, but not us!” exclaimed Vulgar. “Not Vikings! We should be sailing to other countries and taking all their vegetables, not growing our own!”

  Knut gave another shrug. They hurried on for a few more minutes, not even slowing down to admire the view of the snow-capped mountains across the fjord.

  Finally, they arrived at the Great Hall – the huge building in the centre of Blubber. It was twice as tall as any of the huts around it, with life-size polar bears carved on to each corner. Grunt took one look at the steep steps leading up to the doors, slumped to the ground and started snoring.

  “Come on,” Vulgar said to Knut. “We don’t want to be late.”

  Inside, the Great Hall looked even greater than usual. Banners had been draped between the massive wooden pillars that held up the roof. A huge fire crackled in the hearth.

  The ceremonial weapons were all polished and gleaming. Long tapestries hung on the walls, depicting great battles of old. And the room was full of Viking children, all chattering excitedly about History Day.

  Only one girl was not talking with the others. Princess Freya Gold-Hair, the only daughter of King Olaf, sat on a padded chair with her back resting against one of the pillars.

  “Wotcha, Freya,” said Vulgar cheerily.

  Freya’s delicate nose wrinkled, as if detecting an unpleasant smell. She turned her head, deliberately looking away from Vulgar and Knut.

  “Helloooo!” said Vulgar, leaning around so Freya had no choice but to look at him. She met his eyes briefly, then turned away again.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Vulgar, grinning. “I forgot you don’t talk to us commoners.” He gave an exaggerated bow. “Forgive me, your high and mightiness.”

  With that, Vulgar turned and scurried away. He’d only gone a few paces, though, when he stopped and tiptoed back towards the princess.

  “Watch this,” he mouthed silently, grinning at Knut.

  Knut covered his mouth with his hands to stop himself laughing as Vulgar gently took hold of Freya’s long, blonde pigtails, one in each hand. Slowly, carefully, he drew them around the pillar behind Freya and tied them together in a big knot.

  He had just finished when Freya felt her hair being messed with.

  “Hey!” she cried, standing up. She stepped forward. “What do you think you’re— Ow!”

  Vulgar and Knut erupted into gales of laughter as Freya’s hair yanked her back. She gave another cry of pain as she fell back down on to the seat.

  “I’ll get you for this,” she hissed, reaching behind her and working furiously to untie the knot. “Just you wait!”

  Before Vulgar could reply, a frail-looking man, bent and crooked with age, hobbled into the hall, waving his walking-stick in the air.

  “Right, quieten down, you lot,” snapped Harrumf, the steward of the Great Hall. “We ain’t got all day.”

  The chatter of the children gradually fell away into silence. Harrumf banged his stick on the wooden floor three times. Thock! Thock! Thock!

  “All rise,” he cried, “for ’is Most Majestic of Majesties. The greatest warrior wot Blubber ’as ever seen. The man wot put the king into Viking…”

  Harrumf ran out of breath at that point, and had to stop to gulp down more air. He coughed loudly before continuing. “The one … the only … the flippin’ marvellous … Kiiiiiiiing Olaf the Unstoppable!”

  The children who were already standing stood to attention. Even Knut’s slouch didn’t look quite so slouchy. The children who had been sitting leapt to their feet. Only Freya remained seated. She glared at Vulgar, still struggling to untie her hair. Vulgar gave her a friendly wave, just as the bulging stomach of King Olaf appeared through the doorway at the back of the hall, closely followed by the rest of him.

  The crowd of children began to whoop and cheer.

  “Thank you, thank you,” muttered the king, swallowing down the last bite of a turkey drumstick. Tossing the bone over his shoulder, he gave a loud burp, then wiped his greasy fingers on his enormous red beard.

  “Be seated,” he announced, in a voice that shook the walls, “and listen closely, for I am about to tell you tales so terrible and terrifying, they’ll make your eyes burst open and drip down your face!”

  Vulgar’s mouth stretched into a wide, toothy grin.

  Now this, he thought, is more like it!

  A hushed silence fell over the audience as they settled down to listen to King Olaf. Vulgar leaned forward and held his head up, not wanting to miss a single word of what was about to be said.

  “BOGIES!” roared King Olaf, in a voice that made everyone in the front three rows jump. Vulgar blinked. He hadn’t been expecting bogies.

  “That’s all I had to eat,” the king continued. “Gooey, sticky bogies from the darkest corners of my royal nostrils.”

  A murmur went through the crowd. Clearly it hadn’t been expecting bogies either.

  “I’d been adrift at sea for months, my loyal crew either killed in battle or lost beneath the waves. My food supply was long gone, knocked overboard during a fight with a crazed sea serpent that I eventually managed to slay with just these bare hands.”

  King Olaf held his pudgy hands up for the audience to admire, before continuing. “Lesser men would have given up, gone mad from starvation and loneliness. Lesser men would have gone crying and wailing to the gods for help. But I am not a lesser man.”

 
; “What did you do?” asked Vulgar, fascinated. Harrumf raised his stick and opened his mouth to scold Vulgar for interrupting, but King Olaf spoke before the old man got the chance.

  “Excellent question, my boy,” said the king. “I knew I had to find food, and fast. So I climbed the mast and scanned the horizon. For days I stayed up there, drinking seagulls’ blood and eating bogies. And then one day, just like that, there it was.”

  “There what was?” breathed Vulgar.

  “Land, my boy. Land! An island, in fact. I set the sail and soon arrived on the coast. Their army was vast, but no match for a true Viking warrior like me. I defeated them, all five thousand soldiers. It wasn’t easy, mind you – took me almost an hour – but when the last man was beaten, I looted every single one of their huts.”

  “Did you pillage them as well?” asked Vulgar, bouncing up and down with excitement.

  “You bet your broadsword I did!” said Olaf proudly. “I looted and pillaged them good and proper, took all their food back to my longship, and set sail for home.”

  “And did you ransack them?”

  “Yes. I looted and pillaged and ransacked all ten thousand of them,” said the king.

  “I thought you said there were five thousand soldiers?” said Knut.

  King Olaf frowned. “Um…”

  “Where was the island?” asked Vulgar, desperate for every last detail.

  King Olaf frowned a bit more. “Er … I … can’t remember.”

  “You must remember!” said Vulgar. “Vikings never forget the places they’ve conquered.”

  “What? I mean, yes, of course.” Olaf rubbed at his beard. “It’s … um … nowhere,” he said. “I, er, set it on fire and it sank into the sea, and, er, no one survived.”

  “You sank a whole island?” gasped Vulgar. “That’s amazing.”