A Bone to Pick

by Gina McMurchy-Barber

  When her story is told, Thorfinn is quiet. Every moment he remains silent Sigrid grows more uncomfortable. She knows of people who were flogged for their failures, or worse — banished. Would her uncle do such a thing to her?

  “Sigrid, your crime, as you’ve told it, is indeed quite serious,” says Thorfinn slowly as he gazes into the flames.

  While she waits for his next words, Sigrid feels her blood pump quickly through her veins.

  Finally, Thorfinn looks up. “You know that from suffering comes wisdom.”

  “Yes, Uncle.” So what suffering will her misdeed bring?

  “I see you already suffer from fear about what will happen next.”

  “Yes, Uncle.” Sigrid wrenches her fingers so hard they are numb.

  “Would you say you’re wiser for your suffering?”

  “Yes, Uncle,” Sigrid replies, fighting back tears.

  “You’ve had your share of suffering in this life, perhaps more than most. But this suffering has given you an inner strength and wisdom.”

  “Yes, Uncle. But don’t keep me in suspense any longer. What is to happen to me? What must be my punishment?”

  “Put on your cloak, girl, and wait outside,” Thorfinn commands.

  Sigrid does as she is told. When Thorfinn comes out of the sod house, he is draped in his fur coat and carries his sword.

  “Move along, girl. I want to get this over with before the clan wakes.”

  He guides Sigrid out to the meadow well beyond the settlement. Sigrid’s body quakes, but she holds her head high, determined not to show her fear. A shield maiden would do the same, she thinks.

  “This is far enough,” Thorfinn tells her. Then he removes his cloak to reveal a second sword. “Here, take it.”

  Sigrid’s hand trembles as she does as she is told. “I’m not afraid to die, Uncle.”

  “That is good.” Thorfinn’s face breaks into a grin that reaches from ear to ear, and he laughs deeply. “One day we all must die, but not today, my girl, not today.”

  “Why do you not seek revenge, Uncle?”

  “Revenge? Sigrid, you’re like my daughter. We’re here so I can keep my promise to teach you sword fighting. I should have done it long ago. Now raise your blade, girl, raise it high.”

  Sigrid is flooded with joy, and she raises her sword. “Like this, Uncle?”

  Chapter Seven

  “Mornin’, Princess.” Waking to Bertha’s voice was like being doused with a pail of cold water.

  “Ahh, morning,” I mumbled. “If it really is morning.”

  “Oh, it is. It’s six o’clock. Time to get crackin’, girl.”

  Yes, sir, Sergeant Bertha … hup-two-three-four. I rolled my legs over the side of the cot and shrieked when my toes touched the cold floor. “I didn’t hear you come in last night,” I said, buying myself some time to clear my mind.

  “Couldn’t sleep. I was agitated after His Highness dropped by, so I spent the night cleanin’ and rearrangin’ the kitchen from top to bottom. Then I went huntin’ fer some new recipes. By the time I found some new things, it was nearly morning, so I put on a big pot of coffee and planned the meals fer today.” She snapped her fingers in my face. “Now don’t be fallin’ asleep on me. See ya in the cook tent — ten minutes, missy.”

  When I stumbled into the kitchen thirteen minutes later, Bertha gave me the stink eye. She was already chopping up vegetables and had a large pot of water on the stove.

  “I’ve been tinkin’ — there’s things we need to improve around here, things that’ll make this a better camp kitchen. We can provide better service and food, speed up the process, and be more efficient.”

  “Hey, if it’s efficiency you want, I have the perfect idea. It’ll conserve energy and save money, too.”

  “I’m all ears,” Bertha said. “Do tell.”

  I still didn’t know her well enough to tell whether she was serious or just mocking me. “Say you want to make grilled cheese sandwiches. All you have to do is lay a bunch of bread or buns out on a buttered cookie sheet and cover them with sliced cheese. Then you take the cookie sheet and put it on the roof of the car — but you’ve got to make sure your car’s been sitting in the full sun for a long time in order for this to work. Once you’ve done that, you let the sun melt the cheese from the top down while the hot metal of the roof cooks from below. You do the same for the tops, too. Might take half an hour — if it’s a nice day — but you won’t need a single volt of electricity.” I waved my hands like a magician. “And, presto — grilled cheese. Well, more like solar cheese melt. Whatever you call it, it comes from free solar power.”

  Bertha looked at me stone-faced for a long time, didn’t blink or budge or anything. Then her shoulders started to shake, her belly began to wobble, her mouth broke wide open, and out came a deafening explosion of laughter. Even worse — it went on and on for what felt like an hour. By the time she stopped, her cheeks were red and streaked with tears.

  Annoyed, I said, “People laughed like that at Bell and Einstein, and Newton, too. But look where they ended up.”

  “Yes, they ended up in the same place we all do.” Bertha snickered again, her jowls wiggling.

  Really annoyed now, I said, “Laugh all you like. One day people are going to be doing everything by solar power — even cook!”

  “It’s a terrific … hee-hee … idea, Princess. But what if … what if … ohhh … what if there’s no sunshine? Or even worse … snicker-snort … ya don’t have a car?” More howling, then finally she cleared her throat. “Solar cookin’, eh? I’ll definitely keep that one in mind.”

  After she wiped the tears from her cheeks a second time, she said, “Sorry, Princess, it must be the lack of sleep and too much caffeine. Now, where were we? Yah, ideas fer being more efficient — I was tinking of something less inventive.”

  “What if we take a poll of what the students and professors want to eat? That way they get what they want, less food is wasted, money is saved, and everyone’s happy. I can get started on it right away,” I offered.

  “’Tis a good idea, fer sure. I got the same one last night and sent out my survey on the wireless. Got a bunch of texts and emails soon after. Seems these folks like their comfort foods — stews, shepherd’s pies, soups, that sort of thing.”

  “So tell me again why we’re having this conversation. You don’t like my solar cooking idea, you already sent out a survey — why bother asking me when you’ve got this all figured out?”

  “Now, now, Princess — no need to be so touchy. I just thought ya might want to add something.” She turned on the stove and pulled out a mixing bowl. “Just so ya know, today’s menu is pancakes fer breakfast, soup and grilled cheese fer lunch — done the old-fashioned way, of course — and fer dinner meat loaf and mashed potatoes.”

  “Great, carbs galore. That’ll make them happy.”

  “Don’t be cheeky with me, girlie. Now get yer hands washed. We’ve got lots of things to do.”

  The morning whizzed by, and I barely had time to stick my head out of the kitchen. Good thing, too, because I didn’t know what I was going to tell Eddy when she asked why I’d missed the lecture. Until I figured that out, the best thing was to lie low.

  After lunch was over, Bertha said, “You’ve done well today, Princess. I’ve got a proposition I tink you’ll like. I need to leave ya on yer own while I make a trip to town. While I’m away, you’ll peel those two bags of potatoes and then cook ’em up nice. If ya can handle that, I’ll let ya off early today.”

  “Don’t you need help with serving and cleaning up?” I asked, surprised.

  Bertha smiled. “Got that covered. My daughter, Chloe, is comin’ fer a visit and she loves to help me in the kitchen. It’ll be a good time fer us to catch up. So what do ya say?”

  “What do you think I’ll say? Fantastic!” Getting off early would give me time to head back to the cave. I really wanted to see it again. I hoped by being there I’d get an idea how I could tell Eddy abo
ut it while at the same time ensure that Louise and I didn’t lose out.

  “All right, girlie, I’m off to the grocery store. Make sure ya don’t let those potatoes burn or overcook. If ya do, I’ll be boiling mad.”

  “Hmm … that’s food for thought,” I punned right back.

  “Yah, it is, but don’t ya make the mistake of tinkin’ I don’t mean it.”

  By the time I was into peeling my second sack of potatoes, my fingers were numb and shrivelled. After I washed the spuds, I popped them into the huge pot of boiling water. Taking Bertha’s warning seriously, I hovered over the stove, stirring them every couple of minutes until they were finally done. We both had a lot at stake now. For Bertha it was her job and reputation, and for me, I wanted to be around long enough to excavate the cave site.

  Draining off the water and getting the potatoes back into the pot was tricky. The pot and potatoes were really hot, and the steam scorched my hands and face. As I lifted the strainer to dump the heavy potatoes back into the pot, my wet hands lost hold of the handles. It was like one of those slow-motion moments as I watched the potatoes pour onto the floor.

  I stared at the mess for a few seconds, wondering what I should do. There were no more potatoes, and even if there were, I didn’t have the time, strength, or patience to peel even a single one. As I saw it, I had only one solution.

  I dropped to the floor and started to scrape the potatoes back into the pot, at first with my bare hands. But they were so hot I had to grab a spoon to shove them back in. Then I quickly grabbed the mop and started cleaning up the mess on the floor. It was just a few moments later that I heard the screen door open, and there stood Bertha staring at me with eyes the size of eggs.

  “I don’t believe it,” she pronounced. I stared back at her, silently panicking. “I tink I asked ya three times to wash that floor and ya pick this moment to finally do it? I’ll never figure ya out, Princess. You’re a real corker. Well, finish up and then come help me with the groceries.”

  Bertha turned around and went back out to the car. It wasn’t until she was gone that I finally took a breath. As soon as my brain thawed, I quickly looked inside the pot. I had to pick out a few bits of dirt and other whatnots that had been taken up when I’d scraped the potatoes off the floor. After that I dumped the dirty wash water and rinsed off the mop.

  Later I watched Bertha add fresh milk and butter to the pot. When she began whipping the potatoes with the electric mixer, I felt a little uneasy. Then I nearly gagged when she spooned out a sample and tasted it.

  “Mmmm … they’re perfect. Here, try it.”

  “Ah, no thanks. I’m not a big fan of mashed potatoes,” I fibbed.

  “Really? I don’t tink I’ve ever met a kid who didn’t like mashed potatoes. You’re a strange one.”

  I didn’t stick around to see what happened next, but I heard later that everyone heaped mashed potatoes onto their plates and not a scrap was left. Even Professor Brant enjoyed them so much he came back for seconds. And to think I’d nearly cooked my goose and fried my bacon. But lucky me … I managed to get out of that pickle!

  Before hiking up to the cave I went to my tent and got a few things: my sketchbook, a flashlight, my jacket with a compass attached to the zipper, and my handy little tape measure — basic stuff for the on-the-go archaeologist.

  I wanted to get a head start on some drawing and measuring of the site. I knew Louise wanted to keep the cave a secret — I couldn’t blame her — but the little angels in my conscience were working overtime. On the one hand, it was an important site and who better to excavate it than Eddy? And who better to help her than me … and Louise? But, on the other hand, Louise’s fear that we’d get pushed out was legitimate. I hoped an idea would come while I was in the cave about what I should do.

  It was only three-thirty, so there was a chance Eddy might spot me across L’Anse aux Meadows. Since I wasn’t ready to talk to her, I needed to get past her and the students unseen. I made my way down Birchy Nuddick Trail and continued along the water’s edge until I was far enough away. As I climbed the steep hillside, I checked regularly to make sure no one was watching me.

  In the distance I saw the students practising excavation skills in a fake pit Professor Brant had made, complete with fake artifacts. I snickered at the idea. They were digging up plastic baubles while I was making my way to a real site — one that possessed incredible cave paintings and a rock cairn that was sure to have something crazy important buried underneath it.

  The fire is burning bright, and Thorfinn is happy to be once again in the company of his family and friends. Just after he beats Ellandar at hnefatl for the third time, Gudrid puts her arms around him.

  “Maybe you could put your board game away now. There might be someone who would enjoy a story,” Gudrid says within earshot of Sigrid.

  “Oh, I don’t think there’s anyone who cares to listen tonight,” Uncle Thorfinn says, winking.

  “Yes, there is. I’d like to hear a story, Uncle. Please tell a story,” Sigrid pleads. “It’s been so long.”

  “Well, there is one saga not often told, though it might be a bit frightening.”

  Sigrid’s eyes open wide. “It won’t frighten me.” She looks around at the others. “Though maybe Gunnar will have to close his ears.”

  Uncle Thorfinn laughs. “All right, girl, you’ve been warned. Now it came to pass there was a fearless warrior by the name of Hervor and she was like no other.”

  Sigrid’s eyes widen and she whispers, “Hervor was a shield maiden?”

  Uncle Thorfinn nods. “Hervor’s father and her mother’s father were fierce and brutal warriors and were feared by all. So, as she grew older, few were surprised when Hervor refused to learn the skills of the women. Instead she took it upon herself to master the sword, the spear, and the bow, for she had every intention of becoming a warrior like her father.”

  “You do realize this will only fill her head with impossible ideas,” hissed Gudrid. “Tell her a saga of Thor’s adventures or the story of the giant Hymir — those are always entertaining.”

  “No, Uncle,” Sigrid pleads. “Finish the story about Hervor.”

  Thorfinn averts his eyes from the glower upon his wife’s face. “Now that I have started, I really should finish this story first.” Gudrid shakes her head, clearly annoyed with her husband. “Now it may not surprise you that Hervor lacked all of the gentler qualities of her gender. Instead she honed her fighting skills on the boys and young men of her village, sending them home most days with terrible wounds and broken bones. Some say she was the most heartless female on Midgard and by far the most beautiful of all women — with the exception, of course, of your Aunt Gudrid.” As Thorfinn looks over at his wife, Sigrid glances at her cousin, Gunnar. She has been hard on him, too, sometimes, but she would never intentionally break his bones.

  “You said she was beautiful. What did she look like?” asks Sigrid.

  “Legend says she had long, flowing hair — red like fire and gold like the sun.”

  “I have hair that colour, too,” Sigrid says, smiling.

  Gudrid thumps around the house, grumbling. “Someone is going to regret this,” she promises.

  “Yes, you do have hair the same as Hervor, but that’s where the similarities end, Sigrid. While you’re as brave, for sure, you’ll never be so cruel. You see, Hervor became one of the most feared and brutal raiders who ever lived. When she faced her foe, she didn’t just run them through, as did other warriors. She fought like a berserker and took pleasure in gutting her enemy from head to groin. Perhaps it was the spell of Tryfing — the sword she ripped from the hands of her dead father.

  “Tryfing was made by the dwarfs of Dvallin and Durin. It was Odin’s grandson, Svafrlami, who trapped them. They were forced to forge the sword. It had a hilt made of solid gold and possessed immense power. It is said that with Tryfing in hand its owner always struck down his opponent and could even cut through metal and stone. But the sword was po
ssessed with an evil that infected anyone who owned it. Each time it was drawn someone was sure to die … and at the same time its owner went a little more insane.

  “In time Hervor became known far and wide. She even found her way to the court of a great king. Perhaps it was out of fear that he invited her to be his guest. While they were engaged in a game of hnefatl, one of the king’s men made the poor decision to touch Tryfing. It took only a moment for Hervor to notice the indiscretion and leap into action. She snatched her sword and —” Thorfinn’s story comes to an abrupt end when Snorri pushes past the listeners and climbs into his father’s arms.

  “Fader,” the boy says. “I talk, I talk.” He looks at the others, smiles, then babbles some more words no one can understand. Everyone finds his antics amusing except Sigrid.

  “Snorri,” she growls, “let Uncle finish his story. Go on, Uncle. Tell us what happened.”

  Her edgy words make Snorri all the more determined to hold the audience’s attention. He kicks his feet and buries his head in his father’s shoulder, crying, “I talk, I talk.” Sigrid lifts her hand to pull the child from his father’s knee when Gudrid steps in.

  “Sigrid,” she says sharply. “Don’t forget, he, too, missed his father and wants a little attention.” Right on cue, Snorri smiles up at Thorfinn and utters more babble.

  “I’ll finish the story later,” Sigrid’s uncle promises.

  “Fine.” Sigrid takes her leave and storms to the farthest end of the house. Soon after the rest of the group breaks up and goes off to other activities.

  I will never be as wicked as Hervor, Sigrid thinks. But I shall master the sword, and after that it will be the spear and the axe. She knows better than to make her ambitions known, especially to Aunt Gudrid. But she cannot help but dream that one day her name, too, will be a legend and children will speak of her. What will they call me? she wonders. How about Sigrid the Fearless?