by Sandra Hill
His fool cousin was an ill wind beneath his Viking wings . . .
Thorfinn awoke groggily from a hazy sleep.
The first thing he noticed was that he was strapped in at the stomach to a strange padded chair . . . straps which he immediately tried but was unable to untie.
The second thing he noticed was that his lackwit cousin Torolf was likewise strapped into a chair to the left of him. Had they been captured by those Arab curs?
The third, and most alarming, thing he noticed when he turned to the right was a small glass window. Staring outward, he saw what appeared to be clouds. He was disoriented at first. How could he be seeing clouds below him, instead of above him? Then the clouds parted and he saw, way below, an ocean. Way below!
“Son of a bloody whore!” His head pivoted to take in his surroundings. He was in some kind of enclosed space with many rows of chairs holding people, mostly men, in similar attire . . . fabric made of splotchy mixes of brown and sand colors. Uniforms of some kind, he presumed. All of them strapped in.
“Are we prisoners?” he whispered to Torolf. Best I keep my voice low, to avoid notice. He saw none of the Arabs who’d attacked him, but they must be about somewhere. Then the red welt marks on his wrists caught his attention. “I have a vague memory of chains being there.”
“What? No. Those are from handcuffs we had on you before. Man, you were behaving like a maniac when we tried to calm you down. Took four men just to get your pants off and cammies on.”
“Huh?” Puzzled, he stared down at the belt restraining him to the seat and back at Torolf.
“Oh, that. We’re in a plane.”
He frowned and glanced outside again.
If he were a screaming kind of man, now would be the time. “Am. I. In. That. Flying. Bird?” he demanded of Torolf, pausing after each word, for fear he might heave the contents of his stomach.
“Not that flying bird . . . not the one you saw yesterday. A different flying bird,” Torolf told him, laughing like an idiot.
“Yesterday? Holy Thor, my head hurts.”
“No wonder. That tango gave you a good whack on the noggin’. Then Geek had to knock you out.”
“What is a tango?”
“Bad guy. Terrorist.”
“Then why not just say bad guy?”
Torolf, ever the lackbrain, just grinned.
“Where in bloody blazes is my sword?”
“In cargo . . . um, storage. You’ll get it back once we land.”
He did not like to be without his weapon, but that appeared to be the least of his problems. “How could a day have gone by?”
“Actually, a day and a half. Drugs.”
“Huh? Explain yourself.”
“We gave you some happy pills to make you sleep. Even with the handcuffs, you were no bundle of joy, believe you me. We had to get you immobile so that the authorities wouldn’t ask too many questions. They think you’re shell-shocked. So make sure you act dazed.”
“That will not be difficult. I am dazed.”
“See? I’m just looking out for you, cousin.”
“Are you saying that you chained my hands together, then fed me some potion to make me lose consciousness?”
“So to speak.”
“I am going to kill you,” he said, struggling to escape his belt.
“Be still. I’ll explain everything later. And, by the way, your name is Jake Lavin, if anyone asks.”
“Jake? You named me for a privy?”
“Jake is short for Jacob. Good ol’ Jake bought the farm in Afghanistan, but he has no family to claim his body, and we sort of commandeered his name. Just for the short-term. ’Til our boots hit the ground in Coronado.”
“Bought the farm? Boots hitting the ground? What tongue do you speak, Torolf?”
“English. And, really, you should call me Max like everyone else does.”
“’Tis like no Saxon English I e’er heard, Max.”
“This is Uncle Sam’s English.”
“We have no Uncle Sam.” He shook his head with bewilderment. “Where are we going?”
“California.”
“Cowl . . . what?”
“America.”
“How far is that from the Norselands?”
“As the bird flies, more than ten thousand miles, give or take.” At his continuing look of confusion, Torolf explained, “Under good weather conditions, resting on land at night, at one hundred nautical miles per hour in a longship, I’d guess two to three months.”
“I am going to kill you.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah!” Torolf stood.
“Where are you going?”
“To the head.”
“Me, too,” he said quickly. There was no way he was going to let his cousin out of his sight. “Whose head?”
“Privy.” Torolf continued to grin at him like an idiot. “And you are not going to the privy with me like a sissy girl. I’ll be right back.”
Only belatedly did he realize that Torolf had insulted him.
So it was that Thorfinn was sitting, locked in his chair, when a voice came out of the ceiling. The bird, no doubt. “Fasten your seat belts, folks. We have a little turbulence up ahead.”
The flying bird began to dip and shake. Whilst he held on to the chair arms, white-knuckled, with his stomach nigh up to his throat, Thorfinn made a mental list of how he was going to kill his cousin when he returned. All he knew was it was going to be slow . . . and painful.
After the flying bird settled down, he scanned the area around him, his scrutiny stopping at a woman seated on the other side of a narrow corridor that separated the rows of chairs. Wearing a white uniform, including braies, she had short, red, curly hair and her lips were painted red. She must be a loose woman. Mayhap from the Arabs’ harem, and, truth to tell, he had more than enough of harems after his recent sojourn in Baghdad.
His assumption was proven true when she smiled at him, then winked. The universal invitation to bedsport.
“Not now.” He had no interest in bedding the wench, but there was no need for rudeness; so, he added, “Mayhap later.”
Her red eyebrows arched at him in question.
“My belly is roiling too much to swive you right now.”
“Whaaaat?” the woman screeched and was undoing her belt restraint. In truth, she looked as if she might attack him, and not for sex.
The man on her other side chortled, and Torolf stepped up quickly, apparently having overheard. “Uh, Millie, don’t be offended. My friend here doesn’t understand the language or the customs of our country.”
“Hah! I need no interpreter to understand the look the wench gave me,” he argued.
“Wench? Wench? I was just being friendly,” she protested to Torolf.
“There is only one thing I need from a woman, and it is not friendship,” he continued. “Bedding and birthing, those are women’s roles.”
“Is he for real?” the woman asked Torolf.
“Unfortunately,” Torolf answered. “Millie, I’d like you to meet my cousin . . . Jake Lavin. Jake . . .” Torolf scowled at him. “This is Army Captain Millie Donovan.”
“Army? She is a soldier? What kind of soldier wears white into battle? She must be Frankish. They are dimwitted when it comes to warfare.”
Torolf groaned.
“I knew Jake Lavin,” Millie said, narrowing her eyes, “but he was short and had blond hair.”
Thorfinn was no lackbrain . . . leastways, not all the time. “I am a different Jake Lavin.”
Torolf nodded his approval.
He cared not a whit for his cousin’s approval.
“Like I would be interested in a man who wears beads in his stupid braids!” The woman continued talking to Torolf. He assumed she was referring to him.
Torolf groaned again, knowing Thorfinn could not let the insult lie, like a rotten lutefisk on a Frigg’s Day feast table.
“Everyone knows that warriors must needs wear war braids on either side of their f
ace to keep their hair from blinding them in battle,” he explained haughtily. “Mayhap you are not really a soldier, if you do not know that.”
Another groan from Torolf.
“Uh, why not just cut your hair, ding-a-ling?” the barmy woman asked with a smirk.
“Because I am a Vik-ing, not a dingle-ing, as you said. The beads are there to denote class in Norse society. Mine are fine crystallite.”
“La dee da! Vanity, thy name is man . . . or rather, Viking man. And, jeesh, don’t be offended. The braids are adorable.”
“Adorable? My braids are not adorable.”
"Where do the SEALs get these idiots?” The woman laughed and turned away from them.
“Vanity? Does she say I am vain?” he asked his cousin. “I am not an excessively modest man, but I am not vain.”
Torolf was shaking his head, as if he were a hopeless lackwit.
“The One-God’s biggest mistake was giving Eve a tongue,” he grumbled.
“A woman’s tongue has its uses on occasion,” Torolf remarked under his breath.
He ignored Torolf’s statement, though it had merit. “That is what happens when women are let out of the keep. Attila the Wench.” He pointed at the woman who was blathering away now to a soldier on her other side. “They get uppity. Best to keep them in the scullery, stirring the stew pot, or on their backs in the bed furs, for a man’s pleasure.”
“Oh. My. God! I give you one day in America before some female castrates you with a butter knife.”
“I have to piss.”
“Shhhh.”
“Do not shhhh me. Where is the privy?”
“Down the aisle, at the back . . . never mind, I’ll take you.” Leaning over, Torolf showed him how to undo his chair restraint. Then he shoved him ahead down the narrow corridor.
“Do not push me, or you may find yourself riding a cloud.”
People were staring at them, some snickering.
“Crap! I’ll never live this down. I’m taking my little cousin, who’s as big as a grizzly, to the bathroom.”
“I do not need a bath,” Thorfinn said over his shoulder. “I need a—”
“I know, I know. Here . . .” He opened a door which opened into a small chamber, which might very well suit a dwarf, but a man his size could scarce get his leg inside. Even so, Torolf crammed both of them inside.
“Which one is the privy?” he asked, pointing to two porcelain bowls, as he struggled with the odd metal fastening on his braies.
“Oh, good Lord! Don’t piss in the sink. That’s for washing your hands.”
“How was I to know that?” When he was done, Torolf pressed a lever and water washed his piss away. Thorfinn’s eyes bulged at this amazing phenomenon. If he had any more piss in him, he would have pissed again, just to watch it disappear in a magic waterfall.
“Wash your hands, and let’s get out of here.”
But he was not to be rushed. He turned the water lever in the sink on, dipped a forefinger in, then sniffed it.
“Now what?”
“I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t piss from the privy bowl.” He proceeded to turn the water levers on and off, then used the soap dispenser several times, tasting it once to confirm it was actually soap. He had ne’er seen liquid soap afore, except for that scummy substance under a block of hard-used soap. And none of it smelled like flowers.
When they finally began to exit the privy chamber, there were several people standing in line. One of them, a short man whose hair had been shaved nigh bald, sneered. “What the hell were you two doin’ in there so long? Didja give new meaning to the Mile-High Club?”
Without understanding the specific words, Thorfinn could tell what the man implied . . . that he was a cod-sucker. He bared his teeth and was about to lift the whore-son off his small booted feet when Torolf jumped in front of him and said, “Back off, Riley. Finn . . . I mean, Jake suffered a brain injury. He forgot how to flush a toilet.”
“Oh, yeah, and what’s he to ya, Magnusson?”
“I’m his . . . uh, babysitter.”
Chapter 3
Her trip down the dating highway sure was twisted . . .
“I like to have my toes sucked. Do you have any problems with that?”
Lydia’s spoon stopped midway between her bowl of clam chowder and her gaping mouth. This was her fourth blind date in the past two weeks. Who knew a seemingly house-trained pediatrician could be so crude . . . or lacking in good sense? They’d just met for the first time an hour ago, for heaven’s sake.
Taking her silence for assent, he munched, loudly, on a bread stick and inquired, “What do you like in the sack, honey?”
To be honest, it was all about context. If Dave had asked her that question, and his feet had been clean, not like they’d been after a full-day SEAL workout—pee-you!— she probably would have said, “Sure.” Or at least laughed, and then told him something equally outrageous that she’d have liked him to do. Like the time she’d suggested . . .
She shook her head to clear it of unwanted memories.
When she’d decided a month ago to get on with her life, after her lunch with the Magnusson women, she’d never envisioned dating being such an ordeal.
Her first date in almost ten years had been with a sales rep for the exercise clothing company whose products she sold in her aerobics studio. Blond-haired and cute in a surfer boy kind of way, even though he was twenty-eight years old, he must have figured she was desperate for sex, being an ancient thirty and widowed for five years. He’d put the moves on her before they’d even left her house for their movie date, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Turned out she was more physically fit than he was, she’d learned when she wrestled him to the floor in her hallway and threatened to cut off his balls with Dave’s KA-BAR knife if he didn’t remove his obnoxious self, pronto.
Her second date had been even more distasteful. Brian, an Internet computer genius, had taken one look at the photos of Mike on her mantel and bowed out. “Sorry. I didn’t know you had a kid. Instant families aren’t my cup of tea.” If she had a chance for a do-over, she’d have had an instant response: “Sorry. I didn’t know you had a comb-over. Bald men aren’t my cup of tea.”
Her third dating disaster was probably her fault. She should have known that a guy as good-looking as Jeff, who dressed like a GQ model and wore clear nail polish, was gay. He’d been in need of a female front to fool his homophobic family in L.A.
And now there was Bill.
“Listen, Bill,” she said, putting down her spoon. “Before I would even remotely consider sucking any of your body parts, I would have to know you a lot better. Has anyone ever told you that your dating skills leave something to be desired?”
Clearly offended, he bristled and said something so obnoxious she was forced to stand and dump her bowl of clam chowder all over his pristine white shirt and Gucci tie. Which was a shame. It was really good soup.
Was America ready for another dumb man? . . .
“I am tired of being a prisoner,” Thorfinn complained to his cousin Torolf three months later as they sat, boots propped on the metal rail of the balcony of what he had come to think of as his dungeon—an apartment overlooking the ocean in Coronado, California.
An apartment was a keep divided into dozens of living units, piled one floor onto another to an ungodly height. Even with three sleeping chambers, their keep was cramped with him, Torolf, his witchy wife Brunhilda, their son Styrr, and a mangy dog called Slut.
Slut, who was sleeping at his feet, raised her head and growled agreement over the prison conditions. The lustsome dog was no more happy than he was with being confined to the keep; in her case, Slut was unhappy staying inside when there were so many willing and ready male dogs in the neighborhood, as evidenced by their nightly howls, dog talk for, “Come see what I have for you, dearling.”
“This is not a prison, Finn. Stop your damn complaining. ” Torolf took a long swig of mead, rather beer, and belched.
He followed suit.
“How’s the tutoring?”
For twelve sennights now, Thorfinn had been instructed, up to ten bloody hours a day, on how to acclimate himself to this new time and country. It had taken him the first two sennights just to accept that he had, in fact, traveled through time. And another four sennights to learn the language . . . English but not like any Saxon English he had ever heard. Then it was history, geography, math, and the most modern of all inventions: computers, for the love of Thor! His mind still reeled with shock.
“The tutoring is boring, difficult, unbelievable, tedious, beyond mind-numbing. And Blade Jackson has stinksome garlic breath.”
Torolf grinned at him. “It’s Blake Jackson, and he’s no worse than the other four tutors you ran off with your incessant complaints and insults.”
“That last one . . . the woman . . . did have a nose so big it could be the prowhead on one of Uncle Rolf’s longships. ”
“You didn’t have to tell her so.”
“Why not?”
Torolf just rolled his eyes at him.
“I like your friend Geek. He has been most helpful.” Merrill “Geek” Good was a Navy SEAL teammate of Torolf’s. He had been working with Thorfinn this past week whenever his military duties allowed.
Until Thorfinn figured out how to return to the past, he had decided to join the elite warrior group. In truth, fighting was all he knew. He had already had his first interview with the commander, who conveniently happened to be wedlocked to his cousin Madrene.
Torolf nodded. “Geek is a good guy, but, man, you need all the help you can get, and Geek can’t work with you full-time. So, I suggest you use both of them . . . Blake and Geek. If you want to try out for SEALs, you need to be believable. At the least, you have to be able to fill out the freakin’ forms.”
“I am more than ready.”
“In your opinion.”
“Who else’s opinion matters?”
Torolf sighed deeply. He did that a lot around Thorfinn, when he was not muttering curses under his breath. “Look, you’ve got to pass the ASVAB test.”