by J. A. Snow
Aegir’s look was glum. “Where can I do that, now that the barn is gone?”
“I will help you,” said Kari. “Perhaps now is the time to show Papi your talents. He puts so much store in Logi. We can tell him of our plans, of our experiment.”
Aegir shook his head violently. “Nei, Kari,” he said. “You mustn’t tell Papi! He will whip me sure! And, Snapp too!”
“Trust me, little Brother,” said Kari. “He won’t be whipping anyone. I will tell him we worked on the boats together. He will think it was I who taught you.”
Aegir wasn’t sure he liked the idea. He didn’t trust Papi; one never knew what would set him off. Kari was the only one he trusted. And Moder, of course. He would never trust Logi ever again!
“Show me where you get the wood,” said Kari. “We’ll build one together!”
They spent the afternoon rummaging through the fallen branches on the forest floor, not realizing Logi was still following them, lurking behind the trees. When they had collected enough pieces of wood and some coated with sticky sap for glue, they returned to the longhouse at suppertime and deposited their cache of wood in the corner of the kitchen.
“What is this?” asked Hildi, when she saw the mess they had made.
“It is getting too cold outside to work on our project,” said Kari. “There is nei other place, Moder. We will clean up after ourselves, I promise!”
Aegir pulled out his knife and began to whittle away on the bark, cutting and bending each piece until they had a pile of tiny strakes stacked on the table. Kari began to get the idea and he held the pieces together, while Aegir applied the glue. Piece by piece, a tiny ship took shape in the kitchen while Hildi watched them from across the room, pleased that her sons were showing interest in a craft.
“That is amazing how you do that,” she said. “It’s just like a real boat.”
Aegir’s chest swelled with pride. “It is a real boat, Moder,” he exclaimed. “We are going to tie it to one of Kari’s kites and sail it across the Gandvik!”
“How will you ever get it back then?” asked Hildi.
“When I pull my kite in, the boat will follow,” Kari told his mother. “And, there are nei trees near the harbor to tangle the string.”
Aegir was ecstatic. Now that he had his older brother helping him, there was nei telling what they could invent! They worked together for hours until their father came in from the village and promptly dampened their excitement.
“What good will that do?” Fornjot teased them, when he overheard what they were planning. “You are building a toy and sending it out just to lose it in the waters of the Gandvik?”
“It is not a toy,” said Aegir. “It will work. And, we won’t lose it, Papi. We will pull it back with the kite string.”
Fornjot was not convinced. “Where did you learn to make boats?” he asked.
“I taught him,” said Kari quickly. “I have watched the boat-builders in the village hundreds of times!”
Fornjot snorted. “There are nei decent boat-builders in the village. The only ones who matter are my thralls. You boys should watch them if you want to do it right!”
Aegir was flabbergasted. After all this time; after all his hiding and worrying that he would get the lash for mingling with Snapp and the others, now their father had practically invited them into the boathouse! Kari was a genius! A new sense of admiration in his older brother came over him. He glanced over at Kari with a thankful look.
“Perhaps, Papi is right,” said Kari, smiling. “After the thralls have finished putting the new roof on the animal barn and go back to work on the boats, we should watch them more closely!”
At that moment, Logi wandered into the house. He was surprised to see what was going on in the kitchen, right under their father’s nose. There was distinct smugness in the smiles he received from his brothers.
“I have news for you, Logi,” said Fornjot suddenly. “I have decided to purchase the foundry from old Weyland. I will put you in charge of it.”
Logi’s eyes narrowed. “But, I thought Weyland said his business wasn’t for sale.”
Fornjot laughed. “I am the jarl of Kvenland. He can’t refuse me!”
Chapter Eight “The Thing”
Weyland was still fuming over what had just transpired, Jarl Fornjot’s presumption that he would just give up his life’s work for a price! He had closed the doors of the metal works the next day and was sitting in his longhouse with his wife, Rolleka, trying to decide what to do.
“I am not one of his thralls!” he remarked. “How dare he treat me in such a manner! We have paid all our tributes to him, as distasteful as it has been. His father would turn in his grave-mound if he could see how the village has changed since his death!”
Rolleka tried to soothe her husband. “Please be careful, my love,” she begged. “He is, after all, our jarl and he can have us executed for disobeying the law.”
“There is nei law that compels a man to sell his business if he chooses not to,” said Weyland. “I will demand a thing be held. I will be heard!”
Calling a village meeting known as a thing was not a commonplace occurrence, not in peaceful times, at least. But they had not had real peace since Kaleva had died. There had been threats from neighboring clans and thieves who struck in the night, stealing anything that wasn’t locked down. Fornjot did not concern himself in such matters; he rarely did anything except collect his tributes and threaten those who did not pay. And the tributes increased every year, it seemed. Weyland clothed himself against the wind and went out to invite all the village to meet at his longhouse that evening. His reception at every house was warm but wary. There was one point on which they all agreed; Fornjot had become too overbearing and he was charging for protection he did not provide. But, they were all leery of his wrath, should they provoke it. He was the jarl, after all, and a giant at that.
“What else can I do?” Weyland asked his wife after he had returned. “I cannot stand by and lose my business because he wants to reward that spoiled son of his!”
“You know Fornjot will hear of this thing,” she cautioned. “Please be careful. I don’t wish to become a widow just yet.”
But, villages being villages, where people talk, there was bound to be one who would carry the gossip back to Fornjot. Sure enough, a knock came on the door of the longhouse, just as Hildi had put their supper on the table. One of the village merchants seeking to win favor with Fornjot was standing there and whispered the news of the thing in the village. When he first heard of it, Fornjot laughed out loud. But, then, anger began to stir in him. Opposition was something he rarely encountered. He rose quickly from the table and grabbed his axe from the corner of the room. “I will attend this thing he has called! We’ll see who has the gall to vote against me!”
“Can I come, Papi?” asked Logi. “I have never been to a thing before!” His young eyes were dancing at the thought of a confrontation between his father and the villagers.
Hildi shook her head in disapproval. “It is nei place for boys,” she said.
“Nonsense!” bellowed Fornjot. “Logi will be jarl someday! He needs to know how to handle situations such as this!” He turned to his younger sons, as an afterthought. “You may all come with me, if you wish.”
Kari and Aegir exchanged worried glances. Neither boy had the remotest desire to attend the thing, but fear of displeasing their father weighed heavily on them. The younger brother looked to his elder to speak for them both. “Aegir and I were going to work on our boats after supper,” said Kari. “Unless you really need us to be there, Papi, we would much rather stay home.”
Fornjot was half-way out the door of the longhouse by then and he dismissed Kari with a wave of his hand. “Stay and play with your toys then,” he said. “Logi will rule over you someday! Neither of you have what it takes to be jarl!”
With that, he was out the door, with Logi following close behind, eager to see his father confront the villagers. Maybe there wi
ll be blood! he thought happily. Maybe Papi will take someone’s head!
Weyland’s longhouse was only half the size of the jarl’s but it was an impressive abode in its own right. He had no imposing palisade as Fornjot did, no animal barn, no thralls’ quarters, no boathouse, only his metal works in a modest rock-walled building that stood in front of the house and faced the road. Fornjot and Logi passed the latter, now dark and locked for the night, and made their way up the path to the smithja’s front step.
Fornjot flung open the door and stood there with his axe in his hand. He immediately scanned the room, committing to memory the faces of all the men there. When his eyes landed on Weyland, he gave him a menacing stare.
“Welcome to the thing, Jarl Fornjot,” the nervous smithja said. He had expected someone to carry the news to Fornjot. “We are discussing the rights of free men in our village. Please come in and sit with us.”
Rolleka was listening from the adjacent room. When she heard Fornjot enter the house and the silence that followed, tears began to flow down her cheeks; the fear of losing her husband weighing heavily in her chest. She listened and waited for someone to speak to break the silence, when suddenly the forceful voice of the jarl filled the entire house with its hostile vibrations. “What is the meaning of this, Weyland?” he barked. “Is this how you repay your jarl for years of protection and leadership? You call a secret meeting to speak ill of me behind my back?”
Weyland froze. He knew he had to respond to Fornjot’s question but the words dried up in mouth; he hadn’t enough spit left on his tongue with which to speak.
“May I offer you some mead, Jarl Fornjot?” It was Rolleka entering the room with horns and a fresh pitcher of drinks for the men. With nervous hands, she set the tray down on the low table by the fire.
There was another long moment of silence. No one dared reach for refreshment. Fornjot stared at Weyland from across the room. “Well, Man?” he said. “Speak up! You called this thing to speak! You can speak, can’t you?”
Weyland took a deep breath and swallowed hard, knowing he could be sealing his own doom. “Jarl Fornjot,” he began, “I have always been a free man. I have built my metal works since I was nei older than your boy there, with my papi. He did the same with his papi before him.”
Fornjot waited for him to say more, never letting go of his axe handle. The eyes of the others in the room were riveted to their jarl and his weapon.
“All of us here recognize you as our jarl. We pay homage to you in the silver we take from our profits. We pay you in goods and other services. But, we are free men, not thralls that you have purchased for a price.”
Fornjot could hardly hold his temper in check. His anger was pulsing; the veins on his neck looked as if they were about to explode. “This is all because I want to purchase your metal works for my son?” he asked with venom dripping from his mouth like that of a poisonous snake.
Weyland swallowed again and summoned the last ounce of his courage, expecting every breath he took might be his last. “I only wish to keep my business, Jarl Fornjot,” he mumbled, hanging his head. “Your papi, the great Kaleva, never….”
“I am not my papi!” screamed Fornjot.
“Nei, Jarl,” replied Weyland. “Indeed, you are not.” His words held double meaning, a fact not missed by the other ears listening. The others were silent. Fornjot looked around the room again, at the faces of the merchants and tradesmen he had known all his life. He knew the odds were overwhelming; if he struck Weyland down now, the others would surely attack him. He might get to Weyland and a few of the others but he was vastly outnumbered. He had to plan his revenge for another time. Young Logi was standing close by his side. What would they do to his son? Would they murder him too?
“Very well,” he said, turning toward the door. “I will build an even better foundry for my son. I will just run you out of business!”
With that he went out the door, followed by a confused and disappointed Logi who had desperately wanted to see blood spilt. Was his papi growing weak in his old age? the boy wondered. Would it soon be time for him to step up and take over Kvenland?
Chapter Nine “The Ice Ceiling”
Logi was anxious to tell Odin of the exciting events that had transpired over the last few days. When he arrived at the longhouse following his father, the house was dark. Hildi and his brothers had long been asleep. Logi went through the motions, pretending to go to his bed. “Goodnight, Papi,” he called out.
“Goodnight, Son,” replied Fornjot.
Logi laid down on his mat, waiting for his father to fall asleep. Weariness overcame him and he closed his eyes for just a moment, for just the right moment to slip outside where greyness still hovered above and the night was moonless. The nororijos had long since departed with the arrival of the snow clouds and the night was cold; Logi was grateful for the thick socks on his feet as he stepped into his clogs that had been chilling on the step. He pulled his hands up into the sleeves of his cloak for warmth and hurried down the road, knowing he could be trudging through snow by the time he returned.
The lake was silent; there was still no wind, like the calm before the storm. Visiting Odin, now that winter had come, would not be a pleasant journey; diving into the frigid water now caused his body to shudder and quake. When he surfaced inside the Yggdrasil, he was pleased to find a fire burning in the sand between the roots and he immediately rushed to warm himself near the flames. He looked around and did not see Odin at first; but, then he never knew what shape the strange god would take. He heard a peculiar snort and a stomping on the ground like that of a horse and he saw something move in the corner of his eye.
“Odin?” he said into the darkness. “Are you there? It is me, Logi.”
The creature in the darkness snorted again, revealing itself in the light of the fire and the sight of it caused Logi to take a step backward in awe. What had looked and sounded like a horse in the darkness, appeared in the firelight with the recognizable head of an equine but was standing on eight crab-like appendages. The huge creature walked clumsily toward Logi on its misshapen legs, causing it to have an awkward, rickety gait. On the animal’s back sat none other than Odin, dressed in his armor. The old god threw his leg over the side and slid to the ground with a thud. “Logi, my young charge,” he said. “What are you doing out on such a night? Don’t you know a blizzard is coming?”
Logi continued to stare at the peculiar animal standing beside Odin.
“You are shocked by my horse?” he asked. “This is Sleipnir. A fine beast he is. Do you ride horses, Logi?”
Logi shook his head. The only horses in Kvenland were short, wooly creatures, not nearly strong enough to carry his weight nor the weight of his father and brothers, not even puny, little Aegir. He never realized horses like Sleipnir existed! “Where did you ever find such a beast?” he asked.
Odin laughed. “In the far north,” he replied. “Where the real giants live.”
“You mean there are men bigger than me? Bigger than the giants of Kvenland?” asked Logi.
“You are nothing more than a big boy in a small village,” said Odin.
“What do you mean?” Logi demanded to know. “We tower above all the men in Kvenland! There are none bigger or stronger than us!”
Odin took his place by the fire and stretched his long, bony fingers forward toward the flames. “You have much to learn,” he said. “And, you will never learn if you stay in Kvenland. You must break away from your papi and be a man in your own right. You must go north to the Trondelag. I will give you dominion over the people there.”
“But,” murmured Logi, overwhelmed by Odin’s words. “You said I am just a boy.”
“Nonsense!” spat Odin. “I was nei older than you when I took over Asgard at the death of my papi and only a few years older when I married my wife and sired a son! You must abandon your childish ways, Logi, and think like a man if you are ever to rule over others! Your papi will die in his bed with a belly full of mead
and meat. He will never have the respect of his people. Weren’t you ashamed of his cowardly actions tonight? Don’t you see how the people of your village despise him and laugh at him behind his back? Is that the kind of jarl you want to be?”
Logi was once again in awe of Odin’s power. “You know about the thing?” he asked.
“You forget I can see everything,” said Odin, adding, “the fire was quite spectacular too.”
With sudden clarity, Logi understood what the old god was saying. Odin is right! he thought miserably. I am nei better than Kari and Aegir, a sniveling boy fearing his papi’s lash, afraid of the great Fornjot, who squanders his wealth and can only summon enough courage to beat his own wife! “But what shall I do?” he asked. “How will I find this Trondelag place you speak of?”
Odin stood up and squeezed Logi’s shoulder between his bony fingers. “You will go tonight,” he said. “I will guide you in your journey.”
With that Odin again mounted Sleipnir, the monstrous horse-creature, and they disappeared into the air like the last puff of smoke from a dying fire, leaving Logi sitting in the sand, bewildered, and, for once in his life, afraid. He stood and slowly walked toward the edge of the water, dreading the cold that was about to pierce him to the bone. Taking a deep breath, he dove in, leaving the warmth of the fire behind him, and swam furiously to escape the freezing water, kicking his legs like a frog and pulling himself up toward the surface with flailing arms that were rapidly turning blue. Suddenly, his head bumped up against something hard. With his hands, he felt the obstruction in his path and horror enveloped him. Ice! The lake had frozen over while he had been sitting by the fire inside the Yggdrasil! He was trapped beneath a layer of ice! How would he ever escape? Was this to be his end? Logi had hardly any air left in his lungs. In a desperate panic, he moved across the frozen lake, pounding with his fists trying to break through. He rolled over on his back and kicked at it with his feet until it felt as if his toes would snap off, but still it would not break. He put his lips against the ice, desperately searching for a tiny pocket of air but the ceiling of ice was unyielding. Logi grew dizzy and lightheaded.