Angela had to smile, despite the grimness of her mood. Carmen did like to jab at Magnus a bit, and he always rose to her bait…which was her point, of course.
“Do not go, Angela,” Magnus pleaded, reaching across the table to take her hand in his.
“To the cultural festival?”
He shook his head. “Do not go back to the city today. I am a lack-wit betimes. I say lack-wit things. Give me a chance to make it up to you.”
“Magnus, you didn’t say anything that you didn’t mean. You might find a way to sugarcoat your words, but the facts remain the same. You want different things from life than I do.”
“I want you.”
“I know that.” Angela rose from the table and walked toward the door. She had intended to wait till Grandma awakened before leaving, but her nerves were strained to the point of breaking. Much longer in Magnus’s presence and she was going to commence bawling. That was something she didn’t want her grandmother or Magnus to witness.
She was picking up her bag and opening the door when Magnus said, “But I love you.”
Before she left, she turned slightly and told him, “There are a lot of things I’m unsure of right now, but there’s one I’m certain about. Love is not enough.”
Getting back in m’lady’s good graces…
One week later, Magnus had grudgingly agreed to attend the half-brained culture festival at Carmen’s college, but he was not happy about it. In the end, he’d had no choice. It was either tag along with Angela and the children, or stay home brooding.
He’d decided to tag along and brood.
Carmen started in on him right off. No sooner had they exited their cars and begun walking up the steps to the big brick building than she gave him an insulting once-over examination. Then she asked, “Do you know why dumb men get married?”
Stricken, he looked quickly at Angela. Had she been discussing their personal problems with her cousin? She shrugged her ignorance of what Carmen was talking about.
“Someone ought to tell Carmen that the smirk on her face is highly unattractive. I am thinking about introducing her to Harry, who would be just the man to put her in her proper place,” Magnus told Angela in an undertone.
“Don’t…you…dare,” she replied.
“So they don’t have to hold their stomachs in anymore,” Carmen said, answering her own question.
Magnus exhaled with relief that Angela had not betrayed him by discussing their intimate lives. But then he immediately glanced down at his flat stomach. Was Carmen intimating that he was getting fat?
Carmen let loose a hoot of laughter that she had caught him once again.
He shook his head from side to side. “Carmen, you are a comely woman, though far too skinny, with way too many brains. ’Twould do you a world of good if you would dumb down—’tis an expression I heard on the tell-a-vision—which you are already doing, of course, by displaying those nipples of yours like arrowheads about to spear your next target.” Well, that should shut the bothersome wench up for now.
Dagny, Kirsten, and Lily put hands over their mouths, trying to suppress their giggles. Torolf was laughing outright. The other boys were waiting with great delight for what would come next…no doubt hoping that Carmen would whomp him over the head with that arse-pack she wore around her waist.
Carmen was, indeed, speechless for a moment. She glanced down at her white tee-shert, which displayed the message, I am woman. I am invincible. I am tired. It should have had one more line: And I have big nipples. In truth, her nipples, without any undergarment, did stick out prominently. When she regained the power of speech, she said with great vehemence, “You are so crude. Why do you…why do men…keep fixating on physical appearance?”
“You started it. You are the one who mentioned my stomach.”
She ignored his words and continued: “Women will never be equal to men till they can walk down the street with a bald head and a beer gut and still think they are hot stuff.”
“There you go again, implying I have a big belly.”
“Every conversation in the world is not about you…you farmer. Did you hear why the dumb farmer watered his garden with whiskey? So he could grow stewed tomatoes.”
“Are you maligning farmers now?”
“No, honey, just dumb ones.”
He said the only thing he could think of to say, and it was really dumb: “Nipples.”
But apparently it was the right retort if he wanted to further anger the woman. Her face turned red as a…well, stewed tomato…and her painted fingernails were curving into claws.
He stepped away slightly, not taking any chances with those lethal weapons.
“Carmen…Magnus…let’s call a truce here. It’s going to be a long day if you two are scrapping from the get-go.” It was Angela who was trying to be the peacemaker.
Magnus noticed then that all his children were watching the exchange between him and Carmen with great interest, except for Lida, who kept reciting her newest word over and over, “La-La, La-La, La-La…” It was short for Angela. He could tell that Angela was immensely pleased by Lida’s affectionate chanting of her name, especially when she interspersed her babbling with wet kisses to her cheek. What was it about women throughout the ages that they went all soft and melty over kisses? He would like to plant a few on Angela and see if she went all soft and melty for him.
“I agree,” Carmen conceded, “but I’ll tell you one last thing, Angela. You are a wine maker, so you should recognize that men are like fine wines. They start out like grapes, but it takes a good woman to stomp them till they mature into something even remotely above the level of a slug.”
“So you recommend a lot of stomping, eh?” Angela asked.
“You can stomp on me anytime you want, sweetling,” Magnus told Angela. See, he could be peaceable, too.
“Oh, good Lord! You look at Angela as if she’s a piece of candy. It must be true what they say. Some men drink from the fountain of knowledge, but most of them just gargle.”
“Nipples, nipples, nipples,” he said.
“Dumb, dumb, dumb,” Carmen said.
Magnus made a low growling sound in his throat and had to tighten his hands into fists to keep from strangling the witch. Seeing how upset he was getting, Angela handed Lida over to him, probably figuring that with a baby in his arms, he wouldn’t commit any violence.
“Dost think you have gotten the last word, Carmen? Well, mayhap so, but just let me end our discussion with this thought: If women knew what men were really thinking, they would ne’er stop slapping us. And my thoughts right now are extremely slappable with regard to you…and not in a lustsome way, either, even with your wanton display of nipples.”
Carmen bared her teeth at him and no doubt would have indeed slapped him if Angela hadn’t taken him by the upper arm and led him into the building.
“You have to learn to ignore Carmen,” Angela told him.
“She does not bother me overmuch,” he boasted, now that he had put his back to the irksome gnat.
He should have known that Carmen wouldn’t let him go so easily.
“Hey, Magnus,” Carmen called to his back. “Do you know why doctors slap babies’ butts right after they’re born?”
He faltered, but continued to walk.
“Don’t turn around. Just keep walking,” Angela told him. To Carmen, she merely said, “’Tsk, tsk, tsk.”
“To knock the penises off the smart ones.”
“Can I please lop off her head?” he asked Angela. “Or leastways her tongue?”
“No!” Angela shook her head, laughing. He was not certain if she was laughing at Carmen’s jest or at him. It mattered not. She was laughing. He would take her good moods any way they were handed to him these days.
So to Angela he said, “Whate’er you say, dearling.”
And to Carmen, he said, “Whatever!”
The shock of a lifetime…
They were having a good time this afternoon—a r
eally good time—and that surprised Angela. For some reason all her bitterness and anger toward Magnus had melted away—probably because she had missed him so much this past week—and replacing it was a real joy in just being in his company and that of his children.
This was no group of rank amateurs who had gathered here at the cultural fair. Oh, there were the usual Society of Creative Anachronism types, but even these knew their subjects well. Many of the exhibits were commercially sponsored by jewelers, soap makers, painters, and wood sculptors, but that in no way diminished the quality of the lore and exhibits.
Magnus purchased a beautiful Mexican turquoise pendant for Angela and turquoise beaded necklaces for Dagny, Kirsten, and Lily, and even a turquoise brooch in a sterling silver setting for Carmen, who accepted it grudgingly, not really wanting to be beholden to Magnus.
Hamr and Njal got Native American feathered headdresses, but were not entirely happy because their father refused to add hatchets to the ensembles. Lida was already wearing the soft leather moccasins Magnus had acquired from the same Indian tribe. He bought Torolf a handworked leather vest made by Eskimos. Storvald was practically ecstatic over the carved and painted Mallard duck created by some group purporting to represent American frontiersmen. Kolbein kept rubbing a softly woven Scottish plaid throw blanket against his face. Jogeir, who had stayed behind at Blue Dragon, still recuperating from his operation, would be delighted with the Chinese gazing ball that would be his gift.
Angela had made some purchases, too, including a Scottish plaid kilt for Magnus. When he’d asked her if that meant she would be letting him model it for her, she answered honestly, “I don’t know.”
Carmen came up to them just as they were about to go out the back door. She told them that there were dozens of exhibitors outdoors, especially those with large products, or those who had working craftsmen at their booths. Plus, the SCA was staging a number of events there, including a Highlander log-throw contest, a performance by Lippizaner stallions, kung fu demonstrations, and even a mock battle between the Saxons and the Vikings. Angela was excited to see how Magnus and his kids would react to these modern re-enactments of his people. The children ran off ahead of them, but she and Magnus were slowed down by Lida, who was balking at the stroller and wanted to walk herself.
Just then Torolf came back and stammered out, “Faðir.” His face was white and his hands were shaking. “Faðir,” he repeated.
“What is it? What happened?”
Torolf, who appeared to be speechless, waved a hand in the air to indicate everyone was okay. “You will not believe this. I have found a most unusual display…shipbuilding…longship building.”
Magnus shoved his son aside and looked ahead of him to where a very tall man wearing Viking attire stood staring at him, mouth agape with shock. He had an adze in one hand and a chisel in the other, which he proceeded to drop, just before shouting, “Magnus!”
And Magnus, in turn, shouted, “Rolf!” Then the two Viking men rushed toward each other and embraced warmly.
They both had long, blondish-brown hair and whiskey-colored eyes. The similarities were uncanny. It must be Magnus’s long-lost brother, Geirolf.
It was the shock of a lifetime for all of them, but especially for Angela, who was already having trouble accepting the reality of time travel. Now she was faced with two time travelers meeting in the far distant future, by chance.
Or was it chance?
Lotsa catching up with two thousand-year-old men…
When they’d had time to recover from the initial shock, introductions were made all around. Magnus had his arm looped over his brother’s shoulder, not about to let him get away again.
“You know all my children, Rolf. Torolf, Kirsten, Storvald, Dagny, Njal, Jogeir, Hamr, Kolbein.” As each of them stepped up, Rolf shook their hands in the modern tradition, or hugged them warmly.
“And the little one?”
“Ah, that is Lida. She came to us after you left.”
Rolf raised an eyebrow at that news, but luckily he did not make jest of his brother, as was his usual wont.
“Angela, come here, dearling; I would have you meet my little brother, Rolf, whom I have told you so much about.”
“Li-little?” Rolf sputtered. Magnus was just slightly taller than Rolf, and a little bulkier, but Rolf was the youngest brother, so Magnus always delighted in giving him that appellation.
Rolf turned his attention to Angela then, and his eyes widened with appreciation.
“This is Angela Abruzzi. My…uh, friend.”
He saw Angela flinch at his naming her his friend. What did she want him to say? Lover? He thought not.
“Angela and her grandmother have offered me and my family great hospitality these many weeks at the Blue Dragon, her family vineyard.”
“You are living at a vineyard…here in California? But…but how did you get here? I mean, did you come from the Norselands direct to California?”
“Ha! I wish that were so. Nay, we came by way of Vinland and Hollywood.”
“You have been in Hollywood? You? I cannot credit such a thing.”
“Why? Think you that just because you are prettier than me I would not be material for Hollywood? On the contrary. I have been invited to be an act-whore in a move-he, but I declined.”
Rolf’s mouth was slack-jawed with disbelief.
“But that is a story for another day. You will notice that Madrene and Ragnor are not with us. They stayed behind in Vestfold. Madrene wed recently. She and her husband run my farmstead. Ragnor is taking my place at Father’s court.”
Rolf nodded, but he was clearly confused.
“You know our parents died last year?”
Rolf nodded again, solemly.
“Who are all these smiling people behind you?” Magnus asked.
“Bloody hell! How could I have forgotten?” He extended an arm, and a tall woman with auburn hair and beautiful green eyes stepped forward into his embrace. Both Rolf and this woman, along with the workers in his large tent, were wearing Viking attire. “This is my wife, Profess-whore Merry-Death Ericsson. She teaches at a college.”
“A wife? You finally wed, eh? Didst have to travel across time to find a female who had not heard of your reputation?” he teased, and reached out to give Merry-Death a big hug.
“It is so good to meet you, Magnus. Rolf talks about you all the time. Is it true that you have…Well, we can save that for another time.” She hugged him back in genuine welcome.
“And this boyling is my son, Foster,” Rolf said with much pride, lifting high in the air a little boy of about five years. “And that little mite chasing after your Lida is our Rose. She is almost three years old.”
Rose and Lida were indeed having a grand time running around in circles. Personally he thought his Lida, though younger, was the faster, but then she had her new, light moccasins on, which probably gave her an advantage, and Rose was wearing a long gown with an open-sided apron in the Norse style.
People were gathering about, watching with interest the reunion of the two brothers. Mayhap it was not such a good idea to garner that kind of attention. So he and Rolf walked to the back of his exhibit, where the rudimentary frame of a longship had been erected. Angela and Merry-Death followed them with Lida and Rose in hand. They were chatting softly.
“What are you doing here? Do you live in California?”
Rolf shook his head. “Nay, I live on the other side of the country…in Maine. I operate a Viking village called Rosestead, where the people do everything we did back in Vestfold…and in the old ways, too, which is ridiculous, really. I would much rather use a drill and electric sander, but people like to see me expend all that energy doing everything by hand.” Rolf rolled his eyes at Magnus, a silent message that the old ways were not really so old to them. “We raise our own animals, weave our own cloth, make soap, design jewelry, even build longboats. Rosestead is open to tourists six months of the year. That is why I am here at this culture fe
stival. Our appearance here brings us publicity, and therefore we attract more tourists.”
“And you make money doing this?”
“Yea, we do. Mostly the village was financed in the beginning by my selling my armrings.” He looked pointedly at Magnus’s armrings and those on Torolf. “Do you have any idea how much those things are worth here? More than seventy-five thousand dollars.”
“Really?” Magnus said without much interest. “Dost know how much just one gold coin from our time is worth? Close to the same amount. These people are barmy here, if you ask me. They call my coins antiques.”
Rolf narrowed his eyes at him. “Just how many of those gold coins do you have with you?”
Magnus just grinned.
His brother laughed. “You ever were the thrifty one, Magnus…always saving for bad weather.”
“Whatever,” Magnus replied, not about to rise to his brother’s jibes.
Rolf laughed even more at his use of that modern word.
“We are quite a pair, are we not?” Magnus said, hugging his brother once again. “Two thousand-year-old men meeting by happenstance in a field a world away from home.” But then he thought of something and pulled away in alarm. “Rolf, I cannot believe that I did not ask earlier, but what of Jorund? You know, he left after you and never returned.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Yea, Jorund is living in Texas with his wife, Maggie, his two adopted daughters, and his son, Eric. In fact, he would have been here this weekend, except that Maggie is big with child. I mean, really big. They expect twins.”
Magnus knew how devastated Jorund had been when he’d lost his own twin daughters to famine several years back. It was good to know that he had gone on with life.
“Does Jorund run a Viking village in Tax-us, as you do in Maine?”
Rolf shook his head, and his eyes twinkled merrily. “Nay, he teaches demented people how to lose fat and gain muscle.”
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