by Peter Fox
Alrik rubbed his good arm across his face and tried to blink away his tears.
Sigvald let out a long sigh and shook his head at Rathulf. ‘What are we to do with you? We bring you here to keep you out of trouble, and still it follows you about like a faithful dog. What in Odin’s name happened?’
Rathulf pulled himself up to a sitting position, grimacing as his hand slipped in the greasy blood beneath him. ‘Alrik turned up wanting to see me,’ he said bitterly. ‘He was trying to explain what he’d done, to say how sorry he was, but…’
‘But?’ Sigvald asked.
‘I barely knew the trunk existed before he went and lost it,’ Rathulf answered. ‘What he should have done was stay out of it in the first place.’ He looked over to Alrik, who, like Rathulf, lay half-propped against the wall. Now that the emergency was over, Helga had returned to her nephew and was treating the deep gash in his arm. Rathulf winced when he saw the severity of the wound.
‘Ingrith tried to get rid of him,’ he went on, ‘but Alrik wouldn’t listen to her. He said there was more; something else you hadn’t told me. I said I didn’t care, but he just wouldn’t leave it alone. He doesn’t know when to stop, drittsekk.’ Rathulf spat out the last words loudly for Alrik’s benefit, his gaze firmly fixed on his former friend.
Alrik said nothing in response, his eyes revealing his hurt and the regret for what he had done.
‘I don’t know what happened next,’ Rathulf continued. The lad spoke with difficulty, not all of it due to the pain in his ribs. ‘I got really angry. It all happened so quickly. I don’t even know how it started. I pushed him, he pushed me, then I had a sword, and he drew his. I got him on the arm, and he dropped his blade. I wanted to kill him. All I know is that I wanted to kill him.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Then you came in.’
And thank the Aesir that I did, Sigvald thought grimly, but he had arrived in time, and that in itself must be a good omen. ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself, Ra,’ he said. ‘It’s been a trying time for all of us, but most of all you. You’ve borne more loss than any of us would want to suffer in a lifetime, let alone this short space of time. Alrik was unlucky enough to have provoked that anger within you, but it could easily have been me, or any other person for that matter. Yes, Alrik is guilty in all this through his ill-judged actions, but he was doing it for you, however badly it turned out. What you – we all – need to do is put it behind us. The trunk has gone, but what’s important is that you’re alive. That’s all that matters.’
‘But what about my family? I want to know about them. I want to know about me.’
‘One thing at a time, Ra. You’ve got a chestful of broken ribs to heal, and you can ask your father all the questions you like when he comes good. So, how about we all start afresh? Agreed?’
Rathulf looked at him for a long time. ‘Not really,’ he said eventually, then he added, ‘and I’m sick of these stupid ribs. When are they going to stop hurting?’
Sigvald ignored Rathulf’s question and instead directed his gaze at Alrik. The young Norseman shrugged, but Sigvald thought he saw the hint of capitulation in his eyes. The jarl turned back to Rathulf. His foster-son was frowning at him. ‘What’s the matter now?’ Sigvald demanded.
‘I tried to kill Alrik. Bardi will press charges. What would have happened if you hadn’t come in time?’ Rathulf looked over to Alrik, whose face was contorted into a grimace as Helga drew a bandage around his arm. Alrik bit his lip to suppress a cry, and Sigvald felt Rathulf move in sympathy beside him.
Sigvald shrugged. ‘I’d have had a nasty mess to clean up off my floor, and Helga would have added me to the pile of bodies.’ When Rathulf looked back at him unimpressed, Sigvald smiled. ‘He’s got a little scratch on his arm, an injury which he brought upon himself. He’s the one who disobeyed his father to come here remember, and he’s that punishment yet to bear. Anyway, he was due a good whipping and who better than you to do it? You’ve brought him down a peg or two, that’s all. People will probably thank you for it.’
Rathulf closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall behind him. ‘Maybe it’s just as well the trunk has gone. Everything was all right when I was Rathulf Thorvaldarsson, shepherd of Aurlandsfjorden. Let the Gods keep it for all I care.’
Sigvald raised his hands and smiled. ‘That’s your choice, Rathulf. It’s your life after all; an empty cup, waiting to be filled.’
Rathulf frowned at him. ‘A what?’
Sigvald smiled. ‘Never mind, but can you do something for me? Try to get better, will you? I have a goodly sum resting on you being well enough to make the Leap this summer, and if you keep throwing yourself about the way you are, the only place you’ll be leaping is back into bed.’
✽ ✽ ✽
For the next four days, Rathulf stayed by Thorvald’s side whilst Alrik and Ingrith kept him company. Rathulf’s mood ranged from sullen to reflective, but he did genuinely appreciate having his friends nearby, although the loss of the trunk continued to be a sore point between Rathulf and Alrik. Neither spoke of it at all, both suffering in silence; Ra for the loss of what it contained, and Alrik from the profound guilt he felt for losing it. Then there was the matter of Ra’s attack on Alrik and the boy’s badly injured arm; Alrik had finally unwrapped the bandage and shown the wound to Ra, who was shocked at the severity of the cut. ‘You were trying to kill me, remember?’ Alrik complained. ‘I’ll probably never be able to wield a sword again. I’m bloody lucky you didn’t take it right off!’
Rathulf had pooh-poohed that notion, but secretly he did worry that he’d caused irreparable damage. He really had hit Alrik hard, and it was a nasty gash as a result. Worse, it wasn’t showing any signs of getting better. Helga had assured them it would heal but that it would take quite some time due to the depth of the cut, which only made Rathulf feel worse. More than once he experienced a flashback to the moment; feeling somewhat ill as he relived the sensation of the blade striking the arm and the sickening sound it had made when it had chopped into Alrik’s flesh. At other times he found himself thinking he had not been entirely unjustified in his actions, but very quickly guilt would follow; and as a result, the two boys made for poor company.
Sigvald had immediately sent Gormond off to Bardi’s to assure the jarl that Alrik was welcome and that there would be no need for him to come and retrieve his son. Sigvald’s prime motivation, of course, was to prevent further distress; for despite what he had said to Rathulf, the last thing he needed was Bardi finding out that his son had been injured in a bout of vicious swordplay.
It was on the evening of the fourth day, just as darkness was falling on the little fjord-side settlement, that Thorvald woke; and Rathulf managed to miss it completely. He was outside using the toilet pit when Helga came looking for him. He had just finished wiping himself clean with a clump of moss when Helga’s face appeared above the wicker surround.
‘Rathulf, you should come inside.’
Rathulf’s heart leapt to his throat. ‘Father?’ he asked, unconsciously using the name.
Helga nodded.
Rathulf flew from the toilet before his foster-mother could get out another word, stumbling as he struggled to pull up his trousers as he ran. He heard Helga call his name, but he ignored her. Father! he thought. Please, Odin, don’t take him while I am away. He ran the short distance to the house, his stomach twisting into a knot as his worst fears overtook him. He burst inside and skidded to a stop by his father’s bed. Sigvald, Alrik, and the four girls stood respectfully nearby.
Thorvald opened his eyes and blinked up at his son.
‘Father?’ Rathulf said, his voice barely a whisper.
Thorvald’s forehead creased into a frown.
‘He’s alive!’ Rathulf said to his friends, emotion choking his voice.
Helga arrived at that moment and smiled back and nodded, tears glistening in her eyes. ‘Yes, Ra, it would appear that he is. That’s what I came to tell you, but you dashed off before I had the chance.
’
Rathulf looked back down at his father’s pale, drawn face. He laughed, then bent down and kissed his father on the forehead, silently thanking all the Gods in Asgard for taking pity on him after all. Then he turned to Sigvald and threw his arms around him, needing to share his joy with the big jarl.
‘Good grief boy,’ Sigvald protested, ‘you’re blubbering like a silly girl. Not a day ago you hated us all; most of all Thorvald. Helga, give him something to calm him down.’
‘For goodness sake, husband,’ Helga countered. ‘He’s been living each day in fear of Thorvald’s death, so let him share his happiness. Yes, he is suffering a deep hurt, but for good or ill Thorvald is his father. You’d be just as pleased if you were in his shoes, don’t you think?’ Helga held out her arms to Rathulf, and he fell into her embrace, holding her tightly.
‘Thank you foster-mother,’ he said, his words muffled by her bosom. ‘Thank you so, so much for saving him.’
He pulled away and looked into her face. ‘And yes, you are right. He is my father.’
Thorvald lay watching his son’s antics, clearly baffled.
Sigvald sat down on the stool beside the bed and smiled at his friend. ‘Well Thorvald, I think we can safely say that your son is pleased to see that you’ve decided to stay with us. Welcome back.’
Thorvald frowned again, then he tried to speak, but all he could manage was a feeble croak.
Helga released Rathulf and offered Thorvald a mug of tonic. She held it to Thorvald’s mouth while he drank, then when he’d had enough, she handed the mug to Rathulf and wiped the dribble from Thorvald’s chin.
‘I, I don’t understand,’ Thorvald said haltingly, the words coming in a hoarse whisper. He pointed to Rathulf. ‘Why do you say he is my son?’
Sigvald laughed. ‘Very funny, Thorvald.’
Thorvald frowned. ‘But I don’t have a son,’ he said, insistent. ‘I don’t know this boy.’
Rathulf stared at his father, his heart in his throat. He felt Helga’s hand squeeze his arm. It was meant to reassure him, but it only served to heighten his sense of alarm. Had the ordeal affected his father’s mind? Please, Odin, don’t let him be mad. I couldn’t bear it if he no longer recognised me.
‘Rathulf is your son,’ Sigvald said, trying to maintain his bravado, but Rathulf heard the tinge of doubt behind his bright tone. ‘You can’t possibly have forgotten your boy.’
Thorvald stared at Rathulf, shaking his head slowly.
Rathulf’s heart stopped. No! he thought in desperation. The Gods can’t be that cruel. They cannot rob me of my father in this way. He stood rooted to the spot, unable to speak or move.
‘Rathulf,’ Thorvald rasped, turning the name over in his head. His brows knitted for a moment, then he looked at Rathulf again, but not a flicker of recognition crossed his face.
‘You do know who I am, don’t you?’ Rathulf asked, feeling ill now.
Thorvald’s frown deepened then his face relaxed, and he slipped back into unconsciousness.
‘Father!’ Rathulf cried. ‘Come back!’
But Thorvald could no longer hear, and Rathulf turned instead to Helga. ‘He did know who I was, didn’t he?’
Helga smiled and nodded, but her face showed strain. ‘Have no fear, Ra. He has suffered a difficult ordeal, and his body is far from recovered. It will be some time yet before he is back to his old self. Next time he wakes, he may hold a normal conversation, or he might rant and spout nonsense. This is not the first time he has awoken remember, but this time he spoke with us and answered our questions. It is a good sign.’
Rathulf remained unconvinced, but he could do little but wait and hope. He stayed by his father’s side for the next two days, anxiously awaiting any sign. Now more than ever, Rathulf needed his father to know him, to acknowledge him as his own. For without Thorvald, where did Rathulf belong?
On the morning of the third day, Thorvald again opened his eyes. To Rathulf’s considerable relief and joy, the first word Thorvald spoke was his son’s name.
‘Rathulf? Is that you?’ This time there was recognition, and Thorvald appeared genuinely pleased.
Rathulf nodded, feeling tears of joy welling in his eyes, but he fought them off, knowing his optimism may yet prove unfounded.
‘Ra? What’s the matter?’
‘I’m just happy, that’s all. With everything that’s happened, I’m just glad you’re all right. There’s so much I need to ask you–’
‘Yes, well, no need to trouble your father with all that just yet,’ Sigvald interrupted, all but elbowing Rathulf out of the way. He shot his foster-son a warning glance to shut him up.
‘You gave him a bit of a fright last time you woke,’ Helga added, appearing with a mug of watered-down mead. ‘You had a little trouble working out who he was.’
‘Oh,’ Thorvald said, looking up at his son guiltily. ‘Sorry.’ He smiled and lifted his hand. It shook violently, and before Rathulf could take it, it fell limply back onto the covers. Rathulf stared at his father, shocked by the other’s weakness. Over the past few weeks as Thorvald had lain in his bed he had grown thinner by the day so that now he was little more than a skeleton. His joints showed through his skin as ugly protuberances, and all the muscle had withered away so that his arms resembled knobby sticks. Deep hollows had formed in his face where his cheeks had once been full, and his eyes peered out from black pits.
‘Helga,’ Thorvald croaked, ‘pass me a mirror, would you? I take it from the look on my son’s face that I am not quite the man I used to be.’
Thorvald’s request snapped Rathulf from his daze, and he averted his eyes, wondering how his expression must have looked to his father.
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ Sigvald said, waving a hand at Helga to stay where she was.
‘I’m not a child, Sigvald. Give me the damn thing.’
Sigvald reluctantly took the polished bronze mirror from his wife and held it up for Thorvald. The farmer gasped and pushed it away. ‘By the Balls of Fenrir, what have you done to me?’
‘Well there’s gratitude,’ Sigvald protested, grabbing the opportunity to lighten the mood after the past week’s gloominess. ‘You’re a little thin, that’s all, which is hardly any wonder. You’ve been lying in bed for over a month. Helga’s managed to force some food down your gullet from time to time, but have you ever tried feeding an unconscious man?’
‘A month?’ Thorvald gasped.
‘You’ve been waxing in and out of consciousness for most of that time, but you’ve only made sense today, if you can call this conversation that.’
Thorvald looked to his son for confirmation. Rathulf nodded, and Thorvald shook his head in despair. ‘A month,’ he repeated in a whisper. ‘All that time I’ve been wandering Niflheim with the image of your dead face popping up all over the place. Leif was there too, but he was trying to show me the way, I think.’ He coughed, finding it difficult to breathe and speak at the same time.
Rathulf reached down and took his father’s hand. It did indeed feel chill. ‘It was a nightmare, father, but it’s over now,’ he said. ‘You’re back in Midgard, with us.’
Thorvald looked up at him, his expression still somewhat disbelieving. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if this is what it feels like to be alive, I think I’ll go back to Niflheim if it’s quite all right with you.’ With that, he closed his eyes.
‘No!’ Rathulf shouted in a panic. ‘Don’t go back there!’
Thorvald opened one eye. ‘Can’t a man have a moment’s peace?’ he said. ‘I’m tired.’ When Sigvald and Rathulf shook their heads in unison, he sighed. ‘Oh very well. Where’s that mead then, and what have you done to my leg? It feels like it’s been shoved into the fires of Muspelheim. And come to think of it, no one’s told me what I’m doing here.’ He started to lift himself from the bed, but the action was too much for him, and he fell back, coughing.
Helga was by his side in a flash. ‘Enough!’ she ordered. ‘No more questions and n
o more talking. There’ll be plenty of time to swap tales later, and don’t you get too cocky on me, Thorvald. You’re not out of the woods yet, and I don’t want you doing anything that will hinder your recovery.’ She cast a pointed glance in Rathulf’s direction, then continued. ‘Rathulf’s refusal to obey my instructions has done him no good at all, and I won’t have you following his example.’
Thorvald held up his hand to defend himself from the scolding. ‘Well there’s something that hasn’t changed,’ he muttered. ‘You’re still as bossy as ever.’
‘It’s for your own good,’ she said tartly, tucking him back in.
‘Well I’m hardly going to be leaping out of bed and taking a stroll, am I? I presume I do still have my legs underneath all these splints and things?’
‘For the moment,’ Helga said, highly unimpressed with her patient’s attitude. ‘If you behave, I may just let you keep them.’
The day passed interminably during which time Helga refused Rathulf access to his father, except for the odd look-in to check that he was still awake. The ban also applied to Alrik and Sigvald, who, Helga said, would only hound the poor man into a relapse if they weren’t kept away. Rathulf was not sure who was the more annoyed; Thorvald was desperate to find out what had happened for apparently he remembered little of the ordeal, while Alrik was bursting to relate the saga of Rathulf, hero of Aurlandsfjorden as only the boy could. How much of that saga would be told, however, was very much in question. Sigvald had taken the two boys and his daughters outside and given them strict instructions that they were not to mention anything about the trunk upon pain of torture followed by a slow and gruesome death. As it happened, Rathulf found that the urgency to learn about his past had waned now that his father was awake. Indeed he had felt decidedly sick at the thought of asking about his family’s fate.
Finally, when the weather outside became simply too unpleasant to bear, Helga relented and let them in, and Thorvald, who still lay prone in his bed, posed the question he had wanted to ask since he had awoken. ‘Why am I cooped up in this bed with my legs bound like boards? Helga assures me I did not fall off my horse, nor was I crushed under a wagon. So what happened?’