by Delle Jacobs
"He won't notice anything if he stops looking. And Liam has promised not to tell him."
"Liam is a little boy. Little boys let things slip."
"He will do his best. It is all I can ask. So far they haven't noticed, Arienh. I must be doing pretty well."
"Aye, you do, and the way you weave, they all admire it. They would not think you could do it without seeing. They all want to trade for your cloth."
A faraway wistfulness traced across Birgit's face. "Just think, I could stay home and weave to satisfy their demand, and they would never see me. It could work."
Arienh shook her head. She wished she, too, could stay inside and avoid the Vikings. but she couldn't control anything by staying inside.
"Who fixed the door?" she asked as she reached the door and noticed the repaired leather hinge.
"Egil."
"Egil," Arienh grumbled as she passed through it.
"Leave it open. The warm air is good."
Arienh let her eyes adjust to the bright, crisp day. From the upper end of the valley, a troop of Viking men lugged timbers on a sledge pulled by oxen as they tromped along, their deep voices singing an unintelligible chant with a vibrant beat to match their steps. Little Liam trotted beside Egil, looking up at his idol and swinging his arms in exactly the same way.
The oxen dragged the sledge down the trail and halted in front of her cottage. Still belting out their work song, the men unloaded the timbers into a pile. Then all but three of the men turned the cumbersome sledge and oxen back up the trail.
"What is this?" Arienh asked.
"We're going to build Mama a weaving place, Aunt," shouted Liam. The boy hopped about, with his springy curls bouncing in the sunlight.
"A what?"
"A weaving gallery," Ronan said. "It is a shame for her to have to stay inside on these fine days, so we will build her a shelter against the house. If we make it big enough, then others can come and spin there, too."
It would be like a dream come true for Birgit. A chance to be with others while she worked, instead of cooped up in the cottage alone. But how could they do it? "But the loom. You cannot move it, and it would not do to leave it out in the night air."
"We'll build her a new loom, too, and move it from the outside frame to the inside one."
"But that is so much work. You'd better ask Birgit."
"We already did," Egil responded with a chuckle. She was always amazed at how wicked his eyes looked when he laughed.
Arienh turned her frown on Birgit who now stood in the doorway. "Stay inside, you say."
Birgit shrugged. "The light is better on the south side," Birgit told the men.
But Birgit had her own way of doing things. Arienh quietly spun her wool while she watched Ronan and Egil splitting timbers and trimming narrow boards with their adzes. Other men brought a second load of logs. And Birgit directed, loudly, shrilly. Before Arienh's astonished eyes and ears, Birgit became a shrew.
Birgit knew everything about what they were doing, and none of what they were doing was right. Their cuts not straight enough, the adze marks too rough, the frame not square, none of it good enough.
Finally weary of the sniping, Ronan straightened his back, laid down his adze, and glared with narrowed eyes.
"Do something," he told his brother, "or I will."
"Mama, you aren't very nice," Liam said.
She saw Birgit wince. It was one thing to make the Vikings hate her, but quite another to look bad in Liam's eyes.
Egil laid aside his mallet. "Liam, take your mother for a walk."
Take her? Did he know? Nay, he was just giving Liam something to do and hoped Birgit would go along.
"Aye. Come along Birgit, let's walk," Arienh said.
"Walk? And let them make a mess of things? They will get it all wrong."
"Take a walk, Birgit," Egil said firmly.
"Do not think you can tell me what to do."
Egil sighed, and began gathering up his tools. "Very well, let us go, brother. She can tell us when she wants us to come back and finish."
Ronan gave a grim nod and gathered up his tools.
"Wait. I-we'll take a walk," Birgit said.
They could not know how much it cost her to be cruel to them, but they certainly did know what it would mean to give up the gallery. Arienh hurried Birgit away from the cottage, close to the river.
"I didn't think you could keep it up," Arienh told her. "It is utterly contrary to your nature."
A wan smile crept onto Birgit’s face. "It seemed like a good opportunity. I guess I ruined it."
"You almost ruined your weaving gallery."
"It has worked for you. You have persuaded Ronan you are a barb-tongued harpy, when I know you are not. But I am too selfish. I wanted it too badly. But at least he won't stop seeing Liam if I'm snippy. He'll just stay away from me."
"You hope."
Back up the slope, blond Egil shouldered a heavy beam, and dark-haired Ronan lifted its far end to fit it into the mortise he had carved for it. Even from here, their light skin glistened with dewy sweat on magnificently muscled torsos. How very beautiful they were.
"Go on back, Liam," Arienh told the boy, for he could hardly contain his eagerness to rejoin the men. He needed only those few words to speed back up the hill.
Arienh watched the Viking with the long yellow braids patiently teaching Liam to shave a peg.
She stayed with Birgit by the side of the clear-flowing river, and together they harvested early buds of horsetails. Soon the men grew tired, or perhaps they merely reached a point when they must quit. Egil and Liam wandered back to the river, fishing poles in hand.
How could anything be so good for the boy, yet be so devastating for his mother?
***
Liam threw in his line, and jerked it back.
"Not so fast, Liam," Egil said. "It needs to look like a bug, so it has to move like a bug."
"Aw. I'll never get it right."
"Yes you will. Remember you have to do it wrong before you can do it right."
"Well at least I'm doing it wrong, right."
Egil chuckled. "Let's try it again, and just wait. Don't do anything until I tell you to."
Liam grunted and rolled the pole around in his hands.
"Throw in the line."
The line hit the water only a little way from the shore. Egil ignored the poor throw. The fly hung on the surface of the clear, slowly moving water. Just as it began to sink, Egil told Liam to pull. "Slowly," he said.
Liam jerked the line. But it was only a small jerk.
"Slowly. Just raise the tip of your pole and it will come toward you."
The boy raised the pole and the fly came out of the water.
"Aw." Liam turned away from the stream and flung the pole on the ground. "I'm tired of fishing, anyway."
"Well, it is not good to quit when you are just tired. Let's try again."
"I don't want to." The boy's mouth screwed up into a pout.
"This time I will help you hold the pole and we will practice getting it just right."
"I don't want to. Can't we do something else?"
"Aye, but we must finish here, first. Bring the pole."
"Aw." But Liam picked up the pole and carried it back to where Egil waited.
Egil stood behind Liam with his big hands wrapped around the small ones, gently guiding the movements of the pole as the bait fly swung into the water, then casually trailed away, to flick back again to the surface. In, out, up, down, carefully repeating the motions over and over.
"Look, do you see it?" Egil pointed to a pale flash that rippled beneath the flowing water.
"Is that a fish?"
"Trout. Just watch him. He thinks your fly is interesting. Let's just tease him awhile."
"I want to catch him."
"We will. Just tease him until he can't stand it anymore."
Egil flicked the line out of the water. The trout flew into the air after it, and missed. It splashed back beneath
the surface.
"Did you see that?" Liam jumped about with excitement.
"Shh. Yes. He's getting mad. Now he'll have to try harder. Watch."
Again Egil plied the line, up, down, and the fly danced about the water. With a great rush, the trout leapt from the stream and nabbed the fly. Liam screeched. Egil calmly kept the pole in Liam's hands and set the hook. With a great flip, he swung the trout through the air and landed it beside the bank.
"We did it! We did it!" the child screeched.
The fish flopped on the bank. Egil dispatched it quickly. "It isn't fair to let them suffer," he said. "Now, are you ready to go do something else?"
"No, let's catch another."
Egil smiled. He could get to liking this.
He spent the remainder of the afternoon working Liam through the motions with the pole until he no longer felt resistance in the boy's arms. Then he let Liam try it alone.
"You are doing very well," he said finally, "but I think we've caught all the fish that are here today. Let's rest awhile."
Egil sat down on a snarled root at the base of the oak tree that overhung the stream, and Liam snuggled up to his side.
"I thought you wouldn't like me anymore," said the boy.
"You did? Why?"
"Cause my Mama was mean to you. She isn't mean, really."
"I don't think she's mean, Liam. Maybe she was worried."
"She's just scared."
"Scared? Of what?"
Liam's eyes twinkled mysteriously. "I'm not supposed to tell."
"Ah." Egil leaned back against the great tree trunk and put his arm about the boy, who giggled about as he nestled in beneath Egil's arm. "Well, I hope she is not afraid of me. I would never hurt her, or you. Remember, I promised. And I will always like you, Liam."
"Really? Even if I'm bad?"
"You will never be bad, Liam, even if you do bad things. But you must try not to."
"Sometimes I'm bad."
"Little boys misbehave sometimes, but that doesn't make them bad. I have known some very bad men, and so I know what bad really is."
"Like Vikings? My father was a Viking and he was bad."
"Who told you that?"
"Nobody. I just figured it out. He was very bad, and he hurt my mother and made me be born, and I shouldn't've."
Sometimes the boy tore his heart. He wished he could just wish away the evil from the boy’s life. He reached his arm around Liam and drew him to his side.
"My mother told me that all babies were meant to be born because God decided He wanted them here. I don't know much about God, but I'm glad He decided to give you to us. And your mother is, too."
"What if I'm like my father?"
"I think you are more like me. You can be like whom you want, Liam."
Liam looked as if he didn't know whether to believe him or not.
"Let's take the fish to your mother. She will be happy to have them."
"She won't. She'll be grumpy 'cause she wants you to think she doesn't like you."
"That's all right. We know better, don't we?"
He laughed at Liam's wicked little grin and shouldered the string of fish as they hiked up the streambank toward the stone cottage. Ronan would be waiting for him, to help finish the weaving gallery.
***
They returned to the weaving gallery the following day as soon as the morning chores were completed. Only Egil worked with Ronan, but now and then others brought materials Ronan had requested. He had watched Arienh leave the cottage early, and for the remainder of the day, she was gone.
Ronan paused in the middle of hammering in a peg that joined a cross brace to its post. "There goes another one."
Egil raised his head. "Who?"
"Olav. Off into the woods."
"So? You sent him after timber."
"That's an ash grove. I asked for oak. Besides he's alone. Doesn't even have the sledge with him."
Egil gave out a chuckle. "Jealous, brother?"
"Hel's frozen tits, of course I am. First Tanni, now Olav. And that little one with the blonde braids has been hanging around the forge all day."
"Elli?"
"Don't know what she finds so interesting in Bjorn."
"'Don't want nothing to do with women.'" Egil's voice took on clipped and sullen tones in a perfect imitation of the blacksmith, but merriment danced in Egil's eyes.
Ronan responded with a weak smile. "The man's ugly as a boar. How does he manage to attract women?"
"Maybe he's the only one saying no. Could be a good sign. One woman won't hold out if the others defect."
"Or they could be up to something again."
"Maybe. Come on, Ronan, hit the peg. Let's get this done."
Ronan grumbled at Egil's lack of sympathy, but pounded in the peg. At the other angle, he fitted in another to hold the rafter firmly. "Arienh might. I've never met a woman as stubborn as she is. If I could just do something really special just for her, like this weaving gallery for Birgit. There must be something."
"Give her something."
"Like what? Gold, silk? Those things don't mean anything here."
"Herbs? Wine? She might like some good Frankish wine."
He shook his head. He had a better idea, but the problem would be persuading Egil to help him. "Something really wonderful."
"What, then?"
Ronan grinned broadly. "Down."
Egil's face sagged abruptly. "Oh, no. The last time you nearly got us killed."
"Why not? I was up on the cliff yesterday. The fledglings are nearly all gone."
"You've lost your wits. It would be safer to kill all mother's geese."
"Ha. Now your wits have gone begging. Anything would be safer than that. Come on, let's finish this."
"So you can drag me off to dangle over some cliff?"
"This time, you can hold the rope, and I’ll go over the edge." He didn't intend to give Egil the chance to argue further. Ronan stepped back away from the gallery and studied his work. "Birgit, come and see what you think."
Birgit’s bright red hair flashed in the sunlight when she appeared at the door, her strange green eyes tracing the shape of the gallery's frame. She skimmed delicate fingers over the wood. He could almost see the imaginings in her mind, of a bright, hot day, and her loom in the shade, where she could see the green and the river, watch her child frolicking while she kept to her beloved task. Egil had guessed right when he had chosen this gift for her.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked.
Egil, sly devil that he was, recovered from his previous consternation. "So that when I am working, all I have to do is look up the hill to see you," he said.
The girl was impressed. Ronan could tell by the way she sheepishly lowered her gaze to the ground. Now if he could only get that much out of her sister.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"Ronan, you've addled your brain."
Ronan laughed as Egil stretched his neck out to peer over the edge of the high sea cliff as if getting even a finger's breadth closer would topple him over the edge. Fortunately, Ronan didn't have the same fears.
"It's very simple, Egil," he said. "The best nests are in groups, so we won't have to move the rope but a few times."
"What if it slips? Or breaks? Ronan, you can't be sure."
"That's why the second rope, just to appease your fears, brother. And you've tied it to a tree, and you have the ox team. Don't worry so much." Egil had insisted on so many precautions, Ronan was surprised he would be able to get over the edge at all.
Egil's wild eyes gave him no reassurance, but that was good, for that meant Egil would take no chances whatsoever. Ronan grinned as he lowered himself over the edge of the cliff on the tough walrus hide rope, walking his feet down the vertical rock face, as the roaring waves crashed against the rocks far below. He also would take no chances, for even though the tide was at its highest, a fall would mean almost certain death.
He had no intention of dying. He had more to g
ain by living now than he had ever had He needed only to win Arienh's heart, and he had great hopes this gift would do it for him. What woman could resist a sack of down? It was more precious than gold.
The fledglings had flown from most of the nests, but he made a point of not disturbing those which had not yet tried their wings. There was plenty more down in the empty nests, where the chicks had left behind the remains of their first molt, the most highly prized feathers of all.
Reaching the first clump of nests, Ronan dodged irate parent birds as he swung out to empty crags and scooped handfuls of the soft feathers into his bag. Down was such an odd substance, that seemed to compress into nothing, and weighed nothing as it drifted into the sack. The sack would fill rapidly, yet would lift to his shoulder like a sack filled only with air. Convenient for hauling it back to the cliff top.
He picked there until the nests were clean.
Egil peered over the cliff, looking like he was going to be sick. Ronan laughed and sent the small sack aloft and waited until Egil lowered an empty one. Giving a light kick against the vertical cliff face, he swung away to another group of nests.
He imagined the delighted expression on Arienh's face when he presented her with his gift, something that few kings could afford. She would surely be persuaded of his love then.
Again, he filled a sack and tied its top tightly, marveling at its lightness. Nay, there was truly no gift like down. When winter came, they would snuggle beneath the blanket she would make of it, warm together. And over the years ahead, they would cuddle beneath it, and she would remember again and again how much he loved her.
Ronan went as far as his rope would reach by rappeling to each side, and called for Egil to hoist him up.
"Isn't that enough?" Egil asked, studying the sacks he had tied onto one of the ponies they had brought.
"It would not make half a blanket," Ronan replied.
Egil groaned and lowered him over the cliff in another place with great reluctance, trying to swallow away his horror.
***
In the dark cottage, Arienh sorted and cleaned the horsetails she had gathered, preparing them for drying. It was one task the Vikings hadn't taken from her.
She had never been one to sit around and spin like other women. From the time her last brother had died, when she had been barely thirteen, Arienh had been shoved into the place of a boy, to help her father, and she had never resented it. The way things had evolved, Arienh had more and more assumed the role of a man, and strangely, the village had come to expect it of her.