Freya's Gift

by Corrina Lawson

  “Nor me.”

  So handsome, with the wisps of red hair on his chest, all the way up to his powerful shoulders and his wonderful flowing hair.

  “I will never be sorry to have you.” He leaned over and kissed her on the head. “Finish the necklace.”

  After he left, she dressed, her fingers still trembling. For so long, there had been nothing but the sickness. First only a few women that sickened, then nearly everyone, always after they’d been to the women’s hut for the monthly bleeding. She’d done little in those months besides nurse others and then recover herself. There had been the move and making the caves livable. And the men had been busy building this village.

  During none of that time had she been with Ragnor like this. Some hurried fumblings when she was not exhausted, yes, but this was like the first years of their marriage. She wanted to hold onto it with all her body and soul. And what the goddess wanted, a ritual that required giving herself to Gerhard as well as her husband, threatened it.

  She set to work on the necklace.

  Chapter Nine

  The tribe feasted that night. It was the long-awaited celebration of thanksgiving for their new home. No one mentioned that it had been delayed because of Leif’s attack and funeral.

  After the meal, all hailed Ragnor as he produced the mead that had survived the trip from their southern home.

  Sif and the other women also served water from the newly discovered spring. She’d led a small party that afternoon and they had brought it back in ceramic jugs. The women who’d come with her had been more than impressed with the spring and all agreed it was a sacred place.

  It confirmed Sif’s opinion that the place belonged to Freya. But it did not make her coming talk with Ragnor any easier. She tried to relax, drank down some mead and watched the others, soaking in their pleasure. Torches illuminated the square and the night cooperated with warm temperatures that signaled winter was truly over. Ragnor was in a particularly fine mood, circulating among their people, smiling, clapping men on the back or laughing at some old joke. Even dour Gerhard had come, sitting in Gunnhilda’s circle along with Mykle, Torger and Bera.

  Sif wondered if Gunnhilda had talked to Gerhard yet. And what Gerhard’s response had been. But Gerhard would not meet her gaze, so Sif could not guess.

  There were songs, and no one minded if they were sung badly or that there were few women to hit the high notes. Dancing, too, also done badly but with much enthusiasm. All seemed to be going well. Sif sat cross-legged on the ground, leaning back against a log. Laughter. It should always be like this.

  Voices shouted, angry male voices. Sif jumped to her feet and stood on the log, looking for the problem. Two men stood to the edge of the square, hidden in shadow, barking insults at each other. By his height, she recognized one as Mykle. The other, she couldn’t tell, but he was the one doing most of the insulting.

  How drunk was he to confront Mykle, of all people?

  Sif began to walk to them but Ragnor cut in front of her, striding purposely to the confrontation. Gerhard appeared from the crowd and fell in behind Ragnor. Would Gerhard help or stir the anger? Silence fell on the square and the laughter died away.

  Sif took deep breaths, praying this would not turn into something like Leif’s attack. The man arguing with Mykle tried to hit him. Mykle caught the fist with ease and sneered at his attacker, twisting the hand.

  The man cried out and reached for his belt knife with his free hand.

  Ragnor stepped between them, his back to Mykle. Mykle froze. The belligerent man kept his hand on the hilt of his belt knife.

  Torger. She finally recognized the young warrior. What had happened since the morning? Torger must be crazy or very drunk to confront Mykle this way.

  Mykle snarled something.

  Ragnor cut his arm through the air, motioning for quiet.

  Sif moved closer.

  “Back away, Mykle,” Ragnor said.

  Mykle glared at Torger but stepped back a pace, leaving Ragnor and Torger to stare at each other.

  “I was only teasing Mykle,” Torger said.

  “If you draw on me, boy, the joke will end in your death,” Ragnor said.

  Torger changed his stance and rolled his shoulders. “Your nephew is at fault. He has a bad temper, just like his father.”

  Sif winced. Torger must not only be drunk but harboring a death wish.

  With a roar, Mykle tried to push past Ragnor. Ragnor shouldered him back.

  “You are begging to die,” Ragnor said to Torger. “That makes you crazier than he is.”

  Torger swallowed and stepped back, giving ground for the first time. Perhaps he’d gained some sobriety. “It was a joke. I do not know why he took offense.”

  “Jokes that lead to bloodshed are not jokes,” Ragnor said. “Especially when it’s your blood, boy.”

  “I—”

  Gerhard cut in front of Torger and pushed him back, neatly knocking Torger’s knife out of his hand at the same time.

  Sif let out the breath she’d been holding.

  “I didn’t mean it,” Torger said. “Mykle should have known that.”

  Not mean it? Stir up trouble and then disavow knowledge? That one was going to get himself killed one day. But not tonight.

  Sif gave Ragnor a jug of mead. He took a swig and handed it to Mykle, who took a long drink and returned it to Ragnor.

  Ragnor frowned and offered the jug to Gerhard. Gerhard took the jug with flourish, bowing in thanks. He took a quick swallow, turned and offered it to Torger. The young warrior flushed, looked at the other three and reluctantly accepted the jug.

  His drink lasted almost too long for good manners but when he lowered the jug, all the fight seemed gone and Torger’s face was pale. He should be scared about what he’d done. He’d nearly taken on three of the tribe’s best warriors. While drunk. Over a damned joke.

  No, not a joke. Probably it was fueled by real resentment or jealousy over Bera. Even these three could not share right. All the more reason for Sif to carry through Freya’s orders.

  Gerhard took the jug, handed it back to Ragnor, then draped an arm over Torger’s shoulders and led him away, presumably somewhere to sleep off the mead.

  The crowd went back to their feast. Sif walked around and spoke to a few people, making light of what just happened. Others followed her lead. No one wanted anything to ruin the night. Satisfied, she sat down on the log once more.

  Ragnor came up from behind, kissed the top of her head and sat down next to her. She put her head on his shoulder. He could have been so easily hurt or killed by those two idiots.

  “What was that about?” she asked.

  Ragnor shrugged. “Something Torger said about Mykle getting too much, especially when he hardly wants it. Mykle might have insulted Bera back. It was hard to tell.”

  Ah. Bad feelings. As Gerhard had warned. “About a woman. Not surprising.”

  “No, sadly,” Ragnor said. “I gathered that Mykle and Torger were fighting over Bera.”

  Sif drank the last of the mead, nearly coughing over the dregs. “They were not exactly fighting this morning.”

  “What do you know?”

  “Both men are interested in Bera.”

  “You might have told me sooner,” Ragnor said, “especially if it would cause this problem.”

  “Yes. I should have. But they seemed content enough this morning.”

  Ragnor nodded. “You’d think this anger would end. Especially after…”

  “After today seemed like a new beginning.”

  “Yes.”

  “Not yet.” She entwined their fingers. “About the ritual for Freya—”

  “Tell me.” He slid off the log to the ground and pulled her into his lap. She cuddled, secure in his arms. Around them, people began heading to their homes. The sky had cleared and the half-moon provided light to the night. There was time until the full moon. But not much. She shouldn’t delay this.

  “Sif?” Ragnor
whispered in her ear. “Speak.”

  “Ah, Ragnor. I think I know what Freya wants. But I don’t know if I can do it. Or if others can.”

  “Because it’s not possible or because you don’t wish to do it?

  “It’s possible and I don’t wish to do it.”

  “Sacrifices are never easy. Gods don’t like it that way and goddesses are worst of all.”

  In the darkness, he reached down to caress her breast through the tunic. She closed her eyes, content.

  “How bad is this one?”

  “A fertility ritual is needed. And it must be with three of us.” She told him exactly, and in detail, what Mykle’s arrangement with Bera and Torger was.

  “Huh,” Ragnor said. “How…no, don’t answer. It does explain the insult that started that fight. You think these three should do this at the spring? That is the ritual needed? That is easy enough. Why so worried, then?”

  Ragnor was being particularly thick tonight. Perhaps it was the mead. “No, not those three. Ragnor, think. Freya saved you from the bear. You have to be part of the ritual. I found the spring. We both saw the cougars. We both must be part of the ritual.”

  “So…um…you want Bera to be with us, at the spring?” He kissed her bare shoulder. “I see that troubles you. But she would mean nothing to me. It is for the goddess. Nothing for you to worry about.”

  How easily he accepted the idea of another woman. She admitted that if it had to be Bera, she would be jealous. How jealous would Ragnor be? She sighed and tried to gather her patience. “No, not Bera. The three must be the same as I saw. Two men. One woman. Because the men must learn to share.”

  “What?”

  “You, me and another man.”

  The arms around her tightened. “And you have another man in mind, do you?”

  His voice was low, dangerous and threatening.

  “I do.” She swallowed and tried to calm her suddenly churning stomach. She should not have had the last of the mead.

  “Who?” The word was said through grinding teeth. The tight arms around her kept her pinned against his chest.

  “The goddess—” her voice broke, “—the goddess must have someone worthy of her.” She took a deep breath, for her voice seemed almost gone. “Gerhard.”

  “No.”

  That was it. A single word. His arms were clamped around her, so she could not move. She stared at the moon, trying to guess what Ragnor was thinking. Lots of curses, she bet. How long they sat there before he spoke, she didn’t know. All she knew was that her legs lost all feeling.

  “Gerhard. Are you trying to replace me, woman?”

  “No, I am trying to please the goddess. The signs all point to this.”

  “You’re not thinking about the goddess. You’re thinking about what you want. You think he can get you with child. Gerhard’s proven that he can, even if his child died, unborn, with its mother.”

  And Ragnor had never proven the same. To mention that, however, would make this far worse.

  She pushed away from Ragnor and stood. Her hands clenched into fists.

  “So you think I would dishonor the goddess, is that it? You really believe I would use her as a shield to replace you?”

  Ragnor rose slowly. “I don’t know.”

  “I think if you accept that this is what Freya wants, you’ll be honor-bound to do it. But if you blame me, then you have an excuse.”

  “So eager for Gerhard?”

  She tossed the empty ceramic jug at him. He ducked and it hit a log behind them and broke into pieces. Those lingering in the square hurried to their homes.

  “I’ve never wanted Gerhard, idiot,” she whispered, hoping her voice didn’t carry. “It’s Freya that does.”

  “You are guessing.”

  “Who else, then? Who else has the standing to be worthy of Freya?”

  “Mykle.”

  “Your nephew. Your brother’s son. You want to watch him take me?”

  Ragnor picked up another jug and smashed it into the remnants of the bonfire. “You are mine.”

  “Freya saved you today. You would be dead otherwise. And you would turn your back on that?”

  Ragnor sighed, the fight seemingly gone out of him. “I…yes. No.”

  “Think of me not as Sif but as the vessel for Freya.”

  “Oh, so I sleep with a goddess now? That explains much.” He stomped away, to their longhouse.

  She followed him in silence, her stomach still churning. But after all these years of marriage, she did know some things about Ragnor. Despite his anger, he would sleep on it, ponder it, chew it and spit it out before he finally decided. He might even change his mind. But he needed to do it soon, before the full moon. Who knew how angry Freya would be if they refused her bidding?

  Chapter Ten

  Childish to sleep on the other side of the fire from Sif, he knew, but Ragnor did not much care. At least sleep came easily after the mead, though morning came too fast. He heard Sif moving around and pretended to be asleep until she slipped outside. Maybe she knew he’d pretended but, like him, didn’t want to talk about her so-called ritual.

  Freya be damned.

  He took the ladle and drank from the stewpot over the fire and splashed the water in the basin onto his face to wake himself up. He took his axe and went outside. He should teach this morning but doubted anyone would be in shape to learn. Practice, then. By himself. Hitting something seemed appealing.

  He made an X on a nearby tree and backed up ten paces. Usually, in battle, throwing the axe was a bad idea. But sometimes, especially if the enemy was mounted, throwing it was the only way to win.

  He set his feet, felt for the balance in the handle, gripped it tight and let it fly. Hair fell in front of his eyes as the axe left his hands.

  The axe sank into the tree with a loud thunk. He grunted. He’d hit too high. Not good enough. He strode to the axe, put his hands low on the handle and slid it out of the wood. Good, the axe head had stayed secure to the handle.

  He stomped back to his spot and tried once more, taking just a little off the throw. Thunk. Hah! Just to the left of where his two lines crossed. Not perfect but a killing blow. He retrieved the axe to continue practicing. Two throws were not enough. In battle, it must come without thinking.

  He set again but he heard footsteps behind him and pulled the throw, worried someone was too close. He turned to see who it was.

  Sif stood, several paces back.

  “You watch me.”

  She smiled. “I could watch all day.”

  His eyes narrowed. Was she trying flattery now? He set the handle to the ground and put his weight on it, studying her. She insisted on another man for this ritual. Did she want another that badly?

  No, fool. She wants a child that badly. And how badly did he want one? Ah, that was the question.

  “Do you regret what the mead made you say last night?” Forget this folly, Sif.

  “The mead gave me the strength to say it,” she said, chin jutting out.

  Sif had never lacked for courage. Even when he’d been ready to give up after all the deaths, even after all the days spent in the longboats, looking for shelter for the winter, watching his wife had kept Ragnor strong.

  But this?

  “Do you regret your answer last night?”

  He scowled. “I hoped you would give up this plan.” Foolishness.

  “How can I? After feasting on the bear last night with you?” She spread her hands in front of her.

  The bear. A constant reminder, all night, of the cat that had saved his life. Freya, who saved his life. For this.

  “We, you and I, can have the ritual at the spring. As we did yesterday, but make offerings to the goddess. Gunnhilda can even preside.”

  And he could touch her, loosen the braids in her hair, bury himself in her again. As it should be.

  “As much as I want to be with only you, Ragnor, what you suggest will not solve the problem about the shortage of women in our tribe, o
r did the outburst last night teach you nothing?”

  “The words of a drunk.”

  “And we have no more drink? Hah.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

  She would not appear so angry if he picked her up and had her against the tree. He smiled at the image.

  “Ragnor.” Her sharp tone brought him back to reality. “You know it will happen again. There will be fighting. Is that what you want?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You’re too good of a leader to deny that the ritual is needed. We must make any sharing about the goddess, not about men’s…hunger. It has to be about how to control that hunger.”

  Ragnor walked to the longhouse and set his axe against the wood. No more practice, not today. Damn the woman. “And do you propose to let Gerhard touch you in front of all? Quite a show for our tribe.” Gerhard, with his quiet ways, veiling his thoughts, always judging the rest of them.

  “No. Gunnhilda promised that would be private. There would be a ritual here, promises made as part of a ceremony and then privacy at the spring. But we must do it. We cannot cheat Freya.”

  What was there to say to that? Nothing. So he set his jaw and remained silent.

  “Gerhard wouldn’t be the only one touching me. You will be there.”

  “You want Gerhard there because you know he can get a woman with child. As I haven’t.” There. He’d said it.

  “You’re saying that you could get past another man touching me. But not another man fathering your children?”

  Ragnor grunted, wanting to pick up the axe again and hurt something. “Freya be damned.”

  “You can’t out-stubborn a goddess.” Sif leaned against the wall of the house, also staring out into space.

  “Gerhard’s child would not be my child,” he said.

  “It would be mine and therefore yours. Ours. A god-touched child.” She didn’t look at him. “That is, if the goddess blesses your grudging worship.”

  He slapped the wood with his open palm. “Quiet.”

  “Maybe the ritual is for me. Maybe I can’t have children. Maybe creating life needs two men to help that along.”

  He let the silence grow.

  She cleared her throat. “Maybe my body requires it, to be fully open. Not Gerhard’s seed but that.”