The morning sun danced into Vulgar’s bedroom and tickled his eyes open. A chorus of tweeting birds welcomed a brand-new day, as the smell of the hayfields wafted in through his window.
After weeks of rain, summer had finally arrived in the Viking village of Blubber, and Vulgar wasn’t about to waste a minute of it!
He jumped out of bed, tripped over a bundle of fur and fell face-first on to the floor. The bundle of fur raised its head and gave a grumpy woof.
“Sorry, Grunt,” said Vulgar, hopping back to his feet. “Didn’t smell you there.”
Vulgar went to the window and looked out. The sky was a brilliant blue with not a cloud in sight. The sun burned just above the horizon, turning the distant ocean into a lake of fire.
It was the perfect day for pillaging. Then again, it was always the perfect day for pillaging as far as Vulgar was concerned. He just wished the rest of the village felt the same way.
Many of the villagers were outside now, digging their gardens and watering their flowers. Some of them were tending to their vegetable patches. Vulgar shuddered. In his opinion, real Vikings didn’t bother with vegetables.
Vulgar stretched and patted down his wild, greasy hair. He rubbed his chin and was disappointed to discover he still didn’t have a beard. Proper Vikings needed beards, and he wished his would hurry up and arrive.
A deep, rumbling sound suddenly shook the room around him. He turned and looked at his dog. “Grunt, was that you? What have you been eating?”
The sound came again, louder this time than before, and Vulgar realised it wasn’t coming from the dog. It was a truly horrible noise, deep and booming, but with a nasty high-pitched whine at the edges. He imagined it was what an angry whale with indigestion would sound like.
He hoped it might be an invading army, or a crazed dragon, but nothing that exciting ever happened in Blubber. The sound reached an ear-splitting high note that made his whole skeleton tremble, and Vulgar finally realised what it was.
His mum was singing.
“Morning, my little turnip,” said Helga, as Vulgar shuffled into the kitchen.
“Morning.” He watched her twirl around the table. It was like watching an elk try to do ballet. “You look cheerful.”
“Of course I am, my darling walrus whisker!” Helga cried. She wrapped her arms around Vulgar and gave him a hug. He felt like a stick insect trying to wrestle a bear. “Tomorrow is Midsummer’s Eve!”
Vulgar slipped back down on to the floor and took a seat at the table. He tore himself a chunk of bread and popped it in his mouth. “Oh, great. Already?” he asked, spraying crumbs everywhere.
“Try to sound a bit happier about it,” said Helga. “It’s the most exciting day of the Viking year!”
Vulgar’s dad appeared in the doorway. Harald’s thin, wispy beard was caked in mud. At least, Vulgar hoped it was mud. His dad cleaned toilets for a living and you never knew what might end up stuck in his beard.
“Midsummer’s Eve!” Harald cheered.
“Midsummer’s Eve!” Helga replied. They hugged, and for a moment Harald was lost somewhere in his wife’s powerful arms.
“Ooh, careful dear,” Harald groaned. “My back’s not what it used to be.”
Helga released her grip and Harald took a seat beside his son.
“Why are you so excited?” Vulgar asked. “Midsummer’s Eve is rubbish. It’s all dancing around the maypole and stuff.”
“And the choosing of the Midsummer’s King and Queen,” Helga reminded him.
“Oh well, that makes it better,” said Vulgar, even though he didn’t really think so. Queens and dancing were his second and third least favourite things in the world. Maypoles were his first.
“Here, remember when I was picked as the Midsummer Queen?” said Helga. “All those years ago. Dancing round the maypole…”
Harald smiled fondly at the memory. “All those potholes you left in the village green. The screams of panic when we all thought the ground was going to crack open…”
Vulgar cackled at the thought of his mum thudding around the maypole. Helga shot him a dirty look.
“I don’t know what you’re laughing at,” she said. “It’s time you went to school!”
“Right, you lot, quit yakkin’ an’ listen up.”
Vulgar glanced across at his best friend, Knut. Knut was much taller than Vulgar, and as skinny as a rake. He looked as if someone had taken a normal-sized boy and stretched him. He sat slumped in his seat, his messy hair poking out from beneath his lopsided helmet, staring at the man at the front of the class.
Vulgar followed his gaze. The bony figure with the long grey beard wasn’t their teacher, it was Harrumf, steward of the Great Hall and personal assistant to…
“The high-uppiest of highnesses,” announced Harrumf, waggling his walking stick at the class. “The kingliest of kings. The right regal royal, Kiiiiiing Olaf!”
A muted applause rippled around the class, then faded quickly. Only Princess Freya, King Olaf’s daughter, continued to clap.
Princess Freya was the closest thing Vulgar had to an enemy. She looked sweet enough, with her long blonde plaits and delicate features, but she fought dirty when no one was looking, and the person she liked to fight most was Vulgar.
King Olaf’s beard appeared in the doorway, followed by his stomach. The rest of him came strutting through the door a little while later, doing his best royal wave.
“Thank you, thank you,” he said. “Too kind. Too kind.”
Freya stopped clapping and silence fell over the classroom. “I expect you’re wondering why you’re all here,” King Olaf boomed.
“To learn stuff,” Vulgar said.
King Olaf nodded. “Right, yes. It’s school. I forgot about that. Then I suspect you’re wondering why I’m here.”
Knut raised a hand.
“Yes?”
“Are you lost?”
The king frowned. “What? No, I…”
“I get lost sometimes,” said Knut.
“He does,” agreed Vulgar. “He got lost in his own house once.”
“Well, I’m not lost,” said King Olaf.
“Took a whole day to find him,” Vulgar added. “My dog had to sniff him out in the end. Tell him where you were, Knut.”
“I was under my blankets.”
“Can anyone tell me why we celebrate Midsummer’s Eve?” said King Olaf, cutting Vulgar off.
“Is it a kind of punishment?” Vulgar guessed.
“No! It’s because when the days are at their longest, the trolls and elves and other spirits come out to cause mischief.”
Vulgar thought about this. “What sort of mischief?”
“Oh, you know,” said King Olaf. “Just… general mischief.”
“Like putting itching berries down people’s backs?” Vulgar asked.
“Yes. Just like that!”
“And filling their pockets with elk manure?” asked Knut.
King Olaf puffed out his cheeks. “Yes. Well. I suppose they might…”
“Oh! Oh!” yelped Vulgar, bouncing in his seat. “And tying girls’ pig tails to trees then filling their shoes with frogspawn?”
Princess Freya gave Vulgar a nasty glare and stuck her tongue out. Vulgar grinned at her.
“Possibly, possibly,” said King Olaf, nodding. “So that’s why we have the Midsummer’s Eve celebrations – with a big bonfire in the square to scare off the wicked spirits.”
Vulgar’s eyes lit up. How could he have forgotten about the bonfire? Bonfires were brilliant! Maybe Midsummer’s Eve wasn’t going to be so bad after all!
“Also, we hold the tra
ditional maypole dance to ensure that Blubber has a good harvest. This year, one very lucky boy will be named Midsummer King and will dance with my darling daughter!”
Or maybe it was.
Vulgar leaned over to Knut. “I’d rather dance with one of the trolls,” he whispered.
“I imagine you’re all desperate to dance with Freya.” King Olaf beamed.
“Wow,” Knut whispered. “He’s certainly got a good imagination.”
“And so, to make it fair, every boy will guess how many dragons I have slain in my life so far. The boy who guesses the closest will be crowned the Midsummer King.”
Vulgar’s mind raced. He really didn’t want to dance with Freya. He came up with a plan. He’d guess a really high number and make sure he was nowhere near the real figure.
“Six,” said one boy.
King Olaf shook his head. “No.”
“Fourteen,” guessed another.
“Wrong.”
“None?” offered Knut.
King Olaf shuffled uneasily and gave a little laugh. “Haha. Don’t be silly.”
“Eight hundred and forty-seven!” cried Vulgar.
King Olaf pointed at him. “Yes!” he said. “Bang on. I’ve killed exactly eight hundred and forty-seven dragons!”
“Ooooh,” said the class, who were obviously impressed.
Vulgar’s eyes went wide with horror. “What? But… I mean…?”
“Congratulations, my boy,” boomed King Olaf.
Vulgar looked round and met Freya’s gaze. The princess smirked at him. “Well done… Your Highness.”
That afternoon, when school was over, Vulgar crawled beneath the tables. He was heading for the door, ready to make a run for it as soon as he was outside. He crept on. Almost there…
A pair of shoes stepped up to the end of the table and blocked his way. “Don’t think you can escape that easily,” Freya said. She ducked her head under the table. “Come out. Stop hiding.”
Vulgar plodded forward on his hands and knees. “I wasn’t hiding,” he said, standing up. “I… dropped a bogey.”
Freya’s fine features wrinkled in disgust. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s my favourite one. I’ve been keeping it for weeks.” He waved to Knut, who was lurking just outside the door. “Anyway, can’t stop, I have to catch up with Knut.”
“Oh no you don’t,” said Freya, catching him by the back of his tunic. “We have to rehearse our maypole dance.”
“Hooray!” cheered Vulgar, then he slapped his forehead. “Oh, wait a minute, I forgot. I can’t. I’ve got homework to do.”
“No, you don’t,” Freya snapped.
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m in your class, Vulgar. Remember?”
Vulgar’s shoulders sagged. “Oh yeah, so you are. Well then, I have to… have to…”
“Walk your dog,” whispered Knut. The whisper was so loud Freya heard every word.
“Yes!” said Vulgar. “I need to walk my dog. Such a shame. I was really looking forward to dancing with you, Freya.”
“Were you?” said Knut. “Oh, right. Well, I’ll take Grunt for a walk, then.”
Vulgar went pale. “No, Knut, wait!”
But Knut had already left. Vulgar turned to find Freya grinning at him. Vulgar thought fast. “I just remembered, I have to—”
“Nice try, Vulgar,” the princess said. She grabbed him by the arm and hauled him out of the school. “But I’m not falling for it. You’re dancing with me, and that’s final!”
They made their way towards the Great Hall. Freya skipped and hopped with excitement. Vulgar dragged out every last step, trailing his feet along the ground.
“Just wait until you see me dance. I move like a swan,” Freya boasted.
Vulgar frowned. “What, waddling around on your stumpy little legs?”
Freya punched him on the arm. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
They turned a corner that led on to the square. Vulgar groaned when he saw the Great Hall. It had been covered in colourful ribbons and bunches of flowers. It wasn’t likely to scare off an enemy army, unless they had hayfever.
“Come on,” Freya urged. “My dad and your mum are waiting for us inside.”
Vulgar shuffled on for a few more steps, then came to a halt. “Wait… did you say my mum? What’s she doing here?”
“Didn’t you know?” asked Freya. She smiled sweetly. “Your mum is going to help my dad demonstrate the maypole dance.”
Vulgar shuddered at the thought of his mum thudding around the hall with King Olaf. “Oh no!” he said, but Freya caught his arm and pulled him up the steps that led into the hall.
“Ah, here come our king and queen to rehearse their dance,” boomed King Olaf, as Vulgar and Freya entered. He winked. “Ready to see how the experts do it?”
“Yes, please!” cheered Freya.
“Do we have to?” groaned Vulgar, but his mum and King Olaf ignored him. They stood at opposite sides of a wooden pole that was positioned in the centre of the hall. Long pink and white ribbons hung down from the pole which was topped with flowers.
The maypole was shorter than Vulgar had imagined it would be. And thinner, too.
“Your silly maypole is more like a maytwig,” he whispered to Freya scornfully, who stuck her tongue out at him.
Harrumf gave him a dirty look. “None of your nonsense, boy. It’s plenty big enough!” And the elderly viking shuffled crossly to the back of the hall.
Helga and the king took hold of a ribbon each, then bowed to one another.
Harrumf set down his walking stick and picked up a large net with a long wooden handle.
“Ready, my queen?” asked King Olaf. Helga smiled and fluttered her eyelashes.
“Oh yes, my king, your queen is ready,” she said, and she gave a little giggle. Vulgar felt himself blush with embarassment.
And then the dancing started. Vulgar only knew it was dancing because they’d said so in advance. It was like no dancing he’d ever seen before.
They both thundered around the maypole like warring walruses, their bodies wobbling as they twirled and spun clumsily around and around. BOOM-BOOM-BOOM went their feet until the very hall began to shake.
From the corner of his eye, Vulgar saw Harrumf move. The old man shot forward with the net, catching a metal plate just as it shuddered off a shelf. He lay it on the floor, then lunged again as a set of antlers came toppling down off the wall.
“You are as fleet-footed as a reindeer, my queen!” cried Olaf, as he and Helga stomped faster and faster around the pole.
“And you are as graceful as a mighty elk, my king,” laughed Helga.
Vulgar went from red to green. “I think I’m going to be sick,” he mumbled. Helga did a little skip and Harrumf had to dive to catch an ornamental shield before it could smash against the floor.
After a few more steps, a final twirl, and one or two broken floorboards, Helga and King Olaf stopped dancing. They bowed to one another again, puffing and panting heavily, then turned to the children and grinned.
“There,” said Helga. “That’s how it’s done!”
At the back of the hall, Harrumf swapped the net for his walking stick and hobbled away, muttering under his breath.
“Shall we leave the youngsters to it?” suggested Olaf. He gallantly held out an arm and Helga linked her own arm through it. “Practise well. Remember – the whole village will be watching you tomorrow night.”
“Don’t remind me,” Vulgar sighed. He watched his mum and King Olaf skip out of the hall, then turned to Freya. “OK, they’re gone. Let’s make a run for it.”
“Ha!” Freya snapped, “I don’t think so. Grab a ribbon.”
Vulgar thought about arguing, but Freya was making a face that said arguing would be a silly idea. He took hold of a white ribbon and held it between one finger and thumb. “There. Happy?”
“Very. Now I hope you were paying attention to their dancing.”<
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Vulgar shook his head. “I had my eyes closed for most of it.”
Freya tutted. “Well, it’s lucky for you that I know what I’m doing. Now copy me and try not to fall over.”
The princess bowed. Vulgar hesitated, then he rolled his eyes and bowed in return. His helmet hit the maypole with a clonk. “Ow!”
Freya sighed. “This could be a long afternoon,” she said, then she started to dance. Her movements were smooth and graceful, her arms looping out, the ribbon fluttering in her hand.
Vulgar wasn’t quite so graceful. He hopped and clattered around the pole, the horns of his helmet tangling in the dangling ribbons.
“Be careful, or you’re going to pull the whole thing down,” Freya warned.
“Oh, wouldn’t that be a shame?” said Vulgar. He gave the maypole a nudge with his shoulder, but it didn’t budge. So he thudded into Freya, knocking them both to the ground.
“Do you work hard to be this useless, or does it just come naturally?” she said, pushing him away with a scowl. They got back up and she made him try again.
“Lift your leg,” Freya barked. “No, the other leg. Now spin around. Not that way! You’re like a three-legged moose with its head in a bucket. This is hopeless. Can’t you move any faster?”
Faster? thought Vulgar. I’ll show you faster!
He grabbed hold of another few ribbons and began to run around the maypole at top speed. He scrambled past Freya and the ribbons looped around her.
“Careful,” she warned. “You’re getting me tangled up!”
“That’s the idea,” Vulgar said, laughing. He ran faster still, grabbing another ribbon and wrapping it around Freya and the maypole.
Vulgar the Viking and a Midsummer Night's Scream Page 1