“Morning! Sleep well?”
Vulgar yawned. “Not really.” He looked around the kitchen. “What’s for breakfast?”
“Don’t you dare,” Helga warned. “This food is for the feast tonight. You’re not to touch any of it. Understood?”
Vulgar nodded, but then he spotted a plate of rock cakes cooling over on the table. There was another rumbling sound, and this time it really was his stomach. He waved goodbye to his mum and waited for her to turn away. The moment she did, he shot under the table and crawled forward until he was directly beneath the plate of rock cakes.
He glanced left and right. Everyone in the kitchen was too busy to notice him. He would only take one cake. Just a small one. There were dozens of them on that plate. It wasn’t like anyone would miss one little cake.
His hand shot up like a striking snake and snatched a rock cake from the plate. He gobbled it hungrily, even though it was still a little bit on the hot side. Vulgar’s stomach rumbled again.
Two cakes. He would only take two cakes. Three at the very most.
His hand reached up again, but this time someone caught it by the wrist. He yelped as he was pulled out from beneath the table. Princess Freya glared down at him, still holding his wrist.
“Break’s over! I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Come with me,” she said.
“Where to?” asked Vulgar. “And can I have another cake?”
“Outside. And no, you can’t.” Her grip tightened on Vulgar’s wrist. “You’re going to help me pick flowers.”
Vulgar tried to yank his arm away, but Freya held it tightly. “Pick flowers?” he gasped. “Vikings would rather die than pick flowers.”
“Let’s hope they don’t come back as ghosts, then, or you’d run away crying,” Freya said. She opened her eyes wide and made a spooky wooooooh sound.
Vulgar gritted his teeth. “Fine. I’ll come with you.”
Freya handed him a basket and together they headed out into the gardens at the back of the castle.
“Ugh,” he grimaced, as they stepped into the early morning sunshine. “What’s that stink?”
Freya breathed deeply. “It’s the smell of flowers, silly. Isn’t it beautiful?”
Vulgar pinched his nose and pretended to be sick on the grass. Freya tutted. “Stop messing around and help me pick some.”
The princess skipped across the garden, picking one or two stems from each flower bed. Vulgar found a long, thin stick sticking out of the soil. There was a tall sunflower tied to it, but Vulgar thought it was probably big enough to stand on its own now.
He untied the twine holding the flower to the stick. The sunflower immediately fell over. Vulgar pulled the stick out of the soil with a soft plop.
It whummed loudly when he swung it about. Brilliant, he thought, and he set off following Freya, whumming the sword as he went. He wondered how Knut was getting on. Wherever he was, it had to be more fun than this.
Vulgar stopped when he spotted a scarecrow. It leaned on a post near a vegetable patch, its arms held out at its sides. The scarecrow was bigger than he was. An angry face had been painted on to its sackcloth head. It would make a worthy opponent.
“Have some of this,” Vulgar cried, and the stick whummed through the air. It made a loud smack as it struck the scarecrow’s arm. Vulgar drew back his make-believe sword and growled. “Still standing, I see? Well, maybe you’d like some of this! And some of this! Or even some of this!”
Vulgar thwacked the scarecrow again and again, until lumps of stuffing and straw were flying all over the garden. Still the scarecrow refused to surrender.
“You’re a brave one, I’ll give you that,” Vulgar said. He was breathing heavily, tired from his attack. “But let’s see how you cope with this!”
He brought the stick down hard on the scarecrow’s legs. There was a crack from the wooden pole and the scarecrow began to topple forward.
“Back, foul ogre!” Vulgar cried, but it was no use. He gave a squeal as the scarecrow crashed down, pinning him to the ground. “Help!” he yelped.
“I told you to pick flowers,” Freya said, looming over him. She lifted the scarecrow away and Vulgar scrambled to his feet. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” Freya continued. “I picked enough for both of us.”
“Enough for what?”
“For these,” said Freya. She held out a crown she’d made by weaving flower stems together.
Vulgar snorted. “Ha! What poor sap is going to wear that?”
Freya started at him. Vulgar’s jaw dropped open.
“No. No way! I’m not wearing a crown made of flowers!” he gasped. “Dancing is bad enough.”
“It’s tradition,” Freya said. “The Midsummer King and Queen always wear flower crowns.”
“Not this year they don’t,” Vulgar insisted. “Anyway, I can’t. I’m allergic to flowers.” He faked a loud sneeze then jammed a finger up his nose and fished out a large green bogey. “See?”
“You’re disgusting,” Freya said, “but I don’t believe you.” She plonked the flowery crown on his head.
Vulgar ripped it off and threw it back at her. “I’m not wearing it.”
Freya put the crown back on his head. “Yes, you are.”
Vulgar tore it off again. “No, I’m not.”
Freya threw herself forward and slammed her shoulder into Vulgar’s stomach. They crashed down on to a bed of red flowers, flattening them all.
“You’re wearing the crown!” Freya cried. She grabbed for it, but Vulgar twisted away and rolled across the soil.
“Not! Not! Not!” Vulgar shouted, then he spluttered when Freya rammed a handful of leaves into his mouth.
Freya raised her legs and Vulgar was sent flying over her head. He landed with a splat, face down in the flower bed. The princess caught hold of his foot and bent it so his heel was touching his bum.
Vulgar gave a yelp. “OK, fine, fine!” he cried. “I’ll wear the stupid flower hat.”
“Promise,” said Freya.
“Promise!”
Freya hopped up, put the crowns back in her basket, then skipped back towards the castle. Vulgar trudged after her, limping slightly. He sighed. At least there was no way today could get any worse.
“You. Bath. Now,” said Vulgar’s mum when he hobbled into the kitchen.
Vulgar froze. He thought about turning and running, but he knew he couldn’t outrun Helga. He’d once seen her chase down an elk after it had chewed through the washing line and run away with her massive pants hooked over its antlers.
“But I had a bath,” Vulgar argued. “Last month. Remember? It had water in it and everything.”
“And now you need another one,” Helga said. “You’re filthy.”
Vulgar looked down at himself. His fight with Freya had left him covered in mud, grass and red flower petals.
“I look fine!”
“No, you don’t,” Helga said. She hoisted Vulgar up with one hand and marched in the direction of the duck pond in the back garden. “But you will soon.”
“You wouldn’t!” Vulgar gulped.
SPLASH!
“Oh,” he said, shivering in the cold water. “You would.”
The Midsummer’s Eve celebrations were in full swing when Vulgar arrived at the Great Hall. His skin had been scrubbed until it was bright pink, his hair had been brushed – even his clothes had been cleaned and dried. Helga had actually sat on them for a while to flatten out most of the creases.
Musicians were playing gentle melodies on flutes and horns. The whole village was gathered outside the Great Hall, tucking into finger foods and filling up jugs of mead from a big barrel. Vulgar couldn’t imagine any evil spirits being scared away by mini reindeer sausages and flute music.
He went in search of the bonfire. It took him a while because he’d been expecting to see a huge towering inferno spitting clouds of black smoke into the sky. Instead it was more like a small campfire. Vulgar sighed. Only in Blubber could they make someth
ing so brilliant into something so boring.
Knut was the only person standing by the fire. He looked just as disappointed as Vulgar.
“What happened?” Vulgar asked. “We gathered loads of wood.”
“The grown-ups said that this was big enough,” Knut explained. “They said the bonfire isn’t really the important bit anyway.”
“It's the most important bit!” Vulgar said. “Grown-ups have no idea.” He looked over at the buffet table, where the adults were chatting. They were gobbling whale-meat morsels and guzzling mead and not paying any attention to the bonfire. “We need to find more wood to build it up.”
Knut glanced around the square. “Where from? It’s too far to go back to the woods.”
“There must be something we can burn,” Vulgar said, scanning the party for something to use. “Hmm. The table’s wooden... but they’d notice if we burned that.” His eyes fell on a tall, thin log propped up against the side of a hut, a short distance away from the revellers. “There! That’s perfect. Help me carry it.”
The log was heavier than it looked. The villagers took no notice as the boys slowly dragged it over to the fire.
“Maybe we should ask permission first,” Knut said nervously.
“Why? We’re doing them a favour,” Vulgar said. “This pathetic little campfire wouldn’t even scare the tiniest pixie away.” Hooking his arms underneath the log, he said, “Ready?” Knut nodded, his face red with the effort of holding his end up. “OK, one… two… three…”
They rolled the log into the flames and the fire roared, forcing them to take a big jump backwards. The boys looked up at the blaze and grinned. “Now that’s more like it,” Vulgar said. “That won’t just scare evil spirits out of Blubber, it’ll scare them out of the whole country!”
A scream split the evening air around them. “My maypole! What have you done to my beautiful maypole?”
Vulgar recognised Freya’s voice. “Uh-oh.” He peered into the fire and noticed the strands of ribbon tied around the top of the burning log. “You know, I thought it looked a bit familiar,” he muttered.
This wasn’t good. Thinking fast, Vulgar ran and grabbed a big jug of mead and threw it towards the flames. In his panic, though, he missed and flung the jug’s contents into Freya’s face instead. The princess spluttered and gasped.
“Oops,” Vulgar said, giggling nervously. “Accident!”
Freya advanced menacingly, her blonde hair sticking to her wet face. Vulgar backed away through the crowd, trying to keep his distance. Freya was good at fighting. Angry Freya was unstoppable.
Vulgar backed up until he was trapped against the mead barrel. There were people on all sides. He had nowhere else to run!
With an angry cry, Freya shoved him backwards. He stumbled against the mead barrel. Boy and barrel both fell together. The mead glugged out over Vulgar, soaking him through for the second time that day.
Freya scowled down at him. “Oops,” she growled. “Accident.”
Now that they couldn’t refill their jugs of mead, the grown-ups finally noticed what was going on. And they didn’t look happy. As Vulgar wrung out his tunic, the grown-ups ran, shouting, to the bonfire. Harald tipped his jug of mead on the flames. Helga fanned at the fire with her skirts. But the bonfire continued to blaze.
“Mind yer backs, you lot. Blubber fire department comin’ through!” shouted Harrumf, hobbling past with a bucket of water. SPLOSH! The water sizzled on the flames, but still the inferno roared.
I’m soaking wet and I’ll probably be grounded until I’ve grown a beard, thought Vulgar, but at least I won’t have to dance around the maypole.
A hush fell over the crowd as they stood gazing at the leaping flames. Harrumf noisily cleared his throat. “It’s time for the traditional maypole dance, only we ain’t got a maypole no more on account of it bein’ set on fire.”
Freya burst into noisy sobs. Vulgar would have felt sorry for her if he hadn’t felt so relieved.
King Olaf stepped up and elbowed Harrumf out of the way. “What the steward means to say is that… um… our Midsummer King and Queen will dance around the fire instead this year.”
The crowd cheered. Vulgar suddenly perked up. Dancing around a bonfire was something a proper Viking would do!
“And we can all join in!”
The crowd cheered a second time, Vulgar hollering loudest of all. But as he started to jig with excitement, he felt a firm hand clamp down on his shoulder.
“Get out of those wet clothes or you’ll catch your death of cold,” Helga told him. Vulgar knew there was no use arguing with his mother – she could wrestle him out of his tunic with one hand tied behind her back. He wriggled out of his sodden clothes and heard someone giggle.
“I see Denmark, I see France, I see Vulgar’s underpants,” Freya sang as she adjusted her soggy flower crown.
Vulgar blushed as he stood there in his pants. Luckily the bonfire was still roaring, and the heat was keeping him toasty and warm.
The musicians struck up a new tune. This one was faster and louder with a thudding drumbeat. The villagers began to dance around the fire. Tapping his toes to the rhythm, Vulgar saw his mum twirling around it, spinning his dad above her head. His dad whummed just like Vulgar’s stick had done. King Olaf whirled around the bonfire merrily, his enormous belly bobbing up and down as he danced.
The music got faster still, and now even Harrumf couldn’t resist the beat. The old man shuffled around the fire, beating his walking stick in time to the music.
“Join in, King Vulgar,” Freya shouted as she skipped past. Vulgar hopped from foot to foot, then fell into step behind Freya. Round and round they danced, faster and faster, like Viking warriors celebrating a victory. Vulgar whooped wildly, good and loud to scare away those pesky evil spirits.
All night long, the villagers cheered and stomped and hollered and clapped. It was the best Midsummer’s Eve ever, and if the elves and ogres and trolls had any sense, Vulgar thought, they would stay far away from the village of Blubber!
LOOK OUT FOR MORE
STORIES OF MAYHEM
AND CHAOS IN
VULGAR THE VIKING
AND THE ROCK CAKE RAIDERS
VULGAR THE VIKING
AND THE GREAT GULP GAMES
VULGAR THE VIKING
AND THE SPOOKY SCHOOL TRIP
VULGAR THE VIKING
AND THE TERRIBLE TALENT SHOW
Copyright
With special thanks to Barry Hutchison
VULGAR THE VIKING AND A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S SCREAM
First published in the UK in 2013 by Nosy Crow Ltd
The Crow’s Nest, 10a Lant Street
London, SE1 1QR, UK
This ebook edition first published 2013
Nosy Crow and associated logos are trademarks and / or registered trademarks of Nosy Crow Ltd
Text copyright © Hothouse Fiction, 2013
Illustrations copyright © Sarah Horne, 2013
The right of Hothouse Fiction and Sarah Horne to be identified as the author and illustrator respectively of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988
All rights reserved
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author's imagination or are used fictiously. Any resemblence to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978 0 85763 204 3
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