Time to Remember

by Susan Firman

CHAPTER 7

  Næmr’s fate had been decided. The Norns of Asgard had sent a sign. However, it was not the sign that Bodvarr welcomed. He was filled with anger when it became known that this woman was to be treated with respect and allowed to live within the village as a free-woman until a warrior worthy of such prize could be found to make her his bride.

  Næmr did not really understand the reasons for her privileged position but she was glad that her ordeal was over. She was rather surprised to learn that priests and priestesses lived as ordinary citizens within the village, only being called upon to speak with the gods in times of great importance. The Elders felt honoured that one of the beings from a world above had been sent down to Midgard to live an ordinary life within such an ordinary settlement. Yalda was pleased that Næmr was to remain with her now that the dark young stranger had been declared a daughter of Odin. Heggar was overjoyed and showed how happy she was that Næmr had been saved. She squealed with delight as soon as Næmr walked towards the house, then rushed forwards and threw her arms around her. Heggar was like that. Innocently impulsive and that’s another reason why Yalda had taken to the girl.

  For the rest of that day, Heggar laughed and sang to herself as she went about her daily duties.

  The young woman from Asgard had so much to learn about the ways of the people who lived between the world of the gods and the world of the giants. It was not long before the news of her arrival had begun to spread throughout the settlement and more and more of the villagers went out of their way to pass close by to Yalda’s house so that they could stare and wonder at the dark godlike woman. The villagers felt sure, that given time, Odin also, in one of his many guises, would one day ride into their lives upon his wonderful eight-legged steed, Sleipnir, and share some of his wisdom and knowledge with them so that their warriors, alone, would know the sweetness of victory and their village would become powerful and rich. Until that important day, it was imperative that this visitor should share in human experiences as they prepared themselves for that ultimate sacrifice: to do battle, to die an honourable death, and be carried to Valhalla to serve with their gods until the final battle, at Ragnarok.

  From now on they knew that fortune would be on their side. For many weeks, the excitement of expectation lifted the spirits of even those who were usually quite pessimistic. Yalda treated the young woman like a special daughter, for she felt honoured that she had been given the opportunity to share her house with such a special being from the highest realm of all the worlds. Næmr was lavished with fine clothes and fancy beads to adorn her neck. She pleaded with Yalda for the return of the small bone ornament that she had been wearing when she entered the human world. Who could deny her that? She was pleased when the Elders granted her request. Once more that ornament took pride of place around her neck.

  Heggar was quick to notice the strange shaped object. One morning, as she stood behind Næmr and plaited her thick, black, shoulder length hair, she found the courage to satisfy her insatiable curiosity.

  “What’s that thing you always keep around your neck, Næmr?” She bent forwards so that her small left hand could almost touch the object. “That dragon thing. Why’s it so white?”

  “It’s from bone, Heggar.”

  Næmr put her hand around the pendant. It was her only link with any of those memories that seemed to come and go.

  “From dragon bone? Is it a dragon’s bone, Næmr?”

  “No. It’s like a lizard. I call it, I call it …” The word would not come, no matter how hard she tried to think about it. “Well, maybe it is like . . . a dragon.”

  Heggar shuddered. She did not like dragons, any dragon, for they reminded her of the dragon boats that lay in the harbour and she had bad memories of those.

  “It’s all right, Heggar,” laughed Næmr. “Mine’s a good kind of dragon . . . one that protects.”

  “Like the hammer of Thor that every free person wears?”

  “I guess so. Everyone has something that is supposed to bring good luck.”

  The girl was curious. Now that her curiosity had been aroused, she could not contain herself and asked question after question in quick succession.

  “Did Odin make it specially for you?”

  “I think he must have, Heggar. The Elders told me so.”

  “Did you have it when you came?”

  “I’m told so.”

  “What is Odin . . . ?”

  Heggar had not seen her mistress come in.

  “Heggar! You should not ask such questions!”

  Yalda’s voice was loud and angry. As soon as Yalda spoke, the girl pulled one of her sad faces but Yalda knew the girl too well to know she would remain silent for long. As soon as Yalda returned to her loom Heggar leaned in closer and whispered, hoping any sound of her voice would not reach Yalda’s ears.

  “What did you call it?” she asked.

  Næmr was about to tell her when Yalda’s voice interrupted once more from the rear of the room.

  “It’s Næmr’s sacred dragon! It’s her guardian and has magical powers to protect her while she lives with us on Midgard.”

  “That chain, my Lady? Who made the . . ?”

  Yalda got up from her loom. She needed some more fibre to weave anyway.

  “The chain, it’s too fine to have been crafted by human hands. Such workmanship could have only been created by the hand of a god.”

  Heggar drew in a deep breath.

  “It’s so beautiful!”

  The mistress of the household ignored the servant girl and spoke directly to Næmr.

  “We’re so fortunate to have you here. I’m so lucky to have been chosen as the one to care for you, Næmr.” She took some carded wool from the basket and spoke in harsher tones to her slave girl. “Heggar, hurry up and finish with Næmr’s hair. Fiddling around and gossiping will not get the chores done today.”

  She watched as Heggar tied Næmr’s hair with the braid ribbon and handed her the small, cream-coloured bonnet to cover her head. Heggar began to tidy up around her but it was only a pretence, for as soon as Yalda’s back was turned, the girl whispered so quietly that even Næmr could hardly hear.

  “What are those strange markings on the other side of your guardian dragon?”

  “Writing.”

  “They’re not like the sacred runes that I’ve seen on the rocks,” whispered Heggar.

  She liked to keep her knowledge of the sacred rune stones secret, for in reality, a slave should not have been anywhere near them. But Heggar could not contain her curiosity and the questions overflowed from her like the tumbling waters that cascaded down the steep rocky cliffs.

  “No?”

  “No. They’re different.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Næmr. “I’m not sure what it means. Maybe a name, or something.”

  “That one’s like a roof. Maybe it’s Odin’s house. Do you think it’s that?”

  “Maybe, Heggar.”

  “Heggar! Stop that at once! Remember your place in this house!” Yalda’s ears had finally picked up some of the conversation. “Magic symbols are of no concern to you!”

  Heggar looked sullen and pretended to nibble her fingernails. She knew she should not have asked those questions but when you’re young and want to know everything about the world . . .

  Næmr felt sorry for the girl. She winked at her without Yalda seeing and just as Heggar started to open her mouth to say something, she motioned her to be quiet.

  “It’s all right, Yalda. I don’t mind.”

  Yalda was resolute with her rules.

  “Heggar should not keep questioning you the way she does. There are things she should not know. Her place is as a servant, an ambatt.”

  Næmr turned the pendant over and looked at the writings but they meant nothing to her, yet she knew that she should be able to interpret the strange symbols. Maybe, given time, when the Norns of Asgard had decided, she would be able to remember. In the meantime, she found the situation most fr
ustrating. Surely, in her life before, she must have had that ability. And now? How long must she wait, wait for the memory of it to return?

  After the Spring planting had been completed, Yalda decided to take Næmr to see some of the sheep being stripped of their wool before the shepherd thralls came for them and took them to higher grazing not far from where the forest began.

  “Two of my thralls will stay with the sheep. They’ll have to keep a close watch out for wolves which come out of the forests to take the lambs. Last season I lost my best thrall. Killed by wolves the first night they arrived. Luckily, the sheep were saved.”

  “Are there many wolves up there?”

  The thought of them made Næmr shudder for she had already heard their mournful howls echoing around the hills on a clear moonlit night.

  “There are always wolves. They live deep in the forests. We hardly ever catch sight of any but they seem to know when we take our sheep out of the pens. They’re especially bold when the sheep are ready to drop their lambs. That’s when the thralls and our dogs have to be most careful.”

  “Can’t you find grass for them closer to the village?”

  “No. My sheep need plenty of fresh grass if they’re to provide for their lambs. So, what else can I do? As it is, I allow mine to give birth in the pens where they’re safer but after that, they must be taken up to the higher pastures.”

  As it was, Yalda did not have many sheep. She had to take what care she could to make sure they increased in number. Her small, goat-like sheep had given birth to their lambs a week ago. They were now standing with their tiny lambs in the small enclosure near the side of her house waiting for the wool to be taken off their backs. In that way, the ewes would more readily seek shelter for their young and not stand out in the middle of the pasture where their babies would be more vulnerable to wolf attacks.

  Næmr, somehow, imagined a vast number of animals, white and heavy with thick, curly wool, twins, or even small triplet lambs frolicking around their mother’s feet. Instead, what she saw were eight small, shaggy coated goat-like creatures with goat-like horns and one small, dark-coloured hungry baby to feed.

  “Goats?” she gasped when she saw them. “But didn’t you say sheep?”

  She was puzzled by the animals penned near the house.

  “Sheep?” Yalda voiced her own surprise. “These are my sheep!”

  Yalda thought, perhaps, the young goddess had never been so close to sheep before.

  Næmr had a vague notion that she’d seen something like this before: sheep penned, then grabbed, sheep being shorn, the fleece being tossed on a bench top, together with the strong smell of body sweat, shouting and noise that accompanied strenuous activity. She remembered a strong smell of lanolin grease; the rich smell of cut wool and the the taste of stew, sausages and bread that somehow seemed to mix together somewhere deep in her mind. She could almost hear the constant deep, throaty calls of mothers and the higher plaintive bleats of the lambs as each family found each other in the turmoil of an upset flock. She thought for a moment that she could hear music but the instant she seemed to hear it, it faded away and stopped.

  “Will the thralls cut the wool off with - ?”

  She groped vainly for a word that would not come. She mimed the shears across the fleece. Yalda thought her actions amusing and burst out laughing at the very idea.

  “Nobody cuts the wool off, Næmr. It’s just rolled off. Look, that thrall’s ready. He’s caught his sheep.”

  The ewe bleated in indignation as the thrall grabbed her by the horn and with a deft twist, dumped the complaining sheep on to her back. In the pen, her small lamb called plaintively, zig-zagging up and down the side of the pen.

  “Wool bales!”

  The words popped out like a cork from a bottle. Yalda shook her head. She did not understand. She gave Næmr such a strange look that the young woman concluded that such things as ‘wool bales’ had no place with sheep in this village.

  Yalda and Næmr watched as the thralls grabbed each ewe in turn. While one held the animal still, nimble fingers of the other began working quickly and expertly from head to tail peeling back the fleece and lifting it as one lifts turf for a lawn. The smells, the bleatings and the industry of it all had a familiarity and the young goddess concluded that she must have experienced something quite similar before. But those memories of her existence before she was found on Jotenfjell, would not return. She found that to actively try to attempt recollection brought on a headache that even Yalda’s medicines could not cure. If only things would all come back to her! If only she could remember, then these strange words, these intermittent glimpses would be more meaningful.

  “Come, Næmr!” Yalda gathered up one of the fleece bundles. “Get that one over there, too. That’s a good one. Bring it here. I’ll take these.”

  Næmr gathered up the fleece in her arms and followed Yalda back into the house. She handed it over for Yalda to roll up and store away until there was time to spin the yarn and weave it on her loom.

  Once the activity of planting, herb and wool gathering had begun to die down, a new anticipation and excitement filled the air. Everyone became involved carrying food and supplies down to the water’s edge where a number of small boats were being repaired. In the shallows of the fjord, lay two wooden boats, the larger of the two being some twenty meters in length. Held in place, each threaded through a small, round hole each side of the hull, were long oars, their flattened ends stationary upon the smooth surface of the cold virescent water. Næmr couldn’t take her eyes off the larger craft with its high curved stern that arched like a snake away from her and its upright prow thrusting aggressively upwards, like an insolent fist. Propped against the smooth sided hull, stood the figurehead, a gigantic snarling dragon head, its eyes wide in anger, its mouth open in defiance.

  A few paces in front of the two vessels, a wooden platform had been erected, and around its base lay weapons, shining metal swords that sparkled like the sea, and circular shields that covered the grass in a rainbow of coloured wood. Yalda put down the herbal medicines she had made from the plants that had been gathered by her a few days previously, and stood back looking at the great piles of food that had been donated for the forthcoming voyage. She looked on as the cargo was being loaded into the bottom of the waiting vessels.

  Næmr whispered to Yalda while she kept her eyes fixed on the majestic boats. They lay silent and unmoving, glued to the thin edge where the land and the water met.

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s the time for the raids. Our warriors will be going away any day to find treasure and capture more slaves.”

  Næmr thought of Heggar and how she had been wrenched away from her own village and how she had witnessed the brutal fighting and final death of most of her family and how she had been brought to this village at the end of the long fingered fjord. She now understood why Heggar felt fear for the fearsome dragon boats and their crews.

  “Why is the dragon head beside the boat and not on the prow?” she whispered to Yalda.

  Yalda smiled at the young woman’s innocence.

  “It would bring ill-fortune if it was put up here,” she said. “Later, when they find their quarry and the warriors are ready for battle, they will put it up on the prow spike. Then, the dragon boats will bring fear and terror into the hearts of our enemies and turn them into cowards.”

  Næmr could not take her eyes away from the menacing monster that snarled in her direction; its lips drawn back, its eyes wildly defiant. And as she looked deep into its soul, something awoke deep within her consciousness.

  “Toia mai te waka, e tama ma!”

  One of the freemen, who happened to be nearby, paused in his work and called out.

  “Listen, the young goddess speaks with her gods!”

  “Quiet, man! We don’t want everyone to stop working. There’s still too much to do. Get those thralls over there to start packing the crates.”

  “But, I’
ve never heard such words before. They’re all strange to my ears.”

  “Then, I say you heard wrong!” The man in charge snapped out his words like the crack of a whip. “I heard what was said. You were mistaken. Now, move!”

  The man looked at Næmr, a little pause and then a much longer one, and having satisfied himself that nothing extraordinary was about to take place, he turned away and walked towards the busy thralls.

  It had been a much longer walk down to the water’s edge than usual, for as they had tried to pass through the village, people had reached out their hands to touch Næmr’s long skirt or had wanted to stroke her dark hair. It was as if they all knew that the young woman had, indeed, come from the gods and somehow their own lives would be charmed by the connection.

  Yalda’s next took Næmr to see Vestlasa, the priestess, who was to bless the vessels before their journey in five days time. It was important that the young goddess had time to observe the preparations and to observe the care they took to ensure success would be theirs.

  Næmr was sure she had seen war boats very similar to these before. A picture of paddles dipping and rising, water falling like small waterfalls from their cutting edge; proud prows looming out of an early, morning mist thrust itself into her consciousness. The snarling dragon-head on the ground grinned at her but its wild eyes revealed nothing. It had her in its spell and she could not avert her gaze.

  Suddenly, Yalda touched her. The spell broke and Næmr was brought back to the present.

  “The boats . . . where do they to go?” she asked aloud.

  It was a man’s voice that gave the answer.

  “The drakkar and those there.”The man pointed to a few of the boats which were sleeping at their moorings. “Those are the ones that sail far away, down the fjord and well beyond our shore. They are the only ones we send on the raids.”

  Næmr spun round to face a tall, handsome warrior who had come up behind her. He was strong and handsome. His ivory, blond hair fell like silk, reaching down his neck until it reached two broad, muscular shoulders. He had tied a band around his head to stop his hair from falling across his face whenever he bent over. She noticed his tunic was deep blue, like the sea and his long, red leggings which were bound closely around his calves, were patterned by thin strips of dark brown leather thongs. Over his tunic he wore a jerkin of chain-mail that shone like dragon scales in the morning sun. His two silver wrist bands flashed like comets as he raised his arm and, without a word, directed one of the freemen to move further away from him. He was a man who was used to being obeyed.

  A golden horn and several sharp daggers hung from his richly jewelled studded waist belt. Næmr noticed that he was the owner of a double-edged sword with a hilt, inlaid with both silver and gold and decorated with runes and symbols. He was the finest warrior she had ever seen.

  For a while she could not speak. She had never noticed such a handsome young man in the village before. It was clear by the lavishness of his clothing that he was someone of importance. Her heart beat strongly within her breast and she could feel a flush of excitement race through her veins. She smiled at him and then dropped her eyes. She could feel his eyes penetrate her body. It made her feel weak and vulnerable but this time she did not mind. She stood silent and demure, her heartbeat racing with excitement while her mind remained riveted as she could think of nothing but the closeness of the warrior before her. Eventually, she raised her deep, dark eyes, and discovered that she could still speak.

  “They’re beautiful boats.”

  She felt she had said the obvious and felt awkward.

  “They are.”

  His voice was young and smooth. The sound of it made her tremble inside and she felt as if her legs were going to collapse under her.

  “Will you be going?”

  She had managed to find her voice again but her words came out very shaky.

  “Of course!” He smiled with amusement at her innocence. “My men. My boat. And me.”

  “Why are you going?”

  The answer she expected did not come.

  “To defy the sea,” he replied. His face was full of smiles, so many smiles that she hardly heard his words. “We go to experience the thrill of battle . . . to find treasure, maybe meet a glorious death in battle, if our gods so desire.”

  The mention of death took her aback and she let out a small startled gasp.

  “Why such glory - in death? Why go looking for death? Isn’t life the better option?”

  He laughed, a perfect genuine laugh. Even his teeth were perfect; even and white.

  “Life’s for living and . . . ” He paused and leaned slightly towards her so that his face was closer to hers. He looked so deep in her eyes she thought her eyeballs would burn up from the intensity of his look. “ . . .and loving.” He took full note of her reaction as he hung on his last word. Then, he straightened up again. “Only in death can a warrior gain his honour! It’s his right to enter Valhalla. He can only do that through death in battle.”

  There was a period of silence as she wrestled with herself, feeling that deep down she could not condone such actions. She felt compelled to speak.

  “To throw your life away?” she asked with dismay.

  “No, not at all. You, a goddess, should know that. To enter the world beyond ours will make us immortal.”

  “But your family?”

  “Of course my family’s important to me. I don’t deny that but they also realise that sacrifice is one of the greatest thing a mortal can offer the gods. We’ve all been taught that there are rewards for those taken in battle.”

  “But to leave your wife and children?”

  She thought he was older than many of the young married men she had seen around the village. Surely, he would have been married by now.

  “I have neither . . . as yet. The way we warriors live our lives . . .” Her warrior threw back his head and laughed heartily. “When I’m ready, I’ll look for a wife. Then I’ll be prepared to make my resting place on Midgard. Until then, I do my family honour, especially when I bring back treasure or slaves.”

  Næmr thought of Heggar and of the sister she would never grow to know.

  “Don’t you think how others suffer because of your raids? Is it right that they should be made your slaves?”

  He was pragmatic with his reply.

  “If we didn’t go on our raids, others would come for us. The laws of nature are our laws as well.”

  She felt herself caught between two opposing ideas: the right for all people to live their lives in peace and harmony and the realisation that it is the aggressive side of nature that pushes forward and achieves. Yet, there was something deep down and primitive in her that allowed her to understand the cruelty that was implied. Then how could she hope to empathise with those who became the victim? Poor Heggar. What the child must have gone through when those wild and fearless men attacked her village?

  “But why does it have to be like that?”

  “It’s the way things are! On Midgard we must obey the wishes of the gods. Odin gave his eye for wisdom we cannot hope to understand. Ours is not to question but to obey.” Even though his words had told of violent things, she found his voice soothing and his manner had a gentleness she had not expected. “It’s the way life is in the village. And others, too . . . all along the coast and as far as one can go.”

  He had never talked with any woman as he was conversing now. He was finding this dark-haired goddess fascinating and was flattered that he held her attention. It was strange. Even though it was understood that only the fairest was considered to be beautiful, he was finding that this young woman, with her golden-bronzed colouring and deep dark eyes, was hauntingly attractive. A special one; one of a kind, and he became determined to make her, his.

  “Then, you will be gone for . . . ?”

  “Many months. It’s the time when the thrill of the raid races through us. To know the exhilaration of battle is to know real excitement. When we r
eturn and when you see such treasures that are unloaded from the boats, then you’ll understand. The village will flourish again and life will be worth living.” He stepped back and looked her up and down with a glint in his eye. “And when we return, what should I have brought back for you? A golden chalice sparkling with the stones of beauty found in far off lands? A pretty brooch, set in silver, to adorn your dress? A necklace band to for your neck?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come, all women desire pretty things. I also think a goddess would be the same.”

  “I really wouldn’t know what to ask for. Really!”

  “And I swear I’ll not return ‘til I’ve found something for you. Come, surely, there is something you desire!”

  Næmr was speechless again. His offer had taken her by surprise, for she well understood that this was not light words of flirt but a proposal that his intentions were sincere. She found it most overwhelming and turned to Yalda for support. But this time Yalda was silent for it was not her place to intervene.

  The young man waited for her reply. His hand held the hilt of his sword. He was prepared to wait.

  “I . . .I can’t think . . . of anything.” She was hesitant with her answer. Perhaps, it might be more polite to ask for the safe return of his vessel, first, she thought. “Promise to return,” she said finally.

  He laughed heartily again. He found her answer most amusing.

  “Of course!” He leaned towards her and spoke so that only she would hear. “I know. I’ll bring you back a brooch with shining stones to go with your eyes, deep dark stones that are fathomless like the very waters we have to cross. I know the kind. I’ve seen them but once. And when I return you could wear it every day and . . . ”

  The young man was about to say something else, when he was approached by another warrior who had been checking the loading of the boats. His spirits had been lifted by her acceptance of his promised gift.

  “Until I return. My Ladies.”

  He bowed.

  After taking his leave of both Næmr and her guardian, he walked away towards the largest boat that lay tethered at he edge of the water.

  Næmr stood watching the well-muscled warrior who had made her heart flutter. She could feel the the burning of passion in her cheeks and the sensation of a prickling flush that crept down her neck.

  “Gosh! Who was that?”

  Such interest had not escaped Yalda. She was pleased that Næmr had caught the eye of such a noble man and found him pleasing.

  “His name’s Halldorr-Arn, a man worthy to be as an eagle. He’s the son of one of the most powerful jarls of the village. He does his family proud. A very brave warrior. His family owns much of the forest land to the east and several of the larger farms that lie between here and the village. Oh, Næmr, I’m so pleased for you. You do find him to your liking, don’t you?”

  Næmr blushed again and pretended that her interest in the young warrior had only been superficial.

  “I was curious about the boats. That’s why we came here in the first place, wasn’t it, Yalda?”

  “So you say. But any woman would be proud to have him as her husband.”

  “Oh, I have no desire for that! Not yet.”

  Yalda was not convinced but she kept further thoughts to herself. She left Næmr standing alone for a while. But Yalda did not go very far away and kept her eye trained on the girl. Yes, this Halldorr had certainly taken her breath away and captured her interest. The way Næmr had admired his strong muscular body had not escaped Yalda’s keen eyes. Yes, Yalda felt satisfied in herself that the two would make a very handsome match. She would have to put the idea to the Council.

  “Come, now, Næmr. It’s time for us to go.” Yalda picked up her empty basket and sat it upon her hip like a mother carrying her child. “Are you coming?”

  “Can I stay a little longer, Yalda?” Næmr pleaded. “May I stay, alone?”

  “I suppose you’ll be safe enough on your own. It’s not far back to the village and there are plenty of people still coming and going. I’ll send a thrall back, just in case. Don’t stay too long. Just a little while.”

  It was the first time Yalda had agreed for Næmr to leave the house unattended. She was uneasy about allowing it so the quicker she could get back to her house, the quicker she could send a thrall to watch over the young woman.

  Now, standing alone, Næmras watched Yalda take the right-hand turn in the pathway that led back to the village. For once she had the feeling of freedom yet she knew it would only be for a fleeting moment. It was a great feeling and she decided to walk a little further along the shoreline, just a little way on her own before turning back towards the boats and the people.

  Low scrubby bushes grew almost down to the water’s edge so that she was forced to follow a narrow trail between them and the water. She never noticed the branches of one of the bushes rustle and quiver. She never noticed the dark shape concealed behind its leaves. Suddenly, something grabbed her by the arm, and pulled.

  “Ha! I have you, now! Ensnared like a helpless bird!”

  Immediately she recognised the deep, booming voice of Bodvarr moments before she found herself looking into his gloating face. He pulled her roughly towards himself.

  “Let me go! Let me go!”

  She screamed at him and vainly tried to wriggle free but his grip was far too strong. Bodvarr lowered his face like a bull and fixed her firmly in front of his eyes, close enough for her to only see a row of discoloured teeth gleaming between his moustache and beard. She could feel his hot breath as he sneered a laugh, pulling his top lip well back like that of a snarling wolf.

  “One day. One day. Could this be the day?” She desperately turned her head as far as possible away from his hairy face but he used his other hand to prize it back to where it had been. “Don’t you look away from me! Ever!”

  Næmr felt any strength of resistance fade as the dull nausea in her stomach rose up into her throat. She tried to speak but couldn’t; her throat tendons remained taught and tight. Bodvarr squeezed her neck so that no breath could escape past his vice-like grip. She felt her consciousness ebbing away and realised that within a very short time her body would slump limply on the ground before him.

  “Bodvarr!” The giant of a man released his hold immediately. The tip of a sword was touching the back of his neck. He knew it was a sword for he had felt its cold, hard metal against his body many times. “Does the Council hear of this? Or should I slay you, now?”

  Næmr knew the voice to be Halldorr’s. The moment Bodvarr released his grip, Halldorr lowered his sword, sufficient enough to allow Bodvarr to turn round but not to allow him to draw his own. Bodvarrl laughed apologetically and held both his arms upwards each side of his head.

  “A little joke, Halldorr, that’s all. I only wanted to show her that walking on one’s own can be dangerous. If one of the thralls had followed her. See, I meant her no harm!”

  Bodvarr backed away, laughing his false laugh until he was out of reach of Halldorr’s intimidating sword. He then turned and disappeared in among the bushes as quickly and as quietly as he had appeared.

  Halldorr re-sheathed his sword and held out his hand to the young woman.

  “I think you need protection from men like him. Bodvarr’s rough and cruel. He treats all women with contempt. You need to be aware of him and any of his warrior friends. ”

  “Thank you,” replied Næmr. “I thought you were busy organising the boats. I never thought that . . . ”

  “. . . that I didn’t notice you walking away on your own?” She secretly smiled at the ground for she did not wish him to see the blush that had coloured her cheeks. “Come, let me walk you back to the boats. One of Mistress Yalda’s thralls was looking for you. He was sent to take you home.”

  During the next few days, Halldorr found several excuses to pay Yalda’s little house a visit. He brought gifts from his own lands, he said to help the women with their summer provisions. He
had said the gifts came from the jarl, his father, but it did not take Yalda long to work out that the young man was really making excuses to meet and talk to Næmr. Heggar was given strict instructions to keep out of the way. It would not be politic, for such a person in Halldorr’s position, to see the freedom Yalda allowed the girl. To most of the jarls, slaves were the bottom strata of society: stupid, unrefined and tolerated only because of their usefulness in performing the most menial of tasks. Yalda had found Heggar to be none of these things; she was a willing and rapid learner, and although a bit of a babbler, as many young girls were, Yalda was certain that Heggar would get better. In time, maybe, Heggar would be able to buy back her freedom and set up a household of her own, a privilege given if the slave proved their worth. Until then, Heggar must be kept out of any mischief and kept well away from Halldorr and any attention he paid Næmr.

  Yalda made it her duty to be around whenever the young man called, for as long as someone was present, Næmr’s reputation would not be open to question. Besides, there was still that shameful experience with Bodvarr on the mountain which continued to upset Næmr from time to time. It would be some time before that wound would heal, and as it was, Yalda now felt a strong maternal responsibility towards the young woman who had entered her life. After all, had she not been entrusted by the Council to look after her until she had recalled all her previous knowledge? It was a task not to be flippantly treated.

  On the fourth day, the handsome young warrior called in at the house much earlier than before. He had brought several of his own slaves with him and two of his finest horses, so Yalda knew he had something else in mind other than sit and talk to to them both. She noticed the way Næmr’s eyes would light up as she listened to dangerous exploits in far-off lands, or whenever he described the perilous sea voyages of drakkar and crew as they encountered strange and frightening monsters that lived beneath the waves. But this time, he did not sit down but remained, leaning against the door-frame, as a wistful smile played around his lips.

  “Would the Lady Næmr like to come with me around the western edge of the fjord?” he asked, indicating that he had come well prepared to make such a journey through fields and forested areas owned by his father, the jarl. He always addressed her as ‘Lady -’ or ‘my Lady’ and Næmr was flattered by his refinement. She was only too pleased to tear herself away from the sewing Yalda had given her to do. The close work with needle and thread was becoming too difficult for Yalda with her bent fingers and weakened eyes.

  Næmr quickly put the small metal needle aside and laid the needlework in one of the caskets that held the woven cloth which Yalda had prepared the previous winter.

  “Can I? Is it permitted, Yalda?”

  This man did not bring terror into her heart like Bodvarr did. She felt safe and relaxed in his company. His eyes laughed with hers, his body moved in time with her own rhythms and all the fear of her past experiences was put out of her mind. She closed the heavy wooden lid of the casket.

  “Normally I would have to come with you,” said Yalda. “But I see that proper arrangements have been made.”

  She had noticed the small group waiting outside. She was pleased to see several mature ambatt women who would definitely ensure Næmr’s honour would be quite safe.

  “Everything’s ready,” said Halldorr. “I’ve brought along some of my father’s slaves to accompany us. These women have served us for many years. I’d trust them with my life. Don’t worry, Mistress Yalda. I’ll see no harm comes to my Lady. She’ll be safe with me.”

  Yalda walked over to where the slaves were standing with the flaxen-coloured ponies. There were two women and three younger males. She made a mental note of the exhilarated look on Næmr’s face and glint of pleasure that was in her eyes. There was a sparkle of life she had not noticed before. It would do the young woman good to be taken out into the countryside, for the outing might help restore more of her lost memories and any secret knowledge, known only to the gods.

  “I have no objections, my lord. I know that your intentions are good. I’m certain the Council would approve.” Yalda smiled at him in a knowing way, for she and the old jarl had already had words about the relationship that seemed to be developing between his son and the young dark-haired woman. She turned and spoke to Næmr. “Go, Næmr. Everything’ll be fine. We’ll manage. I’ll get one of the farm thralls to fetch water today.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “I am.”

  Yalda patted the inquisitive nose of the pony that was nuzzling her, hoping for a tit-bit of something to eat.

  Halldorr tried to help Næmr up on to the soft sheepskin rug that had been secured to the back of the pony. He was amused when she gathered the front of her long skirt under her and swung her right leg across the pony’s wither to sit astride the animal exactly as the Valkyries rode their galloping steeds across the skies to collect the souls of fallen battle heroes. But then, this dark skinned female was not like any woman he had ever met before. He knew she was special and for that reason alone, he was prepared to accept whatever she did.

  They rode together for several hours, the young woman and the jarl side by side on their small golden horses with the long, flowing cream manes. The five thralls walked behind, the three men carrying baskets in their arms and the two women, each with a woollen blanket draped around their shoulders like a heavy shawl. The valley was ablaze in a tapestry of colour, and a rich fragrance filled the air. Wild flowers grew interspersed among the long meadow grasses that turned the hillsides into a mantel of green. Hugging all sides of the valley were the rounded tops of craggy hills and behind those, the dark weather-beaten peaks of the mountains. Closest of all was Jotenfjell, the sacred mountain, where the bones of the unwanted had been uncovered by the melting snows. It’s mood changed with the seasons as it stood like a sentry, guarding life and death of the people who lived near its base.

  For once, its dreadful countenance did not bother Næmr. She was determined to enjoy the warm, early-summer day, to be able to ride along the edges of cultivated fields, under the shade of oaks and birch and past pine forests that dipped their dark green branches over the eastern hills.

  He reined in his pony a little to slow down its pace and turned from his waist to face her.

  “You do look happy today,” commented her fair-haired warrior.

  “I am!” She exclaimed. “It’s so wonderful to be out in the country.” She halted her pony and looked around. “I never realised things around here could be so beautiful . . . ”

  Halldorr leaned forwards across the mane of his horse. His blue eyes sparkled with interest as he called to her.

  “Don’t you find the countryside wonderful?” he asked. “Beautiful on a day like this.” Then he added with a laugh, “Like you.”

  Her cheeks reddened. Secretly, she could feel the sides of her neck burn and her breasts tingle. She lowered her eyes as she imagined his penetrating gaze unclothe her body yet she enjoyed his flattery. It made her feel womanly and wanted; human again.

  “I’d always imagined the land cold with snow,” she said.

  “For most of the year, that is so,” he replied. “Come spring, a bit of warmth and a little sun and everything changes. Everything rushes into life. Look over there - by the trees. Can you see the bear cubs?”

  She turned and looked and suddenly saw them as the movement caught her eye. Then, in an instant they were gone, back into the dark depths of the fir forest.

  Næmr let her gaze drop on to the hillside where they had stopped. The wild flowers created a rainbow tapestry around their feet and as she scanned the patterns they made, she noticed a group of small gold and white daisy heads tucked down below the grass heads. Immediately, she found an idea popping up in her mind. It was a childhood memory, intense and clear.

  “Daisies!” she exclaimed. She pointed to the delicate frilled, petal heads swaying not far from her horse’s hooves.

  “What? What did you say?”
<
br />   “Look, daisies! They’re everywhere when you look! Even here!” She pulled her pony to a stop, threw the reins over its head and slid gracefully from its back. “Halldorr, have you ever made a daisy chain?”

  “A what?”

  She immediately began to gather the abundant flowers in her hands. Halldorr watched her, observing her from the back of his horse. He was fascinated for the only chains he had seen were those made by the craftsmen in the village furnace. Carefully, she threaded each tiny head through the stalk of the one before until she had joined up a long line of them.

  “There!”

  She held up the finished circle of flower heads for him to see.

  Halldorr jumped off his pony and joined her in the grass. She coyly handed him the finished chain, teasing him, somewhat, like a temptress until his fingers touched her hand. He stroked the back of her hand several times before he allowed the offering to slide into his palm.

  “Interesting,” he said. “I’ve never seen this done before.” He turned the daisy chain over and over in his hands. “So simple. I like it. It’s great. Who taught you this?”

  “I used to make them when I was a child. We all did . . . when the daisies appeared. My sister taught me how.”

  “What do you do with them?”

  “Play. The best one was ‘Queenie’.”

  “Queenie? What is Queenie?”

  “Um, oh.”

  For a minute she was bewildered. It happened like that: one minute things seemed so clear and the next, they had gone. It was all very frustrating. ‘Queenie’ was important; she sensed that. She then remembered she had been ‘Queenie’ once and she’d been allowed to choose the prettiest dressing-up dress, together with sparkly shoes and dainty gloves and her sister had allowed her the biggest slice of cake and everyone was especially nice to her for the rest of that whole day. Because, for that one day, she was ‘Queenie’. She told him that and he was laughing with her but he did not understand.

  “‘Queenie’? Is that what this is called?” he asked holding up the daisy chain. “A ‘Queenie’?”

  “Not the daisies.” She laughed loudly and her laughter rang around the mountains. “The crown of daisies is put on your head and you become ‘Queenie’. I was. For one whole day.”

  She could remember that part of the day as clearly as if were happening today. The feeling was the same: she was happy . . . really, really happy. It felt great to be alive.

  “Let me put this on your head and you shall be my ‘Queenie’ for today! The best ‘Queenie’ in Midgard,” Halldorr said.

  Halldorr placed the daisy crown on her jet black hair. They reminded him of the snowdrops that grew close to the snow-line amongst the rocky crevices high up on Jotenfjell. Gently, he bent forwards and kissed her forehead. She pulled back like a hesitant fawn. He noticed her apprehension, the tension that had made her body stiffen and did not advance. He wanted desperately to take her in his arms and press her soft body against his but he knew to give her time.

  “Please forgive me. I did not mean to startle you. I’d never harm you.”

  His voice was soft and soothing. He had no intention to frighten her away. He was not like Bodvarr, the warrior well known for his cruelty. Halldorr knew he would have to face Bodvarr the Bellower one day if he was to try and claim the hand of this dark lady for his own. He also realised that he needed to be patient with this exceptional woman if he was to have any chance of making her his bride.

  Næmr quickly regained her composure. She brushed aside the attentions of the ambatt woman who had moved to her protection and was now taking the great liberty of patting and stroking her as she would to console a child.

  “Leave me. I’m fine.”

  She found it unnerving to have the attendants so close to her, watching her every movement as though she were a specimen under the microscope. She could vaguely remember meeting someone special before but she could not remember having thralls around that time. Who had she met before? She was sure he was from the village, and yet . . . It was like a in a dream, and like all dreams, he had no existence but inside her head.

  The daisy crown slipped from her head and fell tangled and dishevelled in the grass. She let it go. It did not belong here; it belonged in a location she could not place She straightened her back and looked across the valley to the sparkling deep blue waters of the fjord.

  “Halldorr, how many times have you been across the water in the dragon boat?”

  “Several summers. I had a brother older than me. It was his boat, then. On the last voyage I came home. Not he.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She was sincere. It made her understand some of the danger the warriors put themselves in.

  “Oh, don’t be,” he told her. “I’m proud to be given the opportunity to avenge his death. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “But I do. I do know about that. It’s a need to make things equal. Especially when it’s to do with family.”

  “Yes, for my blood brother. I will go again.”

  He stared far into the distance beyond where the sky meets the sea, and for a moment Næmr felt that he had already sailed out in that boat of his, down the long fjord finger and out into the sea. Then he looked at her again, full and long, a serious countenance in his face. “All good warriors, if they are fortunate enough to die in battle, ride with the Valkyries. We remain in Valhalla until we are called for the final battle of the gods against the giants. Until eternity.”

  “Eternity’s such a long time.”

  The word seemed to go on and on for ever within her mind, repeating itself over and over. She was hardly aware of Halldorr’s voice and the words only slowly seeped into her consciousness.

  “. . . selected by the gods to fight their battles and every evening to drink the sacred mead with Odin, himself. Then eternity is wonderful, to be longed for.” He smiled at her and held out his hand. “Come.” He lead her slowly back to where one of his thralls waited, ponies in hand. “We all need to be ready for that final sacrifice when the gods are forced to wage war on the giants. It’s the way for men, great warriors, like my brother and me. We’re all made blood brothers through the excitement of battle!”

  “But what about women? Where do they fit into this world of yours?”

  “They have the most important job of all.” He raised his eyebrow and paused to watch her reaction. She gave nothing away. “Is it not the woman who bears the child? The child who, in turn, becomes the warrior?” he asked.

  “Who dies,” she added.

  He completely misunderstood her remark.

  “Yes, it’s true many women die giving life to their child. That’s the sacrifice we have to make for the benefit of the gods. To offer up our lives.”

  “Then, how can the village hope to survive if many of its child-bearing women and warriors are gone?”

  He laughed. He had never been questioned like this before, especially by any woman. Most knew their place and that was subservient to the men. That was the natural order of things.

  “Not all offer themselves to the gods. There are still farmers, craftmakers, fishermen and builders. They don’t go. Only fit, young warriors go on the raids and when a man takes a wife who will give him sons of his own, he doesn’t go any more. So, you see, there’ll always be a new generation of warriors willing to sail the boats. They’ll leave like their fathers and fathers before them to seek out adventures. Such are the laws. Women must make their sacrifice, too, by giving us sons.”

  An electrifying thought zapped throughout her body and she became angry with what he’d said. To be only a receptacle for unborn heroes was not what she had believed. She protested loudly, her dark eyes blazed like burning coals, sending sparks of indignation in his direction.

  “Women are more than that! We have our own value! Are women not the educators of the young? Is it not they who sow the seed of knowledge, that allows men, like you, to create your dreams?”

  “The dreams of men
should not concern women!” he curtly replied. “Women create life - and that is all they do.”

  His words were stated with conviction, but she knew in her heart there was more to being a woman than merely being the producer of heirs.

  “We are important! We’re just as important as you! The blood of great warriors flows through our veins as well as yours! Without us, you’d be nothing!”

  “Sorry, if I’ve offended you,” he said. “I see you’re very insistent and know your mind. I like that. You’ve a fighting spirit, like mine.”

  She noticed the twitch of annoyance on the side of his cheek as he clenched his teeth together.

  “I’ll concede that we are needed to make your clothes and prepare your food, to be mistress of our husband’s estates but that doesn’t mean we do not have the will to fight. Do you not agree?”

  He pinched his lips together. He had never been questioned along these lines before.

  “Surely, Mistress Yalda has instructed you in household tasks and taught you how to be a dutiful wife? Men are the fighters of battles and women are the keepers of keys.”

  Næmr nodded although she wasn’t pleased.

  “Educators, managers, health providers, supporters. You must agree, without us, society would not succeed.”

  He laughed at her.

  “Lady, you dream too much! You have so much to learn. So much.”

  She realised there did not seem to be much point on continuing. She felt that somewhere, sometime women had already fought their greatest battle of all: one that had given them their own dignity and identity. If only she could remember her past, then these thoughts of hers would begin to make sense and she would be able better to fight for her ideas. At the present time, she had no past to help her.

  The strange conversation was not allowed to spoil their day. They spent the rest of the morning riding, laughing and enjoying the freedom they both felt. The countryside reverberated with the calls of wild birds as the small group entered the cool shade beneath the tall forest trees where Halldorr’s family gathered any wood that they needed. Shafts of bright sunlight penetrated down through the bright new growth of the tree canopy, and masses of early Spring flowers covered the mossy brown forest floor. As they came to one of the swift streamlets that had tumbled from mountain heights, Halldorr signalled everybody to sit and rest. The thralls lay down the blankets for the son of their jarl and the young woman he had with him, making sure their were neither thistles nor thorns nearby.

  Funny thing, mused Næmr to herself, as yet another image emerged into her conscious mind. Somehow, I expected the forest to be much more dense with vines and thick undergrowth. I thought the mosses would have been more abundant and I’m sure I remember seeing ferns the size of trees.

  “Now, what are you thinking?” he asked.

  She tried to describe the picture that had just popped into her mind.

  “What here?” he asked, surprise showing in his voice. “You are one strange, lady! I certainly don’t have any knowledge of such a forest. There’s none on this world. The words I have heard from your lips today can only tell of a knowledge in a world beyond ours. It’s a world not open to us.”

  “Maybe you’re right and I do have strange insights into another world. Yet, my knowledge of the worlds they call Asgard and Vanaheim is very sparse. Even the normal village folk seem to know more about those places than I do.”

  She looked wistfully into the cool darkness of the forest. She found it difficult to fear such a place even though she had been told about the wolves that roamed within its depths. On the occasional full-moon night she had woken to hear their mournful howls but they had seemed so forlorn and distant. Maybe the wolves howled, too, because they were trying to call to their ancestors.

  I wish I really knew who I am, where I’m from. I wish, I wish,’ she thought. ‘I don’t think anyone can be a whole person until they know their ancestors and their connection to the earth.

  Out loud she voiced her concern.

  “I wish I knew who I really am!”

  “You’re Næmr. That’s all you need to know.” He noticed the pained look on her face. “for now,” he added. “It’ll come. It will take a little time but it will come.”

  “I hope you’re right. Nothing would give me more pleasure than knowing myself. I mean, you know exactly who and what you are. You know of your parents, your brothers and sisters. You know your history. You belong.” He nodded. “You have your connection to your world through your land, your family and through your village. But who am I? Do I have any connection to this land? Should I belong here at all?”

  “I’m sure you’ll find your place. You’ll discover the connection you’re looking for, in time and you’ll call this place your home.”

  “But, look at me!” She cried. She ran her hands down each side of her head, tugging at the short plait that hung just past her neck. “I’m different: my hair’s all black; my skin’s much darker than yours. My eyes are brown; not blue like yours and everyone else’s in the village. Does that not tell you something? No, Halldorr, there’s no connection. Sorry.”

  “Gods come to us in many guises,” he said quietly. “Odin is testing our faith - that’s all. He’s done it before, many times. To me you are precious because there is only one of you. No other woman, freely born or thrall is like you. You are special and I want you to be happy, especially today. Let us live for the moment. Don’t let your worries or concerns spoil our day.”

  She was rather surprised at his sympathetic understanding over her bewildering predicament. She felt she could talk freely to him because he was willing to accept her and remain calm when she had questioned his own beliefs. He was unlike Yalda who had cross-questioned her on several occasions after she had said or done something unusual. Halldorr was not like that. That’s why she felt at ease in his company. He accepted her for what she was at this present time.

  “Come on, my mysterious daughter of Odin!” Halldorr stretched out his bare arm, his muscles rippling like a stallion in its prime, and insisted she take his hand. “This is no time to waste on whether you belong with us, or not. I’m just happy to have you to myself today. Come! There are so many other things I wish to show you before it’s time to take you back to Mistress Yalda’s.”

  One of his thralls helped her on to the back of the little horse and Halldorr led the way to the far side of the valley where they were able to see where the fjord met the sea.

  “That’s where the dragon boats will go,” he told her pointing out the way.

  The day passed so quickly. She had not realised how late it had become. The late evening sun was still high in the sky, casting shadows of thin, pencil people and long, spider-legged ponies that stretched back along the track. For Næmr, it had been a wonderful day, and that evening, after her meal, she sank exhausted into her bedding, dreaming of the handsome warrior who had captured her heart that day.

  The next day, all the men of the village met in the Great Hall to farewell the warriors before they took to the longboats and, with their raised dragon heads, sail for the seas. They would be away for many weeks. The captives and treasures which they would bring back, would compensate for any danger that the village would be under while its men were away. The wives and families left behind would ensuring the all the thralls worked hard during the long, warm summer days. The days that had no setting sun.

  “Keep well clear of the men!” warned Yalda as the two large wooden doors of the Great Hall were swung wide open and barrels of beer and mead were rolled inside. “Tonight is the night for those on the raids and they will not be responsible for anything they do.”

  The afternoon progressed slowly as food and drink was taken inside. Before long, everyone was able to hear the din that was coming from the Hall’s interior: the raucous singing, the stomping of feet and the wild shouts of sixty beserk, drunken men. The noise continued well into the night and past the early hours of the midnight sun, until, in drunken stup
or or utter exhaustion, the men collapsed onto the floor and fell into a deep, sleep.

  Throughout the following day, the merriment and violence continued, spilling out of the Great Hall as warriors tested their muscles in bloody combat, wrestling and punching until one or the other was carried bleeding and bruised back through the doors into the pandemonium inside.

  That evening, a handful of young thrall girls were dragged, screaming and protesting, into the Great Hall. The doors were shut tight so none could escape. During the night, Næmr covered her head with a thick blanket and wept tears of remorse. Would she ever be able to forget her own ordeal on the mountain, the cruelty of Bodvarr, the fear and humiliation she had suffered in the hut? Her own torture would continue as long as the wild celebrations could be heard throughout the village. Heggar tried to help but her own anguish only upset Næmr more. The sharp image of a cruel, dark mountain sneered on her. She rocked herself back and forth on her bed, head held between her shaking hands.

  Why, oh why, did I have to go on that mountain? she asked herself.

  She cried, the tears dropping into her cupped hands and running down her arms until, like a weeping stream, they dripped off her elbows, down on to the bedding.

  What drew me towards its evil spirit? What laws did I break to deserve this? Who am I? What am I? What is wrong with me? Why cannot I remember the past?’

  Heggar had been instructed to sit with Næmr. Secretly, Heggar was pleased, for it meant she would be protected from the rabble that was now roaming the village, snatching any young slave girl who happened to take their fancy.

  “Try not to be afraid, my Lady” Heggar said, rubbing her own shaking hand on Næmr’s curved back. Heggar’s own mind was in turmoil, frightened by her own wild imagination of what might be happening behind those heavy wooden doors of the Great Hall with the skulls and dragon head carvings.

  “You have a past!” cried Næmr distraught and upset. “You have memories of your family and homeland. You can remember the face of your mother and father. And you have a future, Heggar. You belong. I have nothing! Oh, why can’t I remember?”

  “I don’t know, my Lady. Maybe the Norns of Time only wanted you to have a present and a future time.”

  “Don’t be silly, Heggar!” Næmr snapped. “No-body can remember a future time . . . only their past. But where’s mine? Why can I only remember that dreadful past with Bodvarr on Jotenfjell and nothing before?”

  “I wish I didn’t remember my past!” Heggar covered her ears to shut out the memories.

  Næmr did not hear. She was distraught with her own dilemma.

  “Will I ever know that before? I’m like a lost soul with nothing, nothing at all!”

  “I’m sorry for you, my Lady. You make me so unhappy when you’re like this. I wish I could help.”

  Loud shouting and banging like thunder claps sounded outside the house walls. Heggar’s eyes widened and she tightly gripped the sleeve on Næmr’s garment.

  “Heggar!”

  “I’m scared! What’s happening out there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I can’t think of anything but ‘scared’ with all that noise. Fear is all I can feel at the moment. The same fear I felt when I was taken from my family. I don’t like to remember that! Oh dear, Næmr.”

  The bond was made: Heggar had called her by her name.

  “Hold on to me, Heggar!”

  The pair clung to each other like twins in a womb. Heggar pulled up a blanket and pulled it over their heads. They huddled together in the darkness and began to feel slightly less afraid.

  Eventually, the drinking ceased and the terrifying noise died down. The wooden doors were thrown open again and sixty, wild-eyed warriors rushed out. Now, in their battle chain-mail and helmets they charged towards the mighty, sacred ash tree, brandishing their shields and swinging their swords.

  At dawn all was calm again. Yalda gently shook Næmr and eased her entwined arms away from the sleeping Heggar. She had found the two asleep and had covered them with blankets to keep them warm. She spoke softly as Næmr opened her eyes and left her dreamlike state.

  “Come Næmr,” Yalda said in a low tone. “The priestess, Vestlasa, is asking for you to go to the where the dragon boats are.”

  Næmr was still drowsy. She yawned and stretched her arms, extending her fingers like a cat stretching its paws. It took some time before she was fully aware of her surroundings.

  “Heggar?”

  “She still sleeps. Let her be.”

  “Do I have to go?”

  The way she felt this morning, she would much rather turn over and go back to sleep. Yalda shook her once more and became more insistent.

  “Yes. Now. Get up, Næmr! Everyone’s assembling at the water’s edge. The men are leaving this morning on the raid.”

  Næmr put her legs over the edge of the wooden frame and stretched her back. Heggar moved. She missed the close contact of her nightly companion. Yalda held a rich golden tunic over her right arm.

  “Put this skyrta over your dress. Here, you can wear these blue buckles either side. It’s important that today your dress would even make Odinn proud.”

  As soon as they were ready, Yalda accompanied Næmr to the boats. Three longboats lay moored together in the sheltered waters of the green fjord, their dragon prow-heads ready to be put on board. They stood beside each boat where Næmr had seen them five days ago. It was considered very bad luck to erect the prow-head while in a harbour where no battle was to occur. Two of the boats had been fitted with a mast, a new invention which had only been around for a short time. Round shields hugged the wooden planks of the sleek hulls, oars rested immobile on the smooth surface.

  The three wise women, the Fates, who had stayed with Næmr at Yggdrasil, stood guard, each at a different bow. Næmr approached the platform. Vestlasa stepped forward and extended her hand. She welcomed their goddess on to the sacred dais.

  Suddenly, a cry rang out from within the gathering crowd.

  “Look! Here they come!”

  Villagers and warriors drew aside as the village leader, and one of the young thrall boys who had earlier been dragged in through the huge doors of the Great Hall, came forward. The youth was thin with long arms and legs. He was still young, thirteen or fourteen maybe, still with a childishness about him. He seemed to be in some sort of trance. His eyes looked, but did not see; his ears heard, but did not hear. As he was led onto the platform, his long linen gown rippled like a breeze touching the waves. His feet were bare but he was unaware of the stones and pebbles over which he was led. His short-cropped brown hair could barely be seen under the decorated silver horned helmet he wore on his head.

  “Please the gods! Our drakkar boats are ready to set sail!”

  Excitement mounted. Women joined with the men, calling and chanting. The shrill, wailing cries of the women rose to a crescendo. The village priest stepped onto the dais and a hush fell like the sigh of the wind when the raging storm had died.

  The voice of the priest was loud and clear. He called upon the strength of Thor and moved closer towards the slave boy. In an instant, a glistening dagger was plunged into his chest. Death quenched any cry.

  “Let our sacrifice to Thor bring good fortune to the raids!”

  Three old wizened women, their haunting hawk-like shrieks piercing the air, hurried over to where the dead slave’s body lay. They waved their thin, old, withered arms above their heads and with serpent movements swayed their scrawny bodies back and forth.

  Suddenly, with their knarred bony fingers, they ripped the victim’s heart out through her ribs, pulling and cackling like vultures until they had extracted the dripping red vessel and held it up for all to see.

  “Let the dark goddess smear this blood over our dragon faces!”

  “Let this sacrifice bring fortune upon these boats of ours!”

  “Let the gods bear witness to this sacrifice we offer in Thor’s name!”

  The dark-hai
red woman was shocked. What kind of savagery was this? How could she accept such an act by people she had begun to call her friends?

  Dazed by the barbarity of the killing, and numbed by the experience, she found herself holding the unexpected still pulsating, dripping heart. Her whole body shook as her mind tried to comprehend what had happened. She agonised over the distasteful, gruesome deed.

  Deep-red blood slowly oozed down each side of the dragon heads, slowly congealing into a sticky mess around the base. The stained wood glistened in the light and the cold green water around the hull drunk the blood like wine.

  Crazed warriors picked up the heads and hauled them into the boats. They clambered over the sides and grabbed the oars. The dragon boats began to move in the direction of the open sea. As they rowed away from the fjord harbour, the dragon heads were lifted high on to the prow. A few minutes later, two of the vessels hoisted a large square sail which billowed outwards as it caught the early morning breeze.

  The morning rays glinted off the warriors’ chain-mail armour making it look as though the stars had taken over the boats. Slowly, the boats inched their way beyond the reaches of the land and out to the watery ocean of Njord, the sea god.

  A new adventure had just begun.