by Derek Nelsen
The sun was already tucking itself behind the mountain. “The days are already getting so short.” More heavy chunks of snow fell. Tor looked up to see how much daylight they had left, but then Vigi started to growl. The hair on the back of his neck bristled to life as he crouched again. Tor sheathed his knife and raised the axe high over his shoulder with both hands.
A squirrel ran out of the thicket, saw Vigi, and cut hard up the trail. “Vigi, hold!” Tor stopped his old friend before he broke down the trail, too. “Come on, let’s get back to camp.” Another hunk fell on his shoulder. He knocked it off. There was a green mash on his fingers. Vigi sniffed his hand and then put his nose down hard, turning around in tight circles as if he was chasing his tail.
A piece of bark fell to the ground. Then another. Tor pushed Vigi’s nose away and picked it up. As he turned his head to the sky, hunks of bark and branch rained down as if the pine were shedding its skin.
The quiet wood exploded with the sound of four-inch claws raking down the length of the tall pine. The bear fell from overhead as if dropping out of the waning sun. It stood, a giant between them.
Vigi barked wildly, confusing the old bear.
Tor saw an opening and went for the throat. He threw his hands up bringing the axe’s sharp edge shaving along the giant’s jaw. It caught no bone, bore no blood. Tor roared as loud as the bear, knowing that was his one chance. He was too close and too unlucky to get another. He raised the handle to block the coming teeth or claws, but they didn’t come.
The bear wailed in pain and spun away.
Like a cork being pulled from a wineskin, Vigi opened the bear’s side. The bite might have loosed the cork, but the arrow had done the work. Blood and fat and half-digested food that had been collecting in the animal’s gut splashed out onto the snow, filling the air with a putrid stench.
The bear roared and reared, turning its attention to the biter.
Vigi was fearless, growling through the black fur he’d taken for his prize. Then he was gone.
With a swipe of his paw the beast sent Vigi hard into the brush. From the shadows Tor heard the whimper of a hurt puppy. The only proof that Vigi had been there at all was the swatch of black fur.
Vigi had given Tor his second chance, and this time he hit his mark. Down came the axe, catching the bear at the base of its massive skull. The sharp edge locked in with a crunch, and the bear fell for the last time.
“Vigi!” Tor ran to the brush where he last saw his old friend. But Vigi met him halfway. He was limping, and his tail hung low. The old dog walked past Tor, gingerly lifted his injured leg, and relieved himself on his prize.
Welcome Home
“Well, this is the way for a man to be greeted when he returns home from a successful hunt.” Tor smiled to see his sons running out to meet him at the gate. Vigi popped his head up from the sledge where he’d been sleeping with the bear. “You boys are going to want to hear about this one.”
“Father!” Erik, Tor’s youngest, arrived first and out of breath. His eager eyes turned bitter when he saw the dead beast on the sledge. Then, as quick as the snap of a twig, he perked up again. “There are Vikings.”
Tor dropped his smile and picked up his axe. His eyes narrowed and turned toward the house, then scanned the surrounding wood line.
“Nice bear, Father.” Toren, Tor’s eldest, rubbed Vigi’s thick coat. “A ship washed in, and there are survivors.”
“They’re in the hall,” Erik added. “And there’s a girl.”
“How many?”
“One ship, four survivors, maybe five,” replied Toren.
“Three Vikings.” Erik scowled at his older brother for telling his story. “One’s a giant. Biggest man anyone’s ever seen.”
“They have a lot of tattoos,” added Toren.
“And the girl,” Erik stepped between Toren and his father. “She’s got red hair.”
“Erik, I need you to—” Tor raised a crooked finger, then couldn’t help but smile. “Red hair, eh?”
Erik and Toren smiled back.
Tor looked over his shoulder to see his beautiful wife, Runa, waiting in the doorway. “I think your stepmother wants to see me.” He petted Vigi’s ears—still too cold for his liking. “Toren, help Vigi down from the sledge. Be careful, he got injured saving me from the bear.”
The boys’ eyes grew wide. Vigi panted like a proud puppy.
Tor handed the reins to his youngest. “Erik, you take care of the horse. Only after he’s watered and brushed can you start on the bear.”
Another Bear
“Another bear,” Runa frowned.
Tor pretended not to notice his wife watching Erik as the boy gutted the beast and emptied the contents of its stomach into a wooden pail. It was a ritual he’d performed on every bear his father had brought home since the day he allowed one to run off with his little sister.
“Stupid boy,” she muttered loud enough for him to hear. “What does he think he’ll find, anyway?”
Erik looked toward the still open door, then got back to his task.
“Let him be, Runa.” That was about as much of a rebuke as Tor dared mutter to her about that. He had learned over the years that there was no relationship to salvage between the two and the less he got involved the better it was for his son.
Tor understood her grief. A pain was seeded in both their hearts when they lost their baby girl. But Runa’s seemed to grow a little every time he brought home another bear. He’d have gladly left them to rot in the woods, but an empty larder would not heal her scars. It would only make things worse for Erik.
Tor knew this of his wife. Although she had not inherited her father’s green thumb, she knew how to care for a grudge. The scorn she felt for Erik over that little girl was well maintained, even after these many years.
Tor put his arm around his wife. Maybe she would accept his comfort. Runa shrugged him off. He shook his head, “Trade it with the butcher!” He didn’t mean to raise his voice. “Whatever that bear brings will help round out the stores for winter.”
“I’ll make it work,” she whispered. “I always do.”
They had loved each other once, and maybe they would again. But right now, it seemed hopeless. They were two ships drifting farther and farther apart—the wind and tides just seemed to be against them. They had been for a long time.
The fire in the house was warmer than his wife’s greeting. Tor guessed she still remembered the argument they’d had before he left. There was always an argument. It might be up to him to fix that. Maybe after something to eat and drink. Tor watched the white leave his knuckles as she eased the long-handled axe from his strong grip and set it down by the door. He had forgotten he was carrying it.
“Before I go back up the mountain, I’ll stop by the Hall to see about the Vikings. Try to talk some sense into our neighbors. Fools should have put a hole in the ship and sent it straight to the bottom of the fjord.”
Runa frowned. “You haven’t even taken off your coat and you’re already talking about leaving?”
“Do you know how many goats are still missing?” Tor did not like this game. She knew he had responsibilities.
“We will be missing more if you leave your sons in charge of fixing the fences!” Runa took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, noticeably, then poured her husband a cup of hot mead. “How do you know your neighbors won’t talk some sense into you?” she said, before plopping in a sprig of pine.
“What do they know about Vikings?” Tor said sarcastically. If he was trying to fix their quarrel, then he was doing a poor job of it.
“Maybe they know more about them than you think,” Runa replied, raising an eyebrow.
“Can we talk about something else? I’d like to wait until I see what we’re talking about before anyone tries to change my mind, all right?”
The house smelled of fresh bread. It was obvious she had planned a much warmer reception. She cut off the crusty end and put it on the table next to a bowl o
f lapskaus. “Pedar offered his home to nurse some of the survivors back to health.”
Was she trying to upset him? She had a knack of making him feel like he wasn’t living up to her expectations.
“Ja. Well I’m sure he’ll try to work this for his benefit.” Tor took a bite of bread softened by the broth. “I don’t care what others do. No Viking will step foot into this house.
Apparently, Runa hadn’t finished her point. “My father would have-”
“Ja. He would take them in. He took my family in, didn’t he? And look at what that got him.” He smiled to lighten the mood. She did not return it. “Well, I am not so-”
“Watch what you say, husband. My father was a great man.”
This woman. Tor thought about grabbing the axe and making himself a new doorway. Instead he hunched over his food like a dog protecting a bone, took a deep breath, and replied with what he thought could only be taken as a compliment. “Your father was the greatest man. Better than a father to me.”
Runa’s smile looked forced. “One of the Vikings, the fat one, talks in his sleep, something about treasure. There could be profit in helping them.”
“Is that what everyone’s thinking?” Tor asked. “Hoping for the generosity of Vikings?” The wooden spoon clacked the bowl as he shovelled down the white stew. It was time to go, before he made things worse. He brushed wet soup and dry crumbs from his beard with a cloth as he pushed away from the table. He took a deep breath; this was his last chance to make things right.
Runa pulled her soul out from underneath her shirt. The gold-covered ring was being used like a little picture frame, and inside it held a relief of the goddess Freyja. Tor did not believe in much of anything, but Runa did. So, he carved it for her as a bridal gift at her request.
That felt like so long ago.
“Pedar thinks their arrival could be a gift from the gods.” She kissed the little graven image of the goddess. Tor approached his wife, closed her hand around her soul, and held it tight to pull himself close. Runa smiled, as if expecting an apology, or a kiss. With his other hand he pulled at the top of her blouse. Her smile grew. Then he shook her hand until she dropped the little idol back from where it came. “The only gift gods or Vikings will bring is death.” He let go of her and emptied his cup of lukewarm mead.
He did not have the time or energy to fix this today.
Tor swung the door open and breathed deep. He liked the cold outside better than the chill he felt within. “Thank God for goats!” He shouted. His sons turned toward their father. “At least we won’t starve, not this winter.” He guessed he would have to acknowledge his own accomplishments. No one else seemed to want to.
Tor stuffed his bread into his mouth, mumbled something through the crumbs, and left Runa standing in the door.
Bears and Vikings
The boys were still trying to drag the unwilling goats back into the old fenced-in garden, now only good for growing weeds and the occasional stubborn volunteer vegetable. That fence, originally built to keep the goats out, now was the only one that stood a chance of keeping them in.
“Father?” Erik asked. “What about the Vikings?”
“I'm going to the hall now. Dry my things, I’ll be back this afternoon. Then I’ve got to make another trip up the mountain.” He grabbed the horn of a black spotted billy. “Got to gather more of the escapees.”
“Can I come with?” asked Toren.
“In the spring. I promise,” said Tor. “Right now, you need to learn how to manage the farm. This will all be yours someday, and a well-run farm can produce more food than any man can drag out of the woods.”
“Can I go, then?” asked Erik.
“I need you both here to protect the farm.” Tor put a strong handed grip around the back of each son’s neck.
“From Vikings?” Erik scowled as he put his hand on the hilt of his seax.
“From the cold.” Tor frowned. “Keep the fire burning for your stepmother, and mend the fences so I don’t see any of these goats again while I’m up on the mountain.”
“Ragi says Old Erik thinks we should forge an alliance with the Vikings,” Toren blurted. “I think he’s right.”
Tor put his arm around his eldest. “Are you a politician, now?”
“Everyone’s saying there’s no better traders than Vikings,” added Erik.
Tor mounted a fresh horse. “Vikings are also supposed to be good seamen, but every boy with a rowboat knows not to be caught near open water this time of year.”
Rehabilitating Vikings
“Ah, Tor. Perfect. Give us a hand, will you?” It was as if Tor’s closest neighbors were having a meeting in the woodshed next to the hall.
Outside, it was a bright, snowy autumn afternoon—a good day for work. There was no event, no occasion, and no reason he should smell meat roasting or bread baking—no reason he should hear so many voices inside.
“Here to see some old friends?” Pedar Thordsen stood in front of the door as if he was waiting to greet guests into his own house.
“I’m here to meet your Vikings,” replied Tor. Old friends?
Arn Halvarsen and Bor Jonsen stood at either end of a rack full of limbs and logs that were about as long as Tor was tall. Bor joined Arn at the far side of the pile, leaving the near end open for Tor.
“Will they live?” Tor asked.
“Ja. Elsa’s bringing them around with one of her special brews.” Pedar edged past Tor and made his way to the center of the log. He always liked being in the middle of things.
Tor’s lip curled. He’d survived Elsa’s treatments before.
“Where’s the ship?” he asked.
“You haven’t seen it?” Bor responded. “It’s a longship. Half sunk in the fjord. Not far from Pedar’s.”
Pedar glared at Bor as if he was interrupting. Bor owned a farm near the village, the third largest behind Pedar’s and Tor’s.
“Should be able to get it out in the Spring,” Arn added. Both Pedar and Bor glared at him as if he’d spoken out of turn. Arn followed Bor, and Bor followed Pedar, and Pedar followed Tor. And Tor only followed goats.
“Alright, I did not come here to hear about Vikings ten feet from the door. Are you ready?”
The others nodded.
“One.” Tor started the count.
Arn and Bor both warmed their hands, and Pedar picked at the bark with a manicured nail.
“Two,” Tor continued.
Arn and Bor both took hold of their end of the white birch, Tor grabbed hold of his end, and Pedar pulled away an area of its loose papery skin like he might a piece of lint on a coat.
“Three!” Three of the men heaved.
Pedar rested his hands atop the log. “I think the big one is Jarl Olaf.”
Arn and Bor dropped their end, and when it bounced Tor lost his grip and nearly smashed his fingers.
He wondered who to hit first, “Either help, or get out of the way!”
“Olaf the Soul-less,” Bor nodded. “I think you’re right.”
“He’s big, but he’s not a giant, is he?” Arn looked anxious.
“He’s emaciated,” argued Pedar.
“Wait’ll we see him on his feet. Bet he’s a head taller than Tor,” added Bor.
Tor’s face was starting to burn. Why does everyone want to keep me from getting in the hall? He started walking toward the door.
“Wait, wait. Just help us with this one,” Arn begged. “I lost a bet.”
Tor shook his head, grabbed the log, and started to count. “One.”
“Olaf’s supposed to wear a necklace made of other men’s souls,” Bor slipped in.
“Two.” Tor’s voice lowered. “Pedar, get the door.”
“No man is strong enough to carry another man’s soul!” Arn got the words out just in time, then inhaled heavily through clenched, yellowing teeth.
Tor longed for the mountain—it had been a lot quieter. “Three!” Tor’s face turned to stone as he lifted the log up
and over the rack. Bor and Arn both grunted as if to argue that their end was heavier.
“Even I can carry a soul if it’s given to me.” Pedar’s soft, gold-ringed fingers tugged at the tall door’s handle. He sucked in his pot belly, trying to stay out of the way as the log staggered into the hall.
Faces of men Tor knew came into focus as his eyes adjusted. Many loitered around the waist-high troughs of stacked stone that were in the center and around the edge of the hall.
Elsa hefted a beer at Arn as he passed. “That doesn’t count,” she said. “You got help.” Was Arn trying to smile at the ugly maid? It looked more like a growl, as if he couldn’t quite raise a smile and the log at the same time. His cheeks were splotchy red, and he had a string of spittle that curled in and out with each labored breath.
She smiled back at him. As if things weren’t painful enough.
Again, gravity viciously snatched the log from Tor’s grasp, because, without warning, Arn and Bor dumped their end into the first raised trough they passed.
“Uff-da!” Tor coughed as fiery embers flew up into his face. Then the white papery skin of the birch caught fire, nearly blinding him with a sudden burst of heat and light. Arn and Bor surrounded him with apologies, one knocking orange embers off his bearskin coat while the other forced a horn of beer to his mouth to help with the coughing. Lazy buggers. The fire closest to the door was always the one with the most wood.
Tor regained his bearings in time to see the dry wood ignite, illuminating a pillar of smoke that climbed high into the heavy oak rafters until being drawn out of one of the covered chimneys by a passing breeze.
He drank his beer, warmed his hands, and gathered his thoughts. For some time, he could not even look at his friends. Instead, he calmed himself by watching ancient oak timbers dance in a play of light and shadows from orange and yellow fires.
Wood blazed in stone and black iron braziers atop many of the long oak tables. This was not uncommon in the evenings, or during the long winter months—but it was still light outside, and there was plenty to be done at home before the snows set in. What was most odd was how many of the long fires were burning. The hall was so stoked with fires that it was actually warm.