by Derek Nelsen
Old Erik pressed the cup into Vidar’s hand. His touch was ice. “It gets its heat from the dragon’s breath.”
Vidar looked at the cup as if he would vomit, not sure if his taste buds could handle more excruciating stimulation.
Old Erik pushed a knife in Vidar’s other. Pain from the edges of the handle rolled down his fingers.
“What is this?”
“A warning and a choice,” the old demon smiled. “I tell you before you take part in this with me, you cannot undrink this. What is done can never be undone, nor can the power this decision may ever wield over you.”
Sweat beaded on his brow, and he squinted his eyes against the unbearableness of everything.
“What have you done to me?” he cursed.
“Once you taste of it, especially under the influence of the mead of inspiration, you’ll spend the rest of your life seeking its equal.”
Vidar’s brow furrowed and he leaned in closer. His leg started to jump. His breath was heavy as he tried to swallow down the urge to vomit.
Somewhere outside, footsteps were crashing through dry snow, each an avalanche of powder splashing down like the relentless tide in a sensation storm. “What choice do I have now, you old demon? I need to stop the pain.”
“Why, Vidar,” the old man crowed, “the choice is in your hands. Find your relief in the cup or the knife, it makes little difference to me. Your soul is already mine.” Old Erik’s icy grip burned as he pinned the knife down. “But I do hope you choose the cup.”
Spittle dressed Vidar’s beard as his shaking hands raised the firewater to his lips.
The taste was severe against the backdrop of his wailing senses. The scar on his chest caught fire, burning away the desire he’d felt to regain his soul from the old man. Then the heat hit his hands and feet, and the fire climbed until the flames licked at his spine, erupting like kindling in a wildfire, until they filled his head, blackening his brain.
The firewater had done its job. As the burning in his arteries smoldered, the pain and panic and fear faded into oblivion.
Relief.
Vidar exhaled, put his head in his hands, and his face down on the table. He rested in a pool of something wet and cool, and he didn’t care.
Vidar embraced the numbness.
When he raised his head again, the world was noticeably different. The scents and sounds were sharp, but tolerable. His mind was clear, like a ship’s hull after having the barnacles scraped off.
It was as if he had the capacity to understand for the first time in his life. He had clarity, and it felt good. Ambition coursed through his veins, and he thirsted for something new.
“Father?” He took the leather thong off of his neck and loosed all the rings he had on the table, save one. “What would you have me to do?”
Old Erik ignored the question and leaned over the offering as if trying to smell it. Ungodly he hovered, like a vulture over a battlefield searching for the ripest carrion. With a claw-like hand, the old man dragged the soul rings off of the table. The plink, plink, plink of the rings falling into his sack was sharp, but bearable.
There was a knock at the door. Vidar’s nose told him it was Anja.
A Walk in the Woods
“My mother wanted me to fetch Vidar for dinner.” Anja should’ve still been at the festival, eating, drinking— dancing with Toren. It was really Vidar’s fault as much as anybody.
Why would he care that his stupid fight ruined her only chance to see her friends until the ring ceremony? And that was months away. With a huff, she blinded herself with cold fog. Only the pig saw—maybe he liked her new dress.
How long is that oaf going to take?
Why didn’t her mother just let her stay? Worse, she sent her on this errand like a common servant. Couldn’t she tell how upset she was? To make sure somebody did, Anja didn’t even change out of her fine clothes. She looked around the porch. Filthy old men. Hadn’t they ever heard of a broom?
She spun to see if the seat of her dress was already dirty. Not yet. She hoped to ruin it. Maybe they’d have to give it to Kiara. Her mother would be so upset. She wondered if she could break through the ice near the horse and mud the hem on her way out.
She loved the festivals and having a reason to dress like that. Old Erik! How long had he been standing there, looking at her like that. Vidar, too. Suddenly, she realized she hadn’t thought this through. Her rebellion was meant for her parents, not to entice dirty old men.
What was she thinking? She had been sent to fetch a man, no, a giant. Worse, a Viking, and she was dressed dangerously. Before she’d determined to ruin it, it had been her favorite. The dress was tight-spun, cream-colored, wool— flattering, form fit, and so long she only ever dared wear it in the winter for fear it might drag in the mud after the thaw. Over that she wore a new apron dyed blue as the evening sky, which she would burn before she would give away. Her apron was pinned over her shoulders with two gold brooches styled to match the rosemaling sewn to trim her outer cloak. Elsa had braided her long brown hair so tight that it still lay neatly over her left shoulder the same as it had been when they left for the festival.
“Just you?” The giant pushed the door wider. Vidar towered over the crooked old man’s shoulder.
“Who would send a pretty girl like you out to gather a grown man by herself?” Old Erik’s warbly tongue slipped in and out of holes left by his missing teeth.
Anja turned her eyes to her feet when she got caught watching the giant man pull on his coat. Suddenly, she felt very small, and very alone. Ragi should’ve been there. In her head she cursed her lazy brother.
“Is that for me, child?” As the village priest, Old Erik was used to getting meat from her mother and father. As Skadi always reminded Anja, her father’s trade may have made the family wealthy, but it was her sacrifices that earned them the favor of the gods.
Anja handed the old priest the chicken her mother had personally tucked into the sack. Even with her mother, she hated coming to Old Erik’s. Old people smelled of death. She preferred beautiful things.
“My mother knows how Old Afi likes eggs, so she wanted you to know this one’s laying well. But when you make a sacrifice of it, she asked that you do it in Vidar’s name, to any god he wants.” She glanced up and caught Vidar staring. He was always so grouchy she didn’t even think he’d noticed her before. She hated herself for not changing clothes. She handed Old Erik the chicken.
“Well, Vidar. Which god would you like to sacrifice her to?” The old man flashed a smile as crooked as his back.
Vidar ignored the question and ducked out onto the porch. They were both acting so weird. She wondered what they had been doing. Had they been talking about her?
A white owl flew out of the woods and landed in a snowy pine.
Vidar pulled himself between Anja and the edge of the porch. His touch was firm but gentle, not like the oafish way he’d plowed past her at her father’s farm.
“It’s just an owl, Vidar.” She had to laugh. Such a big man protecting her from a bird. Ridiculous, but cute.
“Afi!” Anja waved as Old Erik’s brother emerged from the same wood. She ducked under Vidar’s outstretched arm to get a better look. She was relieved to see him, even though he was just another man. “Is the festival over, already?”
Old Afi stopped and stared. “It is for me.”
“My mother sent over a chicken. Should get some eggs from her before she’s-”
“She’s not for you. She’s for Odin.” Old Erik twisted the chicken’s head off. He held it by its feet as it flapped and kicked. Anja jumped off the porch, but it was too late, the corpse splashed blood across the men’s trousers and Anja’s favorite dress. Forgetting her plan to ruin it herself, she jumped into the snow and rubbed handfuls onto the drops of blood to try and catch it before it stained.
Old Erik ignored her. Holding the carcass high, the priest prayed in a foreign tongue as blood painted his arms a crimson red. When he was finishe
d, he threw the bloody head toward the tree where the owl had lit.
As if from inside the little shack, two ravens swept in and pecked at the offering and each other. Taking to the air, they fought over the bloody head until disappearing beyond the dark edge of the wood.
“Get on home now, child.” Old Afi helped Anja to her feet. “You’ll need help to remove those stains.”
She looked up to the porch in anger, only to see Old Erik dipping his hands in the neck blood and writing something in the palms of Vidar’s hands, while whispering in his ear.
Vidar nodded, left the porch, and brought the sleigh around.
When Anja climbed aboard, he handed her the reins. “I don’t know the way.”
Anja’s chest felt heavy, and her breathing labored under the weight of his gaze. “I wish you wouldn’t look at me like that.” She didn’t know why she brought it up. She had been ogled by men, young and old, for the past three years.
“Are you frightened?” Vidar turned his attention to other things.
Nodding his head at every glade of trees, she heard him whispering to himself. He seemed fascinated by the most common things—like the scent of the wind or the vibrance of the snow, the quickness of the deer or the patience of the grouse, and the land, as if open pasture was suddenly of great importance to him. Before, all he seemed to care about was his ship and his men. Maybe he hit his head in the fight. Or maybe he was changed by something Old Erik said.
When he fell silent, she could feel his attention falling on her.
“Very few people ever get invited to that house,” she said, an attempt to shift his attention elsewhere. “The old brothers keep to themselves, mostly. If my mother didn’t insist we bring Old Erik animals for sacrifices, I’d only ever see them in the hall. It’s not unusual for Old Erik to wander off for months at a time.”
Vidar turned his attention fully on her, the way a wolf might watch an unprotected lamb. A lamb who’d strayed too far from home. Alone. I can’t believe my brother let me come here alone. If I survive this, I’m going to kill that little coward, if Toren doesn’t get to him first. I can hear the women now. What a reckless girl you are! What happened out there? Did he hurt you? She wasn’t religious like her mother, but Anja found herself praying to Freyja that a squirrel or a moose would steal Vidar’s attention, now.
Question of Faith
Kiara finished cleaning the plates, opened the door, and slung the bucket up to scatter the dishwater high into the air. She watched as it burst into a cloud and drifted slowly away. She liked to pretend she was a faerie princess being held prisoner in a dark land, forced to make clouds by the giants who’d locked her away. It was a small thing, but it was something to look forward to in the dark, cold place Norway had become.
She hardly ever left the house anymore, except for the few chores that required it, like bringing in firewood. And she tried to only do those things while the sun was peaking up over the edge of the world. It didn’t stay long anymore, and Erik and Toren assured her it would slowly start to make its return after the ring ceremony, but that was another month away. Kiara wasn’t sure she could take being held prisoner by the dark that long, not with a warden like Runa.
“I thought you said the hills were white with sheep in Ireland. So, what do you do with the wool?” Runa asked nastily.
“What do you mean?” asked Kiara.
“Well, you certainly don’t know how to make yarn with it. Am I going to have to teach you how to tie knots, too?”
To pass the time, Tor, Toren, Erik, and even Runa took turns telling stories while they carved, wove, sewed, cooked, and anything else they could do to pass the time. Runa’s favorite tale was about the battle between the gods and the frost giants that brought the seasons, and the long days, and the long nights, how the frost giants were strongest when it was cold, but the gods of the Vanir would drive them back each spring, because of the goddess Freyja’s love of flowers. Runa prayed to her little idol of Freyja each night, asking her for a quick victory. She pined for the summer, reminding them all that every year there was a time when the sun would never set, when Sól would ride her chariot around the dome of the sky, proclaiming Freyja’s victory over the frost giants and the long night. But now it was winter’s turn, and everyone was hunkered down to wait it out.
“It’s your turn, Kiara,” said Erik.
She had told many stories to Tor’s household. Some were like theirs, only with an Irish twist. But many they’d never heard before. It was cold, and she was missing home, so she decided to tell them the story of Christmas, for she knew enough to know they hadn’t heard that one before. And she was pretty sure that as a Christian she was supposed to be telling it. “Where I’m from, this is called the good news. The birth, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ, God’s only son.”
“Does it have dragons?” asked Erik.
“Hush now,” said Kiara. “I don’t want to be messing this one up on account of your interruptions.” It was as if he thought it was his job to make her crazy.
“This is the story about how God came to save the world.” She closed her eyes and started saying a little prayer. Lord please don’t let me mess this up. I know I’m no priest, but if it be your-
“Before you doze off, I’d like some more dried berries.” Runa held out her cup. “And some more to drink.”
Kiara put her own cup down beside her on the floor, got up, took Runa’s bowl out of her hand, and went into the kitchen. “Would you like me to heat up some water for you? Make you some tea?”
“No,” Runa replied. “I’m drinking mead tonight.” Her voice was slurred.
Kiara wondered how much she’d had. She didn’t like it when Runa drank. She got mean when she drank. Meaner.
“Go on, tell your tale,” urged Erik.
Kiara looked about to make sure everyone looked settled. All eyes were on her except Tor, who was always stirring the coals with a stick. So, she began again. “God created everything—the sky, the earth, the water, the plants, and the animals and people, too. I think I told you about Adam and Eve, right?”
“Ja,” said Toren. “The woman was tempted by the snake and talked her husband Adam into eating the apple.”
“They’re the ones. Good, you remember. Well, eating that apple was disrespectful to God. He calls that sin. And for sin, he kicked them out of the garden, and they could never return again. And because of that, women would feel the pain of childbirth, and men would have to work, and they would have to start wearing clothes, and there would be weeds in their gardens and they would have to hunt, and many animals started hunting, too.”
“That’s not very fair,” Erik protested. “I don’t think I like your god very much.”
“Neither do I,” Runa licked the rim of her cup.
“Ja, I haven’t ever tried an apple before, and still even the goats can barely keep the briars and weeds out of the yard.”
“Well, just like we get our eye color from our parents, we get our sinful nature from Adam and Eve.” Runa’s eyes looked a little cross, but she said nothing. Then Kiara realized... Stupid girl. Should be easy enough to remember they didn’t inherit anything from her. She waited for a stern word, but it never came. “The problem is, we can’t fix sin. God was wronged and there’s nothing we can do about it. My priest said everybody’s sinned. It’s not about apples. It’s lust, lies, murder, idolatry, and some other things, too.”
“What was that last one?” Runa leaned closer.
“What one?” Kiara’s mind raced. Runa never talked to her unless she needed her to do something or to make her feel terrible. She didn’t like her hair, her eyes, her clothes, how she talked—and when it came to insults, just like her stories, she didn’t mind repeating herself.
“Lust?” Kiara didn’t know why she cared, but she was determined to not repeat the last one.
“No.” Runa leaned forward in her chair. “The last one.”
Maybe if she pretended she couldn’t remember,
Runa would just call her stupid and let her finish her story.
“Idolatry,” Tor said it as if he was sick of hearing Runa play her games.
“Ja, that’s the one.” She rubbed Tor on the shoulder. He shrugged her off and looked at her distrustingly. Everyone was tense, as if waiting to find out how bad things were going to get. “What does idolatry mean?” Runa sounded like she already didn’t like the answer.
“It means not praying to-” Kiara stopped mid-sentence. She looked to Tor for help, but he just kept poking the fire, like he was trying to knock the orange out of the coals.
“Pray to what?” Runa’s voice was calm, like a trap ready to spring.
Why didn’t she just start with the baby in the manger? What did she know about sin, anyway? “To things,” Kiara whispered.
“To little statues carved of wood, or stone, or cows, or mountains, or anything other than God.” Tor sounded frustrated, like he didn’t like where this was going but he wanted to get it over with.
Kiara would’ve preferred to try to avoid the subject a little longer.
“I pray to Freyja, so what does that say about me, eh? We make our sacrifices, and it’s not to your god. What does that say about us?”
“She was just trying to tell us a story, Runa.” Tor got up and filled his cup from the pitcher of mead.
“She wasn’t just telling a story. She was calling us...sinners—whatever that means. Is that what you think of us, Kiara?” Runa’s calm voice picked up an edge. “Tor, you were married to a Christian. The boys’ mother was a Christian. Maybe I’m the only one who should be offended.”
There was silence as the two boys turned to their father. Did they know anything about him at all? About their real mother? Kiara doubted it. And although she was interested in the story, she had a feeling Runa wasn’t ready to change the subject. This was still about her, and it probably wouldn’t end well. When Runa was drinking it never did.