Viking Lost

by Derek Nelsen

  Kiara recognized the investment on the table. These were the wealthiest people she’d ever met, in Norway or Ireland. No wonder Runa was so focused on arranging Toren’s marriage to Anja.

  “We brought you something.” Runa motioned for Kiara to bring over her bag. They’d brought goat cheese and butter, a skin of wine, two jars of beer, and two butter cakes with a jar of sugared berries for topping. And Runa insisted Kiara make a traditional Irish fruit cake using her own family recipe, even though she had to substitute berries for the fruit they used at home. Kiara offered to make it before, but Runa had refused to let her. But for this visit, she insisted. Between the dress and the dessert, it was as if she was showing her off or something.

  “That is so nice,” Skadi said. “Kiara, I’m afraid we don’t have room for any of that on the table. Will you bring it to Elsa in the kitchen? She’ll put it out as soon as there’s a place for it.

  “And Kiara, dear, will you please get me a cup of gløgg?” Runa's tone was stern, but when she looked at Skadi, she wore a smile. “Can she get you anything, Skadi?" And in that moment, Kiara was reminded that she was not a guest, and this was not her party.

  She looked for Erik for a comforting smile, but the boys were already off with Magnus, Ragi, and others their age. Kiara realized her night would be spent serving at the pleasure of Runa and Skadi, next to a table full of cakes she was sure she wouldn’t be welcome to eat. Her only solace was that she knew Runa really wasn’t welcome, either.

  With a sack full of food that they could have used back home, Kiara made her way into the kitchen to ask some other slave what she should do with it. Should it be put in the corner for now or could she save them the trouble and just feed it to the pigs herself? Then she saw Vidar and Anja were still there. Were they holding hands? Kiara’s stomach churned, like the time Erik tricked her into tasting lutefisk.

  Anja pushed Vidar toward the door. He wore an easy, wry smile as he ambled past. Anja did not leave with him. Instead she paced like a confused bird, until she felt she could slip out unattached.

  Kiara thought back to her little village back home. How poor Orlaith fell in love with one of the Vikings. When she ended up pregnant and her father complained... Well, it was terrible what they did to him. How men just like Vidar, who sometimes smiled when they passed in the street, burned Orlaith’s house to the ground on their way to the ships.

  They all seemed decent enough as long as they were getting what they wanted. But after they were finished, when the stories had been told, and the cups were empty, they became monsters. Maybe pretending not to be was the most human thing about them.

  Kiara thought about how dangerous her voice could be, how everything bad that had happened to Tor started that day in the forest, when she told him that Erik had borrowed his sword. How Erik tried to keep it a secret, but she just had to tell. Why did she even care? She thought about how Tor’s words had gotten him into fights with the Vikings. He seemed to think his neighbors wanted to hear the truth, but now they’re having parties with Viking guests—and without him. She thought about how incensed Runa had become with her when she tried and failed to share the good news with her story.

  Maybe she was finally understanding the world. Everything was better when people just let things be. So, she would be quiet, now. There was no way she would tell Toren what she saw. They had eyes. If they wanted, they would see it themselves. If there even was anything there to see. Kiara would pretend everything was fine, the way Skadi and Runa did. She looked around the kitchen, how all the servants busily did their jobs, so focused on making sure everyone was fed when they themselves probably hadn’t eaten. Maybe everybody was pretending. Maybe truth was for children. Maybe it was time to grow up.

  Sins of the Fathers

  The carving didn't look at all like a troll. It wasn't as tall as the other one, or as lanky, but the details were exquisite. “Kiara told me that back in Ireland, father would be paid well to make art like that,” Erik smiled. Then his face turned red, and he began to snicker. “For the church.” The gaggle of teenage boys erupted in laughter.

  “She knows he was Viking, right?” asked Ingjaldr.

  Ivar, his older brother, looked embarrassed. “That’s what makes it funny, stupid,” and he punched his brother in the arm.

  “Ja, stupid.” Fists and more laughter rained down on Ingjaldr’s shoulders from the circle of friends until all the beer in his cup had been sloshed onto the floor.

  “Stop!” Ingjaldr begged. “Now look what you’ve done.”

  Immediately cups poured in from all sides and filled his to the top with a combination of white beer, sweet mead, spicy glogg, and tart wine.

  “So, your stepmother said this looked like Magnus?” Ragi grabbed the little carving out of Erik’s hand.

  “Like a troll,” Erik corrected.

  “Is there a difference?” As Ragi ran away from Magnus, Skadi grabbed the pursuer by the scruff of the neck.

  “If you touch my son, I’ll have you cleaning plates in the kitchen with your mother,” she said. Then she moved on to whisper something in Vidar’s ear.

  Erik snatched the little idol from Ragi’s hands. “Careful!” he said. “My father made that.” He stared at the little carving. “It may be the only thing I ever get from him.”

  “Don’t be such a girl, Erik,” said Toren. “If you keep breaking everything there won’t be anything left for either of us.”

  “Speaking of girls, what was Vidar doing outside with Anja, eh?” Erik liked shaking his brother’s overblown self-confidence whenever he got the chance, and he knew jealousy was a weakness he could exploit.

  Erik, expecting his brother to throw a punch, pulled his little carving close to protect it. But Toren never did. He just looked up, and Erik felt a chill, as if someone had just walked in from outside. He turned, and there was Vidar. Orri and Ubbi were with him, too. He stumbled back into the table at the surprise, and thoughts of the fight filled his mind with grief. Vidar was by far the biggest, but it was Ubbi that had beat Erik senseless during those weeks of training. And it was Ubbi who he and Toren had attacked to defend their father at the festival. It was Ubbi he feared most.

  “Well,” Vidar asked, “aren't you going to show me what you’ve got?”

  Erik looked down at his hand. At some point during all his fumbling, he’d wrapped his fingers tight around the little figure as if he was ready to throw a punch. Vidar seemed calm. Ubbi and Orri looked calm, and he wanted to be calm, too. He really did. With a drink from his cup, he swallowed hard to try to force his heart back down into his chest.

  Orri filled the silence; he always did. “Don't worry, boys, we plan to make peace with your father. It's all been arranged. This one is Tor's youngest, the one we were training.”

  “Erik, right?” Vidar made a gap-toothed smile and clapped his cup against Erik’s.

  “And that one is Toren, his oldest. We got to see a little bit of what he’s made of back at the festival. Didn’t we, Ubbi?”

  Ubbi stood there like a statue. He didn’t nod, raise a cup, nothing.

  “I am betrothed to Anja, Ragi’s sister.” Toren put his hand on Ragi’s shoulder and squeezed so hard he made Ragi wince and pull away. Erik thought he might need to calm down, so he filled his cup with the tart wine he was drinking.

  The Vikings looked confused, but Vidar played along. “A little young to be settling down. I guess you plan to be a farmer, like your father, eh? Or do you want to be a Viking, too, like your little brother, here.”

  Toren stood so still, Erik thought he might be impersonating Ubbi.

  Vidar cleared his throat. “I am Vidar Olafsen, captain of my own ship, leader of many men.”

  “You say you've made peace with my father,” Erik said. “Does he know that?”

  Vidar laughed. “Not everything you say is a lie, Orri,” Vidar clapped him on the back. The fat man winced under the weight of it. “This one does have spirit. So, what have you got there? Are y
ou also a follower of Odin?

  “As much as any god, I guess.” Erik opened his palm. “My father made it for me. He's very good with a blade, don’t you think, Orri?” The drink, combined with knowing he was surrounded by family and friends, made Erik’s mouth want to run, but not enough to insult Ubbi. Or Vidar.

  Vidar laughed again. “I think I see what you saw in this boy, but his spirit would need to be broken if we were going to make a Viking out of him.” Vidar winked at Ubbi. “I think your training just pissed him off.” Vidar held his smile. Erik’s eyes burned from the hall’s dry, smoky air as he tried his best not to blink first.

  “Erik’s the one that brought in the others, the ones we’re training–”

  Vidar cupped his hand over the entire lower half of Orri's face. “I don't need you to speak for me, anymore,” Vidar said sternly. “Orri's always been a talker.” He lightened his tone. “I'm afraid I'm partly to blame for that. But if I need your help, I'll ask for it.” The giant took his paw away from Orri's mouth. Orri looked so stunned his jowls quivered. “Have a drink, man.” Vidar pushed the bottom of Orri’s mug to his face, covering his gaping mouth, and kept pushing until it was empty.

  “My men and I are satisfied with where your father stands,” Vidar assured Erik. “He left the Viking life long ago, and we will not seek my father’s vengeance. I guess some men prefer the smell of manure to sea water.”

  Toren looked like he needed to hit something.

  Vidar ignored him and topped off Erik's cup. “You've done a great thing for us. You helped us gain the trust of your friends, and I won't let a misunderstanding rob you of your future.” He leaned down to speak directly to Erik. “Listen, for this is a lesson I’ve already learned. Your father's decisions are not your own. I will not let my father's grudge against your father stand in the way of forging my own future. I want you to do the same.” Vidar clicked his cup against Erik’s and Toren’s.

  Without thinking, Erik raised his cup and joined Vidar. The drink was strong, and he felt strong drinking with this man. He wanted to hate him, but why? These men were only terrible to their foes. Shouldn’t they only be hated by their enemies? And even through the fog of that drink, there was something Vidar said that resonated. His father’s wife was not his mother. His father’s farm was not his inheritance. So why should he let his father’s past spoil his future?

  Peace Offering

  “I’m glad you came, Tor, because we wanted to invite you. We really did,” said Pedar. “But Skadi was worried about having you in the same room as Vidar after what happened at the festival.” Pedar looked over Tor’s shoulder, winced, then over to the women. “I think everything’s going well, though. I’m sure you don’t want any trouble after that fight.”

  “How are you feeling, anyway?” Bor asked.

  “I’d feel better if my neighbors had helped a little,” Tor replied.

  Bor acted like he didn’t hear him. “Was the worst fight I’d ever seen.”

  “Ja,” said Thorfinn. “I can’t believe you ever got out of bed again after that one.” Tor tried not to show the pain he felt when his neighbor slapped him on the back.

  He hadn’t told his family, but part of the reason he had the dogs drag the sledge was to get out of having to carry any of the heavy bags. Just the walk over was like little knives stabbing at his cracked ribs. Even standing, talking to his neighbors, he felt it. The longer he stood, the more he needed to lean, and he was already looking for a place to sit. He hadn’t slept through the night in weeks.

  “Listen,” Pedar assured him, “Old Erik had a long talk with Vidar right after that tussel.”

  “Tussel?”

  “I swear, he’s been a new man since then. Skadi noticed it, too.” Pedar rolled his eyes upward as if looking for the right words. “He’s nicer. That’s the only way I can say it. Maybe you two just needed to work all that out, and now it’s done.”

  “That would be good.” Tor rubbed his back.

  “I’ve talked to him about it,” said Thorfinn.

  “Me, too,” said Bor. “And Pedar’s right. I think he’s a good man.”

  “Good man?” Tor asked. “Does the Viking’s tongue turn spit into silver, now?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Bor’s attention faded as he looked over Tor’s shoulder. They all looked.

  Tor turned to see Vidar, Ubbi, and Orri in the middle of the boys, hovering over Erik.

  Tor stared flames at his neighbors. “Were you going to tell me that the good men were talking to my sons?” He broke away and bulled his way toward Erik. Runa caught his eye, then she saw where he was heading and started shaking her head wildly to get him to stop. That woman wouldn’t care if the hall was on fire; she didn’t want anything to stop her from negotiating the particulars of that wedding.

  The twinge in Tor’s hip reminded him of how easily Vidar got him off his feet and what the fall had done to him. He focused on making easy strides. The goal was to not show weakness, or a limp.

  The walk reminded Tor that he was in no shape to start problems today. For the sake of his sons and his marriage, he needed to keep the peace. The heat of the fires was stifling. As he mopped the sweat dripping into his eye, he found himself wishing someone would open a door. He could hear the bustle from the gaggle of men following close behind. That made him hotter, still—just that many more bodies between his family and the exit. Pedar, the host, ran ahead, putting himself between Tor and Vidar—a bent sapling separating two bull moose.

  Vidar put his big hand on Pedar’s shoulder. “Everyone calm down.” His voice was low, and oddly soothing. “Don't everyone get excited, now. Just some men getting to know each other.”

  “We’re just talking,” Erik told his father. “I’m fine.”

  Anja had sidled up between Toren and Vidar, and Toren put his arm around her waist and pulled her close. He did not look fine.

  All eyes were on Tor. “I’m not here to cause trouble. Just checking on my sons.”

  “To show that everything from the festival is behind us, I’d like to buy your services.” Vidar reached over and picked up a roasted chicken from the banquet table. “Anyone else?” He held it out. No one responded, so he grabbed it with his other hand and with bones crunching he pulled it in two. “My gods are still on the ship.” Vidar began to devour the roasted bird from top to bottom. The shine of grease and mead covered his beard and hands as he stripped the bones clean. “Or at the bottom of the fjord, I don’t know. But I don’t feel I can properly sacrifice without them. I don’t want Odin to think I’ve forgotten him, like the rest of your village.” He broke off a leg, which was about the size of his finger, and used it to make his point.

  Tor had no idea what Vidar was getting at, but curiosity had a way of easing tension, or maybe it was the spectacle of watching this man eat. For one reason or the other, his shoulders relaxed.

  “Erik showed me one of your carvings,” Vidar said. “I want you,”—he pointed at Tor with the leg bone—“to make me some gods,”—his face broke out in a wide smile—“like the one you carved for your son.”

  “I don’t make idols anymore.” Tor did not want to chat with this man. He wanted to get his sons and go home.

  Vidar stopped trying to dislodge chicken from between his teeth. “Oh?” One of his eyes began to twitch. “But your son just showed me one you carved for him just this week.”

  Tor turned to his host. “Pedar, thank you for having us. You, your wife, and your children need to come by and visit—like we used to.”

  Vidar pulled a little leather sack from his coat pocket, dipped out a few gold and silver coins and put them on the table with thick, greasy fingers. “I’ll pay you.” Then he leaned in as if sharing a secret. “I know winter’s hard on people relying on the land.” Then he winked at Pedar. “You’ve got sons to feed, after all.”

  “No.” Tor pushed the coins back toward Vidar, then wiped his hand on his pants. “I only made those to keep the peace. If
you had a wife you’d understand.”

  “Tor-” Runa started, but he put up his hand.

  “After you’ve made as many gods as I have,” he added, “thrown the culls in the fire to heat your house because the person you made them for was looking for something a little different, a little more to their liking, you start to wonder, who made who?”

  Vidar looked at Pedar as confused as if Tor had just tried to teach him how to braid hair. “I am also trying to keep the peace.” Vidar slid the coins back toward Tor. “Do this for me and we’ll talk about opportunities I may have for your sons.”

  Erik tugged on his father’s coat. Tor winced at the sharp pain it brought to his ribs. Erik looked like his entire life hung in the balance. Tor’s blood began to boil. Had this man gotten to his son so easily, too? He should’ve just walked away.

  “My wife said one of my carving’s looked like a troll. I can carve you one of those.”

  Vidar stared blankly at him, confused. “A troll?”

  Pedar interrupted again. “Tor carves the most beautiful reliefs. Ships and waves and great serpents, and mountains and birds. Did you notice the door?”

  “How about men dying in battles they could’ve avoided?” asked Vidar. The tone of his voice and the color of his face made it clear—the tension had returned.

  “I like to carve trolls. Did you know, the worst inside people can be shown on the outside of a troll?”—Tor took a drink of mead—“And that trolls and giants are supposed to be related? I can make a very good troll of you.”

  “For me?”

  “Ja.” Tor put the cup down on top of the coins, took Runa by the arm, and started edging his way through the crowd. “Toren, Erik, say your goodbyes.”

  He heard Pedar assuring Vidar. “I know a man—he is a very skilled wood carver, every bit as good as Tor. He will make idols, any god you want, any way you like them.”

  Tor heard Vidar shouting. “You think you are protecting your sons? You are putting them on the losing side!” Then the giant started talking to himself. “Just like my father. He never did anything to help his son’s, either.”