by Derek Nelsen
The Butcher
“I don’t think I’ve ever done as much business with you as I have this year.”
“Well, we’ve had a lot of unexpected expenses. With the girl, Erik’s going away soon. So there’s that. And the wedding.”
Halfdan looked at her suspiciously, then lowered his eyes. “You haven’t settled that, yet?” He pulled back the lips on the old bear’s massive head and exposed the two-inch canines. “Remind me, Runa, is it Tor that has the death wish, or his dog?” The butcher shook his head as he unfolded the coarse black fur to see how well the hide had been cured.
“Well, the gods know I've tried to talk some sense into him.” Runa watched as he fingered the sharp claws. She needed a good offer, more than Erik needed another layer between his blankets and the floor. Besides, somebody had to prepare him for the cold nights he was going to face at sea.
“You know, I'd pay better for a nice, fat red deer.” Halfdan’s brows knitted together.
Runa clenched her fingers into a fist. She’d known Halfdan all her life and disliked him just as long. “Make me an offer, please.” She could hear the disdain in her own voice. That wouldn’t do. She needed this man. She put her hand on top of his and tried not to pet the coarse hair, which was almost as thick as the bear’s. She managed a smile. “Just do what you can.”
“A little red meat for the pot?”
“No, I just need a little something for the gods.” Runa looked down at his long, grimy fingernails as she spoke. “For Tor.”
The butcher patted her hand and went to the back of the shop, which had become filthy ever since his wife died a few years back. At least the cold had killed the flies that normally swarmed the counter, which was nice.
Halfdan came back with the carcass of a yearling red deer and threw it on the counter, sending a flutter of brown hairs flying.
“The boys found it froze to death while gathering firewood. Don’t worry,” he smiled, “I wouldn’t give anyone bad meat. This’ll be a treat for Old Erik. He loves anything young. The younger the better.” Halfdan had tall teeth and the kind of smile that made most people want to take a bath. “This poor thing must have gotten separated from its mother.”
Fur flew as he deftly ran the knife down one side of the spine to expose the backstrap, which was the choicest meat. He clipped one end from the top of the neck, then started his knife down to separate the meat from the skin. When he got halfway down the back, he looked up at her, soured his face, and continued farther down and looked at her again.
“Don’t worry about the color,” he assured her. “This one’s aged perfectly.” He removed the long strap, blew along the table to clear it of loose fur—his breath being that of onions and pickled fish—and proceeded to lay the meat atop a pile of it anyway.
“That's good,” she whispered. There was enough on the table to cut twenty nice-sized steaks.
“I think that ought to buy him the gods’ favor, or at least Old Erik’s.” The butcher whistled as he ran the blade of his seax under the choice cut, put it into a hide sack for the lady, and pressed his long lips together in concentration. "You know, I have a great respect for you and your family. And even though I haven’t always gotten on with your husband, I admire any man that earned the favor of your father.”
“Ja. You know my father always appreciated you, Halfdan. And so does Tor,” Runa added.
There was that suspicious look again, then he gave her a soft, almost genuine look. His long teeth only half-sticking out from under his upper lip. “It's because I loved your father, and because we always did good business together, he and I, that I want you to have this." He pressed two silver coins into the palm of her hand, holding it, looking into her eyes. “You know, Runa, I often worry about your husband, if he feels like he quite belongs here.
Runa pulled her hand back slowly; Halfdan refused to let go. His fingers were dirty with hair and old blood, and moist and hot.
“Ever since my wife died—well, you’re still a beautiful woman, Runa.” His lips couldn’t manage to conceal his crookedly assuring grin. “If something happens to Tor in that holmgang, I want you to know, I’ll never let you go hungry.”
She stared down at the coins, bouncing them in her palm to get a general feeling for the weight. Every person she’d sold things to lately had been dealing in them. They were from Vidar’s strongbox. The faces on the silver were of foreign rulers, usually with crowns on their heads, all of which she assumed had fallen to the Vikings. She wondered what the Vikings did with the crowns. Would Tor be wearing one, had he stayed? The features of the coins had been worn thin with use.
“How did you get these?”
“They’re pure silver,” Halfdan assured her. “They’re good for trading. That's all you need to know.”
She looked up into the butcher's face and mouthed Thank you. She forcibly removed her hands from his heavy grip and left him alone in his filthy little shop.
It was a good trade. The coin would go far in getting Anja’s bridal gift ready for spring. After waving goodbye to the attentive Halfdan, Runa wiped the lingering feeling of his damp hands off onto her linen gown.
Halfdan followed her with his eyes, petting the fur off the head of the bear with one hand while adjusting himself with the other. Runa spit twice. The man was disgusting, but like his shop, nothing a smart woman couldn’t fix. And with Tor antagonizing the Vikings at every turn, and now the holmgang, she needed to keep all her options open.
Sacrifice for the Gods
Old Afi and Old Erik were ancient. No better or worse for the years that had passed. It was as if they were frozen in time like the fish that froze for the winter near the surface of the lake. Whose eyes stared up at her every time she and her sister Sigrid went skating when they were girls.
Runa shivered as she thought about those fish trapped in the ice. It must have been so cold down there.
At the caw of a crow, a little dog with a chicken bone in his mouth poked it’s head out from under the covers bunched up over Runa’s lap. As if still half asleep, he leaned back on his little haunches and stretched, then looked up to Runa with what appeared to be a smile on his face.
At just over three hands tall, Jeger was about half the size of a fox, but much cuter. The top of his curly tail and pointed ears barely made it to Vigi’s shoulders. His coat was a light shade of brown, with a belly that was white all the way up to his cheeks as if stained by the snow while taking a nap. Jeger wasn’t there for protection, unless it was from chickens. He was Runa’s pet. Jeger was better company than Tor, who seemed to get grumpier every year, and the best gift he’d ever given her.
After taking his look around, Jeger nuzzled his chin down into the fur lining her thick coat and went back to his nap.
Runa wished she could be so warm and comfortable. She had been shivering since she started into the woods, from shade or nerves, she couldn’t tell. And the shivers got worse the closer she got to Old Erik’s—they always did.
The old hunting shack he shared with his brother made her skin prickle. Tucked back in a forgotten wood out behind Pedar’s farm, it was a place lost to everything but the weather and the ravens. They must have liked that part of the wood, for they filled the trees like black leaves. Somehow, Jeger, the bird dog, had disappeared under the blanket again.
She knocked on the priest’s moss-covered door, holding her sack of questionable meat in her hand. She almost hoped he wouldn’t be home. For some reason, she always felt that way on this particular errand. She wished Tor would bring her, but he had never approved of her gods or her sacrifices.
The hinges creaked as the door eased open. “Old Afi?” she exhaled with relief. He was always the more approachable of the brothers. “How are you doing?”
“Alright for an unjust old man who no longer feels welcome in his own village, retired by his own brother.” His words sounded bitter, but his face was kind. Could have just been his thick accent. She always struggled trying to place it. The
brothers had somehow never revealed to anyone where they were from, keeping it one of the great mysteries of the village. “But, of course, you understand completely, don’t you?”
Runa didn’t like the sound of that. Why would she feel unwelcome? She was born and raised there.
Before she could reply, Old Erik brusquely pushed him aside. “Forget about us, child. We’re fine. More importantly, how is Tor?”
“I-I don’t mean to intrude,” she stuttered, wishing he’d send her away and the gods would give her credit for trying.
Their eyes pierced her soul. That was the only place she could see a resemblance—like icy blue knives that cut through her—not the way Halfdan or other men undressed her with weak stares, but as if they could know her thoughts, her feelings.
“I—I only came to make an offering”—she tried to regain her command and shake off her sudden unease—“for my husband.”
“A sacrifice?” Old Erik curled his lip and smiled as he cast his eye up toward his brother.
“It's red deer, young, but aged for flavor. I hope it suits you. I mean I hope it will be acceptable to the gods.”
Old Erik licked his chops. He had a sour smell, his hair and beard oily, black, and wild. “I haven't seen red meat in the last month other than some goat Skadi brought over last week.”
“Do you prefer goat?” she asked, pleased her husband wasn’t here. Tor never liked the way she turned so needy around Old Erik.
Last year in the hall, during a celebration feast, after watching Old Erik cut the soul ring out of Toren’s chest, a half-drunk Tor quieted the hall when he told Old Erik he’d thank the gods after they started bringing him the meat instead of the other way around.
Tor and Old Erik didn’t talk much after that. The entire village remembered that speech every time their farm or family suffered any setbacks, including escaping goats.
“Pedar, keeps me in red meat all year round,” Old Erik interrupted Runa’s runaway thoughts. “His farm is always prosperous. Probably because he blesses his god’s servant with regular sacrifices.”
Runa tried to lighten the mood. “My husband often jokes that Odin opens our fences so our sacrifices can walk to his butcher directly.” It didn’t work.
Old Erik just frowned and began backing into the door, shaking his head as he weighed the bag in his left hand.
Runa placed her hand on the creaking door. Old Erik turned with a jerk gazing at her with his icy blue eye. She shrunk but did not give up her courage.
“I had hoped you would say a special prayer for us.” The wooden slatted porch cracked underfoot, as if feeling her shift her weight toward the sleigh.
The old man's face curled from frown to smile. “What is it I can pray for, specifically? The gods are very busy, and they serve those best that serve them first." The old man weighed that package she’d given him in his left hand, again, making sure she noticed.
“The holmgang,” she said. “Pray for victory. I’m not sure we can take another setback.”
“Ja, I guess not.” His face turned dire. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but the girl—did you send her away because she reminded you of Tor’s wife, or your lost daughter?”
Old Erik’s one blue eye cut into her as hot and sharp as the knife his brother used to extract the childrens’ souls. Did he demand her to feel pain with her sacrifice?”
“Both.” She felt hot tears freeze as they covered her cheeks. She thought of her lost daughter every minute of every day. It marked the moment she lost connection with her husband and began to feel truly alone. And now, since this girl arrived, the pain of those memories burned again, like a branding iron sizzling against her soul. “You know what I really want you to pray for?” After all these years of pretending, at that moment Runa burned with a mother’s grief and didn’t care what the priest or Old Afi or anyone else thought of her. “Pray that I will see her again. I just want to see my daughter again.”
“I would've done that for you whether you asked me to or not. I know your husband’s not a religious man, but the gods will accept your sacrifice on his behalf.” The old man's smile broadened, and he stuck his tongue into the gap where his tooth had once been as if searching for something from yesterday’s dinner. “After all, any sacrifice of yours is a sacrifice of his as well.”
Old Afi pried the offering from Old Erik’s claws and handed it back to Runa. “God doesn’t need any more blood shed on his behalf. He already knows your husband, Runa.” He looked at the gold-plated ring hanging around her neck. “I’ll be praying for you.”
Runa stood on the stoop, crying and holding her offering, not sure what to do next.
Old Erik pulled his brother inside, grabbed the sack back out of Runa’s hand, and shut the door in her face.
She climbed up into her sleigh—confused, upset, and glad it was over. She thought about Kiara, looked down at her ring, and considered kissing it and saying a prayer the way the girl did. Don’t be stupid.
Behind her, she heard the door creak open, but she didn’t look back. She hurried the cart down the lane, her tracks already whitewashed and covered. Old Erik’s voice carried through the winter air. He was arguing with his brother. She heard the words “filthy carrion!” and urged her horse on.
As if called to a feast, the black trees erupted as hundreds of ravens turned day into night. At the murder call, Jeger sprung to his feet, spinning and barking and drawing unwanted attention to Runa’s escape. As the flock flew low over the road, she lurched in her seat and almost lost the reins. She urged the horse faster as if the river of black was intent on carrying her back.
Like a child’s nightmare, Runa felt something coming up behind her. She dared not look back. She threw the blanket over the yipping dog’s head to stop him from giving them away. She shuddered when she heard the priest’s door slam shut, echoing out as loud as if she was still just outside the house.
Light. In the distance the woods opened up, and the sun’s blinding rays reflected off the field like a diamond necklace against a black dress.
She drove the mare toward it, nearly tipping the sled. Faster, faster. Her breath caught in her throat. Beams of sun hit her arms, and the cold fresh air never tasted so good.
As the sleigh redrew its tracks across the open field, Runa allowed the horse to slow, though her heart was still racing.
She finally allowed herself to turn around. The dark woods seemed less menacing, now that she was in the light. Jeger poked his head out from under the blanket again, confused and growling, ready to bark at the trees if they dared to follow.
Runa smiled as she ran her fingers down the little dog’s back. His tail snapped back to curl high over his back when she finally let it go. Stupid girl, she thought to herself, you’ve made your sacrifice. Nothing’s going to hurt you now.
Choosing Sides
“I want to join Vidar,” Erik said.
Tor looked at Magnus. “And you?”
“Ja,” he replied, “I do, too.”
“When Magnus and I join the Vikings Vidar will drop the charges against us.” He looked at his father. “There will be no holmgang, and the two of you can make peace, before one of you gets killed.”
Tor looked down at his fish as if he was considering Erik’s proposal.
Toren had nothing to consider. “You can’t go a’Viking! We need you here. What about your family obligations? What about the farm?”
“What about it? It’s your birthright, not mine!” Erik loathed to remind him. “I’ll be lucky if Runa lets me walk away with the cat.”
Magnus almost spit his goat’s milk into the fire. Even Toren smiled.
Tor held his hand up to silence the boys. Toren looked like he couldn’t wait for his father to take his side. He was always the good son, already acting like a good farmer, like a man who had something to lose. But lately, their father hadn’t been so safe-minded, had he? “I cannot allow you to join Vidar,” Tor spoke soberly.
Erik wanted to smack
the smile off Toren’s privileged face.
“But I do think it’s time you made your own way in this world,” Tor surprised them. “It’s time for you to go.”
Erik was reminded of the shock he felt when the ice gave way beneath his feet, dropping him into the icy fjord. “Go where?”
“Father, if they go, how will we manage the farm? We can barely keep up with it now.”
“Shut up, Toren. Everything will work out for you. Everybody wishes they had your problems.”
“You shut up—you know nothing.”
“Quiet,” Tor hushed his sons. “I don’t want to hear arguing. It’s time for you to mature, now, and start living like the men you must...I mean, the men you have become.” Erik peered into Tor’s cold blue eyes nervously. This was a moment his stepmother had prepared him for his whole life; he needed to drink in everything his father had to say. “There’s nothing for you here now, except trouble—no inheritance, no future. We need to prepare.” He said it as if looking for the words in his cup. “No one can know what I am telling you now. If the Vikings find out your lives could be at stake.” Somewhere deep inside Erik, a tear that had known this day was coming for his entire life welled up into his eye. He wiped it away before it made it to his cheek. Then as he swallowed the rest sank down into his chest and froze his heart like ice. He would not show weakness to his father, or his older brother.
“Father?” Toren asked, stoic as a soldier. “Is this because of the Viking?”
Tor scowled at the ceiling as if blaming the sunless sky. He put his powerful hand on Toren’s shoulder. “You will leave in the spring.”