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Learning Berserk
Oleh Paul Telegdi
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- Penerbit:
- Paul Telegdi
- Dirilis:
- Jan 13, 2014
- ISBN:
- 9781310155994
- Format:
- Buku
Deskripsi
Taken by Vikings at an early age, Orkan grows up in slavery. He befriends a brother and sister also taken in a later raid. Through feats of courage, Orkan gains respect and his freedom. He finds himself on the verge of becoming a Viking himself, but fate intervenes, and sends him on an odyssey through the ancient world, looking for a place for himself and the brother and sister he had adopted.
Tindakan Buku
Mulai MembacaInformasi Buku
Learning Berserk
Oleh Paul Telegdi
Panjangnya: 641 halaman5 jam
Deskripsi
Taken by Vikings at an early age, Orkan grows up in slavery. He befriends a brother and sister also taken in a later raid. Through feats of courage, Orkan gains respect and his freedom. He finds himself on the verge of becoming a Viking himself, but fate intervenes, and sends him on an odyssey through the ancient world, looking for a place for himself and the brother and sister he had adopted.
- Penerbit:
- Paul Telegdi
- Dirilis:
- Jan 13, 2014
- ISBN:
- 9781310155994
- Format:
- Buku
Tentang penulis
BIO: Nearing retirement, I now have more time to devote to writing (and if I don’t, I squeeze the day until there is a space/time to crawl into). Over the past 15 years, I have worked on 15 books, three of which (of the Dreamcast series) are self-published.My website, http://www.PaulTelegdi.ca gives a full account of my life and accomplishments, which I shall not repeat here.The thumbnail version: I was born in Hungary; when young immigrated to Canada with my family, attended University of Waterloo, Ontario, where I met my wife. Spent years in West Germany where my wife was studying music while I was learning German. Returning to Canada, we ended up on a farm in Ontario with pets. Long-time married, I boast of three sons with talent and personality.Presently I am office manager of my wife’s private practice of psychology. I like kayaking and windsurfing. I belong to a number of writers’ groups, and often choose writing over sleeping. eBooks are an exciting new chapter in my life and I’m looking forward to the wider exposure.My motto: Want a better life? Then write it!
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Learning Berserk - Paul Telegdi
Learning Berserk
The Making of a Viking (1090 AD)
Paul Telegdi
Dedicated to my wife, Melanie Telegdi
and to my sons, Daniel, Jason and Jared
who have taught me so much more about life.
Written: January-October 2013
Copyright © 2013, Paul Telegdi
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever
Published by Paul Telegdi at Smashwords in January 2014
This book is a work of fiction, not a carefully-researched history book. Although real events were used as backdrop for the story, their context and placement in time have been made subservient to the plot.
Preface
This book about the Viking age, more than any other I have written, is less concerned with the story as with the time and place in which it was supposed to have taken place. I’m fascinated by this period, nearly lost to history. Most of what we know is from other sources, not the principals themselves as they didn’t leave us written records except for some enigmatic runes. As reported by victims of raids, the Vikings were presented in the worst possible light. As well, the Christian church demonized their pagan practices and history in order to supplant established traditions. Yet the Vikings had a strong sense of honor and social cohesion and practiced democracy more honestly than any people at any other time in history, strictly one man, one vote
regardless of standing.
Some of what follows is factual, but for the rest, I’ve taken the liberty to fill in any gaps in my knowledge with imagination.
Chapter 1
After a stiff drenching the cloudburst moved up the fjord, the gray curtain of rain hiding the river that fed the inlet and softened the saltiness of the seawater in the estuary. Orkan left the improvised shelter that had kept him dry and walked along the water’s edge to the logs that were tethered to an old willow. He gathered up the pole, then planting his feet on the logs, pushed hard to let the raft float free of the shore. Farther out, the current helped him make better time as a mix of birch and willows on the bank slipped by. A cluster of gray rocks projected into the water, and Orkan broke into a sweat as he poled the raft around it. The water surface was choppy, pummeled by the wind that followed the rain.
Around the next bend the fjord opened up as the steep cliff on the near side gave way to a gentle roll of hills and a strip of level land that hugged the shoreline. Up ahead, the palisade of Sturmgaard came into view; above it the smoke of cooking fires climbed into the sky. Orkan’s mouth was immediately filled with juices as he thought of food. Onna had talked about goose for supper. Orkan hoped so. He pushed with more energy as he got nearer. Two trading ships were pulled up on the adjoining beach, one unloading cargo, the other having its planking re-chinked.
By the wharf, Arvald was waiting, his posture expressing his irritation. Orkan pushed harder, beaching the raft near him.
Where have you been all morning?
Arvald demanded in a rough voice that was habitual for him.
The woodcutters weren’t ready...
The cutters are never ready. Did you pay full price?
Orkan nodded wordlessly. You shouldn’t have.
Orkan stayed quiet: a slave had no voice to object. I have a good mind to—
The rest was interrupted by the deep tone of the giant horn sounding out. Instinctively both men looked toward the watchtower then toward the south where the fjord narrowed to a channel that let the sea in. Just coming around the headland was a dragon boat, dark sails full blown, the oars out, rhythmically pushing through the water.
Sigurd!
Arvald exclaimed, gladness warming his tone, his irritation instantly forgotten. The horn still blew, the sound ringing out a joyous greeting to the arriving ship. The ship answered with a cheery tone. The fanfare brought people through the gates to welcome the arrival. Hakkon strode to the front, others deferentially making way for him.
The dragonship lowered its sail, then angled for the beach. In four strokes, the keel cut into the dark coarse sand. A young man jumped down from the foredeck, splashing through the last few feet. Instantly people surrounded him.
Hakkon spoke first. Welcome home, Son.
He spread his arms and gave the young man a fierce hug. The other responded energetically, pounding dust from the elder’s bearskin vest.
The gods be thanked, Father, the ship found its way home.
Yeah, a dragon knows where its lair is,
boomed out as another man shouldered his way through to father and son.
Uncle Arvald! I wouldn’t have expected you to be home, warming your feet by the fire and watching the women do all the work.
Why you young whelp, I sailed to the Iron Mountains and back to get two years’ worth of ore. Where’ve you been?
To raid the coasts of the Irish Sea.
I hope you harvested as much gold as I brought iron.
The two men embraced in a tight wrestling grip, trying to get the better of each other.
The rest of the crew disembarked and waded into the crowd looking for relatives. Soon there was a tangle of greetings with much laughter and loud boisterous exchanges. Then everyone started drifting toward the gate, giving precedence to Hakkon and Sigurd. The tide also carried Arvald away with his brother.
Orkan secured the raft, pulling the head of it onshore. A few men were unloading chests and casks from the dragonship. Urko, one of Hakkon’s slaves, was bent double under a pile of furs and pelts from across the seas. Then the prisoners were led ashore, mostly women and a few young boys. Grown men were rarely taken, most killed outright: they made poor slaves anyway, surly and full of hate. Orkan looked on with sympathy; as a youth he had arrived just like this after a raid that had destroyed his home. A bitter taste flooded his mouth at the flash of memory of what he had lost. He grabbed the wicker basket from the raft and turned toward the gate.
Let go!
a young voice protested in shrill tones. Orkan turned to see a youth about ten being pulled none too gently from the ship. Soku, another slave, kicked at the boy to make him move faster. Willow! Make him let go!
Behind them, a girl emerged from the shallow hold and hurried forward.
Please, Sir. Be not so harsh with him.
Then tell him to obey!
Soku snapped at her. We all have to obey, the sooner he learns that the better.
He’s young and used to better.
The girl spoke Danish with an accent, but she and the boy spoke something else that sounded like Latvian to Orkan, just enough so that he could understand some of it.
Soku, don’t be so unkind. Remember how it was for you on your first days,
Orkan called out to appease the other slave.
I remember too well. That’s why it’s better for me to kick some sense into him than to let the Master flay his hide.
But he can’t understand your speech. He’s from someplace else.
Everyone understands a well-placed kick—that doesn’t need any translating.
Soku drew back and tried for another kick. The boy dodged, but complained loudly.
Make him stop,
Orkan told the girl sharply.
Amsel, don’t provoke him,
the girl told the boy.
I won’t take a beating on his account,
Soku snarled. If Master doesn’t like something he’ll surely take it out on me.
Soku made ready to cuff the boy.
Stop!
Orkan said and took an aggressive step toward Soku, his fingers curled into fists. Hastily the other backed away up the slope toward the gate.
You have no rights over my Master’s slaves,
Soku called back, pointing an accusing finger at Orkan.
And you have no right to injure them.
Finally Soku disappeared inside the gate.
Thank you, Sir, for your help,
the girl said, bowing to him repeatedly.
I’m no Sir. I’m a slave like you, captured eight years ago.
He focused on the girl, noting a fresh young face overcast by worry. But Soku is right; you should tell your friend to obey.
He’s my younger brother,
she said, bowing again.
Then all the more so. Kurt, your Master, won’t stand for any kind of nonsense. Not from a slave.
We’re not slaves, Sir,
she protested. We’re nobles with land and animals.
That may be where you came from, but here, you are slaves.
As she didn’t know what to say to that, her face grew dejected and tears collected in the corners of her eyes. Orkan didn’t know what history lay behind her, and as a slave he had no right to care. He shrugged his shoulders helplessly. You better come with me; I’ll show you where you belong.
He picked up his basket and started for the gate, not caring if they followed. It wasn’t his place, he told himself, to help them. His duty was to please Arvald and no one else.
The other side of the gate opened up into a wide space with longhouses to every side, and haphazard paths between them. One big structure, the Hall, nearly took up the western edge. To the side a wicker fence held some cattle and goats. Orkan skirted several longhouses, stopped by a roughhewed front and pounded on the door post with his fist. In time the stiff leather curtain was pushed aside and a middle aged woman peered out belligerently at them.
Your Master’s new slaves,
Orkan said, motioning behind him.
By floods and blazing thunder, couldn’t Master find someone useful to do some work instead of more mouths to fill?
That she said this told Orkan that Kurt wasn’t within earshot.
The girl is called Willow and the boy is her brother Amsel,
he said as an introduction, but then couldn’t resist adding, They are of a noble line with land and animals.
And I’m the queen of Sheba...
Greatly amused, she pulled aside the leather and motioned them in with a rude gesture. My Lady, my young Lord...
and she cackled gleefully.
Orkan passed on, crossing over a plank that spanned the open gutter that wound through the entire place. Sturmgaard was a scattering of sixty-two longhouses and the Hall, the watchtower with the signal horn, two gates, one to the north toward the fields and forest uphill and one to the south toward the beach and the wharf. The roofs were covered with heavy reed thatch, held down solidly by poles and a network of straps weighted with dangling stones. In places the roofs were overgrown with moss or grass sprouting through the reed stalks. All around, a rough wooden palisade encompassed the whole, reinforced by an earthen rampart on the inside.
Orkan headed for a house festooned with reindeer antlers and bits and pieces of fishing nets. The main door was recessed, the entry paved with flat stones. The curtain was pulled aside to allow fresh air in.
Inside was dark, except for a fire in the center which reeked strongly of smoke from fresh-cut wood burning. Onna was stirring the cauldron, boiling some of the laundry to get the smell out and to kill any vermin in them. Orkan put the basket against the far wall and straightened his back uncomfortably. The morning poling had been strenuous and his muscles were not used to it.
Arvald has gone to the Hall already. If you want food, find it there. They’ll make a feast of it to welcome Sigurd home.
Onna was a slave, born to a slave, but refused to act like one. She had grown up here and considered the Master her family. Orkan went to the water bucket and washed his face and combed through his hair with his fingers. He took a clean shirt and changed into it. If there was to be a feast, he would be wanted to fill his Master’s drinking horn... and to keep filling it.
Orkan hurried to the Hall. The door was wide open, and the smell in the air was so strong as to nearly knock Orkan over on entering. But no one seemed to mind as they sat around long plank tables just starting to eat. There seemed to be a continuous roar as people, apart for the summer, tried to catch up with each other. Orkan grabbed a large pitcher of mead, and aimed himself for the head table, pushing through the throng that seemed everywhere.
About time,
Arvald complained as he held his horn to be filled. Orkan did so quickly, mindful not to spill a drop. Later on it wouldn’t matter as much, when the mead had climbed fully into the Master’s head leaving room for little else.
Arvald was a younger brother of Hakkon, who was the recognized headman since their father Thorvald died just three years ago. Thus Orkan usually stood near the head of the clan and was privy to decisions and many secrets uttered between drunk and half drunk. The brothers didn’t always get along, but today was a happy occasion with the return of Sigurd and his crew.
So how was your trip?
Hakkon asked his son.
Fine for the most part. We had good wind most of the way and hardly had to row until we entered the estuary. We razed two villages and plundered and burned a monastery. You should have seen it, Father. The prior was begging me not to burn his precious books. That’s what he was most worried about. I skewered him on my sword and he was still begging. We burned the books... all of them...
He laughed and poured mead down his gullet.
Too bad,
old Corso said sorrowfully. He was the seer, his watery eyes more used to looking into the spirit world.
Why bad?
Hakkon wanted to know.
Bad because those books were likely worth more than all the treasure Sigurd looted on the whole trip.
Worth more? Worth more to whom?
Arvald demanded.
Well, not to us, as we don’t read Latin but to the Germans and Poles, the books are worth more than their weight in gold.
The statement caused a minute of silence as they considered all that gold going to the flames.
Ah what! There’re too many books in the world already. None worth more than for wiping one’s ass in the outhouse,
Arvald said, starting another round of laughter. He held out his horn for a refill. Tell me Sigurd, what about Leif?
The last I saw my cousin he was heading north with Boshard and his six boats while we turned south. There were too many ships for all of us to find enough loot to divide. They had in mind to attack Whistling River Fort and besiege the place. Wolfert was already there with a small fleet.
But there’s a castle in the river mouth protecting the place.
So? We had close to six hundred Vikings, two hundred of them Danes. Who’s going to stand against that many?
Sigurd was chewing on a beef joint, his face and beard full of grease. From there we sailed north to find a rich monastery hidden on an island.
And where was that?
Urendot asked, eager to add to his store of knowledge. He sailed with his brother and it was always good to know of rich places.
Sigurd laughed. Only Sandeen, our navigator knows for sure. He has all the star charts in his head and the lodestone. He doesn’t give away the secrets of his craft. It’s better if you sail with us and split the loot.
Speaking of treasure, what did you find?
Hakkon brought the talk back to business.
What we found we divided already so everyone had a fair share. We lost two men to arrows and one drowned when the fool fell overboard. We have the widows’ share.
He threw the bone into the fire which flared brightly for an instant.
Who died?
Hakkon asked quietly. As a headman it was his place to know.
Of arrows, Gunnar the Boar and Enik the Goat. In the water went Svend, full of mead. He sank like a stone.
Too bad. Svend just got married before this trip. Now Elleneck will find her bed empty and cold,
Corso said, slurping on his cup.
Make no thoughts over that. She’s young and will soon find someone to warm her bed, especially as she has some death money now in her hand.
Arvald found no sympathy for a man witless enough to fall off a boat. No self-respecting Dane did that! He peered into his horn surprised that it was empty again. Orkan hurried to fill it.
But earnestly now? How much did you bring back?
Hakkon returned to the business end of the discussion.
Sigurd wrinkled his brows in concentration. My share comes to about four pounds of gold, twice that of silver, a gilded cross we can melt down, some silver cups and some Venetian glass. Some English beer, Irish spirits, three barrels of French wine, some grain, cured hides, bundles of woolen cloth, and some baubles, colored stones.
Do you mean gems?
Arvald perked up. His late wife was fond of jewels, but after her death he gambled them away. Still, he somehow retained the wish to have some.
Not real gems, Uncle. Just stones. Good enough to tell a woman that they’re real valuable, but they aren’t.
Sigurd guffawed so hard that the mead came bubbling out his nose. He choked on his mirth and broke into coughing. His uncle pounded his back until Sigurd quieted.
And Sturmgaard’s share?
The entire village had helped to finance and build the boat and had a stake in it.
One fourth set aside as agreed, solidly locked in an iron bound chest. And have I forgotten... 21 sheep.
You brought back 21 sheep from Ireland?
No, not from Ireland. On the way back we stopped off at Sromjold for fresh water and traded some carpets for the sheep. That’s the last time I do that. They got seasick on the way and I thought they would all die. We had to throw three overboard.
The carpets, maybe they were tapestries,
Corso mused.
And if they were?
Sigurd demanded, somehow feeling slighted.
Nothing. Nothing.
Corso tried ducking the young man’s irritation. But on a winter night a length of tapestry would be good against the drafts that come through the splits in the planking.
It was well known that the seer had pain in his bones. It amazes me that we can build boats tight enough to hold the sea out but can’t make houses to keep the leaks outside.
What about slaves?
Hakkon continued with the accounting.
That would be six women, four girls and one boy.
What about the old man I saw at the wharf?
Arvald asked, trying to keep just one of Sigurd in his view.
The old man claims he can make Irish spirits that can make a person twice as drunk as the mead we now drink.
Twice as drunk? Do we need that?
Hakkon wondered.
Sure, that way we can keep more of the mead for ourselves.
They were at that stage of inebriation where the discussion made perfect sense and they nodded their heads wisely. Just then Kurt came up, rattling a handful of bones.
Anyone for a wager?
He leered around the table, his eyes bleary.
Sure, why not?
Arvald was known for his love of tempting luck. The two of them got down to the serious business of throwing the bones. After each turn something changed hands and the betting became more and more animated. To Orkan’s surprise his Master was winning most of the throws. In a short time Kurt had lost everything at hand. Some coins, his dagger, a fish knife, his walrus spoon and carved narwhal amulet, as well as a number of rings. All the same he was still hot to bet and was trying to interest Arvald in his tunic and otter skin vest, but Arvald refused.
This tunic is made of the best flax weave the money can buy...
Leave off. Can’t you see, I’m near twice your size.
I know. I got two slaves ... a boy and a girl...
From Ireland?
someone asked.
No, got them in Gokstad. Traded some amber for them. I don’t know where they’re from. But they’re young and healthy.
Now what would I do with them?
Arvald asked irritated: he was glad to be rid of his sons and didn’t like to have anyone needlessly underfoot.
Orkan leaned forward and whispered into his Master’s ear. Perhaps Onna could use the help, Sir. She’s not so young anymore. Why last week she twice burned the stew...
Arvald saw a glimmer of reason in the advice and consented to one final throw.
The table grew quiet with intense expectations. Luck was a vital proof of a man; could he command luck and turn it to his gain? It was often claimed that luck was more important than strength and bravery. Good luck was the real reward, the rest was just sweat. And why would anyone follow a man cursed with bad luck?
The bones rattled in the cup, were thrown and the markings counted. Kurt collapsed on the bench with disappointment and groaned loudly. Triumphantly, Arvald slapped the table with both his palms, and the whole table top danced, scattering the trenchers and the drinking horns.
You lost,
Arvald gloated, his face drawn into a lopsided grin: he was only half a drink away from finding the floor and sleeping there until the next day. Orkan filled the horn and predictably Arvald’s head grew too heavy for his neck and sank onto the tabletop. For a while he hunched there limply, then rolled onto the floor, the fall not even interrupting his snores. Kurt was among the rushes already, snoring in counterpoint. Orkan tucked a roll of fur under his Master’s head, but left him there like a beached whale and just as heavy.
All around things were quieting as people found themselves places to sleep along the wall or went to their own lodgings. Only the old seer remained at the table drawing secret rune signs with the spilt mead while muttering incantations. It was said that he never slept but talked with the spirits and the dead. Orkan shuddered; the old man set his teeth on edge every time.
Stepping out into the night, Orkan was hit by the full force of fresh air. He had drunk little, but felt drunk as he breathed in the coolness that now embraced him. Inside had been dense with smoke, heat, sweat, mead and piss, the air as thick as the fog that filled the fjord in October. Unsteadily he made his way home. Halfway he paused and went to Kurt’s house. He knocked loudly at the door. Nothing happened. He kicked the door hard, rattling the bar on the inside. He had to kick again before the door creaked open.
What you want?
an irritated woman’s voice demanded.
Your Master lost the slaves to Arvald and I’m here to claim the boy and the girl.
Lost again?
the voice sounded even more annoyed. I told him a hundred times that mead will drown luck and swallow the bones, but does he listen? No, he has to gamble every chance he gets.
After the woman disappeared back into the house, Orkan heard faint noises from the inside. In a little while a confused girl and a very sleepy boy stood shivering in the frigid night air.
What is it?
the girl asked, trying to wrap a piece of cloth around the boy.
Your Master lost you to the bones,
Orkan said matter-of-factly.
Lost? As in a wager?
The girl didn’t know if she could trust her understanding of Danish. She looked uncomprehending at Orkan. Then, are you our new Master?
No. My Master is your Master.
Is he a good man?
Arvald?
Orkan paused, considering it a fair question. I don’t know what you hold to be good, but he’s not the worst. He’s happiest when you stay out of his way.
Is he better than Kurt?
Again Orkan paused to think. He had gotten used to the brisk way of these people, in which tenderness and civility had little place. They led a hard life, often risked everything, but expected no kind words from anyone. Orkan remembered only enough of his own past to realize that it was not like that everywhere. Kurt lost his wife and three sons in raiding and his two daughters won’t speak to him. I doubt he has any friends. That kind of life twists a man some. Arvald still has dreams left. I suppose that makes him better. But don’t look for an easy life here. There’s work to be done and we slaves have to do it.
What... what kind of work?
For the men, fishing, cutting wood, working the fields, taking care of the animals. For women and girls, cooking, cleaning, washing, spinning and weaving...
They neared the longhouse and ducked inside. Hearing them enter Onna sounded from her corner, Who’ve you got with you?
Two slaves Master won with the bones.
By Odin, has he lost his mind?
No, he won,
Orkan retorted, much amused. And don’t swear by the god, you don’t believe in Odin.
That won’t stop me from swearing by him.
Orkan led the girl and the boy to his sleeping place and watched the girl make a nest for the two of them among his furs.
Thank you...
she said, her voice nearly exhausted. Orkan just shrugged, then he burrowed into the Master’s bed, knowing that the Master wouldn’t need it tonight. Midday would pass before Arvald would find himself again. As sleep took him, he thought of the boy and girl and wondered why he bothered to help them. He vaguely remembered his family, but that was another life that had happened to someone else. Here, tomorrow would come, another workday waiting for him.
Chapter 2
Orkan spent the morning with the adze, trimming the timber he had poled down the fjord the previous day. With measured strokes, he squared up the trunk, the chips littering the ground. He worked steadily, calculating each stroke so as not to cost him more energy than was necessary. He liked the work; one could see progress with each swing.
At midday Orkan heard the iron rod ring, calling people to midday meal. He collected the chips into the basket and lifting it, trudged back to Arvald’s place. He emptied the chips by the fire for use as kindling. Onna stirred the cauldron and ladled bowlfuls for the boy and the girl. It was obvious that Amsel was not reconciled to his new situation. For ten years he had been pampered as the heir to property and now suddenly found himself on the very bottom, serving instead of being served.
Orkan ate, same as he worked, at a measured pace. It was fish soup with carrots and kale and there was dark rye bread to go with it. He ate purposefully without joy: he rarely remembered tasting anything anymore. The girl was watching him but it took time for him to become aware of it; he had noticed, but it didn’t penetrate his attention. She had sparkling eyes, full of some intent. After a time he grew unsettled and told her to look elsewhere.
Where should I look, Sir?
Anywhere but at me,
he snapped back. She turned her eyes, but he had the uneasy feeling that she was still somehow looking at him. He finished the soup, and wiped the bowl with the remainder of his bread. He stood up to stretch, then grabbing the adze he headed for the beach. Halfway there he met Arvald walking somewhat unsteadily.
You left me on the floor,
Arvald complained.
Not so. I tucked a pillow under your head.
You should have helped me to my bed.
You remember last year when a whale beached itself and we could not move it until we cut it up into small pieces? Well so it was with you last night. Even Ingolf, known for his great strength, couldn’t have budged you last night.
Arvald tripped and Orkan had to reach out to steady him. They got safely over the gutter, and in time reached the longhouse. Arvald nearly fell through the door. He looked around confused as if he had stumbled into a stranger’s house. Only slowly did he recognize his own place, but he couldn’t make any sense of the boy and girl by the fire.
Who’re they?
The two you won last night from Kurt.
I won?
That fact seemed to surprise him, but it also cheered him somewhat. Onna came up, holding a ladle out for him.
You better have some of this to clear your head.
He was so befuddled that he swallowed the drink whole, his face twisting into an unpleasant grimace. What was that?
A remedy my granny taught me. It sobers one up quick, faster than the wind can go through the cane.
In fact, something did go through because Arvald had to make a determined run for the outhouse.
By evening Arvald straightened out and was ready to attend the main Hall, still celebrating the safe return of the village men. All the way there Arvald swore he wouldn’t touch a drop and instructed, If I tell you to pour, you give me water, understand?
When later Orkan did as ordered, Arvald spit the water out in a rage and demanded better. Soon he was tipping his horn back with his usual enthusiasm. The drinking was slower as the talk was of domestic matters.
The barley is sparse,
Corso remarked seriously. There wasn’t enough rain all summer. We’ll be lucky if we get half a yield off the fields. Rye isn’t much better. Oats the worst of all.
I guess we have to spend some of the gold you brought back to buy grain and such,
Hakkon said to his son.
You know, in Ireland there were lush fields of grain everywhere, but unripe. I tried to tell the others that we should wait with the raid until after the harvest. Now we’d be chock full of grain. But no, they all wanted to have a go, afraid that other ships would arrive and take all the loot. I guess it’s either one or the other. The harvest or the treasure.
When I was young,
Hakkon remembered, my father Thorvald stayed years over there and our forces besieged and exacted tribute from the cities along the coast. In those days we raided the east of England all the way to the Scottish highlands.
The English have now built castles to protect the estuaries. No one has much enthusiasm to sit beneath stone walls, waiting for the garrison to run out of food.
Sigurd summed up the sad state of raiding. The west coast isn’t much better. And we’ve picked over the Irish too well. There isn’t much left to find there. Normandy is occupied by our kind, can’t raid there. There is some talk of going around the French and sailing south to a land that has so much sun that a man turns black as coal.
It’s said that Leif Erickson has found lands to the far west across the western sea,
Corso said unexpectedly. As a rule he didn’t concern himself much with worldly events not affecting him or his people.
It’s also said he found lots of ice and snow, much like Iceland. Fishing is good, but there’s no gold to be had.
Hakkon had heard it at the big market at Morgenstern. Hard work we have plenty of around here, we don’t have to cross the seas for it.
We could try going east and south among the Rus,
Arvald suggested.
That’s been done already. There’s a river flowing south, but it takes long, backbreaking portages to reach it. Olaf Gunnarson did that in the time of my grandfather, but few have come back from it. Makes one wonder if it’s worth it,
Hakkon mused.
That’s because they’ve found a better place down there. I, too, have heard tell that many have joined a great realm to the south and hired their swords out to warring kings.
Sigurd liked the prospects of that.
Corso cleared his throat and they all waited for him to say something. Our way is passing. We have picked over the known world too well and spread terror across many lands and carved our name on many of their tombstones, but the world we know is changing around us. To the south more and more kingdoms rise and stand in our way. They talk of Christianity and send their holy men among us to convert us.
That’ll never happen. The Norse Gods can defeat this Christian God. Wasn’t he nailed to a tree? How can he fight us from there?
Arvald was indignant at a mere thought of such lunacy.
Corso held up his hand and again they waited for him. You see falsely, thinking all the danger is from the outside. We have Viking Lords among us who would want to be kings and look to Christianity for an alliance...
It’ll never happen!
Arvald struck the table so hard that the plank top split and spilled all the dishes and remnants of food. Irritated Arvald threw a pitcher across the Hall to smash against the wall. We’re independent clans, local powers sure, but owe allegiance to no one other than the war leaders we choose for a summer campaign. No king will tell us what to do and sit on our necks!
No doubt, Brother. But sit and speak calmly. Shouting never helped anybody,
Hakkon said evenly. Being the oldest, he had learned under his father Thorvald to control himself and not risk instant punishment.
Throughout all this, Orkan stood quietly behind his Master ready to fill his horn. At times, excited by some topic, he wanted to join in, but, of course, a slave had no voice. Orkan didn’t remember much about his origins but knew instinctively that the cross, the symbol of Christianity, was a part of his heritage. He didn’t know what to start with this knowledge.
The evening passed with serving girls bringing more food and more to drink. Once in a while the better looking were swept onto a lap with demands for kisses and a hand searching under a skirt to the squeals of the maiden so manhandled. It was often hard to tell if her protests were the sound of pleasure or distress. Seeing the flushed face of a girl, the excitement in her eyes, Orkan felt desire surge in him, but every time a dark fear overtook it. Quickly he looked elsewhere.
A slave kept the fire going, the smoke finding a way through the reed covered roof. As usual the Danes drank themselves into various states of drunkenness. Some grew quiet, while others turned cantankerous, often looking for a fight. It was no surprise when Gunnar jumped upon the table and declared himself to be a champion of champions. No self-respecting Dane let that go unchallenged and some kind of fight was sure to follow. On a few occasions half the Hall found itself wrestling on the floor trying to get the better of someone.
Orkan was careful to stay clear of such struggles and because he was a quiet sort, people didn’t bother him. Only one did. Turengill. He was strong, maybe twenty, fully grown with muscular shoulders and powerful arms. At every opportunity he showed off his strength and lorded over his age-mates. He had been on the last raid, and according to all accounts, had fought bare-chested, swinging a broadsword. For some reason, this young man had taken an unreasonable dislike of Orkan and went out of his way to make the slave’s life more miserable. Yet no matter what Turengill did, Orkan didn’t react, perhaps thinking it was only his due. It was as if he felt no pain, no humiliation, and something that went with not feeling much, no joy in life. He tried to be practical in most things without letting emotions into them. People sometimes thought his face was somehow frozen, fused from birth. He almost never smiled and never allowed an inner light to show in his eyes. He was so good at hiding that he had kind of lost himself. He didn’t know who he really was. He thought of himself as Orkan the slave, and everyone treated him as such.
In the morning Arvald awoke and rose, scratching himself. He was still sour from the night before and regarded his newest slaves with displeasure. He motioned to Orkan. Take them fishing with you. That way they might be of some use, instead of sitting around the fire gibbering their nonsense.
Orkan took some extra lines and hooks and settled the two young persons into the small row boat. He pushed off and paddled to his favorite spot that had never disappointed him. He baited the hooks, gave a line to the boy and the girl and cast his own farther out. The girl tried to talk but he hushed her down. The boy seemed taken by the task, even though they caught nothing the first hour. Then, in quick succession, they pulled in several large trout, a small sturgeon and two largemouth bass. The boy grew quite excited hauling in his catch, a fair sized perch. The girl was less keen about extracting the hook from the fishes’ mouths. She made faces but also made herself do it.
Why do you stay?
she asked Orkan unexpectedly.
Where would I go?
he shrugged.
Home. To your family.
I don’t know where that is. I was taken young, maybe only six or seven. I don’t remember much.
But you could take this boat and just sail away.
Her eyes grew big as she thought of her home. Obviously she could remember and was missing it. Orkan didn’t know what to miss.
This small boat won’t take the open sea; it would be swamped by the first big wave.
Orkan pointed up-fjord. That just takes us deeper into their land. The interior is dense bush, cliffs and deep canyons, and rushing rivers, mostly impassable.
Then you have thought about it,
Willow pounced on his admission.
I didn’t. But I have dreamt of it.
Orkan shrugged. A fish found his hook, and from the aggressive bite it took it had to be a big one and he had to use all his skill not to have the fish tear his line. When the fish was safely on board and clubbed, it turned out to be nearly half the size of the boy. Orkan gathered up the fishing gear and reached for the oars. The boy spoke some gibberish, pointing to the fish. Orkan looked at the girl.
He wants to know if that can bite.
Sure, it can take your fingers easily.
He pulled the mouth of the fish open to show a row of needle sharp teeth. Willow shuddered at the sight, but not Amsel, who tested their points, wincing as he pierced himself slightly.
He wants to know if that’s a shark.
No, it’s a pike, a hunting fish—well able to defend itself.
Orkan headed for shore: they had more than enough fish for the day.
Still offshore, the girl reached out a hand and touched his arm. Wait. Please wait.
She looked anxiously toward the nearing beach. It’s so peaceful out here. Not so over there...
With her head she indicated Sturmgaard. They drifted slowly, the lazy current pushing past the wharf and the fishing barks pulled up on the sand. One trader was gone, but the bottom of the other was being painted with pitch. Nets were spread on a frame of posts and fish were being smoked on the racks, a boy beside them to drive off predatory birds that took an interest in the drying process. A little farther along the shore the vegetation changed as the salt content of the fjord increased. They were drifting toward the marsh that swallowed the turn of the inlet. Reaching the corner, they had a glimpse of the open sea, with the restless waves trying to force themselves into the narrowing of the land that lined both side with cliffs. Orkan turned the skiff around and pulled against the current.
They landed and pulled the boat up on shore, collected the catch and carried it to the longhouse. Onna sorted through the fishes, making a face at the largest of the selection.
Why you bring me pike? The fish is full of bone and slivers. You know the Master don’t like the taste of it.
I thought it’d be good enough for the dog—the mutt is always whining when we try to have supper.
Then he gutted the fish, throwing the offal into the fire where it sizzled for a time.
We have to find something for these two to do. The girl can learn to spin and weave, the boy... he can fetch wood and water.
As always, Onna was quick to organize the household tasks. She peered at Willow, muttering almost to herself, Mind you, the girl’s hands are soft and in need of some roughening.
She turned to look at Amsel. He needs toughening too. Not much use to us so skinny.
Then she turned a speculative eye on Orkan. And you... you’d best teach the boy proper speech, I’m already tired of his nattering.
The girl can do that better, she’s his sister.
Well then get her to do it. Master will expect to be understood and won’t shy away from hitting out. He’ll think it’s due to laziness and disrespect.
The next day Orkan introduced the two to their tasks. Willow was a quick learner, and soon was spinning out wool and flax thread. Amsel was intelligent but resented being made to do anything. No doubt about it, he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Orkan soon realized it was useless to punish him directly; it was a matter of pride with him to resist and he accepted pain as payment for his self-respect. Orkan found it more efficacious to punish the sister when her brother was defiant. So resentfully, Amsel learned to obey.
In the pale sun of the morning, outside the longhouse, Orkan was whittling on a piece of wood to fix one of the crab traps. Amsel was practicing tying knots that every seafaring man should know. Nearby, squatting on an overturned bucket, Willow was peeling carrots for the midday stew. A man went by, leading a large horse, his eyes ignoring the two slaves working as they should.
Willow looked long after the man, her mouth muttering as she regretfully shook her head.
What is it?
Orkan asked.
He has not long to live.
How do you know?
Orkan searched out the retreating figure: to him the man seemed all right, there was a bounce to his walk and a firmness to his hold on the halter.
There is the shadow of death on him,
Willow replied. Orkan shuddered. Who was this girl?
She does that, you know,
Amsel said in Latvian, a language that Orkan half-understood.
Does what?
Sees things others don’t. Like our mother...
At the thought of his mother, the boy’s eyes filled with tears. What was he seeing in his past? Orkan wondered.
In the afternoon, Orkan led them into the forest to pick mushrooms. It took a while for him to teach, Amsel especially, the difference between the edible and the poisonous sorts. There were a lot of mushrooms that grew under the tall trees, pushing through a deep carpet of fallen leaves. Soon they had the basket full. They paused at a creek, and Orkan washed himself in the cold water from the hills above. Willow went off a ways and did the same. Amsel seemed happy with his dirt. Orkan pointed out berry bushes in a clearing and they paused to graze a while. Soon their mouths turned deep red from the berry juice.
Shew ha, da da...
Amsel was trying to catch Orkan’s attention, pointing toward the far bushes where a good sized rabbit was sniffing at the vegetation. Reaching behind him, Orkan drew his eight inch knife. In one smooth motion he threw, and the knife became a flash of lightning that caught the rabbit in the very center of its chest. Amsel hooted in triumph and ran to fetch the fallen prey. He showed the thing to his sister, jabbering at her energetically. She pulled out the knife and gave it back to Orkan, who wiped the blade on a fern leaf and stuck it back in his belt. Amsel was doing a dance and still hollering.
What’s he going on about?
He’s praising your cast. That was a goodly distance for the knife to find its mark.
Orkan only shrugged.
I’m good with the knife and the axe. Not so good with the sword...
He didn’t know why he said the last because a slave had no need for a sword. Although that wasn’t strictly true either: Ulaf was a slave from Helgoland, but was taken on a raid and in time earned a fearful reputation with the double-headed axe. He was accepted by the rest and eventually got his own dragonship. He liked to raid Friesenland, for whose inhabitants he had developed a particular hate.
With a few deft strokes Orkan gutted the rabbit, throwing the entrails under a bush.
Amsel says he would like to learn that... your skillful use of the knife.
Willow sparkled at him with admiration.
It’s good he wants to learn something, but he’d better learn Danish first. Nothing causes trouble more quickly than not understanding an order.
I know, Sir. But he can be stubborn when he gets it into his head and then even a mountain can’t move him.
She looked up at him, and for the first time he saw a flash in her eyes that bespoke her intelligence.
Don’t call me Sir,
Orkan ordered. Willow just blinked. How old are you anyway?
She hesitated a minute before answering, Sixteen, last fall.
Orkan whistled in surprise. Willow didn’t look it. He had judged her maybe thirteen and here she was nearly of marriageable age. He took a closer look at her. Her face was smooth, without blemish. She had a well-formed mouth, high cheekbones and almond shaped eyes. Like himself, she had some Asian blood in her. Her black hair, tied at the nape of her neck, also suggested an eastern heritage. She seemed aware of everything, as if nothing escaped her eyes. He wondered that he hadn’t noticed that before.
I’m eighteen myself,
he said finally. It was her turn to be surprised. He carried himself with a calm assurance that seemed more mature than his years. She didn't yet know that his composure came mostly from a lack of inner conflict; he had long accepted his fate and saw no reason to resent it. Things were what they were, why waste effort to resist them?
As they emerged from the fringe of trees, they had a good view of the entire bend of the fjord. From above, Sturmgaard looked ridiculously small. There was another dragonboat on the beach, unloading. A crowd surrounded the ship and crew, finding and greeting each other.
Bjorg,
Orkan said half-aloud, catching a quick flicker in Willow’s dark eyes. The Master’s second son.
Bjorg.
She tried the name on her tongue and had Amsel repeat it. He was learning reluctantly, but only after Willow had told him that he sounded stupid had he taken more trouble to listen and tried harder to make sense of all he heard. Both were intelligent, Orkan decided.
They followed the goat path down to the water’s edge, past the orchards and the herb gardens. By the time they reached the beach, the get-together had moved inside. They took the mushrooms to Onna who was pleased with their assortment. She dismissed the rabbit. Not much meat on that one and no fat. Can’t get the body warm on lean meat like that.
She hung it from the rafter. "Anyway with Bjorg back we’ll all be cooking for the Hall. Another night full of drunken men trying to find their beds.
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