A Flame Put Out (8 page)

The woman wrapped her in a hug. “Oh, my dear, I know you didn’t. I am angry at myself more than anything. The hatred Alrik and Gunnar carry for one another goes far back. Knowing what kind of man Gunnar is, I wouldn’t put it past him to think of hurting you or Geirr to get back at Alrik. I should have known better than to let them in. I thought if I kept Gunnar in check, everything would be all right, but I wasn’t counting on Einarr to be so impulsive. If you had slept in your own bed, Einarr would have forced himself on you, and it would be my fault.”

Selia pulled back. “If a man does a bad thing, then it is
his
fault, no one else’s.”

“Yes.” Hrefna studied her. “Yes, you’re right, of course.”

Selia returned to her loom and changed the topic of conversation to something less personal. “Why is it that Alrik and Gunnar hate each other, Hrefna?”

“Well, Gunnar told you his mother and Ulfrik’s mother were sisters, yes?”

Selia nodded.

“Klaufi Leifson—Gunnar’s father—he was one of Ragnarr’s men. On the same raid to Ireland where Ragnarr took Treasa, Klaufi also took her sister. Her name was Ide, I believe. Klaufi married her, and Gunnar was born around the same time that Alrik and Ulfrik were born. So the three boys were the same age, and competed fiercely amongst themselves, as boys are known to do. Although at that time Ulfrik was still a thrall, and therefore couldn’t raise a hand in his own defense to the other two.”

There was a stirring from Geirr on the bench, and both women stopped what they were doing and watched him for a moment. Geirr, still asleep, screwed up his face and let out a startlingly loud fart for such a small babe, then relaxed. Selia stifled a giggle and looked back at Hrefna.

“Just like a man.” Alrik’s aunt waved a dismissive hand at the babe as she went back to her story. “Ragnarr’s men were putting a tattoo on one of them, and the boys overheard Ragnarr boast that he had gotten his own berserker tattoo when he was only seven, after bashing in another boy’s head with a rock.” Hrefna paused for a moment, pursing her lips. “According to Alrik—if he can be believed—Gunnar then said he would have a berserker tattoo as well, and he picked up a rock and hit Ulfrik with it, knocking him senseless. Alrik took a rock of his own and beat Gunnar so severely that he lost his eye.”

Selia gasped. Ragnarr had died when Alrik and Ulfrik were four, so the boys couldn’t have been any older than that when this incident occurred. The thought of small children brutalizing each other in such a way was almost unimaginable. “So that is how Alrik got his tattoo?”

Hrefna nodded. “Yes. Although Ragnarr beat Alrik to within an inch of his life for what he had done, secretly he told him he was very proud. He put the tattoo on the boy himself.” She shook her head in disgust. “Soon after, Ragnarr died and Klaufi was the first of his men to turn on him. He wanted vengeance for his son’s eye. And Gunnar himself has been plotting his own revenge for a long time.”

“But surely if Gunnar is as bad as you say he is, he would have tried to do something to Alrik before now.”

“Oh he has, my dear. More than once, I’m afraid. He attacked when the boys were living with their grandfather, but Alrik pushed him down a cliff and broke Gunnar’s leg. And then Gunnar tried again after Olaf and I moved here, but before Alrik married Eydis. Gunnar was pursuing Eydis as well, you see, but she was put off by his eye. I’m sure it was like salt in his wound when Ketill turned down his proposal for Eydis, but accepted Alrik’s. Gunnar came here in a blaze of fury, looking for Alrik. And Alrik laughed at him. He beat Gunnar and left him lying in the dirt. I took pity on Gunnar, cleaned him up, and had Olaf take him home.”

Hrefna shrugged. “I almost wish Alrik had killed him, as coldhearted as that sounds. That man is crafty and unpredictable, and I don’t like him knowing about you and Geirr.”

“Then why did you let him in the house?”

The woman gestured wearily. “Child, Gunnar’s men are like a pack of wolves. They will sniff and circle and pace, but they will not attack unless their leader signals them to. I knew Gunnar felt indebted to me for my small kindness to him long ago, and I counted on him honoring that. Which he did. If I would have denied him our hospitality, the respect he felt for me would be finished, and he would have had no qualms about sacking the house and carrying you and Geirr off, or worse. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes.” Selia’s mouth dried up in a sudden panic. She herself had not once but
twice
insulted Gunnar. And that man had been holding Geirr—a man who clearly would take immense pleasure in inflicting pain or humiliation on Alrik. He could have dashed the infant’s head in without a second thought, and thrown the tiny body out into the snow.

Hot rage arose in Selia. “Ulfrik should have known not to bring him here.”

“Yes,” Hrefna agreed. “Which makes me wonder why he did.”

Chapter 8

Time passed with no sign of Alrik’s ship. The Finngalls’ fall trip was usually shorter than what they planned in the spring, due to the unpredictable nature of the sea so late in the season, so there could be no good excuse for why the men hadn’t returned.

The apprehension Selia felt was mirrored in Hrefna’s eyes, and even in Ingrid’s. The girl of course couldn’t care less about her father. Her fears were for Bolli and Olaf.

Hrefna refused to speak of the delayed return of the ship. After the severity of the autumn storms, the sea had calmed and remained as placid as a lake. The woman could easily have said the men were delayed because there was no wind for the sail and they were too tired to row. She could have said Alrik decided to winter over in Dubhlinn.

But Hrefna voiced no hollow reassurances. It seemed clear she believed the ship had been lost.

The unrelenting nausea that had plagued Selia for many moons began to ease, although she found her constant worry was just as much a suppressor of her appetite as the sickness had been. But their lives revolved around food nevertheless. In preparation for the long winter, the women spent a good deal of time making cheese and butter, as well as smoking, salting, and drying meat and fish. This could have been left to the thralls with minimal overseeing by Hrefna, but Selia sensed Alrik’s aunt needed something to occupy her mind other than spinning and weaving.

Selia took it upon herself to walk through the forest whenever the weather permitted, on a stated purpose of stockpiling firewood for the winter. She carried a small dagger with her for safety—although Ingrid scoffed that she was more likely to stab herself than to kill any animal hungry enough to attack such a scrawny meal—and promised Hrefna she would stay close to the house. But as soon as she was out of sight, she always climbed the steep hill that overlooked the fjord, to scan the sea for any sign of the ship.

This was one of the few places where she allowed her tears to fall freely. Ingrid had caught her crying, once, when Selia had thought she was alone in the kitchen, and the girl had proceeded to unleash a torrent of condemnation on her. In her opinion Selia was a stupid, foolish girl, not only feeble-minded but spineless, wasting her tears on a man who would rather bed the thralls than lie with her.

Selia, too exhausted and depressed to argue, had only cried harder, and Hrefna had come into the kitchen and slapped Ingrid to make her stop ranting.

But it was the last time Selia would cry in front of Ingrid, and so she saved her tears for the darkness of her bedchamber or for her trips to the hill behind the house. She imagined pushing Ingrid off the cliff and into the sea hundreds of feet below, but even that couldn’t lighten her mood.

There was a ledge on the hill that stayed relatively dry, and she sat there as she cried. Alrik must be dead. What other reason could there be for his absence? Although her mind believed it, her heart refused to. She had gone through so much to be with Alrik and it seemed such a cruel twist of fate to lose him now. She loved her Finngall husband more than she would have ever thought possible, and he had been snatched from her in the blink of an eye.

Selia twisted the ring on her finger. He had loved her as well, to have given her such a thing to protect her from his rages. Yes, he could be amazingly selfish a good deal of the time, but with the gift of the ring he had proven himself willing to give up his life to keep her safe.

She had prayed over and over for Alrik’s safe return. But her prayers had been in Irish, as of course her thoughts were naturally conducted in her native language. Her prayers had neither been directed at God or at Odin. She was hesitant to pray to her Christian God on behalf of a heathen, but was nevertheless fearful of the consequences of praying to Odin. So she prayed to a nameless, faceless deity. Now she realized this deity was probably insulted by her indecisive nature.

Selia sat up straighter, wiping her face with the hem of her shift. She examined her ring and rubbed the runes with her finger. How could she expect to get her husband back without some sort of sacrifice on her part? In marrying a Vikinger she had probably condemned her Christian soul anyway. She could sit around and wait until her death to burn for all eternity, or she could use what soul she possessed to bargain for the safe return of her husband.

Swallowing, she mentally apologized for what she was about to do. She doubted God would understand, but it made her feel slightly better if her reasons were made clear.

Selia spoke aloud in Norse. “Odin,” she said in a whisper, then cleared her throat and spoke with more conviction. “Odin. I am praying for the return of my husband, Alrik Ragnarson. He is . . .” She hesitated. To call Alrik a good man was a lie, and Odin wouldn’t care about goodness in any event. “A good fighter. He has killed many people in your name. If you let him live he will kill many more for you.”

There, it was done. She took a deep breath, feeling as though the flames of hell were licking at her feet. She had a nearly uncontrollable urge to cross herself and had to sit on her hands to stop the motion. She had committed yet another mortal sin by praying to a heathen god. Would it be worth it?

Selia waited, looking out onto the water expectantly, until the cold seeped into her bones and she felt frozen to the rock.

When she finally descended the hill to return home, she heard the piercing screams of Geirr before she even opened the door. It was not his typical cry of hunger or of anger, but one of pain. Selia picked up her skirts and sprinted inside.

Ingrid was holding the squirming, red-faced babe, and appeared to be trying to soothe him, although it was obvious her jostling movements were only making things worse. “What is wrong with him?” Selia shouted over the noise.

“Nothing.” The girl scowled. “He rolled off the bench, that’s all.”

Geirr had been remarkably strong from the moment of his birth, and as soon as he learned to roll over, had done so constantly. They had no cradle in the house—Alrik had smashed it to bits after his children died—and so the women had resigned themselves to watching the babe closely to keep him from landing on his head whenever he woke from a nap. Every time there was a close call, Hrefna would press her lips together in exasperation. She had repeatedly vowed that as soon as Alrik walked in the door, she would hand him a block of wood and a saw, and demand that he make a cradle for his son.

Selia snatched Geirr from Ingrid’s arms, glaring at the infuriating girl. “You were supposed to be watching him!”

“No,” Ingrid sneered. “
You
were supposed to be watching him, you stupid cow. This thrall child is not my responsibility.”

Hrefna came through the kitchen door, on her way back from the smokehouse. She looked tired. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“Ingrid let him roll off the bench,” Selia said through gritted teeth.

“It’s not my fault he won’t lay still,” the girl argued. “It’s not my fault Selia goes who knows where and leaves me alone with her husband’s bastard child.”

“Well.” Hrefna huffed with resignation. “I suppose we can see if Bjorn will make a cradle for him. Ingrid, ask him about it tomorrow.”

Selia and Ingrid stopped their argument and both turned to the woman, open-mouthed. It was true, then.

Hrefna didn’t believe the men were ever coming back.

Selia learned later that night how prayers answered by Odin always came with a heavy price. As she cried into her pillow and ruminated on raising not one, but two babies without a father, there was a noise from the main room. She choked back a sob to listen.

There it was again; the distinct timber of Alrik’s voice.

She leapt from the bed, barefoot and clad only in her shift, and ran into the room.
Alrik
. He was home. Her mind rapidly took stock that he looked thin and tired, and his head was bandaged, but all his body parts were intact. He saw her at the same moment, and stopped talking as she launched herself into his arms.

Time stood still for a moment as they held each other. His arms were around her so tightly she could barely take a breath. She refused to pull back, however, but instead buried her face into his neck and held on tighter. She whispered his name, over and over, feeling his pulse beat under her lips. Alrik was home. He was alive.

She slowly became aware of her surroundings, and her dazed mind took in the fact that Hrefna was crying. Selia looked around the otherwise empty room as a cold fear gripped her insides. “Where is Olaf?”

Alrik didn’t answer right away. He sat on one of the benches, pulling Selia into his lap as though loathe to let her go. “There was a storm.” His voice sounded cracked and hoarse. “It snapped the mast. We lost nine men. Olaf is dead.”

A wail escaped Selia’s lips. “No!”

“There was nothing I could do,” he rasped. “He was there and then gone. There was nothing I could do.”

Hrefna burst into fresh sobs. Selia climbed down from Alrik’s lap to put her arms around the woman. “Oh Hrefna, I am so sorry,” she choked out. It felt odd to be comforting she who was typically so strong; the backbone of the family. It was as if the world had crumbled and fallen apart around them. What would they do now?

Suddenly she realized Ingrid wasn’t in the room. The girl slept in the main room, and therefore would have been the first one to speak to her father when he returned. Where had she gone? Selia turned back to Alrik. “Bolli?” she asked hesitantly, unsure if she wanted to know the answer.

Alrik looked away. “He is alive. But the mast crushed his foot. He may lose it.”

“Oh,” she gasped. Poor Bolli. Only sixteen summers, not even a man yet. Crippled.

Hallveig must have awoken when she heard the commotion in the room. Now she returned from the kitchen carrying mugs of warmed ale, which she served to the family. Geirr stirred and cried out. Hallveig sat on the bench, lifting the babe with one hand and pulling her bodice down with the other. Geirr attached himself to her nipple and began to suckle vigorously. Alrik watched them for a moment with a look of vague surprise, as if he had almost forgotten about the child’s existence.

He turned to contemplate the flickering coals of the fire with a look of defeat, then spoke the names of the nine dead men, his voice a low monotone. Selia closed her eyes and saw their faces as he went through them, one by one. “Olaf Egilson,” he began. “Mani Nefbjornson and his two sons, Falki and Hallgrim. The brothers Vegeirr and Afrald Skallagrimson. Asleif Ingjaldson. Rodrek Sialfson. And Riki Ketilson.”

Her mind reeled. Nine men, fierce Vikingers all, strong enough to defeat three times their number in battle. Killed not by a blade, but by a wave that washed them overboard and down into the cold, shadowy depths of the sea.

From previous conversations with Hrefna, she had learned Finngalls considered death at sea one of the most ill-omened ways to die, especially if the bodies weren’t recovered. A man’s death was a reflection of how he had lived his life, and so the most honorable death was one that occurred in battle. ‘Thor’s red gift,’ it was called.

For the Finngalls, to die in battle was proof that a man had been fierce and unwavering until the end, and was deserving of a place with the gods in the afterlife. To die of an accident was less honorable, but nevertheless depended on what the man had been doing at the time of the accident. If Alrik had died of his wounds inflicted by the boar, it would still have been considered a brave and respectable death. Illness, or worst of all, old age, was a passive and unmanly way to die. Many a sickly or elderly man talked his son or grandson into taking him on one final raid in search of Thor’s red gift.

A funeral for a Finngall killed in battle was conducted on a grand scale. The man’s widow and children would have the comfort of knowing he had died the death of a hero and had a place in the afterlife befitting his bravery. Songs would be sung in his name and vats of ale would be opened in his honor. His courageous death would be revered by all.

For Alrik’s nine dead, there would be no funerals to prepare for. There were no bodies to bury or to burn. No caches of treasure, no food, and no sacrifices to send along with the dead men to ease their journey to the afterlife. A death at sea portended nothing but ill luck and misfortune. Many a tale was told of restless corpses who rose from watery graves to search for their loved ones. There were rituals that must be conducted before and during a funeral to stop the dead from rising, and without a body, no rituals could be performed.

Hrefna stared down at the mug of ale in her hand, blinking. She appeared to be in shock. The woman probably needed the tea she had made for Selia when she had learned of Niall’s death, except Selia didn’t know all the ingredients to make it. “Hrefna,” she said, “I will make you some tea if you tell me what to put in it.”

Hrefna regarded her with empty eyes, then blinked at Alrik. “No,” she said, rising slowly. She shook her head as if to clear it. “No. I must examine Alrik’s wound.”

Setting her mug aside, she unwound the bandage from Alrik’s head. The wound was jagged and swollen, running horizontally beneath his hairline, beginning in the middle of his forehead and ending at the temple. It had been sewn shut by someone who was by no means an expert. Selia could see several areas where the white of his skull showed through the stitches.

Hrefna pressed her lips together as she inspected the wound, her movements practiced and careful. She was all business now, completely closed off from anything other than the task at hand. Selia’s heart ached for her.

“This will need to be re-stitched.” Hrefna turned to thread a needle.

Selia didn’t argue with her. She brought Hrefna a bowl of water and a cloth, and assisted as the woman cut out the old stitches and washed the wound. Alrik sat still, stony and quiet, as his aunt worked. He didn’t flinch when the needle pierced his flesh to draw the edges of the wound together. When she was finished he had a neat row of perfect stitches across his forehead. It gave him a surprised look, like an extra eyebrow.

Hrefna finished her work and dabbed a few droplets of blood from Alrik’s head. She folded the cloth neatly, laid it on the table, and wiped her hands on her gown. “I believe I’ll go to bed now,” she said quietly.
Too quietly
.

“Hrefna—”