12. TWELVE #2
“Olli, Who are we still waiting for?”
“Just Arne and Harold,” he says. He points to a man jogging down to the wharf with a shield slung across his back and a long-axe in his hand. “There’s Arne now.”
Dwerg crosses his arms as Arne runs up to him. “Is your axe sharp enough?”
Arne’s a burly man with a shaved head and a thick brown beard. His grinning eyes are grey, like the mist over the fjord.
“Did you want to test it?” Arne asks cheerfully. He’s got a heavy accent.
Dwerg shakes his head. “Where’s Harold?”
“Saying goodbye to his wife.” He flicks his tongue between his fingers. “I think he’s still going to be a while.”
“Loki. Well too bad for Harold. Princess Hervor took his place.”
“Who? Did you say a princess?”
“Your new rowing partner.”
Arne stares at me and says something I can’t quite hear.
He’s grinning though, and both of them chuckle.
He claps Dwerg on the back and climbs aboard, smiling and clasping hands with all the other men as he makes his way up to where I’m sitting.
He swings his shield off his back and hangs it off one of the wooden hooks along the gunwale, then unshoulders his bundle of fighting gear and kicks it under the bench.
Then he twists around and he looks me over. Slowly.
Five seconds and he’s already getting on my nerves.
“Stop trying to see through my dress.”
“I can't help it,” he says, and I still can't place his accent, “you're too pretty. Way better looking than Harold.” He leans back and folds his hands behind his head. “I think it's going to be a pleasant voyage.”
“Keep ogling me like that and you might not make it to Ladoga.”
“Whoa! Tough girl! Is this your first big raid?”
“And what if it is?”
“Nervous?”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“But you are. You look like you’re about to cry.”
“You’d better back off! I said I’m not nervous!”
He grins. “Okay, tough girl.”
I finally recognize his accent. Once every few years a Swedish merchant vessel would come up to trade as far as Ofotfjord, and my grandfather would host the ship’s crew in his hall.
Usually, the skipper brought some message from their king, and my grandfather would always be on edge for a while after they’d left.
My grandfather has many allies, but King Gizur is not one of them.
“What’s a Swede like you doing on this ship anyway?” I ask.
“What’s a pretty lass like you doing here? Shouldn’t be you at home with your husband, trying to swell your belly with a son? Or does his eel not know how to swim? If you want, I could slip my eel in your trench.”
“Arne,” warns one of the men ahead of him.
But Arne ignores him, rocking his hips back and forth on the bench, “Just ask me anytime. It’d probably be a shock for you at first, compared to what you’re used to, but we could take it slow until you’re accustomed to the bigger size.”
I’m not used to men speaking to me this way, and I feel a surge of adrenaline as I squeeze the grip of Asger’s sword. “You’d better watch your mouth.”
“Oh, you like the same thing as Harold’s wife?” He flicks his tongue at me.
“Stop!”
He grabs himself and smooches his lips.
“I mean it! I’ll cut your head off!”
“Okay, tough-girl,” he snorts, “little tough-talk girl. Princess first-timer.”
I bolt up from the bench and he leans back and throws up his hands as I whip Asger’s sword out of the scabbard.
“Whoa! Whoa! Loki! Put that thing away! I’m only playing! Sit down and relax before Dwerg kicks us both off this ship.”
“Are you done?”
“Yes, yes, I’m done. Now sit back down. Loki.”
I’m shaking with anger as I sheath my blade and take my seat.
Most of the crew is staring at me, and upon the wharf near the shore, Dwerg is talking with a grey-bearded man who I assume is V?gar’s chieftain.
They’re both looking in my direction, and Dwerg is shaking his head and mouthing an oath under his breath. I’m not off to a good start.
“Whew. Edgy,” says Arne, “You shouldn’t be so uptight.”
“You shouldn’t try to get on my nerves.”
“Fine. Fine, sorry. Why don’t we have a drink together,” he says, reaching for a wineskin underneath the bench, “a drink to the voyage.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Come on. We’re rowing partners. We’re going to need to watch each other’s back.” He takes a deep swig and offers it to me again.
“Fine.” I take it from him and fill my mouth with mead.
“See? Was that so bad?”
I roll my eyes and take another gulp before passing it back. “Are we meeting up with any other ships?”
“Quite a few,” he says, “when we get to Borg. Then a few more will be joining us as we head up further north. I think I heard there were fifteen ships altogether that swore into the fleet, so we're a good six hundred strong.”
I look out at the rugged mountains along the harbour.
The shore is all spiked and jagged like a dragon's back.
I'm suddenly struck by how breathtaking Lofoten is, and my heart swells with pride to think that I was once the princess of this land.
But no longer. I'm wondering as we prepare to set off on our voyage if I'll ever come back here again.
I can feel my eyes starting to glisten as I start to think about the life in Ofotfjord I've left behind.
“You know,” says Arne, “When I was young, like you, I killed my father and two brothers.”
“Why?”
He grins. “Getting on my nerves.”
I shake my head in disbelief.
“It’s true,” he says, “I’m not allowed in Sweden anymore. If I go back, it would be my death. That’s why I’m stuck sailing with a bunch of H?logalanders.”
“I’m an exile too,” I say, still looking out along the harbour.
“Oh?”
He waits for me to tell him more, but I’m not ready to talk about it yet. The wound is still too fresh. He nods, taking the hint from my silence and offers me the skin of mead again. Then he spits in his hand and holds it out. “Arne Gunvorson,” he says.
I take another drought of mead then snort back a head full of mucus.
“Hervor. Hervor Angantysdottir.”
Dwerg is coming up the wharf with the chief of V?gar and three volva priestesses, and I follow the crew’s example as those of us on the starboard side take up the oars laid along the centre of the ship and guide them through the rectangular slots at each rowing station.
We’re about to put off. My heart is pounding.
Arne winks. The chieftain pats Skipper Dwerg on the back and holds up his hand to bless us in the names of Odin, Tyr, and Njord.
Dwerg steps aboard to take his place at the steering oar.
Then the chieftain himself stoops down to cast off the lines that moor the Gellir to the wharf, and the priestesses start singing and wailing in high throaty voices.
One of them is pounding a tight skin drum; the two others are dipping willow wands into wide bowls and flicking blood onto the crew.
“Shove off!” shouts Dwerg. Arne and all the men on the port side reach over the gunwale and push the ship away from the wharf.
The families along the shore wave and shout goodbye as the port-side men slide their oars into place. The priestesses follow us up to the end of the wharf, singing and flicking blood.
“Stroke!
“Stroke!”
I pull my oar into my chest and lean back in rhythm with the other men; and as V?gar drifts away from us, a priestess flicks her wand a final time. I turn away, blinking as warm globs splatter my face and hair.