Chapter 43
Suspense hangs thick in the air. Sifrid has received gratitude and slaps on the back for inviting the skald.
When she had described how he had opened the door—almost naked with loose hair—the women had whistled and cheered, wanting to hear all the juicy details. The ladies are ready for some action.
A knock on the door. Dead silence, just a couple eager whispers are heard as slaves—often excluded from the pleasures of storytelling and poetry—are about to be indulged and entertained.
“Behave, ladies!” I say as I rip the door open.
There he is, casually dressed in leather pants and an open linen shirt. His toned chest confirms Sifrid’s detailed description. Girls stretch their necks trying to catch a glimpse of the dark man at my door. There is no noise from the rowdy bunch. No one wants to scare off the poet.
“Welcome, Ari the Skald,” I say, gesturing for him to enter. “Please regale us with your craft.”
He steps in without a word. As a skald, he must be used to speaking in front of crowds, but showing up for a house full of drunken thrall girls takes balls. I’ll give him that. I can’t erase my gleeful, childish grin.
He looks around the room, nodding as he scans every face. Even the older slaves are wide-eyed as they wait for the show to start.
“This is, without a doubt,” says the skald. “The most beautiful crowd I have ever performed for.”
All the ladies cheer, raising their cups and spilling ale over each other.
It’s like a bubble bursting. Some stand and clap, others roar.
A group in the corner howls like wolves at the moon.
I’ve never seen men behave this way, let alone women.
These ladies, forced in daily life to be submissive, to obey every order, now get to play as hard as they work. The sound shakes the walls.
The skald laughs with the girls, stepping between them and touching hands that are stretched out to him.
It’s clear he’s enjoying the attention, the mangy bastard.
They are grateful for his presence, and he’s grateful for theirs.
Despite myself, I have to fight the impulse to smack away their groping hands as I follow behind him.
Reaching the hearth, where my chair is, he gives me a questioning glance. A freeman asking a slave if he can sit in her chair. I nod, glad that the women are having so much fun, even if I feel a tinge of jealousy.
Ari sits, raising his hands to silence the rowdy crowd. They obey.
“Thor,” he begins. “Was snoring so loud he shook the heavens.”
“Like Ausveig,” shouts a girl, making the group snicker.
“Ausveig snores?” asks Ari, adapting to his crowd. “I did not know.”
Ausveig rolls her eyes in good humor.
“Silly girls, I don’t sno—”
“Let the skald find out tonight, then!” shouts Sifrid.
“You horny viper!” Ausveig blushes and stretches over to smack the girl on her shoulder. “Let the man speak!”
Ari’s deep laugh rises over the giggles of the younger girls.
“Your mood lifts mine, ladies,” he says. “Now, Thor wakes up, but of all the disasters, would you guess—his—”
“Hammer was stolen!” shouts a girl drunkenly.
“Shut up!” shouts another.
“Oh, sorry.”
Ari keeps his grin through all the interruptions. The man is patient. He could reprimand the slaves. He could leave. But his smile just shows his teeth. His strong, healthy teeth. He is so patient. I can see him being patient and loving with his children, when he has them.
“His hammer is stolen, correct. You know the tale. Shall I tell another?”
“No!” howls the crowd.
“She will shut it now,” shouts a woman.
Ari clears his throat and begins.
“Thor raged in fury, he thrashed his own house,
But still he found nothing but a terrified mouse,
He broke all the pots, cracking the bed.
He stormed outside, his face deepest red.
Red as blood.
Birds stopped their song, the sun stopped its shining,
He would murder the culprit, if he could just find him.”
Ari’s gaze combs over the crowd, letting his words linger for effect. The ladies are quiet now, listening intently. So am I, studying Ari’s oratory method.
“Thor summons Loki, for Thor has brawn,
but Loki has wit.
He could help solve the issue,
growing roses from shit.
Girls chortle.
Loki agrees, but not without reason,
To deny Thor’s request, could be punished as treason.
Loki knows giants, of which Thor is the slayer,
to help find the hammer, Loki visits…”
Ari points at the girl who had interrupted earlier, snapping her out from her trance.
“Freya,” she says, making Ari nod.
“The goddess of beauty, but also of war,
the goddess of magic, and life, ancient lore.
Freya is also the goddess of death,
she will be holding your hand,
when you draw your last breath.”
Ari’s eyes flicker to mine. My mouth is agape. I correct myself, but I’m not even embarrassed. I just want him to continue. His manner of telling, the words he uses—Ari is mesmerizing. I crack a smile, which he returns before turning back to the group.
“Loki speaks thus—
Help me on my mission, you most humble and fair,
For I must find the giants, but cannot travel there.
Freya answers—
You stand here before me, as you struggle to hearken
You may borrow my cloak, to fly like a falcon.
Now fuck off!”
The girls cackle at the skald’s altered rendition of the well-known tale.
Ari is changing it to amuse them, empowering Freya to inspire the ladies and strengthen their feminine power.
Freya does of course refuse Thor, but adding that little extra is genius.
He’s… a master. Is he retelling it as he goes along? Improvising rhymes as he goes?
A girl burps in the back, visibly embarrassed as she tries to suppress the next one. All the thralls laugh at the interruption.
“Sorry,” she says, glancing around.
“No worry,” says Ari. “In fact, most fitting for the rest of the story. Thor would be proud of you.”
“Loki arrives, flies to the troll Thrym,
To ask if the hammer had been spotted by him.
He answered, the Jotnar, I know where it’s buried,
And I will return it, if Freya gets married.”
“Married to you?!” shouts Ari, as Loki. Some girls gasp, others laugh nervously.
“Loki returns, giving Thor the good news,
And Thor thinks it’s fine, to see Freya abused,
But when he asks Freya, she is not amused.
And simply replies—Fuck off!”
Laughter fills the room. Ari’s repetition adds impetus to the joke. The ladies love hearing Freya telling men to fuck off. Quite brilliant.
“There sat Thor and Loki, and they had no plan,
But approaching came Heimdall,
who saw all the lands,
Heimdall suggested, Thor should offer his hand,
For Thrym was too blind to tell he was a man.”
Ari stands, waving his arms over his head. His muscles flex in all their glory. His chest gleams in the candlelight. I’m sure the ladies are seeing the same as me.
“Thor did not want to, but had little choice,
So he practiced to master, a feminine voice,
They groomed him and oiled him,
his hair was a mess,
From Freya they borrowed, the most elegant dress”
Now Ari skips in front of the hearth, batting his eyelashes as he pretends to be the shyest bride.
The crowd laughs at his movements. A rare sight to see a man be so comfortable in his masculinity that he can act like a woman.
Many a hardened warrior would see it as a disgrace, even if done for play.
Ari makes his voice light, like Thor trying to sound like a maiden—like Freya.
“Loki had laughed, saying Thor needed bathing,
So Thor made him also dress up like a maiden.
Thrym, says Loki, here comes your bride,
But don’t lift her veil, she’s so shy she must hide.”
Ari sits on the floor, among the ladies. Those in the back stretch their necks to see him. Some stand for a better view.
“They bring in the food, and Thor likes his eating,
So much salmon and oxen,
you’d think he was cheating.
When Thrym saw his bride eat this way,
he was frightened,
She’s not eaten for days, lied Loki,
because she’s excited.”
The skald stands again, his loose shirt barely hanging on.
“They fooled Thrym and played him,
for several hours,
til the giant believed that Thor was his flower,
When sunlight was dying, the end of the feast,
Mjolnir, the weapon, was brought by the priest.”
Ari moves suddenly—lightning speed—and grabs an imaginary hammer.
“Thor grabbed the hammer, still wearing his gown,
With glee he killed Thrym and all giants around,
They returned to Freya, to tell of the fight,
But when Freya saw Thor, she laughed at the sight.
She said look at our champion, a beautiful wife,
Had I been a man, I would give him my life.
Now…”
He points at his favorite crowd.
“Fuck off!” we all shout. I surprise myself by joining in, but it’s too fun, too engaging. What’s the point of throwing a party if you can’t partake in it? A girlish grin covers my face as I settle in, ready for the rest of Ari’s entertainment.
Many girls whisper among themselves, stifling giggles as Ari and I approach the door. The skald has shared several stories, recited love poetry we had never heard, and told a few raunchy jokes. His entire evening was spent entertaining us.
I open the door as I hear the whispering girls count down from three, then scream in unison.
“Thank you Ariiii!”
They collapse, breathless and clutching their sides. The ale has had its effect. Such serious laborers turned to giddy messes by a few cups of ale and a handsome skald. I pull his arm to the door as he turns and waves at the drunken thrall girls.
“Until next time ladies!” he shouts.
“Stay longer,” says one as she waves back.
“I could perhaps—”
I cut in.
“No, girls, we will finish up soon. We have work to do tomorrow.”
Several of them groan, disappointed for a moment before returning to the merriment and squeezing another second of lighthearted pleasure out of an otherwise hard life.
They deserve this.