“We should go,” he said.
“You did well, Torval,” Grafeldr said and patted Torval’s shoulder. “We will train more another day.”
“Shall we go to the village market now?” asked Ästa getting to her feet.
To Torval’s amazement she looked fresh and rested. He wiped sweat from his eyes and shook his head. Unbelievable; perhaps he didn’t test her quite as hard as he thought.
“I still have my chores to do,” Ästa said.
They said their good-byes to Grafeldr and headed for the market. The old hermit observed them as they walked together along the path toward the village and allowed himself a smile and the beginnings of hope. He said, “Learn your lessons well, Torval, for very soon you will need them, I fear; those you learned so far and many more to come.”
In the village market, Ästa went about her duties with efficient quickness; trading for a few small vegetables for stewing and a sack of grain to make bread, a slice of whale blubber, some seal meat, and a handful of eggs. While Ästa tended to her chores, Torval kept his distance; the better to see what Asta was doing and observe whether anybody was paying too much attention to her.
As Torval leaned against a wagon wheel, a piece of hay clamped between his teeth, two of the village toughs approached. Torval had had trouble with one of them before, but had punished him for his comments and the boy had not bothered him for some time. Now though, the two seemed to be intent on mischief. Torval noticed them, one tall and one short, walking toward him.
“Oy, Torval,” the taller of the two called out. “Shepherding your freak cousin, are yeh?”
Torval ignored the taunt. This was an old jibe, and he was immune to its sting.
“Can’t go raiding, may as well be a shepherd of freaks,” the shorter boy said.
At this, Torval moved away from the wagon wheel and turned to face his tormentors. His face showed little of the annoyance he felt and he made himself smile at the two other boys as he tossed the piece of hay to the ground. “Have your bruises healed so quickly, Hardahl, that you have come back for a fresh batch?” Torval asked of the shorter boy.
Hardahl hesitated and cast a glance over to his taller companion who likewise had stopped. After a silent exchange, Hardahl said, “Perhaps Gunnar can repay those bruises, Torval.” And the two moved closer.
Torval looked about at his surroundings: a swine pen to his left was filled with soft mud and four squealing shoats, while on his right was the paddock where his father kept Leevi, the fjord horse that Torval despised, and stepped out into clear space to wait. As the two youths approached, Torval tested his footing and found the ground slippery from the previous night’s rain. He nodded knowing the advantage it gave him. He raised his fists and prepared to take on Gunnar first, when he heard his cousin’s voice call out.
“Tor, you do not need to protect me. I am capable of taking care of myself.”
Lowering his guard, Torval looked to where his cousin walked toward him. She had set her basket of goods aside and was moving with determined strides to intercept the two trouble-makers. “Ästa, no; let me handle this.”
Too late, Ästa moved in front of Torval and faced the two boys. “Which one of you called me a freak?”
Knowing what his cousin planned, Torval just raised his hands and backed away. “All right,” he said. And then to Hardahl and Gunnar, “You might have done better with me.”
The two boys stared at the tall girl standing before them and shared a laugh. “We both called you a freak,” Hardahl said and moved to grab Ästa. As Torval watched, his cousin grabbed Hardahl’s wrist and pivoted, using the boy’s momentum as she propelled him into the paddock fence, where he collided with the top rail, breaking his nose.
Angered seeing his friend bleeding because of the girl, Gunnar charged Ästa intent on wrapping her in his arms, but she ducked and moved away, leaving Gunnar to try and stop before crashing into Hardahl who was attempting to return to the fight. He failed and they both went down in the mud.
Torval made a move to intervene, but Ästa shook her head, “No,” she said and Torval waited.
By now, Gunnar and Hardahl had regained their feet and came at Ästa simultaneously, one to her left and one to her right. She moved to intercept Hardahl, grabbing his wrist and elbow and forcing him to turn into Gunnar. With two quick steps, she guided them both back against the low fence of the swine pen where they promptly tripped and fell into the fetid mud, sending squealing shoats running for safety.
“I think they have had enough,” Torval said and moved over to his cousin. “Don’t you agree, Ästa?”
Breathing hard, Ästa turned her gaze on Torval, the force of which caused him to take a reflexive step back. “Asta, your eyes,” he said, alarmed. “Are you all right?”
“I am fine, Tor,” Ästa said, her breathing back to normal. “What about my eyes?”
Torval moved closer and stared hard into his cousin’s eyes. They were the same pale gray as always, with their flecks of gold at the edges. “But, they were yellow,” he said, his tone disbelieving.
“Yellow,” Ästa said. “My eyes are gray, not yellow. You must have imagined it.”
Torval looked again; they were gray. He must have made a mistake. “I suppose you are right.” He turned to look at Hardahl and Gunnar still sprawled in the pig sty. “You would have done better with me,” he said and then, taking Ästa by the elbow, headed back to retrieve her basket, which Torval helped carry back to the longhouse.
Later that evening, at their longhouse, Ästa prepared the meal while Ingemar and Torval cleaned their tools and brought the animals inside for the night. The four sheep and two cows added their own sounds and smells to the longhouse, which with the smell of cooking fish and boiling vegetables made for a confused aroma.
That night, when Torval climbed under his furs to sleep he felt more tired than he would have thought possible. His body ached from his lessons. That Ästa could have tossed him around as she did was hard to imagine. One consolation was seeing her resting after their match.
He closed his eyes and thought of the moves the old man had showed him. As his body slipped over the edge and into sleep, he could see the way to move his feet and hands in response to the attack. Torval felt his body respond as a hand thrust in to grasp him. His back stooped and his legs spread for support, arms lengthening, gnarled fingers ready to intercept his foe within the dark forest mist. The mist enveloped his body and revealed a presence nearby. There was a dark shape standing at the edge of the forest, cloaked in black with mist spreading around the ground where it stood. It absorbed the light and emanated malicious loathing as the mist spread. Its eyes were red coals in the blackness of the thing’s face, which was hidden from view by some sort of hood or cloak.
Standing next to this apparition was a hideous creature, all gnarled and bent with coarse hair and long, strong-looking arms that ended with curved claw-like hands that dragged the ground. It issued a sound like tearing cloth that must have been its voice, for the tall dǽmon nodded and retreated into the darkness, the mist trailing after it. The stooped creature remained though and watched with its small, beady eyes. Then, it met Torval’s gaze and uttered one word in its guttural language: “Malik.”
Torval sat up and cast off the furs he had been sleeping under. It had been a dream, but he was sweating and more than a little bit frightened by the creatures in his dream. What was the ugly creature that spoke? More than that; who or what was the tall dǽmon creature with the red eyes and the deathly mist that followed him? Torval didn’t know how he knew, but he was sure that the mist was dangerous, just as the being creating it surely was.
Torval glanced around the single room of the longhouse at his father, asleep on his bed against the wall, and his cousin…who was sitting up and staring, wide-eyed at Torval.
“What did you see?” she asked, her voice a whisper.
“It was a dream,” Torval said in response.
“Was it?” Ästa said.
“Yes; that’s all it was,” he answered. “Go to sleep.” He pulled his furs back over his head and tried to do as he had ordered his cousin. It took time, but eventually he drifted back to dreamless sleep.
The same could not be said for Ästa. She sat huddled in her furs, her knees drawn up and her arms clasped in front of them. She had caught a glimpse of Tor’s dream at the edge of consciousness and felt the evil that it portended. She would have to talk to Grafeldr in the morning; he would know what to do. Though she tried to sleep, it evaded her.
The next day, she asked Tor to go with her to Grafeldr’s home. As he didn’t have any chores that morning, he agreed. When they arrived, the old man was waiting by the door outside the lodge. “Good day to you both,” he greeted them. “Come for another defense lesson, Torval?”
“I don’t think so, sir,” Torval said and touched his left shoulder with a grimace of pain. “It still hurts from my last lesson.”
“Very well, then,” Grafeldr said with a nod. “How about you, Ästa; have you come for your lesson?”
“Not this morning,” she said. “I have a question for you. But, I think Tor needs to tell you something first.”
“Oh?” Grafeldr said, his eyebrows upraised in a question.
“I do?” said Torval.
“Yes; tell him about your dream.”
“My dream,” Torval said. “What about it? It was nothing; just a bad dream.”
Grafeldr’s attention perked up at this news. “Torval, tell me your dream.”
Torval glanced with irritation at his cousin, then at Grafeldr. “It was only a dream; it didn’t mean anything.”
“Then there should be no problem sharing it with me,” Grafeldr insisted.
Torval sighed in resignation and relayed what he could recall of his dream of the tall, dark shape with the red eyes, and the stooped, hairy creature that spoke with a voice like ripping cloth.
“It was an ugly, misshapen thing, but it looked strong and dangerous.”
“What else do you remember of this dream?” Grafeldr asked; he was seated on a low chair and listening with close attention to Torval’s description.
“Nothing really; like I said, the tall shape disappeared into the dark and the ugly creature said something, then I woke up.”
At this, Grafeldr leaned forward and said with a hint of urgency in his voice, “What did it say; do you remember?”
Torval said, “I cannot remember.”
“I can,” Ästa said. She had become a little disconcerted with the sudden change in Grafeldr’s manner and having thought hard for a moment offered, “I can’t recall exactly, but it sounded something like, morlock, or merlik, or something…”
“Malik,” Grafeldr said and sat back in his chair, his voice grave, a distant look on his face.
“Yes,” Ästa said.
“Yeah, that’s it; Malik,” Torval said in agreement. “What does it mean?”
After a moment Torval said, “Grafeldr; are you all right?”
The old man focused his eyes on the young man and nodded, “Yes, I am fine; but, I think you will be better served to learn of another defense.”
“Another defense; what do you mean? And, what is ‘Malik’?”
Grafeldr waved the question away with a swish of his hand. “First, let’s eat; then, we will talk.”
After they had eaten a meager meal of dried fish and bread with cheese, during which Grafeldr appeared lost in thought, he rose and retrieved a long, cloth-wrapped package from under his cot. It was narrow, just wider than a fisted hand, and nearly as long as the cot it was stored under. Then, he returned to the fire, sat and addressed Torval.
“I have something for you,” he began. “I have watched you now for several years. You are growing into a fine young man. You would make a powerful Viking, I imagine.”
Torval sat up straighter at the compliment.
“But, for now that is not to be, I fear,” Grafeldr finished and shook his head.
“What…what do you mean?” Torval stood and faced Grafeldr, his voice rising. “I am Torval, son of Ingemar the Red. I am destined to be a Viking warrior like my brother and my uncle.”
Before he could continue, the large heap of pelts next to Grafeldr’s chair began to stir. Before his astonished eyes, a huge shaggy head lifted up, turned its gaze on the boy, and uttered a deep, threatening growl.
“Easy, Ulfr,” said Grafeldr, and stroked the big dog’s red fur. “It’s all right.” Then to Torval he said, “Perhaps you should sit down.”
“What is that?” asked Ästa, her eyes bright with wonder.
“This?” the old man patted the big dog’s head. “This is a dog, of course.”
“What kind of dog? It is bigger than any dog I’ve ever seen,” Torval observed.
“It’s magnificent,” Ästa said as she regarded the beast with reverence.
At this, the beast stood and shook itself; hand-sized, claw-tipped paws gripped the floor of the hut firmly for support as it did, its thick fur scattering dust into the air. It stood four feet at the head and was nearly twice that in length from its nose to the tip of its bushy tail. It was heavy through the chest and broad across the shoulders. The dog’s thick neck supported a huge head set with dark, expressive eyes that peered out at Ästa, and seemed to peer into her soul. She could feel the warmth of the dog’s breath on her face. The dog’s head tilted to one side as he inspected her, one tattered ear flopping against its head. Then it opened its cavernous mouth in a yawn that allowed Ästa to see its long, white fangs. She knew this was a skillful predator.
“Yes, but Ulfr is no ordinary dog.” Grafeldr continued to stroke the dog’s back as he spoke. “I believe he is the result of a rare mating between one of the great fighting dogs once kept by the first Kings and a wolf of the White Mountains. That is why I gave him his name.”
“Where did he come from?” she asked.
“Of his origins, I cannot say. He just showed up one day several years ago. I happened to see him lying in the sun on a rocky ledge that overlooks the village. He was larger by half than the largest of the pack dogs kept by the village, but I never saw him mingle with them. On occasion he would wander off to hunt for his food, only to return to his chosen spot. I believe Ulfr was waiting and watching for something. He is a fierce fighter,” Grafeldr said and scratched the dog behind its floppy ear. “I saw him take on four of the largest pack dogs once when they tried to challenge him for his rocky ledge; he killed two before the others ran off.
“Your father tried to break him some years ago,” Grafeldr said, directing this at Ästa. “But he failed. Ulfr will not be tamed. After that, he disappeared and I thought him long gone but, just last week he turned up again. I saw him lying in the sun on that same rocky ledge. Now, he chooses to stay here with me. He comes and goes as he pleases and keeps me company.”
Ulfr turned his gaze to the girl and sniffed the air. Then, to the amazement of them all, the dog began to thump its massive tail on the floor causing a small cloud of dust and dirt to rise up.
“Well, I’ll be,” Grafeldr said. “I’ve never known him to wag his tail. He must like you, Ästa.”
“May I pet him?” she asked.
“If he will allow it, I suppose it’s all right.”
Unafraid, Ästa approached Ulfr, her hand outstretched, palm down. She kept her voice low and soothing as she stepped closer. “Hello, Ulfr. My name is Ästa. You are a good boy, and very handsome.”
The dog sniffed the air again, his tail ceased its wagging, and then the great beast lowered his head so the girl could pet him.
“Amazing,” Grafeldr said. “Had I not seen it, I would not have believed it. It reminds me of something I have not heard of for many years.”
“What?” Torval asked.
“Huh? Oh, nothing, nothing. It’s just an old memory, that’s all.” The old man just scratched his beard and watched the young girl and the dog.
After a few moments, Torval asked. “What about this new defense?”
“What…uh yes, of course.” Grafeldr said and reached for the package. As he laid it across his lap he turned to Torval and said. “Before I show you, which now because of your dream I fear I must, I need to discuss something with the two of you that you may find difficult to understand or believe.” He regarded them in turn and Ästa could feel the weight of his gaze, suddenly afraid of what he would say.
Then, he said, “Tell me what you know of…Magic.”
“Magic,” Torval said with a laugh. “Stories told around the fire to scare children, that’s all.”
Grafeldr nodded and prompted Ästa with a gesture. “And you; what do you know of Magic?”
Ästa paused in her stroking of Ulfr’s fur and pondered the old man’s question for a moment before answering. “I know nothing of magic. I believe that there is magic within each of us, more in some than others, but in most it sleeps. Perhaps a few have the ability to wake the magic, but to what use; again, I do not know.”
“An excellent answer, Ästa,” Grafeldr said with a smile. “And you are correct.”
“What,” Torval exclaimed.
Grafeldr put out his left hand in a wait-a-moment gesture. “Let me explain.”
He settled back in his chair and furrowed his eyebrows in concentration. Ästa noticed that he slowly ran his hand along the wrapped package in his lap as he appeared to consider his next words. When finally he spoke, his words were reverent, his voice almost a whisper.
“Magic is all around us,” he began. “It is within us as well, as Ästa has noted. But there is no one-type of magic that can be used by everyone; rather, it is elusive, choosing to show itself in its own way.”
“I don’t understand,” said Torval.
“Well, some to whom Magic has called are able to conjure or cast spells of power; whereas others are only able to channel magic that exists within some object or talisman, having insufficient magic of their own. Also, there are those who have special magical talents.”
“What sort of talents?” Ästa asked.
Grafeldr smiled at the girl. “Oh, the ability to draw power from the earth, or the gift of foresight…”
“You mean fortune-telling?” Torval asked, his voice dripping with skepticism.
“Not exactly, no,” said Grafeldr ignoring the boy’s tone. “Those with true foresight are able to see possible outcomes to events, not necessarily the only outcome. It is a very difficult talent to master.”
“I don’t understand,” Ästa said.
“Because we can think and choose, we have the ability to change events,” Grafeldr said. “Every decision or action we take changes the future in small, unexpected ways. A seer can view possible outcomes based on decisions we make, but not always the right one.
“There are many other ways that magic can manifest itself in people. For example; do you know Dar Andersson’s mother?”
“The woman who sells vegetables at the market,” Ästa said.
“Yes, just so,” Grafeldr said. “She has magic. Can you work out the type?”
“She has the ability to grow things in the earth,” Torval ventured.
“Very good,” Grafeldr said. “What about Ulmer the shepherd?”
“Are you saying he has magic too?” Torval asked, unwilling to believe.
“In his own manner, yes,” the old man said. “His talent with animals doesn’t stop with sheep and goats.”
“I have seen him feeding birds and squirrels,” Ästa said.
“That’s correct. There are many of us who have certain gifts or talents. Most are unaware that it is magic. Some say that the gods blessed mankind with this magic, while others believe that magic was always in the world and that ancient men discovered it on their own and made use of it. Whatever its origins, it has waned in the majority of mankind until only a few are either aware of it or can waken it.”
“I still don’t believe it, Grafeldr,” Torval said and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.
“Some need visual proof, I suppose,” Grafeldr said to Ästa with mock sarcasm.
“Can you do magic?” she asked.
“Shall we see?” Grafeldr said. He set aside his package, stood and moved toward the central fire pit. He extended his arms in front of him and held his palms down at the dying fire. Then, he slowly turned his palms up and lifted his arms over his head. As Ästa watched, the sputtering flame grew and became a column of fire that Grafeldr appeared to shape and manipulate with subtle gestures and movements of his hands.
Then to her astonishment the fire assumed the shape of a serpent, leaning to and fro above the pit. Ulfr uttered a growl at the image and bared his impressive teeth. At last, Grafeldr lowered his arms and the flaming serpent died away; the fire returning to its sputtering. The dog gave a soft “hmmph” and returned his head to his paws.
Grafeldr turned back and smiled. “Excuse me for that; it has been a while since I played with fire.”
He returned to his chair and lowered himself into it with a grunt of pain. “Oh, these old bones,” he said with a grimace. He retrieved the long package from the floor and placed it on his lap again. Once he was comfortable he regarded the two and spoke.
“Well, what questions do you have for me?”
Torval and Ästa were speechless for long moments; then, Ästa broke the silence. “Do you think there is magic in me?” She touched her breastbone with her index finger. “I like animals too, just like Ulmer the shepherd.”
Grafeldr eyed the girl and nodded his head. “Yes, I believe so; but it is not yet fully awake. I think it is still defining its shape...the form it will take. However, I think it soon will be.”
“Is that how I could hear Tor’s dream?”
“Is that the question you had for me?” he said.
Ästa nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “The magic in you is reaching out, trying to...become,” he emphasized the last word, then continued. “You may experience other such manifestations before its final form is determined.”
“What about me?” Torval asked.
Grafeldr turned to look at Torval. “As I said before; I have had my eye on you for some time, Torval. Is there magic in you? Yes, as I have said; it is in all mankind. But I think that your talent is using magical objects: one like this.” He took the long package and began to remove its wrappings.
“You did well, Torval,” Grafeldr said and patted Torval’s shoulder. “We will train more another day.”
“Shall we go to the village market now?” asked Ästa getting to her feet.
To Torval’s amazement she looked fresh and rested. He wiped sweat from his eyes and shook his head. Unbelievable; perhaps he didn’t test her quite as hard as he thought.
“I still have my chores to do,” Ästa said.
They said their good-byes to Grafeldr and headed for the market. The old hermit observed them as they walked together along the path toward the village and allowed himself a smile and the beginnings of hope. He said, “Learn your lessons well, Torval, for very soon you will need them, I fear; those you learned so far and many more to come.”
In the village market, Ästa went about her duties with efficient quickness; trading for a few small vegetables for stewing and a sack of grain to make bread, a slice of whale blubber, some seal meat, and a handful of eggs. While Ästa tended to her chores, Torval kept his distance; the better to see what Asta was doing and observe whether anybody was paying too much attention to her.
As Torval leaned against a wagon wheel, a piece of hay clamped between his teeth, two of the village toughs approached. Torval had had trouble with one of them before, but had punished him for his comments and the boy had not bothered him for some time. Now though, the two seemed to be intent on mischief. Torval noticed them, one tall and one short, walking toward him.
“Oy, Torval,” the taller of the two called out. “Shepherding your freak cousin, are yeh?”
Torval ignored the taunt. This was an old jibe, and he was immune to its sting.
“Can’t go raiding, may as well be a shepherd of freaks,” the shorter boy said.
At this, Torval moved away from the wagon wheel and turned to face his tormentors. His face showed little of the annoyance he felt and he made himself smile at the two other boys as he tossed the piece of hay to the ground. “Have your bruises healed so quickly, Hardahl, that you have come back for a fresh batch?” Torval asked of the shorter boy.
Hardahl hesitated and cast a glance over to his taller companion who likewise had stopped. After a silent exchange, Hardahl said, “Perhaps Gunnar can repay those bruises, Torval.” And the two moved closer.
Torval looked about at his surroundings: a swine pen to his left was filled with soft mud and four squealing shoats, while on his right was the paddock where his father kept Leevi, the fjord horse that Torval despised, and stepped out into clear space to wait. As the two youths approached, Torval tested his footing and found the ground slippery from the previous night’s rain. He nodded knowing the advantage it gave him. He raised his fists and prepared to take on Gunnar first, when he heard his cousin’s voice call out.
“Tor, you do not need to protect me. I am capable of taking care of myself.”
Lowering his guard, Torval looked to where his cousin walked toward him. She had set her basket of goods aside and was moving with determined strides to intercept the two trouble-makers. “Ästa, no; let me handle this.”
Too late, Ästa moved in front of Torval and faced the two boys. “Which one of you called me a freak?”
Knowing what his cousin planned, Torval just raised his hands and backed away. “All right,” he said. And then to Hardahl and Gunnar, “You might have done better with me.”
The two boys stared at the tall girl standing before them and shared a laugh. “We both called you a freak,” Hardahl said and moved to grab Ästa. As Torval watched, his cousin grabbed Hardahl’s wrist and pivoted, using the boy’s momentum as she propelled him into the paddock fence, where he collided with the top rail, breaking his nose.
Angered seeing his friend bleeding because of the girl, Gunnar charged Ästa intent on wrapping her in his arms, but she ducked and moved away, leaving Gunnar to try and stop before crashing into Hardahl who was attempting to return to the fight. He failed and they both went down in the mud.
Torval made a move to intervene, but Ästa shook her head, “No,” she said and Torval waited.
By now, Gunnar and Hardahl had regained their feet and came at Ästa simultaneously, one to her left and one to her right. She moved to intercept Hardahl, grabbing his wrist and elbow and forcing him to turn into Gunnar. With two quick steps, she guided them both back against the low fence of the swine pen where they promptly tripped and fell into the fetid mud, sending squealing shoats running for safety.
“I think they have had enough,” Torval said and moved over to his cousin. “Don’t you agree, Ästa?”
Breathing hard, Ästa turned her gaze on Torval, the force of which caused him to take a reflexive step back. “Asta, your eyes,” he said, alarmed. “Are you all right?”
“I am fine, Tor,” Ästa said, her breathing back to normal. “What about my eyes?”
Torval moved closer and stared hard into his cousin’s eyes. They were the same pale gray as always, with their flecks of gold at the edges. “But, they were yellow,” he said, his tone disbelieving.
“Yellow,” Ästa said. “My eyes are gray, not yellow. You must have imagined it.”
Torval looked again; they were gray. He must have made a mistake. “I suppose you are right.” He turned to look at Hardahl and Gunnar still sprawled in the pig sty. “You would have done better with me,” he said and then, taking Ästa by the elbow, headed back to retrieve her basket, which Torval helped carry back to the longhouse.
Later that evening, at their longhouse, Ästa prepared the meal while Ingemar and Torval cleaned their tools and brought the animals inside for the night. The four sheep and two cows added their own sounds and smells to the longhouse, which with the smell of cooking fish and boiling vegetables made for a confused aroma.
That night, when Torval climbed under his furs to sleep he felt more tired than he would have thought possible. His body ached from his lessons. That Ästa could have tossed him around as she did was hard to imagine. One consolation was seeing her resting after their match.
He closed his eyes and thought of the moves the old man had showed him. As his body slipped over the edge and into sleep, he could see the way to move his feet and hands in response to the attack. Torval felt his body respond as a hand thrust in to grasp him. His back stooped and his legs spread for support, arms lengthening, gnarled fingers ready to intercept his foe within the dark forest mist. The mist enveloped his body and revealed a presence nearby. There was a dark shape standing at the edge of the forest, cloaked in black with mist spreading around the ground where it stood. It absorbed the light and emanated malicious loathing as the mist spread. Its eyes were red coals in the blackness of the thing’s face, which was hidden from view by some sort of hood or cloak.
Standing next to this apparition was a hideous creature, all gnarled and bent with coarse hair and long, strong-looking arms that ended with curved claw-like hands that dragged the ground. It issued a sound like tearing cloth that must have been its voice, for the tall dǽmon nodded and retreated into the darkness, the mist trailing after it. The stooped creature remained though and watched with its small, beady eyes. Then, it met Torval’s gaze and uttered one word in its guttural language: “Malik.”
Torval sat up and cast off the furs he had been sleeping under. It had been a dream, but he was sweating and more than a little bit frightened by the creatures in his dream. What was the ugly creature that spoke? More than that; who or what was the tall dǽmon creature with the red eyes and the deathly mist that followed him? Torval didn’t know how he knew, but he was sure that the mist was dangerous, just as the being creating it surely was.
Torval glanced around the single room of the longhouse at his father, asleep on his bed against the wall, and his cousin…who was sitting up and staring, wide-eyed at Torval.
“What did you see?” she asked, her voice a whisper.
“It was a dream,” Torval said in response.
“Was it?” Ästa said.
“Yes; that’s all it was,” he answered. “Go to sleep.” He pulled his furs back over his head and tried to do as he had ordered his cousin. It took time, but eventually he drifted back to dreamless sleep.
The same could not be said for Ästa. She sat huddled in her furs, her knees drawn up and her arms clasped in front of them. She had caught a glimpse of Tor’s dream at the edge of consciousness and felt the evil that it portended. She would have to talk to Grafeldr in the morning; he would know what to do. Though she tried to sleep, it evaded her.
The next day, she asked Tor to go with her to Grafeldr’s home. As he didn’t have any chores that morning, he agreed. When they arrived, the old man was waiting by the door outside the lodge. “Good day to you both,” he greeted them. “Come for another defense lesson, Torval?”
“I don’t think so, sir,” Torval said and touched his left shoulder with a grimace of pain. “It still hurts from my last lesson.”
“Very well, then,” Grafeldr said with a nod. “How about you, Ästa; have you come for your lesson?”
“Not this morning,” she said. “I have a question for you. But, I think Tor needs to tell you something first.”
“Oh?” Grafeldr said, his eyebrows upraised in a question.
“I do?” said Torval.
“Yes; tell him about your dream.”
“My dream,” Torval said. “What about it? It was nothing; just a bad dream.”
Grafeldr’s attention perked up at this news. “Torval, tell me your dream.”
Torval glanced with irritation at his cousin, then at Grafeldr. “It was only a dream; it didn’t mean anything.”
“Then there should be no problem sharing it with me,” Grafeldr insisted.
Torval sighed in resignation and relayed what he could recall of his dream of the tall, dark shape with the red eyes, and the stooped, hairy creature that spoke with a voice like ripping cloth.
“It was an ugly, misshapen thing, but it looked strong and dangerous.”
“What else do you remember of this dream?” Grafeldr asked; he was seated on a low chair and listening with close attention to Torval’s description.
“Nothing really; like I said, the tall shape disappeared into the dark and the ugly creature said something, then I woke up.”
At this, Grafeldr leaned forward and said with a hint of urgency in his voice, “What did it say; do you remember?”
Torval said, “I cannot remember.”
“I can,” Ästa said. She had become a little disconcerted with the sudden change in Grafeldr’s manner and having thought hard for a moment offered, “I can’t recall exactly, but it sounded something like, morlock, or merlik, or something…”
“Malik,” Grafeldr said and sat back in his chair, his voice grave, a distant look on his face.
“Yes,” Ästa said.
“Yeah, that’s it; Malik,” Torval said in agreement. “What does it mean?”
After a moment Torval said, “Grafeldr; are you all right?”
The old man focused his eyes on the young man and nodded, “Yes, I am fine; but, I think you will be better served to learn of another defense.”
“Another defense; what do you mean? And, what is ‘Malik’?”
Grafeldr waved the question away with a swish of his hand. “First, let’s eat; then, we will talk.”
After they had eaten a meager meal of dried fish and bread with cheese, during which Grafeldr appeared lost in thought, he rose and retrieved a long, cloth-wrapped package from under his cot. It was narrow, just wider than a fisted hand, and nearly as long as the cot it was stored under. Then, he returned to the fire, sat and addressed Torval.
“I have something for you,” he began. “I have watched you now for several years. You are growing into a fine young man. You would make a powerful Viking, I imagine.”
Torval sat up straighter at the compliment.
“But, for now that is not to be, I fear,” Grafeldr finished and shook his head.
“What…what do you mean?” Torval stood and faced Grafeldr, his voice rising. “I am Torval, son of Ingemar the Red. I am destined to be a Viking warrior like my brother and my uncle.”
Before he could continue, the large heap of pelts next to Grafeldr’s chair began to stir. Before his astonished eyes, a huge shaggy head lifted up, turned its gaze on the boy, and uttered a deep, threatening growl.
“Easy, Ulfr,” said Grafeldr, and stroked the big dog’s red fur. “It’s all right.” Then to Torval he said, “Perhaps you should sit down.”
“What is that?” asked Ästa, her eyes bright with wonder.
“This?” the old man patted the big dog’s head. “This is a dog, of course.”
“What kind of dog? It is bigger than any dog I’ve ever seen,” Torval observed.
“It’s magnificent,” Ästa said as she regarded the beast with reverence.
At this, the beast stood and shook itself; hand-sized, claw-tipped paws gripped the floor of the hut firmly for support as it did, its thick fur scattering dust into the air. It stood four feet at the head and was nearly twice that in length from its nose to the tip of its bushy tail. It was heavy through the chest and broad across the shoulders. The dog’s thick neck supported a huge head set with dark, expressive eyes that peered out at Ästa, and seemed to peer into her soul. She could feel the warmth of the dog’s breath on her face. The dog’s head tilted to one side as he inspected her, one tattered ear flopping against its head. Then it opened its cavernous mouth in a yawn that allowed Ästa to see its long, white fangs. She knew this was a skillful predator.
“Yes, but Ulfr is no ordinary dog.” Grafeldr continued to stroke the dog’s back as he spoke. “I believe he is the result of a rare mating between one of the great fighting dogs once kept by the first Kings and a wolf of the White Mountains. That is why I gave him his name.”
“Where did he come from?” she asked.
“Of his origins, I cannot say. He just showed up one day several years ago. I happened to see him lying in the sun on a rocky ledge that overlooks the village. He was larger by half than the largest of the pack dogs kept by the village, but I never saw him mingle with them. On occasion he would wander off to hunt for his food, only to return to his chosen spot. I believe Ulfr was waiting and watching for something. He is a fierce fighter,” Grafeldr said and scratched the dog behind its floppy ear. “I saw him take on four of the largest pack dogs once when they tried to challenge him for his rocky ledge; he killed two before the others ran off.
“Your father tried to break him some years ago,” Grafeldr said, directing this at Ästa. “But he failed. Ulfr will not be tamed. After that, he disappeared and I thought him long gone but, just last week he turned up again. I saw him lying in the sun on that same rocky ledge. Now, he chooses to stay here with me. He comes and goes as he pleases and keeps me company.”
Ulfr turned his gaze to the girl and sniffed the air. Then, to the amazement of them all, the dog began to thump its massive tail on the floor causing a small cloud of dust and dirt to rise up.
“Well, I’ll be,” Grafeldr said. “I’ve never known him to wag his tail. He must like you, Ästa.”
“May I pet him?” she asked.
“If he will allow it, I suppose it’s all right.”
Unafraid, Ästa approached Ulfr, her hand outstretched, palm down. She kept her voice low and soothing as she stepped closer. “Hello, Ulfr. My name is Ästa. You are a good boy, and very handsome.”
The dog sniffed the air again, his tail ceased its wagging, and then the great beast lowered his head so the girl could pet him.
“Amazing,” Grafeldr said. “Had I not seen it, I would not have believed it. It reminds me of something I have not heard of for many years.”
“What?” Torval asked.
“Huh? Oh, nothing, nothing. It’s just an old memory, that’s all.” The old man just scratched his beard and watched the young girl and the dog.
After a few moments, Torval asked. “What about this new defense?”
“What…uh yes, of course.” Grafeldr said and reached for the package. As he laid it across his lap he turned to Torval and said. “Before I show you, which now because of your dream I fear I must, I need to discuss something with the two of you that you may find difficult to understand or believe.” He regarded them in turn and Ästa could feel the weight of his gaze, suddenly afraid of what he would say.
Then, he said, “Tell me what you know of…Magic.”
“Magic,” Torval said with a laugh. “Stories told around the fire to scare children, that’s all.”
Grafeldr nodded and prompted Ästa with a gesture. “And you; what do you know of Magic?”
Ästa paused in her stroking of Ulfr’s fur and pondered the old man’s question for a moment before answering. “I know nothing of magic. I believe that there is magic within each of us, more in some than others, but in most it sleeps. Perhaps a few have the ability to wake the magic, but to what use; again, I do not know.”
“An excellent answer, Ästa,” Grafeldr said with a smile. “And you are correct.”
“What,” Torval exclaimed.
Grafeldr put out his left hand in a wait-a-moment gesture. “Let me explain.”
He settled back in his chair and furrowed his eyebrows in concentration. Ästa noticed that he slowly ran his hand along the wrapped package in his lap as he appeared to consider his next words. When finally he spoke, his words were reverent, his voice almost a whisper.
“Magic is all around us,” he began. “It is within us as well, as Ästa has noted. But there is no one-type of magic that can be used by everyone; rather, it is elusive, choosing to show itself in its own way.”
“I don’t understand,” said Torval.
“Well, some to whom Magic has called are able to conjure or cast spells of power; whereas others are only able to channel magic that exists within some object or talisman, having insufficient magic of their own. Also, there are those who have special magical talents.”
“What sort of talents?” Ästa asked.
Grafeldr smiled at the girl. “Oh, the ability to draw power from the earth, or the gift of foresight…”
“You mean fortune-telling?” Torval asked, his voice dripping with skepticism.
“Not exactly, no,” said Grafeldr ignoring the boy’s tone. “Those with true foresight are able to see possible outcomes to events, not necessarily the only outcome. It is a very difficult talent to master.”
“I don’t understand,” Ästa said.
“Because we can think and choose, we have the ability to change events,” Grafeldr said. “Every decision or action we take changes the future in small, unexpected ways. A seer can view possible outcomes based on decisions we make, but not always the right one.
“There are many other ways that magic can manifest itself in people. For example; do you know Dar Andersson’s mother?”
“The woman who sells vegetables at the market,” Ästa said.
“Yes, just so,” Grafeldr said. “She has magic. Can you work out the type?”
“She has the ability to grow things in the earth,” Torval ventured.
“Very good,” Grafeldr said. “What about Ulmer the shepherd?”
“Are you saying he has magic too?” Torval asked, unwilling to believe.
“In his own manner, yes,” the old man said. “His talent with animals doesn’t stop with sheep and goats.”
“I have seen him feeding birds and squirrels,” Ästa said.
“That’s correct. There are many of us who have certain gifts or talents. Most are unaware that it is magic. Some say that the gods blessed mankind with this magic, while others believe that magic was always in the world and that ancient men discovered it on their own and made use of it. Whatever its origins, it has waned in the majority of mankind until only a few are either aware of it or can waken it.”
“I still don’t believe it, Grafeldr,” Torval said and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.
“Some need visual proof, I suppose,” Grafeldr said to Ästa with mock sarcasm.
“Can you do magic?” she asked.
“Shall we see?” Grafeldr said. He set aside his package, stood and moved toward the central fire pit. He extended his arms in front of him and held his palms down at the dying fire. Then, he slowly turned his palms up and lifted his arms over his head. As Ästa watched, the sputtering flame grew and became a column of fire that Grafeldr appeared to shape and manipulate with subtle gestures and movements of his hands.
Then to her astonishment the fire assumed the shape of a serpent, leaning to and fro above the pit. Ulfr uttered a growl at the image and bared his impressive teeth. At last, Grafeldr lowered his arms and the flaming serpent died away; the fire returning to its sputtering. The dog gave a soft “hmmph” and returned his head to his paws.
Grafeldr turned back and smiled. “Excuse me for that; it has been a while since I played with fire.”
He returned to his chair and lowered himself into it with a grunt of pain. “Oh, these old bones,” he said with a grimace. He retrieved the long package from the floor and placed it on his lap again. Once he was comfortable he regarded the two and spoke.
“Well, what questions do you have for me?”
Torval and Ästa were speechless for long moments; then, Ästa broke the silence. “Do you think there is magic in me?” She touched her breastbone with her index finger. “I like animals too, just like Ulmer the shepherd.”
Grafeldr eyed the girl and nodded his head. “Yes, I believe so; but it is not yet fully awake. I think it is still defining its shape...the form it will take. However, I think it soon will be.”
“Is that how I could hear Tor’s dream?”
“Is that the question you had for me?” he said.
Ästa nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “The magic in you is reaching out, trying to...become,” he emphasized the last word, then continued. “You may experience other such manifestations before its final form is determined.”
“What about me?” Torval asked.
Grafeldr turned to look at Torval. “As I said before; I have had my eye on you for some time, Torval. Is there magic in you? Yes, as I have said; it is in all mankind. But I think that your talent is using magical objects: one like this.” He took the long package and began to remove its wrappings.
