Torval was brought back from his reverie by his father’s voice calling from below. He looked down on the man striding toward him. Ingemar was a big man, over six feet, and well-muscled from years of hard work and countless miles at sea working the sails and oars of the longships. His hair, unlike that of Torval, was dark red and long, hanging over his broad shoulders, an eagle talon braided in one long lock. His face was covered with a thick beard and moustache, which was streaked with gray running to white. He had deep-set eyes the color of green that to Torval always seemed angry. The man’s brows creased in concentration as if pondering some troublesome thought. As he drew near to the longship, Ingemar raised a huge hand to shade his eye against the sun’s glare and regarded Torval with grave severity.
“Have you finished mending that sail yet, boy?”
“Yes, father,” Torval replied as he got quickly to his feet. “I finished that earlier and also the net for Horvak.” He tossed the net down for his father’s inspection. “I was preparing to begin on scraping the hull of Aesgir’s longship, but was resting first.”
Ingemar nodded at Torval and frowned. “You can rest later, boy,” Ingemar said and inspected the work on Horvak’s net, which Torval
thought was excellent.
“Horvak may not accept this work,” Ingemar said, lifting the net for the boy to see. “He expects quality craftsmanship.”
Torval felt a growing despair at the critique, so common from his father. Perhaps Ingemar noticed the change in Torval’s eyes, for he lifted a cautionary hand.
“Hold; I know Horvak and will offer him a discount on this effort, so you need not redo your work,” Ingemar said and dropped the net. As he wiped his hands off he said, “Put off scraping Aesgir’s hull. I have another task for you.”
Torval’s shoulders slumped in resignation and he squatted on the deck, peering at his father through an oar hole. “Yes, father; what do you want of me?”
“Mind your tone, boy,” Ingemar cautioned. “I want you to go with Ästa while she does her chores and see that she is not molested.”
Torval jumped up and began to protest, “But…”
Again, his father raised a hand to stop him. “Do not argue with me, Torval; she is only a girl and you are her cousin. It is your duty to protect her while her father is away. I do not care how you feel about this; you are to take her to the village and bring her back safely.” He offered his son a small consolation, “She is to be married off once your uncle returns; after that you will be free of this burden.”
“I don’t see why I must watch over her; none of the other girls require escort to complete their chores.”
His father’s tone softened, “Look at her, Torval. Can you not see how she is different from other girls? There is something strange about her. I don’t think she is cursed, as the old crones say, but there is something about her that causes others to mistrust her. They don’t fear her; at least, I don’t think so. But, no harm may come to her while my brother is away. That is why you must go with her. I will say no more on this.”
With a sigh of resignation, Torval nodded his assent and said, “Yes, father; if that is what you want, I will take her.” His father nodded his approval at Toval’s acquiescence and turned back to his own work.
* * * *
As Ingemar walked away, he glanced back over his shoulder in time to observe his son kick a scraper off the ship and onto the rocky beach. The big shipwright allowed a smile and turned back to his own work. In his heart, he was proud of his youngest; the boy worked hard and did good work no matter the task. He disliked having to be so hard on the lad, but it was the only way he knew how to build the man the boy was to become. He had to be harsh with him. Life was hard and the gods unfair, as he knew well.
With the exception of watching over his brother’s unfortunate child, a task Ingemar knew the boy hated, his son was going to make a fine shipwright one day. But, as satisfied with the boy as he was, he was ever watchful for the tell-tale traits that would presage the inevitable call of the sea to the lad. That Torval wanted to become a Viking warrior like his brother before him was left unspoken; Ingemar knew his son well. He had tried to drive the desire from the boy through hard work and accomplishment as his apprentice, but Ingemar remained skeptical that his youngest could refuse the siren call of the sea. In his heart he respected his young son for wanting to pursue the Viking way; but that would not be the boy’s fate, if he had any say in the matter.
* * * *
A short time later, as Torval was cleaning up, he noticed his cousin walk out of their house and start up the hill toward the center of the village. “Ästa,” he called to her, but she either didn’t hear him, or chose not to acknowledge. Knowing what he must do, despite his desire to the contrary, he climbed over the railing and dropped to the ground to follow her. The fifteen-foot fall was effortless and he landed on his feet, his knees slightly bent to absorb the shock. Then he ran across the beach after her.
“Ästa,” he called to the girl as he ran. “Wait for me.”
The girl stopped, put her hands on her hips and sighed before turning to face him.
Ästa was a beautiful young woman with dark hair which, when seen in the sunlight, looked as black as a raven’s wing and shone with hints of blue streaks. She wore it long and braided; held in place by a piece of leather wrapped around a seal bone. Her eyes were gray as a cold winter sky, with flecks of gold around the edges of her irises, but sparkled with light when she laughed. They were almond-shaped and tilted up at the corners, giving her a distinctly feline appearance, especially when she stared at something intently. She was long-limbed and stout for her age, easily the tallest girl-child in the village and taller than any boy her age. She had her mother’s oval face and high cheekbones, pale complexion, and smooth skin, unblemished save for a small mark on her hip. She had the mark since birth – a small dark blotch, in the shape of a wolf’s head. Her appearance, thought in stark contrast to the blonde-haired, blue-eyed girls of the village, was nonetheless remarkable, and even Torval admitted she would be a strikingly beautiful woman before a handful of years passed.
“You don’t need to follow me everywhere I go, Tor,” she said.
Her use of the abbreviation of his name was hers alone and Torval allowed it from no one else. “I’m not following you,” he said and offered a disarming smile. “I wanted to get away from the boat for a while and you are a good excuse. Where are you going?” he asked.
“To see the old man.”
“Good,” Torval said. “I’ll go too.”
Torval enjoyed his visits with the gray hermit. He would sit at the old man’s fire and listen to stories of other lands far across the sea where strange men dwelt: dark-skinned men in the south and fierce, red men to the west toward the sinking sun. He talked of the warrior clans of the east and of their keen, swift and deadly swordsmanship. He told of strange animals: Alifants and such other types of beasts that could not be imagined. But the most elusive of the old man’s lessons was that of the written word. Torval spent many long hours with the hermit to learn the symbols, characters and runes of strange languages. After many visits and uncounted hours of practice, Torval had learned how to make the marks, and by doing, was able to put down his thoughts with charcoal on old planks of wood.
“Don’t you have chores to do for your father?” Ästa said, interrupting Torval’s thoughts.
“I finished earlier. I’m supposed to be watching you,” Torval said, teasing his cousin.
“I don’t need you to watch me,” Ästa said, her eyes flashing with irritation.
“I know,” Torval said, his tone serious. “But my father says I am to keep you safe. So, I must stay with you.”
“I don’t need you to keep me safe, either. I can take care of myself.” She said and began to walk faster.
Torval placed his right hand on her left shoulder to pull her back, but in a blur of motion she ducked down, reaching up with her right hand grasping his in turn. At the same time, she stepped back and shifted closer. She brought her left hand up and, seizing his right biceps, turned her weight and right hand inward, causing Torval to cry out in pain. Then, she pushed forward with her left hand while pulling back on her right in a clockwise arc. She guided Torval down to the ground and sat on his back, his right arm locked behind him.
“Do you yield?” she asked.
“How did you do that?” he asked back.
“Do you yield?” she repeated.
“Aye, I yield.”
She released him and stood up, brushing the dirt from her leather breeches.
Torval stared up at her, his eyes wide in disbelief. “How…”
“The old man taught me,” she said and covered a smile with her hand.
The gesture, as Torval knew, was an unconscious one. He was aware that his cousin had become self-conscious of her smile once her permanent teeth had begun to come in. It wasn’t that she was buck-toothed like other children; on the contrary, her front teeth were small and straight. But her upper canine teeth caused her discomfort. They were sharp and pointed on the ends and would cut her tongue if she was not careful. She had taken to covering her mouth whenever she smiled or laughed. People incorrectly thought she was shy, but Ästa chose to keep her ugliness to herself.
“The old man?” Torval asked as he got to his feet. “You mean old Grafeldr, the hermit taught you that?”
“Yes, he is a patient teacher,” she answered.
“I know,” said Torval. “He is teaching me as well.”
Ästa turned and regarded Torval. “What is he teaching you?”
“Weapons,” Torval said and walked past Ästa, who noticed a smirk on his face.
“What weapons?” Ästa demanded.
“Right now, only the staff, but I am promised the secrets of the sword soon,” Torval said and smiled at his cousin.
“But you already know the sword,” Asta said.
“That is true,” Torval said. He had been instructed in the broadsword by his father since Torval was able to heft the heavy steel blade. “But, Grafeldr says that there is much more to learn and in time he will teach me.”
“Not fair,” Ästa said. “Why can’t I learn the sword as well?”
Torval laughed. “Girls cannot fight with swords.” He nudged Ästa’s shoulder with good-natured affection, but noticed that her countenance had fallen. “You are serious, then,” he said.
“Just because I am a girl should not keep me from learning things; especially, important things like weapons.”
Torval made no reply and considered the truth of Ästa’s words as they walked together in silence past the huts, lodges and stables that comprised the main portion of the village.
The village of Tyländor was of common size and population for the coastal North Country. There were close to three hundred residents from eighty-two families. The majority of families lived on small farms near the village proper and provided the vegetables, fruit, and most of the meat for the population – the rest provided by the hunters; whereas a few, such as Torval’s uncle and father, lived within the confines of the village and either governed the people or supervised the building and maintenance of the boats and longships respectively. The villagers lived in a variety of homes from small, deerskin-covered huts to large, log lodges. The largest – the longhouse – belonged to Magnus the Dragon-hand, chieftain of the village, and his brother Ingemar the shipwright and their surviving children.
Neither man had a wife – Torval’s mother had died of injuries sustained on a hunt when he was seven. She, along with several other women from the village had prepared the fire and tools for the cleaning of the deer when the men returned. During the preparations a rogue hart crashed out of the woods and bolted across the clearing directly into and over Torval’s mother. She lingered for three days before passing out of this world and into Valhalla. Torval had wept over his mother’s body until his father carried him back to their longhouse and explained about death.
“Death is part of the great mystery of life, Torval,” his father had told him that night as they sat before the fire. “The gods choose whom they will take without consulting with us, and we must accept their decisions; for how can we stop death or stand against the gods?”
Torval was not sure he liked the gods for taking his mother, but the thought of angering them kept his mouth shut. Now, though, as he walked with his cousin he considered the manner in which she had forced him to the ground and uttered a blasphemy.
“By the gods, Ästa, how did you best me like that? You are a girl and smaller and weaker than I am. That is not possible.”
“Grafeldr says that size does not matter. He says that it is a matter of…” she paused, appearing to search her mind for the word. Then, apparently finding it, she sounded it out: “le-ver-age,” and nodded in recognition of the truth. “Whatever it is; it works.” She finished with a half-smile at her cousin.
Torval nodded his grudging agreement. “I thought you had chores in the village.” He added.
“I can get what I need after I see Grafeldr,” she said as she walked.
They continued along the path in silence toward the edge of the village.
Despite their size or construction, each home was situated so that its entrance was facing southeast to escape the frigid northwest winds. The path on which Torval and Ästa walked was paved with rocks and stones from the shore and surrounding hills. This helped outline the way and aided with the moving of heavy carts during the rains.
The path meandered between the huts and lodges of the village so that each household could have equal access. The two cousins continued on past the stables and storage barns until they came to the last dwelling, isolated a good distance from any others. It was old and constructed of a mixture of logs, stone, mud and turf. Much as others in the village, this structure was built from the discarded materials from old huts, lodges, or stables. Very little was wasted when all that prevented death from exposure to the cold was a solid wall to block the wind.
This structure had benefitted from past tragedies; materials had been gathered from homes destroyed by fire or some other calamity. It had the look of age, but it was nonetheless a sturdy building. A wisp of white smoke issued from a hole in the center of the roof and from the windows set high in the side walls.
As they approached the wood entrance door, a pale yellow light shone through the spaces between the board slats, and the two could smell something wonderful cooking. Being the older, and the male, Torval stepped forward to knock on the door. However, before his fist touched the door, a strong, deep voice called out to them.
“What mischief brings the two of you to my door? Speak true, for I shall know otherwise.”
Torval glanced at his cousin, a puzzled look on his face. Ästa, however, simply smiled and answered. “No mischief brings us; only the desire for knowledge.”
For a long moment there was no response, and Torval was beginning to believe they should turn around and go back. Then, the voice came again, beckoning them.
“Then, enter and receive what you came for…and perhaps more.”
Ästa opened the door and stepped into the yellow light of the room, her confidence demonstrated by her erect posture. Torval, unlike his cousin, was not as self-assured and held back a moment before pride forced him over the threshold behind the girl.
Torval recalled his first meeting with Grafeldr. Torval was ten and had seen him in the village on several occasions, a dark, bent shape beneath a heavy patchwork cloak of cloth and fur, walking with the aid of a long staff, but Torval had never spoken openly to him. He could not say why exactly; it was not fear of the old man, though Torval had received a stern look from him on more than one occasion. Each time Torval had come away with the feeling that the old man was watching him or waiting for Torval to do something. The feeling was strange, but he was convinced that Grafeldr knew something about Torval; what it was, he did not know. Then one day, Torval, demonstrating rare confidence, stepped up to the old man and said, “I am Torval Ingemarsson. Why do you stare at me like that?”
The old man had gazed hard at him for a long moment before replying to Torval’s question. When he did, Torval was surprised at the strength of the old man’s voice and the keen manner in which he regarded him. “Well, Torval Ingemarsson,” said Grafeldr. “We are well met. What took you so long?”
Torval, at a loss for words, only stood and gawked at the gray-cloaked figure before him; his courage departing like fog in the sunlight.
Then, Grafeldr uttered a laugh and placed a gentle hand on Torval’s shoulder. “When your courage returns, come and visit me.”
Torval had made his way to this old hut the very next day. He had been a regular visitor ever since.
When Torval moved inside, he saw the familiar and the strange. The old man’s home was sparsely furnished in the style of the Vikings. A few low chairs covered in leather and soft animal skins encircled the central fire pit, while sleeping benches lined one wall. The old man sat in one chair near the fire, a large heap of reddish-brown pelts at his side. There were several stuffed-hide pillows on the floor for sitting and resting. A large rug of sewn animal pelts lay on the floor near a table set with carved wood mugs and bowls.
The walls were adorned with stuffed animals and skins, and various weapons, among them the battered, wooden staff with which Torval practiced. Two wall torches burned and cast wavering light around the small room. The old man had directed water from a nearby stream into a small channel which ran underneath the house. This channel was covered by slabs of rock. One slab was lifted and a dipper for water sat there to use for drinking.
A fire was burning low in the cooking pit, and the smell of venison filled the air. Near the peak of the roof vent, a layer of smoke lingered like a cloud. Torval noticed the meat roasting on a spit above the small fire, and his hunger woke.
“That smells good,” he said.
“Aye, it does and I thank you, Torval,” Grafeldr spoke. “Come and join me.”
With his hunger emboldening him, Torval stepped in front of his cousin and took a seat next to the roasting meat, leaving her the chair nearest the old man. While he waited to be served, Torval allowed his eyes to take in his teacher. Grafeldr had the look of age; his face was all deep lines and folds of skin with a heavy brow that concealed bright, watchful eyes of brown. Long tangles of coarse, gray hair cascaded over his shoulders and down to the midpoint of his back. His beard was likewise long and unkempt and Torval could see remnants of food and drops of liquid amid the tangles of beard. An old man, Grafeldr nevertheless was not stooped but stood as tall as Torval: at least six feet. His stocky frame and strength belied the hermit’s age, which was unknown to Torval but surely had to be great.
Grafeldr stretched out a large hand and pulled a piece of roasting meat from the fire. He placed it on a wooden platter and handed it to Torval with a smile. “Here, Torval,” he said. “You look hungry.”
Pulled back from his thoughts by the savory meat before him, Torval attacked his plate with enthusiasm.
The old man chuckled and drained his mug before turning to Torval’s cousin and speaking. “It is good to see you again, Ästa. How are your studies coming?”
“I put Tor on the ground today,” she said with unabashed pride.
“Did you?” Grafeldr said and considered his young student.
“I wasn’t prepared for her attack,” Torval offered in his defense through a mouthful of venison.
Grafeldr looked at Torval, his brow furrowed in thought. “Would it have made a difference, had you been prepared?”
“Certainly,” said Torval, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “No girl can defeat me at bare-handed combat.”
The old man turned to Ästa, “Can you repeat what you did earlier, if your opponent is prepared?”
Ästa considered for a moment. Then, looking at her teacher she said, “It should not make a difference whether the opponent is ready or not.”
“Then, we shall see what we shall see,” Grafeldr said and extended his hand, gesturing toward an open area in the room devoid of furnishings. “Please, Torval, try to grab your cousin again.”
“I fear I may hurt her,” Torval said and set his empty plate aside.
“You may,” the old man said with a nod. “Then again, you may find yourself surprised at who gets hurt.”
Torval stood and moved to the open floor where his cousin waited. He did not want to hurt Ästa, but he could not let her best him again. He prepared himself. “Are you ready?”
“I am,” she said, as she turned her back to Torval, and waited.
Torval attacked with more speed and greater force than before, determined to show the old man who the greater fighter was. As he grabbed for his cousin, she side-stepped his lunge, reached out for his left wrist and pivoted. Before a handful of seconds had passed, the contest was over and once again, Torval was lying on the ground with his cousin sitting on his back.
When she let him up, Ästa was trying to suppress a smile, her mouth once more obscured by a surreptitious hand, but was unsuccessful. It was her eyes that betrayed her emotions. Torval, on the other hand, was furious and embarrassed at the same time, and did not try to hide it.
“You are just a girl. How can you do that?”
“I’m sorry, cousin,” she said, returning to her seat by the fire. “Grafeldr has taught me how to defend myself from attacks such as yours. I have practiced the defense for many weeks now.”
His anger passing, Torval remained embarrassed as he slunk back to his chair, rubbing his bruised wrist. “I can’t believe it.” He looked up at Grafeldr who was watching with interest etched on his aged face.
“Can you also teach me this defense?”
Grafeldr smiled and nodded. “I can, but what of your training with the staff? Are you willing to set it aside to learn something new?”
“I can study both at the same time,” Torval said with a confident tone; sounding more so than he was feeling at the moment, the pain in his wrist throbbing in time with his heartbeat.
“Very well then, I will show you how to protect yourself, but we should finish our meal first; we don’t want to waste good food.”
He agreed, and together with his cousin, they ate in silence, each considering the lesson to come.”
When at last the food was gone, Grafeldr said, “Shall we begin?”
Grafeldr noted the nods of the two youths and raised himself out of his chair. “Come with me,” he said as he walked toward the door.
“I know how to fight,” Torval said as he followed Grafeldr out of the lodge.
“As you have demonstrated so well.”
“That was not fighting; that was…uh…well, it wasn’t fighting,” Torval said, defending himself. “I’m not sure what you would call it, but fighting was not it. It was not honorable. She evaded fighting me; she used my strength and size against me. There was nothing I could do to stop her.”
“Perhaps,” said Grafeldr. “But there is a defense to your cousin’s style of fighting.”
Torval stopped and stared at the old hermit. “Teach me, please,” he said.
“Very well,” Grafeldr said.
They practiced for the next hour until Grafeldr called for a stop. “That’s enough for today.”
On his hands and knees and sweating from his exertion, Torval raised his head to face his teacher. “I have not been this tired or sore in years,” he said and grimaced as he stood, wiping his hands on the seat of his pants. “I hurt in places…” he cast a quick look toward his cousin to see if she was listening. “Well, I hurt all over; let’s leave it at that.” He allowed his glance to linger on where his cousin sat and allowed a brief smile. Ästa was seated against the bole of a tree, her head between her knees trying to catch her breath. So, he had tested her at last. Well, it was a start.
“Have you finished mending that sail yet, boy?”
“Yes, father,” Torval replied as he got quickly to his feet. “I finished that earlier and also the net for Horvak.” He tossed the net down for his father’s inspection. “I was preparing to begin on scraping the hull of Aesgir’s longship, but was resting first.”
Ingemar nodded at Torval and frowned. “You can rest later, boy,” Ingemar said and inspected the work on Horvak’s net, which Torval
thought was excellent.
“Horvak may not accept this work,” Ingemar said, lifting the net for the boy to see. “He expects quality craftsmanship.”
Torval felt a growing despair at the critique, so common from his father. Perhaps Ingemar noticed the change in Torval’s eyes, for he lifted a cautionary hand.
“Hold; I know Horvak and will offer him a discount on this effort, so you need not redo your work,” Ingemar said and dropped the net. As he wiped his hands off he said, “Put off scraping Aesgir’s hull. I have another task for you.”
Torval’s shoulders slumped in resignation and he squatted on the deck, peering at his father through an oar hole. “Yes, father; what do you want of me?”
“Mind your tone, boy,” Ingemar cautioned. “I want you to go with Ästa while she does her chores and see that she is not molested.”
Torval jumped up and began to protest, “But…”
Again, his father raised a hand to stop him. “Do not argue with me, Torval; she is only a girl and you are her cousin. It is your duty to protect her while her father is away. I do not care how you feel about this; you are to take her to the village and bring her back safely.” He offered his son a small consolation, “She is to be married off once your uncle returns; after that you will be free of this burden.”
“I don’t see why I must watch over her; none of the other girls require escort to complete their chores.”
His father’s tone softened, “Look at her, Torval. Can you not see how she is different from other girls? There is something strange about her. I don’t think she is cursed, as the old crones say, but there is something about her that causes others to mistrust her. They don’t fear her; at least, I don’t think so. But, no harm may come to her while my brother is away. That is why you must go with her. I will say no more on this.”
With a sigh of resignation, Torval nodded his assent and said, “Yes, father; if that is what you want, I will take her.” His father nodded his approval at Toval’s acquiescence and turned back to his own work.
* * * *
As Ingemar walked away, he glanced back over his shoulder in time to observe his son kick a scraper off the ship and onto the rocky beach. The big shipwright allowed a smile and turned back to his own work. In his heart, he was proud of his youngest; the boy worked hard and did good work no matter the task. He disliked having to be so hard on the lad, but it was the only way he knew how to build the man the boy was to become. He had to be harsh with him. Life was hard and the gods unfair, as he knew well.
With the exception of watching over his brother’s unfortunate child, a task Ingemar knew the boy hated, his son was going to make a fine shipwright one day. But, as satisfied with the boy as he was, he was ever watchful for the tell-tale traits that would presage the inevitable call of the sea to the lad. That Torval wanted to become a Viking warrior like his brother before him was left unspoken; Ingemar knew his son well. He had tried to drive the desire from the boy through hard work and accomplishment as his apprentice, but Ingemar remained skeptical that his youngest could refuse the siren call of the sea. In his heart he respected his young son for wanting to pursue the Viking way; but that would not be the boy’s fate, if he had any say in the matter.
* * * *
A short time later, as Torval was cleaning up, he noticed his cousin walk out of their house and start up the hill toward the center of the village. “Ästa,” he called to her, but she either didn’t hear him, or chose not to acknowledge. Knowing what he must do, despite his desire to the contrary, he climbed over the railing and dropped to the ground to follow her. The fifteen-foot fall was effortless and he landed on his feet, his knees slightly bent to absorb the shock. Then he ran across the beach after her.
“Ästa,” he called to the girl as he ran. “Wait for me.”
The girl stopped, put her hands on her hips and sighed before turning to face him.
Ästa was a beautiful young woman with dark hair which, when seen in the sunlight, looked as black as a raven’s wing and shone with hints of blue streaks. She wore it long and braided; held in place by a piece of leather wrapped around a seal bone. Her eyes were gray as a cold winter sky, with flecks of gold around the edges of her irises, but sparkled with light when she laughed. They were almond-shaped and tilted up at the corners, giving her a distinctly feline appearance, especially when she stared at something intently. She was long-limbed and stout for her age, easily the tallest girl-child in the village and taller than any boy her age. She had her mother’s oval face and high cheekbones, pale complexion, and smooth skin, unblemished save for a small mark on her hip. She had the mark since birth – a small dark blotch, in the shape of a wolf’s head. Her appearance, thought in stark contrast to the blonde-haired, blue-eyed girls of the village, was nonetheless remarkable, and even Torval admitted she would be a strikingly beautiful woman before a handful of years passed.
“You don’t need to follow me everywhere I go, Tor,” she said.
Her use of the abbreviation of his name was hers alone and Torval allowed it from no one else. “I’m not following you,” he said and offered a disarming smile. “I wanted to get away from the boat for a while and you are a good excuse. Where are you going?” he asked.
“To see the old man.”
“Good,” Torval said. “I’ll go too.”
Torval enjoyed his visits with the gray hermit. He would sit at the old man’s fire and listen to stories of other lands far across the sea where strange men dwelt: dark-skinned men in the south and fierce, red men to the west toward the sinking sun. He talked of the warrior clans of the east and of their keen, swift and deadly swordsmanship. He told of strange animals: Alifants and such other types of beasts that could not be imagined. But the most elusive of the old man’s lessons was that of the written word. Torval spent many long hours with the hermit to learn the symbols, characters and runes of strange languages. After many visits and uncounted hours of practice, Torval had learned how to make the marks, and by doing, was able to put down his thoughts with charcoal on old planks of wood.
“Don’t you have chores to do for your father?” Ästa said, interrupting Torval’s thoughts.
“I finished earlier. I’m supposed to be watching you,” Torval said, teasing his cousin.
“I don’t need you to watch me,” Ästa said, her eyes flashing with irritation.
“I know,” Torval said, his tone serious. “But my father says I am to keep you safe. So, I must stay with you.”
“I don’t need you to keep me safe, either. I can take care of myself.” She said and began to walk faster.
Torval placed his right hand on her left shoulder to pull her back, but in a blur of motion she ducked down, reaching up with her right hand grasping his in turn. At the same time, she stepped back and shifted closer. She brought her left hand up and, seizing his right biceps, turned her weight and right hand inward, causing Torval to cry out in pain. Then, she pushed forward with her left hand while pulling back on her right in a clockwise arc. She guided Torval down to the ground and sat on his back, his right arm locked behind him.
“Do you yield?” she asked.
“How did you do that?” he asked back.
“Do you yield?” she repeated.
“Aye, I yield.”
She released him and stood up, brushing the dirt from her leather breeches.
Torval stared up at her, his eyes wide in disbelief. “How…”
“The old man taught me,” she said and covered a smile with her hand.
The gesture, as Torval knew, was an unconscious one. He was aware that his cousin had become self-conscious of her smile once her permanent teeth had begun to come in. It wasn’t that she was buck-toothed like other children; on the contrary, her front teeth were small and straight. But her upper canine teeth caused her discomfort. They were sharp and pointed on the ends and would cut her tongue if she was not careful. She had taken to covering her mouth whenever she smiled or laughed. People incorrectly thought she was shy, but Ästa chose to keep her ugliness to herself.
“The old man?” Torval asked as he got to his feet. “You mean old Grafeldr, the hermit taught you that?”
“Yes, he is a patient teacher,” she answered.
“I know,” said Torval. “He is teaching me as well.”
Ästa turned and regarded Torval. “What is he teaching you?”
“Weapons,” Torval said and walked past Ästa, who noticed a smirk on his face.
“What weapons?” Ästa demanded.
“Right now, only the staff, but I am promised the secrets of the sword soon,” Torval said and smiled at his cousin.
“But you already know the sword,” Asta said.
“That is true,” Torval said. He had been instructed in the broadsword by his father since Torval was able to heft the heavy steel blade. “But, Grafeldr says that there is much more to learn and in time he will teach me.”
“Not fair,” Ästa said. “Why can’t I learn the sword as well?”
Torval laughed. “Girls cannot fight with swords.” He nudged Ästa’s shoulder with good-natured affection, but noticed that her countenance had fallen. “You are serious, then,” he said.
“Just because I am a girl should not keep me from learning things; especially, important things like weapons.”
Torval made no reply and considered the truth of Ästa’s words as they walked together in silence past the huts, lodges and stables that comprised the main portion of the village.
The village of Tyländor was of common size and population for the coastal North Country. There were close to three hundred residents from eighty-two families. The majority of families lived on small farms near the village proper and provided the vegetables, fruit, and most of the meat for the population – the rest provided by the hunters; whereas a few, such as Torval’s uncle and father, lived within the confines of the village and either governed the people or supervised the building and maintenance of the boats and longships respectively. The villagers lived in a variety of homes from small, deerskin-covered huts to large, log lodges. The largest – the longhouse – belonged to Magnus the Dragon-hand, chieftain of the village, and his brother Ingemar the shipwright and their surviving children.
Neither man had a wife – Torval’s mother had died of injuries sustained on a hunt when he was seven. She, along with several other women from the village had prepared the fire and tools for the cleaning of the deer when the men returned. During the preparations a rogue hart crashed out of the woods and bolted across the clearing directly into and over Torval’s mother. She lingered for three days before passing out of this world and into Valhalla. Torval had wept over his mother’s body until his father carried him back to their longhouse and explained about death.
“Death is part of the great mystery of life, Torval,” his father had told him that night as they sat before the fire. “The gods choose whom they will take without consulting with us, and we must accept their decisions; for how can we stop death or stand against the gods?”
Torval was not sure he liked the gods for taking his mother, but the thought of angering them kept his mouth shut. Now, though, as he walked with his cousin he considered the manner in which she had forced him to the ground and uttered a blasphemy.
“By the gods, Ästa, how did you best me like that? You are a girl and smaller and weaker than I am. That is not possible.”
“Grafeldr says that size does not matter. He says that it is a matter of…” she paused, appearing to search her mind for the word. Then, apparently finding it, she sounded it out: “le-ver-age,” and nodded in recognition of the truth. “Whatever it is; it works.” She finished with a half-smile at her cousin.
Torval nodded his grudging agreement. “I thought you had chores in the village.” He added.
“I can get what I need after I see Grafeldr,” she said as she walked.
They continued along the path in silence toward the edge of the village.
Despite their size or construction, each home was situated so that its entrance was facing southeast to escape the frigid northwest winds. The path on which Torval and Ästa walked was paved with rocks and stones from the shore and surrounding hills. This helped outline the way and aided with the moving of heavy carts during the rains.
The path meandered between the huts and lodges of the village so that each household could have equal access. The two cousins continued on past the stables and storage barns until they came to the last dwelling, isolated a good distance from any others. It was old and constructed of a mixture of logs, stone, mud and turf. Much as others in the village, this structure was built from the discarded materials from old huts, lodges, or stables. Very little was wasted when all that prevented death from exposure to the cold was a solid wall to block the wind.
This structure had benefitted from past tragedies; materials had been gathered from homes destroyed by fire or some other calamity. It had the look of age, but it was nonetheless a sturdy building. A wisp of white smoke issued from a hole in the center of the roof and from the windows set high in the side walls.
As they approached the wood entrance door, a pale yellow light shone through the spaces between the board slats, and the two could smell something wonderful cooking. Being the older, and the male, Torval stepped forward to knock on the door. However, before his fist touched the door, a strong, deep voice called out to them.
“What mischief brings the two of you to my door? Speak true, for I shall know otherwise.”
Torval glanced at his cousin, a puzzled look on his face. Ästa, however, simply smiled and answered. “No mischief brings us; only the desire for knowledge.”
For a long moment there was no response, and Torval was beginning to believe they should turn around and go back. Then, the voice came again, beckoning them.
“Then, enter and receive what you came for…and perhaps more.”
Ästa opened the door and stepped into the yellow light of the room, her confidence demonstrated by her erect posture. Torval, unlike his cousin, was not as self-assured and held back a moment before pride forced him over the threshold behind the girl.
Torval recalled his first meeting with Grafeldr. Torval was ten and had seen him in the village on several occasions, a dark, bent shape beneath a heavy patchwork cloak of cloth and fur, walking with the aid of a long staff, but Torval had never spoken openly to him. He could not say why exactly; it was not fear of the old man, though Torval had received a stern look from him on more than one occasion. Each time Torval had come away with the feeling that the old man was watching him or waiting for Torval to do something. The feeling was strange, but he was convinced that Grafeldr knew something about Torval; what it was, he did not know. Then one day, Torval, demonstrating rare confidence, stepped up to the old man and said, “I am Torval Ingemarsson. Why do you stare at me like that?”
The old man had gazed hard at him for a long moment before replying to Torval’s question. When he did, Torval was surprised at the strength of the old man’s voice and the keen manner in which he regarded him. “Well, Torval Ingemarsson,” said Grafeldr. “We are well met. What took you so long?”
Torval, at a loss for words, only stood and gawked at the gray-cloaked figure before him; his courage departing like fog in the sunlight.
Then, Grafeldr uttered a laugh and placed a gentle hand on Torval’s shoulder. “When your courage returns, come and visit me.”
Torval had made his way to this old hut the very next day. He had been a regular visitor ever since.
When Torval moved inside, he saw the familiar and the strange. The old man’s home was sparsely furnished in the style of the Vikings. A few low chairs covered in leather and soft animal skins encircled the central fire pit, while sleeping benches lined one wall. The old man sat in one chair near the fire, a large heap of reddish-brown pelts at his side. There were several stuffed-hide pillows on the floor for sitting and resting. A large rug of sewn animal pelts lay on the floor near a table set with carved wood mugs and bowls.
The walls were adorned with stuffed animals and skins, and various weapons, among them the battered, wooden staff with which Torval practiced. Two wall torches burned and cast wavering light around the small room. The old man had directed water from a nearby stream into a small channel which ran underneath the house. This channel was covered by slabs of rock. One slab was lifted and a dipper for water sat there to use for drinking.
A fire was burning low in the cooking pit, and the smell of venison filled the air. Near the peak of the roof vent, a layer of smoke lingered like a cloud. Torval noticed the meat roasting on a spit above the small fire, and his hunger woke.
“That smells good,” he said.
“Aye, it does and I thank you, Torval,” Grafeldr spoke. “Come and join me.”
With his hunger emboldening him, Torval stepped in front of his cousin and took a seat next to the roasting meat, leaving her the chair nearest the old man. While he waited to be served, Torval allowed his eyes to take in his teacher. Grafeldr had the look of age; his face was all deep lines and folds of skin with a heavy brow that concealed bright, watchful eyes of brown. Long tangles of coarse, gray hair cascaded over his shoulders and down to the midpoint of his back. His beard was likewise long and unkempt and Torval could see remnants of food and drops of liquid amid the tangles of beard. An old man, Grafeldr nevertheless was not stooped but stood as tall as Torval: at least six feet. His stocky frame and strength belied the hermit’s age, which was unknown to Torval but surely had to be great.
Grafeldr stretched out a large hand and pulled a piece of roasting meat from the fire. He placed it on a wooden platter and handed it to Torval with a smile. “Here, Torval,” he said. “You look hungry.”
Pulled back from his thoughts by the savory meat before him, Torval attacked his plate with enthusiasm.
The old man chuckled and drained his mug before turning to Torval’s cousin and speaking. “It is good to see you again, Ästa. How are your studies coming?”
“I put Tor on the ground today,” she said with unabashed pride.
“Did you?” Grafeldr said and considered his young student.
“I wasn’t prepared for her attack,” Torval offered in his defense through a mouthful of venison.
Grafeldr looked at Torval, his brow furrowed in thought. “Would it have made a difference, had you been prepared?”
“Certainly,” said Torval, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “No girl can defeat me at bare-handed combat.”
The old man turned to Ästa, “Can you repeat what you did earlier, if your opponent is prepared?”
Ästa considered for a moment. Then, looking at her teacher she said, “It should not make a difference whether the opponent is ready or not.”
“Then, we shall see what we shall see,” Grafeldr said and extended his hand, gesturing toward an open area in the room devoid of furnishings. “Please, Torval, try to grab your cousin again.”
“I fear I may hurt her,” Torval said and set his empty plate aside.
“You may,” the old man said with a nod. “Then again, you may find yourself surprised at who gets hurt.”
Torval stood and moved to the open floor where his cousin waited. He did not want to hurt Ästa, but he could not let her best him again. He prepared himself. “Are you ready?”
“I am,” she said, as she turned her back to Torval, and waited.
Torval attacked with more speed and greater force than before, determined to show the old man who the greater fighter was. As he grabbed for his cousin, she side-stepped his lunge, reached out for his left wrist and pivoted. Before a handful of seconds had passed, the contest was over and once again, Torval was lying on the ground with his cousin sitting on his back.
When she let him up, Ästa was trying to suppress a smile, her mouth once more obscured by a surreptitious hand, but was unsuccessful. It was her eyes that betrayed her emotions. Torval, on the other hand, was furious and embarrassed at the same time, and did not try to hide it.
“You are just a girl. How can you do that?”
“I’m sorry, cousin,” she said, returning to her seat by the fire. “Grafeldr has taught me how to defend myself from attacks such as yours. I have practiced the defense for many weeks now.”
His anger passing, Torval remained embarrassed as he slunk back to his chair, rubbing his bruised wrist. “I can’t believe it.” He looked up at Grafeldr who was watching with interest etched on his aged face.
“Can you also teach me this defense?”
Grafeldr smiled and nodded. “I can, but what of your training with the staff? Are you willing to set it aside to learn something new?”
“I can study both at the same time,” Torval said with a confident tone; sounding more so than he was feeling at the moment, the pain in his wrist throbbing in time with his heartbeat.
“Very well then, I will show you how to protect yourself, but we should finish our meal first; we don’t want to waste good food.”
He agreed, and together with his cousin, they ate in silence, each considering the lesson to come.”
When at last the food was gone, Grafeldr said, “Shall we begin?”
Grafeldr noted the nods of the two youths and raised himself out of his chair. “Come with me,” he said as he walked toward the door.
“I know how to fight,” Torval said as he followed Grafeldr out of the lodge.
“As you have demonstrated so well.”
“That was not fighting; that was…uh…well, it wasn’t fighting,” Torval said, defending himself. “I’m not sure what you would call it, but fighting was not it. It was not honorable. She evaded fighting me; she used my strength and size against me. There was nothing I could do to stop her.”
“Perhaps,” said Grafeldr. “But there is a defense to your cousin’s style of fighting.”
Torval stopped and stared at the old hermit. “Teach me, please,” he said.
“Very well,” Grafeldr said.
They practiced for the next hour until Grafeldr called for a stop. “That’s enough for today.”
On his hands and knees and sweating from his exertion, Torval raised his head to face his teacher. “I have not been this tired or sore in years,” he said and grimaced as he stood, wiping his hands on the seat of his pants. “I hurt in places…” he cast a quick look toward his cousin to see if she was listening. “Well, I hurt all over; let’s leave it at that.” He allowed his glance to linger on where his cousin sat and allowed a brief smile. Ästa was seated against the bole of a tree, her head between her knees trying to catch her breath. So, he had tested her at last. Well, it was a start.
