Scars (Time of Myths: Shapeshifter Sagas Book 2) Page 7

  Ásta noticed caskets of mead that she’d sold to Ingvar at the Althing stacked beside the longhouse door. Beside them was a wooden chest with Torin’s name carved into it. Bergljot tugged on her arm and said, “The day will not stop for you, and you must bathe before your wedding tomorrow. Your soon-to-be husband needs to have time at the springs too.”

  She allowed herself to be guided to the gate. From there she led them over the nearest hill, going slowly so Bergljot wouldn’t struggle under the extra weight of her growing baby. At the crest of the bluff, she looked out onto a field of purple blooms. Some had passed their prime and left only bushy green stalks. Guthrún bent over to collect some of the bright flowers.

  Ásta did not feel the need to scan the landscape for the shadowy form of the wolf. She always felt its eyes on her near the cliffs, the place it had attacked her as a young woman, but she’d never found trace of it here. There was comfort in having the other women with her. It reminded her of a time long ago when she’d visit the bath with her mother.

  They passed a stream that led down to the ocean. A narrow channel intersected it, and Ásta followed the groove, which carried a trickle of water across the hillside. It didn’t take long until they reached a basin the diameter of an outstretched man. Smooth gray stones lined the earth. Another channel led into the bath from another direction, and steam rose gently from the small pool. Uphill from its place on the knoll, tall birch trees circled a field of wildflowers. To the west, a breathtaking view of the ocean shined in the sunlight.

  The women reached down to touch the water. Guthrún exclaimed, “It is warm! If we were not here to bathe you, Ásta, I would shed my clothes and join you.”

  “Who brought the soap?” Frida asked.

  Bergljot lifted up a small cloth sack. “I did. And I have two combs for her hair. Best get started, Ásta. The baby is growing hungry, and I will need to have my night meal soon now that I have my appetite back.”

  “I could not seem to stop eating when I was pregnant with Áki.” The corners of Frida’s mouth upturned, revealing her teeth. She turned to Ásta and said, “It will not be long before you will carry a child for Torin.”

  Heat flushed Ásta’s cheeks, and she stared at the steaming bath. Torin’s kin laughed in response. Bergljot rested her hands on Ásta’s shoulders. “Do not worry, it is every wife’s duty. You might grow to like it. Now, take off your clothes and step into the water.”

  She did as she was asked and unfastened the brooches to her woolen apron skirt. Ásta stepped out of it, and then hands lifted her linen dress over her head. The salty air touched her exposed skin, bringing goose pimples with it. There was no need for her to bend to take off her leather shoes, for Guthrún beat her to it. Her long blond hair reached her lower back and tumbled over her shoulders.

  “I remember when my body was not pulled on by children,” Frida said wistfully. She shooed Ásta toward the bath. “Time to get in.”

  Ásta stepped into the warm pool and leaned forward to dip her head in. When she rose above the surface and cleared her eyes of water, a bar of soap was thrust into her hands. She accepted it and began to work up a lather.

  Guthrún began to pluck off the purple petals from the flowers she’d collected and cast them into the steaming water. She cleared her throat when she was done and sat down nearby. “Since I am the eldest and your mother is not here, I will tell you the things I was told the day before my wedding. First, there is no reason to be afraid of your man. It is his job to perform his duties as a husband. He must provide for you, and he must give you children. It is simple.”

  Frida giggled and whispered, “It is not that simple. It is more like a game. Men are obvious—they will place their head in your lap or a hand on your leg to let you know they want to lie with you. If you want some new beads, then I find keeping my husband happy gets me what I want.”

  Having forgotten about cleaning herself, Ásta sat with the soap in her hands, staring at the women. They all seemed amused with the conversation, although Ásta found herself worrying. Bergljot lowered herself to the ground with a little struggle, then said, “They know what to do. I think they are born that way—always eager to lie with you. Let him finish, and he will fall asleep. If you are not in the mood, I find a bad case of stomach cramps frightens mine away.”

  “Já, but do not let them become chronic, for you do not want him to divorce you. A woman afraid of a man’s parts will not stay married long,” Guthrún warned, her face losing its amused grin.

  “That goes both ways,” Frida said in a defensive tone. “If he does not do his duty and lie with you, then you should find a man who will, for it is too much fun to miss out on. I like surprising Ingvar behind the bathhouse after he gets clean.”

  Guthrún turned to her and laughed. “Is that where you go? I wondered why he took so long to bathe.”

  Frida’s smile was cut short when she reminded her mother-in-law, “Tell her what to expect the first time.”

  The older woman nodded and folded her hands in her lap. “Do not worry if you have some pain tomorrow night. It is common the first time.”

  Ásta swallowed and continued to wash herself. She knew the sight of a man’s body, but did not know what to expect. After hearing a mix of insights, she was confused. No matter how hesitant she might feel about her wedding night, she was not afraid. She could not allow her family farm to be sold, and she would do whatever was required to keep it.

  “Come here. We need to brush your hair. No tangles for the special day.” Bergljot waved her over. “Just think, this will be the last time you will wear it down. After tomorrow you will be a married woman.”

  Ásta didn’t care about her hairstyle. She only had thoughts of how her life was about to change. By bringing in a husband, she hoped her troubles would soon be over. She glanced at Guthrún, who was watching Bergljot combing her hair, and asked, “Tell me more about Torin going ‘astray.’”

  Frida’s eyes widened as she looked at her mother-in-law, who pinched her lips together and adjusted her sitting position on the ground. Guthrún said, “I am sure it will not be a concern for you. You look to be a woman with strength enough for the both of you. You can handle him, I am sure. Do not think on it any more—I should not have said anything.”

  She did not want to test Guthrún’s patience by pushing the subject, but it was not so easy to cast it from her thoughts.

  On the way back to the farm, Frida leaned in to her and whispered under her breath, “I would keep uncured shark away if he has a downcast look about him.”

  Ásta was shocked at the comment. She had never heard of anyone going out of their way to eat shark meat before its poisons were leached out. It often made one sick, filled with dizziness and a cloudy mind. Much like too much mead and ale. Why would he wish to do such a thing, she wondered.

  Had she made a bad choice accepting his marriage offer? She didn’t need further problems. A man who could not fill his role as a protector and provider was useless. Especially to her.

  Chapter 5

  Once Ásta let herself out from the gated farm, Torin watched her walk over the hillside, her blond hair bright in the sunlight. Ingvar caught him looking and gave him a suggestive grin, which he tried to avoid, busying himself with fastening the corner of the tent to the ground.

  While he worked, he looked at anything he could rest his eyes on. He’d already been into the animal stalls, which could use a good cleaning before he would be satisfied with keeping his bird there. Familiar bits of charcoal scattered the ground at the doorway of a small outbuilding. It was likely a steam room or the where the tools and forge were kept. Either way, its turf walls were eroding, and it wouldn’t take many more winters before he should think about rebuilding. And he hadn’t even seen the boundary walls that needed repairing yet.

  His uncle had been right about one thing. He didn’t have memories of Erika in this unfamiliar place, but he was beginning to question if that was what he really wanted. Her six-ye
ar-old face didn’t dance around the animal shed or play hide-and-seek in the corners of the farm. He couldn’t hear her voice here, and that bothered him.

  They finished setting up their tent and unloading the cart. He took his belongings into the longhouse so that he could find himself a drink. Hróaldr followed him inside, where everyone was drinking ale and sharing stories. Torin observed his uncle sitting beside Gothi Hákon, booming with laughter. He set down his wooden chest near the back of the room beside the bedroom closet and accepted a cup of ale from a woman with a kerchief on her head.

  He took two long sips before he was interrupted by Hróaldr’s cracking voice. “Can I see the sword again, cousin?”

  Torin glanced at the eager boy, whose eyes were wide with interest. “Já, but this is the last time.”

  He emptied his cup, set it down to unlock the chest and lifted out his father’s steel. The boy reached out to touch it. “Where did it come from?”

  “It came with me as a boy when your father sent for Erika and me,” Torin answered. “It was the only sword my father left behind. His weapon is buried at sea with him, as it should be.”

  “Will you be happy now?” Hróaldr asked. “I heard father say that he never thought he would see you get married. He said he was beginning to think you would only know sadness until you rejoined your kin in Valhalla.”

  Torin was struck dumb. It wasn’t anything Torin hadn’t already heard from his uncle’s lips, but it felt different hearing it from his young cousin. The boy’s earnest question was clearly asked out of concern. Since he’d arrived at Ásta’s farm, he’d felt like he was making a mistake. He didn’t want the responsibility of keeping Ásta safe. He wanted to hurry back to the place he knew where he could continue avoiding the people who cared for him, without any new oaths to keep.

  But he didn’t like how his young cousin was looking at him. Like he was someone to feel sorry for. So Torin took the sword away from the boy and ruffled his hair before putting it back in the chest. “I will be happy now. Do not worry about me. Have you checked on Vindr? I put her in the animal shed.”

  Hróaldr shook his head and peered toward the doorway out of the longhouse, but remained beside Torin. It was clear there was something on his mind. “Ingvar treats me like a child, and Áki follows me everywhere. He only likes to play hide-and-seek. I know all the hiding places. I’m closer to a man than he is and do not wish to play children’s games all day long. Without you, who will teach me about falconry?”

  Torin sighed and clapped his hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “Before you know it you will be old enough for your father to start arranging your own wedding, and then you will have other things on your mind. Without me around, Fólki will need your help on the farm, and we will see each other at the Althing next year.”

  Hróaldr’s eyes widened again. He said with a grin, “The Althing?”

  “I heard your father say he would take you next year so you may learn about the assembly. Now go on and check on my bird for me.”

  The boy wove his way across the longhouse to the entrance room and the front door. As Torin watched him go, he couldn’t help but think he’d miss his young cousin too. Although the boy was eight years his junior, his excitement for raptors nearly mirrored Torin’s. Then again, having the freedom to take to the skies as his fylgja whenever he chose was even more appealing.

  The hearth fire sparked, spitting embers at a woman passing by. She yelped and swatted at the hem of her apron skirt, quick to react. Her noises broke him from his musings, reminding him of the list of things that needed tending on the farm. He would have liked to go out to see the farm’s property from a bird’s-eye view. The power of taking the form of his fylgja was a closely held secret, something he would never reveal by choice to anyone. He didn’t want people to think he’d been enchanted. Considering the amount of work that lay ahead of him, he wondered if he would get the chance to slip away. It would likely have to wait until all of the guests left.

  “Bah, ha, ha!” Fólki burst into laughter at something Hákon said. “I never thought I would have the chance to tell him my stories of how to make a good husband, but here we are! Quiet, my friend, we must not frighten him—he may not show up tomorrow!”

  Torin clenched his fists and turned around. “Nothing you tell me could make me frightened of a woman.”

  “That is what he thinks!” Hákon said to Fólki, and they roared again.

  He shot his uncle reproachful looks, and the conversation changed to other topics, like the “old days” when they were young men and filled their longboats with loot on their raids to the east. Torin found satisfaction they were no longer teasing him, but knew he still had more in store before tomorrow. He went in search of a cup of ale. If he had to listen to the conversations around him, he decided it was best to have another drink.

  “I bet Torin can out-wrestle any other man here,” Fólki boasted after a while. “Who wishes to try his hand against him?”

  “Not now, Uncle. We have only just arrived.” Torin shook his head. He had no interest in the activities that used to entertain him as a child. “There will be time for plenty of fun.”

  Bárthur’s voice rose above the din. “My cousin is faster than any other. But it is Torin’s wedding. He may not want to risk embarrassment in front of his new bride.”

  Beside him, Gunnar took another sip from his cup, unable to cover his proud smirk. The silk thread that lined his tunic glinted in the firelight, and without good reason, Torin couldn’t help but dislike him.

  Fólki’s eyes narrowed. “He cannot be any better than—”

  The women entered into the dark hall wearing smug grins, and the idea of wrestling was forgotten by most. Guthrún and Frida caught Torin’s eye when they entered and offered him a smile. Ásta and her cousin’s wife didn’t, however. He noticed his maiden’s freshly combed hair and bright complexion after her bath. The scars on her cheek were barely noticeable in the murky light of the longhouse.

  “It is your turn, my nephew!” Fólki announced and stood from his seat, casting a glare toward Bárthur, clearly not having forgotten his words. “Ingvar, are you here?”

  “I am,” his son answered from the opposite side of the hall.

  “Have you some advice for your cousin?”

  “I do,” Ingvar shouted. “I am ready to give it! Let us go.”

  Dagný rose to his feet and tucked his thumbs under his belt. “I know the way to the bath. It is a little trek, but well worth it. Who has the soap?”

  “Here, husband,” Bergljot said and handed him her cloth sack. “You will find the razor, too. It seems the groom needs a few whiskers cut.”

  Torin winced, thinking about shaving his face and trimming his beard. It had been a long while since he’d been forced to clean up his appearance.

  Ingvar asked near the door, “I hope you have not lost your comb again, Torin?”

  Torin touched the pouch hanging from his belt and felt for his walrus ivory case. “It is just here.”

  Fólki waved him to the door. “It is time for you to take your last bath as a bachelor. If my brother were here to see this—ah, he must be watching from the halls of Valhalla. Enough of that. Let us go to this fine place.”

  Torin slurped down his last dregs of ale and left the darkness of the longhouse, feeling many piercing stares bore into his back. He knew his uncle and cousin liked the sound of their own voices and that the traditional bath would likely last as long as their stories.

  Dagný led them away from the farm and across the sun-drenched fields. He said over his shoulder, “It was Ásta’s kin who discovered the hot spring on their property. But it was Calder who dug the channel across the hills to create their bath. Water from the cold creek cools it, so it doesn’t burn at the touch.”

  “What luck!” Fólki shouted, gripping the hilt of his sword while he walked. “I daresay it would not boil me, but I can understand it for the ladies’ sakes. They are not as thick-skinned as us.”
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  Torin barely listened to the conversation as he moved. He was busy studying the land. This would likely be his home until the last day he drew breath in this world, and he wanted to know it better. The black porous stone located throughout the island stuck up in clusters in these unfarmed fields near the sea. Wildflowers were blooming late in the season due to slow-melting snows from the long winter. Birds called out from the trees in the distance, and he couldn’t keep the corners of his lips from curling up.

  “He is already smiling, father,” Ingvar said, pointing. “He must already know of the pleasures awaiting him.”

  Fólki stared at him and frowned. “I say he is thinking of his birds. I warn you. If you do not do your duty as a husband, you will not stay married long. I will not wish to take you back into my house if you run from your wife’s bed.”

  “I have never run from anything,” Torin answered, trying not to get annoyed by his uncle’s comments.

  “Well, look at this.” Ingvar pointed at the narrow stream that cut across the hills. “The man does not lie. Do I see steam rising from over that highland there?”

  Torin jogged ahead of the others to get a better look. At the crest of the slope, he looked down at a pool lined with rocks. It could hold two people comfortably and would be a squeeze for three or four. Two separate channels led into it from different directions. It did, indeed, have a swirl of steam hovering above it in welcome.

  He hurried down the hill to the bath and began pulling off his tunic. He’d only ever experienced the tight constraints of their bath back home and the labor involved with placing hot stones in the water to heat it. This was something not every man had the fortune to experience.

  Laughter boomed from the top of the hillock. Fólki called out as he walked closer, “What a place! If it were my wedding day, then I could climb in instead.”

  Torin undressed and stepped into the basin of hot water. It was the best thing he’d ever experienced. It was warmer than any stone-heated bath he’d ever been in. He took a deep breath and let himself sink all the way under. His face and scalp stung, but he welcomed it. When he resurfaced, he rested the back of his head on one of the rocks and stared out at the distant blue of the ocean.