For the next hour or so, he was able to relax, even though the airplane was traveling at an excessive rate of speed. When he turned to glance over the back of the headrest, he saw that the girls were napping. He had thought Mag-he was dozing, too, fill she asked softly, "Do you still feel this trip has some importance?"
Clearly she was worried that their time together was nearing an end. He could give her no assurances to the contrary. Reaching over to lace his fingers with hers, he tugged her closer, then put an arm around her shoulders and rested her face in the crook of his neck. He would try to lighten her spirits, he decided. "Steve told me about a remarkable feat that some couples attempt while in an air machine."
She laughed—a choked, wobbly sound. "Stop trying to make me laugh." Her words were light, but her eyes remained melancholy.
"'Tis called the Mile-high Association," he went on. "I believe it has something to do with sex in the clouds. That sounds interesting, do you not think?" Jorund was just jesting, of course. He might have been foolhardy enough to try flying in a metal box, but never would he dare fornicate on a cloud.
"Oh, no, you don't, buster." She punched him lightly on the upper arm. "Last night you might have been able to talk me into... into—"
"A wall-bang-her?" he offered with a grin.
"Yes. You might have been able to seduce me into vertical sex..."
Well, that's an interesting name for it.
"... but no way are you sweet-talking me into sex in an airplane bathroom. Uh-uh."
Oh, so that is what the Mile-high Association is. They both sat in silence then, but Jorund had some things that needed to be said, and Mag-he apparently did, too.
She spoke first. "You very cleverly evaded my question, Joe. Why are you so serious, aside from being scared to death of flying? What's bothering you?"
"If I should depart suddenly..." he blurted out.
Her body stiffened with alarm. "Oh, no! Do you really think you might—"
"Shhh." He squeezed her shoulder and held her face with his other hand. "I don't know that I would be sent back without warning, but I must needs be ready."
"Tell me the truth. You sense that something is about to happen, don't you?"
He hesitated to tell her, but she had to be prepared. Finally he nodded.
She gasped.
Fie tried to explain. "I cannot tell you how many times over how many years I have prepared myself to go into battle. Each time, at the last moment, there is a rush of blood in the body, a humming in the ears, an excitement of sorts."
"It's called adrenaline."
Why was he not surprised that she would have a name for it? They had a name for every other bloody thing in this strange land... including mouth sex, the bad temper women were in before their monthly flux, the perfectly natural inclination of males of middle years to swive younger women, and—
"Is that how you feel now? All hyped up?" she asked, tears misting her beautiful blue eyes. "As if you are about to fight?"
"Hmmm. Not exactly. More like something immense is about to happen."
They were both silent then. What could be more immense than his being hurtled back through time? What could be more immense than their permanent separation?
"You're strong, Mag-he," he remarked in a strangled voice. "You can handle anything."
He was not so sure about himself, though.
"No matter what happens, Joe, I can't be sorry that I met you, or that we made love."
He nodded, unable to express just how much his short relationship with her meant to him. In the end, he told her, "I will never forget you."
They were both too overcome to speak more, and Jorund turned away to stare out the window. The airplane was now traveling over an expanse of water. He narrowed his eyes and pressed his nose to the glass. Aha! He didn't even bother to tell Mag-he when he saw a killer whale skyhopping merrily down below. She would only tell him that it was impossible to see that far. But he knew. It was Thora; he was certain of that.
And her words to him, accompanied by the usual clicks and groans, came up the great distance from the water to the plane, loud and clear, for his ears only. Soon, Viking. Soon you will know.
They arrived at Rosestead the next morning, and the Viking village was beautiful as a postcard... a perfect Hallmark holiday image.
"Wow!" Suzy and Beth exclaimed. They were practically jumping up and down with glee in the backseat of the rental car—not just at their initial view of an authentic Norse settlement, but at seeing real snow for the first time. Luckily this wasn't gray, slushy snow, but crisp, new-fallen flakes, like the snow globes found in gift stores.
"It was well worth the trip just to see this charming scene," she told Joe as they exited the vehicle. She was trying to make up for her earlier resistance to the trip, but her sentiments were honest.
He nodded distractedly. He was no longer hyped up, but also somber with some odd anticipation... something she could neither fathom nor alleviate.
"Are you all right?" she asked, putting a hand on his arm. His face was pale, his lips pinched.
Giving her a sideways glance, he grimaced. "Bloody damn a-drain-a-line! My heart's pumping faster than a youthling's legs in his first wolf race."
At first Maggie had been alarmed by Joe's belief that something monumental was about to happen, but now it was more as if they were all on a slow-moving roller coaster. It was sure to be a rocky ride, but there was no getting off. What would be, would be.
She did say a silent prayer, though: Please, God, if it be your will, let everything work out for me and Joe and my daughters. We love him so much.
They'd gotten into the Bangor airport the night before, but Maggie had insisted that they get a motel room before heading for the village. If Joe and the girls had had their way, they would have come upon this scene in the dark, and that would have been a shame, she realized now.
With snow flurries coming down steadily, their first view of Rosestead was seen through a filter of the white flakes. Suzy and Beth were so excited as they emerged from the rental car, they were oblivious to the freezing cold.
Rosestead was located at a secluded site in northern Maine, accessed by a half-mile roadway leading off the interstate. A giant archway over the entrance read: ROSESTEAD: A VIKING VILLAGE. A smaller sign on the side listed its schedule. A banner over the sign proclaimed, CLOSED TILL APRIL. And there was a wooden gate across the entrance barring car traffic. It couldn't be any clearer than that.
Closed to the public.
They emerged from the car, and Joe walked right around the gate. She and the girls had no choice but to follow.
A small, rolling mountainscape provided the backdrop to Rosestead on the left side. Several dozen thatch-roofed Viking longhouses—some large, some small; some clearly private residences, some workshops and businesses—were scattered about a private lake on the opposite side from the wooded hillside. She assumed that the lake led out to the ocean, because there were several beached longships, which would be of no use on a mere lake. In the middle of these longhouses, set back and elevated somewhat, was a larger dwelling that could only be described as a wooden, fortlike castle.
"That structure doesn't seem to fit in with the Viking ones," Maggie remarked to Joe, having to practically skip to keep up with his long strides.
"You are right. It is more in the Saxon and Frankish manner of building, but, if my eyes tell me true, 'tis identical to my father's home in Vestfold," he observed. "Some of the kings and jarls of Norway in the late tenth century were building castles of wood, just so. Longhouses were becoming too small for their extended families and housecarls and hirds of soldiers."
She nodded. If she hadn't already accepted that Joe had somehow come to her from another time, his ease in discussing the everyday life of the Dark Ages would have impressed her now.
"Look, Mom, look!" Suzy was gazing at the lake, where a group of young people had begun ice-skating.
"Can we go, too? Please. Please
. Please," Beth added.
"Maybe later," Maggie said, though why she would make even that tentative promise when they were already trespassing was beyond her.
A young, thirtyish man in a crew cut, jeans, and a sweatshirt that read, U.S. Army came out of one of the first buildings and yelled at them, "Hey, you guys. You can't come in here. The place is closed for..." He was striding quickly toward them when his steps faltered and his words trailed off. "Holy cow!" he muttered. At first Maggie thought he was awestruck because he thought Joe was a Navy SEAL, as evidenced by his jacket; many people were dazzled by the prestigious military unit. And he was apparently an ex-army man. But then she noticed that he was staring fixedly at Joe's face. He looked as if he'd seen a ghost.
"Who are you?" Joe demanded of the young man. His tone was so imperious, he sounded like some visiting warlord.
"Mike Johnson. The curator," he replied, not even questioning Joe's authority to grill him. "Who are you?"
"Jorund Ericsson."
Mike Johnson nodded. Then, with a disbelieving shake of his head, he repeated, "Holy freakin' cow!"
A young woman with blond hair and a little boy of five or so came out of the longhouse where Mike Johnson had originally emerged. Maggie assumed it was his wife and child. The woman watched Joe, wide-eyed, then exchanged a look with her husband.
"Where is your chieftain?" Joe asked. "The jarl of Rosestead?"
Mike inclined his head toward the wood castle, and Joe immediately stomped off in that direction. Maggie took Suzy's and Beth's hands and followed after him.
As they walked along, people were coming out of the longhouses, some in Viking attire, which they all probably wore during the regular tourist season, but most of them in jeans or sweatpants. There seemed to be a large number of young people. Hadn't Beth told them, when surfing the Web site, that there was a residential program for homeless inner-city kids here?
Interestingly, although this was a Viking village, there were Christmas decorations on many of the longhouses, a light-up Santa and a reindeer panorama in the front yard of another, and lots of illuminated pine trees. So it was a modern-day Viking village, she supposed.
No one tried to halt their progress, though they were clearly outsiders, trespassing. Little by little, the people following in Joe's wake grew into a murmuring crowd.
"Mommy, I'm scared," Beth said.
"Everyone's acting weird," Suzy added. "Even Joe."
"Don't worry, kiddos. It's just that Joe looks like a Viking, and this is a Viking village. They've probably never seen a real Viking before." That sounded like a good explanation. Too bad Suzy and Beth weren't buying it any more than she was.
Maggie wished Joe would take her hand. Instead he seemed to be oblivious to her presence. Soon his longer stride caused them to be left behind... at first only a few paces, then greater and greater distance. To Maggie's dismay, she realized that he didn't even care whether she was there anymore, so intent was he on this... this thing that was drawing him.
Was this the beginning of the end?
Rosestead felt like home to Jorund.
There were differences, of course. Cold as it was here, winter in his country was frigid. A man's mustache and nose hairs developed icicles with just a brief visit to the garderobe. Some men claimed it was so cold their piss froze the second it left their bodies. In addition, the light coating of snow on the ground would have been eaves high at his homestead by now, and would stay that way or pile higher till the spring thaw. The landscape itself was different, too. The northern fields were mostly rocky and untillable, unless they were farmed by skilled farmers like his brother, Magnus. But here, he could see, there would be thriving wheat fields and vegetable patches by midsummer.
Despite the differences, Jorund reveled in his first glimpse of the familiar wattle-and-daub longhouses with their thatch and sod roofs, the wooden keep so like his father's, and the dragon ships. His throat constricted as he walked swiftly into the village. He had not realized how homesick he was till now.
He passed the dragonships, which were propped on wooden cradles. Then he did a double take.
Holy Thor! There was a colorful figurehead on one of the prows that appeared identical to the one he'd given Rolf as a coarse jest years ago—a figure of a buxom blond woman with cherry-red nipples. They'd dubbed the wooden wench Ingrid, as he recalled.
How odd! Had a copy of this figurehead been made in his country by the craftsman who'd chiseled the first? Or had this figurehead gone down with Rolf's ship a thousand years ago, and ended up on some beach as flotsam?
Well, that was of little import now. He needed to speak with the leader of this village. There were some significant questions he wanted to ask, like, How did his family crest get on Rosestead's Webbing site? Why did this keep so resemble his father's? What was the Ingrid figurehead doing here?
A man wearing standard Viking attire of a belted leather tunic over black braies and cross gartered half boots, stepped out of the giant double doors of the keep. He walked across the small wooden bridge that traversed a narrow dry moat.
Beside him on one side was a small boy of about two winters, clinging to his hand. On the other was a woman with long, auburn hair and green eyes. In her arms was a warmly bundled babe of perhaps a few months.
As the man came closer, Jorund got his first good view of him, then said with a gasp, "Guö minn gödur!" Stopping in his tracks, he repeated in English, "My God!"
The man did likewise, muttering, "Blöd hel!" He released the child's grasp to put both hands to his face, rubbing his eyes in disbelief. Except for the darker blond color of his hair, the resemblance between him and Jorund was remarkable.
That was why all the inhabitants of this village had been gawking at him so, he realized now.
It was his brother, Rolf.
"Jorund!" Roll shouted joyously, now that his initial shock had passed.
"Rolf!" Jorund exclaimed, and rushed forward to grasp his younger brother, who was the same massive height as he, and lift him high in the hair, swinging him around as his father used to do with his mother when he came home after a long voyage a-Viking.
Once Jorund released his brother, they embraced tightly, choked with emotion. Then they stood, simply staring at each other with stupid delight. They both had tears in their eyes, which they wiped away surreptitiously.
"How did you get here?" Rolf asked.
"On a flying machine. An airplane," he informed him with disgust.
"From Vestfold? And the tenth century?" Rolf's mouth dropped open with surprise.
"Nay, you lackbrain, not from Vestfold. From Tax-us."
Rolf shook his head briskly from side to side, like a wet dog who had fallen into a fjord. "How the bloody hell did you get to Texas?"
"Ha! Funny you should ask! On the back of a killer whale. Do you believe it?"
"A... a killer whale?"
He nodded. "Her name is Thora."
"A whale with a name?"
"And Joe was buck-naked, too," Sue-zee offered with a little giggle, coming up behind them.
"Oh, I do not believe this," Rolf said, reaching down to lift both Suzy and Beth into his arms and give each of them a hug and a kiss. When he put them down, the girls scurried back to their mother, a little bit frightened by this exuberant stranger. "You brought Greta and Girta here? On the back of a whale? Was that not foolhardy of you?"
At first Jorund did not understand. Then he realized that Rolf thought these twins were his twins. "No, brother, these girls do not belong to me," he explained.
The expression of hurt on Suzy's and Beth's faces cut him to the quick. So he quickly added, "But they are the daughters of my heart."
The girls beamed.
"I will tell you of Inga and Greta and Girta later. Suffice it to say, they died in the famine."
"Oh, Jorund!" Rolf commiserated sadly and gave him another bear hug.
Jorund noticed Mag-he standing there silently, as well as the woman with the babe
and child next to Rolf. He had been rude in ignoring them all, especially Mag-he, who had brought him, reluctantly, to this joyous homecoming. Tucking an arm around her shoulder, he drew her closer, and introduced everyone all around.
"Rolf, this is my... uh, friend, Dock-whore Mag-he Muck bride." He had been about to say "my leman," but suspected that Mag-he would not appreciate that title. Then, "Mag-he, this is my little brother, Rolf."
"Little?" Rolf scoffed.
"Younger, then."
"The brother you were searching for?" Mag-he asked.
"Yea, the very one. Isn't it wonderful?"
"More than wonderful," Mag-he said softly, and he knew they had much to discuss, later, about the implications of this reunion.
Then Roll introduced his wife, Profess-whore Merry-death Ericsson, his son Foster, and his new daughter, Rose. A wife? What an amazing happenstance!
Methought Rolf would never wed again. Methought he liked his freedom too much. "A profess-whore?" Jorund asked with a grin.
"A dock-whore?" Rolf asked with a grin.
The two ladies shook their heads at each other, as if their men were hopeless youths.
"Seems to me there are way too many whores in this country," Jorund quipped, and Mag-he elbowed him in the ribs.
Despite his attempt at mirth, Jorund was puzzled. How could Rolf have left Norway one year ago, in 997, and already have two children? It was all so confusing. Perhaps the time portals where they had entered were just different... years could be gained or lost in the passing. Perhaps he could have even left after Roll, but arrived before him.
It was enough to muddle the brain, if his weren't already muddled.
The women and children were all shivering in the cold. Rolf motioned for everyone behind them to go on home and invited the rest of them to come inside.
With his arm looped over Jorund's shoulder, Rolf said, "I have been praying for a sign from the past."
Jorund arched an eyebrow at him. "You? Praying?" Then, "Hell and Valhalla! I am your sign?"
"Yea." His brother nodded. "Finally, someone I can best in swordplay."