The Last Viking

In one day or two, her monthly flux would arrive, she'd explained.

  So, all was set in motion.

  Except for Merry-Death.

  Had he been selfish to take her for his wife, knowing he would have to leave? Never had he expected their parting to be easy, but how could he have anticipated the magnitude of the love that had grown between them in such a short time?

  Without words, he'd perceived Merry-Death's internal agony these past weeks as the minutes and days flew by. And because she loved him, she'd kept her torment to herself... as he had. Even her outward appearance had altered as she'd lost flesh, unable to eat. He feared she would fall apart emotionally when he left. She was strong, but even the strongest sometimes couldn't withstand the forces of pain. For now, he had his father's mission to keep him going forward, day to day. But when that was complete, he wasn't certain he'd want to exist without her at his side.

  "Please, God," he prayed to her Christian deity, "help my wife through her grief, now and after I am gone." He thought a moment, and then added, "And please help me endure her loss."

  "Did you say something?" Merry-Death asked as she awakened sleepily and saw him leaning over her. She reached up to pull him close. In that brief moment, between sleep and consciousness, she forgot the horror that awaited her.

  Strands of Rolf's long hair formed a golden brown canopy about her shoulders and face as he stared dolefully down at her, reminding her—as if she needed a reminder—that there was so little time left. The candles burning on a table near the bedstead cast flickering shadows, making Rolf appear ethereal... a dream. Perhaps that was all he'd ever been, a dream she'd conjured up to fill her lonely life.

  He kissed her tenderly as he moved on top of her and then, without any preliminaries, inside. His shoulder muscles bunched as he braced himself on extended arms.

  No, he wasn't a dream.

  She moaned softly as he pulsed, then expanded inside her, and, foolishly, she wanted to clench her inner muscles and lock him in place, to keep him with her forever. The molten heat of him seared her delicate folds, and she melted around him. It was love, not chemical energy, though, that flowed back and forth like an electrical current between them where they were joined.

  She put her hands on either side of his face and whispered, "I love you, Geirolf Ericsson. Never forget me."

  Lowering his head, he murmured against her lips, "Ah, Merry-Death ... heart of my heart—" He paused as his grainy voice shook with emotion. "I will love you forever. I will never forget you."

  Their lovemaking took on a dreamy intimacy then as each tried to show the other with touch and soft, disjointed endearments how very much they loved each other. For an hour and more, they caressed and kissed and tried to soothe their unspoken pain. In prolonging their mutual satisfaction, they made memories that would prevail through the centuries.

  Tears filled both their eyes in the end as husband and wife made love for the last time with their bodies. They would love each other eternally with their souls.

  They lay unsleeping, weeping silent tears, as dawn broke with a brilliant splash of color into their long-house. Rolf instructed her to destroy the dwelling where they'd been so happy when he was gone.

  Geirolf stood, legs widespread for balance, steering Fierce Dragon by means of a side rudder fastened to the starboard quarter. It was a primitive though effective instrument that could be manned by a single member of the crew in any weather with just a small line to aid him.

  Sixteen of the students, boys and girls alike, were stationed at the oarlocks. They would continue to row rhythmically to the count called out by Mike, the crew leader, till they reached the open seas where the sails would be unfurled. Females never manned Viking ships in his day, but Merry-Death and Mike had argued that the college would never accept less than equal opportunity on this project.

  Equal opportunity amongst the sexes! Bloody hell, 'tis a concept to boggle the mind.

  They were moving slowly away from the wharf, still crowded with dozens of spectators and news scribes who had surprisingly shown up to see them off, even though this was only intended to be a trial run on the smaller longship.

  Many leave-takings had Geirolf experienced in his thirty-five years—from father, mother, brothers and sister, friends and lovers—but nothing had prepared him for the devastation of this leave-taking today. Even now, he strained for one last glimpse of Merry-Death standing at the forefront of the throng. Her proudly erect figure grew smaller and smaller as the distance widened between them. But then, to his horror, he saw her tightly coiled composure shatter as she collapsed to her knees on the ground. Thea and Sonja were immediately at her side, comforting her. He yearned to go back and soothe her himself, but his die was cast in another direction.

  Too soon, the longboat passed a bend in the shoreline, and he could observe his beloved no more. A crushing weight slammed against Geirolf's chest, and he, too, sank to his knees.

  "Rolf, are you all right?" Mike asked, rushing to his side.

  Embarrassed, Geirolf stood quickly and grabbed for the loose rudder, surreptitiously wiping his damp eyes. "I slipped on a wet spot," he lied. " 'Twould seem I must regain my sea legs."

  Mike accepted his explanation with a dubious nod and told one of the students to pick up the row calls. "Something weird is going on here," Mike said, bracing his hands on his hips and throwing his shoulders back with defiance. Geirolf was dressed in the Viking attire he'd worn on his arrival, but Mike and the students wore shorts and T-shirts for this rehearsal. "How 'bout explaining what the hell this caper today is really about?"

  "We've been over this before," Geirolf said wearily.

  Mike put up a halting hand. "'No, don't feed me any more bullshit about your staying alone on the ship overnight to test its watertightness. This boat is sealed tighter than a drum, and you know it. More important, you and Dr. Foster are acting as if you never expect to see each other again. What gives? Really."

  Geirolf stiffened. "Leave off, my friend. You tread recklessly into the realm of my personal life, and I do not appreciate the intrusion."

  Mike stiffened, as well. "I care about Dr. Foster, and I care about you, you son of a bitch, though you've been behaving like a horse's ass the past few days—"

  Geirolf raised a brow at the young pup's audacity.

  "Damn it, man," Mike raked his fingers through his short hair with exasperation, "on the shore back there, you two looked like Bogart and Bergman in the last scene from Casablanca."

  He understood Mike's reference. He and Merry-Death had watched a video of the famous moving picture last week. Merry-Death had insisted on renting a so-called "chick flick" after he'd compelled her to watch two hours of America's Cup races.

  "I am far handsomer than that Hump-free character," he said with a laugh.

  "If you consider me a friend, then don't cut me out, buddy," Mike insisted somberly, refusing to accept his attempt to change the topic of conversation.

  Geirolf shook his head grimly. "Desist this line of questioning. There are things best left unexplained. I will say this, though, my friend, if e'er ... if e'er any thing should happen to me, I trust that you will look after Merry-Death."

  "You know," Mike said, cocking his head to the side as he studied him, "there are times when I almost think you're a real Viking."

  "Have I e'er said otherwise?"

  "No, but—"

  "Enough!" Geirolf asserted; then he grinned at this newfound comrade whom he would miss sorely. "So, tell me true. Will you pursue this Sharon Stone creature till you gain the bedding? I heard that she phoned you repeatedly this past week."

  Mike glared at him, not wanting to drop the subject.

  But then his shoulders relaxed with resignation. "Nah."

  "Sonja?"

  Mike shrugged. "I suppose."

  "But they are so different. Not that I'd argue in the stone wench's favor. I suspect Sonja is by far the better choice."

  "Hey, sometimes a guy looks for a babe to
put a little extra crispy in his corn flakes, if you get my drift," Mike said, his lips twitching with amusement. "And sometimes he finds there's just as much snap, crackle, and pop in his own backyard."

  Geirolf burst out laughing at that analogy. 'Twas one his brothers would enjoy when he relayed it to them... with a few medieval modifications, such as corn cakes in place of corn flakes. Yea, male thinking was the same throughout the ages, he concluded, though Merry-Death would have called it male chauvinist thinking.

  Corn flakes made him think of his favorite food, Oreos, and that brought his thoughts back to his wife, who had chided him often on his "fixation" with the modern delicacy. As Mike returned to his duties and he resumed his steering—they needed only to go out about a half-mile—his mind wandered over the many important events that must fall into place in order to make the time-travel reversal succeed.

  And, in the course of those meandering thoughts, he wondered idly if there might be some sign he could give Merry-Death from the past to let her know he'd arrived safely in his own time. With macabre humor, he came upon a most creative idea ... leastways, he considered it creative.

  He would have one of his father's skalds record a saga about a wandering Norse knight called The Last Viking who had a passion for a mythical food of the gods called orioles. Of course, most listeners would think the name referred to the colorful bird of the crow family, but perhaps Merry-Death—if she were researching the old sagas as she was wont to do and if she came upon this particular one—would recognize the play on words as a coded message to her.

  Hah! He was grasping at threads when what he needed was a rope to pull him from the abyss of desperation. He was destroying the woman he'd come to love with this time-travel adventure. His own life, once the mission was complete, would be worth naught.

  What logic was there in this madness? Why had he been sent through time if he was to be catapulted back? Why had he been given true love for the first time in his ill-begotten life, only to have it yanked away? Why, why, why? The questions hammered away in his brain to the tempo of Mike's rowing chant.

  Trust in God, a voice in his head said.

  Geirolf's chin shot upward and he glanced around to see if anyone else had heard, but, nay, Mike and the students were going about the business of rowing the longship out to sea.

  Which God? he asked silently.

  He thought he heard a chuckle in his head, but that was impossible. Give me a sign, he pleaded, nonetheless.

  A seagull passed overhead and dropped an ignominious "sign" on the deck near his feet.

  'Twas not a good omen.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The time travel had failed.

  Geirolf realized that fact the next day as he swam toward shore in the early-morning hours. He recognized in the dawn light the coastline south of Merry-Death's home with its modern dwellings scattered along the clifftops. It was still 1997, not 997.

  There had been a Demon Moon the night before. A crack of lightning had struck his longship, causing it to splinter apart and sink. He'd been sucked into a whirlpool, just like the first time. When he'd risen to the surface, clutching his faithful Ingrid, he had no way of knowing if the time travel had been reversed. Not until the morning light.

  Everything had been a replica of his previous experience, but the time portal had remained closed to him. Why?

  "Well, Ingrid, what the hell do we do now?"

  Geirolf heard the sound of a motor and studied the horizon till he saw two fishermen in a motorized pleasure boat approaching. "Hey, buddy, had an accident?" a man wearing a Minnesota Vikings cap called out with concern.

  Vikings? The irony of it prompted Geirolf's lips to curve up in a rueful smile, despite his uncomfortable position in the frigid water. "Yea, my boat capsized."

  "Hop in, then," the other man said. He was wearing a Baltimore Orioles cap.

  First, Vikings. Now, Orioles. If Geirolf wasn't so damned cold, he'd laugh at the humor of the "signs" bombarding him at every turn.

  "We'll give you a ride back to shore. You can call the Coast Guard from there. Are you all right?"

  Nay, I am not all right. "I just need to get out of this water and think."

  Hauling him up, they alternately studied the figure-head and him, taking special note of his leather tunic with the talisman belt and his cross-tied boots. Ingrid's bosom got a fair share of their attention, too. The men didn't look devious, just quizzical. They handed him a pair of dry sweating pants and shirt and a wool blanket, which he wrapped around his shivering body.

  He hesitated to ask, but had to, "What year is this?"

  "Just call me Chuck," said the Orioles man, who then guffawed, "It's 1997. Don't worry, fella. A good dunking will do that to ya. Makes the brain fuzzy. My brother-in-law almos' drowned las' year, and he couldn't remember his girlfriend's name fer a month."

  "Harry never did know Betty's name," the Vikings man, who identified himself as Bruiser, chortled. Then he turned good-naturedly to Geirolf "Hey, mister, wouldja like a beer?"

  Now there was a Vikings man after a Viking's heart.

  "Care fer a pretzel?" the Oriole offered, as well, holding out an open bag of salted brown sticks.

  Geirolf shook his head. "I don't suppose you have any Oreos?"

  "Of course. Ain't nothing better'n beer and Oreos in the mornin'," Bruiser opined. Truly, a man of discriminaling taste. And another "sign," Geirolf concluded.

  Chuck pointed the long-neck bottle of his mead at the figurehead resting near their feet. "Who's the bimbo?"

  "Ingrid," he said, taking a gusty swig of the cold brew.

  "Great tits," Bruiser remarked. Norsemen always did have superior discernment in that regard.

  "She'd look great over the bar in my den, next to the Coors sign. Wouldja like to sell her?" Chuck asked.

  Geirolf erupted into laughter then and couldn't stop. Ingrid was going to be the life, or death, of him yet.

  It was afternoon by the time Geirolf shook hands with his rescuers in a nearby village.

  "I thank you for your help," Geirolf said.

  "Hey, no prob," Bruiser bellowed over the sound of the surf, clapping him on the back. "And don't worry 'bout us spillin' the beans to anyone 'bout rescuin' you. We understand a guy wantin' to get away from his little woman fer a while." He winked at Geirolf in a manly fashion.

  "Exactly where didja say that Viking S-spot is, again?" Chuck added, also clapping him on the back.

  And winking.

  On the boat ride back to shore, the men had been complaining about their womenfolk watching too much Oprah. And he'd offered his opinions on Home Improvement, to which they'd agreed heartily. The conversation progressed then to the ill advice offered on all those television talk shows, which caused women to nag their hardworking husbands when they arrived home. That was when Geirolf had told them that the surest way to silence a woman's complaints was to show her the famous Viking S-Spot.

  Chuck and Bruiser, both duly impressed, had said he ought to have his own TV talk show.

  He'd demurred humbly.

  They'd scoffed at his offer of money for their services after helping him transport Ingrid to a boat-rental mart where she was now stored in a locker. He'd scoffed at their suggestion that he go to a hospital for care.

  He needed no healer, modern or otherwise, to tell him what was wrong with him. He was lost between two worlds. That was why he'd urged them not to speak of his rescue. He needed time to figure out his latest dilemma.

  That evening, Geirolf lay with his arms folded behind his head as he reclined on a bed in the village's sole travel lodge—Swifty's Motel and Pizzeria. The only good thing that could be said about the dreadful room was that it contained a "gel" bed that vibrated in a most delicious manner when four coins were inserted in a metal slot. He wished Merry-Death were here to share the experience.

  Fortunately, Geirolf had forgotten before the boat launching to give Mike his leather belt pouch, which contained fifty thousand doll
ars. In fact, he'd given Merry-Death all the money earlier, despite her resistance. She must have put it back in the pouch considering it demeaning, as if he were paying for her services. Foolish wench!

  He hadn't spent much time studying modern currency, but he assumed fifty thousand dollars must be a great deal of money, because when he'd pulled the wet roll out at the lodge desk to pay in advance fifty-dollar room, the clerk's eyes about popped out.

  Villains abounded in any century, and he'd decided to lock his door tonight and prop a chair under the handle as a precaution.

  The question now was, what should he do?

  The time travel hadn't worked this time. But that didn't mean he wouldn't try again. And again. And again. Till he prevailed.

  Could he go back to Merry-Death and put her through another, or repeated, partings of the type she'd experienced yesterday? Could he be so cruel?

  But wasn't it even more cruel to be alive, in her time, and not let her know?

  No, he decided. It was more cruel to cause the same devastating grief over and over, like opening a bloody wound.

  He had to figure out what had gone wrong last night and how to do it right the next time. Idly clicking on the television, he gasped, then fell back on the gel bed.

  There stood a ravaged Merry-Death staring back at him from the screen.

  "Has the Coast Guard found a body yet?" a news-man called out to her.

  Merry-Death flinched before answering in a choked whisper, She was now speaking into a microphone being held in her face—a face that seemed to have aged overnight. Her hair was tangled and uncombed, her eyes bloodshot and underlined with dark circles.

  Creases of pain bracketed her eyes and mouth.

  This is what I have done to her. What kind of love is it that causes so much misery?

  Flanking her on either side were Mike and Thea, who appeared equally distraught. Tears filled their

  eyes.

  "What effect will this disaster have on the Trondheim project?" another reporter inquired. Apparently the press conference had been in progress for some time. "Will the voyage this summer be cancelled because of the potential danger to the students?"