"I have heard that the Saracens have invented a method to prevent conception."
Is the pup still on the selfsame subject? "That must be why there are so many children running about the desert harems I have seen in my travels," he replied with dry humor. Young men always thought they knew more than their elders… not that he considered himself an elder at seven and thirty. He was in his prime. Too prime, if truth be known. "Besides, I cannot see a true man donning a sheep's intestine… even to prevent the flowering of his seed in yet another woman's womb."
Torolf grimaced. "Is that what they do?"
But Magnus had more important things on his mind. "Do you think we should turn our ships back to Greenland on the morrow?"
"Would Erik the Red allow us back in his settlement?"
Torolf had a good point there. "Probably not." For some reason, Magnus and his children had not endeared themselves to Erik whilst visiting at his not-so-great hall, Brattalid. After Njal had wrestled with a baby polar bear, causing the enraged mother and father to run into the settlement and stomp on Erik's precious oat field and vegetable garden, the Viking chieftain had not been in a very good mood. That mood had grown stormier when he'd accused Torolf of flirting with his wife, Thjodhild. As if Torolf would flirt with a fifty-year-old woman! Lida had pulled off her nappy and pissed in the great-hall rushes, right in front of one and all, which made it appear as if he had no manners. Then Storvald had sculpted a figure of Erik's eldest daughter, which showed her to have an unflattering set of oversize buttocks… which she did. Dagny and Kirsten wouldn't stop weeping with homesickness. The coal that had caused the pot to boil over, though, was Magnus's innocent remark that Erik had put on a little bit of extra weight about his middle. Some Vikings were so vain!
They'd chosen the wisest course the next day— which was a sennight ago—and decided to visit the new settlement in Vinland recently discovered by Erik's son, Leif. And that was a whole other saga… how Leif was luring Norsemen to his new land under the pretext that it was some kind of paradise, when in fact it was not. Oh, 'twas true there were grapevines here and there, and much greenery, and there did appear to be more arable farmland than there had been in Iceland or the Norselands, and the climate was a bit warmer.
But there were also wild native people of red-hued skin, who ran about almost totally naked, wielding sharp axes and emitting strange war cries. He did not understand the guttural tongue they spoke, but it would be his guess that they did not want to share their grapes. That supposition was confirmed when one of Leif's Irish slaves confided to him that these native inhabitants liked to take the scalps of white men. He and Leif had gotten into a fist-throwing exercise starting when he'd merely commented that Leif might be called Leif the Lucky, not because he'd saved some men in a shipwreck one time, but because he still had a scalp. The man had no sense of humor.
All the men, and a few female maidservants from this longship, Fierce Dragon, as well as his other two longships, Fierce Wind and Fierce Hammer, were sleeping on land tonight in Leif's crude settlement. Leif had told him that he and his brood were not welcome until Magnus said he was sorry. Ha! It would be a hot day in Niflheim when he apologized to the likes of that ill-bred Norseman.
"Perhaps we should go home," Torolf suggested.
"Nay!" Magnus said without hesitation. They had come too far, and they had not given any of these new lands a chance yet. But then he wondered if he was being selfish. "Do you want to go home?"
"It is not that, Father. It is just that… well, Erik and Leif are strong-willed men, as you are. I wonder if there is room in Greenland or Vinland for two strong-willed leaders. I cannot see you taking orders from those two."
Hmmm. Torolf had a good thinking head on him. He made good points. "What would you think of our traveling a bit farther south? Would it not be a noble enterprise for us to discover our own new land?"
Torolf's voice was bright with enthusiasm when he answered. "Yea, I like that idea. And who is to say there are not many other lands beyond Vinland? No doubt there are dozens."
"We will have to put it to a vote in the morning when the men return to the ships. It is not a decision to be made on their behalf. We will give them a choice."
Even in the dim light he could see Torolf nodding. And he could see how excited Torolf was at the prospect of such an adventure. "Even if some of the men decide to stay behind with Leif, or return to Iceland, we can offer them one of the longships," Torolf pondered aloud. "Two will be enough for our purposes. Bloody hell, even one would suffice."
"Let us pray to both the Norse gods, and the Christian One-God that they bless our journey," Magnus concluded in the end.
"Let us also pray for new worlds to conquer and brave exploits to give fodder to the skalds for their sagas," his son added.
So it was that he and Torolf fell asleep finally, dreaming of brave new worlds. It was a strange slumber, though, because the skies went pitch black and a thick fog covered the horizon as far as the eye could see. In the stillness of the night, the only sounds were the lapping of the waves and the shrill squeaking of the killer whale. The giant mammal seemed to be trying to give them a message. How strange!
And, strangest of all, during the night, the anchor slipped from its mooring, and Fierce Dragon drifted off on its own mystically directed quest. Of course, Magnus was unaware of this event till morning. But he did hear the whale make a sound that he would swear was laughter.
And as he slept soundly that night, he kept dreaming of an old, white-haired woman who was fondling prayer beads as she chanted, "Holy Mother, I offer this novena that you may grant my petition. Please send a man…" The words of the supplication always drifted off, but Magnus had a fearsome suspicion. He was the man the old woman was calling for.
Lost in a fog (more than usual)…
When Magnus awakened the next morning, he knew immediately that something was wrong. He just felt it in his aching bones like the premonition of danger most Vikings sensed afore battle.
But he was not about to be attacked.
Was he?
He stood abruptly and drew his sword. His movement jarred Lida, whose ankle was still tied to his. She began to whimper. He made a shushing sound. She gooed at him, then fell back asleep. Only then did he gaze about, unable to see much of anything in the thick fog. He did notice that his longship was moving, and that should not be the case if it was firmly anchored.
"What is it, Father?" Torolf asked in a hushed whisper. He was standing, too, with drawn sword.
"I do not know. Dost think we have been overtaken by some sea monsters? Perchance the whale? The old legends speak of such fanciful things. The air does reek of some mystery."
Torolf made a scoffing sound of disbelief. "The old myths speak of a veil dividing this world from the underworld, but then they also speak of two-headed dragons and fire-breathing sea monsters. I have ne'er believed those stories of magic and mayhem."
"Me either," Magnus said.
But he and Torolf were clearly having second thoughts. Wasn't a fog somewhat like a veil?
Just then the sun shone through the fog, and in the parting mists he saw the most unbelievable thing. There was a mountain, and on its side was a huge sign that read, Hollywood.
"Holy Thor!" Torolf exclaimed. "We have entered the world of Holly and Wood. Dost think it is heaven or hell? Or somewhere in between?"
"I am hoping for in between," Magnus said. "That would mean we are still alive. Besides, a land plentiful in greenery and wood must be a prosperous. A land of opportunity, I am thinking."
They were unable to speak any more because the fog pressed down on them, causing an unnatural drowsiness to overcome them. He and Torolf dropped to their knees, then spread themselves flat on the bed furs, succumbing to the mystical haze that appeared to be entering their bodies.
Just before the vapors overpowered him totally, a question occurred to Magnus… one that disturbed him mightily.
Where will we be when we awake
n?
Chapter Three
Hollywood, land of dreams…
"You've got to be dreaming!"
Angela wasn't surprised by Darrell Nolan's reaction to her counteroffer of five hundred thousand dollars to use the Blue Dragon as a setting for his new movie, Grapes of Sin. In fact, she'd known beforehand that she was going to have to engage in some of the high-powered persuasive techniques she'd perfected these past years as a successful real estate agent. "No, I'm not dreaming. You have to see my grandmother's vineyard to appreciate how perfect it would be as a backdrop for this movie. It's worth every cent."
"Oh, I would definitely require a firsthand inspection if I am going to pay out two hundred thou."
"Five hundred thousand," she repeated.
"Honey, I could get the Taj Mahal for a half mil."
She shrugged and tried to appear unconcerned and not desperate, as she really was. At the same time, she gritted her teeth over the producer's use of the word honey. The aging Lothario with the thick, wavy white hair and George Hamilton tan was living in another era. He didn't understand how offensive the endearment was in today's work environment. Next he would be pinching her behind. Putting her irritation aside, she said, "My price is firm."
"So is your butt," he said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively as he walked around his desk, and, yep, pinched her behind. He didn't even check to see what her reaction was. Instead, he strolled toward the set of windows that covered two walls of his posh office in the Universe Studios building. The man was a sexual-harassment suit waiting to happen… even here in Hollywood, casting couch of the theatrical world. On the other hand, he was a genius of a producer, highly regarded for his movie credits across the world.
"Look, Angie…" he began.
Angela hated that nickname—with a passion. If she didn't watch herself, she was going to grind her teeth down to the gums.
"… I already have money problems casting this production."
Angela had heard rumors that Angelina Jolie and Benjamin Bratt were to play the leads. So, yeah, big bucks were probably involved. Her five hundred thousand would be a pittance.
"I've got to cut costs somewhere."
That hangdog expression isn't winning me over, buster. "But time is money, Darrell. I have a ready-made movie set for you… a spectacular working vineyard. Every week you spend searching for a cheaper site is going to cost you."
"You have a point there."
"Why don't we schedule a day when you can come to visit? Don't dig in your heels on the price till you've seen the place." Angela was confident that once he got a look at the Blue Dragon, money would be a moot point.
He conceded and told her that he and a crew would be there a week from Thursday. "Actually, I have bigger problems than the location for my next film. I've got to finish my current project, a remake of that old Kirk Douglas classic, The Vikings, and Dirk Johansson has walked off the set… again. God, what a prick he is! First he didn't like his costar…"
Angela frowned. "I thought I heard that Pamela Templeton was starring in this movie."
"She is… she is," Darrell said, nodding. "And, hot damn, what red-blooded male wouldn't want that blond goddess as a costar? Only the world's biggest egotist, that's who."
Angela had to smile. She'd read enough Variety magazine articles to know that Johansson was renowned for his high opinion of himself. Supposedly there were so many mirrors in his Beverly Hills mansion that it resembled a brothel. Pamela Templeton was outrageously sexy and beautiful… the perfect match for a Norse warrior, you would think. But he must view her beauty as competition.
"If that wasn't bad enough," the producer was rambling on, "Dirk—the dick!—doesn't like the drab clothing that Vikings wear. Says he doesn't look good in brown. He does like the fur cloak, though. You should see the outfit he wants to wear. Pfff! Better suited to a gay pimp than a Viking hunk."
Angela wanted to tell Darrell that none of this was her concern… that all she cared about was getting some cash for her grandmother to continue operating Blue Dragon… but, of course, she didn't. Some of her most important house sales were made by employing a little diplomacy.
"The latest foolishness on Dirk's part is that he gets seasick… on a fake longship, for chrissake! On an artificial ocean. He made us turn off the wave-making machine. What does he think… that longships sailed in calm seas. That Norsemen rowed halfway across the freakin' world?"
"I saw the longship as I drove up, sitting in that fake lake. It was beautiful… a wonderful reproduction. I understand how frustrating it must be for you," she commented, just to make conversation. Now that Darrell had agreed to visit the Blue Dragon, she just wanted to escape. She stood and gathered her briefcase and purse, easing her way toward the door. "Well, I've got to be going."
"Oh… my… God!" Darrell exclaimed.
Now what? Angela turned slowly to see the producer staring out the window, slack-jawed with disbelief.
"Who is that guy, and what the hell does he think he's doing on my ship? Where's security? And who the hell turned that wave machine back on?"
This was the perfect opportunity for Angela to escape, but she couldn't help herself. Curiosity compelled her to turn around and walk over to the window.
"What?" she asked, standing next to Darrell.
"Look… look…" he sputtered, pointing down two stories to the lot that she had passed earlier… the one with the longship floating on a man-made lake.
Now it was her turn to exclaim, "Oh… my… God!"
Standing with legs widespread on the prow of the longship was a man who could only be described as… well… a Viking. He was six-foot-five, at least, with long, light brown hair streaked with blond highlights— probably from riding a surfboard and not because he'd been riding the ocean waves on some ancient dragonship. He was over thirty years old, but, hey, there were lots of overage surfers in California, living the perpetual quest for the perfect wave.
This Viking, who must be part of some publicity stunt, was wearing a thigh-length leather tunic over wide, muscled shoulders. The outfit was accented by a thick belt around a sinfully narrow waist. His sinewy legs were bare, except for cross-gartered boots. His arms, also roped with muscles, were bare, too, except for etched silver bracelets on his biceps. In one hand he held a huge sword. In the other arm he held a little blond-haired girl dressed in an old-fashioned pinafore-style gown. The most amazing thing of all was the group with this… this… Viking on a longship. Not just the toddler in his arm but a bunch of other kids as well. She quickly counted. Nine in all, each dressed in ancient attire that she surmised was the way the old Norse would have been garbed.
Her gaze went back to the man then, as if compelled to do so. He was staring about the set and acting profoundly baffled, but still protective of his family… if that was what the children were.
In a town that was loaded with gorgeous men, this man took the prize. His features were not perfect. In fact, when the wind blew intermittently, she noticed that he had rather large ears. Furthermore, he was too tall—and too bulked up—for her tastes. Despite all that, he was as handsome as a Viking god. Kevin Sorbo in his role as Hercules… but better.
For some strange reason, Angela's heart was racing. And she felt like laughing and crying at the same time. If she didn't know better, she would think this was love at first sight. But, of course, she knew better.
"Who is he?" she finally managed to ask.
"I have no idea," Darrell said, still gaping goggle-eyed out the window. "But I'm sure as hell gonna find out."
The tone in his voice made Angela instantly suspicious. "Why?"
"Why? I'll tell you why." He was chortling with glee. "Screw Dirk Johansson. Who needs him now?"
"Why?" she asked again.
"I've just found my perfect Viking."
Out of the fog, but someplace hot…
"By thunder! It's hotter than the fires of Muspell here." Magnus wiped sweat off his forehead with a forearm—the
same arm that held his favorite sword, Head Lopper. In his other arm he held Lida, who was gooing at every bird or breeze that passed by. The wee one certainly had a pleasant disposition, but in this case her good mood was probably due to her nappy being rilled with some stinksome substance. "I have heard of such hot weather in the deserts of the Eastlands," Torolf answered him. He also was perspiring profusely under the blistering sun, as evidenced by the beads of moisture on his forehead and upper lip and by the underarm stains on his leather tunic.
"How could we have gone from the cold of Vinland waters to this excessive warmth in such a short time? The fog was confusing, but I am fairly certain we did not travel eastward. Dost think we have entered the Land of the Dead?"
"That fiery first level of the Norse underworld, comparable to the Christian hell?" Torolf shook his head. "I hardly think my younger brothers and sisters have done anything wicked enough to merit such punishment. Bloody hell, I have not been so bad myself… except for that time when I put honey on the privy seat when I was a youthling… or when I seduced the smithy's daughter… or when I got drukkiw on Frey Day and… Oh, never mind. Besides, those people over there look alive… and normal. Well, not normal, considering their clothing and hair. But not dead. 'Tis strange, this place, though." Obviously his rambling son was equally puzzled by the scene surrounding them.
They were still on his longship, and they were still at sea, if the waves lapping at the sides of Fierce Dragon were any indication, but the land that was visible a short distance away was anything but familiar. The irksome whale was gone, he noticed. Thank the gods for small blessings. In the distance he could see huge letters propped against the mountainside: H-O-L-L-Y-W-O-O-D… the same sign he had seen in his dreams. Or was it through the fog? Next he expected to see the white-haired lady with the prayer beads pop out of one of the puffy clouds. If that happened, he might just jump overboard and end it all.
The only thing certain in this uncertain happenstance was that they had entered the land of Holly and Wood. But where this strange new land was, he had no clue. There were enormous buildings unlike anything he'd ever seen before; the longhouses reached far up into the sky. And moving horseless vehicles fairly shot along the roads that crisscrossed all the land as far as his eyes could see. In addition, at the beginning of one of the roadways, much closer than the Hollywood sign, was another sign that said, Universe Studios. He tried to sound the words out, "You-knee-verse Stew-dios." It was all so confusing.