 
### TIME TO REMEMBER

### By Susan Firman

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Susan M Firman

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### CHAPTER 1

Travel to the north, past Trondheim, and you will be standing in the small Norwegian town where Jenette Wilkinson had decided to begin her holiday. The old part of town, the original fishing village with its cluster of small fishermen's cabins now servicing the tourist industry, lay huddled at the eastern end of a narrow valley, sandwiched between the long, narrow finger of the fjord and the high grey and reddish granite hills and mountains that made up the inland terrain. It was a wild and beautiful place with it steep hillsides and silver ribbons of waterfalls plunging directly into the cold, deep waters of the fjord. Directly behind the village, a huge, deeply cleft mountain loomed upwards into the clouds, its rocky face scraped by deep rifts of ice and snow that had scoured its slopes for thousands of years.

A more modern town had developed around the western flank of the valley stretching outwards over a flat rocky surface. The main reason for its existence was to provide the tourist with a gateway to the magnificent ski fields that had been opened up within the district as thrill-seekers jetted their way from one world playground to the next.

Jenette stood looking up at the huge, snow-clad mountains with their colossal sides disappearing into dense cloud that hung dark and threatening, smothering out the summit views and hiding their enduring secrets of an eternal landscape from any interested visitor that wished to look up. This young visitor thought of the more familiar scenes back home: Mount Cook, the Haast Pass and Franz-Joseph Glacier at one extreme and lumpy, bush-clad hills of varying greenness, together with never-ending pops of oozing mud at the other. And even though it had been only a week ago, it seemed years since she waved farewell to her parents and walked through to the departure lounge at Auckland International Airport.

She was an attractive girl with a deep, olive complexion and large, dark brown eyes that gave some indication of her Polynesian ancestry. Her body was slim and athletic, giving her an air of sophistication not always seen in one so young. Now here she was, on the verge of her nineteenth birthday, excited at the prospect of this holiday experience. Her own OE, at last!

"Velcome to Sleggvik! Enjoy your stay!"

A steward took her by the elbow and guided her off the deck of the ferry and onto the ramp that led down to the wooden jetty which jutted out several meters into the deep dark water.

"Thanks. It was a neat trip. I really enjoyed it."

"You are most welcome," he replied.

As she trod once more on firm ground, she dropped the two larger bags down beside her feet. Her third bag was lighter and smaller with a long soft strap which she draped over her left shoulder.

She listened for any familiar sounds that sounded like English but with the constant excited chattering going on around her, it was impossible to pick out any specific words. The background remained a hum of jumbled expressions.

She found a ferry counter that was open.

"Please, can you tell me where the Norgge Inn is?"

The young man presented her with a map and drew a red circle not very far from the ferry terminal building.

"It is here," he said pointing to the place he had marked. "It's not far and easy to find. Good luck!"

She lingered a few more minutes on the wooden jetty where the boat had just been moored, reassuring herself that her dream was coming true.

The cold, bleak winter air began to penetrate her thick coat. It made her shiver slightly. Picking up her two larger bags and shrugging the smaller airline satchel bag back onto her shoulder, she began to walk across the crisp snow towards the Inn.

The Inn was easy to find for it was situated almost opposite the jetty. Its modern red brick exterior made the two-story framework seem rather austere. Heavy, brown wooden shutters which looked more functional than artistic framed both sides of the tiny thick paned windows. The buildings either side of the Inn contrasted quite sharply, a mixture of carved wooden and grey stone walls, empty window boxes and deep-red thick timbered doors. Jenette noted that all the town houses had high, steep roofs which lay hidden under a thick pile of freshly fallen snow.

The interior of the Inn was warm and inviting after the cold outside.

"Hello," she said to the man behind the main counter.

"Good morning. Your reservation slip?"

He began writing her details into the accommodation book. Her eyes followed his entry as he wrote."My name doesn't have the 'a'," she informed him.

"Sorry." He crossed out the 'a'. "I thought 'Jenette' had 'a' in the middle."

"It normally does. My name's a little different."

She smiled at him to show no offence had been taken. He held out his hand.

"Passport, Miss Jenette Vikinson, vithout the 'a'."

Jenette handed it over. The man thumbed rapidly through the pages. He stamped her reservation slip before handing both of them back.

"Thanks."

"From New Zealand." He smiled as he made the observation. "People say your country's like mine. Mountains. Fjords. Very beautiful. Is it true?"

The young tourist smiled back and nodded in acknowledgement.

"Vell, Miss Jenette Vikinson. Velcome to Norway. Your room is going up the stairs. Number 19. I hope you enjoy your stay vith us."

He pushed a plan of the Inn across the counter and indicated the room which would be hers. It was a small, single room at the back of the building.

"Keys for you." He pushed a set of keys across the counter towards her. "Breakfast - English or European?"

"Oh, European would be fine, thanks. After all, I'm in Europe now."

"In your room or in the dining room?"

"I'll come down for it. Is that OK?"

The man nodded and made a note of it.

"Room 19."

"I won't forget. I'm almost that age. Can I leave one of my bags here for a while? OK? I'm exhausted and I don't think I can manage everything at once. Not up the stairs."

The man nodded again.

Dumping the first of her heavy bags in the middle of the room and throwing the smaller one on the bed, she returned downstairs for the other. When all had been collected, she began to unpack.

To the immediate right of the door, stood a large old-fashioned wardrobe, coloured with a rich black-brown stain. She walked over to it, her arms loaded with clothing. As luck would have it, the bottom of the door made a lip and she was able to hook her foot behind and it pull it open. The wood grain reminded her of rabbits with long, drooping ears. Her brother used to hunt rabbits over the rugged land their grandfather farmed and when he hung them over the wire and batten fence, they had long, drooping ears, too.

On the opposite side of the room was a small oblong window, framed each side by pale green curtains. She wandered over to look at the view. It surprised her to find there were two panes of thick glass: an inner and an outer. The distance between them made the outside appear unreal and far away. Peering through them she could just make out the far edge of the small town. A large, imposing mountain rose up behind and dominated the scene. It was difficult to estimate its height, for its steep, snow-covered sides disappeared upwards into cold grey clouds which had hung in a low dull sky ever since she had arrived. She wondered whether all mountains in this country had names and personalities like the ones back home did.

I wonder what your name is? she mused.

But the mountain only stood silent and forbidding. If it had any secrets, it was not willing to divulge them to her at this moment.

With her unpacking done, Jenette sat on the edge of the narrow bed, brushing her thick, black hair that hung in natural waves around her shoulders. She smiled to herself. Standing, she walked over to the dressing table. Watching herself in the large, square mirror, she began to unfasten the fine gold chain that held the small bone pendant she always wore around her neck. As the white bone lizard lay on the dresser surface, Jenette ran her fingertip over its polished, curved surface. The tips of her fingers followed the etched spiral patterns that decorated the lizard body which curved back on itself into a fish-like tail. A reminder of home and of her grandfather who had so lovingly carved it for her.

She yawned and then rubbed her eyes. She smothered another long, drawn out yawn with her other hand and it was only then that she realised how tired she had become. She decided she was still suffering from bouts of jet-lag for she found sleep unexpectedly crept up on her at strange times during the day. Squeezing her eyes tightly together for a few minutes helped. So did splashing cold water on them. But this time neither did the trick and her eyelids remained as heavy as ever.

She decided she was too tired to go down to the dining room so unwrapped the remains of a snack she had bought on the boat. She ate what remained, gave her teeth a quick brush and then snuggled deep between the thick feather covering and the warm softness of the mattress.

Early next morning, before even the low light of dawn had crept into the dark northern sky, Jeanette woke and crept quietly down the narrow stairs to the reception hall. Everything was still and she felt like an intruder slinking furtively through the sleeping building. She opened the door to reception. The lobby was well lit and the figure of a young woman was seated behind the counter.

"Excuse me, do you speak English?"

"Ja. Yes." The blond-haired receptionist looked up from the book she had been reading. "Can I help?"

Jenette continued, in what could only be described as a whisper,

"Can you tell me if there are any guided tours up the mountains?"

"You wish to ski?"

The woman had almost no perceptible Norwegian accent.

"No, sorry. I don't ski. All I want to do is go and look at the scenery and experience the feel of the mountains. And, perhaps," she added, "I'd like to learn something about the district and its culture."

"Yes, we can help you." She reached for a brochure behind the counter. "There are tours but tours are only on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. That is, weather permitting."

"Oh, thanks . . . do I have to book?" she added as an after-thought. She thought she'd better make sure.

"You don't have to," the lady said, "but it would be wise to leave me your name and the day you'd prefer. I'll pass the information onto the guide, so that he will know. You can check with me later. The tour leaves always at ten hundred hours."

"That's ten in the morning," Jenette said, just to make sure.

She was going to have to get used to the European way of time-keeping. The woman behind the counter nodded.

"Shall I book it for you?"

"Thanks." Jenette checked her watch. "I'll have to re-set my watch again." She laughed with embarrassment, then shrugged her shoulders. "I'd only just put it on London time and now it's wrong again. Only arrived yesterday. Can you please give me local time?"

The receptionist checked the time.

"Thirty minutes past seven."

Jeanette was grateful the young woman had used a more familiar way of saying the time.

"Oh, thanks." She adjusted her watch. "I thought it was much earlier. It still seems like night."

"Sunrise is about eight fifteen. Most visitors appear just before nine."

Only seven thirty and still pitch black! It didn't seem natural. Nothing was natural this side of the globe: winter months that should be summer and a sun that went the wrong way across the sky. She had always been used to a winter sunrise no later than seven. Like most new things in her life, she would just have to adapt. This was northern Europe, so far north the Arctic circle was not that far away. Her father had been puzzled at her decision to chose such a northerly destination and especially when she had decided to miss out a warm, sunny New Zealand summer but as Jenette had seemed so adamant about visiting Norway, he had given her as much support as he could and when the time had arrived for her departure, even her mother had, during her farewell hug, wished her all the best and told her how lucky she was. Her big OE. Alone. Mum's little girl had taken the first big step into adulthood.

Now all that was left was to fill in time until Wednesday. That day seemed so far away. She hardly knew how to wait. It was just like the final week before she left New Zealand, excitement mixed with impatience. She thought her departure date would never arrive. But it finally did.

Funny thing, time, thought Jenette as she retraced her steps back up the stairs to her room. When I'm enjoying myself, like the time at my cousin's twenty-first, time went so quickly. I'd only just arrived before Dad had tooted and I was being driven back home again. Funny - when the plane met that bumpy part coming down through the clouds to land, I thought they would never stop. How that time dragged! If only I could control time; then I'd make it Wednesday all in an instant.

She glanced at her watch again. It was only eight thirty-three. At this rate Wednesday would never come.

She sat in her room staring at the wall. Why? She didn't really know; well, at least she had no rational explanation for doing so. She began thinking of her family back home. They would just be finishing work in the vegetable patch, just before that warm summer sun dipped behind the bush-clad western hills. Dad always got the boys to help him weed or water the cabbages and beans after dinner. She could picture her younger brother, clad only in shorts and listening to the local radio station on his transistor he had got for Christmas. It had been a good Christmas this time, for all the kids had managed to get home - her older sister, Mere, with her new boyfriend and the two older boys, the twins Jason and Jack. Jack always had been known as Hemi which was his middle name. He liked it better that way. Just think, only a few weeks ago she was with them all, laughing and sharing in all the family' festivities: gathering shellfish, wriggling her toes deep down in the hot beach sand feeling for the hardened shells that betrayed the shellfish's existence; or sitting around the large kitchen table, sipping cool lemonades while sweat trickled down between her shoulder-blades and made her skin tingle both sides of her backbone. Those hot days were great for their grandfather would come over and then he would tell them stories about the times when he was a young boy and had a whole wild world for his playground: the golden gorse covered hills at the back of the farm, the dense bush beyond that and the cool blue sea full of fish enough to easily feed his large family. He had not a care in the world. Now everyone seemed so far away; almost as if they lived on another planet or were in another dimension.

She wriggled onto the top of her pillow, leaning back against the wall, the soft glow of the reading light casting a dim orange hue over her body. In her excitement that morning she had forgotten that the northern winter sun didn't rise much before eight-thirty in the morning. She waited for the day to begin and cursed that time was her master.

Jenette decided to plan her day, for there didn't seem much else to do for a while. Maybe she could wander around the town and, hopefully, find somewhere to browse. She had read in one of the brochures that the original inhabitants were expert fishermen. Wood-carving was also a speciality of this area and she had been told that there were many small carved objects offered for sale. Jeanette found this most interesting, as her Grandfather, on her mother's side of the family, had been a carver in his younger days before he became a farmer.

As a young child, when she went to Koro's to stay, he would take her over to the meeting house of his people and let her run her fingers over the carved figures of his ancestors. The tactile feeling she had each time she did so would make her feel warm inside. It was Koro who had carved the delicate whale-bone pendant with its beautiful spirals and curves in the shape of a lizard that she always kept round her neck. He had told her that this was her taniwha, her protector, her link with her whakapapa, the ancestors who made up her family tree. It was this grandfather who fascinated her with myths and legends of her Maori side of how Maui had used the jawbone of his grandmother to fish up their homeland, the North Island of New Zealand, from the great depths of the Pacific Ocean, and how her great, great grandfather, Tetamakitea, had carved the canoe prow for the last big war canoe built for their tribe.

As she had listened, so the old man had instructed her with the customs and beliefs of a culture that expressed itself through the beautiful curvaceous carvings that adorned the meeting house of her ancestors.

It's through the experience of culture and a knowledge of your past that you will come to know yourself and understand where your future lies, he had once told her.

Then, when she told him she wanted to travel overseas, he had actively encouraged her.

Go and discover your European past. Find your other heritage. I've shown you your Maori side but you must find your Pakeha side yourself. Only when you have experienced both, will you know who you are, for you're a child of two cultures: Maori and European. Learn to love and understand both sides. Be united with all your ancestors. If you want my advice, go Jenny-Girl!

Jenette liked the way her grandfather called her 'Jenny girl'. He had done so as long as she could remember. She felt a spiritual bond with this grandfather, her Koro. He had given her her middle name, Awhina. She was sure Koro was the one who whispered like the wind whispers secrets into your ear, telling her mother to let go the ties that bound parent and child so that the girl could spread her wings.

Eighteen, well almost nineteen, was old enough. She was no longer a child but a young woman whose time had come to discover the world.

Let this be your moko.

She knew of the ancient patterns that were used to beautify the faces of the ancient ones. It marked their identity and gave them a sense of belonging. Her connection was to be the bone carving. Grandfather blessed it and then hung the smooth, shining pendant around her neck. On its back he had inscribed her middle name.

Awhina. 'Awhina' means 'to help.' So, my girl, while you wear your moko, you're never alone and help is always there. Travel to lands far away. Our ancestors did that generations ago. They came in waka from the north, a homeland deep in the Pacific Ocean. How else could our people have arrived here but in boats built to carry families across the seas? When you leave, you'll always be here . . . in my heart. You're my mokopuna, my grandchild. Part of my flesh. Never forget that and remember what I've taught you. Now, go, Jenny-Girl and enjoy yourself!

Jenette smiled. Yes, she remembered the old man well. She fingered the silent lizard that hung around her tanned neck. It would always be extremely precious to her.

Is it dawn yet? No, it's still dark. The long, drawn out night. Like the dawn of time. Like the waiting of the gods in the immeasurably long night. The night with no end.

The faint dim light of dawn arrived. A softening of the blackness that was the other side of the window pane. Finally, the hint of daylight had arrived. The sky stretched and grew lighter.

Jeanette made her way down the road to where she had been told she could catch a tram. Her wool-lined boots crunched over the hard packed snow where only the day before numerous other feet had walked compressing it into a hard, solid blackened lump. She caught the tram without too much trouble and rode in it two miles across the narrow valley floor to the older much older part which had been the foundation of the original village many centuries before. Luck was on her side as quite a few of the town's inhabitants could speak some English, enough for her to find directions to her questions.

The older part of town was an ancient established settlement with narrow cobbled pathways between pleasant wooden houses. A number of small fishing trawlers lay tied to untidy wooden posts standing like sentries on the edge between water and land. The tram stopped outside a group of small shops huddled closely together as if to keep warm, the last one being recognisable as a souvenir shop. Jenette hesitated. A decision made she pushed on the door, and stepped inside.

The quiet tinkle of the doorbell announced her arrival. A very elderly man appeared from the rear of the room. He looked very old to Jenette, at least ninety or maybe even close to a hundred. A hundred? That was an awful long time ago.

She noticed he was hunched and stiff with arthritis and leaned heavily on his walking stick as he moved.

"Ja?"

Jenette's eyes whisked around the interior dusting the assortment of objects that clustered its shelves. She did not immediately see what she wanted.

"I'll just look, thanks."

She turned away. The old man seemed to understand, for he dissolved into the shadows and left her alone. Jenette wandered around for a while. The crude wooden carvings offered for sale disappointed her. She picked one up and turned it over. It had obviously been made for the tourist trade and she did not feel that any of them were authentic. She left without buying and decided to return to the main town.

The twenty minutes she spent waiting for the tram to arrive appeared inordinately long. She stood first on one foot and then on the other trying to keep warm. These northern winters were certainly freezing, the cold penetrated deep inside her jacket and she felt herself beginning to shiver. She began to think her transport would never arrive.

"Beauty first!" quipped a voice to her side.

She turned and smiled at the young man who had just spoken. He was about her own age, maybe a few years older. His hazel eyes seemed friendly and relaxed. He winked at her.

"You English?" she asked hoping that the London shopping bag she noticed belonged to him.

He nodded.

"From Coventry," he answered in a broad Midlands accent. He helped her to climb onto the tram, its engine reverberating with a low hum as it waited for the passengers to board. "I come every winter fer me 'ols." They sat down next to each other halfway down the tram. "I do kayaking and I like to ski, or rather, practice skiing - it's a lot cheaper 'n' flying to Switzerland. Been there, have yer?" She shook her head. "By t' way," he went on cheerily, as the conductor punched their tickets, "Whar yer from?"

"New Zealand."

"Long way from 'ome."

He paused to look out the window for a short while.

"Know the Millars? They live out thar."

"Sorry, no." She was somewhat confused by his question. "Where're they from?"

"Christchurch. I think that's right. It's in New Zealand. Yes, Christchurch." He stated it most emphatically. "They were neighbours of ours before they went out thar in sixty-two."

"Sorry." She somehow did feel sorry to disappoint him. "There are three and a half million of us scattered throughout the country. Anyway, I'm from up North. A long way from Christchurch. Other end."

She grinned at him.

"At the top?"

"In the tail. Ever thought of going there yourself?"

She watched him screw up his ticket into a tight ball and begin to play with it.

"Yes - .'n' no. I'd like to, but it's a matter of 'aving to save so much money, yer know. The fares are so expensive now. Did yer fly?"

"Mm. Air New Zealand. See?" She showed him her teal-coloured shoulder bag with its fern-head logo on the side. "Bought this in Auckland just over a week ago - at the airport - they sell them there. And then I climbed onto the plane."

"'n flew here?"

"No. London first. Had a few days there. Then came here."

"Ah yea. What kind of plane?"

"Jumbo. No stop-over. Flew straight through from Auckland to London."

"Did yer have a good flight?"

"Not bad. I didn't like the bumpy bit over the Alps."

"Doesn't last long, an hour or so. And the rest?"

"Rather boring most of the time."

Jenette laughed and pulled a face.

"Did yer see any good in-flight movies?"

"One was OK."

She watched him unravel his ticket. This time he rolled it between finger and thumb.

"What made yer choose this place?" he asked.

"I don't know. It just popped out there on a map I had."

She frowned. Now that she thought about it, she couldn't find a reasonable explanation as to why she had chosen Sleggvik at all. It was all a bit emotional really.

"Aha. Do you ski?"

"No. I've always lived too far away from mountains that big. We don't get snow where I live."

He was surprised.

"You don't ski 'n' yer've come har?"

She felt she had to defend herself.

"I just thought it sounded a nice place. I've wanted to visit Norway for ages. Dad always told us kids that his family originally came from Norway. That was way back. Then at school we did something on the Vikings and I read all about their carved boats 'n' things. I'm interested in carving. Wood carving. One of my older brothers does carving. He's been learning how to do it for years. Our uncle's teaching him now."

"Really?"

"Yes. So, I went in to town to find something to send home but I'm afraid they only had rubbish - stuff for tourists. Nothing genuine." She turned side on to face him directly. "Say, you don't know where I could see some real carvings, do you?"

"Yup. If yer want the real thing, go to the museum. It's only small but quite interestin' - yer'll find what yer want in thar all right." Jenette nodded. After a pause, the young man continued in his relaxed manner. "Thinking of something that might interest yer - have yer been on one of those tours up the mountains? Yer heard about 'em? There are several to choose from. I've heard they're interestin'."

"I'm going on one. On Wednesday."

He appeared pleased.

"Great! Yer'll enjoy that. Hope it keeps fine for yer."

"Thanks."

She glanced out of the tram window at the coloured, steep-roofed wooden buildings on her side.

"Are we almost at the museum?" she asked.

"I'll let yer know."

For the rest of the journey, the friendly Englishman told her about his ski exploits and how fortunate he was to be able to fly to Norway several times a year. The tram rattled its way through the traffic until they had passed the town centre. The young man pointed out the window.

"Here we are. Museum's not too far away. Jus' follow the red arrows. Ter-ra! See yer round sometime!"

She waved back to him as she stepped from the vehicle. She didn't want the tram to spray her coat with a mixture of salt and snow as it left the stop.

"Thanks!" She called to him from the footpath. Jenette decided he was very nice and she hoped that she would meet him again before either of them left the town.

She watched the tram rumble away before starting to walk across the road towards the museum. She found the building quite easily, even though it was tucked behind the cinema. A short elderly gentleman in uniform greeted her with a warm smile as she sauntered in through the tall glass doors.

The museum was larger than she expected. It was filled with many interesting things to see, both national and local exhibits. There was a model of the local terrain, a section on whaling and modern history, and a detailed exhibition covering skiing. Jenette gave them only a superficial glance. She moved swiftly along the corridor with a purpose to her tread. It was as though an invisible hand was guiding her along.

At last she stopped. Before her, mounted in a glass cabinet, were three very early wood carvings. They seemed to represent some form of animals, deer or wild cattle. Although their surfaces were rough and crude, an attempt had been made to decorate them. Whether they had been intended as toys, or whether they had some deeper religious significance was not known. Jenette moved on.

Two large wooden sledges stood in the centre of the next room. Their wooden sides had been expertly carved, and were so beautiful that it took her breath away. The golden brown skids had been decorated with finely chiselled lines representing curves and spirals. The abstract designs fascinated her. They reminded her of the patterns she had seen carved on the maihi boards of the local meeting house back home. She had always felt a little jealous of Hemi for being a male for he had been the one to begin training as a carver. She wished she'd been born a boy. Then she, too, could have been a carver in the family and could have created beautiful spiral patterns in wood.

Jenette stood, transfixed by the beauty and symmetry of the two sledges that were just over a thousand years old. She tried to imagine the men who must have built them. For several long minutes, she stood, mesmerised. When she finally tore herself away, she felt relief. Tiredness had overwhelmed her.

Must be jet-lag again, she thought. I'd better take things a bit easier.

She wandered slowly on, taking her time to read the information plaques and puzzling over the lives of the people who had existed during those times.

Suddenly she caught her breath. A faint gasp escaped her lips. Before her, safely tucked behind its thick glass protection, lay the remains of a small hand-woven bag. Almost immediately, it reminded her of a kete, the woven flax bag still made and used by the Maori people of New Zealand today. She had seen other exhibits of woven bags such as this which had been made by the people of other Pacific islands but had never seen anything so similar in the northern hemisphere. Leaning forwards until her nose touched the glass, she read the English inscription:

'This hand-woven bag was discovered in the hull of a sea-going longboat which was found buried in mud near the harbour in 1972. The bag has been carbon dated at approximately 800AD.'

A cold wind blew around her shoulders. She quickly swung around, expecting someone to be standing close behind. No-one was there. She spun around again just to make absolutely certain, but the area where she stood was quite deserted.

Ghosts, she thought, and as the thought took place, she found herself beginning to panic. Like a frightened animal, she dashed out of the building. She was still shaking from the experience when she caught the tram fifteen minutes later.

It was early afternoon when she arrived back at the Inn. She was tired and shaken. She felt as though something or someone had been playing a hideous game with her.

Tomorrow, thought Jenette, will be another day. I'll have to take things easy. Gosh, this jet-lag takes some getting used to!

Back in her hotel room, she relaxed on the bed. She picked up the pen and paper which lay on the bedside table and began on a letter home:

Dear Mum, Dad, Koro, and the rest of Yous,

Got here OK. It's awfully cold but the snow's very pretty to look at. Today I went to the museum. Koro, you'd love it. They've got some real neat carvings.

On Wednesday I'm going on a trip. I'm told we go up a little way on one of the mountains. Bet that'll be fun! They're strange mountains here. Huge solid rocks and grey right up into the clouds. So far I haven't been able to see their tops properly but. I can see the side of one big mountain from my bedroom window and . . .

### CHAPTER 2

The small group assembled outside the main entrance of the Inn. There were seven of them, including the guide. Even though the sky was clear, the temperature was extremely low. A pastry-coloured winter sun squatted low on the horizon as the group climbed on board the early morning bus that would take them to the other side of town.

"My name's Sven and I'm your guide for today. Is everyone ready? Good. We can begin our tour."

Jenette wore the duffel-coat and thick gloves she had purchased in London on her way over. She had decided to pack her refreshments in the Air New Zealand bag. It was so easily carried over her left shoulder. She wrapped the warm, hand-knitted Romney-cross woollen scarf over her head. It had been spun and knitted by Kate, Jenette's best friend, who worked at the same firm as her in Whangarei. The two girls had been at High School together and since they had left school, their friendship had grown closer. Jenette had already posted off a picture card of the old part of Sleggvik to Kate. She must remember to tell Kate about this trip the next time she wrote.

The other tourists had also wrapped themselves up for the cold conditions. Jenette made a mental note that the others were much older than she was. There was an American woman in her early-fifties, who came dressed in slacks and a ski jacket she obviously used in the States, for it had 'Catskill Ski Club' emblazoned on the back in large red letters. The remainder of the group were all male: a dark-haired German man in his thirties and who Jenette thought looked rather amusing with his small goat-like beard tuft. There was also tall Swiss, maybe in his late-twenties, athletic and good-looking; a rather rotund gentleman of an indeterminate age, who said he was from the Ukraine and a short stocky Englishman with a button nose who reminded Jenette of a clown. The Englishman was the only one in the party to smoke. He tended to remain at the back as several of the others in the party kept throwing disapproving looks in his direction every time he lit up.

As soon as the bus arrived at the foot of the largest of the surrounding mountains, everyone clambered off and stood resembling a group of penguins in the snow. Sven handed out some snow-shoes and showed them how to carry them on their backs.

"We'll need these later."

They followed a sunken pathway of semi-squashed snow which had been made by groups the previous day. It was difficult going as the trodden snow had become icy and they had to take care not to slip. After about ten minutes, they arrived at a tall wood and stone building that reminded Jenette of the many turreted sand-castles she and the boys had built when Mum and Dad had taken them for a day at the beach. The grey roof shingles covered the roof like scales on the body of a dragon. Wooden crosses reached upwards to the sky and small, miniature dragon heads peeked incongruously from beneath the eaves.

"This stave church was built during the thirteenth century," explained the guide as he led the group up the shingle pathway between the numerous grey gravestones. "If you look under the eaves, you will see carvings of dragon faces which are a link with an earlier time. This early Christian church was built over the site of a pagan temple site. Unfortunately, we cannot see the interior but you are free to wander around outside."

"Isn't it beautiful!" The American woman was quite overawed by its beauty. She immediately took out her camera and began clicking every angle to record the church's unusual character. "Would you like me to take a shot of you, dear?" she asked Jenette. "Give me your camera and go and stand over there by that doorway."

Jenette handed over the small camera she had bought at the duty free shop just before boarding in Auckland and made her way to the peaked porch that stood over the side entrance. She was amazed that such a wooden building from so long ago was still in remarkably good condition. She presumed it must be the cold temperatures that had helped to preserve the building for so long. Not like the historical places back home. They disappeared so quickly it was hard to visualise that there were structures there at all. Those sites were only several hundred years old. Here, people talk about a thousand years!

After spending several minutes in the church grounds, the guide suggested that everyone take the narrow pathway that led further up the side of the mountain. The climb was very easy for the first fifteen minutes or so, but from now on it would become more difficult. The air was crisp, the sky a clear, pale-blue. Today, the mountain had revealed itself and its high peak glistened in the morning light.

The small group stood looking at the ascending snow-covered face, as the pungent smoke from yet another cigarette curled whisperingly upwards in the cold, still air. The guide led his party of tourists over to a series of small rocks just poking their sharp pointed tips through the dense soft layer of snow. The outline was oblong with slightly larger rocks at either end.

"These rocks mark some form of burial mound. The graves are of the original inhabitants of the village. They lived about fifteen hundred years ago."

Unfortunately, with the recent heavy falls of snow, little of the total structure could be seen so they made their way slowly further up the lower slope of the mountain.

When they next stopped, it was in front of a relatively large rectangular stone that had, at some time, been set in a horizontal position into the ground, a strange positioning as most of the ancient stones had been set upright. A steep A-shaped roof had been constructed over it. The top flat surface of the rock stared tranquilly upwards at its covering above. On the rock surface were etchings which described the shape of three circles, two small inner ones and a larger outer one spaced some distance away. Inside the inner ring was a horseshoe shape consisting of five pairs of indented marks. In the direction away from the open end of the horseshoe was a large mark that stood alone well outside the outer ring. The entire pattern had been constructed with great precision and accuracy.

"Like Steinkjer, we also have our rock carvings. Not as famous, nor as old but quite special, never-the-less. This is our unique slab," the guide commented. "The marks, as you notice, form a distinct pattern. As yet we do not fully understand the full significance of all these markings, but one theory is that they are an aerial view of Stonehenge in England. See, these marks, and there are fifty-six of them, are the same in number as the Aubrey stones at Stonehenge and these thirty would represent the larger upright ones."

"Gosh, yes! So they are!"

The Englishman inspected the stone marks more closely, counting each representation off on his fingers.

"Ain't that something!" The American woman was equally excited. "I saw those stones a few years ago when I visited the old country. Mmm, the layout certainly seems very similar."

Out came the camera again. She noticed the interest Jenette was taking of her activity.

"If I take enough different shots, I can sort out the best ones, later. Why don't you do the same, dear?"

Jenette took two pictures and then tucked her camera back into her pocket.

Sven continued,

"We've had archaeologists and historians up here to study the design and they seem quite convinced of the similarity. Look, it even has a mark to represent the Heel Stone." He pointed at the large mark away from the outer circle. "And it, also, points at the exact place where the mid-summer sun comes up. The question that baffles everyone at present is, just how and why did such information come here."

Jenette thought it rather a mystery, too. She was intending to visited Stonehenge when she left here. She had read about the monument but had been disappointed to learn that she would not be able to get up very close to the awesome stones. A fence had had to be erected to keep tourists at bay and now the stones could only be viewed just as one views rare or dangerous animals in the Zoo. But then, if people will not respect the stones or treat them with care, what else was there to do, but set up rope and wire barriers?

Jenette fingered the circular pattern, feeling the small carved knobs that represented each stone within the design and felt a strangeness and a connection she could not explain.

"Now we put on our snow-shoes," Sven said. He helped each one tie on their flat, pancake snow-shoes. "Come. We've a little more to climb. The snow further up is softer and without snow-shoes you would sink down to your knees. We'll stop every few minutes to give you a rest." Jenette tightened her straps and pushed herself up into a standing position. Sven helped those who found it too difficult. "Did any of you know that the snow- shoe was a Norwegian invention? So, now you are like true Norwegians. Let's go!"

They paddled and like South Polar penguins, waddling awkwardly behind their leader in single file over the snow surface, climbing, then resting briefly every few minutes to regain their breadth. Jenette found the entire experience amusing and found herself laughing out loud several times. Sven took each rest opportunity to recite myths and legends and to tell stories of a people who had lived around the area many centuries ago. Evidently, the village had been settled by a wandering tribe during the early part of the fourth or fifth century, but the origin of the tribe was not known. The people had settled in the valley, farming, fishing and probably plundering neighbouring settlements. Later, towards the Middle Ages, as the inhabitants became converted to Christianity they turned more to trading and away from the fighting that had been their previous way of life. Maybe it was during these trading times that the map of Stonehenge had been brought to Sleggvik.

After half an hour of climbing, the small group arrived at another place of interest. An enormous tetrahedron shaped rock loomed like a monolith out of the snow. Each side was decorated with patterns or simple pictures of boats, men and animals surrounded by weird straight-lined symbols which the guide told them were known as runes, an early form of writing. The guide stood to the left of the face that looked down on the town.

"We'll stop here for lunch. There's a shelter that's been put here for that purpose. Sorry, but this is as far as we can go. Nobody passes this point, even today. This mountain, Jotenfjell, is referred to locally as the Mountain of Curses. It is said that a curse is placed on anyone who attempts to pass this rock. Those runic writings are a warning to that effect."

"A curse? Really?" The American woman looked a little like the surroundings in colour. "Why? How did such a mountain get such a dreadful name?"

"Long ago, people used to make their ultimate sacrifices at this point. On the far side of the rock are some of the names of some of the people who may have met their fate here. About ten years ago a group of archaeologists did a dig here and found several very early skeletons together with some artifacts. Unfortunately for Sleggvik the skeletons were taken away to the main museum in the capital but the artefacts are in our local museum in town. If you look just over to your right - ," and he pointed further along the mountain side, "there are stones which mark the burial sites of some of the inhabitants. Unfortunately, you can't see all of them at present because of the snow."

"We've got sacred mountains in New Zealand," Jenette commented. "We say those mountains are tapu. No-one's allowed to walk over sacred places."

The others did not seem to have heard. The American lady was pointing towards the high summit of the Mountain of Curses.

"What happens to all those people who do go up there?"

"It is said that evil mist spirits come out from their hiding places within the rocks whenever low cloud hangs around here, and as the mist enshrouds the area, the spirits carry their victims away."

"But that's only folklore. How you say? A fairy story!" retaliated the tourist from Ukraine.

"Maybe," replied their guide seriously. "But I have heard of instances where eight people have defied the curse, never to return again. Then, as one story goes, there were two brothers in seventeen-o-five, who openly scorned the stories and the next morning they were found stone dead. Only their bodies. No heads. Their heads were found at the foot of the mountain. It has been said that from that time, that on moonlit nights their headless ghosts wander around the mountain slopes looking for others to take their place."

"Does anyone really believe that?" The Swiss man seemed amused by the idea. "That is a good story for tourists."

"You can never tell with anything tapu," Jenette added. "If you disregard tapu you never know what will happen." But no-one seemed to be listening to her again.

The Ukrainian gentleman coughed several times and then continued the conversation.

"I think people those day believe in many thing: witches, devil, spirit and ghosts. Any mystery not to explain they blame on religious thing."

"Sorry." The German was most serious and pulled slightly at his beard tuft as he spoke. "I disagree there. Not everything can be explained. There are many mysteries in the world that even today with all our understanding cannot be explained."

"I think many are in here!" The portly Ukrainian gentleman pointed to his head. "People want to see devil or ghost, so they see them. Science finds answer for mystery as it finds answer to . . . "

The stocky Englishman dropped the butt of his cigarette on the ground and squashed it deep into the snow under his heel. He butted in to the conversation.

"That's if science hasn't destroyed us first!" As he spoke, he stubbed out yet another cigarette on the sole of his shoe. "Maybe we'll all blow ourselves up before we find out. Mystery in Moscow - boom!"

The elderly man's eyebrows came together in an annoyed frown.

"My country not only to blame for all atom on this planet!"

"Russia and the States have made enough rockets and missiles! Either one could blow us all to Kingdom-come."

The man who said he was from Bremen pulled at his beard.

"Then we need watch-dogs. We've got to work together if we want to survive. All countries - big or small, nuclear and non-nuclear. We've only got one world."

"Atomic power." The Englishman was cynical. "We can't even control it properly. Let's not forget the environmental catastrophes - atomic mistakes - like Chernobyl."

The elderly Ukrainian frowned and glared at the Englishman as he defended his country.

"Other nation also pollute planet. You, you western nation have blame, too. Everyone have nuclear catastrophe, only western government keep quiet. Very quiet."

The Swiss, now unable to remain quiet, added to the heated discussion. He coughed and his warm breath evaporated in the cold air.

"Well your country did. It took you weeks before you'd even admit it. And as for the nuclear arms race, well, not everyone joined in. But we still had to deal with the problems your countries gave to the rest of us. We had to find our own ways to survive."

"How?" asked the Ukrainian.

"We built underground refuge centres for our entire population."

"Yes, but then what?" asked the Englishman. "Do you really think you really could have survived for long if the world had been blown apart? How long? What about the other nuclear capable countries? It's the fringe elements we've got to control. It only takes one nutter."

"Just listen to that United Nations," the American woman said quietly to Jenette. "Like all men, they think they have all the answers - here, have a sandwich, dear."

She handed Jenette one of her thick meat-filled sandwiches.

"Oh, thanks."

"I'm Doris."

"Jenny."

"Where are you from, dear?"

"New Zealand."

"That's nice. Your English is very good. A friend of mine had a holiday in Holland. "

Jenette didn't quite get the connection. She concluded that Doris had no idea where New Zealand might be on the map.

They sat themselves down on a checked square of plastic the older woman miraculously produced from her back-pack with the triumph of a performing conjurer. Behind them, the male voices were becoming raised.

"You blame my country? Well, who explode first atomic bomb? Who use first atomic bomb? You tell!" The elderly man waited for an answer which never came. "America! Capitalist world. Not mine!"

"Oh come on, even you people must recognise that was done to save lives - to end a war!" The Englishman lit another cigarette. "It was only released because those in the Free World believed that countries were capable of controlling its use." He shook the first load of ash from his cigarette tip and turned the white snow around his feet, black. He looked to the German. "In reality we can't control anything, especially if a mad leader takes over, can we? All throughout history, people have been destructive."

The man from Bremen chose his words carefully and deliberately. His voice was soft. "People fight always since we first arrived. Take these people here. They lived and they fought. To fight was a way of life for them. They were raiders: a warlike people who terrorised people all through Europe. We're no different from them. It's human nature and have we changed our ways? There's fighting always somewhere, even at this minute. What makes one think we can restrain ourselves?"

"All I can say is that it's lucky that the majority of nuclear power is being used for peaceful purposes," said the Swiss man, "like power generation and medicine."

"Possibly. But it still has its dangers, doesn't it?" The German appealed to the others. "There's the problem with all that nuclear waste. It pollutes a long , long time and if anything goes wrong, what happens and do we need so much energy made in this way?"

The younger Swiss hit a clenched fist into his left palm as if to make a point.

"I agree that much of Europe's being lit up through nuclear power today but we have little choice, economically. There are too many of us and we all want our washing machines, refrigerators and electric lighting. Where do you think it's taking us?"

"To destruction!" The Englishman had a fit of coughing. "We'll all become barbarians like these people who lived around here," he said, "- and then it'll all begin again! Time will have made a circle. They say history repeats itself!"

"Possibly." The Swiss man nodded. "I hope you're wrong. I wouldn't like to see any of us thrown into a world like that!"

The German gentleman agreed.

"Exactly!" He glanced round to see where the two women had gone and saw them sitting on one of the benches inside the shelter. He stepped away from the small group of men. "I'm now hungry. I will feed myself, even if you don't wish it. Excuse me, gentlemen. I'm going to join our two ladies over there."

He moved away from the others and joined Jenette and her new American friend but they could still hear the raised voices of those still in the argument.

"Please, gentlemen!" Sven pleaded with the remaining men. "Can we leave politics to the politicians?"

"That's why we're in the mess we're in!"

The Englishman turned his back on the group and began to search his pockets for another packet of cigarettes. The others, by now, were sitting and unwrapping their sandwiches. Sven had brought several large thermos-flasks of hot soup and he was handing it around in polystyrene cups. Jenette sipped her soup in little sips and wistfully watched the Englishman as he went, first through his outer pockets, and now had begun to search further in.

"A penny for your thoughts, dear?" Doris had noticed the look on the girl's face.

"Oh, sorry," Jenette answered coming back to reality. "I was just wondering what the people were really like who lived here so long ago. Why did they come up this mountain? Do you think horrible things were really done up here?"

Doris nodded.

"I think so. I read an article that said deformed babies were brought up here and left to die."

"How horrible. That must have been awful for the mothers. Why did it happen?"

"They had to survive. I expect life was very hard for everyone and they didn't have the resources or food to feed anyone who couldn't contribute. Eskimos put old people out in the snow to die. It was just their way."

"I don't think I could live like that." Jenette thought of Koro. She could never bring herself to put him out in the snow to die like that. He had so much he could still teach her and he was all that she had between the modern western world and her Maori past. "Doris?" she asked, "why did you come here?"

"I love to ski." She laughed. "My jacket would have told you that. I also like to travel because I like finding out about others. I've plenty of friends back home who are just content to stay put. They think their way's right and they'd be quite prepared to fight for it. That's not me. I enjoy people and all their different cultures." She pointed back towards the rocks with their strange, chiselled pictures. "Take those rocks. I've seen picture rocks in many places: Australia, Egypt, those at Steinkjer and some in the States. Look at those markings. Try to understand them. What do think they might mean? Who did them? If we knew the answers to that, we'd be closer to knowing these people and understanding their culture."

That made sense to Jenette. She was the product of two cultures: the one Koro had introduced her to, and the other, a European background, possibly with Norwegian connections. That was one of the reasons she had made the trip to the other side of the globe; she wanted to discover her European identity. She felt that here in this remote northern town she could bring the two sides of herself together. There were links, she was sure and she had to discover those links for herself. She just needed time to do it.

She got up and wandered over to the rocks. Doris followed. They stood side by side and as Jenette studied the strange linear marks that had been etched into the rock surface, she thought of the different races and cultures that contributed to her own identity. Do the different people back home really understand each other? There still seemed to be many misunderstandings. If people within her own country could not work out long-standing grievances for the good of all and work towards a stronger, more understanding nation, then what hope is there for the rest of the world?

Will we ever become one people and learn to live side by side without hostility? she thought.

"What do you think those people were like?" she asked Doris.

"Probably not really much different from us. They just had different problems to solve."

"I think these writings have a something to do with this mountain," Jenette replied. "Was their life all fighting and war? Do you think what was said about them was true?"

"Quite possibly. Most of it. It's likely it had to be. Life would have been very harsh in those days. If you didn't fight or plunder your neighbour, you may have been the one to die. But in the same way, they were great explorers and wonderfully skilled sailors. We know now that they even reached the shores of America long before Columbus did. Even though their voyage was dangerous and they had no idea of the new world ahead of them, they made a journey into the unknown. I guess they were seeking out new opportunities for their families. Isn't that the way of human nature?"

"The Pacific Islanders thought so. They migrated to my homeland," Jenette remarked. "And to Hawaii," she added smiling at Doris.

They returned to the shelter as the men began to gather up their things. Doris took Jenette's empty cup and threw it into the plastic rubbish bag with her own. They checked around to make sure nothing had been left behind.

"Come on, Jenny," urged Doris "or we'll be left behind. The others are ready to move."

As the party moved away and began their descent, Jenette kept glancing back at the mountain face they were leaving behind. She was still fascinated by it. She spoke to the guide.

"You know you said that this was called the Mountain of Curses by the villagers because people disappeared. Is that when it's misty? But if it was really fine, like today, you'd be safe enough, wouldn't you?"

"Possibly," answered Sven. "But you have to remember that the weather around these mountains is very variable and can change very quickly. Mountains have their own moods. They can turn out to be very dangerous. Never forget that."

Sven studied the young woman for a few minutes before joining the rest of his party. He pointed to some of the older buildings snuggled on the valley floor.

"Over to the far right is the fjord harbour that's used today. You can see the fishing boats. That is the modern area and is still being developed today. One of the things Sleggvik does is build small trawlers for Trondheim's fishing fleet. Now over to the left of those buildings is the original part and its harbour where the original boats were pulled up onto the shore. See that large spire down there?" He pointed to the old town centre where the original settlement had begun. "Under that building, we found the foundations of a large hall. Today, a timber and stone church built in the sixteenth century stands over that very spot. Because the people by then were good Christians, the new church became the focal point for village life."

The tourists scanned the landscape below, taking snaps of the different things that caught their interest. They began to descend more rapidly now that they had removed their clumsy snow-shoes and were able to follow the path. Jenette, who had been bringing up the rear, suddenly realised their guide was offering more information. She ran to catch up.

". . . as fragments of timber artifacts were discovered, the scientists began to suspect that many of the lower areas were once heavily forested and that, as demand for more land grew, the farms on the flatter land became smaller. It seems likely that the village people, especially those who had farmland, began to fight among themselves . . ."

"What's that dome-like thing down there?"

Doris pointed in the direction of the old harbour.

The guide turned to face her.

"What?"

She pointed again.

"That!"

"That dome's the building that contains a longboat. It's well worth a visit. It's remains were found by the fjord when some men went digging around in the mud. That longboat is one of the more unusual finds, as on one side, there are a few letters of our alphabet, the Roman one - and we know that those early people did not use such a script, although they did travel quite a distance. Maybe, they came into contact with early monks, or something. Who knows?"

"What does it say?" asked Jenette. She was fascinated and perplexed at the same time.

"Not much. It doesn't seem to make much sense. We can make out an 'A' - and n 'N' - er, possibly a 'B,' or an 'R,' - or it could be a 'P.' Something like that. It's so old, there's not much left. Nobody's come up with a satisfactory explanation, as yet. There are two theories: one, is that this longboat went to France or Italy and that one of their captives was a monk or a scribe, and that he inscribed his name or a message on the boat when it invaded his homeland; and the other theory is that the water came further up the valley than it does today, and that someone later on robbed the sunken vessel of its treasures and carved his name on the side . . ."

"Ancient graffiti!" exclaimed the Englishman in a manner of someone who disapproved of such things.

"So even they had their graffiti writers!"

One of the men made the remark but Jenette did not see who it was. Everyone laughed. Sven was very patient and waited for the laughter to die down.

"If any of you are lucky enough to visit Kristansand, you can see a large prow carving. It's a huge dragon head, standing almost two meters high. Unfortunately, the one on our longboat was damaged when the boat was found, but if you have the time, it's still worth a visit."

Jenette was fascinated. She became quite excited by his description.

By this time, the group had reached the Stonehenge rock again. Suddenly, a mysterious emotion, one she had never experienced before, overwhelmed her. Cold goose-bumps began to creep up her body. She clenched her teeth as a spirit awakened inside her, making her fingertips tingle. She began to shake as though chilled; yet inside she burned. Her skin felt wet and cold. Doris noticed the colour drain from the girl's face and instantly wanted to protect her as if she were a child of her own. The older woman put a protective arm around the girl and hugged her towards her own body.

"Are you feeling all right, dear? You don't look well."

Doris' voice came through to Jenette like a far away echo. It was as though a veil had come down between them.

"I - I feel dizzy."

Jenette put up a hand to shield her face. Her head began to throb. She had never had a headache like this before.

"Maybe it's the rare air up here - we're still quite high up, you know. Or it's the cold's got to you. I do believe your shivering, poor thing. Keep close to me, dear. I'll look after you."

The older woman felt quite protective for the girl whose teeth couldn't stop chattering. Doris made sure she walked close to Jenette and kept checking her to make sure she was not going to collapse.

As the party neared the place where the bus had remained, the sky was slowly beginning to change to a deep orange-red as the winter sun began to settle down behind the smooth topped mountains. The town buildings, their roofs glistening in the evening light, cast long shadows of purple, blue-grey onto the snow-scape around. Curls of silent, wispy smoke curled skywards from a hundred cylindrical chimney-pots. Twilight began to fade and darkness descend. The bus hummed its way back down the road, winding its way through the outlying farmlets and into the narrow streets of the old town. It was just after five.

### CHAPTER 3

For the rest of the week the weather closed in with low, thick grey cloud that completely covered the town, bringing spasmodic, heavy, snow blizzards. Everything plunged into a gloomy, bleak and dismal greyness that merged into blackness with the approaching nightfall. The fjord waters looked menacing and depressing and the shallower waters in the streams iced over as temperatures plummeted below freezing. Howling gale-force winds slashed with tumultuous force against the wooden shutters that covered the windows at the Inn and made them rattle just as though the wind was creating its own symphonic overture. Outside, the accumulated snowfall piled higher and higher against the walls trying to find a way inside as pathways and roads were wiped out as the snow layer grew. Inside, in the hall between the out and the in, skis and thick snow boots were casually thrown into a heap against the wall. But as soon as the inner door was opened and the traveller felt the warmth of the interior and heard the chatter and laughter of those inside, life within the Inn took on a new character.

For the first time since her arrival, Jenette found that the Inn was overflowing with people. A continuous mixture of chatter, laughter and background music rose and fell in undulating rhythm. Groups of people formed and split apart as each struck up new introductions and joined in the different conversations that appeared to satiate every corner of the room. The interior was warm and friendly, well lit and colourful. It was a popular place for young backpackers to be together and this evening it was more packed than usual for there was not much else to do but fill in time and wait for the atrocious weather outside to clear.

Jenette made her way downstairs to the lounge. It was crowded. She edged her way round the tall, frosted glass door, and squeezed past a small group who had taken up residence just inside. A thick haze of smoke hung in the air, about head height and the sudden change of atmosphere caused her eyes to smart. Her nostrils picked up the pungent smell of burning tobacco. She made her way towards the middle of the room, squinting frequently to stop the stinging sensation in her eyes. She passed several visitors whom she had seen carrying skis earlier in the week. They were shouting to each other above the rest of the noise. Each person seemed to be bragging about past exploits on the ski-fields but no-one seemed to be paying much attention to what was actually being said. She noticed another small party that had gathered around a television set, which although on, was not being looked at. Four people were occupied with a card game, completely oblivious to the chaos that surrounded them. However, the majority had gathered up the far end of the room where several small tables and a bar were situated.

She tried negotiating her way through the mass of bodies, winding her way like a small ship in a mine-field. She had almost reached the bar, when someone spoke.

"Hello thar!"

The voice shouted above the din. It was the young Englishman she had met on the tram.

"Hi!"

"Like a drink?" he shouted again.

"Thanks!" She shouted back.

Jenette found herself sandwiched between two well-padded people. She could not negotiate past their protruding stomachs. The young man held up his hand and shouted to her again.

"Stay put. I'll get it. What'll it be?"

She was going to ask for a Shandy but decided he may not call it by that name, so instead, she called to him as loud as she could.

"Beer 'n' lemonade, please. Is that OK?"

She had been caught out in London with English beer for it had been warm and flat, not at all like the ice-cold, fizzy beer they served at home. She had learnt to ask for a beer-lemonade mix as the cold lemonade helped cool down the beer. She thought,

Funny what people get used to. Such little things separate us and make us different.

It reminded her of kaanga pirau, the sweet and sickly fermented corn her mother helped Koro prepare. Nobody else could stand the taste, let alone the strong sickly smell it had. It was worse than the silage they gave the cows but Koro relished the dish.

"Try some, you kids," he would say, his spoon dripping in it, his lips smothered with it.

"Na. Smells yuk!" Would be their usual reply.

Now kina, the sea-egg - she found that seafood delicious - like eating strawberry jam but with a fishy taste. That's how it looked - like strawberry jam - when the brown, prickly shell was broken into and the dark red flesh of the sea-egg made its appearance.

"Meet me over thar!" the young man yelled and drew her attention to a space at one of the small tables that had been set out down that end of the room. "I'll bring the drinks over!"

She nodded, not that she expected him to see her acknowledgement, but she had done so from habit. Jenette forced her way between the bodies and over to the table. She quickly claimed two unoccupied stools and just in time for her new friend arrived with two large drinks in both hands. He sat down.

"Gosh, that was tight." He placed the drinks on the table. "By the way," he said cheerfully, "me name's Peter. What's yers?"

"Jenette." She raised her glass towards her lips. "My friends call me Jenny. Cheers!"

"Cheers, Jenny!" He had a sip, put the glass down again and began tapping the table with his fingertips. "Did yer find the museum?"

"Yes. Thanks."

"Did yer see those carvings yer wanted t' see?"

"Yes, thanks." She took another mouthful and replaced the glass. The drink was most refreshing, especially in the heat of the room. She smiled at Peter. "They're neat! Choice! They're different from the ones we've got at home but in some ways, y'know, they're quite similar. My Koro . . ."

"Koro?" he asked, not understanding.

"Yeah, grandfather," she answered. "Koro used to be a carver . . . carved all sorts of things. Boat prows and walking sticks. Did the new posts for our meeting house. We were real proud of him!"

"Sounds most interestin'." Peter was fascinated.

She blushed a little, sensing his interest in her, and then reaching inside her sweater, she carefully pulled out the carved ornament that she kept around her neck.

"Koro made this, too," she said with pride as she held it aloft. Peter leaned across the table and studied the dainty, faultlessly carved pennant with its graceful curves and highly polished alabaster surface.

"It's beautiful!" He exclaimed with a faint whistle. "Jus' like the dragon carvin's. Yer're very lucky t' have such a clever gran'father. Yer'll have to take good care of it - 'n' not lose it."

"Oh, no. I won't!" She answered with strong conviction in her voice. "I'd never take it off! It's been blessed. No-one else can wear it. See, my middle name's on the back." She carefully turned the pennant over. "Awhina, see?"

"That's an unusual name. Never heard of that name."

"It's a Maori name. My mum's Maori. Well, mainly. Koro's her dad. Dad's family sailed out from England in the eighteen-eighties. He said that some of his ancestors came from Norway but we don't know that for sure. I do feel somehow there's a connection. Know what I mean?"

"Yup. Everyone's a mixture, especially us lot. We're the ingredients of our inheritance."

"Koro said I've got two inheritances. One there . . . and one here."

"Sounds as if yer really like your," Peter hesitated as though trying to find the word. Finally, he finished his sentence simply with, "gran'father."

"Oh, I do," she said enthusiastically. "We're real close. He used to look after me a lot, 'specially when Mum was busy or the twins were giving her a hard time."

"Did yer gran'father do any other kind of work, or was carving his main job?"

"Oh no. He did other things as well - you know, odd jobs 'n' the like. That's after he had to give up farming. He hurt his back and couldn't lift the bales any more. Carving was his real love. Even Nana couldn't compete with that. He made it his hobby. Still is."

Peter nodded. He really liked this young New Zealand girl.

"Your nana? Did she live with yer, too?"

"No. She and Koro had a big row and Nana went back to her people down south. You know what's it's like."

"Ah!" Peter paused to take one large gulp of his drink before changing the conversation. "By the way, did yer enjoy tha' mountain trip yer went on last Wednesday?"

He put his glass down on the table and began running his finger around the rim several times but this time Jenette hardly noticed.

"You bet! It was very interesting. Thanks for letting me know, Peter. The guide who took us up there told us quite a bit about the district - told us some real fascinating stories about . . ." She pulled a face and covered her right hand over her mouth. "Jotenfjell - the Mountain of Curses."

Peter's face lit up with a cheeky grin.

"Did he tell yer 'bout those two brothers?"

"Mmm. Gruesome, eh?"

She made a face to express her distaste. Peter laughed. She felt as though he was trying to pull her leg.

"I think that's said that for the benefit of tourists, don't yer?"

Jenette didn't know what to say, so she shrugged.

"Don't know. Might be true."

She giggled as her answer had embarrassed her. Peter lifted the rest of his ale to his lips and drained the mug. With an automatic gesture, he licked around his lips. Jenette then noticed that he had the hairline of a dark narrow moustache that was growing just above his top lip.

"Want another?"

He pushed his chair away from the table and started to stand up.

"No, thanks." She looked into her mug. "I've still got some left."

He sat down again and rocked the empty glass back and forth. For a while they sat in silence together and then Peter leaned forward and asked,

"Yer doin' anything tomorrow?"

Jenette was amused at the way he had to fiddle with things; first the tram ticket, then the table and now the mug. Nervous people often resorted to displacement activities, like that and maybe Peter was a little nervous, or over-anxious. This time he did not wait for her to answer.

"The weather's s'posed to clear up in a day or so. Can't ski for a while, though. Say, is there anywhere yer'd like t' see? I could take you."

Jenette thought for a while. She looked at the ceiling as the thought rushed through her brain. Finally, she said,

"Make it a date? Yeah, I'd love to see that boat we were told about - you know, that one that was found near the old harbour. Do you know the one?"

"Yup. Quite an interestin' find." His eyes lit up and he was pleased by her interest. "Look, we can still go there even if the weather's bad. Tell yer what - meet me at the reception hall a' eleven tomorrow. We could have a meal together. I know of a really good place. They serve up real local food. You'd love it. 'n' then we could go 'n' see that longboat. Say, how about, it?" She nodded. He continued now in an excited manner. "By the way, me full name's Peter Norrich. Room 27 on the second floor. If I'm a bit late, the receptionist can give me a buzz."

"Thanks. Sounds great!" She was really beginning to like this Peter Norrich and felt her holiday was taking a new turn. "Thanks for everything, Peter. I'd better be getting off. Been having too many late nights, lately. Haven't been sleeping that well." She stood up and smoothed down her track pants. She gave Peter a little fingertip wave. "See ya! In the morning, eh?"

"Bye, Jenny. See yer at eleven, then."

The noise had begun to subside as the crowd began to thin out. Quite a few of the noisy ones had left but Jenette noticed that the rowdy card-playing foursome were still occupied and every now and then loud laughter would erupt from their table. She guessed that they would be there for most of the evening until they either got bored or fell of their chairs because they were too drunk. She thought of the women at home who looked after everyone when there was a hui. After all the dishes had been done, they'd while away the hours in a card game, often retiring in the early hours of the morning but they wouldn't be drinking like these tourists.

As Jenette passed the group, one of them, a young woman, barely gave her a passing glance, her card hand being far too important to notice Jenette's passing. She closed the door, stepped into the corridor and began to climb the solid wooden stairs with their faded red nylon carpet and thought of the young man who had just asked her out. He seemed nice enough and certainly made her feel at ease with his friendly manner. It would be good to have the companionship with someone who not only knew the town but was also fluent in English, as well. She wondered where he would be taking her for lunch. She had not yet tasted real Norwegian food. The expectation made her tongue tingle.

After she had undressed herself, she wrote a few words to her family on the back of one of the postcards she'd bought earlier. The other one was for Kate and she'd written on that the day before. Tomorrow she'd try and get them posted.

The next morning, the clouds lifted a little. Immediately after breakfast, Jenette tore back up to her room, unlatching the window and pulling back the shutter. She looked up. Patchy, dull cloud covered an ashen sky. The wind had dropped at ground level yet the clouds moved restlessly high above. The weather was on the change.

She sat on the bedroom stool and applied a spot of green eye-shadow to her lids, smearing outwards with her fingertip. She outlined her full lips with the 'Wild Heather' lipstick she had brought with her and gazed deep into the mirror with her large, deep brown eyes, daydreaming. Whatever would Koro say now if he could see her? He didn't approve of this modern paint work; said it made a beautiful woman look cheap. But then, his granddaughter would remind him that women in his younger days would tattoo their lips and chins to make themselves look beautiful, too. She wondered what the women did to themselves when the village of Sleggvik was first settled. Did they add colour to their faces or wear coloured woven braids in their hair? She pulled her shoulder-long black hair back into a pony tail and tied it with a soft pale green scarf.

Peter was already waiting in the hall when she arrived. He had been leaning on the reception desk, tapping his fingers to the rhythm of some melody which only he could hear.

"Gee, am I late?"

She jumped down the last two steps of stairs and joined Peter in the lobby.

"You're not late. Anyway, it's worth waitin' for a pretty lass. Come on, shall we go?"

Jenette nodded and followed Peter through the door and out into the cold bracing winter air. It made her cough slightly as the cold touched her throat. She pulled up her scarf to cover her frozen nose and lips. They struggled through the fresh fallen snow for a while. It was difficult to tell where the footpath ended and the road began.

"We can pick up an early tram into town," Peter mentioned. He guided her across the street. "If we turn left just over there, we'll be onto the main road and that will have been cleared of snow an' we'll be able to catch a tram there."

Jenette nodded and followed. It was lucky that Peter knew his way around for she remembered him saying that he'd visited Sleggvik several times. The tram arrived, rumbling and banging, snow spraying from underneath as its wheels slid along the rails. They boarded and rode on it for several minutes, before alighting just outside a restaurant.

The atmosphere was homely and comfortable. Large round spherical lampshades dangled low above each table and deer antlers provided a Scandinavian element that was a feature of many interiors around the town. Peter and Jenette sat, waiting for the menu. Peter, as usual, found something to occupy his restless hands. A large, bulky woman dressed in national costume arrived to take their order. Jenette leaned towards Peter, and whispered,

"I don't know what to order . . . I can't read it. What are sursild?"

Peter laughed.

"No idea. Try it or just point at the first thing your eyes stop at, 'n' that's what yer'll order. At least, that's what I do. Fun, don't you think?"

Jenette nodded, but wasn't entirely convinced. She pointed to the menu with her finger, holding it up for the waitress to see. Peter put in his order, too.

"Do you have any idea what you'll get?" she asked with an amused expression.

"Eggs!" he replied with conviction.

"Hey, I thought you said you couldn't

read the menu!"

"I can't," he answered. "Been before. I did what you did an' when I got eggs, well, I knew what to point at next time."

"Cheat!"

Peter laughed at her mild anger that she had directed at him. He further teased her when his meal arrived before hers. It was two round poached eggs on a plate, garnished with onion and nutmeg and served with chips.

"See - an' I get served first!"

Jenette gave him a scathing look.

"I'll catch you out sometime, Peter Norrich . . . "

She was going to say something else when her own dish arrived at the table.

"What yer got?" he asked as he cut into the first egg.

"Fish." She tried some. "Mm, tastes great! Pickled. On some sort of bread base. Ka pai!" She ate more. "Hey, do you know what this fish is called?"

"Herrings, most like," he stated as soon as he had swallowed his mouthful. "Why, what d' yer usually have?"

Jenette reeled off a list of fish species he found strange and exotic.

". . . hapuka, moki, tarakihi . . ."

"Never heard of those. Are they New Zealand fish?"

She nodded and grinned at him.

"Of course!"

"Well, yer sit back 'n' enjoy your North Sea Herrings. Norway's famous for their fish dishes."

At the end of the meal, the waitress brought two steaming cups of hot, black coffee and a jug of cream. The two sat chatting a little while longer before venturing out into the cold once again.

They arrived at the modern building that housed the ship. The geodesic dome stood about ten meters high. Metal struts honeycombed the outer surface, and the opaque walls curved upwards until they appeared to disappear under the snow that had settled during the past week. Even the interior was cool and their breaths left their lips in puffs every time they spoke. The spaciousness of the interior reminded Jenette of the inside of a hydro-electric powerhouse. In the centre of the large dome building, supported by ten large blocks and numerous rails, stood the hull of a large wooden boat. Most of the wooden planks were intact but a few towards the stern did not complete the side. To make it complete, a new mast had been erected and the remains of a large sail had been suspended from the main spar. Its extensive white and red striped pattern hung in the stillness of the air, like the wings of some giant bird suspended in time and motion. Round wooden shields had been attached to the outer hull, reminding Jenette of children's paintings pegged out to dry on the wire lines that stretched across the classrooms of the local primary school that she had attended when she was a child.

"Well, now yer've seen it, what d' yer think?"

Peter's words broke the magic.

"Mmm, it's considerably bigger than I'd expected," she answered. She was still unable to remove her eyes from the boat. It was thirty meters in length with two sharp pointed ends, one, at the stern rising up into a spiral, and the other, at the bows, being furnished with several large wooden pegs, where she guessed the dragon head would have been put. "Reminds me of the large waka taua, war canoes, that Maori build," she said. "But this one's much bigger and much deeper. And our canoes have lots of beautiful carvings on the sides."

"These boats had shields on the sides and I guess they would've made it quite colourful - like the one in the picture over by the door whar we came in."

"Is this a real dragon boat?"

Jenette bent down below the hull and tilted her head as she looked up from the keel and along the length of the planked side.

" 'Cause it's real!" Peter began reading the information plaque which had been written in Norwegian and English. "It says they're called 'drakkar' which means 'dragon-boats' or 'longboats'."

Jenette stood up

"How many would it hold, do you think?"

"This one? Twenty or thirty, I'd guess."

He scanned down the plaque until he found the information.

"Whew, it says on here," he stated as he read the English script aloud, "that as many as fifty men could've fitted into a longboat such as this. This actual vessel was a smaller than the largest of its kind so that, complete with weaponry and provisions, about thirty or forty men would've taken 'er on a raid."

"Wow!"

Jenette was silent as she studied the ancient relic before her. Her eyes moved along the wooden hull from end to end, as she silently reflected her thoughts deep into her mind. The hull had been well preserved by the mud except for a small section at the stern.

"That bow piece at the front," said the curator who had noticed her interest and had come over to them, "carried a dragon's head."

"Yes, it's in the museum," remarked Jenette. "I was also told about some writing on the boat - do you know where it is?"

"On the other side."

The curator pointed the way. Jenette followed Peter round to the starboard side of the vessel. They stood pressing hard against the surrounding rope.

"Those marks are along here, somewhere - at one end, I think. They look a bit like letters." Peter spent some time looking for the inscription. "They're not easy to find . . . "

"A little further on," suggested the curator.

He watched Peter for a minute and then walked over to the tour group that had just come in.

Peter moved along the hull.

"Ah, here they are!"

As Jenette moved closer, Peter pointed out the etchings that had been scratched into the surface. Jenette stood on tip-toe as the writing was high up on the hull just above the waterline. She studied them, intently, oblivious to anything else, except the marks. Peter moved away and began to wander around the building, gazing at other items on display. Jenette pushed down on the rope and stepped over the threshold, standing only centimetres from the boat's side. She stretched as she tried to decipher the etchings, mouthing the sounds as she read.

"N - M - E -"

She decided that the next symbol looked like a 'D'. She stretched and extended her index finger so that she could touch the graffiti that was causing so much speculation. The tip of her finger came into contact with the rough, chiselled surface.

"Stop! Stop, lady! You cannot do that!"

One of the attendant's had noticed she was no longer standing behind the rope. He rushed forward to get her to move back.

The room began to spin. The walls whirled round, gathering memento with each revolution. She tried to break away from the ship's side but her finger remained securely glued to its side and she felt a pulling as though the boat itself was deliberately trying to pull her in. Then just as suddenly, the revolutions began to slow down and the violent spinning subsided. Everything appeared hazy and it was as if she were looking at them through a veil. Only the longboat was clear and in focus. She felt her pulse race as sweat poured down her back, soaking the clothing under her thick coat. Her skin became clammy. It was as though a hundred crawling creatures were climbing through her hairs over her arms and legs. She imagined that she called out but she could not be sure.

Peter ran over immediately. She stood riveted there. Her skin was pale and wet. She was trembling and her outstretched hand was shaking yet still she could not break her connection with the boat. She could hear voices but they were reedy and thin as if far, far away.

"Is she not well?"

"Careful! Watch her!"

"Are you all right?"

"Sorry, you must come back. It is not permitted . . ."

Jenette's mouth went dry. She tried to pull herself away from the vessel so that she could turn and face the one who had spoken to her. Instead, she sank to the floor like a rag doll.

### CHAPTER 4

It was Peter's voice.

"Hello, Jenny. Feelin' better?"

Jenette opened her eyes and looked around. No, she wasn't in the dome any more; that was certain.

"Where am I?" She still felt drowsy and a little faint.

"Yer're in the town hospital."

"Why?"

She was bewildered. She couldn't remember arriving. The last thing that had been in her mind was a strange, pulling sensation and the vision of the longboat. She tried to sit up, but slumped back on the pillows.

"Yer've had some sort'v turn or shock. Yer fainted," Peter told her. "Several of uz brought you in here. I'm afraid I wasn't much help . . . I only know yer first name 'n' that yer're from New Zealand. Don't worry. Yer'll be fine."

"Thanks."

She attempted a smile.

"Look, I've got yer these," he beamed as he produced a bunch of flowers from behind his back. "They'll cheer yer up 'n' help yer get better."

"Thanks! They're great. Beautiful! Oh, Peter, you're so good to me." She sat in bed and looked at the flowers for some time. "They're beautiful!" She looked back at Peter. "I don't know what came over me. I've never done that before. I just don't . . ."

The door opened and a nurse came into the room.

"Ah, good. I see the young lady is with us again."

She was petite with a small round nose and lively blue eyes. Her English was remarkably good but she had a faint foreign accent Peter guessed could possibly have been Danish. She certainly was not originally from Norway.

"Look what Pater's brought me."

Jenette held the bunch of flowers towards the nurse. She leaned forward and smelt them.

"Lovely. Very nice." The nurse turned to Peter. "Would you like to find a container for them?" she asked. "You can fill it from the wash-room. The nurse handed the bunch of flowers over to Peter. "We're keeping you in here for a few days observation," the nurse said as she re-arranged Jenette's pillows. She withdrew a notebook from her pocket and thumbed through the pages. "Your friend here tells us you're from New Zealand. That's a long way from here." Jenette nodded and the nurse continued on in her breezy manner, "I've heard it's a lovely place."

"Sorry to butt in," said Peter who had the feeling he had been forgotten, "but whar did yer say I could find a container?"

"Oh, sorry. Go down the corridor and it's the first door on your left. You'll find containers for flowers in a cupboard there."

Peter nodded and gave a 'thumbs-up' sign. The nurse waited until Peter with the flowers had left the room.

"Jenette Wilkingson?"

Jenette nodded.

"That's right. 'Jenette' without an 'a'."

"We have noted that. We've contacted the place where you were staying so we have the details off your passport." The nurse glanced at Jenette's notes which hung on the foot of her bed. "You seem to have had some sort of nervous upset. We've run a few tests and they all came back fine. I'm sure there's nothing to worry about." She patted Jenette reassuringly on her arm. "Now, I've just got to ask you a few questions before your friend comes back."

As Jenette gave the information to the nurse, she made jottings in her notebook. When Peter returned, with the flowers in a vase, Jenette was sitting up. A happy smile spread across her face.

"Good. Yer're looking brighter every minute," he quipped.

Peter put the vase on the small table beside her where she could easily see her flowers. Their fragrance was beginning to fill the air around her, a breath of spring inside even though it was so wintery outside.

"The nurse said I'll be in here for a couple of days. I feel so stupid fainting like that."

"Don't worry about it. Cheer up, Jenny! Yer'll soon be out as fit as a fiddle."

Jenette was amused at his expression and the way he had said it and it made made her feel better already.

"Thanks, Peter."

"Look, I'll pop in each day 'n' yer - so don't think yer've been forgotten!"

Jenette stayed in the small town hospital for two endless days, recuperating from her ordeal. Peter kept his word and arrived every visiting time as he had promised. But how time seemed to drag. Minutes crept into sluggish hours, the time between light off and lights on seemed stretched out of proportion. As visiting hour came closer, Jenette would lean back on her pillows, waiting, waiting, waiting. She felt like the family dog watching for the return of its owners - now she knew how Mischief, her own family's dog must must have felt as he waited for the door of the shed to be unlocked every morning so that he could run free. Mum refused to have him inside as the kids always tried to smuggle him into their beds and then over the next week they would complain of all the flea bites across their tummies and down their legs.

Yes, thought Jenette, it really must be like this every morning for Mischief.

Jenette spent, what seemed like an indeterminable time waiting for the gong to signal visiting time. Until she heard that, there was nothing to do but wait! Look at the ceiling and wait. Look around the walls and wait. Be patient, she told herself but the time slowed down and dragged. It was a reluctant drag on her part. She wished for time to at least stay constant but unfortunately it didn't and slowly, ever so slowly each minute ticked by. She couldn't even read any of the magazines to while away the time. Except for an odd advertisement where there was an English word, she could understand nothing.

Jenette's world at the moment revolved around the timepiece of the hospital - meals, temperature taking, bed making, the coming and going of the nurses. That was her existence. Only Peter's visits broke the monotony of her day. He sat beside her bed and told her everything that had been going on beyond her hospital room.

Finally, she was allowed to leave. Peter arrived to accompany her out of the building and lead her back into a world where her time perception was now the same as everyone else's. However, her joy was short lived for, as she and Peter left the hospital grounds, he gave her the bad news that his holiday had come to an end and that within three or four days, he had to catch a flight back to Birmingham Airport.

"There are things we could do together, if you promise me that yer won't faint on me like that again."

Peter had gathered some pamphlets for them to look over. For the following few days left, the pair went around together, enjoying each other's company and coming to the realisation that their time together had been most worthwhile.

Just before he left for the ferry, Peter made sure he had given Jenette all his contact details - home address, phone number, where he worked and a list of names should she not find him straight away. He took note of her itinerary and her flight details and made her promise that she would phone him the minute she got to England.

"Come t' Brum. Book a flight to Birmingham Airport, Jenette but don't worry if yer can't. Heathrow or Stansted'll be fine. Just contact home and I'll be there to pick yer up. I promise!"

She laughed.

"I believe you. I'll promise to do that - when I've finished here. I was going on to England afterwards, anyway."

"'An yer'll have t'meet me mom. She's a great cook. Yer'll get on fine t'gether."

"I'm sure I will. And if you ever get to New Zealand, you can meet Koro. He gets on with everyone, my koro does."

Jenette accompanied Peter to the ferry terminal. She insisted on carrying his day bag for him as his large backpack appeared so weighty on his back. As the horn blew and the time for departure arrived, she handed over his bag. As Peter took it from her, her leaned forward and kissed her.

"See yer soon! Ter ra!"

Jenette waved goodbye to the receding vessel until it was only a speck moving out into the fjord. Her shoulder ached and her arm felt as if it were to drop off but she did not care. She was happy and sad at the same time: happy that she'd met such a wonderful young man as Peter Norrich and sad that they'd had such a short time together.

Back in her room at the Inn, Jenette felt empty and lonely. She looked out of the window at the clearing sky. The mountain dominated the scene, broody and foreboding. It stood, silent and severe, austere in character, its snow-covered apex etched in sharp contrast to the pale icy-grey sky that was its backdrop. Jotenfjell, Mountain of Curses. The name fascinated her and she stood watching the low afternoon sun sink down behind her horizon.

As the sun sank from view, mountain and sky changed first to a deep gold-red and then to a deep blue-purple until both mountain and sky became one. Darkness descended, drawing its curtain across her view, and Jenette wondered how such a thing of beauty could have come by such a violent name. Mountain of Curses. Did that mountain have a personality of its own? Ruapehu. That, too, was a mountain, one from her own homeland, and even though it also looked harmless enough, and people played and skied over its slopes, deep down in its unseen core, a god slumbered, sometimes waking to rumble and shake the ground and to belch defiance to the humans who had violated his sacred domain. That mountain, which brought so much fun and excitement for those who went to seek out the snow, was also the culprit for death and destruction. Ruamoko, the god of earthquakes, continually awoke from his sleep in the depths of the earth and threw out ash and rocks on to the land and its people around him. He was someone to be wary of. Mountain of Curses! Maybe, it was the same. Maybe Mountain of Curses, too, had a sleeping giant deep inside. She recalled the warnings the guide had given, yet, surely if the weather stayed fine, just another look, just a little bit past the stones would not hurt. This was modern day Europe!

European mountains don't have a tapu on them, do they? she wondered. No, mountains here in Europe are giant lumps of rock, nothing more. People have grown away from their intimate contact with the landscape. This is modern day Norway.

Dawn arrived. The sky was clear except for the faintest line of a cloud wisp that lay at the far end of the fjord where the sky kissed the sea. Expectation hung in the air. She was determined to get off to an early start. She remembered her bone pendant and remembered what Koro had said when he had given it to her.

"Let this be your moko. 'Awhina' means 'help' and so, Jenny-Girl, while you wear your moko, it will protect you. But remember, all taniwha have two sides to them - so treat this with respect."

She secured the lizard-like pendant around her neck and tucked it inside the top of her thick blouse. Jenette hastily pulled on a woollen jumper and pulled it down over the top of her brightly coloured track suit. That amount of clothing should keep her warm.

"Behave yourselves while I'm gone!" she called back to the rabbits with droopy ears that hung on her wardrobe door. Funny how they seemed to grow on her - those marks upon the door - her own pet rabbits. They almost seemed real. She grabbed the fur-lined gloves she had bought in town, slung the useful teal-coloured airline bag over her right shoulder, and made a hurried exit out of her room.

The hallway was deserted. She had the stairs to herself. Even the receptionist had not yet come on duty. And while the rest of the world slept, Jenette opened the door and slipped outside. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear the early morning snow-plough churning its way through the snow piles which had started to melt as temperatures rose slightly above freezing. Snow slush squelched under her feet as she made her way across the road. She caught the early tram that shattered the sleeping stillness of the morning and then made her own way up the narrow road taken by the bus a few days before. It was hard going and the exercise made her puff. She reached the first large stone as the day fully awoke, glancing only briefly at its cold, grey surface. She decided to give it a closer look on her way back. What was it? The guide had said that it represented Stonehenge.

"What is Stonehenge?"

She found herself speaking aloud words that were carried like ascending coils of smoke, upwards, dissolving into the side of the mountain. It's an interpretation of time. What did the guide say? This is a measurement of winter and summer solstice.

Jenette had a strong feeling that the stone monument somehow linked today with the past.

"The past of what?"

The past of the world. An ancient world. The observation of wandering planets: humans trying to understand their destiny. She paused for a while to catch her breath.

"What will my future be?" she asked aloud. Oh, come on, stupid, she thought. First sign of madness to talk to yourself. Stop it.

She turned back and looked down at the town. It was smaller than she thought. The houses did not appear to be real but like some child's game that had been set up. The diminutive cars and trams reminded her of her brothers' toys when they were little when they used to push them along the narrow wooden boards of the deck that surrounded their house. Jenette could almost see the boys, as they were now, coming back home in the coolness of a summer evening, a huge light-yellow sun lazily beginning to stretch itself out like a squashed grapefruit across the western sky, the boys dragging their dingy and fishing nets high above the water mark on a beach that extended so far into the distance that the blue and white shimmering sea became one with the distant dark-green rolling hills that seemed to hold the bay together. The boys were lucky most days with their catch - their bags bulging with smooth, shiny, elliptical fish and plastic buckets standing on the aluminium bottom of the boat, filled with dark-coloured pipi or round spiky kina that they had gathered among glossy, black rocks where only the boys knew where to look. What would they say if they could see her now, standing in this frozen wilderness on the side of a towering mountain? A world so far away; so different from the one she grew up in.

Jenette looked upwards at the rounded peak of the massive lump of rock towering high above. She felt an urgency. She was compelled to move on - there may be little time left before the clouds in the distance caught up with her. Only a short time. She checked her watch. It was nearing mid-day. She must hurry. She mustn't waste precious time. She wondered what time it was at Stonehenge, and that thought made her even more determined to move upwards.

In another hour, she stood before the 'sacrifice stone.' This time, its cold mass terrified her. There it stood, awesome and silent. Jenette stood, transfixed, held as though some evil magic was trying to pull her into the interior of the rock. She trod the snow flat around the perimeter of the tetrahedron, her gloved fingers brushing aside the soft snow that had fallen over the past few days. She removed her gloves. What did it matter if her fingers should become numb with the cold? She had to touch the stone; she had to feel the runic script that had been forced deep into its surface so long ago. That etched sign, resembling an elongated dart, seemed to burn into her mind. What did the guide say it meant? This runic script, he said, stood for 'transformation.' That other one like the 'less than' sign she had used in maths at school, he said stood for 'knowledge.' A transformation of knowledge. Is that what it meant? She could not remember the rest.

The air was as cold as if she were in a freezer. She could feel her fingers going numb. She decided she would touch the stones until there was nothing more to feel. Only then would she put on her gloves.

The breath from her warm lungs hung, frozen, suspended for an indefinite moment in the freezing mountain air. She took out her flask from her Air New Zealand bag and drank its hot beverage. She ate one of the sandwiches she had brought for her lunch, and as she swallowed the food, a wave of guilt gushed through her body.

"It's forbidden to eat anything in a tapu place!"

She could hear Koro's voice - the words deliberate and full of warning. Koro had instructed all his grandchildren in the rules and laws of tapu. It was wrong to break tapu! Very wrong!

She began to wonder if this Mountain of Curses really did have some spiritual quality, too. Like some of the mountains at home; like koro's home mountain, the one that connected him and his tribe to the land and the ancestors.

I belong . . . , Koro would say. That was every time he looked up to his mountain, the mountain of his ancestors. Koro and his mountain were connected.

He walked in the sacred footsteps of those who had gone before him and, it was hoped that his own children and their children and their children after would continue to look up to their mountain and identify with the land from whence it had been born.

No, not here. Surely not. Not in Europe!

She forgot to pick up her bag and left it snuggling into the soft snow. With slow, deliberate steps, she began to climb further on. The fresh crust of virgin snow willingly yielded at each footfall, leaving but the slightest indentation.

She passed the 'sacrifice stone' and climbed closer towards the summit. The mountain seemed to lure her on. Her footprints were left as silent reminders that someone had passed the point where no one had been before.

Slowly and steadily she climbed; further upwards; up towards the unknown.

They who venture beyond this point, never return!

They who become lost, never to be seen again!

The voices within her mind seemed real, yet she heeded them not. She clasped her taniwha. That would protect her and give her the strength to go on. She thought of her family: of her parents and Koro, of her grandmother down south who had recently passed on and of her father's grandparents who she did not yet know because they had lived on the other side of the world, and of everyone who had gone before. Before, until the very beginning when the children of Rangi, the sky parent, and Papa, the earth mother, had pushed upwards and separated their primeval parents for all time.

Evil mist spirits will appear and engulf you!

That's only when the clouds hang low.

Beware the ghosts of all my victims!

Jenette hesitated. She had gone too far. She did not want to seek answers with the ancestors any more. She tried to turn. She tried to escape. Fear surged throughout her body and she tried to run away. But the mountain had snared her, like a bird in a tree trap, like the fat pigeon which had taken the bait. Slowly, but surely, she was drawn upwards, closer towards the thick, smothering cloud that covered the summit.

Jenette was alone in the frozen wilderness. Her lungs heaved as she was impelled to climb higher. Her eyes ached in their sockets as the white glare of untrodden snow blinded her. Her breath froze on her parted lips. She desperately fought to fill her lungs with gulps of thin, reedy air.

The cold now bit right in to the core of her body, feasting like some deranged hungry animal, tearing and ripping deep into her flesh. She was unaware of her numb limbs, her useless arms hanging like limp, wet washing on one of those foggy days when not even the wind could make an effort to rouse itself. Shivering was something only captured within her mind; a stranger with whom no physical recognition was now possible.

As in a trance, she climbed still higher. Soon, every fibre, every frozen muscle, everything would be changed to ice. A frozen corpse, stiff and unchanging, a body in ice only to be discovered at some distant instance like a capsule of time, to be studied and puzzled over when, at the final moment, the cold was prepared to release her.

Silence.

The deep snow muffled her footsteps. She shook, stumbled - but still her legs carried her on further upwards into that silent world.

Silence.

As soundless as the surface of Saturn. It seemed as though this was a Universe; pallid and as pale as death. No perspective, no dimension, no passing of time. It was as though she was divided from life by an unseen veil; a fine curtain of net that only stirred in time to her breathing. Like mist.

Silence.

Then, she gasped. Panic.

"Oh, no! Mist! It's mist!"

The words hung, hushed and frozen on her blue lips. Spirits of the mist were descending; coming to claim their victim. Gradually, they enshrouded her caressing her body into a wintery embrace.

Sky and land became united once more. The mist clung with deathly quiescence. It curled with beckoning fingers, drawing her further into its bosom. She called to her ancestors.

"Awhinatia mai! Help me!" she wailed. "Please, please help me!"

The silence was now broken only by the wail of the wind; screaming winds, that like tortured souls, rushed around her, venting all their fury upon her frail human form. She swayed, bending like a tree in a storm. Her clothing ripped from her body with the ease of package paper torn from a gift. Howling tornado winds twisted their spiralling arms around her. Frosted blues and flashing golds spun in confusion like a crashing helicopter before her eyes.

"No! No! Let me live!"

A voice, reedy and faint within the tempest around her. She reeled! She felt herself falling! Her world thrown into chaos. Unbound energy feeding upon its victim. She found herself sinking into oblivion.

Darkness.

Flashes of intermittent light sparking into a moment of life. A pause. A suspension of time.

Exhaustion.

The frail form of a young woman lay, faintly breathing as the mists silently departed. A pale winter sun gently reached downwards, its melting rays serenely warming her battered body.

### CHAPTER 5

Jenette's eyes opened very slowly. A tall, well-built figure stood as a blurred image before her. As her eyes regained their ability to focus, she was able to distinguish his features more clearly. She looked up into the bearded face of a man in his mid-twenties. He seemed puzzled by her. Then, she noted that his hair was silver-white, like the colour of the moon. A pair of cruel stone-grey eyes gleamed beneath rough, bushy brows. She felt his staring gaze burn deep into her flesh. Instinctively, she pulled at her tattered clothing to hide her embarrassment.

A smirk passed over the face before her. He gave a low, short gutteral laugh and moved closer. He was tall and extremely muscular with the body shape of a body-builder. He stopped and bent his large torso over her. Then his long arm reached towards her and his broad, hairy hand came closer.

"No, don''t!" She cowered back into the safety of the snow. "Don't touch me! Keep away!"

The tall fur-clad figure ignored her. He poked at her with a stick. "Please \- " she pleaded.

When he spoke it was fast, in a strange, guttural language she did not understand. He stood, watching for her next reaction. She remained still, stiff with fear like a frightened fawn. He continued to watch in silence for several minutes before turning and taking several steps away. For a horrified moment, she thought he was going to leave her and although she despised the rough man, she couldn't bear to endure all that loneliness again.

"No - don't leave me!"

The man did not heed her calls. She made a struggled effort to stand. It was then that she noticed that the tall man had gone over to a sled that was nearby.

In her cry was the voiced fear of panic.

"Please, don't leave me here to die!"

The man stopped. He turned and strode with long strides back towards where she stood uneasily. He grabbed her arm with considerable force, pulling at her as a hunter might grab at his prey. She could smell the strong odour of stale sweat on his body. His tangled, matted hair hung either side of a hard, weather-beaten face. Jenette tried to wrench away her arm which now was giving her considerable pain.

Suddenly, he released his vice-like grip. The young woman fell back like an object cast away in disgust. Tears welled up in her eyes and began to flow uncontrollably down her cold cheeks.

The man spoke again. He had produced some leather straps and a cruel looking dagger with a wide, shining blade that glinted even in the dimness. She felt sure, now, that he intended to kill her. As he closed in towards her once more, she mustered all her remaining strength and began pounding his leather-bound legs with her fists.

He grabbed her hair, and pulled her face back as he sneered with satisfaction. She screamed and reached up to push his hands away but she had been weakened by the penetrating cold which made her as weak as a small child. In desperation, she stretched out her aching, frozen fingers and tried to grasp his cloth-bound legs. Suddenly, without warning, the back of his hard hand caught her across the face and sent her body reeling back into the snow. She felt extremely weak and powerless.

As the dark-haired woman lay helpless before him in the soft virgin snow, the tall man knelt, and with that same hand that a moment ago had caused her harm, now reached out and tentatively touched her dark sprawling hair. It was soft and fine. Yet her skin was not pale as others he had seen. Never had he beheld such a woman as she. He found her strangely beautiful.

Picking up the young woman in his strong, muscular arms, the tall man carried her over to the sled. He wrapped her cold, limp body with the furs he had been carrying, using the narrow leather straps to hold the furs around her. He stood, a faint smile playing around the corners of his mouth, as he studied the shape now securely tied to his sled. He seemed highly satisfied with his trophy.

When she regained the full use of her senses, she discovered she was in some kind of hut. The man had put her down on a rigid, wooden bench. He placed several strong-smelling fur coverings over her shivering and aching body. Slowly, her body became warmer but the piercing chill which had inhabited her body for such long time, made it painful and difficult for her to move any of her limbs.

Her eyes wandered around the walls of the small building. It was dark inside. Daylight filtered in through small gaps between the logs and crept silently into the hut past the half-opened wooden door. On the centre of the floor, sitting with his legs crossed, was the black shape of the tall man. He sat with his back towards her.

As soon as she felt strong enough, she tried to sit. She put out her hand to find the edge of the bench. Something fell clattering to the floor. The tall figure jumped up. He muttered something. He did not attack but handed her a mug, instead. It was warm from the liquid inside. She tasted it. It was thick and sweet. It made her throat tingle as she swallowed and made her feel warmer inside.

"Thank you."

She held out the empty container. He refilled it and then poured some for himself which he began to drink with loud slurping noises.

She carefully moved her legs over the side of the bench and shifted her body forwards until her bare feet touched the floor. A thick layer of straw tickled her soles and made her retract. The tall man watched her. He was tense and alert. He watched as she withdrew her legs and settled down again pulling the furs around her shoulders. He sat back on his haunches like some unpredictable animal and watched her very intently. She could hear his heavy breathing, almost panting one minute and then relaxing into a quieter rhythm the next. The young woman felt uneasy but realised there was nothing she could do to change the situation.

As the light outside faded, the interior became darker. Very soon, the young woman's eyes found out that they could no longer make out any of the shapes around her. In the darkness, she could hear the tall man move and shift around and with the blackness bearing in, the fear of her isolation returned. She wrapped the fur coverings tightly around her body and lay down on her side, staring into the black void, listening.

She found herself dozing, fitfully dozing, her mind trying to comprehend what was happening to her. She could remember the storm but very little else. She tried to recall the events from earlier in the day but that only made her temples begin to ache and throb.

As her senses grew more accustomed to the surroundings, her ears picked up the low, distant moaning of a rising wind. She heard the tall man stir. He grunted and went outside. She could make out his body shape in the doorway. He stood and looked at the angry clouds gathering together menacingly in the distance. He knew that it would not be long before they would reach the hut, and then with giant ferocity, the howling winds would whip up the loose snow into a blinding snowstorm. She heard the man call out, and then, soon after, heard him return. He sat in the centre once more, and she could hear something being rubbed together. Before much longer had passed, her nostrils picked up the smell of smouldering wood. A small, flickering flame had been coaxed into life. In the dimness, she watched him light the fat in two metal bowls that had been hung from the centre of the roof rafters. Shadows melted into the corners, as a warm orange glow expanded up into the ceiling beams. The tall man draped a cloth woven with designs of birds of prey over the thick timber braces across the door.

Blackness overwhelmed the hut as the storm arrived. The interior lights receded, then expanded in harmony with the lament of the winds. Smoke was driven back down through the roof opening and into the interior, making both of them cough. It was many hours before the raging winds began to abate. The young woman sat, huddled in her blankets of fur, silently observing the tall man, chanting to himself, as he squatted in the straw not far from the stones that surrounded his fire. As the calm returned, both occupants began to relax. The young woman with the beautiful raven-coloured hair began to doze. She was tired and fell asleep.

When she next awoke, she became aware of a stale, sour odour. It was the same smell that was apparent before. She could hear the rhythmical sound of close breathing. Then, something touched her arm. Instantly, she opened her eyes. Everywhere was black. The lamps had gone out.

A large hand grabbed her wrist. She reeled back. He pulled. His grip was firm. Jenette dug her nails into the man's flesh.

"Minn!"

He could feel the woman writhing and wriggling like a captured eel.

"Yuk! You stink! Get your hands off me!"

She tried to push his smelly body away from her.

He laughed; a deep, cruel laugh.

"Minne vif!"

Large, strongly muscled arms enveloped themselves around her.

He gripped her tighter in a python squeeze. Panic. She suddenly became aware of his intentions.

"No! Don't! Please, don't!"

She began to whimper, vulnerable and child-like.

His fingers groped in the dark. The man tore at the remains of her ragged clothing. She had smooth, fragrant skin. She was like a goddess. He forced himself upon the terrified woman with a storm-like fury. His was the thrill of a victorious hunt: hers was the humiliation of the tortured prey.

The tall man slept; a contented sleep. The young woman wept in silence. She had been violated.

Shame - deep shame: Whakama!

There was nowhere to go. No escape from her shame. No escape from the man. She was a prisoner, his prisoner. A worthless creature. Shame! Whakama! Shame!

With the arrival of dawn the following day, the tall man awoke and went outside. He prepared the sled for its homeward journey. Inside, the young female began to stir. Hers had been a fitful sleep. She felt stiff and cold. The man returned. He pushed some kind of clothing towards her. He offered her food and drink. The food brought memories of the pikelets her mother used to make when she was small, and she wept at the thought. But such memories were now only fragments, becoming more and more fragmented as if the puzzle which represented her life were being dismantled. Would she would ever see her family again? How much longer could she keep the memories of each one alive? Instinctively, her hand felt for the carved ornament that still hung around her neck. She thought of Koro - of his love and the bond that had grown between them. Would she ever see him again, his deep brown understanding eyes, the flecks of silver-grey around his ears or hear the quiet monotonous murmur of one of the ancient songs of her ancestors, a waiata, as he sat in his old armchair outside on the porch? She was saddened by the memory, not because she had been able to recall his face but because it was difficult to remember all the little things about him, small details like the way he used to smile and the way he always used to tap his fingers on the edge of his armrest. She must not forget. She must hang on to the memory but she could feel him drifting further away like a piece of driftwood so near to the beach and then being carried away by the current. She tried so hard not forget. She looked at her ivory-coloured dragon pendant with saddened eyes. Why had it not protected her?

The tall man stood in the doorway. He observed her, in silence. He could see the hate and fear for him in her eyes and it gave him satisfaction that he had taken control of her.

She found him cruel and barbaric. He was hairy and unkempt and uncivilised. He stank. She lowered her eyes. She felt dirty, too, for he had taken away her self-respect.

The man spoke to her in a commanding tone. She watched him, subdued. He revolted her, his dirty countenance, his barbaric roughness. Her eyes dropped to the floor again.

He spoke. She could not understand his words, but she guessed that he meant her to go with him. What choice did she have?

He stepped towards her and grunted like an angry bull. With terror, she noticed that his fingers were tightening into a fist. The tall bearded man flicked his head, indicating to her to come outside. His eyes were fierce and menacing. She took a few hesitant steps in his direction, hugging the fur wrappings closer around herself. He handed her a bundle of straw and indicated that she wrap it around her feet. Together they left the hut - the tall fair man and the young dark-haired woman with the sun-tanned skin.

They walked at a brisk pace down the mountainside: the man pulling his fur-laden sled, and the woman struggling to keep up behind. They clambered down for about an hour and a half before the man signalled a rest. The exhausted woman collapsed onto the hard snow surface, her body shaking with the strain. The man offered her a drink.

Nearing the lower slopes, she noticed that an extensive forest of mixed spruce, oak and birch trees lay ahead. Snow clung to drooping branches whilst calling hawks wheeled overhead, watching the bleak landscape for the slightest hint of movement from its prey. The man pulled his sled, glancing back every few minutes to make sure his woman was following. They rested once more, and this time he offered her some flat oatmeal cake. She pushed the food into her mouth, swallowing it like a hungry dog. She felt sick afterwards and wished she hadn't eaten.

The trees came to an abrupt end as the pair reached the valley floor. Situated beyond a bare, flat area where the snow had fallen thickly on what could have been a number of fields, was a small settlement. A low stone wall surrounded a number of wood and stone buildings, poking out of the snow like scattered rocks. Smoke rose lazily upwards from the centre of each steep roof until its narrow coils evaporated and became one with the greyness of the sky. A short distance away from the settlement was a fjord that stretched backwards like a thin pale finger and on the water's edge she noticed several small upturned wooden boats, which she presumed were fishing vessels of one sort or the other. They had been hauled up just above the water line and lay like dark bodies of beached whales. She had seen them once: dead whales. Sad and lost, lying side by side in death along the shoreline, silently waiting for carvers to collect their jaw bones.

The man, his sled, and his captive approached the village. Fur-clad figures appeared, waving and calling as they poured out through the gap in the wall and began jumping their way through the virgin snow. The tall man lifted his left hand and waved in return. Within a short time, the man, his sled and the woman reached the group and the outskirts of the little settlement. Others now crowded around like inquisitive cattle, pushing and jostling to get a closer look at what the tall man had brought with him. The young woman realised how much taller the tall man was for his shoulders stood well over the heads of the people who were gathering around. Several grubby children in thick leather boots and warm animal-hide clothing ran and skipped among the adults, shouting and whistling with excitement. A young man, made his way from the back of the crowd and strode forward through the gap the others had made for him. He exchanged a few words with the tall man but in a language she had never heard before. The young man grasped her by the arm and pushed her forward. Together, the two men herded her like some wild and frightened animal into the village centre.

The settlement was quite small. The smaller dwellings were arranged haphazardly around a large central structure, which looked more like the hull of an upturned boat than a building. It was awesome looming up out of the snow like some huge rock with countless white animal skulls and bleached deer antlers which hung like icy stalactites under the dark, wide eaves. At the bow end, one of the two huge wooden doors stood open, guarding a gaping entrance from where the flicker of oil-burning lamps showed that there was life inside.

The interior, although lit, was at first subfusc and it took several minutes before the young woman's eyes began to make sense of its many dark shapes. At first she could only hear their voices, ghostly voices without form or substance, voices that surrounded her and intensified her fear. Then, as she was pushed more towards the centre and closer towards the glowing fire, faces began to appear, the flicker of the flames catching the whites of their eyes like a thousand moving sparks.

The young stranger stood and looked around. She could now see some of the large and colourful woven rectangular tapestries which hung down from the high rafters above. She noticed the polished shapes of swords and spears and the dark, round shapes of wooden shields high above her head upon the walls. She noticed, too, the horn-shaped lamps, glowing orange and playing with dancing shadows upon human faces that surrounded her.

Behind the fire was a long wooden table. Four elderly men sat at it, each with a cloak edged with white fox fur. The flames caused the silver and bronze shoulder clasps to reflect a metallic light onto each of the faces, making their cheek bones stand out. One of the elders gestured that they were ready.

The tall man, who had brought her into the village, spoke harshly and quickly, waving his huge arms wildly in the air. He was excited. Every so often, he would pause. He pointed to the young woman he had brought with him to the settlement. He held up a small white bone pendant and turned to those inside the building. There was a murmur and then one of the elders spoke a few words. The tall man had been ordered to hand over the necklace with its carved ornament.

She could hear other voices coming out of the shadows, excited and hostile. The voices jabbered and chattered from every direction, a torrent of words hurled towards her, yet none did she understand. The young stranger in their midst appeared timid and bewildered. She felt threatened yet there was no escape. Her aching body could take no more. The last of her remaining strength ebbed away. She began to shake and sway, and then silently she slumped onto the wooden floor.

### CHAPTER 6

Almost four months had passed since the ebony-haired stranger had been brought to the village. They named her Næmr which meant 'one who learned well' and gave her to Yalda, a free women of the village, to look after. Thralldom was the normal situation of any captive who had been brought back to the village but this dark-skinned young woman, with hair as black as the shining feathers of a raven night and with brown eyes like the rocks on mighty Jotenfjell, was like no other to have been captured. The tall man had expected the dark-haired woman to be his, for it was normal for the captor to reap the benefit of his hunt. He scowled and pouted with indignation as the chief gave away his prize to be in the care of a woman, especially a woman who had no a man to rule over them. The tall man felt that such a woman who had arrived without a name, should be a slave and, as such, should have been given to him. She had no warrior husband to give her any standing within the community and without such protection, she should be treated as a thrall. By rights, the dark stranger should have been his but against the decision of the chief and council, the tall man could do nothing, as yet.

Yalda was a quiet, practical woman, who had lost her husband and son three years ago on one of the raids led by the tall man. This strange woman from beyond the ice world of Jotenfjell would go some way to compensate her for her loss. Yalda had knowledge of all the local herbs and their healing powers and for that reason was held in high esteem by the leaders of the village. In the meantime and until the stranger's identity was established, Yalda, known to the villagers as 'the Healer', would be the most likely member of the village to restore the stranger's health of mind and find answers to the many questions as yet unanswered.

Næmr had noticed that most of the adults in the village were young, most being about the same age as herself. She guessed Yalda was probably somewhere in her mid-thirties, but to the people of the village, exact age was of little consequence. One was either young or old. Yalda was more mature than most, and even though she had not seen many years past her prime, the years of working and living in this harsh environment had made her old. Her flaxen hair had not even started to turn to grey. She noticed that Yalda's hair was pulled back into a long single plait that was so long that she was able to wind it around her waist like a belt. Four metal keys inside her pouch, which signified her position as a free woman, jingled and jangled whenever she moved. Næmr came to recognise their sound and immediately knew every time Yalda was around.

She had a patience with the strange, young woman that was not to be found in the majority of the village inhabitants. Most appeared suspicious of any stranger who came into their midst. This stranger they found most strange, for not only did she speak using words that were unfamiliar to their ears but she was neither fair nor light-skinned like all those who had been brought into the village before. It was obvious she did not come from the southern forested lands from where most of the slaves were taken and neither did she belong to any of the northern tribes who followed the wandering herds of reindeer.

It was strange that Næmr had no knowledge of even the most basic of tasks. Yalda said that her young stranger was intelligent and seemed to possess an understanding of things far beyond their world, yet basic, simple things such as crushing grains or leavening bread were not within her knowledge. Where had this dark-eyed girl come from? She had appeared to Bodvarr the Bellower from a place far away, known only to the mists. Did she come from the gods beyond the highest of the mountains in one of the nine worlds that lay beyond the reaches of mortal men? Or was she from some strange land that had not yet been found by the longboats that sailed far beyond the known waters of the seas? Yalda could not be sure.

Næmr quickly grew stronger and recovered from her terrible ordeal on the slopes of Jotenfjell. Yalda made sure she was kept busy by helping Heggar, a young thrall girl between twelve and fourteen. The girl had been brought to the village several years previously after a particularly successful raid. She was a sturdy girl with lively blue-green eyes, not tall though, even for a thrall child. Yalda had been attracted by her innocence and inquisitiveness that had shown her that this slave girl had a quick, capable mind. The free woman had been prepared to give up a large portion of her herbal medicines that year to get the girl for herself. And Yalda's belief in the girl was proving to be correct for Heggar was proving that she was quick to learn and happy to please. Since Heggar had arrived, Yalda had someone who could help her in the house and provide her with entertainment during the long solitary winter nights. And now, there was Næmr too for everyone in the village had their part to play.

During the remainder of the cold winter days when the weak northern sun barely managed to creep above the horizon, the occupants of the Yalda household huddled around what little warmth they could find from the fire which continuously burned within a circle of hearth stones in the centre of Yalda's small house. Silent shadows flitted like moths upon the walls and wood smoke spread a haze across the ceiling, hiding the wooden trusses from those who lived below. There was carding and the preparation of woollen fibre to spin. The two girls took those jobs in turn, sitting alone in a darkened corner with bulging bags of wool, sorting and combing the fibre in preparation for making the yarn. In the rear of the house was an upright loom. Yalda worked there, weaving throughout the daylight hours, creating cloths she would be able to sell as soon as the last of the winter snows had gone. Each day the cloth grew a little more in length and each day the pile of uncarded wool grew less.

The interior of the daub and timber building was dank, sombre and smoky. The only openings were at the door facing the rising sun and the small hole above where the smoke made a spiralling vortex when it found its way outside. The fire not only provided heat to warm their bodies but also provided energy to cook their food. Several times a day, either Heggar or Næmr would be forced to make the trip to the village outskirts to collect handfuls of fresh, clean snow which was then melted in one of the large copper pots that always hung from the roof beam over the fire. And whenever the fire began to subside, one of the other thralls would leave the inner warmth and go out into the freezing air, returning with as much firewood as could possibly be carried. The wood collection was frequent. It was difficult heavy work but if they were to survive, someone had to keep making those trips.

One early morning, Næmr offered to help. She had gathered so much wood that it was impossible to see forward and she had to tilt her head to one side to see round the pile. She managed to prize open the door with her toe and use her shoulder to pushed aside the hanging skins which helped seal the door from the cold outside. She stepped across the doorway slab and paused to look back and upwards towards the mountains that surrounded the small valley and its village. It was one of the clearest days she had seen since arriving and, for once, the grey-black clouds had been pulled aside enough to get a glimpse of the highest frozen peak. It made her shudder.

Would it reveal how she ended up on the mountain's side? But the silent mountain hung onto its secret and refused to answer. Its was a world normally hidden behind dark menacing clouds, a world that the gods concealed from the people in the valley below.

Finally, the icy snows began to thaw. Small streams appeared once more as melting ice cliffs released their waters that for many months had been locked up in a frozen time. Banks burst as excited waters gushed down the hills to spill with effervescent turbulence into the fjord far below. The village was coming back to life again. Echoes of laughter rented the air and children's voices filled the valley as winter's cloak slid away. All around, forests chatted and chirped with a thousand wild calls and the valley exploded with the music of rushing water. Nature was shedding the silence of winter and heralding the expectations of spring.

"I've got just the job for you two. Come on!"

Yalda began to roll up the bedding and gather together her things she had used during the winter time. She laid them in the top of her large wooden chest.

Heggar pulled a face. But not where Yalda would see. She knew what Yalda had in mind. That awful job that turned up twice a year.

"You pair can start at the far end of the room. Heggar, show Næmr how to roll up that old straw. Then you can take that broom over there and sweep. Don't stir up the dust . . . I don't want it anywhere but on the floor where it belongs."

The two girls got down on their knees and began to roll up the straw, together with any old bones and bits had been inadvertently been dropped onto the ground sometime during the winter. Several frightened mice scuttled away in fear as their warm winter nesting places were uprooted and so harshly destroyed.

They zigzagged in fleeing disarray, leaping and jumping away in their haste to escape. Næmr flinched as one of the little grey bodies dashed only a short distance from her feet. She noticed that Heggar paid no attention and remained quite calm.

"Heggar," queried Næmr as the roll grew so large they had to get up from their knees to roll it. "How long's this been on the floor?"

"Since Autumn," Heggar answered in a matter-of-fact manner. "Mistress and I laid it at the end of Autumn. She always likes to change it at least once a year. She's very house proud, you know." Heggar leaned closer to Næmr and spoke in a hushed voice as though she were about to share in some great secret. "Do you know there are some who don't change their straw at all! Just add more on top. Mistress doesn't do that. Says a good clean out hurt no one, not even the mice. They soon come back."

Næmr shuddered. She did not like mice at the best of times. Whenever she woke up in the middle of the night she could hear them scratching and rustling around in the straw or over the furniture. As yet none of the mice had crawled across her blankets. The thing she hated most were the crawling lice and biting fleas that took up residence in everything that was warm and soft. From the time she had arrived her body had provided them with new blood and she was red and itchy all over. At least this Spring cleaning should lower their numbers.

The girls gathered up the rolls of dirty straw and carried them outside into the insipid, lukewarm sunshine. It would be used as bedding for Yalda's animals that had spent the winter months in the lean-to shed on the side of the house.

The girls dragged in piles of clean straw that had been stored just for this purpose. They spread it over the dirt floor, layer upon layer until Yalda was satisfied that enough had been strewn around. It would not be changed again until the Autumn harvests provided them with fresh supplies. The two girls worked hard and long until the setting sun announced that it was time to retire for the night. First, to eat; then, to sleep.

One day, as Heggar and Næmr crushed the barley grain that had been stored from the last harvest, Heggar plucked up the courage to ask Næmr about her past life.

"My Lady?"

Heggar scooped up a pile of rye and began sorting out the good grain and dropping it into the keg, she paused. "I've often wondered -"

"What?"

"Did you really come from mists?"

"That's where I was found. Yes, I guess I did."

"What's it like high up on the mountains? Have you been to the worlds above the clouds that I see in the sky? Are those worlds different from here?"

So many questions. Næmr did not know how to answer the girl. She had no knowledge of such mysterious lands. In fact, she had no real knowledge of anything before her terrifying ordeal upon the mountain side with the tall man who had brought her in to the village.

"I - I don' know, Heggar," she replied. She hesitated and stood looking into the distance, hoping to remember beyond the past events. "One day, one day I will remember!"

"But not now?"

"All I have are strange dreams, fragments of things I cannot explain. Pictures in my mind. Everything's so disconnected and nothing makes sense." She dropped her load of rye grain into the keg. "I'm sorry, Heggar. I can't seem to remember."

"What, nothing?"

Næmr broke away from the thoughts that brought so much anguish, fragments of feelings within her for which she did not have words to describe.

"Faces. Only faces in my dreams, nothing else."

"I have dreams, too. I dream of my mother and when I was a child."

"You still are very young, Heggar. And, Yalda is she not like a mother to you?"

"Sometimes, when she's in a good mood she's like a mother. But she's not my mother! She's my mistress. My mother's time is in the past. I only know her in my dreams but I can't remember what she looked like. Is there anybody you know in your dreams?"

The expression on Heggar's face indicated she wanted to know more.

"Maybe. Let me think. I'm not certain if it's real, though." Næmr tried desperately to focus on what little she could remember. "I think one's an old man. He's got grey hair. He's kind. I think he's trying to tell me things."

Heggar suddenly squealed with delight. In her excitement she almost spilt the grain over the floor.

"Odin! That must be Odin! He's old and wise. Yalda has told me about him."

Næmr was less sure. She did not know who this Odin might be.

"I, I don't know, Heggar. If what you say is true - " She searched her mind for any memory of him. "No, it doesn't feel right."

"Mistress sometimes tells me Eir, the goddess of Healing comes to her. Why not Odin to you?"

Næmr thought about the mountain where she had been found but it was no good. She could not remember a thing. It was as if she had no past.

"I'm sure I should know the old man. Was he family? Surely, I would remember someone from my family, wouldn't I? Don't you remember yours, Heggar?"

"I do! I remember them," Heggar exclaimed. "Well, some of them."

"I'm not sure if I can remember any of mine. I guess I have family. Somewhere."

Næmr walked across the room and emptied her full container and then rejoined Heggar on the bench. The pair began gathering up the rough husks and putting them into the buckets for the animals. Heggar continued with her own story.

"I remember when I was a little girl. My family lived in a place many, many days - no, weeks away from here. If I look at where the sun comes up, that's the direction of my home." Her bottom lip dropped and her face clouded over, yet she carried on. "There are things I would like not to remember. The day when the raiders came. Most of my family was slain. The raiders came up the river."

"What river? You remember the river?"

"Yes, I remember the river. The sun was only just up. My mother and some other women were walking to fetch water. That's when the bad ones came."

"What did you do?"

"We all ran for our lives. I think two of my younger brothers managed to escape to the woods. I hope they did. They were fast runners and could win races all the time. But I couldn't run fast. My sister tried to help. She grabbed my hand but we were caught and dragged by the raiders to the place where they had hidden their boats." The young girl shuddered at the thought of the fearsome, beached longboats with their tall curved prows and the largest one with its terrifying, snarling dragon head that filled her with fear. "I remember. I remember and it is so terrible. I wish I did not remember. But I do!"

The girl buried her face in her hands and began sobbing as though all her despair would flow away with her tears.

"I'm so sorry, Heggar. I didn't mean to upset you."

Heggar raised her face and wiped her sleeve across her wet cheeks.

"It's all right. You didn't know." She swallowed her memory and forced a smile. "See, I'm better now."

The young girl pointed in the direction towards the water's edge where several boats lay having been hauled onto the safety of the shore. Her face clouded over and her eyes moistened with tears again but this time she did not cry.

"Every time I see the raiding boats I remember."

"How awful for you."

"I was brought to this place in a dragon boat. I cry every time those boats set sail. Are they going away on their raids again? It makes me think of my family: my mother and father, my home. Over the sea and up a long river. Lost forever. My home. All my family. Lost. Gone forever."

Næmr felt sorry for the girl. To have had a family and to have lost them all was anguish enough but to be haunted by such horrible memories. She realised there was nothing she could do to help console the girl. Words of sympathy would never give back the homeland Heggar yearned for. Næmr decided that, maybe, it was better that she couldn't remember. It would make things easier for her to accept her own circumstances and encompass the customs and life-style of these people.

"Do you know what happened to your sister, Heggar? Was she brought to this village?"

Heggar handed over her bucket of husks to Næmr. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks and moisten the collar of her tunic. Unable to speak, she shook her head and her loose auburn hair waved across her face like ripened corn in the wind.

"No. She was older me – fifteen years had passed. She was grown up. Very pretty. They took her away and sold her. To a big slave market across the sea. I've seen others taken away, too. I was only little so they left me here and my mistress bought me to help with the duties in the house. Maybe, they didn't think I was pretty like my sister. Am I ugly?"

"Of course not, Heggar. You've got beautiful thick hair and very pretty eyes. No, you're not in the least bit ugly."

Heggar pulled a face. She pulled the hem of her rough grey tunic away from her legs.

"This tunic's horrible. The very pretty slave girls have nice clothes. And they are the ones who are given to the warriors when they return from their battles. I don't know why. After that, some are taken away on the boats and we never see them again. Always in those dragon boats. I hate them!"

"That's awful!"

Heggar dabbed her eyes dry again. She shook her golden hair so that it waved across her face.

"At least I don't have to clean out pigs!" She made an attempt to laugh. "I don't have to haul in great piles of wood from outside the village. Other slaves I've known have not lasted many winters. Those who are too weak to work are left out in the snow when food is low in the winter so, you see, I'm lucky to have found such a kind mistress as Mistress Yalda."

Næmr looked into the young freckled face of the thrall girl and wondered whether such a life would ultimately be her fate, as well. She was just going to ask Heggar something else when Yalda returned from the village. She had been into the village to administer some of her herbal medicines to a sick child, and had decided to check up on the grain the two girls had been sorting.

"Heggar!" Yalda always spoke to her slave girl first whenever there was a scolding due. "What have you been doing all this time and why haven't those buckets been taken out already?"

"I was just going to . . . "

"Have you been wasting time chatting again, Heggar? Don't you ever know when to stop? I don't know how you'd manage with someone else as your mistress. Probably given a good whipping, I dare say!"

As the fault was not of Heggar's making this time and Næmr decided she must take some of the blame. After all, she did encourage the girl to stop her chores and talk but this time Yalda was not interested in Heggar's past memories and gave the girl a swift slap around her face. Heggar burst into tears and dropped down at the hem of Yalda's dress.

"Sorry, Mistress! I'm sorry!"

Heggar's bottom lip dropped and it looked as if the girl would burst into tears.

"Don't you start snivelling, girl. And get those buckets out of my sight. Now!"

As for Næmr, well, Yalda had been instructed by the council to find out what she could about the sun-tanned stranger. She had already discovered that the stranger in her household did have some knowledge about some of the curative properties of her secret potions. Yet, Yalda found it strange that when she accompanied the young woman into the fields, Næmr did not seem to recognise the plants at all.

Heggar returned. Her mistress was still angry with the girl.

"Heggar, don't stand there gaping, girl! Did you take the buckets out?"

"Yes, mistress."

"Time's not for wasting on daydreams! There's much to do before the sun's high in the sky. Go and fetch the milk from the goats. They should have been milked by now. Here, take this." Yalda threw one of the wooden milking pails to Heggar who missed the catch and watched, even more distressed, as it thudded into the straw.

"Sorry."

"Pick it up, Heggar and go! Out of my sight before I get really cross with you!"

Heggar ran out of the house, the wooden pail banging at her hip in time to her strides. As soon as she had left, Yalda turned her attention to Næmr.

"Oh dear, sometimes I almost despair of that girl. Always daydreaming. Head in the clouds and always all the questions. Questions! Questions!"

"She's just curious. Wants to know about her world."

"Maybe. There's a time for everything. Now, Næmr, you can help me hang up these fish. They were caught early this morning and will provide well for us over the next few days. After, I'll show you how I want the grain crushed. When Heggar returns you can help her prepare our bread." She picked up a knife and pointed the blade towards a wicker basket that she had put down by the doorway as she came in. "Now, those fish. They're in that basket."

Næmr nodded and obeyed. She began hanging the shining slender fish from the rafters, threading the thin string through their gaping gills just as Yalda had showed her. Later, they would be cooked in the smoky heat over the fire. As they dangled, reflecting the glow of the fire from their shimmering scales, they reminded Næmr of the rainbows she had seen in puddles after a shower. Puddles that reflected green trees that were always green and always dripped silver droplets whenever it rained. Like rainbows, those images dissolved. A strong smell of fish permeated the house's interior.

"I've done that."

Næmr rinsed her fishy-smelling hands in a small bowl.

"Tomorrow, Næmr, the Council wish to speak to you again."

"So soon?"

Yalda nodded. She began tipping some of the rye grain into a small round dish beginning the laborious job of turning the grain into flour with one of the smooth stone pestles she kept for such jobs. After a short time, she handed the things to Næmr.

"When Heggar returns she can help. Næmr, pay attention. No! That's not right!"

She scolded the young woman for her lack of attention and demonstrated the correct way once more. This time Næmr grasped it. Yalda left her alone to do the job and walked to the far end of the house to sit at her loom. Without a husband to provide and protect her, Yalda had to trade her loom-made items and healing herbs for the extra food they needed to survive. It would take Næmr and Heggar most of the day to prepare and bake the bread but once done, there would be time to relax a little before the preparation of their evening meal. If only she could afford more thralls to do the heavier jobs, jobs that her husband and son used to do when they were alive. Another man of her own would be better, still. But a woman of her age and standing, what hope did she have?

As another fine Spring day began to warm the cool morning air, Yalda accompanied Næmr over to the Great Hall where the most important of jarls and his family and large number of thralls lived. It was a rich building, its hull-shaped roof grey tiled and neat, unlike the small village houses with their thatch. Decorations of deer antlers and skulls hung high on its outer walls and carved motifs adorned the timbers. Today, the High Council, comprised of the jarl together with four of the most wealthy landowners, had decided to hold a hearing and make a decision what to do with the slim dark-haired stranger who had been found on their sacred mountain. Yalda guided the young woman towards the huge table that had been set up two-thirds of the way down the room just in front of the ruling jarl's seat and then retired to the bench on the side wall.

The jarl presided. His seat was higher than the rest and his fur trim was grander than any other's. It was obvious that he was the senior one, the man in charge of the proceedings. The council of four sat on the bench in front, centred, behind the table as they had done so when she was first brought to the village. All eyes were fixed upon the lone female figure standing in solitude before them.

The jarl on the high seat leaned forward. The glow from the lamps overhead made strange patterns on his face as he moved to stand. Næmr could see the flicker of the hearth flames out the corner of her eye and she was made aware of the dim shapes of those who sat, listening, observing, on the long bench seats that ran the length of both walls. Like the men at the table, the jarl's beard was short and neatly trimmed. His brown-red tunic was edged with fur and a dark, black-brown animal hide hung loosely from his shoulder. When he finally spoke, his voice was booming and powerful, giving him the authoritative presence of one who is still very much a leader of men.

"Næmr, Daughter of Mists, for that is what I am told you are now so named, you have been brought here to answer the questions that we will put before you. We must have knowledge of how things will go for us after our fields have been sown. Our young men are thirsting for battle and adventure. The Council will ask you to foretell our fortunes concerning that. But, first, we need some answers from you. There are things we need to know. "

The others nodded and grunted in agreement. The first of the Elders on her left spoke first.

"Bodvarr the Bellower tells us that you appeared out of the mists . . . that you had womanly form and that you appeared high up on the sacred peak of Jotenfjell where no human survives for long. He tells us you bewitched him with a strange tongue and then you begged him to bring you here, here into our valley and in to the safety of our village. Is this not so?"

The strange woman with the dark hair shook her head and almost immediately another Elder began to speak.

"If this were not so, then you must be of human flesh, Bodvarr claims you for himself. He claims you as his rightful thrall and if we grant him this, he will have rights to do with you as his wish so desires."

Næmr flinched when she heard those words of doom, for she had no desire to become a slave to such an evil man. Then, the third Elder broke in. He was the elder of the four.

"We must know from you." He hesitated for a while. "If it is true and that you are from the godly worlds of Asgard or Vanaheim, beyond the rainbow of Bilfrost and if you have come to us in disguise as the gods are sometimes known to do, then you will so be honoured and free to choose any one of the finest warriors that this village can supply." The voice stopped and silence held its breath. "But first, we must be sure. We must know the truth. We wait for you to answer."

Næmr looked in Yalda's direction. Yalda stood and came over to her side.

"Go on, Næmr. Tell them what you know."

Næmr noticed Bodvarr the Bellower standing in the half-light, a cruel, cold interest reflecting from his face.

"I . . . I."

Her voice faltered as the words refused to come. She could not tell the Council what Bodvarr had done to her, that he had made her feel dirty and worthless, and that rather than have anymore to do with the rogue, she would rather kill herself.

"The woman's mine!" growled Bodvarr raising his large hand in a defiant fist. "Look how she hesitates! None from Asgard or Vanaheim would act like this. She belongs to me!" The deep voice of Bodvarr bellowed around the walls of the hall like a roaring bull. His wild eyes flickered with anger. "She has been given to me by the gods. No goddess has black hair nor such sun-darkened skin. She was born of the mists on Jotenfell and offered to me as any would offer a slave."

The Council was not pleased with such a violent interruption. They had not asked Bodvarr to speak.

"Silence!"

The jarl rose out of his high seat and held up his hand towards Bodvarr. Bodvarr scowled. He withdrew into the shadows like the moon behind a dark cloud.

The second Elder spoke next. It was important to be sure, for if their decision was wrong, the gods may send bolts of lightening to destroy them. The elder leaned across the table so that his chest almost touched the timber. He addressed only the young woman. His voice was kind and soft. It made her feel more at ease.

"Come, try to remember. Tell us what you can."

Næmr tried hard to remember. The time upon the mountain. That interminable duration with Bodvarr in the stone hut. And before? What did she know of before?

She began. Softly, very softly. And slowly, very slowly.

"I . . . was . . . on . . . the mountain."

"Yes? Yes? Go on. Speak up, Næmr so all can hear."

"There was a storm." She could remember that for she could hear the wild, raging winds still in her mind. "It was a violent storm. It must have been because it threw me into the snow as if I was nothing but a fallen leaf. Then, I there was the mist. I couldn't see. I could hardly breathe. It was so cold, so very cold."

"And?"

The Council was eager to know.

"I don't remember much more than that. It was then that he found me."

She pointed out Bodvarr who was standing away from the other men who were sitting on benches on the long side of the hall.

The third Elder straightened his back and slapped an open hand on the table.

"We know that much already We need to know about your past, your life before. We need to know from whence you came."

Næmr shook her head. She wished she could remember but it seemed as though the storm had obliterated all traces of a previous memory. The younger fourth Elder picked up a small object from the table's surface and pushed it across to the outer edge, closer towards her.

"This was on you when you were brought here." He beckoned her forward. "Maybe, this will help you remember."

She moved closer to the table and stood looking at the pearly white ornament that now lay on the table in front of her. Nervously, she reached across the space before her and touched the smooth curved pendant with her shaking fingers. She picked it up and wrapped her hand lovingly around the small lizard shaped carving. Immediately, the face of an elderly gentle man formed in her mind.

"K . . . k," she stammered but the name would not come. "He made it." The words came slowly and painfully. "Made it . . . so I'd be safe."

Tears welled up in her eyes and the pendant became opaque.

"Who? Who is he that you speak of?" asked the soft spoken Elder again.

When she answered, her voice was barely above a whisper.

"I don't know. An old man. He knows - knows everything. He carved it for me. For my protection. He hung it around my neck before I left, before I left -. "

"Left from where?"

"Where is this old man?"

"What does he look like?"

"What can you tell us?"

The questions seemed to be showering upon her, falling tears of memories that would not come. So far away, so far away. Hidden in the mists, the eternal mists that clung to the mountain tops and would not reveal a thing.

"I don't know! I . . . I can't remember!"

The fourth Elder could not contain his frustration any longer. He clenched his fist and banged it down heavily on the wooden surface.

"Try! You must remember!"

Næmr closed both eyes and squeezed hard as she tried desperately to concentrate and create images somewhere deep in her mind.

"A place . . . far away . . . far in distance . . . and time. I know no more!"

"Can our longboats reach that place of yours?" asked the first Elder.

"I don't know. I only know of the mountain. I do not know what is beyond."

The questions continued to flow like the mountain streams with their melting snow churning and raging in the steep, narrow gorges until they thrashed into the deep, calm waters of the fjord far below. Næmr looked at the floor and shook her head.

"No!" She exclaimed but then quickly corrected herself. "I don't think they can but I do know of such boats, long and narrow like those that sit here at the water's edge. Boats with carvings. Yes, carvings."

"And sails?"

"No sails. Just long boats with paddles."

"Tell us about the land, this land of yours."

She opened her fingers and let the carved object lay in her palm. She looked at it and colours came into her mind. It was as if she were looking down from above.

"I see land. White sands and green hills - sea deep blue and sky . . ." She looked up into a vast blue dome within her mind. "blue but a sky that reaches so high, far higher than any sky I see here. Yes, mountains where trees grow to the very top."

"Snow? What of snow and ice?"

"Never snow. I do not see snow."

"How can that be?" asked the second Elder. "Mountains that are not covered by snow?"

"That proves it!" The fourth Elder banged the table again. He spoke to the people in the hall. "This young woman we call Næmr has been sent to us from above. She must have come to Midgard from the realm of the gods."

"Yes, but all the same," cautioned the Elder who had spoken to her first. "She should be taken to Yggdrasil. Only Yggdrasil can really confirm the truth. Only by the Trial of Yggdrasil will we really be certain."

Everyone in the great hall nodded and called out in agreement. The jarl stood and gathered his elegant cloak around his body. He spoke to one in the hall and addressed only her.

"Yalda the Healer, free-woman, it is for you to deliver this young woman before us to the sacred ash tree, Yggdrasil. Take her at sunrise tomorrow. We will wait for a sign from the gods."

Bodvarr could contain himself no longer. His loud, deep voice boomed around the hall as he shook his large clenched fists in defiance. His untidy hair swung like brown seaweed around his bullish head.

"She's mine, I say! That woman is no goddess! She had fooled you all. A dark ambatt, slave woman, that's all she is! From the loins of an earth woman! Anyone can see that! I found her on Jotenfell frozen and almost without life. If I had not found her, she would be dead. I, alone, lay my claim to this woman!"

"Silence! Hold your tongue!" The jarl out-shouted the angry warrior. "We shall wait for Yggdrasil's answer first, Bodvarr. If Yggdrasil says so, so be it. If she is not of the gods, then the woman is yours, to do with as you so wish!" He noted Bodvarr's smirk. "If, however, Yggdrasil indicates to the wise women that she has, indeed come to us from above, then she will be a free woman and all your claims are forfeit. Such are our laws! Is that understood?"

The jarl glared at Bodvarr and Bodvarr dropped his eyes. He aimed his scowls at the floor and cursed under his breath so that none should hear.

As Yalda took the young woman by the arm, Bodvarr stomped over to the door. He turned sharply on his heel and spoke to those who had taken away his prize.

"I will avenge all those who have taken what should be mine." There was deep anger and bitterness in his words. "Watch all your backs, my lords! You would do well to remember this day!"

The heavy wooden door slammed with a thud that shook the heavy timbers surrounding it.

Just as the sky was beginning to lighten and the sun's rays crept over Jotenfjell, Yalda led Næmr to the largest of the sacred ash trees, Yggdrasil, which grew out of a large rock near to the main stream. Three of the oldest women Næmr had ever seen were already standing nearby its twisted, grey trunk.

"Yggdrasil! Yggdrasil!," they wailed in unison, waving their hands high above their heads like swaying snakes. "Here we present a maid from the mists, delivered to us on Jotenfjell. It is for you, with the wisdom of Odin together with the prediction of the Norns, to give us a sign to say whether she is from Asgard or whether she be like any mortal, man and woman who dwell upon the lands of Midgard."

"You must stay here, Næmr." Yalda spoke quietly to her charge. "When the Council of Four come at the setting of the sun, then all will have been decided. Yggdrasil will indicate. Yggdrasil will overcome the evil that is gnawing at its roots and give us the signs. Stay! Do not be afraid! The seeresses will be with you. They will interpret all the signs."

She pointed to the area under the tall tree where Næmr was to wait, its gnarled roots twisted by the frozen torture of countless years of the northern winters.

"Will you stay with me?"

"I cannot. This is something you must do yourself. Here, wrap this around yourself." Yalda took off her thick woollen cloak and wrapped it around Næmr's shoulders. "And now, I've got to go. Good luck and fare-thee-well!"

Yalda turned her back on Næmr and walked away without a backward glance. When the new day had arrived, she would know whether the young dark-haired stranger would return to her or be claimed by Bodvarr.

Næmr sat at the foot of the tree while the three women danced in the most strange way around its huge trunk. The priestesses chanted long and loud, calling to the gods to send them a sign.

They stopped every now and then to check the weeping branches and dark trunk. Nothing. They danced some more, waving their arms and stroking their long flowing hair as they called to Yggdrasil for help. They stopped and examined the ground for the slightest change. But nothing had happened.

Næmr looked up into the still bare branches of the huge grey tree. Everything looked exactly as it had done an hour ago.

Nothing changed.

She waited some more.

She watched the pale grey blanket that was being pulled back across the sky, revealing the whitewashed blue sky above. She observed the three wise women bending and swaying in their trance like state as they communicated with spiritual forces unseen. She looked at the village buildings snuggled at the edge of the deep, emerald green fjord down in the valley below. She looked beyond the tree, beyond the three women and up towards Jotenfjell, itself.

It all looked the same; nothing had changed.

Time was the master, and he was not going to be rushed. There was nothing to see, nothing to say and nothing to do, but wait; wait for eternity.

She picked up a twig and began to scratch aimlessly in the soil, poking small holes and filling them in again until her stick touched something smooth and hard. She fossicked around it with interest, and like some archaeologist delving into the depths of another time, she began moving her thin stick around its perimeter until she was able to reach in with her fingers and free the object from its earthly prison. At last, it was free; a muddy golden piece of gum. She rubbed the dull amber surface over her fur boots until it began to glow like the sun. She held up the translucent find and turned it around, reflecting the brightness of sunlight and then capturing the dark image of Jotenfjell within its smooth, glossy surface.

The seeresses noticed the interest the girl showed in the shining amber piece she now held in her hands. The chanting and wailing ceased as they observed in silence, drawn into the expectation of something they expected to happen. Næmr's eyes found a small feather and holding her amber toy above, amused herself, allowing the amber to capture the feather and attract it with a selfish snap. The wise women had never before witnessed such magic.

"Yggdrasil has given us the sign!" Their wailing voices rose in a crescendo. "Only such knowledge as that could have come from great Odin, himself! This woman, brought amongst us, must surely have come from the gods. Her fate has been sealed! Yggdrasil has spoken!"

### CHAPTER 7

Næmr's fate had been decided. The Norns of Asgard had sent a sign. However, it was not the sign that Bodvarr welcomed. He was filled with anger when it became known that this woman was to be treated with respect and allowed to live within the village as a free-woman until a warrior worthy of such prize could be found to make her his bride.

Næmr did not really understand the reasons for her privileged position but she was glad that her ordeal was over. She was rather surprised to learn that priests and priestesses lived as ordinary citizens within the village, only being called upon to speak with the gods in times of great importance. The Elders felt honoured that one of the beings from a world above had been sent down to Midgard to live an ordinary life within such an ordinary settlement. Yalda was pleased that Næmr was to remain with her now that the dark young stranger had been declared a daughter of Odin. Heggar was overjoyed and showed how happy she was that Næmr had been saved. She squealed with delight as soon as Næmr walked towards the house, then rushed forwards and threw her arms around her. Heggar was like that. Innocently impulsive and that's another reason why Yalda had taken to the girl.

For the rest of that day, Heggar laughed and sang to herself as she went about her daily duties.

The young woman from Asgard had so much to learn about the ways of the people who lived between the world of the gods and the world of the giants. It was not long before the news of her arrival had begun to spread throughout the settlement and more and more of the villagers went out of their way to pass close by to Yalda's house so that they could stare and wonder at the dark godlike woman. The villagers felt sure, that given time, Odin also, in one of his many guises, would one day ride into their lives upon his wonderful eight-legged steed, Sleipnir, and share some of his wisdom and knowledge with them so that their warriors, alone, would know the sweetness of victory and their village would become powerful and rich. Until that important day, it was imperative that this visitor should share in human experiences as they prepared themselves for that ultimate sacrifice: to do battle, to die an honourable death, and be carried to Valhalla to serve with their gods until the final battle, at Ragnarok.

From now on they knew that fortune would be on their side. For many weeks, the excitement of expectation lifted the spirits of even those who were usually quite pessimistic. Yalda treated the young woman like a special daughter, for she felt honoured that she had been given the opportunity to share her house with such a special being from the highest realm of all the worlds. Næmr was lavished with fine clothes and fancy beads to adorn her neck. She pleaded with Yalda for the return of the small bone ornament that she had been wearing when she entered the human world. Who could deny her that? She was pleased when the Elders granted her request. Once more that ornament took pride of place around her neck.

Heggar was quick to notice the strange shaped object. One morning, as she stood behind Næmr and plaited her thick, black, shoulder length hair, she found the courage to satisfy her insatiable curiosity.

"What's that thing you always keep around your neck, Næmr?" She bent forwards so that her small left hand could almost touch the object. "That dragon thing. Why's it so white?"

"It's from bone, Heggar."

Næmr put her hand around the pendant. It was her only link with any of those memories that seemed to come and go.

"From dragon bone? Is it a dragon's bone, Næmr?"

"No. It's like a lizard. I call it, I call it ..." The word would not come, no matter how hard she tried to think about it. "Well, maybe it is like . . . a dragon."

Heggar shuddered. She did not like dragons, any dragon, for they reminded her of the dragon boats that lay in the harbour and she had bad memories of those.

"It's all right, Heggar," laughed Næmr. "Mine's a good kind of dragon . . . one that protects."

"Like the hammer of Thor that every free person wears?"

"I guess so. Everyone has something that is supposed to bring good luck."

The girl was curious. Now that her curiosity had been aroused, she could not contain herself and asked question after question in quick succession.

"Did Odin make it specially for you?"

"I think he must have, Heggar. The Elders told me so."

"Did you have it when you came?"

"I'm told so."

"What is Odin . . . ?"

Heggar had not seen her mistress come in.

"Heggar! You should not ask such questions!"

Yalda's voice was loud and angry. As soon as Yalda spoke, the girl pulled one of her sad faces but Yalda knew the girl too well to know she would remain silent for long. As soon as Yalda returned to her loom Heggar leaned in closer and whispered, hoping any sound of her voice would not reach Yalda's ears.

"What did you call it?" she asked.

Næmr was about to tell her when Yalda's voice interrupted once more from the rear of the room.

"It's Næmr's sacred dragon! It's her guardian and has magical powers to protect her while she lives with us on Midgard."

"That chain, my Lady? Who made the . . ?"

Yalda got up from her loom. She needed some more fibre to weave anyway.

"The chain, it's too fine to have been crafted by human hands. Such workmanship could have only been created by the hand of a god."

Heggar drew in a deep breath.

"It's so beautiful!"

The mistress of the household ignored the servant girl and spoke directly to Næmr.

"We're so fortunate to have you here. I'm so lucky to have been chosen as the one to care for you, Næmr." She took some carded wool from the basket and spoke in harsher tones to her slave girl. "Heggar, hurry up and finish with Næmr's hair. Fiddling around and gossiping will not get the chores done today."

She watched as Heggar tied Næmr's hair with the braid ribbon and handed her the small, cream-coloured bonnet to cover her head. Heggar began to tidy up around her but it was only a pretence, for as soon as Yalda's back was turned, the girl whispered so quietly that even Næmr could hardly hear.

"What are those strange markings on the other side of your guardian dragon?"

"Writing."

"They're not like the sacred runes that I've seen on the rocks," whispered Heggar.

She liked to keep her knowledge of the sacred rune stones secret, for in reality, a slave should not have been anywhere near them. But Heggar could not contain her curiosity and the questions overflowed from her like the tumbling waters that cascaded down the steep rocky cliffs.

"No?"

"No. They're different."

"Oh, I see," said Næmr. "I'm not sure what it means. Maybe a name, or something."

"That one's like a roof. Maybe it's Odin's house. Do you think it's that?"

"Maybe, Heggar."

"Heggar! Stop that at once! Remember your place in this house!" Yalda's ears had finally picked up some of the conversation. "Magic symbols are of no concern to you!"

Heggar looked sullen and pretended to nibble her fingernails. She knew she should not have asked those questions but when you're young and want to know everything about the world . . .

Næmr felt sorry for the girl. She winked at her without Yalda seeing and just as Heggar started to open her mouth to say something, she motioned her to be quiet.

"It's all right, Yalda. I don't mind."

Yalda was resolute with her rules.

"Heggar should not keep questioning you the way she does. There are things she should not know. Her place is as a servant, an ambatt."

Næmr turned the pendant over and looked at the writings but they meant nothing to her, yet she knew that she should be able to interpret the strange symbols. Maybe, given time, when the Norns of Asgard had decided, she would be able to remember. In the meantime, she found the situation most frustrating. Surely, in her life before, she must have had that ability. And now? How long must she wait, wait for the memory of it to return?

After the Spring planting had been completed, Yalda decided to take Næmr to see some of the sheep being stripped of their wool before the shepherd thralls came for them and took them to higher grazing not far from where the forest began.

"Two of my thralls will stay with the sheep. They'll have to keep a close watch out for wolves which come out of the forests to take the lambs. Last season I lost my best thrall. Killed by wolves the first night they arrived. Luckily, the sheep were saved."

"Are there many wolves up there?"

The thought of them made Næmr shudder for she had already heard their mournful howls echoing around the hills on a clear moonlit night.

"There are always wolves. They live deep in the forests. We hardly ever catch sight of any but they seem to know when we take our sheep out of the pens. They're especially bold when the sheep are ready to drop their lambs. That's when the thralls and our dogs have to be most careful."

"Can't you find grass for them closer to the village?"

"No. My sheep need plenty of fresh grass if they're to provide for their lambs. So, what else can I do? As it is, I allow mine to give birth in the pens where they're safer but after that, they must be taken up to the higher pastures."

As it was, Yalda did not have many sheep. She had to take what care she could to make sure they increased in number. Her small, goat-like sheep had given birth to their lambs a week ago. They were now standing with their tiny lambs in the small enclosure near the side of her house waiting for the wool to be taken off their backs. In that way, the ewes would more readily seek shelter for their young and not stand out in the middle of the pasture where their babies would be more vulnerable to wolf attacks.

Næmr, somehow, imagined a vast number of animals, white and heavy with thick, curly wool, twins, or even small triplet lambs frolicking around their mother's feet. Instead, what she saw were eight small, shaggy coated goat-like creatures with goat-like horns and one small, dark-coloured hungry baby to feed.

"Goats?" she gasped when she saw them. "But didn't you say sheep?"

She was puzzled by the animals penned near the house.

"Sheep?" Yalda voiced her own surprise. "These are my sheep!"

Yalda thought, perhaps, the young goddess had never been so close to sheep before.

Næmr had a vague notion that she'd seen something like this before: sheep penned, then grabbed, sheep being shorn, the fleece being tossed on a bench top, together with the strong smell of body sweat, shouting and noise that accompanied strenuous activity. She remembered a strong smell of lanolin grease; the rich smell of cut wool and the the taste of stew, sausages and bread that somehow seemed to mix together somewhere deep in her mind. She could almost hear the constant deep, throaty calls of mothers and the higher plaintive bleats of the lambs as each family found each other in the turmoil of an upset flock. She thought for a moment that she could hear music but the instant she seemed to hear it, it faded away and stopped.

"Will the thralls cut the wool off with - ?"

She groped vainly for a word that would not come. She mimed the shears across the fleece. Yalda thought her actions amusing and burst out laughing at the very idea.

"Nobody cuts the wool off, Næmr. It's just rolled off. Look, that thrall's ready. He's caught his sheep."

The ewe bleated in indignation as the thrall grabbed her by the horn and with a deft twist, dumped the complaining sheep on to her back. In the pen, her small lamb called plaintively, zig-zagging up and down the side of the pen.

"Wool bales!"

The words popped out like a cork from a bottle. Yalda shook her head. She did not understand. She gave Næmr such a strange look that the young woman concluded that such things as 'wool bales' had no place with sheep in this village.

Yalda and Næmr watched as the thralls grabbed each ewe in turn. While one held the animal still, nimble fingers of the other began working quickly and expertly from head to tail peeling back the fleece and lifting it as one lifts turf for a lawn. The smells, the bleatings and the industry of it all had a familiarity and the young goddess concluded that she must have experienced something quite similar before. But those memories of her existence before she was found on Jotenfjell, would not return. She found that to actively try to attempt recollection brought on a headache that even Yalda's medicines could not cure. If only things would all come back to her! If only she could remember, then these strange words, these intermittent glimpses would be more meaningful.

"Come, Næmr!" Yalda gathered up one of the fleece bundles. "Get that one over there, too. That's a good one. Bring it here. I'll take these."

Næmr gathered up the fleece in her arms and followed Yalda back into the house. She handed it over for Yalda to roll up and store away until there was time to spin the yarn and weave it on her loom.

Once the activity of planting, herb and wool gathering had begun to die down, a new anticipation and excitement filled the air. Everyone became involved carrying food and supplies down to the water's edge where a number of small boats were being repaired. In the shallows of the fjord, lay two wooden boats, the larger of the two being some twenty meters in length. Held in place, each threaded through a small, round hole each side of the hull, were long oars, their flattened ends stationary upon the smooth surface of the cold virescent water. Næmr couldn't take her eyes off the larger craft with its high curved stern that arched like a snake away from her and its upright prow thrusting aggressively upwards, like an insolent fist. Propped against the smooth sided hull, stood the figurehead, a gigantic snarling dragon head, its eyes wide in anger, its mouth open in defiance.

A few paces in front of the two vessels, a wooden platform had been erected, and around its base lay weapons, shining metal swords that sparkled like the sea, and circular shields that covered the grass in a rainbow of coloured wood. Yalda put down the herbal medicines she had made from the plants that had been gathered by her a few days previously, and stood back looking at the great piles of food that had been donated for the forthcoming voyage. She looked on as the cargo was being loaded into the bottom of the waiting vessels.

Næmr whispered to Yalda while she kept her eyes fixed on the majestic boats. They lay silent and unmoving, glued to the thin edge where the land and the water met.

"What's going on?"

"It's the time for the raids. Our warriors will be going away any day to find treasure and capture more slaves."

Næmr thought of Heggar and how she had been wrenched away from her own village and how she had witnessed the brutal fighting and final death of most of her family and how she had been brought to this village at the end of the long fingered fjord. She now understood why Heggar felt fear for the fearsome dragon boats and their crews.

"Why is the dragon head beside the boat and not on the prow?" she whispered to Yalda.

Yalda smiled at the young woman's innocence.

"It would bring ill-fortune if it was put up here," she said. "Later, when they find their quarry and the warriors are ready for battle, they will put it up on the prow spike. Then, the dragon boats will bring fear and terror into the hearts of our enemies and turn them into cowards."

Næmr could not take her eyes away from the menacing monster that snarled in her direction; its lips drawn back, its eyes wildly defiant. And as she looked deep into its soul, something awoke deep within her consciousness.

"Toia mai te waka, e tama ma!"

One of the freemen, who happened to be nearby, paused in his work and called out.

"Listen, the young goddess speaks with her gods!"

"Quiet, man! We don't want everyone to stop working. There's still too much to do. Get those thralls over there to start packing the crates."

"But, I've never heard such words before. They're all strange to my ears."

"Then, I say you heard wrong!" The man in charge snapped out his words like the crack of a whip. "I heard what was said. You were mistaken. Now, move!"

The man looked at Næmr, a little pause and then a much longer one, and having satisfied himself that nothing extraordinary was about to take place, he turned away and walked towards the busy thralls.

It had been a much longer walk down to the water's edge than usual, for as they had tried to pass through the village, people had reached out their hands to touch Næmr's long skirt or had wanted to stroke her dark hair. It was as if they all knew that the young woman had, indeed, come from the gods and somehow their own lives would be charmed by the connection.

Yalda's next took Næmr to see Vestlasa, the priestess, who was to bless the vessels before their journey in five days time. It was important that the young goddess had time to observe the preparations and to observe the care they took to ensure success would be theirs.

Næmr was sure she had seen war boats very similar to these before. A picture of paddles dipping and rising, water falling like small waterfalls from their cutting edge; proud prows looming out of an early, morning mist thrust itself into her consciousness. The snarling dragon-head on the ground grinned at her but its wild eyes revealed nothing. It had her in its spell and she could not avert her gaze.

Suddenly, Yalda touched her. The spell broke and Næmr was brought back to the present.

"The boats . . . where do they to go?" she asked aloud.

It was a man's voice that gave the answer.

"The drakkar and those there."The man pointed to a few of the boats which were sleeping at their moorings. "Those are the ones that sail far away, down the fjord and well beyond our shore. They are the only ones we send on the raids."

Næmr spun round to face a tall, handsome warrior who had come up behind her. He was strong and handsome. His ivory, blond hair fell like silk, reaching down his neck until it reached two broad, muscular shoulders. He had tied a band around his head to stop his hair from falling across his face whenever he bent over. She noticed his tunic was deep blue, like the sea and his long, red leggings which were bound closely around his calves, were patterned by thin strips of dark brown leather thongs. Over his tunic he wore a jerkin of chain-mail that shone like dragon scales in the morning sun. His two silver wrist bands flashed like comets as he raised his arm and, without a word, directed one of the freemen to move further away from him. He was a man who was used to being obeyed.

A golden horn and several sharp daggers hung from his richly jewelled studded waist belt. Næmr noticed that he was the owner of a double-edged sword with a hilt, inlaid with both silver and gold and decorated with runes and symbols. He was the finest warrior she had ever seen.

For a while she could not speak. She had never noticed such a handsome young man in the village before. It was clear by the lavishness of his clothing that he was someone of importance. Her heart beat strongly within her breast and she could feel a flush of excitement race through her veins. She smiled at him and then dropped her eyes. She could feel his eyes penetrate her body. It made her feel weak and vulnerable but this time she did not mind. She stood silent and demure, her heartbeat racing with excitement while her mind remained riveted as she could think of nothing but the closeness of the warrior before her. Eventually, she raised her deep, dark eyes, and discovered that she could still speak.

"They're beautiful boats."

She felt she had said the obvious and felt awkward.

"They are."

His voice was young and smooth. The sound of it made her tremble inside and she felt as if her legs were going to collapse under her.

"Will you be going?"

She had managed to find her voice again but her words came out very shaky.

"Of course!" He smiled with amusement at her innocence. "My men. My boat. And me."

"Why are you going?"

The answer she expected did not come.

"To defy the sea," he replied. His face was full of smiles, so many smiles that she hardly heard his words. "We go to experience the thrill of battle . . . to find treasure, maybe meet a glorious death in battle, if our gods so desire."

The mention of death took her aback and she let out a small startled gasp.

"Why such glory - in death? Why go looking for death? Isn't life the better option?"

He laughed, a perfect genuine laugh. Even his teeth were perfect; even and white.

"Life's for living and . . . " He paused and leaned slightly towards her so that his face was closer to hers. He looked so deep in her eyes she thought her eyeballs would burn up from the intensity of his look. " . . .and loving." He took full note of her reaction as he hung on his last word. Then, he straightened up again. "Only in death can a warrior gain his honour! It's his right to enter Valhalla. He can only do that through death in battle."

There was a period of silence as she wrestled with herself, feeling that deep down she could not condone such actions. She felt compelled to speak.

"To throw your life away?" she asked with dismay.

"No, not at all. You, a goddess, should know that. To enter the world beyond ours will make us immortal."

"But your family?"

"Of course my family's important to me. I don't deny that but they also realise that sacrifice is one of the greatest thing a mortal can offer the gods. We've all been taught that there are rewards for those taken in battle."

"But to leave your wife and children?"

She thought he was older than many of the young married men she had seen around the village. Surely, he would have been married by now.

"I have neither . . . as yet. The way we warriors live our lives . . ." Her warrior threw back his head and laughed heartily. "When I'm ready, I'll look for a wife. Then I'll be prepared to make my resting place on Midgard. Until then, I do my family honour, especially when I bring back treasure or slaves."

Næmr thought of Heggar and of the sister she would never grow to know.

"Don't you think how others suffer because of your raids? Is it right that they should be made your slaves?"

He was pragmatic with his reply.

"If we didn't go on our raids, others would come for us. The laws of nature are our laws as well."

She felt herself caught between two opposing ideas: the right for all people to live their lives in peace and harmony and the realisation that it is the aggressive side of nature that pushes forward and achieves. Yet, there was something deep down and primitive in her that allowed her to understand the cruelty that was implied. Then how could she hope to empathise with those who became the victim? Poor Heggar. What the child must have gone through when those wild and fearless men attacked her village?

"But why does it have to be like that?"

"It's the way things are! On Midgard we must obey the wishes of the gods. Odin gave his eye for wisdom we cannot hope to understand. Ours is not to question but to obey." Even though his words had told of violent things, she found his voice soothing and his manner had a gentleness she had not expected. "It's the way life is in the village. And others, too . . . all along the coast and as far as one can go."

He had never talked with any woman as he was conversing now. He was finding this dark-haired goddess fascinating and was flattered that he held her attention. It was strange. Even though it was understood that only the fairest was considered to be beautiful, he was finding that this young woman, with her golden-bronzed colouring and deep dark eyes, was hauntingly attractive. A special one; one of a kind, and he became determined to make her, his.

"Then, you will be gone for . . . ?"

"Many months. It's the time when the thrill of the raid races through us. To know the exhilaration of battle is to know real excitement. When we return and when you see such treasures that are unloaded from the boats, then you'll understand. The village will flourish again and life will be worth living." He stepped back and looked her up and down with a glint in his eye. "And when we return, what should I have brought back for you? A golden chalice sparkling with the stones of beauty found in far off lands? A pretty brooch, set in silver, to adorn your dress? A necklace band to for your neck?"

"I don't know."

"Come, all women desire pretty things. I also think a goddess would be the same."

"I really wouldn't know what to ask for. Really!"

"And I swear I'll not return 'til I've found something for you. Come, surely, there is something you desire!"

Næmr was speechless again. His offer had taken her by surprise, for she well understood that this was not light words of flirt but a proposal that his intentions were sincere. She found it most overwhelming and turned to Yalda for support. But this time Yalda was silent for it was not her place to intervene.

The young man waited for her reply. His hand held the hilt of his sword. He was prepared to wait.

"I . . .I can't think . . . of anything." She was hesitant with her answer. Perhaps, it might be more polite to ask for the safe return of his vessel, first, she thought. "Promise to return," she said finally.

He laughed heartily again. He found her answer most amusing.

"Of course!" He leaned towards her and spoke so that only she would hear. "I know. I'll bring you back a brooch with shining stones to go with your eyes, deep dark stones that are fathomless like the very waters we have to cross. I know the kind. I've seen them but once. And when I return you could wear it every day and . . . "

The young man was about to say something else, when he was approached by another warrior who had been checking the loading of the boats. His spirits had been lifted by her acceptance of his promised gift.

"Until I return. My Ladies."

He bowed.

After taking his leave of both Næmr and her guardian, he walked away towards the largest boat that lay tethered at he edge of the water.

Næmr stood watching the well-muscled warrior who had made her heart flutter. She could feel the the burning of passion in her cheeks and the sensation of a prickling flush that crept down her neck.

"Gosh! Who was that?"

Such interest had not escaped Yalda. She was pleased that Næmr had caught the eye of such a noble man and found him pleasing.

"His name's Halldorr-Arn, a man worthy to be as an eagle. He's the son of one of the most powerful jarls of the village. He does his family proud. A very brave warrior. His family owns much of the forest land to the east and several of the larger farms that lie between here and the village. Oh, Næmr, I'm so pleased for you. You do find him to your liking, don't you?"

Næmr blushed again and pretended that her interest in the young warrior had only been superficial.

"I was curious about the boats. That's why we came here in the first place, wasn't it, Yalda?"

"So you say. But any woman would be proud to have him as her husband."

"Oh, I have no desire for that! Not yet."

Yalda was not convinced but she kept further thoughts to herself. She left Næmr standing alone for a while. But Yalda did not go very far away and kept her eye trained on the girl. Yes, this Halldorr had certainly taken her breath away and captured her interest. The way Næmr had admired his strong muscular body had not escaped Yalda's keen eyes. Yes, Yalda felt satisfied in herself that the two would make a very handsome match. She would have to put the idea to the Council.

"Come, now, Næmr. It's time for us to go." Yalda picked up her empty basket and sat it upon her hip like a mother carrying her child. "Are you coming?"

"Can I stay a little longer, Yalda?" Næmr pleaded. "May I stay, alone?"

"I suppose you'll be safe enough on your own. It's not far back to the village and there are plenty of people still coming and going. I'll send a thrall back, just in case. Don't stay too long. Just a little while."

It was the first time Yalda had agreed for Næmr to leave the house unattended. She was uneasy about allowing it so the quicker she could get back to her house, the quicker she could send a thrall to watch over the young woman.

Now, standing alone, Næmras watched Yalda take the right-hand turn in the pathway that led back to the village. For once she had the feeling of freedom yet she knew it would only be for a fleeting moment. It was a great feeling and she decided to walk a little further along the shoreline, just a little way on her own before turning back towards the boats and the people.

Low scrubby bushes grew almost down to the water's edge so that she was forced to follow a narrow trail between them and the water. She never noticed the branches of one of the bushes rustle and quiver. She never noticed the dark shape concealed behind its leaves. Suddenly, something grabbed her by the arm, and pulled.

"Ha! I have you, now! Ensnared like a helpless bird!"

Immediately she recognised the deep, booming voice of Bodvarr moments before she found herself looking into his gloating face. He pulled her roughly towards himself.

"Let me go! Let me go!"

She screamed at him and vainly tried to wriggle free but his grip was far too strong. Bodvarr lowered his face like a bull and fixed her firmly in front of his eyes, close enough for her to only see a row of discoloured teeth gleaming between his moustache and beard. She could feel his hot breath as he sneered a laugh, pulling his top lip well back like that of a snarling wolf.

"One day. One day. Could this be the day?" She desperately turned her head as far as possible away from his hairy face but he used his other hand to prize it back to where it had been. "Don't you look away from me! Ever!"

Næmr felt any strength of resistance fade as the dull nausea in her stomach rose up into her throat. She tried to speak but couldn't; her throat tendons remained taught and tight. Bodvarr squeezed her neck so that no breath could escape past his vice-like grip. She felt her consciousness ebbing away and realised that within a very short time her body would slump limply on the ground before him.

"Bodvarr!" The giant of a man released his hold immediately. The tip of a sword was touching the back of his neck. He knew it was a sword for he had felt its cold, hard metal against his body many times. "Does the Council hear of this? Or should I slay you, now?"

Næmr knew the voice to be Halldorr's. The moment Bodvarr released his grip, Halldorr lowered his sword, sufficient enough to allow Bodvarr to turn round but not to allow him to draw his own. Bodvarrl laughed apologetically and held both his arms upwards each side of his head.

"A little joke, Halldorr, that's all. I only wanted to show her that walking on one's own can be dangerous. If one of the thralls had followed her. See, I meant her no harm!"

Bodvarr backed away, laughing his false laugh until he was out of reach of Halldorr's intimidating sword. He then turned and disappeared in among the bushes as quickly and as quietly as he had appeared.

Halldorr re-sheathed his sword and held out his hand to the young woman.

"I think you need protection from men like him. Bodvarr's rough and cruel. He treats all women with contempt. You need to be aware of him and any of his warrior friends. "

"Thank you," replied Næmr. "I thought you were busy organising the boats. I never thought that . . . "

". . . that I didn't notice you walking away on your own?" She secretly smiled at the ground for she did not wish him to see the blush that had coloured her cheeks. "Come, let me walk you back to the boats. One of Mistress Yalda's thralls was looking for you. He was sent to take you home."

During the next few days, Halldorr found several excuses to pay Yalda's little house a visit. He brought gifts from his own lands, he said to help the women with their summer provisions. He had said the gifts came from the jarl, his father, but it did not take Yalda long to work out that the young man was really making excuses to meet and talk to Næmr. Heggar was given strict instructions to keep out of the way. It would not be politic, for such a person in Halldorr's position, to see the freedom Yalda allowed the girl. To most of the jarls, slaves were the bottom strata of society: stupid, unrefined and tolerated only because of their usefulness in performing the most menial of tasks. Yalda had found Heggar to be none of these things; she was a willing and rapid learner, and although a bit of a babbler, as many young girls were, Yalda was certain that Heggar would get better. In time, maybe, Heggar would be able to buy back her freedom and set up a household of her own, a privilege given if the slave proved their worth. Until then, Heggar must be kept out of any mischief and kept well away from Halldorr and any attention he paid Næmr.

Yalda made it her duty to be around whenever the young man called, for as long as someone was present, Næmr's reputation would not be open to question. Besides, there was still that shameful experience with Bodvarr on the mountain which continued to upset Næmr from time to time. It would be some time before that wound would heal, and as it was, Yalda now felt a strong maternal responsibility towards the young woman who had entered her life. After all, had she not been entrusted by the Council to look after her until she had recalled all her previous knowledge? It was a task not to be flippantly treated.

On the fourth day, the handsome young warrior called in at the house much earlier than before. He had brought several of his own slaves with him and two of his finest horses, so Yalda knew he had something else in mind other than sit and talk to to them both. She noticed the way Næmr's eyes would light up as she listened to dangerous exploits in far-off lands, or whenever he described the perilous sea voyages of drakkar and crew as they encountered strange and frightening monsters that lived beneath the waves. But this time, he did not sit down but remained, leaning against the door-frame, as a wistful smile played around his lips.

"Would the Lady Næmr like to come with me around the western edge of the fjord?" he asked, indicating that he had come well prepared to make such a journey through fields and forested areas owned by his father, the jarl. He always addressed her as 'Lady -' or 'my Lady' and Næmr was flattered by his refinement. She was only too pleased to tear herself away from the sewing Yalda had given her to do. The close work with needle and thread was becoming too difficult for Yalda with her bent fingers and weakened eyes.

Næmr quickly put the small metal needle aside and laid the needlework in one of the caskets that held the woven cloth which Yalda had prepared the previous winter.

"Can I? Is it permitted, Yalda?"

This man did not bring terror into her heart like Bodvarr did. She felt safe and relaxed in his company. His eyes laughed with hers, his body moved in time with her own rhythms and all the fear of her past experiences was put out of her mind. She closed the heavy wooden lid of the casket.

"Normally I would have to come with you," said Yalda. "But I see that proper arrangements have been made."

She had noticed the small group waiting outside. She was pleased to see several mature ambatt women who would definitely ensure Næmr's honour would be quite safe.

"Everything's ready," said Halldorr. "I've brought along some of my father's slaves to accompany us. These women have served us for many years. I'd trust them with my life. Don't worry, Mistress Yalda. I'll see no harm comes to my Lady. She'll be safe with me."

Yalda walked over to where the slaves were standing with the flaxen-coloured ponies. There were two women and three younger males. She made a mental note of the exhilarated look on Næmr's face and glint of pleasure that was in her eyes. There was a sparkle of life she had not noticed before. It would do the young woman good to be taken out into the countryside, for the outing might help restore more of her lost memories and any secret knowledge, known only to the gods.

"I have no objections, my lord. I know that your intentions are good. I'm certain the Council would approve." Yalda smiled at him in a knowing way, for she and the old jarl had already had words about the relationship that seemed to be developing between his son and the young dark-haired woman. She turned and spoke to Næmr. "Go, Næmr. Everything'll be fine. We'll manage. I'll get one of the farm thralls to fetch water today."

"If you're sure."

"I am."

Yalda patted the inquisitive nose of the pony that was nuzzling her, hoping for a tit-bit of something to eat.

Halldorr tried to help Næmr up on to the soft sheepskin rug that had been secured to the back of the pony. He was amused when she gathered the front of her long skirt under her and swung her right leg across the pony's wither to sit astride the animal exactly as the Valkyries rode their galloping steeds across the skies to collect the souls of fallen battle heroes. But then, this dark skinned female was not like any woman he had ever met before. He knew she was special and for that reason alone, he was prepared to accept whatever she did.

They rode together for several hours, the young woman and the jarl side by side on their small golden horses with the long, flowing cream manes. The five thralls walked behind, the three men carrying baskets in their arms and the two women, each with a woollen blanket draped around their shoulders like a heavy shawl. The valley was ablaze in a tapestry of colour, and a rich fragrance filled the air. Wild flowers grew interspersed among the long meadow grasses that turned the hillsides into a mantel of green. Hugging all sides of the valley were the rounded tops of craggy hills and behind those, the dark weather-beaten peaks of the mountains. Closest of all was Jotenfjell, the sacred mountain, where the bones of the unwanted had been uncovered by the melting snows. It's mood changed with the seasons as it stood like a sentry, guarding life and death of the people who lived near its base.

For once, its dreadful countenance did not bother Næmr. She was determined to enjoy the warm, early-summer day, to be able to ride along the edges of cultivated fields, under the shade of oaks and birch and past pine forests that dipped their dark green branches over the eastern hills.

He reined in his pony a little to slow down its pace and turned from his waist to face her.

"You do look happy today," commented her fair-haired warrior.

"I am!" She exclaimed. "It's so wonderful to be out in the country." She halted her pony and looked around. "I never realised things around here could be so beautiful . . . "

Halldorr leaned forwards across the mane of his horse. His blue eyes sparkled with interest as he called to her.

"Don't you find the countryside wonderful?" he asked. "Beautiful on a day like this." Then he added with a laugh, "Like you."

Her cheeks reddened. Secretly, she could feel the sides of her neck burn and her breasts tingle. She lowered her eyes as she imagined his penetrating gaze unclothe her body yet she enjoyed his flattery. It made her feel womanly and wanted; human again.

"I'd always imagined the land cold with snow," she said.

"For most of the year, that is so," he replied. "Come spring, a bit of warmth and a little sun and everything changes. Everything rushes into life. Look over there - by the trees. Can you see the bear cubs?"

She turned and looked and suddenly saw them as the movement caught her eye. Then, in an instant they were gone, back into the dark depths of the fir forest.

Næmr let her gaze drop on to the hillside where they had stopped. The wild flowers created a rainbow tapestry around their feet and as she scanned the patterns they made, she noticed a group of small gold and white daisy heads tucked down below the grass heads. Immediately, she found an idea popping up in her mind. It was a childhood memory, intense and clear.

"Daisies!" she exclaimed. She pointed to the delicate frilled, petal heads swaying not far from her horse's hooves.

"What? What did you say?"

"Look, daisies! They're everywhere when you look! Even here!" She pulled her pony to a stop, threw the reins over its head and slid gracefully from its back. "Halldorr, have you ever made a daisy chain?"

"A what?"

She immediately began to gather the abundant flowers in her hands. Halldorr watched her, observing her from the back of his horse. He was fascinated for the only chains he had seen were those made by the craftsmen in the village furnace. Carefully, she threaded each tiny head through the stalk of the one before until she had joined up a long line of them.

"There!"

She held up the finished circle of flower heads for him to see.

Halldorr jumped off his pony and joined her in the grass. She coyly handed him the finished chain, teasing him, somewhat, like a temptress until his fingers touched her hand. He stroked the back of her hand several times before he allowed the offering to slide into his palm.

"Interesting," he said. "I've never seen this done before." He turned the daisy chain over and over in his hands. "So simple. I like it. It's great. Who taught you this?"

"I used to make them when I was a child. We all did . . . when the daisies appeared. My sister taught me how."

"What do you do with them?"

"Play. The best one was 'Queenie'."

"Queenie? What is Queenie?"

"Um, oh."

For a minute she was bewildered. It happened like that: one minute things seemed so clear and the next, they had gone. It was all very frustrating. 'Queenie' was important; she sensed that. She then remembered she had been 'Queenie' once and she'd been allowed to choose the prettiest dressing-up dress, together with sparkly shoes and dainty gloves and her sister had allowed her the biggest slice of cake and everyone was especially nice to her for the rest of that whole day. Because, for that one day, she was 'Queenie'. She told him that and he was laughing with her but he did not understand.

"'Queenie'? Is that what this is called?" he asked holding up the daisy chain. "A 'Queenie'?"

"Not the daisies." She laughed loudly and her laughter rang around the mountains. "The crown of daisies is put on your head and you become 'Queenie'. I was. For one whole day."

She could remember that part of the day as clearly as if were happening today. The feeling was the same: she was happy . . . really, really happy. It felt great to be alive.

"Let me put this on your head and you shall be my 'Queenie' for today! The best 'Queenie' in Midgard," Halldorr said.

Halldorr placed the daisy crown on her jet black hair. They reminded him of the snowdrops that grew close to the snow-line amongst the rocky crevices high up on Jotenfjell. Gently, he bent forwards and kissed her forehead. She pulled back like a hesitant fawn. He noticed her apprehension, the tension that had made her body stiffen and did not advance. He wanted desperately to take her in his arms and press her soft body against his but he knew to give her time.

"Please forgive me. I did not mean to startle you. I'd never harm you."

His voice was soft and soothing. He had no intention to frighten her away. He was not like Bodvarr, the warrior well known for his cruelty. Halldorr knew he would have to face Bodvarr the Bellower one day if he was to try and claim the hand of this dark lady for his own. He also realised that he needed to be patient with this exceptional woman if he was to have any chance of making her his bride.

Næmr quickly regained her composure. She brushed aside the attentions of the ambatt woman who had moved to her protection and was now taking the great liberty of patting and stroking her as she would to console a child.

"Leave me. I'm fine."

She found it unnerving to have the attendants so close to her, watching her every movement as though she were a specimen under the microscope. She could vaguely remember meeting someone special before but she could not remember having thralls around that time. Who had she met before? She was sure he was from the village, and yet . . . It was like a in a dream, and like all dreams, he had no existence but inside her head.

The daisy crown slipped from her head and fell tangled and dishevelled in the grass. She let it go. It did not belong here; it belonged in a location she could not place She straightened her back and looked across the valley to the sparkling deep blue waters of the fjord.

"Halldorr, how many times have you been across the water in the dragon boat?"

"Several summers. I had a brother older than me. It was his boat, then. On the last voyage I came home. Not he."

"I'm sorry."

She was sincere. It made her understand some of the danger the warriors put themselves in.

"Oh, don't be," he told her. "I'm proud to be given the opportunity to avenge his death. You wouldn't understand."

"But I do. I do know about that. It's a need to make things equal. Especially when it's to do with family."

"Yes, for my blood brother. I will go again."

He stared far into the distance beyond where the sky meets the sea, and for a moment Næmr felt that he had already sailed out in that boat of his, down the long fjord finger and out into the sea. Then he looked at her again, full and long, a serious countenance in his face. "All good warriors, if they are fortunate enough to die in battle, ride with the Valkyries. We remain in Valhalla until we are called for the final battle of the gods against the giants. Until eternity."

"Eternity's such a long time."

The word seemed to go on and on for ever within her mind, repeating itself over and over. She was hardly aware of Halldorr's voice and the words only slowly seeped into her consciousness.

". . . selected by the gods to fight their battles and every evening to drink the sacred mead with Odin, himself. Then eternity is wonderful, to be longed for." He smiled at her and held out his hand. "Come." He lead her slowly back to where one of his thralls waited, ponies in hand. "We all need to be ready for that final sacrifice when the gods are forced to wage war on the giants. It's the way for men, great warriors, like my brother and me. We're all made blood brothers through the excitement of battle!"

"But what about women? Where do they fit into this world of yours?"

"They have the most important job of all." He raised his eyebrow and paused to watch her reaction. She gave nothing away. "Is it not the woman who bears the child? The child who, in turn, becomes the warrior?" he asked.

"Who dies," she added.

He completely misunderstood her remark.

"Yes, it's true many women die giving life to their child. That's the sacrifice we have to make for the benefit of the gods. To offer up our lives."

"Then, how can the village hope to survive if many of its child-bearing women and warriors are gone?"

He laughed. He had never been questioned like this before, especially by any woman. Most knew their place and that was subservient to the men. That was the natural order of things.

"Not all offer themselves to the gods. There are still farmers, craftmakers, fishermen and builders. They don't go. Only fit, young warriors go on the raids and when a man takes a wife who will give him sons of his own, he doesn't go any more. So, you see, there'll always be a new generation of warriors willing to sail the boats. They'll leave like their fathers and fathers before them to seek out adventures. Such are the laws. Women must make their sacrifice, too, by giving us sons."

An electrifying thought zapped throughout her body and she became angry with what he'd said. To be only a receptacle for unborn heroes was not what she had believed. She protested loudly, her dark eyes blazed like burning coals, sending sparks of indignation in his direction.

"Women are more than that! We have our own value! Are women not the educators of the young? Is it not they who sow the seed of knowledge, that allows men, like you, to create your dreams?"

"The dreams of men should not concern women!" he curtly replied. "Women create life - and that is all they do."

His words were stated with conviction, but she knew in her heart there was more to being a woman than merely being the producer of heirs.

"We are important! We're just as important as you! The blood of great warriors flows through our veins as well as yours! Without us, you'd be nothing!"

"Sorry, if I've offended you," he said. "I see you're very insistent and know your mind. I like that. You've a fighting spirit, like mine."

She noticed the twitch of annoyance on the side of his cheek as he clenched his teeth together.

"I'll concede that we are needed to make your clothes and prepare your food, to be mistress of our husband's estates but that doesn't mean we do not have the will to fight. Do you not agree?"

He pinched his lips together. He had never been questioned along these lines before.

"Surely, Mistress Yalda has instructed you in household tasks and taught you how to be a dutiful wife? Men are the fighters of battles and women are the keepers of keys."

Næmr nodded although she wasn't pleased.

"Educators, managers, health providers, supporters. You must agree, without us, society would not succeed."

He laughed at her.

"Lady, you dream too much! You have so much to learn. So much."

She realised there did not seem to be much point on continuing. She felt that somewhere, sometime women had already fought their greatest battle of all: one that had given them their own dignity and identity. If only she could remember her past, then these thoughts of hers would begin to make sense and she would be able better to fight for her ideas. At the present time, she had no past to help her.

The strange conversation was not allowed to spoil their day. They spent the rest of the morning riding, laughing and enjoying the freedom they both felt. The countryside reverberated with the calls of wild birds as the small group entered the cool shade beneath the tall forest trees where Halldorr's family gathered any wood that they needed. Shafts of bright sunlight penetrated down through the bright new growth of the tree canopy, and masses of early Spring flowers covered the mossy brown forest floor. As they came to one of the swift streamlets that had tumbled from mountain heights, Halldorr signalled everybody to sit and rest. The thralls lay down the blankets for the son of their jarl and the young woman he had with him, making sure their were neither thistles nor thorns nearby.

Funny thing, mused Næmr to herself, as yet another image emerged into her conscious mind. Somehow, I expected the forest to be much more dense with vines and thick undergrowth. I thought the mosses would have been more abundant and I'm sure I remember seeing ferns the size of trees.

"Now, what are you thinking?" he asked.

She tried to describe the picture that had just popped into her mind.

"What here?" he asked, surprise showing in his voice. "You are one strange, lady! I certainly don't have any knowledge of such a forest. There's none on this world. The words I have heard from your lips today can only tell of a knowledge in a world beyond ours. It's a world not open to us."

"Maybe you're right and I do have strange insights into another world. Yet, my knowledge of the worlds they call Asgard and Vanaheim is very sparse. Even the normal village folk seem to know more about those places than I do."

She looked wistfully into the cool darkness of the forest. She found it difficult to fear such a place even though she had been told about the wolves that roamed within its depths. On the occasional full-moon night she had woken to hear their mournful howls but they had seemed so forlorn and distant. Maybe the wolves howled, too, because they were trying to call to their ancestors.

I wish I really knew who I am, where I'm from. I wish, I wish,' she thought. 'I don't think anyone can be a whole person until they know their ancestors and their connection to the earth.

Out loud she voiced her concern.

"I wish I knew who I really am!"

"You're Næmr. That's all you need to know." He noticed the pained look on her face. "for now," he added. "It'll come. It will take a little time but it will come."

"I hope you're right. Nothing would give me more pleasure than knowing myself. I mean, you know exactly who and what you are. You know of your parents, your brothers and sisters. You know your history. You belong." He nodded. "You have your connection to your world through your land, your family and through your village. But who am I? Do I have any connection to this land? Should I belong here at all?"

"I'm sure you'll find your place. You'll discover the connection you're looking for, in time and you'll call this place your home."

"But, look at me!" She cried. She ran her hands down each side of her head, tugging at the short plait that hung just past her neck. "I'm different: my hair's all black; my skin's much darker than yours. My eyes are brown; not blue like yours and everyone else's in the village. Does that not tell you something? No, Halldorr, there's no connection. Sorry."

"Gods come to us in many guises," he said quietly. "Odin is testing our faith - that's all. He's done it before, many times. To me you are precious because there is only one of you. No other woman, freely born or thrall is like you. You are special and I want you to be happy, especially today. Let us live for the moment. Don't let your worries or concerns spoil our day."

She was rather surprised at his sympathetic understanding over her bewildering predicament. She felt she could talk freely to him because he was willing to accept her and remain calm when she had questioned his own beliefs. He was unlike Yalda who had cross-questioned her on several occasions after she had said or done something unusual. Halldorr was not like that. That's why she felt at ease in his company. He accepted her for what she was at this present time.

"Come on, my mysterious daughter of Odin!" Halldorr stretched out his bare arm, his muscles rippling like a stallion in its prime, and insisted she take his hand. "This is no time to waste on whether you belong with us, or not. I'm just happy to have you to myself today. Come! There are so many other things I wish to show you before it's time to take you back to Mistress Yalda's."

One of his thralls helped her on to the back of the little horse and Halldorr led the way to the far side of the valley where they were able to see where the fjord met the sea.

"That's where the dragon boats will go," he told her pointing out the way.

The day passed so quickly. She had not realised how late it had become. The late evening sun was still high in the sky, casting shadows of thin, pencil people and long, spider-legged ponies that stretched back along the track. For Næmr, it had been a wonderful day, and that evening, after her meal, she sank exhausted into her bedding, dreaming of the handsome warrior who had captured her heart that day.

The next day, all the men of the village met in the Great Hall to farewell the warriors before they took to the longboats and, with their raised dragon heads, sail for the seas. They would be away for many weeks. The captives and treasures which they would bring back, would compensate for any danger that the village would be under while its men were away. The wives and families left behind would ensuring the all the thralls worked hard during the long, warm summer days. The days that had no setting sun.

"Keep well clear of the men!" warned Yalda as the two large wooden doors of the Great Hall were swung wide open and barrels of beer and mead were rolled inside. "Tonight is the night for those on the raids and they will not be responsible for anything they do."

The afternoon progressed slowly as food and drink was taken inside. Before long, everyone was able to hear the din that was coming from the Hall's interior: the raucous singing, the stomping of feet and the wild shouts of sixty beserk, drunken men. The noise continued well into the night and past the early hours of the midnight sun, until, in drunken stupor or utter exhaustion, the men collapsed onto the floor and fell into a deep, sleep.

Throughout the following day, the merriment and violence continued, spilling out of the Great Hall as warriors tested their muscles in bloody combat, wrestling and punching until one or the other was carried bleeding and bruised back through the doors into the pandemonium inside.

That evening, a handful of young thrall girls were dragged, screaming and protesting, into the Great Hall. The doors were shut tight so none could escape. During the night, Næmr covered her head with a thick blanket and wept tears of remorse. Would she ever be able to forget her own ordeal on the mountain, the cruelty of Bodvarr, the fear and humiliation she had suffered in the hut? Her own torture would continue as long as the wild celebrations could be heard throughout the village. Heggar tried to help but her own anguish only upset Næmr more. The sharp image of a cruel, dark mountain sneered on her. She rocked herself back and forth on her bed, head held between her shaking hands.

Why, oh why, did I have to go on that mountain? she asked herself.

She cried, the tears dropping into her cupped hands and running down her arms until, like a weeping stream, they dripped off her elbows, down on to the bedding.

What drew me towards its evil spirit? What laws did I break to deserve this? Who am I? What am I? What is wrong with me? Why cannot I remember the past?'

Heggar had been instructed to sit with Næmr. Secretly, Heggar was pleased, for it meant she would be protected from the rabble that was now roaming the village, snatching any young slave girl who happened to take their fancy.

"Try not to be afraid, my Lady" Heggar said, rubbing her own shaking hand on Næmr's curved back. Heggar's own mind was in turmoil, frightened by her own wild imagination of what might be happening behind those heavy wooden doors of the Great Hall with the skulls and dragon head carvings.

"You have a past!" cried Næmr distraught and upset. "You have memories of your family and homeland. You can remember the face of your mother and father. And you have a future, Heggar. You belong. I have nothing! Oh, why can't I remember?"

"I don't know, my Lady. Maybe the Norns of Time only wanted you to have a present and a future time."

"Don't be silly, Heggar!" Næmr snapped. "No-body can remember a future time . . . only their past. But where's mine? Why can I only remember that dreadful past with Bodvarr on Jotenfjell and nothing before?"

"I wish I didn't remember my past!" Heggar covered her ears to shut out the memories.

Næmr did not hear. She was distraught with her own dilemma.

"Will I ever know that before? I'm like a lost soul with nothing, nothing at all!"

"I'm sorry for you, my Lady. You make me so unhappy when you're like this. I wish I could help."

Loud shouting and banging like thunder claps sounded outside the house walls. Heggar's eyes widened and she tightly gripped the sleeve on Næmr's garment.

"Heggar!"

"I'm scared! What's happening out there?"

"I don't know."

"I can't think of anything but 'scared' with all that noise. Fear is all I can feel at the moment. The same fear I felt when I was taken from my family. I don't like to remember that! Oh dear, Næmr."

The bond was made: Heggar had called her by her name.

"Hold on to me, Heggar!"

The pair clung to each other like twins in a womb. Heggar pulled up a blanket and pulled it over their heads. They huddled together in the darkness and began to feel slightly less afraid.

Eventually, the drinking ceased and the terrifying noise died down. The wooden doors were thrown open again and sixty, wild-eyed warriors rushed out. Now, in their battle chain-mail and helmets they charged towards the mighty, sacred ash tree, brandishing their shields and swinging their swords.

At dawn all was calm again. Yalda gently shook Næmr and eased her entwined arms away from the sleeping Heggar. She had found the two asleep and had covered them with blankets to keep them warm. She spoke softly as Næmr opened her eyes and left her dreamlike state.

"Come Næmr," Yalda said in a low tone. "The priestess, Vestlasa, is asking for you to go to the where the dragon boats are."

Næmr was still drowsy. She yawned and stretched her arms, extending her fingers like a cat stretching its paws. It took some time before she was fully aware of her surroundings.

"Heggar?"

"She still sleeps. Let her be."

"Do I have to go?"

The way she felt this morning, she would much rather turn over and go back to sleep. Yalda shook her once more and became more insistent.

"Yes. Now. Get up, Næmr! Everyone's assembling at the water's edge. The men are leaving this morning on the raid."

Næmr put her legs over the edge of the wooden frame and stretched her back. Heggar moved. She missed the close contact of her nightly companion. Yalda held a rich golden tunic over her right arm.

"Put this skyrta over your dress. Here, you can wear these blue buckles either side. It's important that today your dress would even make Odinn proud."

As soon as they were ready, Yalda accompanied Næmr to the boats. Three longboats lay moored together in the sheltered waters of the green fjord, their dragon prow-heads ready to be put on board. They stood beside each boat where Næmr had seen them five days ago. It was considered very bad luck to erect the prow-head while in a harbour where no battle was to occur. Two of the boats had been fitted with a mast, a new invention which had only been around for a short time. Round shields hugged the wooden planks of the sleek hulls, oars rested immobile on the smooth surface.

The three wise women, the Fates, who had stayed with Næmr at Yggdrasil, stood guard, each at a different bow. Næmr approached the platform. Vestlasa stepped forward and extended her hand. She welcomed their goddess on to the sacred dais.

Suddenly, a cry rang out from within the gathering crowd.

"Look! Here they come!"

Villagers and warriors drew aside as the village leader, and one of the young thrall boys who had earlier been dragged in through the huge doors of the Great Hall, came forward. The youth was thin with long arms and legs. He was still young, thirteen or fourteen maybe, still with a childishness about him. He seemed to be in some sort of trance. His eyes looked, but did not see; his ears heard, but did not hear. As he was led onto the platform, his long linen gown rippled like a breeze touching the waves. His feet were bare but he was unaware of the stones and pebbles over which he was led. His short-cropped brown hair could barely be seen under the decorated silver horned helmet he wore on his head.

"Please the gods! Our drakkar boats are ready to set sail!"

Excitement mounted. Women joined with the men, calling and chanting. The shrill, wailing cries of the women rose to a crescendo. The village priest stepped onto the dais and a hush fell like the sigh of the wind when the raging storm had died.

The voice of the priest was loud and clear. He called upon the strength of Thor and moved closer towards the slave boy. In an instant, a glistening dagger was plunged into his chest. Death quenched any cry.

"Let our sacrifice to Thor bring good fortune to the raids!"

Three old wizened women, their haunting hawk-like shrieks piercing the air, hurried over to where the dead slave's body lay. They waved their thin, old, withered arms above their heads and with serpent movements swayed their scrawny bodies back and forth.

Suddenly, with their knarred bony fingers, they ripped the victim's heart out through her ribs, pulling and cackling like vultures until they had extracted the dripping red vessel and held it up for all to see.

"Let the dark goddess smear this blood over our dragon faces!"

"Let this sacrifice bring fortune upon these boats of ours!"

"Let the gods bear witness to this sacrifice we offer in Thor's name!"

The dark-haired woman was shocked. What kind of savagery was this? How could she accept such an act by people she had begun to call her friends?

Dazed by the barbarity of the killing, and numbed by the experience, she found herself holding the unexpected still pulsating, dripping heart. Her whole body shook as her mind tried to comprehend what had happened. She agonised over the distasteful, gruesome deed.

Deep-red blood slowly oozed down each side of the dragon heads, slowly congealing into a sticky mess around the base. The stained wood glistened in the light and the cold green water around the hull drunk the blood like wine.

Crazed warriors picked up the heads and hauled them into the boats. They clambered over the sides and grabbed the oars. The dragon boats began to move in the direction of the open sea. As they rowed away from the fjord harbour, the dragon heads were lifted high on to the prow. A few minutes later, two of the vessels hoisted a large square sail which billowed outwards as it caught the early morning breeze.

The morning rays glinted off the warriors' chain-mail armour making it look as though the stars had taken over the boats. Slowly, the boats inched their way beyond the reaches of the land and out to the watery ocean of Njord, the sea god.

A new adventure had just begun.

### CHAPTER 8

The dragon boats had been away for most of the Summer. The mid-summer festival that had taken place around the tall upright runic stones was now only a memory. Villagers gathered the large, fat salmon as they returned to the inland streams of their birth, and hung the pale pink flesh up to dry in the warm summer sun. Small fishing boats returned each day filled to capacity with fresh, slender silver fish that had been gathered from the warm ocean currents that could be found just beyond the fjord mouth. This year was a time of plenty, a bountiful harvest rarely seen before. The village had been fortunate to have been favoured by the goddess, Frigga. The villagers felt successful and prosperous.

"Look!" Heggar pointed upwards some distance above her head. "Do you see, Næmr? All the birds flocking together."

Næmr looked into the darkening sky. Clouds had been building all morning, hinting that things were about to change.

"It's the autumn change. A little while and winter comes. I wish I were a bird like them and could fly away." Næmr mused.

"Me, too," Heggar added. "I hate it when the sun leaves and everywhere's so dark and cold. It makes me so miserable and there's so little food then. My belly cries to me in pain. Does yours, my Lady?"

"Yes, sometimes, Heggar, but I wish you'd always call me by my name."

"Mistress scolded me last time when I did use your name. She said she'd punish me if I did."

"Well, I say different. When we're alone. Then, she won't hear."

"But she did! My mistress hears everything."

"She won't hear you if she's not around and besides, 'Næmr' pleases me better."

"I really shouldn't. It's wrong."

"You must. Promise."

Heggar glanced around. Yalda was nowhere to be seen but still the girl paused a while before agreeing.

"All right, Næmr. Oh dear, it feels so wrong."

"You promised! You can't take it back. Now, what is it you're bursting to ask?"

"If you could be a bird, Næmr, where would you go?"

"Somewhere warm, that's to be sure. There's nothing much to do during the long winter days. Stay inside. Cough out your lungs and dig the cinders from your eyes."

"It's still better for you than for me. For you there are the gatherings in the Great Hall. Mistress Yalda had told me about them. All the things they do to pass the time. Not for the likes of me. For slaves, winter's the worst time of all."

"Why should that be, Heggar?"

"We die. If food is scarce, it's we who die first and I don't want to die."

"You won't, not with Yalda."

"Sometimes there's only seaweed and lichen to eat and it tastes awful!"

"It can't be that bad, Heggar."

"It is! Have you ever tried it?"

"Seaweed, yes. Lichen, no. That's reindeer food. I hope Yalda doesn't run short of provisions this year. I think I'd hate it if I had to eat those. And if it got that bad, I'd share food off my own plate with you. I'd not let you die, Heggar. I'd miss you too much."

Heggar's eyes brightened and a wide smile filled her face.

"Would you? Would you really? Really, really?"

"Of course."

Næmr ruffled the little plain bonnet Heggar wore over her hair to demonstrate the affection she had for the girl. She had seen Yalda do that many times and had become used to the idea.

The days were now certainly drawing in. Daylight became more precious as both animal and people raced to beat the onset of winter. Animals were brought down from their high summer grazing to the pastures surrounding the valley floor where the grass was still green. A new urgency came to the settlement, for the crops were turning golden, indicating that harvest was not far away. Flax and wool needed harvesting for the last time and trees were either coppiced for firewood or felled for timber to repair the buildings.

Heggar was kept doing so many extra chores, that her face became quite drawn, her eyelids drooping and tired. Yalda was short-tempered. As one job was finished, another immediately took its place.

"I hope the men bring home plenty of captives this time. I need more help around here. It's impossible to get everything done," she grumbled.

It was difficult trying to keep her small group together, making sure there were enough provisions to last through until the warmer weather returned again and constantly being called upon to administer some of her herbal medicines to someone who was ailing or to help when there was an accident.

Today, Yalda had asked for Næmr's help. She needed a hand to churn the goat's milk so that they could make a small amount of butter and cheese to be kept during the winter months. She had sent the thralls who usually looked after the sheep to try and catch a few of the semi-wild chickens that came into the village looking for scraps. Heggar was out collecting the last of any wood berries she could find so Yalda was not in a good mood.

"I'm not getting any younger. Oh dear, how my back aches today!" She straightened herself and rubbed her aching lower back muscles. "Oh dear!," she exclaimed again. "And just look at my hands!" She thrust her hands almost into Næmr's face. "See how bent my poor fingers have become? It's weaving's that done it! Worn out right to the bone and not one of my poultices have helped!"

"If you'd only teach Heggar. I know she'd like to learn."

"Yes, I admit the girl's quick to learn." Yalda massaged her hands for a few minutes. She seemed thoughtful for a while but then concluded, "But she's still a slave and I need her for other household duties!"

"She'd still like to try."

"I admit she's a very good ambatt and I'm fond of the girl. If I had another slave who could do Heggar's work, then I could show Heggar what to do. It might give her an incentive to work for her freedom. Yes, I like that idea, don't you?"

"I do. It would be a wonderful thing for her, Yalda."

However, in the meantime, Heggar was kept on her toes doing all the daily domestic chores and Næmr had no time to discuss the matter further with Yalda as much of her own time was taken up with Vestlasa. Every morning, the wife of one of Yalda's thralls whose husband had been allowed a small plot of land for his family in return with looking after her sheep and a small number of milking goats, would arrive at the house and walk with Næmr to Vestlasa's. Næmr was instructed very thoroughly in everything about the village: its culture, its past history and tales about their land.

The valley was small and narrow. The soils were difficult to work so that everything the land produced had to be carefully handled and preserved for winter. Vestlasa told her about the stories from long ago, of the biting cold and months of starvation that almost wiped out every inhabitant of the village. She told her of the hardships and the time when a great sickness arrived and took with it the very young and the old and how for a long time after, weeping could be still heard by the mothers who had lost their barns. As the population of the valley had increased, more pressure had been put on the thralls and on the safe return of the dragon boats, for if not enough food could be harvested in the valley, then its people were reliant upon the treasures seized during the battles.

Næmr began to understand the problems Yalda faced, a woman on her own without husband or sons to provide for her. She wished she could do more to relieve Heggar of some of her duties, but since the Council of Four had been convinced she had connections with gods who had jurisdiction over the fortunes of mankind, Næmr was exempt from all mundane chores. Surely, that would allow Yalda to have an extra slave?

Since the dragon boats had left the valley, Vestlasa would be both teacher and pupil, for she had been given the task of unlocking memories buried deep within Næmr's sub-conscious. So far, Vestlasa agreed with Yalda that the dark-haired Næmr was certainly different - unacquainted with so many of the simplest tasks yet capable of producing insights far beyond the capabilities of any human upon this earth.

"Your presence has benefited us with both our harvest on land and out at sea, for never before have we had such a bountiful yield of grain and fish. I hope, that when the warriors return, they will bring back treasures galore to make our village a great and prosperous place."

Such had been the last words of the council. Vestlasa had attributed so much to the young woman's presence, that Næmr began to wonder what her reaction would be if things did not go to plan. Would everyone still appear quite so friendly?

As the hours of daylight began to fade even quicker, Yalda spent countless hours standing in the dim light at the rear of her timber and mud house, weaving her wool and flax fibre which she would exchange for baskets of summer sun-dried fish, together with harvested nuts and berries.

It was on a cool late afternoon in autumn, when Næmr was standing in the doorway of the house, gazing out across the dark green waters of the fjord, that she caught sight of what looked like a sail making its way up the long watery finger.

"Yalda!" She was able to distinguish several square sails far in the distance where the fjord met the sea. Yalda immediately dropped the wool and rushed to the open door. "Look, sails! I see sails!"

She pointed out the moving shapes making their way slowly towards them but they were still too far away to see whose they were.

"Drakkarn?"

"I think so. Do you think they're ours?"

For a split second, Yalda's face betrayed her inner fears. When she spoke again, there was the sound of apprehension in her voice.

"I hope so. If they're not, we're in trouble. Better raise the alarm. Quickly!"

She called for Heggar so loudly, Næmr thought her call was sufficient alarm in itself.

"Why the panic, Yalda?"

"We had trouble several years ago when a raiding party from further up the coast arrived here. We were lucky then. We managed to hold them at bay but we lost people of our own in the skirmish. We must warn the Council. We must raise the alarm!"

Heggar still had not turned up and Yalda was appearing more agitated.

"Shall I go, Yalda?"

The excitement in her own voice made Næmr's question sound like a cry. She hoped Yalda would allow her to do something really useful. She had found the days a drag since the dragon boat and the other vessels left and the lessons with Vestlasa had not been that exhilarating, either. Also, the killing she had witnessed had upset her for a while and she was taken aback to find that everyone else had taken so little notice of the dreadful event and treated it as just another facet of life. One minute the villagers seemed placid and homely and the next, so bloodthirsty. Now, with danger looming, they were quite prepared to demonstrate their warlike character once more. Everyone in the village seemed prepared to sacrifice their lives for the protection of their possessions and families. It was a matter of their survival, another one of the constant threats that continues to rear up and test them.

Yalda called for Heggar again.

"Let me go."

"Yes! That's a good idea, Næmr." She turned so that she was still able to keep an eye on the tiny boat shapes far up the fjord. "Go, find Jarl Olaf and tell him at once. When Heggar turns up, I'll get her to keep watch. She'll not let those boats out of her sight. She always dreads dragon boats."

"Shall I take the pony?"

"Yes, do."

Yalda threw another quick look around. Heggar had still not answered her call. "Curse the girl! Where is she?" She called even louder. "Heggar! Heggar!"

Nemi had rushed to the stall behind the back wall of the house where the animals were housed. She could hear Yalda continue to call until she caught sight of Heggar sprinting towards where her mistress was standing.

"Drakkarn, Heggar. Watch them, child! Don't take your eyes off them!"

Yalda often referred to Heggar as a child even though she was almost at the age when she could be found a husband. But for the time being, Yalda preferred to keep the girl so busy that neither Heggar nor any young man, freeman or thrall, should have the opportunity to make eyes at each other.

She shoved Heggar roughly into the lookout spot between the rear of house and the nearby sheep pens. With an equally frantic movement, she pointed in the direction of the Longhouse.

"Næmr!"

The galloping pony had already taken its rider almost to the centre of the settlement.

It didn't take Næmr long to find Olaf. She almost knocked him over in her haste as she cantered between the village buildings, skilfully steering the sand-coloured pony around the corners and between the closer built village buidings.

The jarl had just collected a knife from the village blacksmith and as he was about to leave, he was almost run into by the pony and rider.

"Whoa! Whoa there!"

"Jarl Olaf!" Næmr reined in the blowing animal which had smothered its front legs with white froth from its mouth. She slipped easily from its sweaty back. She knew she had no time to pause to draw breath herself before blurting out, "I've been sent by Yalda the Healer. Ships! There are dragon boats in the fjord!"

The village blacksmith wiped his dirty hands on his apron and stepped hastily outside. He, too, could remember the time when the ships had not been their own. He could remember how his young apprentice lad had been killed, cut down before he had time to become a man. This were not a time to be complacent, especially with so many of their best fighting warriors away.

"I've got swords and hammers here. Call up all the men!"

The blacksmith panicked. He dived into the depths of his workshop and they could hear him throwing metal around like a volcanic eruption.

The jarl did not flinch. He had had the experience of battle behind him and knew what it was to prepare oneself for an honourable death. He had no wish to die in his bed as an old, frail man; to deny himself the privilege of sitting at the feasting table of Odin. Given a few more years and he would definitely be too old to fight any foe.

He sized up the situation with the speed of an arrow and called to four youths who had come to a standstill wondering what the commotion was about.

"You there! Boys! Find anyone who can wield a sword!" His command was snappy and strong. "To the shore! We'll meet them at the shore! We'll fight them there!"

Immediately, the boys ran in different directions and their raised voices could be heard in every corner of the village, yelling and screaming for the remaining men to rally to their defence.

Olaf turned calmly to Næmr, pushing the pony's nose away from him.

"Ask for Frey's protection, if not for the men then for our women and children! You have the power. You must protect us! Find sacred words the gods will understand! Do not let those dragon boats bring death and destruction!"

He threw his head back and snorted like an angry stallion and grabbed one of the swords from the blacksmith who had finally re-appeared with an armful of weapons.

"Lend me the horse!"

The jarl leapt on to its back with the ease of an athlete and, gathering the reins in one hand, sword held aloft in the other, he kicked the animal into a gallop and made off in the direction of the edge of the fjord.

Echoed cries filled the entire valley. Restless agitation bounced off every wall. The entire village moved in a disorganised array: women screaming at their children, children crying for their mothers, men charging out from every building, slaves grabbing sythes and farming tools to join the call. Everyone prepared for the attack that seemed imminent.

Næmr fled to Vestlasa's house. She blurted out the news of the moment. They strained their eyes to follow the vessels which were coming their way slowly up the narrow fjord waters. The boats sailed a little nearer and then they saw the sails come down.

"How many boats can you see?" asked Vestlasa.

"Five. Yes, definitely five."

"We only sent three! These cannot be ours!" Vestlasa pointed to the small bone pennant around Næmr's neck. "Use your sacred dragon to call upon the goddess Frigg to protect us! Speak to her, Næmr! Call her with those strange words I have heard you say. Do so quickly! Hurry!"

Fear gripped and tore every muscle and sinew in Næmr's body. She felt very alone and vulnerable. She had no control over her strange memories and the strange fragments just flitted into her mind like butterflies in the fields. Why they occurred at all, she did not know. This time, when she needed them most, her mind was blank. All she knew was that she had to do something to satisfy this priestess. Something from one of the nine worlds would surely be sent to save them all. Næmr reached for her pennant and, shutting her eyes tightly, tried to probe the hidden depths of her mind.

Please, please give me strength. Næmr thoughts raced through her brain. Let us be safe! I don't want to die! I want to live!

"Hurry, Næmr! I see boats! One's a dragon prow and it's coming into the bay!"

Vestlasa seized an axe and called upon Thor to give her the strength to smite the maiden before her. If the lead boat did not lower its dragon-headed prow, then she would be the first to seek vengeance upon their cruel gods. She raised her arm, ready to strike the blow.

Still the boats came, becoming larger and more ominous with each succeeding second, the proud and menacing prow head still riding high. Næmr opened her eyes.

Please let them lower those dragon heads, she pleaded silently in the depths of her mind.

She could make out the rhythmic movement of the oars as they dipped, then rose either side of the sleek, wooden hulls. But still that dragon head stood fixed at the bow.

The dark-haired woman put a trembling hand up to her lips. As her hand slid slowly downwards past her neck her fingers closed themselves around her own dragon-like pendant and she held it firmly within her grasp. Her entire body shook as she suddenly realised Vestlasa's intentions.

A vision of a looming prow, a halo of white just above, white fluttering prow-feathers and the rhythmic dip of paddles from each side of the hull, came into her mind. At first there was little to see other than dense, pallid mist but as the movement of something sliding silently across the surface of the water became more obvious, she could remember that somewhere, sometime she had been witness to such a scene before. The memory was merely a glimpse but it resurfaced sufficiently for her whole being to tremble under its hypnotic hold.

"Awhinatia mai!"

The dark-haired maiden called to those beyond this world, her call echoing around the mountains and taking flight to the other world from whence she came.

Suddenly, a cry came. And then another, and another.

"Stop! Vestlasa, stop!"

One lone voice rang out: not this time in fear, but in joy.

"Look! Look!"

And another.

"The dragon face is being lowered! We will not be attacked!"

Cries of joy reverberated around the steep walls either side of the calm fjord waters.

"We're saved! We're saved!"

Villagers jostled and laughed, and ran signalling waves of welcoming to the returning boats with their crews. The warrior sailors replied by raising their oars and singing some of their familiar battle songs.

"Odin be praised! We're saved! We're saved!"

Vestlasa pushed Næmr on the back with her hand.

"You may leave me, Næmr. Thank you. Your work is done. Go! Rejoice with our people. Join them and welcome home our brave men and their boats!"

Cries of laughter and outbursts of loud singing rang in her ears as she sprinted to the spot where the boats would arrive.

"Those are our drakkar!"

"Our warriors have returned!"

The excitement built as the returning longboats slid into the shallow waters of the harbour. It was clear, now, that the two strange vessels had been captured. Prosperity and good fortune was assured for this winter.

The boats were beached on the sloping stony shore, ready for unloading. That night, would be a night to celebrate. How fortunate the village was to have someone like Næmr, someone who could make sure the gods looked favourably upon them. Odin had really sent his blessings to them. They were safe. This time, the village had all been spared!

Næmr's thoughts focused only on one person. She searched among the boats for Halldorr. Had he returned? Her eyes scanned the vessels, trying to pick him out from the group of people that gathered around. There stood Bodvarr the Bellower, his solid body towering a good head higher than anyone else's. How he made her own flesh cringe! She wished that he had been killed and that she would never have to see him again. But time had not favoured her.

The warriors spilled like lemmings out of the boats. Still she could not see Halldorr. Boxes of goods, silver and gold were being handed over the sides of the boats, while captives were being herded like cattle away from the scene and into the village centre. The women were haggard and tired, the children frightened and pale. They stumbled and scrambled over the pebbles and up onto the grass bank. Bodvarr made certain their handling was brutal and rough. Næmr thought of poor Heggar. How she, too, must have suffered upon her arrival to this village.

I wonder where these people came from? she asked herself. What kind of life did they have yesterday? What will become of them now? And tomorrow?

The warriors herded the new slaves like frightened deer away from the boats and towards the village. Bodvarr bellowed out base orders, his booming, bass voice overpowering every other sound. The village was in jubilant chaos; the captives concurrently made an orderly line.

Næmr was just about to give up searching among those near the boats when, all at once, she caught a glimpse of Halldorr. He was over by one of the captured boats. He'd been bent over, rummaging around for something that lay in the bottom of the boat so it was easy that she had missed him. She was so relieved to see him fit and well that her heart temporarily missed its beat.

"He'll find you when he's ready."

Næmr turned round to see Yalda standing directly behind. She hadn't noticed her until now.

"Yalda."

"Come, let's return home, Næmr. You know he's safe. He'll come. They all do. They can't ignore the calling of the heart."

"Halldorr! I want him now. I long for his smell, his face, his touch. My body yearns for his embrace."

"You shouldn't talk like that, Næmr. I've got herbs to dry. If I don't get them out now they'll be ruined. Come on, back we go."

Næmr had one more wistful look at her wonderful warrior. How handsome he looked and how upright he held himself. A true leader of men. She sighed yet her heart was beating wildly inside her body and her palms had become wet with her sweat. Yalda was right, of course. She would have to wait for him. Together, she and Yalda, walked back to through the village to the house where they lived.

Later that day, cattle and sheep were slaughtered. Hunters arrived, catches of wild pigs were pick-a-backed in from the forests. The bodies of several dead seals were brought up from the shore by those who had been out to sea. Thralls were employed digging a large pit and gathering rocks and sticks to lay in the bottom, ready to receive the large quantity of meat to be cooked that day. Barrels of beer were rolled in through the doors of the Great Hall.

Heggar had spent most of her day preparing and baking bread and children had been out in the woods collecting wild berries to put on the great tables that had been set up within the Great Hall. Everyone in the village was employed in preparations for the great feast that would take place later that evening. Large colourful tapestries decorated the walls inside the Great Hall and warriors collected round wooden shields to hang from the high wooden beams. This was going to be a feast for all to remember!

"Heggar, you will help in the Great Hall tonight."

"No! Please no!"

It was Heggar's worst nighmare and she could not understand why her mistress was doing that to her. But Yalda stood firm. She had offered the service of her own slaves for this occasion.

"Sorli from the farm will go with you. You'll be safe. You've only got to help roll out the beer kegs and put out the mugs. And, no tasting, my girl!"

Heggar nodded. She well remembered the time last year when three thrall boys were caught stealing some of the drink and were severely punished for violation of such rules. Heggar had no wish for anythng to happen to her. Earlier, when alone with Næmr, she had whispered that Yalda had once allowed her to have a taste of the deliciously sweet and potent mead.

The day passed quickly. All the free inhabitants of the village managed to squeeze into the Great Hall. A large banquet was laid out on tables and the walls were ablaze with colour from tapestries and shields. The leading village priest opened the ceremony by giving thanks to Odin for such a mighty victory and splendid haul. Songs of praises thundered out from the throats of the three hundred that had filled the hall. Hoots and whistles, roars and shouts were only lessened by slurps and burps as mugful after mugful of deep-brown beer gushed down their throats. Jubilant crowds banged knife handles in unison on the solid wooden tables or beside on the benches that ran either side of the Great Hall. Several exuberant young men and women jostled and tumbled around the floor and between tables and fireplace. Hot, sizzling fat-dripping joints hung suspended from rafters or hung on spits over the dancing flames.

"Come on, my Lady Næmr! Enjoy the feast! Drink to our glorious victory. I'm told it was brought by you! Drink! The gods in Asgard must be pleased."

Næmr turned her head, and seated only a few places away from her was Halldorr. He was like a god himself with his deep-blue tunic and gold braided edging.

"Nothing's pleased me more than to see you, Halldorr," she said, trying to shout to him above all the noise.

"Sorry, can't hear what you're saying. It's all this noise. I'll move."

He bent his body round the edge of the table and pushed down with his hands for support. He lifted his legs over the side of the bench and squeezed away from those on his left and his right. After a short struggle he managed to wriggle himself between Yalda and Næmr and sit down.

"Do you remember the promise I made just before we went away?"

"What was that? I can't hear you!"

He was forced to lean closer to her and shout.

"Remember, I promised to bring you something when I had returned?" She nodded as she realised that she had completely forgotten. "I brought this back especially for you."

He reached inside his tunic and handed over an exquisite silver brooch, perfectly round with the mythical figure of a dragon carved inside and that had jewelled eyes that sparkled with a thousand colourful rainbows in the flickering light of the lanterns.

"It's beautiful!"

"I promised you. I want you to wear it. Always. Wear it for me. I love you. I'll love you for ever."

Næmr sat looking at the brooch in her hand. It was the most beautiful gift she had ever been given. She allowed him to pin it onto the front of her dress. A happiness trickled throughout her body and made her cheecks glow red. She leaned close to him and voiced words into his ear that only he could hear.

"Thank-you, Halldorr. I'll always treasure it. I'll keep it with me until time ends with Ragnarok."

He pressed his hand onto hers and gave it a little secret squeeze.

"Until Ragnarok!" he mouthed. "Until Ragnarok!"

She was happy. Halldorr made her feel wanted, not for the position that had been put upon her but for herself. She felt his need for her and through that her own attraction for him had grown. With him to guide her, she could belong and make his world, hers. Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud reverberating clang from the ceremonial shield when one of the jarls brought his hammer crashing down on to its side. Instantaneously the shouting and whistling stopped and the Great Hall fell into silence.

"Stand, brave warriors!" It was Sirgud, the father of Halldorr, who spoke. "Let's hear your brave tales! This is our time to celebrate! A great occasion needs a great performance!"

"A story first, to wet the appetite!" The tables roared and cheered.

"I'm wet enough from spilt mugs of beer!' someone shouted.

Everyone laughed.

A slight built, wiry man jumped up on the edge of the central table and bowed to acknowledge the cat-calls and cheers. He was the story-teller, the best skald there was and the one who could capture the imagination of the people with his poetic tales. As he began the first lines of his long saga, the hall fell into silence until only the rhythmic, measured words of the poet could be heard.

"In a sea far from this land there arose,

All covered with slime and filth

A monstrous head, with stones for eyes

And teeth too sharp, and bristling scales

That glistened grizzly in the pale

moonlight;

And all the sea-devils, monsters from

the deep

Rose up until the sea was agleam with

eyes;

And all these evil creatures wormed their

way

Towards where warriors in their longboats

lay."

The people had heard this story before but that did not detract from the magical hold it had on the listeners.

" . . . clad only in mail-coat, fine and sleek, A mighty warrior stood tall and straight.

Strong were his sinews, strong was his

grasp

Upon the finest crafted sword of steel,

Its hilt, of plaited gold and sparkling jewel.

And he, alone, stood steadfast

Against the foe."

A gasp sounded around the hall. Tension took hold of time, suspending reality as the plot of the story unravelled.

" 'Come forth, Sea-devils!' called the

warrior, brave.

A brief moment he stood, sword held high

in hand.

'I am ready!' And with battle cry,

He faced the snarling, hissing monsters."

Some of the warriors could contain themselves no longer; they leapt over the tables, brandishing swords, eyes flickering like flames.

"Death will bring honour! Thor will avenge!"

They stood defiantly threatening the monsters that had been created within their minds.

The story went on:

"His blade cut air and flesh alike,

As one by one, the monsters fell,

Their snake-like bodies writhing

Down into the gloomy depths below,

Until all, but one defied his blows."

Some men became crazed. They went berserk. They screamed and jumped, sword clashing against sword, blow upon blow as they re-enacted the excitement of the battle with the serpents. Yet, even as their eyes gleamed with hysteria, the skald lifted his voice and the magic of his tale went on:

"Up rose the monster from the depths, Flaming nostrils, gnashing teeth.

Those fearful men, in cowering stance,

Fell shaking, clinging madly to their boat.

The Sea-devil, seeking its own revenge,

Lashed out with fury towards our hero

brave

And slashed his mail, his flesh, his bones,

Until, no longer could he wield his mighty

sword."

Frenzied men leapt the fire and tore the remaining carcasses from the spits. They spilt the brew and tossed drinking horns high into the rafters overhead. The excitement died down. The hall became quiet again.

The story went on:

"His mail-coat hung in shred-like rags, Our hero's breath was weak.

Sorrow and shame dwelt in those hearts of

men,

For a glorious end was his, not theirs.

For he, of all this fated crew,

Would take his place at Odin's side.

And as the fated boat slipped beneath the

waves,

Aegir and Ran claimed it for their own,

And all, save one, our warrior brave

For he, alone, will taste Odin's wine,

Fight and feast, 'till the end of time!"

The skald threw out his arms and bowed. Everyone cheered and clapped and called until even the lamps which hung from the rafters above swayed as if an earth-tremor was shaking the hall. But now, the time had come for each man to stand and tell of his own exploits. Each new speaker's story became more embellished, more fantastic than the one before. But what did they care, for this was a time to eat, to drink and to enjoy.

The feasting and celebration continued until the early hours of the following morning. As people grew tired, they slumped forwards onto the tables or fell to the floor, joining those who were too intoxicated to stand. As the twilight of night gave way to the early hours of dawn, and a subdued hush crept over the hall, Yalda tugged at Næmr's sleeve.

"Come on, Næmr. Time to go home."

The girl tried shaking herself into a more conscious state but with the effects of the drink and the heat from the bodies, she felt groggy and weak. Yalda struggled with her, managing to scramble over sleeping bodies amid chewed bones and uneaten food. Something moved with speed and rubbed against Næmr's bare legs. She let out a scream and recoiled in horror.

"Yalda!" she shrieked. "Rats! Yuk! Let's get out!"

Several enormous rats had come into the middle of the room. They had become braver as the humans slept and could be seen foraging for food morsels between the mingled and tangled unconscious bodies that snored and grunted like pigs in the straw.

### CHAPTER 9

Thor's day was selected for the Althing. Most of the main decisions that affected the small settlement were made during the Althing which was held two or three times during the year. Næmr had never attended an Althing before, so she was quite excited when Yalda announced they would go. As this would be the last meeting before the next winter began, several of the neighbouring settlements had also sent people to it. Consequently, this Althing was one of the most important events in the calendar.

Thor's day was fine. Strips of thin, white clouds lined the sky and a slight breeze rustled the top leaves every now and then, just enough to remind everyone that there was the hint of coolness in the air. Early that morning, a slight mist had covered the water and the tall animal prows of the arriving boats glided like sea creatures above the haze. One by one the hulls were secured to the land and the boatloads of people and goods soon cluttered every spare space of shoreline. They had travelled from settlements further around the coast, from the north and the south, bringing with them their animal-hide shelters and wares to trade with the people of Sleggvik. A constant stream made its way up the low rise to where the mighty ash, Yggdrasil, stood in his golden splendour showing an early Autumn change.

Næmr now felt as though she belonged, as though she had been in the village all along. She had learnt much about the settlement: of how the four elderly jarls ruled over their lands, and how each freeman swore allegiance and loyalty in return for protection and the right to farm a small plot of land for his family. The lucky ones would even share in captured slaves brought back from the summer raids. Then there were the thralls, the lowest group of all, who like Heggar, were forced into work with nothing more than food and shelter and a dream that one day they might be able to buy the freedom that others had been lucky enough to have been born into. She had been instructed in both history and the culture of the settlement, and had learnt a few of the sacred chants Vestlasa had taught her. She had helped Yalda gather and prepare the different herbs that could ease pains or repair the bodies of those who felt unwell and by watching Heggar, she had learnt what things to put in the thick broth and how to knead the dough or how to prepare the different fish that were caught in the fjord.

Hers was the right to know, for had she not come to the village from a world beyond the snows? Had she not given Yalda the skill to make soap such that their bodies and clothes would smell fragrant and clean? Did she not get the smithy to fashion the utensil she named 'fork' which would pick up food and let a person eat without fear of cutting themselves? Not that the villagers had taken much interest in the unusual object, for the majority had become so used to eating with knife or spoon, the new implement seemed of little use.

As long as Næmr had the protection of priests and Council, her strange ideas were tolerated. Anyone else would have been called a witch and would have been drowned or stoned to death. But hers was a privileged position; for the time being.

Yalda had found that the cakes of soap had become extremely popular and were in great demand. It had certainly given her another skill with which to barter. Having Næmr around had certainly improved her own prospects.

"I hope the men make a good decision about the captives this year," Yalda commented as she added some of the herbal oils into the soap mixture which was bubbling in the large metal pot.

"Why?"

"Well, I could do with a couple more thralls but even one would do. What do you think my chances are, Næmr?"

"I did mention it to Halldorr."

"That was good of you but last year all the captives were taken to the through to the market at Hedeby and sold. The Althing said we needed honey, grain, and cloth more than we needed slaves. It was the same the year before, too. It's about time our luck changed and the men bring back treasure as well as captives. Do you think I'll get my thralls?"

She raised her voice as though by doing so, it would conjure up that extra slave she wanted so much to have.

Yalda already had four slaves she could call her own. She was not a rich woman, for those better off than she was had as many as ten or even twelve slaves to work their lands and gather their firewood. Yalda needed more time to gather and administer her herbs and she had been trying to teach Heggar all about weaving, so she really did need another thrall to take over the household duties that Heggar had previously been doing.

Yalda poured the soap mixture into the moulds ready for setting. She would cut them into smaller blocks in a few days time.

Meanwhile, Næmr began gathering up the items Yalda had put out to take with them up the hill to where the Althing was to be held. After the free-men had discussed the important issues, then the rest of the day would be free for entertainment and markets.

Næmr noticed that Heggarl was no longer sitting at the loom.

"Where's Heggar?"

"I've had to send her to the well for water," answered Yalda. "See, that's the problem I have."

"Couldn't one of the other's go?"

"No, they're all busy outside. I've told Heggar to be quick and when she gets back, I'll set her weaving again. Then we'll go to the Althing. Heggar'll probably enjoy a day without me at her all the time, don't you think?"

Næmr nodded. Heggar liked it best when she could sit and chat away to Næmr for she found that Næmr did not judge her, nor laugh at her silly ideas. And just sometimes, something Heggar had said, would rouse some sleeping memory deeply hidden in Næmr's mind and then Næmr would tell her of strange and wonderful things, no-one, not even the most travelled of men, had ever been fortunate enough to know.

As soon as Heggar returned and Yalda had made absolutely certain there was sufficient yarn for her to weave, the two free-women left for the Althing. This was the day thralls were not permitted to attend, not even the market part. Yalda packed some of her medicines and soaps in her basket which she had made earlier in the week. She hoped to exchange them for grain, apples and furs. Such items would be useful as the autumn days moved closer to winter.

Mid-morning, Yalda and Næmr trudged up to the hill in the direction of the sacred ash, carrying the large basket of goods between them. Næmr was amazed at the number of people and tents, tinkers and tailors, carvers and food-stalls, wagons and horses that had already assembled on the grassy slopes around the mighty ash tree.

"Come away from that!" An exasperated mother reprimanded her three children. A group of youths pushed their way in towards the game that had been set up near one of the larger trading stalls.

"Didn't you hear me? Are you deaf?"

The woman boxed the ears of the closest child and then dragged her well-scrubbed children away.

Næmr could hear the children moaning it was not fair that they had to do everything their mother said and why couldn't they stand and watch? Næmr smiled, for their reaction seemed so familiar. She wondered where she had seen and heard it all before. She pointed out a small group of people who did not seem to be from the village.

"Yalda, who are those people? I've never noticed them before."

"They're from one of the neighbouring villages. They often arrive when the Althing and Market's held. They join our dragon boats for the raids so some of the goods brought back this year will go to them. Their men join ours for the Althing." They rested the basket on the ground. "This looks a good spot. Give me a hand to set out our wares and then I suggest you have a wander round."

Yalda laid out one of her woven cloths and began removing her goods from the bag and arranging them ready for selling. Næmr helped a little and as soon as everything had been neatly set out, she left Yalda and wandered slowly around the stalls looking at other merchandise for sale: cloths and trinkets, an abundance of clay pots, various foods and furs ready to be made into blankets or cloaks. Small stalls of hand-crafts were sandwiched between other more impressive stalls that offered goods not normally found around the fjord settlements. It was a mish-mash of strange fishy smells and fruits; a tempting rainbow of colours and textures. Waves of excitement, laughter woven like threads brought life and gaiety to the day.

Næmr wove her way between people and stalls as she moved closer towards Yggdrasil. Small areas of open grass had been set aside for entertainment. She paused to watch a trial of strength between two well-built men as they charged each other, trying desperately to wrestle and throw their opponent onto the ground. Struggling and grunting, they staggered back and forth around the small enclosure that had been formed by the noisy audience. Næmr stood on tip-toe for a while, stretching her body as she managed to catch only a glimpse of what was causing all the excitement.

Suddenly, part of the crowd broke away and began running in the direction of much snorting and squealing. Loud shouts and cat-call whistles pierced the air, drowning out all other noises around. Næmr was intrigued. She made an effort to follow the crowd and found herself being propelled along as people charged and hurled themselves towards the hullabaloo.

"What's going on?" she asked someone.

"It's a stallion fight! I'd better get my bet on before it's all over!" shouted the voice next to her.

"Make way! Make way!"

An excited man tried to elbow his way closer to the action. He was a big man, broad shouldered and extremely well muscled. Næmr took advantage of the pathway he had opened up and managed to slip through the crowd before the gap closed up again.

In the centre of a ring were two very angry stallions. Now that their wild animal instincts had been aroused, they roared and squealed at each other, their flailing hooves and snapping teeth ripping into the opponent's flesh. Sweat dripped from their heaving flanks and fresh, red blood began to flow from their wounds. The grass was rapidly being churned into bloody mud. The more vicious the fight became, the more excited the crowd.

Næmr could not watch any more. She lowered her head and pushed her way back to the outer edges of the crowd. Although, now more accustomed to the violent nature of these people, she still could not bring herself to share in their obvious enjoyment in watching two living animals ripping each other apart. She knew that there could only be one winner and that for the rest of that year, that victor would be worshipped like a god.

She left and made her way closer to the large sacred ash. Hanging from one of its lower branches was the skin of a sleek black horse. Its lifeless head hung grotesquely from the end of the branch and its four black hooves swayed rhythmically in the slight autumn breeze. This animal had not suffered the slow and painful death that awaited the stallion defeated in combat. This had been reared as a sacred creature and then quickly slaughtered in honour of mighty Thor. Its hide was sleek and shone like black silk. She stood watching it, its huge immobile teeth seemingly grinning at her and its dull sunken eyes now blank and opaque. A silent beast. A noble beast, even in death.

The Althing must have been opened with the horse sacrifice, she thought to herself. Thor will be pleased with such an offering as this.

As she surveyed the sacrifice swaying from the tree, she accepted its presence and understood why its life had to have been taken for such a purpose. She grappled with the mixed feelings she felt: the abhorrence still of certain things and the acceptance for such religious protocols. What would have shocked her by its barbarity only a short time ago, she now found herself accepting. Had she become one of them? Is this where her destiny and identity now lay?

" . . . and this was the man I saw taking the knives."

A witness had been called upon to give evidence against a rough-clad youth who stood cowering, his hands tied firmly behind his back.

"Who else can bear witness to this thief?" asked the booming voice of the elder who had led the questioning in the Great Hall where Næmr had first been taken.

"I'm Menja, guardian of grains and salt. I will say." Menja stepped forwards into the clearing. He was a small man with sharp features and deep set eyes. "I swear to the gods of the Althing, that this is the man who stole the knives. I saw him take them from the blacksmith's bench. He hid them under his jacket. The blacksmith never noticed but I saw him."

And another came forward to also bear witness.

"I swear, also, that it's true. I saw this man slink away like a wolf from the blacksmith's forge. Who would do that but a thief? His business with the blacksmith was not lawful!"

The accused bent his head even lower, for to be brandished a thief, meant not only the anger of the citizens but the loss of his hand.

"A punishment must be given. Only time will tell if any others here have learnt by this example!" The elder shouted to make certain all those around heard what he had said. "Take him away! He loses the hand that stole!"

Næmr watched as two warriors dragged the protesting man away.

"That'll fix him, that will!"

She turned as the gruff man's voice spoke. She noticed his all-brown farmer clothing.

"How will he be able to live without his hand?"

Næmr thought the justice was too harsh and felt some sympathy for the man.

"That's his problem!"

The farmer clearly showed that he had no time for such a thief and with a satisfied snort and a shake of his head, the farmer moved away.

A woman nearby must have heard the comments, for as she came closer to where Næmr was still standing, she passed comment.

"Should've thought of that before he stole those knives!"

More discussions, complaints and the making of laws took up the morning and most of the afternoon. This was the main purpose of this Althing and it allowed grievances to be squared.

Næmr returned to Yalda to see how she was getting on with the selling of her soaps and herbs. They sat on the grass in the mild afternoon sun, eating a couple of bread cakes Yalda had traded for a small piece of soap and talked about several of the cases that had been brought before the decision makers earlier on that day. Næmr thought about the harsh and cruel justice that had been dealt out to the petty thief. She thought about the woman who had been called witch, and who was now to die for her indiscretions. Something, at the back of her mind bothered her for why else did she find these laws so harsh and barbaric? Yet, who was she to judge the values of these people? Were they not the ones responsible for their own laws and codes of behaviour? Now that she shared her life with theirs, was she not also duty bound to obey those laws? Without laws to guide them, the communities could not exist at all.

Late in the afternoon, after Yalda had packed up the remnants of her goods, the pair sat and listened to the 'calling of messages'. Freemen stood and shouted out, for all to hear, the misdemeanours of wives and husbands, masters and thralls.

"My wife's a shrew!" shouted one as he turned to face the crowd. "I'll beat her until she learns to hold that wicked tongue of hers!"

The crowd roared and clapped their approval.

"I've two lazy, good-for-nothing thralls. They constantly spill my grain, forget the gates and I'm always finding them asleep in my fields. How can I get in my harvest with such loafers? I will not tolerate such idle hands. Tomorrow, I say I will slay them both!"

Another roar of approval was readily given and the freeman seemed well satisfied with the support he had received. At that, Næmr understood why Heggar was sometimes so wary of offending either herself, or Yalda. Yet how lucky Heggar was to have Yalda for her mistress. In many ways, Heggar had taken the place of the children that Yalda had lost and Yalda had become quite protective of the girl.

So far, no mention had been made of the captives brought home this year from the raids. The afternoon sun was sinking lower in the sky stretching the shadows in long, thin lines and shapes across the ground. There was a slight chill in the air and lower in the valley an early evening mist was beginning to form. Yalda didn't want to stay any longer.

"Come on, Næmr. Time to go. We'll return tomorrow. Maybe I'll know about the captives, then. Decisions about them can't be rushed."

They prepared to leave just as the sun began to sag down behind the hills. The sun's blood-red rays stretched upwards into the sky as though trying to hold on to the day. The hillside began to glow and sparkle like a starlit sky from the countless small fires that had been lit outside each tent. The gods would be pleased this year by the large number of people who had come to pay homage to the strong and mighty Thor. Tonight there would be harmony and peace.

For three days, the Althing had continued when it concluded, it had been decided that most of the captives and half the treasure would be taken south to the trading town of Hedeby, to be exchanged for things the four communities needed. Yalda did get her wish: a seven year old boy with light-brown hair and a slight-built woman, not much older than Næmr. Yalda was extremely pleased. The child was young enough not to remember much about his homeland and would, in time, make an excellent worker. The woman - well, Yalda would give her time. Meanwhile, she could be housed with the sheep and the shepherd boy whose mother had died last winter.

This was one of the best Althings Yalda could remember and she had experienced many in her life. On the last day, a great feast was given in Thor's honour. Thralls were called on to dig huge oven pits and fetch the rocks and wood that were needed to cook the carcasses needed to feed villager and visitor alike.

"Here, mistress, have a taste."

Næmr was handed a slice of fresh cut meat wrapped in a cabbage leaf. She took it and drew the morsel into her mouth. The earthy, warm fleshy taste filled every part of her mouth, and as her body savoured its special flavour, she was reminded of a time when she was young.

Hey, girl, have a taste. Good kai, eh?

The voice was familiar but it did not exist in this time. She remembered the succulent, sweet taste of the mutton, the meat oozing and dripping with fat and soon she could taste everything that went with it; the strong taste of mint sauce, together with kumara, the yellow sweet potato; the green bitter taste puha and and the soft, succulent golden corn. But where were those flavours now?

Use your fingers! Makes it taste much better!

She did remember being able to lick the juices of the meat off her individual fingers with the thoroughness of a contented cat. She thought of the enjoyment the food had given her; the food that had been cooked under the soil.

"I like hangi food, Yalda."

Næmr placed another piece of the smoky, earthy meat into her mouth.

"What food, Næmr?"

"Hangi. This! Food that's cooked in the pit."

Yalda just smiled and shook her head. She was quite used to these strange sayings Næmr came out with.

An entire week passed before Halldorr was able to pay Næmr another visit. He dropped in at Yalda's shortly after the middle of the day. Næmr was helping to sort out the yarns Yalda had decided to dye with new dyes she had acquired from those who had brought their goods during the Althing. She was busy laying the carded wool in piles ready to be added to the various pots of plant mixtures that provided the colours. Every so often, Yalda got up and stirred the contents of each pot as its water began to boil and the dye extracts began to colour the liquid. Heggar was at the loom in the back corner, finishing the weaving of the last spun fibres. Beside the central fire Yalda's new ambatt was busy preparing the day's food in the largest pot that hung alongside the smaller dye pots. The young boy had been sent out for more wood.

Daylight rushed into the house as the heavy door was opened and the curtain covering was pulled aside.

"Hello, Lady Næmr."

Halldorr stepped into the smoky, semi-darkness of the building's interior.

"Halldorr!"

There was genuine pleasure in her voice. His beautiful strong, muscular body was silhouetted against the light.

"How did things go with you during the Althing?"

"Good."

"And your father? Was he pleased, as well?"

"Very well, my lady Næmr," he replied. He removed his cloak and walked across the room to where Yalda sat at the large wooden table. "And how are things with you, mistress Yalda?"

"Good, thank you, my lord. Make yourself comfortable. You're always most welcome."

Halldorr joined her on the bench seat. A young boy of about nine came in with an armful of wood.

"You have a new thrall, have you?"

Halldorr inclined his head towards the boy.

"Yes, I have. I bought this one a few days ago. A good price and . . . "

She was about to say something else. Instead, she got up and walked over towards the pots to where a woman and the boy were adding more fuel to the crackling fire. Yalda quickly checked the quality of her dyes and declared that she was most pleased with the hue and texture of her mixtures.

"It looks as if you're well set-up here." Halldorr cast a glance around the dimly-lit interior.

"Thigs are improving. It's been a few years since I lost my boys and husband but I'm coping."

"That's good to hear."

Yalda picked up the spoon nearby and tasted the contents of the soup pot. She appeared satisfied with the culinary taste.

"Tastes good?" asked the young warrior.

"Best I've tasted for some time. One of the thralls killed an old sheep and I've made a broth with the last of the bones. Heggar's made some fresh bread today so why don't you join us and have something to eat?"

"Thank you. I will."

Halldorr got up from the table and made his way over to the long side of the house where Næmr was sitting on the bed-bench talking quietly with Heggar and helping her card some wool ready for spinning

"Come outside a little while," he whispered. He laid his hand gently on her arm.

"I . . . I really don't know," she answered hesitantly, glancing in Yalda's direction. "She doesn't like me going anywhere when she's this busy. And it's close to meal time."

"It'll be for only a little while. She'll not notice. Besides, if you're worried, I'll take the blame. She won't show anger to me!"

Halldorr indicated for her to follow with a slight flick of his head in the direction of the open door.

Næmr put down the skein of wool she had in her hand and followed him outside. She expected to hear Yalda's scolding but everything remained peaceful and quiet.

The two walked out into the small yard. They walked beside the wicker-woven fence that led round the back of the house. Halldorr led past the stall at the back and a short distance away from the buildings that made up Yalda's small household.

"When I went away in the drakkar, I kept thinking of you." His voice was low and soft. "I've loved you from the first time we met."

"Halldorr, are you sure? You could have the choice of any of the fair-haired noble women. I know any one would be flattered by your attentions."

"It's not them I want. I want you with your lovely, soft, brown eyes and dark, dark hair. I've not been able to think of anything else. You're my special jewel in a chest of a thousand silver things. The only fear that tugs at my heart, my sweet lady, is that another may have made advances to you while I was away and I fear I'm not alone."

A minute's silence elapsed before she was able to answer him. For a moment she thought she could remember someone. But was he real? She decided not, for she had been so closely watched that there had been no other chance for her to have met with someone else.

She could feel a pricking in her cheeks as they glowed and flushed with the excitement she felt flushing through her veins. She hardly had the voice to speak the words his ears longed to hear.

"Halldorr, there is no-one else. I'd made up my mind the day you pinned this brooch on me."

She noticed that his face lit up as his shoulders swelled with pride.

"Fantastic!" He slapped his thigh and jumped in the air. He laughed loud with joy. "You've made me the proudest, happiest man in the world!"

"That's great!"

A more serious look came over his face.

"I've already spoken with my father and says he will talk with the Council. So, now, I wish to ask you something."

She smiled and guessed what it was he was going to ask but she played with him and teased him.

"It had better be good. Remember, I'm not free to make any decisions yet. I'm still bound by what the Council says."

He was taken aback. He did not expect such an answer. He already had come to the decision that women were strange creatures and this one was not only a young woman but also a goddess. And he had concluded that godessesss were no different.

"Would you rather I not ask? It can be left for later."

"Later? No! Why should I wait?"

She played with his emotions as a fisherman would tickle a trout. She waited a while. She laughed, but not at him. "Well, don't keep me guessing!"

"My father's happy enough. He's given his permission as long as Odin gives his. I've appealed to him through the priest."

"And what does Odin say?"

Haldorr sought courage deep in his gut. This was worse than anything he had experienced before. He spoke quickly, for to hesitate would have made him stumble like a lame man over his words.

"I have yet to hope."

"Yes. It'll be yes. And so?"

"With Odin's blessing, would you consent to be my wife, to give me heirs, and keep my lands while I'm away?"

"If I agree?"

"I promise to lavish you with love and give you the keys to all my chests and as my wife, you will share in all the things I own."

"My heart agrees, Halldorr but . . . "

"I know I'm only but a man and that you are from the world of gods but think how great our sons will be. We could make the greatest warriors ever to live in Midgard. Think of that! What do you say to such a man who promises to worship you until the time of Ragnarok?"

Næmr knew that the answer she would give would bind this brave warrior, this strong and handsome man, to her until the end of time. His fate would become woven with hers, and if his love that he had so freely been given was to die, then vengeance and wrath from the gods of Aesir would smite him down.

"Will it be right thing to do?" she asked.

"Yes, it will! It has to be! You're in my mind night and day. Your dark eyes and strange thoughts haunt me like the calls of the whales. I remember once when I was a young boy trying to prove I was as strong as Thor. My mind could think of nothing but that I dreamed of being a great warrior. Then my father taught me how to fight, how to wield a sword, to pull a bow, to throw a spear. For years I have not thought of anything as pleasurable as the thrill of battle. But now. . . " He stopped what he was saying and looked intently into her dark, brown eyes, his pale, blue eyes pleading for her to become his. "My life's unfulfilled and empty without you. If only there was more time. If only we'd had time together before . . ."

"I have no before," she interrupted. "Not here! And before the mountain?" She recoiled away from him. It was not from him but from the memory of Bodvarr. The mountain had reminded her of the torment she suffered under Bodvarr's hand. "This life I know began on Jotenfjell!"

She looked beyond him to the imposing mountain that overshadowed the small peaceful settlement with its farm houses and fields and forests.

"The mountain?"

"Yes, Jotenfjell! What hold does he have on me? I feel him pulling me towards himself as if it is he who want to posses me. I have great fear which I cannot understand. What fate of mine does he know?" Her agitated voice rose to a high pitch like a pleading victim. "Are you sure, you wish to share in such an uncertain destiny, Halldorr?"

"I'm not afraid of the Fates!" His words came through with force and conviction. "Your destiny will become my destiny! Let the Norns of Past - and Present - and Future weave our destinies together. Without you, I swear I will throw myself into Niflheim. Hel, the goddess of death, will then become my mistress."

"No!" she cried. She gripped his hand tightly. "I can't let you do that!"

"Then, join yourself to me!"

"I wish I could! I can think of nothing better than to share my life with yours but would others accept it? Will the Council agree?"

"They must! You must tell my father, jarl Sirgud, how you feel. The Council is weak. They will agree if my father tells them he knows how you feel. He's been a great warrior in his time. He's brought home many slaves and treasures in the past. The Council owes him much."

"Will the Council really listen?"

"To my father?"

"Or to me? Doyou think they'd listen to the words of a woman?"

"It's not unknown for women of rank to express an opinion about such matters but with your standing, there can be no dispute."

"Then I will be the one to ask!"

He showed his pleasure for her by touching her gently on her shoulder and smiling encouragingly.

"You will?"

"Yes, but I have no lands, nor wealth to offer you, Halldorr. There is no family to stand beside me. I have only myself. Is that enough?"

"Yes, of course. You have all the gods! I ask for nothing more. Besides, you're the only thing I want. I've lands sufficient for both of us. My father's lands become my own for I'm his only son to inherit those lands. All I need is a promise of your love."

She had to think. She needed time for she still found it hard to think herself as one of them. There was still so much to come to terms with, so much she still did not understand. Would she ever really fit in and be accepted?

"You realise I'll have to talk it over with Yalda. I ask her opinion on many things." Her voice was soft and soothing. She placed her free hand above his, running her silken fingertips gently across the back of his hand. "You know, I think of Yalda and Heggar as my family. They're the only ones I've known since I arrived. It's only right that I should consult with Yalda."

He was satisfied with that much for the present, for at least she had given him hope. They stood talking for several moments longer before Næmr reminded him that he had promised to share their meal before he departed.

"Oh dear, I'd completely forgotten!" He pulled he by the hand. "We'd better hurry! I wouldn't like Yalda to find any reason why I shouldn't love you."

She had expected him to kiss and cuddle her. Wasn't that what every young man did with his girlfriend? Everything seemed so formal and polite. Somehow she had expected a more intimate embrace and her expectations had made her disappointed. But Halldorr's respect for her prevented him from treating her like any ordinary woman.

The day dawned slowly as the milky white mist melted into a cool, grey, overcast sky. The valley trees, now clothed in reds and golds, stood mellowed in their autumn colours. The village sheds were full and many of the nuts and berries that had been gathered by the slaves had been stored away. Meat had been salted or smoked and hung from the rafters at the far end of Yalda's house. Gone were the endless summer days when sunlit skies remained throughout the night. Now, the nights were drawing in and stormy days were not far away. Their small fishing boats sailed off with urgency to harvest the ocean's offerings before the waters of the fjord became thickened with ice. The entire village was engulfed by the pressure of time.

As the days passed, hoards of silver fish were constantly tipped out from the large woven baskets and any fear of winter starvation was soon forgotten. This year was a bounteous year and the villagers were grateful that their fertility gods, Frey and Frigga had looked so favourably upon them.

The time had arrived when the dark-haired Næmr was to be given full recognition as a member of the village, for Sirgud had convinced the Council of Elders to give permission for Halldorr to marry the goddess-maiden who had been sent to them from a world beyond mist and snow.

Stories had been told before in the Great Hall of goddesses who had chosen to love a mortal man. A child of theirs would be capable of great and powerful deeds. A union like this would make their own community more powerful than any other and settlements would soon beg for their protection. They would no longer need to fear the violent storms and heavy snows. Through her they would have protection from the gods. Their survival would be ensured. For this reason, alone, the Council had given its blessing.

They decorated the Hall with berries and branches from pines, for this was a wedding like no other seen in Sleggvik before. Two beautifully patterned cushions had been set in front of the large, bulky table that stood at the far end, beyond the stones of the central hearth. Other long tables, their surfaces hidden under the lavish banquet, had been set around the interior walls. Fish, fruits, berries, cream, and cheese, wild game birds, pork, venison and ale covered them. Silver plates and golden horns, pewter jugs and copper vessels had been set amid the food. It was as fine a banquet to be found anywhere in the north.

Næmr walked slowly towards the huge open doors of the Great Hall. It was as though she was the rainbow itself, for as a breath of wind rippled her silken gown, its iridian colours shimmered like a star in the night. Never had the villagers seen anyone so radiant, any woman so genteel. She entered the Hall, knowing that this time, she was no stranger. The people of Sleggvik had accepted her completely and were honoured that she was to live with her warrior husband. Standing in an oval arrangement, were the warriors of the village who had taken the dragon boats out beyond the safety of the land. As Næmr approached the pointed end of the human-made vessel shape, the warriors drew back to allow her to pass. At the prow end, stood a priest, and before him, with a knee resting on one of the cushions, sword at his side, was Halldorr, waiting for his bride.

Næmr smiled a shy smile as she knelt down beside him. She waited patiently for the ceremony to begin. Finally, the priest placed his hands on their heads.

"Let it be known from this time, that our most courageous warrior, Halldorr, son of the noble Sirgud, powerful jarl and leader of men, has agreed to take this goddess who came to Midgard from a world beyond the mists on Jotenfjell, as his wife in law." He raised his hands and looked up into the blackness above. "Let us honour Freyja who has shown these two how to love and ask that she bless this union so that many healthy sons will be produced."

Together, the newly-weds knelt side by side before the priest. Halldorr tied the set of keys around his wife's waist to signify that she was now mistress of her own household.

"With these keys, I acknowledge you as the keeper of my house, Næmr, Maiden from the Mists."

"With these keys, I respectfully become your wife, Halldorr, son of Sirgud, the jarl."

They placed their hands upon the large replica of Thor's magic hammer, Mjollnir, and swore their allegiance and devotion to the god that would give them strength throughout their lives. Halldorr stood and offered his hand to his new bride. Together, the wedded pair turned, and hand in hand, they walked along the length of the Great Hall and outside, where a boar had been slaughtered in Freyja's honour. Halldorr took his sword and severed the animal's head from its body, offering it to his wife as a gesture of Freyja's protection.

"With this boar head, I call upon Freyja to take special care of you, Næmr, now wife of Halldorr. My mind shall worship you, my lands I do endow you and my body will love you. Let Freija bless this union and let us have many sons worthy to be called sons of ours."

Næmr grasped the bleeding head by the long curved tusks, and together they held it up so that all could see. The crowd that had gathered cheered, now certain that their settlement would become the most prosperous of all the northern region.

Only one in the crowd failed to share in the joyful occasion. Bodvarr stood apart, anger and hate seething throughout his body. The woman had been delivered into his hands on the sacred mountain. Had he not already claimed her for his own? By rights, she should have been his. Only the laws of the Council had held him. He despised the handsome son of the jarl for having been the one to take the woman lawfully to his bed.

"Wait, Halldorr!"

Bodvarr had drunk too much and he stepped away from the crowd, angry and threatening. He had drawn his sword and he waved it high above his head.

"Take you seat, Bodvarr the Bellower!"

The shouts went unheeded.

"There will be a time when I will take what should have been mine!" The voice was harsh and rasping. The threat froze the jubilant voices and a deathly silence shot like an arrow around the crowd. "Jotenfjell gave her to me! Jotenfjell will take her away from you!" He brought the sword down in one strong, wild thrust and slammed the blade point into the timbers of the floor. "I am no longer a blood brother of yours, Halldorr! Look you carefully when the heat of battle is on!"

Bodvarr grasped the hilt of his sword with both hands, pulled the blade from the floor and stormed out of the building.

Immediately, the priest seized the opportunity and grasped the severed animal head. He set it upon a plate, and, holding it aloft, called out:

"Let the feasting begin!"

"Let the feasting begin!"

The echo reverberated around the hall.

Villagers thronged through the wide open doors, laughing and chattering. Excitement filled the hall. Halldorr wrapped his strong arms around the waist of his bride.

"Come, my wife! This is our day of celebration! Let's eat, drink and be happy together!" Næmr hooked her arm under his and, as he led her to the bridal table, he whispered quietly in her ear so that only she could hear, "I'll love you always - until the end of time."

She looked deeply into his pale blue eyes.

"But Bodvarr." She expressed her alarm. "His threats . . . "

"The gods will protect us. His words are brash. They are words that are blown away by the winds."

How she loved him. She smiled at Halldorr. She was contented.

A soft glow flushed across her cheeks as she walked across the floor on the arm of her husband. For the first time she did not think of her past. Her identity lived now and was complete; she had found a place in which to live. She belonged. And she had all the time in the world!

### CHAPTER 10

Næmr had become extremely happy these past months. She had an attentive husband who truly loved her and plenty of ambatts and thralls to help with all her work. Love had made her more contented and settled. She did not have the strange, fitful dreams that caused her to toss and turn and wake her up in the early hours of many mornings. Those fragmented memories that had exploded deep inside her mind which she found upsetting had not troubled her for ages. Halldorr had given her the identity she had never had and she was no longer referred to as the 'dark stranger' or the 'goddess from the mists' but as the wife and mistress of one of the most respected warriors of the settlement. When Sirgud became too old to manage his affairs or when he finally left this world for the next, then Halldorr would take his father's place and she would become mistress of all his estates.

She took off her bone dragon pendant and laid it carefully inside a small box where she kept her jewelry. The need she felt for it to protect her had gone. Some day, in a future time, she may feel the need to wear it again. Until then, this new life was hers and her husbands and, in time, together with strong, healthy sons they hoped to have. She had grown accustomed to the village way of life, and felt, that with the passing of each month, she had found her destiny at last. She belonged.

One afternoon, late in winter, after the low dull clouds had drifted apart, a commotion took place in the village that sent a flurry of terrified cries around the snow-covered buildings as panic-stricken villagers called for the priests and priestesses to assemble under the sacred ash, Yggdrasil. The priestess, Vestlasa, wearing her long sacred robes, arrived and began banging furiously at Næmr's door.

"Næmr! Næmr! Come outside! Hurry! Næmr!"

"Oh, gosh, Vestlasa. What's wrong?"

Næmr quickly snatched back the door covering and opened the large wooden door to the exterior. The priestess was standing, pale and shaken, her face as blanched as the plants that had been frosted by ice.

"A thing of evil's high in the sky. We must consult with the gods. I fear Ragnarok, the end of the world, is about to begin," she wailed.

Vestlasa clutched at her Hammer of Thor necklace that hung around her neck. She clung to the hope that its representation of Thor's magical qualities would remove the evil that seemed to have arrived in their sky.

Næmr did not hesitate. She wrapped the soft, spotted cat-fur cloak Halldorr had given her around her shoulders and snatched a few handfuls of straw to stuff into her boots. Yalda had instructed her well in this, for the straw proved good protection against the biting cold and helped to keep one's aching toes from being totally numb. She stepped outside into the crisp, bracing air. The faint winter sun struggled to provide much light and the morning remained dull. Further down the valley a white mist clung to the fjord and the cold, silent boats lay covered in snow.

When they had walked a little distance from the house, Vestlasa pointed high into the north-western sky. Her bare finger shook and trembled, not from the cold but from the fear she felt.

"L . . . look, Næmr. Look!"

Her words were shrill. They punctuated the air with an icicle exclamation as her gasping breath froze whitened around her lips. Vestlasa was taut and on edge.

Næmr shielded her eyes with her hand and looked up. Beyond the top of the sky she saw a shape, like some huge shimmering sword, poised as though it were set to strike the land below. Vestlasa grabbed Næmr's cloak.

"You see it, too, don't you?"

Næmr nodded. She squeezed her eyes to focus more clearly but the cold bit hard and her eyes streamed with tears. The sword trembled, vibrated and was ready to strike.

"Hurry! We don't have much time!"

"B . . . but how long has it been?" Næmr was now beginning to share some of Vestlasa's concern.

"Yggdrasil. We must get to the sacred ash before that celestial sword comes down and kills us all! The giants are making their move."

Vestlasa pulled Næmr along with her. They edged around the buildings until they came to open fields where they began to slip and stumble in the deeper snow.

"We should have brought skis, Vestlasa," panted Næmr. Her thigh muscles cramped and she had to pause. "I don't think we can reach Yggdrasil before dusk. Not if we go on like this. The snow's too deep."

In these northern districts, there were only a few hours of decent daylight left before winter sun sunk below the hills and day became as night again.

"Then dusk it will have to be!"

Vestlasa's comment was short and curt. She knew that it was imperative they reach the sacred tree as soon as possible. They would need to be there along with the three wise women and the priests if there was any chance at all that Midgard could be saved from the destruction that seemed so imminent.

There was no turning back. To waver now would provide the giants with their opportunity to crush the gods, together with all those who lived upon the Middle Earth.

For hours, the two figures ploughed on, the snow deepening the further they went. Næmr's chest ached, her muscles burned, her head throbbed but, together, they pressed on. Exhaustion fed greedily on their weakened flesh. Finally they picked out the greyness of the sacred tree and as they struggled closer, its frozen branches groaned and creaked under their heavy load.

The sun had begun to sink. A creeping mist began to crawl across the ground, its tentacles wrapping themselves around the landscape, squeezing out what visual clues they had used that day. The curtain of the night was pulled across the sky and as it darkened, the sword shone bright like a fire-bolt in the sky, its long, slender blade threatening to strike their world.

The three priests clasped their hands across their chests. They were already standing around the Yggdrasil's base. Næmr could hear their low murmuring as they chanted incantations to save their fragile world from the evil above. Aged and gnarled like the old tree trunk, the three wise women huddled as one, arching their bent backs against the raw coldness of the dying day.

All of a sudden, like a serpent with three heads, three faces turned upwards and six skinny arms linked together as one and pleaded with their gods.

"Behold the sign that tells that Ragnarok is about to begin!" they screamed. "Look, can you not see thes blade stretching across the sky from a shining hilt. Is that not a weapon of the giants?"

Their cries foretold of the destruction of the earth, a time reached when men will slay their own brothers and all of Midgard will freeze over until all are slain.

They watched transfixed with fear as the sword glowed bright. It seemed to have grown brighter, like a monster that hungrily feeds on brightness itself. It was an awesome message. The Fates could read the signs.

"See, the dreadful wolves, Skoll and Hati have caught the sun. Darkness will soon engulf our world forever!" They threw their frail, fur-clad bodies down upon the frozen surface of the earth, screeching like gulls caught in a winter storm. "The final battle is about to begin!"

The three priests called upon the gods to defend their world. Yet they knew that this was not to be, for as men fight men and death claimed all so, too, would the gods fight their enemies. Each would destroy the other until the Earth would sink into the depths of a deep, vast sea and all the life upon it, would perish. Such is Ragnarok. It was prophesied from the time when time began.

Vestlasa called to the malevolent spectre to spare their lives. But with each darkening minute, the sword grew brighter and was more menacing than before. Finally, she turned her panic-stricken face towards Næmr and pleaded with her to intervene.

"Do something! Næmr, speak to the gods! Tell us what future lies ahead!"

"Yes, tell! Tell!" The three implored as one.

Næmr had been standing watching the object that hung poised in the night-time sky. Her calmness contrasted strongly with the disturbed countenance of the others who feared the strange spectacle. She did not see it as a demon. She saw no evil apparition that was about to bring the final destruction of heaven and earth. She watched the silent shaft of light with its long, hazy tail streaming out behind, and looked directly into the brilliant nucleus head of this stranger that had appeared in the sky. Suddenly, she understood the bright light. She knew it had come from some distant time and space. It brought a message to her from another world far beyond this world in which she stood.

"Auahi-roa! Visitor from afar!" Næmr exclaimed.

A comet, very much like her, a mysterious visitor who had arrived from the depths of time, a traveller appearing now but soon to depart into another time, another space, far beyond the comprehension of those she called her friends.

"What do you see, Næmr, Goddess of the Mists and wife to Halldorr?"

The priests felt her calmness. The women ceased their cries and looked towards the quiet, motionless figure of the young woman who stood away from the mighty sacred ash. A priest made his way towards her. She could still hear the distraught voices behind.

"An evil omen!"

"Our end is come!"

The priest shaded his face with his hand and turned away from the brilliance of the celestial light to the young woman.

"Why do you not seem fear what is in the sky?"

Næmr lowered her eyes and looked into the frightened face of the priest. She said calmly,

"I've seen the likes of this before."

A memory of such a heavenly object entered her mind and she understood why the comet had come.

"We're running out of time! We will have to fight the giants!"

He refused to look into the sky.

"We won't! This hasn't been sent from the giants. Nor is it a demon sent to harm us."

The priest lowered his voice.

"How so? What is it that you know?"

Næmr raised her head and looked up at the comet hanging in the sky.

"It'll stay a week or two. Then, it'll travel across the sky and you'll see its blade grow shorter. It will fade away until it disappears once more into the stars."

"What destiny does this thing weave into the lives of man?" the priest asked after a long pause. "Does it not bring a message of death and doom for us?"

"No," she assured him. "Of that, I'm sure."

"How so?"

"This thing in the sky has visited Midgard from time to time. It came before any of you were born and Midgard is still here. And the village is still here."

"But it could be that this time things will be different and the giants will come."

"The comet will come again . . . in seventy-six years . . . and again, and again. As time goes by, it will return many times. It's a traveller from far, far away. That's the way this visitor of the bright light is."

The priest did not understand. Her knowledge was far greater than his and she spoke of strange events he could not comprehend.

"Then, it will not send us to our deaths?"

She shook her head.

"No, we'll continue to live." She looked down the valley to where their village lay under a thick blanket of night. "This thing will leave the sky . . . and life on Midgard will continue. I promise you that."

She wondered whether she had convinced the priest and made him less afraid. He stood beside her for a while and together they watched the comet.

Then, slowly he turned and walked back to the others.

"The goddess has spoken," he told them. "She has vanquished its evil spirit and weakened strength of the giants. Don't be afraid! The goddess says that within two weeks it will be gone! It will not harm us! Our settlement will be protected! She has pledged her word!"

They lit their tallow torches and made their way slowly down into the valley, back into the village that had been their home for so long, even the old ones had no memory of its beginning. They walked back in silence, only their flaming lights showing their way. Overhead, the comet shone bright and then as they neared the village walls, the aparition dissolved into the gathering clouds. It began to lightly snow.

An anxious crowd had gathered inside the Great Hall. The large doors opened and eight figures stepped in. they brushed the fallen snow from their shoulders and walked slowly down the isle as the crowd moved aside. The head priest spoke to them, hoping to allay their concerns.

"Fear not! Our goddess here has guaranteed us our safety. She has pledged that what we see in our sky will cause no harm. I have seen with my own eyes how the sword fades and grows weak. Return to your homes! We shall meet again when the day has begun!"

A low murmur travelled through the crowd. Reluctantly, they began to leave the hall. Finally, only a handful of people were left. The last remnants of flickering flames and glowing lamps had not yet been extinguished. Soon, only the priests remained. They prepared for a night time vigil, just to make absolute certainty that nothing untoward should happen.

Across the far side of the village dwellings, Halldorr waited anxiously for the safe return of his wife. Never in his life had he felt so uncertain, so despondent and so aware of what the Fates had in store for him. Had this malevolent thing come to take away his bride? Had the gods come to claim her back, to take her far away from Midgard?

He, too, had viewed the shining object, bewitched by its beauty, yet awed by its threat. Never had he seen, never heard of such a sign before, never felt that kind of fear that he felt now. He sat alone and wondered what message of doom it contained. Perhaps, Næmr, his Næmr, would be able to allay his fears.

He was relieved when he heard the door creak open and saw that Næmr had returned. He watched as she removed her cloak and hung it on the peg. He waited and watched. She came over to the fire and stood warming her frozen hands in the heat of the flames. Her husband got up and stood just behind her. He wrapped his strong arms around her waist and pressed his warm body against hers. They stood arms and body as one, entwined like the plait in her hair, each quiet in thoughts of their own, listening to the soft hissing and crackling of the logs as the flames licked their sides. He longed for the sound of her voice to break the silence of this night.

"Halldorr, are you also worried about the sword in the sky?"

"Yes, I am. Is it not an omen of war? If not, then what does it mean?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? How nothing?"

"I mean there's no danger."

"None? Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I've seen this before. It's a comet, a lonely star that wanders far beyond Earth and sky."

He looked at her, unable to comprehend or share in her confidence that nothing was going to happen. She seemed so far away from him now, like the thing that hung high in the sky. He grappled in his mind to understand what she was trying to say.

"Stars send messages. Our priests read their messages from the patterns they make. What message does this strange star send?"

At that moment she knew that the message was for her. The presence of the comet was awakening her memories and rousing them out of their sleep. It was like a pointer, giving direction to all the chaotic fragments of her memories and now that the comet had come, it provided the catalyst whereby all those fragments could bind together and help her remember. It was a messenger from the past and the future in which time was everything. It was here to share one brief moment with her before vanishing into another time. Næmr felt its spirit surge through her body. She felt the closeness of another time which until now had remained out of reach and far away.

Here! Take this kaanga to Mum. You kids can have it for your lunch.

The sky was blue with small fluffy white clouds sitting on a distant horizon. The corn rustled slightly as she watched an old man in a leafy-woven sunhat bend over and snap off each cob.

She could hear Koro as clear as she could now hear the constant clicking of cicadas in the trees and the musical echo of the kereru, the forest pigeon, resonating between the rugged hills, clothed in their deep, dark-green cloak of thick foliage. This was the place of her youth.

She knew she was that little girl whose hands stretched out to receive the corn cobs, its golden pearls still safely caressed within their blanket of pale-green leaves.

Thanks, Koro. Can I have a little one? Please? To eat on the way.

Yes, she remembered its taste: each kernel swelled with its sweet juice. She remembered how the outer bits stuck between her teeth so that she had to flick them out with her fingernail. Yes, she remembered it well.

"Please, please believe me, Halldorr," she implored.

She looked at him with wide, dreamy eyes. He had never seen her look at him like that before.

"What's wrong?"

"The c . . . comet." Her words stumbled from emotion. "It brings me joy not fear. It's given me back my past. But it's also brought me sadness. My family. I don't know if I'll ever see my family again."

"Am I not of your family now?" he asked putting his arm around her shoulder.

"You are. And your father and I love you both."

They sat close together and everything was silence for a while. Then, Næmr gently placed her hand on his.

"I remember," she said, her eyes wistful and sad. She turned them away from him and looked directly into the flickering flames of the fire. "You know, this comet's come and given me the key to open up memory. I will remember. I know I can."

"Please tell me."

The warm glow of the fire softened her features. Its light played patterns around the walls. But it was not this house that Næmr was seeing.

"I remember that our house was not far from a beach; black sand that sparkled like a million diamonds in the sun and it was so hot it burned our feet. We had to run like mad to get to the sea. I can remember our summer sun. It was so hot it made my cheeks tingle and burn. You know, my mother said she reckoned she could cook an egg if it was put on the bonnet of . . . "

She suddenly stopped. The realisation hit her like an avalanche. The family she remembered did not come from this cold and snow-clad place. And yet, part of her did belong. She could not turn her back on these people here with their dragon-headed longboats and sacred stones. Her people were from a much warmer place, a place where there is never snow and fields remain green throughout the year.

"Oh, no. It can't be!"

Halldorr looked at his young wife. He wanted so much to share with her the pictures and memories that were flooding her mind.

"What?"

Tears were welling up in her eyes. Slowly they began to trickle down her cheeks until they began to fall like the waterfalls that fell from the rocks.

"Sorry, Halldorr! My family. I see my family. I had brothers, crazy boys. I remember the time when my mother wanted to prepare shellfish for a meal. The boys were gone for ages and at the end of the day, they came back having dragged this huge sack of muscles and pipis home. Poor mum didn't know what to do. She sent a bagful to our neighbour. Koro came in from the garden. He'd heard mum shouting and carrying on and when he saw what the boys had done he scolded them for taking so many and told them to take them back to the sea. A good three-quarters of the sack. How the boys moaned. All that work for nothing!"

"Were there so many to find?"

"Oh, yes. Lots. Many more than here."

She moved away from him. He let her pass and did not try to stop her. She took the bone pendant from out of her jewellery case and returned to her husband beside the fire.

"This should tell me who I am."

She turned the carving over and ran her finger over the inscription on the back. She handed the pendant to Halldorr.

"Do go on. I want to share in the things you know."

Næmr smiled, then nodded.

"My people have a big house like the Great Hall. Everyone goes there to talk and sing, and sometimes even to cry. We make time to connect with our past and look to our future. Our hall is our ancestor and through him, we know who we are and where we can stand."

Her husband handed back the bone carving and Næmr held it close to her breast.

"I've a great yearning for the earth of my bones. Papa-tua-nuku, my Earth Mother calls to me and I hear her cries. I feel her strongly, pulling me, but part of me doesn't want to go. Halldorr, I love you too much to leave. This dragon pendant, my moko, will give me strength. I have to cope. I must. Somehow."

Halldorr had listened patiently to what she was saying. He could understand her feeling for the land, for did his own village not have their sacred mountain, Jotenfjell? Did they not meet together in the Great Hall to share ideas and stories, too? Yet she had spoken of her ancestral home as if it were now and yet he knew of nowhere it could be.

"Do you remember any dragon boats reaching this homeland of yours?" he asked.

"Koro taught me of ancestral boats that journeyed across the oceans until their people found the safety of a land far, far from where they had set off."

"Were they dragon boats like ours?"

Halldorr had heard of the stories that told of those in their boats who had sailed to strange lands. When he was still a boy, he had loved to listen to the skalds relate the adventures of those men and their boats. He had a secret need for adventure that still flowed through his veins, and he longed for the time when the wild fingers of the restes waves would beckon again. Until that day, he had to be content to farm his land and be happy with the time he had with his bride.

"High carved prows, yes. But no dragon heads. Feathers that fluttered in the wind. Ours have long sleek hulls that slip silently through misty waters. I see warriors. Waiting. Paddles upright. Waiting for the word. Koro's waka, my family's waka, my waka, the waka of my ancestors, the waka that carries with it the hopes of my people."

"Like ours. Whenever I go away, I know I'm taking the hopes of the village with me. If I and those who sail with me are successful on the raids, the people here will benefit. The raids and our boats go together."

Her next comment took him by surprise.

"They were used for war but that was a long time ago before even Koro was born."

"Are they for fishing, then?"

"No. Like here, we've other boats for that."

"For travel, then? They must be used for that."

She laughed.

"Not wakatoa."

"If you didn't travel by boats, then sleds or wagons?"

Her images were crystal clear.

"Yes. We do have wagons. Kind of."

"And ponies too?"

"Our wagons move themselves." She swept her hand horizontally in front of him. "Like this. Real quick."

His expression told her that nothing was making sense.

"Magic. It must be magic. Only Odin on his wonderful eight-legged Sleipnir can go as fast."

"Come, Halldorr," she suggested as she realised he could never understand her previous world. She decided to let the subject lie and, instead, pulled at the cuff of his sleeve. "Let's go out and look at the comet together. Let's see if it's moved."

She laughed teasingly and pulled him up. He was reluctant but she managed to drag him as far as the door. Halldorr grabbed the fur cloak that was hanging beside the doorway and wrapped it around both of them. Together, they stepped out into the freezing night air. Wispy, high clouds had now dimmed its light but they could still see the light of the comet shining in the gaps.

"Halldorr, can you see it?"

"Yes, I can but it's not much brighter than those stars there."

A small pinpoint of brightness could still be seen shining against the blackness of space above their heads.

"It's high above the clouds, the moon and that star over there."

She pointed to a bright star below the cloud level and low on the horizon.

"Like the wanderers," he concluded. "That sword-light of yours . . ."

"It hasn't come to pull Midgard into the fight with the giants. We're completely safe."

Halldorr put his fingers across her lips.

"Stop! No more! You are putting poison in my mind. Loki has taken control. The priests tell us that Midgard was made from the flesh of the first Frost Giant called Ymir. Don't you know that the sun, the moon and the stars were thrown into the sky between the world of man and the world of the gods?" He pointed to the comet. "That thing is evil. It has upset your mind. If such words you have told me are heard by others, I fear you'll not be safe. Næmr, I beg you, never, never speak to me of such strange things again. Forget. You must forget! I'm afraid that if you don't, it will destroy you. I don't want our life with each other to change. You've made me so happy."

Næmr realised this was her life from now on. Like her ancestors before, she must learn to accept and adapt her new country, for there could be no going back to the old. She was no longer a child of her parents but the wife of her husband. Together, their life was their own. She stood on her toes and kissed his warm, moist mouth. She whispered to him the words he hoped to hear.

"I do love you, Halldorr and I want to share my life with you."

"And I with you."

Together they left the cold and re-entered the warmth of their house. Halldorr shut the outer door and drew the thick curtain back across the opening. Næmr pulled at his hand and they walked back to the fire.

"I'll speak of this no more. Not even to Yalda. The comet's not upset my mind. Until now, I couldn't make sense of the fragments that tortured me. Now I can. Aren't we all part of those who came before us as well as all the things we experience in our lives?"

"Yes, we are. I'm my father's son. I'll be a jarl, like him, just as he was made a jarl when his father died. I've known the excitement of battle and I've seen strange lands and those strange lands excite my mind and I wish to know more. If I sailed further would I find what lies beyond the edge of the sea? Can you understand that?"

"Yes. It's what brought me here. Curiosity. But curiosity can kill the cat."

"Agreed, Næmr. It's the only way we can get their fur. A trap set has sometimes caught a cat. Such furs are precious." He took her in his arms, pulling her towards him. He suddenly felt protective towards her. His voice dropped to almost a whisper. "Promise me, Næmr, that you will never fall into the trap of curiosity. I don't want you to try to return to that world of yours. I want you with me."

She looked up into his sad eyes and realised that what she had told him tonight, he would have to take with him to the grave. His world was not ready to accept other ideas. She must accept him as he must accept her, and hope that their love would be strong enough to take them through a life they had vowed to share together. Perhaps, in time, they could share all their differences.

He drew her thick ebony hair back from her face and lifted it back off her shoulders. Lightly, and with great feeling, he kissed her forehead.

The comet lingered in the sky for several weeks, making its appearance known only during the brief times when the sky was clear. Each day passed and nothing happened. Village life returned to normal and once more people began to grumble about the weather and each other again. And as the comet faded from the skies, the memories faded once more from Næmr's mind.

### CHAPTER 11

That winter, there had been talk by several families of joining together and setting sail sometime during the following Spring. Life had always been hard in the small northern valley and stories had begun to filter through of other lands not too far away where the climate was more pleasant and the inhabitants less warlike. As soon as the excitement of the comet's presence had faded, discussions returned to the possibility of finding that land which promised a better soil and milder climate than the narrow fjord valleys which had been home for so many generations. There were known to be rich wooded lands and marshes that teemed with wildlife where a man could provide his family with plentiful food and where winter snows only lasted a few months in the year. Explorers had described such a rich land that lay to the south-west across the wild and stormy seas beyond the safety of the fjord waters. Maybe, that light that had appeared in the sky had been a sign sent from the gods, a sign to tell the men of Sleggvik that now would be a time to prepare for such a voyage. And the more they talked, the more excited everyone became. They decided that as soon as the weather cleared and the fierce winter gales that whipped the waves into a fury had lost their anger, they would send out scout boats to find such lands.

Halldorr became quite interested in the prospect of an exploratory voyage, for he was still haunted by the stories Næmr had told him of her beautiful homeland. Perhaps, somewhere on Midgard there was an entrance way to her world, maybe on the edge of the sea. He'd heard of strange rocks that others had seen on a vast, grassy plain in the island kingdom of the Saxons. Maybe, if he discovered a land richer and more fertile than his own, he could be a great leader of men.

Halldorr had dreams and his dreams made him restless. He dreamt of a future where his sons would have space to grow strong. He dreamt of a place where he could raise his own family without the frequent squabbling over a land that was difficult to farm. He dreamt of a time when he would no longer have to argue with his brother-in law and cousins over how the oxen were to be hitched to the plough. He could demand that the oxen be hitched up to a neck yolk, instead of having to attach the ard to the horns. He dreamt of never having to feel the pangs of hunger when the fishing boats were away and food sources were low. And he dreamt of the child Næmr told him she was carrying. And he wanted to make all those dreams come true. He had a goddess and she had told him of things that no man had ever had in dreams. With her help, he was certain his dreams could come true.

The men continued to talk about their next raid; Halldorr, to dream until his dream became an obsession and he became moody and sullen. Næmr noticed the change in her husband and thought that it was the effects of the long winter days when the cold and the darkness left many warriors depressed. She knew that a restlessness would soon stir within him. As soon as the weather changed and the warmer air drifted north, the men and their boats would be crossing the seas.

"What's troubling you, Halldorr?"

It was late in the evening and she was having difficulty sleeping as the child in her belly was pushing inside. The thralls had already found their sleeping places. Sleeping mounds of heavy rugs lay clustered on narrow bench seats against the walls. Only heavy breathing and the occasional cough or snore told Næmr that she and her husband were not alone in the house.

"It's the way some are starting to grumble," he said propping himself up on an elbow. "Some of the freemen are talking about taking their families away from the village. They say there's better land and new opportunities and I've been thinking of what you told me about your land . . . "

"But aren't you happy here?" she asked, immediately having doubt in her mind.

"Happy? Yes. Contented? No. Life's hard. Winter's so long and you've told me about a place where life's much better. Surely, there are other places like that."

Næmr sat bolt upright. She suddenly had a deep-rooted unease.

"You're not seriously thinking of leaving the farm?"

"It's worth thinking about."

Her voice registered alarm.

"What, now?"

"Not now, my dear. When the weather's better."

"But what about your father? Jarl Sirgud has the impression that you will take over the running of the farm when you come back from this season's raids."

"I realise that. But as soon as my father dies, there's my sister Ingrid's husband and cousin Alf and others who will make a claim to his lands. Besides, there are also those who have greedy eyes for some of his best pasture."

"Isn't it yours by right?"

"Not exactly," he replied. "I need to prove to my father's followers that I am deserving of their continued loyalty. It takes years for a man to build himself up into the position my ageing father holds. Without their support, we would be vulnerable. There are those like Bodvarr who are greedy and sly and any one of them would try to grab the land for themselves."

Næmr went pale and shuddered when she heard the name of Bodvarr. She was determined to warn her husband of his evilness.

"Don't mention that name! I don't like or trust him. Watch him carefully, Halldorr, if it's the last thing you do."

"He's one of the reasons I want to leave. To get you well away from him. I've noticed the way he looks at you with contempt in his eyes. I don't like him! I look to the day when I can be rid of that man."

Næmr took his hand and placed it on her soft, warm swollen belly.

"Here, feel our bairn. Did you feel it move? Yalda says it's not due until the early summer. I couldn't make any journey until then."

He realised he had to wait for it would be risky to expect her to travel. They would have to wait until their child had been born.

"As soon as the thaw sets in we'll set sail for the raids. Before I return, I'll take one of the boats and sail south-west until I find a place where we can farm. I'll return as soon as I can. If all goes to plan we can set sail with Bjorn and his family."

"Is he also interested in leaving, too?"

"Yes, together with a couple of more families. We'll have room for some of our thralls to help us build a new life when we arrive."

"And you're sure that's what you want?"

Halldorr had been moved by the fragments of the stories Næmr had told him about how her own people had crossed the seas to find a new home for themselves. If they could navigate by the stars and tides and discover new lands, then, surely, with his own people's experiences of sailing, new oportunities were within their grasp.

"You have planted the seed of hope in me. Now I must find a place to nourish it," he told her.

In some respects, Næmr wished she had kept her memories to herself. She blamed herself for putting such ideas into her husband's mind. Before the arrival of the comet, Halldorr had appeared happy and contented; now he appeared broody and dissatisfied.

"If you must go, please take care. I'd rather have a husband here than one in Valhalla. Promise, promise."

He nodded and soaked up the pleasure and enjoyment he felt kissing her full and sensuous lips.

"I will, my lovely dark-haired Næmr. A new life, Næmr, think of that. A happy life. Something we can to look forward to."

How she loved him when he showed the softer side of his character. It was hard for her now to think of him as a warrior, one of the dreaded raiders who terrorised those who lived in different lands.

He kissed her again.

"Sleep well, my wife."

He rolled over onto his side and within a short while she could hear his steady, rhythmic breathing that told her that he had quickly fallen asleep.

The weather didn't begin to settle until late in the Spring. Two of the fishing boats that had gone out into the storm-swept waters of an unpredictable sea had failed to return home, and the anguish felt by the families who had lost their loved ones, together with the loss of the fish, brought feelings of frustration and anger. This season had seen very little of the valuable cod normally caught so there was not enough spare fish even to dry and take to the spring market at Helgo. Late season gales lashed the coastline bringing down several large trees and smashing many of the small fishing boats that had been pulled up high above the water line. The valuable longboats had been dragged ashore and stored under cover so at least they escaped any damage. Planting had to be delayed as the soil remained cold and wet well into mid-Spring. Traders had set off with their meagre haul of skins and furs, together with the remaining treasures from the previous summer raids in the hope of securing enough food to take the villagers through the unseasonable weather. It became imperative that the longboats set sail as soon as possible in order to return home for a second voyage.

As soon as the wind swung round to the south-west, the slender longboats were dragged out from their shelters and pulled down to the choppy fjord waters. Before they could be used again, their sides had to be re-caulked to make sure they would withstand the pounding seas and new ropes had to be made from walrus skins that had been stored over the winter.

Halldorr spent many hours checking and re-checking to ensure everything possible had been done to make this voyage a success. The thralls that had survived the hardships of winter worked long hours, from the first sign of daylight until the golden sunset began to change into the deep blue-black of night. After many weeks, the boats were ready and the time had arrived to load them up with provisions which would see them through the early weeks of their voyage. The warriors would then have to rely on their skills, plundering seaside settlements to ensure their survival during the period they were away.

Næmr almost wished she could have gone too, to share in the excitement of travel. Like every wife, her job was to run the family farm while her husband was away. Her abdomen had begun to swell and she knew that as the months passed, she would become ugly and fat. Better that her young husband would be away during that time. She wanted the child. It would bind her to this world and make them a family. She would give him many sons and this child would only be the first.

Yes, she thought. It is a good time to look forward to.

She wondered if the child would be fair like Halldorr, with bright blue eyes to remind her of her homeland skies? She could not be certain of that. There was one thing she was sure of, though: that the child she was carrying was a boy, strong and healthy and a future leader of men.

The families that lived in the longhouse grew tense as the forthcoming departure got closer. Sirgud repeatedly expressed regret that he was too old to go on the raid. He was proud that his son was to lead this expedition, for once more his family's name would be upon everyone's lips and honour would be theirs when the longboats returned.

"The weather looks settled for a day or two. We'll set sail - tomorrow, at dawn."

Halldorr announced the departure when everyone, freeman and thrall alike, had gathered around the large wooden table to eat porridge that calm, early morning. Næmr had not realised the weeks had passed so quickly so when she saw the large number of people at the table, she guessed the day had arrived.

"You're going? So soon?"

She broke off a hard chunk from the loaf on the table and put it in her mouth, giving time for her saliva to soften it. She knew in her mind that the time had arrived but her heart did not want to let go. The freemen and warriors who had already sworn their allegiance, looked from Næmr to Halldorr. They sensed the young wife was upset.

"My father will look after you," Halldorr said to soften the blow. "Do you want me to ask Mistress Yalda if she could spare Heggar? You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

She nodded and left the table to the men for it was clear they had much to discuss. She picked up her needlework and sat beside the fireplace, listening to what the men had to say. Household ambatts and thralls quickly cleared away the dishes and scraps of food and left the area to attend to other tasks.

"Will you be sailing due south again this year, my son?" Jarl Sirgud asked his son.

He called for a thrall boy to fill his mug with ale.

Halldorr looked intently from face to face of the men who were about to set sail with him for the strange lands. They were steadfast and loyal, each one. The young jarl stroked his chin and thought about the possibility of sailing west as they usually had done. Only this time there would be an element of risk. The boats would be sailing across wild seas and the men would be venturing deep into Wessex territory.

"No. Not this time, father." He wondered how his father would take the news. The elderly jarl was always good at concealing his feelings. "We've decided to join with a number of other ships and sail to the south-west."

"Saxon lands? That's a dangerous place. They're a warlike people," the elderly jarl affirmed.

Sirgud drained his mug and got up to move closer to the fire. Halldorr noticed his father had become stiff and slow but in spite of that not much escaped his notice and even though the men had been extra secretive about their destination, the jarl had intuitively worked it out for himself. Halldorr followed his father over to the glowing embers and, together, they sat and discussed the route the ships would be taking.

"We'll sail west from here until we find the coast. Our flotilla will split. One group will move north past the islands in the north. I'll lead a group south into the underbelly of the Wessex lands. The waters should be calmer near the shore and we should be able to catch enough fish to replenish our supplies."

Næmr had a fit of coughing. Halldorr left his father and went over to his wife. Any little ailment made him worry for many men lost their wives during this dangerous time.

"You all right?"

"I'm fine. It was just a bit of smoke. Went down the wrong way." She reassured him. "Really. It's you I'm concerned about."

"You knew this day would come."

"I know. It's not today. It's the dangers you'll face later on that bothers me. That land, Wessex you say, will be well inhabited. The people there will most surely join to fight you off. You'll be a threat to them . . . to their land and to their people."

He kissed her lightly on her forehead.

"Don't fret. I'll take care. After all, we're not the only boat going this time. A new and powerful leader down the coast has invited us to share in his glory. He's had information that we'll be made welcome this time for he's been told the people of Wessex have need of fighting skills such as ours. When we help them drive away their enemies, it's said they've promised us riches beyond our wildest dreams. With my share, I can bargain for some land."

What Halldorr had said did not allay her concern. She went over to the chest where she kept her bone carved dragon pendant and opened its lid.

"Halldorr, I want you to wear this," she said holding the ornament in her hand. "If its magical powers kept me safe, surely it'll do the same for you. Promise me that you'll wear it while you're away."

She turned it over so that the words on the back were uppermost in her hand.

"Strange symbols. What magic does it have?"

"The promise to keep you safe."

Her large dark eyes clouded over and he knew that she was trying to remember that place far away from him, that distance place where he could not go.

"A long time ago. Such a long time ago." She sighed. "It was given to me. The dragon-like figure would protect me but there's something else about it and at the moment I can't remember it. Oh, Haldorr, it bothers me."

"Never mind! Odin, Koro, or who ever he is, knows all. We should not question his wisdom, Næmr."

She looked at him and smiled. She reassured herself that when he returned all would be fine.

"It protected me. I hope it does the same for you. You will promise to wear it, won't you?" she asked.

She dropped the pendant in his palm. Halldorr's fingers curled around the beautiful object and as he felt its smooth, curved shape he was convinced of the magic it contained.

"But . . . "

"Promise!"

She placed her fingers over his mouth to prevent him objecting. Then, she took back the pendant and held it up before his eyes.

Its decorated, elongated body swept in sensuous curves between the open mouth and a long arching tail and did not look too dissimilar from the dragon figurehead that decorated his longboat.

"Promise me, Halldorr," she said firmly.

"Then, I promise.

He stood still while she draped the chain around his neck. She fastened the clasp.

"There it's on."

"You can have it back when I return. After all, it was made for you, not me."

He held her hand to his lips, kissed it tenderly before drawing her so close, so that for a full minute they shared each other's breath with an embrace that made them, one.

Næmr felt a yearning for him in her breasts. She could feel her nipples tingle as they grew larger with expectation. The intensity of her arousal had increased since she had become pregnant and she clung to Halldorr as if she would never let him go.

"Dear Næmr," he finally said when he felt her arms relax around his body. "Won't you walk with me to the water's edge?"

"To the boats?" she asked letting him be free.

"There's one last check I need to make before we set off tomorrow at dawn. Vestlasa has given you leave of the ceremony as you are with child. But come, I wish to show you something before I go." Halldorr suddenly remembered his father and turned to the elderly jarl. "Did you want to come, father?"

"No, Halldorr, you two go. My belly's full. Besides, I wouldn't enjoy the walk. My knees are aching and my back's gone stiff. I'm no longer the young man I used to be. I'll stay here and rest awhile."

Halldorr picked up his knife which he kept close to the door frame and stuck it in behind his wide leather belt. His armour and shield hung ready. Spark of Battle, his sword gleamed bright in the flickering light of the wall torches. In the morning the two sleek dragon boats, with their excited young warriors, would be rowed down the fjord where they would sail out into the open sea.

"How will your father take it when you tell him we are going to leave?"

"I hope he will understand. He's too old and set in his ways to come with us."

"His health's not the best," said Næmr.

She had noticed that Yalda visited him more often to administer some of her herbal medicines. It would not be fair to expect the elderly jarl to make the dangerous sea voyage. But to leave him would be sad for she had got to know and like her husband's father.

Arm in arm the two walked like lovers entwined. The two moored longboats boats lay silent and still like two huge beached whales, the soft gentle slap and slosh of small waves kissing their clinker hulls. Soon, men would set them free and ride their dragons down the finger fjord and steer them to adventures that lay beyond the edge of the sea.

"This is the boat I'll sail." Halldorr pointing to one of the huge thirty meter vessels, its deep red square sail wrapped tightly around the masthead spar. "Storm Maiden. She should serve us well, don't you think?"

Næmr hoped with all her heart that what he was saying would prove true yet something wrenched her heart in two. For a minute or two she grasped her chest. Her heart beat wildly. The beats were uncontrolled. It made her feel dizzy and sick. It was a horrible feeling and she though she might fall as Halldorr's voice came through fainter and fainter. She blinked her eyes to bring the shape of the boat into focus again and slowly the voice of her husband returned.

" . . . and so she is Storm Maiden. She reminds me of you as out of the storm on Jotenfjell, love came into my life. With your dragon pendant next to my heart and my boat with your spirit, you'll always be with me."

Suddenly, Næmr had the craziest of ideas come into her head. She spoke upon an impulse without considering the implication her words were to have.

"Let's carve our names upon the hull! People do it on trees. Two lovers, one heart. Let's carve our initials so that our names are woven together. Forever."

"You mean put the sacred runic signs on the boat?"

He was alarmed at her suggestion. It had never been done before and he was unsure of how the gods would react.

"No. Not the sacred runes. Different writing."

Halldorr looked puzzled. How else could one write if runes were not used? He was not sure that Odin would approve of using the script for anything other than important things. But Næmr, like an excited child, chattered on.

"I'll write down those signs I showed you on the back of my dragon pendant. Let me show you how."

"Will the gods allow - ?"

"Of course!" she snapped in haste to ease Halldorr's doubt. "Why not? I'll show you. First, on this piece of wood." She stooped down, for bending was now difficult, and held the wood splinter for him to see. The side of the boat still smelt fresh of tar for it had not been caulked with a mixture of wool and tar in readiness for its ensuing voyage.

He handed over one of the knives he always kept tucked into the top of his belt and watched her as she began to carve the strange shapes. She showed him.

"Aha! Where are you going to put it?"

"You'll see. Don't be so impatient, Halldorr. The other side's best, I think."

"How will you reach? The other side, I mean? You won't be able to reach it from the shore."

It was fortunate that the longboats had such a shallow draft and could be moored in shallow water but even so, one side of the hull had been turned away from the shore. He watched her as she squatted and began to untie the laces that held the top of her boots together. Feet astride, he stood, his hands resting on the knife handles sticking up from his belt.

"Næmr, what are you doing?"

"I'm removing my boots."

"What for?"

"Without them I can easily wade into the water and reach the other side of the boat."

"Wouldn't it be better on this side?" he asked.

"No. I like the other better."

He couldn't understand why but let the matter drop. He had come to realise that such was sometimes the way of women and it was better, sometimes, that their husbands did not disagree. Especially when they were with child.

"Wouldn't it be easier and quicker to get into the boat and lean over the side?"

She laughed.

"What, with my round belly?" Then, just as suddenly she looked alarmed. "Oh no! I can't do that! Haven't you forgotten? Women aren't allowed on dragon boats, are they?"

"Not that I know," was his answer.

"Maybe, not. I don't want ill-fortune to ruin your fun."

"It won't."

She continued to tug at her boots until they came off and when her feet were bare she lifted her long skirt up above her knees. It seemed so natural for her but Halldorr did not know what to do. She gripped the knife blade in her teeth and waded out a few feet just beyond the point of the bow.

"That's not very much like a lady," he commented.

"I'm no ordinary lady!" She grinned at him. "Now, let's see," she murmured as she sought the perfect spot.

Supporting herself against the hull with one hand, she carefully and deliberately began to chip away at the plank with the other. She chiselled out a vertical mark, the first cut for the first letter of her name.

She straightened her back.

"Come on, Halldorr. Have a look." Her warrior husband climbed into the boat and leaned over the far side. "See? N for Næmr!"

She completed the letter, making sure it had all been well grooved into the wood. She leaned forward again, wielding the knife more skilfully and inscribed the letter 'A'. Even though the cuts she had to make were straight, she found it difficult to do with the blade of the knife. She laughed.

"I'm not much of a carver. You'd never think that some of my relatives do this for real! There. Done!" She moved back to admire her work. "N \- A -."

"N - A - ," Halldorr repeated.

Halldorr watched his wife carve the strange signs deep into the timber. When she had finished her name, she ran the knife tip along the bottom of the letters, reading the completed name as she did so.

"N - A - M - R . Næmr ! See, that's how my name's written."

"Næ-mr," he repeated.

She noticed that he seemed to be fascinated by the unfamiliar pattern. She shared in his enjoyment for his accomplishment.

"Now, I'll write your name. Vertically to meet mine." Again she steadied the knife blade on the edge of the ship and began to describe the first letter of his name. "I don't need to do the 'A' as I've already got it." She continued with one 'L' and stopped at that to give her aching arm a rest. "So far – Hal - ."

"Hal," he repeated. "What about 'Halldorr'?"

"It's coming. Now, 'D' and an 'R'. It's hard carving these letters." She finished and waded back to the shore. "There! H A L D R. . . Halldorr. Our names will be there forever. For ever, and ever, and ever."

The lettering was not a refined job but Halldorr was impressed. He had never been able to interpret any of the sacred runes and now his own Næmr had shared part of her supernatural knowledge with him. He was certain now that the voyage would be a complete success.

"That's very clever! Will you show me how to write like that?"

"Sure. They're not like the sacred runic signs. These are quite different. When you come back from the voyage I'll teach you. All those I can still remember."

She laughed, and he laughed with her, and together they shared their secret of the strange writings that had been carved on the side of the ship.

"Næmr, you're a real carver!"

"Hardly!"

"You've put your carving on my boat."

"But nobody will know what it is . . . or even know it's there. It's not like a real carving. Not like the dragon head on your boat."

"It's real enough for me. And it's sacred because you've done it. It's your drakkar as well as mine. I'm the 'Storm' and you're the 'Maiden' - Storm Maiden."

"I think of it as a declaration of our love. Like on the tree. Don't you forget that, Halldorr!"

"I won't."

They joked and laughed with each other. They were so happy and as soon as the voyage was over he promised to take her away.

Early next morning, Halldorr slipped quietly out from under the fur coverings. He kissed his sleeping wife on her forehead and crept through the blackness, groping his way around the tables and benches until he reached the door. He gave the sleeping house boy a kick with his boot. He would need an extra pair of hands to carry the remaining items needed down to the longboat. The young thrall stirred under the pile of straw that was his bed.

"Wake up, boy! Here, take this!"

Halldorr threw a large bundle on top of the boy as he sat trying to shake his body out of a deep. Halldorr felt along the wall until his hand reached the pegs that supported his precious sword, Spark of Battle. It had served his father, Sirgud, and his departed brother and now it was Halldorr's right to carry it into battle. Carefully, he lifted it down and, holding its decorated gilded hilt, he pushed the blade well down into the sheath that was attached to his wide leather belt.

"Aren't you up, yet?" He kicked the boy again. "Move it!"

The order was a hissed whisper but it was enough to rouse the boy into action. Halldorr gave him another short kick with the toe of his boot. The boy woke up with a start and grabbed for his outer shirt on the foot of his bed. He began to gather up the things Halldorr had prepared the day before.

Halldorr walked past the large wooden table but before he went towards the door, he hessitated and placed something down on its surface. It was the dragon pendant - Næmr's pendant. Then, drawing aside the door cloth and unlatching the heavy wooden door, pushed the boy outside.

The early morning dawn was still dark and the air was cool. Only a faint glimmer of daylight squeezed between horizon and cloud as warrior and boy walked down to the boats.

When Næmr awoke, the two dragon boats had already left. She was sad to have missed Halldorr but she knew that the parting would have wrenched at her heart. It was better this way. Besides, she had Yalda and Heggar's visit to look forward to. Yalda had agreed to swap Heggar for one of Næmr's ambatts. Næmr had missed the girl since she had moved house for during the period she was at Yalda's, they had built a close friendship. Yalda had promised Halldorr that she would keep an eye on Næmr until the baby had been born and with Heggar there, she had an extra good excuse for constantly calling in.

The cool, unpredictable Spring finally ended and a warm Summer began to take its place. Mid-summer arrived, and even though this year there had not been much to celebrate, the festivities made a welcome relief. The villagers were not very pleased with the two fertility gods, Frey and Frigg, for since the month of the mysterious celestial light, fishing had been poor and the weather had not been conducive to the growing of crops this year. Næmr first got wind of the discontent when she overheard Yalda warning Heggar to keep a careful watch over her and to report back anything that did not seem right.

"Make sure Næmr is well guarded whenever she goes out. There are some in the village who are blaming her and her strange sayings for bringing the evil light into our skies and causing the fish harvests to be so poor. But I have faith in Næmr. I'm sure that once she's delivered her bairn, good fortune will return."

Næmr had been feeling uneasy since the time she and Halldorr had crept down to the dragon boat. She did not know why. She was certain she had obeyed all the laws of the village so she thought it was probably to do with some of the suggestions she had been making. She wanted several openings be cut high into the walls and shutters made which would cover the holes whenever the weather turned cold. She insisted that planks be put down on the earthen floor so that in the sleeping area the floor could be kept cleaner and warmer. But all these ideas had been received with scepticism and suspicion. Sirgud made it quite clear that such things did not concern any women: human or supernatural.

"Do be careful, Næmr," Yalda warned on one of her visits. "I've known women to have been punished for less than anything you've said and done. If the priests turn against you, not even the gods would save you from the torment and humiliation you'd suffer. Please take care!"

"I will."

But the words sounded hollow to her ears. Now that she could remember more things about her previous life, she found it more difficult to accept everything that went on in the village without question. She found herself not fitting into village life and with a household of her own she was finding there were so many restrictions on what she could do. If only she could be herself. If only Sirgud would listen to her ideas but he was not of her generation and he did not understand. Maybe when the baby growing inside her belly was born, then she would belonged.

"Be content in your duties, daughter," was the only advice Sirgud would give.

Yalda had sent some of her carded wool over for Næmr to use. It would help make a change from the laborious job of unwinding old fabrics and turning them into clothing for the baby. Sirgud sat watching her stretch the yarn between her toes as Yalda had taught her. He was pleased to notice the skilful way she was able to use the spinning stone. Yalda had taught her well.

"Women are always the same when their men are away and a woman with child is the worst of all," he grumbled.

Næmr patted her swollen abdomen. She could feel the baby stirring inside as a small leg stretched itself out and pushed against the bottom of her rib-cage.

"I don't think he'll be long, now, father," she commented. "He's had enough of inside here and wants out. And I want that, too."

Nine months of waiting were almost over. This child would provide her with a belonging. When her warrior husband returned, she would find her rightful place in this village, at the end of the fjord. She would finally have a place to stand.

The boats had been away for several months. The weather was on the change and there was a hint of chill in the air.

Heggar burst in through Yalda's door.

"Yalda! Come quickly! It's N . . . N. . . !"

The girl hopped from one foot to the other in agitation. Words tumbled from her babbling lips so fast that Yalda was unable to make sense of what the girl was trying to say. She sat her down on the edge of the bench-seat and told her to take several deep breaths before trying to repeat what she had been trying to say.

Heggar's hysteria began to surface again and she could not get out her message.

"Calm down, girl and start again! One deep breath, Heggar. Now, what's this about Næmr? Has something happened?"

The girl shook her head so vigorously that her thick red curls swished like seaweed in a heavy swell.

"No, mistress. It's the bairn. I think the bairn's wanting to be born."

"How often is she calling out in pain?"

"Don't know, mistress."

"Have you any idea, girl?"

"No, mistress, but she's making a lot of noise - moaning and gripping herself. What do I do?"

Yalda knew she had to calm the girl. Any extra stress on Næmr and the baby could be stillborn or even deformed. So many infants never got to see the light of day.

"Don't panic. Frigg will protect her." Yalda fumbled through her belongings and produced a small bronze statue of the goddess Frigg. "Here, take this! Take this back with you and tell Næmr to hold it. Frigg will know how to protect her. I'll go to get Astrid. She's brought more babies into the world than any woman in the village. Tell the household ambatts that help's on hand." Yalda gave the girl a hefty push to send her on her way. "Go, girl! Run! I'll be close behind!"

Heggar ran out of the house clutching the precious statue of Frigg close to her body. She hoped Yalda would not take too long. She was full of fear for she'd only been witness to one birth before. She had been only a young child then, and the agonising cries of the dying mother had filled her with an indescribable horror. She could not bear to think that anything like that might happen to Næmr.

Hours dragged, the sun crept high into the sky and still the baby had not arrived. Yalda had made up a special medicine she said would make the baby realise it could not stay in the womb for much longer. They made Næmr sit up, grasping onto what Astrid called 'the birthing frame'. Astrid squatted behind Næmr and held her by the shoulders. They waited for the medicine to take effect and the contractions to become regular and strong. Næmr twisted and writhed every time her muscles went into spasm.

Yalda held some herbal spices under Næmr's nose.

"Smell these. It'll help take the edge off the pain." Næmr gripped Yalda's hand. "Hold on to Frigg!"

Næmr moaned again as another contraction arrived. Heggar covered her ears with her hands and retreated into a dark corner of the room.

"Don't fight against your body!"

Astrid rubbed her hand down Næmr's back. "Breathe! Smell the herbs!"

In the flickering light of the darkened rooom, Yalda noted the way Astrid's hands deftly slid over Næmr's expanded abdomen until her fingers found the place where the baby would appear.

"Bairn's coming! I can just make out its head!"

Næmr relaxed her muscles after the last contraction. Her body would need all her strength to finally expel the child.

"It's soooo – ooh! It comes again!"

The expectant mother leaned back, her face glowing with beads of perspiration, panting in short breaths like a thirsty pup.

"It'll soon be over. It's women's pain," Astrid said. "Men suffer the agonies of battle so it's right we women experience pain, too. Now, push, puuu-sh, one last push!"

Astrid grasped the sides of the baby's head and, with an extra large squeeze, it's little blood-splattered body slid from its mother's warm body into the cool, dark room.

"My baby cries!"

Næmr bent forward to glimpse the child. She felt relieved and jubilant, an ecstasy she never experienced in her life before.

"A boy!"

Astrid placed the tiny infant into his proud mother's arms and admired, as she always did, how the mother cradled the baby and hugged him close to her breast. Even though Næmr was exhausted from the birth, the exhilaration of motherhood shined in her face.

"He's beautiful, Yalda. So beautiful! Isn't he the best baby in the whole world?"

"Yes. A beautiful bairn, healthy and strong. Wait 'till Halldorr comes home. He be so proud of you and the bairn."

As soon as Næmr recovered from the immediate effects of the birth, she remembered something her mother had told her.

"Astrid, can I have my baby's birth parts? I must have his cord and birthing sac to give to his Earth Mother."

Neither Yalda nor Astrid had heard of such a request before but they had become used to Næmr's strange wishes.

Astrid handed over the tiny severed cord together with the birth sack. Næmr took them gently in her hands. She asked for a small piece of linen cloth in which she could wrap the precious flesh and blood that had connected her and her child.

"When I'm strong again, I'll take this to Yggdrasil and place them in the soft belly of the earth for ever." She wrapped them with utmost care, taking great pain to fold the material upon itself. "My baby will be tied to the land of his birth just as he was tied to me. When I'm gone, his Earth Mother will nurture and provide for him as I have done." She called for Heggar and when the young girl had arrived beside the bed, Næmr placed the tiny package into Heggar's cupped hands. "Put this in the top of my jewellery casket. It'll be safe until I'm able to get to the tree."

Her baby her nipple and sucked his mother's sweet milk. It contained all the goodness of her body that would protect and nourish her child. He stretched one little arm burped a number of times, yawned, and then went back to sleep. He was blissfully unaware of what was taking place around him. He was a contented child. Næmr smiled at her tiny son. How much he reminded her of Halldorr. He had inherited his father's fair skin but had Næmr's thick, black hair. He was a perfect link between her world and his.

### CHAPTER 12

About the time when the sun dipped in the sky and the darkness of night was a time that was close by, the dragon boats that had been away for the Summer, sailed back up the long finger of the fjord. They were being guided back to their village by Jotenfjell, for the pull of the mountain was strong in the hearts of these men and their boats. They had been away longer than expected.

As soon as the dragon boats were close enough for the villagers to recognise the special cross-hatch pattern of their red and grey sails, small, broad beamed fishing boats were launched with the men at oars shouting and calling out to those who had returned.

The two drakkern sailed as far as they could into the calm, shallow waters before pulling down their sails and using the oars. But as they got closer, it became apparent that all had not gone well. There were not enough oars dipping into the sea and there were great gaps between the shields that hung on their sides. A third of the faces had failed to return.

The two longboats were beached. Bodvarr the Bellower stood in the bow of the lead boat. He was holding on to the dragon-head as the bow bit deep into the sand. Rough-bearded men, weary from the time out at sea, leaned over between the round shields and fell into the water. Slowly, they pulled themselves up, wading through the water and staggered up the shallow bank.

Bodvarr stepped off the bow directly on to dry land. He stood awhile and watched as gathering familiar faces pushed closer in towards the returned boats. Everyone in the villagers was eager to gain knowledge of the voyage. These men were their heroes with adventures they wanted to hear.

Bodvarr cast his steel-cold eyes around the crowd, seeking out that one face he wanted to find. His height made it easy. He immediately found the one he was looking for.

With long, determined steps he strode straight up to where two females stood. The tall man anchored himself in front of Næmr. An unmistakable sneer appeared and even though his beard was thick, Næmr could see clearly see it.

Bodvarr reached deep within his jacket and withdrew a silver pendant; the very one she had seen around Halldorr's neck the day they had gone down to the boats together. It was her love token to him. With mean satisfaction he held the object aloft before her face and twisted its cord around in his fingers as though he were strangling out its life force.

"I believe this is yours, now!"

He spat the words out with contempt and then drew drew back his top lip and looked at her like a snarling wolf.

Næmr felt herself going weak at the knees. What did he mean? Why was Bodvarr holding up Halldorr's pendant? Why was Halldorr not here to meet her?

She handed her baby to Heggar. How she wished Halldorr had kept her bone pendant and not had left it behind.

The tall man laughed, a wicked laugh that made her tremble inside.

"Your magic symbols on his boat did nothing to protect him!"

Her voice quivered with emotion.

"My husband? Where's Halldorr?" she cried.

"You'll not be seeing him again!" Bodvarr paused long enough to let the words sink in. "We buried his unfortunate remains in the southern land of the Saxons. He lies near those mystic stones that lured him to his fate. You . . . your magic's gone! The gods have deserted you!"

She reeled back from him. The shock made her weak. Was her brave and handsome warrior no more?

"Lucky you got that!" he growled. "His last wish was that this should be returned to you." Bodvarr let go of Halldorr's necklace and its twisted cord collapsed into her hand. "See, I have done as he so requested."

Næmr heard him speak but did not hear his words. She stood, transfixed, looking at it in her palm. Whose evil sorcery was stronger than their love for each other?

The baby began to cry. Heggar bumped him up and down on the palm of her hand. The soothing rocking quietened him.

"Why don't you call to Hel, the goddess of the dead, to send Halldorr back?" she whispered to Næmr.

"I can't! Hel listens to no one!"

Poor Næmr, an uncontrollable misery devoured on her mind. She flung herself down on the ground. She wept and called her dead husband's name. She pulled and tore at her hair and beat her fists until her battered knuckles were swollen and red. How death tortured her. She clasped one of the discarded sea-shells that lay on the ground and slashed at the breasts that nourished her child until her bodice was sticky and streaked with her blood.

Heggar could not pacify her; too great was her grief.

"Why? Why did he have to die?" she cried.

Næmr sank slowly onto her knees as her tear stained face turned towards the crowd. "He said the Saxons wanted them to go. What went wrong that Halldorr should die?"

One of the warriors, who had been on her husband's boat, knelt down and laid a sword before her. Immediately, she recognised the hilt. It was Halldorr's sword. She looked but could not bring herself to touch.

"Spark of Battle \- I give you back. Halldorr was a great leader of men. I'm proud to have gone with him. He's given us hope for the future for he showed us places where we could live and farm. He promised he would help us farm in our new land. I would not have wanted to serve any man but him."

A second warrior walked forward. He was older than the rest, being a man in his mid-twenties. He knelt on his knee and picked up the sword, resting Spark of Battle between knee and open hand.

"Halldorr had a vision, one the rest of us wanted to share."

"Be quiet, man!" Bodvarr shouted but others in the group called for the man to speak.

"First, we sailed south to meet with the other vessels that had offered their services to the Saxons. After battle, we took our boats along the coastline until we came to a broad river mouth. Hidden by the darkness of night and fog, Halldorr instructed us to row upstream and to keep well away from the edges so not to be seen. We could feel the danger of this place for many settlements and fortresses lined its banks. We felt the fear but Halldorr urged us on.

The river valley was rich and fertile and crops grew to the water's edge. We rowed upstream until we came to where the river forked. Halldorr instructed us to hide our longboats under some weeping willow trees and rest until daylight.

On foot we marched the following day until we reached a grassy, scrubby plain."

"Not far from the Saxon stronghold at Searobyrg," another of the young men added.

The warrior continued.

"Like a true explorer, our brave leader led us overland still further until we saw monstrous stones upright and awesome in the evening light. There we rested among these circles of stones. And as the summer sun crept over the edge of the land at dawn, a shaft of blinding light fell upon Bodvarr and made him mad. I've many times seen beserkers wild and reckless throw themselves upon the enemy in a blind fury, but never had I witnessed such a vile and vicious act towards one of our own."

Bodvarr gripped the hilt of his sword and immediately a group of four stepped forward and restrained him. They nodded to the warrior to continue with his report.

"Bodvarr set upon my lord with the ferocity of a wolf, and like Vali, he tore at your husband with both sword and axe. Together, they fought, steel clashing upon steel, axe blow upon axe blow. We could do nothing, for we stood bewitched, rooted to the ground just like the stones.

Bodvarr was possessed. Like some mad demon, he drew strength from an unknown source. Together, they fought like two demons possessed until Bodvarr's sword sank deep.

As your brave warrior breathed his last, we carried him out of that magic ring and buried him not far away.

No sooner had we mourned my lord, then the Saxons attacked and we were forced to fight. We lost many and those of us who did survive were lucky to reach the boats.

I promised my lord that I'd return his sword to the place of his birth. This sword, Spark of Battle has seen so many battles and I am a man proud to call this place my home."

He pointed the sword at Bodvarr.

"I will not serve with such a monster that slew my master."

It was too much for the tall man. Like a snapping wild wolf, Bodvarr threw off his restrainers. In one bound he reached Halldorr's man and smashed his own sword into the earth as his opponent lept back.

The two men fought each other as fiercely as any warrior on the battlefield. Their swords clashed and thrashed, their flashing blades glinting in the light of the afternoon sun.

Suddenly, Bodvarr slashed sideways and caught his opponent across the chest. The man fell forward, fatally wounded. As his life began to ebb away, he raised himself upon his elbow and spoke for the last time.

"I see the Valkyries riding for me. I'm only sorry that Bodvarr didn't die. He wanted to blame the Saxons for your husband's death. Don't trust him and beware any who swears allegiance to him. Remember this, wife of Halldorr!"

The warrior slumped forward and they knew that the Valkyries had come to take him to Valhalla.

"I'll never forget!"

"My husband!" screamed a woman. "He's killed my husband!"

Næmr reached down and picked up Halldorr's sword. Revenge had made her dangerous. She plunged forwards like Storm Maiden in a gale and hurled the sword into the ground. Its hilt vibrated and hummed like a wasp in the air.

"What man here will avenge these deaths?" she screamed at the people. But no one dared to answer for fear he, too, would be struck down. She held the sword defiantly upwards. "Must it be left to a woman to revenge her husband's murder?"

Her mood was taut like a drawn bow but with no-one willing to come to her aid. She let her arm drop until the tip of the blade touched the ground.

Slowly Næmr walked over to the boat and the villagers watched as she gently stroked its side. Her fingertips found the place where she had engraved their names into its hull.

"Oh, no!" she exclaimed as she hugged the sword close to her breast. "What have I done?"

The memory of Koro came back into her mind and she could hear his voice clearly almost as if he were standing close by.

You can't carve, child. That's for men. That's always been the way and that's how it is. Remember that. Don't break tapu. If you do, something bad will always happen.

Næmr sobbed. She was still governed by the laws of that life she had experienced before. The laws of Koro were still her laws and the realisation that she had destroyed the sacredness of the boat through her desecration was more than she could bear. She was to blame. She had paid the price.

The following day, the men hauled the boat out of the water and dragged it across the verge until they had pulled it to a damp, boggy place that would become its grave. Never again, would Storm Maiden ride the waves or glide in triumph up the narrow fjord. Never again, would her warriors ride the wild waves safe in her belly. Never again, would Halldorr's ship carry the living. For ever, she would lie hidden away in the bog: a monument to the dead, a gift to Hela, the goddess of death.

The people took Halldorr's things to the boat and put them inside. Shields and knives, swords and drinking horns were placed in the hull. Silver pendants, two small bronze statues of Odin and Thor, fur boots and heavy fur-skin cloaks were brought to the boat so that the slain warrior could collect them as the boat slipped from this world into the next.

Yalda brought a woven jacket she had made. She asked Næmr to lay it beside Halldorr's sword so that he could keep warm in the land of the dead.

"Why don't you make something special for Halldorr?" she suggested. "He'll be grateful for that."

Næmr collected some of the stiff, wide leaves that Yalda had growing near her house. With Heggar's help she scraped the leaves with one of the empty cockle shells she had picked up from the shore. Working from a distant memory, she wrapped them to keep them moist. She could vaguely remember watching her grandmother and a group of women laughing and talking as their dexterous fingers wove their leaves together. She must have been about twelve at the time because two years later her grandmother had died and that's when Koro came to live with them. Them. Yes, she remembered them and her sadness increased.

She wove the leaves, carefully tucking each one under the other. As the basket shape began to take place, she could feel the pull towards those people of hers. It made her sigh, a deep, draw-out sigh that arose from the depths of her soul. She felt as if she were weaving two cultures together and as she laced leaf within leaf, she wondered if she'd ever see her family again. How like Heggar she was. Family, a distant memory and with that, a great emptiness. Who was she? What was she? Where was the place where she could stand tall and cry to all the world: this is me!

She worked intensively for several days, folding and shaping the leaves just like she remembered the women of her homeland did. When the bag was complete, she lined it with the softest material Yalda could find for her. Tucked inside, between the lining and the woven leaves, she concealed the small gold ring Halldorr had given her when they were betrothed. She took the lock of her husband's fair hair that she had hidden away in a corner of her personal box and placed it deep inside her bag. She placed it his dragon boat, laying it alongside his sword. Spark of Battle had a friend.

The longboat was finally laid to rest in the oozing, red mud that was its tomb for eternity. As Storm Maiden settled down in the swamp, only the dragon head that had been mounted over the bow gave any indication of what lay beneath.

Yalda stood with her arm around Næmr's shoulder and the two women watched the proud vessel slowly settle; a beautiful ship sink under the dark, muddy ooze of the swamp. 'Storm Maiden' had gone from them forever.

Næmr wept and her tears soaked into the depths of the swamp. She felt as if something had sliced her sinews and the cut the connections she had made with Halldorr and the villagers who lived beside the deep, green fjord.

Jotenfjell stood dark and brooding over the small settlement. Clouds clung to its rocky summit as the autumn weather got colder and colder. Then, one morning, Næmr noticed the first signs of frost and she knew that the long winter time was not so far away and she knew also that the returned warriors would be gathering in the Great Hall to tell of their adventures they had had during the period of the raids.

Halldorr would never return to the Great Hall, to tell of his adventures this year that had passed. His stories would remain locked in silence for eternity. Halldorr had gone and the days of Sirgud's rule were now numbered. Bodvarr was widening his influence and he was determined to make himself the most powerful man in the valley.

It had been several months since the boats had returned. Bodvarr's power had grown strong. He was a cruel and harsh master to serve and many a man feared to cross his path. A handful of freemen who had followed Sirgud and his son slashed their own bodies until so much blood came out that they left the world of the living. They would rather enter the eternal land for the damned, rather than give allegiance to Bodvarr the Bellower.

Bodvarr seized all the lands of those who had been killed. As his power increased, he laid claim to what farmlets he could safely take and used them to bribe freemen and thrall to pledge loyalty to him. Sirgud, now made vulnerable and weak by the death of his son, could do nothing to stop Bodvarr. To protest would mean certain death and the old jarl was not prepared to be slaughtered like an animal. Sirgud and his widowed daughter-in-law left their large house and sought protection with a branch of the family who lived on the village outskirts, not far from the forest boundary.

The baby grew. He was a beautiful child, strong and intelligent; a contented child.. Næmr had called him Halldorr which was the usual thing done when a dead warrior's son was born. He laughed and cooed to himself as he lay in the small wooden rocking cot Sirgud had made.

Life would have been pleasant for the family if Halldorr had still been alive but the dark cloud of Bodvarr's rule hung like a curse and made life very hard. More of the villagers were becoming restless, filled with discontent, especially as more of their fishing trips failed to bring bountiful harvests of herring and cod. It was becoming clear to everyone that the gods were displeased.

The late autumn harvests lay in ruin. Unseasonable gales lashed the settlement, smashing the rye and barley just before harvest time. The mood was one of anger and despair. Vestlasa appealed to Odin to show mercy for any wrong-doings that may have occurred. Animals were slaughtered, their carcases taken to Yggdrasil and draped over the branches. It was hoped that fortune would return but the village waited in vain. Winter's frosty children covered the tree tops earlier than anyone had expected and the snow fell early that year. Something more drastic was needed or the entire village would starve before winter's end.

Bodvarr demanded an emergency meeting be called in the Great Hall but this time, Næmr was not permitted to attend.

"I told you before," Bodvarr shouted in his booming voice to those assembled inside, "that dark forces had come to our settlement. Halldorr took the dark-haired stranger for his wife. Was that not a mistake? She had bewitched him. She made sure he would die. Who seeded our minds with tales of mysterious rings of stone? Surely you can all see how stupid it was to go right into those Saxon lands! Who led so many on to the pathway of death?"

"Halldorr!" A young warrior jumped to his feet. "I see those stones. I was there when the Saxons turned upon us and forced us to fight."

"And how did Halldorr know the stones were there?" Bodvarr asked.

The youth turned and raised his fist in Sirgud's direction.

"That fiend, he calls 'daughter.' She made it known. Only she had the knowledge of that place. She knew the henge. She knew of the circles of stone."

Bodvarr grinned. He was like a king in his cloak of fine fur. This was exactly what he wanted the men to believe. They called him their true leader and he expected complete loyalty from everyone in the hall. He thrust both hands against his waist and glared from face to face before he spoke.

"The dark-haired one! Believe me, no goddess. A woman with dark hair like an ambatt! I brought her down from the mists of Jotenfjell like a slave! And, who is the one to protect you from her evil influences?"

His voice rose like the wild bellow of a stag.

"Bodvarr! Bodvarr! Bodvarr!" The men who filled the great Hall chorused in unison. "We owe you our lives!"

"Then swear your loyalty to me!" Bodvarr bellowed. "Only I can rid you of this she-wolf and her cub!"

A thunderous applause filled the hall until even the walls shook and vibrated under the noise.

"Bodvarr! Bodvarr! Bodvarr!"

The voices chanted uproariously; the feet stomped loudly. It was an ear-splitting noise. Bodvarr allowed it to continue a few minutes and then he held up his battle axe. The noise ceased and a hush fell over the crowd. Bodvarr waited. He was a second Thor and he wanted them to see him as such.

"Now, come! Who will be the first to swear his oath?"

One by one, the men of the village walked up to Bodvarr. Each man placed a hand upon the hilt of his sword and swore their undivided loyalty and obedience.

From this time forth, it would be Bodvarr the Bellower who would demand their unconditional loyalty. Sirgud and the Council's power was no more. Bodvarr the Bellower now ruled the land. And he had made up his mind that he would take from that dark-haired woman what he considered, was his by right.

### CHAPTER 13

It was a dangerous time. As Sirgud's influence decreased, Bodvarr's grew stronger. Næmr found herself being shunned more and more by the people of Sleggvik.

"Why? Why do they treat me so?"

Yalda was unable to provide any answers. She had no words of comfort for the frightened young woman with her child. Næmr also knew now how cruel people could become and without a husband to protect her, Næmr's status had become worse than any slave. She could also sense that Yalda's strength was weaker for the harsh conditions had begun to take their toll on her health. Næmr noticed that Yalda did not make time to mix her healing herbs or visit those to ease their pain. If she could not help, then perhaps Heggar could for Yalda had taught the girl well

Murmurs within the village grew like a vicious monster, reaching its tentacles into every corner of the village. It was Bodvarr and his followers who stirred the soup of discontent. He knew how to play upon their fears and reminded the villagers of the bright sword in the sky that had come as a warning of death and despair.

"Think of those who have died! Your families! Your friends! You know in your hearts that evil light brought illness and death. It brought frost and famine to this village of ours."

Bodvarr often stood in the Great Hall, his wild and crazed armed warriors as a protective shield around him. He was their hero and many were only too willing to follow him.

This day, many had entered the hall: men and women had brought along children and dogs so that the villagers had to squeeze tightly against each other on the side benches or find themselves a place on the straw floor. A large fire burnt brightly in the hearth and the rich tapestry cloths shone orange in the light of its flickering flames.

Bodvarr bellowed and ranted. He knew how to stir up discontent. He knew how to alienate any who dared to disagree. He knew exactly what to say.

"What kind of thing shows no fear when the light of death shines in their eyes? Only wolves pray to such nightly lights! She is like Fafnir, a creature of the night. I have heard her howling to the moon!"

Sirgud could take no more. He pulled himself to his feet using his walking staff and faced Bodvarr with all the remaining dignity he could muster. His body had been made frail by the harshness of winter and the sorrow over the death of his son had left him weak. Never-the-less, he made one last desperate effort to speak.

"She's no she-wolf. She's the wife of Halldorr, the son of mine you were proud to call warrior and leader of men."

A woman near the fire stood up and smoothed her crumpled skirt.

"I agree. I lost my man two raids ago but I know he was most willing to offer his life for such a jarl!"

"My youngest was just as proud!"

"Then! This is now!" Bodvarr said. He drew his eyes together and focused on Sirgud. "Old man, your sun has set and from now your eternal winter descends! Why, are you not satisfied that the son of your flesh has earned the right to sit at Odin's table and drink mead?"

Bodvarr's steel cold eyes showed no emotion, gave no hint of the treachery that he had done.

"I ask for my rights. Were you not the one who ended my son's life?"

Bodvarr flung back his head and laughed mockingly at the old man. Those nearby thought it better to follow their leader's actions and within a very short time everyone had joined in with loud, farcical laughter. Bodvarr roared.

"Now this old fool is confused between Saxon and me!"

Laughter erupted again, accompanied with whistles and calls. Sirgud summoned all his strength. If it was the last thing he did, he would defend his family; all of them.

"I know the difference between Saxon and Viking!"

"But you don't know the difference between Viking and slave!"

Bodvarr pointed across the Great Hall to where Næmr was standing. Sirgud ignored the insult.

"Halldorr. My son," he said addressing the throng, "was slain before his time! And Bodvarr knows how!"

Bodvarr pulled at the side of his fine fur robe and wrapped it defiantly around himself

"Old man, darkness descended upon your house as soon as your son took that dark skinned sorceress to his bed! A curse has been upon your family ever since. Now, you've got to take the punishment you deserve! I will not let such evil increase like the creeping fungus that smothers and kills a great and noble tree in the forest. Only I can save the village. Only I can lead the warriors on glorious and profitable raids across the western sea!"

A thunderous applause rang out. Bodvarr's words had given them hope along with the strength to go raiding again. Sirgud could not fight against the hysteria Bodvarr had created.

Næmr was angry that these people who had once shown such loyalty to her father-in-law should be so willing to blindly follow a man like Bodvarr. Something deep within her made her want to fight. She could feel the spirit of the warrior awaken within her veins. She lifted her head and soke up loud.

"How easy to blame what you don't understand!" Silence sliced through the gasps and cut each voice down. "Is ignorance to be your guiding force?"

"What force? Remember, she knew of the force the circle of stones would have upon us! She cast a blanket over the free minds of men and took away their reason."

"I did not!" Næmr protested. "It's Bodvarr who covers you with the cloak of winter and turns your minds to ice. None of you know the ways of the gods, least of all, this man. Jealousy and hate has made Bodvarr dangerous! Can you not see that?"

A hushed whisper crept like a slinking wolf into every corner. There was the hint of hesitation. Bodvarr's hand clasped the sword hilt, the same weapon that had killed Sirgud's son.

"This woman!" Bodvarr spat out the words with hate and contempt. "She came to me from the cold and frozen world of Hel. Death is her servant and death shall be her master! Death will stop the spell she has put upon us! Death, only death!"

Bodvarr's staunch followers jumped to their feet. They began chanting and shouting at the top of their lungs.

"Death! Death! Death! Death!"

It was as if Thor was in the hall. Thunderous sounds shook the timbers as a hundred voices exploded with a roar. Bodvarr had aroused them. Nothing on this earth was going to stop them, now. Sirgud shook his head.

"Come, Næmr. It's better that we leave."

He took her by the arm and led her out through the large doors of the Great Hall.

Bodvarr shouted, "Look how Sirgud slinks like a fox out of the hall! What good is your goddess now, old man? Ha! They both know the truth of my words!"

Outside, in the gathering crowd, someone threw something. It was a spear. It missed his shoulder and twanged into the ground close to his feet. A group of young boys rushed at them from behind and when Sirgud turned, they taunting him and called him names.

"I've known these boys all their lives. Their fathers were good men and have made the village proud."

"It's Bodvarr's doing," Næmr said.

The uproar inside continued. Bodvarr had aroused the people and the young men would be looking for blood to quench their bloated appetites.

"Death! Death! Death!"

Sirgud leaned heavily on his stick as he walked. He had slowed down a lot over the past months and Næmr could see that his spirit had been broken.

Næmr hung tightly on to Sirgud's arm. They hurried between the scattered houses and surrounding yards of the freemen's homes. She thought it would be better to take themselves to Yalda's house for Sirgud's house would be the place a mob would most likely attack.

They could still hear shouting and this time it seemed to be coming from outside. Luckily, the sound had not moved away from the Great Hall so it was likely that no one had noticed the direction they had taken.

In the distance, Bodvarr's booming voice rose above the din.

"Who'll join in the hunt? Follow, my brave warriors! Find the dark one and her monstrous bairn! Destroy her before she destroys us all!"

"Bring her to Jotenfjell. Take her to the sacred stone!" called the voices.

"No-one will pass that place again!" warned Bodvarr. "Nothing will cross the edge of Bilfrost in to Sleggvik again! Let the marks be a warning! From now 'til the end of time!"

Winter came early. It was harsh and cruel. Sirgud lost the will to live and his body was buried on the lower slopes of Jotenfjell. It was too hard to dig through the compacted snow so they placed his body on the frozen surface and covered it with cold stones.

A few weeks later there were howling gales that whipped up a snow storm. With Sigurd gone, nothing was in the way for Bodvarr to take over Sirgud's remaining lands and thralls. Flames burnt down the small thrall dwellings that had clustered around his house until only black ashes remained. Someone whispered to Yalda that Bodvarr was the one responsible but they were too afraid to speak out. Now all that was left was for him to find the dark one together with her child.

Sirgud's large house had been left empty after the old jarl left it. When Bodvarr and his followers arrived, it stood tomb-like with only an occasional drip from a rafter icicle to break its silence. Sirgud's household slaves had gone like their homes, dissolved like bubbles into the air.

Næmr had been taken to one of Yalda's relatives who had a small-holding on the edge of the village. As word reached them that Boddvar and his men were searching the village, Næmr, her baby and Heggar were moved to one of the outhouses where thrall Lief and his wife Snorri lived together with their master's animals. Yalda knew no one would think to look there and they would be left safe, at least until spring when Lief would take the animals to the fields.

A small alcove was provided for the fugitives. Næmr sat in darkness, only Heggar and her baby for company. The dark was extremely dark, far darker than either of them had ever known; and the cold was extremely cold, far colder than they had ever suffered. Heggar scouted the farm for scraps of food to fill their aching bellies, for without nourishment, Næmr would not be able to feed her child. Much of Lief's stored firewood had already been burned. Now the fire only smouldered and smoked and the cold from outside began to seep through every crack and opening it could find until it hung its frosty fingers from the internal walls.

Yalda's thralls had managed to fetch the large wooden chest that held Næmr's possessions from Sirgud's house. They had brought it to Lief's on a sled. But now, as the need for warmth grew stronger, the chest was under threat.

"Lief asks if you will allow us to break your box for fuel, Næmr."

Heggar handed Næmr a small woollen shawl to wrap around the baby.

"Oh no!"

Lief knelt down and tried to rouse the sleeping fire.

"If we can't keep you warm, you're bairn will die."

"The chest's all I've got left. Halldorr had it made specially for me. When it's gone, what will I have left?"

"Bodvarr's getting closer every day. His scouts are out as much as the weather will allow. We'll have to move you earlier than we thought and you can't take a heavy chest like that when you leave."

"Please, please let Lief use it," implored Heggar.

The baby whimpered. Næmr hugged it closer towards her breast, hoping her own warmth would help keep it warm.

"We need the fuel or we'll die," Lief said.

Suddenly, a noise was heard outside. It moved along the outer wall, slowly making its way towards the door. The animals became restless and one of the sheep coughed, then bleated. Alarm registered on Heggar's face and she gripped Næmr's arm and squeezed. Lief immediately went to his wife.

"Quiet," Lief warned. "Don't make a sound."

"I hope it's not wolves or worse, Bodvarr, himself," whispered Heggar as she clutched Næmr and buried her face in baby Halldorr's blanket.

"Heggar, shush! Keep your thoughts to yourself!"

"Shhh!"

Lief tiptoed over to the doorway at the far end of the hut and put his ear against the timber door. They all sat, straining to pick up any movement from outside. Næmr could not believe that wolves would dare to come this close to the building. But one never could be sure. She cuddled her baby closer and prayed it would not cry.

The noise came closer. The door groaned as something pushed against it. It creaked open. Snowflakes blew inside. A cloaked figure eased its way around the door edge.

"Lief! Lief! You here?"

Heggar was the first to recognised Yalda's voice.

"It's all right. It's my mistress, Yalda!"

She jumped up and ran towards the door, squealing with relief and delight as yet another dark figure entered the hut.

Lief pulled door closed. Yalda's burning torch lit up the small room. She had brought Theijn, another of her thralls, with her. As Yalda entered the small house and byre, she shook her thick woollen shawl and it showered the straw with droplets of melting snow. She handed it to Theijn who remained just inside the doorway.

Yalda brought them the latest news of the village and how Bodvarr's men were taking charge. She told them how they had secretly made their way across the village in the semi-darkness, avoiding Bodvarr's spies as best they could.

"Come, you two!," she said. "There's no time to lose! Bodvarr's intent to find you. He's promised to throw first your bairn and then you and out into the wilderness for wolves to devour."

Heggar was the one who showed the most alarm.

"But your bairn's healthy, Næmr! Only damaged bairns are taken to the slab!"

"It's not going to happen, Heggar!" Yalda snapped at the girl but at the same time Næmr noticed how weary and worn-out Yalda had become. Even her scolding of Heggar didn't sound as strong and her body, that less than two years ago looked straight and strong, was now bent over and frail like that of an old woman.

"Yalda, you shouldn't have come. You don't look well."

"Don't worry about me! You and the bairn must be saved. Take Heggar with you. I give her her freedom. Now, there are two sleds waiting to take you over the pass and into the next valley where help's at hand. You'll be safe there. Well out of Bodvarr's reach. Some of your husband's friends have already made the journey and they're

expecting you. Come Spring, the boats will be ready and families will be leaving these shores for good. Get everything you can carry. Quickly. Skjalf and his sled are waiting outside."

"Will you be coming?"

Næmr rocked the baby in her arms. The older woman shook her head.

"No. I can't make such a trip. My bones are tired. My times nearly come. You younger ones have your whole life ahead. You and Heggar must go! That's what Halldorr would have wanted. Go! Leave this place. It's not the village I was happy to live in. Take my advice and go!"

Yalda's words brought back a flash of memory. Næmr had heard those words before.

"That's why I came here in the first place!"

"What do you mean by that?" asked Yalda.

"To find my northern roots."

"In a drakkar," Heggar added. "With a fierce dragon head."

"No, Heggar."

Heggar was about to ask a question but a look from Yalda made her shut her mouth so that her lips remained tight and squeezed together.

Næmr began swaddling the baby in several layers of warm woollen blankets and finally cacooning him up in a warm fur so that he looked like a very fat caterpillar.

Skjalf and his two teams of yapping dogs were impatient to get going. He wanted to be sure the sleds made it safely to the next village before the darkness of the night descended upon them. He was used to such a journey for throughout the winter months he and his dogs followed hungry elk and deer as they moved from one feeding place to the next. The wilderness of the mountains was his second home. He, alone, would be able to guide them across the intertwining tracks that criss-crossed each other over the mountains.

The sleds were piled high with blankets, furs and food. With the dogs, good progress could be made even when the snow was soft and deep. Skjalf told Næmr to climb on the back of the sled and huddle under the thick, warm furs. She wrapped the furs around her own body and hugged the baby parcel as best she could. She noticed he had already fallen asleep.

Theijn held the flaming torch while Yalda spoke first with Skjalf and then with Næmr and Heggar.

"Goodbye. Time to leave. I'll miss you both." Heggar looked at Yalda with surprise. An uncomprehending look crossed her youthful face as Yalda helped the girl onto the back of the sled that Theijn would drive. "Yes, Heggar, I really am giving you your freedom. Næmr needs your company more than me. And, now you really must go. Snow's starting to fall."

"That's good," Theijn remarked. "It'll hide our tracks."

Tears moistened Heggar's face. She was deeply saddened to leave Yalda behind. Yalda, her mistress, who had been more like a mother to her. No amount of pleading or crying could make the older woman change her mind.

"Make a new life for yourself, Heggar. It's too dangerous even for you to stay."

Yalda hugged Heggar as though she were her own. Then, she pulled herself away from the girl and turned away. Alone, Yalda began to walk back down the track in the direction of the village. Næmr watched her until Yalda's small bent frame was swallowed up by the whiteness of the falling snow.

Immediately, the dogs strained into their harnesses. Skjalf and his team led the way, racing along the outskirts of the village until they turned and headed due south. After they had travelled for several hours they came across a small number of remotely scattered stone huts not far from the southern foot of Jotenfjell. On the far side of the track a dense forest stretched far back into the distance. The branches of the outer firs drooped low with thick snow and looked more like tall, sad giants than large forest trees. To their left was the small hut where they could rest for a few days until Næmr had gained enough strength to endure the strenuous journey that would take them across the mountains and into the neighbouring valley. Skjalf knew there was the possibility of one more certain stop. He hoped the second hut still stood but he could not be sure.

Skjalf unharnessed the dogs and threw them their meat. Along one side of a wall a tidy pile of firewood had been gathered and stacked for use. Skjalf picked up an armful and took it inside. He soon had a blazing fire going in the round central hearth. Theijn unloaded the sleds and carried the blankets inside. The small stone hut soon gained warmth and although it lacked the things in a home, it felt inviting after the freezing cold they'd endured throughout the day. Slowly, their numbed fingers regained feeling and the tingling and burning that made them so sore, came to an end. Sklajf returned to the cold and came back shortly with a pot full of soft virgin snow. He got Heggar to heated it up over the fire and when the water was almost on the boil, dried lentils and meat were thrown in to make a thick broth. The hot liquid relaxed them and made their tired bodies wish for rest. Næmr fed the baby and as soon as she had settled him, Sklajf suggested they sleep. In a few days, they had to be on the move again.

The following morning, when Næmr went to collect some more firewood. She noticed the snow clouds had lifted and the top of Jotenfjell could be seen. There was something disagreeable about the mountain, for the more she thought about it, the more foreboding it became. It was as if it knew something about her she did not yet understand. She shuddered. An overwhelming desire now was to get as far away from the mountain as she could.

"How long do we have to stay?"

Næmr watched Sklajf as he sat on the bench trying to pull on his thick fur-lined boots.

"Another day or two," he replied. "With a lift in the weather I should be able to find us some fresh meat. It'll be much better for us. It'll put strength in your body and help you cope with the journey. Theijn will stay with you. He'll look after you. I'll be back as soon as I can but it might take many hours before I catch something."

"How will you?"

"I'll use the dogs. They'll sniff it out."

Heggar's face had turned quite pale.

"Aren't you afraid of the bears and wolves?" She carried a deep fear of wolves since she'd come face to face with a pack several years ago. The way they circled around, eyes fixed and bodies taut, watching for the opportunity to make their strike sent cold shivers down her spine. She knew what it was like to feel their prey. For Heggar had been lucky that day. The men had turned up in the nick of time.

"Wolves don't like dogs," Sklajf replied in a matter-of-fact way.

He tied on his snow-shoes firmly, picked up his weapons and strode off into the snow.

The first day Sklajf did not catch much other than a snow hare. He grumbled that his prey was so small. The next day he took all but one dog with him to find food.

"We can't leave here until I've caught something large enough to sustain us for at least a few days." He tied the remaining dog on a longer lead so that it could better guard the doorway. "Where we're going, game will be harder to find. The dogs will need a rest after pulling the sleds over the pass."

After Skjalf had left, Theijn busied himself with the chores. He collected fresh snow for the pot and brought in enough wood for the fire to last for most of the day. Heggar did most of the cooking and when she was not busy, she'd pick up the baby and play with him. It was wonderful to hear the happy gurgles and chuckles of the young child when Heggar played peek-a-boo or dangled threaded tree cones just beyond his reach. The relaxed mood of family life made the little hut seem like home. But Theijn sensed Sklajf's concern about staying in the hut longer than desired.

That evening, after another unfruitful day, Sklajf and Theijn discussed the events of the past two days. Heggar was already asleep, curled up with her back nestled into Næmr's waist. Næmr lay dozing between sleep and awareness, her ears hardly registering the conversation beside the fire. The two men were speaking in low, muted voices between sips of a hot liquid soup that had been brewing over the fire.

"Had trouble today?" asked Theijn.

"Yes," the other replied. "The dogs had the scent of some large animal. I followed its trail . . . to bring it down, the youngest dog . . . excited . . . disappeared. The trail was fresh and well used so I've set a trap. . . I'll get something tomorrow."

"Let me come with you . . . two . . . the carcase . . . together . . ."

"Might work."

Næmr wandered off into dreamland but only for a few minutes. Then, the voices returned.

"How long can we afford to hold out here?"

"Maybe another few days, who knows. We've sufficient supplies. It's not that. The longer we stay put, the greater the possibility Bodvarr and his group may turn up."

"I"d have thought we'd be fairly safe up here. Not many from the village know this hut even exists," Theijn commented.

She heard him suck the last of the liquid from his mug. Then, all went quiet again. The flames casting patterns across the walls making the shadows of the two men strange and grotesque.

She stirred again and looked over towards the fire. The men had their backs to her now, leaning on their knees with their heads bent low over the hearth.

"There are some I can think of who'd may know the way but whether they'd be willing to show Bodvarr, I don't know."

"Maybe,"said Sklajf's voice. "He'd either force them or pay them. He's plenty to offer now that he's rich."

Sklajf leaned forward and added another log.

"You're right. Then, my dear fellow, I have no option but to take up your offer. The longer we stay, the more dangerous it is. The women must remain inside and bolt the door. I'll leave two of the dogs behind. They can be tied close to the hut. They'll make a noise if anyone strange comes."

"Then, it's agreed."

Theijn collected his knives and placed them next to the door ready for tomorrow.

As soon as the dim light of daylight made its presence known the next day, the men left the hut.

A vague wisp of thin smoke at the edge of the tree line was the only indication that the stone hut was there. That is, if someone knew exactly where to look.

Heggar chatted most of the time telling Næmr how wonderful things would be once they were settled into the new land. In a small leather bag tucked safely within her dress she had a few silver coins and a ring that Yalda had pressed into her hand as they were leaving. She'd decided to tell Næmr as soon as they were safe in the next valley. They may need it to buy safety at some later date.

"Do you miss my mistress, Næmr?"

"Yes, I do. She was a good friend."

"I wish she'd come with us."

"I think the journey would be too demanding for her, Heggar. Older people don't have the stamina or willpower to make long journeys."

"Do you think she'll be safe enough?"

"I'm sure she will. It's where she was born and she still has plenty of family and friends. It's different for us. We're not of the village. We've got no blood ties to hold us back."

"Do you think a lot about your family?"

Before Næmr could answer, her baby stirred. Heggar was the one who walked over to the bed and lifted the infant from his bundle of thick wool blankets. She brought him over for Næmr to feed.

She smiled at her baby and he responded to her attention. He was a healthy, contented child who had two adults who cooed and smiled at him and who were willing to drop everything to attend to his immediate needs.

"Oh dear Heggar," sighed Næmr as she began to loosen her bodice. "My family don't know I've a child!"

Ideas began to tumble about in her mind and make her restless. She unclasped her white bone pendant and refastened it around her baby's neck.

"I know he'll be kept safe with this. I know he will. It has served me well. Now let it be the protector of my child."

She began to let the baby feed. As her milk began to flow the baby's contented sucking made her relax more yet she could hear a voice surface from deep within her mind. It was a familiar voice and it was becoming clearer and clearer. It was Koro's voice. It was an image in the reflective part of her mind and she knew she had to follow its calling.

"Here, take little Halldorr. I've got to go out."

Heggar protested.

"But . . . Sklajf said . . . "

But it did no good. The call of the voice was much stronger.

She handed over her baby and immediately began pulling on her boots.

"Won't be long. Don't worry. I've got something I have to do and I'll not go far."

She smiled and stroked her baby on his cheek. He laughed and reached out towards his mother with one of his tiny hands.

"Please, don't go!"

Heggar began rocking him as she often did but her eyes pleaded with Næmr to stay.

"Don't worry, Heggar. Back in a jiff!"

"Næmr! Don't go! Please, don't go!"

Heggar hugged little Halldorr to herself. The bone pendant swayed to and fro and then disappeared from view the moment Heggar's arms enveloped him. She started to whimper just like she did sometimes when Yalda had scolded her.

"Oh Heggar, stop snivelling. I've said I'll be back very soon. And I will."

"But if someone should come."

"The dogs are here. They'll bark if anyone comes near."

Næmr unbolted the door but Heggar still was not happy.

"What about the wolves?"

She knew Heggar was afraid of wolves and that they scared her even more than Bodvarr's men.

"They're in the woods. They won't come near. Not with the dogs."

With those final words, Næmr shut the door and was gone. She could hear the dogs barking for a while and then all was quiet.

Næmr clambered and struggled through deep snow drifts near to the hut. It was so peaceful, hushed and still. It was like the first time she had walked up the slopes of Jotenfjell. That seemed such a long time ago. So much had happened to her since then. She was still muttering to herself when something moved the lower branches of a tree. She hesitated as the snow avalanched downwards and passed.

Two figures appeared out of the foliage. At first she thought they must be Sklajf and Theijn returning from the hunt but as the dogs were beginning to bark and pull at their leads, she realised that her first thoughts had been terribly wrong. She hurriedly tried to retrace her steps but without snow-shoes, her legs sank deep into the soft snow and she floundered about like a flapping fish. The men advanced on her, rapidly.

"Look what we've got!," sneered the taller one. He grabbed her roughly by her shoulder. "Bodvarr will be pleased!"

Næmr tried frantically to wriggle free but she was no match for two strong men, who with skis and sticks stayed on the surface of the snow.

"Let me go! Let me go!"

The grip that pinned her arms grew stronger the more she tried to get free.

"Fights like a wild cat!"

"What do you want of me?" she asked as all resistance had weakened both body and mind.

The men laughed, rough and mockingly. At a distance of two longboats away the dogs continued to bark and tug at their leads.

"Bodvarr wants you. Alive!"

The tallest of the two, a huge, solidly built warrior in his late thirties pinned her arms more tightly against her body so that she could not move at all. As she opened her mouth, he smothered the beginning of her scream with a gag. Helpless, she could do nothing to stop his companion binding her up. Then, like the body of a slain deer, he slung her across his broad shoulders.

The two dogs tied up at the hut had now picked up the new smells of sweat. Næmr could hear them bark and thought of Heggar and how afraid she must be. But there was nothing Næmr could do either to help Heggar or save herself.

As the man began to pick up speed on his skis, the frantic barking of the dogs become fainter and fainter. The little stone hut dissolved into the whiteness of the air and all Næmr could hear was the constant swish of the men's skis as they carried her back down the mountain side to the small village at the end of the fjord.

They dragged her into the Great Hall where Bodvarr was waiting for them to return.

"Leader, we have brought you a gift!"

The tall man sat on Sirgud's carved chair chewing flesh off a large cow bone. At his feet, two thin dogs watched him intently, drooling copious amounts of saliva on to the floor as only dogs can when food was around. Every now and then Bodvarr would spit or pull gristle from his teeth, laugh with amusement as the dogs bounded forwards, their noses frantically searching for the minute morsel from Bodvarr's large meal.

Næmr could see the immediate interest in his eyes as her captives forced her closer towards him. He laughed ominously and threw his well-chewed bone into the straw. The dogs snarled and snapped at each other until the victor grabbed the bone and disappeared somewhere under the table.

Bodvarr stood. He wiped his greasy palms down the length of his deep red tunic.

"Where's the bairn?" he asked knitting his bushy brows tightly together.

"Bairn?" The man appeared perplexed. He turned to his companion for support but the other shrugged and said nothing. "No one said anything of a bairn. Only this woman. We saw no one else."

Neither of the men said anything about the yapping dogs nor about the small stone hut with its whisp of curling smoke that drifted upwards into the cold air. Næmr began to wonder whether they had even noticed the hut at all or maybe they had thought they might have been outnumbered had they engaged its occupants in a fight. Maybe they had decided to capture only her.

The second man finally found his voice.

"Maybe the bairn never made it. Yes, it must have died from the cold."

He watched intently for his leader's reaction. The air was charged with anticipation.

"Let's give sacrifice to Thor!" shouted a voice from the rear of the room.

"Take her to Jotenfjell!" shouted another.

"What?" Bodvarr's loud booming voice overpowered everything in the hall. "Throw her back into the mist and snow?"

He looked intently at his followers, then smirked. He anticipated their answer, for he had taught them well.

"Jotenfjell, you say!"

"Yes, Bodvarr. End the curse!"

The reply came back in unison. Bodvarr's most loyal supporters took up the challenge.

"Give her to Jotenfjell! Return her! Jotenfjell! Jotenfjell!"

Bodvarr was now full of excitement. He jumped on to the top of the heavy wooden table and stood there like the war god himself, full of defiance and ardour. His loud roaring voice split through the shouting and silenced every man as if each one had been throttled.

"Jotenfjell shall have its victim!" He pointed to Næmr who had been flung like a rag upon the floor. "I brought her here! I shall take her away! Jotenfjell! We will be avenged! I will be avenged! Bodvarr, your leader, promises you that!"

### CHAPTER 14

Næmr was watched all night. She sat in a far corner of the Great Hall, her back leaning into a timbered crutch. She could not sleep or even doze, for in her troubled and turmoiled mind, she ached for the child she knew she would never see again.

As the faint dimness of dawn passed down through the smoke outlet, Næmr began to prepare herself mentally for the ordeal that lay ahead. She thought of her brave husband and how he had fought the evil Bodvarr until the bitter end. She was the wife of a warrior, and she was not going to let herself be killed without a fight of her own. She made up her mind that Bodvarr would not find it so easy this time to subdue her.

The tall man led her away from the village and towards the conifer and oak forests that covered the lower slopes of the mountain that reached into the sky. They passed by Yggdrasil. The great, grey twisted branches hung hidden under snow, thick and white. As they passed, she remembered Vestlasa and how how she had instructed her in the religion of the settlement. She remembered the Althing, sitting and listening to the complaints brought before it. And she remembered her two best friends: Yalda and Heggar - faces now, just like the faces of Koro, her father and mother and all those she had left behind somewhere else.

As they left Yggdrasil and walked towards the flat-topped sacrificial rock, she tried to swallow the tears of regret which were beginning to swell up and choke her. She thought of her child's birth cord that she had buried here: a love that connected her and her child with this spot until time met its end. She could not hold back the tears any longer and they tears ran down her cheeks and solidified into beads of pearls as they hit the frozen ground. Would her child ever be told of his birth mother and father?

"Come! Faster, you whore!"

The tall man was in a hurry to be back in the village before the blackness of night descended. The low orb of the weak winter sun hung just below the bottom of bleak, grey cloud that had draped itself around the hills for most of the day. He tugged cruelly at the woven twine that bound her hands and laughed at her attempts to stay upright.

Together, they climbed upwards in silence, leaving behind the straggly, clinging pines that precariously gripped Jotenfjell's rocky surface.

White mists swirled like a vapour cloud before them. The tall man stopped. He cut the twine that bound her wrists. This time he intended to enjoy his hunt. This time he did not intend to fail.

The young woman stood proud. She was the wife of a warrior. She was not afraid to die. She was now prepared to stand firm against the bearded man, his silver-white hair like the cold, pale moon.

She stood with her eyes fixed on his body, watching for him to make the slightest move. This time she was prepared.

She could feel the solid shape of a dagger she had concealed well beneath her clothes, close to her flesh. During the long night, someone had come up to her and brushed against her skirt. She did not see who it was but when she moved to adjust her aching back, she had found it there. The dagger had been carefully placed between her feet. Someone did not intend for her to die.

"What have I done to you, Bodvarr the Bellower?"

"Everything!" He snapped the answer with a snarl.

"Why do you hate me so?"

"Because of Halldorr!"

"What's Halldorr got to do with it?" she asked.

"You should have been mine. You should have been my slave!"

"I was freed from any obligation to you. The Council gave their word."

"Council! Bah! What did I care for the Council? A bunch of old men! I'm the Council now and I make the rules."

Her hand moved slowly upwards to touch the dagger's hilt. She focused on the space that separated her from the threatening man.

"I am the lawful wife of Halldorr!"

He laughed a rough, synical laugh.

"Halldorr, bah! I found you! I should have owned you!"

She flinched at the memory. The cold and the mountain had sharpened her mind and crystalised the memory of that time.

"I came as a free-woman. I chose Halldorr, not you!"

She could not permit herself to weaken. She worked her mind through the steps she would have to take the moment he made his advancement.

The white mist thickened. Its bleached alabaster fingers folded around her and whispered of death.

"For Thor and for Jotenfjell!" She could see his warm breath vapourize before his face. "I give you back th . . ."

His words were absorbed into the freezing air and she never heard the end of his threat.

But now the time had arrived for him to make his move. His hand reached for the axe held by his wide leather belt.

Without hesitation, she threw off her cape and pulled the dagger from her breast. She flicked the blade at him, the whites of her eyes catching the reflection of the ice.

"I also come from warrior stock! I will have revenge for Halldorr's death!"

He laughed a cruel laugh in the depths of his throat.

"Revenge? Ha! There's no future for you here!"

He began to advance towards her, moving slowly and deliberately like a cat on a hunt. But she was no prey and made ready to fight for her life. Her body stiffened. Her grip was tighter. Her senses far keener than they had ever been before.

Instantly her mind became crystal clear. The fragmented memories that had confused her so many times before fused together with such clarity that she became aware of a new reality. What had Bodvarr just said only moments ago? That she had no future in this place? Of course not. It could not be. Her past was the future and now that future lay before her, somewhere past the icy cold rock surface of Jotenfjell.

"My God!" she exclaimed. "I've been here before!"

Thick, white mist swirled around her, opalescent in its writhing dance. She could no longer see the tall man, threatening and advancing towards her. But she could still feel his presence; his hot breath moving closer and closer.

Her fingers ached with the cold. Her breathing was painful and she wanted to rip out her lungs and rub warmth back into them. She could feel her blood cool and knew that within a minute she would succumb to the cold.

She summoned all the remaining strength she could muster and hurled the dagger into the blinding, white void before her.

The silence was overwhelming. The intense cold burned deep within her body and desired her life. How the pain hurt! How the numbness ached as it crept slowly up her limbs. She shut her eyes tight as she tried to force it back with her mind.

I will not give in, she told herself.

She had to fight if she was to survive to know all that there was to know.

The young woman clutched at the silver brooch Halldorr had given her the first time the dragon boats returned. She strained her eyes, searching for her opponent somewhere out in the blinding, whiteness. She saw nothing. Heard nothing. Felt nothing. It was just her, the white mist and the mountain. She gasped and waited for death to take her breath.

* * * * * *

"Hello? Wake up! Hello? Are you with us now?"

A calm, male voice penetrated the dimness of her sub-conscious mind. The faint voice of a female spoke to her from somewhere nearby.

"Her shaking's subsiding. I think she's beginning to respond, Doctor."

The young woman in the bed briefly opened her eyes. Then, she shut them again. She felt a hand touch the top of her head.

"Hello! Can you hear me, young lady?"

She wanted to respond, to tell them she was here. She tried to say something but nothing more than a few strange noises came out. She was trapped in a body that would not respond.

"What are you trying to say?" A male voice spoke to someone nearby. "Can you make out the noises, nurse?"

Her eyes opened again and she blinked several times. Slowly, she found she could focus on several things around her. Everywhere was white. But it was not the whiteness of mist. This whiteness was not opaque but was angular and solid. It seemed to be a room.

"Where am I?" she gasped at last.

The soft female voice could now be matched to the smiling face of a middle-aged woman. She wore something small and white on her head.

"It's all right. You're in hospital. You're quite safe."

Her patient seemed confused.

"It's the effects of the cold," said the Doctor. "She seems to have stabilized now. The worst of the hypothermia effects are over . . . blood pressure's rising, pulse rate more stable. Temperature's rising. Things are starting to look much brighter for her. Keep her on the monitor, nurse. I'll check with you in an hour's time. Make notes of anything you feel could be important."

"Right, Doctor."

"Page me if you're worried."

As soon as the man left the room, the nurse turned her attention back to the young woman lying so still and pale on the bed in the middle of the room. The poor girl appeared confused but that was not surprising considering what she had been through during the past few weeks.

The nurse leaned over her patient.

"You're going to be fine," she whispered. "The worst is over. And now that you're awake you're well on the road to recovery."

"Recovery? What happened?"

"You must have got lost. We thought you had already gone when they first brought you in."

"Gone? Where to?"

"You were not much different from a piece of frozen meat when the rescue team finally found you. They brought you here and your vital life signs were so extremely faint, we thought we'd lost you."

"Oh?"

The young woman still felt cold, nauseous and light-headed.

"Fancy going up there all on your own in such a storm." The nurse checked the recording tape beside the bed. "That was a silly thing to do."

"What was? I don't understand." The patient tried desperately to sit. She collapsed back on the pillows, exhausted. "Where was I?"

"In the snow. You'd climbed up the slopes of Jotenfjell."

"Jotenfjell?"

Nothing was making sense. The nurse straightened the crinkled top of the bedclothes. She made sure the thermal blankets remained well up around the neck of her patient.

"And the tall man?"

The nurse was puzzled. No-one had mentioned the possibility of another person having been on the mountain during the time of the sudden storm.

"No man was found. Are you sure there was someone else?"

"Yes. There was! He was going to kill me!

The young woman became distraught and it looked as if she was about to cry.

"Did he follow you?"

"He took me."

"And he wanted to kill you?"

"Yes."

"How did he want to kill you?"

"With his axe!"

The nurse shook her head. It was unbelievable what some people say when their bodies were still in shock.

"An axe? Why do you think he wanted to kill you?"

It was so complicated, the young woman did not know how to explain.

"He just did. And he was up there on the mountain."

The nurse decided it was better for her patient that she seemed to believe her. Any further upset may set her recovery back and that may prove to be fatal. After another day and when the young woman had taken liquids, then she could be questioned again. For now, the matter was closed.

The doctor visited again the following day. He was pleased his patient was picking up. Her colour had returned and she was more alert. He decided to investigate her mountain ordeal a little further.

"Nurse tells me you had a companion."

"I wouldn't call him that."

"Someone was with you?"

"Bodvarr. He took me up there. He was going to kill me."

"How?"

"With his battle axe."

"Battle axe? Are you sure?"

The doctor's voice showed surprise.

"Yes. With the axe. What else?"

"Not a gun?"

"It was an axe! I know. I was there!"

The doctor read through the notes again. He told her that there was no mention of another person and the Search-and-Rescue dogs never had the smell of any one else.

"Sometimes, when the mind suffers such a shock as yours has done, it plays tricks on us. Even terrifying ones like you appear to have suffered."

"I know it happened. It's true."

"Look never mind for now. There's been a very worried young man asking for you from the time you were brought in."

"Who?"

"A friend of yours." The patient immediately looked brighter. "Peter. Peter Norrich. Do you remember him?"

She had no recollection of Peter. She was confused. It was like still being in a nightmare. What friend did she have that she could not remember?

"Don't let it upset you," the nurse said. She placed a cool drink beside the bed. "Drink this. It'll make you feel better."

"Can't I have something that's hotter?"

"Not for another day. The heat may make you vomit."

The young woman sipped a little of the liquid and lay back again. Everything was like a nightmare. It was a bad dream that wouldn't get out of a loop. Strange pictures flicked in and out of her mind. Finally, one came to rest. She suddenly sat bolt upright.

"My bairn? Do you know if Heggar and my bairn are safe?"

She could suddenly remember leaving them behind in the hut.

"Barn? No barn's been built up there on the mountain."

"Bairn. My baby."

"Heggar's a baby?"

"No. She used to belong to Yalda's. The baby's mine."

The doctor consulted the notes again. There had not been any record of a baby although her examination had shown that she had given birth some time ago, possibly a teenage pregnancy.

"She's hallucinating again, doctor." Even though the nurse spoke very quietly, the patient could just make out what was being said. "She's very confused. She has no idea where she is or even what year this is. She's been like that since they brought her in."

"Yes, I think you're right. It happens with cases like this. The body's had such a tremendous shock with the cold, that while the patient's in a coma, their mind plays tricks. In a few weeks, things should improve and then she'll be better able to sort out fantasy from the truth. Just give her time."

"I did have a baby," she protested. "You don't understand!"

The doctor patted the bedclothes.

"You'll be better soon. In the meantime, your mind can play all sorts of tricks. It takes time for the body to heal." He shook his head and looked sorry for her. "Sorry, young lady. We can give you something to lessen your anxiety."

The young woman shook her head. She felt flattened. Maybe, what the Doctor said was true, after all. Maybe it had all been tricks of the mind. After all, they said she had been in a coma for some time.

The doctor was about to leave when he reached deeply into his white hospital coat pocket.

"By the way," he casually remarked. "You may as well have this back, now. When you were found unconscious in the snow, your hand was clutching this."

She took the object from him and stared at it in disbelief. In her hand she held the small, silver dragon brooch Halldorr had given her.

"Halldorr!"

The Doctor continued,

"You know, I can't for the life of me think how it came into your possession, Miss Wilkingson. It's of Viking origin. It's at least a thousand years old."

With those words, the doctor shook his head in disbelief and left the room. From that point in time, she began to remember.

* * * * *

GLOSSARY

hangi - food cooked in the ground

kaanga pirau - fermented corn

kai - food

ka pai - good

kete - woven bag

kina - sea egg

moko - logo, lizard

mokopuna - grandchild

Rangi and Papa \- sky and earth parents

pipi – a shellfish

taniwha – guardian of water areas

whakama – shame

whakapapa – family tree

