Viking Soul

The decking creaked as the crew readied the longship for landing. They hauled on the hemp ropes and adjusted the striped sail to reduce speed. Two men went forward and took down the dragon head. They were coming home, and did not want to scare the land spirits of their own country.

One of these men was Erik. He was the navigator, and his skills were not required in these waters. All aboard knew the shape of the mountains before them. Erik's home was always their first landing in Norway, as the Fedrasil made its way to its home port in the village another three hours' sail along the coast.

A beardless boy of perhaps fifteen came up to help with the heavy carved wood, but Erik waved him back. "You're still a midshipman, lad. Leaning over the prow like this is dangerous work. Stay amidships where it's safe."

The teenager grumbled loudly, but retreated to his duty of keeping the cargo secure. It was not really a boring task, since the cargo included two live goats and a captive woman.

As Erik stowed the dragon head, he reflected on just why they kept the inexperienced sailors away from bow and stern. Even in summer, even without wearing armor, anyone who fell into the North Sea was destined for the realm of Ran, goddess of shipwrecks. It was for her that all the Vikings wore a ring of gold or silver in one ear. One needed something precious to offer to Ran, to gain admittance to her queendom. Sacks of coins could come loose, arm-rings and pendants could fall off, amber would float away, but a closed loop that pierced one's flesh would stay with a pirate to the end.

On the shore, a pair of naked children looked up from their play and spotted the square sail on the horizon. They ran to the longhouse, and burst in shrieking, "A ship! A ship!"

"What ship, children?" Svanna asked, hand automatically going to the hilt at her side. It was not her sword, though that was handy, but only a practical knife. "Is it the Fedrasil?"

"It looks like it!"

Svanna grinned and rushed out to the cliff in front of the great hall. "It is! I know that sail! Erik is coming home! Run now, sons, and fetch water for the cauldron. Tell your sister to kill a chicken."

Other women would strew fresh rushes when their men returned, but Svana was too practical for such gestures; she knew Erik would track foreign dirt into the house, and Svana would sweep and cut rushes after he got clean. Still, there were preparations to be made.

It was a long wait before the Fedrasil turned into the tiny harbor. Svanna bounced on her heels like a young maiden anticipating Erik's usual greeting, a crushing hug for his wife. It had been so long since she had felt his powerful warrior's arms around her.

The wooden ship was a lithe design, able to sail up fjords, and turn like a dancer with its oars, but in this cove it came about in a leisurely way and drew up to the cliff as if to a dock, as it had so many times before. Erik threw down his sea-bag and grinned at Svanna as he clambered over the side. But he did not rush to her and fold her in his strong embrace, because his hands were full of another woman.

Svanna stared in shock as Erik hauled a slender maid to land. Her hands were tied, and she was not struggling, but Erik held her as if she might escape if he turned his back for a moment, now that she was on land.

"I brought us a slave," Erik called happily to Svanna. "Boys, daddy's home! Be good lads and grab that bag for me. I've a few presents in it for you!"

The captive's strawberry blonde hair had been hacked off unevenly, clearly without her cooperation. This was no thrall, then, but a freeborn woman. A genuine slave would have already had short hair, that shameful mark of a status without honor, wherein one's word meant nothing; a thrall could not enter into oaths, not even a marriage oath, nor testify before the Thing, and could be slain by her owner with impunity. Though the Romans would cut their own hair and beards, any of the peoples of the North—and surely the Celts were as heathen as the fjord-born—would fight tooth and claw against the honor-stealing cutting of the hair. This woman was going to be trouble.

Erik marched his prisoner to the longhouse. Once inside, he only let go to hit her, again and again, as she sank to the ground where she was put, cringing and raising her bound arms to protect her head. She did not make a sound.

Svanna stared, at first in shock, then in pity; she perceived that the young woman had spent her tears and screams already, on the long voyage from Eire to Norway. As Erik's hands continued to fall on the slim foreigner's back, her sympathy mixed with jealousy. Erik was paying attention to this slave, but not to Svanna! 'I wish I was her,' Svanna thought. Then she thrust the thought away, telling herself, 'No, I don't, I just want Erik all to myself, and that's perfectly natural. I'm his wife!' But she knew she was lying to herself. She still felt pity, yes, and jealousy, but also an awakened desire.

She had seen Erik strike people in a rage, and that had always both frightened and disgusted her. But he was beating the Irish slave calmly and thoughtfully, and Svanna was excited by it. She wanted to be that young, attractive woman under Erik's hands.

But she knew the other woman was terrified. She knew, too, that it could be her, being beaten like that, if she lost a battle just once. But then it would not be her beloved Erik doing it, but some untrustworthy stranger. As Erik was to the Irishwoman. A roil of emotions seethed with Svanna, and she did not understand what she felt.

When Erik was done beating the young woman, Svanna went to her and cut her bonds. The woman looked up in sudden hope. Svanna noticed that the slave had blood on her clothes. She led the other woman to the bath, the hot bath Svanna had made ready for Erik, but Erik was busy giving gifts of loot to his sons and daughter. Svanna would draw another bath for him later.

Svanna gestured for the young woman to get into the tub, but the foreigner blinked at her, uncomprehending. Svanna tried to talk to her, but it was clear the captive did not speak a word of Norse. Svanna wondered what Erik was doing with her the whole time she was on the ship.

"Svanna," Svanna indicated herself. Then she gestured at the foreigner. She said nothing. The tall Norsewoman tried again. "Svanna," pointing, then pointed at the woman of Eire.

This time she responded, whispering, "Cyrridben."

"Cyrridben. Svanna, Cyrridben, bath. Bath." Svanna pointed. She made scrubbing motions. It was clear the foreigner did not understand, or perhaps she was shy. Svanna had heard that in other countries, people lived in separate rooms and when they bathed, they even had separate rooms for that. Svanna decided she had better just show her how it was done, and unpinned her apron from her shoulders. She loosed her belt and let it fall, and the doeskin shoes, and finally the under-dress. She climbed into the tub and washed quickly, then climbed out and gestured again. "Cyrridben. Bath."

This time the foreigner got into the tub and washed. Svanna noticed how beautiful she was, if a little too thin. She was perhaps twenty, perhaps a little younger, and had small, perky breasts. There were no wounds on her, so the blood on her clothing must belong to someone else. Svanna waited to dry herself off until after she washed Cyrridben's bloody clothes, after Cyrridben got out. Then she got them both dry and wrapped up in old cloaks.

She settled Cyrridben in a corner of the great hall, on a bearskin, out of the way. The foreign woman curled up and stared blankly at the wall. Svanna watched her for a few moments, long enough to see that Cyrridben's gaze was unblinking. There was something wrong behind her eyes. That was hardly surprising, Svanna thought. Whose had that blood been? Parents? Husband? Children?

Svanna went to the table, served the meal, and sat down by Erik. She let him eat in peace, after his long voyage, but when he was finished, she asked him, "Why were you beating Cyrridben just now?"

"Who?"

Svanna gestured. "That's her name. Why? She wasn't trying to escape."

"New slaves have to be broken."

"Erik, if she gets any more broken, she'll be dead. She's acting like Aunt Gerta did after her baby was stillborn."

"She'll adapt. They all do, in time. I brought her here to help you with the house."

"To help me? A real slave who could understand my orders and wasn't too traumatized to stand up would be of use to me. Cyrridben is a burden. I can't believe you looked at her in Eire and thought what a great floor-scrubber she'd make. Don't think I haven't noticed her beauty."

"Svanna, she's a child."

"What makes you think that?"

"Well, she's short."

"Aren't all foreigners short?"

"Not all. Why? Do you think she isn't? A child, I mean."

"She's no child. I managed to get her to take a bath. You're next, by the way. Tyr's Hand, but you stink, Erik. Anyway, at least I know now that you didn't rape her, too."

"By the gods, Svanna, how could you think that of me?"

"I sailed in my youth, remember. I was a shieldmaiden once. I know what goes on in a raid. How I wish I could sail still, and go with you when you go a-viking!"

"I know well how great a shieldmaiden you were, my beloved. I've never believed in that silly rumor that it's bad luck to take a woman aboard. Though some of the crew do, and they gave me guff for snatching Cyrridben instead of a sensible pig or set of candlesticks. You could sail with me anytime, if I didn't need you here to defend the landholdings."

"I know. I know, Erik dear. Let me draw you a bath." She had not had to do any defending while Erik was away this time out, but she had in past seasons. Again she imagined herself taken like Cyrridben, bound and beaten, dropped down into some alien household somewhere across the sea. All her life, she had been raised to be the perfect housewife, sword-born defender of her house and lands. The keys she wore pinned to her apron at the shoulder were the symbol of her ownership of this valley and cove and everything within it. When Danes or Swedes came a-viking to Norway, she was in charge of marshalling the defense of this harbor. To win, or to fall in the front of the battle, to go thence to Valhalla, or if she were chosen among the first half, to Folkvangr, and the halls of Freya. Svanna had worshipped the Free Lady all her life, and she would die before she became a slave. It was dishonorable to even consider such a life, and yet, and yet... imagining herself in Cyrridben's place beneath the blows of Erik's hands made her wet.

Svanna rose from the table and turned for the firepit at the center of the great hall, walking slowly. She hoped Erik would grab her and give her that powerful hug of his, but he didn't. She wanted him to take her right there, standing up, enter her and slap her behind in rhythm to his pounding. She sighed as she went to the giant kettle and got a bucket of hot water for Erik's bath. It wasn't Bath Day—it was only Thorsday, and Bath Day was two days away yet—but she made an exception for returning sailors who still smelled of blood and the smoke of burning villages.

Svanna poured the hot water into the tub, then added cold water, standing ready in the bucket from the well outside. It was too cool, now. She went back for another bucket of the hot, to get the water just the right temperature. Erik had already set aside his cloak and boots and weaponry, and was now peeling out of his wool tunic and trousers. Such a fine, well-muscled body he had. Svanna admired him like an artwork, not despite the scars but in appreciation of them, because they were his.

Svanna poured in the steaming water and Erik settled into the wooden tub with a sigh. He began lathering with soapwort, and Svanna took up another piece and washed his wheaten hair. Gods, he was handsome. Not the king of the elves himself could be more beautiful to her. "I love you, Erik."

"I love you too, Svanna, my darling wife."

When at last he was clean and dry, and wrapped in an old cloak, and nothing else, and had eaten and dried his hair by the fire, Svanna led Erik to their sleeping niche along the wall. She burrowed into the furs and pulled him down on top of her. He rested his head on her ample bosom and fell instantly asleep.

Svanna sighed. Perhaps tomorrow he would make love to her. If he wasn't too busy with Cyrridben.

The smell of the sea is unique, primal, composed of water and salt and life, spiced with traces of dissolved gold and a million rotting things. It permeated the darkness of the bunker beneath the hill, just as it had filled the air of Svanna's cove long ago.

A voice echoed in the pitch black: "Dawn waits for no man!"

Susan rose from her squeaky cot. What an intense dream that had been! She was sure she had connected with a real person, and real events of long ago. Perhaps she would dream of them again tonight.

With a hundred other people, Susan hiked down the treacherous wooden stair to the beach. They gathered in a circle in the first pale, foggy light of predawn, as the waves crashed on the black rocks. They sang Jack in the Green, welcoming in the spring on this day of Ostara.

As the white sun came over the Marin headlands and burned through the mist, the colors on the clothes of the assembled heathens sprang into reality. Some wore jeans and zippered jackets and wool watchcaps, and others had on traditional garb that would not have looked out of place in Svanna's house. On the beach was a miniature Viking longship, about the size of a person. Into it, each person placed a nickel as a sacrifice to Ran. No other coin would do, because nickels were pure, and other coins were not. A woman went around the circle with a basket of colored eggs, sacred to Ostara, the Dawn Goddess, whose festival this was.

A middle aged woman in blue traditional garb trimmed at the hems with gold ribbon ceremoniously lit the ship on fire. Four men stripped naked and swam with the boat out into the surf. They pushed it past the wave at the entrance to the little bay and out into the open sea. This was not the deadly cold ocean of the ancestral lands of the heathens, but the Pacific just north of San Francisco was cold enough for the ladies to admire their courage.

Then the Asatruars—those true to the dwellers in Asgard—tossed their colored eggs into the surf. The four men swam back and dried off as the assembled heathens watched the ship sail into the horizon. Then it went under, and at almost the same moment, the tide returned the tiny shields that had been on its sides.

At first Susan held her breath, wondering what this meant. Then Prudence, the woman in blue, proclaimed, "Gifts back from Ran!" As one, though it had not been a planned part of the ritual, the heathens bounded into the foam to pick up the little shields. Each person examined the heraldic devices painted on them for some sign of significance. Susan's was easy to interpret: it was a heart, symbol of Freya, the goddess of love and war.

Susan spotted Cindy, bundled up in a denim cloak closed with antler buttons, an item from one of the vendors. After the enforced single-file of the stair, Susan fell into step beside the red haired woman.

"Wow, Cindy, that past life dreaming exercise really worked. You should lead a workshop next year."

"Oh? What did you dream?"

Susan related her dream of Svanna. "Poor Svanna. She wants to ask Erik for a consensual adult spanking, but apparently there is no such thing in the ancient world."

"You sound like you've heard the term before."

"I've always had a secret yen to try it. But I guess I have the same problem as Svanna. Whenever I go looking for someone to do sense-play with, I always end up only finding people who want me to be a slave. And like Svanna, I'd die first. I'm a priestess of Freya. There are very few kinky sex acts she wouldn't approve of, as long as the participants are willing. But, well, you're an Asatruar too, you know what a slave collar means to us."

"Indeed I do. But perhaps that isn't the only option. My advice is to continue to explore your past life as Svanna in the dream state, and see what happens."

One of Susan's friends joined them on the walk back from the beach, "Speaking of sex. Vlad's here."

"Vlad's always here," Susan smiled. Vlad was not precisely the stereotypical tall dark and handsome—he was barely taller than most of the ladies, but two out of three wasn't bad. "Who's he out to charm the pants off today?"

"That new lady, the one who calls herself Luna Thorsdottir."

Susan snorted. "That's a bit of an ethnic mismatch." Lots of people took 'religious names', in heathenry and in the wider circle of pagans. Among Wiccans and other neopagans no one would bat an eyelash at the name Luna, but heathens were often persnickety about philology.

"You know what she told me? She said she wasn't going to go off with Vlad tonight because she was married, and she thought that would be cheating."

"Vlad's not cheating. Vlad's part of your vacation."

"He has some competition now, I hear. Have you heard about the new fellow, Eric?"

Susan nearly tripped, hearing that name. "What do they say about him?"

"Well, he's not as smooth a seducer as Vlad. And Vlad's title as the male Lesbian is safe. But he'll indulge any wild fantasy."

"Oh? Point him out to me."

They reached the barbecue area outside the bunker, where bacon was frying for breakfast. Muffins were laid out on the picnic tables. Various heathens in a mix of garb and modern dress were circling around with paper plates, and among them, one black man, Snorri, the adopted son of an Asatru couple. There were also a couple of Natives in their regalia. Susan did not know their story.

"There he is," Cindy pointed. The fellow was thin and blonde, and wearing more of a Renaissance Faire costume than true heathen garb, though he got points for trying; and Susan had to admit the green velvet looked very touchable.

Then he lifted his eyes and met her gaze, and Susan caught her breath. Eric was Erik! She was sure of it. She saw the Sea in his eyes. The wailing gulls could be real, but the sudden sound of a creaking wooden mast and the pop of a sail catching the wind could only have come from the spirit world.

"Cindy!" she gasped. "It's him!"

"Go say hi."

"What do I say? You're the man of my dreams? He'd think I'm drunk or something."

"Just start with hi."

Susan sat down next to him, and said hello. He was sipping a cup of coffee, and was clearly not in seduction mode yet. They made small talk as the man with the bells on walked by. In the cool of the morning, some of the heathens, including Snorri, started sparring with shenai, bamboo swords. A fully garbed lady in ankle length dress and Viking style apron set down her knitting and joined in.

That night, Susan dreamed of Svanna.

"It's been a week since you got home, Erik," Svanna said while they walked on the beach, away from the others. "Don't you think it's time you started paying attention to me instead of Cyrridben?"

"Sorry." He shrugged. "Nobody ever said training a new slave would be easy. But once it's done, things will be better. You'll have more time for weaving. Hilde is a great spinster, and I'm really happy we added your sister to the household after she was widowed, but it was you who said that getting a slave to take care of the routine chores would help you increase production to the point we might be able to start trading some of the cloth. I could go out on a trading ship instead of going a-viking. I'm not as young as I used to be. Not that I don't enjoy the fighting, but I know I'm slowing down. You felt that way yourself ten years ago, and you're no older than me."

Svanna nodded thoughtfully. "But it's the way of women to give up the life of a shieldmaiden while we're still young enough to bear children. And I meant buy a slave. You could have pirated something valuable enough to trade for one."