Читать книгу A Bone to Pick - Gina McMurchy-Barber - Страница 8

“Thanks for letting me go with you,” TB said to my mom as she backed the car out of the driveway.

“We’re delighted you could join us, Thorbert. It isn’t every day we get to take in a Viking exhibit with a real-life Viking.” It was awful watching TB’s face turning eight shades of red.

“Well, actually, Mrs. Henderson, I’m only Norse on my father’s side. I don’t know if any of my ancestors were actually Vikings.”

“Vikings, Norse … weren’t they all the same?” Mom asked as we sped down the highway toward the ferry that would take us to Vancouver Island.

“Actually, most Norse people were farmers, fishermen, or traders,” TB said. “However, sometimes they went on a Viking. A Viking was often a trading expedition, but, yes, there were times when they turned into raids that may have involved a few gory murders and plundering of villages. But in general the Norsemen probably were no worse than other warring tribes of that time.”

“Well, there you go, I’ve already learned something new, and we haven’t even gotten to the museum,” Mom said.

Going to the Royal British Columbia Museum in Victoria to see the Viking exhibit was Mom’s way of helping me to cheer up after she’d heard about Eddy’s phone call. At first I wasn’t all that interested in going. I am one of those people who would rather play the game than watch it. As far as I was concerned, going to see a bunch of ancient artifacts in glass cases wasn’t nearly as much fun as being the one to actually dig them up. When I mentioned the exhibit to TB, he nearly fell to the ground and begged me to ask my mom if he could go, too. His parents were always too busy to take him to stuff like that. And ever since he’d seen the ad on TV about the exhibit coming to town, he wanted to go. How could I refuse?

When we got to the museum, there was a huge lineup waiting to get in. I didn’t realize the Vikings fascinated so many people. TB was like a little kid, hopping around until we got inside. After that I hardly saw him, well, except when he came back every ten minutes so he could drag me off to see something he found exciting. “C’mon, Peggy, you’ve got to see this,” he demanded, not letting up until I followed him. While he was pretty annoying, I admit his excitement was infectious.

“Take a look at this sword,” TB said. It was only a replica of a real Viking sword, but the handle was decorated with beautiful engravings and there was a large red ruby embedded on both sides. “You’re allowed to pick it up, Peggy. Try it.”

I gripped the handle and lifted the sword. It was solid and heavy, and the blade reflected the light. I tried wielding it, but could tell that it would take a lot of strength and skill to control it.

“You could sure do a lot of damage with a thing like that,” TB said admiringly.

“Yup, it’s a real Slice-O-Matic … slices, dices, and chops up anything. Probably not so good for cutting bread,” I said.

“Yah, and it wouldn’t fit in the knife drawer very well,” Mom added when she came up from behind.

“True, Mom. So true.”

As I made my way around the exhibit, I learned stuff like it wasn’t just men who went on a Viking trip — sometimes women and teens could go, too. Then minutes after I’d read the plaque that said Vikings didn’t have horned helmets — some old composer named Richard Wagner got that started — TB tapped me on the shoulder.

“Hey, look at me,” he said, smiling proudly. He was wearing a Viking helmet — and, yup, it had horns.

“Obviously, you’ve been to the gift shop,” I said. “Maybe you should have read this sign before buying that.”

He looked down at the sign and shrugged. “That’s Hollywood for you! Hey, Peggy, I just heard a great joke. One time Thor decided to go down to Earth and introduce himself to a beautiful lady who was standing at a bus stop.” TB snickered. “He said to the lady in a deep, booming voice, ‘I’m Thor.’ The lady turned to him and said, ‘You’re thor? Oh, my god, my feet are so thor I can hardly wait to thit.’” TB buckled over with laughter as if it was the funniest thing ever. “What? Don’t you get it? The lady had a lisp — thor, sore, thit, sit? Oh, never mind — you’re a joke killer.”

After that TB slipped off to learn about Viking ships. I didn’t bother because he kept dashing back and forth to give me the rundown. “Their ships were flat so they could go up shallow rivers — kind of handy for raiding villages, right?” Then a few minutes later, “I just read they were the first to build ships that could sail the ocean and carry large cargo. Handy, right?”

For me the best part was the stuff on burials.

“Ew,” sneered TB as I peered into a glass case with the dried-up bones of some dead guy. “Figures you’d be interested in this stuff.”

“Get used to it, TB. Dead people are my thing.” The Vikings had two kinds of burials. Inhumation — that was pretty basic, really, burying the dead in the ground. And the other was cremation. Some Vikings believed if they cremated the dead person his soul was freed to begin life in the next realm.

“It says here sometimes they cremated important people in ships. How crazy is that? To burn a perfectly useful boat,” complained TB.

“That’s crazy, but not as bad as putting in fifty years to build a stone pyramid for some dead Egyptian king and his stuff,” I added.

On the ferry ride home we sat on the observation deck where we could see the sky all pink and orange and watch the seagulls ride the wind. When the sun sank below the horizon, TB got all focused on some Viking game he’d downloaded on his phone from the museum app store. After that he didn’t make a peep.

“Thanks, Mom,” I said contentedly. “That was a great day — better than I imagined.”

She beamed at me and passed me a gift bag. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, Peggy. This is just a little souvenir of our day together.”

I opened the bag and pulled out a beautiful book called Ancient Norse Sagas. “This is great. Thanks.”

I looked at my watch. It was just after nine. Newfoundland was four and a half hours ahead, which meant Eddy had arrived. She was probably tucked in bed by now and ready to start field school in the morning.

“Thinking about Eddy?” Mom asked.

I nodded.

“Well, never mind, sweetheart, there will be lots of wonderful adventures ahead for you, too.”

Maybe, but none would be as cool as going to the only site in North America that was an actual Viking outpost.

By the time my head hit the pillow that night, I was zonked to the nth degree. Aunt Margaret had agreed to let me sleep in the next morning after I promised I’d put in at least four hours of painting later in the afternoon. As tired as I was, I opened my book of Viking stories and sleepily leafed through the pages. There were “The King’s Sagas,” “The Hero Sagas,” “Sagas of the Viking Gods,” and “The Creation of the World Saga.” That seemed like a good place to start.

Long ago, out of the damp mist and darkness of Niflheim and the burning fire of Muspellheim, came great spires of hoarfrost, mountainous blocks of ice, and brilliant sparks that filled the valleys of Ginnungagap. Soon after there arose from this massive wonder the very first giant, Ymir, and Audumla, the cow. Ymir drank milk from Audumla’s udder, and it gave him great strength. At the same time Audumla, the cow, licked the blocks of salty ice for her nourishment. And as she licked and licked, out of the salty ice came Buri. He was the first of the gods. He was tall and handsome and in time became the father of all creatures. Through magic he had a son named Borr who married Bestla, a friendly and good giant. This couple gave birth to three sons, Odin, Vili, and Ve. But Odin was the strongest of the three and was more powerful than his father and brothers.

In time Ymir fathered more giants. They were evil beings and were more in number than the goodly gods. But they had not the power to prevail over them. Then one day the three young brothers knew they must hunt down and kill Ymir if there was ever to be peace. It was not such a difficult task for them, and from his remains they in turn created the world.

They transformed Ymir’s blood into oceans and fresh water, his flesh became the land, his bones turned into mountains, his teeth the rocks, and his hair became the grass and trees. They saved his eyelashes to make Midgard — Middle Earth — the place where humans would dwell. Then they threw Ymir’s head into the air, and his brain became the clouds and his skull the sky.

Next the three brothers grabbed some of the sparks shooting out from Muspellheim, the land of fire. They threw them up into the sky where they turned into twinkling stars. Afterward the brothers built Asgard, which became the sacred home of the gods.

I was way too sleepy to read more and closed the book. I hoped the image of brains exploding into stars didn’t turn into a nightmare. Just as I was drifting off to sleep, somewhere far away in the land of the awake, I heard my mom’s phone ring. It was unusual for someone to call so late, but I didn’t have the strength or interest to give it much thought. I simply let my head melt into the pillow, and I slipped off to what I thought was going to be a good long sleep.

The house is lit by the glow of the fire. Everyone sits around as Thorfinn readies for the telling of the evening story. The men sharpen their knives and polish swords. The boys practise their carving and the girls their sewing and weaving. The mothers tend to the babies or clean up from the evening meal.

“Someone remind me — where did I leave off?” Thorfinn asks.

“Last night you told the story about the creation of the gods and Asgard,” Sigrid says.

“Ah, that’s right. You were paying attention.” Thorfinn smiles at his young charge. He is a big man, red-bearded, and is inclined to be of good temper. His young charge loves him as a father. And though she has heard the story of creation many times in her life, each time is as good as the first.

“I always pay attention when you’re telling the stories, Uncle. I listen better than anyone else.”

Thorfinn laughs deeply at the girl’s declaration. What he does not know is that she is memorizing the stories so that one day she can be their keeper and tell them to the others.

Ever since she was very little, even before her parents perished in the house fire, Sigrid loved listening to the stories the elders tell at the end of the day when the clan comes together for supper. Some stories are of the gods and goddesses. Other stories are of great explorers, like Erik the Red and his son, Lucky Leif, the first to come to Vinland, the cold and windy settlement they now occupy. But Sigrid enjoys most the stories with shield maidens, those brave and clever women who preferred to take up the sword and fight in battle than live out their lives cooking and cleaning and raising children. When she is old enough, she, too, will be a shield maiden — if her guardians let her.

“All right, then let us continue. When the gods were finished creating Asgard, they took time to rest and enjoy their work. But there was a giant, Hrimthurs, who wagered the gods that he could build a wall around Asgard in one winter. If he succeeded, then they must give him the sun and the moon, and the lovely Frigga for a wife. Now Loki, adopted son of Odin, had little faith in Hrimthurs, so he convinced Odin, Thor, and the other gods to accept the wager. Upon this agreement the giant began his work with the help of his giant horse, Svadilfari.”

As Thorfinn recites the well-worn story, Sigrid sits on the edge of her seat, biting her nails. She sees in her imagination the giant, an ugly brute who thinks he can outsmart the gods and take for himself the beautiful Frigga. He must be mad, she thinks. He deserves the gory mess he will soon be in for daring to outwit Odin and the others.

“Sigrid, please take Snorri and tuck him into bed,” asks Gudrid. “He’s very tired tonight.”

“Now? We’re in the middle of a story. He can wait till later,” Sigrid snaps back. Just then the toddler lets out an ear-splitting wail that commands attention.

“I go sleep now,” he cries.

“Sigrid, do as you were told,” Thorfinn commands.

The girl huffs and grabs the little fellow by the hand. “Come on,” she says as she yanks him from his mother’s lap. “Brat,” she says when they are out of earshot. As Sigrid tucks the toddler under the fur blanket, his eyes are already closed and his thumb is in his mouth. “Why do I always get stuck with you? I’m not your mother. And for that matter I’ll never be anyone’s mother. I’m going to be a shield maiden.”

Sigrid knows if anyone heard her say such a thing — anyone except Snorri — they would laugh at her. No woman in her clan has ever become a warrior, let alone an orphan girl like her. But at the core of her being she knows she has the heart of a warrior, like Thor, and that is more important than anything.

The girl lays her head down beside her cousin and whispers in his ear, “One day, Snorri, you’ll see. I will march into battle and strike down the enemy as fiercely as if I were Odin, the Allfather himself. They will call me Sigrid the Brave. You’ll see …” With images of fighting giants and dwarfs single-handed, she slips off to sleep.