Andrew Davidson - The Gargoyle

“The problem is you,” she said. “And your trips, when I’m with child.”

A smile spread across Einarr’s face.

“Stop that! I’m not supposed to be pregnant again,” she lamented. “I’m old.”

“But not too old,” said Einarr. “Apparently.”

On the night before the men were to leave, Svanhildr served them smoked pork and her latest ale but barely spoke. The following morning, she did not accompany Einarr to the shore. She just slapped him once across the mouth at their front door to say goodbye.

The raids went as they always did. The reputation of the Vikings was almost enough to win any fight before a sword was lifted and by the time they approached their final target, their ship was loaded heavily. Perhaps they had grown complacent, because they were less prepared than usual. The English village had been attacked many times without difficulty, but recently the townspeople had learned some methods to defend themselves in an attempt to restore their pride. They didn’t expect to defeat the Vikings, but they desperately wanted to take a few of the intruders down.

As the Vikings poured out of their boat and across the sand, there came an unexpected exclamation of arrows across the sky. Sigurðr had a good eye; he spotted one arrow that posed a particular threat. He readied himself to move out of its path but then realized that if he did so, the arrow would hit the man behind him.

Einarr.

And so he did not move.

The arrow cut through the pelts across Sigurðr’s chest and he fell to the ground with a sharp yell, his fingers wrapped around the shaft.

After their initial surprise, the Vikings quickly regained control and the village fell to the attackers, as it always did. But the battle no longer involved Einarr Einarsson or Sigurðr Sigurрsson, who were back on the shore. The arrow was lodged deep in Sigurðr’s chest, embedded past the barb, and could not be pulled out without ripping the wound open.

Sigurðr knew this. He was afraid but gathered his courage even as he felt his eyes glazing over like ice forming on idle oars. “Einarr?”

“Yes.”

“I am dying.”

“You are not.”

“Remember me.”

“How could I forget a man,” Einarr replied, “so stupid that he believes he’s dying from a flesh wound?”

“Einarr?”

“What?”

“There is something I need to tell you.”

“You’re talkative for a dying man.”

“No,” Sigurðr insisted. “Ég elska—"

Einarr cut him off. “All this prattling makes you sound like a woman. Save your strength.”

The look on Einarr’s face let Sigurðr know that the discussion was finished, so he closed his eyes and let his friend carry him back onto the longboat. There Einarr cut away the flesh around the arrow’s shaft, and Sigurðr howled in agony with each slice. When the trench had been dug wide enough, Einarr used tongs to pull out the arrowhead and then held it up so Sigurðr, barely conscious, could see the meaty fibers that clung to it.

“Svan must have fed you well,” Einarr said. “There is fat near your heart.”

Through the return trip, Einarr washed the bandages and checked Sigurðr’s wound for infection but it seemed to be, if not healing, at least not getting worse. Almost before Sigurðr knew it, he awoke to the sight of Svanhildr holding out a bowl of leek and onion soup.

“The warmth will be good for you,” she said.

“I can leave. It is not wise for a sick man to be in the home of a pregnant woman.”

She seemed amused. “You are family, and we will hear of no such thing.”

“But the baby…”

“Drink up. If I can smell the onions through your wounds, I’ll know your insides have been damaged.”

Over the following days Einarr and Bragi prayed to the goddess of healing, and Svanhildr continued to tend Sigurðr’s wounds. The local healer blessed a number of whalebone runes in exchange for one of Einarr’s best chests, and scattered them around the bench on which Sigurðr slept.

It seemed to work; Sigurðr’s wound remained onion free. The first thing he did, when it was obvious he would live, was head into the workshop to bore a hole through one of the healing runes. This, he handed over to Svanhildr.

“I would be honored,” he said, “if you added this to your treasure necklace. You don’t have to, but-”

She cut his sentence short by throwing her arms around him, and nodding vigorously.

The recovery was not easy. Sigurðr had difficulty lifting his arms and occasionally there were shooting pains when he least expected them, but he soon grew tired of being looked after. He joined Einarr on his latest project, a boat intended to take Bragi into the coves for fishing. He was determined to paint every inch of it; such decoration was not necessary, by any means, but it felt good to have a brush in his hand again. The job dragged on for far too long, but Einarr never once complained about his friend’s slowness.

Svanhildr’s pregnancy progressed without difficulty, despite her advanced years for such an adventure. When she went into labor, young Bragi ran to fetch the midwife while the men stayed behind to comfort her. Another boy, healthy and beautiful and named Friрleifr, soon joined the family.

When it appeared certain that the child would survive, the men decided to drink to their good fortune. Even Bragi was allowed to stay up late and down a number of frost-cups filled with strong ale; since he now had a younger brother to watch over, his father contended that it was time for him to start drinking like a man.

The room was aglow from the longfire and the blubber lamps, and Einarr laughed as his boy-now, he noted proudly, his older boy-stumbled to his sleeping bench on wobbly legs. “No, not quite a man yet,” he teased, while Sigurðr called out that the ale would put hair on Bragi’s chest. Or, at least, hair on his tongue the following morning.

Within minutes the boy was snoring and Einarr, satisfied that his wife and new baby were also safely asleep, retreated to his workshop. He returned with a small bag that he tossed to Sigurðr; inside were a number of dried mushrooms. “Now we should truly celebrate. The gods smile upon us.”

Each man ate a couple of the berserkjasveppur -Sigurðr didn’t like the texture, but was never one to refuse his friend-before Einarr dumped the remainder into the ale bowl on the longfire. “We will boil the rest. It doesn’t taste good, but the effect…”

As they sipped late into the night, Einarr tried to describe the beauty of the free-flowing lines that floated all around him, and Sigurðr found himself laughing at Einarr’s every attempt. A few times Svanhildr lifted her head confusedly at one of Sigurðr’s exclamations, but settled back into sleep without a word. The men drank until the mushroom bowl was empty, and then ate the soggy remains at its bottom.

“It was good when you gave Svan the rune for her necklace,” Einarr said with a slur. “I wish I’d thought of it.”

“She looked after me,” said Sigurðr. “As did you.”

“It was time for her to have something of you around her neck.”

“I love,” said Sigurðr, “her.”

“I know.”

“Bragi,” added Sigurðr. “Bragi, I love, too.”

“I have something for you.” Einarr once again retreated to his workshop, and this time he returned with the arrowhead that had entered Sigurðr’s body. He sat down heavily, closer to Sigurðr than before. “Give me your necklace.”

“I didn’t know…” Sigurðr murmured. “I didn’t think you’d ever noticed it.”

“I knew of it from the first, but was reminded when I cut this”-he held up the arrowhead-“from your chest.”