High in the hills above Folkhölm, a young man stilled his restless spirit and waited for the dawn. Tall and lean, like his mother’s people, he had clear blue eyes and a straight fall of pale hair that he wore in a long plait down his back.

When the sun crested the eastern arm of the great bay, barely an eykt, or eighth-day, after its last appearance, he knelt and poured his libation on the offering stone. “Father Odin, give me strength today. Help me to see my right path . . . .”

His earnest appeal faltered. Even here, far from any human ears, he had difficulty saying the words. Bowing his head, he whispered, “They call you Fjolnir – the one who is many. But The People say I must be one. That I must jump the flame and become a man.”

The fire rose in his memory and he shivered, but he put that thought aside. “I have trained for this. My friends, too, and I am as ready as they are. But my spirit rebels!”

For two-thirds of an eykt, as he climbed the steep and rocky way, he had considered his petition. But even now, as he knelt at the god’s offering stone, he didn’t know what he wanted to ask. As always, his heart stood divided against itself, so he cried out, “Tell me, Father Odin! Tell me what I should do!”

But though he waited, he heard no reply to his plea. Nothing but the sigh of a light morning breeze and the distant call of seabird. Silence reigned in the high holy place.

The descent took half the time. He reached the homestead where he lived almost a full eykt before the sun’s course would cross the distant hill that marked the Rise Measure for the settlement at Folkhölm. All was still quiet and at peace, though he knew his foster father Gunnar would be up soon.

He slipped towards the outbuilding where the animals slept, hoping to rest for what little time he could. But when he opened the stout bar, he found Thyra waiting for him.

She searched his face for a brief moment and shook her head. “You found no answers then, Leif?”

Despite his troubled heart, Leif could not help but smile. Thyra had always been a serious girl; suddenly – seemingly overnight – she was a grave and beautiful young woman with hair the color of ripe wheat, and green-blue eyes like the sea on a calm day.

Yet she deserved an answer, for she knew both his heart and his quest. “None, dearest. I still don’t know what to do.”

“Well,” she said practically, “it’s the longest day of the year, so you have time. Sleep may bring answers, but even if it doesn’t, you still need it. I’ll get the sheep out.”

“Bless you, Thyra,” he said with feeling.

She touched his shoulder lightly. “Sleep, my friend. My sister.”

~o~O~o~

A peculiarity of place and happenstance of time made Midsummer central to the life of Folkhölm, for on that day the sun set at exactly the midpoint of the great bay. That oddity would not last forever, of course, but change would only come in geological time, as the tectonic plates carrying Eurasia and North America pulled apart.

So on that day The People gathered to sing, to drink, and to tell tales of bold heroes, canny gods and fickle goddesses. The men sparred and engaged in tests of strength and skill — training for life in a harsh world.

The young women danced in their own circles, laughing and casting glances at the young men. Boys they had known forever, from the days when they ran around the settlement together, an undifferentiated mass of shrieks and laughter and motion.

But now, those same boys stood poised on the brink of manhood. Ready – maybe this year, or maybe next – to put their once-smooth hands to the great oars, taking the longships out on the vast, gray ocean, the mysterious realm of Njord. To bring back the fish that kept The People alive, or to viking, as time and chance allowed.

Sensing the eyes of the young women on them, the young men behaved as young men do. Their preening and boasting caused old women to chuckle, remembering the babes they had been, not so long ago.

Early contests favored the seasoned warriors with years at the oars and in the shieldwall. Lifting the weight stones, and mock battles with blunted swords and axes. The young men did better at spear throwing, where balance and skill were as important as pure strength.

Ragnar Olafson gave a joyous shout when his third throw went further and straighter than ever before – a personal best, and better than several veterans who had preceded him. He cast a furtive look to the side, hoping that Thyra Gunnarsdatter might have noticed.

But he cursed as Leif, blessed with perfect balance and timing, easily surpassed his own throw, seemingly without effort. Ragnar was mismatched in comparison — powerful arms and shoulders paired with short legs still showing the thinness of youth. “Can’t you – just once – be bad at something?”

Long accustomed to concealing his inner turmoil, Leif smiled easily and served Ragnar with a clout across the shoulder blades. “Cheer up. Everyone only cares about the wrestling, and there’s no way I’m winning that!”

“Like I am either,” Ragnar muttered. His short stature would provide advantages in Folkhölm’s favorite sport, but only once his legs acquired more muscle. He hoped, suddenly, that Thyra found something else to watch.

The wrestling began at mid-morning, and as he expected, Ragnar did not last long. Indeed, of the striplings, only Leif and big Ivar went the distance with the older men. But luck of the draw compelled them to square off against each other before the final rounds.

Leif feinted and weaved and danced away, playing for time, knowing that he could not match Ivar in size or sheer power. But for all his speed and dexterity, Leif could not avert a grab and throw that knocked his wind out.

“Sooner or later, you have to come within reach.” Ivar chuckled. “And when you do, I’ve got you!”

Leif gave a rueful laugh, but took Ivar’s hand and allowed his friend to heave him back to his feet. Waving off Ragnar’s good-natured ribbing, he staggered off, looking for something that might clear his spinning head. Though he wanted to watch Ivar’s next bout, crafty Björn and the thick-hewed Ulfur would wrestle first, and he had seen their matches countless times.

Thyra and his sister Frida caught up with him as he broke out of the circle around the wrestlers. “Idiot,” Frida said fondly. “How many times has Ivar used that same move on you?”

“He’s quicker than he looks.” He smiled to show he was not upset. “Honestly, I don’t mind missing the privilege of having either Ulfur or Björn nail me to a rock again!”

Thyra held out an earthenware vessel. “There’s ale if you want it, but I thought you’d prefer water from the spring just now.”

“Bless you!” Leif drank deeply, the cool water soothing his dusty throat.

“Come and sit in the shade for a moment,” Thyra invited.

The three made their way to a grassy area beneath a stand of trees and settled on the ground.

Thyra gave Leif a look that was direct, but compassionate. “Have you chosen? Will you jump?”

Leif turned his eyes toward the beach, where even from a distance he could see the stacked wood for the bonfire. “I know It’s time. Everyone expects it. And the rest will all jump – Ivar, Anders, Einer. Even Ragnar, no matter how much he hates heights.”

Thyra shivered. “Hilda’s brother’s arm was never the same. Are you sure Ragnar will try?”

“He’ll try.”

Frida put a hand over his. “And you, who rightly fear the flames?”

“It’s been five years.” He couldn’t say the words, and didn’t need to. Five years since the fire. “I can’t let it stop me forever.”

Thyra gave him a look. “So you have decided.”

He shrugged. “I do what I must.”

Frida bit her lip and swallowed what she longed to say, not wanting her own fear to hold her brother back.

Leif saw in her troubled eyes an echo of his own memories. “Please, dearest. You know I would do anything to keep from hurting you. But I have to do this. Please . . . please, try to understand.”

She bowed her head, knowing that what he said was right. To be acknowledged as a man among The People, he would have to take the fearsome leap over — through — the Midsummer bonfire. It didn’t have to be this year. But if he delayed, if he put it off, people would judge him for it. Physically, there was no question that he was ready.

Thyra put an arm around her friend’s shoulders. “He will come to no harm, Frida. He is unmatched in any games of speed and skill.”

Leif gave Thyra a grateful glance over his sister’s bowed head.

“I know,” Frida replied, trying to keep the terror from her voice. She reached down absently to rub her foot. “I know. But I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t. Aren’t you afraid?”

“Yes.” Leif would not bluster with Frida, or with Thyra. With the boys, of course, it was different.

“Can you forgive me, if I’m not there?” Frida whispered. “I don’t think I can watch.”

Leif wrapped an arm around her, crossing Thrya’s coming from her other side. “There is nothing to forgive. Believe me, I couldn’t watch if it was you!”

Frida wept softly, and her brother and friend held her in silence, knowing there was no other comfort they could give.

A shout came from the circle of people around the wrestlers, and Leif got to his feet. “Sounds like it’s time to see Ivar’s next match.” He extended a hand to each, bringing them both to their feet. “Come on. The bonfire won’t be until day’s end. Let’s enjoy the festival.”

Fortunately for Ivar, muscle had triumphed over craft in the match between the veterans Ulfur and Björn. Though he seemed awkward and almost reedy just a year before, Ivar had filled out considerably. Young, eager, and relatively fresh, his strength that day proved to be enough, even against the mighty Ulfur.

When Ivar succeeded in pinning the warrior’s shoulder blades to the sandy beach and keeping him down, the crowd roared and all his friends cried out their approval and surprise. It had been years since anyone other than Ulfur or Björn won the right to stand in the sacred circle for the final round.

It was a round neither had ever won. For the champion of Folkhölm, year after year, was Halfdan Hakon the shipmaster, strong, fierce, and battle-wise.

Halfdan stood ready, chest and feet bare, grizzled black hair free in the morning breeze and a wolf’s lazy smile on his face. The men joked that Ivar would not live to see the feast unless Odin and Thor intervened, but Leif, Ragnar and the other young men pounded his back and pumped him up.

He needed little encouragement, pausing only long enough to drink a half skin of ale before leaping into Halfdan's circle. The spectators didn’t even have time to place bets on the match, though in truth none would wager against the fearsome shipmaster.

The gods smiled on Ivar as the two men grappled and heaved across the sands in an epic battle. No-one had lasted so long against the undisputed champion. But suddenly Ivar stood behind Halfdan, pinning his arms, fingers of each hand slowly groping towards each other to link up behind the shipmaster’s powerful neck.

The crowd fell silent, watching as Halfdan strained against Ivar’s tightening grapple, fighting to keep the young man’s fingers from joining. But inch by inch, Ivar’s hold grew more secure. His long fingers touched. Then the thick index fingers.

Sweat poured from the two figures as they stood, one behind the other, nearly motionless but for the slow, almost inexorable creep of Ivar’s fingers across the older man’s neck.

The movement of Halfdan’s right leg, so quick the spectators almost missed it, caught Ivar completely by surprise. As fast as a word spoken in anger, the youth was off his feet, flipping over the shipmaster’s out-thrust hip. He landed hard, and before he could recover the wily veteran fell on him, driving a hard elbow into his belly, shouting his victory.

The match was over. A dazed Ivar was helped to his feet by a dozen men, warriors and youths alike, praised to the heavens for standing so long against Folkhölm’s living legend.

Halfdan Hakon clasped the young man’s forearm in a grip firm as a shark’s bite. “Pass through the fire, lad, and I’ll be proud to have you at my right hand!”

Friends carried both victor and vanquished to the feasting area for the mid-day meal. The sounds of laughter and boasting filled the air and neither man's drinking horn ran dry.

Such feasting! Tender young lamb, roasted on spits over open fires, basted with wild thyme and other pungent herbs from high on the verdant hills. Flatbreads. Young vegetables, prized since the growing season was so short. And fish, of course, for The People lived or died on the bounty of the dark ocean that stretched far in every direction. Wrapped in seaweed with onions and chives and cooked over hot coals, the haddock and cod and mackerel filled the air with a tangy, familiar scent.

The young men ate and drank with gusto, and none more than Ivar. But when he looked like he might be enjoying himself a bit too much, Leif leaned in close. “Remember, you’ve got to be able to swim by midafternoon.”

At the mention of swimming – not his favorite activity – Ivar grimaced. “Spoil-sport!” He finished his ale with a defiant flourish, but then hooked his drinking horn on his belt and speared a succulent cut of lamb. “This is my day, Leif!” His smile gleamed again. “None of you can beat me today – not even in the water!”

As the meal wound down, Ve Volund, skaald and judge of The People, rose to his full height. In his youth, he had been both tall and strong, with a clear and penetrating voice. Though stooped and gnarled with age, both his remaining eye and his memory remained clear. With a practiced cadence, he gave the assembly a portion of the Saga of King Hrolf Kraki.

They all knew it well, and joined at the appropriate places, shouting, cheering, moaning, and banging the hilts of their belt-knives on the long wooden tables. The Skaald’s voice rose at the end, thin now, and cracking where once it had been powerful, but everyone cheered and stomped at the conclusion.

~o~O~o~

The afternoon began with the great rope-tug, when all the youths and youngsters attempted to pull a full longship’s crew across the creek that flowed down from the spring. Somehow, Folkhölm never had enough lads to succeed.

Ragnar decided to skip that contest, feeling an urgent need to relieve himself of a superabundance of ale. On his way back he found Leif leaning on a fence and staring down the beach. “What? I thought sure you’d lead the kids to victory today!”

Leif gave his friend a distracted smile. “That’s . . . not going to happen. Might as well ask ants to move a bull.”

Ragnar joined his friend and followed the direction of his gaze. “You’re still with us tonight, right?”

Leif nodded. “Yes.”

“Look . . . I know how you feel about fire.”

“I said I’d do it.”

“I know. I just wanted to say . . . well. I feel the same way about heights, right? You know that. But it’s okay – so long as we’re there for each other.”

Leif turned to his friend and this time his smile was warm. “You know I wouldn’t let you jump without me.”

Ragar’s smile matched his friend’s. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Really.”

Ragnar desperately wanted to ask Leif about Thyra, but it never seemed like the right time. Instead he said, “Not like you to sit out here, gazing off into nowhere.”

Leif laughed. “I’ll try not to think too hard. Go on, now. I’ll see you at the starting line.”

Ragnar clapped him on the shoulder and wandered off.

Leif resumed his contemplation, thinking about his conversations with Thyra and Frida, and his jousting with Ragnar and the other young men. My friends need me, and I have promised. Isn’t that enough? Why am I still so torn?

But as before, no answers came to him. He made his way back, relieved that the demands of the next competition would take not only all his strength and skill, but the whole of his concentration as well.

Thinking was getting him nowhere.

~o~O~o~

The second of the day’s major events, a race to the turning rock in the middle of the bay, tested skill, speed, and endurance. The trial pitted contestants against their peers, but also, and more importantly, against that harsh and fickle mistress, the sea. By tradition the warriors left it to the young men who still had to prove themselves.

This year five youths stood at the starting position, waiting for Gunnar to signal the start of the race. Even as boys they had formed a tight-knit cohort. Big Ivar. Einer, whose father pulled first oar on Halfdan’s great longship. Quick-witted Anders. Leif, tall and straight, always the leader. The one they all looked to, who would choose and plan their mischief, then talk them out of trouble when caught.

And Ragnar, his closest friend, who looked nervous. As usual.

“It’s a loooooong drop,” Einer teased.

Before Ragnar could respond, Leif said, “Ignore him. You’ll be fine. Thyra is watching you!”

“Of course she is – she wants to see whether someone with rocks for brains can swim!” Anders could never resist.

Ivar nodded, smiling at the jest. “It would be more difficult, ja?”

“I’m sure she’s looking at you, Leif,” Ragnar said, hoping that Gunnar got off his butt before this got out of hand. “She’s always watching you.”

“Ha! I can break Leif in half!” Ivar’s grin was huge.

“If you can catch me,” Leif replied, smiling in turn. “Out here, you never have.”

Einer opened his mouth to add his opinion, but shut it in a hurry as Gunnar raised his warhammer high above his head, shouting a wordless cry to the heavens for wholly unnecessary effect.

Silence descended quick as a squall at sea. The five young men glanced at each other, then turned their faces to the bay and their whole focus to the task ahead.

The muscles of Gunnar’s tanned and powerful arms bunched as he swung the heavy hammer. His perfectly timed release sent the weapon flying straight at the truth stone, a lone gray monolith set at the Mid-Night Mark on the shoreline.

When the sound of hammer striking stone rang out, the boys sprinted for the diving rock, a slab protruding above the churning waves almost twice the height of a man. Anders, short and spare, was as always first off the mark, speeding lightly away.

But after ten lengths, Leif and Einer made up in speed what they lacked in quickness. The three of them reached the stone at the same moment, with Ivar and Ragnar a few lengths behind.

Anders flung himself from the platform, unwilling to do anything that might break his momentum. Einer’s careful dive was more effective. But Leif, graceful and economical, hit the water at a shallow angle, allowing him to quickly gain an advantage over his friends.

A few moments later Ivar jumped, his straight drop taking him too deep to provide any forward motion at all.

Ragnar brought up the rear. He hesitated for a moment on the tall platform, but his fear of failure overcame the sick feeling he always got when faced with heights. Eyes closed, mismatched limbs flailing, he threw himself from the rock and hit the water with a slap so loud even the spectators winced.

The onlookers screamed encouragement to their favorites, but none of the competitors could hear them. Each swimmer was alone with the wind and waves, testing their skill and strength, hoping to be the one to win the honors.

Anders began to fall behind, struggling to power his light frame through the choppy surf. Einer continued as he began, focused and precise in his strokes, keeping a steady pace. Ragnar surged ahead, inspired by the thought that the fair Thyra might indeed be watching him, passing first Ivar, then Anders, and finally Einer.

No doubts plagued Leif in the water; body, soul, mind and spirit were solely focused on the task at hand. To those watching from the shore, his progression appeared smooth and effortless as a seal at play. It was easily a ten minute swim to the turning rock, but Leif had made it in nine before, and seemed likely to do so again.

First to the rock, he heaved himself up, breathing hard. Looking back toward the shore where the people gathered, waving and cheering, he saw the other boys heading his way. Ragnar, indeed, was not far behind, his powerful shoulders rising and falling with a steady, regular rhythm.

Leif checked himself just before he jumped back in for the return trip. A quick glance confirmed that Ivar must have closed his eyes – again! – since he was no longer heading for the turning rock. A competent swimmer on a good day, the morning’s exertions and the noontime feasting left Ivar far from his best.

There could be no recourse or rescue for the participants in the race. All the tests were harsh by design, for the far north of the world gave no quarter. The life of a longboat’s crew depended on every man standing to his oar, or holding steady in a shieldwall, chest to chest against a flood of foes.

Leif would not have it. The shipmaster himself had recognized Ivar’s value to the community, but Leif gave no thought to that. Friendship was all that mattered, and it more than sufficed. He calculated a course to intercept Ivar’s sluggish, misguided progress, then dove again and began a steady, efficient stroke.

Minutes passed. After what seemed like long enough, Leif raised his head as far as he could above the water. Failing to see Ivar, he tried again, and then a third time. He spotted the youth flailing, having lost steam and become even more disoriented. Leif gave a shout of encouragement and headed straight for him.

Just in time. Exhausted and turned around, Ivar could barely keep his head above water. As he gulped for air, a wave slapped him hard and filled his lungs.

“Hold still, you big oaf!” Leif had to practically shout in his friend’s ear to be heard.

Ivar finally opened his eyes, now huge with fear. “Leif!”

Leif finally got him to lie back and stop struggling. Getting behind and underneath him, he threw his left arm around Ivar’s broad chest. Then he towed him back towards shore, using his right arm and his legs to push through the water.

Though Leif was a strong swimmer, he, too, had done strenuous exercise earlier in the day, and he had raced hard on the way out to the rock. To make matters worse, the ebb tide steadily pulled at them, dragging them back out to sea. His progress, slow to begin with, grew even slower.

Leif switched to shorter strokes as his legs weakened, and he called on Njord of the Depths for the strength to finish. With every minute that passed, he feared he would lose his battle with the tide.

Muscles spasmed with each movement of his arm. His chest heaved, but still he battled, while striving to keep Ivar’s head above water. His friend showed no sign of being conscious.

The shore no longer grew closer.

Just as Leif began to despair, a new voice intruded on his private hell. “Can you make it if you aren’t pulling him?”

Leif turned and found Ragnar at his side. “I . . . can’t . . . let him . . . go!”

“I’ve got him . . . for now, at least. Go on!”

Leif nodded reluctantly and gave Ragnar his place. He could keep pace using a simple breast stroke. With Ragnar’s timely assistance, they once again made progress toward the shore, and Leif felt a renewed surge of hope.

It took Leif and Ragnar twenty minutes more, switching back and forth. But as they reached the end of their strength, they found sand under their feet and hauled Ivar out of the surf. The pair collapsed by his side, panting, completely spent and intensely relieved.

“It is not the way.”

Leif opened his salt-encrusted eyes to find Halfdan Hakon squatting before them. Everyone else had stayed back.

He managed to nod. “I know.”

“A warrior must be able to swim as well as fight.”

“He can.”

“That is what the race tests. He failed.”

“Today, and under bad conditions,” Leif said respectfully. “He’s made the swim many times before.”

“You do not get to choose favorable conditions, either at sea or in battle.” Halfdan did not appear angry; he was giving instruction. Explaining the world.

Leif pulled himself into a seated position. “What happens now?”

“The Skaald will say.” He gave a glance at Ragnar and Ivar, assessing their condition. “Bring them along when they can walk.” Rising easily, he walked back up the beach, where everyone waited silently.

“Shipmaster?” Leif called out.

Hakon turned back.

“Who won the race?”

“Einer, of course. You knew that.”

Leif nodded, thinking, Einer deserves the prize.

A few minutes later, Ragnar got to his feet, and the two of them worked on Ivar. Eventually the big youth vomited weakly, then allowed them to roll him over. It took a few tries, but they maneuvered him to his feet and the three of them staggered up the beach to Folkhölm.

The crowd parted and they made their way to the stone seat where the Shipmaster stood before the Skaald. Hakon was silent until the three youths stopped, a few paces away. “What is your judgment, Ancient?”

“I saw,” the old man replied. He looked first at Ivar, who looked green and ashamed, then at Ragnar, pale and worried. Lastly, he cast his single eye on Leif. “Anything you want to tell me? That isn’t blindingly obvious?”

“No, sir,” Leif replied.

The other two shook their heads, mute.

The silence stretched, broken only by the crash of the surf, the barking of dogs, and the bleating of sheep, far up on the hillside. A breeze carried the smell of cooking, mingled with the salt of the sea. A gull shrieked.

Ve Volund shook his head. “Bah! I need to be alone. The gods must be heard on this.” He pulled himself upright, leaning heavily on the heavy black staff he always carried.

“Ancient?” Hakon’s voice was deferential, but the undertone of his concern was clear. “We must know, before —“

The Skaald cut him off, his voice testy. “I know what time it is. You’ll get your judgment after the sun ceremony.” With that, Volund turned away and walked slowly toward his dwelling, leaning heavily on the staff.

~o~O~o~

The evening feast was subdued — or at least it seemed so, to the three young men awaiting the Skaald’s judgment. People gave them a wide berth, uncertain now of their place in the tight-knit community.

“We should talk to them.” Anders’ eyes looked here, there, and anywhere – anywhere except at their friends.

“I . . . I can’t.” Einer lowered his burning eyes. “I’m too ashamed.”

“Ashamed?” Anders could not contain his astonishment. “Why? We did what we were supposed to do!”

Einer didn’t appear to be listening. “You know what I was thinking, when I got up on that rock, and saw Leif and Ragnar both swimming toward that idiot?” He looked at his friend, then answered his own question. “I was thinking, ‘Now I can do it. I can win.’”

Anders wanted to argue. To shout at the top of his lungs that it didn’t matter, as if volume and vehemence would lend his words additional weight. But he was a good lad at heart, and an honest one. “Yeah,” he sighed. “Me, too. I’d never beat Leif in a straight up race.”

“What if the Skaald won’t let them test tonight? What if he sends them away?”

Anders shook his head. “I don’t know, Einer. What can we do?”

~o~O~o~

The sun hangs in the sky for hours in the far north as spring formally and oh, so grudgingly gives way to summer. So the evening stretched long as the friends awaited judgment, dealing with their worries as best they might.

But as food passed around the table, Thyra Gunnarsdatter dared to breach the invisible barrier that seemed to separate them from their community. “Whatever the Skaald may say, I think you two were right.” She gave Ivar an affectionate look. “And you were an idiot, jumping into the water with your head swollen with praise and ale.”

“I know,” he said morosely.

Turning her attention to Leif she asked, “Will you walk with me?”

“Of course.”

Seeing the look of pain Ragnar tried to hide, she put a hand against his cheek. “You were magnificent.”

He could think of no response, but watched in quiet agony as she walked away with his closest friend.

“You think too much,” Ivar told him.

Ragnar snorted. “Not thinking hasn’t exactly worked well for you today.”

Ivar ignored the well-deserved barb. “She likes you. You just think your way into believing she doesn’t.”

“You say.”

Meanwhile, Thyra and Leif silently made their way to the long shadows of the woods that bordered Folkhölm. As they came to a tall downy birch with a split trunk, Thyra said, “race you to the top?”

Leif chuckled at the old memory. “You were always faster.”

Thyra held out her hands and Leif took them. “You are worried.” She made it a statement.

“About the Skaald? Not really.”

“What then? The fire? He may not let you face it, now.”

“That might be a blessing.”

“You don’t fear the fire that much,” she chided. “But . . . I know it’s more than fire, isn’t it, my sister?”

Her endearment always made Leif smile. “No, you’re right. Part of me will always wish I could simply remain your sister.”

“I know.”

“You know, and you have carried that knowledge in your heart, keeping my secret for me.”

“Of course, dear one. What else would I do?”

“Others would have laughed. Or cursed.”

“Which is why you told me, and not ‘others.’”

“You are a blessing.” He pressed her hands, grateful beyond words for her understanding. “But I have promised. Tonight, I will have to make the leap, cross the fire, and take my place, finally, with the men. It will be like killing part of myself. Maybe the best part.”

Thyra freed her right hand and placed it on his heart. “I believe that my sister will survive, somehow. That she will live.”

Leif’s voice shook as he confessed, “I’m frightened, Thyra.”

“Of course you are. There is no courage, without fear.”

He nodded slowly, then slipped an arm around her waist, feeling the womanly slenderness that had, seemingly overnight, refashioned the coltish girl who had laughed with such joy as she dashed into the pounding surf, or shimmied up the silver-white trunks of birch trees. Now she had curves he might envy, but would never possess. “Thank you, my heart. I will borrow your courage, if my own fails.”

“It won’t.”

Leif took strength from her rock-solid certainty. Smiling, he said, “We’d better get back, before your fearsome father misses you and decides to spare the Skaald the bother of killing me.”

She laughed and linked her arms with his, and they walked back to rejoin the feast.

Behind them, motionless and invisible in the shadows of the wood, the Skaald stood stock still, a thoughtful expression on his ancient face.

~o~O~o~

Ve Volund the Skaald stood before the people and began the sacred saga of the sun and the seasons, the eternal war of darkness and light. He sang of the champion of light, who gained strength day by day until he pushed the darkness to its nadir. But after the sun set on this longest day, that strength would wain, and the champion of darkness would push back, gaining ground until the world was frozen and the days of night and cold would begin.

As the song unfolded, the sun dipped lower and lower, until it touched the sea at the point that was equidistant from the loving arms of the great bay that gave The People shelter.

Taking a fresh, unlit torch, Ve Volund thrust it into the embers of the last watch fire of the season of light. When at last the sun slipped below the horizon, the torch flared to life, the pine sap crackling and spitting in the light breeze. For a moment the Skaald stood tall and straight, the flames casting shadows around his spare form, before he handed the torch to the Shipmaster.

In solemn procession The People marched down to the beach, Halfdan Hakon at their head and Ve Volund bringing up the rear. When they reached the carefully assembled stack of wood and dry hay bales, the veteran warrior thrust the torch into the kindling, walking around to spread flame to the entire base.

Then Halfdan slammed the base of the torch into the sand and looked across the fire to the high platform where Ve Volund now stood. The shipmaster cried, “Light against the darkness!”

“The People shall endure!” Even after the long chant, Ve Volund’s voice was still clear and loud enough to be heard over the crackle of flames.

Three times they repeated the call and response, with the assembled women joining the first repeat, the men the second, and all at the last.

Then the whole assembly stood in silence, listening to the growing fire sound against the backdrop of the sea’s constant lullaby, the gentle touch of wave on sand.

Halfdan Hakon’s gaze found the three youths where they stood apart. Then he called out to the Skaald, “It is time, Ancient. What is your judgment?”

“I have seen, and I have given thought, and I have listened for the counsel of the gods,” Volund replied, holding his staff with both hands and leaning on it hard. “Stand, Ivar Hodarson.”

Ivar glanced at his friends, then took a step forward, squaring his broad shoulders.

“You are brave and strong, and will be an anchor for the shieldwall.”

Ivar’s shoulders slumped in relief at Volund’s words, and many people shouted their pleasure. Ivar was stalwart and popular, and many had been deeply impressed by his skill in the wrestling.

But the Skaald was not yet finished, and his face, lit from below by the growing flames, looked demonic and frightening. “A warrior needs more than strength and courage. Your actions in the race were foolish, and could have cost The People not only your own life, but those of your friends. You may hazard the fire if you wish – but not this year. One year more you must wait, until your wits match your muscles.”

Ivar gave a strangled cry, but then bowed to the judgment. None could say whether that judgment was the gods’ or the Skaald’s alone. It didn’t matter. Among The People, the Skaald’s word was final.

“Ragnar, son of Olaf, stand.”

At the old man’s command, Ragnar stepped forward, swallowing visibly. Ivar, crushed, stepped back.

“Ever has Leif been the leader of your group,” the Skaald rasped. “And today you followed him without question. Your unswerving loyalty will be a virtue beyond price in any crisis. You may leap the flame tonight, if that is your choice.”

Ragnar’s warring emotions battled across his strong features. Relieved to be spared punishment, pleased to be judged worthy, yet his heart ached for Ivar, turned away for a foolish mistake. And, while he recognized the truth of the Skaald’s words – Leif had indeed been the leader – a corner of his heart desperately wished that the Skaald’s words had not cast him in a subordinate role. Thyra, surely, would desire only the best. As she deserved.

But, like Ivar, he bowed his head and stepped back.

Without waiting for the command, Leif stepped forward, his face a blank mask, revealing nothing of the turmoil he felt within. What is the judgment I deserve? What do I even desire?

The Skaald gazed at him for a long moment before speaking. “Child of Thorfinn and Tess, you knew the ways of The People, yet you set aside the trial and went to the aid of a friend. Your judgment, like Ivar’s, could have cost more lives, including your own.”

Murmurs rumbled through the crowd as the Skaald paused, but Leif remained almost inhumanly still.

“The risk was high, but the potential reward was great.” Ve Volund nodded, as if in conversation with someone beyond the hearing of the gathered crowd. “A leader must make such choices every day, and those who safely wait on shore should not judge them. Only the gods, who can pierce the secret depths of our hearts, may render fair judgment.”

The assembly was hushed, pondering the Skaald’s words and wondering, how will he rule?

“The gods’ judgment is held in abeyance, save for this. You must risk the fire, or depart this place forever. If you succeed, the rest of the judgment will be made clear.”

The silence broke, as each person who had an opinion – which, needless to say, was each and all of them – felt an immediate need to share it with their neighbors. Amid the sudden cacophony, Ve Volund left the platform, walked around the bonfire, and joined the shipmaster in the sands on the far side.

Halfdan Hakon shot the old man a quizzical look, as puzzled by the odd half-judgment on young Leif as any person there. Those who braved the fire and emerged reasonably whole were welcomed into the ranks of the shipmen and the warriors. In his memory it had never been any other way.

But he, even more than the rest of the assembly, would not speak against the Skaald’s judgment. On the deck of a longship or in the madness of a shieldwall, lives depended on obedience to the shipmaster’s orders. If he questioned the judge’s authority in this, he would undermine the authority he exercised within his own sphere.

Gruffly, he said, “Leif must jump, and Ivar cannot. Who else will hazard the fire?”

Without any sign of hesitation, Ragnar, Einer and Anders stepped forward. Their hearts might have been beating hard within their chests, but they would not quail at the final test.

“Go on, then,” the shipmaster said. “Prove yourselves worthy of our fellowship!”

The three friends bowed their heads, and together with Leif they walked towards the high platform.

When they reached the other side of the bonfire, three figures stepped out from the crowd. Ivar strode to meet them, holding his arms wide. “Do me proud, brothers! I will join you in a year!”

They grabbed and pummeled him, moved almost to tears by his magnanimous gesture in the face of his own censure.

Ragnar’s heart broke within him as he saw Thyra Gunnarsdatter bless Leif with a smile as pure and beautiful as the first flowers of spring.

But then she stepped to where Ragnar stood and once more set her cool palm against his cheek. “You have always been stronger than you believed and braver than you knew. I will wait for you on the other side of the flames.”

“For me?” He could not believe what he was hearing and feared he might misunderstand.

“Always,” she replied. Before he could react, she took another step, kissed him lightly on the lips, then retreated, saying only, “run strong!”

But the third figure had eyes only for Leif, and he hurried forward to fold her in his arms. “Frida! You came!”

“I had to,” his sister said, weeping. “I had to. You have to face the fire, but I won’t have you face it without me.”

Leif didn’t want to let her go, but the others had already made their way up to the platform. He gave a final, tender squeeze, then released her. “I have to go.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Leif hadn’t finished climbing the stairs to the platform when he heard a great shout, followed by cheers. Anders had successfully made his jump.

Einer greeted him at the top of the stairs. “I should have followed you today. I’m sorry.”

Leif clasped his arm. “Run well, brother!”

Einer nodded, then turned. Gathering himself, he sprinted for the edge of the platform and leapt into the rising bonfire, feet together and slightly forward. He gave no cry, but another joyous shout indicated that he had landed safely.

“Gods, I hate heights,” Ragnar said, looking ill.

“I know,” Leif said. “On the other hand . . . .”

“Yeah,” his friend sighed, a goofy smile suddenly lighting his face. “There’s Thyra. You really think . . . ?”

“I don’t think, I know. Run well!”

“The last fucking time I ever do this,” he muttered. Taking a deep but ragged breath, Ragnar raced for the edge of the platform and hurled himself into space, his limbs once again spinning in every direction in a vain attempt to do something, anything, that might assert control over his movement.

Flame surrounded him and he cried out, blinded. Then he was through. He cartwheeled onto the sand, hair singed, trousers smoldering, and tunic on fire.

He cried out again as something heavy struck him on the back, then struck again.

“Roll, you idiot,” the shipmaster barked.

His wits returned with a rush and he rolled, first left and then right. He was whacked again and recognized that he was being beaten with the bearskin cloak Halfdan wore for ceremonies.

It was over.

Halfdan Hakon looked at him critically. “Can you get up, or did you manage to break something vital?”

Awareness that he had survived both fire and fall flooded Ragnar’s very soul, and he laughed. “Gods know!” He got his hands and knees under himself, then succeeded in staggering to his feet. “Yes!!! I made it!”

Thyra stepped into the circle, a soft smile on her perfect features. “Of course you did, you wonderful man.”

“Man? I’m a man? Oh, gods, I’m a man!”

“You’re going to be a dead man,” Hakon growled, “if your friend lands on you like a torch. Move, you two!”

Laughing, touching, suddenly shy and happy at the same moment, they stepped away from the bonfire and into the circle of cheering men who pounded Ragnar on the back. Anders was there, and Einer too, each overwhelmed and filled with joy. But Ragnar grabbed Thyra’s hand and turned back to the flames. Where was Leif?

~o~O~o~

On the high platform Leif stood alone, head bowed, facing the first part of his test.

Remembering.

A moonless night, with stars so close you could almost feel their cool radiance. A hell-sent breeze swirled around the cold firepits, causing embers to glow and leap and spin, until one came in contact with the thatched walls of a house and lodged there, smoldering. Who had failed to properly douse their cook fire?

No one would ever know.

Leif startled awake, his raw throat spasming into coughs. He staggered to the railing of the loft where he and his sister slept and looked down. Their parents hadn’t awakened and never would again; the smoke overcame them while they slept.

His choking shout only served to wake Frida, and her anguished cry tore through the night. “DADDY!!!”

Leif rushed to his sister’s side. “Come on!” There was no exit down the now-flaming ladder, but The People understood fire. Pulling Frida to the other end of the loft, he sat down and used the full force of his already powerful legs to kick at the thatch. As the choking smoke billowed around them and the flames roared, he redoubled his efforts until there was a hole in the house’s wall.

Outside, he could see that neighbors had sounded an alarm and were forming a bucket line from the spring. And below, looking up right at him, he saw the powerful form of Gunnar Gunnarson.

“Jump!” Gunnar called to him. “I’ve got you!”

Leif grabbed Frida. “You’ve got to trust me, honey”

She shook her head wildly, far too frightened to speak, then screamed as flame seared her bare foot. “LEIF!!!”

Crying himself, he shoved her through the hole he had formed and pushed as hard as he could. Her shriek of terror pierced his heart as she tumbled into the night, spinning.

But then she was down, safe in Gunnar’s arms. “Jump!” the big man called again. “Jump now!”

Frida’s call joined with Gunnar’s. “Leif! Leif! You have to jump!”

With a start, he realized that the voice wasn’t the child he remembered, but rather, the young woman she was on the cusp of becoming. “It’s alright, Leif. You can do it. You can!”

It was time to put the terrors of childhood behind, and the test before him could not be postponed. Leif lowered his head once more, then charged, his steps powerful and graceful as one of the great cats. He lept headfirst, arms outstretched before him, straight into the roaring wall of flame.

But that was only the first test.

It seemed to Leif that time slowed as he approached the fire, and slowed again as he entered its embrace. He heard his parent’s voices as they had been. Tess’s warm and soft words of grace and comfort; Thorfinn’s deep, rumbling laugh. Briefly, he felt their touch, a benediction.

Then in the middle of his passage, time seemed to stand still altogether. He heard another voice, a voice like the Skaald’s, but deeper and more powerful. Harsh and demanding. “Stand!”

And somehow, he found himself on his feet, surrounded by a wall of flame, facing a powerful bearded figure with a single, piercing eye. Leif recognized him at once, as any of The People would have done. Odin Fjolnir, that the skaalds named Alfodr. The father of all.

“You are a child no longer,” the Lord of the Aesir declared. “But now you must choose what you will be hereafter. Are you a man, or are you a woman?”

Leif’s response had a bitter edge. “I did not ‘choose’ for my spirit to be torn. Nor did I choose my body’s shape.”

The god remained unmoved. “You did not choose to be born, either, yet you were. Would you live your life as a woman, if you could have a woman’s form?”

Leif thought of Thyra, who knew his heart and called him “sister.” He thought of Frida and Hilda and all the other girls he had grown up with. Whom he had envied, in part, as one by one they left girlhood behind. He imagined himself finally being one with them all, sharing the joys of marriage, of bringing life into the world and nurturing it. He could almost feel the tug of an infant at his breast.

But he thought, too, of Ragnar and Anders, Einer and Ivar. His friends whom he had trained with. Had led, in all honesty. He thought of the joys of the open sea, the freedom of a longship in a stiff breeze. He belonged to them, too — to the boys, and the wind, the open skies and the fierce, fiery stars of heaven.

“I don’t know!!!”

“You must choose.”

“I can’t!”

“Son of Thorfinn and daughter of Tess, you must!”

The god’s repeated demand was too much for Leif. Where were YOU, when I called out for guidance? A lifetime of inner conflict, suppressed and hidden, simmered, boiled, and exploded in a cry of frustration and volcanic rage.

“FUCK. YOU!!!”

His fury was drowned in the roar of flames. The Alfodr smiled, enigmatic, as Leif hurled from fire into twilight, arms outstretched and head down. Without thinking, operating purely by instinct, he tucked and rolled just as he hit the sand, ending his tumble back on his knees.

The Skaald loomed above him, black robe inky against the deep turquoise sky, his single eye boring into the youth. “You are neither man nor woman.”

Leif shook his head, trying to decide whether he had simply imagined what had happened during his passage through the flames. Had he really defied a god? Cursed Odin himself? But he focused on Ve Volund’s question, hearing in it no hint of condemnation. “I am both, sir.”

“And you will not choose?”

“I will not.”

The old man nodded. “Then hear the judgment of the gods. There is no place for you in this community. Except mine.”

Leif’s eyes widened. “I don’t understand.”

“I am old, and someone must carry my burden when I go to join my fathers. Someone must learn the songs of our people, learn our laws and customs, and administer them with a man’s firmness and a woman’s understanding heart. Someone must be all, for all. The gods in their wisdom have chosen you.”

Bewildered and overwhelmed, Leif said, “I am not worthy of such a place.”

“Then you must leave, and never return.” At the young man’s stricken look, Ve Volund’s stern expression softened. “I am not saying anything you don’t already know. Your form denies you a place with the women, and your divided heart would weaken the shieldwall.”

Leif felt the truth of the old man’s words, and the weight of the years before him. The skaald’s life was both solitary and hard, for though they shared in every aspect of the life and work of the community, their unique role and tasks set them apart.

But he felt as well a sense of rightness, of fit, as if the pattern of his life had suddenly become clear as the still waters of a mountain lake.

He loved them all so much. Every one of them. Ragnar and Thyra, Frida and Hilda, Ivar, Anders and Einer. Gunnar, who had given him and his sister a home when they were bereft and alone. Hodar and Olaf, mighty Ulfur, crafty Björn, Hakon and all the rest. Love welled up within him, a flood so powerful, so irresistible, that no mortal label could begin to describe it, much less limit it. He loved them with a brother’s love and a sister’s, too. Like father and mother and son and daughter and friend. Love upon love, without beginning or end.

“They are my people,” he said, his tone making the words a sacred oath. “And I will be their skaald.”

“Come.” The old man held out a withered hand. “Let’s begin.”

— The End

~o~O~o~

Author's note: I would like to thank my friends Andrea Lena DiMaggio and Sara Keltaine for their assistance beta-reading this story. Sara also took my initial effort at cover art and transformed it into something amazing.

June 20, 2024
— Emma Anne Tate

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.