Page 43 of Truly, Madly Viking

Her jaw dropped another notch.

"You will hardly credit the coincidence, but Jaw-rome is a former fighting man, too, like me and Steve, except he was a green bar-ray."

For a prolonged moment, silence hovered in the air. But leave it to Joe to break the ice even further.

"Tsk-tsk!" Joe chided Maggie and Harry. "Aren't you going to shake hands with Jaw-rome?"

Maggie's mouth clicked shut, along with Harry's, Hattie's, and Jack's.

"How do you do?" she and Harry said, shaking the hand extended by Jerome Johnson. Joe beamed as if he'd invented the ritual of handshaking. Then Hattie and her father stepped upas well, although they had apparently met Johnson on some other occasions.

Joe appeared very pleased with himself. You'd never know he was a patient, and not a hospital administrator.

"Did you know that Jaw-rome has his own longship, Mag-he... I mean, Dock-whore Muck bride?" She had warned Joe on numerous occasions that he should address her in a more professional manner. "He is going to take me on a voyage someday."

Maggie groaned mentally. How long had Joe been talking with Jerome Johnson? Much too long, apparently.

Jerome smiled softly and patted Joe on the shoulder. "Actually, I have a yacht, and it was a short cruise on the Gulf I mentioned. As a possibility, mind you, just a possibility."

"Yacht, longship, knarr... they are all boats," Joe expounded. Then he returned the favor and patted Jerome on the shoulder in a good-buddy fashion.

Maggie caught a warning glance from Harry and immediately stepped forward. "Joe, would you mind coming down to my office with me?"

Joe immediately brightened and complied. Thank God! He probably thought there was more hanky-panky on the menu. Not that any of it had ever been initiated by her. "I hope to see you again soon, Jaw-rome. And remember what I told you about putting whale fat on aching muscles... arthur-itis, you named the malady, I believe. 'Tis what my father does all the time for his creaking bones, especially after a long time at sea a-Viking."

Oh, no! Had he just accused Mr. Johnson of having a creaking body?

But Mr. Johnson just laughed. "You betcha, young man. Make a note of that, George. I want a tubful of whale lard, ASAP. I'm willing to try anything for this damned arthritis."

George was turning a strange color of pale green. "And here is a surprise for you." Joe was talking to Harry now. "Jaw-rome loves the idea of our field trip. So you must put aside all your res... reservations, I think you called it."

Harry started to turn green, too.

As Maggie and Joe walked down the hallway toward her office, she was steaming, and he was beaming.

"Am I cured yet?" he had the nerve to ask.

A week later...

At last the momentous day had arrived. Maggie was taking Jorund and all his new comrades in madness on their promised field journey.

Jorund had to admit to being a mite fearful. In order to get from the Rainbow Hospitium to Orca land, the first leg of their journey, he would have to ride in one of the horseless carts he had seen nigh flying down the road from his chamber window. Actually it was a huge, yellow, boxlike structure with windows and wheels, known as a bus.

"What's wrong with a good pair of oxen to pull a cart? Or a sturdy horse?" he muttered to Mag-he, who was checking names off a piece of parchment on her clipping board as the other members of the group filed up the steps of the vehicle. It was a sign of his condition that he paid no mind to Mag-he's tight den-ham braies and short sleeved sweat-her that exposed a tiny bit of her midriff each time she lifted an arm in the air to wave someone new onto the death cart.

Mag-he darted a quick look of concern toward him, sensing his reluctance to join the others. "There are plenty of horses in Texas, but a bus is more practical for our purposes... and safer."

"So you say!" he muttered under his breath. It would not do to outwardly show his trepidation, especially when everyone, even Not-a-lie, the wench who was afraid of crowds, had already bounced up the steps. Not-a-lie was wearing the most unseemly garb: white boots, a cowgirl hat—Who ever heard of a cowgirl? Or bragged of being such?—and a shert and short gunna, known as a skirt, both with fringes all along the edges. With that amount of skin showing, she could pass for a harem houri.

Dock-whore Hairy was behind a large wheel inside the bus. He was going to drive, not trusting Mag-he and her demented troop to go off on their own. Two of the guards, who were known as attendants in this world, would accompany them as well. Norse Hatch-her came, too, surprisingly feminine in a long, gauzy purple skirt and matching shert with the words, C'mon. Make My Day. On second thought, she resembled a giant plum.

Bracing himself, Jorund forced himself to go up the steps, feeling much as if he were walking the plank.

Breathing a sigh of relief at passing that hurdle, he glanced down the rows of seats, many of which were empty, since their group numbered only twelve—their original therapy group and a few others.

"Stop touching my fringe," Not-a-lie snapped to her seat partner.

Hair-vee ducked his head sheepishly. "I was just counting them for you."