Page 97 of Truly, Madly Viking

He hesitated to tell her, but she had to be prepared. Finally he nodded.

She gasped.

Fie tried to explain. "I cannot tell you how many times over how many years I have prepared myself to go into battle. Each time, at the last moment, there is a rush of blood in the body, a humming in the ears, an excitement of sorts."

"It's called adrenaline."

Why was he not surprised that she would have a name for it? They had a name for every other bloody thing in this strange land... including mouth sex, the bad temper women were in before their monthly flux, the perfectly natural inclination of males of middle years to swive younger women, and— "Is that how you feel now? All hyped up?" she asked, tears misting her beautiful blue eyes. "As if you are about to fight?"

"Hmmm. Not exactly. More like something immense is about to happen."

They were both silent then. What could be more immense than his being hurtled back through time?

What could be more immense than their permanent separation?

"You're strong, Mag-he," he remarked in a strangled voice. "You can handle anything."

He was not so sure about himself, though.

"No matter what happens, Joe, I can't be sorry that I met you, or that we made love."

He nodded, unable to express just how much his short relationship with her meant to him. In the end, he told her, "I will never forget you."

They were both too overcome to speak more, and Jorund turned away to stare out the window. The airplane was now traveling over an expanse of water. He narrowed his eyes and pressed his nose to the glass. Aha! He didn't even bother to tell Mag-he when he saw a killer whale skyhopping merrily down below. She would only tell him that it was impossible to see that far. But he knew. It was Thora; he was certain of that.

And her words to him, accompanied by the usual clicks and groans, came up the great distance from the water to the plane, loud and clear, for his ears only. Soon, Viking. Soon you will know.

They arrived at Rosestead the next morning, and the Viking village was beautiful as a postcard... a perfect Hallmark holiday image.

"Wow!" Suzy and Beth exclaimed. They were practically jumping up and down with glee in the backseat of the rental car—not just at their initial view of an authentic Norse settlement, but at seeing real snow for the first time. Luckily this wasn't gray, slushy snow, but crisp, new-fallen flakes, like the snow globes found in gift stores.

"It was well worth the trip just to see this charming scene," she told Joe as they exited the vehicle. She was trying to make up for her earlier resistance to the trip, but her sentiments were honest.

He nodded distractedly. He was no longer hyped up, but also somber with some odd anticipation...

something she could neither fathom nor alleviate.

"Are you all right?" she asked, putting a hand on his arm. His face was pale, his lips pinched.

Giving her a sideways glance, he grimaced. "Bloody damn a-drain-a-line! My heart's pumping faster than a youthling's legs in his first wolf race."

At first Maggie had been alarmed by Joe's belief that something monumental was about to happen, but now it was more as if they were all on a slow-moving roller coaster. It was sure to be a rocky ride, but there was no getting off. What would be, would be.

She did say a silent prayer, though: Please, God, if it be your will, let everything work out for me and Joe and my daughters. We love him so much.

They'd gotten into the Bangor airport the night before, but Maggie had insisted that they get a motel room before heading for the village. If Joe and the girls had had their way, they would have come upon this scene in the dark, and that would have been a shame, she realized now.

With snow flurries coming down steadily, their first view of Rosestead was seen through a filter of the white flakes. Suzy and Beth were so excited as they emerged from the rental car, they were oblivious to the freezing cold.

Rosestead was located at a secluded site in northern Maine, accessed by a half-mile roadway leading off the interstate. A giant archway over the entrance read: ROSESTEAD: A VIKING VILLAGE. A smaller sign on the side listed its schedule. A banner over the sign proclaimed, CLOSED TILL APRIL. And there was a wooden gate across the entrance barring car traffic. It couldn't be any clearer than that.

Closed to the public.

They emerged from the car, and Joe walked right around the gate. She and the girls had no choice but to follow.

A small, rolling mountainscape provided the backdrop to Rosestead on the left side. Several dozen thatch-roofed Viking longhouses—some large, some small; some clearly private residences, some workshops and businesses—were scattered about a private lake on the opposite side from the wooded hillside. She assumed that the lake led out to the ocean, because there were several beached longships, which would be of no use on a mere lake. In the middle of these longhouses, set back and elevated somewhat, was a larger dwelling that could only be described as a wooden, fortlike castle.

"That structure doesn't seem to fit in with the Viking ones," Maggie remarked to Joe, having to practically skip to keep up with his long strides.