Page 98 of Truly, Madly Viking

"You are right. It is more in the Saxon and Frankish manner of building, but, if my eyes tell me true, 'tis identical to my father's home in Vestfold," he observed. "Some of the kings and jarls of Norway in the late tenth century were building castles of wood, just so. Longhouses were becoming too small for their extended families and housecarls and hirds of soldiers."

She nodded. If she hadn't already accepted that Joe had somehow come to her from another time, his ease in discussing the everyday life of the Dark Ages would have impressed her now.

"Look, Mom, look!" Suzy was gazing at the lake, where a group of young people had begun ice-skating.

"Can we go, too? Please. Please. Please," Beth added.

"Maybe later," Maggie said, though why she would make even that tentative promise when they were already trespassing was beyond her.

A young, thirtyish man in a crew cut, jeans, and a sweatshirt that read, U.S. Army came out of one of the first buildings and yelled at them, "Hey, you guys. You can't come in here. The place is closed for..."

He was striding quickly toward them when his steps faltered and his words trailed off. "Holy cow!" he muttered. At first Maggie thought he was awestruck because he thought Joe was a Navy SEAL, as evidenced by his jacket; many people were dazzled by the prestigious military unit. And he was apparently an ex-army man. But then she noticed that he was staring fixedly at Joe's face. He looked as if he'd seen a ghost.

"Who are you?" Joe demanded of the young man. His tone was so imperious, he sounded like some visiting warlord.

"Mike Johnson. The curator," he replied, not even questioning Joe's authority to grill him. "Who are you?"

"Jorund Ericsson."

Mike Johnson nodded. Then, with a disbelieving shake of his head, he repeated, "Holy freakin' cow!"

A young woman with blond hair and a little boy of five or so came out of the longhouse where Mike Johnson had originally emerged. Maggie assumed it was his wife and child. The woman watched Joe, wide-eyed, then exchanged a look with her husband.

"Where is your chieftain?" Joe asked. "The jarl of Rosestead?"

Mike inclined his head toward the wood castle, and Joe immediately stomped off in that direction.

Maggie took Suzy's and Beth's hands and followed after him.

As they walked along, people were coming out of the longhouses, some in Viking attire, which they all probably wore during the regular tourist season, but most of them in jeans or sweatpants. There seemed to be a large number of young people. Hadn't Beth told them, when surfing the Web site, that there was a residential program for homeless inner-city kids here?

Interestingly, although this was a Viking village, there were Christmas decorations on many of the longhouses, a light-up Santa and a reindeer panorama in the front yard of another, and lots of illuminated pine trees. So it was a modern-day Viking village, she supposed.

No one tried to halt their progress, though they were clearly outsiders, trespassing. Little by little, the people following in Joe's wake grew into a murmuring crowd.

"Mommy, I'm scared," Beth said.

"Everyone's acting weird," Suzy added. "Even Joe."

"Don't worry, kiddos. It's just that Joe looks like a Viking, and this is a Viking village. They've probably never seen a real Viking before." That sounded like a good explanation. Too bad Suzy and Beth weren't buying it any more than she was.

Maggie wished Joe would take her hand. Instead he seemed to be oblivious to her presence. Soon his longer stride caused them to be left behind... at first only a few paces, then greater and greater distance.

To Maggie's dismay, she realized that he didn't even care whether she was there anymore, so intent was he on this... this thing that was drawing him.

Was this the beginning of the end?

Rosestead felt like home to Jorund.

There were differences, of course. Cold as it was here, winter in his country was frigid. A man's mustache and nose hairs developed icicles with just a brief visit to the garderobe. Some men claimed it was so cold their piss froze the second it left their bodies. In addition, the light coating of snow on the ground would have been eaves high at his homestead by now, and would stay that way or pile higher till the spring thaw. The landscape itself was different, too. The northern fields were mostly rocky and untillable, unless they were farmed by skilled farmers like his brother, Magnus. But here, he could see, there would be thriving wheat fields and vegetable patches by midsummer.

Despite the differences, Jorund reveled in his first glimpse of the familiar wattle-and-daub longhouses with their thatch and sod roofs, the wooden keep so like his father's, and the dragon ships. His throat constricted as he walked swiftly into the village. He had not realized how homesick he was till now.

He passed the dragonships, which were propped on wooden cradles. Then he did a double take.

Holy Thor! There was a colorful figurehead on one of the prows that appeared identical to the one he'd given Rolf as a coarse jest years ago—a figure of a buxom blond woman with cherry-red nipples. They'd dubbed the wooden wench Ingrid, as he recalled.

How odd! Had a copy of this figurehead been made in his country by the craftsman who'd chiseled the first? Or had this figurehead gone down with Rolf's ship a thousand years ago, and ended up on some beach as flotsam?