Page 37 of Down and Dirty

To her back, she heard Zachary say, “Oh, I’ll definitely try. Count on it.” There was a smile in his voice.

“Lackbrain!” she muttered as she resumed stomping away.

Magnus was the first to greet her with a tight hug that lifted her feet off the ground. “Welcome to Ah-mare-eek-ah, Britta. Is your father still the greedy bastard he once was?”

She had to smile at Magnus’s frank manner. “Worse,” she answered as he placed her on her feet. “I do not understand.” Britta rubbed her eyes with both hands, then looked at the big man again. “I thought… everyone thought you were dead.”

“Do not try to take it all in right now,” Magnus advised. “Give yourself time to adjust to what you will discover is an amazing adventure.”

“Amazing, for a certainty,” she agreed.

“I came soon as I heard of your arrival, dearling. My wife Angela would have come, but she is busy with a wine festival.”

Britta appreciated the welcome.

“Come stay with us,” he urged. “’Tis a confusing time, I warrant. Best you make a home at Blue Dragon till you decide what to do.”

She shook her head. “My thanks for the offer, Magnus, but I know what I want to do.”

“The military?”

She nodded.

“’Tis no place for a woman,” he grumbled and would have said more, but a red-haired woman stepped up beside him and extended a hand to Britta, then held Britta’s hand in both of hers.

“Don’t pay any attention to Papa Ericsson. He is still living in the Dark Ages.”

“Humph!” Magnus said, walking away to pick up an amber glass bottle, then putting it to his mouth.

“Hi, I’m Alison MacLean Magnusson, Ian’s sister and Ragnor’s wife.”

Aaah, she should have known by the red hair and the resemblance to Commander MacLean.

“I’m in the Navy, too,” Alison said. “We need to talk later if you really are serious about WEALS. You’ll need some outside instruction, like Ragnor did when he first came here. English as a second language. World history. That kind of thing. I’ll give you a buzz.”

Britta wondered what she meant. Was she going to buzz by her, like a bee? Although she was able to understand English, some words spoken here were still confusing.

“You do not try to talk me out of my military inclinations?”

“Good heavens, no! Why would I do that? I’d be in the WEALS program myself if I weren’t married. And, hey, I saw you give Pretty Boy a shove. Good for you, girl! He’s needed a good comeuppance for a long time.”

This was a woman Britta could like.

A short time later, after being hugged warmly by those people she already knew and introduced to others, a stunned Britta sat at the far end of the deck, a wooden ledge attached to the keep, talking with Madrene and Hilda and Kirstin. The men were at the other end, watching an object called a grill as it sizzled meat and drinking from the amber glass bottles. Grown men watching meat cook! Ridiculous!

Even more ridiculous, out on the beach some distance away, Britta saw a man being led on a leash by a dog who pulled him hither and yon, then squatted down to deposit his waste on the sand. The ridiculous thing, though, was that the man used a small metal scoop to pick up the leavings and place them in a bag. Then the dog led him off again. What was the man going to do with the dog leavings? What a strange land this was!

Britta and the three women from her past spent an hour catching up on old news, mostly her telling them all that had happened after Hilda left The Sanctuary or how Norstead and Amberstead fared these days. Britta assured Hilda that The Sanctuary still thrived… alas, there would always be women fleeing abusive men… but not so many as when Hilda had been there. As to the two estates, they flourished under the Ericsson cousins from Norsemandy, Thorfinn and Steven.

“We wanted to talk to you in private,” Hilda began, “about the time travel.”

Britta groaned her opinion. That again!

“There are some things you need to know,” added Kirstin, the sister to Torolf, Ragnor, and Madrene. She worked at a school for adults called You-Seal-Aye teaching ancient history, the turn of the tenth century and beginning of the eleventh century. Dark Ages, Kirstin called it, which Britta could understand. Everything was brighter here, including the buildings with their magic lighting.

“Come inside, Britta,” Madrene suggested. “Let me show you some things that should convince you that this is a different time.” Once in the scullery, Madrene demonstrated a large box that kept food cold and even made ice, another box with fire circles on top that cooked food without flames, and a loud whirring hole where wet garbage was chewed up and washed away. No middens here, apparently. Off the kitchen, there were two more boxes, one for washing clothes and the other for drying them. There was even an object that sucked up dirt from the floor, as if brooms were not sufficient.

Madrene and her husband must have had great wealth, although Britta was not impressed at all by the size of their keep. Compared to Norstead and the nearby Magnusson farmstead where Madrene and her family had grown up, this dwelling would scarce fill the great halls.