Page 46 of Truly, Madly Viking

Look at this from my perspective, m'lady. There is no winter chill in the air here, but winter has already begun in other parts of your country. On the seas I need to travel, the air will be frigid—too cold for sailing on an open longship till springtime. Have you ever tried to row a boat with ice on the oars? Have you ever stood for hours at a time in weather so wet and cold that every hair on your body turns to icicles, even the chest hairs? Of course you haven't. Can you not see that I must communicate with Thora soon, or be forced to wait many months to leave this land?"

"Is that such a bad thing?"

"Yea, it is the worst of all things. My brother Rolf is in danger. Every day might count in my completing his rescue."

Maggie thought about all his impossible words. "Assuming I believe everything that you've said, Joe, it seems to me that there must be a good reason why you were sent to this land... and this time." She nearly choked on that last part. "If you're going to accept that the Fates—or the gods... or even a killer whale—are determining your destiny, then you also have to accept that coming to Galveston was preordained."

He followed her words with interest. "I have considered all these things, and I agree that it was no mistake that landed me on these shores. But sometimes man can influence his destiny. In fact, does not your Christian religion have a saying that God helps those who help themselves?"

Maggie had to laugh at Joe's quick mind. She wished she knew who or what he really was. Aside from being a gorgeous specimen of manhood, he was intelligent and strong and a born leader. What did he do for a living? Was he a career military man? A construction worker? An adventurer, or an extreme exercise fanatic... like the father of her two children, who had a perfectly good career as a resident physician but had to jump out of airplanes, as well? There should be a clue in all she knew of Joe, but the answer eluded her.

"Well, enough of this for today," she said, standing and brushing the dirt off the rump of her jeans—a maneuver that Joe watched with decided masculine interest, despite his desolation over his predicament.

"We have to get back to the orca show. It should be over soon."

As they were strolling in front of the bleachers toward the Rainbow group, which was watching the show avidly, Joe remarked, "I just wish that damned killer whale would get back here and rescue me, so I can rescue my brother."

Just then Gonzo swam up and flicked his huge tail fins, causing a wave of water to cover Joe from head to toe. So much for communicating with killer whales! Or maybe Gonzo was communicating, after all, in response to Joe's deprecating comment about whales. Sort of an orca version of "Screw you, Viking!"

Jorund and Steve sat alone in the bus.

In the distance, across a wide lawn, could be seen the rest of the Rainbow group staring at a stone wall, which apparently contained the names of all the dead soldiers who had fought in the Battle of Vee-yet-numb. It was a good idea, in Jorund's opinion... one that he intended to mention to King Olaf when he returned to Norway. Of course, they would need a wall much bigger than this one if they were going to record all the dead Vikings in battle after battle through the centuries, rather than any one war or another. In truth, there had been so many Norse wars, the skalds had lost count long ago. Some people, especially those bloody Saxon clerics who recorded English history, claimed a Viking would fight with anyone, even his own brother. It was true.

A few of the people who had come to view the Moving Wall besides the Rainbow group gave curious looks at Chuck the Viking... and at Not a-lie, too, who was wont to break into song at the least provocation. Right now she was singing about a honk-key-tonk angel, her fringes swaying from side to side as she danced to her own music.

"Come, Steve," Jorund urged his friend. "You are a man of courage. Are you going to turn coward now?"

Jorund was not in a good mood, especially after his disappointing failure to locate the elusive Thora.

Although he had not voiced this particular concern to Mag-he, the worry nagging at him most was the possibility that he might no ever find Thora or his way back to his own time. What would he do then?

In his present ill temper, he did not feel inclined to prod a stubborn ox like Steve to see the error of his ways. But the griefstricken ma was as close to a friend as Jorund had made this godforsaken land of the twentieth century and he could no more abandon him to his pail than he could his own brother, Magnus...

or brother Rolf, he reminded himself guiltily.

"Get lost, birdbrain," Steve responded in most thankless manner. "The last thing in world I have is courage."

"Did you not win that famous medal for valor? Have you not endured thirty years of inner torment? Do you not stay away from your soul mat Shell-he, for love of her? Do you not battle with demons every night in your dreams, and come out the victor? That spells courage to me." Jorund had never been a talkative fellow, but he certainly seemed to have developed a taste for tongue flapping now. And he was good, too. Puffing his chest out, he concluded, "Betimes, survival itself is a form of triumph."

Steve gave him a level stare. "You are so full of it."

"Let me tell you a story—"

"Oh, God! Not another freakin' saga. I swear, if I hear one more tale about Sigurd and the Dragon Lady, I'm gonna puke."

Jorund lifted his chin, affronted. Well, mayhap he had been overdoing the life-lesson legends a mite, but he felt a little closer to home and his old life when he retold the poems and stories of his people. In truth, he probably sounded like his brother Magnus when he'd tipped the mead horn once too often and began to sing ribald songs... except in Jorund's case, he told stories. "I thought you liked my sagas."

"I was being polite, man. Hell, they might be perfectly good yarns when the poets—uh, skalds—put them together, but let me give you a bit of advice, pal: you are no storyteller. Stick to fighting, or whatever the hell it is you do."

Jorund bristled. Should he punch Steve in his sullen face? Or better yet, should he hoist him by the scrawny neck, toss him over his shoulder, and carry him bodily to the bloody wall?

It was an easy decision. He turned slowly and let a slow smile crease his lips.

"Wh-what? Why are you looking at me like that?" Steve asked warily. Then, "You wouldn't! Oh, no, you wouldn't!"

Jorund would.

"Maggie, they're safe in the bus," Harry told her. "But ff you're worried about them, go back and wait there. I'm capable of handling the rest of the group, along with the aid of Gladys and the two attendants."