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“Everyone loves her,” Chessa said. “Your second papa also believes you should never forget that. What a woman is has nothing to do with how she looks.”
“A man as well,” Cleve said.
“Ah,” Chessa said into his ear, “then you will finally know how much I love you. Not only your beautiful face and body, but your spirit, that deep richness in you?”
“You’re mad,” he said, and kissed her, then sighed deeply.
Kiri snuggled about to face her father, poking Chessa in the ribs with her knee. “You mean these strange people don’t have bathing huts?”
“No,” Cleve said. “I’ve heard that many of them never bathe for as long as they live. We won’t live near them, I promise you, sweeting.”
Chessa took Cleve’s hand, freed from Kiri’s for the moment. “They also have different beliefs, Kiri. The Vikings, like us, believe in Odin-All-Father, the chief of all our gods, the creator, the warrior, the keeper of heaven and earth. But there is Thor as well. In Dublin where I come from, we’re called the tribe of Thor. He’s our sky god, the god of thunder and storms whom our seafarers pray to for good weather. He’s closer to us than Odin-All-Father, more personal to us, I suppose.”
“Are you going to remember all this, Kiri?”
“Aye, Papa. Freya will see to it.”
He moaned. “Did I ever tell you that you were too smart? Nay, don’t answer that. Now, did you know that Vikings have also become Christians? That means they have priors and monks and priests and bishops, all sorts of men who tell them what they’re supposed to believe and what they’re to do and none of them agree with the other. All they agree on is that there is only one god and He is God. They have a Valhalla just like ours, but they count on this one God of theirs to see to their fertility, their battles, their crops, everything. It’s a big chore for just one deity.”
“Duke Rollo of Normandy and the Vikings who rule and live in the Danelaw are Christians, at least they profess to be.”
“So you see, sweeting, we’re going to sleep now because I want very much to kiss your second papa and I can’t because it would send me very great pain. Good night, Kiri.”
“Good night, Papa. Good night, Papa.”
“Soon, Kiri,” Chessa said, kissing Cleve’s fingers, nibbling the pad of his thumb, “we’re sailing to Scotland for a very great adventure.”
“Why can’t you kiss Chessa, Papa?”
“Go to sleep, Kiri.”
Cleve didn’t go to sleep for a good while. They were going on an adventure, that was certain. He was scared. He had no idea what they would find. How could anyone even remember him? Surely all had changed in the twenty years he’d been gone. Who was Cleve to them? A little boy maybe, that had been thought dead so many years before. What if what he remembered, all those landmarks, weren’t there anymore? What if nothing were the same? What if they went, found nothing, then what? He had a wife and a child. What would he do?
Damn her, it was as if she’d read his thoughts. She said low, so much love in her voice that he wanted to run, “It’s all right. We’re together. It will be all right.”
“If you’re so smart then why did you begin your monthly flow now?”
Chessa laughed, took his hand, and kissed each of his fingers again. “I love the taste of you,” she said softly so not to awaken Kiri.
“Why are you putting my first Papa’s fingers in your mouth, Chessa?”
“I’m kissing them just like I’m going to kiss yours now.”
The child laughed, turning back to Chessa, when she grabbed Kiri’s fingers and kissed each one.
The next day was warm, the inside of the smoking hut so hot the women had tied their hair up with kerchiefs. “Now,” Mirana said to Chessa, “you see that we have enough racks here for hundreds of fish. The gods know we need them with Kerzog’s appetite. The ones here are clean and split open. We hold them open with wooden skewers hung on thin wooden rods passed through the heads. Now this fire that’s making us all miserable isn’t as hot as it could be. I’ve banked it down with sawdust and woodchips so it just keeps on smoking and smoldering. This dries the fish out very slowly.”
“Aye,” Old Alna said. “I like my oak sawdust the best. It gives the herring a nice sharp taste.”
Mirana laughed. “And I prefer pine and fir. You will experiment to see what you and Cleve like best. Now, all the cod, the hake, and the salmon turn yellow. See? Tomorrow, we’ll pack them in barrels with lots of salt between each layer. They’ll last probably longer than we’ll live.”
“With all that salt,” Chessa said slowly, “I imagine the smoked fish would last longer than any of our children or our grandchildren.”
“It does, probably forever. You see that we smoke the meat in just the same way. I’m glad you’ll be living next to both a lake and the sea. You’ll never have to worry about food. There’ll be abundant fish, trout, I’ve heard, and now you know how to make it last forever.”
“Och,” Old Alna said, “I remember when you ruined it all, Mirana. The stench drove us from the longhouse.”
Mirana buffeted the old woman very gently on her bony shoulder. “Old Alna’s right. You must smoke the fish long enough or else it will rot and nothing smells worse than rotted fish.” She then walked Chessa through each step in the process, Old Alna cackling advice and disagreements with Mirana often enough to keep the women amused.
