Young Writers Society

It felt like a knife has been stabbed into his chest as Folkvar walked away, leaving the kids he’d grown too fond of behind him. More than his leaving, the fact that he’d let his emotions cloud his teaching abilities haunted him. The kids didn’t deserve that.

Stopping under a tree to calm down, he worried about what the kids would do with a lack of guidance, as much of the village would be gone. The shade cooled the sweat on his neck and brow, sending a shiver down his spine like ice.

Bjorn will rise to the occasion. He must- he’s been groomed for it all his life. But what will become of Brandr? The boy’s got berserker blood in him, and that needs to be watched. We should consider having him live or train with Asgeirr. But perhaps the others will be a steadier influence on him. And Sigrid- he stopped himself, shaking his head. Hopefully she’ll grow out of this phase.

Starting off again, touching the Mjolnir amulet beneath his tunic, he made for the further outskirts of town, out north. The farther inland he got the quieter and more secluded he was. He could walk there without too much time lost from his day, but it was certainly out of the way. It was meant to be. Folkvar just hoped that the Jarl would be long done and gone by the time he arrived.

He walked quietly, listening to the woods to his right and the soft sound of his boots on the soil. It didn’t take long to be removed from the township, but it never ceased to amaze him the wild power of their landscape. The earth shaped them, and they did their best not to do so in return. Far above, ravens cawed and circled as he walked. The farther north he got, the ravens multiplied, many of them hopping and cawing from branch to branch, making it impossible for him to move unnoticed.

Silently, Folkvar wished it were a good omen, pulling out his necklace and touching it once. With who he was about to meet with, he’d soon find out.

In the distance, with the sun high in the sky and gaining its midday strength, a small homestead resided. Made from the same living turf as the ground around it, the home grew out of the countryside almost unnoticed. To the unknowing eye, it would have been easily overlooked. Beside the house, a few sheep with flowing pelts and goats with old horns grazed inside a fenced area, all of which looked up and bleated as he approached. From around the house, a small dog came out to investigate the livestock’s disturbance, lips raised defensively. Upon seeing him, the dog stopped showing its teeth but remained between Folkvar and the livestock.

“Good dog,” Folkvar said lowly, crouching to seem unthreatening. Once the dog warmed to his presence, he got back up and reached out to knock on the door. A man’s voice could be heard inside, coming for the door. Folkvar stepped aside nimbly, drawing his knife instinctively as the Jarl stormed out from the house.

“Can you believe it? Merely more than a girl and commanding what the Jarl- her Jarl- does and does not do.” He looked to Folkvar, who sighed and returned his knife to its sheath with a reddened face. “Unbelievable! Her mother had the gift- this girl cannot. Don’t waste your time, Folkvar.”

Folkvar watched skeptically, eyebrow raised. Ormr strutted off in the direction of town, fuming. The Jarl was a good man, but he didn’t like being wrong. Turning away from his leader, he peered through the open door cautiously before proceeding in. It was best not to surprise her.

It was dark inside the small house, despite the abundance of light outside. Window shutters were drawn, and the only light came from the small fire in the middle on the short hall. Sniffing, Folkvar noticed the lack of smoky atmosphere so usual to their people’s houses. She must have lit the fire recently, Folkvar mused as he searched the room.

Beyond the firelight, a figure moved, the rustle of clothing making Folkvar jump. Regaining his composure, he nodded curtly as the figure came into view.

Sweeping into the light like mist from an uneasy ocean, a young woman- no more than eighteen winters- looked out at him. Her snowy blonde hair was draped in front of her shoulder, stark against her dark grey dress which hung on her body like a work of art. Folkvar forced himself to keep his eyes on hers, remembering his recent marriage to Auda. The young woman’s eyes, however, were no less alluring than any other aspect of her. She looked out at him with one blue eye and one grey eye, like the ocean and the storm. The young woman had grown up drastically since he’d last seen her.

She glided over to him and nodded lightly, snow hair framing her knowing eyes. The rune-teller knew why he was there. She always knew why people visited her. Yet she insisted that Folkvar be the first to speak.

“I apologize for the way Orm- er, the Jarl- acted.” Folkvar began, suddenly uncomfortable like a young man again. “Many men cannot handle good advice from anyone but themselves.”

Her voice flowed like glacial water over a shallow riverbed, calm and fluid from a haunting source. “Many men cannot handle a woman knowing their hearts and futures.”

Folkvar gulped uncomfortably. He couldn’t blame the Jarl. Although beautiful to a fault, the local witch was inexplicably unsettling. “I hope to handle the reading more amiably, whatever the gods have in store for me.”

She turned and padded quietly over beyond the fire, moving a small table into the firelight. She gestured to the benches built into the far wall, just beyond a table, facing the door. Without a word the young woman placed a stool between the table and the fire and looked back at Folkvar.

With a touch of embarrassment, he realized he hadn’t moved. Hastily joining her across the table, he coughed uncomfortably.

“You come for a rune reading, yes?” she asked, producing a drawstring leather pouch from her belt and feeling its contents through the leather rhythmically. Her white blonde hair glowed in the firelight, like a halo of cold mist around the moon. She turned her ethereal eyes on him, waiting.

“Yes. Whenever I tried, the runes were unclear.” Folkvar watched the elegance with which her hands moved, hypnotized. “I need to know what Odin has in store for me and my men on the coming raid.”

“So you wish to know how the raid and its party will fare.” The young woman closed her unsettling, capturing eyes and concentrated. Soon she’d be lost deep in thought.

“Yes, if you please, Spana.” Folkvar shifted on the bench. He hoped she’d heard him before she fell into the world of the runes- deaf to mortals’ plights. Yet Spana- the young witch woman- was already gone.

The fire crackled and illuminated beyond her, dancing along the outlines of her figure. Her hand reached into the pouch, carefully following with her mind’s eye. Directly from her nimble, pallid fingers, without changing any angle, Spana laid the rune on the table. With her free hand she carefully shook the bag, eyes distant, as if Folkvar and the house around her didn’t exist. She repeated the motions until eight runes lay in a row on the table, shaded from the dim lighting by her shadow. Upon placing the eighth rune down, her eyes hungrily scanned the line. Her lips curled into a smile.

“Is there good news?” Folkvar asked, a little rushed. He wished he hadn’t.

The woman locked eyes with him, almost aggressively. “Do not interrupt a rune teller as she read the runes. This is your fate, not mine, in my hands.”

Folkvar held up his hands defensively. Please just tell me. Bad omen or not, I just need to know.

Her eyes searched his, a little kinder, as if she’d read his thoughts. Folkvar wasn’t so sure she hadn’t. Her snowy hair reflected the firelight likes stars in the night sky. He wondered briefly if she kept her house dark to amplify her ethereal allure- because it was working. Spana placed the pouch on the table and laced her long fingers. “Would you like to hear what they have to say?” One eyebrow arched gracefully.

He nodded, as respectful as possible.

She slowly traced the carved runes, feeling each groove with her nails. Her voice became slow and distant, far-away, as if reciting an old song she only half remembered. “The raid will go well- the seas will be calm, the men will triumph in battle, and the stores of treasure will be large. You will find little to no resistance- for those across the seas have yet to prepare against our kind. Our warriors will bring much glory to the gods, and they will be pleased.”

Folkvar let out a sigh of relief. All would be well after all. He had nothing to be stressing about. That was why he could not read the runes he drew himself. With this level of a good omen, what could Ormr have been so furious about?

“Although, there is a warning about the home front. Be mindful of how you leave it.” Spana’s voice cooled again, dangerously smooth. "If left unhandled, the seas will turn on you, and Ran's nine daughters will claw at the men."

He sat upright, taken aback. “What of the home front? The village is doing well.”

“It is merely what I see in the runes, Folkvar Felmanson.” She shrugged lightly. “Do you wish for a clarifier?”

Nodding profusely, Folkvar watched her eyes close as she picked up and rattled the pouch again. The fire suckled at the embers, ebbing and flowing with Spana’s rhythms. From the shaken bag, she produced a ninth rune, placing it center above the line of eight. Folkvar thought he detected a faint twitch at the corner of her mouth, but if the rune perturbed her, she didn’t show it further.

It took her a moment, but she finally spoke. “All I am sensing is a need on the home front. The village will not have what it needs to get by. The runes will tell me no more.” She stood, Folkvar following suit, and read the runes once more, a furrow barely noticeable between her eyebrows. Gaining nothing new, she picked them up and placed them back in the pouch one by one. The pouch was quickly tied in its place on her belt.

Folkvar stood there awkwardly, large and out of place, unsure is she was done with him. Should he just leave? Hesitantly, the man made his way toward the door. Something tugged at him. He knew he shouldn’t, but his curiosity bested his loyalty.

“Spana,” he faltered. “If it’s not too bold to ask, what did the runes say for the Jarl that had him in such an uproar?”

As she turned, he knew he shouldn’t have asked. Her mouth held a tense partial smile, the kind put on when around people one would prefer not to be. A lying smile. If it were on a man, Folkvar would have worried. “Folkvar, I assume you would not wish me to share your fate with any random soul to come to my door. I expect you to give the same credit to our Jarl.” The smile flickered with the fire.

“I apologize,” he said, realizing how many times he’d said that throughout the day. He tipped his head politely and got out of the house as quickly as he could without being rude.

Sunlight hit his eyes harshly and he threw up a hand to shade them. The day was still young. It was a good day to work, to get things done- there was still time to spare. That is, if there was ever any time to be spared; life in the north did not afford its people much leisure.

He left Spana Rune-Teller’s home behind him, making the walk back toward the village. This time the ravens seemed to have grown louder and more plentiful, laughing at him like they knew something he didn’t. They probably did. As he passed them they’d toss their black feathered heads back and throw their jeers at him. Tempted to lob a stone in the mocking winged tormentors’ direction, Folkvar refrained, hoping Odin’s birds would not bring him more misfortune.

As he made it within view of the village, he stopped to scan it. From above, it appeared vast. Sprawling homesteads with small gardens peppered the incline. A couple wide dirt paths cut through the green land from the town square; a few trails were worn unceremoniously into the ground stretching from the coastline up to the farms and between the houses and the markets. Villagers worked the farms and livestock milled about in enclosures; goats, sheep, horses, and the occasional pig snuffled at the grass. The men who’d join the raiding party practiced in the open field beside the mead hall- sword and shield clashing as they sparred, axes being buried in tree stumps. Folkvar would soon be joining them.

The village looked just the way it always did. They had everything they needed, and while it may not have spilled over to become excess, it was all they needed to get by. The land was harsh, but so were its people. There was a certain pride that came with surviving.

Folkvar should have been relieved with the witch’s reading. It annoyed him that he was not. Raids kept the village afloat. A good, promising raid like she predicted should have lifted his spirits and removed his doubts. The good omen was overshadowed by the bad, diminished by its foreboding nature. The gods are always so cryptic, Folkvar grumbled to himself. The fate of the village hung over his head, haunting him. While it may not have been the responsibility bestowed on his shoulders- it was the Jarl’s to worry about- it still haunted him. He had always been more concerned on the state of his people than the average citizen.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to push it all from his mind. In light of recent stress and turmoil, he looked down upon the brawling men and couldn’t wait to join them. What he needed was the mindless thrill of the practice battlefield.