Snowed In with the Viking
highlight_author
Lucy Morris
highlight_reads
19.7K
highlight_chapters
25
Chapter One
Why me?
Embla already knew the answer to that question.
Because I am soft!
There was no doubting it; she was soft in every way.
Plump, sweet, devoted Embla.
Who looked and acted like a mother despite having no children of her own. Always willing to help those around her, especially the Jarl’s wife, Gertrud...
‘She has been good to me,’ she would say whenever the other women rolled their eyes at her doglike obedience.
But such meekness and eagerness to please had only led her into situations such as this, alone and frightened. Left out in the cold.
‘It was for the boys,’ she told the icy landscape around her, and felt a little better for saying it out loud. She would gladly sacrifice her comfort for the children, and this was all it was: a little discomfort.
She only wished she were not alone. If only Gertrud had let her take one of the other women with her. Her sense of direction had never been good, and she was out much further then she was used to. If she had someone to help guide her, she might already be home by now, warming her toes in front of the fire, cooking up a hearty stew, or playing with the children. Instead, she was all alone in the forest and had lost the feeling in her toes not long after she had waved goodbye to the boys.
Embla had been more optimistic then, grateful that she had found the boys not too far from where they had said they would be. It was impressive enough that she had made it there without any issues. Fortune seemed to have favoured them all, as the boys had only a few minor scrapes and bruises from their sledging accident.
Thank Odin they were not badly hurt!
It could have been so much worse.
Young boys never seemed to realise how quickly fate could turn against you. They thought themselves immortal, even more so because they were Jarl Thorin’s sons. Never having known true hardship or cruelty, they did not comprehend that life could sometimes be unkind. Embla understood, but she would not wish that bitter truth on them just yet.
However, she did wish they were a little more cautious at times. No one with any sense would climb the mountain at this time of year. The days were short this far north, and already the fragile light was fading. Unseasonably warm weather could not be trusted, and if she had had any say in the matter, she would have forbidden the boys from going sledging in the first place, or at least insisted on guards going with them.
But of course, she had no right to order the Jarl’s three sons, and had to accept their mother’s judgement above her own. Gertrud had seen nothing wrong with letting the boys play with their new hand-pulled sledges. But as the morning progressed and the boys had failed to return, everyone had grown more troubled by their absence.
So, Embla had dutifully gone after them with a pony and her own sledge to hurry them home. She had found them, although they had moved a little further north from the frozen river, where they had said they would be. They’d been too tempted by a steep ridge further up. Unfortunately, the drop had been harsher than they had expected, and they had crashed into one another, breaking all but one of their new gifts. It was fortunate they had not broken their necks, and Embla had whispered a thank-you to the goddess Frigg.
Hakon had been badly bruised and tearful about his broken sledge. He had refused to leave it behind, behaving as if it were a wounded friend—which had made little Magnus insist on doing the same. So, poor Ketil, the eldest, had ended up dragging two by himself, while Hakon struggled with his. Little Magnus had been sat in the remaining sledge, frozen to the bone and whimpering pitifully from his ice-encrusted blankets.
So, Embla had quickly packed them up in her sledge, and tied their own ones behind it. Worried it would be a lot for her old pony to carry, she had decided to walk back alone. That way she ensured the boys would be home, safe and warm as soon as possible.
At the time, she had been confident she would make it back to Gudvangen before it grew dark. But that was looking more unlikely with every step.
It had seemed a perfectly reasonable plan at the time. Now she was cursing her own stupidity. She should have insisted the boys leave their broken sledges behind. One of the men could have come and collected them tomorrow...or more likely, she would have been sent back to fetch them. It was not a pleasant thought, but she would rather do fifty journeys on the sledge then this single walk back home.
The pony knew the way better than she did, and she was not built for this kind of labour. Her fingers and toes were numb, while the rest of her body was covered in sweat from the exertion of stumbling through the snow. She felt both feverish and painfully cold all at the same time.
Maybe, if she sampled less of her own cooking and spent more of her summers working in the fields rather than looking after the children, she might have squeezed into the sledge with the boys...or at least suffered this walk back with more grace. But as it was, she was plump, soft, and already breathless before she even lost sight of the boys ahead of her.
At first, she had only been embarrassed about how long it would take for her to get back. She knew Gertrud would give her a disapproving look.
‘You must be strong, Embla!’ she would say, and sigh.
But she was not strong or brave. She had immediately taken a detour further up into the mountain forests when she had seen a pack of wolves running along the frozen river. Now she was no longer embarrassed or worried that this stroll home would take all day and most of the night.
No, she was scared of losing her life entirely! Each step towards home felt pointless, and she was afraid that she would never warm her toes by the fire or kiss the boys goodnight ever again.
Embla cursed as her foot sank deeply into the snow. Struggling to pull it out without losing her boot or footing, she shuffled forward with her other foot, only to fall into another soft pocket of snow. Suddenly she ploughed down into the bank up to her waist.
Terrified she might fall even further, she scrabbled with her mittens to reach out across the top of the snow and stop herself sinking further. Icy powder hit her face and neck, and then melted and ran down her back, stealing the last drops of her confidence.
‘Help!’ she squeaked, but even the wind ignored her. Behind her was nothing but the markings of her own heavy feet. Ahead only snow-capped trees, and endless white banks below a rapidly dimming sky.
What if it were a gaping ravine beneath her, or a stream?
She remembered the tale of a man who had gone fishing and fallen through the ice. His body had never been found. Would that happen to her? Would she slide beneath the ice and be trapped forever? Would she become a warning, a tale to frighten children into returning home well before nattmal?
The Hall was filled with tales of monsters and beasts that lived in the woods. Would she become one? Or did an even worse fate await her? The midwife with no family of her own, whose life, like her footsteps, melted away, leaving nothing behind. She would become nothing more than a forgotten memory.
Tears pricked her eyes, and as there was no witness to her humiliation, she let them fall. One heaving sob was followed by another. No one would come to her rescue; she would die, as she had always feared she would...completely alone.
‘Not like this! Please!’ Her sobs became incoherent cries as she wallowed in her self-pity. ‘I haven’t even lived!’
Her wails caused birds to flutter from their perches, and she realised belatedly that her body had at least stopped sinking for the moment. Although, worryingly, the snow was now up to her shoulders.
But at least the snow had stopped cracking beneath her feet and she realised it was now solid. A dip in the landscape then...not a crevasse. Now she felt really foolish, crying like a babe for its mother when she had just fallen into a ditch.
She had indulged in her own misery for far too long, and if she were to die, she should at least try to take her last breath with more dignity then in a hole of her own body’s making.
What if someone found her like this?
Frozen solid and planted in the ground like a turnip. The shame of it would follow her into the afterlife.
Try to be calm, even if you do not feel it.
Her mother’s words gave her strength and she pushed forward, determined to die lying down at least.
Grunting heavily, she began to claw her way out, wiggling her large rump and thick thighs until she managed to drag herself out. Afraid to stand, she began to roll herself down the hillside.
She made good progress, and had to wonder why she had not thought of this method before. It was certainly quicker and took less effort.
But when she thumped into a tree stump and bruised her ribs, she decided it was probably time for her to stand. There were more trees, so there must be solid ground beneath. Stumbling to her feet, she grumbled bad-temperedly when she realised how wet her woollens were—another reason why rolling wasn’t such a good idea. When night came, her clothes would freeze to her body like a heavy shroud.
She tried to shake it off like a dog coming in from the rain, but to her surprise the powder kept falling. Glancing up she realised it was coming from the sky, and she wanted to howl her frustration at the moon over the injustice of it all.
‘Come along, you stupid woman!’ she snapped, speaking to herself harsher than she would have spoken to anyone else. ‘No one is going to help you out of this other than yourself!’
She began to walk, but the snow became thick and heavy, spitting shards of ice in her face like a vengeful spirit.
Maybe she should seek shelter? The craggy peak known as Wolf’s Tooth was a little further ahead of her, and she remembered there were meant to be caves below it. Surely that would be better than being out in a blizzard?
Maybe, if she took shelter, someone would eventually come for her?
It was a hopeful thought, and probably far too optimistic, but it gave her comfort and just enough energy to make the climb.
It felt like days later, when she finally shuffled into the shadow of its overhanging cliff.
The snow was falling thicker now. Her feet were lethargic and heavy. She could barely see the dark mouth of the cave a short distance ahead of her. Despite her exhaustion, she pushed herself towards it. When she was inside, she could lie down and sleep, but not before. Only the endless sleep awaited her if she gave up now.
Her steps faltered at the entrance. She had not thought beyond finding shelter... What if wolves or a bear lived inside? Or even worse...a monster from the tales!
Dying of cold might be preferable to meeting one of those beasts.
There could be a troll, or one of the wolf women called Mara, or Huldra, who ate souls. There were any number of wicked creatures that could be waiting for her in the darkness, and her mind rattled through them, imagining every terrible possibility with growing panic.
The entrance to the cave was large, but it was filled with huge fallen boulders, and craggy rocks, so she couldn’t see inside it clearly.
A gust of wind, so strong that it ripped the cap off her head, swept across the land. Her cap went sailing into the clouds, the white scrap of linen lost quickly amongst the falling snow.
Monsters could be waiting for her. But if she didn’t go inside, the cold would kill her for certain. She pushed forward, the frigid wind still battering her, stealing her breath and causing her to curve inwards on herself.
‘Even little Magnus is braver than you!’ she moaned wretchedly, and began to pick her path carefully through the stony entrance.
A specific tale came to mind as she made her way inside. Not from the mythical stories she had heard, but that of a real man. She shivered; even though she had never seen him with her own eyes, others had. Unlike the stories about trolls and beasts, the stories regarding him had been whispered in dark corners.
The hunter! The wild man of the forest—more beast than man! His father was Norse and his mother Sami—although he belongs to neither people now. Be careful around him. He can curse you with a word or a look! He tried to steal a woman once!
She was not sure if there was any truth in the rumours of magic and kidnapping. No one had ever elaborated on their warnings, and she had heard more details in the tales about trolls than she had about the hunter. It was as if there was an unspoken rule never to discuss him, at least not openly.
Regardless of whether it was true or not, Embla was always grateful the Jarl had insisted the hunter trade outside of Gudvangen’s gates. Every autumn he came down from the mountains and sold his furs and mystical Sami crafts. The Norse both feared and treasured the crafts of the Sami, believing them to have great mystical power.
The Sami were an ancient people. They still lived according to the old ways, as shamans, fishermen, and hunters. They moved around the northern lands, depending on the season, and lived in tented communities.
But as far as she was aware, the hunter did not go with them. No one knew where he lived. Some said he lived in the caves, others that he lived by the coast. But everyone was certain of one thing: he lived in the wilderness all alone.
She frowned; she couldn’t imagine anything worse than to live without a home. Leaning against a huge rock, she tried to listen for any sign that wild animals lay beyond.
Nothing.
In a strange sort of way, she wished there was someone, anyone in the cave beyond. She didn’t think she could survive alone.
Taking a deep breath, she prepared herself to face life or death depending on the will of the gods. Stumbling out from behind the boulder, she made her way into the cave and down through a scattering of rocks to a clearing below, which would at least be out of the worst of the wind.
She slipped because of her numb feet and ended up sliding down most of the way on her bottom. That was surprising enough, but when she rubbed her sore rump and looked around her, she was even more shocked at the unexpected sight that awaited her.
Set out neatly, as if they were waiting patiently just for her, was a basket of vegetables and a skinned hare ready to be cooked. On a roll of leather sat a cauldron, a knife, and a spoon. There was also a bundle of bedding and furs already rolled out in front of a pile of logs and tinder that was artfully arranged within a circle of stones. Helpfully, a lighting flint lay beside it.
Who had left these here? And more importantly, where were they now?
‘Heil!’ she called out, but only her echo answered.
Was it the hunter?
It had to be... Who else would have such a small camp in the middle of the mountain?
Surely he would not mind a weary traveller taking shelter from the storm? He might even appreciate her cooking his meal, so that it was ready for his return...
Maybe...
Unease grew within her, but what choice did she have?
He is just a man!
But men could steal and kill...
I am under Jarl Thorin’s protection.
That reassured her. No matter how beastly the hunter was, he obeyed the Jarl’s orders to remain behind the gate to trade, so he wasn’t completely wild.
But you are not in Gudvangen now, her mind whispered cruelly, and she let out a loud shriek of frustration that bounced off the walls.
Thankfully, it finally silenced the endless fears that preyed on her mind, and she took off her outer layers. Shivering, she placed them on nearby rocks to dry out, as she didn’t want to get the bedding roll wet.
Who was she to judge him anyway? She knew nothing about the man other than petty and idle talk.
Yes, he was feared by the people and disliked by the Jarl. But he had not committed any crimes since she had come to live in Gudvangen, and she had lived here for many years. His crime, or supposed argument with the Jarl, couldn’t have been too great, as he was still allowed to sell his furs and highly prized goods. Thorin even resold many of the items at a greater profit when he went trading, so it would be foolish to turn him away over something minor.
The hunter sold amber, seal skins, and reindeer furs, as well as rare bear furs, whale bones, and exotic horns from a large northern fish that had a single tusk the size of a spear. The crafts were equally impressive: colourful, highly skilled embroidery and carvings that took your breath away. Embla had seen and envied the luxuries people bought from him, but never the man himself.
Gertrud feared him and his wild ways, and insisted all the children stay in her chamber whenever he was near. So that was where Embla had stayed on the rare occasions he came to sell his goods, and it was also why she had never met him personally.
She had only arrived in Gudvangen when the Jarl had needed a midwife. Gertrud had insisted on either Embla or her mother delivering the child, wanting a familiar face from her old home at the birth. And then... Embla had somehow stayed...for ten years.
It was another example of her weakness. She could never say no to anyone who asked for help.
She shuffled forward, fumbling to remove her mittens so that she could light the fire. The tinder was dry and well packed, and it bloomed with flame in only a single strike of the flint. Embla gave a happy cry of delight, and then reached for the cauldron.
Perhaps, it wasn’t the hunter’s meal after all, but the gods who favoured her? She had helped many people in Gudvangen over the years. Could it be Frigg, the goddess of childbirth, reaching out to protect one of her loyal followers?
Whoever had left this bounty didn’t matter. Embla would accept it gladly, and face the consequences later.
