Page 41 of Don’t Let Me Go

everyone in the room as they set out huge plates of food overflowing with bread, cheese, pork, and herring. Sweet mead flows

in our cups, though wine and wine alone is offered to the seeress.

“You must eat,” I whisper to Ragnar. I grab a haunch of pork from a passing servant and push it into his hands. But after

a few bites, he grows weary from the effort.

“Tomorrow,” he sighs. “I’ll eat tomorrow.”

I nod, but his breath is so short, I have no certainty that we are guaranteed a tomorrow. Only the seeress has that knowledge,

and she is not here for me. She is here for Erik. Erik who seeks to know all that the future holds.

I have no such ambitions. My one desire is to know if my fears for Ragnar are merited, and, if so, what can be done to avert his fate.

I must speak with the witch. Whatever the consequences, whatever Erik’s punishment, I must try. All of Ragnar’s tomorrows

depend on me, and though it cost me my life, I owe him nothing less.

I was nine when he and I became bond-brothers. The woman I called Mother for the first years of my life was a healer. She

lived among women who practiced the healing arts in the forests outside Húsavík in Iceland. I had no father I knew by name.

Men were not permitted among the healers, so when it was that I reached my ninth winter, I was given to Ragnar’s family. They

farmed in Húsavík, and they owed my mother a life-debt, for she had breathed life back into Ragnar’s sister when she’d drowned

as a child.

My life in Húsavík was good. Most of the families were farmers, for the soil was rich and the harvests bountiful. This made

us a constant target for sea-raiders, whose swift ships would appear on the horizon and strike without warning. In preparation

against this evil, the young boys of my village were taught the ways of the shield and the sword from an early age, and Ragnar

was accounted a skilled fighter by the time he reached his ninth summer.

Raised by women and healers, I could scarcely handle a knife. This should have earned me Ragnar’s scorn. Instead, he took

it upon himself to forge me into a warrior. Whatever time we had for our own after we finished our chores, he spent teaching

me the art of combat. I repaid him the only way I knew how: with songs I had learned from my mother and the women of her forest.

I had a pleasing voice, and many were the nights when my songs would lull Ragnar to sleep in the bed we shared. He said my

songs gave him the sweetest visions while he slept.

In this manner, six summers passed. Him teaching me to fight. Me teaching him to dream.

Then the day came. The day we had long prepared for.

The day that still caught us unprepared.

Sea-raiders fell upon our village, swift and merciless like the wolves of winter.

They burned the farms, stole the summer harvest, and left so many bodies in their wake that the ravens could have feasted upon them until Ragnarok.

Ragnar fought with the savagery of a bear. He split the head of a raider with the ax his father used for chopping wood and

gutted another with his sword. I killed no one, but I kept myself alive and fought the best I could. Even so, our farm was

burned with the others. My bond-parents were killed, and Ragnar’s sister was taken by the raiders along with many of the young

women.

That night, after the raiders had gone, leaving our village in ruins, I bathed Ragnar’s wounds in the sea and sang him songs

to soothe his soul. His grief was great but silent. He did not cry. He never cried. But in the remains of our charred farmhouse,

for the first time since we were children, he climbed into my bed and wrapped his body around mine as if he were afraid I

too would be snatched away from him.

“If I had lost you, I would have let the raiders kill me,” he said, whispering his confession into the back of my neck. “You

are half my heart.”

Not long after, Erik came to Húsavík—or what was left of Húsavík—in his great ship with sails that blotted out the sun. His

settlement in Greenland was expanding, he said. He was seeking warriors to serve him and protect his territory. In exchange,

such men would be well provided for.

The stench of death still hung in the air of Húsavík, so Ragnar accepted the offer. His one condition was that Erik take me

as well.

“Can he fight?” Erik asked, eyeing me as if I were a fish not worth the filleting. “He looks small.”

“He can. Even if he could not, he is my bond-brother. Where I go, he goes.”

So it was that Ragnar and I came to Brattahlid, he to fight for Erik, and me to fight for him. Such are my thoughts when the

seeress’s sharp voice, like the breaking of glass, echoes across the Great Hall and calls me back to the present.

“Where are your women?” Ulfhild demands.

Her question is aimed at no man in particular and yet it strikes fear in the heart of every man who hears it. The raucous

laughter of my brother-warriors, which had hitherto flowed as freely as the mead, shrivels and vanishes. The room plunges

into silence, and all eyes turn to Erik, who shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

“Our wives have dined already,” he answers.

“You will summon them,” the seeress commands as if asking for another bowl of hazelnuts.

“Unfortunately, that will not be possible,” Erik replies. “My wife has of late adopted the Christian faith. As have many of

the other women here. It is a great inconvenience, to be sure, but my wife says it is not permitted for her or any Christian

woman to be in the presence of a—” Erik catches himself before he can say the forbidden word. “It is not permitted that they

dine with us.”

“I see.” Ulfhild’s thin lips curl into a dangerous smile. She rises from her chair, approaches the long fire burning in the

center of the hall, and warms her hands in front of it. Circling the flame in slow, deliberate steps, she says, “Tell me,

Chieftain, if you seek to know the secrets of what is to come, why do you not have your wife ask her new god?”

Erik has no answer.

“Could it be that her god has no words for Erik Thorvaldson? Or perhaps her god is too new to have acquired the great knowledge

you seek.”

“It is indeed a strange religion,” Erik says carefully. “But I have always thought it best to let women worship as they will. It could be that there are things their new god will reveal to them that we men as yet cannot understand.”

“Perhaps it is so,” Ulfhild assents. “But if you wish me to tell you of your future, I will need your women. The spirits that

I call upon are not my servants. I am theirs. And they must be appeased with song before they will deliver their secrets unto

me. Surely your wife or some woman here still remembers the songs of the old way, even if they have found a new one?”

“They remember, but they will not sing them,” Erik answers solemnly.

“Then my journey has been in vain.”

The seeress turns to leave the hall, and Erik rises in dismay. I hear Ragnar’s breathing grow strained, as if each breath

is a battle, and I am stricken with fear. The witch is leaving, taking with her any hope I might have of saving my beloved.

That cannot happen.

“I know the old songs!” I shout, leaping to my feet.

Ulfhild stops at the door. Without a word, she slowly retraces her steps back to the fire and stares at me across the flames.

“How do you know the songs?” she asks.

“The woman who bore me was a healer. I was raised among women. They taught me their songs.”

“He has a fine voice,” Erik adds eagerly, though such praise he has never once offered before. “My men have oft remarked that

his voice is sweeter than any of our women’s.”

I catch Thorsten and Asvald exchanging a knowing smirk. What Erik has told the seeress is true. What he has omitted is that

when my brother-warriors made such remarks, they were not intended as compliments.

“We shall see,” Ulfhild says. “What is your name?”

“Rorik.”

“And how old are you?”

“Today marks the first day of my eighteenth year.”

Ulfhild’s eyebrows rise in pleasant surprise. “An auspicious day. You may serve me well. You know the Green Warlock’s song?”

“I do.” I sang it to Ragnar many nights in our childhood. It was one of his favorites.

“Begin, then,” the seeress commands. “Let us see what you have learned from your women.”

I look to Ragnar, and despite his fever, his eyes are bright with pride. If I can please the seeress, I am certain she will

grant me the favor I seek. Just as I am certain that without her powers, Ragnar will die.

Erik resumes his place on the high seat and nods for me to commence. I take a deep breath, look once more at Ragnar, and let

the song slip forth from my soul. It has been years since last I sang this particular song, but I have no trouble remembering

the words. My voice comes out clear and strong, filling the Great Hall.

Ulfhild circles the fire. Chanting strange words under her breath, she pulls unfamiliar plants from a small black pouch that

hangs around her waist and tosses them into the flames. Despite the warmth of the fire, I feel a sharp chill seep into the

room. Something in the air shifts. I wonder if the other men feel it too. I think they must. Perched on his chair, Erik looks

rapt, and all his warriors have fallen into silence.

I finish the song and look to the seeress to see if she wishes me to begin again. Her eyes are closed, but she seems to sense

my question.

“Your women taught you well,” Ulfhild purrs with her sly wolf smile. “The spirits are pleased.”

“Will they speak to you?” Erik asks, leaning forward, his eyes shining in hunger.

“Ask your questions, Chieftain, and I will give you their answers,” Ulfhild replies, turning toward Erik but keeping her eyes

closed.

“First, I wish to know of my son Leif. A year ago, he took a ship and set out across the great ocean in search of a new land

on the other side of the world. I wish to know if he has found that land, how he fares, and if he shall return.”