"Astrid! Astrid!" I heard, rudely interrupting my afternoon read. I glanced up to see my super-annoying younger brother standing in the back doorway calling out to me. He was too far away to see the expression on his face, but I was too engrossed in my research to care what he wanted. "Astrid come here," he called out insistently, "come ooooonnnn!" The whining tone made it clear he was just being lazy and didn't want to have to leave the house. I deepened my resolve to ignore him and continued reading.
Whatever it was could wait. I was finally getting into a critical piece of the puzzle, everything would become much more clear after this. I heard more yelling, but continued to ignore it. It came closer and closer, and it was getting harder to tune him out. I needed to focus here, and what the heck was so important anyway?
"AHHH!" I yelled, as the world spun wildly; the books and papers went flying out of my hands... As the ground approached my face, I realized my stupid brother had swung the hammock around to tip me over.
"Dangit, Astrid, I was calling for you!" he scolded, obviously out of breath from his attack on my peaceful existence. "Mom needed—"
His words were cut off as I sprang up and tackled him, pushing my shoulder into his abdomen. I grabbed around his midsection and swung him backwards into the ground, near to where I was just moments before. I pinned him down easily… almost too easy. He offered no resistance. This immediately set off alarms in my head. I'm a much better fighter than my brother, his raw strength had greatly surpassed my own in the past year or so; it had been quite awhile since I had been able to pin him down like this.
"What's the matter, can't you see I'm busy?" I harshly said into his face. But something was wrong… his face was pale and mouth agape. "As, you're needed inside. Mom… there's something… inside." The words slowly stuttered out.
"What?" I stammered, the realization of the situation taking hold. "Uh, ok…" I tried to think what it could be, but just kept drawing a blank. Money? Work? Family? I just don't know.
"Um, sis?" My brother asked softly. I brought my mind back to reality, assessing the situation. My stance had softened, so I was basically just casually laying on top of my brother, lips pursed and staring off into the grass. His left hand was also trapped in my armpit, unintentionally grasping my right breast. He twitched his fingers ever so slightly. Was he copping a feel or just trying to move? I lingered longer than I should have; probably no more than a second or two, but it seemed like forever.
"Gods!" I mumbled as I pushed up off of him to stand up. He "helped" a bit by pushing with his hand; it wasn't comfortable for sure, but somehow wasn't entirely unpleasant. Shaking it off, I went over to carefully gather my stuff and go inside. I'm glad none of it was damaged—some of the books were
very
old.
I stepped into the house, finding my mother sitting at the kitchen table in tears with my Dad's strong arms wrapped around her. When she saw me, she got up and ran over to hug me; after she wrapped her arms around me, she whispered in my ear. "Jarl Eric has died." She said it so softly, almost sweetly; but the words were bitter to me. This was her father, my grandfather—a man in whom I held in such high esteem.
To us he was usually just "Eric"; to those in the village was a wise and caring elder; to those with ill intent for the village, he was a fearsome adversary. He owned a lot of land in Norway, and I guess at some point he had some "royal" blood; but the Jarls of old ruled by strength, not entitlement. I had so much respect for him, I didn't think it possible for him to die.
In World War II, the whole village was bombed out due to an apparent miscalculation in a night bombing run; there was a military base several miles away, so they mistook the village for a camouflaged military base. Being so remote, they had no warning or even expectation of an attack; all but a few dozen people had died. He was young at the time, but was kept from the war as the last surviving male of his family. After the bombing, he was the
only
surviving member of the family—just 17 at the time. Most people in the village felt much connection to the Old Ways and wanted to stay and tough it out; those that didn't just up and left. Almost every building was damaged or destroyed, but his family's barn on the edge of the village was relatively intact; so he opened it up for everyone who needed shelter.
While they stayed there, he went around the village doing what he could: organizing food and resources, clearing rubble, and repairing things they needed to survive with. Everyone pooled their resources and each provided what services they could. They were too remote to get any government assistance, so they did what they had to do to survive on their own.
The winter was brutal; they burned wood from destroyed structures and hunted in the neighboring forest to survive. The very old and very young died from the harsh conditions, and by the end of it he was the only man left alive over the age of 18; there were also 5 women and 12 children of various ages.
The women would recount old stories to entertain the kids; they weren't well versed in the old language or culture, just on some of the general ideas. So I suppose it spun into more of a fantasy rather than a history. One of the kids started calling him "Jarl Eric", and others referred to the barn as the "Longhouse". It was quite a "diversion" as he put it, so everyone just went along with it. Many of the details he would never disclose to me, but I understand that he basically became the patriarch-leader of the survivors; they re-formed their society in the spirit to the Old Ways, but in many ways it was almost a completely new system.
My mother was one of the kids from the village, and she held dearly to the new traditions. So we were raised believing in a pantheon of Gods akin to (but not exactly like) the old Norse pantheon, training in physical combat, farming, building, etc… My grandfather had visited several times growing up, and we kept up with video chats over the years; but he rarely talked about the village in great detail. He would always say "Oh it's just a bunch of buildings and stuff, nothing you need to worry about yet". So mostly I just learned all of this stuff second-hand from mom. I loved a good mystery, so I spent a lot of time poring over books and records that Mom had brought with her.
Dad was apparently a businessman who met her while travelling in Norway. As long as I've been old enough to know, I started thinking it was odd that an international businessman met up with a woman in some rural village in the middle of nowhere and decided they were lifelong partners. I never did figure out the details, but for some reason he went along with the whole culture thing and Mom just up and left with him.
"Astrid, hmm?" Mom's soft voice brought me back from my daydreaming. I tend to do that a lot, I suppose; mental escape is part of my natural self-defense mechanism.
"Sorry, mom", I said. "I was just remembering…and thinking." I looked into her eyes: crystal blue eyes, looking generally worn and sad, but something else behind them.
Her voice became firm and resolved. "Your father and I have decided that it's time for us to go back. There are things to do, preparations to make, ceremonies to—"
"Go back?" I interjected. "Like, to visit?"
Mom was about to speak when Dad chipped in: "Yes, hon, a visit. Family stuff, you know." Mom turned and gave him a questioning look. "But unfortunately there is some critical business I have going on right now, and I can't join you right away. For now, you'll go with your mother, Hagen, and Runa." I wasn't surprised that Dad wasn't going; he always seemed aloof of the old village's affairs, but he never once disrespected or scorned it. Probably out of respect for Mom, I guess.
