VESTMEN'S GALE - Chapter Four
The Witch
All words are my own, not AI -David McCaleb
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I pushed a thin, chest-high pine branch out of my way as I walked beside a tall sapling. One of the few young trees that had found purchase beneath the shadow of the virgin forest. Thin flakes of bark stuck to my palm. Little Finger, or Tryfing as Halfdan had called him, followed a few yards behind, head pivoting, scanning the forest. His pale skin glowed ghostly in the moonlight. The air was cool, curiously absent the hum of mosquitos. I passed below a silver maple and noted its leaves were pale green, only two inches long. Must be spring, and too early for most bugs.
I gripped the handle of a battle-axe. At least that’s what Tryfing had said it was. Looked more like a hatchet with a narrow head and long wooden handle. “Why don’t I have a sword?” I asked.
“Because you haven’t bought one,” he muttered, grinning. He wore a vest of brown deerskin over a long-sleeved linen shirt. A sword hung from his belt in a leather sheath. “You value women over weapons.”
We slid away from the boat, scouting the immediate area as Halfdan had ordered. I’d expected Tryfing to lead, but he’d just stood there, like I was supposed to go first. So I did, setting out along the riverbank.
I raised the axe and chopped a low branch from our way. What were we looking for? Then again, why did I care? I needed to get home. And with every hour, the memories of that world, of Nikki’s free spirit, of Mom’s harebrained inspirations and Dad’s unfailing encouragements, of North Carolina and Maine—of Christine and possibilities—they all were fading as if I were waking from a dream. Why had Gabby brought me here? Or were we both prisoners of the same evil, snatched from that world against our will? Gabby’s body had never been found.
I’d been gone only a half day, I assured myself. Still, they’d all be worried senseless. Mom to a fever, for certain.
I glanced back at Tryfing, incessantly searching the forest. What was he scared of?
“Ask your question,” Tryfing said.
I snorted. “Which one?”
“I don’t know. You keep looking back at me, not where you’re headed. It’s not like you.”
I swung the axe and dropped another limb. The iron twanged a high note, like a tuning fork. Its weight and balance similar to the twenty-five-ounce framing hammer I’d swung countless times building wooden docks and bulkheads. I could drive a sixteen-penny nail in two swats. But now my shoulders slumped. “What are we doing here?”
He peered below thick black eyebrows. “Scouting.”
“No. I mean, why’d we come here? On the boat.”
Tryfing stopped and braced a palm against a trunk. His breathing was heavy. Deep, but quiet. He stepped toward me, his cross-laced leather boots silent on the pine needle blanket. The moon glinting off wide black pupils. His bushy eyebrows cinched together as if yanked by a drawstring. “You’ve taken beatings before, but never lost memory. You really don’t know what we’re doing here?”
I sighed and shook my head.
“What’s my name?” he asked, suddenly frowning. “Say it.”
I wanted to say Little Finger but thought better of it. “Uh…Tryfing.”
A distant screech sounded through the forest and his eyebrows bundled even closer. Though it seemed my answer, not the shriek, was the reason for his concern. “No. What you call me. Not the others.”
Why not? “Little Finger.”
He drew back. “Little Finger?” He held up his hand and curled its four digits into a fist. “You making fun?”
OK. Guess that’s not what I usually call him. “No.”
He grabbed my shoulder, turning me to face him. “It’s happened again, hasn’t it?” His eyes widened. “You’re not Matok.”
What did he mean by again? “I…”
His hands moved up to my shoulders. He stared into my eyes, as if in a panic. He shoved me away, turned, and beat the air with his fists. “Curse that mother of yours!” He spun back around, gripped my shoulders again, but closer to my neck, as if wanting to choke me. “No wonder you’re stomping around the forest like you don’t care who hears. Who are you?” He shook me, his face reddening. “Tell me!”
I grabbed his wrists and squeezed, my fingers tightening down like screw clamps, strengthened by what must have been a lifetime of gripping an oar. His mouth stretched wide and he released me. I backed him into a tree trunk. “What do you mean again? Has this happened before?”
No answer, so I squeezed harder.
He winced. “Yes. Once.”
I let go and stepped back. “Tell me.”
He rubbed his bruised wrists and stared at the ground, as if no longer concerned about the forest. “Come on,” he said, and turned to lead me along the river. As we walked, he explained how we’d been friends since childhood. “We were eight, playing in a stream. Suddenly you stood up, glanced around, and screamed. I’d thought you’d cut your foot on a shell or been struck by a viper. I carried you to the bank and you calmed after an hour. Except you told me your name was Troy, not Matok. That you’d been out fishing next to your tent, and suddenly the whole camp was gone. You said a bunch of other stuff that made no sense. And I knew then, just like I know now, you weren’t my friend inside that body.”
Tryfing turned from the water and we began a long, slow arc inland. He periodically glanced at the stars and adjusted our line of travel. We would eventually make it back to the river if we kept our slow turn.
“How long did it last?”
Another distant screech. This one closer. An owl, maybe. The moon seemed to darken a shade, and once again the same evil I’d experienced on the boat chilled my skin.
“Half a month, I’d say. Till Matok returned.”
“How’d that happen?”
He stepped around a towering pine trunk. “I don’t know. One day, you were just…back. You didn’t remember anything. From the weeks you were was gone, nor from the time Troy was in your body.”
No wonder they called me witch-boy. People must’ve thought I was possessed. “Does everyone know about it?”
Tryfing whipped around to glare at me. “No! Only your mother. She hid you away.” He reached to grab me, but I stepped aside. Still, his soft face betrayed no anger. It was as if he was pleading. “She told me not to tell anyone, to swear my silence, or she’d kill me.” He snorted. “Me, eight years old, bound by an oath to your bloody mother. You know how scared I was? Well, I still am. I never told you—never told Matok—because he’d think I was crazy. And he didn’t remember it anyway.” He wrapped his arms around me. “I was just glad to have you back.” Then he pushed away, as if suddenly remembering I wasn’t his friend. “And we can’t tell anyone on the boat. They won’t believe you or they’ll think you’re mad. And your mother…she’ll know I betrayed her.”
If this grown man feared my mother, she had to be a powerful woman. Who could she be, to wield such effect? “I can’t just pretend to be a Vestman. They’ll figure out I’m not, just like you did. I don’t even know what I’m here for. Or how long. Maybe one of the others can help, if I ask.”
He gripped my shoulders again. “No! I’ll help you. I’ll…I’ll explain how things work, so others don’t figure it out. Make up excuses for your mistakes. You took a beating, anyway. Just till you’re Matok again.”
This made no sense. “But I don’t care if others figure it out. I want them to. I don’t belong here. And why are you so scared of my—I mean his mother. Who is she?”
The glint of moonlight faded from his eyes. “She’s our witch,” he said, shoulders sagging hopelessly. “Odin himself would never trust her.”
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-David McCaleb
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