The Flight of Anja

 

I smell their dirty tunics even before I can fully lift my head.  Both wear rough, shit-stained homespun wool trousers.  Grimr, a boy not much younger than me, eyes me harshly as Loki leans down with his thick, tattooed arms and pulls me roughly to my feet.  I wince in pain.

 

“The weather is cool for this time of year, is it not, Anja Freydisdöttir?” Grimr sneers as he rubs his hand across his face to remove a stream of snot.  My muscles tremble, and my gorge rises.

 

“Look, brother,” says Loki.  He has pox marks covering half his face. “She’s truly a wild one like her mother.”

 

Grimr smirks.  “Wilder than Freydis by the looks of her, wouldn’t ye say?  What say you, brother, are the skalds correct in all that shit they say?”

 

“About what Freydis Eiriksdottir did on Vinland shores?” Poxface asks blandly.  He hucks a gob of spit into a patch of nearby grass.  “By Odin’s beard, I’ve heard tell that Freydis had her men kill Thorvard’s in a fit of rage.”

 

I feel my fists clench, but I am careful not to speak.

 

“Leave it be, brother.  The wench was cleared of all wrongdoing, if you can recall,” Grimr puffs.

 

“Only because Freydis’s brother is the Goði of Greenland,” Poxface mutters irritably.  “Still, I believe Anja’s mother is a witch.”

 

“A witch, you say?” Grimr muses.  “On what grounds?”

 

“Some say Freydis painted a stave on her breast in mice blood to enact a killing rune.  The next day Anja’s real mother was slaughtered while she lay in bed.”

 

A raw anger shoots through me, pulsing and thrumming.  Poxface eyes me quickly.

 

“Anja’s real mother was a Skraeling woman who probably deserved to die,” he sniffs disdainfully.

 

“I couldn’t agree with you more, brother.  But wasn’t that Skraeling wench Thorvard’s lover?

 

“Or so they say,” Poxface says indifferently.  I swallow hard and pinch my hand to stop the shaking.

 

Grimr spits. “I heard tell that Freydis is a feisty one.”

 

“A back-stabbing, shieldmaiden cunt is what I heard,” Poxface sneers.

 

“Ketil told me that Freydis killed Thorvard’s Skraeling lover in a jealous fit of rage.”

 

Poxface cracks a tiny smile, and I have the urge to fly at him and wring his throat.  “That bitch would spite any man!” he muses.

 

“How does it feel to live with the witch who had yer mother killed?” Grimr taunts.

 

Poxface’s eyes dart between his brother and me before he brings out his hunting knife.  I feel my eyes go wide, my legs turn to jellyfish.  “Look at Anja’s hair, brother,” he threatens gleefully.  “Being that her mane is so black and thick and smooth and long, I think we should have us some fun and sheer it off!”

 

Grimr shoots me a stained-tooth grin, and I step back.  My insides quiver even as I feel myself shielding up.  “I agree, brother,” Grimr smirks.  “It would teach her she-giant Mother a lesson, don’t you think?”

 

Posface’s eyes light up.  He looks half-crazed.  “Her uncle wouldn’t want us to hurt his little lamb!”

 

“I don’t give a snow bear’s turd what the Goði thinks!” Grimr rails.

 

The pain in my ankle yips and snarls, but I am careful to keep a deadpan face when Poxface rakes his eyes over me.  “Freydis’ saga curses you, you little worm!” he whispers as he grabs his balls and scratches them vigorously.  “Tell us, is it true that Freydis stole you out of your murdered mother’s bed?”

 

It feels as though I have fetters on my feet, manacles on my hands.  I can’t squelch the angry thoughts that trickle in like blood, that skip around like pebbles skimming across a glassy pond.

 

Poxface takes advantages of the pause and unexpectedly grabs my arm.  I am so alarmed that my basket goes flying, and I release a little cry.  A moment later he gives a forceful push which propels me in the direction of his brother’s waiting arms that are marked by snake tattoos, scratched and scabbed over as if he’s just been through a berry patch.

 

“I’ll thank you for taking your hands off me!” I say indignantly.

 

“The murderer’s döttir speaks!” Grimr pants excitedly.  He leans in closely, and I catch a whiff of halitosis of such stench that I grimace and double my efforts to try to squirm free.  “We’ll have to tell faðir,” he continues in a mocking tone.

 

“Faðir wouldn’t give a rat’s ass.  He’s always drunk,” Poxface retorts dismissively.

 

“Then we’ll have our fill of her before he gets his turn,” Grimr laughs, and my knees give out.

 

Poxface gloats when he sees my fear.  “I’ll enjoy listening to your voice break,” he whispers menacingly.  My stomach sinks when I register what they are all about.

 

“My uncle is Leif the Lucky!” I cry as I try to wiggle free.  Grimr’s grip tightens.  My mouth is as dry as summer wind.  “My Uncle is Leif Eiriksson!” I repeat, panicking.  “He is the Goði of Greenland.  He is the Clan Chieftain!”