Displaced

Chapter 18

As Sigurd rounded the final bend in the road on his long journey, he paused to catch his breath. In the near distance, he could see the small house that Floki shared with his wife Helga. Sigurd drew the back of his arm across his brow to wipe away the sweat, and glanced up at the sun.

As Sigurd rounded the final bend in the road on his long journey, he paused to catch his breath. In the near distance, he could see the small house that Floki shared with his wife Helga. Sigurd drew the back of his arm across his brow to wipe away the sweat, and glanced up at the sun.

He had been travelling for most of the morning and the journey had been long and exhausting. He had known that the boatbuilder lived outside of town, and that the journey would not be easy, especially in Ivar's body, but he had not realised quite how arduous it would be. In the back of his mind, he could not rid himself of the voice that reminded him that every time he reached out a hand and dragged himself a little closer to the boatbuilder's cabin, it was a movement that he would need to make again, in reverse, in order to get home again.

The thought of that was not appealing.

At least the pain was better today than it had been; reduced to far more manageable levels. The damage had been done though; it had made a coward of him. It had left him terrified that it might return, second guessing everything he did for fear that it might encourage it to come back. Despite what Ivar had told him, he could not relax. It lived now constantly in the back of his mind; the knowledge that no matter how bad it was now, it could be so much worse. He only hoped that he would not regret making this journey in the morning.

Shielding his eyes from the sun with a hand, he squinted in the direction of Floki's home. It appeared quiet, with no sign of either Floki or Helga outside. He hoped they were inside, or perhaps simply somewhere out of sight, because he was not sure that he would be able to face the idea that he had made this trip for nothing.

There was no point worrying about it though; he had come too far to turn back now. If nobody was home, he would simply have to wait there until Floki got back. Surely he wouldn't stay away for long. With a final deep breath and a quick roll of his shoulders to try to reduce some of the tension that had built up during the journey, he set out again down the meandering slope that led to the boatbuilder's property.

As he came nearer, to his intense relief, he realised that he could hear a sound at the other side of the house, out of his view. He followed it, moving along the wall and around the corner, where he saw Floki, sitting alone in the shade of the house. In one hand, he held a small wooden carving, in the other a sharp, hooked, metal tool with which he appeared to be adding the finishing touches to his work.

On his face, Floki wore an expression of intense concentration as he carefully etched the carving in his hand. The movements of the tool in his hand were so minute that Sigurd could barely see them, but it was obvious that Floki could. He appeared completely focussed on his task, to the point where he had forgotten the world around him.

Sigurd remained where he was, still and quiet, reluctant to disturb him. He watched. It was always gratifying to see an artist at work, whether they be a fellow musician, a craftsman, or even a great warrior going through the motions of practising with his sword. There was always a kind of peace that came over them, a sense of being complete in a way that they were not with any other task. It was something that he had experienced for himself at those times when he allowed himself to get lost in his music, and it was always good to see it in another person.

It made him wonder whether he and Floki might have more in common than he had realised before.

Floki paused and held his carving up to the light to examine it. He blew a puff of air onto it to clear away the sawdust, then lowered it again, ready to continue his work. Before he did, mindful of accidentally surprising him while he was working and ruining the piece, Sigurd cleared his throat.