TORBJÖRN

Chapter 2

"Lonely am I as the forest aspen,
Of kindred bare as the fir of its boughs,
My joys are all lost as the leaves of the tree
When the scather of twigs from the warm day turns."
Poetic Edda poem Hamthesmol, stanza 5

Knútr rounded the plow to get a closer look. "Thanks for getting it done fast. Got to get the ground seeded now in case the rains set in." The old man eyed the repair, his crooked fingers inspecting the cold iron. "Great work, smith. I can't even see where the break was."

Torbjörn grunted his acknowledgement. "You needed it right away so the boy and I pushed to get it done." He untied the heavy leather apron from his waist and hung it on a worn peg. "But tell me, I have never seen a beast strong enough to snap metal like that. What happened?"

Knútr shook his head, keeping his gaze on the plow, avoiding the eyes of the big man. It wasn't that they looked different from anyone else's. Dark blond lashes fringed the blue orbs. Creases at the corners deepened when he flashed a warm smile. But if one looked a moment too long, they pulled you in and bore a hole that went straight to your soul. They were intelligent. Wizened. Hard. Eyes that belonged to a man much older. The blue of his irises would swell and ebb in such a way you weren't sure if you saw anything change at all. He had experienced it once and once was enough.

"Hetha happened. One moment I'm behind her and she's pulling strong and steady, and the next I'm face down in the dirt and she's running down the road, plow bouncing behind her. That old ox can be a real bitch when she wants to. I've never known a more ornery beast," Knútr mused as he scratched at his beard. "Hetha's always had a stubborn nature, even as a calf. She must have gotten it from my wife."

Torbjörn kept his smile to himself, not wanting to insult his old friend. Knútr was a good man of unknown years, and how he got saddled with such a sour old hag for a wife, no one knew. Magnhildr was a bitter woman with a sharp tongue. Everyone avoided her, especially womenfolk who had a babe at their breast, fearing she would spoil their milk with one stern look. Oddly, the two of them managed to have more children than Torbjörn thought humanly possible. Nearly once a year a babe was born to them, an equal number of sons and daughters, and all survived into adulthood.

From outside came a snort and stomp of hooves, as if Hetha knew they spoke ill of her. If they didn't return to the cart quick enough, Hetha might head back to the village on her own.

Torbjörn effortlessly threw the plow over his shoulder, a feat that should have taken the strength of at least two men. Even though his arms were as thick as tree trunks, he possessed a strength well beyond his size. The two men stepped from the dark smithy into the late day's sun.

"Easy, Hetha," the old man crooned, placing a calming hand on the ox's nose, the beast again stomping her displeasure. "My wife hates it when I call her that. T'was her mother's name," he said with a mischievous grin.

Torbjörn didn't hold back this time, releasing a deep laugh as he set the heavy implement into the back of the timeworn cart. The cart creaked in protest, unfit for many more excursions to the forge. The wood, weathered and cracked, looked as old as Knútr himself, bearing the same amount of wear as was etched in his face.

At the sounds of footfalls, their attention turned to the young man walking up the road. Ulfberht was of average height, but working in the smithy had made him as broad and strong as an oak. His dark hair hung in a long braid down his back, sparse facial hair sprouting above his lip and chin. Without a word, he nodded to the two men and disappeared into the house up-road from the smithy. Smells of the evening meal wafted in the air.