Ship of the Dead (23 page)

The following afternoon, beneath bright blue skies, scores of Norsefolk from villages near and far gathered onshore to pay solemn respect as Lut the Bent was sent to sea for the last time. As was customary, men and women of stature were often laid to rest on a stately longship that was then set aflame and put to sea. The rising column of smoke and fire a signal to the gods that, though they had taken the dead one's spirit, the body was to remain earthbound and returned to the sea from whence all life came.

Standing at the prow of the ship where Lut's body lay, Dane looked over the vast gathering of mourners on shore and struggled to find the right words. Words that would both honor the departed and heal the hearts of the living. He wanted to pay tribute to all Lut's finest qualities, to tell his whole life story with none of his greatness left unsaid. But despite his desire to inspire, no words came. Only the sounds of the sea lapping at the shore and birds wheeling in the sky. Dane began to panic that he'd lost his tongue altogether, when from out of the crowd a small child ran up the plank and onto the ship. It was a little girl of no more than five, and she ran to Dane and took his hand and simply stood there beside him, looking out at the people, a cherubic smile on her face. And from her smile he found his words.

“Lut the Bent loved children,” Dane said in a voice full and strong. “For in children are found the things we adults often lose. Love unconditional. The freedom to dream. And, of course, hope. For it is hope above all things that sustains us. So let us look with hope upon the children to find the strength we seek. Though Lut the Bent was certainly no child, he never lost his childlike sense of wonder nor his belief that one person can work miracles in the lives of others.” Dane stopped, finding it difficult to go on. The child then smiled and said, “Good-bye, Lut.” And this gave him strength to proclaim, “Long live Lut the Bent, a man wiser than his days and more loving than any heart I've ever known!”

There were cheers from the crowd and the ship was pushed out to sea, and Dane stood in a daze until Astrid came and took his hand and told him he'd done well. They stood together watching the great ship sink into the sea.

“What are you thinking?” Astrid asked him.

“Something Lut said. ‘Humor in the face of death is the height of character.' It's something he had until the very end, and something I'll never forget.”

“He won't forget you either. Where he's going—where he already is—he still thinks of you, and loves you now more than ever.”

The dreams came, just as promised, and in less than a week Dane had heard what each of his friend's fates was to be. Jarl the Fair boasted that he would marry a princess—Princess Kara, no doubt—inherit her kingdom, produce many children, and live grandly until his forty-ninth year, at which point an enemy's sword would pierce his heart and thus he would meet his end with a king's courage. Jarl said that his dream also foretold that he'd continue to prove himself superior in the annual Festival of Games, taking the crown twice as many times as Dane would in the years to come, and that his hairstyle would become so popular it would be copied by other men and even be named “the Jarl.”

Fulnir the Stinking reported, somewhat more humbly, that indeed he and Drott would find success as experts in the killing of draugrs, and that each would come to have his own lands rich with grain and game fowl. He would marry as well, Fulnir said, and although his bride would be no princess, she would bear him children and love him truly and never complain about his ripe odor save for the times he complained about her cooking.

Drott the Dim said that he had dreamed he rode a whale out of the sea and up a mountain, and there atop the highest peak he built a home for her, made the whale his wife, and lived out the rest of his days eating heaps of seal meat and salted herring. Dane said that he had heard whales made good wives, but the having-children part might be hard. Jarl snickered and said that maybe the dream meant that he was to wed Ulf the Whale. Amid the laughter, Drott thought for a moment, then told Dane that Skuld had most probably sent him the dream as a practical joke and that Fulnir's dream was meant for him too.

Ulf the Whale's dream foretold that he was to attend what was called a “school” somewhere far to the south and gain great knowledge, and that he was then to lose half his weight and change his name to “Ulf the Narrow,” and that this bodily transformation would bring him much fortune and many wives.

Grelf was much relieved to report that indeed he was to find great renown as a perfumer to kings and caliphs, and that, as he had hoped, William the Brave would be his man-in-waiting. When William insisted that, according to
his
dream, he was to be more like an assistant and perhaps eventually a co-owner of the perfumery, Grelf grudgingly gave in on the point.

As to Dane's other friends Vik and Rik the Vicious Brothers, no dreams came. And though downhearted at first, they soon took it as a sign that, because their valor and vigor were of such majestic magnitude, the gods could not reveal their destinies, for they would so greatly outshine the fates of all their friends as to cause excess worship from females of the village.

And as for Dane and Astrid, they were living their dream, spending each day together walking in the woods and fishing in the streams, planning their future together. One day not long after their return, Dane and Astrid lay in the grass atop Thor's Hill, gazing at the clouds and marveling at the shapes they made. One looked like a sheep's behind, Astrid said, and another a liljekonvall, or a lily of the valley. As it scudded cross the sky, the lily bumped into a new cloud, slowly forming a new image—and for one amazing moment Dane swore it looked exactly like Lut the Bent! There he was—his beard, his eyes, his very
smile
—alive in the sky once again, looking down on them with wise benevolence.

“Do you see it, Astrid?”

“Yes, yes, I do,” he heard her say, and felt her hand squeeze his.

“It's him!”

Dane's heart soared. For one golden moment Lut was with them again. And then, taken by the wind, piece by piece the clouds drifted apart to form new shapes, and the magic of the moment was gone.

And then came Astrid's voice again. “You know, Dane, there's been something I've been meaning to ask you.”

“Yes . . . ?”

“The night Lut died . . . what was it he whispered to you?”

Dane did not answer. Not because he had forgotten Lut's words—far from it; the words he had uttered would be forever etched in his mind with undying clarity. But Dane thought of Lut's last message as a private gift given only to him, and thus he had treasured it as something secret and sacred, something never to be revealed. But Astrid, he now thought—certainly he could tell her. She was the love of his life, his most trusted friend. But try as he might, the words wouldn't come. All that did come was the hot feeling in his throat he always got right before he cried. And catching Astrid's look, he was relieved to see that she knew all that he felt in his heart. She patted his hand and lay back on the ground, gazing up at the clouds.

“Someday, Dane,” she said softly. “Someday you'll tell me.”

Perhaps he would tell her what Lut had told him. Someday. But for now he was content to lie beside her in the splendor of the afternoon, the sun warm on his face and the scent of lilacs on the breeze, free of worry and full of nothing but the pleasure of her company. Again Lut's words came to him like some god-whispered lullaby.
No god is greater than the voice in your very own heart. . . .
Yes, perhaps he would tell her one day, for who better to hear it? But until that time, Lut's words would be his and his alone, a gift to be cherished and inspired by the rest of his days.

Acknowledgments

A
lthough authors are usually the only ones given credit, a published book is always a team effort. In this case, our team includes our fabulous editors—Warrioresses of the Word—Donna Bray and Ruta Rimas; our very talented art director, Carla “The Artful” Weise; the famed illustrator Greg “I Can Draw Anything” Call—we love the covers, Greg!—and all the other kind and diligent folk at HarperCollins who have worked so hard on our behalf.

We also wish to acknowledge the many personal friends and colleagues whose friendship and support over the years have stoked our creative fires and fed our souls. They include: Jodi Reamer; Amy Schiffman; Sandra Lucchesi; John Thornton Lundgren; Kitty and Tim Miller; Tom and Jane Jennewein; August Jennewein; Thelma Jennewein; Harald and Veshlemoey Zwart; Greg Chappuis; Sally Anderson; Cary Odes; Kit Stolz; Dale Launer; Dan Ackerman; Rich Cronin; Rich Siegel; Bob Busker; Glen Wormsbaker; Joe Galliani; Babs Mondschein; Seth Greenland; Tod Goldberg; Scott Phillips; Darren Star; Douglas Kinsey; Catherine Palmer; Gerald Graham; Thomas Faiver; Lt. Col. David Fautua; James Walsh; Kevin Donohoe; Mark Stroble; Michael “Boom Boom” Baser; the Guest family; Michael Parker; Christine Dishaw; Laura Parker; Allison Robbins; and Jake Jennewein.

About the Authors

JAMES JENNEWEIN
lives in a bloodthirsty, barbaric land filled with evil tyrants, slimy monsters, and comely maidens. It is called Los Angeles.

TOM S. PARKER
, who has Viking ancestors on his Swedish mother's side, enjoys pillaging now and then with his pet Chihuahua, Tony. He lives in a moated fortress in Topanga, California.

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A
LSO BY
J
AMES
J
ENNEWEIN
AND
T
OM
S. P
ARKER

R
UNE
W
ARRIORS

SHIELD OF ODIN

R
UNE
W
ARRIORS

SWORD OF DOOM

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