Page 102 of The Last Viking

Geirolf erupted into laughter then and couldn’t stop. Ingrid was going to be the life, or death, of him yet.

It was afternoon by the time Geirolf shook hands with his rescuers in a nearby village.

“I thank you for your help,” Geirolf said.

“Hey, no prob,” Bruiser bellowed over the sound of the surf, clapping him on the back. “And don’t worry ’bout us spillin’ the beans to anyone ’bout rescuin’ you. We understand a guy wantin’ to get away from his little woman fer a while.” He winked at Geirolf in a manly fashion.

“Exactly where didja say that Viking S-spot is, again?” Chuck added, also clapping him on the back. And winking.

On the boat ride back to shore, the men had been complaining about their womenfolk watching too much Oprah. And he’d offered his opinions on Home Improvement, to which they’d agreed heartily. The conversation progressed then to the ill advice offered on all those television talk shows, which caused women to nag their hardworking husbands when they arrived home. That was when Geirolf had told them that the surest way to silence a woman’s complaints was to show her the famous Viking S-Spot.

Chuck and Bruiser, both duly impressed, had said he ought to have his own TV talk show.

He’d demurred humbly.

They’d scoffed at his offer of money for their services after helping him transport Ingrid to a boat-rental mart where she was now stored in a locker. He’d scoffed at their suggestion that he go to a hospital for care.

He needed no healer, modern or otherwise, to tell him what was wrong with him. He was lost between two worlds. That was why he’d urged them not to speak of his rescue. He needed time to figure out his latest dilemma.

That evening, Geirolf lay with his arms folded behind his head as he reclined on a bed in the village’s sole travel lodge—Swifty’s Motel and Pizzeria. The only good thing that could be said about the dreary room was that it contained a “gel” bed that vibrated in a most delicious manner when four coins were inserted in a metal slot. He wished Merry-Death were here to share the experience.

Fortunately, Geirolf had forgotten before the boat launching to give Mike his leather belt pouch, which contained fifty thousand dollars. In fact, he’d given Merry-Death all the money earlier, despite her resistance. She must have put it back in the pouch considering it demeaning, as if he were paying for her services. Foolish wench!

He hadn’t spent much time studying modern currency, but he assumed fifty thousand dollars must be a great deal of money, because when he’d pulled the wet roll out at the lodge desk to pay in advance for the fifty-dollar room, the clerk’s eyes about popped out. Villains abounded in any century, and he’d decided to lock his door tonight and prop a chair under the handle as a precaution.

The question now was, what should he do?

The time travel hadn’t worked this time. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try again. And again. And again. Till he prevailed.

Could he go back to Merry-Death and put her through another, or repeated, partings of the type she’d experienced yesterday? Could he be so cruel?

But wasn’t it even more cruel to be alive, in her time, and not let her know?

No, he decided. It was more cruel to cause the same devastating grief over and over, like opening a bloody wound.

He had to figure out what had gone wrong last night and how to do it right the next time. Idly clicking on the television, he gasped, then fell back on the gel bed.

There stood a ravaged Merry-Death staring back at him from the screen.

“Has the Coast Guard found a body yet?” a newsman called out to her.

Merry-Death flinched before answering in a choked whisper, “No.” She was speaking into a microphone being held in her face—a face that seemed to have aged overnight. Her hair was tangled and uncombed, her eyes bloodshot and underlined with dark circles. Creases of pain bracketed her eyes and mouth.

This is what I have done to her. What kind of love is it that causes so much misery?

Flanking her on either side were Mike and Thea, who appeared equally distraught. Tears filled their eyes.

“What effect will this disaster have on the Trondheim project?” another reporter inquired. Apparently the press conference had been in progress for some time. “Will the voyage this summer be cancelled because of the potential danger to the students?”

“Absolutely not!” Merry-Death exclaimed, pulling herself upright with indignation. “The lightning that struck Rol…Mr. Ericsson’s longship last night was a freak accident…an act of God. It will have no bearing whatsoever on the continuation of the Trondheim Venture.”

Geirolf gave Merry-Death a mental salute. His wife was stronger than she appeared at first glance. She would survive; he could see that in her quick flash of anger.

“But don’t you think it’s odd that the lightning storm didn’t hit anywhere else in the region?” the first reporter interjected.

Merry-Death shrugged. “You’d have to ask a meteorologist, although it’s always been my understanding that storms at sea are erratic.”

A woman newsperson tried to push forward, but when she was thwarted, shouted, “Is it true that Mr. Ericsson is your husband? How are you feeling, Mrs. Ericsson, about the death of your new husband?”