“And his wife.” I slap my hands on my blanket. “You know what? Fuck you.”
“Thanks, I guess?”
So nonchalant. Like he doesn’t care. My jaw tightens. I only see red. I want to hurt his honor, his feelings—like he hurts mine every day.
“You’re barely a skald! You only use poetry to insult people!”
“I don’t use poetry to insult people…”
“To insult me then.”
“It’s just humor. I’m sorry if I hurt you in front of Asbjorn.”
“And his wife,” I add.
“And his wife,” he agrees. “You know, it’s almost a compliment. Countless slave girls have never had poems recited about them.”
“Oh yeah, epic compliment. What did you say? On my knees. Look up my skirts. In front of the entire valley. Thanks a lot, Ari the Skald.”
“People laughed. They liked it.”
“Well, I thought it was horrible.”
“Fine. I said I’m sorry.”
“So what poem have you prepared after what happened today?”
He laughs.
“What happened again?”
“Shut the fuck up, Ari! Tell me the poem!”
“There is no poem.”
“At least do me the honor of letting me hear it before you shout it into every willing ear in Opdal.”
“There is no poem.”
“Stop lying!”
“Okay, fine.” He sits silent for a few seconds. What the fuck? Is he composing one now? Is he— “Promise me you won’t interrupt then.”
“On my honor,” I say.
He clears his throat, raising himself so he’s sitting. He adds a layer of depth to his voice, a darker tone than usual.
“In the rainbow river, I spent some time
When among the bushes, a little spy
Who saw a crow, enjoy his life,
She says he’s mangy, but filled her eyes”
I’m stunned. He can improvise. Or he must have had it ready. I can’t see his facial expression in the dark, but I would bet my hand he’s wearing a shit-toothed grin. A stupid, shit-toothed grin.
“That’s just bad,” I say.
