Page 4 of The Caged Viking

“Go plague someone else,” she muttered.

The Viking just stood there, a Norse pain in the ass.

How did she know he was a Viking?

His facial features, what she could see of them, were pure, sculpted Nordic. He wore the arm rings of an ancient Viking warrior. Thin braids framed the sides of his face. And he was one tall drink of water…or would that be mead?

“This is getting ridiculous,” she said on a groan. “Leave me alone!”

She rolled over in her bed and buried her head under the soft down pillow. When she peeked out, he was still there.

She tried self-hypnosis to lull herself back to sleep. A friend of hers, a fellow professor at UCLA, was big on transcendental meditation and some weird spiritual crap called “soul soaring.” Imagine you are floating in the sky, like a cloud. Softly. Softly. Softly. Listen to the silence. Be the silence.

Buuullshit!

It would be different, explainable even, if it was a sex dream…if the guy was even attractive, as Vikings were known to be. Like the History Channel’s Travis Fimmel who played the Viking Ragnor Lothbrok, sporting an intricately braided, manly, topknot ponytail, with his head shaven on the sides. Mischievous pale blue eyes. Biceps bulging over tight arm rings. Long hairy legs (but not too hairy) exposed by a knee-length, leather tunic. Yum! Now that was eye (or dream) candy she could get excited about!

But, no, her guy wasn’t even attractive. How could he be? He was tall but so thin that his ribs stuck out. Old scars and new wounds marred much of his exposed skin. Despite the large amount of hair on his face, she could see the gauntness of his sunken cheekbones. The long hair on his head, probably blond at one time, was so greasy its color was indistinguishable. Sometimes it was pulled back into a rough, single braid, but other times, like now, it hung loose with thin plaits on either side of his face. War braids, they were called. He wore nothing but a fur wrapped around his private parts and rings on his upper arms.

Leaning back against the bars of a wooden cage, arms folded over his chest, ankles crossed, he stared at her. He said nothing, but his eyes (silvery blue, not unlike good ol’ Rag’s), filled with pain or anger, she wasn’t sure which…held hers in a silent challenge. No pleading from this proud Viking. No, he was demanding something from her. That wasn’t quite true, either. It wasn’t so much that he wanted her help, it was that he needed her help.

But then came the zinger, something new in the chain of dreams. A tear…one single tear…seeped out of the pale ocean eyes.

Have I ever seen a Viking cry?

Never! And I grew up in a big family of macho men of Norse descent.

Maybe she should get up and drink a glass of warm milk.

Yuck! A stiff drink might be better.

Or play some soft music.

Like what? A freakin’ lullaby?

Nothing worked.

She had been plagued by the dream for months now…a dream that was much more than an imaginary series of events that normally occurred during sleep. Being a professor of Nordic Studies at UCLA, a research scientist, Kirsten should know better than to give such importance to the fantasies she was seeing in her head. But they were too vivid, too real, to be anything but…okay, call me crazy…a call to action. As far-fetched as it might seem, Kirsten sensed a magnetic pull toward someone in need of her help. But who? What? Where? How?

Maybe I should contact that Long Island Medium, the one that has a TV show on one of the cable networks. Imagine the ratings on that one. Modern academic woman connects with Viking hunk. A telepathic love connection across the ages. But, no, this isn’t love. It’s something else. So, no mediums.

Maybe I could hire a ghost hunter? Where does one find a ghost hunter anyhow? On the Internet, I’ll bet. You can find anything on the Internet.

Better yet, maybe I need an exorcism?

Or maybe I’m just losing my mind.

She surrendered and eased into the dream. Again.

She was standing in the middle of some medieval hall where a feast was taking place. From her years of study, she recognized by the hall’s furnishings and the people’s attire that it was probably Saxon England, around the turn of the last century...1000 AD, give or take, but before the arrival of William the Conqueror in 1066 when everything changed, from architecture to clothing.

It was a castle, but not like most people today pictured a castle. No stone exterior with turrets and towers. No fancy marble columns. No oriental carpets on the floors or old masters paintings in gilt picture frames on the walls. In fact, no pictures at all, although there were a few museum-quality tapestries and ancient shields hanging on the walls for decoration. Instead, it was more like a large—very large—wooden fortress set upon a hill. The motte-and-bailey style popular during that time period…motte, as in mound, not a water barrier moat.

None of the hundred or so revelers remarked as she strolled between the long trestle tables, even in her Snoopy-flipping-the-bird sleep shirt, a gift from one of her brothers last Christmas. It was a dream, after all. To these medieval folks, she was invisible. She could be naked for all they would notice.

Good thing she wore slippers, though. The rush-covered floor was gross, with discarded bones and grease, and who-knew-what-else with dogs and cats ambling among the crowd, at will.

Too bad she didn’t have her cell phone with her. If such a modern device would work in a dream! She would love to capture the images of this primitive hall, especially with the foods now being paraded around the room and then placed on the high table for display before eating. Not just the customary whole boar with an apple in its mouth, being carried on an iron spit by two male servants. There was also a pheasant in full colorful presentation, which had presumably been gutted, plucked, and roasted, then reassembled with head and feathers. A pyramid of honey oat cakes held place of honor on one of the lower tables where little swipes were evident along the sides, samples snuck by passing children and adults alike.