Page 101 of The Last Viking

Trust in God, a voice in his head said.

Geirolf’s chin shot upward and he glanced around to see if anyone else had heard, but, nay, Mike and the students were going about the business of rowing the longship out to sea.

Which God? he asked silently.

He thought he heard a chuckle in his head, but that was impossible. Give me a sign, he pleaded, nonetheless.

A seagull passed overhead and dropped an ignominious “sign” on the deck near his feet.

’Twas not a good omen.

Chapter Eighteen

The time travel had failed.

Geirolf realized that fact the next day as he swam toward shore in the early-morning hours. He recognized in the dawn light the coastline south of Merry-Death’s home with its modern dwellings scattered along the clifftops. It was still 1997, not 997.

There had been a Demon Moon the night before. A crack of lightning had struck his longship, causing it to splinter apart and sink. He’d been sucked into a whirlpool, just like the first time. When he’d risen to the surface, clutching his faithful Ingrid, he had no way of knowing if the time travel had been reversed. Not until the morning light.

Everything had been a replica of his previous experience, but the time portal had remained closed to him. Why?

“Well, Ingrid, what the hell do we do now?”

Geirolf heard the sound of a motor and studied the horizon till he saw two fishermen in a motorized pleasure boat approaching. “Hey, buddy, had an accident?” a man wearing a Minnesota Vikings cap called out with concern.

Vikings? The irony of it prompted Geirolf’s lips to curve up in a rueful smile, despite his uncomfortable position in the frigid water. “Yea, my boat capsized.”

“Hop in, then,” the other man said. He was wearing a Baltimore Orioles cap.

First, Vikings. Now, Orioles. If Geirolf wasn’t so damned cold, he’d laugh at the humor of the “signs” bombarding him at every turn.

“We’ll give you a ride back to shore. You can call the Coast Guard from there. Are you all right?”

Nay, I am not all right. “I just need to get out of this water and think.”

Hauling him up, they alternately studied the figurehead and him, taking special note of his leather tunic with the talisman belt and his cross-tied boots. Ingrid’s bosom got a fair share of their attention, too. The men didn’t look devious, just quizzical. They handed him a pair of dry sweating pants and shirt and a wool blanket, which he wrapped around his shivering body.

He hesitated to ask, but had to, “What year is this?”

“Just call me Chuck,” said the Orioles man, who then guffawed, “It’s 1997. Don’t worry, fella. A good dunking will do that to ya. Makes the brain fuzzy. My brother-in-law almos’ drowned las’ year, and he couldn’t remember his girlfriend’s name fer a month.”

“Harry never did know Betty’s name,” the Vikings man, who identified himself as Bruiser, chortled. Then he turned good-naturedly to Geirolf. “Hey, mister, wouldja like a beer?”

Now there was a Vikings man after a Viking’s heart.

“Care fer a pretzel?” the Oriole offered, as well, holding out an open bag of salted brown sticks.

Geirolf shook his head. “I don’t suppose you have any Oreos?”

“Of course. Ain’t nothing better’n beer and Oreos in the mornin’,” Bruiser opined. Truly, a man of discriminating taste. And another “sign,” Geirolf concluded.

Chuck pointed the long-neck bottle of his mead at the figurehead resting near their feet. “Who’s the bimbo?”

“Ingrid,” he said, taking a gusty swig of the cold brew.

“Great tits,” Bruiser remarked. Norsemen always did have superior discernment in that regard.

“She’d look great over the bar in my den, next to the Coors sign. Wouldja like to sell her?” Chuck asked.