Page 33 of Truly, Madly Viking

Harvey Lutz, a nerdy looking young man in his early twenties, was a bipolar obsessive-compulsive who had a habit of continually counting things and lining them up. Right now he was counting lint pills on his wool trousers. Every time he got to twelve, he stumbled and started over.

Fred Bernstein, a balding, middleaged man, was delusional, hiding his problems in fantasy identities.

From one week to the next, she never knew if he was some famous movie star, athlete, or biblical figure.

She couldn't wait to hear why he was carrying two large, ironstone dinner platters today. The kitchen staff wouldn't be pleased to know they were missing.

Sometimes there were extra people in the group: a biker from Houston with head injuries, a chronically depressed accountant who yearned for a lost love, and various others. The wonderful thing about Rainbow, in Maggie's opinion, was that people could come and go, as their ailments required.

Maggie sat down next to Rosalyn and motioned for Joe to sit across the circle, with Chuck on one side and Steve on the other. That was when she realized that Joe wasn't beside her. Looking up, she saw him still standing in the doorway, gawking at the group as if he'd landed in... well, Bedlam.

But what he said was, "Is this Niflheim?"

Jorund could not believe his eyes. He'd never seen so many lackwitted people in one room in all his life.

Even Viking warriors in the midst of battle who had gone berserk did not look this bizarre.

The most difficult thing to accept in this scenario was that Mag-he thought he was as demented as this lot of mush-brains. Raising his chin, Jorund fixed a glower on the female who had brought him there, and immediately eased his temper. There was a pleading expression on her face—one that begged him not to make a scene, or embarrass her in front of her other pay-shuns.

Biting his bottom lip to keep him from saying what he really thought, Jorund followed Mag-he's direction and sat in a seat across from her.

Almost immediately, he jumped when he got a good view of the man sitting next to him... and what he was doing.

"Bock, hock, bock, bock, hock!" the red-haired young man, who couldn't have seen more than thirty winters, was clucking as he bobbed his head like a rooster.

Jorund glanced at Mag-he, then back at the man, who greeted him with, "Cock-adoodle-do!" Yea, I was correct. A rooster.

"Everyone is looking good today," Mag-he said brightly.

Is she demented, too? Everyone did not look good, in Jorund's opinion. In fact, they were a sorry lot, if he'd ever seen one.

"We have a new group member today." She went around the circle and told Jorund each of their names ... Steve, Chuck, Not-a-lie, Rosalyn, Furr-red, and Hair-vee. "I'd like to introduce you all to Joe Rand,"

Mag-he was saying.

They all stared at him curiously, and a woman who was as plain as a brown field mouse whistled under her breath, which seemed to surprise everyone. At least it took everyone's attention away from him.

"Did you say something, Rosalyn?" Mag-he asked excitedly.

The mouse woman kept her gaze downward, as if there were something important on the legs of her gray braies, which she pleated and unpleated in a jittery fashion. She refused to answer. And Jorund noticed something else: there were scars all over her forearms, like cuts from a sharp blade, and small burn marks, too.

Mag-he shrugged at the uncooperative pay-shun and was about to speak herself, but Jorund felt the need to correct something before she started.

"Ah, Dock-whore Muck-bride." He waved a hand at her to get her attention.

The nervous tapping of her wooden stick on the parchment pad told him she was tense over what he might say.

"My name is not Joe Rand. It is Jorund... Jorund Ericsson." While he spoke, he stood and went to each person in the circle and pumped their right hands with his fight hand in salutation, repeating over and over, "How do you do?" It was a strange ritual, but then there were strange customs in many of the lands he'd visited.

She hesitated at his insistence on using his real name, then agreed with a nod of her head. "Fine, Jorund it is then... unless of course you go by the nickname of Joe, as well."

"I never have, in the past."

"Well, it's up to you," she said cheerily, as if it were of great import what name he answered to.

"I care not what you call me," he grumbled. "I am Jorund the Warrior. If you want to call me Joe, it is neither here nor there to me, though I think Joe the Warrior sounds mighty peculiar. By the by, am I cured yet?"

"No, you're not cured yet," she declared with a laugh, then addressed the group.