The village bustled with quiet purpose under the faint glow of a mid-morning sun. The storm's lingering dampness clung to the earth, softening the footsteps of the villagers as they prepared for the seasonal gathering. The fjord, normally tranquil, seemed to hum with a subdued tension that only the boy's mother seemed to notice.
The boy followed her through the narrow paths between the cottages, his sister skipping beside them. Her laughter rang out as she clutched a carved wooden rune—a gift from their mother to ward off bad spirits. The boy carried a small pouch of herbs his mother had gathered, their sharp scents cutting through the morning air. He watched her carefully, noting the lines of concentration etched into her face. Her hands moved deftly, adjusting the hood of her cloak against the cool breeze, but her eyes scanned the horizon as though searching for something just beyond sight.
"Why do we do this every year?" his sister asked, tilting her head as she held up the rune to inspect it in the sunlight.
"Because it's tradition," their mother replied. "And because the gods listen when we honor them."
"Even Njord?" his sister pressed, her voice full of curiosity. "Does he really watch over the sea?"
Their mother smiled, a fleeting softness breaking through her otherwise serious expression. "Njord rules the sea, child, just as Thor commands the storms and Freyr blesses the harvest. Each of them has their part to play, and we owe them our thanks for their gifts."
The boy's sister twirled the rune between her fingers, satisfied with the answer. The boy, however, felt the weight of his mother's words in a way his sister could not. The gods felt real to him—present in the roar of the fjord, the whisper of the forest, and the distant rumble of thunder that always seemed to promise more than just rain.
The gathering took place in the clearing near the longhouse, where villagers had set up tables laden with offerings of food, carved trinkets, and bundles of dried herbs. The skald, an elderly man with a voice like gravel and a beard streaked with gray, stood at the center, his hands raised as he called for quiet. His presence commanded respect, and even the children hushed as he began to speak.
"Today, we honor Njord, keeper of the seas, and Freyr, lord of the harvest," the skald intoned, his voice steady despite his age. "We give thanks for their blessings and pray for their favor in the seasons to come."
The villagers murmured their assent, their voices low but reverent. The boy stood near his mother, the herbs in his pouch pressed tightly against his chest. His sister fidgeted beside him, her gaze darting between the skald and the offerings.
The ceremony unfolded with practiced precision. The villagers stepped forward one by one, placing their offerings on the altar—a simple wooden platform adorned with carved runes. The boy watched as his mother approached, her movements graceful and deliberate. She placed a small bundle of herbs on the altar, her lips moving in a silent prayer.
When it was his turn, the boy hesitated. He glanced at his mother, who gave him an encouraging nod. Swallowing his nervousness, he stepped forward and placed his offering on the altar. The skald's eyes met his for a brief moment, and the boy felt a shiver run down his spine. It was as though the old man could see into his very soul.
"May the gods guide you," the skald said, his voice soft but firm. The boy nodded and stepped back, his heart pounding in his chest.
After the ceremony, the villagers gathered for a feast. The air was filled with the scent of roasting meat and freshly baked bread, and the sound of laughter mingled with the crackle of the fire. The boy sat with his family near the edge of the clearing, his wooden sword resting across his lap. His father, seated beside him, was uncharacteristically quiet. The boy noticed the way his gaze lingered on the fjord, his expression unreadable.
"What are you thinking about?" the boy asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
His father turned to him, his lips twitching into a faint smile. "The sea," he replied. "It's always calling."
The boy frowned, unsure of what to say. His father reached out and ruffled his hair, a rare gesture of affection. "Don't worry, boy. I'm not leaving just yet."
The boy glanced at his mother. Her expression softened as she exchanged a glance with her husband, but a flicker of unease lingered in her eyes. The boy didn't fully understand it then, but he would later recall that moment with painful clarity—the fleeting, fragile peace before it all unraveled.
As the day wore on, the feast began to wind down. The villagers gathered around the skald once more, their faces illuminated by the glow of the fire. The old man began to tell a tale, his voice weaving a tapestry of gods and heroes, of battles fought and victories won. The boy listened intently, his imagination painting vivid pictures of Thor's hammer striking down giants and Odin's one-eyed gaze piercing through the fog of war.
The story was one he had heard before, but it felt different now. He could see it in the way his father leaned slightly forward, his eyes distant, as if the tale stirred something deep within him. The boy wondered what memories the story awakened, what battles and losses his father carried that he would never speak of.
When the skald's tale ended, the villagers began to drift back to their homes. The boy and his family lingered for a moment longer, the warmth of the fire a fleeting comfort against the encroaching cold.
The next morning, the boy awoke to the sound of voices outside. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and hurried to the door, stepping out into the crisp morning air. His father stood near the fishing boat, loading nets and supplies with practiced efficiency. The boy's heart sank as he realized what was happening.
His father was leaving.
The boy approached cautiously, his wooden sword clutched tightly in his hand. His father turned at the sound of his footsteps, his expression softening.
"Come to see me off, have you?" his father asked, his tone light but carrying the weight of something unspoken.
The boy nodded, unable to find the words to express the knot of emotions tightening in his chest.
His father knelt before him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I won't be gone long," he said firmly. "The seals are plenty this time of year, and I'll bring back enough hides to last us through the winter." His voice softened as he added, "And stories, of course. You'll want those too, won't you?"
The boy swallowed hard, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill. He didn't trust himself to speak, so he simply nodded again.
His father smiled, ruffling the boy's hair gently. "Good lad. Keep practicing with that sword of yours. When I return, I'll want to see what you've learned."
The boy watched as his father turned back to the boat, his movements steady and deliberate. The other fishermen were already aboard, their voices a low murmur as they prepared to set off. The small fishing boat looked humble compared to the mighty longships of old, its weathered hull darkened with years of salt and spray. Yet, to the boy, it was still a vessel of adventure, carrying his father into the unknown.
The boy stood with his mother and sister on the shore, the cool breeze brushing against his cheeks. He clenched his wooden sword tightly as the boat pushed off from the dock, the rhythmic splash of oars cutting through the water.
His father turned once, raising a hand in farewell. The boy raised his hand in return, his chest aching as he watched the fishing boat grow smaller and smaller, its silhouette blending with the endless expanse of the fjord.
His mother placed a hand on his shoulder, her grip steady but gentle. "Come," she said softly. "There's work to be done."
The boy lingered for a moment longer, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the boat had disappeared. He turned away reluctantly, the image of his father etched into his mind. The sea had taken him once again, but this time, he didn't feel fear. His father had promised to return, and with him, he would bring the stories the boy longed to hear.