Read Online The Princess and the Snowbird by Mette Ivie Harrison - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mette Ivie Harrison
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remained were only four or five years old. It was meant to be a night of wildness and violence, a night meant to prove that next year’s hunting season would be as successful as this year’s. But Jens could feel no pride in this.
Instead he watched morosely as two brothers bloodied each other while their father encouraged more and more violence.
Another young boy, no more than ten years old, swung at Jens and took him by surprise.
He ducked.
In an instant he realized it was the wrong thing to do, but there was no taking it back. The boy had expected Jens to engage him. When Jens refused, it was taken as an insult.
Jens gritted his teeth against the lingering pain in his leg and tried to join another battle with Harald, as he was closer to Jens in age and more likely to give him a fair fight. But Harald ignored him completely. After all, he was a man in the village now. Jens was not.
Jens told himself he should walk away, go home and go to sleep. It was what only the old men did, and it would invite others to call him a woman. But how much worse could his reputation in the village become?
Liva. She would not admire him for fighting with other humans. He would think of her tonight, and her beautiful strength.
As he walked away, he heard laughter behind him. And then his mother’s name, Gudrun, and a guttural spit and a curse on her for bearing such a son. Harald, who had just refused a fight, was taunting him.
He could not bear it. It was one thing for him to suffer, but his mother was defenseless. She had given her lifefor him, and he would not hear her memory maligned.
Frustrated, he turned and swung as hard as he could, taking Harald off guard and knocking him to the ground. He would no longer be ignored. Harald’s face was already purpling with the mark of Jens’s hand. As Harald got to his feet and maneuvered closer, a group of men began to form a circle around them.
“Coward!” Jens heard, as he ducked one of Harald’s blows. Harald was faster than Jens—except after a night of feasting and drinking like this one.
It was quiet in the building. Jens had seen fights before, and there were always onlookers calling out encouragement or disgust to both sides. Not now.
They did not think he was one of them.
Then came a blinding moment of realization: Jens was as alone here as he ever would be out in the forest. More alone, for in the village the animals were against him as well. Smoke stung his eyes. Harald was waiting for him to continue the fight, hands clenched into fists, stance ready for battle.
But Jens knew what he wanted, and it was not this life. Not another moment of it.
He took a step toward the open door. Harald was happy to see him go, raising his hand and shouting out his triumph to roars of approval.
Jens decided that he would leave without another word, the building, the village, this life.
Then his father stepped in front of him, large andreeking. He had come to Jens’s side at last.
“Do you wish to have your man’s gift from me?” he asked.
Jens felt his breath catch in his throat, as thick as a piece of meat that he had not chewed well enough. A gift from his father? The tradition was that a father gave his son a gift at the ceremony of his manhood, to help him on his way in life, now that he would care for himself. Not having gone through the ceremony, Jens was not technically a man, and he was surprised that his father would make this offer. But for a moment, Jens believed it was true and relaxed, waiting.
Then out of the corner of his eye he saw his father’s hand clench into a fist. It flew at him and connected with his jaw. Jens fell to the floor, and his head was filled with the sound of his father’s laughter.
“That’s the only gift you’ll ever get from me.”
Afterward, the carousing began again. Or had it ever stopped? Jens’s father entered a wrestling match with another man without a glance back.
No one looked at Jens at all.
Painfully he got up and
Instead he watched morosely as two brothers bloodied each other while their father encouraged more and more violence.
Another young boy, no more than ten years old, swung at Jens and took him by surprise.
He ducked.
In an instant he realized it was the wrong thing to do, but there was no taking it back. The boy had expected Jens to engage him. When Jens refused, it was taken as an insult.
Jens gritted his teeth against the lingering pain in his leg and tried to join another battle with Harald, as he was closer to Jens in age and more likely to give him a fair fight. But Harald ignored him completely. After all, he was a man in the village now. Jens was not.
Jens told himself he should walk away, go home and go to sleep. It was what only the old men did, and it would invite others to call him a woman. But how much worse could his reputation in the village become?
Liva. She would not admire him for fighting with other humans. He would think of her tonight, and her beautiful strength.
As he walked away, he heard laughter behind him. And then his mother’s name, Gudrun, and a guttural spit and a curse on her for bearing such a son. Harald, who had just refused a fight, was taunting him.
He could not bear it. It was one thing for him to suffer, but his mother was defenseless. She had given her lifefor him, and he would not hear her memory maligned.
Frustrated, he turned and swung as hard as he could, taking Harald off guard and knocking him to the ground. He would no longer be ignored. Harald’s face was already purpling with the mark of Jens’s hand. As Harald got to his feet and maneuvered closer, a group of men began to form a circle around them.
“Coward!” Jens heard, as he ducked one of Harald’s blows. Harald was faster than Jens—except after a night of feasting and drinking like this one.
It was quiet in the building. Jens had seen fights before, and there were always onlookers calling out encouragement or disgust to both sides. Not now.
They did not think he was one of them.
Then came a blinding moment of realization: Jens was as alone here as he ever would be out in the forest. More alone, for in the village the animals were against him as well. Smoke stung his eyes. Harald was waiting for him to continue the fight, hands clenched into fists, stance ready for battle.
But Jens knew what he wanted, and it was not this life. Not another moment of it.
He took a step toward the open door. Harald was happy to see him go, raising his hand and shouting out his triumph to roars of approval.
Jens decided that he would leave without another word, the building, the village, this life.
Then his father stepped in front of him, large andreeking. He had come to Jens’s side at last.
“Do you wish to have your man’s gift from me?” he asked.
Jens felt his breath catch in his throat, as thick as a piece of meat that he had not chewed well enough. A gift from his father? The tradition was that a father gave his son a gift at the ceremony of his manhood, to help him on his way in life, now that he would care for himself. Not having gone through the ceremony, Jens was not technically a man, and he was surprised that his father would make this offer. But for a moment, Jens believed it was true and relaxed, waiting.
Then out of the corner of his eye he saw his father’s hand clench into a fist. It flew at him and connected with his jaw. Jens fell to the floor, and his head was filled with the sound of his father’s laughter.
“That’s the only gift you’ll ever get from me.”
Afterward, the carousing began again. Or had it ever stopped? Jens’s father entered a wrestling match with another man without a glance back.
No one looked at Jens at all.
Painfully he got up and
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