The Smoke-Girl & her Northern Ghost

There was a long moment where the man looked as though he couldn't decide just what to do. While the indecision lasted, Gunnar wrenched his hatchet free and as the man's knees slowly gave out, he took him by the hair and began to hack at the side of his neck.

The man was plainly dead by then, but the northerner kept hacking until he had the head free.

He looked at the horrified woman and he held out the dagger to her haft first.

"Take it. It's yours, I think."

She stared at him and he repeated himself, "Take it and then wash the mud off your ass."

She didn't comprehend him at all. She didn't understand Swedish. Gunnar realized it and tried other languages that he knew. While he was doing that, she took the dagger and he held up his hand to indicate that he wanted her to wait.

She squatted down a little in the river and ran her hands over her bottom, face, and legs as she watched while he found a long root and, shoving it into the soft earth and mud, he watched and tested it for a moment to see if it would sag under a little weight. It held if he wedged a rock under the end in the mud, so he jammed the man's head onto the other end.

She couldn't believe what she'd seen, "What are you doing?" she asked in the language of the Cuman people and he thought that he recognised something akin to Turkish, but he ignored it for the moment, wanting to be done with this.

"I make a nidstang -- a niding pole to send a curse" he said quietly, knowing that she must have asked.

"I want to keep others away until I am gone."

He washed his hands, "It is more to cause fear than anything. I do not think anyone here would see it as a curse.

And anyway," he said, washing the mud and blood from the hatchet as he went on explaining to someone who he knew couldn't understand what he said, "for a true nidstang, I would need the head of a horse, and I do not want to make that gift."

He picked up his long-axe and tossed it over the edge and was up the bank like it was nothing more than a long reach to him and he turned around and offered her his hand.

She looked up at him for a long moment and he smiled, trying to look at least a little less threatening, if not friendly, "Come. That is no place for you to hide anymore and bring your little fingernail cleaner as well."

She didn't understand anything that he said, but what choice did she have? She looked back and saw the bodies of four men as they floated slowly down stream. The head on the pole was a grisly thing, and one that she saw must have been placed as some sort of warning. Then she looked back into that face and she tried not to look too frightened as she held out her hand and grasped his.

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He led her to where his horse was tied and then they walked on a little, with her wondering why they didn't ride.

He said nothing, but he guessed that she might be curious. He hadn't brought the animal with him to ride. He'd needed the beast's senses to add to his own.

She stopped when he walked to a space off the path a good distance into an area of even deeper gloom in the night. Most of the places that she looked, she could see at least a little way into the forest, but in that place there was nothing but blackness. Then the man disappeared from sight and she saw only the back end of the horse for a moment, and then it too was gone.

She didn't know what to make of it for a moment, but then he was back in sight and beckoning to her.

"It's alright," he said in Swedish, "we'll be well-hidden here."

"Where do we go?" she asked him in Cuman, "I cannot see a thing there."

He walked back to her and held out his hand again, waiting. He guessed that from her side of it, this was going to need a measure of trust.

She looked at him, trying to see more of his features. She wanted to trust him, and the longer that she thought of it, she knew that really, she needed to. There were all sorts of issues for her here and he even seemed to know that, somehow.

Even so ...

He looked at her and he shrugged, "Well, there is food waiting for me inside, and it must be growing cold again by now. Stay here if you must, but I am only hungry and a little tired now." He turned away and as he walked, she heard the soft nicker of his horse for a moment. She didn't know why, but it seemed to settle something for her and she called to him softly in little more than a whisper.

He stopped and began to look back, but he found her there beside him as she took his hand to lead her.

She wondered just what sort of pan that she was jumping into with him.

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She stared as she looked around. She didn't know how it was possible, but he'd lifted something out of the way and guiding her inside, she now stood in a warm place. He told her to stay where she was for a moment, and though she didn't understand the words, the sense of it came to her and she waited. She couldn't see much anyway as she watched him get to his knees and fumble with the fire, trying to find a still-hot coal or two.

What he found there was too cool now to do much of anything, so he reached for a few twigs and broken branches from a small heap and with a few words, she almost cried out in surprise as flames sprang to life in the little pile that he'd made over the coals.

She almost ran out back the way that she'd come.

In fact, she did turn to do that, but she found herself looking at nothing. There was nothing there but blackness.

"The door is gone," he said in Swedish as though it was completely unremarkable.

Her outstretched fingers found only a little resistance, but there was nothing to feel.

She looked back, and he was holding out a fur for her with a smile.

She took it with a careful nod. As warm as the air in here was, she was still a long way from feeling her feet again.

"Sit," he said, pointing to a place with more furs, "You are making me nervous like that."

As she very cautiously edged her way over to where he'd indicated and after a moment where she'd looked down to be a little sure of just what she was about to sit on -- almost expecting to find a huge hound lying there or something, she eased herself down and sat.

Gunnar looked over now and then as he sought to see if there would be enough of his supper to feed them both a little. What he saw was a tired and frightened - and still very cold woman. He hoped that she wouldn't get sick now, after plainly having had to run for her life back there. He couldn't see all of her face from the way that she seemed to want to hide behind her long and dark hair.

He'd seen enough of her body back there on the bank to know that the rest of her was wonderful but the first thing, he decided was to get her warm. His eye took in the one nipple which was a little visible to him and if this were a friendlier time, place, and at least a moment where they knew at least a little of each other, he'd have allowed the remark that what he saw could likely blunt his axe.

But it wasn't any of those sorts of things, he sighed. What he could see of her face was lovely, but she looked to be at the far end of her terror. She didn't need any more uncertainty. He had no idea at the moment what he was going to do with her, though he knew what he'd have liked to do in better circumstances.

He remembered that when he'd been trying different languages that he knew at least something of on her, he'd thought that he'd seen at least a little glimmer when he'd spoken the rough Turkish that he was familiar with.

He held out his hand toward the dagger. She misunderstood and he knew that she likely would, so he withdrew his hand and poured a little water into the oldest little pot that he had.

He held the pot out to her then and she got it wrong again, but he very slowly brought the pot out so that he could lift it under the dagger's blade so that the first part at least was in the water. He swirled the pot around a little with a smile and kept on in Swedish, "You'll need that in a moment to eat with -- unless you prefer to use your fingers."

She stared at the pot and her dagger and she didn't notice it at first as he slowly brought his other hand out to reach into the pot so that he could get the entire blade clean. She'd have jumped then, but it was too late and he withdrew both the pot and his hand. A moment later, and he was holding out a piece of rough fabric to her by the edge.

There was no response from her, so he changed the way that he held the rag and he very slowly and carefully took her wrist in one hand and wiped the blade with the other. Then the rag and his hands were gone again and he was holding out a wooden bowl of warm food to her.

She got it then and nodded to him. He still couldn't see all of her face, but he did see the surprised smile.

There were a few minutes of silence between them then as she ate and he watched a little while getting just a little of the meal into another bowl for himself.

He saw in a moment that she hadn't eaten in at least a day, from the way that she wolfed it down after deciding that she liked it at least enough to think that it was fit to eat.

He made as if to take a while over deciding on just what bits and pieces of the sumptuous feast that the pot held that he'd choose to eat himself.

She wasn't a fool, well, maybe now that she was feeling a little better, at least. Her wits were coming back to her and she saw plainly that what he was really doing was taking the last of it -- all that there had been left after giving her the lion's share. It took her no more than a thought to know that he hadn't expected to have a guest and that he'd probably made himself only a light meal to begin with, and that there now had to be almost nothing left for him to eat.

She looked down. There were now only a very few bits left from what she'd been given. She held on to the bowl and leaned forward onto her knees. He mistook her intent and quickly offered her a crust of bread.

She shook her head and pointed from the bread to him.

While she watched his eyebrows rise, she reached and saw into the pot.

There was nothing there but a few almost tiny bits of vegetables, so she held out the bowl to him and motioned for him to eat all that there was left.

She eased herself back onto her haunches in a squat again, shaking her head as it all disappeared in a moment.

When they'd been walking, she'd noticed that she came up to -- maybe -- the middle of his breast with her eyes. She looked at him again, and decided that he must outweigh her by far more than half, and she was a woman, after all, so it hadn't escaped her notice that she hadn't seen a hint of fat on that body anywhere yet. She could only wonder how much food a man such as this might need to keep himself alive.

However much it was, she thought, what he'd eaten must have surely been only enough to fool his gut into thinking that there was a lot more coming to it.

She pointed and spoke to him in her language, "You are still wet. Are you not cold?"

He caught a little, but he still didn't let on, not being quite sure of what he'd heard yet since there were a few wide differences in the words and her inflection. But her motion had reminded him that he was still a little wet from their adventure, so he stood up, hoping that she wouldn't feel terribly frightened.

"Forgive me, my friend," he said, reaching for a crude towel and throwing it over his shoulder. "I am being rude here, but I hope that it is not too rude for you."

He reached down to untie the greaves that he wore on his shins and after fussing with his bracers for a moment, the rest of him was bare only seconds after that before he dried himself a little and toweled off his light hair for a minute.

He decided to try out a little of what he'd heard then, "I know nothing about you, but I did not think it was right that you be hunted the way that you were. You might be some sort of high one, or you might only be some smoke-colored serving girl, I -"

He stopped then as he saw the blue flash from her eyes in the way that she glared at him over the remark.

"Oh!" he smiled, "I have said at least something which was understood, I see. I meant nothing by it, other than to say ..."

"Go on," she said evenly, "I am no serving girl, at least not yet. I wish to hear the rest of your insult."

"I meant no insult to you," Gunnar smiled, "I have been far from the people of my kind for a long time and I have seen all sorts of people who are not as I am.

Where I am from, my skin is the same as anyone's there, but here I look like a corpse if I stay inside. By the same measure, to me, most people's skin carries a pleasant color that is rarely seen in my homeland if it is even seen at all.

I wanted to say that one way or the other; I cannot know what you might be. I only thought it was wrong for four men to hunt you. In any case, I wished to say that it matters not to me. I did what was done for us both."

"In what way?" she asked, a little satisfied, "And do you have a name, warrior? Since we seem to have found a way to speak to each other, I would like to know at least a little."

He squatted before her then, though he still towered over her even like this and she stared at what she could see there between his muscular thighs. He reached out for her hand then -- the one which still held the dagger.

She gripped it all the more tightly, though she allowed his touch as he turned her hand over and touched her skin with his thumb. Whatever he thought that he saw in her skin, she thought, his comment must have come from the comparison to his own skin. He was so light and fair, even though she could see that he spent at least a little of his time in the sun.

Even so, the other parts of him that she could see made him look pale next to the skin of her hand. If there was anything to it at all, she reasoned, it had to be from her grandmother, and the difference in any shade of it was barely perceptible to anyone. He looked like a ghost to her.

"Margit," she said and he looked up, thinking that it was another word which he couldn't understand.

"It is my name," she said, "Now I would know you own name, mighty ghost, if your kind has such things."

It made him chuckle softly as he looked into her eyes for a moment, "Gunnar, my name is, Margit. What sort do you come from? I have seen many people in my travels, but I have never seen anyone with blue eyes such as yours since I left Byzantium, and that was almost a fortnight ago."

"Byzantium?" she whispered as her jaw dropped, "I know the name. It is said that the curse of my people comes from that place. As we move ever westward, the way is often blocked by their armies, but I have heard nothing of any there who look as you do. Is that where you are from? I have heard nothing of any who have our eyes in that place."

"I am going to my homeland," he said, "at least it is a thought that I hold. I have not been there in long years now. There are some in Byzantium with eyes like mine, hair like mine, and who look like me -- at least a little. I was there in the army, the Varangian Guard, to keep the emperor safe.

But I do not come from there. I only worked there. I am a Northman, Margit. I come from Finlandia."

He decided to leave out the battles that he'd fought in at times when the progress of the regular army had been stalled and they'd been brought forward out of reserve to clear the blockage. He knew nothing about her, but he couldn't think that it was a time to mention things that he would now rather forget -- especially since she plainly thought of the ones that he'd worked for as enemies.

"He must sleep a little less soundly these nights then, if you are not there to keep his worthless life inside of him," she said.

"As an answer to you," she went on," I think that I must be someone that you have likely not seen in your travels. I come from people who live as they move. We are far now from our homeland. There are others coming from the east, as we have seen and there are too many whenever we have seen them -- so, we move away.

But it has brought us here, and even so, this is a time when we need to stand together, all of our little tribes. But it happens that we fight among ourselves too often. Old disputes which we thought were long past and forgiven arise again. I do not know yet who they were, but the ones that you killed this night were some of the ones who killed my family the night before. I was the daughter of a khan then. I am nothing now, not even a ... "

She paused, trying not to feel any sting in the words.

"Smoke-colored serving girl."

She looked up into his eyes and shrugged a little, "This time it is me who means no insult, Gunnar."

"What is a khan?" Gunnar asked, and she told him that it was a small king, one who ruled over and led a tribe.

"Though it likely means little now anymore, I am Cumar and Kipchak in where I was born, and I hold a little Qashqai blood as well. From the little that I know, it is from my grandmother and they are another people far to the south from us. They also love their horses just as we do."

"You can ride then, Margit?" he asked and she nodded, "Yes and well, Gunnar. I was on a pony almost before I could walk. You have helped someone this night who would make a poor wife to likely any man, but I can ride and if I had better than this pickle-stabber to my worthless name, I can fight as well."

He looked at her, wondering just how to express his surprise at what he took from her words. How was it that someone like her was not wed? To him, it didn't seem possible. But then it came to him that perhaps there was something which she wasn't telling him of either.

"Where is your homeland, Gunnar?" she asked, tilting her head a little. "I have heard of ones who come from far to the north. But by your speech that you made here before, I did not take you for a Rus."

"I am not," he smiled a little; "I am part Swede and part Finn. I come from the north, but not that far East, I think it is."

She shook her head and he liked it when she did for the way that she shrugged to him, "I have not heard of any of those ones either.

But the longer that I sit here, the more that I am certain that you have likely saved my life tonight. I wanted to get away earlier. I only waited for it to be dark and I would have at least thought to look for my clothes then or something to wrap around me. But they began to prepare to come for me for some pleasure, I think, and from that I heard spoken outside the yurt that I was in, it was not expected to be for longer than a night for me, and I would be killed in it somewhere or die afterwards. So, when I had the chance of it, I killed the leader with my ..."

"Fingernail cleaner," he smiled, "That is not much more than that, where I am from."

"Perhaps," she grinned right back at him, "but it took two men this night between us and so I grow a little fond of it, all the same."

He nodded as he thought about it for a moment, and then he sat down next to her. Margit suppressed the urge in her to jump up in alarm.

"I can give you better than that one, Margit," he smiled and she nodded.

"I see that, Gunnar, trust me. I have had a demon of a time trying not to look as we spoke with you there like that."

He looked surprised then for a moment and then he rolled his eyes and said, "I meant that I can give you a better blade than that one. If you can stay your dagger while I sleep this night, I do not know what your plans might be for the morning."

She was a little shocked, but she managed to hold it to a look of polite interest, "I have nothing anymore. Why would you say something like that? I am feeling very thankful."

He frowned, "I have served in an army that belongs to an enemy of your people, I think, though I serve there no longer. I have been there for most of my life and it is time to go home, or at least it is long time that I seek one," he said.