Gorm the Viking: The Lost Voyage

Tall, Blond, and Handsome

Grr-waa-grr-grug-grug-grooowooll-gug.

Run! a voice called out over the growling roar.

Children scrambled. They ran screaming, knocking over benches and each other in their rush for the door.

Sorry.

Runa the Wise, the children’s teacher, turned to see Gorm. He stood with his hands pressed into his stomach in a futile attempt to prevent future rumblings.

She sighed, knowing that her students’ heads had been filled with tales of sea dragon attacks. These tales were so common that every storyteller had at least a few in their repertoire. This ensured that the ferocious, aquatic beasts were universally feared—so feared that it had only taken the hungry grumblings of a twelve-year-old boy’s stomach to clear out the one-roomed school-hut in the Viking village of Dansvig.

I guess that will have to be all for today, hmmm? Runa said, surveying the empty classroom. She was about to lecture Gorm on the importance of eating breakfast when she noticed Viggo.

The small boy had not followed his shrieking classmates out the door. Instead, demonstrating his exceptionally poor survival instincts, Viggo had ducked his head into his tunic, like a turtle tucking into its shell. He was now stumbling about in a headless panic at the back of the room.

Grr-waaa-grr-growl-growl-grr-waa-grug-gug-grug. Another gurgling, rumbling roar burst from the depths of Gorm’s empty stomach.

Viggo started making muffled mewing sounds.

Go eat something, Runa said to Gorm as she hurried to Viggo’s side.

Okay, I’m sorry about … but Runa wasn’t listening.

Heading for home, Gorm walked down the road that ran through Dansvig. Calling it a road was a bit of an exaggeration. It was more of a muddy horse path. But then, Dansvig wasn’t much of a place. On eleven scattered farms lived ninety-three Vikings, eighty-seven cows, forty-one horses, and so many sheep that it was hard to walk more than two steps without colliding with one.

Holger, Gorm called out to his cousin. The plump boy was up ahead, trundling along at a pace that only a snail would find fast.

I waited for you, Holger lied.

Unlike the other students, Gorm’s cousin had never been worried about a sea dragon attack. He knew a stomach growl when he heard one. He’d also remembered the pot of leftover lamb stew bubbling over the hearth fire. He wasn’t about to let Gorm and his grumbling stomach get home first. In fact, he had been the one who’d screamed and led the charge of students out the door to give himself a head start. When it came to food, Holger could be quite the strategist.

Hope there’s still some lamb—oof. Gorm stumbled and fell in a shower of chicken feathers.

The collision with the scrawny bird was followed by a lot of distressed clucking, which abruptly ended when Gorm’s stomach unleashed yet another growl.

Sorry, Gorm apologized before picking himself up and setting off again.

Holger didn’t bother trying to keep up. He stood hungrily watching the disoriented bird scurry off as fast as its little chicken legs would allow.

It was a bright May afternoon, the first nice day after several miserable days of rain. Most villagers were working outside, defying the misconception that all Norsemen were greedy raiders who preferred plunder to an honest day’s work. The vast majority were peaceful farmers, fishermen, and talented craftspeople. They lived a quiet, simple life, never dreaming of venturing beyond Danmark, their beloved homeland.

Heill, Gorm called to Halfdan Big Thumb, who was standing by his fence chatting with his nosy neighbour, Helga. Heill was the standard Norse greeting, usually delivered with a quick, sharp nod of the head.

Gorm kept running, veering into a hedge to avoid three roaming sheep. By the time he passed the deserted farm that had once belonged to his neighbour Rolf the Red, Gorm was a muddy mess. His boots were soaked through. There were leaves stuck to his tunic and chicken feathers in his hair.

He rounded the corner for home, passing through the gate to his family’s farm so quickly that he didn’t notice the unfamiliar, but very large, grey horse tied to the front post. Gorm’s only concern was the violent rumbling of his stomach. He ran inside the longhouse and promptly crashed into one of the tallest Vikings ever to be seen in Dansvig.

The man barely noticed the impact of Gorm’s body against his solid, muscular leg. He merely glanced down his long nose, as if a moth had brushed up against him, instead of a twelve-year-old boy.

Sorry, sir.

But this can’t be Gorm? Look how big you’ve grown. The tall stranger regarded him with unexpected delight.

I, uh, yes, it’s me, Gorm stared at the unknown Viking warrior.

The man’s rippling muscles were noticeable beneath his cobalt-hued tunic. A matching cloak was draped over his broad shoulders, and around his waist was a thick leather belt. It held a long sword and a rune-covered dagger. The man’s hair was golden blond, his face tanned from days spent on the road. Despite his imposing size and fearsome weapons, he seemed friendly.

Gorm’s grandfather stood beside the tall man. As always, he was neatly dressed. His light-coloured tunic was spotless, despite the mud outside. The only thing out of place was his unruly eyebrows, which he raised at the unexpected arrival of his dishevelled grandson.

Go get yourself cleaned— his grandfather started to say as Holger came through the door next.

Breathless and red-faced, the taller, and much larger, boy collided heavily with his cousin. He knocked Gorm to the floor and then teetered awkwardly for a moment before falling down himself.

The tall Viking chuckled and effortlessly raised both boys from their pile of tangled limbs. There you go, he said, keeping a hand resting possessively on Gorm’s shoulder. I’ve been looking forward to—

Did you hear me, Gorm? his grandfather interrupted. From behind the stranger’s back, he flicked his head, urging his grandsons to leave.

Nice to meet you … Gorm paused, hoping for a name. But the man only gave his shoulder a quick double squeeze.

You’re really tall, Holger said. He gawked at their visitor, most certainly wondering how much a man would need to eat to grow to such a height.

Gorm heard the sharp whistle of warning, as his grandfather drew air up through his nostrils. It was something he did just before he got really angry.

Let’s eat. Gorm didn’t need to say more. Holger immediately walked away, heading over to the long table, without a good-bye or even a nod.

Trying to linger, Gorm offered an odd, little bow.

Gorm, his grandfather said, taking a step towards him. He looked like he wanted to push his grandson out the door and shove him all the way to the other side of Dansvig.

I’ll see you later, Gorm said hopefully to the tall man. He turned, avoiding his grandfather’s glare. He didn’t risk looking back until he reached the washbasin on the other side of the room. But when he did, all he saw of the tall stranger was the final flutter of his blue cloak as he disappeared out the front door.

Gorm lived in a longhouse with his mother, his older sister Astrid, and baby brother Oli. It was also home to his grandparents, his uncle Gauk, aunt Tulla, and his cousins, Holger and Sorine. They all lived together in one big room. There was a thatched roof overhead, beds against the walls, and, in the centre, an open fireplace. The fire provided warmth, light, a place to cook and, at that moment, loads of choking black smoke.

Oblivious to the smoke that had started to billow up from the cooking pot, Gorm’s grandmother hummed and distractedly stirred its charred contents.

Watch out! Holger rushed over, desperate to rescue any edible food. He carefully lifted the heavy pot off the fire. Before peering inside, he flapped his arms to drive away the smoke. A whimper escaped his lips when he saw the blackened contents.

Oh dear. Their grandmother was suddenly alert and concerned. Where’s all that smoke coming from?

Was that the lamb stew? Gorm asked, fearing that the answer was yes.

I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. I was …

Its okay, Grandma, Gorm said kindly, even as his stomach growled in complaint. He guided her to a chair. His grandmother of late had been growing increasingly forgetful.

Mom! Holger hollered.

Holding his grandmother’s hand, Gorm apprehensively awaited the arrival of Tulla, his father’s older sister. His aunt was a nervous woman with large, blinking eyes. Her face carried an expression similar to that of a cat whose tail had just been stepped on.

Oh, great, thundering storm clouds, what happened? Aunt Tulla had a high-pitched, creaky voice. And her head wobbled on her neck, as if it might fall off. Peeking into the smouldering pot, she inhaled too much smoke. She started to cough, which made her head wobble at an even faster rate. The stew’s ruined, she declared.

I’m going to die, Holger announced dramatically, clutching his stomach.

I’m sure you’ll survive. The firm voice belonged to Gorm’s mother. Tulla, why don’t you step outside for a breath of fresh air? And take Mother with you.

I burnt the stew, the old woman said as she was led out.

Is there anything to eat? Gorm asked his mother. She frowned. Clearly she was not happy about his early return home. He watched as she silently carved a chicken onto a large wooden platter, adding a few thick slices of dark brown bread and a wedge of cheese. The delicious aromas teased his nose: ripe, pungent cheese, the mellow smokiness of roasted chicken, and freshly baked bread. His stomach gurgled happily. But instead of the tempting platter, two bowls of cold barley porridge were set down before Gorm and his drooling cousin.

This should hold you over until supper. When you’re done eating, the goats need to be milked before they burst, and the garden is full of weeds. And Gorm, his mother warned, you’ll be lucky to get cold porridge for supper tonight if I catch you nosing about in your grandfather’s business. Don’t wander off. When her son did not immediately proclaim his obedience, she demanded, Did you hear me?

Uh-huh, Gorm nodded, without looking up.

His mother’s threat had not doused his curiosity. His family rarely received visitors, not like when his father had been around. Back then their longhouse had been filled with guests and visitors of all sorts. They had told the most fantastic stories of people and places that existed far beyond Dansvig.

Who was that Viking? Gorm asked as soon as his mother had left the longhouse.

Holger did not reply. He continued to slurp, sloppily drinking from his bowl of porridge.

The tall Viking? Remember? Come on, you just saw him.

Holger only squinted, and a puzzled expression took over his chubby face. Remarkably, he’d already forgotten the encounter. It seemed that he was doomed to go through life with a poor memory and very little curiosity about anything—other than food.

Are you going to finish that? Holger asked, checking the contents of his cousin’s bowl. Porridge dribbled down his multiple chins.

Do you ever think of anything other than your stomach? Still, Gorm pushed his almost-empty bowl towards his salivating cousin. Holger licked it clean before the pair headed outside.

Waiting for Gorm was his dog, Thora. The tiny black sausage dog immediately started bouncing up and down at the sight of him and rushed over as quickly as her short legs would allow. She greeted him with such enthusiastic tail-wagging that her whole body wiggled with happiness.

Thora was Gorm’s most loyal companion and best friend. Unaware that her low, small build might be a disadvantage, she readily took on anything that she perceived might threaten her master. This included laundry flapping harmlessly in the wind, larger and meaner dogs, the occasional sheep and, when necessary, Gorm’s lazy uncle Gauk.

The little dog followed Gorm to the vegetable garden to join his aunt and cousin Sorine. They’d already started pulling weeds. Holger sat nearby, chomping down on a dirt-covered baby carrot.

Who was that tall Viking? The one visiting Grandpa.

From over in the cabbage section, his aunt’s scarf-covered head popped up and wobbled. She looked uneasy. Gorm wasn’t sure whether she was worried by his question or concerned that she had mistakenly pulled a young cabbage from the ground instead of a weed.

It’s no one you know, she answered as she dislodged a massive handful of weeds, showering her daughter with dirt.

Uh, Aunt Tulla, you’re right. I don’t know him. That’s why I was asking.

Oh … uh … right. Well, don’t worry; he won’t be staying long. Aunt Tulla bent her head and began to hum loudly, her standard defence to avoid uncomfortable conversations.

Is he staying for supper?

Hum, hum, hum, hum, hummm, hummm, hum. Aunt Tulla continued to hum. Having reached the carrot section, she was now indiscriminately pulling from the ground both weeds and any fledgling vegetables growing in her path.

Gorm stopped asking questions.

After the weeding was done and the goats had been milked, Gorm walked back to the longhouse. His grandfather and the tall visitor had not returned. Only his mother was around, attending to her endless chores. He knew that she’d been watching him, keeping an eye on his whereabouts. He pretended not to notice and went over to his grandmother. The white-haired woman sat on a carved bench that caught the afternoon sun. Her eyes were closed, her face lifted upwards.

Sitting down next to her, Gorm took her wrinkled hand in his own. She smiled but did not open her eyes.

I … uh, Gorm started hesitantly. I was thinking of taking a little walk around the farm to check on the strawberry bushes. It’s a bit early, but …

Bjorn loves strawberries.

Uh, yes, Gorm stammered. I remember.

His grandmother turned to him, her blue eyes opening. If you find any, you’ll bring me a few, won’t you?

Okay, Grandma, Gorm said loudly enough for his mother to hear. If you want strawberries, I’ll try my best to find some.

Gorm knew that his grandmother might be disappointed when he returned empty-handed. But since she probably wouldn’t remember the conversation, he didn’t really feel bad. And now he had his excuse to wander. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about his grandfather’s visitor. The man had recognized him. He’d acted as if they’d met before. Who was he?

Gorm let Thora take the lead, hoping that the little dog would pick up the visitor’s scent. Instead, she headed straight for the cluster of cherry trees where his sister Astrid and her best friend, Ulrika, sat beside a mountain of woolly grey socks.

Thora had a thing for socks. Snatching one off the top of the pile, she dragged it over to a small patch of sunlight and proceeded to rip a new hole in the toe.

He is so gorgeous, announced Astrid as she lazily pricked a needle into the heel of a worn-out sock. She hadn’t noticed her brother or the small dog destroying her handiwork.

I know—and so tall and strong, added Ulrika dreamily.

His hair is golden, like … like gold.

And those eyes, they’re so blue, bluer than any eyes, ever.

He is so gorgeous, repeated Astrid.

And tall—I think he’s the tallest Viking in all of Danmark.

And strong—did you see his arms?

Oh yes, and his hair, it’s like …

Gold, Gorm muttered to himself as he walked away. While it was clear that the two girls had seen his grandfather’s visitor, he knew that he wasn’t going to learn anything useful from their gushing.

He walked down to the river—no tall Viking. He wandered through the small orchard of fruit trees on the eastern side of his family’s farm. He checked the pigpen, the goat shed, and even the outhouse. Eventually there was only one place left to look.

The path leading to his father’s workshop was overgrown. Gorm slowed his pace. He felt uneasy. He kept expecting to hear whistling, the sound of his father busy at work. Instead he heard the familiar hup-hum of his grandfather clearing his throat.

He crept forward. When his granddad came into view, he ducked into a cluster of sheep. A large black one let out an annoyed baa-aa before returning to its grazing.

Thora, Gorm hissed.

The little dog trotted forward, a sock still dangling from her mouth. She settled at her master’s side.

Through a pair of spindly sheep legs, Gorm could see his grandfather. He was seated on a rough-hewn bench outside the abandoned workshop. The old man’s back was rigid. He gazed forward, as if trying to ignore the tall man to his right.

Please, his visitor urged. Take it. The man placed a tan leather pouch next to his host’s thigh. I know that you blame me … The rest of his words were lost. The sheep’s boisterous chewing was making it difficult to eavesdrop. But whatever he said made Gorm’s grandfather wince.

What did he say? Gorm whispered to Thora, who cocked her head and appeared to ponder the question.

Axel Eleven-Toe, the tall Viking said. That was the name of a villager who’d died a few years earlier. The two of you grew up together. You probably knew him better than anyone.

Ah yes, his grandfather exclaimed, his hand accidently knocking the leather pouch to the ground. At last we’ve come to the purpose of this little visit.

I don’t deny— the tall Viking started to agree as he bent forward to retrieve the pouch.

The older man cut him off with Don’t waste your breath. He grabbed the pouch and flung it purposefully away. It landed amongst the cluster of sheep where Gorm was hiding.

A great chorus of baaing broke out. When Gorm raised his head above the din, he came face-to-face with one of the bulky creatures.

Baa. The sheep had a smooth, creamy face and dark yellow eyes. The animal looked at him and twitched its ears twice. It brought its head so close to Gorm’s own that he could smell its grass-scented breath.

Move, Gorm hissed.

Baa, responded the sheep. It plopped itself down as if to block the pathway to what its sheep’s brain must have registered as an annoying trespasser.

I don’t bloody well know where it is, Gorm heard his grandfather shout. Axel took that secret with him to the grave.

So you say. The tall Viking did not raise his voice, but for the first time he sounded annoyed. He leaned in close, making the rest of what he said difficult to hear. But the parts that Gorm did catch didn’t fit together in any way that made sense. The king … No … just listen … it will be found … he might know … Bjorn …

Bjorn. The mention of his father’s name sent a whoosh of pain to the centre of Gorm’s chest. His head jolted up as if he’d been struck beneath the chin. His eyes sought out the tall man. What had he said about his father?

The blond warrior sat calmly watching the older man at his side, as if expecting an answer. But Gorm’s grandfather did not speak. He seemed to fidget, as if fighting to control some emotion. Was it sadness? Anger? Gorm wondered. His grandfather’s breathing was coming out in gasps, as if he were gulping water instead of air. When he finally spoke, his voice trembled, but his words were shocking and clear.

No, not Gorm; you leave him out of this. You cannot possibly believe that my grandson remembers anything about …

It was at this inopportune moment that Thora decided to dig a hole. Her powerful front paws clawed at the ground, shooting up clumps of dirt and bits of grass into the air. Gorm tried to stop the determined dog, but already several sheep had scrambled to their feet, baaing aggressively.

What’s wrong with your blasted sheep? the tall Viking complained. He stood up and glared at the agitated flock.

For a heart-stopping moment, Gorm thought that the man had seen him. He watched as the tall Viking narrowed his eyes, his mouth curving up into a hint of a smile. It looked as if he were about to step forward, but Gorm’s grandfather placed a restraining hand on the man’s arm.

Come. Whatever else you have to say, you can say it inside.

The tall Viking cast one last glance at the cluster of sheep and then followed Gorm’s grandfather into the workshop.

Gorm the Ordinary

Hey, watch where you’re going! Astrid scolded her younger brother as he ran into the longhouse. What have you been doing? You look like you’ve been playing in the pigpen.

She’d changed into a lilac-coloured dress. Her light reddish-blonde hair was now braided and coiled into an elaborate bun. At fourteen, she was a delicate-looking girl, tall and awkwardly thin, with striking blue eyes. Astrid spent a good deal of her time worrying about her appearance. Much to her mother’s dismay, she’d gotten into the habit of changing outfits several times a day. Even though a few boys around the village had begun to notice her blooming good looks, she feared that she was too pale and far too thin to ever be considered pretty.

You look nice, Gorm said, catching his sister off guard. Is your boyfriend staying for supper?

What? My boyfriend …? No … I have no idea what you’re talking about. Astrid blushed.

Compared to his sister, everything about Gorm was ordinary. He was a normal height for a twelve-year-old boy, with muddy red hair and greenish-blue eyes. He wasn’t the strongest or the fastest or the smartest boy in the village. He didn’t have any distinguishing features or noteworthy habits. He was just average, ordinary Gorm. And for a boy, living in a land of great warriors and fearless adventurers, being ordinary was a curse.

If I were you, Astrid said, I’d clean myself up before supper, or we’ll start calling you Gorm the Dirty.

Gorm gulped at the name. He needed to be careful. When it came to names, Vikings had some unusual ideas. They didn’t use last names. And relying on first names alone had led to confusion and embarrassment. It was quite common to have more than one Helgi living in the same village and likely a couple of Sveins. That is why they had begun the tradition of the Norse name. Unlike a first name, which parents bestowed long before a baby had any chance of showing a bit of personality, a Norse name was given later in life. Much like a nickname, a Norse name was based on a unique or defining characteristic. Vikings were quite ingenious when choosing names for each other, but not always kind.

Frequently, prominent physical features were used to form the name, as in Haldor One-Eye or Tanni the Tall. Embarrassing names could result when personal habits were taken into consideration, such as Knut the Nose Picker. Gorm’s uncle Gauk was known as Gauk the Guzzler because he drank often and quickly. Two years earlier, at the age of eleven, his cousin Holger’s enormous appetite had shown no sign of shrinking, so he had been named Holger the Hungry.

Personality had played a role in the naming of Malene the Meek and Gurd the Gullible. And in some instances a person’s occupation was considered. The village’s blacksmith was known as Harald Firehammer. And Ragna, who’d been brewing up helpful concoctions since her early teens, had become known as Ragna the Healer.

While all young Vikings looked forward to receiving their name, it was also a source of concern, since Norse names were not always positive and once given were difficult to change. Gorm could only remember one instance of a name change in his lifetime. After marrying one of the best cooks in Dansvig, Logmar the Lean soon became known as Logmar the Large and was well on his way to becoming Logmar the Extra-Large!

Despite his sister’s threats, Gorm wasn’t too worried about becoming Gorm the Dirty. He was, however, genuinely concerned by his ordinariness. He supposed that being average was better than being thought of as stupid or irksome. He was curious, but not like Erland the Inquisitive. Erland had singed his eyebrows off dozens of times and nearly drowned twice—all because his curiosity frequently overrode his better judgment. Gorm was friendly, but not like Halfdan Big Thumb. Halfdan was friendly and outgoing, and he possessed a freakishly large thumb that lured even the most standoffish people into conversation.

But was he was doomed to become Gorm the Ordinary just because he did not possess a single outstanding characteristic or talent?

Before supper, Gorm did his best to clean up, wiping off most of the dried mud that had splattered on his tunic. He washed his face, hoping to avoid his grandmother’s dreaded handkerchief. Whenever his grandmother spotted filth, grime—or even a dark shadow—on any of her five grandchildren, she’d promptly spit into her handkerchief and vigorously wipe the offending body part clean. This often left a much larger, and more noticeable, red mark in its place.

I’m hungry, whined Holger, who existed between one of two states: fleeting fullness and overwhelming hunger. He was always the first to be seated for supper.

The smell of the food lured the rest of the family to their seats. The table was laden with salmon steaks, boiled leeks, and thick, hearty slices of brown bread slathered with fresh butter. Gorm noted with disappointment that his mother had not set an extra plate.

Will anyone be joining us? he asked hopefully, reaching for a slice of bread.

Astrid stopped pushing bits of salmon around her plate. Who was that gorgeous Viking, and why isn’t he staying for supper?

Aunt Tulla began to hum. Gorm’s mother looked uncomfortable. His grandmother busied herself wiping a smudge of butter from little Oli’s forehead, much to his squirming displeasure. All eyes focused on Gorm’s grandfather, who calmly set down his fork.

Hup-hmm. He cleared his throat. No one will be joining us for supper tonight. He turned to Holger with a discouraged look, Which is fortunate, since someone has taken more than his fair share of salmon.

Holger who’d just speared the last two steaks with his knife, let them slide back onto the serving platter and began slurping his milk. They ate the rest of their meal in uncomfortable silence.

After dinner Astrid leapt up. Oh, here, let me take that, she offered sweetly, stooping to clear her mother’s dirty plate. Dinner was delicious.

Thank you, replied her mother cautiously.

It was Astrid’s turn to wash the dishes, a chore she detested. Hoping to enlist help, she often resorted to flattery. The tactic rarely worked, chiefly because Astrid was unusually bad at giving compliments.

Usually, Astrid continued, you use too many onions and it makes everyone gassy.

Holger snickered. He found anything about farting and burping tremendously funny.

Aunt Tulla— Astrid started, but she was interrupted by her mother.

You’d better get started on those dishes, she advised Astrid.

Reluctantly, Astrid picked up a greasy plate, still covered with bits of fish. Shuddering, she dumped it into a washbasin and plunged her hands in after it.

As soon as his grandfather stood up, Gorm excused himself from the table and followed him outside.

Who— Gorm started to ask, but his grandfather didn’t let him get further then his first word.

I know what you’re going to ask Gorm, so don’t bother. I haven’t the strength to tell you about Ivarr.

His grandfather looked tired and suddenly much older. He entered the barn and sunk down onto a low stool. There, there, darling, he said as he gently patted a sandy-coloured cow before grasping its udder. He turned to Gorm. You’ve always got a question on the tip of your tongue, haven’t you? The old man smiled as milk started to spit into the bucket. Holger could witness a dog dancing on water and never bother to wonder why. But you’ve got a fine, intelligent mind. It will serve you well, but you need to learn that some things are simply none of your business.

But— Gorm pushed, courting his grandfather’s anger. He knew me, and he—

Gorm! His grandfather barked his name loudly. What did I say? This has nothing to do with you.

Sorry, Gorm said, stepping back. He felt tears of frustration welling up in his eyes. He turned, hoping that his granddad had not noticed his childish reaction. It would only reinforce his opinion that Gorm was too young to be told anything of importance, even things about his own father.

Gorm walked out of the barn. At least he’d learned the tall Viking’s name.

No, he said to his sister before she could ask for his help. He’d returned to the longhouse to find a tower of dishes still cluttering the table. Astrid’s braids had come undone. The front of her dress was damp.

But, Astrid started and then caught the look on her brother’s face.

Dutifully, Gorm kissed his mother good night. She did not notice his glumness. Or if she did, she didn’t mention it, preferring to pretend