I'm a Viking and I Protest

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I'm a Viking—and I Protest Copyright © 2004 Jackie Rose ISBN: 1-55410-216-2 Cover art and design by Martine Jardin All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher. Published by eXtasy Books, a division of Zumaya Publications, 2004 Look for us online at: www.zumayapublications.com www.Extasybooks.com

Dedication: To the real anti-defamation leagues that try so hard to protect minorities—although Vikings are usually not included—yet.

Jackie Rose

Chapter One

B

ritta was now fifth in line for Ragnar, who had already driven his first ten women to gasping, wailing, screaming orgasm after hurling them onto the snowy ground, tearing off their gowns and plunging his immense male member into their very depths. From here, that mighty organ seemed as hard, thick and tall as the prow of a Viking ship—the accursed vessel she had seen on the horizon, carrying the raiders that had stormed her father’s castle. She did not know why her lower body now seemed as wet as the ocean that had borne the cruel invaders. Her womanly opening was pouring forth wave after wave of moisture, until she felt sure that the puddle would soon reach her knees. But I feel nothing but hatred for him, the Irish princess assured herself. And I will not submit to him, she swore, as she stood silently waiting her turn behind her two weeping waiting-maids. I will not be another victory in the horrible competition he is holding against his cousin Torvald. Neither she nor any other woman would change the outcome of this wenching contest, and all the cheering spectators knew it. Torvald was only on his second woman and was obviously finding it hard to finish the job. 1

I'm a Viking-- and I protest

**** This final rival had worn himself out the previous evening, Ragnar remembered with contempt. He and Torvald had each had another competitor then, and Torvald had barely won the day—or, rather, the evening—against an opponent with graying hair. “What ho, Cousin?” Ragnar cried to his sweating, straining rival. “Are you tiring already? Why, ten women are barely enough to arouse me for the next dozen. Is it too hard for you to enjoy a mere two?” Tossing back the lion’s mane of golden hair that reached beyond his shoulders, Ragnar laughed uproariously. “Or, mayhap, it is not hard enough.” Karl Gustavsen, on the other hand, found it very easy to throw his copy of Ravished by Ragnar across the store—or, more accurately, the Viking Museum and Import Shop of Minneapolis. “Is it that bad?” his sister asked sympathetically. “It’s worse,” he complained, tossing back the straight blond hair that reached the collar of his University of Minnesota sweatshirt. “Vikings holding rape contests. And a championship with playoffs, yet! But readers love it. They are even standing in line to get their copies signed, right over there. One of them left this copy here, but she’s probably back in line to buy another one.” He gestured at the left side of the window, in the general direction of the bookstore at the other end of the mall. There, Rose Jacobson’s fans had gathered to get her smile and her signature on Ravished by Ragnar. 2

Jackie Rose It was her second Viking romance and the sequel to Enslaved by Eric, as the sign in the bookstore window proudly explained. And, of course, the notice invited the visitors to purchase the first book along with the second. The line was not very long. In fact, it consisted of only six people, but the last of these had to stand outside the small bookstore. Karl had to admit that the crowd was a lot larger than any he had ever hosted in the Viking Museum. But then, he was trying to tell the truth about Vikings, not turn them into walking dildoes. “A rape contest!” he exclaimed. “Really, Ingrid. And because they are talking about our ancestors, they can get away with it. What if she had written about two Black men or Hispanics or Jews holding a rape contest?” Having originally phrased that mentally as “Black men or Jews or Hispanics,” he had hastily re-cast it into alphabetical order to avoid implying that he had singled any one group out for the dishonor. But no matter how far down the alphabet “Vikings” might be, they were still on top of the list for stereotypes of sex, violence and both. “Well, Rose Jacobson was a history teacher,” Ingrid answered timidly. “I read that in the Minneapolis Journal. She must know something about it.” “She knows what sells!” And the newspaper article had proven that she knew how to produce it. Originally released in the e-book section of Orgazm Books, Ravished had rapidly sold the 200 copies 3

I'm a Viking-- and I protest needed to qualify for print publication. This was, apparently, the Valhalla of all e-book authors. She was also able to quit her day job, which was well known to be the Valhalla of all artists, period. Valhalla was one of the few positive Viking traditions that had survived the rape fantasies. Of course, there was wenching in Valhalla—or, rather, consensual sexual relations with Valkyries, who had carried the warrior there as a reward for courage on the field. You could call it the Viking GI Bill of Rights. But it always was, well, consensual, Karl assured himself. And based on shared interests and mutual respect. But, as much as he hated to admit it, Viking rape fantasies sold. A lot better than authentic Norwegian patterned sweaters that hung against the wall of his gift shop. He was sharply reminded of that once again when some of the ladies from the book signing straggled in to look at them. The garments were beautiful handcrafted works and also warm enough to serve as coats on a fall day. He pointed that out to the ladies and they seemed to be interested, until he showed them the price tag. Then they hastily put the sweaters down, no doubt with thoughts of going to the mall to find massproduced facsimiles at a quarter of the cost, Made in China. It was one of the few places his Viking ancestors had never gone. Instead, the women were purchasing a few of the gilded filigree brooches and amber-bead necklaces in the front display case. These were also authentic and 4

Jackie Rose would, he felt bitterly, be just the thing for them to wear as they fondly imagined being Raped by Ragnar. Ingrid was pointing out the accessories’ other advantage: mixing silver and gold tones, they could be worn with any other metal jewelry in a way that would not be rediscovered for millennia. The shoppers also leafed through both the Englishlanguage editions of Norwegian magazines and the Norse translations of American works, while resting on the Swedish farmhouse sofa. These purchases would not, however, pay the rent on this store, located so close to the world’s greatest shopping mall. He had long since given up on trying to sell the sofa itself. This was the shop’s most expensive item, with the wooden frame hand-finished in pale blue paint and intricate carving. It was simply not the kind of thing one bought at a gift shop, when the import chains were able to purchase the same thing in bulk and pass the savings on. His parents had sold shoes here, and those had not been able to pay the rent either. They had therefore shown their true Viking heritage by heading for more promising climes, in this case Florida, leaving him to run the store. Some would say he had run it into the ground by turning it into a Viking Museum, but he was still proud of the way he had tried to respect his roots. Especially since so many people were trying to tarnish them. If tarnishing is what one did to roots, he thought, 5

I'm a Viking-- and I protest having graduated from the University of Minnesota with enough liberal arts credits to know that you did not mix metaphors. He had gotten good grades in English, even though he had gone to college on a football scholarship, as his broad shoulders and muscular arms still testified. “May I see those brooches, please?” By coincidence, or following the law of averages, or, alternatively, by the Lord Thor’s grand design, he looked up to see a member of the ethnic group that had sent everyone else out searching—digging?—for their roots. She showed her pride in her own ancestry with her tight, trim Afro hairstyle and colorful linen dashiki robe. It featured a pride of golden lions parading across the brown hem. African lions, needless to say. Why shouldn’t she wear her ancestral garb with pride? he asked himself bitterly. No one was writing sexy stories called Kidnapped by Kwame. Or, if they were, they at least had less vulgar titles and the African warriors probably refrained from holding the Superbowl of sex. More cheerfully, he reminded himself that those Viking brooches apparently went with any ethnic garments, because they were so, well, ethnic. He hoped she was planning to buy one to pin to her dashiki, and his hopes grew with her next words. “You have many interesting things here,” she said. “Those Vikings made beautiful objects. Of course,” she added, on a less approving tone, “they also gave a name to slavery. Do you know that the word came 6

Jackie Rose from Slav, because that’s who the Vikings mostly captured?” Really, even to sell an ethnic broach to an ethnic woman, that was too much to take. “We used to believe that,” he said with an edge to his voice that would have done credit to a Viking sword. “But now we have realized that the Vikings were merchants and traders. If they ever did steal anything, it was just to survive, because the Christians refused to trade with them.” Triumphantly, he added, “They were victims of religious persecution. “And of course we know that they discovered America. Look over here,” he said, eagerly emerging from behind the counter and leading her to the rear of the store. “This is probably the most important object we own.” “It looks like a grey rock with some red scratches on it,” she said dubiously as she gazed at the object propped against the back door. “It’s a runestone,” he told her. “And it was found right here in Minnesota, like the Kensington Stone. We don’t know if the words were supposed to be magical inscriptions or simply signposts, but this one seems to date back even earlier than the fourteenth century.” Some disloyal troll came to perch on his shoulder and whisper in his ear that most archeologists believed the Kensington Stone to be a modern forgery. He shook this thought away, sending his hair flying into his eyes, so that he had to push it impatiently back again. 7

I'm a Viking-- and I protest Obviously, these pseudo-scientists were just prejudiced in favor of the other candidates for the title of First Explorers in America, like the Chinese, the Irish or even, in some few cases, Christopher Columbus. Another faction backed the Ancient Romans, but that was a moot point. The Romans had taken their culture from the Greeks. The Greeks, as everyone knew, were merely Vikings who had made it to the Mediterranean and gotten some very good press, most notably for that slave raid they had called the Trojan War. That was as plain as the Viking nose guard on the helmet that covered Achilles’ long blond hair. He had sailed in a ship with a dragon carved on the prow and then dragged Hector’s corpse behind his chariot in a classic example of Viking berserker rage. After his own body was burned in the true Viking fashion, his crew sailed home with a cargo of slaves, gold, precious gems and everything else that wasn’t nailed down, thus following the greatest Viking tradition of all. But if Achilles and Co. had, instead, had the bad judgment to sail directly from Norway instead of stopping off in Argos, the Sack of Troy would have been just another Viking raid. As it was, he reflected bitterly, the Greeks had gotten the credit, along with a whole curriculum of classical epics and tragedies. It was just another example of pro-Mediterranean bias. He would not say that to this woman, though, 8

Jackie Rose because she might possibly go for lunch at the Acropolis Diner and mention his theory to Mr. Bilakos. He himself had been chased out of the mall’s best restaurant in mid-souvlaki platter after doing just that. “If anyone conquered anything, it was the Greeks who captured Norway,” the Athenian native had shouted. But the Hellenes could not claim Minnesota. Not, so far as he knew, that they wanted to. “Yes, the Vikings were right here in the tenth century, long before Columbus came,” he said proudly. “We know how they got here, too. The Atlantic is close enough to Lake Superior and the Minnesota shore. They knew how to put their ships on wheels to carry them overland, too.” Briefly, he wondered why they’d bothered. After the towering crags of Norway, his own state must have seemed depressingly flat. Its trees barely formed a green fringe on the horizon beneath the endless sky. Only the frigid climate could have reminded the Vikings of home. And if they were such great travelers, he wondered treacherously, why hadn’t they pressed on to Florida? Pushing that disloyal thought aside, he added, “We also know why they left our continent. They were attacked by the Native Americans, whom they called the Skraylings.” Seeing her shocked expression, he quickly added, “Only the Native Americans won and chased the Vikings away.” 9

I'm a Viking-- and I protest With mixed relief and resentment, he saw her nod of approval. It was one thing to be glad that your ancestors, at least, had not oppressed the Indians. It was another to see someone else expressing pleasure at the fact that they had tried to do it and failed. “Well, you came back again,” she assured him, then added with a smile, “you even have the football team to prove it.” “That’s because we have so many VikingAmericans here,” he said. “If the Chinese had reached Minnesota first, our team would be the Minnesota Mongols.” “And we might be reading romance novels with Mongol heroes,” she answered. From her dreamy expression, he suspected that her tooled-leather bag included a signed copy of You-Know-What-ed by You-Know-Whom. Which, but by the grace of Buddha, would be called Grabbed by Genghis. But no such luck: the Vikings had come first and were therefore apparently doomed to keep the dubious honor of being first in war, last in peace and foremost in rape and pillage. That thought made him angry enough to exclaim, “If you can call them heroes. I don’t see what is so romantic about rape. It just makes all of us VikingAmericans look bad and leaves us feeling ashamed of our heritage.” “Viking-Americans?” she asked. “I have never heard that term before.” Karl hadn’t either, but it sounded just right now. “Most of us are of Viking descent,” he said. “And 10

Jackie Rose we should be proud of our heritage, instead of seeing fiction writers make it into sex fantasies. I just wish we could sue them for the way they are defaming us.” **** That word 'sue' was as magical for her as any runic incantation. At the sound of it, her eyes grew wide and gleaming. This could be the case that every lawyer prayed for. “I happen to be an attorney, with a civil rights firm,” she said. “And I suppose that we could sue for defamation or even encouraging hate crimes. But,” she added sadly, “you would have to have standing to sue. Are you sure you are a Viking-American?” “All of my grandparents came from Norway! And those were the Vikings who set sail for America. It was the Swedes who went to Russia and invented slavery instead.” “Well, there you go!” she crowed triumphantly. “And can you prove loss or damage?” “Would you want to be alone in a shop with a serial rapist?” That was enough to send her digging into the tooled leather bag. Sure enough, he saw a copy of Ravished by Ragnar, but was much more impressed when she produced her business card. It showed that Zipporah Stuart was indeed an attorney at law. ****

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I'm a Viking-- and I protest Are you kidding? Rose Jacobson entered the words into her instant messaging system and furiously pressed 'send'. Even as she did so, she knew that her publisher was not. Publishers did not, as a rule, jest about libel suits. It’s no joke, the reply came. This Karl Gustavsen claims to be the head of the Viking Anti-Defamation League. He says that we are inciting hatred of his ethnic group by showing it as rapists and marauders. “But the Vikings WERE rapists and marauders,” the author wailed aloud at her computer, before remembering that she had to type and send the message by hand. He says that modern research proves otherwise. They were merchants and farmers who, at worst, were sometimes forced to take things in order to survive. Anyway, you know how sensitive people are. Maybe if we sent an apology and changed the setting to a slave planet. Slave planet, nothing, Rose typed back. She was now hunched over her keyboard so intently that her long ebony bangs fell over her high ivory forehead and into her deep mahogany eyes. “There are already so many erotic romances set on slave planets, you’d think Jefferson Davis conquered the galaxy,” she said, impatiently pushing her hair behind her ear. “They’re all great, if you like imagination, but I stuck with the truth.” As the final proof of her virtue and integrity, she added, “I even did research!” What if we changed the title? the answer appeared. 12

Jackie Rose “What should we call it then?” Rose cried again, first verbally and then with fingertips that were rapidly growing numb from spidering over the keyboard. “Liberated by Leif? Equal to Olaf? Engaged-In-A-Fully-Consensual-Relationship With Torvald? “Enslaved by Eric was the fifth best seller in all categories on the Fictionbuy site, as you remember, and Ravished by Ragnar may take first place this month. The titles had a lot to do with it.” So, of course, did the covers, showing half-naked male models who bore a greater resemblance to the Minnesota Vikings than the Danish kind, with their shoulder-length blond hair and geometrically square jaws. But her research had been almost as impressive as their bare chests, even if it wasn’t quite as useful as a selling tool. What’s more, her publisher had given her an editor who was an expert on the entire Dark Age. Rose and the editor had engaged in grueling conferences over whether the Vikings should really be called Vikings at all, since 'Viking' was in fact a verb. The Norwegian farmers were forced to go Viking when the weather turned against them, as that same compulsive comma chaser had pointed out. The word actually meant something like 'going to sea'. Here, Rose had refused to back down. She could not have Britta exclaiming, “I do not fear you, cruel Norwegian-farmer-who-was-forced-to-go-to-sea.” Obviously, 'cruel Viking!' was the only phrase that fit. Neither one of them had really believed that the 13

I'm a Viking-- and I protest average reader would stop in mid-sigh during a sex scene to wonder whether, as history told her, Sigurd had the right to divorce her husband if he spent too much time with the Irish slave girls. But both agreed that God was in the details—or, in this case, Thor—and they firmly believed the adage that the truth sounds true. In this spirit, they had frantically contacted their publisher, urging her to referee their two-hour argument on exactly when it was that the Vikings had invented the smorgasbord. The publisher had naturally obliged, even though they had had to wait while she went off in search of a headache remedy. For some reason, as she explained, that often happened when she was dealing with creative people. Rose Jacobson had certainly searched for the truth often and hard enough in her background research. Glancing to her side, she saw that her three-shelf folding bookcase was about to collapse under the weight of the Viking references she kept always beside her computer table in a corner of her Minneapolis condo. They ranged from lavishly illustrated children’s books with titles like If You Were a Viking to more scholarly, less useful histories. And, yes, she admitted, she even consulted other works of erotic romance, like Surrender, My Saxon. Thinking of this, Rose entered her next message without even waiting for a reply. I say we fight! she exclaimed silently, typing so hard that her numb fingers started tingling again. Even as 14

Jackie Rose she did so, she knew that she sounded like Britta— before Ragnar captured her, of course, and therefore long before she clinched the rape contest pennant for him, with extra points for her multiple orgasms. Even as she said so, she realized that the lady who owned Orgazm Books was the one who would do the fighting. The publisher was the one with the 'deep pockets', as lawyers said—even though these pockets were still pretty shallow, unless you compared them to Rose’s own, where moths were likely to die of malnutrition. So the owner was the one who would be sued. The only way to win a lawsuit is never to have one, the words appeared. What’s wrong with 'Loved by Leif?'” Shuddering at the very thought of such vanilla slush, Rose typed back, The truth is the complete defense, and we can prove every word we say. We can even file a counter suit for defamation of character. And if this guy owns anything, we can take it from him. As she entered those words, she was aware of feeling her own Viking berserker rage. It was enough to inspire yet a third title, Seized by Swen, and she set to work on it the moment her publisher signed off. Rose had established that Eric and Ragnar were the only two brothers. But Vikings were such a notoriously randy lot, she could easily account for a third. Since she had created an entire World Series of sex for the Vikings, one of the innings almost had to have resulted in a home run. It would not make her publisher happy, she knew. As long as the Viking-Americans were threatening a 15

I'm a Viking-- and I protest lawsuit, Orgazm Books would be just as pleased to announce titles like Captured by Crazy Horse. The Native Americans were less likely to complain. They already had their fair share of grievances, a lot more recent than 1,000 AD. But Rose was already deep into her Viking heroes, and vice versa in her fantasies. She did not, she told herself virtuously, want to start from the beginning, with new Native American research—where the beginning, as she well knew, could take her all the way back to Mongolia. So defiantly, she arched her fingers over the keys in the style that allowed her type almost as fast as she could think, if not faster. They were soon darting over the keyboard like goldfish—no, like dragon ships darting across the Atlantic in search of new prey. “Land ho!” cried Swen, as he stood on the prow beside the great carved dragon. Pointing at the haze of green that was emerging beyond the bright blue waves, he shouted, “We are almost in Britain.” “And close to those beautiful royal maidens, Aye, Captain?” the old sailor asked, with a wicked laugh. But, of course, the Viking would not have seen anything wicked about it, so Rose hastily changed it 'an eager laugh'. “By tonight they will be lying on our decks, and we will be lying above them,” Swen replied, tossing back his long golden hair. ****

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Jackie Rose Karl Gustavsen, on the other hand, was not in much of a hair-tossing mood. Hair-tearing was more like it. If there wasn’t much demand for two hundred dollar Norwegian sweaters, he was learning that there was even less of a market for Viking Pride, except among football fans. In vain, had he asked Father Torvaldsen’s permission to state his case at the Lutheran Brotherhood. The Evangelical Lutheran Church was becoming a multicultural community, the minister had answered, in his uni-cultural Norwegian tones. If he invited a Viking-American speaker, it would give the wrong impression. What’s worse, Karl’s own favorite Uncle Tom was quickly proving to be an Uncle Torvald—which was like an Uncle Tom again, for Viking-Americans. Karl had been deceived at first by his uncle’s customary T-shirt, which clearly read, 'Kiss Me, I’m Norwegian'. It was not the kind of thing that Karl would have handled in his museum gift shop, but he had thought it showed that his uncle’s heart was in the right place. He soon learned, however, that the man clearly suffered from Viking self-hatred. As a leader in the local Republican Party, Rotary Club, Lutheran Brotherhood and Veterans of International Conflicts, Uncle Tom could have played a vital role in spearheading the Viking AntiDefamation League. But, as Karl learned almost the moment he joined him at the golf course, he had no intention of doing any such thing. While Karl usually preferred walking across the 17

I'm a Viking-- and I protest grounds, today he took full advantage of the golf-cart ride to state his case. He thought he was doing so with great eloquence, judging by the silence with which Uncle Tom listened to him describing the rape contest. Indeed, the older man even ignored the perspiration that had gathered on his plump pink cheeks and in his thin blond hair. Judging by the rapt gaze in his uncle’s bright blue eyes, Karl thought he had incited his indignation. He soon realized, however, that he had aroused another sensation entirely. “That sounds like a pretty hot story!” Uncle Tom said, as they reached the seventh hole. “A Viking rape contest. Maybe I’ll read that for myself. Do they have playoffs, like the Superbowl?” After gazing at him for several moments in disbelieving dismay, his nephew cried, “That’s a stereotype! Would anyone write that about Black men or Italians?” “They never did it, that anyone knows,” the older man answered with a shrug while searching for his golf ball near the trees. “The Vikings never did it either!” Karl shouted, his voice rising close to a howl of rage. “We are the ones who invented democracy! We elected our councils and even voted for a president who won a three-year term with a two-term limit. Does that sound like we had rape contests?” “You can vote for president and commit rape, too, just as long as you aren’t convicted,” answered Uncle 18

Jackie Rose Tom, who was really an Uncle Torvald, Karl thought bitterly. “Anyway, that was a long time ago. But rape contests, who would have imagined it? I’ll have to tell the Rotary guys about that. Anyway, the Rotary Club does not usually protest things.” Seeing his nephew’s disapproving frown, the older man added hopefully, “We raise money to help needy children, although I don’t suppose they have too many of those in Norway. And I certainly would not mention rape contests to the Lutheran fellowship. Although I suppose the Vikings ended them when Christianity came in.” “There were never any rape contests! That silly woman made it up to sell her stupid dirty book! We’ve got to fight back against people who defame us that way.” But fighting the ethnic slur obviously meant a lot less to Uncle Tom than finding the fugitive golf ball. **** Zipporah Stuart was much better at enlisting support for the cause, or at least getting publicity for it. She did so by arranging an interview with the Minneapolis Tribune. The reporter, himself a Viking-American, even managed to write about the entire concept with a minimum of sneering. Better yet, she ended by telling the readers where they could find the leader of the Viking Anti-Defamation League. 19

I'm a Viking-- and I protest If the article did not bring droves of VikingAmerican activists, it did attract a small crowd of shoppers. Some were impressed enough by the Viking heritage, whether or not is was theirs, to pay close to two hundred dollars for an authentic Scandinavian cardigan sweater jacket in a traditional pattern, complete with pewter buttons. And a larger group shelled out $8 for the filigree brooches or $12 for the amber beads. Inspired by the audience, Ingrid was now wearing her shoulder-length golden hair in braids looped around her head. They went perfectly with the skyblue sweater that reflected her bright blue eyes, the same shade as her brother’s. She had remembered that hairstyle from the summer when she sang the role of a Valkyrie at opera camp. Now, she was glad of the chance to display it again. What’s more, she looked the way a Valkyrie was supposed to, her older brother realized. She was tall and trim, not like the proverbial fat lady, whose aria reveals when the opera is over. He was almost as proud of her now as he had been when she stole the show at Camp Bravissimo at age thirteen, ten years ago. Her proud older brother only wished that Father Torvaldsen had seen her then. As a bachelor minister who was not at all bad looking, despite the bald spot directly above his scrawny neck, he had so many female admirers that his sister had been lost among 20

Jackie Rose them. They were not at all put off by his Norwegian accent. To them, it only meant that their mother-inlaw would be living in Oslo. No doubt the minister thought of her as the girl who worked in the gift shop, if he ever did at all. She certainly stood out now in her colorful ethic costume, against the crowd of shoppers. Why, her brother decided, she could even have been a flight attendant for Air Norway. The crowd was modest by Mall of America standards, but still large enough to conceal the cluster of three guys and two girls in their early 20s. They seemed to always stay together, even as they examined the imported magazines and books. Karl did not even realize that they were the last ones left. “We’re closing up now,” Ingrid told them. “Is there anything you would like?” “Only to talk to your boss,” said one. “We are interested in his Viking-American movement.” With his lanky, mousy hair, he did look much like a Viking, but then, Karl realized, not all Vikings looked like cover models for erotic romance. He hurried from behind the counter to greet his new recruit. “I am Karl Gustavsen,” he said, smiling down at the scrawny figure before him. “And did you say you wanted to join me, to defend the Viking heritage?” “I’m Larry Gennaro,” he answered, putting out his hand. “And that’s just what we want to do.” Grinning even more broadly, Karl reached out in return. His fingers stopped in mid-air when he saw 21

I'm a Viking-- and I protest the tattoo on Gennaro’s wrist, emerging from under his sleeve. The visitor, however, insisted on reaching out further to pump his hand. “That’s right, white power!” he said. “The eagle with the spear in his beak that I burned into my arm. It’s our Viking heritage, you’re working to defend it and we will be working with you. “That mongrel bitch is trying to throw mud at us and make us feel ashamed of our heritage, but that’s about what you can expect from the mud people. “I’m sorry, Miss,” he said to Ingrid, who had been restocking the sweater rack but now stood with the merchandise frozen in her hand. “I should not have used that dirty word in front of a nice young Nordic girl like you. We just want you to know that we are proud Viking-Americans right along with you.” “I am a Viking-American,” Karl answered. “And my sister really is a nice girl, too. And you are a piece of Nazi garbage, and you can get the Hell out of my store.” Gennaro and friends had obviously heard this before. “You can’t throw us out,” he objected. “This is a place of public accommodation. We have every right to be here, just like the mud people always say.” “We are closing up now,” Ingrid put in coolly. “So you have to leave.” As though to emphasize her words, Karl strode towards the group, who backed towards the door. When they were almost there, one of the two girls yelled at the leader, “Are you going to let him treat 22

Jackie Rose you that way?” Gennaro shoved Karl, who shoved him back. The unwelcome visitor then pushed again so hard that his unwilling host fell against the runestone at the rear of the store. Karl rebounded so strongly that his sheer momentum seemed to throw him against his adversaries, carrying them out the front door. Until he saw his sister’s startled gaze, he did not realize that he was shouting in a rage that could only have been described as, well, berserk. “Do you not know that the warriors will be called from all over the world to fight the giants and the souls in Hell?” he shouted after them. They were scurrying into their minivan too fast to hear him.

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I'm a Viking-- and I protest

Chapter Two “If You Can Vote—Thank a Viking” “Vikings Discovered America (and everyplace else, too)” “In Thor We Trust”

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igns like these waved like Viking sails above the Minneapolis courthouse on that warm day in early September. They were borne aloft by university students and other veteran protesters, all eager to get in on the ground floor, or ground deck, as it were, of this new cause. Therefore, they proudly wore white buttons with sky-blue lettering proclaiming them to be charter members of the Viking Anti-Defamation League, no matter what their own ancestry might have been. Another Minneapolis Tribune article had helped attract the crowd, which had been duly impressed by the account of how Karl had spurned the racists’ support. In return, he had won over other minorities who had originally winced inwardly at the Viking Pride concept, which had suggested, at best, Aryan supremacy and, at worst, football fans. Now they all 24

Jackie Rose felt safe in joining the Viking Anti-Defamation League. All of this was only too well known to Rose Jacobson, whose great grandparents had helped to found the original Anti-Defamation League. It was enough to make her almost wish that she had changed her latest title to Loved by Leif after all, as she quickly stepped through a side door. Nor did it increase her confidence to know that the V-ADL had received a very friendly message from the Crown Prince of Norway. It offered, if not outright support, then at least brotherly greetings. As she stared up at the soaring arc of the courthouse building, it reminded her only too much of the prow of a Viking ship. This reminded her, in turn, that many of the jurors shared Karl Gustavsen’s cultural heritage, if not his biological genes. Still, she tossed back her hair defiantly from her forehead in a gesture worthy of Britta herself, as she swept into the lobby. She was sure that she looked every inch the professional writer in her red suit— which was just like the ones that lady journalists wore on TV. She found herself staring at a granite slab rising two stories high, in a subtle tribute to the rugged cliffs of the Vikings’ native land. Nor was the courtroom any comfort, with its plain paneled walls evoking the Viking family room that had been reconstructed at Hedeby in Denmark. Clearly, there was a lot of Viking spirit here. She comforted herself with the thought that few of 25

I'm a Viking-- and I protest these Viking-Americans even knew that Hedeby existed. She herself had described the room faithfully in several novels, having studied the color photos in great detail. When the publisher’s attorney approached her on the witness stand, she leaned forward eagerly, glad to hurl her most serious charge at the Vikings’ helmeted heads. “What is the worst thing you know against the Vikings?” he asked. “It was one that I never repeated, because I was using them as romantic heroes,” she answered. “But you can repeat it now,” he urged gently. With a great sigh and show of reluctance, she told about the first-hand account of the human sacrifice of a slave girl. She was both strangled and stabbed to death at her dead master’s feet, after being forced to have sex with all his friends. “I read that same account in several sources,” she said, with another sigh. “And they were consistent in every detail. I am sure that the Vikings did many good things, but this was one of the bad ones.” Indeed, she thought with grim satisfaction, it would have been very hard for Zipporah Stuart, as the descendant of slaves, to argue that killing them was a good thing. But, as she soon learned to her dismay, the plaintiff’s attorney had done her homework, too. It had immediately told her what the most serious charge would be. Rose sensed this when she saw how confident the lawyer seemed, striding toward her in a 26

Jackie Rose pin-striped suit as professional as the defendant’s own. “You said you read that in several books,” she said. As Rose opened her mouth to list them, the lawyer waved her into silence. “We have seen it too,” she assured her. “And we have no doubt that it has been repeated very often. But can you tell me how many people actually reported seeing the sacrifice made?” Rose fell back in the witness chair, feeling that she was the one with the rope being tightened around her neck—thankfully, in metaphor. Still, she tried to sound as confident as she had been a few moments before. “It was a very reliable source,” she said, “an Arabic diplomat named Ibn Fadlin.” From the way the attorney stared at her, Rose might just as well have said that her informant was a three-headed Swedish dragon. “An A-rab diplomat!” her adversary exclaimed, thus shoving the Arab-Americans off the liberal agenda as easily as a Viking pushing a Briton off the White Cliffs of Dover. “And on the word of this one man who was an enemy of the Viking culture, you have vilified an entire race of people.” “I never even repeated the charge!” Rose wailed. “But you believe it!” Zipporah charged, advancing on the hapless novelist as though she were about to tighten the rope herself. “And did that not influence you when you wrote about your rape contests?” “Objection,” her publisher’s attorney said feebly. “The witness does not know what influenced her, or 27

I'm a Viking-- and I protest how far.” “I withdraw the question. And I move that the testimony be stricken from the record, on the grounds that it is hearsay from one unreliable source.” “Motion sustained,” the judge said happily, realizing how popular the decision would be among the Viking-American voters. “The jury will disregard the testimony on human sacrifice.” “Thank you, Your Honor,” the civil-rights attorney said. “And now, Ms. Jacobson, have you ever heard of the Kensington Stone?” Yes, she sighed. She had indeed heard of the controversial relic which, if it were indeed authentic, would suggest that the Vikings had, indeed, discovered this very state—or, at least, opened it to European settlement, since everyone knew that the Native Americans had still been there first. But the Native Americans were, for once, already off the agenda. Ms. Stuart echoed the fact that the Vikings had discovered and settled this very state. Rose could almost hear the coming summation as she climbed down from witness chair. “This smut peddler, this pornographer—sorry, your honor, I meant this erotic romance writer—is sullying the good name of the very first European immigrants to reach Minnesota—just so she can keep on making the big bucks,” the lawyer would say. Instead, she would make it sound as though Rose Jacobson had accused our Founding Fathers of keeping slave concubines. Some of them had done just that, but Rose was not ready to write about it. 28

Jackie Rose And, of course, she would fail to mention that those “big bucks” were just enough to bring her up to the poverty line. For the first time, Rose started flogging herself for having been too stubborn to change the name to Loved by Leif, preferably on the Slave Planet Mildred. What was wrong with love on a slave planet anyway? Vikings raiders seemed to populate most of them—having apparently gone straight from sailing vessels to space ships, without wasting any time in the steamboat phase—so what difference did it make what she called them? Why had she felt compelled to take on the nation’s newest oppressed minority? Take it on, nothing, she realized bitterly: Ravished by Ragnar had actually created it. Glancing at the witness box, she saw her plaintiff, Karl Gustavsen. With his square jaw thrust forward, he seemed to her not only triumphant but, more surprisingly, relieved. He must also have been glad to hear the sacrifice story stricken from the record, because he really did want to think well of his ancestors, and who could blame him? In this humble mood, she drove that evening to the Viking Museum and Import Shop. **** Once again, it was closing time. Karl’s sister greeted Rose at the door, eyes flashing. About to order her 29

I'm a Viking-- and I protest back into the street or, more specifically, the mall parking lot, Ingrid remembered at the last moment her blond-braided, Viking-maid persona and chose to face the enemy head on. Throwing back her sharp little chin as though about to burst into “The Ride of the Valkyrie”, she invited the adversary to enter. “Thank you for letting me in,” Rose said. “I know you were about to close. But there’s something I want to say to you first.” “Our attorney warned us not to talk to you,” Karl answered in a cautious tone. “Well, then, just let me speak. I wanted to say that I never meant any disrespect for your ancestors. When I wrote about their—well, forceful lovemaking—I suppose I was writing about my own fantasies.” “Forceful lovemaking?” Ingrid sneered, in full Valkyrie mode. “In your books, you called it rape.” “But the lady wound up liking it. That makes it forceful lovemaking.” The blonde sniffed audibly, to make it clear that such distinctions were lost on her. “Well, some people say that all women want forceful lovemaking, but I never cared for it myself.” “Not ‘want.’ Have fantasies about.” “My ancestors were more than fantasies,” Karl objected as he approached them. “Look at all the things they created, like the markers they set up right here in Minnesota, to tell us that they had been here.” He laid his hand on the jagged stone. Then his eyes blazed like blue fire as he shouted, 30

Jackie Rose “So get the Hell out of here, you bitch! Go back to selling your smut, until we stop you.” **** Rose’s mouth falling open in horror, she turned and ran towards the door, but tripped over the shelf of carved wooden trolls on her way. Grasping her right arm, Karl hauled her upright before she could fall. Then he seized her left as well and pulled her into his arms. “You want forceful lovemaking?” he demanded, as his burning eyes glared down on hers. “Then I will give it to you!” His thin lips crushed her full ones in a bruising kiss. After a long, stunned moment, she remembered what her heroines always did in such a fix, and hammered desperately against his massive chest. She fled when he released her, even though she realized with some resentment that Ragnar would have held on. **** It was the stone, she realized as she raced for her fiveyear-old Honda Civic. Touching it had made him feel some mystical linkage with his Viking ancestors. She dared not consider the other possibility: that they had felt the same connection with him. Either way, she knew she had to stay away from the Viking Museum and Import Shop. 31

I'm a Viking-- and I protest But later that night, she knew that she also had to go back. She knew it when she heard the president himself expressing his pride in the nation’s Viking heritage. Since his name was Felix O’Neill, as she reflected bitterly, he must have somehow forgotten to mention that he must have gotten his own Viking heritage by way of forceful lovemaking. But clearly, if that consummate opportunist was going over to the Viking side, then her own cause was dire indeed. In fact, as she heard his pandering words, she found herself wondering wildly if she would ever again be able to sell a book even for Internet publication, where a runaway bestseller was forty copies sold. By the time the president had finished answering the question about the Viking defamation trial and turned to health care, she was convinced that her best chance was to change her name and try to write children’s stories, again for the electronic market. But she could never support herself that way. Notorious as she now was, she could probably never get another teaching job, either. A half hour later, as she climbed into bed, she wondered if twenty-six was too old to join the army, preferably under a false name. Sternly, she fought down the realization that there was now a market for modern military romance and that a real female soldier would be in a perfect position to write it. Her writing had gotten her into enough trouble as it was. Unless… 32

Jackie Rose Her hand froze on her Hello Kitty top sheet. Unless… And her gaze turned towards her office area, where a tape recorder waited unused in her computer drawer. She had found it much easier to type her thoughts out instead, but had simply never gotten around to throwing the new machine away. Of course, she still planned to do it soon… Unless…

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Chapter Three

T

his time, Karl and Ingrid Gustavsen were not alone at closing time. Rose had to wait in the nearby Hallmark card and gift shop, studying and restudying the Vera Bradley handbag patterns, until she saw the last two well-wishers leave the Viking Museum. She knew they were supporters rather than mere customers by the bumper sticker asking, What would Odin do? Just as Ingrid was coming to lock the door, Rose made it through. “You must come back tomorrow,” the blonde proclaimed, in ringing tones that would have done justice to Brunhilde herself. “But I have something very important to tell Mr. Gustavsen,” Rose answered. “It’s about his runestone.” “What about it?” Karl asked suspiciously, turning from the rack where he was placing the Norse edition of People... His suspicions might well have been aroused, she thought, by the fact that she had gone for a complete Clinique makeover at the Bloomingdale’s 34

Jackie Rose cosmetics counter in the Mall of America. It included a sparkling brown eye shadow and bronze lip gloss. The consultant had told her this was just the thing to set off her dark hair and creamy complexion. The change was startling indeed after the much less noticeable pale peach lipstick she had worn for years, on those occasions when she left the house, and her computer, long enough to put on any makeup at all. What’s more, her red linen suit was now worn over a sheer, sensuous white silk blouse with buttons that stopped at her cleavage, as revealed by her open jacket. To complete the effect, she had even sprung for Clinique’s floral Happy fragrance spray. She was now in full seduction mode. That made the blouse and cosmetics a real bargain, considering what was at stake. Therefore, she should have been ready for anything, but his question stopped her cold. What about it indeed? She wondered. Having assumed that she could easily get him to touch the stone again, she now wondered how she was going to do it. “It was Made in Japan,” she blurted, as she fumbled in her pocket to turn her tape recorder on. “What are you talking about?” he exclaimed. “I bought it from a farmer, who said his family had had it for generations, ever since his great-great something grandfather plowed it up in eighteen eighty something. Then his son said it was eighteen ninety something and they almost came to blows. I was glad 35

I'm a Viking-- and I protest to get away from there, because they were always quarreling about something.” “Then the family came from Tokyo.” Striding to the artifact in question, the current owner glared at it suspiciously. To her disappointment, he still kept both hands at his sides. “No, look,” she said, pointing at the artifact. “You can even see the tiny little Japanese letters here.” At this, he finally put his forefinger on the orange scratches. “I don’t see any Japanese letters,” he cried, folding his powerful arms over his massive chest and glaring down at her. “If I did, they would be characters— ideograms—standing for entire thoughts—not like runes in the Viking alphabet, representing sounds, which made modern mass literacy possible.” Grasping a fistful of her thick dark hair, he pushed her face so close to the letters that he barely missed breaking her nose. “So gaze on our runes again, foolish wench,” he howled, “and know the wisdom of the Vikings.” Through her panic, she heard the words she had given to Britta, on the verge of being Ravished by Ragnar. “I do not fear you, Viking!” she cried. “I cannot be conquered by your lust and cruelty. A greater power defends me!” “Are you both crazy?” Ingrid demanded. “Karl, you’ll need a lawyer to defend you. Let her go! Do you want to be the one on trial?” As Ingrid fought vainly to pry loose his fingers, the 36

Jackie Rose back of her hand brushed the stone. At once, she burst into the immortal strains of “The Ride of the Valkyrie”, famed throughout the world, from the grandest opera stages to the Apocalypse Now soundtrack to a Charmed episode and even a chewing gum commercial. Even to Rose’s stunned ears, it was obvious that the slim blonde sang with such power and passion, she would have won the role of lead soprano for the Metropolitan Opera even if Helen Traubel had still been around to compete. “Free me, cruel Viking!” Rose exclaimed, this time quoting herself quoting Brynna, the British novice who had gotten herself Enslaved by Eric. “Or you will taste the wrath of the One who rules us all.” “I will free you when I have had my will of you!” “Karl, for God’s sake, stop it!” Ingrid started to wail. Somehow it turned to the world’s most famous aria: “Our warriors are still fighting, they do not know they are dead.” “Our ships wait for us, proud princess—and there you will be my slave!” Karl cried. “I will sooner hurl myself into the sea, cruel one!” “Then I will chain you to my bed, with a steel collar around your dainty throat,” Karl shouted. “Steel won’t be invented until the nineteenth century,” Rose informed him. His stunning anachronism had shocked her for the moment into sanity. He had to think about that for a moment. “An iron collar, then,” he roared. The Iron Age, at least, had 37

I'm a Viking-- and I protest certainly been well underway by Viking times. “But that’s a stereotype!” she wailed. “Their horses are still biting each other,” Ingrid sang. **** Luckily for Rose Jacobson, the shop was fresh out of slave collars. Karl threw half of his carved wooden trolls off the shelf looking for them, while still gripping her by one shoulder. At the end he had to settle for making her promise not to try to escape before he released his iron grasp. “I promise I won’t try to escape,” she said meekly, realizing even as she did so that that was not at all what Britta would have done. “I will never submit to you, Viking!” she would have cried. But of course she had done just that, and without even having the benefit of Wagner in the background. Screw Ravel’s “Bolero.” And the same goes for Frank Sinatra’s entire catalog. Either might, as their fans insist, provide a perfect setting for seduction. But if you are into forceful lovemaking, nothing suits the mood better than “The Ride of the Valkyrie”. No way around it: That aria kicks major butt. And does other things to it as well. As Ingrid sang it that evening, Rose heard not only a sensational Wagnerian soprano, she also listened to the strings, drums, tuba and both soprano and bass trombones. And as the music rose and soared and swooped and rose again, so did Rose’s entire being, 38

Jackie Rose under Karl’s assault. While the string section swept those warrior women onto the stage, Karl swept Rose into his arms, carried her to the Swedish sofa and tossed her onto the blue-and-white striped cushions. In time to the surging rhythm, he pulled off her suit jacket and tore off her blouse, ripping two buttons off on the way. The bra was less familiar, since no Viking had ever seen such a thing. So instead of reaching behind her to unfasten it, he pulled the straps down to her shoulders and dragged it to her waist. Then he hauled up her skirt and slip and dragged her panty hose down to her ankles, ending right above her black patent stiletto heels. She struggled desperately against him, pounding her fists on his chest, until the rest of the orchestra took up the call. Then her arms encircled his massive shoulders as he pulled off the shoes and stockings and tossed them to the floor. “I am yours now, Viking!” she exclaimed, joining Britta’s words to Wagner’s music. “You have won me. You may do what you wish.” “Then serve me, Slave Girl!” Needing no further instruction, she pulled his University of Minnesota sweatshirt over his head and fumbled at the zipper of his blue jeans. All four of their hands struggled together to pull them down. Finally, he managed to kick his trousers onto the floor. His briefs followed quickly. She was gazing at a chest worthy of Siegfried: broad, muscular and covered with golden curls. Her 39

I'm a Viking-- and I protest only regret then was that her bosom was so far below Brunhilde measurements. It was firm, though, she consoled herself, and, like the man said, more than a mouthful was a waste. She just hoped that hadn’t really been said by a woman who wore a size A cup. Now her floral fragrance mingled with the sweat beneath her breasts. Somehow, he smelled of horses, leather and steel—no, iron, she quickly corrected herself—even though the closest horses were miles away. She knew she could thank the runestone, and she was grateful to it indeed. Then she looked down at his mighty Viking spear. His ancestors could have carved it from a Minnesota maple tree, then adorned it with its intricate hard filigree of veins. Speared by Sven!” she thought suddenly. Not Ravished by Ragnar or Loved by Leif or merely seized by anyone, but speared! And allowed to enjoy that massive and magnificently decorated maple tree. She spread her legs until they straddled him, her knees against his thighs. He and the music pounded into her at the same time. Still keeping time to the Valkyries’ rhythm, her hot, moist cavern opened and closed around him, pulling him ever further into her dark depths. As he advanced through her tunnels, those deeplycarved veins pressed against her walls, each time flooding her with ecstasy. At first she gasped, then moaned, then wailed in delight. If the Vikings really had held a sex World Series, she realized, his 40

Jackie Rose ancestors would have been the New York Yankees in their best year. It was not just his spear, she realized. It was the way he used it now—with a Viking’s courage and confidence. And she was responding with a true female’s enthusiasm at being Speared by Swen. At the same time, her hands played over his chest and shoulders, where the bulging muscles formed a sensuous pattern of their own. She also felt his fingers toying with her brown nipples, which were almost as hard as his fingertips. As her great good luck would have it, the music soared to a climax just as she and Karl did. Then he collapsed on top of her as this, too, fell away. Now his chest pressed against her bosom, and she reached up to draw him even closer to her. As she did, his foot dangled over the edge of the couch, struck her jacket pocket and sent the tape recorder tumbling onto the floor. Sweeping the machine up in his fist, Karl shook it under her nose, making her flinch. “You plotted to betray me!” he roared. “The stupid complication!” Rose muttered, as she sat up and started fumbling on the floor for her clothing. “What do you mean, traitor wench?” “In every romance, there has to be some stupid complication, usually some kind of misunderstanding, to keep the lovers apart,” she said, calling on a knowledge of erotic romance that was much greater than her experience with real life. 41

I'm a Viking-- and I protest “You call this a misunderstanding? You were recording everything we did to use against me.” “Well, I can’t do that now,” she informed him. “The recording will prove that everything was strictly consensual. Actually, it will probably show that your sister could be a great Wagnerian soprano.” “It will?” asked Ingrid. “Play it and let’s find out.” Leaning over the machine, she waited eagerly for Karl to push the buttons for 'rewind' and 'play'. “Your voice is all right,” he assured her, hearing the high, breathy sounds. “It’s good enough for the chorus at opera camp,” Ingrid replied, in obvious disappointment. “That does not matter!” her brother shouted, shaking the machine in his fist. “She plotted to betray me.” He pulled back his fist to strike Rose, but for once she was the one who glared up at him from over her folded arms, even though the top of her head barely touched his outthrust chin. “You do that!” Rose cried. “That will prove that I was right all along.” “No one will ever know it,” he said, as he threw the machine to the ground and stamped it into scrap metal. “But you do! And you’ll know that violent Viking thing was more than just a stereotype.” That stopped him for a moment, before he said, “Then I will throw you out of here naked.” “Same thing.” He was forced to nod grimly again, sending his 42

Jackie Rose hair falling into his eyes in a way that made her want to pull him back onto the sofa. Then he swooped up her clothing and thrust it at her. “So get dressed and get out!” “Do you have a ladies’ room?” “We have seen everything you have to show already,” he pointed out coldly. “You have no need for modesty.” “I know that,” she said. “But I have to go to the ladies’ room anyway.” “The bathroom is next to the counter, but it’s for employees only.” “Karl, you are a Viking,” his sister told him quietly. “You can break that rule.” “Then use it and get out,” he said with a dramatic gesture towards the bathroom door. As she opened it, she wondered what the first Vikings used for toilet paper, then whether Karl imported his from Norway and, if so, if it was true about that harsh European tissue. With relief, she noted that this Viking, at any rate, used good old Scotts unscented. She was sore enough as it was, but in a good way, and wanted to keep it like that. Her shame and guilt were enough to bear without vaginal inflammation.

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Chapter Four arl was also embraced by guilt and shame the next morning, and they were no substitute for the caresses of a willing slave girl. He could have forgiven himself, and easily, for having sunken into brutality against a woman who had plotted to betray him. But he had done worse than that, he realized gloomily as he replaced the merchandise that had been thrown around during the struggle the night before. He had fallen into an anti-Viking stereotype, thus giving ammunition to the enemy—or swords and axes, anyway. And, just as she had told him, while the rest of the world might not know about his appalling actions, it was bad enough that he did. And he had to face it, that Viking stone had done it to him. He had touched it often enough before with no ill effects, but then he had been thrown against it while he was already in a rage, from fighting those bigoted bastards. Somehow, that had revived a Viking spirit that had nothing to do with scoring—at least on the football field.

K

44

Jackie Rose He was therefore pleased to hear his sister say, “That woman really brought out the worst in you.” “That woman?” he asked, brightening considerably. “Yes, of course, you are right, Ingrid. She was the one who kept driving me berserk.” Obviously, it could not have been a mere runic stone that had done it. And just as clearly, it had not transformed his sister’s modest singing talents into an entire Wagnerian opera. Through his Viking rage, she had just sounded that way. He thought of telling her as much, then stopped just in time. In fact, Ingrid might not even have heard him. Her hands had frozen on the new amber-bead necklaces she was placing in the jewelry counter. “Berserk?” she asked. “Did you hear the word you used? Don’t you know that that’s the worst stereotype of all—Vikings going berserk with battle rage?” “I didn’t mean it that way,” he mumbled. “I just meant very angry.” “Then you should have said so! Berserk, indeed! When everyone knows why the Vikings were in that ‘berserk’ state.” He could almost hear her disapproving quotation marks around the term. “Their priests used drugs to drive them into it. They were merely unwitting victims of substance abuse.” He thought of a Viking driven to a substanceabusing rage and realized that it did not have the same ring. “Maybe some of that substance is still in the stone?” she suggested. 45

I'm a Viking-- and I protest “I doubt it could have lasted that long. No, look at this, Ingrid. If nothing is happening to make me angry, I can touch this stone as often as I want to and it will have no effect on me.” “No!” she cried, as his forefinger tapped one of the carvings. “You can’t take any chances today. You have to go talk to the children at the…” “I have to do nothing, woman!” he shouted. “I will go there if I wish to tell the young ones about their brave Viking ancestors who put the entire world to fire and the sword, until the Earth trembled at their name!” “…School of Universal Brotherhood,” she finished in a very discouraged tone. **** Actually, it was the School of Universal Siblingship, having changed its name when “brotherhood” became too blatantly sexist. Having learned about the contributions made by Native-, Hispanic-, Africo-, Arabic-, Aleutian- and every other possible Americans, the administration thought it would only be fair to finally throw in the Viking-Americans, especially since they were now doing Yeoman, or rather, Yeoperson, service to prove that they were a downtrodden minority, too. The fact that many of the students actually were Viking-Americans, although fiftieth generation or so, was therefore a minor drawback. Besides, the administration was always on the 46

Jackie Rose lookout for an exciting free speaker. This VikingAmerican activist seemed sure to fill that bill. In that, he did not disappoint them. Karl had come to Ms. Carlsen’s class wearing an authentic Viking costume, which is to say a faithful reproduction helmet, minus, of course, the longdiscredited horns, and a fake fur cloak. It must have been more authentic than he thought, because he felt sure that the teacher was flinching before him as she said, “Now Karl Gustavsen will tell us about all the wonderful things that the Vikings gave us.” She nervously patted her close-cropped red hair. Dutifully, the children applauded as they sat crossed-legged on the floor before him. While Karl had been planning to talk about the Viking origin of presidential elections with a two-term limit, the sound inspired him to go another way. “I hear you clapping your hands together,” he said, with a friendly grin. He intended it to be friendly, anyway, but, judging by the way the children recoiled, he realized that it was probably rather wolfish instead. “You should be banging your swords on your shields!” he told them. “That was the way the Vikings praised their leaders, because it was the most honorable sound they could make.” “But of course the little children did not carry weapons,” Ms. Carlsen broke in, too brightly. “Didn’t they give us something, too, in their games?” “It is true!” he exclaimed. “The Viking children did 47

I'm a Viking-- and I protest play with balls and bats.” He laughed in a way that called up images of burning monasteries and their inhabitants being dragged screaming and weeping away. “But as you can imagine, they did not always use the bats to hit the balls. Sometimes they would get angry and bash each other over the head! Then their mothers would praise them, by saying that they were sure to grow up to be great warriors.” “Which was part of their cultural tradition,” Ms. Carlsen assured her charges faintly, obviously caught between the conflicting demands of ethnic sensitivity, moral revulsion and animal lust. As befitted a true Viking, Karl ignored this nurse-governess and her charges. “You, boy!” he shouted, pointing at a goldenhaired lad who sat cross-legged on the floor staring with his mouth wide open, “what is your name?” The child pointed at his nametag, thoughtfully provided for the visitor’s benefit. “John Swensen, Sir. I am in the seventh grade.” “Swensen!” the visitor roared. “A fine Viking name! Well, if you had been a Viking child, you would already have bashed someone.” Seeing that the child seemed close to tears, he went reassuringly on, “And then in three years you could go on your first raid.” “Which the Vikings were forced to do, because the Christians refused to trade with them,” the teacher all but wailed. To his own surprise, Karl realized that he was 48

Jackie Rose greeting that statement with outrage, even though he had been quick enough to make it before. Right now, the thought that his ancestors had been anyone’s victims was an insult not to be borne. “Once we had burned their monasteries, killed their monks and carried their nuns into slavery, they could not refuse us anything! We ruled the world.” “John, do you have to use your asthma inhaler?” the teacher asked anxiously, noticing that the boy was breathing hard. John shook his head silently. Karl grinned again, sensing that the youth was secretly picturing himself storming Saint Bridget’s School across the street, throwing the homecoming queen over his shoulder and carrying her off to his ship. Glancing at the teacher, Karl saw that she suspected the same thing “Yes, Tony?” she asked, glad to turn the attention to another one of her charges. Judging by a nametag reading 'Anthony D’Alessio', this lad did not, presumably, have the blood of the Vikings running through his veins—and apparently stabbing, hacking, burning and looting as it went. “The Romans ruled the world,” this child proclaimed. “Until the Vikings took it!” replied his VikingAmerican playmate. Refusing to be insulted by this blond barbarian, Tony punched John in the shoulder and John retaliated instantly. “Boys, boys!” Ms. Carlsen cried in horror. “This is the first time I have seen students fighting in our 49

I'm a Viking-- and I protest school. And over cultural differences, when we should be treasuring them.” “Vikings didn’t have any culture!” shouted Caesar’s heir. “They were just savages until the Romans came, and everyone knows it.” As the teacher raced to break up the threatened reenactment of the Rise and/or Fall of the Roman Empire, she shouted over her shoulder at her guest, “Thank you for your presentation, Mr. Gustavsen, but I must ask you to leave. You seem to be upsetting the children. “Now, students,” she said, obviously eager to change the subject. “Next week we will have a Native-American, who will tell us about their achievements.” “They defeated the Vikings!” Karl told them, wheeling briefly at the door. “That’s achievement enough for anyone.” And judging by the students’ enrapt expressions, that was obviously true. The last thing he heard as he strode through the halls was a third student shouting, “Not one of them would have dared to face our Samurai.” **** By the time he got back to the Viking Museum, Karl was no longer, as it were, stoned. Instead, he felt deeply ashamed of himself as he thought of how little he had done to advance the cause of universal siblingship. 50

Jackie Rose What’s more, the young Samurai-American had probably been right about his own ancestors. Karl would have gone back and admitted it, but he was too anxious to change back to civilian clothes. He was glad to see that Ingrid was sitting at the counter engrossed in a newspaper when she asked him how things had gone. She did not look up when he answered, in a stricken tone. She had obviously been listening, though, because she sighed and said, “I am not really surprised. It is that stone.” Putting down her newspaper, she approached the relic and said, “It has some strange effect on men. Now, when I touch it, all I feel is cold, rough granite, but…” “No, Ingrid!” he cried, as she rested her finger lightly on it, long enough to prove her point. He thought she had succeeded in doing so when she went back to the counter and started leafing through the newspaper. When she stopped at the Obituary section, he was sure of it. Then he saw the blazing blue fire in her eyes. “’Robert Hansen, 80, of a coronary,’” she read. “He landed at Normandy on D-Day…and he was a member of the Lutheran Brotherhood…Father Ingmar Torvaldsen will conduct the services at the Michaelsen Funeral Home…’ “No!” She trilled. “That man will try to send him off to Heaven. But he deserves no less than…” “Please don’t say Valhalla,” her brother moaned. “Valhalla!” 51

I'm a Viking-- and I protest

Chapter Five f Father Torvaldsen had only been holding forth about brother Hansen’s military record, Karl thought frantically, his sister might have quietly taken her place at the back of the hall, behind the Veterans of International Conflicts. But, nooooo. As she entered with her brother right behind her, the minister was launching into the universally beloved Francis of Assisi prayer. Universally, that is, except by Viking warriors. “Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace,” he intoned. And those were fighting words to a Valkyrie. “Peace?” Ingrid trilled, in tones that strongly suggested that the Bamberg Symphony Orchestra was tuning up in the background. “What peace is there in Valhalla, where warriors make ready for Ragnarok?” At that word, the string section launched into everyone’s favorite aria as she began to sing it. “I’ll take her home,” her brother promised miserably. “I drove my car here.” He didn’t mention that he had been forced to do so, when she had sped away in her little Saab before he could stop her. “You’ll do no such thing!” the new widow

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Jackie Rose exclaimed, rising from her front-row seat and turning to glare at him. “The way he drank and carried on during his last years, I’m not at all sure that the angels are coming for him, so I’m happy to see the Valkyries. They don’t mind serving the drinks around, from what I always heard.” “I sure hope they come for me,” agreed the man beside her. His ruddy cheeks and snowy curls were crowned with a cap that read in gilt letters, 'VIC State Commander Rasmussen'. “I don’t know if I’ve been a good Christian, but at Guadalcanal, I was one Hell of a warrior.” “Grimgerde comes!” Ingrid promised in song. Karl noted that his Uncle Tom was sitting next to the State Commander. Despite his own humiliation, Karl observed with deep satisfaction that that shameless Uncle Torvald looked even more embarrassed than he did himself. And both had always assumed that the VIC was such a respectable organization, with no thought that their 'international conflicts' might include the longago raids on Ireland. “Gentlemen, please,” the minister begged. “You are encouraging a very disturbed young woman.” At that, Father Torvaldsen walked towards her and held out his hand, thus winning the lifelong admiration of her brother, who also saw the mad gleam in her eyes. Surely, the minister’s calm, comforting gaze would restore his sister to sanity. After staring at his hand suspiciously, Ingrid 53

I'm a Viking-- and I protest extended her own fingers that had touched the runestone. “Our church has a wonderful counseling service…” he began. Then he enveloped her hand in his fist and concluded his sentence by saying, “Thorgeir the Lawgiver said that there could be only one law for the Viking, and that would be Christian!” But Thorgeir had said that a couple of hundred years after their runestone was planted, Karl remembered. At that time, monks and nuns were still in the category of durable goods and their nightly prayers included joyous thanksgiving if the stormy weather kept the Northmen’s slave ships away. “Oh, Christ,” her brother moaned, in a way that might not have been what the Lawgiver had in mind. “Then fight for your law!” shouted the warrior maid, pulling her hand free. At that, she hurled herself onto the minister in a way that would have bowled over a lesser man, or at least one who had not clutched the hand that had touched a Viking runestone. As it was, he mustered all his force to grasp her wrists below her flailing fists and hurl her to the carpet. As he did, he knocked over the floral tribute at the head of the coffin. The first three rows of Persian carpeting were thus drenched with water, red and white roses, blue ribbons and the VIC gift card. Only Karl seemed to notice that, transfixed as the others were by the sight before them. Nothing like it could possibly have been seen at a Norwegian funeral for at least a thousand years. 54

Jackie Rose Hurling himself on top of Ingrid, the good father ignored her legs pounding vainly beneath him. He pulled her imported sky-blue-and-white Norwegian traditional cable-knit sweater up to her neck, exposing the smooth padded sweater bra beneath it. This was too much for her brother, who smashed his spiritual leader over the head with the second floral tribute vase. For a moment, Father Torvaldsen was stunned into sanity and stared down in horror at what he had done. Then “The Ride of the Valkyrie” surged through the air once more, and his erstwhile victim threw her arms around his scrawny neck without missing a note. The clergyman’s own Viking spear rose from a sapling to a mighty maple. In two great motions, he pulled her navy knit skirt from her ankles to her waist. Karl Gustavsen landed on top of him with a shriek of rage that could only have been described as being, even without benefit of chemical substances, berserk. He dragged his sister’s attacker off her by his thinning blond hair and landed a punch on his jaw that sent him sprawling beside her. Leaping to his feet, the erstwhile minister retaliated with a blow to Karl’s abdomen and an even louder war cry, strengthened by his five years of preaching. The Valkyrie who sat up, pulled her sweater down and went on singing about how the warriors did not yet know that they were dead urged both on indiscriminately. Obviously, she would not easily give up on either of these two fine recruits for 55

I'm a Viking-- and I protest Ragnarok. Not being a big Wagner man, the funeral director fled to his office and called the police. It was, as everyone agreed later, like no other final sendoff that anyone had ever seen. With the possible exception of Lt. Finnegan. **** It’s all my fault, Rose thought as she stared at the blank screen. She had to make amends. So she resolutely closed down the first chapter of Speared by Swen and opened a new page for Liberated by Leif. “Now we will have a new president,” he said, as he stood grasping her hand and staring up at the Lawgivers’ Rock. “But he will become a king if he can!” she insisted as she pulled her fingers away, while remembering all too clearly the kings of her native Ireland. Tossing back his long blond hair, he laughed at the very thought. “He is chosen for a three-year term,” he said, “And then he may have one term more, if he has won our respect by his care for us.” “Oh, Leif,” she said, gazing up at him in rapture and pressing her soft bosom against his mighty shoulder. “That will be our rule, too—a life of care and concern for each other, based on a mutual respect that must be constantly renewed.” Rose’s fingers froze on the keyboard and she stared at the screen, wishing that it had been a typewriter filled with paper that she could tear up and throw 56

Jackie Rose away. “Save changes?” the computer asked. “No.” She pressed the mouse button so hard that shock waves traveled up from her finger to her forearm. As she did so, she explained aloud to the computer, “It sucks.”

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I'm a Viking-- and I protest

Chapter Six

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er publisher’s attorney called early the next morning to tell Rose that the Viking AntiDefamation League, in the person of Karl Gustavsen, was dropping the suit. Based on the lamentable goings on at the Hansen funeral, the Vikings were obviously beneath libel. If they had not held rape contests, they had done even worse. Why, Gustavsen had even admitted at the conference table that Rose and her Arab observer, were probably even right about the human sacrifice thing. Hadn’t the Argives slaughtered a captured Trojan princess on Achilles’ tomb? And where did the lawyer think they had gotten that idea from, if not their Viking ancestors? “You had better be there, though, just in case,” the attorney told her. He would not have sounded so confident if he had seen her face when she answered, “I certainly will be.” ****

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Jackie Rose The judge was not expecting any objections when Zipporah Stuart announced, with great regret, that the Viking Anti-Defamation League was abandoning the proceedings. Her client could not afford to pay damages, she added, so she hoped that the defendant would not demand them. The publisher’s lawyer rose to say that they agreed to share the court costs equally. As well she might, the judge decided, since she was obviously getting more than enough free publicity to cover them. The demonstrators had already abandoned the courthouse, so there were only ten or so onlookers present, the press included. After glancing at them briefly, the judge lifted his gavel to declare the proceedings closed. Before he could lower it, several spectators jumped to their feet demanding to be heard. “You have already been accused of disorderly conduct,” the judge warned one of them, a tall, thin blond man with a scrawny neck and an expression that was mournful enough for an entire Ingmar Bergman film festival. “Whatever you say now could be used against you at your own trial.” “I will not be tried, your honor.” Father Torvaldsen sighed. “I am offering to be deported as an undesirable alien. After the spectacle I made of myself, I am sure the court will agree.” “You are not an undesirable alien!” Ingrid cried, from her place beside her brother, on the other side of the aisle. “You are a highly desirable one. If you had not kept refusing my calls, I would have told you that 59

I'm a Viking-- and I protest before.” Racing to his side, she exclaimed, “Your honor, I intend to marry him, so he can apply for citizenship at once.” “I will not marry for my passport!” he told her, looking down. “You already have a passport,” she reminded him. “Well, you know what I mean. I will not marry you to stay in this country.” “Very well, then,” she replied, gazing up at him. “We will go and live in Norway.” “You will do no such thing!” cried Commander Rasmussen, jumping to his feet, looking just as distinguished even without his VIC cap. “That was the greatest funeral I have ever seen! If you won’t come to sing at it, Young Lady, I’ll just have my ashes scattered over the Viking ship in the Scandinavian pavilion at Walt Disney World.” “The court will come to order,” the judge said feebly, with no real desire to stop the show—much less to risk losing the next election by pissing off the VIC, not to mention the Norwegian-Americans, or Viking-Americans, or whatever they wanted to call themselves. “And,” the VIC Commander added, coming down the aisle to face the judge, “I don’t know about this lawsuit, because the Vikings did good and bad things like everyone else. “But when they created the Valkyries, they showed that they put their veterans first, before everyone else, because they believed that fighting for your country 60

Jackie Rose was the best thing you could do. “And if they were running our veterans’ hospitals, those would be a lot better places to be. You wouldn’t have the patients going outside to latrines—unless, of course, everyone else did, too.” “And do you know why they discovered America?” piped up little Johnny Swensen, jumping to his feet. “It was because someone killed a slave who belonged to Eric the Red, and the judge ordered the man to pay Eric back in money, but Eric killed the man instead, because he said a slave was a human being and should be avenged just like anyone else. “That’s why he had to leave his home and go out discovering things. I’ve been studying our history, Your Honor,” he finished, in meeker tones. “And it’s the first time he’s ever been so excited about studying anything,” exclaimed his mother, standing beside him. “If this goes on, we can send him back to public school, where they usually study things. “I’m sorry, Ms. Carlsen,” she added, spotting the teacher glaring in amazement. “No offense to you, because you are the one who had Mr. Gustavsen in your class.” “Yes, I did,” the teacher answered bravely. “And I had thought of coming here to say that he had offended me deeply with his sexist attitudes, but everyone else has been so honest that I have to do the same. “And the truth is, I have always been a lesbian and everyone knows it, but—“ and she sighed deeply— 61

I'm a Viking-- and I protest “when I saw him in that Viking outfit, with those blazing eyes and that wolfish grin—I wished I were a gay male.” **** Glancing across the aisle, Rose saw that Karl’s eyes were anything but blazing and his lips were far from being parted in a wolfish grin. Au contraire, both were wide with amazement. “But you accused us of hosting the rape contests like the Superbowl,” he reminded Rose. “That was a fantasy,” the author said. “I’m sure that almost all of it was non-competitive, more like Pilates. And anyway,” she assured him hurriedly, “it was a fantasy, as I said. “A fantasy of rape—forceful lovemaking—as a feminist once explained—is never about a rapist, it’s about Robert Redford refusing to take no for an answer. Or maybe Brad Pitt nowadays. Or a Viking. Or someone who looks like a Viking. Like you.” “Me!” he exclaimed, indicating the suit and tie he had worn for the occasion. “I am not a Viking. I’m just a guy who owns a gift shop in a strip mall.” “It’s a Viking Museum,” she reminded him. “And it’s got terrific things.” “Authentic Norwegian cable-knit sweaters in traditional designs,” his sister put in hopefully, glancing around the courtroom and seeing an international coven of reporters clustered there. “And gilded filigree brooches. And carved wooden 62

Jackie Rose trolls. Not to mention publications in both languages. And a genuine runestone that temporarily turns any man into a Viking and any woman into a Valkyrie.” “What was that last item?” the judge asked suspiciously. “Has this claim been tested by the Food and Drug Administration?” “It’s a lucky stone, Your Honor,” Rose responded hastily. “When people touch it, they feel more confident. It’s all suggestion, of course. No need to involve the FDA.” “Whatever it is, could it have had anything to do with the deplorable incident at the Hansen funeral?” the judge asked. “It does not seem very likely,” she said, trying hard to sound amused. “This could be bigger than Viagra,” Commander Rasmussen murmured to appreciative laughter from the crowd. The newspaper reporters, whose eyes gleamed with wolfish lust and greed that would have done credit to Ragnar, did not share it. **** It was not bigger than Viagra, which had, after all, an international market. But so many couples were willing to stand in line to touch the relic, Ingrid soon convinced her brother to charge $2.50 for the privilege, or $2.00 for seniors. The low price was justified, she told him, because the treatment was only temporary. They soon had to limit the discount to low-income seniors only, though, because those 63

I'm a Viking-- and I protest sixty-two and older made up so much of their clientele. Special rates were given to the VIC, in consideration of the Yeoman service that State Commander Rasmussen had given them. Uncle Tom took advantage of it and later assured his nephew that, if nothing else, it had given him a more aggressive golf swing. And the visitors did not, by any means, all have names ending in 'sen' or even 'quist'. The Valkyrie had, after all, been charged with finding the bravest warriors from all over the world. People of every ethnicity therefore responded to the Viking stone, although some were morphed into Braves or Samurai or Argives or Maccabees or Highlanders or Fenians or Zulu Warriors, whatever. Only Larry Gennaro’s white-power group stayed away. They were not going to touch the same piece of rock that a bunch of mongrels had had their paws on, he’d written to Karl angrily. As Karl had immediately realized, the racist refrained from adding the reason why. The mongrels always walked away from the relic with such an aggressive stride. All of the couples left with even swifter steps and broader smiles than they had shown when they arrived. The shop did so well, in fact, that it soon gained access to the Valhalla of all Minnesota merchants—namely, the Mall of America. There, Rose spent a generous portion of Karl’s profits on Clinique makeovers, giving her an exciting new style of beauty every month or so. The most 64

Jackie Rose recent was bright red lipstick with pink shadow. It was almost, as Karl assured her, like enjoying a new captive maiden every time. Naturally, the University of Minnesota analyzed a sample. It soon proclaimed that the Viking runestone actually had been Made in Japan, around nineteen forty something. This attracted new hordes of Japanese tourists, eager to release their inner Samurai. **** As a wedding gift, Orgazm Books gave Rose a two weeks’ extension on the deadline for Seized by Swen. She was also sure that she could write off the honeymoon suite as a business expense, since she hoped to use it for first-hand research. She was more than satisfied with Karl’s inner Viking on their wedding night, when he picked her up and threw her onto the bed in the honeymoon suite at the Grand Orlando Hotel. Tomorrow they would enjoy the Scandinavian Pavilion at Epcot Center, with the replica Viking boat and stave church, but tonight promised even greater pleasures. With a snarl as of barbarian rage, he hurled himself on top of her. Tearing her white lace nightie to her waist, he pressed her legs apart with his powerful thighs. She felt the coarse, wiry blond hairs press against her curly patch and thrust herself toward him. As she did, her clitoris rubbed against his pubic bone, sending wave after wave of sensation streaking 65

I'm a Viking-- and I protest through her. He bent to caress her breasts with his tongue, letting it curve around the brown circles surrounding her nipples, which were as hard with lust as his Viking prow. Her knees knifed up sharply as his tongue circled her dark, moist cavern and then thrust inside. Each of them tasted and scented the other’s subtle salt, rising beneath her musky, costly fragrance. The smooth velvet head cushioned his iron-hard Viking spear as it rammed into her welcoming sheath. It slid easily over her slick walls, pressing them with its ridged pattern of veins. Her moaning and gasping mingled with his low snarls of passion. Her walls started their rhythmic contractions, first strong and slow, then mounting in power and speed to pull him even further into her. He entered and withdrew as she opened and closed, both moving ever harder and faster until they met in one blinding moment. When he finally rolled onto his back beside her, he enveloped her hand in his. Then he reached over for the champagne that stood at their bedside and poured them each a foaming glass. “You must have rubbed the runestone extra hard today,” she murmured as she sipped hers through the foam that ran over onto her wrist. “The runestone?” he demanded, pouring his wine down his throat. “I’ve been too busy to touch it all week.”

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About the Author

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iving in Northern Virginia, Jackie Rose indulges her passion for history by touring restored colonial homes. A resulting newspaper story on historical reenactors led to a Virginia Press Association first prize. Four other VPA awards followed this during her ten years of feature writing for area newspapers. Her love of history also shows in many of the erotic romantic novels she wrote for Extasy Books. They include Warrior’s Captive (I, Briseis), Captive Master (or: The Further Adventures of Simon Legree) and Prince Charlie’s Witch (She is really a time traveler determined to help Bonnie Prince Charlie win). On a lighter note, her erotic romantic vampire spoof I’m Undead—and I Vote was the Fictionwise second bestseller for Humor in September. It was thus sure to be followed by I’m a Viking—and I Protest. Her husband David shares her love for history, cruising, Walt Disney World and their son Frank. He also supports her other hobbies: working out with Jazzercise, buying the latest Vera Bradley handbags and trying to choose enough Clinique cosmetics to earn the Gift with Purchase.