Viking Air Horn
Stories similar to this that you might like too.
A long-extinct race of giant apes inhabited a planet known as Earth. These giants were the size and strength of humans, but they possessed the intelligence of animals. They had no civilization other than hunting and gathering, but they did have an advanced understanding of the science that was lost to history: flight.
The apes developed a device for flying that was based on a bird’s wing shape and was able to generate lift by flapping their arms. They built their flying machines out of tree limbs, wood, leaves, vines, and whatever else they could find in the forest canopy where they lived.
As it turned out, the giant apes had little need for weapons or warfare; most of them died while trying to fly off with their prized flying devices, which proved fatal when their wings failed in midair.
This story has nothing whatsoever to do with us. I just thought you should know about the giant ape race who invented flying because I don’t think anyone knows how to make an air horn and we’re going to need one if the Vikings return.
The air horn is the weapon that gives me pause in my excitement over our new fleet of ships. It seems a shame to use a weapon whose purpose is not to kill people, but its sound frightens enemies away from you at close range so they can’t attack you later on without being shot down by your guns.
The idea behind an air horn is simple. You blow into it like a trumpet to produce a deafening shriek. Then you hold it up high overhead to send a warning through the woods. In the past, it was used to call people back to safety, warn them of danger, or signal surrender. It has proven useful throughout history as a nonlethal weapon and is often used aboard naval vessels.
I’ve seen what happens when someone uses an air horn on me.
“Hey, Ragnar!” I shout, waving my hands in front of my face to keep my ears from ringing. “That really works! We should take turns blowing that thing all night until they come running back to us.”
He shakes his head and points out some trees to me. “You can see those trees are not moving. That means we must be near to land and the enemy cannot be far ahead either. If they were closer, we’d hear them coming. This tells me we’ve got good news to share with everyone tonight.” He smiles at me. “It’s good to laugh again, isn’t it?”
I look around and point at the trees. “Those trees aren’t moving? Oh, that’s right, we have these guys now too.”
Ragnar looks over our little group and laughs. “We have no idea how big this war is going to get,” he says. “For all we know, there could be hundreds of thousands of soldiers heading for us from all directions. But for now, we’ll stick to our plan, which is to make it look as though we have fewer warriors than we really do. And that means making sure you don’t give us away with your laughter.”
“What about when I’m fighting? Should I try to hold back then too?”
He shakes his head. “No, that would only make you appear more human and less fearsome. Your strength will show in full force then, and if the enemy sees your true nature, they might decide to turn tail and run rather than risk facing you in battle.”
“If they want to run anyway, maybe we should let them go. Then we’ll have no one to fight but the Christians.”
The smile disappears from Ragnar’s face and the seriousness returns. “Don’t joke about that. The gods forbid we start a war with the Christians. No matter what you think of them, they will always be our allies against the heathen.”
I frown at him. “Then why did you tell me to pretend to be Christian when we left Rome? Wouldn’t it be easier to sneak around in a disguise rather than trying to blend in as a pagan warrior?”
“Because I told you not to speak unless spoken to by the pope and to wear a cross on your arm at all times. The pope is our friend, even though many people hate us and wish us dead. If you make him angry enough, he may not protect us any longer. And I don’t trust Pope Leo.
Don’t forget what happened to the last pope, Saint Peter. He went into hiding and the Christians took over Rome in the name of God. We need Pope Leo as much as we need the heathens.”
The pope is the leader of the Roman Catholic Church and is called the Supreme Pontiff. He is elected every thirty days, which means we’ve got a whole month before anyone can accuse us of not honoring his wishes.
As it stands, I am not supposed to talk to anybody about anything unless asked directly and to avoid suspicion, I’ve been practicing my vowels by saying ‘God’ over and over to myself. It’s hard. My tongue is still getting used to the changes we’ve made to it and my throat and lips are sore because of all the time spent yelling orders to our men.
It is a lot harder to say words than it is to just scream out of sheer frustration.
Still, I have learned something that is worth sharing:
The pope is actually named Pope Leo IX, and his official title is Defender of the Faith. He has never had another name other than that of defender of the faith, and that includes when he was first chosen to be a priest. In fact, there are only two popes ever who have used different names during their pontificate.
One of them is Saint Peter, who became Pope Leo II, and the other is Saint Paulinus, who was known simply as Paulinus during his reign.
When we leave here, I’m thinking of changing my name from Franklyn to Peter. At least it’s better than Franklyn, and I like the idea of being called Peter.
“So we’re just going to sit here in the trees and wait for these heathen bastards to come running back to us?” I ask.
“Yes, that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
“Why not send out some scouts to find the enemy while we hide?”
“Aye, but how will we explain our absence if we’re discovered? They will know we’ve abandoned them and gone looking for food instead. Our friends are already starving as it is.”
“I guess so,” I murmur, not knowing quite where to begin my protest. There’s no way we can afford to lose more men after what happened at Raven Rock. Not yet, anyway. “How long are we going to do this?”
“As long as it takes. We need to learn whether the Franks have more men coming toward us or if we’re alone out here in the woods.”
“Then how do you explain our lack of food and water?”
Ragnar shrugs. “We could pretend you fell victim to a boar and that’s why we lost half our men.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “That wouldn’t work, not really. I’ve seen too many of those beasts up close. Besides, we haven’t found any boars, and I doubt the Franks have boars either. I’d bet good money on that.”
He looks at me curiously and I realize I have just said something that may reveal a bit more about us than we would prefer. The heathens were hunting boar with spears before we arrived, and their meat is prized. If someone finds our camp, they might think we’re boar hunters because it is a common practice among pagan warriors to eat such animals after victory.
“What did you just say?” Ragnar asks suspiciously. “It sounded like you said boar.”
“I didn’t mean—”
But I stop because of the look on his face. It makes me wonder what else I’ve said that could betray my secret status.
***
“You must be Franklyn,” an unfamiliar voice calls. It’s a woman’s voice, and she’s standing in front of us on the far side of the campfire. She’s dressed all in black and wears a white linen tunic under her cloak, which is held in place with a silver brooch shaped like a cross.
My hand tightens on the haft of my sword and I turn to meet the stranger, whose gaze is fixed on the flames in the fire pit. When we first met, that fire seemed so small, like one of those candles that always seem to burn down faster than we expect.
Now it seems much bigger, almost threatening. That is because it has grown into a huge bonfire, and the heat radiating from its heart threatens to singe us alive. Even the air seems warmer, which means we are probably sitting around a raging forest fire rather than a simple campfire.
She’s tall, taller even than me, and slender as well. Her hair is long and straight as a river, and she holds herself like a warrior. And that is exactly what she is. But unlike most of us, she carries no weapon, unless you count the dagger at her belt. She is beautiful, and her beauty reminds me of the stories I heard growing up about fair women, especially the ones who live in the woods.
The only thing that gives me pause is the way she stands with her arms crossed over her chest. Like a soldier on guard duty. It’s not that I disagree with the gesture—it’s meant to protect against surprise attacks by enemies—but there is also an implication that suggests she is protecting something or someone else. I don’t know how I know that. I just do.
And then, like a bolt of lightning, I recall what the nun told us.
“Franklyn?” the stranger says again, and I see her mouth twitch, as if she wants to smile but knows better. She sounds familiar now that I’ve heard her speak, and it makes me wonder what other ways I’ve revealed my secret.
“I’m Franklyn,” I respond cautiously. “Are you looking for us?”
Her face changes from guarded to amused when she answers, “No, we are the ones who are looking for you.”
I blink at her. This is the first time I’ve ever heard anyone claim to be searching for me. It seems odd because, as far as I know, I’m a nobody in Christian territory. “Where are you headed? To the Holy Land?”
She laughs at my response and smiles broadly, revealing perfect white teeth. “Not that it matters to you, but we’re heading south toward the coast. We plan to sail to Constantinople.”
I stare at her, wondering if she’s joking. I can see her lips move because her smile is broad enough to show her pearly whites, but she does not answer my question.
“Why do you want to go to Constantinople?” I ask.
The smile disappears from her face and she looks away from me, studying the ground near her feet. “We’re on a holy mission. You might say we’re trying to bring Christianity to the people of this region.”
I nod slowly and feel a tinge of jealousy run through me, though I can’t say I understand it. After all, I am a Christian, too. And so are the Franks. Yet I still feel a twinge of envy because this strange woman seems to care nothing about what we think. She is going wherever her faith leads her, and that means she doesn’t fear being discovered.
“Who are you?” I ask her next, thinking it would be best to learn more about who she is, what she believes in, and why she might seek us out. Perhaps there was a connection between my brother and this woman. But the answer surprises me.
She turns back to me, her brow furrowed as if she’s confused by my question. “That’s a good question,” she says thoughtfully, and then she adds, “We have many names.”
Then she vanishes.
The End