Sirens - The Gripping Beast Part 5

"Tell me something else about your home," Harold suggested.

She considered him over the rim of her cup. "What do you want to know?"

"Where is it?"

She laughed and drank the water in one long swallow before answering. "A long ways away from here. Vikings settled in Iceland and Greenland after a king took over and unified the Nors.e.m.e.n-"

"What? One king?" The startled interruption broke through her explanation.

"Oh, not for a long time, yet," she a.s.sured him. "But for obvious reasons, a lot of the n.o.bles decided it was time to move on. So they colonized Greenland, then Iceland. Then they settled in Vinland from there. That's where I live. Or lived, anyway." Suddenly depressed at the reminder of her lost home, Lorelei drew her knees up and rested her cheek on them.

"This Vinland where there is coffee, you could find it again?" the blond asked her nonchalantly, but the intensity in his eyes gave him away.

Lorelei shook her head. "You don't have any better a poker face than Dane does." She sighed. "That's why I always beat him. Harold, I couldn't even get you from here to the North Pole. I don't know where here is, and even if I did, I don't exactly have any landmarks to go by."

His disappointment was so plain she almost laughed.

"Sorry," she offered, with a pat on the shoulder. "There go your dreams of exploration and great discoveries."

Her laughing eyes fell on a small set of pipes he carried. Some kind of musical instrument? It wasn't anything she recognized. "What's that?"

In answer, he put it to his mouth and played a soft note.

"A flute of some kind?" Eagerly, she held out a hand and Harold gave it to her. She turned it over, examining it. "Hey, neat! It looks like a pan flute, but I've never seen one this small." Experimentally, she put her lips to it and blew. The clear sound made her smile in delight. Then she played a rapid series of notes, closing her eyes to hear more clearly the unique sound the pan flute made.

"This is great, Harold!" she enthused. "Jethro Tull would love this."

Still smiling, she handed it back.

Harold eyed her thoughtfully. "You know how to play it," he stated.

"Sure. I learned how to play all kinds of things. Even the toy piano. You never know what sound you might need for a song," Lorelei explained. "I can keep time on a drum, although it isn't what I'm best at, and I'm okay on the guitar. Do you have one of those?"

A guitar would be a gift from heaven. If she was going to be some kind of captive, she could at least entertain herself and keep her sanity by working on some new material.

She was certainly surrounded by enough raw ideas. She could do a whole alb.u.m on her current circ.u.mstances, Lorelei thought wryly. She could just picture it. Paul Simon did a collaboration with South African musicians. She could work with musicians from the ancient world. It would certainly be unique. And what a follow-up to her last alb.u.m. She could get Thor's Hammer to collaborate.

Sure, she could. All she had to do was figure out how to undo whatever she'd done so she could go back to her own time. Piece of cake.

Harold was still giving her a funny look. "A guitar."

"Do you have a different word for it? A wooden box, hollow, with a neck. Strings made from very thin metal or gut go across an opening on the hollow box to the top of the neck." With her hands she pantomimed the shape and size. "You strum it. Do you know what I mean?"

Harold nodded slowly. "Yes, I do. I have one, but not here."

Lorelei sighed. "I should have known. The damp sea air probably isn't very good for wooden instruments. Well, thanks anyway."

The bearded man studied her intently for a moment. "What did you say to my brother to make him believe you were mad?"

"Oh, not much. I told him I came from the future."

"From the future."

"Yeah, that I traveled back in time hundreds of years."

"Hundreds of years?"

"Hundreds."

"And you described to him this future you came from?"

"Yeah. Probably a bad idea, huh?"

Harold smiled his crooked, devilish smile. Then he threw back his head and roared with laughter. "A bad idea? No, no. A very good idea. Very bold and clever, too. My brother had better watch his back."

Lorelei eyed him guardedly, and he winked at her. "You have no need to worry. If he wishes to think you mad, we will let him, eh?" He laughed again, then stood. "Much as I might wish otherwise, I am not free to spend the day in your pleasant company. You may keep this, however." He tossed the miniature flute to her and she caught it reflexively.

"Thanks." She flashed him a smile, delighted to have something to amuse herself with.

Harold shook his head slightly as if bewildered. "No, I should thank you.

Because of you, this dull voyage has become most interesting." He started to go, then turned back as if overcome by curiosity. "What did it feel like to travel on the sea of time?"

"Imagine being turned inside out. Then imagine being horribly seasick," Lorelei suggested wryly.

Harold laughed again at her reply. "You tell the most interesting stories." Still laughing, the blond man strode away, probably to go back to rowing, Lorelei supposed. What did Vikings do all day on a longboat? She had no idea. Then she thought about his words and smiled.

Told interesting stories, did she? Yes, from where he stood they had to sound like tall tales, although her mention of a product he was unfamiliar with and places he hadn't heard of had caught his attention. Harold was certainly a guy with an ear to the ground looking for opportunity. Interesting that he'd ignored mention of time travel and the future of the Vikings to zero in on a new area of trade to exploit. Practical, these Vikings. That is, if he was typical of the breed.

Too bad she hadn't ever bothered to learn much about the culture. The odd facts she did remember were things she'd picked up accidentally while learning something related. Norse mythology, for example. The language study doc.u.menting the parallel between Old Norse and Algonquin. The Viking settlement in America. That was about the extent of her knowledge, except that she thought they were known for surprise attacks on seaside towns and villages.

Wonderful. She was in a time she didn't even know the cultural norms or values of. Important things like, how did they treat women? On the one hand, she'd been grabbed, bought at sword-point, which basically left the seller no choice, and stashed aboard s.h.i.+p. On the other hand, she'd been treated decently in spite of her raving hysteria.

She did know something, though. Harold obviously believed her to be a conniving liar, and he'd enjoyed her company and given her his flute to play with. What could she make of that? That maybe lying was a respected skill? She thought of Native American customs involving gift-giving, and realized that she had better tread carefully until she knew what an action like that meant.

She'd better watch her step, period. She couldn't take even the smallest things for granted. She was in an alien culture. A real stranger in a strange land. And without a guide.

Lorelei mused soberly that maybe giving them the impression she was out of her mind was the best thing that could have happened. They wouldn't expect sane behavior from her. As it was, from what her "master" had said, she was already in trouble and deserved some sort of punishment.

She grinned in pure mischief, thinking of various ways to keep up the appearance of a crazy woman. If she didn't get herself killed, she might even get to have some fun. And why not? She was due for a vacation. True, she'd originally planned to spend it around Puget Sound, not Hedeby Noor. But a vacation was a vacation. And how many people got the opportunity for a vacation from their whole life?

People paid good money to go partic.i.p.ate in mystery vacations, acting out a.s.signed parts in the drama and trying to outwit the "criminal". The idea of stepping outside of one's own life and limitations had universal appeal. For the famous, going unnoticed was hard to manage outside of Mardi Gras. And here she was, dropped into a character role out of the blue without fear of a mob scene. She wouldn't be recognized because she was only a legend in her own time. Here, she was just Lorelei. Crazy slave, to Erik and the rest of the crew. Fabulous liar, to Harold. And to herself?

To herself, Lorelei realized, she was just what she'd always been. A woman. A musician. And now, a woman musician on a unique kind of vacation.

She was also a woman in need of something to wear. The green dry-clean only dress wasn't made for the abuse of wrestling, sword-fighting, and rescuing, although as it turned out it hadn't been a rescue after all. Followed by a dunking in sea water. Then she'd added insult to the multiple injuries the delicate fabric had already sustained by sleeping in it.

Lorelei examined the stained and torn dress critically and considered her options.

Maybe she could talk to Harold about her clothing crisis.

Maybe "master Erik" could be shamed into doing something about it. After all, if he was responsible for her, he should take care of her little problem. Shouldn't he?

Although she had to admit, her present appearance did a lot to uphold her image as resident nutcase. All she needed was a shopping bag to complete the ensemble.

Giggling at the mental picture of herself posing as a bag lady superimposed over the glamorous Rolling Stone cover, Lorelei slipped out of her shoes and discarded her stockings. To her disbelief, they hadn't run. Now there was a celebrity endors.e.m.e.nt story. Too bad n.o.body would ever believe it. But she made a mental note to buy stock in the company if-no, she corrected herself firmly, when she got home.

Except for her hair, she was about as cleaned up as she could get. A search through the cabin uncovered a carved comb and she made use of it, grimacing at the snarls in her long hair.

It occurred to her that the biggest difference she saw between her own time and this one was the pre-Industrial Revolution manufacturing. Everything was handmade. So everything was unique. And the makers apparently were artists. She turned the comb over in her hand, examining it carefully. It was beautiful, decorated with whorls and loops like the pattern on Barney's sword. How long did it take to carve a comb like this? And what was its value? Did the items stored with her represent luxuries, or were they the norm?

"More questions you don't have answers to," she sighed out loud, frustrated.

Well, if she was going to cope, she'd have to be watchful and aware to pick up on whatever clues she got about the Norse psyche. Since she had no way of telling how long she'd be there, it seemed smart to make some kind of place for herself. For all she knew, being Erik's private property was a desirable position. Time would tell. But if it wasn't, she should look for options.

Meanwhile, she should stay busy, and a workout would help her nerves. Lorelei stood easily, balanced, and began controlled breathing as she flowed slowly through a series of tai chi movements. The very slow exercises required deceptive strength and muscle control to perform correctly. She hadn't been doing it long enough to have any kind of mastery, but her instructor had started to say kind things recently.

Moving from Grasp Sparrow's Tail to Ward Off, Lorelei reflected that her self-defense training might come in handy soon. She should take the exercise more seriously now. Although the twentieth century wasn't necessarily any less dangerous. After a female musician's murder in Seattle, she'd made sure the other Sirens took some kind of training, too. None of them would be helpless victims if she had anything to say about it. They'd have a fighting chance in a do-or-die situation.

For Lorelei, fighting for the life she wanted wasn't anything new. She might be out of her element, but she was still a fighter. Talent, intelligence and determination had always kept her going. She'd found a way to succeed in the highly compet.i.tive, demanding profession she'd chosen. She'd find a way to make it here, too.

Determination fueled her tiring muscles through the final graceful movement. Then she sank down to rest and catch her breath, relieved and pleased at the proof that she was really all right.

Her heart still beat. Her lungs still pumped air. Her muscles still moved and flexed on demand.

Not bad for a woman eleven hundred years from her own time.

Chapter Five.

By the time Harold came back, Lorelei was fed up with her own company and the four walls around her. She practically pounced on the man, as eager for the sight and sound of another human being as for the water he brought.

"Harold! Great to see you. Listen, I've got a few questions you might be able to answer."

Her enthusiastic opener drew an answering smile from her accomplice. "What questions are those?"

She beamed at the helpful response, took his arm and led him to the fur blanket she'd taken to sitting on since there didn't seem to be any chairs. He handed her the carved cup and she took it gladly. "Thanks. Well, for starters, Harold, am I a prisoner? Can I walk around?"

The bearded man regarded her thoughtfully. "Erik did not say you were not allowed to move about freely."

"So, if he didn't say it, I'm not held to it? Good. Because I have to tell you, Harold, I have one bad case of cabin fever. I don't think I can stay in here another hour." Lorelei paused to drink the water, set the cup aside and went on. "There's also a little problem you might be able to shed some light on."

Harold blinked. "You need more light?"

"What? Oh, no, the sun never seems to go down. It's like Alaska in the summertime. There's plenty of light, Harold. I meant in an informational sense." She leaned confidentially towards him. "Harold, I don't have any clothes."

To her amazement, he blushed. Actually blushed. Although his face was so reddened from the sun already that she hadn't thought it could darken further. She hesitated briefly. Was this a no-no to talk about? Was she embarra.s.sing him? Well, maybe, but they'd all be really embarra.s.sed if she didn't get some more clothes. And quickly. Since she'd already brought it up, Lorelei decided, she might as well keep going.

"I was wondering if you could tell me what I could do about getting something to wear."

Harold blushed redder. "You, ah, uh, you...that is, if you please your, ah..." he trailed off in embarra.s.sment, cleared his throat and fell silent for a moment. Finally, he asked, "What did you do among your people when you had need of something?"

"Well, I write and sing songs."

He nodded slowly. "As I thought. You are a skald. If you are good, you are given gifts and coins?"

Lots of coins. He had no idea. Gifts, too, although she hadn't really thought about it. She did get some extravagant presents from her manager, fans, the record company. The perks made up for the inconveniences of being well-known. "Yeah, Harold, I think it's safe to say I'm given a lot of gifts and coins."

He nodded again. "So. You will sing for me, and I will give you a gown. A bargain?"

"Sure thing." She held out her hand to shake on it, and after a pause, Harold clumsily took her hand but seemed to have no idea what to do with it. "We'll shake on the deal. Like this." She demonstrated.

"Oh. I see." Harold pumped her hand in return. "This means we are agreed? We have a bargain?"

She winked at him. "We do. Now, what kind of song would you like? No, don't tell me, let me guess. I'm good at this. I was a street musician for a few months, you know. You get good at knowing what to sing for who when continuing to eat is at stake." Lorelei eyed Harold and thought about what she knew of him. He liked travel and adventure. Probably wine, women and song, too.

She sang him Janis Joplin's version of Bobbie McGee, in English since it wouldn't rhyme in translation. Besides, her brief flirtation with opera had taught her that language didn't matter if the musician communicated the emotion of a song; the audience would hear and understand.

She knew how to make an audience understand.

By the time she'd sung it through, Harold had tears in his eyes. He caught her hands in a crus.h.i.+ng grip. "Stop. That is enough. You will get the finest gown I can give you." He stood and went to a bale of goods in one corner. The gown he retrieved was green silk shot through with silver thread.

"Hey, wow! This is gorgeous, Harold. Really, really beautiful. I have a Dior original that isn't this beautiful. It's perfect." She kissed his bearded cheek and skipped behind piles of stuff to change. She tossed her sadly abused outfit out behind her and s.h.i.+mmied into the silk dress. Then her smile faded and died as she looked in vain for a zipper, a b.u.t.ton, a hook. Anything. The gown opened at the shoulder and didn't seem to close.

Great. She had new clothes, and she was still indecent. She thought it might fit tightly enough to stay up, but she wouldn't count on it. She sighed.

Clutching the top together, she stuck her head out and peered around at Harold. "Uh, I have another problem."

He didn't seem surprised.

"The dress. Um, it won't stay up. Closed. On," Lorelei elaborated.

"Hm." Harold stroked his beard as if contemplating the problem, but the wicked gleam in his eyes gave him away.

"All right, now what?" Lorelei demanded, stalking back out with one hand holding the fabric together.

"Hm. A problem, you say? I see no problem."

Lorelei sighed. "You're an extortionist. But I'm at your mercy. Okay, what do you want for a b.u.t.ton?"

"Another song."

She frowned at him. "No funny stuff. If you give me a b.u.t.ton, that has to include the means to put it on. No tricks." She wasn't going to keep singing for a needle, then thread. At least, not without trying for a better deal first.