section>Chris J. Biker
Voyage of Destiny
Translated by Barbara Maher
© 2021 - Chris J. Biker
cover image by the artist Emiliano Movio. Conversion into files by graphic designer Pierluigi Paron, for Print Service.
1 Preface
Dear readers, I would like to clarify an historical incongruity that you will find when reading this novel, which is set around 900 A.D. At that time Native Americans did not own horses, which came into their lives more than half a century later. But tell me: when we think of them, don’t we have an image in our minds of feathered horsemen, galloping free over their lands? I really couldn't forgo that wonderful sight.
To my daughters, Sara and Janis, who day after day, enrich my life with the greatest gift, of inestimable value, pure love.
1 Chapter 1
During the great era of the Vikings, in the village of Gokstad, Norway, the eldest son of the Viking king Olaf, named Ulfr, was born.
Olaf was awakened at dawn by a strange moan. He glanced to his side and saw that his wife Herja was not there. As he sat up and looked around, he could see her standing by the wall, dimly lit by the first light of morning filtering through the small opening in the wall. Her torso was bent slightly forward, one hand clinging to the tapestry hanging on the wall, the other holding her belly.
“Call the midwife.” Her words came through gritted teeth. Olaf sprang quickly to his feet and crossed the room with huge strides. He went through the door, calling the servant women loudly.
“Hurry! Hurry!” thundered in the silence.
Within seconds the house came to life, the women running here and there as Olaf kept repeating agitated: “Quick! hurry!” remaining at the door so as not to lose sight of his wife. Two women entered the room at full speed, squeezing between the door jambs and the man's hips. They quickly lit small fires, using fish oil which was kept inside some semi-spherical iron containers scattered along the walls, that served as lamps.
“Move away from there!” ordered the voice of a woman who was holding a steaming bowl, with pieces of cloth wrapped around it. It was old Sigrùn, the midwife, the only woman who could speak to him like that. No one knew her age, but she had to be very old. In fact, she had earned herself the nickname of Sigrùn "The Immortal", since she had delivered everyone in that village and enjoyed unquestioned respect.
“You're as big as the door!” she added as she went past him, followed by another woman who closed it behind her.
Olaf stood still a few moments staring at the decorations carved into the wood, entrusting his prayers to Frey and Freya, the gods of fertility. You turned to them to ensure the birth of a healthy strong child. His wife was already in excellent hands, those of old Sigrùn, also considered the Priestess of the Sacred Runes which she had engraved into the palms of her hands, and no-one ever underestimated her prophecies...
A lemon-like scent filled the room, released by the tea of verbena, or rather dragon claws, as the old woman called them. She poured some into a cup and went to Herja who was panting, her eyes wide with fright as she felt the strong spasms.
“Drink it, it will relieve your pain,” she urged her. Herja did not make her repeat it. She would have swallowed anything to soothe the stabbing pain, and besides, the aroma of the tea was fresh and inviting.
Assisted by the midwife and other women, the mother-to-be was exhausted by hours of labor. When the moment arrived she was made to bend forward onto her elbows as they urged her to push. Old Sigrùn intoned a chant of incomprehensible words as she placed her bony hands on the young woman's body, pressing and massaging her belly. Herja's breath was coming fast and her cries of pain made Olaf’s pace increase even more as he walked nervously back and forth outside the door.
His wife's last scream forced him to stop and he held his breath until the moment of birth, when his son's first little wail was accompanied by a chorus of magical songs. After cutting the umbilical cord, old Sigrùn washed the small body with water, wiped it dry and smeared it with an ointment of clover as protection against bad luck bringing knowledge and wisdom, and lifting the baby up to the heavens she entrusted it to the forces of nature and their God Odin.
At last the door opened.
"You can come in," the midwife announced, as she was leaving with the other women in tow. Olaf went to his wife who was holding their firstborn in her arms.
"It's a boy!" she said smiling, placing the little one in his strong arms. Olaf smiled at her and, looking proudly at his son, said: "We must give him a name that is worthy of his lineage." But he'd been thinking about that name for months, hoping it was a boy.
"I’m sure you’ve already chosen the right name for him," added Herja, with the complicit gaze of someone who had already figured it out. Olaf glanced at her mischievously and burst into a sonorous laugh. With the little one in his large hands he raised his arms to heaven and in a solemn voice uttered his name.
"Ulfr, may the gods give you a glorious life, like the one your grandfather lived!"
The choice of name was considered very important for the Vikings, as they believed it would affect the person’s character and destiny: for this reason he was given the name of his paternal grandfather, esteemed King, valiant leader and skilled merchant, who spent most of his life at the command of his knorr, splendid Viking boat with the bow masterfully carved in the shape of the head of a fierce animal covered in gold and silver. On his was a wolf, because Ulfr means "wolf".
1 Chapter 2
At the same moment, in the plains of North America in the tribe of the Great Sky, Golden Falcon was born. She was the firstborn of the chieftain, Great Eagle.
The early light of dawn was appearing in the new day.
Forest Flower was awakened by an excruciating twinge. She sat up, her breath short, and in the dim light searched for the face of her husband lying by her side. Great Eagle had not noticed anything and she decided not to wake him.
She got out of bed slowly and went out, trying not to make any noise. The air was cool and light. Taking a deep breath she walked slowly towards her mother's tepee, got down on all fours and pushed aside the flap of hide at the entrance.
“Mom...” she called in a low voice, so as not to wake her father, Three Moose.
“Is it time?” asked Morning Dew, pulling herself up into a sitting position.
“Yes,” the young woman replied, her face contracting as she gripped the flap of hide forcefully.
“Wait here! I’ll go and call your aunt,” she told her and started running towards her sister's tepee.
Forest Flower nodded, but didn’t listen to what her mother said and set off, slowly, to a special hut where the women of the tribe gave birth. Another stabbing twinge came all of a sudden, and made her bend over in pain. The two women ran to her quickly and, giving her some support, they helped her into the hut.
Her aunt, Blue Star, rushed to the river to get the water, as her mother prepared a soft bed and made her lie down on it to await
