Creating a Viking parts 1 and 2

Sig Olsen had spent years with his face held proudly against harsh weather and a constant spray of sea water. Life and the elements had cut deep grooves into leathery skin, the thick channels around his nose and mouth made the already large features even more pronounced. It was a contrast to his grey eyes; they sunk even deeper into his face almost disappearing underneath thick eyebrows. Torgrim was only eight at the time, but he knew his father looked older then the father’s of his friends. That wasn’t to say his father was weak. Those wiry arms were thick with taught muscle and ropey veins. His hands were vices covered with their thick calluses. One of those pointy fingers was tapping Torgrim in the chest as his father lectured him.

They were on a boat in Puget Sound; a friend of his father’s owned it. The irony of fisherman fishing on their days off would be lost on Tor for a few more years. His Father had woken him at 5am that Saturday, dragged him from the comfort of his bed, and dropped him on the deck of the boat. It was not how the younger Olsen had wanted to spend the day. And it was not just the morning he was missing; they had been on the boat for 8 hours at that point and it did not look like they were heading home any time soon. Saturday morning cartoons had come and gone, sadly unwatched. Three houses down from the Olsen household was his friend Jerry. He and Jerry had spent two hours building a bike ramp the day before, it was almost finished. Now Jerry would probably finish the ramp with Nick from across the street. Nick would be jumping off the ramp that Tor should be riding on. Still as all these thoughts swam through his head, Torgrim’s father lectured him.

The fishing was excruciatingly boring. Poles were lined up like soldiers on the back of the boat and left alone. The hours past and the monotony of waiting was interrupted only briefly when his father pulled up a fish or had to re-bait a line. Escaping from the fishing Torgrim had bout a notebook and an ink pen. At least he thought to himself if he could do nothing else fun, he would be able to draw. He had seen a loan seal swimming and decided to sketch it. His father wanted him watching the lines but they had not moved in what seemed like forever. Tor’s focus became buried on that lined sheet of paper and missed the pole almost bent in two. His father ran down in time to see what was happening and was furious. What ever that had taken the bait broke free before his father could reel it into the boat and that is what started the lecture.

He wasn’t sad about what had happened. It was just a fish. They already had caught enough and should have already gone home. He couldn’t say that of course, so while his dad yelled Torgrim just stared back. His quiet seemed to enrage Sig even more; the older man grabbed at Tor’s notebook and looked at it for a moment. If there was any recognition as to the burgeoning skills his son was showing they did not register in those little eyes. Instead the entire notebook was pitched over the boat’s rail. The cold water hit it instantly, the ink spread across the wet pages like a blooming flower. He tried to force them back, but tears blurred Tor’s vision. They ran hot across his cheek; a contrast to the cold, salty air. In anger he seemed to stand taller even if he was still under the shadow of his father. He acted without thinking, rushing to the pole that had gotten him into trouble in the first place. A quick shove flipped it end over end and tumbling into the water. He turned to face his father, a smug defiance mixed with the tears.

He wasn’t hit with a fist but with the back of his father’s hand. The impact sent him to the deck before he knew what happened. He could hear his father yelling, there were splashes as he tried to retrieve the pole. Torgrim’s vision still hadn’t cleared, his head still spinning. He lay there gaping for breath like one of the fish they had thrown there earlier. It had hurt but not as much as he had expected, in a twisted way it actually felt good. He hoped that damn fishing pole would sink to the bottom of the Sound even if that meant him getting hit again. But as he forced himself to sit up he could see that his father managed to hook it with one of the nets. There would be more yelling coming now that the precious fishing pole was saved, but Tor would be ready for it. He would hold his head up proudly against the harsh words. The single act of boldness had taught him who he was and his father would not be able to change that.

The flat out most beautiful girl in his world sat opposite of Torgrim, but he was too nervous to keep looking straight at her. Instead his eyes kept falling on the couple across the restaurant; a skinny man and an overweight woman. He couldn’t see the man’s face, but it was far too easy to see the jowls of saggy flesh hanging down on the sides of the woman’s mouth. Her face was so lumpy it looked like someone had laid used tea bags above and below her eyes before covering her face in skin. She was gnawing on an eggroll while the man talked. Tor pushed his eyes away from the other couple and onto Christina. She smiled at him and his face felt sunburned.

At 16, Christina was two years older then Torgrim. Had she not lived across the street from him they wouldn’t be at the China Garden restaurant together, but he had know her most of his life. He knew what kind of things to say to make her laugh, he knew that she liked to walk barefoot in the summer time, and he knew that they were destined to be together. She didn’t know that last part yet, in the last couple years he could barely look her in the eyes. But she had asked him to come out to the Chinese Restaurant that day, so it was possible that she knew more then he thought.

He wouldn’t be in high school until the next year, but he was already as tall as most of his teachers in junior high. He was easily taller then Christina. In his own mind he was too skinny, but he had started lifting weights. If things went as planned he’d be bulking up soon. Maybe she had noticed that, maybe those nightly workout sessions had affected him more then he had realized. Across the table she was still smiling at him, “Tor did you bring your sketch book with you?”

Lying next to him on the booth was an olive drab shoulder bag that he had gotten from the Army Surplus store down on First Street almost two years ago. Sketch books were important to Torgrim, he did not leave them at home. The question made him a little nervous; she had seen his artwork before, selected pieces that were safe to show. She had no idea that tucked in those pages were numerous sketches of her. Some were taken for memory; others were life studies, pieces quickly sketched out when she didn’t notice him. He placed a hand protectively on the shoulder bag. “Yeah, I have it right here. Why?”

She glanced around the restaurant and then leaned closer to him. She smelled like cherry blossoms. As she moved closer she had slid something across the table. Torgrim glanced at the object; it was her driver’s license. Was he supposed to know what to do with this? A second later he saw why it was important, while it was Christina’s picture, it was not her information. The ID said she was 21. “Cool, isn’t it?” she said with a grin before quickly sliding the fake back into her purse so no one else could see it.

“Um, it’s neat but I don’t understand.”

She reached out across the table again, this time though instead of sliding an ID she placed one of her hands on his. Her hand was light on his, her skin was soft. “I’m going to use it to get a tattoo. And I was hoping you design it for me.”

A tattoo? His world spun. She wanted something he designed to be on her body. He wanted to say a million things to her all at once, instead nothing but a, “I..ugh.”

“Pleeeease Tor,” she said as she squeezed his hand. “I know you’re really talented. I was hoping you could do something with James and my name. Maybe with those jagged tribal things.” His stomach hurt as if she had kicked him. She was still talking about James, how impressed he’d be if she got the tattoo done. How he is so cool and Tor needed to meet him. Torgrim hoped he was still smiling; his face was so numb that he couldn’t really tell. He wanted to scream, cry, and run out of the restaurant. Instead he sat there nodding, knowing full well that he’d spend the night coming up with possible tattoo designs.