Wetand Wild Page 7

  But that was all she would say.

  Whoever said “No Pain, No Gain” wasn’t a Viking …

  Ragnor had been in this strange new land, which he’d discovered was called Ah-mar-ee-ca, less than a full day, and every bone and muscle in his body hurt, while his brain roiled with confusion. He had been in deep trouble before—I am a Norseman, after all … trouble finds us even when we are not looking—but never anything like this.

  He reclined on a pallet in the sleeping quarters where the SEAL trainees were housed—That’s what I am, apparently … a SEAL trainee … may the gods be laughing behind their hands!—having just completed what should have been a sybaritic hot showering. But he was not happy. In fact, he was sorely tired of people either gaping at him or laughing at him or saying things he could not understand. Like that little stick with a brush on the end. How was he to know it was a tooth-cleaning brush, and the sweet mint paste in the tube was not for eating, but polishing? Even worse, when he’d pulled those silver packets from his metal lock-her, everyone—everyone—had burst out laughing just because he did not know what a cone-dome was. And wasn’t it a marvel—a liberation for men and women alike—that conception could be controlled in this land?

  For some reason, when he’d learned the purpose of the cone-domes, immediately an image of Alison had come to his mind … and what he would like to do to her with those protective coverings. He also thought momentarily of his father, Magnus Ericsson, and how he could have used about a hundred of those cone-domes over the years. The last he’d seen his father, Magnus had taken a vow of celibacy for this very reason … not wanting any more than thirteen children.

  Ragnor planned on taking about a thousand of those little marvels with him when he returned to the Norselands … if he ever returned to the Norselands.

  And that was another thing that troubled him. He had always been considered an exceedingly intelligent man. He could recite sagas after hearing them only once. He learned languages of other countries so amazingly fast that some called it magical. He had a brain for strategy in battles, for puzzling out mysteries, for tabulating the direction of the sun in figuring time, for adding figures. He had even studied the stars and sun and moon under Arab astronomers. He could read and write. But in this country, he felt nigh dumb under the weight of all the complex marvels that the people of this place accepted as everyday happenstances.

  But that was neither here nor there. He saw from the corner of his eye that his fellow SEAL team trainees were approaching his bed … with some ill intent, he would warrant by their expressions. All of them, himself included, wore nothing more than drab sherts and short underpants.

  He had been lying on the pallet with his arms folded behind his head. Sitting up cautiously, he prepared himself to bolt if they attacked … though why they would do that, he had no idea. They had all suffered equally that day under the punishing hands of Chieftain MacLean. Climbing a rope wall as high as a mountain, up and down and up and down like a bunch of bloody squirrels. Running incessantly, often with the yellow boat on their heads. Ducking bullets in “evade and escape” escapades; bullets were this land’s version of arrows shot out of special weapons called guns. What fun that had been, just barely escaping death! And all the while the chieftain had been yelling out his usual pithy sayings, like, “Most wars are lost, not won!” Ha, ha, ha! Always he and his comrades had been wet and sandy. And sore.

  Give him a good sword and he would show the chieftain a thing or two about “evade and escape.”

  His seven boat teammates sat down on either side of him on his pallet and on an adjoining one. SEAL trainees from the other boat teams walked about or lay on pallets around the barracks … a hundred of them in all.

  “Dude, we’ve decided to give you an intervention,” the one called Sly told him, placing a comforting black hand on his knee.

  Ragnor was not comforted at all, probably because he did not know what an intervention was. “Will it hurt?” he asked.

  They all laughed.

  “It will hurt us more than it hurts you,” said Flash.

  Uh-oh!

  Flash came from a country called Alley-bam-ha. He loved listening to music on a magical black box about such subjects as cheating hearts and beer-drinking buddies, much like the sagas of the Norseland. Cody, who sat on Ragnor’s other side, hated Flash’s music and much preferred songs by the arrow maker, like “Walk This Way.”

  Strange, strange people in this strange, strange country! he thought, not for the first, or fiftieth time.

  “Max, you weirded us out with your behavior today,” Flash said. “We’re going to help you out, though, buddy. We are going to cover your ass.”

  They all nodded.

  “How?” he asked cautiously. He wasn’t sure he wanted any of their hands on his arse … or covering other intimate body parts either.

  “You took a hit for us when you shoved us back and got slammed by that truck,” JAM explained … though it wasn’t much of an explanation, since Ragnor didn’t know what a truck was. Earlier today, Ragnor had been surprised to learn that JAM, the quiet one in this group, had been in training to become a Christian churchman—a priest—before deciding to become a SEAL. “Your concussion is our concussion.”

  For the love of Frigg!

  “It’s obvious that you’re still suffering from the effects of that blow to the head. Hopefully, it’s just temporary, and your memory will come back. In the meantime, we’re going to help cover for you.” It was F.U. speaking now. Even Ragnor knew what F.U. meant, but why anyone would want a vulgarity for a name puzzled him immensely.

  “Pretty Boy”—who had been dubbed thus because he was, well, pretty, if such an appellation could be given to a man—added, “It’s a good thing we’re well into Phase Two of training and that a lot of our classwork is over with … especially Hell Week. You’re in acceptable physical condition, so, with a little coaching from us, you should be able to get by.”

  “Acceptable? Acceptable?” Ragnor sputtered. “I am in prime physical condition.”

  They all rolled their eyes at his assertion.

  “Did I not swim fastest in the timings today?” he reminded them.

  “Yes, you did, bless your heart … and raised the bar for all of us. You’ve heard the expression ‘It pays to be a winner.’ Well, in SEALs you change that to ‘You pay to be a winner,’ ” complained Cage, the man with the lilting accent who happened to be his swim buddy, as if a man his age needed a swim buddy. Cage was from the Southern country known as Lose-anna. They had dragonlike animals there the size of longboats; these ally-gate-oars swam in the swamps and gobbled up people. Or so Cage claimed. “Holy crawfish, when I saw you hit the water slicker’n snake snot I knew we were in trouble. Well, not to worry, pal, we’re gonna help you.”

  “One for all and all for one,” Sly declared.

  Ragnor’s seven comrades reached their right hands into the center and clasped, so he did the same. “Hoo-yah!” they all yelled. Ragnor figured that must be a war cry.

  Yea, this was war. For him, anyway.

  “So from now on, you follow our lead,” JAM said. “If you don’t understand something, watch and listen. We’ll help you.”

  Ragnor nodded hesitantly.

  “It’s settled, then,” Flash announced, looking at each of them individually.

  Well, not quite everything. “Where does Alison reside?” Ragnor asked.

  At first, silence reigned as they gave him a communal gape.

  Then Cody inquired, “Do you mean Lieutenant Alison MacLean? Your superior officer? The Master Chief’s sister?”

  He nodded.

  Everyone groaned.

  Except him. He stood, explaining, “I would like to take a handful of those cone-domes with me over to her keep.”

  “Why?” Flash asked.

  “To practice.” Really, he wasn’t the only one who suffered from dimwittedness in this group.

  Sly pulled him back down to a sitting pos
ition on the pallet, and everyone crowded closer.

  “We need to explain a few things to you,” Flash said.

  They were all grinning.

  “About what?”

  “The birds and the bees,” F.U. said.

  Dimwitted, for sure.

  “And the rules and regulations of the Ewe-Ess military,” Sly added. “It’s called fraternization, Max, my boy. Maybe even sexual harassment.”

  Birds, bees, sheep, soldiers, sex, and hairy asses? I think I have landed in a dimwit hole.

  Chapter Six

  Me-shock, you-shock, roar-shock …

  “And what do we see in this picture?” Doctor Fine-gold asked as he held up yet another indecipherable black blotch on a white background.

  Ragnor grunted his disgust at this silly game he was being forced to play with the brain doctor … a man in at least his mid-forties with curly brown hair and window-glass jewelry that fitted over his eyes with thin gold bands over his ears.

  “A man and woman coupling upside down.”

  “Really?” The doctor seemed fascinated by his answer as he cocked his head from side to side, trying to see the same image. “And this one?”

  “Female nether lips.”

  The doctor’s widened eyes were the only indication of his surprise. “And this?”

  “Breasts. Big ones.”

  “And this?”

  “Three tongues.”

  “And this?”

  “Three tongues and the Viking S-Spot.”

  The doctor put the placard down and gazed at him with interest. “What is the Viking S-Spot?”

  “ ’Tis a secret. You have to be a Viking to understand.” Believe that, and I have a fjord in the northernmost Norselands to sell you. “All I will say is there are tongues involved. And exploring.”

  “We seem to be somewhat preoccupied with sex today.”

  What is it with this “we” business? I am the only one being grilled with questions. And, yea, I am preoccupied with sex. Ever since I got my enthusiasm back and nowhere to direct it. And not sex in general. Sex with one particular lady doctor. That was what he thought, but what he replied was, “We are men. Are we not supposed to be preoccupied with sex?”

  “So, you are saying that it is natural for men to be preoccupied with sex?”

  Aaarrgh! The man never answered his questions, and this was Ragnor’s third session with him. As far as he could tell, they were going nowhere and the doctor had yet to examine his brain, though if he even dared to wield a sharp object or hammer near his head in an attempt to break open his skull and peer inside, Ragnor would be forced to defend himself.

  “Actually,” Ragnor began tentatively, “I have had a problem of late.” Here I go again. Just like with Madrene. Some men have running bowels; I seem to have developed a running tongue.

  “A sexual problem?” the doctor asked, practically rubbing his hands together with glee that Ragnor would reveal some secret. “I used to be a sex therapist.”

  Wonderful! A healer who treats two essential organs … top and bottom. “I lost my enthusiasm for coupling for a long time, but now it is back with a vengeance.”

  “Enthusiasm? Lack of enthusiasm? Do you mean impotence?”

  “Nay!” a horrified Ragnor replied quickly. “I was able to rise to every occasion and perform, but my heart was not in it for a while, and I fear the, uh, malady may return.”

  “Hmmmm.”

  Ragnor hated it when the doctor said “hmmmm.” It meant that the brain healer did not quite believe him. It also meant he was about to ask him one of those “we” questions.

  “How long has it been since we have engaged in the sex act? And how do we feel about that?”

  “I do not know about you, but it has been more than six months for me. And, believe you me, that is a long time for a Viking.”

  “Hmmmm,” the doctor said again. “But you mentioned this lack of—what did you call it?—enthusiasm, as if it were in the past. Have we passed the threshold, so to speak?”

  “The first time I saw Alison, enthusiasm hit my cock like a tidal wave of lust. And it has been at high tide ever since.”

  “Uh-oh! Do you mean Lieutenant Alison MacLean?”

  “The very same. And do not tell me about fraternization rules. My manpart does not recognize that word.” He gazed at the doctor, waiting for some actual advice, which would be a welcome change.

  “Lust is wholesome …”

  I already know that. Tell me something I do not know.

  “… as long as we men control our impulses.”

  Why should we?

  “I would suggest you direct your lust elsewhere … perhaps toward some woman not in the military. And, of course, it goes without saying that the female must be willing.”

  Ragnor drew himself up straight. “I have ne’er taken an unwilling partner in the bedsport.”

  “Well, yes, but the Navy frowns on bedsport between its officers of different rank.”

  Ragnor waved a hand airily.

  “Does Lieutenant MacLean share this, uh, attraction?”

  “She has not said so in words, but, yea, she does.” She must. “I have a sense about such things.” Usually.

  “Be very careful,” the doctor cautioned, studying him for several long moments. That was another of his tactics … long silences in which the other person became uncomfortable and then broke the silence by talking too much. Not that Ragnor would do that. “I must admit, you puzzle me, Max … you don’t mind if I call you Max, do you? Good.”

  “Why do I puzzle you?” he asked. Ragnor had tried his best to be careful, having been warned by his teammates not to disclose too much about his problems to the shrink—that was the name for a mind healer in this land—for fear it would give the leaders cause to expel him from SEALs. Although he hadn’t recalled that warning when babbling about his enthusiasm woes.

  “I’ve talked with all the SEAL trainees, and each has a different reason for being here. Why are you here?”

  Because the gods decided to punish me for some reason? Because the Norns of Destiny caused me to make a wrong turn on the white pathway to Asgard? Because Alison needs me? He liked that last reason best.

  “Why do you want to be a SEAL?” the doctor persisted.

  “I do not precisely want to become a SEAL,” Ragnor revealed carefully. He knew now that becoming a SEAL did not mean turning oneself into an animal; rather, SEAL stood for SEa, Air, and Land— an elite military group. But he already belonged to an elite military group—Vikings. And if he wanted to punish himself, with much less pain, he could go off and become a Jomsviking with their rules of celibacy or join the Varangian Guard in the Rus land, with not-so-celibate rules.

  “Then why are you here?”

  “That is a good question,” he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Mayhap you could give me some hints.”

  “Many men want to become SEALs to prove something to themselves, or others. They want to show that they have the physical and mental stamina to survive.”

  “Is that not a bit like putting yourself in the dragon’s mouth to prove you have no fear of death?”

  The doctor just smiled at him. “Other men like the fact that women are attracted to SEALs.”

  “They are?” Ragnor asked with interest.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  He shrugged. Attracting women had never been a problem for him. “Hmmm. ’Tis much the same in my land. Ladies, no matter the country, flock to warriors … especially Viking warriors. Whoo! We have to knock them away with a stick betimes. Ha, ha, ha! But seriously, ’tis a known fact that we Norsemen enrich the blood of the countries we conquer by mating with their women. We are taller and more handsome than the average man, which means our children will be, too. Not me; I make my best effort not to spread my seed hither and yon. Of course, we Vikings bathe more often, which no doubt has something to do with our attraction. There is naught more distasteful to a woman than to swive with a stinks
ome man, or so I have been told.”

  He grinned to show he was half teasing, but Doctor Fine-gold stared at him, open-mouthed. Ragnor had perchance let his tongue wag a bit too much. Again.

  The doctor shook his head as if to clear it and said, “Still other men want to become SEALs to serve their country. It is a noble profession.”

  “That is a strange notion to me, allegiance to a country. We Vikings pledge our fealty to a particular leader, ofttimes out of friendship or to defend our homes, but rarely is it for loyalty to country. But then, we do not have such noble principles in our land. Liberty and freedom for all. That would engage any man’s allegiance.”

  “You are an amazing man.”

  “Yea, I am,” he said with no modesty. “But to answer your initial question, I will be honest with you. I am here because I have nowhere else to go … at the present.”

  The doctor frowned. “Why would you say that? You have a large family and a nice home and—”

  How would you know that? I have discussed my family with no one. Hmmm. Ragnor put up a halting hand. “Nay, I had a large family, but they are gone.”

  The doctor gasped. “How could that be? I saw in your files that you have a father and ten brothers and sisters.”

  “All dead, except for one,” he replied flatly. Again he wondered how the doctor knew of his family. And what were files anyhow?

  “What? How?”

  “Drowned.”

  “Why, that’s horrible.” The doctor put a hand on Ragnor’s forearm and squeezed. “I can see how you would be disoriented a bit and how you would see the SEAL program as a substitute family. Yes, it all makes sense now.”

  “It does?”

  “MAGNUSSON!” someone bellowed out in the hall, beyond the closed door of Doctor Fine-gold’s hospitium chamber. “Has anyone seen that frickin’ Viking?”

  Doctor Fine-gold rolled his eyes, then got up and went to open the door. Leaning out, he chastised Chieftain MacLean. “Tsk-tsk-tsk! This is a medical facility, Master Chief. You can’t come barging in here disturbing the patients.”