The seer lived in the longhouse with Earl Björn. Usually, kids weren't allowed in the longhouse, unless it was winter and we all huddled together listening to stories as we sat by the large fire pit. That is is why the two men standing outside frowned when they saw me.
"What are you doing here, boy?"
"Kids aren't allowed here, lest you be eaten by a Jötnar."
Thankfully, it was only Snorri and Olaf. The two were brothers, though they didn't share much resemblance. Though both of them were ugly. Snorri was tall and lanky; he was the tallest one in the village, probably a little over seven feet tall.
Olaf, on the other hand, was just a few inches shy of being considered a dwarf. Even I, a five-year-old boy, was almost as tall as him. The two were a duet. They were always together. People said they did everything together: in battle, they fought side by side, slept together, and even shared the same women.
The Jötnar are a race of giants, and they were referencing the Earl when they said I would be eaten by one. They usually tell that story to scare off noisy kids so they don't disturb the earl.
"I'm here to see the seer," I told them.
"What business does a child have with a seer?" Olaf looked at me suspiciously before adding, "The earl is off on important business and has ordered that no man be let near his wives."
"It's an important matter," I protested. "I have a message to give to him."
"From whom?"
"Um… Er… from my father. That's why he sent me in his place."
"You'd best go home to your father then," Snorri said. "No men are to be allowed near the earl's wives. For all we know, you're lying and your true intention is to hump the earl's wives."
"I'm five years old."
"So?!" both men giggled. "We've humped plenty of women when we were your age."
These two are idiots, but them being idiots worked perfectly for me.
"Would you rather my father be the one to come here to speak to the seer? You'll have the displeasure of facing him instead of me. And when he forces his way inside, the earl will punish both of you for letting a man near his wives."
The two looked back and forth at each other, a stupid look on their faces. As dumb as they were, I knew they understood what it meant to face my father or the earl. Neither of them wanted to be trapped between a raging boar and an angry bull. Hence, I successfully tricked them.
"Go on then," they said. "But if you try anything funny, we'll carve you up and feed you to the goats," they warned, pointing to their daggers.
I pretended to be scared and slipped past them into the longhouse. The two of them were harmless for the most part; hardly anyone took them seriously.
The longhouse was just as grand as I remembered. As I stood inside, I realized something: I had no idea where the seer's room was. It had been many years since I last came here, and during that time, I hadn't paid much attention to the layout.
I wandered around the longhouse, dodging behind corners every time I spotted someone. Most of whom I saw were slaves going about their duties. I passed many bedrooms, but none of them seemed to belong to the seer.
I knew this because I knocked on a few of them, then ran and hid to see who would come out. I traveled up the stairs and walked until I reached the far end of the hall, where I came upon an open room. A room that caught me by surprise.
The room itself wasn't in very good condition; the inside was covered in dust, and I saw a couple of mice skittering about as I entered. The floorboards creaked as I stepped in, and the room was dark, with only a dimly lit fireplace at the back, surrounded by wooden tables and chairs.
But neither darkness or the cold was an issue for me. Ever since my assimilation began, I could see just as clearly as I could under the light of the sun. That was how I knew this room was a library.
The room was small and had only two shelves, but they were stacked full of books. Picking one of the books off the shelves, I began to open it. The cover was made of leather, and the pages were thick. Probably wool.
I flipped through the thick pages, not understanding the words. The letters were unlike anything I had ever seen before when suddenly, the floorboards creaked behind me, and in my panic, I dropped the book.
I turned around to see a wrinkled old face staring back at me. A face belonging to the seer.
"If you're going to break into a man's home, the least you can do is be careful with his things," he said grumpily.
"I'm sorry; I only wanted to speak with you."
"About what?"
"My sickness. I was wondering if you could help."
"Why would I? That old bat is in charge of all health-related illnesses."
By old bat I assumed he meant the midwife. I stepped closer to him.
"The midwife doesn't know either."
"That's because she's a quack," he chuckled. He stared down at the book that had fallen from my hands onto the floor. "You like reading?"
"I would, but I haven't been taught how to read."
"Figured. Most people in our village can't read. I'm probably the only one." He looked at me curiously, a smirk forming on his lips. "Would you like to learn how to read?"
"I would!" I answered eagerly.
He walked into the room and gestured for me to have a seat on one of the wooden chairs.
"Your illness," he said as we sat around a table designed for reading, "did it start after your assimilation began?"
"Huh? How did you... Ahem. Yes, it did.
"I figured that was the case," he mumbled, not quite intending for me to hear. "I'm not sure if you're old enough to understand this, but you were granted power by one of the gods. A power we Northerners refer to as Máttur."
"Máttur~" I repeated, intrigued by what he was telling me.
"It's an ancient word that means 'might'," he continued. "The issue with this is that we are naturally born with a different power, one that those in the West refer to as mana. Máttur and mana are polar opposites and don't work well together. That is the cause of your illness."
I was beginning to understand what he was saying, but still, there was something I wasn't quite getting.
"But how come only my mother and I are getting sick?" I asked. "Since you said everyone is born with mana and then we receive Máttur from the gods. In that case everyone in this village should be getting sick just like me and my mother."
He looked at me, surprised, as if he couldn't believe that a child had understood all he was saying. Understood it enough to ask a sensible question. He cracked a smile.
"The answer to that is because you were simply born with too much mana. You see mana is inherited through one's parents. We Northerners are born with only a little mana; that is why we turned to the ancient gods for Máttur in the first place. Your excess of mana was probably passed down from one of your parents. Someone in your bloodline must've had an exceptional amount of mana. Though it is strange," he said, putting his hand on his chin, "we don't have the skill to handle children born with a lot of mana, so they normally die at birth."
That must have been why the children my mother had before me died at birth; this was the curse she kept referring to—mana.
"Eventually, the mana and the Máttur will ravage your body, killing you from the inside," he said, looking at me with pity.
The seer noticed the worried expression on my face, and then a sly smile crossed his lips.
"I have a proposition for you, boy."