A Flame Put Out by Erin S. Riley Page B

the hill behind the house. She imagined pushing Ingrid off the cliff and into the sea hundreds of feet below, but even that couldn’t lighten her mood.
    There was a ledge on the hill that stayed relatively dry, and she sat there as she cried. Alrik must be dead. What other reason could there be for his absence? Although her mind believed it, her heart refused to. She had gone through so much to be with Alrik and it seemed such a cruel twist of fate to lose him now. She loved her Finngall husband more than she would have ever thought possible, and he had been snatched from her in the blink of an eye.
    Selia twisted the ring on her finger. He had loved her as well, to have given her such a thing to protect her from his rages. Yes, he could be amazingly selfish a good deal of the time, but with the gift of the ring he had proven himself willing to give up his life to keep her safe.
    She had prayed over and over for Alrik’s safe return. But her prayers had been in Irish, as of course her thoughts were naturally conducted in her native language. Her prayers had neither been directed at God or at Odin. She was hesitant to pray to her Christian God on behalf of a heathen, but was nevertheless fearful of the consequences of praying to Odin. So she prayed to a nameless, faceless deity. Now she realized this deity was probably insulted by her indecisive nature.
    Selia sat up straighter, wiping her face with the hem of her shift. She examined her ring and rubbed the runes with her finger. How could she expect to get her husband back without some sort of sacrifice on her part? In marrying a Vikinger she had probably condemned her Christian soul anyway. She could sit around and wait until her death to burn for all eternity, or she could use what soul she possessed to bargain for the safe return of her husband.
    Swallowing, she mentally apologized for what she was about to do. She doubted God would understand, but it made her feel slightly better if her reasons were made clear.
    Selia spoke aloud in Norse. “Odin,” she said in a whisper, then cleared her throat and spoke with more conviction. “Odin. I am praying for the return of my husband, Alrik Ragnarson. He is . . .” She hesitated. To call Alrik a good man was a lie, and Odin wouldn’t care about goodness in any event. “A good fighter. He has killed many people in your name. If you let him live he will kill many more for you.”
    There, it was done. She took a deep breath, feeling as though the flames of hell were licking at her feet. She had a nearly uncontrollable urge to cross herself and had to sit on her hands to stop the motion. She had committed yet another mortal sin by praying to a heathen god. Would it be worth it?
    Selia waited, looking out onto the water expectantly, until the cold seeped into her bones and she felt frozen to the rock.
    When she finally descended the hill to return home, she heard the piercing screams of Geirr before she even opened the door. It was not his typical cry of hunger or of anger, but one of pain. Selia picked up her skirts and sprinted inside.
    Ingrid was holding the squirming, red-faced babe, and appeared to be trying to soothe him, although it was obvious her jostling movements were only making things worse. “What is wrong with him?” Selia shouted over the noise.
    “Nothing.” The girl scowled. “He rolled off the bench, that’s all.”
    Geirr had been remarkably strong from the moment of his birth, and as soon as he learned to roll over, had done so constantly. They had no cradle in the house—Alrik had smashed it to bits after his children died—and so the women had resigned themselves to watching the babe closely to keep him from landing on his head whenever he woke from a nap. Every time there was a close call, Hrefna would press her lips together in exasperation. She had repeatedly vowed that as soon as Alrik walked in the door, she would hand him a block of wood and a saw, and demand that he make a cradle for his