Kjartan was sore all over. He could not sit, he could not lie down on the side or on the stomach, but merely upon his back like a dead man, and he could stand only as long as he stood upright.

Water trickled with bell-like little noises in the basin as he took a handful and splashed it on his body covered in red and blue marks. Its touch stung. Kjartan's features distorted to suppress pained groans; but hushed hisses still escaped the boy's lips when the humid cloth in his hands wiped his bruised ribs and when he twisted from the waist to wipe his reddened back.

“Wash yourself properly, or you sleep in the stables," the seiðkona* commanded as she watched him perform the task. "I won't have your dirt and stink all over my sheets and carpets."

She brought a bone recipient filled with a khaki ointment, and was about to stick her fingers in it when the boy grunted - not in pain, but with lips curled in displeasure:

“I'll do it myself."

So the elderly woman left the balm on the table and watched him apply the medicine, her discreet supervision much more compassionate than her voice let on. She set a mirror - a brass plate - before him as he was about to tend to the wounds on his face. The boy did not look inside it. He knew all too well where his wounds were, he needed not see them; he could feel them perfectly. His bruised eye ached, his burst lip throbbed and his nose and cheek stang. And yet, as he anointed the gash on his nose, his grey eyes drifted towards the mirror: the long wound that marred half his face was swollen and its lips still opened, though it was otherwise healing. Which meant it would leave a scar. Funny, it was not even the men that had given him that scar - it was Fate itself. Órlǫg*.

"Mulish boy," the woman commented. "You expect me to trust you, yet you've barely told me your name and nothing more."

"No one should be trusted," came his gloomy answer.

"Fine, then. Wallow in self-pity, if you're the weak and whiny type. But don't look to me for help when those who did this to you - whoever they are - knock on my door searching for you."

Kjartan wiped his palms of the ointment against each other and looked aside.

"What's it matter who they are? I did this to myself. I went with them willingly." He put on the clean clothing the woman had handed to him - an old womanly nightgown, the only garment she could spare. "You're right not to trust me."

"Suit yourself. By next week, I want you out of my house."

But on the last day of the week, when the seiðkona brought him the ointments, Kjartan took the recipient to his nose and breathed in mindfully:

"I can smell a flower - lily, some spices - fennel and... sage, perhaps. And rue. It surely contains honey too, as it keeps the wound moist, reduces the risk of decay and helps the swelling give way.”

The woman' eyes followed him keenly, deep wrinkles forming around them as she squinted:

"Sage, hog's fennel, ivy, betony, lily and rue. And... honey.”

"What else?” the boy insisted. "There is surely a greasy base to this paste and another binding element, though I can't tell what it is. The base is an oil...” He sniffed his fingers that he had used to rub it on his skin and tasted lightly, "... something quite bitter. Nettle, or juniper berries or... wormwood?”

"Oh, are you also a healer now?” the seiðkona scoffed with irony. "If I'd put nettle on your open wound, you'd know.”

Kjartan did not mind the tone:

"I grew up in the woods. When I came down into town, in my... occupation... some knowledge of quick aid comes in handy. I've seen people wounded and treated, and I've picked up on this and that.”

"It's not the ingredients – their names may be known to many – but rather how they're grown, tended, picked and prepared. Dozens of ways to prepare a plant, and only one works best for the affliction you need to cure,” she explained. "It's oil of angelica, that bitter greasy ingredient you sense there.”

Kjartan smiled, musing as if to himself and still sniffing the salve.

"I've always liked plants.”

The seiðkona hesitated a moment as she took the recipient from his hands, but then she decided:

"The binding elements is seagull egg, which, by the way, I've run out of.”

"I'll get the eggs for you,” the boy lifted his eyes to her promptly. "I can climb now."

His ribs were still green and purple, the scrapes on his back and knees scabby, and yet he could climb.

"Good. If you're sprightly enough to scout the cliffs, it sounds like you're well enough to go out in the field this week when we start weeding the barley." At his surprise, she teased: "You didn't think I'd keep around a boy of your age and savvy for nothing now, did you?"

A grin flourished on his lips.

"That mean you'll keep me around till after the weeding?"

"As long as you make yourself useful." Yet, the seiðkona's features suddenly straightened and turned severe: "But know this: your... old habits... aren't tolerated in this house. I've enchantments all over my treasured possessions, so if I catch you as much as touching something that belongs to me with the intention of peddling it, I'll make sure your pretty hands won't even be able to touch your cock without itches and burns and sore regrets. Got it?"

Perhaps she was expecting a shade of concern in the boy's face, a subtle and silent confession of his impure intentions. But instead, the boy's grin widened:

"Deal," he said.

"Eyolf," the seiðkona uttered as she watched the boy separate the seagull egg whites into the mixture of ground fennel, sage and rue, to bind all ingredients into a balm.

The boy's grey eyes squinted in confusion. His wounds were long since mended – weeding time had passed and the warm season was ongoing – save for the scar stretching across his nose and left cheek.

“Eyolf: the name of your new self,” she clarified. "A little rabid wolf with a big sack of savvy and a vætt* of luck on your side.”

He chuckled and nodded:

“I like it.”

_________________

seiðkona - Female practitioner of magic in Norse times.

Órlǫg - Destiny (Old Norse); literally “the law beyond”.

vætt - Large unit of weight measurement in Old Norse. Used here in the sense of “a ton of luck”.