The Buttersmiths' Gold Read online

  Torbjorn ducked around the corner of the nearest wooden house, shimmied his way into the narrow space between two buildings, and escaped out the other side, his basket of muffins still intact and his ribs still aching from his fall.

  He was pretty sure no one had seen him, so he paused to catch his breath.

  The second street was quiet, almost solemn by comparison. Grey mists rose up out of the ground, so that the colors in the village almost seemed quiet too.

  Most towns had only one main street going down the middle. Viksfjord had several. It was the largest village Torbjorn had ever been to. To the right, the street extended the length of more than a dozen longboats. To the left it was twice as far to the end of the village, and Torbjorn could see the smoke rising gently beyond the wall made of pointed timbers in the distance.

  He wondered if Storfjell and the rest of his clansmen had fared better than he had on the first street – they’d probably slipped past the brawlers unnoticed and gotten their goods into the hands of the seafaring merchants who could pay for them.

  Once those merchants had gotten a basketful, they would sell the muffins in the market there. Others would set sail for far-off places, following trade routes south in either direction to other merchant towns where the muffins would fetch a higher price as exotic baked goods. Some would even make it as far as the lands where the sun stayed out in the winter. There the muffins would be honored in the banquet halls of kings.

  In return, the merchants would pay generously, and Torbjorn’s clan would sail back to Smordal, their ship laden with grain, cloth, and metal and wooden tools. It would take several trips to Viksfjord during the bright summer to gather enough food and supplies for Smordal to survive the coming cold. Torbjorn was just lucky that he’d made it through the brawl with the muffins intact. He could only imagine what Father would say if he had lost the basket.

  “You were clever to flee,” said a man over Torbjorn’s shoulder into his ear. Torbjorn turned. He’d thought he was alone.

  The top of the man’s head came to Torbjorn’s chest. He was dressed in a grey cape, with a silver clasp pinned to his shoulder to fasten it in place. He wore leather shoes, something that few people back in Smordal could afford. He wore a long tunic underneath that hung down to his knees, much like Torbjorn’s own. But his was woven of cloth the color of the setting sun or blood, something Torbjorn had never seen before. It was plain to Torbjorn that this man had money.

  “A mouse does not like to stay when the dogs are hungry,” said Torbjorn.

  The man nodded. “Well spoken. I am Rotte the Righteous,” said the man, bowing his head slightly and lifting one edge of his cape outward. His face was older and pleasant, his nose large, with a wide, warm smile underneath it – a face that seemed clever in its own right.

  Torbjorn returned the greeting with a slight bow.

  There was a shout from the crowd at the other side of the houses.

  “Come,” said Rotte, and beckoned Torbjorn down the lane. “They will be looking for the owner of the muffins. I have a place you can come indoors,” he said.

  Torbjorn followed Rotte. He was probably right. It was best to lie low for a few moments until the village settled down and Torbjorn could go out again.

  Besides, if he were as wealthy as he looked, Rotte might be able to pay handsomely for the muffins himself.

  Rotte led Torbjorn to a wooden lodge that was smaller than the rest and stopped at the door. Torbjorn hadn’t seen this lodge before. It was made of planks fitted closely together, with a sloping wooden roof covered in dying grass. But it was not the lodge itself that caught Torbjorn’s eye. In the center of a flat door carved with looping branches was a single, hideous, curled stone finger.

  The finger was as large as Torbjorn’s hand, gnarled and bony, with a thick, split fingernail that had grown to a claw on the end. There was a wart on the third knuckle, and fine wrinkles carved across the skin. Torbjorn had never seen a carving so intricate or lifelike. It was almost as if it were a real finger covered in stone.

  “Troll’s finger,” said Rotte.

  “Very fine workmanship,” said Torbjorn.

  “A carving of course. Everyone knows trolls died out hundreds of years ago,” Rotte chuckled warmly.

  “Is it true, that they could not cross water?” asked Torbjorn. He’d heard the lore told around the fire.

  “That’s what has been said, but I cannot say,” smiled Rotte. There was something in the way that Rotte’s lips curled inward that made Torbjorn wonder if he wasn’t telling the whole story.

  “I see it interests you,” said Rotte, opening the door. “There are more of such things inside, if that is your wish,” Rotte said.

  Torbjorn did want to see what was inside. The troll’s finger was a treasure in itself. And Rotte did seem so kind.

  “Come,” said Rotte, and pushed the door inward. He beckoned to Torbjorn. “I have untold wonders for the curious.”

  Torbjorn could not resist. He stepped down into the lodge, squeezing his basket of muffins between the door posts. He absolutely had to know what was inside.

  Chapter 3 — The Sword of Weyland

  The lodge was dark, except for the fire smoldering on the hearth in the middle of the floor. The walls were decorated with wooden shields painted in bright colors like the sky and the trees. The beams supporting the roof were carved like the door – curls intertwined with snakes. At the crossbeams was a large wolf with its jaws open wide.

  The floor was made of planks of wood too, like the deck of Torbjorn’s clan’s ship. Most shops had only dirt floors – certainly nothing back at home in Smordal was so fine. It meant that Rotte was definitely rich.

  A long table against the back wall confirmed Torbjorn’s suspicion. It was piled with stamped silver coins and a bowl of green glass beads. They were probably from far away in the east and worth enough to buy an entire herd of sheep. It meant that Rotte the Righteous could pay handsomely for the muffins, if Torbjorn could convince him to trade for them.

  “Tell me,” said Rotte the Righteous as he ushered Torbjorn to a bench, “what is it about the butter on your muffins that makes them taste as if they came from kings?”

  So this man, besides being rich, was clever. Torbjorn wasn’t sure how to answer. Few merchants had ever guessed that the magic of the muffins lay in the layer of butter smeared across the top. They did not know that was what preserved their freshness and taste. They did not know that even more than making blueberry muffins, the people of Smordal were Buttersmiths.

  Rotte the Righteous knew their secret – it put Torbjorn at a disadvantage. He felt disarmed. And now Rotte was asking Torbjorn to tell him more.

  “I do not know but that our muffins are baked with centuries of wisdom from our clan,” said Torbjorn.

  “You come from Smordal, do you not?” asked Rotte.

  Torbjorn nodded. Rotte knew that too.

  “The hidden valley, which they say is cradled by mountains and watched over by the moon?”

  Indeed, that is what they say, Torbjorn thought. Rotte knew far too much. Smordal’s whereabouts were not something they spoke of to others. They kept to themselves for the most part, living in their hidden valley at the end of a narrow fjord. They only left to trade, and never brought visitors there. Father said that is what kept them safe.

  Rotte already knew so much; what could Torbjorn tell him that he had not already discovered? He had to win the man’s trust to make a good trade. He would have to confide in him to do that. But if he told Rotte more than Rotte already knew, he’d reveal their secrets. So he just nodded, hoping to buy some time.

  “Please, rest yourself,” Rotte said, gesturing to a bench next to the table. Torbjorn hesitated, then sat down. He did not want to be rude. Besides, it would give him a chance to set down the burden in his arms. He heaved the basket of muffins onto the table.

  Rotte peeled back the cloak and plucked a muffin from the pile. He held it close to his nose, sucking in
the aroma. “You cannot hide their true worth from me,” he said, smiling. “I could smell their golden coating before I even saw your face.”

  Torbjorn looked to the door.

  “You mustn’t worry,” said Rotte. “I am your friend.”

  He pulled a long object wrapped in a cloth from a shelf on the wall. He laid it on the table and unwrapped it. Inside was an iron sword. “Now, I will tell you a secret of mine in return.”

  “This iron comes from Trollstigen, the troll’s stairway. It was hewn out of the rock there,” he said. He handed the sword to Torbjorn.

  Torbjorn took it by the hilt in one hand and laid the flat end of the blade on his other palm. It was magnificent. The hilt was sturdy and carved with a light pattern for grip. The blade was straight. The edge was even steel. A sword like this would be an excellent prize for Father. They weren’t warriors in Smordal, but such a sword could help in defense. It would command respect from their enemies. “It is remarkable,” said Torbjorn.

  “It was forged by Weyland the Smith himself,” said Rotte.

  Torbjorn looked at him to see if he was telling the truth. Torbjorn had heard stories of Weyland. He was a blacksmith so skilled at forging swords, they say he even forged the sword that Odin himself stuck in the tree Barnstokkr. Torbjorn had thought Weyland was just a legend. “This is a fine sword, but that cannot be!” said Torbjorn.

  “Who else could have forged it?” smiled Rotte. He snatched the sword from Torbjorn’s hands. Torbjorn jumped back, and Rotte swung the blade high in the air, then brought it down like a hammer on an iron poker that stuck out of the fire. The sword cut the poker cleanly in two.

  Torbjorn gasped. He’d never seen a sword do such a thing. If not Weyland the Smith, then who? Its blade gleamed, even in the low firelight of the house.

  “It could be yours,” Rotte said.

  So, he did want to trade. “Half of the butter-covered golden muffins,” Torbjorn stammered. “Blueberries included.” He knew the sword was worth five basketfuls at least, if not twice that, but Father had taught him to negotiate.

  Rotte smiled. “You know I cannot accept that offer,” he said, shaking his head.

  “The full basket then,” said Torbjorn. He did not want to offend his host. Most of all, he did not want to lose a sword forged by Weyland the Smith.

  Rotte frowned. “No, friend. I want something much less in return. I will not take your sacred golden blueberry muffins from you. Instead, all I ask is that you satisfy my curiosity.”

  Torbjorn frowned. He did not understand.

  “I have told you my secret. And now, all I wonder is if you can tell me what it is that makes your butter sing songs and tell tales to the tongue, that all who taste it want more?”

  It was a strange request. Torbjorn knew that the butter of Smordal was the envy of all clans – without those clans even knowing that’s what made their muffins taste so good. But he’d supposed it was the fact that they’d only fed their bovines on fresh green clover, or that they’d treated the herd like family. Or perhaps it was the sunshine of Smordal, or the sparkling streams that fed the fields. Or the women churned the milk into cream and sang as it thickened into golden butter. It was all of these things that turned butter into gold, but not just one of them. It was not something he was sure he could explain in an afternoon, or even perhaps a lifetime. Then he realized for the first time that it was not something he knew.

  “Our streams perhaps? Or the green crisp clover which the bovines eat,” he said.

  “Many clans have these things,” said Rotte.

  Torbjorn shook his head. “Then I cannot say,” he said.

  Rotte frowned. His eyebrows pushed together and his face turned sour. “Not because you do not know, but because you will not tell!” he shouted. He whisked the sword away, wrapped it back in its cloth, and shoved it onto a shelf, out of sight.

  Torbjorn was shocked. He had not expected someone who’d seemed so calm to make such an outburst.

  “I had trusted you, and now you give me nothing in return!” said Rotte. There was anger in his words. He stomped to the door and threw it open. “Be gone,” he said, pointing out toward the water’s edge.

  How quickly Rotte had lost his temper! Torbjorn did not know what to do. He hadn’t meant to insult him. He wished right then that Father were there. Or even Storfjell. Father would know what to say.

  But Father was not there, so Torbjorn hefted the basket of muffins. He wanted to do or say something to show Rotte he’d not meant him any dishonor. He plucked a muffin from the basket and placed it on the table. It seemed a pathetic gesture, once he’d done it, but one he could not take back now.

  Rotte stepped aside to give Torbjorn plenty of space on his way out, as if he were disgusted to be in the same house. There was nothing more Torbjorn could do. He stepped out the door.

  “I don’t want it,” said Rotte. The muffin came sailing out of the doorway and rolled into the street. The door slammed shut behind Torbjorn with a clap.

  He had failed.

  “You going to be eating that?” said a dirt-smudged boy half of Torbjorn’s age. He was pointing at the muffin where it had come to a stop in the mud. Torbjorn shook his head. The boy scampered away, stuffing the muffin into his mouth as he went.

  Torbjorn frowned at himself. He had missed a perfect opportunity. He should’ve tried to explain better how they churned their butter into gold. He wasn’t sure how to describe it entirely – it’s just what they did.

  He’d never realized before that perhaps he did not entirely know. If that were the case, perhaps he wasn’t really a Buttersmith at all. That left him feeling hollow, like maybe he didn’t understand what it meant to be a part of the clan that he loved so much.

  ***

  By the time Torbjorn had made his trades, it was getting late and the sun was dipping toward the horizon. It only disappeared for a few hours each night during the summertime, but the shops would be shutting down, and the men of his clan bedding down for the night on their ship. They would set sail early the next day. He headed toward the water again, his basket empty. He’d only managed to get some dried fish and a few sacks of grain. It was by no means a poor trade, but thoughts of Weyland’s sword ran through Torbjorn’s head as he climbed the plank back onto the ship. The sword would’ve been a wonderful gift to Father. It would’ve made him proud.

  Someone stomped up the gangplank behind Torbjorn. There was a cheer from the men onboard. Torbjorn turned. It was Storfjell. He held a sheep under his arm. “There will be wool, and one day meat!” cried Father. His hay-colored beard rustled at the corners again.

  “Maybe even socks!” said another.

  Storfjell beamed from ear to ear so bright, his silver beard shined like trout scales. “Or scarves! For the bovines!” he said, tossing the sheep to Father.

  Torbjorn stepped aside, sliding to the back of the ship while everyone’s attention was on Storfjell. Torbjorn’s feeling of hollowness grew inside him. Storfjell once again had proved himself the responsible one.

  Torbjorn shoved his grain sacks and dried fish to the side of the deck. He slunk down on them, hoping he wouldn’t be noticed.

  He had failed. It wasn’t just Storfjell’s sheep, or that Torbjorn had lost the sword. It was something else. Torbjorn loved Smordal and loved being a part of his clan more than anything. The thing that bothered him most was that for the first time he began to wonder if he really knew what it meant to be a Buttersmith at all.

  Chapter 4 — The Nine Churns

  As the evening fell, Torbjorn’s mind grappled with a single thought. Ever since Rotte the Righteous had mentioned it, Torbjorn wondered about it, and now that it was late, and he had settled on the deck of the ship with a bag of grain for a pillow, he resolved to ask Father the truth.

  The men of Smordal were dozing and humming as the evening finally grew grey – not fully dark, but the grey of a Northern summer night. “Father,” said Torbjorn, “I know our herd of bovines has
been the finest for generations, and I know that they eat only the fresh clover that is fed by mountain streams, and I know that the sun shines on our valley of Smordal at just the right angle all summer long, but which of all these things turns our butter into gold?”

  Father sat up from the deck and rested his arm on his knee. He was respected by the clan for his wisdom, perhaps even as much as Smordal’s Chief Gradfir himself. He sighed a long, heavy sigh and said, “When each boy comes of age, we tell him the tale, like my father told me, and his father told him. It is the secret of the clan. It is the means by which Buttersmiths turn butter to gold. Wake your brother.”

  Torbjorn did as he was told, and thumped Storfjell on the head with his fist. Storfjell bolted upright, yawned, and thumped Torbjorn back. Torbjorn fell over. “Time for breakfast?” Storfjell yawned.

  “Nay,” said Father. “It is time for the lore of the Smordaler, which will not fill your belly, but your heart with wisdom.”

  Father’s voice became deep and distant: “All these things you say of our butter are true, Torbjorn Trofastsonn, but there is one thing yet which you must know – that is the thing that above all else turns our butter into gold.”

  Torbjorn felt his heart quicken. This was the thing he must know.

  “You know, my sons, that men age, and grow grey. So it is with the gods and even Odin himself: they too would grow old if it were not for shining apples that grow on a tree in the midst of Asgard, the home of the gods. Every day the goddess Iduna plucks the shining apples from the tree and gives them to the gods to eat. Every day when they eat the apples their immortality is renewed, and they remain young and strong. The apples give them their power and their strength. If it were not so, they could not rule in Asgard and watch over men.