Thorfinn and the Putrid Potion Read online

  To Holly and Theo Rhodes,

  and to all at Durris School and Crossroads Nursery – D.M.

  To all the little Vikings – R.M.

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  COPYRIGHT

  CHAPTER 1

  One brisk autumn day, the villagers of Indgar trudged home from the fields. Their foreheads glistened with sweat. Their muscles ached. They were licking their lips, thinking about all the meaty goodies they were going to eat, because the harvest was finally in and it was time for FEASTING. And there was NOTHING the Vikings loved more than a HUGE, SLAP-UP, FEAST!

  Carrying their pitchforks and scythes over their shoulders, led by Erik the Ear-Masher, a ferocious, one-eyed bear of a man, they tramped into the village square. Only they did NOT find a Viking feast waiting for them, but…

  A TEA PARTY.

  The whole marketplace was draped with bunting, and tables were covered with crisp white tablecloths. There were fancy place settings, tiered cake stands and platters of teeny-tiny finger sandwiches, plus great mounds of scones with cream and jam. And, in the middle of each table, a steaming pot of pinecone tea, complete with frilly tea cosy.

  A small, freckle-faced boy was humming and whistling as he laid out plates, while a speckled pigeon danced along the table behind him, pecking up stray crumbs.

  The Vikings gaped in horror.

  “THORFINN!” barked Erik the Ear-Masher.

  The boy turned, a gentle smile on his face, and doffed his helmet. “Good afternoon, my dear friends. And what a lovely—”

  “CORK IT, THORFINN!” boomed Erik. “WHERE. IS. OUR. FOOD!?”

  “FOOOOOODDD!” the crowd groaned, sounding like a band of cranky old cave trolls.

  Thorfinn gestured towards the tables. “Here it is, my friends. Feast away!”

  Erik jabbed his thick, sausagey forefinger at the dainty bits of bread. “What d’you call these minuscule things?”

  “Sandwiches,” Thorfinn replied cheerily. “You can have smoked crab and lettuce, or salmon and cucumber.”

  “LETTUCE?” cried Erik. “Vikings don’t eat LETTUCE!”

  “NO!” roared the crowd.

  “Lettuce is for rabbits!” yelled one man.

  “Yeah!” another cut in. “It’s too, uh… What’s the phrase I’m looking for?” He screwed up his face in concentration.

  Thorfinn’s eyes lit up. “Ooh, I love this game. Do you mean… high in nutrients? Rich in vitamins?”

  “Non-meaty?” suggested someone else.

  “Yes, that’s it! It’s too non-meaty!” yelled the man. “We Vikings HATE non-meaty vegetables.”

  Erik glowered at Thorfinn. “We don’t want your pathetic sandwiches and wimpy little scones! WE WANT MEAT!”

  He smashed his fist down on a table. The plates, cutlery, cake stands and scones jumped three feet in the air, landing in a disorganised clatter. The crowd bellowed in approval.

  Thorfinn and his pet pigeon, Percy, stared at the mess in mild confusion. “Oops! Don’t worry, I shall re-set the table in no time at all.”

  Thorfinn was the village chief’s son, which was, quite frankly, the only thing that stopped the crowd from burying him up to his neck in one of the fields and pelting him with rotten cabbages. It didn’t matter that he’d saved the village many times over. What mattered was that he was nice and polite, which were definitely NOT good Viking qualities.

  Erik scowled at a small, flame-haired girl wearing a helmet that was far too big for her, who was lounging on a bench, stuffing her face with scones. This was Thorfinn’s best friend and anger-management coach, Velda. Her job was to try and make Thorfinn less polite and more angry, like a real Viking, but she was failing miserably. Her favourite hobby was throwing axes, preferably at her enemies, but she wasn’t picky.

  “YOU!” barked Erik. “You’re supposed to make sure he doesn’t do things like this!”

  Velda gulped down a mouthful of scone and belched. “BAAARP! I told him. I always tell him, but he never listens.”

  Erik glared at a thin, wiry old man who was lying across the bench opposite Velda, fast asleep.

  ZZZZZZZZZZZZ…

  This was the village wise man, Oswald.

  “And you, you old FART!” Erik kicked the bench.

  Oswald rolled off and fell face down in a muddy puddle.

  The old man didn’t even stir. Indeed, he continued to snore, blowing bubbles in the murky water.

  But before Erik could wake him, an eerie silence suddenly fell over the marketplace. A dark shadow appeared, bearing down on the villagers.

  Though BEAR-ing is probably not the right word. It was more like CHICKEN-ing, because staring down at them was the face of a massive goggly-eyed CHICKEN.

  CHAPTER 2

  The chicken, as it turned out, was NOT a live chicken, but a huge headdress made out of a dead one, complete with splayed wings and legs dangling either side of the wearer’s face.

  The wearer was a tall, skinny man with a shock of wild black hair and wide, staring eyes. As goggly, in fact, as the eyes of the stuffed chicken on his head. He wore a bearskin cloak but was bare-chested, except for a large silver medallion hanging from a chain. He was also covered in strange tattoos.

  Looming over the crowd from a nearby roof, the man bellowed: “WOOOGAHHHH!”

  After a moment of stunned silence, Erik the Ear-Masher gasped. “Ragwich!?”

  The villagers erupted in cheers. “HUZZAH! Ragwich is back!”

  The loud cheers finally woke Oswald, who struggled to his feet, wiping mud from his face. As he eyed the visitor, he made a weary groaning noise, sounding like a budgie taking its last breath before dropping off its perch.

  Thorfinn skipped over to his elderly friend. “Pardon me, old bean, but who exactly is Ragwich?”

  “A wandering soothsayer,” replied Oswald in his whiny, nasal voice. “He claims to be able to speak to the gods and predict the future.”

  “Why is everyone celebrating?” asked Velda.

  “Because,” said Erik, turning towards them, “Ragwich always brings a good harvest.”

  Thorfinn scratched his head. “Pardon me, dear sir, but the villagers have already brought in the harvest. Isn’t he, well, a bit late?”

  Erik glared at Thorfinn. “He hasn’t visited for several years, and we’ve had terrible harvests.”

  Velda snorted. “He probably waited to see what they were like, then decided not to put in an appearance.”

  “Ragwich wouldn’t do that!” hissed Erik.

  “Why not? He’s got a sneaky look about him,” replied Velda. “And I wouldn’t trust anyone who wears a dead chicken on their head.”

  “HOW DARE YOU! It helps him communicate with the gods!” Erik’s eye was bulging angrily.

  Ragwich jumped from the roof and then gazed down at Thorfinn like he was inspecting a tiny insect. “WHO-OO-OOO is this?”

  “He’s nobody!” said Erik, trying to push Thorfinn out of the way.

  “What d’you mean, NOBODY?!” scowled Velda. “He’s the chief’s son!”

  Erik gri
tted his teeth. “Don’t you dare annoy the soothsayer! If you do, he might leave, and not say any sooths!”

  Ragwich suddenly leapt in the air and roared.

  “OOGAH-GOOGAH! GOOGAH-HOOGAH! OOGAH-GEEGAH!”

  The villagers fell to their knees, including Erik, who boomed, “SHHHH! HE’S HAVING A VISION!”

  They watched in silence as the soothsayer’s eyes danced around in their sockets, like flies trapped in a bottle.

  “Pardon me,” Thorfinn said, “but what’s he saying?”

  “SSHHH!” Erik whispered. “Can’t you see, he’s talking in the old runes!”

  Thorfinn’s brow creased in an ever-so-polite way. “I hate to point this out, my dear friend, but Oswald has taught me many ancient languages.”

  Oswald nodded. “That I have, young Thorfinn.”

  “And that doesn’t sound like any of them. In fact, it sounds rather like he’s just shouting ‘oogah-geegah’ over and over again.”

  “Yeah, and hoping we’re stupid enough to be impressed,” added Velda loudly.

  The crowd gasped in horror. Ragwich pointed a long, bony finger at Thorfinn, fixing him with his googly eyes. “That boy… is a CURSE on this village.”

  Then the soothsayer shifted his stare to Velda. “And that girl… should be playing with dolls, not AXES.”

  “Right!” Velda threw down her beloved axe, rolled up her sleeves and cracked her knuckles. “I don’t care who he is, he’s getting it!”

  Oswald grabbed hold of Velda and pulled her back. Meanwhile, Erik’s son, Olaf, who was almost as ugly as his father (but at least five times more stupid, which is really saying something), burst through the crowd. “He’s right! Thorfinn is a curse!”

  The villagers roared in agreement, lending Olaf encouragement. “First, he ruins our feast with his daft tea party, and now he shames us by insulting the soothsayer!”

  The mob hollered again.

  “I vote we dunk him in the village cesspit!” Olaf yelled excitedly.

  An enthusiastic chant of “CESSPIT! CESSPIT!” filled the square before the crowd surged forward.

  The soothsayer’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

  CHAPTER 3

  BLAM!

  The doors of the grain store burst open onto the village square. Standing there, heaving giant sacks of grain over each shoulder, was Harald the Skull-Splitter, village chief and Thorfinn’s father. He was bigger and more fearsome than any other Viking in all of Norway. So fearsome, in fact, that his enemies did a little wee in their pants at the mere mention of his name.

  “What’s all this racket?!” he boomed. “I’m trying to tally up our harvest and I can’t hear myself count!”

  “Thorfinn is embarrassing us, Chief!” yelled Olaf.

  Harald dropped his grain sacks, and moved between the villagers and his son. He fixed Olaf with a ferocious glare. “So what?”

  Erik stepped forward, his knuckles clenched white upon his sword hilt. “Your boy is making us look like idiots in front of Ragwich. He says Thorfinn’s a curse on the village!”

  The two men butted their heads together like a pair of duelling stags. Harald had an incredibly twitchy eye when he got angry. Wild boars had been known to turn and flee at just one twitch, and now Harald turned it full force on Erik. “My boy has saved this village countless times, and your miserable son’s hide with it!”

  “Aye, saved us from your stupid mistakes, more like!” retorted Olaf.

  Erik snarled. “If I’d been chief there wouldn’t have been any stupid mistakes!”

  Harald roared, whipped out his axe and brought it crashing down on a wooden bench, smashing it to smithereens. “That’ll be your head in a minute!”

  Ragwich’s eyes glimmered as he watched the two men growl at each other. He toyed with the sparkly silver medallion hanging round his neck and smirked.

  “OOGAH-GEEGAH!” He suddenly thrust out his arms, draping them round the men’s shoulders. “It is not your destiny to fight, my friends.”

  Erik stepped back, loosening his grip on his sword. “If you say so, soothsayer.”

  Harald glared at Erik a moment longer before his eye stopped twitching. “Fine.”

  “Why don’t we share a cup of my favourite mead?” added Ragwich.

  Erik’s good eye lit up. “Ooh, mead?”

  Harald gave a booming laugh, all his anger forgotten. “I LOVE mead!”

  Ragwich turned to his horse, which was just as goggle-eyed as he was, and fished in a saddlebag. He juggled two bottles, one big, one small, as if he were performing a magic trick. Velda eyed him suspiciously as he stuffed the smaller bottle in his trouser pocket. He turned back, presenting the larger bottle to Harald. “There. My favourite mead.”

  The three men marched off to the Great Hall.

  “We’ll have something to eat too, a feast! What do you say?” boomed Harald.

  “I only eat turnips,” said Ragwich.

  “REALLY?” asked Harald with disgust.

  “The turnip is a sacred vegetable.”

  “Fine, you eat turnips.” Erik slapped the soothsayer on the back. “We’ll eat MEAT!”

  With the excitement over (and Thorfinn no longer in danger of being dunked in poo), the villagers wandered off to find meat of their own.

  “Don’t forget the lovely sandwiches and yummy cakes, my dear pals!” Thorfinn called after the crowd.

  Velda elbowed him in the ribs. “I’d quit while you’re ahead if I were you.”

  Oswald turned to them. “Do I have mud on me?”

  Velda looked him up and down. His face was splattered, his beard was caked, and there were large brown splodges covering the front of his robe.

  “Nah,” she replied. “You’re good.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Thorfinn and his friends made their way to Oswald’s house, which was through the forest and up a hill, perched high above a waterfall.

  After changing his robe, Oswald brewed up some pinecone tea. Thorfinn sat outside, feeding Percy nuts, while Velda practised with her axe.

  “The villagers seem to like Ragwich rather a lot, don’t they?” Thorfinn said.

  Oswald slurped his tea like a hog drinking from a puddle. “The villagers aren’t very clever. They can’t see Ragwich for what he is.”

  “A con man!” shouted Velda. “And he said I should be playing with dolls. Well, I’ll show him what I do with dolls!” Velda had ‘borrowed’ some on the way up to the house and lined them up against a wall. Screaming like a banshee, she spun through the air and threw her axe at them.

  Oswald chortled as he watched the dolls explode one by one in a puff of feathery stuffing. “Yes, he is a con man. We’ll have to keep an eye on—”

  Oswald was interrupted by a gigantic HONK! coming from the direction of the village.

  “What’s that noise, old bean?” asked Thorfinn.

  “It’s the emergency moose,” whined Oswald. The villagers kept an old moose tied up in the marketplace – its tail was only to be yanked in emergencies, such as the village running out of ale, or someone finding a stray vegetable in their meaty stew.

  “I bet this has something to do with that chicken-wearing trickster!” scowled Velda.

  They raced downhill as fast as they could, which wasn’t very fast at all thanks to Oswald. “I can’t help it. My bunions are playing up!” he moaned.

  As they came out of the trees, a familiar figure bounded towards them, waving his arms.

  “Thorfinn! Thorfinn!”

  “Oh, it’s my good friend, Harek,” said Thorfinn.

  Thorfinn had his own ship, and his own crew, and Harek the Toe-Stamper was one of them. He was possibly the most accident-prone man in all of Norway, which he now proved by tumbling headlong into a muddy ditch.

  SPLATT!

  As they hauled him out, his eyes were pointing in two different directions – though for Harek this was quite normal.

  “What’s the matter, my friend?” Thorfinn asked.


  Harek spat a long stream of ditchwater out of his mouth, then gasped for air. “It’s your father, Thorfinn. He’s fallen asleep and won’t wake up!”

  CHAPTER 5

  Inside the Great Hall, it was smoky and dim. The only light came from the blazing hearth. Harald lay on a table amid mounds of food, scattered plates and upturned drinking horns. A fur blanket had been draped over him and his bushy beard was spread out like a giant hairy bib. He was snoring peacefully.

  ZZZZZZZZZ…

  Thorfinn patted his father’s hands, which were clasped over his great barrel-shaped chest. “Dear old Dad. I do hope he wakes up soon.” Percy flapped onto the chief’s front and affectionately pecked crumbs out of his beard.

  “We’ve tried everything to wake him,” said Erik. “Sang rude songs, shouted insults in his ear – Olaf even did a big smelly burp right in his face, but nothing has worked.” He gazed down at Harald sadly.

  Out of the shadows stepped the wiry figure of Ragwich. The soothsayer thrust out his arms and roared.

  “OOGAH-GEEGAH!”

  Erik gasped. “He’s receiving a prophecy!”

  Ragwich launched into a series of wild jerky poses, his chicken headdress flapping in such a way that it seemed to be copying his moves.

  An awestruck hush fell over everyone in the hall. Everyone except Velda, who turned her nose up and folded her arms. “I’ve seen cow pats with better acting skills than that!”

  And Thorfinn, who seemed to think Ragwich was doing some sort of dance. He began clapping along and tapping his foot. “A very jolly jig, my friend. Keep going!”

  Oh, and Oswald, who was picking his nose.

  “GOOGAH-GOOGAH!” Ragwich thrust one arm in the air, then brought it down slowly to level an accusing finger at Thorfinn and his friends. “Those three! THEYYYY are to blame for this! THEYYYY disrespected the gods!”