The Ulfberht Incident

I had recently completed my master’s degree in library science. A new grad-school grad, I’d decided to treat myself with something I had wanted for a long time. Something I had been obsessing over since I’d first learned about it as a teenager. Something that all women desire at some point.

A replica of the medieval Viking sword Ulfberht.

You see, this sword marked an important transition period in medieval sword making, with the Ulfberht supposedly being the first sword to be made completely of steel, as opposed to being made from a mix of steel and iron. The name Ulfberht, inscribed on the blade, became a famous trademark of sorts, indicating quality craftsmanship. It was like having the Nike symbol on a shoe. Everyone wanted an Ulfberht.

Or at least they did a thousand years ago.

I had found one online at the Museum Replicas store, a place that any medieval weaponry nerd should be familiar with. I’d saved up some money and was ready to finally bring home my very own Ulfy.

Adding the sword to my cart, I noticed there was an option to have the sword sharpened. I paused, considering the best course of action. If I didn’t have the sword sharpened, then it would feel like slightly less of a sword—just a chunk of pretty metal, decorative but useless. Of course, it wasn’t like I planned to carry the sword into battle, so did that really matter? And if I were to get it sharpened, what if I accidentally hurt myself? But how would I hurt myself, really? I wasn’t going to be swinging it around wildly. I knew it was a deadly weapon and it deserved to be treated with caution and respect.

I decided to get it sharpened, because I wanted it to be as real as possible for a replica.

You can probably see where this is going.

When the sword arrived weeks later, I was ecstatic. Finally, the Ulfberht was mine! I unsheathed it for the first time, marveling at the balance of it.

I wanted to put this prized possession on display, but the sword arrived before I had a chance to buy the appropriate wall hangers for it. That meant I had to find a safe place out of the way to stash the sword until I had everything set up. But one important thing to know about having a sword is that it can rust if it stays in its scabbard for too long. This might sound counterintuitive since a scabbard is meant to hold a sword, but it’s true. I didn’t want to risk my shiny new sword rusting, and since I didn’t know how long it might be before the sword could be properly displayed, I decided to lean it against the wall in my closet sans scabbard.

So I had a sharpened, naked blade leaning just inside my closet door. I’d graduated with a perfect GPA from grad school, mind you, and now here I was thinking there was nothing wrong with putting a sword in my closet, right next to where I kept my purse.

Pure. Genius.

Only a day or two after the sword arrived, I was enjoying a nice relaxing Saturday. I worked full time and had a long commute, so sitting back and doing nothing all day was my idea of a perfect weekend. While lazing on the couch, my sister sitting across from me, I felt the urge to listen to some music, so I got up to dig my phone out of my purse, where I had left it the night before.

The purse that was next to the sword.

Moving on autopilot, not really paying attention, I stepped foot inside my closet and—

Clang!

My foot hit something. A certain sharp, Viking something.

Honestly, I don’t remember pain, other than maybe what you might expect from stubbing your toe. Except I hadn’t stubbed my toe.

I’d cut off part of it.

I stared down at my foot in disbelief. I noticed some skin had been peeled away from the inner side of the big toe on my right foot, like a hangnail that had been ripped back too far. I thought maybe I had just scratched it, and I could simply peel off that little bit of flesh, no problem. Then I realized it was more than a little bit of flesh.

I had sliced through the nail, cutting off an entire corner of the toe. It hung on by a scrap of skin.

The first thing I thought was I don’t want to go to the ER on a SATURDAY.

It was my day off, dammit. Couldn’t I just…live with it?

When I saw the amount of blood, I realized the answer to that was no.

“Shit.” I crouched down on the floor, clutching at my bleeding, bisected toe.

“Are you okay?” my sister called from the living room.

“Uh…” What exactly do you say when you’ve literally fallen on your own sword? “Could you bring me some paper towels?”

My sister walked over and saw me holding my toe. “What happened?”

“I…walked into my sword.”

My sister’s eyes widened. “Do you need to go to the hospital?”

“No—I don’t know—” I chanced another look at my toe. Blood spilled out from beneath the flap of skin that was no longer connected to it. “Fuck, yeah, I guess.”

There went my Saturday.

I wrapped my toe in paper towels and my sister drove me to the emergency room. I hobbled into the ER waiting room wearing only one shoe, my toe wrapped like a mummy in Bounty. I collapsed in the nearest chair.

Thankfully, there were no other patients, and the nurses were able to get me to a check-in room for the intake process and initial examination immediately.

The nurse at check-in asked, “So, what happened?”

“Well,” I said, “I bought a sword…”

The nurse rolled her eyes. “No story ends well that starts with I bought a sword.”

I explained what happened and the nurse just laughed. I was laughing too, because how could I not? I was in the ER with a medieval sword wound. But I also felt incredibly foolish. I should have known better, yet here I was, missing part of my toe.

The nurse then took me to another room where a doctor would sew up the toe. But another nurse came in first because they needed to do an X-ray, to make sure there weren’t any broken bones. And so I had to explain to this new nurse what had happened.

She also laughed. But then she told me a story about a guy who had cut off his entire toe with a power tool, and she’d had to put the severed toe under the X-ray too, because that was policy. My sword hadn’t cut through the bone, just soft tissue—a big chunk of soft tissue, sure, but only that. If worse came to worse and it couldn’t be sewn back on, I would still have most of my toe. It would look funny, but it wouldn’t be too bad.

After the X-ray another nurse came in. I had to tell him about the sword. Again, I got a laugh. He took down some more information for my chart and then asked the million-dollar question:

“When was the last time you had a tetanus shot?”

“Uh…I don’t remember…”

“Then the answer is today.”

At least now I’ll always remember when I got my last tetanus booster.

After getting the shot from the nurse and then waiting around for the doctor for over an hour, my sister and I realized something. We had plans to meet up with our mom that evening, to celebrate her upcoming birthday. Now we would have to cancel because there was no way I would be up for that after cutting off part of my toe. So we texted her what happened.

She did not laugh. Well, not at first…

Finally, the doctor came in. And I had to tell her. At this point it was like a bizarre standup routine:

“What happened?”

“I cut off part of my toe.”

“How?”

“Oh, by walking into a sword.”

Cue laughter.

The doctor took a look and said she would sew it back on, but she couldn’t guarantee the part that had been cut off would regain feeling ever again. The severed tissue could die, and then it would have to be removed permanently. I decided to take that chance and she sewed my toe back together. Surprisingly, it only took a few stitches. She referred me to a podiatrist for further treatment and prescribed me some pain meds and antibiotics. She also recommended that I use a special medical shoe—open-toed with Velcro straps. I waited around a bit longer for someone to bring me my fashionable new footwear.

Several minutes later a young man walked into the room, carrying a single black postop shoe. He was smirking.

“You’re the girl who needs the shoe, right?”

“Yep,” I said.

“And, uh…how did you get hurt?” His smirk was getting bigger.

Oh, he knew.

Word had clearly gotten around. I guess it’s not every day you see a sword wound at the ER. But at this point I didn’t mind. It was kind of a funny story, after all, and it had worked out well in the end—my toe and I were reunited, and it felt so good. Let them laugh.

My sister drove me home once we’d collected my shoe and meds. I sat down on the couch, keeping my foot elevated. It was good to be home. I would sheath my sword later, rust be damned, until I had my display setup ready for it.

It sure had been an embarrassing day, but I’d learned to laugh at what I’d done.

Except it wasn’t until the next day that I realized it wasn’t over.

It would be impossible for me to drive to work with my right foot healing from a fresh de-toeing. Now I was going to have to tell my boss.

It was one thing to be the laughingstock of the ER—I wasn’t going to see those people again (hopefully). But being the laughingstock of the office…

I could not tell anyone about the sword.

I told my boss I’d hurt my foot and had to take some time off. She was sweet and understanding, and that bought me some time. But when I finally did go back to the office, I was limping around the place in my special shoe. Everyone had questions. So many questions.

I told them I’d walked into something sharp. I said it was really stupid and embarrassing and I didn’t want to go into details. Somehow, they were willing to let it slide, but every now and then, until I got a new job elsewhere, someone would bring it up, as if hoping I might finally be willing to answer the mystery of what had cut off my toe. But I never told them.

The toe healed with some help from the podiatrist—a wonderful woman who once greeted me by saying, “Oh, yeah, the girl with the wacky toe!” There’s a dent where the corner was severed, but the feeling came back and it’s doing well. My sword is on display on the wall—far from any place where I might accidentally walk into it. I’m even thinking about getting another sword, to add to my collection.

But I won’t be getting it sharpened.