Norseman Chief

by Born, Jason

  Rowtag smiled slightly, nodding his head, “We ought to accept the invitation, don’t you think, Etleloo?”

  Etleloo mumbled, “An invitation to stay on our own chief’s land.” But my angry friend could see the decision was already made and so nodded his agreement. Rowtag quickly sent runners to retrieve the two men stalking the Norse hunters and dispatched most of his warriors back to the village, holding back enough to keep the odds even should a fight erupt. Several of the released men grumbled that they had yet to bloody their spears with the giant seafarers’ blood, but ambled away in their snow shoes all the same.

  “I have plenty of meat for these al gumna kyn, but how do you propose that we sleep? I don’t want to be cut open by some skraeling who is scared of his own shadow when I get up to piss in the night,” grumbled Thorhall when he found out that he had offered them his home and food.

  “They will sleep in this longhouse. You and your men will huddle in the other. Bar the door if you must.”

  “Of course I must.”

  . . .

  Apparently Thorhall had found a good supply of honey in the previous two years for all the men, except me, in both homes lay sleeping or passed out from too much mead. Of course, I had given up drinking myself into oblivion years before – following Kenna’s passing and my wild drunkenness that ensued.

  A part of me missed the joyous revelry that comes with drinking incessantly around the mead table. We had all told lies which grew larger and more encompassing throughout the night as the drink flowed in the past. But that piece of me was slowly fading, or dying – I didn’t know which. Was it the wisdom of age? Unlikely. I did not feel wise. Was it distance from my lifelong friendships? Maybe. Or was it complete indifference? Likely. I had grown so used to accepting the whims of fate or Providence that most activities I once attacked with such vigor had lost all their sheen, becoming lost in the constant blur and fog of daily survival. Nothing was new to me. I had become like the son of King David, Solomon, but without the immense wealth and countless wives. There was nothing new under the sun. Much of life appeared meaningless – menial tasks to check off a list like a quartermaster does with his army’s supplies. At the very least I had helped save Kesegowaase and prevented unnecessary death on both sides – for now.

  After our first night of drinking together, suspicion apparent in every glance, I kicked my skraeling companions awake. Adding to Thorhall’s negative disposition, I slept in the skraeling longhouse. The Huntsman complained of brotherhood and blood, I countered with citations to duty and honor and even hospitality. Bleary-eyed, my bunkmates rubbed their temples, shaking the cobwebs from the free flowing drink of the night before as they sat up from their sleeping mats on the earthen floor. I had a wild idea that I wanted to share with them.

  I had seen a small heap of bones lying, snow-covered, against our longhouse. They would soon be put to use for making needles and other household tools, but apparently Thorhall didn’t have the immediate need. I would change that. While my skraeling comrades stumbled from the door, squinting and blinking, grinding their eyes like children waking from a nap, I led them to the disorganized mess of bones. I whisked snow out of the way to pour through the pile – a sternum from a bear, ribs from a deer, then the narrow lower leg bones of the same deer. I grabbed two of these last bones and threw two more to Etleloo, who caught one while the other bounced harmlessly off his broad shoulder. Then I strapped two long shovels to my back with rope and began moving into the trees.

  “What are you doing?” asked my angry companion.

  “Follow me. You’ll see.” I led them over the hill into the next valley. It took much longer than any march over such a short distance should have taken. They complained again and again about throbbing headaches. At least three men crumpled into the snow, spilling the acidic contents of their bellies into the footprints of those before them. Seeing them vomit caused more general moaning and groaning from the young warriors. Etleloo too, wanted to release the illness in his stomach, but was much too proud to do so. He belched and swallowed hard over and again as we walked. I laughed at him and his men while thinking men are the same the world over, especially young men set on making a name in battle for themselves. They simply moaned all the louder at my mirth.

  At last we came to the stream in the next valley. It was relatively flat land and I could see that the brook would flow gently in the summer, though now its waters were frozen, covered in mounds of drifting snow. I made my way to the widest portion of the stream and pulled the wooden shovels from my back, tossing one to Etleloo who now had to drop the two bones to catch it.

  “Have your men gather up those bones so you don’t lose them. Then they should rest so that we don’t have to send for their mothers to nurse them back to health.” Two of them tried to cry foul at my badgering but their outburst quickly gave way to their swirling heads and they settled. “You can help me with that shovel and you’ll be rewarded!”

  Without a nod or other acknowledgement the men all plopped into the snow, littering the snow-covered stream’s bank. A group of them dug a shallow cave into a large snow drift using their hands or weapons, crawled inside, and promptly returned to the bliss of sleep, huddled together like piglets in a sty.

  Etleloo remained relatively out of character, accepting his new chore with a lazy shrug. No doubt the numbing effects of the drink persisted. I plunged my shovel into the snow, tossed its contents over my shoulder, and shoved the wooden blade back again for another bite at the pristine white drift. My angry friend, muttering to himself, saw my basic intent and slowly started clearing the frozen brook.

  For a short while we worked in relative silence. Occasionally our ears were treated to the sound of a burst of wind rustling snow from nearby branches. Sometimes the gust would also bring the melody of the very creek on which we stood gurgling or babbling some ells downstream where the water’s movement was too swift to readily freeze. A hawk screeched its call while gliding on waves of unseen air. So stiff was the wind at its height that the bird of prey seemed to make no forward progress as it held its wings steady with powerful muscles, scanning the forest floor for a movement of what would become its next meal.

  The men who did not immediately fall asleep lounged in the snow, sitting on their fur cloaks, chatting in hushed tones, with long swaths of time passing between responses. Each of them seemed to be experiencing the effects of drink for the first time. I would have to ask about that someday for I realized I had not noticed any prized drink among their people.

  At last I decided that since I worked in the open air with other men that I should sing the old songs to the old gods. They were my favorite songs – the songs from my youth. I loved those songs, and I still do, though as I write these words on the vellum, my voice is not as clear or deep as it once was. Now when I try to sing the words from the old songs, it sounds like I’ve swallowed handfuls of sand and the pitch is higher than it was, though not as high as a woman’s voice – at least not any woman a man would want to take into his bed.

  So, though I was a follower of the One True God, I sang again to the old gods. After a time I found I could keep time to my songs with the crackle of my shovel into the snow. Over and again I shoveled, working up a good sweat under my clothes, quickening my pace to my tune. Even Etleloo, who did not understand a single word I sung, seemed to perk up and move with purpose to the music. Soon he learned one of the songs I was repeating and he began humming the melody while he worked. That made me laugh to myself for the man would have been happy to kill me just one day ago, and perhaps the same was true even this day.

  Almost before we began, the ice-covered creek was clear over an area about six or seven fadmrs by four fadmrs (the width of the creek). I slapped Etleloo on the back, nodding and grinning with satisfaction. He looked warily at me and without actually uttering a word asked, “Why did we do all that?”

  His serious expression brought much joy to my soul. I laughed out loud while shaking my head. Etleloo
was a good man – strong, young, and good-hearted, but not the wisest, most deliberate of men. I loved ill-tempered men. So many times, I found their cross tempers hid good-natured wit. Other times I soon discovered their cantankerousness covered nothing but more irritability. At any rate, I think Etleloo was the former, so I laughed.

  I plopped my sweaty ass down into the snow and after rustling for a long while, pulled about eight rawhide cords – each an ell in length – from my pack, giving half to Etleloo. Then I placed my four cords onto the frozen creek, two stretched out under each foot, perpendicular to the direction my feet faced, and stood on them, crouching. Curious now, Etleloo did the same. We stood there for a heartbeat, squatting on the frozen water with straps under our feet and I gave him a funny look and said, “Well, what do you think?”

  Confused, he answered very seriously, “Think of what? I don’t understand.”

  I laughed all the more. “I am joking. We haven’t done anything yet.” Etleloo shook his head in wonder while the other men cackled at him as they roused themselves from their resting.

  I scrambled off the ice to retrieve the two leg bones from my pack. Etleloo remained engaged and so retrieved his from one of the men who was snoring loudly in his snow cave, his feet jutting out of its mouth. I placed the bones on the cords parallel to one another, but perpendicular to the cords.

  “Now put your hands on the top of my head,” I told the confused warrior while standing in front of his bones. “Use me to steady yourself.”

  “I’m fine to stand on the ice on my own.”

  “That will be fine then. Now stand on the bones so your feet point along their length.”

  Etleloo nodded his understanding and after placing his second foot on the second bone, flapped his arms widely and tipped off. After repeating this play another three turns, he said, “Stand here so that I may balance on you.”

  I couldn’t bear laughing at his seriousness any longer so just obeyed. While his hands were atop my head and he steadied himself, I slowly crouched down and tied the leather thongs tightly, lacing them around his feet and ankles. When he was steady enough to stand on his own, I quickly laced up my skates and began to slowly propel myself around on the ice.

  It had been years since I skated on the ice using leg bones. The last time had to be back in Iceland with Leif, before his father was banished and discovered Greenland – a lifetime ago. Yet the feeling came back. My muscles slowly remembered the motions and gradually increased my speed. I gave a howl of joy which echoed across the frozen valley and was returned to me by another cry from the hawk.

  The sound roused the last of the sleepy men who stood with wonder etched across their faces to watch me skate. I began to show off. First, I jumped both feet from the ice and landed perfectly. This success emboldened me and so I tried to spin while moving forward with great speed. My timing was not what it once was and I toppled over, clumsily sliding into one of the great heaps of snow Etleloo had piled. I hooted myself into a guffaw even though I felt wincing pain in my hip from crashing onto the ice.

  Soon Etleloo was struggling to move himself further onto the ice. He figured out how to push with his right foot and so kept pushing off and gliding on just his left. He grinned like a young boy, his size and broad shoulders the only indication he was not eight years old. In a short while he became bold and began to build up speed, but Etleloo found turning exceptionally difficult and so he happily coasted into the snow banks at either end, righted himself, then did it all over while heading in the opposite direction.

  I gave up my skates to another of the men after I was sufficiently winded. Etleloo did the same and we sat next to one another while the men took turns skating and colliding, shouting and cheering. Once, after a particularly painful accident the two men on skates began fighting, swinging fists wildly. These men were angry and serious, but the skates and ice made it so difficult to brawl, that they looked ridiculous as they appeared to dance. Those of us watching laughed until frozen snot came out from our noses. It was only a matter of time before the fighters realized how humorous they had become and they too began cackling, the anger forgotten.

  That is how we spent most of that day – wasting it on the ice. It was a good day.

  . . .

  I spent the second night, when the men had become more friendly toward one another, telling stories of all my previous adventures, with some lies thrown in for good measure, in both tongues. Kesegowaase rose to both elbows for the first time since receiving his wound to hear my yarns of Maldon. He asked so many questions about that huge battle, which kept slowing the stories, that both parties of men, Norse and skraeling alike, threw bits of food at him to shut the boy up. Thorhall, who was as sullen as ever, did not care whether I told my stories or not, but liked the excuse to throw food at the boy, selecting larger bits than the rest just to leave a little more smeared grease or the like in its wake.

  Rowtag showed interest in learning more Norse words as he sat drinking Thorhall’s sweet brew. More surprising than that intelligent young man’s interest was Etleloo’s interest to learn as well. “What is this “al gon kin” you keep saying?” he slurred. “You say it when you point to us.”

  “Al gon kin?” I asked. “Oh, al gumna kyn. It just means you are relatives of the chief. I wanted Thorhall to know you were important among your people.”

  “Al gon, al gumna, al gon, al gumna, al gon . . .” Etleloo sang as he sank lower in his chair, his eyelids getting equally as heavy as his tongue. “I like the sound of that.”

  After two nights of peaceful sleep and not a little celebrating, Hurit barged into the settlement, with Ahanu and Nootau hopping in tow like trained birds, while the sun still lay below the hill to the east, creating a long shadow where the longhouses hid in an icy chill.

  From outside the barred door she said with a raised voice, “Halldorr Olefsson, the Enkoodabooaoo, I will speak with you now.” The stillness of the winter morning made the voice carry right through the walls, sounding louder than it actually was. The house itself seemed startled to consciousness as much as its drunken occupants. Young Kesegowaase grew worried, immediately recognizing the anger in her tone, allowing an odd frown to form on his face.

  Etleloo sat up on his mat, wrapping his arms around his knees, licking his teeth to wash away some of the grit that collected there in his sleep. “It sounds like your woman wants to explain some things to you Halldorr. Perhaps, you are out of the village too long without her permission.” The other men chuckled at his joke.

  I let out a long breath while Hurit continued in her raised voice, “Are you going to unbar the door and come out, or are you afraid of what I can do to you?”

  “Why don’t you just come in here where it is warm,” I asked, not moving from my bunk. “We can sit down and talk around the hearth.” Then I added in my native tongue, loud enough to Thorhall to hear in the next longhouse, “Huntsman, do not fear the woman’s shouting you hear. She is the boy’s mother and has come to scold me for somehow being responsible for the trouble he caused.”

  While Kesegowaase looked sheepishly at his own feet on his sleeping platform, Thorhall shouted back, “It is good that you called because I was setting an arrow on my bow just then. It would have been a shame to kill such a fine creature, but I worry when crazed women come screaming in my camp.” He thought for a heartbeat then added, “But I suppose I should expect nothing less than some mad-tinged woman to be interested in coming to see you. No one with any sense would be keen to accept a courting from you, Olefsson.”

  “No one is courting anybody,” I said in Norse. Switching to the skraeling tongue, I called, “I am moving to the door now, Hurit.” It swung open easily on its enormous wooden hinges and I indicated with my arm that the troupe ought to enter. Hurit copied my gesture, indicating I should come out to talk. Her eyes said she was serious. Ahanu’s musical laugh gave nothing away. Nootau’s shaking head indicated he was tired of the squabble before it even began.

  I
huffed, grabbing my cloak and wrapping it around my shoulders before crunching out into the snow. “Good morning, Ahanu and Nootau,” I said, purposely ignoring Hurit for a moment.

  “It is a beautiful morning friend. We have come to see our impatient young man to see how he fares,” answered Ahanu.

  “Boy, father. He is still just a boy,” scolded Hurit.

  My friend, the chief, giggled at her impudence, saying only, “So you are right, so you are right.”

  “Halldorr, I came to retrieve my son and to explain to you that I blame you for his actions. He must answer for them himself, of course. And he will. But you do nothing but encourage his behavior with your tales of journeys, adventure, and battle. You go further by openly challenging my authority as his mother and protector when you encourage him to stand for the trials.”

  When she finished speaking, I heard quiet snickering in the longhouse behind me. The men not only laughed at my predicament at the hands of a woman, but at her son, for his perceived weaknesses only increased by her talk. Hurit’s stifling love for the boy was hindering him. But how do you fix something like that? How do I tell her again that the boy must grow into a man, to live out his life with the tools he was given by the One God? How do I tell her that someday when she is cold in the ground, Kesegowaase will have to make his way in the world without her guiding hand? She already lost two husbands to brutal deaths, so how could I, a foreigner, describe something that Ahanu cannot seem to explain to her?

  In the end my stalling did nothing to bring a proper response to my mind. It was Etleloo who called from the threshold, “Cousin,” he started, since nearly everyone in the village was somehow related, “you are right to come gather the whelp because he has many years of suckling before he will become a man, but you are wrong to speak to this man in such a way.”