They Came On Viking Ships

by Jackie French

  One by one the cows were milked. One of the men came to take the buckets of milk back to the dairy. Hekja was just stripping21 the last cow—a big red beast with horns that could lift a deer—when she heard a whistle behind her.

  ‘Where is that blasted hound!’ It was Thorvard. ‘Here, boy! Here!’ He grabbed Snarf by the scruff of the neck, and pulled him to his feet. Snarf grunted in surprise, then flopped back down again, onto his tummy, to show he’d do whatever was wanted.

  ‘What are you doing!’ Hekja leapt to her feet, so suddenly she knocked over the bucket of milk. The cow pulled its head out of the wooden stall to watch them curiously.

  Thorvard stared at her. ‘Get on with your milking, girl!’ He bent to haul Snarf up again.

  ‘No! Stop it! You’ll hurt him!’

  Thorvard struck her across the face. Her eyes watered, and she staggered, but she didn’t cry out.

  Snarf growled, deep in his throat. He could accept orders from other humans, but no one was allowed to touch Hekja while he was near.

  Hekja put her arms around Snarf’s great neck. ‘Leave him alone!’ she yelled.

  For a moment she thought Thorvard would strike her again. But then he began to laugh. ‘The dog is as big as you!’ he roared. ‘And you think you will protect him!’

  ‘What’s happening here!’ It was Freydis.

  Thorvard stopped laughing, but his grin was as wide as a cheese. ‘It’s your new thrall here. It seems she objects to my disciplining the dog. Perhaps you would like to fight me for him, hey, thrall?’

  Freydis looked at Hekja coolly. ‘I thought we had this out on the ship. This dog is mine now.’ Her words were hard, but her eyes were amused.

  Hekja shook her head, confused. ‘I…will fight…if you want me to,’ she stammered. ‘But you are not to hurt Snarf.’

  Suddenly Thorvard seemed to understand. He lifted Hekja’s chin with his fingers. ‘I was joking, girl. But the dog needs to be trained if he is to be of use.’

  ‘What will he be used for?’ demanded Hekja.

  Thorvard glanced at Freydis. ‘She doesn’t give in, does she?’ There was admiration in his voice now. ‘He is a hunting dog. He needs to learn the hunting commands. Do you really want him to sit with you all day, a fine dog like that, while you watch the cows?’

  Hekja was silent for a moment. Then she said slowly, ‘In our village the chief’s dog did what the chief commanded at the hunt. But I never knew how to teach Snarf what to do.’

  ‘I know dogs, girl,’ said Thorvard. ‘My dog, Silvertail, died on our way to Norway. I will train your dog well.’

  ‘My dog?’ enquired Hekja. She wasn’t sure if she had heard correctly.

  ‘Your dog,’ Thorvard said seriously. ‘But you are my thrall, so he is mine as well. Understood?’

  ‘I understand,’ said Hekja.

  Thorvard shook his head. ‘What is the world coming to? Making bargains with a thrall.’ But he was grinning.

  Freydis looked at Hekja. And then she nodded. ‘I think,’ she said, and there was approval in her tone, ‘I may have won more than I realised when I captured you from my brother.’

  And so Snarf went to work with Thorvard, learning to come when he whistled, to sit when he clicked his fingers, to run at his heels until he gave the signal to chase. He learnt to follow the scent that Thorvard chose, and not to be distracted; to bring game back, and drop it at his feet; and to point properly when he sensed an animal in the bushes.

  Finally Thorvard took him hunting. That, it seemed, was what most of the free men did in this new land, while the women ran the farms.

  The men hunted reindeer; and polar bear, with their thick white coats; or walrus, prized for their ivory tusks and tough skin that was made into leather ropes and belts. They tracked the auk as well, giant birds who were too docile to even run away, with their precious feathers and their meat that stank of fish, and seals and eider ducks as well. The soft duck feathers were as valuable as the waterproof sealskins, and earned much silver from Norwegian traders.

  Sometimes the men rode horses22—shaggy beasts as tall as Snarf, but with broader backs. But mostly the horses were kept for ploughing, or for stallion fights, the great horses nipping, kicking, striking and rearing to see which one was strongest.

  But after every hunt, as the men and women of Brattahlid streamed out to greet the hunters and exclaim at what they had brought back, Snarf would sniff out Hekja. She would hug him and he would lick her face as though to say, ‘No matter how far I have hunted, I am still your dog.’ Even when Thorvard whistled for him the next day Snarf would wait till Hekja gave him her own signal that he should go.

  Life was busy for Hekja too. While Thorvard hunted, dressed the skins for trade, and went fishing or whale hunting with the other men of Brattahlid, Freydis managed her thralls and men to make sure the cows were getting fat for winter, or as much as this icy land would allow; that they were milked twice a day, that the butter, cheese and skyr23 was made and stored, and the sheep shorn.

  The farm had been a gift to Freydis from Erik on her wedding day, and it prospered under her care. It was Freydis who oversaw the ploughing of the fields, and their harvest too, and saw the grain ground into flour, or parched and stored in barrels for the winter. It was Freydis who ordered the fish hung and dried or smoked, the bear and deer meat salted, the whale blubber boiled for oil, the cods’ tongues pickled, the onions hung in bundles in the shed, the moss and rose root dried and stored for when the sunlight vanished for the year.

  Gudrun helped with all of this, but she was getting old. Once Freydis found that Hekja knew how to handle cows, and crops, and dry the fish, more and more was left to her—especially once she learnt that Hekja would work with no one watching her, and pass on her orders to the men as well.

  But there were quiet times too, that Hekja could spend with Snarf up on the hills beyond the fiord watching the cows, just as they had watched them back on the great mountain at home. Here the air smelt of ice, as well as cow, and even in summer the glaciers cracked and grumbled down to the sea.

  Hekja often saw Hikki as he jogged across the hills with his messages to other farms, but he never stopped to talk—it was as if he thought his time was too valuable to waste talking to a cattle herder.

  Sometimes she gazed at the mountains and dreamt of escape, but in her heart she knew it was impossible. This wasn’t the green land she had hoped for, where she and Snarf might find a cave and live by foraging and hunting. Even in summer people needed a good shelter here. And winter was coming…

  No, there was no escape. Not yet, anyway.

  * * *

  21 Getting the last of the milk from the cow’s udder.

  22 The horses in Viking times were smaller than the horses of today.

  23 A fermented milk drink.

  Chapter 19

  STRANGE SHIPS

  The days had begun to grow shorter. It was quiet up on the hill with the cows, except for the stream bubbling down in the gully, all cold and icy, and the bleating of the sheep. Even the late summer air smelt sharp in Greenland, as though the ice was never far away.

  Hekja let the peace seep through her body. At times like this she could almost imagine she was home. Soon Ma would come with a barley cake hot from the stone, or Bran might stride across the hill…

  Somehow Hekja found that she was singing again. The tune was old, but the words seemed to come from some unknown part within herself.

  ‘The birds fly together,

  The deer run with friends,

  But here I am lonely,

  There my past ends.

  ‘My words end in silence,

  No one understands,

  My life or my language,

  The heart of my land.

  ‘I once walked with friendship,

  I once sang with joy,

  But here I’m a slave,

  In a stranger’s employ.’

  The words echoed across the empty hills. Suddenly Snarf l
ifted up his nose and sang as well.

  ‘Howwwwl!’

  Hekja stopped singing. Snarf hadn’t tried to sing with her since the days in the far-off hut by the shore, with Ma and all the precious familiar things around them.

  ‘Oh, Snarf!’ she cried. And suddenly she was weeping, her arms linked around his neck, snuffling into his long fur.

  Snarf twisted round and tried to lick the tears from her face, which made her laugh, as well as cry. Finally she sat up, her arm about him, and looked out at the cows, the farm below, and the milky fiord with its icebergs bumbling through the waves.

  ‘Sometimes…sometimes,’ she said, ‘I think I can’t stand it any more. There isn’t even anyone who knows my land, except for you and Hikki, and he is at Leif’s farm. Every time I see an eagle or a wild goose I think, if only I were like you, I could fly back home.’

  ‘Arf,’ said Snarf comfortingly. ‘Arf arf.’

  Hekja wiped her nose on the back of her hand. ‘Sometimes I think I hate them all. They are the people who killed Ma, killed my village! But other times…’

  ‘Woof!’ Snarf barked. But this was his warning call.

  Someone was coming. It was Gudrun, puffing her way up the hill, a basket in her hand. Hekja wiped her eyes quickly, and ran back down. ‘You shouldn’t have come so far!’ she cried.

  Gudrun’s face was red and white in blotches, but she smiled, even as she puffed. ‘It will do me good to get out,’ she said. ‘There was a time when I used to spend days up here, like you. I thought, I’ll just see the world from the hills once again, and bring the girl some food.’

  Gudrun sat down, and opened the basket.

  ‘Strawberries!’ cried Hekja.

  Gudrun grinned. ‘I saved some for you from the mistress’ dinner.’ She laid out more food on the wiry grass. There was smoked whale tongue too, and eggs baked with cream and honey, as well as a large bone for Snarf, still with good meat on it.

  ‘Woof,’ said Snarf, wagging his tail appreciatively. He grabbed the bone and took it aside to look after it.

  Hekja ate while Gudrun talked. Gudrun liked to talk. Hekja sometimes wondered if she had saved up her talk till Hekja came, for surely Freydis wouldn’t have been interested in the life of a thrall.

  Once Gudrun talked of the time that Master Erik caught a live polar bear and kept it in a metal cage. He had it shipped to Norway to astonish the folks there and then sold it for a large sum of silver.

  Another time she talked of the Starving Year in Iceland, that her mother had told her of. It was when the great volcano belched out clouds of ash all across the land and the ground trembled as though to shake all humans off its shores, and winter lasted for an entire year, and all but the strongest died.

  ‘Was that why Master Erik came here?’ Hekja had asked. ‘Because of the volcano?’

  Gudrun shook her head. ‘He killed men unlawfully, in Norway, and then in Iceland too. His lands were confiscated, and he was exiled for three years. That is when he discovered Greenland. But this is a good place, in spite of the cold, with enough land for everyone. In my grandmother’s day in Iceland a man could claim all he could walk around in a day while carrying a flaming torch, and a woman could claim all she could walk in a day leading a two-year-old heifer. But now all the good land has been taken.’

  This time, as they sat on the green hill and ate strawberries, Gudrun told of the Greenland winter when she lost her teeth. ‘The snow came early and stayed late,’ said Gudrun, happily remembering what had once been horror, ‘and when the men went out in boats there were no fish for their nets. Master Erik wanted to kill the stock, before they all died too, with no meat left on them for us to eat. But my mistress said no. If we ate the stock we would have no food for the next year. One by one my teeth fell out,’ said Gudrun. ‘Every morning there was another to spit onto my furs. I even sucked the furs, I was so hungry. We ate the reindeer moss, we ground the fish bones in the quern. Then just as I thought I’d see the floor through my hands the traders came, in their great boat, with a huge store of grain and malt and all good things that Master Erik could buy with his wealth of silver. Oh, we ate and ate, and then were sick, and then we ate again. But since that time…’

  Hekja gasped.

  ‘What is it, child?’ cried Gudrun.

  Hekja was looking out to sea. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No!’

  Gudrun peered out to sea with her faded eyes. ‘What can you see?’

  ‘Ships!’ cried Hekja. ‘Ships!’

  ‘They’ll be hunting whales then,’ said Gudrun, puzzled at Hekja’s distress. ‘The master took his harpoon and the sealskin floats from the storeroom this morning.’

  ‘No! These ships are different! They’ve come to attack us, just like before!’ cried Hekja. ‘I have to tell Freydis!’

  Suddenly she was running, almost as fast as a bird could fly, down the hill. Snarf bounded after her.

  ‘Hekja, come back!’ called Gudrun.

  But Hekja kept on running. Down the hill, over the grass, which was scattered with cow droppings and sheep dung, then past the barley field, then the sheep yard. The men stared at her as she ran past, and some cried out. But Hekja didn’t stop.

  Into the courtyard she ran, past the flapping lines of drying fish. The hens scattered, squawking and dropping feathers.

  ‘Freydis! Freydis!’ yelled Hekja.

  That was not how a thrall addressed her mistress, but Hekja didn’t care.

  ‘Freydis!’

  ‘What in thunder is all the yelling about?’ Freydis pushed open the dairy door and stood staring.

  ‘Arf!’ Snarf leapt over a startled hen. ‘Arf!’

  ‘Freydis!’ panted Hekja. ‘I’m sorry, I mean, mistress…’

  ‘What is it?’ Then Freydis added, ‘Shut that dog up!’

  ‘Ships! Five of them, out on the horizon!’

  ‘Five?’ Freydis looked interested, not alarmed.

  ‘Are they invaders?’ cried Hekja.

  Freydis laughed. ‘Oh, I see, you have sounded the alarm. Well, thank you, I suppose, but there was no need. Who would dare come a-Viking here, to Erik’s den? No, they’ll be traders, from Iceland perhaps, or even Norway. I must go and change. You,’ she added, to a staring thrall, ‘go and watch the cows. And you, Hekja, wash the cow dirt off your face. I think,’ Freydis gave a smile, ‘you will be needed.’

  Chapter 20

  THE TRADERS

  Freydis soon came out, wearing a clean apron and a red and green silk scarf about her head, and a gold chain hanging around her neck and her best brooches too. She hurried across the fields, down to the pier. Others from Leif and Erik’s were heading that way too, as well as from the smaller farms that Erik owned and others worked.

  Gudrun arrived back with the basket, panting and exclaiming that Hekja was not to worry. By now Hekja was embarrassed to think she had panicked at the sight of ships on the sea.

  No one had told Hekja she was allowed to go down to the pier as well. So she and Gudrun collected the eggs, and changed the weights and wrappings on the cheeses. Each time she peered out to the courtyard Hekja could see the ships coming further and further up the fiord. They were like the one that Hekja and Snarf had travelled in, with store boats bobbing behind them, laden with lengths of timber and barrels.

  ‘What are in the barrels?’ asked Hekja, as she dipped the cheesecloth in salty water, a Greenlander trick that prevented mould.

  Old Gudrun shrugged. ‘Grain, perhaps, or cooking pots.’

  ‘But we grow barley here! And oats as well.’ Oats made a softer porridge and bread than barley, and Hekja had grown fond of it.

  ‘Not enough to see us through the winter, not if you want to keep your belly full! That is why the masters trade, hey? The traders bring wood too, big lengths, not like the trees out there.’ Gudrun gestured at the stunted trees up on the hill. ‘Trees don’t grow big enough for roof beams or barrels in this cold land.’

  Hekja wrinkled her forehead. ‘But w
hy do the traders bring things here? As a gift?’

  ‘To get other goods in return, of course! Did you never have traders in your village? They get good furs and walrus ivory and walrus rope, yes, and stockfish and whale oil. Ah, but you should have seen the furs Master Leif brought back from Vinland, and the wood too. Master Leif is richer even than his father now.’

  Gudrun glanced out the door. ‘They have landed already! We will have some excitement soon, hey? There’ll be feasting and who knows what else.’ She shot Hekja a look. ‘You be careful, girl.’

  ‘But they’re traders, not invaders. Freydis—I mean the mistress—said not to worry,’ said Hekja, puzzled.

  ‘That may be,’ said Gudrun, ‘but when men have been at sea, and the ale is flowing—you be careful, child. Stay out of the way, if you can, so no one notices you. You understand?’

  Hekja bit her lip, remembering some of the things she had seen when her village had been invaded. She nodded.

  The crowd were heading up the hill now, towards Erik’s farm. Thorvard broke from them, and strode across the fields. ‘You, girl!’ he yelled to Hekja. His hands were red with dried whale blood—he had been cutting blubber down on the beach, and had obviously had no time to wash when the traders arrived.

  ‘Yes, master?’ said Hekja obediently.

  ‘The mistress wants you, over at her father’s. Now!’ he added, as Hekja failed to move at once.

  Hekja handed Gudrun the last of the cheese wrappings.

  ‘Remember!’ hissed Gudrun. ‘Take care.’

  Hekja nodded. She ran across the fields, her bare feet slapping against the ground. The Greenlanders wore leather boots, strapped around their ankles, and so did the thralls, but no one had given Hekja any to wear, or even warmer clothes, except for the cowskin cloak Freydis had given her on board the ship, though the days here were colder even than up on the great mountain at home. Snarf bounded at Hekja’s side, his ears pricked at the noise and excitement.