Kiera was exhausted. Her body ached from the hard labour, but she didn't complain. Her belly was full, and her heart was warmed by the tiny hand that grabbed hold of her hair as Lorna's body curled up next to hers. She caressed the little girl's back. Life could be much worse, she thought to herself. She had a family who cared deeply for her. She was the adopted big sister of this little girl. In the villages of Iceland and Greenland, she had heard of almost unimaginable horror stories from other captured young women. The thought of what those girls had endured had kept her up many nights, and during those moments, she would utter a prayer of thanks for her situation. The whole village, in fact, was like one family. There was no choice. Without such a tight-knit community and full cooperation, survival in such a distant, foreign land would have been impossible. They were, in the truest sense, alone in another world. No one else within a month's sail cared whether they lived or died.
TWO
Kiera wasn't sure how long she had been sleeping when she was wakened by the bleating of a frightened sheep. She blinked in the absolute darkness. Silence. Must have been a dream, she thought, and rolled over. The bleating began again. And then…crackling. Something was wrong. How late was it? From the snoring on the far side of Dagmar, she knew that the meeting had ended and Bjorn had returned. She reached over Dagmar and shook the large shoulders of her master.
“Bjorn,” she whispered, “wake up. I think something is happening outside.”
Bjorn immediately sat up. It never ceased to amaze Kiera that regardless of how little sleep or how much drink Bjorn had consumed, he could somehow rouse himself in an instant. The crackling continued, and a cow now joined in the chorus of uncharacteristic sounds. Kiera heard him slip his dagger out from under his pillow. Moving catlike through the longhouse, he stopped in the centre and lightly clanked his dagger against the rock of the hearth three times. Dagmar then heard the rustling of covers, followed by the snapping on of leather armour and the gentle tinkling of metal as spears, swords and axes were quietly gathered. The men, as a unit, stepped carefully to the low doorway.
Kiera was surprised that she could see their faint outlines at the doorway, since there should have been no light on this moonless night. It was then that she knew something must be wrong. The light against the men's skin and armour flickered with a dangerous orange glow. The Viking warriors screamed with anger and horror as they burst out into the night. What followed was pure pandemonium.
The enraged yelling woke every sleeping infant in the village. The women began to shriek in panic from the confusion, the darkness only adding to their terror. Dagmar had her hands full with her howling baby while Lorna, shivering, clung to Kiera like a limpet.
“Come, Lorna. We must help the adults. You're a big enough girl to help me, right?”
Lorna nodded, confused and sleepy.
“Good girl. Come with me. We have to get the fire going.”
Together, they crawled to the centre of the longhouse.
“Stay right beside me, Lorna, but don't touch anything. The embers are still very hot.”
Kiera grabbed a log and scraped away the thick layer of ash from the hearth. The faint glow of still-warm embers gave her just enough illumination to find bits of kindling. She quickly piled them on top of the embers. Taking deep breaths, she began to blow life back Into the hearth. A small fire caught and, with the addition of several logs, the fire began to crackle and roar.
The women and children, huddled together in their various family groupings, looked to Kiera with terrified eyes but nodded their thanks. The light seemed to make what was happening outside just a little less frightening.
“Go back to your mama, Lorna.”
“But I want to stay with you!” she pleaded.
“Do as I say.” The tone in Kiera's voice was not to be questioned. Lorna let go of Kiera and ran to the lap of her mother at the far end of the longhouse.
Kiera made her way to the doorway. She crouched down beside the frame and looked out. What she saw was a scene that would be fitting for a fevered nightmare. The livestock stable was ablaze with such ferocity that the entire village was illuminated by the frenzied flames. There were the shadowy outlines of sheep and cattle wandering between the buildings. She sighed with relief at the sight of the animals. The men must have freed them in time. Without the animals, the village would have been doomed. Among the buildings, she could see men chasing men, screaming and shouting. Swords were swinging and projectiles flew through the air. It was chaos.
A figure ran towards their building. Kiera was glad that someone was returning. She wanted to know what was happening and if there was anything that she could do to help. She noticed something strange, however, about the silhouette that was quickly approaching. His upper body was completely naked, and in his hand was a long pointed stick that she had never seen used by the Vikings. It was a skraeling!
Kiera spun away from the door and pressed her back against the inside of the log frame. What should she do? Kiera scanned the corner in which she stood. Everything was set up for the morning ritual of making bread. The stone quern for grinding the flour sat next to the wooden kneading trough and iron baking plate.
A terrifying scream pierced the inner sanctuary of the longhouse. A short, broad-shouldered man leapt into the entranceway. His eyes burned with anger, feeding on the frightened screams of the women and children. Black lines, etched around his eyes and streaked along his cheek like the wings of a mighty bird, added to his nightmare appearance. In one hand, he held a bloody spear. He raised it, choosing his target. He took a step towards Ingrid, who, wide-eyed and frozen in fear, held her three young children to her waist.
His second step never touched the ground as the iron baking plate crashed into his stomach, doubling him over. Kiera heaved on the long, metal handle, raising the impromptu weapon above her head, then brought it crashing down hard onto the back of his skull. With a grunt, the intruder collapsed face-first onto the ground before her feet.
The entire building went quiet. The women stood together and simply stared at their prostrate attacker. Kiera didn't hesitate. She grabbed him by the legs and dragged him away from the entrance and into the corner of the building. She returned to the door, checked outside, then looked back towards the families. She nodded at the woman whose life she had just saved.
“Ingrid, we need rope.”
A minute later, Ingolf, Ingrid's husband, arrived back at the longhouse, limping badly.
“We just chased the last one away. Is everyone well?”
Then he saw Kiera and Ingrid, with their knees on the skraeling's back, finishing off the final knots.
His jaw dropped. “What happened?”
“Kiera just saved your family—with this.” Ingrid held up the baking plate.
Ingolf's expression went from shock to a relieved smile. “Thank the gods. And thank you, Kiera. How did you manage that?”
She shrugged, modestly. “I guess Erick's sword lessons have come in handy.”
Ingolf winced. He remembered the number of times during the long winter months he had chided the young man for teaching a woman, a slave for that matter, the art of sword warfare with the wooden practice blades. As he limped over to help move the heavy prisoner, he raised his right hand.
“I promise never to tease young Erick about the lessons again.”
Kiera grinned with pride.
Ingolf sat down heavily against the wall, where the women tended to the bleeding wound in his thigh. In a few minutes, they had the bleeding under control. They raised his injured leg off the ground with several folded blankets. It was then that Bjorn returned. He was there only for an instant, but the words he uttered sent a wave of relief throughout the longhouse.
“It's over.”
Early the next morning, the entire village gathered around the charred mound that had once been the animal stable. Everyone murmured quietly, still trying to digest the events of the night. Thorfinn raised his hand to quiet them.
The crowd turned as the captured skraeling was led out of a house, still tied, and escorted by two of the biggest men of the village to the centre of the gathering. His face wore a stony, unrepentant expression. His dark, narrow eyes showed no emotion. The war markings on his face were smeared, but the wings of the eagle could still be clearly seen. Many cursed him as he walked passed, some threatening his life. They brought the captive to Thorfinn. Thorfinn stared at the intruder for a moment, then turned to face the villagers.
“We must also remember that what happened last night could have been much, much worse. No one lost their lives. They did not burn our ships. Although this man did burst in among our families, I'm not convinced that he was trying to hurt anyone. I have a suspicion that he was only trying to scare us.”
“He did a good job of that!” exclaimed Dagmar. “You were not there, Thorfinn. I thought he was going to take that harpoon and ram it right through Ingrid! Who knows what he would have done had Kiera not stopped him.”
Dagmar put an arm around Kiera. The skraeling's cold eyes turned and focused on her, as if he were memorizing the face of the woman who had brought him to this end. She shifted uncomfortably, trying not to imagine what he might be thinking as he looked at her. The angry crowd shouted out ideas for his punishment. Thorfinn held up his hand once again and waited for calm.
“We must remember, people, that although trained to defend ourselves, we came to Vinland looking for a peaceful home. There are less than fifty of us in our community. We have already seen well over a hundred skraeling fighters. The numbers, therefore, are not in our favour.”
“But it's not fair,” lamented Ingrid. “We didn't start this war!”
Thorfinn nodded. “That's true. On a different expedition, our brother Thorwald started this war years ago. He had a bloody encounter with the skraelings, killing several of them before they killed him. If we are to survive in this land, then this cycle of violence must end. If we choose to harm him, we will be declaring a continued war against his people. It would be a war we will not win. We must offer them peace.”
“What can we do?” shouted a villager.
“We can let him go,” Thorfinn said simply.
Murmurs of disbelief swept through the crowd. Thorfinn quieted them.
“If we let him go, we can hope that our kindness to him will be a turning point in our relationship with his people. They may then allow us to remain in this very place and continue our new life in this beautiful land.”
“What if he returns with an even larger number of warriors and attacks us again?” asked Dagmar. “What then? We may all be killed.”
He nodded. “That, too, is a possibility. That is why we must also prepare for the worst. It is therefore essential that we put together an evacuation plan.”
“Evacuation?” another woman shouted, “Do you mean leave? Again?”
Thorfinn's shoulders sagged slightly. “If it means our survival, then I'm afraid leaving may be our only option.”
“But to where?” asked a third. “Back to Greenland? We were barely surviving there when we left it.”
“That will be our last resort, Olga. We may have another option. Tomorrow, we will begin preparation for a new scouting expedition to the south. Perhaps we can find a better place to start again beyond these shores of Vinland.”
“So what do we do with him?” asked one of the guards, pointing his thumb at the prisoner.
Thorfinn walked up to the skraeling, grabbed his shoulders and pushed him down onto his knees. Then, taking a stick, he started to draw on the smooth dirt in front of him. Warily, the skraeling watched. Thorfinn drew two men trading items with each other. He drew smiles on their faces. Then, lowering himself onto his knees in front of the prisoner, he held up a delicate bronze necklace and placed it around the prisoner's neck.
“We are friends. We do not want to hurt you. Please do not attack us. Do you understand?”
Although the skraeling watched every move Thorfinn made, he gave no indication of understanding. Thorfinn nodded to Bjorn. Bjorn walked over to the grass and lifted up a small sealskin craft that was completely enclosed, except for a small hole into which the paddler sat. A double-ended paddle stuck out through the open sitting area. Thorfinn stepped behind the prisoner, removed a dagger from his belt and cut the ropes binding his hands and legs. Thorfinn's wife passed him a small leather bag. The skraeling opened it and examined the contents. He seemed surprised to see dried fish and blueberries.
“For your journey home,” Thorfinn said. He pointed to his kayak with an open palm. “Go.”
The skraeling first looked at the kayak, then back to Thorfinn. Without a word or gesture, the man stepped over to the boat, placed the food bag inside the covered bow and climbed in. The whole village watched silently as the kayak and paddler disappeared around the bend of the river. Bjorn stepped up to Thorfinn and joined his gaze towards the ocean.
“Do you think it will work?”
Thorfinn looked over his shoulder and stared at the charred remains of the animal shelter. “We can only hope.”
THREE
The following week was one of hard work and grim determination. The four longboats that had transported the Nordic community to Vinland sat dry near the river. Due to the bountiful and busy summer, it had been several months since they had last touched water. The raised ships were being sheltered under a crude, thatched roof for protection against both the drying summer sun and the ice of the upcoming winter. After a quick inspection, Thorfinn and the other men chose the smallest ship of the four. It was also the one that required the least amount of repair for what could end up being a lengthy and risky voyage. Originally, they had planned to do the repair work during the long winter months when there was little else to do. But last night's attack had changed everything.
First, they ripped away rotten planks from the ribbing and began the laborious task of repairing the damaged sections with fresh timber. Fatigue soon etched its mark onto the faces of the labourers as they ceaselessly sliced and shaped the plentiful trees into long, narrow planks. Upon hammering the planks into place, the mariners sealed the cracks in the hull with a foul-smelling mix of hot tar and animal hair.
From a small building near the sheltered ships, a bellows breathed a continuous roar, adding to the shipbuilding symphony of zips, bangs and curses. Bjarni the blacksmith, struggling with the pain of an arrow wound to his upper arm, ignored the sympathetic gestures of his friends and maintained a blistering pace of productivity. Kiera cringed as she passed the pile of soiled bandages growing outside the entrance to his shop. The burly blacksmith would simply change his bloodied dressing several times a day, while continuing to pound out the endless number of glowing nails and fittings that were essential for the ship's repairs.
The women, however, prepared for the upcoming voyage in a different way. Some were filling bags and caskets with food and drink. Kiera helped several of the older women mend the holes and rips within the worn white sail which would soon power the Viking vessel along the Atlantic shoreline. Her fingertips burned with pain from the endless number of self-inflicted needle pricks. She gritted her teeth and persevered through the discomfort, knowing that their future might depend on the next few days.
The women chattered continually to help them cope with the stress brought on by the attack. They never tired of matching up the single men and women of the village, debating the pros and cons of each couple, often embarrassing Kiera in the process, as she was one of the few remaining unclaimed young women. The possibility of marriage would certainly be a means of escape from her rol
e as a slave. A marriage to a Viking would lift her to equal status among her Nordic captors. She wondered what it would be like to experience all of the rights and freedoms allowed to the Viking women.
Secretly, if it came down to it, she hoped that young Mats would be the first to approach Bjorn and Dagmar with the proposal of marriage. Mats had come to Vinland to escape the memories that continually haunted him. His young Icelandic wife had suffered a terrible death while in the grip of a debilitating illness. Kiera could tell from his empty gaze that even after all this time, he was still mourning his loss. But he had been more talkative of late, and the occasional look that he gave her from the corner of his eye allowed a glimmer of hope to flicker within her heart.
When bored with the talk of future couples, the women would then begin to reminisce about their faraway homelands. Kiera's occasional contribution to the conversations would often come to a sudden and painful end. Talk of home would instantly flood her mind with memories of emerald green fields and Celtic banter. Most disturbingly, the ghostly images of her parents, brothers and sisters would drift into her consciousness. The shadowy memories of their faces, the laughter and embraces, retained for so long in her young mind, were slowly being eroded by time. She was terrified that she would lose the memories of her family altogether. Her heart broke at the thought of the time that had passed since her abduction. Did her family still think about her with the same longing and grief that she felt? Would they even recognize her if she should miraculously make it back to Ireland?
Kiera was thankful when Bjarni stuck his head out of his darkened shop and bellowed her name. She politely excused herself from the group and trotted down the path to the blacksmith's shop. Sitting in a bucket of water, next to the bloodied rags, were two dozen blackened nails. She stuck her head inside the door, and heat smacked her across the face. She recognized Bjami's silhouette against the glowing oven as his brawny arms pumped the hissing bellows. She noticed the damp, red stain on the cloth that was wrapped around his huge arm.
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