Erik the Red

by Tilman Roehrig

  He divided his servants into two groups. One, he instructed to collect stones for the walls, the other to cut out sod and peat bricks from the swampy meadows down by the river. “Tomorrow, I’ll be back. And you’ll be sorry if we’re not ready to start the construction!” He pulled Tyrkir into his side. “Did I forget anything?”

  “The only thing missing is the whip,” his steward remarked. “Then you’d be a true slave driver.”

  “Don’t irritate me. I’m a father now,” Erik threatened. “Besides, you can’t run from me with your foot.” Without warning, he grabbed Tyrkir, carried the wriggling man to a horse, and swung him into the saddle. “We’ll go see my son!” He got on his own horse, let out a howl, and spurred the animal on.

  Shortly before reaching Hawk Farm, he reined in his mount. Surprised, Tyrkir looked at him from the corner of his eye. “Have you forgotten something?”

  “The name. What will my son be called?” Erik couldn’t approach the child unprepared. As soon as he acknowledged the newborn, he had to call him by his name to keep the evil powers at bay.

  They let the horses trot. Thorvald, like his grandfather? After great-grandfather Ulf? Or Oxenthorir? No, Tyrkir said, it would be better to choose a new name. “It has to distinguish him, because he is your firstborn.”

  “Yes, his name will bring him happiness.” Erik ran both hands through his shaggy hair. His gaze wandered over the buildings in front of him and farther, over the extensive property of Hawk Farm. “All this will one day belong to my son.” And in that moment, he knew the name. “Leif. Because he is my heir.”

  “Leif.” Tyrkir practiced the name several times.

  “Yes, Leif. That is the name of my son.” The father tapped his chest. “And I found the name, not you. Don’t forget that, you know-it-all!” He slapped his thigh. “Yes, now I also know a name for you. Tyrkir the Know-It-All—that suits you.”

  “Very imaginative, my lord. When I consider the thrift with which you normally use your brain . . .”

  They were greeted by the dogs barking, then by the servants, and soon Thorbjörn came out of the house to receive the men. He asked about the journey, and it was clear how hard he was trying not to tell the news right away.

  Erik also kept to formalities and said, “Except for the storm, there were no difficulties. The servants and the crew are in good health. Our cargo wasn’t lost—”

  “You can tell me later!” the old man interrupted. “Welcome, son-in-law. But now I want to tell you about—”

  “It’s a son, isn’t it?”

  “You already know?” Thorbjörn seemed almost disappointed.

  “The whole valley talks of nothing else.” Erik couldn’t hold in his excitement any longer. “How is my wife? Where is the child? I have to see her, right now.”

  “Then follow me.” The gray-bearded man led the friends to the sauna situated behind the residential building, giving the young father the right-of-way while remaining near the entrance with Tyrkir.

  Erik hesitated, looked at his mother-in-law, then at the men standing by the door, and blocked their view with his back. He leaned over Thjodhild, kissed her hair, forehead, and pressed his lips to her soft mouth.

  How much I missed you, she thought. Even if the odor of travel and old sweat takes my breath away, I love it. She turned her head back and looked into his amber eyes. “I couldn’t wait. There’s been three of us for twenty nights now.”

  Erik followed her gaze to the cradle. “Show him to me.”

  “Wait,” his mother-in-law interjected resolutely. “There must be order, or I will not allow you to give him the son.” Taking the ball of yarn, she pushed Erik aside and freed her daughter from the strand of wool wrapped around her hands. “Tell your husband to at least wash his face and arms!”

  “She’s right.” The corners of Thjodhild’s mouth twitched. “Your son’s nose is still sensitive.” She grabbed hold of Erik’s fingers and whispered, “But first tell me his name. Quickly!”

  The father straightened up. “If I have to wait”—he grinned boyishly—“then you must wait, as well.” With long strides, he left the room, Tyrkir limping behind him.

  Out by the water tub, they both dunked their heads and rubbed their necks and arms until they determined they’d made enough of a sacrifice to cleanliness.

  On their return, the cradle had been placed in the middle of the anteroom. Oil lamps flickered on the floor around the child. Tyrkir stood outside the light ring along with the mother and grandparents.

  It was clear that Erik had now become aware of the gravity of the moment. He alone had the duty and the right to accept this child into the family or to reject him. A father could reject the newborn child and leave it to the animals of the wilderness if it was deformed or if the family could not afford another mouth to feed.

  But nobody even considered this when Erik joined the circle and bent over the cradle. His lips trembled at the sight of his naked son. With his fingertip, he touched the little hands and feet, and stroked the scrotum and the tiny limb. “You shall belong to me!”

  Having his sleep disturbed, the baby answered with an angry squeal.

  Outside the circle, Tyrkir stealthily watched the mother. How much I like to be near her, he noted in surprise. I hadn’t noticed before, but now after so long . . . He immediately suppressed the thought. But it was too late. Thjodhild turned her head as if she’d felt the warmth of his musings. She met his dark eyes with a puzzled look, then returned her attention to the father of her child.

  Erik lifted the boy over his head with both hands and stretched him toward the sky. “Air, fire, sun, and water—to you, great forces, I offer my son, Leif. Accept him, be his mighty protectors and friends for as long as he lives.”

  Protesting against the uncomfortable position, Leif screamed and struggled, and a bright stream rained down on his father’s face and beard. As soon as Erik tasted the juice, he shouted proudly, “Welcome! Yes, you are my son!”

  Thorbjörg pressed her husband’s hand. “A good omen,” she whispered, sighing.

  The father held the rosy, screaming baby before him on the palms of his large hands. Then the mother quietly stepped into the ring of lights to join them. Erik presented her with the child, and she rocked him in her arms, humming until Leif calmed down, then introduced him to his line of ancestors for the first time, singing quietly. This was an important task, and it would be repeated until the child could recite the chain of names himself. This alone would allow him to identify himself as a full member of the clan.

  “Leif, you are the son of my Erik, and Erik is the son of Thorvald, and he had Asvald as his father, and Asvald was the son of Ulf, and he had Oxenthorir as his father.” With the familiar sound, the little one soon closed his eyes and fell asleep.

  Thjodhild turned to her husband. “We should choose the godfather now.”

  “But who? I know no one suitable.” Someone had to be found. Among noble families, it was even the custom to switch firstborns for a few years. Erik shrugged. How could he choose between the neighboring farmers if he didn’t even know them? “I leave the decision to you.”

  “I only know one to whom I would entrust my son.” Thjodhild looked over to Tyrkir. “Come into our circle!”

  He hesitated. Was it out of shame for his forbidden thoughts earlier? Was it because the honor startled him? He did not know.

  “What is it?” Erik rumbled. “My best friend won’t take care of my child?” The solemn ceremony was already taking too long for the eager father. And Leif, roused by his father’s loud voice, whimpered. “Shall I drag you over here? Are you trying to insult my wife?”

  “No, Master.” He cleared his throat. “Nor will I ever.” Move, fool, and don’t delay the ceremony any longer, he ordered himself. He limped to the young family.

  “About time,” Erik growled.

  Irritated by the harsh tone, Tyrkir snapped back, “Why are you rushing me, Lord? I have the right to think about such a duty.�
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  “Know-It-All . . .”

  “Stop it!” Thjodhild warned. “You can argue later if you still feel like it.” She carefully placed her child in the arms of the freckled steward. “Swear before us, the parents and the grandparents, that you will support Leif as a friend and teacher.”

  Tyrkir looked down at the boy. How warm he felt. How soft his skin was. He managed to return Thjodhild’s gaze without embarrassment.

  “The great Tyr be my witness, I will be a faithful teacher to Leif, using all my skill and knowledge.”

  Erik clapped his hands. “Well, that’s done.” He went to his father-in-law’s side. “My tongue is dry from all the talking.” Surely there was reason enough to celebrate!

  Thorbjörn did not need to be asked. Yes, a sip for the child, a second for the happy homecoming, a third so that tomorrow the building of the house could begin under good fortune. After that, they’d surely come up with some reasons for the fourth sip, and those that would surely follow.

  Over his shoulder, Erik called to his friend impatiently. “Come now, or do I have to carry you?”

  “You go ahead!” said Thorbjörg, holding Tyrkir back. First, she wanted to look at his foot, and she would not tolerate any objection. “As godfather, you now belong to my family.” She treated the swollen ankle with herbs and ointments; the injury wasn’t that bad, she said, and with a little more rest, Tyrkir would soon be able to walk without pain.

  She showered him with advice until it became too much for even Thjodhild, and so the patient was freed from her care.

  After four weeks, the exterior walls of the main house were completed, and the roof was sealed with turf. Inside, the seat of honor for the head of the family was set between the two elaborately carved supporting beams.

  On a bright summer’s day, Thjodhild and two maidservants from Hawk Farm set out to visit the construction site. Erik embraced her with a laugh. The servants came from all sides and gave the mistress a warm welcome. As her mother had told her to, she first inquired about Tyrkir’s foot.

  He looked at her and tried not to show his uneasiness. “Say thank you to Thorbjörg. She saved me. Without her remedies, I would surely have lost my foot.”

  “Don’t mock,” Thjodhild scolded. “Even if Mother is sometimes too worried, she really does mean well.”

  “And I am serious.” With an exaggerated gesture, Tyrkir put his hand on his chest. “I am saved, Mistress.”

  Thjodhild laughed. “Silly man. Oh, it’s good to see you again.”

  She suspects nothing, Tyrkir thought with relief. How he had fought those forbidden feelings for her in many sleepless hours! He hadn’t been able to defeat them—he knew that—and he didn’t want that anyway, but at least he’d suppressed them enough so that they didn’t endanger his friendship with Erik. This first meeting was a test for him, and he had passed it.

  Later, Erik led his wife alone through the new hall. A cone of light fell through the wind-eye directly onto the wide high seat. He shone the torch into every corner. “We’re not finished yet.” The ditch for the great fire still had to be laid with stones. The side aisles needed to be raised. The dining benches were missing, and there were still no shelves hung on the walls. “We need more wood. But we’ll get that in the next few days up on the Water Horn.”

  He pulled her farther inside and opened the door to the sleeping chamber at the back, holding the torch higher, swinging it back and forth. “Well, what do you think?”

  The wide bed could not be overlooked. A fragrance floated through the room—a mixture that Thjodhild loved. She found the sizable hay sack next to the timbered frame, and the peeled beams, ornately decorated at the head and foot ends, added to the smell of fresh wood. She leaned against her husband. “I shall gladly make my home with you here.”

  Gently, he wrapped his free arm around her and touched her breasts. Since Thjodhild was breastfeeding, they were bigger and fuller than before. “When . . . I mean, it’s been a long time since we . . .”

  “Yes, Erik. I long for it, too.” Her hand slipped from his belt down. She stroked slightly over his hips and closer to the middle. Already, at the first touch, she felt his excitement. She let him go immediately. “Forgive me. Now, after the birth, I do not know how long we have to wait.”

  Erik held her tightly in his arms. “Gently . . . Just say when. Believe me, I can be very gentle.”

  Her fingers wandered back to the middle, as if drawn. If my body wants it, she thought, then what harm can there be? She looked into Erik’s eyes. “Now.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, surprised.

  Thjodhild fidgeted with his belt. “Right now.” She had already opened his trousers and pulled them down.

  But the torch was in the way. “Wait!” Hindered by the bulge of cloth around his ankles, he hurried to the wall in hopping steps. There was no iron holder, so he rammed the shaft between the bricks.

  Meanwhile, Thjodhild had thrown the hay bag onto the bed and laid herself on it. Despite her desire, she had to smile as he came back in the same awkward way.

  He looked down at his ankles. “It’s your fault. If you don’t give me time, how else am I supposed to come to you?”

  Thjodhild pulled her skirt up to her navel. As he kneeled between her legs, every joke was forgotten. “Be careful, Erik,” she whispered.

  At first, there was pain, but quickly her desire absorbed it. When Erik began to pull away, she felt for his arm. “No, don’t go. Stay beside me for a moment. I want to feel your skin. I missed your smell so much.”

  Both watched the flickering light on the beams above them for a long time. Finally, Erik broke the silence. “Even if I don’t have beautiful words, providence is good to me. You and Leif and our new land—that’s a lot. Do you understand what I mean?”

  She rolled to her side and snuggled up to him. “Here we start anew. Yes, Erik, here we’ve found our happiness. And we will hold on to it.”

  The Landslide

  The weather changed from one hour to the next. Rain whipped the men’s faces, yet soaked to the skin, they continued to work. It took longer now to have the two horses pull the branched trunks from the forest. Since the day before yesterday, Tyrkir had been digging with five farmhands below the Water Horn. Ax strikes and the breaking down of the trees had filled the days with noise so the ravens, disturbed in their peace, had withdrawn with outraged croaking to the rugged rock top. Tyrkir’s gaze had wandered up to these scouts of the god-ravens Hugin and Munin.

  Even now, as Tyrkir, his men, and the draft animals once more stomped into the cleared aisle, he looked around for them. They watch our every step, as if we’ve desecrated their holy realm, he thought. But then, just as quickly, he chided himself. What are the ravens to you? We need wood, and the forest is our property. We’ll be working here two more days, and then peace can return to the mountain lake, and the guards will be able to retake their posts in the crowns of the birch trees.

  The closer the men came to the mountain ledge, the harder they had to fight against the wind and rain. Even the roar of the waterfall was drowned out by the howling elements. They had cleared the forest over a width of ten horse lengths, and only a few bushes were left between the felled trunks and stumps. The storm brushed and dragged at the foliage without protection. Giant clouds drifted above their heads, and like a torrent, the rain hit the exposed surfaces and washed the soil off the porous rock.

  “Two more! Shield the nags!” Tyrkir shouted at the servants. “Watch out for the ropes! Then we’re done for today!” They could get the rest of the trunks out tomorrow.

  The troop reached the farm late in the evening. Protection and comfort under a sturdy roof. What a gift on such a day! Soon trousers and smocks were drying on the line near the great fire, and meat broth, prepared by Katla, warmed the men from the inside.

  Tyrkir, wrapped in a fur blanket, sat with Erik. “As long as the storm continues, there’s little point in continuing,” he said.

&nbs
p; “It doesn’t matter. Our people have to go up to the forest again.” Erik put down the fishbone he’d been using to clean his teeth. “We need the timber. When Thjodhild and the boy come in two weeks, I want everything in the house to be ready.”

  How well Tyrkir understood his friend. The memory of the farm on Sharpcliff and the despair on Thjodhild’s face when she saw the miserable buildings for the first time was still too fresh. Now Erik wanted to offer her a home they could be proud of.

  “So, we’re agreed,” the steward said, yawning. “I’ll send the men out early in the morning.” If the ground in the aisle was too soft, they could at least load up the trunks already piled at the edge of the forest and bring them here. “I’m going to lie down for a while.” Grinning, he looked toward the sleeping chamber.

  “Yes, just make yourself comfortable, Know-It-All!” Erik scowled. As a reward for his carving work on the double bed, Tyrkir had claimed the right to sleep there until Thjodhild moved in. Meanwhile, his master had to make do with a spot by the servants’ benches. “Two weeks to go. By Thor, then, at last, it is over!”

  The storm intensified overnight. Below the Water Horn, the rain washed away all the moss and topsoil from the cleared area to the mountain ledge. The roots of the tree stumps lay exposed on the bare rock. Unhindered, the water penetrated deeper into the stony cracks. Small chunks detached themselves from the porous edge, rolling into the valley. An enormous gust seized the ash nearest the edge of the aisle, crashing and tearing and toppling the tree next to it. The next tree, a birch, also buckled under the force. As if pulled by an invisible chain, the weather protection of the forest gradually collapsed.

  When morning dawned, the wind had died back, though the rain was still pouring down, penetrating deeper into the fissured rock. Dull fractures shook the mountain ledge. Immediately, the ravens lifted themselves out of their sleeping niches, lamenting and circling over the rugged rock.

  A crack opened. It gaped from halfway across the length of the aisle all the way to the lake. Stone and mud slipped and sank slowly into the depths. It took with it trees and the whole front part of the mountain ledge, tearing away the lower rocks as the avalanche grew, all of it roaring into the valley with a mighty crash.