Erik the Red

by Tilman Roehrig

  The gode hissed through his teeth. “Be it so. Let’s not lose time talking about customs and decency. A complaint was brought against you—a complaint because you insidiously killed Ejolf Dirt, the brother of our friend, Valtjof.”

  “Thor be—”

  “Silence! You also killed Hravn, Ari’s son, in the Holmgang.”

  Erik nodded. “That’s true. Enough people were there to witness it.”

  “You only managed to win because you broke the rules.”

  Tyrkir saw the tremor, saw the fist, but his friend controlled himself.

  Erik breathed heavily. “Who says so?”

  “We hear this not only from the family, but we have the word of Orm the Hunchback who was appointed judge. Everyone who was there has testified.”

  Now Thorbjörn raised his hand. “Ulf, in the name of our friendship, my son-in-law is being wronged. The witnesses are all from the same camp. Let him and his servant tell you how the fight unfolded. Only then make your judgment.”

  “Two voices against more than twenty? Even at the Thing, the matter would be clear. No, Thorbjörn, however much I respect you as a friend, the jurors and I have deliberated and come to a unanimous decision. It’s a matter of securing peace in the district.”

  The big farmer’s shoulders dropped.

  “But I ask a favor of you,” continued Ulf Einarsson. “Tell your son-in-law to at least get dressed. Even a rag would be better. Damn it, I don’t want to pass judgment while I stare at a cock and ass!”

  Without waiting for an invitation, Erik tore his shirt out of his friend’s hand. He could only pull it over his head as his injured arm got in the way. Tyrkir tried to help, but without much success—both were too clumsy. “By Thor,” Erik cursed, irritated by the bulge of cloth in front of his face. “These idiots. All this effort to take a few pieces of silver away from me? These pretentious bastards.”

  “Not so loud,” warned Tyrkir. “Or else . . .”

  “Come on.” Erik stripped off the shirt again. “You’ve all seen. I can’t manage the shirt. Are you satisfied now?”

  The gode waited with a frozen expression. Finally, Tyrkir wrapped the shirt around the naked man’s loins.

  Erik glowered at the men. “That’s enough. Say what you have to say and then leave me alone.”

  The judge waved his hand, and his jurors immediately formed a semicircle behind him, taking off their headgear. “Erik Thorvaldsson, you have been accused of the cowardly murder of two men, and you have been found guilty.”

  As if after a blow, the giant shook his head. Next to him, Tyrkir held his breath. No, he begged silently. They can’t take things that far.

  “In consideration of your honorable father-in-law, the council has shown leniency and has not, as the law permits, banished you and declared you an outlaw. Hear your punishment: Within two weeks, you are to leave Hawk Valley and my court district. Anyone who finds you in our territory after this period may kill you with impunity. This exile shall last for three years.”

  Erik stood, pale and rigid. Tyrkir looked at the blue sky. Did you not hear him? The verdict has been passed. The community has excluded us. Hear, gods, injustice has happened. But no god intervened.

  The gode and the festively dressed farmers walked back to their horses. In the saddle, Ulf once again addressed the condemned man. “It would have been better had you never come here. In my valleys, there is no room for troublemakers or murderers.” Turning to Thorbjörn, he continued, “I regret that you gave your daughter as a wife to this stranger. Nevertheless, you will remain our friend and good neighbor in the future.”

  With that, he gave the signal to leave the farm. The riders parted ways. One cloud of dust went into the upper valley, the other hovered lower down on the rocky outcrop before blowing across the river.

  “Shall we rest?” Tyrkir bridled his horse and let it trot up next to the wagon’s carriage bench. “All you have to do is give us a signal.”

  “Am I old and sick?” Thjodhild sat wide legged, with her skirt up to her knees and her boots pressed against the footrest on the bench. She looked briefly to the side. “A short break is enough for me, just like you.”

  “I thought only because, as a woman . . .” Tyrkir wiped his sweaty, freckled face. “Well, we men have it easier . . . if you understand what I mean. We don’t have to squat down.”

  “Get out,” she snapped, but she could barely suppress her laughter. “Take care of the animals. I’ll be fine.”

  “Forgive me. I didn’t want . . .” Tyrkir hastily turned his horse.

  “Don’t be angry,” she shouted after him. “You mean well, I know.” As soon as he had disappeared behind the wagon, her face grew serious again. “I like it when you’re worried about me.”

  They had been on the Hvammsfjord shore road since that morning. The wheels of the wagons groaned at every hole and hump on the stony tracks. Now and then, Thjodhild turned around and peered through the half-open tarpaulin into the interior. Despite the bumps and swerves, her child still slept.

  His cradle was lashed with ropes between the crates. He was bedded on the bearskin, hay sacks, and blankets underneath, and the silver chest with the three locks was at the very bottom. “Oh, Leif, you know nothing of the grief your parents now must endure.” She looked out to the fjord.

  Erik accompanied the trek on the water. He had only raised the sail halfway. His Mount of the Sea lay low and glided along near the shore, loaded with lumber, barrels, tools, and weapons. Katla stood at the head of the dragon and watched for shallows. The other maidservants were assigned as line guards, while Tyrkir and the servants drove the horses and guarded the covered wagon on the coastal road.

  Erik’s hair shone from the stern of the ship. You really can’t be overlooked, Thjodhild thought. So proud, so courageous, and yet so stupid when it comes to me.

  The night after the verdict, Erik had come to their sleeping chamber. Standing in front of the bed, he had offered her a divorce. “Just say it. No woman should have to stay with an exile.”

  “And is that your wish?” She sat up against the pillows.

  “Never mind what I want. Here you can lead a peaceful life.”

  “Erik, I asked you a question.”

  He kept poking his toes against the bed box and finally mumbled, “You, at least, should not be without happiness.”

  “We are no longer on Sharpcliff. You are not to blame. At my request, you defended the honor of the family. You fought for us. I should leave you because of false testimony? We belong together, Leif, you, and me, and Tyrkir. And the four of us will start anew, together.”

  She drew him closer and put his hand on her breast. “But now . . . I think if we are careful, we don’t have to learn it all over again later. Or do you think it’ll harm your arm?”

  Despondency had turned into relief. Erik had lay down with her, his gaze full of desire. “Best not to ask the mother-in-law first.”

  The memory of that night made Thjodhild smile. Rarely had Erik been so tender with her. She slapped the reins of the two horses lightly on the croup. Or was it only the injured arm that hindered him? No matter. It had been beautiful.

  To her left, the hills were green, and the dark mountains loomed behind them. One mountain giant after the next, some still snow covered, pressed shoulder to shoulder westward out onto the large peninsula. Thjodhild was unable to see the glacier from here. Not yet, she thought. I should be able to see it when we turn away from the fjord’s shore and drive across the high valleys to the other side of the peninsula. But only if no clouds are covering it. The glacier dominated the outermost headland with its two white humps. Mysterious powers emanated from it. It either rewarded anyone who dared to climb up and disturb its peace with happiness, or it punished them with misfortune, like a capricious god.

  As a young girl, Thjodhild had seen the incredible sight three times, always from a safe distance. Each time, they had sailed through the Breidafjord, around the cape of the Snowy Roc
k Peninsula, to visit the relatives of her stepfather who lived down there on the shore of the South Island. And now she was on her way to them again. When we get there, maybe I will climb the snowy rock and our life will finally be good.

  “Visit my cousin Einar Sigmundsson on Warm Spring Slope,” her father had suggested. “You can overwinter with him. He has two daughters—they must be your age. And it may well be that he sells you land, enough for you to settle in the area. Then you won’t be with strangers as you begin again.”

  Thjodhild’s mother had pressed her close and stroked her back. “It’s quite far, little child, but I promise we’ll visit next year. And if you need anything, send a servant. Your father and I will help you.”

  We don’t lack hacksilver, Thjodhild thought. Since sheep and cows had to stay behind in Hawk Valley, Thorbjörn had paid his son-in-law more than a fair price for his livestock, and Erik also still had his father’s fortune. “So why worry?” She looked behind her again. “Sleep peacefully, my little one. Before you know it, your parents will have built a new home for you.”

  The more the sun edged toward the horizon, the greater the number of seagulls that moved with the ship, a banner of bright white plumage over deep blue water.

  Horn call! Erik gave a signal from the ship that he wanted to anchor in the bay.

  Tyrkir overtook the covered wagon. “I’ll find us a place to camp,” he shouted to Thjodhild and drove his horse along the road in a fast tölt.

  Later that evening, the smell of smoldering peat and wood lay over the grassy hollow. After eating meat broth and bread, Katla and the other maids had rowed back to the ship. The servants slept rolled in blankets with the animals. With a clear view of the water, the wagon and two tents stood around the fire. Erik poked at the embers. “So, this is what my farmstead has become.”

  “Don’t think of that anymore!” Tyrkir looked at Thjodhild as she breastfed her child. I could never have carved it as beautifully as the reality. Thjodhild loosened the second breast brooch on the straps of her dress, switched Leif to the crook of her right arm, and let him continue his meal.

  “What are you talking about, Know-It-All?” asked Erik.

  “I . . . I mean . . .” Tyrkir forced himself to focus. “We cannot return to Hawk Valley, you know that. So, we’ll look for land down on the South Island and build a new farm there.”

  “If it were only that easy.”

  Thjodhild interrupted. “Easy? Certainly not! But I have a strong husband and a clever steward. I trust in them, and I am not afraid. As long as we stick together, things can only get better.”

  Erik saw the challenging looks the two were giving him and stopped poking at the embers. “All right, I get it.” He pushed the stick deep into the grass. “Yes, you’re right, I’m sorry. Whining only clouds the eye. Enough of that, or I’ll end up walking past our happiness even when it stands before me.”

  The horn call sounded over the water even earlier than the day before. Tyrkir rode out onto a cliff to check on the ship. Through the funnel of his hands, Erik called out: “Carry on for another hour. Then make camp. I’ll join you in the evening.”

  The Mount of the Sea turned about and headed for the archipelago, which dotted the exit of Hvammsfjord as it opened into Breidafjord.

  His eyes were bright. No, he didn’t want to sit. Since he had returned from his excursion, Erik had been walking up and down through their small camp. He had not even eaten dried fish with his people but had chewed on it as he hiked restlessly from the tents, past the covered wagon, to the horses and back. The valley, surrounded by three steep, grassy humps, was far too narrow for his excitement.

  Thjodhild took Katla aside. “What’s with him?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but the lord has forbidden us from talking about it.” The maid pressed her index finger to her full lips. “It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

  “Well, aren’t you a fine friend!” Thjodhild grumbled.

  She’d have to wait. Finally, the slaves were back on the ship, and the servants had gone to their sleeping places.

  “Don’t run around like an excited bull that can’t find a cow. Come to the fire and tell me what’s going on!”

  Erik stood with his legs apart in front of his wife and friend. Almost solemnly, he announced, “I have discovered it. I know where we will build our new farm.” Before Thjodhild and Tyrkir had recovered, he asked them to follow him. With long strides, he left the camp and led them to the beach. There, he pointed past his ship to the countless brown-black and green spots in the water. “There. You see?”

  “Very nice,” Tyrkir remarked dryly, thinking, The wind got you today, you big Viking.

  “I see only the islands.” Thjodhild hesitated, but then put her hands on her hips. “No, I don’t see anything! And if you really believe—”

  “Wait. Wait!” Erik positioned himself close to her and led her gaze over his index finger. “There’s a big island back there, do you see it? And just behind it, a second one. I was there. Both are uninhabited, and there is no land marked off, so they don’t belong to anyone. There is water—fresh spring water. There’s enough room to breed sheep, room for horses and dairy cattle, and our farm.”

  Now Thjodhild also stretched out her index finger. “But those are islands.”

  “Yes, lush grass and lots of space.” Erik took a deep breath. “That’s all I need.”

  “But I want more!”

  “Damn . . .” Anger rushed through Erik. “Oh, you explain it to her, Know-It-All!”

  But before Tyrkir could speak, Thjodhild brushed a strand of hair from her face, clearly upset. “By Freya and all her cats, don’t you dare! We’re going to my relatives. And there, we’ll buy land.”

  “To live by the mercy of others? I’ve had enough of that! My own kingdom is what I want. Land of which I am the lord where no one has the right to chase me away.”

  “Don’t be a fool!” Thjodhild barely managed to restrain herself. “There is no such land, Erik. There are neighbors everywhere, and you’ll have to get along with them. And to be a gode? You’ve come to Iceland much too late for that.” She saw how his face became rigid and turned to Tyrkir. “I don’t want to live in a wasteland again. If he has forgotten that, then remind him. You’re his friend.”

  That’s right, Tyrkir grumbled silently. When the masters run out of arguments, they call on their slave to take the blows, and from both sides! “Maybe next time, if you don’t mind . . . Oh, never mind. I think it would be better if we didn’t commit to anything right away. First, we should look at the islands together tomorrow. Maybe we’ll like them? Or maybe Erik’s first look was deceptive, and we won’t be able to settle there at all? Both could be possible.” He looked from his master to his mistress and was relieved when their faces softened.

  Yes, they agreed. They would wait until tomorrow and then decide.

  That’s good, Tyrkir thought. The war is postponed.

  They had almost reached the tents and the wagon when Erik stopped, slowly pulling the battle-ax from his belt. “No farther,” he whispered.

  Tyrkir had also spotted the three figures on the ridge of the left hump. He felt for his dagger.

  The men stood there, motionless. Against the bright sky, there was no way of telling whether they were carrying weapons. A quick glance to the horses. Even their six servants had already noticed the strangers and were ready to fight.

  Thjodhild clawed at her scarf. “Leif is sleeping in the wagon. I have to go to him.”

  “Stay!” Erik slowly walked across the hollow, whispering to the slaves as he passed them. “As soon as I whistle, two of you storm up the slope with me, the others attack from either side.” He stopped at the foot of the hill. “Who visits us so late at night?” he called out.

  “Peaceful farmers.” The slightly smaller man in the middle raised both hands. They were empty. “We smelled the fire and came to take a look. Who are you?”

  “Who wishes to know?”
/>   “Thorgest, the lord of Breida Farm. Half an hour’s walk from here.” He put his arms on the shoulders of the two men to his left and right. “These are my sons. Hardworking lads, yes, very hardworking—and very strong.”

  Erik introduced himself, but he only mentioned his name and said he was on his way south. For two nights, he wanted to camp here in this hollow with his people.

  “A good choice, yes. Sharpcliff offers protection against the wind.”

  “What did you say? What is the name of this place?”

  “Sharpcliff, because of the steep hills here. May we join you?”

  Erik had already raised a hand in invitation, but Thjodhild shouted from behind him, “Not tonight! Please! We are tired!”

  The red one lowered his arm again. “Then tomorrow. We’ll visit you. We could probably use some fresh water and bread.”

  “Come only if you can. Guests are very welcome at Breida Farm. We haven’t heard any news for a long while.” The farmer and his sons swung their caps to say goodbye and disappeared from the ridge.

  Grinning uncertainly, Erik embraced his wife. “Don’t mind the name. There are friendly people here.” Nevertheless, he sent a servant to each of the three grass mounds. “I don’t think we need guards. But it’s better to be safe.”

  “Sharpcliff?” Thjodhild shivered. “Those men stood up there like ghosts. I’m glad they’re gone.” She went to the wagon and carried Leif into the tent.

  Erik was still grinning, gently shoving Tyrkir in the shoulder. “They’ll be our new neighbors. You like it here, don’t you?”

  “Can’t say yet.” Tyrkir shook his head. “And if you want my advice, don’t call these farmers neighbors in front of your wife. Not until she agrees.”

  “Yes, you’re right, Know-It-All. But those islands . . . I know there’s good land, and I’m sure she’ll . . .” Erik didn’t want to sleep. “You rest, my friend.” He was going to think and plan.

  They left early. Since it wasn’t far, Erik took only two oarsmen with him. The rest of the servants stayed with Leif, the horses, and the equipment in the camp.