Erik the Red

by Tilman Roehrig

  Tyrkir tried to control himself, but the urge was too strong: “What about my master? He does not belong to your district. So his vote is of no value to you?”

  “Watch your tongue.” With two steps, the tall, slim, impressive man was beside him. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that.”

  Undaunted, Tyrkir lifted the wooden shaft and watched the judge over the glowing red needle tip. “I must know. Erik believes in you. A disappointment would be bad for him.”

  “What kind of person are you?” Thorbjörn’s anger had vanished. “Why is a slave so concerned about the welfare of his master? I’ve been asking myself that for some time.”

  Tyrkir bent over the cow skin. “If he succeeds, I succeed.”

  “Answer me.”

  The needle did not touch the leather. “I’m Erik’s steward, but above all, I’m his friend.”

  The corners of the gode’s mouth, framed by a carefully trimmed beard, twitched. “I admit, I’m jealous. I don’t know whether any of my servants talk about me like that. No, don’t worry. Erik means a great deal to me. I would leave the rudder of my Sea Bird to him in the roughest seas without hesitation and lie down to sleep.” The gode rubbed the bridge of his nose again. “Askel! Askel the Lean must also be invited.” After a deep sigh, he added, “I must keep a watchful eye on him. He can easily spoil the spirit of a feast.”

  “Does he drink too much?”

  “No. Too little.” Thorbjörn looked at the first rune of Askel’s name. “His consumption of beer isn’t the problem. It’s his stories that worry me.”

  “I thought stories lift spirits at a feast. I, too, partake in this art. . . .”

  “That’s often the case, but Askel always tells of only one man and his miracles. He must have first heard of him at the royal court in Denmark. And since his return, he has been transformed.” After a pause, Thorbjörn added, “Askel is a Christian, if you understand what that means.”

  Tyrkir bent even lower over the cowhide and thoughtfully etched rune after rune. Memories came flooding back. He was a little boy. The village on the Rhine emerged from the fog of time. He clearly saw the crouched stone church. Inside, candles burned, and above them hung the picture of the woman and her child. Her name came back to him now: Maria. And also, the name of the son.

  “What are you writing? Jesus?”

  Tyrkir stopped abruptly. “Didn’t you just dictate that name to me?”

  “Not that I know of. Jesus is the name of the man—this miracle worker.” The judge laughed. “You amaze me again. No, Askel is called the Lean by all. I could not invite this Jesus, even if he lived in my district and gave me his vote.”

  Tyrkir burnt over the last characters with two wide lines. “It was an accident.”

  Thorbjörn’s hand landed hard on Tyrkir’s shoulder. “Really?”

  “I must have heard the name before. Believe me, it has no meaning for me.”

  “That’s how it should stay. Not everyone thinks as generously here as I do. The Icelanders take their faith very seriously. Askel is a loner—they tolerate him only because he’s from here. But if a stranger appeared with a strange god? It could be dangerous for him.”

  “So far, I get along well with my friend, the great Tyr.” The German heated the needle again. “Why annoy him?” He wrote next to the struck-through lines in beautiful runes: the Lean.

  No one had sent excuses; all those invited had come to Warm Spring Slope.

  It was raining, and an icy wind drove down from the snowy glacier. To at least offer the gods drink and food in a dignified form, Thorbjörn decided to perform the sacrifice outside. While he asked Odin and the crowd of gods to the table and begged their blessing for the three-day banquet, the company, covered in coats and cloaks, bent their knees. All the men had bared their heads; the women concealed their faces in their hands. Only one stood outside the fence, his back turned, and his folded, scrawny hands stretched to the sky.

  Erik nudged Tyrkir. “What is he doing?”

  A quick glance was enough. “Leave it! Better that you ignore him.”

  So that must be Askel the Lean, Tyrkir thought. Did I forget to tell Erik about him? Or was it cowardice? Since that morning, he’d remembered some of the things his mother had told him about this Jesus.

  The sacrifice was offered and Thorbjörn Vifilsson spoke quickly. The company rose, wanting finally to be dry and warm, but their host held them back. “Let us first take the oath of peace.” He loudly called to the figure beyond the fence. “Askel! That applies to you, too. Or may you no longer take even this oath?” Some laughed mockingly, others only looked at each other, shaking their heads. The Lean One did not care. With a thin smile on his lips, he entered the meadow of the house. “To make a promise is as sacred to me as it is to you.”

  No word could be taken as offense during the feast. Even if the beer heated heads, no grudges should arise, and above all, no feud should be instigated. “So be it,” all those invited affirmed.

  Thorbjörn was satisfied. “And now, let us greet the winter with roast meat and beer! The feast may begin. But since there are so many of us and the room will be cramped, follow my request, esteemed guests, and do not rush into the house. The slave of my friend Erik will let you in, so everyone will find his due place.”

  In spite of the cold and wet, no one dared protest—it was not just their neighbor but the new gode who had invited them, and his wish was tantamount to an order. Tyrkir unrolled the cowhide and called the names according to their rank. Whoever was closest to the high seat was first to be allowed through the narrow peat corridor and into the warmth. Immediately after entering, they presented their cloaks and swords to the servant, while a second slave took the gifts. In return, everyone received a well-filled jug.

  The great fire crackled. Fish-oil lamps flickered on the tables. The hall smelled of soups and roasts. Soon, all the benches were occupied, no stool remained empty, and the simple peasants and fishermen crowded on the steps to the side aisles.

  “Music! Music!” Thorbjörn demanded loudly as he approached his place between the ornately decorated supporting beams, shaking hands along the tables of honor. The players raised their flutes, reached for their harp strings, and stamped their foot-bells. Their melodies danced brightly over the buzz of expectant laughter and gossip.

  The women had the rear area of the living hall near the kitchen rooms. Here the farmers’ wives had spread out their skirts at first, but soon, they also had to move closer together. Even the finest woven fabrics were no longer on full display, so all that was left to impress jealous neighbors was flashing gold and silver jewelry—combs, necklaces, brooches, and bracelets.

  Tyrkir had already stashed a wooden block for himself near the entrance that morning. Relieved, he sat next to the armory servant and enjoyed an unobstructed view of the hall from the front of the great fire. Not far from him, Askel squatted, holding his pointed knees and staring up at the wind-eye.

  Erik had been assigned the place right next to Thjodhild’s uncle. It was obvious how proud he was of this distinction. His face was shining as he dedicated the first toast to Einar Sigmundsson, and they both indulged in the freshly brewed beer.

  Tyrkir thought to himself, Perhaps it would’ve been better if we’d bought land here on the South Island. I’ve never seen my Viking as carefree as he’s been these past two months.

  On the bench of honor to the left of the great fire, he saw Thjodhild whispering and laughing with Hallweig. She also appeared to enjoy every day at the side of her new friend. And what was to happen in the spring? The sight of Thjodhild dispelled his worries. My . . . . Even in his thought he did not allow the word dear, and so he corrected himself. My mistress. She wore that light blue dress at her wedding. Maybe the fabric is not as finely woven as the cloth of our hostess’s green dress, nor do bloodred stones sparkle on her hair clip. But if I had to choose, then Thjodhild would be—

  “Hey, are you dreaming?” His neighbor nudged him for a s
econd time. “Or do you not want to drink with me because you can write, and I can’t.”

  “Do you think so little of me?” Tyrkir clumsily grabbed the offered jug. “But slowly! My stomach is still empty.”

  “That’s what it’s all about.” The armory servant laughed. “First, we drink until our bellies are full of beer, and then we stuff down the roast. Only then does the fun begin!”

  “I’ll remember that.” Nevertheless, Tyrkir did not finish his drink. The lessons resumed immediately. “No, no. Down with it. By Loki, I suppose you from the north don’t know anything about celebrating?”

  Tyrkir tried to explain that he had to stay sober for his master and that he wasn’t a big drinker.

  The servant did not accept excuses. Instead, he saw it as his duty to teach the weedy steward the art of getting drunk quickly. “For three days and two nights, we are as good as our masters. We must take advantage of that, my friend. Here, down with it.”

  And Tyrkir drank. No quarreling, no sharp word during the feast, he thought. I also took the oath. Today I will not be able to escape this man. And he drank.

  The strong, bitter beer rumbled in his stomach. He was not allowed to listen to any speeches, not even the verses in honor of the host. When the wooden boards with roasts were finally handed around, the smoky hall was already spinning. He tasted the fat, fought down nausea, and the voice of his teacher still droned in his ear: “Drink! It’ll be easier!”

  Was it his seventh? No, twelve, definitely twelve. The jug slipped from Tyrkir’s hand. Waves sloshed the ship, and he noticed that he was sinking and wanted to get up; he slowly tilted sideways from the block and slept.

  “Too bad,” murmured the armorer. “A decent fellow, even though he can write. But he’s not good at drinking.”

  The planks of the boat creaked, groaning very close to the ear, then farther away. The water tasted rotten. Tyrkir tried to turn in the ups and downs. It didn’t work. A bag full of meat lay on his chest. No, it must be fish. We went out with Thorbjörn. But why did we put the catch in a bag?

  The question woke him. With his eyes closed, he tried to get his bearings. Only snoring men could create this constant grunting and snorting. So, no ship, I’m in the living hall. The beer knocked me over, too early, like a boy—much too soon. At some point, the rest of the party must have also fallen asleep.

  He sensed the weight on his chest, felt a beard and chin. Tyrkir opened his eyes and looked into the armory servant’s open mouth. Every time he breathed out, a rancid, sour smell washed over Tyrkir’s face. First, pour the belly full of beer, then stuff down the roast! The memory made Tyrkir gag.

  He lifted the snorer’s head slightly, slid out from underneath it, and laid it on the stamped peat floor, then pushed himself up with the help of the stool.

  The hall looked as though a long battle had taken place. Here and there, fish-oil lamps still flickered. Tyrkir recognized motionless figures in the bluish smoke. Peasants and fishermen slept stretched out or rolled up wherever the drink had overpowered them. Some were still holding on to their jugs. Most of the lords lay sunk over the table boards, their faces in the middle of their leftover food.

  Tyrkir groped his way along the firepit to the places of honor. He found Erik next to Thjodhild’s uncle. The men were leaning their heads against each other and snoring in the same rhythm.

  Where were the women? The rear part of the hall was empty; bowls and cups had been cleared away. How clever they are. He pressed his aching temples. If I hadn’t . . . I would have been in bed in time . . . He turned back and tried to reach the exit.

  “A beautiful morning!”

  “Who says that?” He almost stumbled over the gaunt figure in front of him. Askel was half propped up, his gaze keen and earnest. “Our Savior has nothing against drinking, but drunkards are an abomination to him.”

  “Who do you mean?”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “All right.” Tyrkir continued with erratic movements. Not him, not now, he thought, as he stumbled out through the hallway.

  It was cold when the wind hit him, and snowflakes bit into his face. He breathed deeply, panting with pain at the same time, the air piercing his chest like an ice dagger, deep into his stomach. He coughed, choked, and puked out the night. Great Tyr, I must sleep. Only sleep. With difficulty, he reached the barn. The smell of hay welcomed him, and he let himself drop into its softness.

  Snow fell all day, soon covering the grass roof of the house, ankle-deep in the inner courtyard, and still it continued to come. The guests didn’t care. Little by little, the feast resumed again. Thorbjörn skillfully knew how to steer the mood. He had knife swallowers, fools, and singers perform. There was entertainment for every taste, and the wealthy landowners and simple farmers and the ladies gratefully praised their new gode.

  Tyrkir did not return to the festivities until the evening. He was greeted by a great noise. The tables in the front had been pushed aside. Two men of unequal stature measured their strength in a wrestling match, their upper bodies bare. Yelling and shouting cheered them on.

  Nobody missed me. Tyrkir grinned. Not even my drinking master. The weapons servant had his arm around another victim’s shoulder. With a solemn expression, they simultaneously raised their jugs. After some gurgling and swallowing, each checked how empty the other’s vessel was.

  Tyrkir gladly gave up his wooden block and sat with the small farmers on the steps. The noise stopped abruptly. The party was spellbound, following the fight. The muscle-packed man had just taken the head of the smaller one in his arms. Only one more jerk, and he would throw him to the ground. Then the opponent shoved his elbow into the muscled man’s abdomen while, at the same time, hitting the back of his knee, and freed himself. While the tall one still moaned and staggered, the little one took advantage of the moment. Roaring, he grabbed his opponent’s foot and tore it back. There was no hold; the muscle-packed man hit the ground with his full body. The winner was led to the high seat with a chorus of clapping and enthusiastic cheering, and there received a drinking horn decorated with silver tendrils from Thorbjörn.

  “My guests!” The gode spread out his arms until calm returned. “Enough of the competitions.” He tapped his nose. “Do you smell what is being prepared outside in the kitchen? Fish, yes. The most delicate white fish meat, as much as you can eat. Never before have I succeeded in bringing in such a big catch. I couldn’t have done it alone. Here is the man who drove out tirelessly with me—Erik the Red, my friend!” He clapped his hands until everyone followed his example.

  Something forced Tyrkir to look over at the women. As soon as he met Thjodhild’s gaze, she smiled proudly. We think the same, he thought, and nodded to her. Yes, that’s the way it should be. Our Viking needs friends who openly acknowledge him. And how happy it makes him. The blood stood in Erik’s face as he rose from his seat and grinned awkwardly.

  Thorbjörn emphasized his frank statement with a pause before continuing. “And after the roast yesterday, I want to share the whole catch with you today.”

  Hail to our judge! Hail to his generosity! He accepted the acclaim with a modest smile. “Enough, friends, enough! I know that each of you entertains his guests just as well. It will be some time before the bowls are brought in. No more tricks or competitions. No, let’s enjoy the anticipation more quietly. Let’s listen to the minstrels and singers.”

  The murmurs in agreement showed how much the company, tired of beer, was willing to relax and be entertained.

  “Fish!” The call broke through the hall. “Yes, fish!”

  All heads turned in the same direction. Askel the Lean had jumped up. “What do you all know about fishing?”

  Before Thorbjörn could stop him, he pulled a log to the great fire and climbed up. “Listen to my story!”

  Too late! The judge fell back into the high seat. During a feast, every man had the right to tell a story. To stop him after the announcement would be a violation of hospitality. “We are
curious, Askel.”

  “Brothers and friends.” The lean man turned to the men, nodding to the women. “You, sisters, listen.” With his stretched finger, he pointed to Thorbjörn. “Our gode boasts that he has succeeded in a great fishing expedition.” He smiled compassionately. “How many mornings did he have to go out? A week? No, certainly more than a month. And how often did only a few fish wriggle in his net?”

  “That’s no story,” Erik shouted indignantly. “If you’re just trying to mock our host in front of the women, better to be quiet!”

  With a wave, Thorbjörn urged Erik to remain silent.

  Askel raised his thin shoulders. “I’ll tell you the story of the most wondrous fishing haul ever. Our Savior, Jesus . . .”

  A murmur went through the hall. Men scratched their beards. Some rested their heads in their hands, others sighed with resignation. The women exchanged pitiful looks.

  “Our Lord Jesus came to a beautiful lake late in the morning. It was quite hot. There, the fishermen stood on the shore, cleaning their nets. They’d caught nothing. Well, Our Savior asks a fisherman to row him out a little. From the boat, he preaches to the men on the beach about the great God, his father.”

  “What is the god’s name?” Erik rubbed his knuckles together. “Odin has no Jesus as his son. Name the god.”

  Surprised, the lean man looked at the high bench. “Only God, because he is the greatest, and the only one.”

  “What?”

  Thjodhild’s uncle quickly grabbed the Red’s arm and whispered to him.

  “What?” Erik repeated, quieter this time, and then he understood. He leaned back and closed his eyes. “A Christian,” he grumbled. “I wouldn’t have expected something like that here.”

  “After the sermon, Jesus said to the fishermen, ‘Because you listened to me so calmly, I will reward you. Now go back to the lake with your boats and throw out the nets! Go ahead, I promise you a big catch.’” Askel crossed his arms. “You can imagine the faces of the men. The whole night, they’d had nothing in their nets, and now they were supposed to try again in bright sunshine? ‘Don’t argue,’ said our Lord Jesus. ‘Just believe me.’ Well, what do you know? One boat really set out, and as soon as the men pulled the nets through the deep water, they grew heavy.”