Erik the Red

by Tilman Roehrig

  The skinny man’s story was met with distrustful looks.

  “They reached into the mesh, but there were so many fish, they couldn’t haul the net on their own. A second boat came to help. I tell you, both boats were so full of fish, they almost sank just before the shore.” Askel looked triumphantly into the gathering. “Believe me, this story is true. Only our Savior, the son of the only God, possesses such miraculous powers.”

  Instead of applause, the lean man reaped only an embarrassed silence.

  Tyrkir hadn’t let Erik out of his sight since he’d said the word Christian. Erik’s lips trembled, and when he looked up, his gaze was filled with burning anger. He slammed his fist onto the tabletop. But before he could shout, Tyrkir jumped up. “Nets! Do you know who made the first net?”

  He yanked Askel off the wooden block and climbed up, taking his place. “I want to tell you this story.”

  “We’re excited,” the gode cried, casting Erik a pleading look before saying, “We’re all looking forward to it, aren’t we, my friend?”

  The red one opened his fist and exhaled. “That’s right. My Know-It-All knows how to tell a story.”

  Slowly, Tyrkir lifted his finger and pointed to the wind-eye high above the great fire. “Follow me out there and climb higher with me to Valhalla. In the golden hall, the gods sit together. Never have they been as angry as they are today. Thor would have bent his hammer between his fists if Freyr hadn’t stopped him.”

  Astonished cries filled the room. Erik bent over. “Is that true?”

  “If I say so. The anger is so great that even in Odin’s only eye, there are tears of rage.”

  “Why, Know-It-All?”

  Tyrkir’s voice grew darker. “The gods have learned that Loki, the black-haired, insidious liar, is to blame for the eternal death of the beautiful spring god Baldur.”

  Met with silence, he continued. “But now, the measure is full. The divine community has sworn revenge. Loki is to atone for these and all his atrocities. Odin resolutely climbs up his golden high seat and wipes tears from his eyes. From his place, he sees everything up in Asgard, and here with us, in Midgard. Where is Loki hiding?” Tyrkir covered his right eye with his hand, and as he turned on the wooden block, he peered one-eyed through the hall.

  “There!” His finger jumped into the throng of small farmers next to the great fire. “There he is!” Immediately, the frightened crowd shuffled to the side—even Askel took himself to safety—and a gap opened on the step to the side nave.

  “‘I see a mountaintop,’ Odin tells the gods. ‘There, the fiend has built himself a house with four doors.’ After a while, he raises his eyebrow. ‘Very smart. Oh, he is very smart.’”

  The audience hung on Tyrkir’s every word. When he, like Odin, watched the fiend for too long, the host demanded, “Have mercy. Don’t forget us.”

  “By day, Loki turns into a salmon and swims in the large waterfall near the lake,” Tyrkir reported. “Only when it is dark does he return to the house, sit by the fire, and consider what tricks the gods might use to catch him. And because thinking is exhausting, he takes a flax thread and knots it into a mesh.”

  Tyrkir knotted an invisible net while he continued the story. “The gods set off from Valhalla. They’ve almost reached the house with the four doors when Loki notices the danger. Quickly, he throws his knitwork over the fire and jumps out, turning into a salmon again as he falls and plunges deep into the whirling water. ‘Nothing.’ The wise Aesir find the room empty.

  “Then, one of the gods bends down. Only a few know his name. He is small, slim.” In the zeal of narration, Tyrkir pointed down to himself. “Well, imagine my stature. So, this god, Kwasir, bends down and pulls the charred mesh out of the fire. And because he is very clever, he quickly recognizes what it is good for.”

  One of the listeners shouted, “Well, with a net, you can catch fish!”

  “Right!” Tyrkir exclaimed. “That’s exactly what Kwasir explains to the Aesir. Together, the gods sit down and weave a new net. No, not everyone—Odin apologizes because his eye is watering, and Thor shows his hands and claims that his fingers are too thick for such work.”

  Indulgent laughter rippled from the men. Hallweig nudged Thjodhild. “We know, those two are lazy.”

  The narrator rocked his head. “Don’t be so hard on them! Well, I shall be silent about Odin, but Thor? No, he doesn’t hide from work.”

  Again, happy laughter passed through the rows. Hallweig played along. “Thor only chips in when he wants to.”

  “But when he does, he does it right. Hear and see for yourself!”

  Tyrkir led his listeners to the river. The net was thrown into the waterfall. Thor pulled the lines with the other gods while Loki hid at the bottom between round pebbles, and the mesh slipped over him. At the second attempt, stones weighed down the netting. Again, the fiend saved himself, this time by jumping from the net before swimming back into the waterfall.

  “Although Loki is a salmon, the gods hear his mocking laughter. Now Thor gets angry. ‘Cast out the net! This time, he won’t get away from me!’ The red-haired god wades behind the net into the middle of the riverbed. Loki is swimming. Should he go to the sea? Should he jump back over the edge again? Both possibilities are life-threatening.” Tyrkir turned his left arm into a salmon for the listeners and made it wag back and forth restlessly.

  “There! Loki whips around! He takes the jump! But Thor grabs him from the air. The salmon thrashes wildly. His slick body almost slips out of the mighty fist, but at the last moment, Thor grabs the tail and squeezes. ‘You won’t escape again.’” Tyrkir clasped his left wrist with his right hand and showed it to the audience. “And because Thor had to grab so hard, that’s why, since that day, salmon are so narrow by their tails.”

  Some of the women practiced the grip, looked at each other, and giggled.

  “Go on. What happened to Loki?”

  Tyrkir stared spellbound at the gap between the peasants. “There is no mercy. The gods bring the transformed fiend into a cave and tie him to three stones with iron bands. Above him, they forge a poisonous snake on the ceiling. Its poison shall drip onto Loki’s face until the end of all time. That is their verdict.”

  Tyrkir slowly raised his gaze back to the wind-eye. “But you know our gods. Despite all their wrath, they allow Loki’s wife to ease his punishment, so she stands next to her husband and catches the poison in a bowl.” Tyrkir’s voice became quieter. “When the vessel is full, she must empty it out. And only during this time do the poisonous drops fall on Loki’s face. And it is then that he winds and twitches so wildly that the earth trembles.”

  Everybody in the hall was silent, lost in thought. Tyrkir waited before he violently slapped his hands together and stomped his feet. “Earthquake! Now you know why there are earthquakes.”

  The spell was broken. The listeners thanked Tyrkir with cheers, shook the tables, and the lamps and beer jugs swayed as if in an earth tremor.

  Erik jumped up, waved his friend to him, and embraced him. “Oh, Know-It-All!” He proudly presented his friend to the rich lords. “Look here, this is my steward!”

  Thorbjörn watched with a smile. “Dear neighbors and relatives, I think praise alone is not enough. Our storyteller should sit closer to us until the end of the festival, even if he is only a slave.” Without waiting for agreement, he assigned Tyrkir the place next to Erik and his own father-in-law on the bench of honor.

  Maids carried steaming fish in from the kitchen, and soon the conversations were lost in enjoyable smacking.

  Erik had soon swallowed his first fish whole, but for the head and tail. He toasted his friend and pointed with the bone over to Askel. “You know,” he grumbled, “a fellow like that . . . Oh, forget it. I don’t give a damn.”

  Snow-Rock Glacier

  “I want to see him!” Thjodhild was walking with Hallweig above Warm Spring Slope when she pointed to the snowy glacier.

  “You mustn’t press him.�
�� The friend shaded her eyes. A coat of fog hung around the elongated ridge of the summit. “He only receives visitors when he has fully undressed.” She winked. “In that, he is very much like a vain man.”

  “I haven’t met one like him yet.” Thjodhild smiled. “No, seriously, I’m glad we can finally see the glacier again.”

  Weeks ago, the mountain had emerged for the first time from the long winter night, a mere shadow in the clouds, and only for a few moments. Then, on the day Erik had sailed away with Tyrkir, the servants, and maidservants, the two humps already shone in the sunlight, as if Snow Rock had put on his crown to bid them farewell.

  Thjodhild’s thoughts had hurried over the mountains to the north side. Surely Erik has reached our island in the meantime. She knew what the new farm would look like. During the prolonged darkness, Tyrkir had been building models with leftover wood. He made the residential building, the stables, and barns according to Erik’s ideas, and a women’s shelter right next to the sauna. Even the roofs were covered with grass, and in the yard, there were chickens and sheep. A small, peaceful world on a tabletop. “Just some toys for Leif for when he grows up.” The two men had tried to dismiss their work, yet they could hardly hide their pride and impatience.

  Thjodhild said quietly, “Now is the time, Hallweig. If it’s true that mysterious power emanates from the snow rock, then I’ll have to climb up to him soon. We need happiness.”

  “Who knows if what people say is true? You best just rely on your men.”

  “They come first.” Thjodhild looked at the glacier again. “You know, a little support from the snow rock would be enough for me. And I feel—no, I am quite sure—that he is well-disposed toward me.”

  Hallweig reached under her left breast. When she noticed the look her friend gave her, she smiled. “Don’t worry. Right now, I’m fine. I just thought maybe I should accompany you. If herbs and spells don’t help me, perhaps the snow rock can alleviate my misery?”

  Yes, together! Thjodhild immediately agreed. They could walk slowly, and nobody had specified how high the glacier had to be climbed for its power to work. “When do we leave?”

  “Well, it’s April, and the weather is getting better day by day.” Hallweig winked again. “I told you how vain he is. Let’s give him until the day after tomorrow to prepare for our visit.”

  “If only Erik expected me like this . . .” Thjodhild liked the idea more and more. “He lies there like that, freshly washed . . .”

  “Quiet!” Hallweig looked around. Though there was no one about, she lowered her voice. “Not that anyone can hear us.”

  “So what? How do you think men talk about us?”

  Erik and Tyrkir had started work immediately after their arrival on Oxens Island. They did not allow themselves or their servants a break for four days. Deep trenches were dug near the stream and filled with stones. “No storm should harm our house,” the builder had announced almost solemnly as he walked along the floor outlines. “Erikshof! We will grow old here, my friend. And so will Leif and his sons.”

  That day, at first light, Erik had sent out his maids and slaves, ordering them to bring all the driftwood from the beach to the construction site on the meadow terrace. Now, he was sailing through the reefs and islands with Tyrkir and four boatmen. “I wonder what our horses look like,” he shouted to his friend from the tiller.

  “I’m sure they have fat bellies.”

  “I’ll bite Thorgest’s ears off if they do.”

  A fresh, bright April morning arched across the mountains of the peninsula. There, on the north side, the wind blew too sharply from the fjord, and the Mount of the Sea approached the shore slowly and under very little cloth.

  “First, the lumber and household goods must be loaded, so that our work can move forward. We’ll come back for the horses later.”

  “You’d better let the farmer at Breida Farm keep his ears at least until then!”

  “Yes, yes, Know-It-All,” Erik barked at him. “Sometimes, I listen to you, and I wonder which one of us is the slave.”

  Tyrkir bowed his head guiltily. “I know, my lord and protector.”

  The friends only managed to stay serious for a moment. They were full of hope and were not in the mood to mince words. The winter was over, and they were finally putting into action what they’d been planning for so long.

  The ship entered the bay. Erik anchored in the same place he had the summer before. “Sharpcliff,” he murmured to himself as they crossed their old campsite between the three steep hills. “Unbelievable when I think of our Sharpcliff in the north.”

  “The gods have swapped the land for us. It’s a good omen!” Tyrkir said.

  “What?” Erik breathed deeply. “Yes, you’re right. Providence is on our side.”

  Beyond the shore road, they followed the path through the slowly rising meadows. No green yet showed under the brownish grass wilted by the snowmelt.

  A wooden gate blocked access to the fenced area. Tyrkir shouted, waited, then shouted louder, but no servant or maid came to greet them. Nothing moved, neither at the four warehouses nor on the forecourt. Only the column of smoke above the main house showed that Breida Farm was inhabited. “What do you think is going on?”

  Erik turned around. The view was clear all the way down to the shore road. “Nobody comes up here without being spotted a long way off.”

  Tyrkir felt uneasiness creep up his neck. He looked at Erik.

  His friend’s face had also shifted. “Maybe it’s the spot death? It does like to come over the winter months and take everyone away.”

  At that moment, the door of the house swung open. Angry barking tore at the silence. Three big shaggy dogs rushed outside, barking, and raced across the forecourt. They were already at the shoulder-high gate, jumping against the boards, snarling and barking again. A sharp whistle called them back.

  “What do you want?” Thorgest had stopped halfway to the gate and crossed his arms.

  “What do we want?” Erik slapped his flat hand against his forehead. “Don’t tell me you don’t know me anymore.”

  Like a stranger, the farmer leered at him, gradually approaching, only exposing the lower row of teeth shortly before the gate and emitting a throaty laugh. “The Red One. Now I remember. Look at Erik!”

  “I am your new neighbor. Have you forgotten?”

  Thorgest didn’t respond. His laughter turned into a cough, and he gasped, collected the mucus on his tongue, and spat it against the gate.

  Astonished, Erik raised his fist. “Hey, what are you doing?”

  “Wasn’t meant that way.” Thorgest’s grin froze. “I’ve heard a lot about you over the past months. My cousin from Hawk Valley was here.”

  Tyrkir held his breath. What game was this fellow playing? From the corner of his eye, he saw Erik opening his fist and running his hand through his hair. “I don’t care. I kept to the verdict. If you deny us the right of hospitality on your farm, it’s fine. I won’t quarrel about it. Give me my household things and horses. That’s what I paid for.”

  Thorgest hunched down to the dogs and scratched their neck fur. “Do we agree to that? The stranger thinks he paid, but we think it was too little.”

  “Don’t you dare!” With one small leap, Erik was on the gate. “Give me my things!”

  The dogs jumped forward, snatching at the intruder. Erik retreated just in time.

  Thorgest watched them for a while. Finally, he silenced them with a single whistle. “Remember, I can always rely on my darlings,” he warned Erik. “Let’s get down to business. But because I now know you, I want to show you something first.” With that, he raised his arm.

  His two sons appeared from either side of the main house. Servants stepped out of the shade of the barns. Tyrkir counted eight men armed with bows and arrows. They approached slowly. Each of them picked a safe position above the path and stretched his tendon.

  “So now we’ll finish the trade in peace.” Thorgest wet his lower lip with
his tongue. “You get your nags. I keep the rest.”

  Like after a blow, Erik took a few steps back. He wanted to scream. Finally, he caught his breath. “Cheater! I’ll rip your ass open, you bastard!” He already had his battle-ax in his fist.

  An arrow struck the upper spar of the gate.

  “That was a warning!” Thorgest laughed. “My Odd is a good shot. Be careful!”

  Tyrkir quickly stepped up to his friend and whispered, “Put the weapon away! He just wants to irritate you. We are defenseless and outnumbered.”

  Erik’s lips and bearded chin trembled. “You talk to him!”

  Calm. Calm and time to think—that’s all Tyrkir wanted. “Give us the horses. We’ll talk about the lumber and tools afterward.”

  “Very reasonable.” Thorgest gave another hand signal. From the elongated stable, servants drove the herd outside with calls and whistles. There was no exuberant neighing and hoofbeats; no stallion used the opportunity to break out into the pastures. The ten horses trotted listlessly across the forecourt, down to the path.

  At his back, Tyrkir heard a sharp hiss. “By Thor, that’s just slaughter cattle,” Erik said. The manes were matted, the ankles fat, and the bellies round. The horses might have been useful for a leisurely outing, but none of the stallions were fit to fight. “Ask him why?”

  Before Tyrkir had a chance to speak, Thorgest ordered: “Back up! Even farther!”

  Only when he was safe from a quick attack did he open the gate, guarded by his dogs. He let the herd out and pushed the spar back in place again. “Well, do you like my gift? It cost me a lot of food to get the nags ready. And now, go! Our business is finished.”

  “You can’t just keep our property!” Tyrkir screamed, struggling to keep his composure. “That’s against law and order!”