Erik the Red

by Tilman Roehrig

  Tyrkir tried to read Thjodhild’s gaze. No, she is not disgusted, he thought gratefully, and his fear about their reunion slipped away. He struggled to move his lips, finally managing to form the barely comprehensible words: “I won’t need a mirror anymore.”

  It took her a moment to understand, but then his joke helped her suppress her emotions. She gently stroked his hand. “Not immediately, but soon. Don’t worry.”

  “What does he mean?” Hallweig asked while she stroked a paste of fat and crushed bedstraw onto a soft cloth.

  “He doesn’t want a mirror.”

  “I can’t believe how vain men are. They get their skulls split almost in half, and their first concern is for their looks.”

  The women smiled. Tyrkir wanted to laugh along with them, but even as he tried, a sharp pain shot through the left side of his face.

  The ointment cloth was carefully laid on his cheek, and a new bandage was wrapped over it. This time, more skillfully so that the uninjured side, including eyes, mouth, and nostrils, remained free.

  “That’s all we can do for you today.” Hallweig looked at him thoughtfully. “Tomorrow, I’ll send for our völva at Eagle Farm. Grima has to look at the wound. Don’t worry, she’ll preserve what she can of your beauty.”

  Erik remained silent as he examined his boot tips. He wanted to give the judge time to decide on his own without the pressure of his gaze. The Red had not embellished or omitted anything, nor had he insulted the farmer of Breida Farm nor described himself as a hero. He had not made any requests. If Hallweig’s husband was going to stand by him, he would have to act of his own volition for a just cause if he wanted to avoid the stale aftertaste that would linger, no matter who won the war.

  Thorbjörn left the high seat with smooth movements. He pulled out his sword and pushed it into the compacted earth in front of Erik. “Together, we are strong.”

  Even faster did the Red’s weapon jump into his fist, and sword handle bobbed next to sword handle. “How can I ever thank you?”

  “Not a word of it. Friendship does not keep score.” With his high forehead furrowed, the gode paced before the fireplace. He murmured more to himself than to Erik, “Our courage alone won’t prevail against a superior force.”

  He considered names. Most of them, he rejected immediately. Finally, he’d narrowed his list down to five lords whom he might win over to join their fight. “Two live here on the south side, the others have their farms up by the Breidafjord. We have enough time.” He would send messengers across the mountains to catch up with the servants who had left that morning. “Those two had orders to inquire discreetly about your well-being. Now, instead, they can recruit allies for our fight.”

  Erik kept pushing his fist into his left hand. “I don’t like sitting here idly for three weeks. I can’t leave the work to you alone.”

  “Who says you’ll be idle? You’ll open our weapons chests, supervise the blacksmith so that every blade is sharpened. Not only do we have ten slaves to arm, but we have to prepare them.” The two ships, the Mount of the Sea and the Sea Bird, had to be equipped with tents, provisions, and combat equipment from spears to shields. Thorbjörn stretched his lips. “You understand more about all this than I do. After all, I haven’t fought in five years.”

  Erik stared at him in horror. “Then I really have a lot to do.”

  From one day to the next, life changed on Warm Spring Slope. Carefree laughter no longer came from the kitchen or stable; maidservants and servants were nervous about the imminent war.

  Erik was tough with the selected men. Every morning, he made them run until they were breathless. After that, he instructed them in archery and the use of spear and ax; he ordered them to fight each other in pairs without a weapon. Only in the afternoon were they freed to do their usual work on the farm.

  Tyrkir knew when his friend was going to leave with the judge. “They won’t sail without me.” He was soon able to pronounce this sentence clearly enough that it wasn’t only Thjodhild who understood him.

  “Only if we allow it,” his nurses replied. “First, the wound has to close completely. You’ll stay here until then.”

  “They won’t sail without me.” His will and the herbal ointments from the sorceress of Eagle Farm accelerated the healing. After two weeks of obedient boredom in the sleeping chamber, Thjodhild and Hallweig freed him from the last bandage. Satisfied, they examined the success of their care by lamplight.

  Tyrkir did not trust their expressions. “Give me a mirror!”

  “Wait,” Thjodhild pleaded much too quickly.

  “Am I so deformed?” He looked from one woman to the other.

  Hallweig pushed her lips out and shook her head.

  “And you? What do you think, Mistress?”

  “No, not bad.” Thjodhild grasped his hand. “Please, come with me to the house. I’ll prove it to you. And I’ll give you a mirror later.”

  After so long in the semidarkness, the daylight outside was dazzling. With Hallweig, Thjodhild led Tyrkir to the house meadow. The children lay side by side on a stuffed mattress. “Bend over them, say something. Or play with them.”

  Tyrkir kneeled down to the little ones. He smiled and tapped Leif on his round belly, gently stroking Gudrid’s cheeks. “It’s been so long. I missed you.” He found it difficult to form the words; his lips were too unpracticed.

  But the two of them pedaled merrily, waving their arms, their eyes beaming at him.

  “You see, neither is afraid of you.” Thjodhild pulled a mirror out of her skirt pocket. “There’s nothing to be worried about.” She handed him the hand-sized silver disc.

  Tyrkir didn’t recognize himself. My face consists of two halves, he concluded in horror. One human, the other . . . He found no comparison.

  A deep red scar, two fingers wide, ran from the left corner of his mouth. It pulled his lips, furrowed through the freckles, stretched over the cheekbone, and ended in a bulge under the ear hole, where the actual ear used to be. Half my face resembles the undead. “Children have kinder eyes,” he muttered. “It doesn’t matter that they don’t scream at the sight of me.”

  “Then I have kinder eyes, too.” Thjodhild reached for the mirror. “What are you moaning about, anyway? You could just as well be lying with the other corpses in the pit on Oxens Island. Be glad you are healthy and here with us!”

  Her anger drove a shameful blush into his face. You fool, he scolded himself. You’ve been afraid of her judgment for weeks, and if she can look past your scar, that’s all that matters. “Forgive me. I must learn to get used to my new beautiful face.” His smile was not entirely successful. He left the house meadow and walked over to the edge of the rock above the cave plain.

  Shaking her head, Hallweig watched him. “With your steward so thin, he’s not fit for war. You should order him to stay here.”

  “If only I could.” Thjodhild sighed deeply. When she noticed her friend’s astonished expression, she quickly added, “He doesn’t need our help anymore. That’s what I meant. Erik’s in charge of him again now.”

  The dispatched servants had returned to the farm on Warm Spring Slope. Of the five landlords questioned, three had decided to support the party of the Red with a small retinue, not because they supported his cause but because they would not deny a request of judge Thorbjörn Vifilsson.

  “This is a bad omen,” Erik grumbled. “The unconvinced fight poorly.”

  “Be grateful!” The gode tried to persuade him. “It doesn’t matter why they’re joining us. We now have a total of thirty-five armed men on our side. I’m not sure your enemy can put up nearly as large a force.”

  The evening before their departure, Erik seemed transformed. There were no more doubts or worries. While eating with Thorbjörn, Tyrkir, and the ten servants he’d trained, he laughed and encouraged the men. He was now their leader, and he was focused on only one goal. “We win. Because the gods and justice are on our side.” Fists drummed on the tabletops—his supporters
tried to push away the last of their fears with the clatter.

  When the bowls were emptied, Erik rose. “Listen to what I have to say. Hear and be my witnesses!”

  His solemn tone silenced the conversation. With both hands, he stroked back his hair. “I don’t want to go into battle with any guilt. Only when the heart is light can the arm fight with its full strength.”

  Tyrkir was amazed at how charismatic his Viking suddenly sounded. I’m curious . . . He didn’t get any further in his thoughts because Erik was now standing in front of him. “Here’s my steward. See his scar. He intercepted a blow that would have killed me. I owe him my life.”

  He told the audience how Tyrkir had come to his father’s farm in Norway, and he frankly acknowledged the friendship that had grown between them, the lord and his slave. “Today, it is my solemn intent that all differences between us be abolished.”

  The servants present exchanged stealthy glances. Freedom! To be a master yourself! Which of them had not dreamed of it?

  Erik’s outstretched finger shot out at the steward. “Get up!”

  Tyrkir obeyed immediately.

  A grin twitched on Erik’s red-bearded face. “That was my last order to you, slave.” Serious again, he laid both hands on the shoulders of the slender man. “I, Erik Thorvaldsson, ask the father of my father and his father and also the father of my great-grandfather, the great Oxenthorir, to join us in this hall.” He waited for a few breaths before continuing. “In the presence of my ancestors, in the presence of Lord Thorbjörn Vifilsson and his slaves, I release you, Tyrkir, who is called the German, into freedom. From now on, you can go wherever you want, build your own house, look for a wife yourself, and keep cattle and slaves. Your word shall be valid, not only in contracts and business but also at the Thing. Your voice now has the same weight as that of any freeman.”

  The blood rushed into Tyrkir’s face, and his scar throbbed painfully. My Viking, Tyrkir thought. My friend, you are giving me a gift I have never longed for. But now that I have it, it fills me with pride.

  Erik didn’t wait for the applause of the goden and the servants. He also didn’t give the newly appointed freedman the chance to speak. “That’s enough, all of you!” The ceremony had lasted too long for him already, and the well-worded speech had been difficult. “So?” He looked at the friend. “Decide, as a freeman.”

  “What?” Tyrkir groped for the scar and covered it with his hand.

  “Well, Know-It-All, get used to it! From now on, I have to ask you. Are you joining us on the ship tomorrow or not?”

  Despite the quiet chuckles all around them, Tyrkir swallowed his anger. Now was not the time to return the jibe. But just wait, you Viking. Someday you may regret your generosity. An equal friend may say more to you than a slave. “I will accompany you.”

  Fresh beer was served. The soldiers handed the jug from mouth to mouth, shouted the praises of the new master, invoked the prowess of the ships, cursed the enemy, and always found new reasons to continue drinking. Meanwhile, Erik, the goden, and Tyrkir once more went over the plan.

  The next day, they would embark. The combat gear was stowed away—nothing was missing. Katla and three slaves had taken care of the provisions and tents. Thjodhild had chosen the long-serving maid as their companion. None but Katla had enough insight and experience to support the men in their dangerous enterprise.

  With favorable winds, they hoped to meet Styr’s ship around noon. Styr was the only landowner on the south side who could be recruited. The meeting point was Oxens Island. The two allies from Breidafjord also wanted to meet there with ships and fighters.

  Thorbjörn nodded. “Until then, we should remain unnoticed. Just now, before the June-Thing in Thorsness, many knarrs are crossing the fjord, so ours won’t stand out.”

  “And how we proceed from there”—Erik slowly clenched both hands into fists—“will be my decision once we’ve arranged the day of the battle with the Breida farmer.”

  Thjodhild was still awake when Erik lay down beside her. She stroked his chest, then kissed him. They pushed toward each other. Goodbye—how much more beautiful and yet weightier.

  Later, they lay quietly. Again, Thjodhild reached for her husband’s hand. “Please, dearest. Leave Tyrkir here. He’s still too weak. The scar could break open again. Command him to stay!”

  Erik chuckled. “Too late. He’ll join the fight. I can’t give Know-It-All any more orders, because he’s now a master like me.”

  The news worried her. My Tyrkir no longer belongs to the family? What will he do? Stay? Or form a clan himself? Thjodhild could not ask, however much she wanted to.

  Which side would the gods take? On the morning of the battle, a storm swept over Oxens Island, whipping the rain against the tarpaulins on the meadow terrace. Down in the bay, the masts of the ships groaned.

  Tyrkir watched his friend with his cap pulled deep onto his forehead. Anger stood out on Erik’s wet face. Despite his sacrifices, his god seemed to have forgotten him. How else could Thor send them such weather today? Wind and a cloudy sky was all he’d asked for, and now?

  “Postpone!” Tyrkir shouted against the howling of the storm. “You must . . . postpone the war—” That’s as far as he got.

  “Shut your crooked mouth,” Erik barked, then paused, shocked at his own words. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.” He pushed his slender friend in front of him back into the tent. “Am I to become the joke of the fjord? At Sharpcliff, the Breida farmer stands ready with his people and waits for us.”

  Tyrkir stepped closer. “That’s just how it has to be. We won’t get any of our ships safely through the reefs and islands.” His speech could not keep pace with his thoughts, but he tried to express himself clearly. “And even if we succeed, in this storm we can only land in one bay. Thorgest will find out immediately and will have his people guarding the beach. Before we’re off the ships—before we even reach the shore—more than half of our people will have already fallen victim to their arrows.”

  “I know that!” Erik punched his fists together. “Damn. I’m bleeding honor here. There must be another way. And we must find it today or all our efforts have been in vain.”

  Tyrkir didn’t answer. Apart from Judge Thorbjörn, the allies had only committed to this one day. Their word was valid today, and today they would dare the impossible. But he doubted whether they would be ready for battle tomorrow, let alone in a week if the weather remained this bad.

  Thorbjörn stepped into the tent. He painstakingly shook the rain off his cap. “We have to give up on our plan.” The meeting was scheduled for noon. Before that, two ships were supposed to bring troops ashore, unnoticed, and far away from Sharpcliff. And when the third ship ran straight into the bay at the agreed time as expected by their opponent, the other men were going to surprise them from both sides.

  Thorbjörn shrugged. “I was thinking. We still have one chance. It’s unlikely to succeed, and no matter what, it will lead to the loss of many lives. Split up into dinghies, the entire army could row into the bay by Sharpcliff, despite the waves. The most capable fighters would have to try to reach the shore. In such a storm, even the best archers can only hit their target by chance.”

  “And then?”

  “Once our vanguard has cleared the beach, we masters will land with the main troop.”

  There was silence. The wind pressed against the tarpaulin.

  Tyrkir forced himself not to object immediately. Despite all his anger against the Breida farmer, they could not carry out a plan that meant the inevitable death of their own people from the outset. Any peace acquired in this way wouldn’t last long. With a silent warning, he stared at his friend and the judge.

  Erik scratched at his beard, then pulled his battle-ax halfway out of his belt. “I’ve never sent others ahead before me. This is my revenge, so I have to be the first on the beach.”

  “I expected and feared you’d say as much.” Thorbjörn sighed before he continued. “A stray arrow
may hit you before you can look your enemy in the eye. Without even getting to fight to cleanse your honor, you would have thrown your life away senselessly.” He grabbed Erik’s arm. “There’s no other choice—”

  “It’s all right,” Erik interrupted him. “I know what I have to do. Today there will be no war. And I have to tell this sneaky bastard before noon. Damn it, I can already hear him laughing.”

  The judge immediately promised to accompany Erik on the dinghy. But first, he wanted to visit the three allied lords in their tents. “At least I can spare you that walk.”

  Again alone with his friend, Erik smacked his forehead. “Wrong! I did everything wrong. Every child knows how quickly the weather changes here. I should have brought our people ashore yesterday. Erik the Red, the great leader!”

  “Stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

  Amazed, the giant looked down at his steward. “How dare you talk to me that—”

  “Don’t threaten me!” The scar on Tyrkir’s face flamed bloodred.

  “Yes, yes, I know.” In spite of the imminent disgrace, Erik grinned. “Master Know-It-All.”

  “Get used to it, Master Erik!” Now Tyrkir had to laugh, too.

  The friend shaded his eyes. “If you could see yourself right now, you wouldn’t be laughing.”

  Suddenly serious, Tyrkir said, “It doesn’t matter. I . . . I will accompany you to the Breida farmer.” He turned away the left half of his face. “I don’t deserve your mockery.”

  “That was also wrong. Forgive me.” Erik put his arm around Tyrkir’s shoulders. “I’m glad you’re here with me. Without you, it would be even harder.”

  The Judgment of the Thing

  A few steps below the summit, the shoulder bag burst open, and the lucky stone rolled down the mountain. Tyrkir rushed after it, throwing himself over it, but it slipped from his hands, rolling on. He again succeeded in catching it, but it tore his fingers bloody, rolling faster . . . Do not give up . . . Tyrkir jumped after it, landing painfully. With bruised limbs, he slipped farther on his belly, his clothes shredded, his body chafed . . . Do not lose it! . . . There, right in front of his eyes, the lucky stone dropped . . . and now Tyrkir, too, sped over the steep wall and fell. Seagulls circled, screeching. Far below, he saw the dark water splashing as his stone hit the surface.