Erik the Red

by Tilman Roehrig

  Tyrkir sat up with a jerk. Though his scarred skin hurt, he felt the pain as consolation. No, I am not falling into the abyss. He carefully wiped the sweat from his face. Next to him, Erik snored evenly. I am in our tent on Oxens Island. He was fully awake now. It was the third time this dream had haunted him.

  More than a week ago, he’d rowed to Sharpcliff in the dinghy with Erik, the goden, and ten armed men. From a safe distance, they’d waved a white cloth, only wading ashore after the people of Breida Farm answered with their own white rag.

  What a test for Erik. As soon as he’d canceled the fight, the farmer cursed him, calling the red one a cowardly thief and a murderer before spitting at him. With great difficulty, Thorbjörn Vifilsson had finally succeeded in calming the scorned man. “The war is only postponed. Name another day!”

  But the master of Breida Farm had laughed until the drool flowed into his beard. “The bastard missed his opportunity. Now the court will decide. I’ll sue at the Thorsnessthing. And by all the gods, he will need more than the fingers of four hands to count my witnesses.”

  The following night was the first time Tyrkir had lost the stone.

  The nightmare had returned after a messenger from Thorsness had delivered the complaint in proper form: “You are ordered before the Thing.”

  “What good will that do me?” Erik had asked.

  “If you don’t appear, you’ll be given the severest sentence. Find some witnesses and see that they get you justice.”

  Until the day before yesterday, all three allies had remained loyal. Thorbjörn had been able to swear them in for the trial because of his experience. “Even if you weren’t there for the fire or the fight, you must praise our friend, his bravery, his nobleness. He has been wronged.” Their missing memories were filled in by the prospect of a considerable sum of hacksilver.

  The day before, however, the landowner of Swanfjord had broken off his tents. “Try to put yourself in my position. I live here. My neighbors are also the neighbors of Thorgest of Breida Farm. So far, nobody knows that I was going to fight on your side. And I would have done so. But the war has been called off, and I’ve kept my word. That should be enough. The neighbors won’t understand if I raise my voice at the Thing for a stranger. You understand. Peace between neighbors is more important. . . .”

  Erik had turned away and climbed up the rock step at the end of the campground. There, he’d stood until the landowner had sailed away with his slaves.

  The first two times Tyrkir had the nightmare, he’d wiped it aside after awakening—Don’t think about it. It will fade—but it had come back more clearly, the pictures sharper and more painful. You need to explore it, Tyrkir ordered himself. Otherwise, it will overpower you. When we sail to Thorsness tomorrow for the Thing, the dream must not paralyze my mind.

  He pulled up his legs and put his chin on his knees: You carry our lucky stone up the mountain and lose it. You run after it, but it slips away each time. Tyrkir smiled bitterly. It took no great wisdom to interpret the meaning so far. The end—that was all that mattered. Remember it exactly! As soon as the stone sinks into the black water, you wake up. Perhaps that’s a good sign? Hope for Erik, Thjodhild, and for me? The dream proves that we’re not meant for the abyss, even if it may look like that right now.

  At first, Tyrkir wanted to wake his friend, but he immediately pulled his arm back. No, Erik needed the sleep to gather strength for the Thing. I’ll tell him about the dream later. Later, when we have found real happiness.

  The flat area stretched into the Breidafjord from the mountainous, snow-covered peninsula like a crushed wolf’s skull. The sky stretched above—high in the blue, isolated bales of cloud traveled east. There was no more night, only this one day, and its light no longer faded.

  Every June, during the Allthing, all freemen of West Iceland traveled to Thorsness on the outermost headland.

  The visitors thronged in the tent city, as well as on the market set up near the court area. Faces were washed, hair combed, and a strong smell of beards tamed with seal fat followed the travelers. Some even braided their beards into greasy pigtails. Rich or poor, every man wore his best festive robe: soft baggy trousers, decorated belts, and coats or cloaks of colored woven fabric, the most splendid of which were decorated with collars of silver fox. Friends were greeted with beer and joviality; enemies were avoided as much as possible. The oath of peace was the reigning commandment of this week.

  No one paid attention to the two unkempt men in their midst. Erik and Tyrkir had pushed their caps deep onto their foreheads as they wove through the crowd in search of Thorbjörn’s hut. At the market, Erik hesitated at a jewelry stall. “If things were any different,” he grumbled, “I’d buy a nice brooch for my Thjodhild here.”

  “Maybe later.” Tyrkir pulled him on.

  Avoid notice, avoid conversation. Thorbjörn had impressed this on them aboard his Sea Bird. The gode had agreed to defend his friend. “Everyone in the tent town now knows your name, Erik. They’ve all heard about the events in Hawk Valley and about the fight at Sharpcliff. The Breida farmer will have made sure of it. But very few people know the face of the man who bears that name. Thorgest will want to point you out as soon as possible. But if you remain invisible for as long as possible, he won’t be able to stir up the mood against you before the trial begins. We can use that advantage.”

  It was evident that Erik was struggling with this. “What . . . what kind of odds are those?”

  “Trust me. We have a chance if you do as I say. No matter what lies and malice are brought against you, stay silent. Leave the response to me. As hard as it may be, keep your temper!” After this advice, Judge Thorbjörn had hurried ahead with Styr, the farmer from his southern district, and Ejolf, the lord of the nearby Hog Island. The most urgent task for these new allies was to recruit more honorable men. Thorbjörn wanted to test their reliability. Erik needed witnesses, many witnesses.

  The gode in charge lived in a stone hut during the Thing days, where he was surrounded by the tents of his followers. Thorbjörn Vifilsson, too, had set himself up in a temporary but spacious accommodation covered with canvas.

  “Wait!” Immediately after entering, he assigned Tyrkir and Erik a place in the farthest corner. He turned again to the guest sitting on a stool next to his chair. “I can count on your voice? Good. When the time comes, I’ll call you as a witness to my friend’s cause.”

  The man rose. After a stealthy look at Erik, he asked, “What about the reward? We haven’t discussed that yet.”

  “An oath in court shouldn’t be bought.” Thorbjörn smiled thinly. “But you have my word, your worries will find the open ear of your gode in the future.”

  This promise was enough, and the guest hurried away. Thorbjörn watched him go. “I’m not entirely convinced about him, but who can look into another man’s heart?”

  The creases in his forehead smoothed. He shouted to his friends. “Welcome to my dwelling! I offer you shelter.” Unfortunately, it was no comparison to the farm on Warm Spring Slope. There were no housewives to cook for them, and since Katla and the maids had been left behind on Oxens Island, they’d have to eat at the meat and fish stalls.

  “I don’t care,” Erik growled. After some time, he slapped both hands flat on his knees. “Damn it! I don’t know what I’m doing here. Why can’t I settle my feud with the Breida farmer myself?”

  Alarmed, Tyrkir watched the judge. Don’t be angry with my Viking, he pleaded silently. It’s not ingratitude, he just feels so powerless.

  Thorbjörn crossed his arms. “Do you think I would have let myself be elected judge if the office didn’t mean anything?” Coolly, he assured them that he was not interested in accumulating wealth, as was said about some of his fellow judges. “In every clan, the head takes care of justice and the law—that’s how it ought to be. But we don’t make those decisions independently, you know that very well.”

  He pointed in the direction of the Thing place. “Since yester
day, the speaker has been standing on the holy rock, proclaiming our laws. We have all committed to obeying them. If we did not, there would be no community, no peace between families.” The judges in their districts were usually the only ones responsible for ensuring the observance of laws, but if there were severe crimes or disputes that couldn’t be settled, the Thing Assembly was called.

  By then, Erik had regained his composure. “If it had any purpose . . .” After a pause, he continued bitterly. “I’ve yet to hear of a man who got justice at a Thing.”

  “Do you mean to offend my office?” Thorbjörn snapped. “Our laws are good. They regulate life.”

  “Yes, by Thor, I know. A severed ear costs half a man-price, a pierced eye only a quarter, but if the nose or foot is missing, the perpetrator has to pay a full man-price. Anyone who lets his cows graze on another’s pasture—”

  “Quiet!” The goden’s eyes blazed. “I stand by you, and you mock—”

  “Don’t!” Tyrkir stepped between the two men. “Don’t risk your friendship! Please, Thorbjörn, let me explain it for him, and be patient with me if I still find it difficult to speak clearly.” With his hand, Tyrkir shielded his scar. “Erik has long wanted to tell you how grateful he is for your help. But he’s also worried about the outcome of the trial. He’s been accused at the Thing before.”

  As quickly as his lips allowed, Tyrkir described the trial in Norway. Even then, few witnesses had stood opposite the many oath helpers on the plaintiff’s side. Despite clear evidence of innocence, Erik and his father had been convicted. “Erik does not mean to disrespect the laws or your office. The judge announces the sentence, the selected jurors determine the verdict as required by the community. My friend is anxious because the individual with the most people on his side is the one who ends up being right.”

  Visibly affected, Thorbjörn pulled Tyrkir next to Erik and grabbed both of them by the shoulder. “I freely admit: True justice cannot be won at the Thing. There’s still a long way to go. But from year to year, we’ll improve order in Iceland together. And I’ll contribute to it. That’s why I’m fighting for Erik.”

  “Thank you.” The giant looked at him gratefully. “That’s what I wanted to say, anyway.”

  A landowner in a blue cape with chest panels embroidered with red eagles entered the hut. He hesitated at the sight of the three men standing so intimately together. “Am I in the right place? I’m looking for the goden responsible for the south side of Snow Rock.”

  “Welcome!” Thorbjörn detached himself and gallantly asked the gentleman to his high seat. “I am the judge.”

  “At first, I thought . . .” The guest briefly looked over his shoulder at the two inconspicuously dressed people in the background. “No, I might have guessed who the master was here. So, Ejolf from Hog Island told me you were looking for witnesses.”

  Thorbjörn inquired kindly about the man’s name and origin, then explained the case. He spoke skillfully, asked whether the man could follow him, and left no doubt about the honor of his protégé.

  Erik listened in amazement, before finally nudging Tyrkir slightly with his elbow. “He can talk, but you—that was even better.”

  Now it was Tyrkir’s turn to be amazed. Twice, his friend had thanked him in such a short span. That meant a lot for his Viking pride.

  The speaker on the sacred rock lowered his arms, falling silent. The seagulls, no longer curious, sailed away across the water. The quiet settled across all present. The assembled men outside the consecrated circle stood and waited for the next sign from the sage. Some faces clearly showed the effort it had taken to follow his words. He had spoken the laws of Iceland in a formal language, but only one-third of the whole, as custom dictated. By his election, he had been chosen as chief judge and speaker of the Thorsness Thing for three years. And so that the laws would implant themselves in even the most ponderous skull, he would only bring the other thirds to the attention of the next June court, and the one after.

  The wise man descended from the rock and entered the plaza, which was cordoned off with hazel sticks and ropes. He walked through the still-empty rows of benches to the altar stone in the middle. “Those of you who have concerns, those of you who seek answers to questions, you may now bring them to the Thing in a civil manner!”

  The silence lasted only a moment, then all the throats seemed to scream at the same time. Everyone tried to drown out their neighbor—only their own request was urgent. Some hefted rattles, not caring that these made even their own words impossible to discern. Like a rock in the tides, the supreme judge stood next to the sacrificial stone, taking in the cries.

  There were two islands of silence in the rear rows, far apart from each other. Plaintiff and defendant, each surrounded by their followers. Squeezed in by Erik and Thorbjörn, Tyrkir watched the Breida farmers on the other side of the plaza through the throng of shoulders and heads.

  Thorgest had seen Erik and tried to point out the enemy to his witnesses. Shrugged shoulders, another look, more shrugs. You didn’t succeed, Tyrkir, he thought, satisfied. You, sneaky villain, could not present my Viking as a sacrificial animal. Erik had only entered the Thing place toward the end of the proclamation of the law, and even then, he still wore a full hood under which his face remained half concealed.

  Tyrkir’s gaze was fixed on the man next to the Breida farmer. The fur hat, the sharply cut mouth, the beardless chin—it was Ulf Einarsson, the gode in charge of the Hvammsfjord. Great Tyr, why did you allow our enemies to become so powerful?

  He quickly gave their advocate a sign. Thorbjörn bent down to him. “Over there, standing by Thorgest, is the judge who banished us from Hawk Valley last year for manslaughter. And of all people, the farmer has chosen him as his advocate.”

  “Are you sure?” Thorbjörn paused, thinking. “That means this case is doomed. I must prevent it from being brought here.”

  Tyrkir saw Thorbjörn’s desperate expression and nodded with a sigh.

  Most of the screamers by the barrier soon ran out of breath. Only those who had spared their voices now reached the ear of the judge: The driftwood was to be distributed more equitably. If a farmer was not able to bring in enough hay for the winter, his neighbor should help him out and not drive up the price. Who owned a stream? Could a farmer living near a spring divert the water and thus dry out his neighbors’ meadows downstream?

  For each case, the chief judge proposed a just solution. If the majority agreed to it by their affirmative cries or raising their fists, only then did he rule. He would include the new commandment or the addition to an old one in his law proclamation at the next Thing.

  With a sweeping gesture, the judge now laid his hand on the sacrificial stone. This marked the end of the general question time. He touched the open iron ring next to the blood bowl.

  “This is the time for the high court. Whoever wishes to present a dispute may now bring his complaint.”

  The crowd retreated. Near the barrier, only the two groups of unequal size remained. More than thirty men had gathered around the Breida farmer. He stepped up to the rope and called, “Hey, Red! You’re right to hide your face. You’re facing honorable Icelanders here. Your guilt torments you so much, you can’t even bring yourself to lift your head!”

  Before Thorbjörn and Tyrkir had realized it, Erik was at the barrier of the court. He threw back his hood and pushed out his chin. His mane and beard faded against the red rage in his face. He stood with his fist raised, mouth open. Enemies and gawkers awaited his outburst, but the giant conquered himself and said nothing.

  The supreme judge nodded in his direction, then barked at the farmer, “If your tongue is too long, bite it off. But don’t dare violate the order at the Thing again!”

  With a firm grip, the trial leader pulled the defiant plaintiff away from the barrier. Ulf Einarsson spoke at him with a raised finger, and only when he was sure that Thorgest would be silent from now on did he set off on his way to the Law Rock.

  Ulf
Einarsson collected himself at the foot of the roughly carved stone. All eyes now rested on the figure. Finally, as if a call from Valhalla had come to him, the gode threw his hair back, tightened his spine, and climbed up step by step.

  “Hear me! Thorgest of Breida Farm has summoned many witnesses to this court and appointed me his advocate. I raise a complaint against Erik the Red”—with an outstretched arm, he pointed toward the small flock around the giant, and waited until all eyes had followed him—“against Erik the Red for a punishable arson. He set the barn of Thorgest ablaze with fire arrows. In addition, I raise a complaint against Erik the Red for a punishable theft. He robbed valuable goods from a warehouse of the Breida farmer.” The voice echoed far across the Thing place.

  At the barrier, Thorbjörn listened with a stern expression. His counterpart knew the proscribed phrases; hoping for a formal error would be a waste of energy. “Moreover, I raise a complaint against Erik the Red for a punishable first attack. He jumped on Toke Thorgestsson at Sharpcliff and injured him. That blow became a death wound. I raise a complaint against Erik the Red for another punishable first attack. He also jumped on Odd Thorgestsson and injured him. That sting became a death wound. . . .”

  Next to Tyrkir, Erik hissed, “That’s what happened, but it’s not the entire truth.”

  “The gode only says what he has heard from the deceiver, and what is useful to the deceiver.”

  “Oh, Know-It-All, let’s just walk away.”

  “Don’t you dare! Think of your wife. Your son! Maybe a miracle will happen, some sign . . .”