Erik the Red

by Tilman Roehrig

  “I’ll still fit in them, even if I’m carrying two children.”

  “It has to be soft and comfortable. The fabric nestles up. Come on, get in.”

  Thjodhild detached the pins from her apron skirt and slipped it over her head.

  “The shift, too. Or we won’t see anything.”

  Naked, Thjodhild sat down on the stool. One foot after the other, she put her legs through the holes of the trousers, stood again, and unrolled the fabric cumbersomely until it reached over her hips. “I still have to practice that.”

  “The men can do it faster, that’s true.” Hallweig threaded a woolen cord through the loops in the waistband and loosely knotted the ends. “Fits.” She looked at the figure. “How beautiful you are.” After a while, she said breathlessly, “I can understand why the men like you.”

  “So far, nobody has seen me in pants.”

  “That wouldn’t be good, either. No, I mean, the men look at you more than they look at me.”

  Quickly, Thjodhild reached for her shift. “Who? Who do you think likes me?”

  “Erik—you know that yourself. I can’t even blame my Thorbjörn. Yes, and you certainly please the newly appointed freedman, our little scarface.”

  Thjodhild pulled the long linen shirt over her head. “Tyrkir? He doesn’t count, even if he’s free now. He belongs to the family.” She turned her back to Hallweig while she took off her trousers and dressed again. “Besides, our steward is Leif’s godfather.” You must find a distraction from your thoughts of Tyrkir, she ordered herself. You’ll betray yourself. “What makes you think men don’t look at you?”

  Hallweig didn’t answer. Thjodhild attached her straps with the pins again. “I find you very desirable.”

  She heard suppressed whimpering, immediately followed by a scream—not shrill—and yet it struck Thjodhild to the marrow. She whipped around. Hallweig had her mouth wide open, like a drowning woman. Her fingers were tugging at her neck as if trying to widen her throat. She sank, and before Thjodhild could reach her side, she hit the ground.

  “You’ll feel better soon.” As she had so often during an attack, Thjodhild sat next to her friend and rested Hallweig’s head in her lap.

  The face was waxy, the lips blue. “Hallweig?” She tested her breath, felt for her heartbeat. Nothing.

  In Thjodhild’s eyes, the lights in the hall faded. Suddenly, she was surrounded by roaring and hissing. A red sail appeared from a deep swell. Erik’s ship. It was hurled up by a wave, disappeared, and emerged out of the spray again. The storm drove the Mount mercilessly toward rugged rocks. No, she thought. Not rocks. Those are teeth in the gaping mouth of a huge black monster. It wants to devour Erik and Tyrkir. Tears ran down her cheeks.

  She stroked her friend’s hair. “You too? You go on the journey and leave me alone, too. Oh, Hallweig. I’m afraid.”

  To Be Read from the Rune Stone of Remembrance:

  The runes have to be exposed with a stick.

  . . . the year 982: Prince . . . Olaf Tryggvasson . . . His father was treacherously murdered in Norway by twelve men. His mother fled from the enemies while pregnant. She gave birth to her son on a small island off the coast. But the pursuers found the hiding place. Olaf was sold as a slave, kidnapped, and freed. He grew up in Russia at the royal court and became a respected army commander there. One day, he meets the young convent pupil Dankbrand in Wendland. The shield of the novice is painted with a cross. Olaf asks, and Dankbrand tells him about the suffering of Christ and the miraculous power inherent in the cross . . . Prince Tryggvasson is deeply impressed and buys this shield . . . Olaf, nineteen, often thinks of Norway, his father’s country . . .

  . . . the year 983: Jarl Hakon has defeated his opponent, and the blood of three hundred and sixty men has seeped into the battlefield. Now he is the unchallenged ruler of Norway. He even denies his liege lord, the Danish king Blue Tooth, the taxes owed him. Jarl Hakon enjoys life at the court of Trondheim. He marries, but his wife is not enough for him, and driven by greed and lust, he shamelessly searches for adventures with other women . . .

  . . . the year 984: In Iceland, Bishop Fredrekur and his companion are met with deep disgrace and hostility, but through Thorvald, he steadfastly continues to proclaim the new doctrine to the stubborn. In June, the two pious men even dare to go to the Thing. Fredrekur orders his friend to raise his voice for God the Almighty from the rock of the law while he stands silent. Monstrous! Finally, two men openly blaspheme the bishop: In his skirt, he looks like a woman, and surely, he’d had nine children conceived by Thorvald! That is too much for his righteous friend, and he kills the detractors in front of the assembly. The missionaries must hide. Two hundred men move to smoke out the bishop and Thorvald in their dwellings. Before they reach their destination, a swarm of birds flutters around the heads of their horses. The riders are thrown off, break their arms and legs, injure themselves with their own weapons, and abandon the murder plan.

  . . . the year 985: In the spring, Bishop Fredrekur and his friend give up. They board the season’s first boat to the east. The attempt to introduce Christianity to Iceland failed . . .

  The Departure

  Leif had stormed the lookout with his wooden sword drawn. The highest place on the basalt boulder in front of Hawk Farm belonged to him alone, and his mother was forbidden from helping his younger brother up. He let the weapon swirl over his head. “I am tall!” The west wind tugged at his red-golden curls. Triumph shone in his blue eyes. “Everything belongs to me.” Leif ruled over his grandfather’s lower meadows and the road; he even regarded the river his property.

  “Where are your slaves, my lord?” Deferentially, Thjodhild looked up at her eldest. She squatted on the stone beneath him and had to hold two-year-old Thorvald from behind by his wool shirt so that he would not risk the climb. “A Viking without servants is no master.”

  “You are my maid.” Leif beamed at her, then pointed with the point of his sword at his brother. “And he is my servant.”

  “Don’t you at least want to appoint Thorvald as a steward? After all, we’re celebrating your fourth birthday today, and at such a big feast, a gentleman dispenses favors.”

  Leif scratched his forehead, then rubbed his chin thoughtfully, a gesture he’d copied from his gray-bearded grandfather. Finally, the decision was reached. “All right. But I don’t give him freedom as Father did with Uncle Tyrkir. He remains my slave.”

  “Very clever. And now let your steward come to you.”

  Leif received his brother. Like a dog, he ordered him to sit down beside his feet and not move.

  “Be alert,” Thjodhild said. “As soon as someone comes up the path, let me know.”

  She leaned back. Except for a few white spots, the May sun had already melted the snow from the steeply rising slopes beyond the lowlands. The river had also become quieter after freeing itself with crunching and crashing from its thick frozen winter cover over the last few weeks. Only a few ice floes floated on the water now.

  Four years ago, I gave birth to Leif, Thjodhild thought. At the beginning of May. That much she remembered, and it was enough for her. But not for Thorbjörg. “Tomorrow is the anniversary of the day,” she’d announced the day before. No matter how hard it was for the old woman to move with her stick through the house and stables, life on the Hawk Farm continued to follow her lead. “It was the tenth day after the change of the moon. I know it. Finally, I got the child out for you.”

  Why argue? When Thorvald was born in April two years before, her mother had also been there. The sauna house, the smell of moss and oils, her calming hands, while the intervals between contractions became shorter and shorter. “I felt so sheltered.” Thjodhild sighed.

  And it was right that Father came to bring me home from Warm Spring Slope after Hallweig’s death. “You cannot stay with a widower. There will be talk. With us, you can wait in peace for your husband’s return.” There’d been no agonizing questions about the Thing, the banishment, or how Th
jodhild’s life should go on now.

  At first, her parents had only spoken of Erik when Thjodhild asked them to. When Leif became aware and curious, his grandfather relieved her of the difficult task. During the past winter months, Leif had been allowed to climb the high bench with him as often as time allowed.

  “Your father is a brave, strong man. Together with Uncle Tyrkir, he undertakes a long journey on the Mount of the Sea—that’s his ship. And believe me, I have never seen a more beautiful and faster ship. One day they will land on a strange island . . .” So Thorbjörn started the story regularly and told his grandson about wild adventures.

  Leif listened with his mouth open, afraid of the trolls, sea snakes, and dragons, and his eyes lit up when Erik and Tyrkir bravely defeated the fiends. “Me too.” The boy clenched his little hands. “I also want to cross the sea.”

  “As soon as your father returns, you must ask him.”

  “When will he finally come?”

  “Patience. It won’t be long now.” Thorbjörn twisted his finger in his beard and murmured mysteriously: “First they sail to the island where the sheep have two heads. But I’ll tell you about it next time.”

  How many more stories would the grandfather have to invent for his grandson? Thjodhild jumped up restlessly and looked past her sons to the headland farther down in the valley.

  This is where I stood, my heart threatening to burst with fear, because I didn’t know how the battle against the murderers had ended after the landslide. Oh, I hate this waiting for you. “No Viking housewife is allowed to show her worries,” her mother had warned at the time. “The man comes back, or he doesn’t. That’s the way it is.”

  Thjodhild pressed her fists against her temples. I’ve managed so far. Just a bit longer. The third year of banishment ends in June. Until then, they cannot turn back, and even then, you must remain patient.

  “Mother? You’re crying. Are you afraid?”

  The worried tone in Leif’s voice brought her back. “No, no. The stupid tears come from the wind.” She picked up Thorvald. “You two are my protectors. Why should I be afraid?”

  “No one’s coming up the road today. I don’t feel like standing guard anymore. I want to help the blacksmith when the horses get iron shoes. I can do anything today, you promised.”

  “In a moment, my Viking. Because it’s your birthday, I also get a wish. Say your name, please, nice and slow and clear!”

  “But only once.” The four-year-old crouched in front of his mother. “I am Leif, the son of Erik. And Erik is the son of Thorvald . . .” With every name, the boy struck the stone with his wooden sword. “. . . and Asvald was his father, and Asvald was the son of Ulf, and he had Oxenthorir as his father.”

  In the second half of May, the stars faded, the night’s darkness became twilight, and the mountain ridges crouched against the pale sky like the backs of giants.

  A shadow. It moved quickly on the slope above Hawk Farm. It disappeared, reappearing a good bit farther down. Then suddenly, a figure stood on the rock directly above the roofs—not tall, coat hung around slender shoulders; a bright spot shimmered under his cap, and nothing more could be seen of his face.

  In the inner courtyard, both guard dogs lifted their muzzles. They couldn’t tell where the scent was coming from and trotted around, growling, until they finally struck. Their barking lured a servant out of the servants’ house. Immediately, the canine guards fell silent.

  Dressed only in a shirt, the servant shuffled sleepily to the stable, then to the residential building. Nothing unusual struck him. “Down,” he ordered the dogs, wanting to return to the servants’ house. Halfway along, a small stone hit him on the shoulder. At the same time, he heard a voice: “Wait!”

  The servant spun around. “Who’s there?” He looked around, afraid.

  “A friend. But if you scream, I must kill you.”

  “Don’t! No!” With both arms, the slave tried to protect himself. “By Odin, I’ll shut my mouth. Where are you, damn you?”

  “Up here. Above the house.”

  Finally, the servant made out the stranger. Although he stood there like a shooter holding a bow ready to fire, the weapon itself could not be seen in the semidarkness.

  “Why are you sneaking around in the night?”

  “Don’t ask. Go and wake your master. No one else. Tell him a good friend is waiting here. Tell him it’s about the bearskin he bought for his daughter years ago. Hurry!”

  Before the slave obeyed, he called the dogs to him with a soft whistle and showed them the figure above the roof. “Watch!”

  The stranger did not move. Only the panting of the dogs could be heard in the night’s silence. Finally, the servant returned, accompanied by his master. The old man had decided against putting on a breastplate. Both men were still in their thin nightgowns but armed with spears. Both held shields above their heads. They slowly stepped out of the shadow of the house.

  Thorbjörn peered up under the edge of the shield. “Who dares to disturb our peace?”

  “Send the slave to bed!”

  “I am no fool. Say who you are!”

  “You know me. Think of the bearskin! You didn’t buy it. My friend gifted it to your daughter.”

  Thorbjörn took a step back. “Either you are a ghost or . . . ?” He carelessly dropped his shield and spear to the ground and ordered his slave, “Go to sleep! There is no one up there. You have seen nothing, heard nothing!”

  “But, my lord . . . ?”

  “Silence! Take the dogs with you. And not a word to the others, or, I’ll drown you in the river. Leave me!”

  Only when the servant and guard dogs had disappeared into the servants’ house did Thorbjörn look up to the rock again. The spot was empty.

  “Here I am.”

  The old man turned around. “Come closer!” He stared into the face. “I can’t believe it.”

  “You’re only allowed to look at this half, then you’ll recognize me better.” Tyrkir turned the scarred side away.

  “Is my son-in-law alive?”

  “Why else would I come to you at night like a thief?” There was no time for long explanations. At the moment, Thorbjörn should only know what was necessary: The friends had discovered a country in the west. There had been no losses in their retinue. Erik was well, but the punishment did not end until after the June Thing. The banished man had to be careful until then. “Our ship lies well camouflaged in a bay above the Salmon Valley. For three nights, we hiked over the mountains to get here.”

  “We?” Thorbjörn stared at the slope above the house. “Are you saying that my son-in-law is hiding somewhere up there?”

  “No, but he’s waiting for me not far from here.”

  “You reckless fools!” Full of worry, the old man grabbed him by the shoulder. “Hardly a man survives three years in the wilderness. You’ve made it to within a month. Why on earth are you putting yourself in danger?”

  “We had no choice.” Tyrkir grabbed the old man’s wrist and held it. “We only want one answer from you: Do you have news of Thjodhild and the child?”

  “They sleep.”

  “I do not feel like joking.”

  The landlord shook his head. “I’m an old fool. Forgive me, boy! How can you know what’s happened?” He’d conquered his shock. “What I said is true. Thjodhild is asleep here on Hawk Farm, and in her chamber lies not only Leif but also little Thorvald.”

  She’s here! Tyrkir took a deep breath. He needed a moment to process this good news. As calmly as he could, he asked, “A second child? From whom?”

  “Don’t you dare!” The old man smiled. “Thorvald was your friend’s farewell gift. And I think the father will accept him with pride. A naming and a homecoming! In the summer, I’ll organize a splendid feast.”

  “Forget that,” Tyrkir said. “Erik has a great plan, but I cannot say more without his consent.” He hesitated. “I don’t like it, either, but the truth is that Erik won’t be able to see his famil
y again until next summer. You have to explain that to Thjodhild.”

  Thorbjörn turned away. He paced the yard with wide strides, staring up at the dark mountain ridges on the other side of the river valley, then returned resolutely. “You ask too much of me. My daughter has a head of her own, as you know. You must tell Thjodhild yourself that she must wait one more year. Right now. Wait here.” He left Tyrkir standing and disappeared into the house.

  O my poor, proud Viking, Tyrkir thought. Even before you’ve begun to put your plan into action, an essential part is already going wrong. And it was precisely what the friends had argued so fiercely about over the last few days at sea. “No, only when I’ve succeeded will I surprise Thjodhild. I will not see them before.”

  “Isn’t it wiser to include her and listen to her advice?”

  “I won’t let my plan be talked apart.”

  “Don’t you miss her? After such a long time? Or are you afraid of her because—”

  “Quiet!” The giant suddenly yanked his slender friend forward, then shoved him away again. “What is it to you? After all, Thjodhild is my wife.”

  Tyrkir immediately backed down. With each additional word, he could have betrayed his own feelings. “I see it differently, but maybe you’re right.”

  To avoid her, Erik had not sailed to the south side of the snowy glacier. Instead, he’d steered his Mount of the Sea into a remote bay at Hvammsfjord. As soon as the knarr was camouflaged with bushes and driftwood and the camp was set up under overhanging rocks, he’d taken his friend aside. “Forget our quarrel! We’ll secretly go to Hawk Farm. Old Thorbjörn can tell us what’s going on, and he can send a messenger over to Warm Spring Slope.”

  Tyrkir ran his fingertip along his scar. This time, the gods stand by me. You may have planned, my Viking, but fate determines what happens.

  The door opened. Thjodhild ran past her father, hurrying toward Tyrkir. “What luck,” she whispered. Her gaze ran over his face, and for a moment, their eyes met.