Erik the Red

by Tilman Roehrig

  In the living hall on Steep Slope, Thjodhild bent down and helped the little boy back onto his feet. “Did you hurt yourself?”

  He looked at her with astonished eyes, and although his mouth smiled, tears rolled down his cheeks. “I . . . am . . . Thorgils,” he said clearly, gasping for breath between each word.

  “It’s all right, little one. I know that now.” She led him to the table. “Would you like some milk?” He reached for it twice, then held the cup with both hands.

  He has such long, thin fingers, Thjodhild thought, dropping herself on a stool. “Oh, Holy Virgin Mary!” She stretched both legs, punching her heels into the peat soil. “What did I do to deserve this?” Wasn’t it enough that Erik was injured and that she was now solely responsible for the farm and its workers? She smiled sadly to herself. “I have to take a deep breath before I can think straight again.”

  Just that morning, the fog had finally lifted, and the weather promised to be fine again. Around noon, the long-awaited freighter had dropped anchor down in the harbor bringing grain and goods from the trading post, the last shipment before winter. Thorvald had supervised the unloading; the second eldest son was helping her run the farm. The shipmaster had come to settle the payment. Up to that moment, the day had brought only good things.

  But no sooner had Thjodhild agreed to trade with the taciturn man who smelled of sweat and oil than he grumbled, “There is still one more piece of cargo for your family”—he whistled—“and this one’s already been paid for.”

  His slave came in with fur blankets on his arm. At first, Thjodhild believed he bore a gift from old Herjulf. But the servant did not put the bundle down, instead carefully placing it in front of her before beginning to strip the fur away. A round, waxy face, blue eyeballs with white rims, and a smiling mouth proclaimed thoughtfully, “I . . . am . . . Thorgils.”

  A little later, the child stood before her. A much-too-large head swayed above the long, thin body.

  Only after some time did she find her voice again. “Who is this?”

  “I took the kid on at the settlement. Herjulf says he came over from the Hebrides on a long-distance sailboat.” Her expression prompted the skipper to push the limits of a speech that was already excessively long for him. “He was looked after by a maid all the way to Greenland. Must be your Leif’s son. His mother sent him. She paid well in advance for his journey and care. He’s a good three winters old. Well, that’s all I know.” Visibly strained by his efforts, the skipper had nodded goodbye and left.

  Thjodhild rubbed her forehead. No matter what adventure Leif had gotten himself into in the Hebrides, he should have told me. At least Tyrkir could have warned me. But just you wait, when they return, then I’ll—

  She paused. Thorgils stood motionless before her, his head had sunk to his chest, and he was still holding the milk cup in his hands.

  “Well, come.” Thjodhild helped him to lift the cup. After he’d drunk his fill, he let himself be lifted onto her lap. He leaned his head against her chest. “Father . . . is . . . Leif,” he said clearly, breathing between each word.

  “I’ve heard as much, even if I don’t want to believe it.” She thought of the boy’s mother, and her anger rose. The woman had taught her son two sentences as proof of origin and then sent him to his father like cargo, just like that! An infant! Couldn’t she at least have waited until he was grown? Or did she want . . . ? Thjodhild considered the boy’s strange appearance. Deformed children were left to the mercy of wild animals. Is that what the mother expected from the father? “Oh, Leif, star of my heart, what a heartless woman you caught.”

  Thorgils was asleep. His mouth had not lost its smile. “You are here,” Thjodhild whispered, and stroked his dark, curly locks. “So I’ll take care of you. You won’t starve with us.”

  Determined, she carried the boy to Leif’s bedroom and covered him. “When your father returns,” she muttered, “he’ll decide about you. But before that, he’ll have to consult me.” At the door, she was seized by a sudden realization and almost tripped. “I am a grandmother. Oh, no.”

  Every rebellion against providence—Thjodhild caught herself—against the will of God only costs strength. Looking forward was the only way in which happiness might one day be regained. She picked two older, experienced maids. “New blood has arrived. You two will take care of the child.”

  With no further explanation, she commanded that the sack with the children’s clothes be brought from the storage shed, as well as bathtubs and soft cloths for drying and changing. “And look for the toy box!”

  With the most urgent tasks assigned, Thjodhild tucked a strand of hair back under her bonnet and looked hesitantly toward the hall’s doorway. Not yet, she decided. Duty first. I’ll see the priest tomorrow.

  Thjodhild opened the door to the infirmary. “Are you awake?”

  A rattling moan came from the bed. Thjodhild lit a second oil lamp and checked the warmth of the bed stone under the blanket before she spread some grease on her husband’s cracked lips. “You’ll be all right. You just have to be patient.”

  Erik took the news of the new member of his family with indifference. Since the accident, he’d been confined to bed. His right arm was swollen and blue all the way to his fingers and could not be moved. Every deep breath went like a knife into his shoulder and back. Sweat ran down his face as soon as he even tried to move his body. “Show me the boy later.” He coughed and closed his eyes in pain.

  At dinner, Thjodhild informed her children. “So be considerate. I’m counting on you.”

  A short time later, she led the freshly bathed boy, dressed in Leif’s gown, into the hall. He toddled along beside her on bony legs.

  At the sight of him, the others’ jaws dropped.

  “My little one, this is your aunt Freydis, and these are your uncles Thorvald and Thorstein. Tell them your name!”

  The spherical head wobbled alarmingly. “I . . . am . . . Thorgils. Father . . . is . . . Leif.”

  No sooner had he spoken than Thorvald turned away. “Where did you get this, Mother?”

  Thorstein snorted, “He looks like a troll.”

  “Shame on you!” Thjodhild’s admonishment did not help much; both fled to the great fire where they continued to laugh.

  Freydis crouched before her nephew. “You have a beautiful head,” she purred. “Like a cheese ball. You must be careful it doesn’t roll away. And what fine toes and fingers I see there. Which spider did you pull them off?” Lured by the soft singsong, Thorgils stroked her nose. “So you like this, you little ugly bastard.”

  “Enough!” Annoyed, Thjodhild pulled Freydis up by her collar. “I’m glad if you want to make friends with him, but don’t speak that way to him. He can understand you.”

  Thorgils pressed himself against Freydis’s skirt and wrapped his arms around her hips. “You see, Mother, he doesn’t understand, but he knows where a man likes it.”

  “Oh, girl.” Thjodhild shook her head. I agree with your father on one thing, she thought. We must find you a husband as soon as possible.

  “This is Leif’s son,” Thjodhild pleaded. “You’d be helping him and me if you looked after him from time to time.”

  In Freydis’s brown eyes the strange light flickered, just for a moment, then it went out again. “Of course. Don’t worry.” She briefly touched her mother’s hand. “And thank you for trusting me. It doesn’t happen often.”

  Thjodhild nodded and went to her sons. Behind her, she heard Freydis say to her nephew, “You’ll probably never get rid of that grin. Oh-ho, what a taste in women, my proud brother must have, to result in such a splendid creature. But we’ll feed you for a while. Otherwise, nobody’s going to want to eat you later.”

  The next morning Freydis carried her nephew over to the cemetery with her mother. The priest had rolled up his robe sleeves and was sealing the northern wall of his new house with sod. “Welcome in the name of the Lord,” he called out to the women.

  “Th
ank you, Father.”

  Ernestus reached out his hand to Thjodhild, then to Freydis, hesitated briefly, and stroked the boy’s curls. “Who do you bring me, my daughters?”

  Daughter or daughters! At first, this address had offended Thjodhild’s pride, but now she accepted it as one of the priest’s quirks. “This is my grandson.”

  “Not from me,” Freydis added quickly. “This was my brother’s magic.”

  “This boy shall be accepted into the Christian congregation.” Ernestus beamed. “This pleases the Lord God.”

  Thjodhild stepped up to him. “Thorgils is baptized. He wears a chain with a cross around his neck. Father, I wanted to ask, how does God deal with children like this? The ones who . . . Oh, you see for yourself, this mite can never become a full man.”

  Immediately sobered, the priest wiped his earth-smeared hands on the robe. “I see.” He escorted Thjodhild into the house. Freydis wasn’t curious to hear the conversation; she wanted to play with Thorgils at the grave.

  “Sit down,” the priest suggested. “Please wait a moment!” He kneeled in front of the wooden cross on the wall.

  Thjodhild looked around. There was a bed with a hay sack, a table and stools, the fireplace. She’d entered the sparse room only once before, and that was only because Sunday mass had to be celebrated inside due to bad weather. Even though the congregation crowded together, there wasn’t enough room for the Christians from Steep Slope and the newly baptized from the neighboring farm. The priest had been forced to repeat the mass four times.

  Ernestus returned from his silent prayer, put on a stole, and since there was no other stool, he leaned against the wall. “I will not deny how deeply moved I am by your visit. So far, I’ve baptized, I’ve celebrated mass, and considering how short a time I’ve been here, it’s already been a blessing. Today, however, you come and ask your first question of faith, and with that, I may truly begin my service here in the name of the Lord, for he answers through my mouth.”

  Impressed by the solemnity in his voice, Thjodhild asked quietly, “And what does God say about such crippled beings?”

  “Blessed are the meek, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Do you understand? Thorgils is also a creature of God. He loves him.”

  Thjodhild pressed on. “So, he must not be left out in the wilderness.”

  “God forbids it.”

  “That’s good.” She’d always despised the custom, and now the new faith agreed with her. She felt strengthened and wanted to show her gratitude. “When I think of our long winter . . .” she began. “And looking at this confinement here, wouldn’t it be better for our God and his family to have their own dwelling place?”

  “You mean a church?” It took Ernestus’s breath away. “My daughter!”

  Thjodhild stood. “It will be done. You have my word. It’ll be built against your house, with a door in between so you can warm up the worship room before mass. Those who are cold won’t be able to listen to you for long.”

  “My daughter.”

  “I’m not—” She paused and smiled. “It’s all right. Tonight, I’ll send some servants to you. They’re to mark out the outlines immediately. We’ll have to hurry before the first snow.”

  The priest hesitated. “And you think your husband will not object?”

  Thjodhild raised her chin. “I am the mistress. Until Erik is well again, I run the farm. I alone.”

  Her back straight, Thjodhild left the dwelling. Outside, her daughter played with the boy, rolling him back and forth in the grass, and he bleated happily like a lamb.

  “Imagine, Uncle, if only we’d brought four ewes and a strong ram on our journey!” Leif pointed over the green hills of the headland and the mouth of the river in the bay. “I’m sure within three years, a large herd would be bleating here.”

  Tyrkir found it challenging to follow his steps. “You’re like your father,” he teased. “As soon as we’d built our first house in Greenland, he was running around, and though there was nothing but wilderness, he saw sheep and goats grazing, horses jumping, and cows bellowing in the barn. No, boy, let’s be thankful we’ve found this blessed land and that we can already rejoice in a solid roof over our heads.” Out of the corner of his eye, he watched his godson. Above all, I am relieved to see you so full of energy.

  Leif’s sudden cramp and shortness of breath lasted the rest of the day and into the night. By the next morning, it had subsided. As after a binge, he’d struggled out of his fur blankets with a heavy head. Tyrkir had sensed the power that had reached for Leif and was sure his godson knew it, too, but neither of them dared to mention Thorgunna for fear she could be summoned just by speaking her name.

  “We should be satisfied,” he murmured. “Winter can come now.”

  “I don’t think it’s going to be cold.” Leif combed through his bright red mane. “Have you noticed how long the days are here? How much strength the sun has? And it’s already the middle of September! I bet there’s hardly any snow in winter. And no frost at all.” He stretched his back and let his muscles ease. “Life lasts longer in my country, Uncle.”

  “It’s not that miraculous,” Tyrkir said drily.

  On the way back, they met some of their boatmen who’d caught salmon farther up the river. Full of pride, they showed off their catch. “Nobody back home will believe this, my lord!” Even the smallest fish was bigger than the thickest salmon in Eriksfjord.

  Tyrkir pointed to a particularly silvery one with shimmering blue-green scales. “Such was the salmon that Loki, the devious one, must have turned into when he fled from the gods.”

  “And you say there are no miracles in my country.” Leif smirked. “Look closely. There’s another one! Every day we’ll find another one.”

  The area had to be thoroughly explored, so Leif divided his team in two. He led one group himself and put Tyrkir and Egil in charge of the other. Every day, one band set off. The order applied to all: “Stay within shouting distance at all times. Never go so far away that you can’t return before dusk!”

  But on the evening of the third day, when Egil and his group reached the house on the hill, exhausted and breathless, Tyrkir was missing!

  In a wild rage, Leif shouted, “Where is my uncle?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t understand it either.”

  “You idiot!” Leif pushed Egil in the chest. “You fucking idiot!” Driven by worry, he hurled the fellow explorer back and forth until Egil fell to the ground. “Why didn’t you watch out for him?” Leif yelled. “No one is worth more to me than my uncle.” He stared into the horrified faces of his men. “I don’t need any of you!”

  With the next breath, he paused and regained his composure. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t mean it. I’m just worried about Tyrkir.” He reached out to Egil. “I’m sorry, friend!”

  “Already forgotten.”

  “Can you remember approximately where you last saw the German?”

  They’d penetrated deeper to the south, crossed a deciduous forest, and had reached a long valley basin covered with bushes and shrubs. “The air was so stuffy, we could hardly breathe, and because everyone was sweating, we were looking for some shade.” Egil shook his head. “When we left after a rest, the pilot was gone.” They’d called, waited, screamed, and searched in vain. “I just can’t understand it.”

  Leif looked at the sky. The sun was already leaning to the west. “There are still a few hours of light.” Determined, he chose twelve men from his own group, then turned to Egil. “You lead us.”

  Running, they soon reached the edge of the forest. The search party spread out into a chain. Meanwhile, the shouting and noise only scared the birds out of the treetops. They’d almost reached the middle of the forest when Egil stopped. “Do you hear that?”

  Leif nodded. There was a strange singsong coming from somewhere nearby. The two men silently signaled to each other, pulled the axes out of their belts, and crept on, crouching, always making sure one of them stayed covered while t
he other scurried to the next tree trunk. In that fashion, the men worked their way to the edge of a small, mossy clearing. The singing could now be heard clearly. Dry branches cracked loudly. Ready to attack, they gripped their ax shafts tighter.

  Beyond the clearing, branches were swept aside, and from the bushes, Tyrkir stepped into view, wobbling slightly. “No more need until the morn, no more thirst until dawn.” He backed up the beat with large flaps of his arms. “No more need until the morn, no more thirst . . .”

  “Uncle!”

  Tyrkir interrupted his chant. When Leif rushed toward him, he grinned and ran his sleeve over his sweaty face. “Youare—youarereallyclever. I’mnotjustsayingthat.” Though he tried hard, he couldn’t manage the pauses between the words, and so one merged into the next. “Everydaybringsamiracle. That’sright. AndIhavefoundthegreatestmiracle.”

  “Where the fuck have you been?” Leif wavered between amazement and anger. “Why did you leave the men?”

  “Because I had too much of the miracle. But now my head is clear.” He carefully opened the linen pouch on his belt and brought out a handful of yellow-red berries. Some were chapped or wrinkled, but most were round and plump. His finger stroked the shiny skin. “These make our journey truly worthwhile. Taste, my boy, taste!”

  Leif chewed a berry. “Not bad.” He took another one. “Sweet and slightly ticklish on the tongue as if fermented . . .”

  “Not bad?” Tyrkir gave Egil a taste, but the man’s enthusiasm wasn’t sufficient, either. “You numbskulls. In every berry, there’s a bit of wine, you understand? They don’t grow on vines, but on bushes. But they are grapes. All I have to do is squeeze them, and I have wine. That’s it!”

  Leif clapped his hands. “Now I know what my country will be called. Because Thorgunna paralyzed me, I did not get the chance. In honor of you and your wine, Uncle, I christen it Vinland!”

  “Really?” Touched, Tyrkir stuffed the rest of the delicacies into his mouth. “You’re a good boy.”