Erik the Red

by Tilman Roehrig

“And happy to have you back.” Leif hugged him. “We will dig up these bushes so you can grow wine at home. Uncle, you have no idea—” The laughter died away. Leif grabbed his throat, gasping for breath. “The blue silk,” he gasped, and pointed to the edge of the clearing. “There. There is her canopy bed . . .” Tyrkir managed to hold his godson up for a while, but eventually, they both dropped into the moss.

  The summer in Iceland had been wet. Despite all the prayers to the new God, the longed-for dry season came very late, and the landowners on the shore of the Breidafjord could only begin the hay harvest in September. Every hand was needed.

  Thurid, the small, chubby housewife of the farmer at Frodisach, had not slept for three nights. It wasn’t the wet grass, but jewelry, clothes, and shoes that robbed her of her sleep. The treasures belonged to the noblewoman Thorgunna. She’d arrived from the Hebrides on an Irish merchant sailboat, and she’d been waiting impatiently in the harbor for days to continue her journey to Greenland.

  Thurid had only been allowed to take a brief look at the treasures. She’d wrestled with the urge, but her curiosity and craving were stronger, and today she climbed aboard determinedly. “There will be no favorable wind before next spring,” she began cautiously.

  “Believe me, I know.”

  With her eyes fixed on the large, iron-fitted chest, she made her offer. “Why don’t you come and live with us at Frodisach for the long winter?”

  “It’s not my habit to fraternize with peasants.” Thorgunna paced back and forth before the housewife, her hips swaying. “Nevertheless, I agree out of necessity. However poor your dwelling may be, it’s certainly more comfortable than this dirty tent here on this ship.”

  “Does that mean you’ll stay?”

  “I will.”

  The servants had picked up the luggage, and Thurid had shown Thorgunna to her chamber. Now she stood at the threshold with her mouth half open, her heart beating. Finally, the locks clicked, and Thorgunna slowly opened the wooden lid. First, she took a white cloth embroidered at the edges from the chest and spread it over the hay-stuffed mattress.

  “May I feel, please?” Devoutly, Thurid let her hands run over the sheet. “So wonderful.”

  “This is the finest English linen, my dear.”

  Silk cushions appeared and elicited ecstatic cries from the farmer’s wife.

  “I need four ropes and four long sticks.” No sooner were the words said than the requested objects were at hand. “Fasten one of the ropes to each corner of the chamber ceiling.” The mysterious tone in her voice raised the tension. Solemnly, Thorgunna pulled a miracle of blue silk from her treasure chest.

  At first, Thurid did not understand. She threaded the loose ends of the rope through the eyelets according to the lady’s instructions. When at last the stretched fabric floated above the bed, Thurid hardly dared breathe. “What is this?”

  “Don’t be so impatient!”

  Thorgunna stretched out her arms, grabbed the bulging edges, and as if by magic, the curtains fell.

  “Never,” the farmer’s wife murmured. “Never have I seen anything so precious.”

  “I would be amazed, too, my dear. This is a bed canopy under which I like to rest.”

  “‘Under which I like to rest . . .’ Oh, what pretty words you have. I envy you”—Thurid swallowed violently—“for your language.” But she could not hold back. “Because you own this canopy, these pillows, and this shawl.” Over and over, she licked her lips. “How much? I mean, sell me everything. I must have the whole bed.”

  Thorgunna’s eyes darkened, and laughter gurgled from her throat. “Where are your wits, you vain little peasant? There’s a divide between us. I will not leave heaven to you and sleep on a hard litter myself.”

  “I don’t understand. Tell me your price. We can offset it against the cost of your board.”

  Thorgunna stared at her coldly. “You forced your hospitality on me, so I will pay for lodging at my discretion.” The gold ring on her finger flashed. “Don’t even think about my canopy!”

  Just one moment, then Thurid had swallowed the insult. “Good, good. But maybe you could sell me some of your jewelry?”

  Thorgunna’s fingers stroked over her bosom, playing with the gold fibulae of the strap dress, touching the pearl necklace, and finally checking the silver combs in her pinned-up hair. “I think you’d better just look, my dear, for it takes a well-shaped body to make them really shine.”

  “Please, don’t say such things. I’m a respected, well-regarded woman. We have forty servants, and I have more than twenty maids under me.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Thorgunna gave her a radiant smile. “How could I be so rude?”

  Immediately reconciled, Thurid pointed to the scarlet cloak. “But I’m sure you’ll lend me this wonderful piece for church on Sunday.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Thorgunna pressed her full lips into the wool fabric. “It was a gift from the lord of my heart. I will not desecrate it.”

  Tears came to the housewife’s eyes. “But there must be something you can give me.”

  “Don’t be impatient, my dear!”

  No sooner had the farmer returned from the meadows that evening than his wife ran to him. “Wash yourself, Thorrod. Put on a fresh shirt, even your Sunday jerkin. We have a distinguished guest. A lady. She’ll be staying with us through the fall and winter.”

  “How much will the woman pay for room and board?”

  “I don’t know. Thorgunna wants to set the price herself.”

  The master of Frodisach narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  His wife raised her finger threateningly. “Don’t be unkind to her. Now wash.”

  Before dinner, Thorrod greeted their guest flatly: “Welcome to my house.” He was about to turn away, but Thorgunna held fast to his hand.

  “At first, I was dubious.” Her gaze slid pleasantly from his sharply cut, light-bearded face to his broad shoulders, touched briefly on his sinewy body, and returned to his eyes. “But now,” she cooed, “I’m glad to have the protection of such a strong man during the long winter months.”

  “What?” Almost startled, the farmer pulled his hand back to safety. “Yes, I’m glad, too,” he muttered. He did not offer Thorgunna the seat of honor next to him but assigned her the stool on the other side of the table.

  Thorrod did not take part in the women’s chitchat about English fashion. When nothing but the head and bones of the fish were left, he cleared his throat. “We should come to terms at once. The food and drink are—”

  “How right you are,” Thorgunna interrupted, smiling over to him under her eyelashes. “I know a lot about spices. If your wife allows, I’d be happy to give you a sample soon. My recipes for mead and beer are especially esteemed by all the gentlemen.”

  Thorrod tugged at his shirt collar. “That’s not at all what I mean.”

  After a sharp look, Thurid intervened. “My husband is satisfied.”

  Now the farmer stretched out his chin. “Our year was terrible, so be frank. How much will you pay us for lodgings?”

  “If I’m being honest, I have to be very frugal with my travel funds.” Before the peasants could say anything more, she added, “I was hoping to earn board and lodging through work.” Like little snakes, she let her fingers play. “These hands can work wonders. If you’re not completely satisfied with me, I’ll compensate you out of my fortune.”

  The fact that she had any chopped silver at all reassured the farmer. He took his time with his answer, and finally his mouth twitched in scorn. “Agreed. We’ll try it for a few days. You can go to the meadows with the woman and the maids. The grass needs to be turned.”

  “Into the hay? Me? Are you trying to offend me?” Thorgunna soon recovered her composure. “Oh, I see. You want to keep an eye on me at all times. Very well. I’ll prove to you wherever you go that I’m better than you expect me to be.”

  On the third morning, a clear, deep blue sky stretched o
ver the Breidafjord. The morning sun made the top of the Snow Rock Glacier glow. There was no mist mantle; not even a hazy veil lay on the shoulders of the capricious mountain. Like a guard, he seemed to stare down into the valley of Frodisach.

  The peasants set out early. Thorrod gave his instructions, ordering the servants to bring in the dried hay. The women were to turn the still-wet grass. He led Thorgunna to the large meadow near the farm and divided the area into three strips. “You take the middle section. I wonder how long your hands will be able to hold the rake.”

  Like the other women, she wore a loose, gray smock shirt, her plait of hair hidden under a cloth. “You mock me,” she snapped. “I am your maid now, but it won’t help you—I always win in the end. Before spring comes, you’ll be on your knees.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” He clenched his fist. “You think I don’t know what you’re up to? You can’t make me restless. By God Almighty, I have a wife, and that’s enough for me.” He quickly crossed himself and ordered, “Work well and you’ll eat well!” And with that, he went to check on the other women.

  “The devil may take you,” Thorgunna said through clenched teeth. She rammed her rake into the grass, whirled it up, and struck the blade into the grass again.

  Around noon, she declined her break, continuing to work, and even refused water. Shaking her head, Thurid and her maids watched Thorgunna from the edge of the meadow. “She does the work of three of you.”

  In the late afternoon, a dark cloud appeared over the fjord, clenching above Frodisach like a massive fist.

  “It’s going to rain,” Thorrod yelled to the women. “Pile the grass so at least some of it stays dry, then run to the house!”

  They hurried to gather haystacks. The cloud sank deeper and deeper, blanketing Frodisach in darkness. Now, the edge of the meadow was barely visible.

  “Enough! Make sure you don’t get wet!”

  Maids and servants left carts and tools behind, running for shelter under the canopy of the barn.

  “Where is Thorgunna?” Thurid asked.

  Thorrod pointed over to the meadow. “That cursed woman!”

  Despite the impending storm, she’d stayed outside, had not piled up any hay, and continued to swing the rake tirelessly. “The woman is willful.”

  Darkness was spreading. All that remained was a gray silhouette of the lonely figure in the meadow.

  The cloud opened, releasing a torrent, silent yet so fierce that the farmers huddled together afraid. And then the storm broke off. The cloud became a fist again, rising and drifting away toward the snowy glacier. The day became brighter. The farmer stepped outside and stared at the cloud, watching as it shrank until it disintegrated into nothing and the sun shone brightly over Frodisach again.

  “Th-Thorrod! There! A m-miracle,” stammered the housewife as she pointed to the meadow in horror. “Oh Holy Mary, protect us!”

  Blood—a deep red puddle—had spread on the field. And in the middle of it, Thorgunna was working, bloodstained from headscarf to feet. She struck the rake, threw up the sticky hay, and struck the rake again.

  “Never mind her,” Thorrod whispered. “Go back with the maids and tear up the piles so our hay won’t spoil!”

  After an hour, the blood was gone, and the smell of the harvest spread, but the middle part of the meadow did not dry. Thorgunna waded ankle-deep in bloody hay, raising and lowering the rake. Red sweat ran down her dirt-grimed face.

  Cautiously, Thurid ventured toward her. “Do you know . . . ? I don’t know . . . The miracle? What does it mean?”

  Without pausing, Thorgunna said calmly, “The blood rain is for one of us. Death is near.”

  As evening approached, she walked to the courtyard, washed at the well, stripped off her headscarf and gown, and lay down under the blue-silk bed canopy. Soon, a shudder went through her body. She gasped for breath, reaching for her neck as if strangled by an invisible force. The fight continued, and only toward morning did Thorgunna find rest on her pillows.

  The master of Frodisach entered the chamber. He placed his rake against the wall, still wet with blood. “Maid, it is time. The hay is waiting!”

  She shook her head.

  “Are you trying to avoid work? First, this sickness, then the next, and so on?”

  “Rest assured, except for this one, I will have no other disease.” Thorgunna tried to smile. “A woman knows when she has lost. Listen, Thorrod, you with the chaste heart. Because you’re so incorruptible, I want to entrust you with my last will before my strength fades. Are you prepared to dispose of my estate and myself as I wish?”

  “If it really comes to that?” Thorrod wiped his mistrust aside, and assured her, “I am a man of my word.”

  “As soon as I draw my last breath, you will take me to Church Hill. Let the priest sing a requiem mass over my body, and there I will lie in consecrated ground. I know that in this place, many Christians will gather for prayer one day. Now, for my possessions.”

  Thorrod stepped closer to the canopy bed. She reached for her neck again, struggled, and only after a while did she manage to speak “Give the scarlet cloak to your wife—she will be content with it. She must have nothing else, only the cloak. Take enough of the silver to pay for my board and my funeral.”

  She kissed the gold ring on her finger. “This memento shall accompany me to the churchyard. But the rest, you must burn.”

  “Are you sure?” The farmer did not understand her instructions. “With your wealth, you can do many good things, here on Frodisach, or leave it to the church.”

  She raised the ring, looked at it, and her eyes began to flicker. “You do not know me, proud Thorrod. My money, the jewelry, the belt of ivory, my clothes, and above all, this canopy, into the fire!” Her voice grew stronger. “My possessions will bring happiness to no human, do you hear? If even a piece of it is not burned, terror and sorrow will haunt your farm.”

  The blood had drained from Thorrod’s face. “No, not that. I swear I’ll settle everything as you wish. Everything.”

  Thorgunna stared into the silky blue canopy. “One more thing.” She soundlessly moved her lips.

  “I cannot understand you.”

  She waved her finger at him, and he kneeled next to her bed. “What else do you want to tell me?”

  Then she turned her head to him. In her face lay triumph. “You little peasant,” she said coldly. “Didn’t I promise you? Before spring comes, you will be on your knees before me. Now I have you there. Because, in the end, Thorgunna always wins.” With a short laugh, the sparkle in her eyes went out.

  The spray foamed before the bow, shimmering across the stern; Tyrkir stood with his legs apart and tasted the salt on his lips and tongue. Behind him, the men leaned into the lines and offered full sail to the southwesterly wind. For an hour, he had hoped for it, but now there was no doubt. “Land! Land!” The pilot waved to the helm and pointed forward again. On the horizon lay a dark coastal strip, and above it rose the majestic ice ridge with its countless snow-covered peaks. “Greenland!”

  The call lifted every heart. Soon the crew cried out as if from one throat: “Greenland! Home!”

  Immediately, Leif let Egil relieve him at the tiller. He jumped from the afterdeck, dove under the yardarm, ran across the cargo of timber, and swung himself onto the planks by the dragon’s head. “Uncle! We made it.” He grabbed Tyrkir around his hips, whirled him around, and put him back on his feet. “Only he who returns can claim to have discovered a new land.”

  “Very clever, boy.” Tyrkir laughed and let himself be carried by the high spirits. “But more than that, you’ve extended the edge of the world a little farther west.”

  “Yes, and there are no giants there, but huge trees. Uncle, the logs we’re carrying are enough to build three ships. Even with the rest, we can still make a profit.” He stopped. “Yes, it would be wise to—”

  “Don’t you dare!” Tyrkir growled. “I’ve had enough. First to Norway. Four years! Then straight to
Vinland. Almost a year again. Put that thought right out of your mind. Not with me. I want to go back to my bed.”

  “And plant your shrubs, I know. In every berry is a sip of wine.” He crowed. “I can still see you stepping out of the bushes into the clearing, singing. Oh, Uncle. And I was right—there was hardly any frost. We cut wood all winter long.” He went up to the dragon’s head and looked over to the rocky coast. After some time had passed, he sighed. “Yes, we had a good time in my country. And now? What awaits us at home?”

  Tyrkir stayed silent, running his fingertips thoughtfully along his scar from his mouth to his ear and back. Since the attack last September, the invisible power had never again reached for his godson. Ingva, Egil’s sister, had been mentioned now and then during the evenings by the fire, and Leif had openly admitted that he liked the young woman.

  Yes, they had even both uttered the name Thorgunna without consequences. Had the sorceress let him go? Tyrkir thought so, but the final proof was still missing. Whether her curse is indeed broken, we may soon find out. Until then . . .

  “Uncle!” Leif shielded his eyes, then pointed to port. “There on the skerry, isn’t that a knarr?”

  Immediately, the pilot was beside him. “All I see is the reef,” he murmured. Both stared intently at the wave crests. Only when the Falcon was carried up from a wave valley did they recognize not only a ship but also people waving over to them from the skerry.

  “Those people are in trouble!” Leif ran to the helm, took over the tiller again, shouting the order to tack against the wind. He dropped anchor as close to the rock as possible.

  The knarr was stuck with a broken mast and torn hull between high, angular boulders. Fifteen shipwrecked men stretched out their hands, laughing and crying at their rescuers.

  “Who is your leader?” roared Tyrkir through the funnel of his hands.

  A stocky man broke away from the crowd. “I, Thorir, envoy of the Norwegian royal court! Who commands your ship?”

  “Leif, son of Erik Thorvaldsson! Get ready! We’ll bring you aboard.”