by Tim Leach
It is ten centuries now since the miracle of Christ, a miracle of death. Now, in our island, you tell me of another miracle.
For the word of the White Christ has been spreading. Men like Thorvaldur have come to preach the Word, and many of those who sail abroad – great men who seek favour in the courts of distant kings – return baptised, wearing crosses around their necks. All across the old lands, in Norway and Sweden, they kneel before the White Christ. It has only been here that men have clung to the old faith, cowards lurking beside a dying fire. We have become a people divided by the gods. And on this island, for the first time, you have brought me whispers of war.
Thorvaldur longed for such a war, between one god and another. But that is not our way. With men preparing for war, with distant kings contemplating an invasion of our island, you tell me that our people gathered at the Althing and decided what must be done.
A gathering in a field, a raising of the hands, arguments spoken and heard. You tell me that the Lawspeaker retreated to his tent, covered his face with his cloak and thought to himself for a full day and a night. At last the Lawspeaker made his decision. Thus are the old gods forsaken and the true God followed. In other lands the God has been brought at the point of a sword, the whim of a tyrant, with bribery in gold and threats to the soul. But not here. Not in our country. I have never been so proud of our people as I am now.
And yet I know we must leave.
You know that I love our God. I have taught you His stories, taught you His words. Yet I know He will destroy this place. This fragile land where there are no kings. This one God will teach us to love a single ruler. We will long for a man to kneel to, not just a God. We will have a king soon. We will be a country like any other. The dream of a free land will be gone, and I will not stay and watch it happen.
Where shall we go, you ask? Far from this place. But not to the old lands. We go to the new.
You have heard of Greenland. That joke of a name, to attract foolish settlers to an unlivable country. That is not the place for you. It will be destroyed in plague or famine, or it will become another land beneath a king. We must go farther than that, to a place untouched.
There is another land out to the west, beyond that sea we thought boundless. I have heard the stories that the sailors have brought back: storm-tossed, the sparks of Thor raining down around them, they have seen a new land to the west. Vinland, they call it. A land with forests that stretch on for days. A place where the sun is still high in winter. A country with land enough for every man.
I have sought to live as a landless man and saw how it made me a slave. So you must go to a place where a man’s land has no value, where there is space enough for all. You must go there, to begin a new life, a new world. Perhaps there we shall get it right.
Yes, my child, you will go there. But there is one last thing you must do for me. I did not raise you to flee from what you owe, and you have a debt to settle before your journey.
*
Come out, with me. Come out into the sun. Bring your sword with you, that gift I gave to you when you became a man. Gunnar’s sword. Kari’s sword. The sword that killed your father.
We come out blinking into the sun, our eyes aching from the dark. And you do not see it at first. You look out towards the sea, back to the pale hills behind us, and you wonder what it is I have to show you. Look closer. Look there, upon the ground.
You see now there, don’t you? An oxhide that I have laid upon the ground. The corners marked with hazel wands. It is not on an island, as it should be, but you know it for what it is. The ground of a holmgang. The place where men duel.
A wolf’s smile upon your face, and you look around once more. You ask who it is who has wronged us, who it is you must fight. You are eager to duel, as you should be, and will let no insult go answered. But already I see the smile fading, for I think you begin to understand.
*
We are the last links of the feud, you and I. None of Gunnar’s people remain except for me. Björn and their kin are all gone except for you. And so it falls to you. The duty of revenge. The greatest gift of all.
I killed your father and let his grave go unmarked. I killed what remained of your kin. I drove your mother into madness, and somewhere she lies unburied. I stole you from your people.
Be quiet, do not speak. You will tell me that you forgive me, but that is of no consequence. It is to our God that I make restitution. Against His forgiveness, what does yours matter to me?
Now, take up that sword. Take a shield and step on to the hide with me. And know that we will fight by the old law. The duel ends not with a drop of a man’s blood, but with all of it.
You tell me that you love me. And I love you, but that changes nothing. I cannot come with you to the new lands, for no ship will take a cripple, an outlaw such as I. What is left to me, when you have gone to the new lands? I see myself alone by the fire, weeping like a fool, for unnumbered days. The remainder of my life, and I shall spend it alone. Would you condemn me to that? Would you accept that life if it were offered to you? I think you would not.
Step forward now, one last step. For now we both stand upon the hide and we cannot move away: you shall be a coward if you do, and I know that you cannot bear the shame of that. We must fight, and do not think to go gently against me. For I love you, but I shall fight in earnest. I will kill you or you shall kill me. For it is better to see you dead than see you live as a coward.
It is the fate of poets that we are to die on the hide in a holmgang, our blood upon the leather, speaking the name of the one we love most. Give me the death that I long for. Give me the chance to speak that name. I have lived long enough.
It will not be Sigrid’s name. Or Gunnar’s, or Kari’s, or that of the White Christ. It will be your name, Sumardil, if I have strength for one last breath at the end. Listen for it. Listen for your name.
It is time. There are no words left.
Come. Let us begin.
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Acknowledgements
About Tim Leach
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Acknowledgements
This is a work of fiction, inspired by the world of the Icelandic Sagas. I have taken a fiction writer’s many liberties in the writing of this book, but have sought to remain true to the spirit of those strange, tragic, starkly beautiful stories. For those interested in reading further, I recommended Kormac’s Saga, Njal’s Saga, and Laxdaela Saga as possible starting points; I hope you enjoy them as much as I have.
A book is the work of many hands, eyes, and hearts. Enormous thanks are due to Nic Cheetham, Sophie Robinson, Jessie Price, Ian Pinder and the rest of the team over at Head of Zeus for all the care and love they’ve lavished on the book, and to my early readers – Claire, Sara, Ness, Sholeh, Petia, Thom, Gill and Michael – for their enthusiasm, support and critique.
This book is dedicated to my agent, Caroline Wood. We writers like to think that we’re in the business of making dreams come true, but she’s made my dream a reality, against tremendous odds. It’s been magical – thank you, Caroline.
About Tim Leach
Tim Leach is a graduate of the Warwick Writing Programme, where he now teaches as an Assistant Professor. His first novel, The Last King of Lydia, was shortlisted for the Dylan Thomas Prize.
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First published in the United Kingdom in 2018 by Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Tim Leach, 2018
The moral right of Tim Leach to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (E) 9781788544092
ISBN (HB) 9781788544108
ISBN (XTPB) 9781788544115
ISBN (PB) 9781788544122
Author Photo: Emma Leach
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