The Voyage of the Iron Dragon

by Robert Kroese

  The sounds of cargo being loaded ceased, and Osric lay curled up on his side, entombed by crates, long enough for his hands to go completely numb. At last a horse whinnied, and the cart creaked forward. For several hours he lay as the cart jerked and rattled over the rough ground, his arm throbbing underneath him and his head smacking against the hard wooden floor every time the wheels hit a root or boulder. When he’d been beaten nearly senseless and lost any hope of regaining feeling in his hands, the cart finally stopped. Crates were shoved aside, and he was dragged onto the ground. His hands and feet were untied, but the burlap hood was left in place. He was marched down another dock and onto another ship and thrown in the hold. He was so exhausted by this point that he fell asleep almost immediately. When he awoke, the ship was in motion. Men above him sang in Norse, and oars creaked in time.

  Famished and desperately thirsty, Osric was straining to get the sack off his head when someone opened the hatch. A firm hand gripped Osric around the throat, and he felt the cold blade of a knife against his neck. Before he could even cry out, the hood was pulled off his head. He stood for a moment, blinking dumbly in the dim light of the hold. The man who had freed him—a doughty, red-haired giant—had already sheathed his knife and was rummaging around in the ship’s provisions. Osric backed away into a corner of the hold as the man handed several barrels and a bag of meal to someone on the deck above. The red-haired man climbed onto the deck and closed the hatch again. Osric, alone and forgotten in the dark, was about to call out when the hatch opened again. A hand held out a bowl of porridge, which Osric grabbed greedily. The hand then produced a skin of water, which it dropped to the floor of the hold before letting the hatch shut again. This was the last food and water Osric would see for the day. He spent a cold, thirsty, uncomfortable night in the hold.

  The next day, he was pulled onto the deck. The sky was a pure blue, and the dazzling sun pierced his eyes. The sails had been unfurled, and the crew lounged lazily about the deck. Osric judged from the direction of the sun that they were heading northwest. There was no land—nor other ships—in sight.

  Osric did not recognize any of the men. Though similar to the one that he had boarded near the mine, this was a different ship, with a different crew. He wondered from what land these men hailed, or whether they even called any land home. They were Norsemen by birth, but he did not get the sense they owed fealty to any prince in Denmark or Norway. Whoever the mysterious owners of the mine were, they commanded loyalty among these men that transcended flag and fiefdom.

  The ship sailed four more days, carried by a strong wind out of the south. The coxswain of this ship, whose name was Eirik, using the same sorts of devices as Gustav had to navigate, ordered minute corrections with increasing frequency toward the end of the fourth day, and Osric gathered that they were nearing their destination. By this time, he was thoroughly disoriented, but they had sailed so far northward that he suspected they were heading for the island the Norsemen called Iceland. Iceland was well-known to the Church: monks seeking solitude had been fleeing to the desolate shores of Iceland for hundreds of years; it was only recently that the Norsemen had claimed the land as their own.

  Eirik spotted land shortly before sundown. Shortly thereafter, he came to speak to Osric in the prow of the ship. Osric got the feeling he was being tested. He wondered if Eirik would have him thrown overboard if he failed.

  “Where are you from, priest?” Eirik asked.

  “Portsmouth, originally,” Osric replied. “I have lived all over England, as well as briefly in Rome.”

  “Have you been to Rome recently?”

  “Not in the past seven years, no.”

  “Do you know where we are headed?”

  “I assume, from our bearing, that our destination is Iceland.”

  “Do you know what you will do when we get there?”

  “Ivar indicated that your people are in need of teachers.”

  “And what people are those?”

  “I do not know. The owners of the coal mine. The people who own this ship, and the one I boarded in Scotland.”

  “Who owns the ship that followed Jarvik from Scotland.”

  “I do not know anything about that ship.”

  “But you saw a ship following you from Scotland to Normandy, and some distance along the coast.”

  “I saw a ship. I do not know anything about it, except that it did not appear to be of the Norse type.”

  “You have seen ships like it?”

  “Many years ago, at a port in Venice.”

  “Not more recently than that?”

  “No.”

  “What did you see at the coal mine?”

  “I…do not understand what you mean.”

  “What did you see at the coal mine, priest? I will not ask a third time.”

  “I saw… a machine. A great machine that belched smoke and dug into the earth, doing the work of perhaps a hundred men.”

  “Who did you tell about the machine?”

  “No one.”

  “Who did you tell, priest?”

  “I told no one. The people I see are simple shepherds and fishermen. If I had spoken a word of what I’d seen, they would have judged me mad. Even now, I am not certain I am not.”

  “What of your brethren in the Church?”

  “The only priest I have seen in the past year is Brother Armund in Edinburgh. I try to make the journey to see him once a month for confession, but I have not seen him since May.”

  “You have not gone to confession for three months? Have you sinned during that time?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Are you a liar, priest?”

  “I have told lies in the past, God forgive me, but that is not the sin that troubles me at present.”

  “What sin troubles you?”

  “I fear that I have been poor witness for the gospel.”

  “What would happen to your soul if I were to throw you overboard?”

  “I prefer not to think about it. I would only ask, if that is your intention, that you give me a few minutes to plead for intercession.”

  Eirik laughed. “Rest easy, priest,” he said, pointing at a shadow on the horizon. “You see that?”

  “Is that land?” Osric asked.

  “It is indeed. You see those lights? That’s a place called Höfn. We’re almost home.” Without further comment, Eirik turned and made his way back to the stern. Osric, his hands trembling as the clutched the gunwale, breathed a sigh of relief.

  It was still twilight when the ship surged onto the sandy shore nearly two hours later. Men leapt over the gunwales, dragging the ship up the shore. Eirik and Osric were the last two men aboard. Staring over the prow of the ship, Osric saw the fires of a village in the distance. Eirik walked up beside him and clapped a hand on Osric’s shoulder. “Welcome home, priest.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  As O’Brien followed Chegaoo up the gently sloping path through the woods, the sounds of the river began to fade, and soon they could hear the knocking of axes against tree trunks. He caught glimpses of work crews through the woods, felling trees or removing limbs. The number of crews increased as they neared the lodge, and soon the impressive scope of the operation came apparent. Camp Orville was the Pleiades’ most impressive facility, outside of Svartalfheim. Its output was nearly double that of Camp Glenn, their other lumber mill, in northern Norway.

  The mill itself was a sprawling building attached to the guard tower overlooking the bridge, but the nexus of the operation was a 20,000 square foot lodge about a quarter mile farther from the river. That was—O’Brien hoped—where they were headed. The forests were crisscrossed by logging trails for hundreds of acres around, allowing logs to be transported to the mill. The trees blocked the sun and the sound of the river, making it impossible to determine which direction they were heading. O’Brien cursed himself for leaving their only compass with Fritjof. If Chegaoo was leading them into a trap, they wouldn’t know until it was too l
ate.

  Trusting his instinct that Chegaoo had only been trying to scare them, O’Brien tried to distract himself from his worries by focusing on the lumber activities. Most of the trees they were felling near the lodge were white pine, but O’Brien knew that there were groves of oak, maple and other hardwoods nearby. The pine was used mostly for shipbuilding and construction, the hardwoods for furniture and tools. Before being transported to the mill, the trees would be felled, cut to a manageable length, and then had their limbs sawed off. O’Brien noted that most of the workers appeared to be Indians, although the foremen were Norse. He had been unaware how thoroughly dependent on the native population the operation had become.

  They walked single-file, with Chegaoo and three other Mi’kmaq in the lead, followed by O’Brien, Havardr and the rest of the Norsemen. Three more Mi’kmaq brought up the rear; the rest of the Indians had remained on the shore. After they had walked about half a mile, Chegaoo barked an instruction, and then stepped off the path into the woods. The three men behind him did the same. O’Brien didn’t understand until he saw an Indian leading two mules toward them. He stepped aside and instructed the others to clear the path as well. The Indian stopped briefly to speak with Chegaoo, glancing with interest toward the newcomers. Chegaoo responded and the two Indians laughed. Then the Indian guiding the mules continued down the path. O’Brien and the Norsemen watched as the animals dragged a pine log, some two feet in diameter, and thirty feet long, along the ground in front of them, finally disappearing around a bend. Chegaoo stepped onto the path again, continuing without a word toward their destination.

  At last the lodge came into view in a clearing up ahead, and O’Brien breathed a sigh of relief. They made their way across the clearing and were greeted at the door of the lodge by Aengus, who must have been alerted to their arrival by someone in the guard tower.

  “O’Brien, my old friend!” Aengus cried, and wrapped his arms around him. Aengus’s hair had grown wispier and the lines on his face deeper, but otherwise he looked much the same as he had the day he departed from Höfn thirteen years earlier.

  “Good to see you again, Aengus. It’s been far too long. Your voyage went well? Where is the rest of your crew?”

  “We left some men at the boat,” O’Brien said, with a glance at Chegaoo, who stood stolidly nearby.

  “What? Why?”

  “I wasn’t certain we were among friends,” O’Brien said, in Norse. “I’m still not.”

  “Nonsense,” Aengus said, in Frankish. “Years of skulking around in Europe have made you paranoid.” He turned to Chegaoo and spoke a few brief sentences. Chegaoo, still impassive, nodded curtly.

  “I’ve told Chegaoo to have his men unload your ship. You brought supplies, yes?”

  “Food, medicine, clothing, trading goods, the usual stuff. The crew can unload.”

  “Your crew must be exhausted. Send one man back down to tell them to come to the lodge. I’m having rooms prepared for them. Quarters will be close, but each man will have his own cot.”

  “You trust this man?” O’Brien asked in Norse. “They fired arrows at our ship.”

  “We have an arrangement with the Mi’kmaq,” Aengus said. “They provide security on the river. Sometimes they get… overly enthusiastic. I will speak with him.”

  O’Brien nodded, not entirely convinced. “Bjorn, go with Chegaoo back to Sjávarbotn. Tell the others to take their belongings and come to the lodge. Chegaoo’s men will unload the rest of the cargo. Leave the rig, of course.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bjorn said.

  Aengus spoke a few more words to Chegaoo and the Indian turned and walked back toward the path, Bjorn and the other Indians following.

  “Come in,” Aengus said. “I want to hear all about your voyage and everything happening across the Atlantic!”

  *****

  O’Brien was amazed at the stately grandeur of the lodge. Aengus, clearly proud of the place, gave the men a tour and then directed them to their rooms. The crew would be sharing two large rooms that had been furnished with cots; O’Brien would have his own quarters next to Aengus’s. O’Brien released the crew to rest and he went with Aengus to the latter’s quarters to brief him on the voyage and his mission in North America.

  O’Brien sank into a chair as Aengus walked across the room and opened a cabinet. “Wine?” Aengus asked, holding up a bottle for O’Brien to see. “It’s not terribly good, I’m afraid. I’ve only produced two batches so far: a bad red and a slightly less bad red. I took the liberty of having Luntook bring up a bottle of the slightly less bad.”

  “That sounds fine,” O’Brien said. “We don’t get much wine at Svartalfheim.”

  “Really?” said Aengus, producing two glasses from a cupboard. “But don’t you have trade agreements with Hrolf?”

  “It hasn’t been a priority.”

  “Then I take it Chegaoo’s men won’t be delivering any wine from Sjávarbotn’s hold?” Aengus poured the wine and handed a glass to O’Brien.

  “You’ll have to settle for beer,” O’Brien said, taking the glass. “Aengus, what are you doing here?”

  Aengus’s sniffed his glass and frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you’re making wine now? Is that the best use of your resources?”

  “Manpower isn’t a problem. The Mi’kmaq are quite willing to work in exchange for dyes, hatchets and pottery. You did bring those, yes? I asked for double the amount of dye they brought last time.” He took a swig of the wine and grimaced.

  “We only had space for a minimal shipment. Is it wise to be so dependent on the natives?”

  Aengus took a seat in another chair, across from O’Brien. “Why are you here, O’Brien? Are you planning to take over Camp Orville? Because you’re welcome to the job, if so.”

  O’Brien shook his head. “This is just a stopover on my way farther south.”

  Aengus raised an eyebrow. “How far south?”

  “The gulf coast of Florida. We’re drilling for oil.”

  “You’re joking. Rocket fuel?”

  “Eventually. For now, we need a replacement for coal. We’ve had problems with the supply being interrupted.” O’Brien took a sip of the wine. Aengus was right: it wasn’t good. Still, it was a welcome change from the weak ale he’d been drinking for three weeks.

  “And you think you’ll have better luck shipping oil across the Atlantic?”

  “Not as many prying eyes over here,” O’Brien said. “And shipping west-to-east, following the prevailing winds, is straightforward, as you know. Once the well is operational, you’ll send your ships south first, where they’ll pick up a load of oil, which they’ll bring to Höfn.”

  Aengus shrugged. “Sounds crazy to me, but that’s nothing new. What do you need from me?”

  “Besides lumber for the rig? Four mules, for starters. And probably a karve to carry them. It’s going to be close quarters on Sjávarbotn otherwise.”

  Aengus nodded. “I can provide you mules and a ship. You’ll need a crew as well.”

  “If you can spare the men.”

  “Whatever you need, O’Brien. And Orville and Wilbur will be ready to supply you with ships when you need them.”

  “Will they?” O’Brien asked. “You’ve got a huge footprint here, Aengus. One might think you’re tempting fate.”

  “You mean tempting LOKI,” Aengus said. “You’re worried the god of mischief is going to take notice of our little operation.”

  “The thought had occurred to me.”

  Aengus shrugged, swallowing another gulp of wine. “No evidence of a pre-Columbian lumber industry was ever discovered in Nova Scotia, which means, ipso facto, we got away with it. If LOKI hasn’t stopped us yet, I doubt he’ll bother.”

  “Another way to look at it is that at some point your operation here is going to be so thoroughly obliterated that six hundred years later, there was no trace of it.”

  “What do you want from me, O’Brien?” Aengus asked. “You asked
for lumber and ships. I deliver them.”

  “You do, and we are grateful. But Pleiades is not about amassing lumber and ships. If the Cho-ta’an find us…”

  “The Cho-ta’an!” Aengus exclaimed. “We’ve seen no sign of them, even in Europe, for nearly twenty years! If any are still alive, they are the least of our worries. I have read every account of European contact with Native Americans in your library. There are a thousand ways to fail on this continent, O’Brien, and none of them arise from having too many buildings or too many men in one’s employ. I understand that you are accustomed to sneaking around in Scotland and Normandy, trying not to be noticed by the kings of Europe, but the rules are different here. Do you think I don’t know Chegaoo is a threat? Of course he’s a threat! Every native—nay, every man in Nova Scotia—is a threat. I can spend my days worrying about the loyalty of every person within the area of influence of this operation, or I can proceed boldly, felling trees, building ships, and yes, making wine, as if not even the gods can stop me. There is no room for half-measures in this land, O’Brien.”