The Saga of Colm the Slave

by Mike Culpepper

  After Colm and Gwyneth married, he thought they were as happy as anyone could be. He looked into her face and saw the light quicken in her eye and his heart filled in his breast. Colm’s farm did well and his flock grew large. With Bjorn’s consent, old Edgar spent most of his time at the Trollfarm when he wasn’t at the shieling. He made himself useful in many ways. Gwyneth worked as hard as any woman ever, pulling a little extra wool from the sheep when she could manage, and combing the goats for hair. But she never tried to stretch the wool by spinning in the goat-hair; she did not want her work to be thought of as the second-rate product of an ex-slave. Instead, Colm twisted the hair into long cords. He traded a dead lamb and some hay for a few long pieces of driftwood and fashioned cord and wood into a loom for Gwyneth. He made it a little wider than usual so that her weaving would be that much more valuable than that of other women.

  Colm worked to make the Trollfarm longhall more liveable, though he was unable to do much about the leaks where the collapsed roof had been repaired. He cut a door through the turf wall at the other end of the hall and added a stove-room, smaller and lower-roofed than the rest of the house. He dug a small pit in the floor and lined it with slabs of soapstone that jutted well above the floor and radiated heat from the fire inside. The room was warm and cosy in the winter, a good place for people to sit and chat. Gwyneth’s thallur, her woman’s platform, took up one end of the room. Gwyneth’s new loom stood there and was always full of her weaving.

  One day when Edgar was up with the sheep in pasture, Colm came back to the farm and saw Gwyneth fulling wool. She had her skirts hoisted well above her knees and was treading the fleece in a bucket of urine so strong it made Colm’s eyes water to look at it, but there was something… Gwyneth raised her head as he approached and her eyes half-closed as she read his expression. He lifted her from the bucket and had her there on the ground, her reeking legs wrapped around him.

  And that was the one that took hold. Gwyneth soon was pregnant. They had their private jokes then, about the way she conceived, and private names for the one to be born that made them laugh, though they never hinted of them to anyone else for fear their child would have to bear a mocking by-name.

  The baby was a boy and they named it for Gwyneth’s father, Gareth, knowing that the Norse would make that Geirrid. He was a fine big boy and Gwyneth doted on him, proud and laughing as she raised him from her lap, happy beyond measure at having him. And then Colm, too, felt a happiness that he had never hoped to know, not since he was a child and seized by raiders and taken into slavery. His joy was absolute. Colm and Gwyneth now were happy and there were no serious events in the district, so the community was happy as well. In happy times, nothing happens. This happiness lasted about three years.

  One summer, a year after he finished paying off Thorolf, Colm hung about the Trollfarm. He delayed going out to the hay field and pretended to find chores to do so that he could watch Geirrid. The boy was outside, chasing sunbeams and drifting seed-wool and other things only he could see. He toddled about the farmyard, falling on the muddy ground and making his parents laugh, but not too loud, not enough to hurt his feelings.

  Bjorn rode up with his son, Gudbrand. Gudbrand was about two years older than Geirrid. They made their greetings and Gwyneth offered food and drink but Bjorn waved it off. “After,” he said. “Now I need to speak with Colm.” He was bursting with news and Colm prepared to hear some stupendous gossip or other but Bjorn surprised him completely, “I want you to foster Gudbrand.”

  This was a tremendous offer. If Colm took Gudbrand as his foster son, then he would become part of Bjorn’s kin. If anyone were to harm Colm or his family, Bjorn would seek vengeance for him. Colm pulled his mouth shut and began to speak but caught a glimpse of Gudbrand shoving Gerrid. Geirrid fell on his bottom, looking up in amazement at the older boy. “Ha!” laughed Bjorn, “What a rascal! Look at him, thick as a tree! What a man you will make of him, Colm!”

  And Colm turned from Gwyneth’s stricken face to Bjorn, “I will do my best. He seems a worthy lad.” There was nothing else he could do but agree to Bjorn’s proposal. Nor did either parent run to help Geirrid.

  So Gudbrand moved to Colm’s farm where he spent most of the year. Colm took the boys fishing and it was Gudbrand who always claimed the largest salmon, whether he had caught it or not. They snared ducks but Gudbrand could not catch a one, so he proclaimed this a stupid game, and no more snares were set. They went out on chores together, but Colm and Geirrid raked, while Gudbrand napped in the hay. When there was an extra piece of meat, it went into Gudbrand’s mouth, no matter that Geirrid looked hungry. Still, Colm thought his son lean and beautiful and Gudbrand squat and ugly, though he never voiced this thought, not even to Gwyneth. He hoped, with time, that Gudbrand might take Geirrid under his wing and be a brother to him, but Gudbrand made it clear that he thought himself better than the son of a slave and expected everyone else to recognize it, too. Geirrid disliked Gudbrand but had to accept him. He was part of the family.

  The boys often played by a pool below the falls. Geirrid skipped a rock across the pool. "Four!" he shouted.

  "That's not so many," said Gudbrand. He threw a stone, but it only skipped twice. "That was a poor stone," he said, "We have better stones on my father's farm."

  Geirrid said nothing, but chose another stone to throw.

  "My father is very rich, you know," said Gudbrand,

  "Yes," agreed Geirrid, "He has many sheep."

  "Sheep! Huh! Who cares about sheep. Father has many slaves."

  Geirrid threw a stone but it only skipped once. He said nothing.

  "Yes," said Gudbrand, "Slaves and land, that's wealth. Some have only one farm. My father owns three." Actually, Bjorn owned two farms and rented another small holding from a widow. He did this as a kindness since she could not work the land herself and had not the wealth to hire farmhands. Eventually, people thought, she would probably re-marry.

  Geirrid carefully chose a stone and whipped it sidearm across the pond."Twelve!" said Geirrid, "It skipped twelve times!"

  "Huh," said Gudbrand, "I don't think so."

  "It was twelve! I counted."

  Gudbrand shrugged. "You always exaggerate. Tell me again, how many men has your father killed?"

  Geirrid looked down, glowering. He hated for Gudbrand to talk like this. Colm seldom spoke of his killings and Geirrid understood that they were not actions his father was especially proud of, though he himself was thrilled to think of them. Who called himself a man who had not killed another man? Now he shrugged, "I don't know."

  "Oh?" said Gudbrand. "It was five, wasn't it? Or maybe twelve?"

  "It was four, as you know very well." Geirrid didn't count the man his father had killed while raiding, that would only set off Gudbrand the more, since Bjorn had killed no one on that voyage.

  "So I am told. Yes."

  "Your father has killed his share," said Geirrid. "One of those murderous twins and he was there when they killed those two witches."

  "But that's only three! And your father has four!" Gudbrand sat back and Geirrid bent forward, waiting for the words that he knew would follow. "At least," said Gudbrand, "At least my father isn't a slave." And Geirrid had nothing to say to that.He lashed another stone at the water, but it didn't skip at all.

  One day, when Geirrid was nine and Gudbrand almost eleven, the two went off up the mountain to where old Edgar watched the flock. Colm held back at the farm for a little while, doing this and that. He was surprised to look up and see Geirrid returning alone. Then he noticed the spots of blood on Geirrid’s sleeve. “Where’s Gudbrand?” he asked.

  Geirrid looked away and down for a moment and Colm knew, as a parent knows, that his child was about to lie to him. “I went to the falls. He walked on up the path to the meadow.”

  “I see,” said Colm quietly. His heart froze in his breast. “Well, I better go on up that way. Oh, and Geirrid?” He spoke off-handedly. “Better change that shirt.”
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  A stream crossed Colm’s farm. The path followed the stream for a ways, then forked. One fork turned up the mountainside to the shieling, the other went on to the waterfall and pool below that fed the stream. As Colm approached the fork he saw a huddled mass in the stream and was seized by fear.

  He pulled Gudbrand’s body up out of the water. Blood streamed from a great dent in his skull. The boy’s purse still hung from his belt and a gold ornament dangled from his neck. Colm laid his body on the grass. Gudbrand’s right hand was closed tight into a fist. Colm prized it open and there was a carved bone charm on a string. It was Geirrid’s. Gwyneth had traded for it from a woman of knowledge who said the runes would protect her son.

  Colm looked about and spotted a stone, about the size of a boy’s fist, all stained with blood. He rocked back on his heels and thought about what to do.

  People gathered around the body. Bjorn stood dumbstruck, his face drained of blood. Gwyneth, too, was pale. Geirrid stood beside her. Colm saw that he had on a clean shirt. He hoped Gwyneth had the sense to destroy the other one. He slipped the bone charm into Geirrid’s hand. “I found it up by the falls,” he said, “Where you dropped it.”

  Geirrid started and looked up at him in surprise, but Colm paid no attention to his son. He dropped to his knees beside Gudbrand’s corpse and tried to work up some tears. Tears dropping on Gudbrand’s face to match the drops of stream water beaded there – that was poetry, the kind of thing that would make a story people would recite about a grieving man and his murdered foster son.

  Then Colm raised his grieving face and cast his wild eyes about. Suddenly he fixed his gaze on a certain point. Slowly he rose, always staring straight at the same place. He made his way along to it, then reached down and grabbed up the bloody stone where it lay next to the path going up to the shieling.

  Colm held the stone a moment, studying it, breathing hard, waiting for the moment. Then he cast it down and let out a great wordless cry. He ran up the path, up the mountainside. Behind him, the crowd gathered their wits and ran after.

  Colm ran hard until he reached the flock. Old Edgar, sitting on a rock, gave him a puzzled glance. Colm didn’t pause but ran into the stone shelter where Edgar slept. He grabbed at the old man’s bedding, dry grass and a single cloak, then began scattering his few belongings: his cup, his spoon, a strip of scavenged leather. Others were in the shelter now. They tore the bed apart and one yelled in triumph as he held aloft Gudbrand’s purse. Another snatched up the gold charm necklace. They ran out to show Bjorn and Colm slowly followed.

  Edgar’s expression shifted from bewilderment to saddened understanding. Colm wanted to hate him then for not fighting his fate. It would be easier if he could hate him. But Edgar knew there was nothing he could do to help himself. Best for him to gather what dignity he could.

  Bjorn screamed at the sight of his son’s belongings. He charged forward and grabbed Edgar around the waist and lifted the thin old man from the earth. Then he threw him off the cliff.

  Edgar never cried out as he fell to his death. Colm was glad of that for he knew such a sound would forever haunt his dreams if he heard it. Silently, he tried to say a prayer for the old man’s soul. He thought that was what he should do, but his memory of that lost religion was vague and he could find no words.

  Colm and Gwyneth never spoke of this matter just as they did not talk of the men Gwyneth had killed. There were slaves working at the Trollfarm now and sometimes free men hired on for a time. There were always people about and Colm did not want anyone to overhear. Once, when they were alone and Edgar’s name came up, Colm felt his eyes fill and stretched out his hands. “I couldn’t think of anything else...”

  “Hush,” said Gwyneth. “I know. There was nothing else to do.” She took his hands in her own and put her face next to his. “We do what we must. This was for Geirrid.” Then a serving girl walked in and Gwyneth pulled away from him.

  The servant smiled to herself as she busied about her tasks. She thought she had caught her master and mistress in an intimate moment. Having it off in the daytime! she thought. Well, everyone knew they were very fond of one another.

  8.Bjorn’s Sadness

  Thick white clouds boiled up from behind the point of land across the bay. The sky was wonderfully blue, shading from robin’s egg, where it met the sea, to a much deeper ultramarine at heaven’s peak. The sea was the same deep blue as the highest sky and was unmarked by wind or waves. Seabirds flecked the sky as if tiny specks of the dark rocky shore in the distance were flying up like thistledown. Colm’s chest filled and he felt like singing, though that was something he had never learned to do. He turned to Bjorn, “Look! How beautiful!”

  Bjorn sat slumped over his knees, staring down. “Colm,” he said, “When you look down from a place like this, do you ever feel like jumping?”

  Colm’s blood ran cold and all beauty left his thoughts. They were sitting on the edge of the cliffs, a long way above the water. Below were rocks that would crush a falling man before the waves swept him out to be eaten by sea creatures. “Never!” said Colm. He drew back from the brink a little. “I never feel that way, ever.” He thought of Edgar who Bjorn had thrown from the cliffs a few hundred yards from where they sat. He thought of slaves sacrificed by being thrown from the cliffs. He thought of Edgar...

  “You are a blithe man,” said Bjorn. “You have glad thoughts.”

  “What thoughts could not be glad on a day like today?” Colm resolved to be cheerful, though he felt Bjorn’s dark mood begin to cloud about him. “It is a beautiful day. The grass is green. The sheep are all well. We have good women in our houses. What is there not to be glad about?”

  Bjorn shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “No, tell me, what’s wrong?”

  Bjorn dropped his face in his hands. After a moment he said, “It’s all pointless. We live, we die. What does it matter?”

  Colm was stumped. “What matters is the joy we find in every breath we take!” Bjorn did not respond but sat with his face in his hands. Colm wanted to say something about the joy of children, but he didn’t want to remind Bjorn of his son’s death, nor did he feel much joy at his own role in that event. The problem with talking to Bjorn was that his depression spread and attached itself to you, tainting your own pleasure. Colm said, “Let’s go drink some beer!”

  “I drank all last night.” Bjorn raised his head and Colm saw that his cheeks were wet with tears. “I drank all I could hold and found not a single smile in the barrel of beer.” He lapsed into silence again. Lately he might sit that way for hours, hardly moving, never speaking.

  Colm rose to his feet. “Well, you come watch me drink, then. Perhaps I’ll get drunk and fall on my face and that will give you something to smile about.”

  Bjorn rose slowly and grabbed Colm by the shoulders. “You are a good friend, Colm, the best any man could ask for.” And fresh tears started in his eyes.

  Colm embraced the weeping man and wondered if he really was Bjorn’s friend. And, deep down, he felt a thought rising that, perhaps, life was indeed pointless. He looked back out over the water into the wonderfully blue sky and tried to rediscover the gladness that had filled his heart before. But Colm had his own store of dark thoughts that sometimes spilled into his feeling.

  He never spoke of Gudbrand's murder. A few times either Colm or Gwyneth alluded to the event around Geirrid, but the boy only returned a puzzled stare as though he knew nothing whatever about his foster-brother's death. And perhaps that was for the best, both parents thought. Let this thing vanish from memory. But it remained, another secret, another burden shared, another corpse -- Hastein, Gunnlaug, Grim, Gudbrand, the berserk that everyone believed Colm had killed rather than Gwyneth, the old Frisian that Colm never spoke of, and, worst of all, Edgar. Colm's life was raised on a heap of dead men, dead men and lies. People praised him for killing the berserk, Grim, and Gunnlaug, but all the rest were never to be mentioned. But they were there, always, b
urdening Colm and Gwyneth both and, by silencing themselves about these deaths, the couple lost part of their ability to express their feelings. They closed up and sometimes found themselves not speaking of other things, good things, that it would be a joy to share with another person. They had less joy as they grew older.

  9.Thurid Three-Mothers

  Gwyneth had no more children after Geirrid. Several times she became pregnant only to deliver shapeless lumps or spots of blood. The other women examined the lumps and blood and discussed the matter at length. Some gave Gwyneth charms meant to insure healthy births and others had herbal prescriptions for her to try. Gwyneth made special offerings to various gods and to the elves and land-spirits. She recited certain prayers and formulae given her by wise women. She ate the organs of female animals and her own menstrual blood. Nothing worked.

  Gwyneth thought she was blighted. She loved Geirrid all the more because he was her only one and doted on him, then she feared that she was spoiling him through over-protection and worried that he was not growing into a worthy man. At times like these she avoided Geirrid and spoke harshly to him if he did the smallest thing wrong. Sometimes she treated Colm this way, too, for occasionally she thought that perhaps her not conceiving was his fault, his failing. And Colm, too, wondered if that might be the case. So both of them found blame from the other and fault in their own self. None of this was spoken openly between them. It lay there in their marriage like a great boulder in a field that the farmer ignores and works around.