The Changing Wind

by Don Coldsmith

  Nils had once met the young Ericsson, a bombastic, hard-driving youth of about his own age. It was easy to see, in the enthusiastic demeanor of Thorwald Ericsson, the influence of the old Viking blood that coursed in his veins. It was said, Nils recalled, that Thorwald was much like his father, the irrepressible Eric the Red. Perhaps even old Thorwald, Eric’s father, who had fled to Iceland to escape prosecution for murder.

  Yes, there was little doubt that a generation or two ago, young Thorwald Ericsson would have been in the forefront of those who went a-viking, raiding and pillaging mercilessly along the coast and into the Isles.

  It was exciting to hear Helge’s stories of the sea, to see his eyes glitter in the light of the smoky oil lamp on the table.

  “Thorwald is somewhere over there now,” Helge had told him.

  “Where? Vinland?”

  “Yes!”

  Landsverk’s face was ruddy with excitement and wine as he described the deep fjords and clean cold water of the coasts. Nils was confused.

  “You have been there?” he asked.

  “No, no. Only as far as Greenland. But, Nils, Vinland is better. I have talked to Thorwald. There are bold headlands, sheltered harbors, all just waiting for settlement.”

  “There are no people there?”

  “No. None civilized. A few Skraelings.”

  “Skraelings?”

  “Yes. Primitives. Barbarians. They are no problem against civilized weapons.”

  Nils ignored the faint warning deep in his consciousness, the hint that his friend was actually anticipating such an opportunity for combat. He was excited at the possibilities, too.

  He became more so as Helge unfolded the plan, an exploring expedition paid for by Helge’s father. It was hoped to establish trade. In his semi-inebriated condition, it did not occur to Nils that the goal of trade was moderately incompatible with that of invasion and combat, leading to colonization.

  After much further drinking of wine and recalling of childhood memories, Nils had accepted Landsverk’s offer to command the Snowbird. He did protest, though not too strenuously, that he was not skilled in navigation, It was no matter, Helge had insisted; “I will be navigating anyway, and you will have a skilled crew.”

  They had embarked from Stadt in late May. Now, here he was, far from Norway, gaining experience as sailor and navigator, setting forth on another leg of their journey. And he had found it good.

  Thus far, they had made brief stops at Iceland and again on the southern tip of Greenland, where a vigorous colony nourished. Each time, the sailors spent a few days recovering from the pitching roll of the Atlantic and loading supplies for the next leg of the journey. To be light and fast, yet sturdy, a ship had little room for supplies and cargo. The crew was cramped for space. Even the larger ships, such as these two, carried little beyond necessities and a few items for trading.

  Water, of course, was one of the biggest problems on a long sea voyage. Casks were stowed amidships and refilled at every opportunity.

  Across the waves, Landsverk waved and pointed ahead. A waterspout spewed into the air as a whale breached the surface and rolled. The creature was close enough for the men to see the great eye, fixed for a moment on the intruders before the monster slipped beneath the sea again.

  They had seen whales before, east of Greenland. It was a frightening thing, a feeling of vulnerability, to watch the creatures calmly approach. There had been a moment of terror while the mind tried to comprehend the enormity of the creatures. Longer than the ship, they could have destroyed the entire expedition with a flick of the tail. It was only slight consolation to recall that there had never been an instance of one of these giants attacking a ship.

  The shiny gray bulk slipped out of sight and they were alone on the sea again. Svenson, the steersman, had relinquished his task to a relief man and was making his way forward.

  “You see him?” Nils asked.

  “Aye, a big one!” Svenson grinned.

  “It always surprises me. I’m never expecting it.”

  “Right. Ye never get used to it.”

  The men stood at the prow, studying the sea, but the whale did not reappear. Svenson was pulling his cloak around him more snugly.

  “By the hammer of Thor, there’s a bite to the wind. It will be a cold one tonight.”

  Nils nodded, amused. Svenson wore a crucifix around his neck, symbol of his conversion. Still, in matters like the sea and the weather, he swore on the names of the old gods. Such habits die hard.

  “Sven,” he asked, “you have been to Vinland before?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “How many days yet?”

  The old sailor chuckled.

  “You grow impatient, lad.”

  He looked at the sky, the horizon, and the gently nodding sea, as if for a sign.

  “Maybe two, three days.”

  Nils nodded again.

  “There is a harbor?”

  “Yes. It is much like the coast at home. Fjords, deep inlets. They were building a dock when I was there.”

  “That is good.”

  “Yes. It will be much easier.”

  Abruptly, Svenson turned and made his way back to the stem to take the steering oar again. Only for a short while was he ever willing to relinquish the responsibility. That, Nils supposed, was one of the qualities that made Sven a good steersman.

  Nils shivered a little against the wind, and pulled his wolf-skin cloak up around his ears. Even the setting sun looked cold and watery. Svenson was right. This would be a chill night.

  2

  The colony nestled in a meadow that sloped down to the sea on the north shore. Nils wondered at the exposed location, but soon realized its advantages. The little harbor opened on a deep channel, with plenty of room for maneuvering. In the distance to the north lay a massive headland, tall enough, it appeared, to provide some degree of shelter from the winter’s blasts.

  The land mass where the colony stood stretched southward as far as eye could see, green with vegetation during this summer season. There were trees and meadows and rolling hills, much more hospitable in appearance than the barren slopes of Iceland, or even Greenland.

  Of course, they were now farther south. For the past several days, it had been apparent that the Polestar was lower in the sky at night than in the more northern regions. Svenson had demonstrated an old sailor’s method of reckoning position. He lay on his back on the deck with his head pointing south, knees raised and feet near his rump. Then he placed a fist on his right knee with the thumb sticking straight up.

  “See?” he invited. “When ye’re this far south, the Polestar is not far from the thumb. Farther north, she’s farther away, higher in the sky.”

  It was reasonable, and so simple that Nils was surprised that he had never heard of this trick. Of course, he had never had to reckon his position north and south to any extent. Most of his sailing experience had been along the coast, seldom out of sight of land.

  More important in the open sea was identification of direction, rather than position. In clear weather it was no problem, by the position of the sun. At noon a shadow, cast by a stick, pointed due north. At night, the Polestar provided orientation. It was more difficult in overcast weather, especially in the absence of prevailing wind. Then the whole world became a faceless, unfeeling gray. Nils could well remember the first time he had felt the terror of the hafvilla, the panicky feel of being lost at sea. It was all he could do to maintain his composure until the sky cleared enough for him to see the red stripe of the sunset far to the west along the horizon.

  On this expedition, however, they had been relatively free of such difficulty. The weather had been cooperative, and except for a chilly night or two, it had been a comfortable crossing. Nils was gaining confidence, aided by the sage advice of Svenson, who had taken a liking to the young shipmaster.

  They steered into the channel from the northeast under full sail, tacked toward the distant harbor, and then furled the
sails to approach the dock with the oars.

  Three cargo ships wallowed at anchor near the docks, potbellied knarrs, heavy and slow compared to the trim dragon ships. They reminded Nils of three fat sows nosing around a trough. He looked again with a seaman’s eye. They were well built, their massive holds designed to carry livestock and cargo amidships. Fore and aft there would be living quarters. Thorfinn Karlsefni had brought his settlers in these ships, some hundred and sixty men and women, to sink their roots into the soil that Leif Ericsson had called Vinland.

  At the dock rode a sleek ship with slender lines. It was a thrill to look at her, bright paint glistening in the sunlight. Men moved along her decks, performing the constant tasks required for the maintenance of an ocean-going ship. Nils turned to ask Svenson about her, but the old sailor anticipated his question.

  “Ericsson’s here,” he grunted.

  “Leif Ericsson?”

  It would be an honor to meet the famous explorer.

  “No, Thorwald. You know him?”

  “Not really. I met him once.”

  “A little crazy,” Svenson commented as he turned his attention to the steering oar.

  Crazy or not, Nils told himself, the man is exciting. The very thought of charting unknown coasts made his heart race, and sent a tingle up his spine to prickle the hairs at the back of his neck.

  Ahead of them, Norsemaiden completed her turn and headed for an area near the landing. Svenson heaved on his oar and Snowbird followed. People were coming down to the docks, to stand waving as the ships approached. The arrival of ships from home would be a major event for people in such isolation.

  Beyond the landing area, he could see the several buildings of the village of Straumfjord. Three of them appeared to be of the common Norse longhouse style, dwellings for a number of families each. These would be temporary, until the colony became better established, he knew. Then each couple would be drawing apart to build their own houses. He wondered in passing if living with fifty or more people in one house inhibited romance. He could hardly imagine making love with the knowledge that dozens of other couples were listening in the darkness. Of course, they would have the same problem.

  A familiar sound struck his ears, the ring of a smith’s hammer on an anvil. He spotted the smith’s forge, to one side of the settlement, by the occasional puff of smoke and sparks that rose when someone pumped the bellows. He wondered if they were mining iron here, or bringing it from home. Well, he would find out later.

  Sheep gazed on the meadow behind the village, in the care of a handful of young men. Nils noted that they seemed to be herding rather closely. Somewhat more than would be expected, he thought. He wondered if this was because of fear of attack, or threat of wild animals. He knew nothing of what sort of beasts might be found here. Wolves? Probably. Perhaps bears, even some type of the great cats reported elsewhere. Very little was actually known about this new land.

  Possibly, even, there was a threat from the natives. What had Helge called them? Skraelings, that was it. Helge had referred to them as barbarians. Further suggestive evidence was seen in a high palisade of poles that encircled the compound. Nils wondered how they compared to the natives in southern Europe, or in the islands of Britannia. Some of them could be quite formidable. Would there be different tribes, as the Scots seemed to have? Ah, well, that too could wait.

  Norsemaiden slid smoothly alongside the dock, her sails now furled. Men standing there caught thrown lines fore and aft, dallying expertly around the pilings that formed the support of the structure. There was a cheer from the shore as the ship settled to, rocking slightly and tugging gently at her tethers.

  Nils saw that there was no room for the Snowbird at the dock. He turned to call to the steersman, but once more Svenson anticipated him. A pull on the steering oar, and the ship responded eagerly with a slight change in direction. Nils had his doubts about this maneuver, but Sven had, after all, been here before. He should know… ah, yes, there on shore were pillars made of stones piled carefully to indicate the landing area. They must have used this stretch of shore before the dock was built.

  Knowing what was needed, Svenson altered his stroke and Snowbird curved forward, running at an angle toward the sandy beach. She turned, easing in parallel to the shore. There was a sliding sound, then a soft hiss as the underbelly of the hull gently brushed on the sandy bottom. The incessant rocking of the sea had ceased, and the heaving deck was still. Nils stood, still swaying. It would take a little while to regain his land legs.

  Nils jumped down and splashed ashore, helping drag the bowline, and ran up the beach to a piling to secure the ship. He looked back to check the Snowbird’s position. Yes, good, his eye quickly estimated. Secure now, but at high tide she’d be afloat. He dreaded this maneuver on a strange beach. A hidden rock, even a relatively small one, could disembowel the light dragon ship, ripping the thin shell of her belly from stem to stern. There had probably been no cause for concern. This landing had been used by Karlsefni’s ships since they arrived. The colonists would know every stone. Still, he was glad the mooring was over.

  People from the colony swarmed down to the beach, laughing, jostling, and shouting. Nils turned and waved to the crowd. Strange, the affinity of these people for adventure. He had thought of them as the adventurers, carving a colony out of the rugged wilderness. They, in turn, regarded him, as master of an exploring ship, a person of excitement and daring.

  Men waded into the surf to examine the lines of the Snowbird, and run hands along the planks of her sleek hull. There was something about a ship or boat that stirrred Norse blood. Maybe that was it. He remembered his grandfather, who had told him endless stories of the sea.

  As a small child, Nils had been fascinated by his grandfather’s stories. The old man had been well educated, and had contributed much to Nils’s general knowledge. His lifetime had spanned many changes. The new religion, the change from the old runic alphabet to the new… he had attempted to teach both to Nils… and the change in philosophy from Viking raiding and plunder to exploration, settlement, and trade. But most of all, his love of the sea came through to the eager ears of his young listener.

  “A man without a boat is a man in chains,” the old man had once said.

  Nils recalled his grandfather for a moment as he saw the light of excitement in the eyes of the men who affectionately caressed the flanks of the Snowbird.

  He was jolted back to reality by a pair of blue eyes. The girl was standing quietly on the beach, not running excitedly or shouting with the-others. She only stood and looked at him, coolly and confidently. She was tall and well formed, almost manly in appearance. There was a suggestion of motion, however, in the way she stood. It was like the energy one feels in a cat, waiting tensely to spring at any moment. The girl moved a step or two, out of the way of someone carrying a burden. Her willowy motion extended his impression of latent agility. He could visualize the lithe body, now concealed by the rough cloak that hung from her well-formed shoulders. Her hair, the color of ripe wheat, curled around her neck and fell across those shoulders in a shining sheaf.

  The strongest impression of all, however, was that of her spirit. It reached out to him, through the sky blue of those striking eyes. It was easy for him to believe, at least for the moment, that this woman had come to the beach for the sole purpose of welcoming him, Nils Thorsson.

  He pulled his gaze away, realizing that he had been ogling the girl. Thorsson, he told himself, you have been at sea too long.

  Still, he answered his own thought, the girl did not seem to object. Perhaps he would encounter her later.

  3

  There was a celebration that night, with feasting and revelry. The feasting was necessarily restrained because of the obvious shortage of supplies, but the spirit of merriment was apparent. A moderate quantity of wine was consumed, partly from the stores of the travelers. The wine that the colony had fermented from wild grapes harvested the first season was appreciated, even though young.
The newcomers pronounced it a success, and admired the musty, robust flavor of the native fruit, not quite like any European grapes.

  Dancing continued until far into the night. The women were eager to dance with the visitors, to entertain them royally, and sailors were not hesitant in their participation. Nils noted a few jealous stares from husbands. Even so, there was so little opportunity to stray, in the close confines of the colony, that there seemed to be little danger. Everyone was having a good time, dancing until physically exhausted, which would itself help to preclude any unacceptable trysts.

  Additionally, Nils was sure that such a colony would contain mostly, if not entirely, married couples. At least, if he planned it, he would declare it so. It would avoid much trouble. It seemed he had heard, back in Stadt, of two women who had returned with Leif Ericsson’s ship. Their husbands had been killed in a fight with the natives, as he recalled.

  He finished a dance with a toothsome redheaded wench, who then moved on to another partner. He sat on a bench, breathing hard, warm from the wine and the exertion, and sexually aroused from the fleeting touch of the girl’s soft body. His thoughts and his vision were a trifle blurred, dreamlike, when he saw the blue-eyed girl. She was whirling in the arms of one of the sailors, laughing and showing even white teeth. She tossed her head and the sheen of her hair in the flickering firelight was a glimpse of loveliness.

  His first thought was one of jealousy toward the man who held her. The next was that she must have a husband here in the colony, and close on the heels of that, resentment that anyone should share the bed of this beautiful creature. It was a strange emotion, that of resentment and jealousy toward a man he had never seen. To make matters even more confusing, that jealous feeling was over a woman he had never met, with whom he had never even spoken. Ridiculous, he told himself.