Bjarni had caught Tarr watching him more than once. He had never disliked any man without good reason, but he disliked Tarr and did his best to ignore him.
On the fourth day, the fog lifted. Bjarni heard the birds first and then saw the coastland.
Olvir joined him portside. “Have we found it?”
Bjarni studied the land and shook his head. “It’s not Greenland. There are no glaciers, and look at the trees.” Rich forest stretched as far as they could see. Bjarni had heard every seafaring story and knew this was undiscovered land. Excitement filled him and he almost called out to change course and head for shore. He could claim this land—he could be as famous as Erik the Red. He could—but then he stopped. Going ashore carried too many risks, risks that increased the chances that he would never see Garnissa again. He would rather die than take them.
“We should go to shore,” Tarr said, coming to join them.
Bjarni shook his head firmly. “Then we’ll never beat winter to Greenland.” He could not let Tarr or any of the men know he was resisting the same urge.
“This could be our own Greenland,” Tarr countered, raising his voice so all could hear him. “Our own frontier. Unspoiled land with untold riches waiting.”
Bjarni turned to Tarr, standing his ground. “Then build your own boat, gather your own crew and return.” He met the gaze of all the men. “We go to Greenland.”
Tarr’s hand snaked out and grabbed Bjarni’s, turning it over to expose the vegvísir. “Does a woman wait for you there?” He sneered. “Is that why your manhood’s missing?”
Several men snickered. Bjarni jerked his hand away, refusing to be baited. “Olvir, man the tiller,” he ordered, and headed toward the bow. He took out his sunstone again and this time he located the sun behind the clouds. Testing the wind and seeing that they had gone too far west, he directed Olvir to steer a new course.
As he watched the new land retreat into the distance, doubt tugged at him. Was he doing the right thing? In any other circumstance he would have stopped. How he wanted to stop—but he couldn’t. He tried to assure himself that perhaps one day he would return with Garnissa beside him.
As if the three fates were tempting his steadfastness, the next morning Bjarni sighted more land with the same forested terrain. Once again Tarr tried to sway him. “The fates are smiling on us, Bjarni, don’t be a fool. These are undiscovered lands. We would be the first to settle upon them.”
Everyone gathered around, their excited eyes turned to shore as they listened to Tarr carry on. Again Bjarni resisted the urge, reminding himself that if he stopped now, they would never reach Greenland—he would never see Garnissa. The fates were not smiling upon them. This was a test. Who knew what this new frontier held or if they would have enough provisions to last the winter. Everything in his bones told him to reach Greenland before it became frozen in ice.
“We continue on,” Bjarni said, as he stared Tarr down.
Tarr went for his dagger, but Bjarni grabbed him first. The men jerked and twisted, each trying to pin the other to the deck. Tarr pulled one of his arms free and punched Bjarni full in the face. Bjarni staggered backward and hit the side of the boat, holding on to it.
The crew gave them a wide berth. No one would interrupt this fight, no matter how much they wanted to sway the outcome. A man’s battle was his own.
Bjarni wiped the blood from his nose and tried to clear his head. He took his best stance, relaxing his arms and legs. Tarr may have had more experience with a sword, but Bjarni was by far the superior wrestler. Using all his skill, he advanced quickly, feigned right and went for Tarr’s inside leg. Before he knew it, Bjarni had him in a headlock and was jabbing at Tarr’s face with his fist.
Tarr stood up with a roar, taking Bjarni with him, and threw him over his head. Bjarni hit the deck hard and he struggled to stand up. The two faced each other. Blood dripped from Tarr’s chin, and he bared his teeth like a feral beast from Hel’s den. The boat rocked and swayed, as if trying to knock both men off balance. Tarr staggered forward, but Bjarni remained sure-footed and confident, letting Tarr come at him. With perfect timing, Bjarni took Tarr’s body and twisted him into the air, using his own momentum to throw him down. He had practiced the move a hundred times in his youth, and Bjarni would not be beaten aboard his own ship.
Tarr strained with all his might, but Bjarni had him pinned. He humiliated Tarr further by ordering Hugi, his biggest and most loyal man, to take Tarr’s weapons.
“Throw them overboard,” Bjarni commanded.
Hugi saw the murderous gleam in Tarr’s eyes and hesitated.
“It’s either him or the weapons,” Bjarni said.
Hugi threw everything into the sea and motioned for the men to disband and leave the captain to deal with the usurper.
Bjarni kept Tarr pinned to the deck. “Now you maggot-ridden fool,” Bjarni said softly, “I can either tie you up until we reach Greenland or release you. But try to strike at me again and I will kill you.”
Seething, Tarr gave a curt nod of consent and Bjarni let him go.
Tarr stood up. “Bjarni Herjólfsson.” He spat his name on the ground. “You will regret this day and remember me when you die.”
That was the only thing Tarr said to him for the rest of the journey. Bjarni tried to shake off his sense of unease, but when he woke the next day, Garnissa’s vegvísir was missing from his belt. He knew Tarr had stolen it and prayed to Forseti, keeper of peace and justice, to guide him. To accuse Tarr would result in a fight to the death, and that was exactly what the raider wanted. So instead Bjarni went about his business with the ship, sailing the rest of the way without trouble until he reached his father’s port.
True to Erik the Red’s tale, the lands were rich for farming and nestled right among the glaciers. The settlers all gathered to greet them. Bjarni’s father, Herjólfr, stood beaming at the front.
“I expected you to come to us next summer, boy,” he called out laughing. “How did you find your way?”
“With some help,” Bjarni said, walking to greet him. His eyes scanned the crowd and easily found Garnissa. Her long tresses fluttered in the wind along with the colorful ribbons adorning her red and blue skirts. Her hair was pale gold and her eyes were a mixture of green and blue like the sea. They twinkled back at him—she knew he spoke of her.
Everyone crowded around the newcomers, enlivened by their arrival and ready to trade whatever wares the Gata had brought. The crew began to unload the cargo, and Bjarni followed his father to his newly constructed longhouse nestled on a nice patch of clearing. He wanted to soak in the bathhouse and change out of his filthy tunic before seeing Garnissa that evening.
Whenever a new ship came to port, it was tradition for the village to gather around the fire at dusk. They would often look for any reason to congregate and drink strong mead, tell stories and riddles, and sing the songs of old. Tonight was no different.
When Bjarni arrived at the bonfire, Ulfied, his burly shiphand, was in the midst of telling the story of the new lands they had sighted. Bjarni suffered many a joke for his decision not to stop. Soon drunken men were performing skits, pretending to be a daft captain unable to steer his ship. Bjarni took all of it with good humor, purposefully ignoring Tarr’s murderous gaze. He became grateful when one of the elders, Aldar, began to entertain the rowdy group with a poem.
“One day,” Aldar began, taking care to meet the eyes of every child sitting around the fire, “Odin’s ravens, Huginn and Muninn—seers of all thought and memory—swooped down and stole the threads from the three fates, the Norns. Now, we all know who the three fates were.”
A chorus of children yelled out their names, “Urd! Verdani! Skuld!”
“Yes!” Aldar hissed, sounding like a sorcerer himself. “Weavers of the past, present, and future. Now, because of the birds’ trickery the Norns could no longer spin the tapestry of life and time itself was in danger of being lost.”
Bjarni tried not to laugh at the wi
de-eyed children, enthralled by the old poet’s tale. Aldar had been a skald at Norway’s royal court as a young man and could launch into a perfectly metered story on a whim. Bjarni hoped that some day his own son would be able to sit at Aldar’s feet as he had and hear the poet conjure up worlds as real as their own.
Bjarni met Garnissa’s eyes, and she left the fire discreetly. He was not pleased to see Tarr’s gaze on her as well. It seemed that she had caught his attention. Bjarni locked eyes with him and followed Garnissa, marking her as his own. Tarr might have a grudge against Bjarni, but he would not let Tarr’s shadow fall on her.
Leaving quietly, Bjarni made his way to the river to meet her. Finally they were able to be alone.
“Welcome to Greenland, o fearless explorer of new lands,” she teased, yelping as Bjarni swooped her up in his arms.
“Would you have had me on another shore without you?” he asked, nuzzling her neck.
“Never,” she said, bringing his face back up to hers to kiss him fully. “I’m glad you didn’t stop.”
“My refusal has made me enemies,” Bjarni admitted.
“The raider,” she nodded. “He’s a mean one.”
“Promise me you’ll give him a wide berth until he’s gone after winter.”
“And will you be gone after winter too?” She held his hand.
“No. Greenland is my home now. With my wife and sons.”
“Sons?” She laughed, her eyes shining. “And where are these sons?”
Bjarni took her in his arms. “Waiting for us.”
Skuld, future’s fate, had shown him his path long ago. He was certain Garnissa felt it too, perhaps even more clearly.
“You’re looking quite pleased,” he teased her. “Have you been casting runes?”
She nodded happily, a little smile on her face.
“You’ve no need to. I am yours, Garnissa. Always.” He embraced her tightly.
They lay down on the grass, wrapped in each other’s arms, and listened to the merriment from the bonfire. The night was cool, signaling winter would soon arrive. Bjarni’s eyes grew heavy as the laughter lulled him to sleep.
He knew not how long he slept, his body a still stone upon the earth. The mist began to grow colder, sharper, like stinging nettles coming on the wind to find him, and he awoke.
He heard rustling and forced his eyes open to find a woman staring down at him. She had long, raven black hair that was woven into a crown of braids, a queen’s crown. Her arms and neck were adorned with heavy bands of gold encrusted with priceless gems. Bjarni could not speak. She was the goddess Freyja surely.
She bowed her head and acknowledged him. “You are dying, Bjarni Herjólfsson. As am I.”
* * *
Bjarni woke from the dream to a world of snow and ice. He was lying by the same river where he had asked Garnissa to marry him thirteen years ago, only now his body was naked, exposed mercilessly to the elements and shivering with cold. He knew he would be dead before nightfall, as he had planned.
The goddess who had visited him must have been a fylgje, a follower, who showed themselves in dreams at the time of a person’s death. He had felt a sense of kinship upon seeing her.
Where she had stood, a niviarsiaq flower now grew, struggling to bloom despite the frost. It made him think of Garnissa, and tears rolled from his eyes, freezing on his cheeks before they could fall.
She had been missing for months now—taken the same day their son had been murdered.
Bjarni had returned home from his fields to find Anssonno lying dead on the doorstep, his neck slit open like a hunted animal’s. Inside, the longhouse was marked with signs of a dreadful fight, and the weapons Bjarni kept hung by the door were strewn across the bloodied floor. Garnissa was gone.
The villagers had searched the area for days, but Bjarni knew she would not be found. The intruder had left behind something Bjarni had thought he would never see again—Garnissa’s vegvísir. His eyes had settled on it as he had cradled his son’s lifeless body. It was lying in the doorway on top of Garnissa’s hustrulinet, the lovely white headdress she wore over her hair. When Bjarni saw the vegvísir and headdress together, he knew that Tarr had taken her and that he would never see his wife again.
There had been talk of a raider’s ship being spotted up the coast two days before. It had been well over a decade since Bjarni had last seen Tarr, and he had thought him gone from his life. But Tarr must have remained intent on taking his revenge. And Bjarni could now see that Tarr had not plotted to kill him, but had waited to destroy everything he loved.
When Bjarni realized that Tarr was the one who had taken her, he—along with Garnissa’s brothers—had set out in the Gata, searching for any sign of the raider. But they had no success, and for months he had sunk into the darkest despair.
It was in such a state that his old friend, Leif Erikson, had found him. One of Erik the Red’s sons, Leif had been living for many years in Norway at the royal court. Bjarni had not seen him since their youth. Leif had finally come to Greenland to see the settlement for himself and bring priests of a new religion called Christianity that had been gaining popularity in the south. They were already busy building a chapel and visiting all the settlers to invite them to attend.
Leif had come to Bjarni’s longhouse to pay his respects. The loss of Garnissa and Anssonno were still the talk of the village.
“Would you not see one of the priests?” Leif had asked him gently. “Perhaps it would help bring you peace.”
Bjarni looked at him with eyes red from too many tears and too little sleep. “If I went to Odin, ruler of Alsgard, or to your new god, and asked them why Garnissa had been taken, why my son had been killed, I wager neither would have an answer.”
Leif did not press the point and nodded solemnly. They drank mead by the fire, and Bjarni turned the subject to Leif’s plans.
“I had not given it much thought beyond reaching Greenland,” Leif admitted.
“Have you need of a ship?” Bjarni asked.
Leif looked at him in question.
“I am to sell the Gata. I do not need it anymore.”
“But she is yours.”
“I would give her to you,” Bjarni said. “And rest easy knowing that she was out on the sea with you as her captain.”
Leif was speechless. A ship as fine as Bjarni’s would change everything.
“I have but one request,” Bjarni said.
“Anything.”
“Find the land I sighted. I will tell you the way.”
Leif nodded with excitement. Everyone had heard the stories of Bjarni’s discovery, but he had never told anyone how to find it. Bjarni had always hoped that one day he would give his son the Gata and let him explore the new land. How many times had he contemplated packing up their belongings and taking Garnissa and Anssonno there while they were still young? If he had, Tarr would never have known how to find them. Instead every dream died the day Anssonno had been murdered. Now Bjarni only wanted to follow his son to the grave.
“Take this.” He placed Garnissa’s vegvísir in Leif’s hand. “It was made by my wife.” He swallowed, forcing himself to continue. “It will help you find your way.”
“You do me a great honor, Bjarni Herjólfsson.” Leif bowed his head and pocketed the vegvísir. “I will find your land.” He swore a solemn oath and they finished their mead in silence.
* * *
As Bjarni lay on the snow, he wondered where Leif was. Their talk had only been last spring and yet now it seemed like years ago. Bjarni had made the decision to end his life as he had watched the Gata set sail without him, with another captain holding Garnissa’s compass. In the weeks that had followed, he had given away the remainder of his possessions and cleared out his house—then he waited.
On the morning of what would have been Anssonno’s thirteenth birthday, during a full winter storm, Bjarni had stripped off his clothes and walked to the river to die.
He stared up at the bleak sky and tho
ught of Yggdrasill, the tree that towered over all the nine worlds. At its root was the well of highest wisdom, which the giant Mimir guarded with his life. Odin had even sacrificed an eye to have a drink from the well in order to obtain infinite knowledge. Bjarni would have bartered every bone in his body to have one drop of that same wisdom before he died—to know if Garnissa was still alive. Was she in pain? What had Tarr done to her? And was Anssonno in Valhalla, the place where the bravest warriors went when they died? Bjarni knew he must be, because his son would never have let his mother be taken without putting up the fiercest fight. Anssonno had battled for her with his life and lost.
The night of their wedding, Garnissa had dreamed of their son in Valhalla. The dreams that a bride had on the first night of her marriage were considered to be prophetic—foretelling the number of children the couple would have, along with their destiny. It had taken her years to tell Bjarni about her vision. Seeing their son in Valhalla had terrified her, and made her quite protective of Anssonno after he was born. She had always believed they would only have one child, even though they had tried for many years to have more.
Bjarni sobbed and drew his last breaths in with the cold. This death would not allow him entry into Valhalla—Anssonno was lost to him. Images of his son and Garnissa filled him, and Bjarni begged the snowstorm to take his life. He could not live another moment imagining their pain.
As he closed his eyes, he saw a rainbow extending from the horizon and into the clouds, and he knew it was Bifrost. Odin was showing him the sacred bridge from Asgard to Middle Earth, as if to say that his journey was not yet over. Weary, Bjarni took his last breath and wished he had Garnissa’s vegvísir to help him find his way.
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