Viking 2: Sworn Brother

by Tim Severin

  I continued very ill and weak with fever and from my sick bed I could see that Grettir was more subdued than usual. There was despondency in his face, perhaps at the thought of another winter spent in the raw, cramped isolation of Drang. He took to leaving the dugout at first light and often did not reappear until dusk. Illugi told me that his brother was spending much of his time alone, sitting staring out towards the mainland, saying nothing, refusing to be drawn into conversation. At other times Grettir would descend the ladders and, when the low tide permitted, walk around the island, furiously splashing through the shallows, always by himself. It was from one of these excursions that he returned with that look I had never seen before: a look of dismay.

  ‘What’s worrying you?’ I asked.

  ‘Down on the beach, I had that same feeling we both sensed the day that Ongul came to visit us and I threw the stone. I felt it mildly at first, but as I walked around the island it came on me more strongly. Oddly, I also had a stroke of luck. On the far side of the island I came across a fine piece of driftwood. The current must have brought it there from the east side of the fiord. It was a good, thick log, an entire tree trunk, roots and all, ideal for firewood. I was bending down to drag it further up the beach when I felt ill – I thought I was going down with your fever. But then it occurred to me that my feeling might have something to do with that particular spot on the beach – it faces across to that ruffian Ongul’s farm – or perhaps it was to do with the log. I don’t know. Anyhow, I took the wave of nausea to be a warning. So instead of salvaging the log, I shoved it out to sea again. I didn’t want to have anything further to do with it.’

  The very next day Glaum appeared with a smug expression at the door of the dugout. ‘I’ve done well,’ he said. ‘Better than the lot of you, though you treat me as if I’m useless.’

  ‘What is it, Glaum?’ asked Grettir sourly.

  We had all become weary of Glaum’s endless vulgarities – his favourite amusement was to let out controlled farts, which did not help the fug of the dugout, and he snored so much that, unless the night was wild, we made him sleep outside. He had made a noxious lair for himself in the hollow by the ladders where I had first stumbled across him. There he pretended to play sentry, though there was little likelihood of any surprise attack now that the weather was so bad.

  ‘I’ve salvaged a fine log,’ said Glaum. ‘Took me enough trouble too. Found it on the beach by the foot of the ladders and I’ve managed to hoist it up with ropes. There’s enough timber to burn for three or four nights at least.’

  It was one of those days when there was a brief break in the dreary weather and Grettir had half-carried me out of the fetid dugout so I could sit in the open air and enjoy the watery sunshine.

  Glaum went on, ‘Better cut up the log now. Before it rains again.’

  Grettir picked up our axe. It was a fine, heavy tool, the only axe we had, too important for our well-being to let Glaum handle in case he lost it or damaged the blade. Grettir walked to where Glaum had dragged the log. I was lying on the ground so I could not see the log itself because it was concealed in the grass. But I heard Grettir say, ‘That’s strange, it’s the same log I threw back into the water the other day. The current must have carried it right around the island and brought it back in the opposite beach.’

  ‘Well, it’s a good log wherever it came from. Well seasoned and tough,’ said Glaum, ‘and it took me enough trouble to get it up here. So this time it’s not going to waste.’

  I saw Grettir raise the axe with both hands and take a hefty swing. A moment later I heard the sound of a blow that has been mis-aimed – the false echo – as Grettir fell.

  Illugi had been idling nearby. He rushed over to his brother, and was kneeling on the ground. I saw him rip off a piece of his own shirt and guessed that he was applying a bandage. Then Grettir’s arm came up and took a hold around his brother’s neck, and as Illugi strained back, the two men rose, Grettir with one leg bent up. Blood drenched the bandage. Slowly and painfully, Grettir hobbled past me into the dugout. Too fever-racked to move, I lay there worrying about how badly Grettir had hurt himself. Eventually, when Illugi and Glaum helped me inside, I found Grettir sitting on the ground with his back against the earth wall of the dugout. Instantly I was reminded of the last time I had seen Thrand, sitting in the same position when he had lost his foot to a Danish axe. But at least Grettir had both legs, though the injured one was leaking what seemed a huge amount of blood through the makeshift bandage.

  ‘A fine lot we are,’ said Grettir, his face twisted with pain, ‘We’ve got two invalids now. I don’t know what came over me. The axe bounced off that tough old log and twisted in my hand.’

  ‘It’s cut very deep,’ said Illugi. ‘Any deeper and you would have chopped off your leg. You’ll be out of action for months.’

  ‘That’s all I need,’ said Grettir, ‘plain bad luck again.’

  Illugi busied himself in rearranging the interior of the dugout to give Grettir more space. ‘I’ll light the fire,’ he said to his brother. ‘It’ll be cold tonight, and you need to keep warm.’ He called to Glaum to bring in some firewood, and there were sounds of grunting and mumbling as Glaum slowly backed into the dugout, dragging the unlucky log which had been the cause of Grettir’s accident.

  ‘That’s too big to fit into the hearth. Get something smaller,’ said Illugi.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ replied Glaum argumentatively. ‘I can make it fit. You’ve seen for yourself that it’s too tough to chop up into pieces.’

  Illugi, I realised, lacked Grettir’s authority over Glaum and I knew that the balance within our tight little community had gone. Glaum was wrestling the log into position in the hearth and turning it over so that it rested against the stone. As he did so, I saw something on the underside of the wood and called, ‘Stop!’ I crawled over to take a closer look. Part of the underside of the log had been cut smooth. Somebody had deliberately shaved down the surface, leaving a flat area as long as my forearm. On the surface were a series of marks cut deep into the wood. I knew what the marks were even before I saw the faint red stain in their grooves. Thrand, my mentor in the Old Ways, had warned me against them. They were curse runes, cut to invoke harm against a victim, then smeared with the blood of the volva or seidrmann to make the evil in the runes more effective. I knew then that Grettir was the victim of black seidr.

  For the next three days Grettir’s injury appeared to be on the mend. The gash began to close and the edges of the wound were pink and healthy. Then, on the third night, he started to suffer from a deep-seated throbbing pain and by dawn he was in agony. Illugi unwrapped the bandage and we saw the reason. The flesh around the wound was puffed and swollen. Fluid was seeping from the gash. The next morning the flesh was beginning to discolour, and as the days passed the area around the wound turned dark blue, then a greenish-black, and we could smell the putrefication. Grettir could not sleep – the pain was too bad. Nor could he get to his feet. He lost weight and looked drained. By the end of the week he knew that he was dying from the poison in his leg.

  That was when they unleashed their assault. How they knew that Grettir was in a coma, I have no way of knowing.

  The end was swift and bloody. More than a dozen farmers came up the ladders, which had been left in place now that we no longer had Grettir’s strength to pull them clear. They came at dusk, armed with axes and heavy spears, and overpowered Glaum as he lay half asleep. They prodded him in front of them as he led them to our dugout, though they would have found the place soon enough for themselves. I heard them coming first, for they were working themselves up into a battle rage. Illugi, in an exhausted sleep, was slow to wake and scarcely had time to jam shut the makeshift door. But the door was not designed to withstand a siege – it was nothing more than a few sticks of wood covered with sheepskins – and it burst open after the first few blows. By then Illugi was in position, sword in one hand, axe in the other. The first farmer who ventured in lost his righ
t arm to a terrific blow from the same weapon that had been Grettir’s bane.

  For an hour or more the attack continued. I could hear Ongul’s voice urging on his men. But they found it was deadly work. Two more farmers were badly wounded and another killed, all trying to rush the door. Our attackers were like men who corner a badger in its sett and try to take the prey alive. When Ilugi held them off with sword and axe, they began to dig down through the earth roof of our refuge. From inside we heard the sounds of digging and soon the roof began to shake. I was as weak as water and unable to intervene, only to observe. From where I lay on the floor I saw the earth rain down from the ceiling and then the point of a spear poked through. I knew the end could not be long in coming.

  Another rush at the door and the frame split. Our defence was collapsing around us. A spear thrust through the doorway caught Illugi in the shoulder. Grettir struggled to his knees to face the attack. In his hand was the short sword that he and I had robbed from old Kar’s burial mound. At that moment a section of the roof fell in close to the hearth. Amid the shower of earth, a farmer jumped down. Grettir turned to meet the new threat, stabbed with the sword and impaled the intruder, killing him. But the man fell forward so that Grettir’s sword arm was trapped. As he struggled to withdraw the blade a second man dropped through the hole and stabbed Grettir in the back. I heard Grettir call out and Illugi turned to help, throwing up his shield to protect his brother. This left the door unguarded and suddenly the dugout was filled with armed men. In moments they had knocked Illugi to the ground and were hacking and stabbing him to death. One man, seeing me, stepped forward and planted the point of his spear against my blankets. He had only to press down his weight and I too was dead. But he made no move, and I watched as Ongul darted behind Grettir to avoid the outlaw’s sword and knifed him several times in quick succession. Grettir did not even turn to look at his killer. He was already so weak that he slumped to the ground without a sound. I lay there, unable to move, as Ongul leaned down and roughly tried to prise Grettir’s fingers from Kar’s sword. But the death grip was too strong and Ongul pulled aside my sworn brother’s hand until it lay across the fatal fire log. Then, like a skilful butcher, he severed the fingers so that the sword fell free.

  Picking up the sword, Ongul cut Grettir’s head from his shoulders. It took four blows. I counted every one as Ongul hacked down on the corpse. By then the blood-splattered remains of the ruined dugout were crammed with sweating, jubilant farmers, all shouting and talking and congratulating themselves on their victory.

  FOURTEEN

  I BOUGHT MY life for five and a half marks. That was the sum the farmers found on me, and I gave them a promise of ten marks more if they delivered me, alive, to Snorri Godi’s son Thorodd for judgement. They accepted the bargain because, after the slaughter of Grettir and Illugi, some of them had had enough of bloodshed. They buried the corpses of Illugi and Grettir in the ruins of our dugout, then lowered my sick and aching body down the cliff face on a rope and placed me in the stern of the ten-oar boat they had come in. Destitute Glaum was not so lucky. On the way back to the mainland, they told him he had betrayed his master, cut his throat and threw his body overboard. Grettir’s head they kept, wrapped in a bag, so Ongul could present the gruesome evidence to Thorir of Gard and claim his reward. Eavesdropping, I learned how we had been defeated: Ongul had gone to his aged foster-mother Thurid for help in evicting Grettir from Drang. Thurid was a volva, rumoured to use black arts. It was she who had lain concealed beneath the pile of rags when Ongul rowed out to quarrel with Grettir. She needed to hear and judge the quality of her victim before she chose her curse runes. She then cut the marks, stained them with her own blood and selected the hour on which Ongul should launch the cursed tree on the tide. My only consolation, as I listened to the boastful farmers, was to learn that the old crone was hobbling and in dreadful pain. The rock that Grettir threw had smashed her thigh bone and crippled her for life.

  Ongul, as it turned out, never received his head money. Thorir of Gard refused to pay up. He said that, as a Christian, he would not reward the use of witchcraft. Ongul took this as a weasel excuse and sued Thorir before the next assembly of the Althing. To his rage the assembled godars supported Thorir’s view – he may have bribed them – and went so far as to banish Ongul. They ruled that there had been enough bloodshed and, to forestall revenge by Grettir’s friends, it was better that Ongul left Iceland for a while. I was to meet Ongul later, as I will relate, but in the meantime the Gods provided me with a way to honour the memory of my sworn brother.

  Thorodd was lenient in his judgement, as I had anticipated. When I was brought before him, he remembered that Grettir had spared his own life when he had challenged the outlaw on the road, and now repaid his debt by declaring that I should be set free after I had paid my captors the ten marks I had promised. This done, Thorodd returned to me my fire ruby, saying that this was what his father had instructed him to do, and undertook to settle my affairs with Gunnhildr’s family. He also surprised me by handing over Thrand’s old hoard chest. Apparently Thrand had left instructions that if he failed to come back from Jomsburg, I was to be his heir. I donated the entire contents of the chest to Thor. Half the silver paid for a temple mound to be erected in the God’s honour on the spot where Thrand’s old cabin had stood, and the remainder I buried deep in its earth.

  At the feast which followed the temple dedication, I found myself seated next to one of Snorri Godi’s sons-in-law, an intelligent and well-to-do farmer by the name of Bolli Bollason. It turned out that Bolli was suffering from that itch for travel which is so characteristic of the northern peoples. ‘I can hardly wait for the day when my oldest son can take over my farm, Thorgils,’ he confessed. ‘I’m going to put it in his care, pack and head off. I want to see other countries, meet foreign peoples and see how they live while I am still fit and active. Iceland is too small and remote. I feel cooped up here.’

  Naturally his words recalled Grettir’s words, begging me to travel.

  ‘If you had your choice, Bolli,’ I asked, ‘which of all the places in the world would you most want to see?’

  ‘Miklagard, the great city,’ he responded without a moment’s hesitation. ‘It’s said that there is nowhere else on earth like it – immense palaces, public baths, statues which move of their own accord. Streets paved with marble and you can stroll along them after dark because the emperor who rules there decrees that blazing torches be set up at every corner and kept lit throughout the night.’

  ‘And how does one get to Miklagard?’ I asked.

  ‘Across the land of the Rus,’ he answered. ‘Each year Rus traders bring furs to sell at the imperial court. They have special permits to enter the emperor’s territories. If you took a load of furs yourself, you would make a profit from the venture.’

  Bolli fingered the collar of his cloak. It was an expensive garment, worn specially for the feast, and the collar was trimmed with some glossy fur.

  ‘The trader who sold me this cloak told me that the Rus get their furs from the northern peoples who trap the animals. I haven’t seen it for myself, but it is said the Rus go to certain known places on the edge of the wilderness and lay out their trade goods on the ground. Then they go away and wait. In the night, or at dawn, the natives come out secretly from the woods, pick up the trade goods and replace them with the amount of furs that they think is a fair bargain. They are a strange lot, those fur hunters. They don’t like intruders on their territory. If you trespass, they’re likely to put a spell on you. No one else is more skilled in seidr, men and women both.’

  This last remark decided me. Thor may have put the words in Bolli’s mouth as a reward for my offerings to him, but it was Odinn who determined the outcome. A journey to Miklagard would not only carry out Grettir’s wish, it would also bring me closer to my God’s mysteries.

  So it was that, less than a month later, I had a trader’s pack on my back and was plodding through the vast forests of Permia
, wondering if Odinn had been in his role as the Deceiver when he lured me there. After a week in the wilderness I had yet to glimpse a single native. I was not even sure what they were called. Bolli Bollason had called them the Skridfinni, and said that the name meant ‘the Finni who run on wooden boards’. Others referred to them as Lopar or Lapu and told me, variously, that the name meant ‘the runners’, ‘witches’ or ‘the banished’. All my informants agreed that the territory they occupied was barren beyond belief. ‘Nothing except trees grows up in their land. It’s all rock and no soil,’ Bolli had warned. ‘No crops at all, not even hay. So you won’t find cows. Therefore neither milk nor cheese. It’s impossible to grow grain . . . so no beer. And as for vines to grow grapes, forget it. Not even sheep can survive. So the Gods alone know what the natives do for clothing to keep out the cold when they haven’t any wool to weave. They must do something. There’s snow and ice for eight months in the year, and the winter night lasts for two months.’

  No one at the trading post where I had bought my trade stock had thrown more light on these mysteries. All they could say was that I should fill my pack with coloured ribbons, brass rings, copper figurines, fish hooks and knife blades. They thought I was mad. Winter was coming on, they pointed out, and this was not the time to trade. Better wait until the spring when the natives emerged from the forest with the winter pelts of their prey. Stubbornly I ignored their advice. I had no intention of spending several months in a remote settlement on the fringes of a wasteland. So I had slung my pack on my back and walked away. Now, with the chill wind beginning to numb my fingers and face, I was wondering – and that not for the first time – if I had been incredibly foolish. The footpath I had been following through the forest was more and more difficult to trace. Soon I would be lost.

  I blundered on. Everything around me was featureless. Each tree looked like the last one I had passed and identical to the trees that I had seen an hour earlier. Very occasionally I heard the sound of a wild animal fleeing from me, the sounds of its alarmed progress fading into the distance. I never saw the animals themselves. They were too wary. The straps of my pack were cutting into my shoulders, and I decided that I would set up camp early and start afresh in the morning. Casting around for a sheltered spot where I could light a fire and eat a meal of dried fish from my pack, I left the faint trace of the path and searched to my left. After fifty paces or so I came across such a dense thicket that I was forced to turn back. I tried in the opposite direction. Again I was thwarted by the thick undergrowth. I returned to the path and walked forward a little further, then tried again. This time I got only twenty paces – I counted them because I did not want to lose my track – before I was again forced to a halt. Once more I returned to the path and moved forward. The bushes were crowding closer. I limped on. There was a raw blister on my right heel where the shoe was rubbing and my foot hurt. I was concentrating on this pain when I noticed that the path led to an obvious gap between the dense thickets. Gratefully I quickened my pace and walked forward, then tripped. Looking down, I saw my foot was entangled in a net laid out on the ground. I was bending down to untangle the restraint when I heard a sharp, angry intake of breath. Straightening up, I saw a man step from behind a tree. He was carrying a hunting bow, its arrow set to the string and he drew it back deliberately and quietly, aiming at my chest. I stood absolutely still, trying to look innocent and harmless.