by Tim Severin
As Grettir spoke, a memory came back. It was of the day when Grettir and I were leaving Norway, and Grettir's half-brother, Thorstein Galleon, had said goodbye. He had promised to avenge Grettir's death if he was killed unjustly. Now, sitting on a cliff top on Drang, Grettir had taken me one step further. He was asking me to continue his life for him, in remembrance of our sworn brotherhood. And behind the request was an unspoken understanding between us: neither Grettir nor I expected that he would live out the full twenty years of outlawry and reach the end of the sentence imposed upon him.
The conversation had a remarkable effect on me. It changed my perception of life on Drang. Previously I had been despondent about the future, fearing the outcome of Grettir's seemingly endless difficulties. Now I saw that it was better to enjoy whatever time there was left for us together. The change of season helped my pessimism to lift. The arrival of the brief Icelandic summer wiped away the memory of a dank and melancholy winter. I watched the tiny island change from a remote, desolate outpost to a place full of life and movement. It was the birds that did it. They arrived in their thousands, perhaps from those distant lands which Grettir dreamed of. Flock after flock came in until the sky was filled with their wings and their constant mewing and screaming mingled with the sounds of the sea and the wind. They came to breed, and they settled on the ledges, crevices and tiny outcrops of the cliffs until it seemed that there was not a single hand's breadth that was not occupied by some seabird busily building a new nest or refurbishing an old one. Even in Greenland I had not seen so many seabirds clustered together. Their droppings ran down the cliff faces like streaks of wax when a candle gutters in the draught, and there was a constant movement of fluttering and flight. Of course, we took their eggs, or rather we took a minuscule portion of them. This was when Grettir was at his best. With his huge strength he lowered Illugi on a rope over the cliff edge so that his young brother could gather the eggs from the ledges while the angry gulls beat their wings around his head, or if they stayed on their nests, shot green slime from their throats into the face of the thief. Perhaps the proudest moment of all my relationship with Grettir was when he turned to me and asked if I would go down the precipice on the rope and I agreed. As I dangled there, high above the sea, swinging in space, with only my sworn brother's strength to prevent me falling to my death like Haering, I felt the satisfaction of utter trust in another.
So the summer weeks passed by: sudden rain showers were interspersed with spells of brilliant sunshine when we stood on the cliff tops and watched the whales feeding in the waters around the island; or we traced the evening spread of white mist over the high moors on the mainland. Occasionally I would go by myself to a little niche on the very lip of the precipice and lie on the turf, deliberately gazing across the void and imagining I was no longer in contact with the solid ground. I hoped to achieve something my seidr mentors had long ago described to me: spirit flying. Like a small bird beginning to take wing, I wanted to send my spirit out over the sea and distant mountains and away from my physical body. For brief moments I succeeded. The earth fell away beneath me, and I felt a rush of wind on my face and saw the ground far beneath. But I never travelled far or stayed out of my body for long. I had brief glimpses of dense forest, a white landscape and felt a piercing cold. Then, like the fledgling which flutters uncertainly back to the branch, my spirit would return to where I lay, and the rush of air on my cheeks often proved to be no more than the rising wind.
The intrusion of awful dread into this pleasant life was shocking. The day was bright and fresh, and the waters of Skagafiord had that intense dark blue into which one could look for ever. Grettir and I were at a spot where the small black and white seabirds which nested in their millions regularly flew towards their nests, a row of tiny fish neatly arranged in their rainbow beaks. As they skimmed low over the cliff, riding up-draughts, we would rise from ambush and with woven nets on sticks pull them down from the sky and break their necks. Smoked over our fire, their dark brown flesh was delicious, a cross between lamb's liver and the finest venison. We had netted perhaps a dozen of the birds when we heard Illugi call out that a small boat was coming down the fiord. We gathered at the cliff edge and saw a little skiff rowed by just one man heading our way. Soon we could make out Thorbjorn Ongul at the oars.
'I wonder what he wants this time,' said Grettir.
'He can't be coming to negotiate,' Illugi commented. 'By now he must know that we can't be shifted, whatever he offers us, whether threats or payment.'
I, too, had been watching the boat, and as it drew nearer, I began to feel uncomfortable. A chill came over me, a cold queasiness. At first I thought it was an expression of my mistrust of Thorbjorn Ongul. I knew that he was the man from whom Grettir had the most to fear. But as the little boat came closer, I knew that there was something else, something more powerful and sinister. I broke out in a cold sweat and felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise. It seemed ridiculous. In front of me was a small boat, rowed by an aggressive farmer who could not climb the cliffs, floating on a pleasant summer sea. There could be no menace there.
I glanced at Grettir. He was pale and trembling slightly. Not since our shared vision of fire emerging from the tomb of old Kar on the headland had we both been touched by the second sight simultaneously. But this time the vision was blurred and indistinct.
'What is it?' I asked Grettir. I did not have to explain my question.
'I don't know,' he answered throatily. 'Something's not right.'
The fool Glaum broke our concentration. Suddenly he began capering on the cliff edge, where he could be seen by Ongul in the boat. He shouted obscenities and taunts, and went so far as to turn his back, drop his breeches to his ankles and expose his buttocks at the Ongul.
'Stop that!' ordered Grettir brusquely. He went across to Glaum and cuffed him so hard that the vagrant was knocked backwards. Glaum scrambled to his feet, pulling up his breeches, and shambled off, muttering crossly. Grettir turned back to face Ongul. He had stopped rowing and was keeping the little skiff a safe distance away from the beach.
'Clear off!' Grettir bellowed. 'There's nothing you can say that I want to hear.'
'I'll leave when I feel like it,' Ongul yelled back. 'I want to tell you what I think of you. You're a coward and a trespasser. You're touched in the head, a murderer, and the sooner you're dealt with the better it will be for all decent men.'
'Clear off! ' repeated Grettir, shouting at the top of his lungs. 'Go back to minding your farm, you miserable one-eye. You're the one who is responsible for bringing death. That young man would never have tried to climb up here if you hadn't encouraged him. Now he's dead, and with your scheme unstuck so badly you've been made to look a fool.'
As the exchange of insults continued, I felt shooting pains in my head. Grettir did not seem affected. Perhaps he was distracted by his anger at Ongul. But I began to feel feverish. The day which had begun with such promise was turning heavy with menace. The sky was clouding over. I felt unsteady and sat down on the ground to stop myself retching. The shouting match between the two men echoed off the cliffs, but then I heard something else: a growing clatter of wings and a swelling volume of bird calls, rising in pitch. I looked back towards the north. Huge numbers of seabirds were taking to the sky. They were launching themselves in droves from the cliff ledges, gliding down towards the sea and then flapping briskly to gain height as they began to group together. They reminded me of bees about to swarm. The main flock spiralled upward as more and more birds joined in, flying up to meet their companions. Soon the flock was so immense it had to divide into ranks and squadrons. There were thousands upon thousands of them, too many to count or even guess their numbers. Many birds still stayed on the ledges, but most were on the move. Section by section, breed by breed, the great mass of flying creatures circled higher and higher like a storm cloud, until smaller groups began to break away and head out towards the sea. At first it seemed that their departure was random, in all direct
ions. But then I realised there was one direction which all the birds avoided: none of them was returning to Drang. The birds were abandoning the island.
I dragged myself upright and walked unsteadily to where Grettir stood. My head and muscles ached. I felt terrible. 'The birds,' I said, 'they're leaving.'
'Of course they are,' he answered crossly over his shoulder, 'they leave every year about this time. It is the end of their breeding season. They go now, and come back in the spring.'
He searched around in the grass until he found a rounded stone, about the size of a loaf. Plucking it from the grass, he heaved it above his head with both hands and let fly, aiming at Ongul in the boat far below. Ongul had imagined he was safely out of range. But he had not reckoned with Grettir the Strong who, since boyhood, had amazed everyone with just how far he could pitch a rock. The stone flew far out, its arc greater than I had imagined possible. Grettir's aim was true. The stone plummeted down, straight at the little skiff. It missed Ongul by inches. He was standing amidships, working the oars. The stone landed with a thump on a bundle of black rags on the stern thwart. As the stone struck, I saw the bundle shiver and flinch, and over the crying of the myriad departing birds, I heard distinctly a hideous cry of pain. At that moment I remembered where I had felt that same chill, the same sense of evil, and heard the same vile cry. It was when Thrand and I had fought the Danes in the sea ambush and I had had a vision of Thorgerd Holgabrud, the blood drinker and witch.
As Ongul rowed away, I was swaying on my feet.
'You've got a bad attack of some sort of fever,' said Grettir and put his arm around me to stop me falling. 'Here, Illugi, give me a hand to carry Thorgils inside.' The two of them lifted me down into the dugout and made me comfortable on some sheepskins on the earth floor.
I had just enough strength to ask, 'Who was in the boat with Ongul? Why didn't they show themselves?'
Grettir frowned. 'I don't know,' he said, 'but whoever it was is nursing a very bad bruise or a broken bone and won't forget this day in a hurry.'
Perhaps the birds began their migration because they knew that the weather was about to change, or perhaps - and this was my own private explanation — they were disturbed from their roosts by the evil that visited us that day. At any rate that was the last day of summer we enjoyed. By evening the rain had set in and the temperature began to fall. We did not see the sun again for a fortnight, and by then the first of the autumn gales had mauled the island unseasonably early. The ledges on the cliffs were empty of all but a handful of seabirds, and Drang had settled back prematurely into its gloomy routine though the autumn equinox had barely passed.
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 yoursel
f 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 fiat 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.
