by Brian Fitts
I felt myself hoisted up, yanked effortlessly in the air. My feet kicked, and it took me a moment to realize that I had no footing. The ground was somewhere below me, forever out of reach of my helpless feet that dangled. I found myself staring deeply into the eyes of the dragon himself as he shook me, his voice booming. I had never been this close to Eirik before, and his face so close to mind was truly humbling. The heat from him was a furnace, and the sound he made as he spoke made my ears ring. Did he not realize I had no idea what he was saying to me? He was squeezing the heart, and it squished into a pulpy mess, spraying me with blood. Perhaps he was giving me a demonstration of how my heart would look after he cut it out of me. I felt very ill, and my head was spinning as he shook me.
With a grunt, he unceremoniously threw me to the ground. I hit hard and I felt my shoulder crack. Through watery eyes, I raised my head and saw Eirik as he walked away, obviously disgusted with both me and Bjarni, for he aimed a kick at the poor man as he passed by. I heard the crunch of something and Bjarni’s cry, but by then the pain in my shoulder was taking over my body. I saw Eirik fling the heart into the fire, where it began to sizzle loudly, and then he was gone. He vanished somewhere out on the ice field away from the fire and into the darkness, leaving Bjarni and myself lying on the ice like discarded toys.
When the night came and the darkness was finally complete, I felt myself falling into a hazy slumber. The pain from my shoulder had let up somewhat, and I was conscious of the Vikings as they gathered around the fire and cooked their meat. It smoked and fizzed and the smells came to me, not altogether unpleasant. I refused to eat any of it, even though it was offered to me. I believed the meat was tainted, and God only allowed meat to be eaten on certain days. Even though I wasn’t sure which day it was now, I was sure I could pass on the meat and not offend anyone.
The Vikings didn’t seem to care whether or not I ate. They simply began roasting their own meat, squatting down by the fire, not talking to one another. They avoided looking at Bjarni, who sat off by himself, a dark look on his face. I felt pity for the man, and I wondered what it was he had said to Eirik to make him so angry.
When the moon rose, its glow skipped across the fields of ice and practically made them glow. With such a light, it would have been just as simple to travel in darkness as daylight. I wanted to ask what difference it made whether or not we walked during the day or the night, but in the end I kept silent. I merely sat and watched the moon shadows play across the ice. I thought I saw Eirik far away in the distance: a black speck against the white, but I was never sure if it was him, and I didn’t bother to ask.
I slept as close to the fire as I could, wrapped in a fur that was almost useless against the ice. I felt the heat seeping into my skin, and as I drifted off to sleep, I do not think I even cared if I burned to death while I slept. At least it would have been a warm death. The others had moved a bit further back from the fire. I assumed it was either to stay away from me or to protect themselves from the flames. These men were more accustomed to the cold nights here, so I didn’t worry about their health as I slept.
A piercingly loud howl awoke me sometime during the night. I cracked my eyes opened to see the fire had died down to smoking ashes, and I was just wishing that someone would come and stoke it back up again, when I noticed the others were gone. The sky was turning light, so I knew the dawn was not far away. The sleds were gone, and the tattered remains of the deer were the only sign that anyone had been here except me.
I hastily crawled to my feet, wincing as the stiffness in my shoulder flared up sharply. I worked my arm carefully, tears welling up with each rotation. When I could move my arm again, I looked around, trying not to feel the anxiety that was spreading over me. The howl came again, echoing across the plain, and I thought I heard faint shouting accompanying it: human voices that complemented the howls. I wrapped my fur tightly around me as the cold morning air began to gust. I would find the others. They would not have just abandoned me here.
My anxiety had bled over into panic as I began walking in the direction I thought the sounds were coming from. Across the ice fields there was no one to be seen, so whatever was making the noise must have been coming from further than I could have imagined. I had to walk slowly, careful not to lose my footing. The field was slippery, and with each step I imagined myself sprawling over, breaking a leg in the process and becoming food for the reindeer to graze upon.
When I looked back at the remains of our camp, I was surprised to see how far I had walked in a seemingly short time. The small black circle where the fire had been was a mere dot, and even that was hard to see. Forward, there was only nothing but the hills in the distance that enclosed the plain. Snow was spitting fitfully from the sky, which was strange to me because I knew it was approaching the late spring. Soon, what little snow that fell would cover us all and conceal the fact we were ever here at all. So nature has its way of wiping its slate clean. It would take a lot more snow to cover up the bloody tracks I began to spot in front of me as I walked. The red smudges stretched ahead of me in crooked lines, as if something had been dragged across the ice. It couldn’t have been the remains of the reindeer, I assumed. Most of the carcass had been left behind us near the fire. It could have been human, but I tried not to think of that too much. It could have been me.
The sound had faded, and although I strained for it, it did not come again. Now, the panic settled over me, and I began to run, unmindful of the ice and unconcerned that I might have fallen. I was truly alone, and I knew I would never be able to find my way back to Brattahild by myself. I kept following the blood trail, hoping it would lead me to Eirik and the others, but, in the back of my mind, I kept thinking I would come across the true slaughter on the ice. The Vikings and whatever it was that had dragged them there would come after me next. My running slowed, not out of fear, but because I was fast becoming winded. I finally stopped altogether, bending over and breathing rapidly, the cold air searing my lungs.
I felt like lying there on the ice and letting nature have its way with me, but I restrained myself. Instead, I looked up and noticed how far I had come in my panic. I could no longer see the dead deer or the fire sight behind me, and there seemed to be a natural opening through the rocks on the far end of the field. I began walking, my hope growing with each step. What would I find on the other side there? Would it be Eirik? Or something else?
When I rounded the rocks and began the climb up the icy hillside, I almost thought I could hear voices. Anticipating the Vikings, I hurried my pace, but now being careful not to slip and fall. There was more blood on the rocks, easy to see since it was a harsh red against the dull gray, and I crested the hill and looked at the land beyond.
There were men there, but I did not recognize them. They were not the ones who had come on the hunt with us. Were they enemies? I strained for a better look. Splotches of red dotted the ground before me in the distance and beyond that, another herd of reindeer was moving over the plains. But these men . . .
They looked like Vikings, as much as one can assume based on first appearances. Certainly they dressed like Eirik and the others, with their thick furs and heavy beards. Some of them carried long spears, and others simply stood, talking. Some were pointing north in the direction of the herd, and others were motioning to the south, facing my direction. I was beginning to wonder whether or not I should approach them when an arrow clinked off the rocks near my left foot. I actually felt the chipped stone hit my leg, and as I was trying to figure out why an arrow was suddenly there near my foot, another arrow hit near my other foot.
The men on the ground had spotted me, and I thought it would be a good idea to duck down when I saw the archer stringing another arrow to shoot at me. They were not aiming to kill me, I realized. They were trying to get my attention. I wanted to tell them there were better ways, such as calling out to me or waving a flag, rather than shooting arrows at me, but I figured something would be lost in the translation. Something always
is.
I waved timidly, and the archer put down his bow. I climbed over the rocks and began half-sliding, half-walking down the other side of the hill. I slid until I rested at the bottom, and I could see these men more closely. I could see the blood on them, which did not fill me with much confidence. Nevertheless, I stood up and began approaching them, putting my trust that God would not let any harm come to me. He had been good about it so far, other than my shoulder.
One of them had a sack over his shoulder of which the bottom looked very wet. I assumed it was from their hunt, and I also assumed they had dressed some reindeer here on the ice, like Eirik and his men had done, for the ground was quite saturated with it upon closer inspection. I waited to see if they were going to attack me. They did not, or I would not be telling you this now. They stood looking at me with their dark and wild eyes, waiting for me to do something.
I mumbled a small prayer perhaps hoping God would let me ascend into Heaven as he had Elijah, but I stayed firmly on the ground with these strange men looking at me like I had just crawled out of a fissure that had opened in the earth.
The man with the sack said something to the others, and one of the others nodded. The man with the sack then took it from around his shoulder at threw it at me. I flinched and stepped back because I was not expecting it. More reindeer meat, I assumed. Perhaps they were taking pity on me and were giving me food for the journey home.
To my horror, the sack burst open at my feet, spilling its contents. Several heads rolled out, chopped neatly off at the neck, staring endlessly at me with those dead eyes. I recognized them. Some of them, anyway. I can tell you this now because enough time has passed since the occurrence that my sanity has healed itself. One of those heads was Bjarni’s.
It would do me no good to try to explain what happened that night on the ice plain as I slept. These men are born of a senseless and brutal culture, and their lifestyle is such that such barbarism is commonplace. It is the act of a man who can spear a bishop while he is screaming prayers and hang him on the spires of his cathedral with his only worry being how much ale he will consume that evening. It is the act of these men who stood before me. These men who, during the night, apparently came across our sleeping party and slaughtered them for no reason other than the fact they were there. I was spared from the slaughter, but now I faced the killers of my companions. Bjarni’s face, I noticed sadly, had the great purple bruise on his cheek where Eirik had struck him. The bruise had followed him into death.
Eirik’s head was not among those in the sack. He had escaped because he had left the fire the night before. I scanned the ice plains for a sign, but there was no indication of him. He was probably back at Brattahild, sitting by his fire and drinking from his favorite silver cup. One of the Vikings, the one with an unusually long spear, poked at me with the tip. It scratched my arm, and sent pain charging up my shoulder.
One of them said something to me, but I merely shook my head. They knew I was no Viking, which was probably why they did not kill me immediately. I kept glancing down, wishing Bjarni would quit staring at me. I resisted an urge to kick the head away with my boot.
“Brothers,” I said in as calm a voice as I could. “I am Bishop Arnald of Le Mans, a missionary sent here to Greenland by King Robert II the Pious. I am not a warrior, and I am not a Viking. I am a man of God.”
Whether or not they understood my words was irrelevant. I had made my statement as clearly as I could, and now I simply left the rest up to God and His divine will. I knew I could not run, for an old man like myself would be too easy to capture. I was patient as I waited to see what the men would do. Would they kill me? If they were like Eirik and his men, being a man of God would make no difference, and my head would be carried in a sack. I tried not to worry too much about that, but the thought was always there.
One of them pushed me down, and I sank to my knees in the bloody snow. Here would be the end. In a moment I would feel the whistle of the blade come down upon my neck and I would meet my creator. I shouldn’t have worried too much. After all, a man in my position should look forward to being in Heaven if he has followed the righteous path. I closed my eyes, for I could not bear to see the blade, even if it was to be my last sight of this earth.
But the blade never came down, friends. I felt hands being bound with rope, and I was suddenly hauled to my feet. They began walking, leading me behind them like an animal. My hands were not tied too roughly, and I was sure I could break free if I wanted to, but there would be no point in that. They were going to ransom me back to France, but that meant I would have to be their guest until the emissaries departed and then came back, which might have taken months.
I hoped when the emissaries arrived in France, Robert II the Pious would be in a good mood and think I was worth ransoming. It was the least Robert could do in return for all the strawberries I had given him.
Chapter Seven
Strange Days
Woe to the man of God who is persecuted for his faith. Woe to the man who undertakes a divine mission only to see it go unfulfilled. This was part of the Prayer for the Martyrs, and the monks at Toulouse sang it often. But the monks’ pilgrimages were never to such heathen lands, and they never had to deal with what I suffered. Woe to the poor bishop who is sent on a journey he didn’t want to go on. Woe to the bishop who is freezing and starving amid the wastes. This was my new Prayer for Bishop Arnald, and it was one I composed by myself as my new captors led me over the hills and across the ice.
When animals age and outlive their usefulness, they are slaughtered. Not so for aged bishops who have outlived their purpose. There would be no merciful end for me. These men talked to one another the entire time we walked. What they said I don’t, to this day, know. It was obvious they were talking about me, but they never spoke directly to me. There were five men who were escorting me to their home, and by the position of the sun, I could see we were heading west.
“Stop,” I suddenly said, not realizing why. The men, startled by the sound of my voice, stopped talking, and the silence settled quickly over us. They turned to look at me, waiting for me to either speak again, or fall down and die. I decided diplomacy was the only option I had. Do unto others . . .
I held my hands out and nodded with my head toward the rope. “Please,” I motioned. “Untie me. I won’t run away. Where would I go? I am an old man. Have pity.”
The men halted in their tracks. One of them drew a knife that seemed to cut the very air as he pulled it out. Whether he meant to shut me up with it was a question I debated until he took a quick step over to me and slashed quickly, almost without looking. Finite strands of hair were neatly shaved off my wrists as the knife chopped through the rope in a single motion. My bonds fell away, and I felt free. I couldn’t help but wonder if Eirik would have done the same.
“Thank you,” I said, but the men had already started walking again. I began to follow. These men had plans for me, but apparently they did not involve my death, yet. We walked the rest of that day and although I was tired, I did not feel as weary as I did when I traveled with Eirik and his men. The men stopped once for a quick meal of dried fish, and they offered some to me, which I accepted. The fish was tough and hard to chew, but one of the Vikings handed me his flask and I sipped some of the cool honey mead. It tasted much like the mead I had drank at Eirik’s house, and the effect was the same. Warmth spread through my body, and I felt renewed.
I wasn’t sure how much farther they were going to take me. They never spoke to me other than to tell me it was time to go. They kept their silence after our midday meal, as if the entire walk was a time for reflection. I, too, reflected on the events that had brought me to this place and time, and I was surprised at my own thoughts.
I realized I had saved Eirik’s life. Yes, I am sure of it. Even now, years later, I have convinced myself that if I had eaten that reindeer heart instead of refusing it, Eirik would not have lost his temper and left the fire that night. He was spared the fate o
f his men by my making him so angry that he left in a fit. I couldn’t help but wonder if Eirik was aware of that as well. Even though he would probably never admit it, I should have taken it as a sign that Eirik could be converted. I had saved his life, now all I had to do was save his soul.
I was so absorbed in my thoughts, I did not realize the extent of my fatigue until my legs, unmindful of the rest of me, locked up and refused to go any further. This surprised me until the cramping starting, and I howled in pain. The Vikings turned to see me clutching at my calves, desperately trying to relieve the pressure there. I could not walk anymore. I was not seasoned well for travel, especially over the hills of this land. The men whom I walked with did not seem to understand why I was literally crying as I stood, legs buckling and trembling. Would they carry me, or abandon me? Not for the last time did my mind turn to Le Mans and its comforts.
The air was warmer here, and I felt myself not shaking as much as the wind blew past me. I slumped to the ground, tired. If they were going to kill me, then they should have just done it and gotten it over with. I closed my eyes, not caring about the journey or even Eirik anymore. I simply wanted to rest.
The Vikings stopped as they saw me fall to the ground. I do not know what their intentions were at that point, but they showed no signs of abandoning me there on the ice. We stayed there for hours, with me dozing fitfully, and the others sitting and talking quietly. As we passed the remainder of the day, I opened my eyes enough to watch the sun settling over the hills, causing the white of the ice to glow a vivid orange. It was a beautiful sight, as if God Himself was casting a blessing over the land. When the sun finally sank below the hills and cast us into shadow, I didn’t know it would be the last time I would see a sunset for a long while.
