The Voyage of Freydis

by Tamara Goranson

  There is an awkward silence. Logatha stops her work.

  “The men will not go out with you again,” Finnbogi says carefully, keeping his eyes downcast. “They say that you are…”

  “That I am what?” I snap.

  “Too hard to be around.”

  “Too hard to be around?” I repeat. I can feel my cheeks becoming hot.

  “Ivor the Keen is spreading rumours,” Logatha adds as she looks at me.

  “What kind of rumours?” I ask sharply.

  “He has been calling you ‘hotheaded’ and ‘stubborn’. He thinks you are a woman ruled by Loki’s whims.” Finnbogi sports an embarrassed flush that begins to spread down his neck.

  “Why does he debase my name?”

  “Because you called the men cowards for failing to face the skraelings who scored your kill,” Finnbogi replies. He pauses to clear his throat. From the corner of my eye I catch sight of a few of the Icelanders listening in, their curious eyes flitting between the three of us.

  “Perhaps I should leave this house and go find somewhere else to live,” I say in a bitter tone.

  “Neinn,” Logatha murmurs quickly as she throws Finnbogi a disapproving look. He looks as serious as someone who is re-stitching wool.

  “As you know, most of your Greenlanders have defected to Thorvard’s camp,” he says, frowning. “Soon it will be said that the Icelanders and the Greenlanders could not get along.”

  I stand up slowly and turn around to warm my back against the fire.

  “Snorri and Gunnar remain the most loyal. They refuse to speak out against you,” Finnbogi continues with a heavy sigh.

  I rub my temples with my palm and search my memory for the faces I have missed seeing around the fire.

  “By Óðinn’s beard ! Are you certain my Greenlanders went to Thorvard’s camp?”

  “Snorri tracked them there two days ago,” Logatha says. She pops into view and I watch her fiddling with some wool.

  “Freydis, you should know something else,” Finnbogi says. I raise an eyebrow. “There is a rumour…”

  “What are you saying?” I ask sharply.

  “Snorri is an honorable man who is working hard to clear your name,” Finnbogi says before he tosses Logatha a desperate look.

  “He has managed to convince some of your Greenlanders to stay with us here in Leifsbidur by telling them about the abuse you endured at Thorvard’s hands,” Logatha finishes.

  I feel my brow creasing into a frown. How is it that my shame is being used to ensure the loyalty of my men? I don’t need their pity. I don’t need anyone if this is all there is. Maybe, just maybe, it would better for me to be alone. Even if I could prove that Thorvard is a snake, they would still judge me as being difficult. There is no escaping him. How is it that they worship him?

  I turn my back on Logatha before she notices my stricken face. Someone opens the door and the wind howls fiercely and the woven baskets hanging from the rafters begin to sway. In that moment, I remember and the fear comes slinking back, making my stomach churn. In my head, I hear the timbre of Thorvard’s voice, his murmured threats, his heavy footfalls when he gets mad. Then I begin to worry about the consequences of slandering my husband’s name. His ghost paws at me, whispering that I’m a stupid fool, belittling me with a gathered string of hurtful words and obscenities.

  That night as the Norsemen gather around the hearth, I scrutinize each man’s face, attempting to ascertain their loyalty. When my eyes come to rest on Snorri, I see that he is seated beside Groa and that she is with child. As I silently observe their exchange, I feel lonely in the crowded longhouse that my brother built.

  A week later when the snowstorms come, we crowd inside the great longhouse with its four large chambers and one great hall and pass the time by singing ballads and playing games and reciting tales. Outside, the storms dump snow which builds in banks outside the longhouse door.

  Despite my disappointment in the Greenlanders who have defected to Thorvard’s camp, I worry about how they are managing the brutality of the winter storms. Finnbogi assures me that the Greenlanders will survive, but I’m not so sure. It’s too damn cold. In secret, I offer sacrifice to the gods, asking them to deliver my men from harm.

  “I do not want any more deaths to be blamed on me,” I tell Logatha one night as we sit in front of a blazing fire listing to another howling blizzard raging outside our door. “I promised Leif I would look after the Greenlanders.”

  “The Greenlanders are no longer your responsibility, Freydis.”

  “Even so,” I mutter, squirming uncomfortably in my seat.

  “Their safety is no more important than ours,” Logatha sputters as she finishes with her drop spindle, the twist crawling up into the fibers that she has drafted out. In front of us, the fire hisses as a log breaks in half.

  “The Greenlanders are my people,” I whisper quietly as Logatha drops her yarn into a nearby basket and takes up a stick to poke the fire. “Some of the men only came to Leifsbidur because I asked. I would feel responsible if anything happened. I don’t want them to suffer.”

  “They betrayed you,” Logatha says, glancing up. “They defected to Thorvard’s camp. You must let go of the guilt you carry. Imagine tying it to a rock and throwing it out into the stormy sea.” Her eyes look glassy in the firelight; a web of shadows covers half her face.

  “I know you hate my Greenlanders,” I say eventually. The tattered shawl around her shoulders needs repair. I will take some yarn and stitch it up when the light is better.

  “Neinn. I hate the Greenlanders for supporting a wife-beater and for backing the murderer who killed my bairn.” The resentment builds in her voice.

  “Finnbogi will avenge us both,” I remind her as the fire crackles noisily. Another log explodes and splits in half, sending a shower of burning sparks into the air. When they land, I quickly snuff them out with my toe. From the opposite end of the longhouse we hear a sudden burst of laughter.

  Logatha leans in closely. Her eyes pick their way up to the brooch on my apron dress. “I am afraid that Finnbogi will challenge Thorvard to a duel,” she murmurs.

  “Finnbogi would surely win the fight,” I say.

  She nods but her face is pasty white. “I wish someone would stab that bastard in his sleep,” she whispers, flushing deeply. I straighten up and brush back my hair with my hand.

  “Me too,” I breathe.

  That night I envy the tender loving that Finnbogi gives to Logatha. Their bodies move together in the far back shadows, and their passionate groans and sighs echo softly through the longhouse. I yearn to have what they have found, to feel what they must feel, to be with a man who is my guardian, but I know that kind of love is beyond my reach. I am sad about it, but I cannot cry. I can’t do anything anymore.

  Turning my back against the longhouse wall I try to fall asleep, but I stir awake at every noise. Just when I am drifting off, I slide into an ethereal fog and see images of a skraeling man. Red Raven has a leering smile.

  His eyes – his luminous eyes – are focused hungrily on my hair.

  “Get back,” I say.

  Sometime during that spell of winter lockdown, Logatha becomes pregnant once again.

  “It is something to celebrate,” I say, feeling genuinely happy for her.

  “Freydis, I am scared,” she replies.

  “It will be different this time around. You must try to eat for two.”

  “I will eat only after the morning sickness passes and I can stomach food,” Logatha says, smiling sweetly. She looks at me and her demeanor suddenly changes. “Freydis,” she whispers as she pulls her woollen shawl around her shoulders, “I worry that we will run out of food before the winter ends.”

  Our eyes lock. I, too, have had that very thought. I know what it is like to run out of food, and I will try to stop that from happening here in Leifsbidur. I take a breath. “There are hunters among us who will brave the storms to bring us meat.”

  Across the ro
om, I see Grelod stand. She thinks that I have beckoned to her with my flailing arms but I have not. I wave her off impatiently. When I turn back, Logatha is staring at the wall.

  “What is wrong, sister?”

  “Nothing,” she whispers, but I see the nest of crow’s-feet wrinkles around her eyes crinkling. I squeeze her hand.

  “Worrying is not good for the growing bairn,” I say in a gentle voice.

  “Even now I feel the sting of gut-wrenching grief when I think of what Thorvard took from me,” she mutters. She can’t look at me.

  My tongue feels thick. “We will not let him steal from us again,” I manage eventually.

  “Neinn,” she mumbles with a scowl. “We share a hatred that we can split in two to give us room to smile.”

  I nod but I can’t trust my voice to speak.

  “The fear and anger always seem to lessen when I talk to you,” she says as she places a warm hand on my shoulder.

  “I am sorry about what he did to you,” I say. I bite the insides of my cheeks. Logatha’s lips tighten.

  “I am sorry they made you marry him.”

  I tilt my chin up to look at her. “I’ve escaped from his clutches thanks to you and Finnbogi,” I say, but my guts are churning and my palms are wet. She grins at me, and the smile is warm and endearing.

  In the coming weeks, the winter storms set in and the temperature dips so low that no one dares to venture out. One day, as I am dressing behind a bed curtain in the blackness of an early dawn, I hear Soren Egilson, a red-headed Greenlander who hails from the north, and Snorri, the Icelander, arguing vehemently.

  “In the name of Thor, it is time to kill that goat for meat,” Soren says crossly. Memories of Brúsi come swirling in, rattling me so much that my pulse picks up.

  “Gods’ bread, we can’t butcher her or we’ll lose the herd. She breeds better than all the rest.”

  Peeking through the curtain, it looks as though Soren and Snorri are the only ones awake.

  “That goat hasn’t produced milk for days,” Soren sniffs.

  “Come on, man,” Snorri barks. “Use your head! Didn’t you feel her abdomen? She is carrying kids.”

  “We will starve her out and she will lose those baby goats. At least right now she gives us meat.”

  “Watch your tongue, you shit-bag, or I’ll cut it out,” Snorri snaps, and I fall back. “We won’t be butchering no goat today.”

  “Who put you in charge?” Soren asks. His tone is sharp.

  I take a breath and step out of the shadows. My vision tunnels as I point my finger at Soren’s chest. “Hold your tongue! While you reside in my brother’s house, I am in charge, and I am of the same mind as Snorri. We will spare the goats.”

  “I answer to no woman,” Soren says defiantly. “Go to Hel, Freydis Eiriksdöttir!

  Behind me I hear a rustling noise. “If you refuse to heed her words, then you’ll heed mine,” Helgi mutters from a darkened corner at the back. He hacks out a wet, phlegmy cough. Glancing at him, I see that his face is pale.

  “We will not kill the mother goat,” I mutter angrily.

  “That goat needs to birth those kids,” Snorri barks. “In the meantime, someone needs to go out to find us meat.”

  “Who will go?” Soren scoffs.

  “I’ll go,” I say quickly.

  From the opposite end of the room, Logatha inches her way off a bed platform, dragging a heavy hide behind her. “Neinn,” she says forcefully. The bulge of her pregnant belly is hidden underneath her furs. “It is too dangerous.”

  “By the gods, I don’t want us to starve to death,” I say pointedly. I purposely don’t mention that I long to escape outdoors so I can wander freely in the snow and smell the air instead of the filthy stink from all the men.

  “Freydis, you’ll freeze to death,” Logatha mutters.

  “Let the gods direct my path,” I sigh, turning back to face the fire. Behind me, Snorri begins to count all the able-bodied men.

  “It seems like many of us are too sick to hunt,” Helgi grunts.

  “They aren’t sick,” Soren snorts irritably. “They are lazy louts who look for every excuse to get out of doing chores.”

  “Give me my harpoon,” Finnbogi says in a raspy voice as he hoists himself out of bed. He looks so ill that his brother tells him to sit back down. Finnbogi shoves past him and stubbornly makes his way towards the fire.

  “One of us should stay behind and guard this place,” Helgi snaps. Finnbogi refuses to turn around, and Helgi scowls. “Brother, I’ll volunteer to brave the storm. It is best that you stay here with your pregnant wife.”

  “That is a good plan,” I say quickly. Finnbogi plops down wearily on a bench before turning to stare at me with his bloodshot eyes. “Come now, Finnbogi. Let me join Helgi and his men. I am used to tracking in the snow.”

  “I am game for taking her along,” Snorri announces as he circles around the fire. “I have seen the outcome of her marksman’s eye. She killed a caribou in the bush, and if she can manage that we need her with us. I am confident that Freydis will prove her worth.”

  I nod my head as a warmth spreads through me.

  That night, another blizzard hits. Then Soren himself falls ill. His breath comes in rapid bursts and he develops a raspy cough. Soon many others take ill so that only a few of us are left to keep the fires stoked.

  “I have hunger pains,” Logatha complains one day as we sit together listening to the storm outside. It is a whiteout, and inside the longhouse we can barely tell if it is day or night.

  “I’ll go out tomorrow to find us food,” Finnbogi says. His thin frame is shaking despite the warm sealskin that is draped across his back. There are dark circles around his eyes.

  In a flash I visualize Thorvard’s greasy lips, a chunk of mutton in his hand.

  Logatha tucks her head underneath Finnbogi’s chin and his furs meld into hers. The fire flares. Logatha’s cheeks are pale and gaunt. Finnbogi’s shoulders are trembling and he looks flushed. He can’t stop shaking despite the warmth the fire throws. When he tilts his head back and closes his eyes, I stare at him.

  “Perhaps it’s time to kill a goat,” is all I say as I listen to the fire snap.

  Chapter Twenty

  Red raven

  I wake to silence. The blizzard is over but it is bitterly cold and there is a layer of frost covering the table top and a layer of ice on the water pail. The hearth fire is nothing but an orange glow of embers surrounded by the snow of white ashes.

  In the shadows the Icelanders sleep late, their snores erupting in sporadic bursts, their coughs purling in their throats. The sickness that Logatha calls “skyrbjugr” has begun attacking in full force. Many complain that their limbs are sore. All they do is sleep and cough. I worry that they are marked to enter Helheim soon.

  In the dappled grey light of a winter dawn, I make my way towards the door where I unbolt the latch, cringing as the creaky screech shatters the morning peace. Outside, the snow fills the gullies in uneven dips where the river lies somewhere below. All I see is white. Fields of white. Inhaling deeply, I roll my neck and watch my breath coming out in foggy wisps.

  “The sun is back,” Logatha murmurs softly from the shadows. Startled, I turn. Her soft chuckle sits low inside her chest as she steps forwards and gently takes me by the arm. Together we watch the sunrise tiptoeing across the glittering snow, following a path of sparkles.

  “Not even Skaði, that fearless god of winter, would dare to venture outside today. It is too cold.” Logatha shivers, hunching her shoulders and folding her arms across her chest. Her cheeks are hollow. She looks too thin.

  “Despite the cold, I want to go out hunting,” I murmur as I rub her back, resolving to secretly slip some extra rations into her soup to fatten her up in her pregnant state.

  “Freydis, I know you are eager to check the traps,” Logatha says, huddling closer for extra warmth. “You must take Finnbogi with you when you go.”

  “Your hu
sband is too sick, Logatha,” I say. I glance behind me towards his bed.

  “Then take Helgi. I passed his bed platform and he isn’t there. He must have risen early to check on things around the yard.”

  “I’ll go find him,” I lie easily. “He and I will leave before the others wake.”

  “I’ll pray to Óðinn and to Thor for your safe return,” she says. Her eyes emit a strange sadness, a look I dare not own. “Just promise that you will come back by dusk. I wouldn’t want you to freeze to death.”

  “Logatha, you are a mother hen,” I tease. I feel my hair come loose from my messy braid. She reaches out and tucks it back.

  “Freydis, promise me that you will be safe.”

  “I will, my friend,” I say distractedly. “I’ll hunt caribou. Just you wait. I’ll bring us back an entire shank of meat to eat tonight.”

  Logatha claps her hands together and licks her lips. Her gesture is so comical that I begin to chuckle. The laughter feels all buttery and I cherish this woman who has helped me find my peace and restore what I thought was lost. Bending our heads together, we look out across the land at the light bouncing off the mounds of snow and ice.

  “I’m not sure you should go,” Logatha chirps. We turn away from the open door and she studies me as I begin to gather up my gear.

  “The weather is a good omen,” I say. I am so famished that the thought of eating roasted mice appeals to me. When I stand, my knees crack.

  “Help me get into my coat,” I mumble. Logatha plucks the sealskins from my arms and holds the coat out for me. When I slip into it, I feel the softness of the polar-bear fleece that edges the sleeves and lines the hood.

  “That coat highlights your red hair,” Logatha teases. “You look warm and huntress-like.”

  I squat and wrench the ties on my leather boots. “Tell Finnbogi goodbye from me,” I say, but my voice gets muffled when I go to adjust the quiver on my back.