The Voyage of Freydis

by Tamara Goranson

  It is quite the trek down a winding trail that leads to a snow-house that has been dug into the drifts piled up against a knoll. Achak motions for me to go inside. I feel my body lurch to a sudden stop as I gasp for air, worrying that it is a trap, that the Red Men will tie me up and skin me alive, that they will feed my heart to their dead deer god.

  I find my knife and stealthily slip it out. I will kill this Red Man. I will kill them all to save myself from being chewed by Red Men’s teeth. I will fight Achak off to survive this place in this godless land where men turn into wolves at night and snowbanks swallow and devour flesh.

  Just as I begin to lift my knife, Achak crouches before the entrance to the snow hut and quickly disappears into the snow. Stupefied, I am left standing there all alone as the frigid air picks its way into my lungs. Outside, everything is very still. Looking up, I see a myriad of twinkling stars as I struggle to make sense of everything. A moment later, my chest explodes and I begin to cough uncontrollably.

  When I hear the wolves begin to howl again, I turn and scan the trees where nothing stirs, feeling the prickle of a niggling fear wrapping itself around my throat and cutting off my air supply. Trying to suppress another rising cough, I turn around, realizing that I can hardly breathe and that my nose is stuffy; one nostril is already clogged. Not even Logatha knows where I have gone. If only I could tell her about this skraeling land of snow and ice and death and fear, a place where – poof! – the Red Men disappear.

  Breathing heavily, I glance up at the nighttime sky one more time before taking the plunge and slipping into the snow tunnel that swallowed Achak whole.

  When I finally manage to sit up straight, I find myself entombed inside a domed snow-house where the Red Men have lit a cooking fire. To my surprise, the place is warm and comfortable. It is not at all what I expect. The deer meat has been set to roast upon an open fire and one of the Red Men has removed his furs. His deer-hide shirt has been ochred a rosy pinkish red.

  I go to chastise them when I see them eating my treasured meat, but Achak holds up his hand. He bows his head respectfully and through gestures, he lets me know that the skraelings are grateful for my hunting gift. Then he hands me a piece of sizzling meat which looks so succulent that I almost faint. A moment later I recoil when I see the dirt and grease and dry specks of blood ground into his calloused hands.

  The Red Men laugh. I feel a rush of anger and a spike of impatience needling through me as I begin to hack and cough once more. In my misery, I reach out quickly and snag the meat and stuff it all inside my mouth. Gobbling it down wolfishly I revel in the gamey flavor, but I can hardly swallow it because my throat is raw and very sore.

  In a fevered daze, I force myself to finish eating. Then Achak hands me a drink of melted ice water. When I snub him, he leaves me be and inches back to where his companions sit. Quite frankly, I would rather let him see me lick the ice on these snow-house walls than accept another gift from him.

  Wearily, I pull my knees up to my chin. I feel too sick to stay awake and listen to the skraelings’ chipmunk talk. Reluctantly I close my eyes and shake my head through the blur of tears.

  When I wake up, it is very quiet and very still. To my surprise, I am all alone inside the hut – but I am still alive. For a moment I sit there not knowing what to do. Then I quickly wriggle up and out, only to discover that the wind is howling and it is snowing hard outside. The Red Men are huddling in a group as the snow swirls around them and the wind gusts wail. I can barely swallow and hardly talk. My throat feels as though someone has pierced it with a thousand spears.

  Glancing up into the grey blizzard-laden sky, I think of Logatha, and Finnbogi, and my kin back home. The memories almost bring me to my knees. By Óðinn’s beard, my tracks will be covered in this storm. No one will know where I have gone. They will think I just disappeared.

  On impulse, I try to run, but instantly I sink knee-deep into the snow. Glancing up, I am horrified when Achak comes to pull me out. As his snowshoes swish towards me through the swirling snow, I start clambering through the snow drifts, desperately trying to get away. When he catches up, I lean into him and push him hard, and he releases a startled cry as he tumbles backwards into the snow.

  With a grunt, I fight to keep myself from sinking lower. In the process I am met with another blast of wind that drives bits of ice into my upturned face.

  “I don’t need any more help from you,” I wail as my voice cracks into a hoarse whisper and my half-coughed words get lost in the blinding snow and howling wind. I try to twist around and change direction but the snow funnels around me.

  Struggling to claw myself out, I grow increasingly impatient until I spot Achak making his way back to the snow hut. As the snowflakes whirl around my head, I watch in silence as he dislodges my snowshoes from a mound of ice and then turns to bring them back to me. With a painful gulp, I will my pulse to settle down before the cold air stabs my throat and sends me into another coughing fit.

  That afternoon, I begrudgingly trudge behind Achak, who is barely visible in the whiteout as he doggedly works to break a trail in front of me. Blinded by the stinging snow that whips across my burning cheeks, I sweat inside my furs as I follow him through the endless drifts, feeling both hot and cold all at once. Working hard to suppress the thought that all I need is a bit of yarrow or a mustard plaster for my aching chest and my hacking cough, I focus on putting one foot in front of the other and try to squelch the queasy feelings in my gut.

  The skraelings expertly navigate a path through a forest of silver birch as the snow falls down in blinding sheets and the silver-grey sky turns dark at midday. All around us, the whistling wind buries into my ice-encrusted furs and wildly flings up wisps of blowing snow.

  When I lift my head, I see the skraelings making their way up a steep bank in single file. We’re not heading in the right direction, I think. I need to return to Leifsbidur!

  Up ahead, I see Achak stop and turn even as my body begins to sway. I reach out and clutch a tree to steady the spinning sensations in my head, but when I try to breathe there is a flash of pain and I can’t seem to release any sound from my sore throat. Achak calls out for me in the shrieking wind, but I am so sick that I can’t shout back.

  He doubles back and I try to push him off, but he catches up my hands in his and before I know it, he is working hard to securely fasten a rope around my waist so that he can pull me behind him like a common thrall tethered to a skraeling guard. Groaning, I try to resist him with all my strength, but he speaks to me in his native tongue using soothing sounds as the snowflakes fall, burying everything. Then my mind plays tricks. The Red Man morphs into Finnbogi’s form. After that, the game is different, and I give in to him, trusting that he will help guide me through the blinding snow.

  The visibility is very poor. We tilt our bodies against the driving snow and push forwards against the screeching wind, but my head throbs and I worry that frostbite is setting in. Achak slips ahead. In the blizzard, I force myself to carry on, to endure the pain, to follow this skraeling into a world of white. After a while, I can hardly walk. I slow my pace and feel Achak tugging on the line.

  When we finally enter the skraeling settlement, the sweat is dripping down my back and my throat is so raw that swallowing is almost impossible. Achak helps me inside a massive tent that has been insulated halfway up with birchbark sheets. The smell of woodsmoke mixes with the smell of pine and grilling meat, but I am too sick to seek comfort from any of this. Feeling dizzy, I sway unsteadily on my feet. Then someone helps remove my furs. Prying hands unwrap the coverings on my legs while someone else tugs fiercely on my snow-encrusted hood. As it falls away, there is a wondrous gasp, an astonished cry. Then a throng of Red Men push in closely and reach out to touch my red hair. Standing beside me, Achak tries to hold them back.

  I suck in air and try to jab the crowd for elbow room. My lungs are wheezing and I have no voice. Feeling lightheaded, I stare straight ahead as the crowd makes way for an ol
d woman who has long white hair and toothless gums. She shuffles in closely, and I half smell the odour of bitter herbs rising from her red-fringed hide shawl which displays a zig-zag pattern on the edges accentuated in raised relief with bird quills underneath. I feel myself tensing when she leans in closely to scrutinize my skin and hair. Steeling myself, I let her loop one of my red curls around her bony index finger before she inspects the red strand carefully. Her filmy eyes glance up at me repeatedly.

  Unexpectedly, she gives a vicious tug, and I let out a high-pitched squeal. When the old woman holds up a piece of my red hair in her fisted hand, the skraeling men begin to laugh. I can hardly believe their audacity.

  “May the trolls take you!” I hoarsely yelp.

  From somewhere behind me, Achak mumbles something in reply before he steps forth and takes me firmly by the elbow. Then he leads me through the crowd. Still panicked, my eyes flit across a wall of logs daubed with mud. The roof is raised in a conical shape terminating at the top in a small circle where the smoke floats up and out. Along the walls, there are bows and arrows, clubs, stone hatchets, and carrying baskets made of reeds and birchbark. All of the containers have been dyed red and arranged in the neatest manner on shelves and hooks. There is even a string of dried smoked fish hanging from the rafters that I would love to retrieve and eat.

  When my fevered eyes fall back down to the skraeling men and women who continue to push in close, I feel too tired and sick to care. Just then the old woman lifts her bony finger into the air. Muttering, she addresses Achak in a harsh, guttural tone that makes my stomach plummet and my heartbeat thrum. There are jolts of pain and waves of heat and sickness all at once. A cough escapes, building wetly before the room goes quiet and no one moves. I am conscious of the weight of the weapons on my belt.

  Someone wearing rabbit skins begins to chant and my eyes go wide. I have heard that they sing before they kill their prey and offer sacrifice to their gods. Panicking, I back towards the door, but Achak stops me with his eyes. When he steps towards me, I allow him to untie my wrists but I can’t stop shivering. A moment later, the old woman comes to take me by the hand. In a feverish stupor I let her parade me around the fire, but when a fierce-looking man with an animal-tooth necklace points at me, I close my eyes and think of death, swaying unsteadily on my feet.

  The hearth fire is suddenly intolerably hot. Someone takes away my furs and I worry about them suddenly taking away my life, but they only sniff at me as though I am a dog. Horrified, I step back into Achak’s chest. Just then, another Red Man reaches out to run his fingers through my hair. Achak stops him with his hand.

  “Thank you,” I say with a scratchy voice. Achak scrutinizes me carefully in the firelight. His eyes have something in them I cannot name, and I turn away, listening to the chatter, feeling the heat in my cheeks.

  When Achak offers me a birchbark cup filled with melted ice water, I slug it down. “Red,” he says in Norse, pointing to my knotted hair. I nod weakly, gesturing with my thumb to my sore throat.

  “I am sick,” I rasp. Achak studies me, and I swallow painfully before he half catches, half eases me to the ground.

  The fire crackles and sparks, and a brilliant light blazes high behind Achak’s head. Fevered, I close my eyes again and listen to the wails of a little one, remembering the longhouse back in Leifsbidur, remembering Logatha in her pregnant state. How I wish that I was home.

  Sometime later, Achak wakes me to apply a stinky tree-sap tincture to my chest. At first I squirm and try to slap his hands away, but later I give in and accept his ministrations and drink his tea. It tastes like willow bark or dogwood, but perhaps it is something else. Perhaps they are trying to poison me with their boiled broth that tricks my mind into thinking that the concoction is meant to soothe my throat. In a delirious state I drink it down. I am too sick to care, too sick to struggle, too sick to want to stay alive.

  Achak throws handfuls of something into the fire that conjures smoke. Then the old woman appears. Standing behind him, she emits a horrid wail that snakes up my spine and crawls into my ringing ears. I open my mouth to denounce the noise, but my throat is raw and I have no voice.

  After that I slip into a restless, foggy daze where I drift in and out of sleep, not knowing whether it is night or day. The wind still howls and I can hear the sounds of Red Men talking behind my head. I do not know how long I lie there in the tent, but when I finally snap awake, I notice that I have been placed underneath a low-lying, tented frame covered over by a wealth of skins. Beside me there is a pile of heated stones and a water bucket. A small birchbark cup bobs gently in a tree-barked pail. I yearn to reach for it, but it is as though a haze of mist is blinding me. I have no strength, no voice, no will.

  From my mat, I warily watch Achak crawl inside my tent to wet the stones. Immediately there is a whoosh of steam that engulfs me, shrouding me in a soothing mist. I breathe in the vapors, relishing the feel of the glorious heat. When the rocks grow cold and there is no more steam, I doze again.

  When next I wake, my fever is gone, and the vapor tent has been removed. The place seems empty until I hear the skraelings’ throats chopping words and grunting sounds that I can’t understand. I do not move. I make no noise. Looking up, I think about how to best escape this skraeling lair until I register the sound of pelting ice hitting the tent in the howling blizzard outside.

  In the dim light right above my head, there is a huge set of caribou racks, brown and fresh, swaying gently back and forth. I count the points and feel a sudden rush of cold in my bones as the hairs rise on the nape of my neck. In that moment it all comes back. My trophy prize and the loss of it. A man with a smooth, red face and a tattooed chest. The raven tattoo etched in red.

  “You bloody thief!” I say.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Moving pinecones

  I endure another high fever that attacks in the middle of the night, leaving me freezing cold then burning hot. Barely conscious, I wince when I see someone bending over me until I realize it is only Achak. Then I sleep. When I wake, Achak is sitting cross-legged on the floor with a carving tool in hand. An instant later – or so it seems – his face pushes in close to mine, and he dabs my forehead with a cold, wet bundle filled with chunks of ice.

  Drifting in and out, I hear him conferring with the old woman in the guttural language of his tribe. Strangely, I am not afraid of him, even though I suffer nightmares where giant red-faced men with fangs for teeth eat my body while I am still alive.

  I am almost certain that mörsugur, the intestinal fat-sucking month, has come and gone when my fever finally breaks, but my cough is bad and my muscles ache, and I have no energy to get out of bed. Dismally, I try to calculate how long I have been gone from Leifsbidur, knowing that Logatha will be worried sick. She will think I froze to death.

  My cough turns wet. As I lie in bed, I study the comings and goings of the tribe, the way the women like to soften the hides before they sew, the way they smoke and dry their salmon and mix their dried berries in the seal fat. When Achak leans in closely to listen to my rasping lungs, I let him touch me, but I still don’t like it when he lifts my head and forces me to drink his tea. The concoction soothes my throat but it tastes foul. He makes me drink it anyway as he eyes the puckered flesh around my raised and bumpy scars where the skin is white.

  I finally recover well enough to get up. As I lower myself to sit cross-legged in front of their fire, I make sure to keep my chin held high and my shoulders square, taking care that all should see my coiled, red hair. The old woman is wiser than she looks. As she takes up one of my curls in her gnarled hands, she fixes me with her sharp eyes. I try to pull away, but she flashes me a toothless grin. Then she turns to Achak and mutters something. He throws a careful smile but I stare him down, waiting for his face to sober up and his large, round eyes to go blank.

  That evening, the old woman makes me sit with her when her people gather around the fire. The group is small – two families, as far
as I can tell. Just as they are about to eat, the tent flap opens and the wind blows in another group. There are men and women wrapped in fox fur and a little baby strapped in a birchbark carrier on a young woman’s back. All their garments have been dusted red, but they smell like Norsemen with their fish-smoke scent. It is a smell I have not forgotten. I never will.

  When all are seated, I glance around the fire at the glowing faces, knowing I am an outsider with different skin and different hair and a different kind of dress. Their language is incomprehensible – just a jumble of noises, a mix of harsh, throaty sounds. Hearing their conversations makes me miss my kin. I am stranded and there is little chance that I will be able to return to Leifsbidur if the blizzards don’t let up.

  Across the fire, Achak is sitting beside a hunter with a harsh, intimidating face. The Red Man has long, black hair and a streak of war paint smeared across his cheeks. When he looks at me, his eyes spark fire. I prickle, and then I take offense.

  The old woman remains seated in a cross-legged position on the floor. She snaps at him, and his face hardens and his eyes go blank. I avert my eyes just before another blast of smoke from the cooking fire hits me squarely in the face. The children squeal and run away, and a mother curses as she flaps her arms around wildly in an effort to bat the smoke away from her little girl who can barely walk. The child’s eyes well up and she begins to cry.

  A girl with braids and a necklace of colored shells is the first to approach me. Warily I watch as she tiptoes close. Her long, thin fingers make shadows on the walls in the firelight and her curious eyes are like large pools of dancing light. Just as she is about to touch me, the sour-faced hunter snarls at her to frighten her and the little girl scurries away with a shriek. The old woman cackles. Achak does not look up. He continues carving with his knife.