The Voyage of Freydis

by Tamara Goranson

  When the old woman goes to pinch my cheeks, I snap at her. She pretends not to hear me and continues chortling, her laughter rising with the smoke. The children are left to go unchecked, and in their excitement they try to get close enough to touch my hair.

  “You should swat them for their disrespect,” I say, trying to draw back.

  With an encouraging pat, the old woman pushes a little boy in close to me. He reaches out to touch my cheeks and I attempt to turn away, but the old woman guides him forwards, nattering away as the tassels on her dress, with their little shells and rocks jiggling from the fringes, tinkle so wildly that I get distracted and miss seeing the other children fanning out behind me. All of a sudden, their hands reach forwards to pull and tug at my red curls.

  “Stop that, now,” I say, jumping when a little girl gives a vicious tug. I hate their groping hands, their tiny touches, their curiosity. I am a novelty who is on display.

  When it becomes too much, I hiss at them to no avail. Beside me the skraelings begin to talk amongst themselves in a cacophony of harsh and boisterous sounds. Then I hear the strangest noise coming from behind my back. It sounds like someone is shearing sheep.

  Twisting around, I catch sight of another boy slinking off with an impish smile, holding something red in his bony fist. With a sharp intake of breath, I reach behind my head and feel the missing patch of hair that the boy hacked off as the other children continue to push in closely.

  “You little snake!” I curse in startled disbelief as I lunge for him. Out of nowhere, a pair of strong arms holds me down. With wolverine strength, I push up hard and the children around me go flying as they get tossed. As soon as I struggle up, I come face to face with Achak.

  “What in gods’ name did that boy do to me?” I shout. Mortified, I clutch the back of my head and turn to show him the missing piece.

  Just then, some bird sweeps past my head, and I begin to swear and flail as Achak reaches forwards and tries to calm me down. Beside us, the old woman nets the children in her arms. Her fancy fringes rattle softly when she suddenly trips the boy who sliced off my hair. Wriggling, he tries to scramble away from her, but as soon as he rights himself, the old woman taps him with her walking stick and he goes still.

  The hearth fire flares. In the silence, the old woman begins to chastise the boy in front of the entire tribe. By Óðinn’s beard, if he were mine I would whip him hard for what he did.

  As I sit back down, the old woman demands that the boy release the chunk of hair he stole from me. When I reach back to touch the bristles of my hacked off hair, my anger flares.

  The rebellious boy with his fiery eyes slinks forwards showing no remorse. I hate the fact that he looks so smug. He will grow up to be like all the rest – a man who takes from women without asking first.

  It is Achak who forces open the boy’s balled-up fist. When the hair drops out, the old woman clucks her tongue at him. I feel like pouncing, I am so vexed. After this, I will be afraid to go to sleep in this savage tent where little men are allowed to steal locks of hair.

  Achak cuffs the boy on the back of the head and there is a quick exchange between two groups of men. They call the boy Abooksigun. It must mean “The Sneaky One”. By the gods, they should beat him for his disrespect, but they do not. Instead they banish him from the tent without a meal. I watch him leave. Beside me the old woman tucks the clump of hair – my hair – inside her pouch.

  She pushes her snowy-white hair over her shoulder and adjusts her shawl before she points to the chunks of roasted meat, encouraging me to eat. In the flickering firelight, her face is a map of wrinkles but her eyes are young and alive. She tugs on my sleeve before reaching out and snatching up the meat chunk, but I snub her and refuse to eat. In response, the old woman tsks and shakes her head as she stares at the dishes that have been prepared: the root vegetables, the nuts, the meat, the fish. A moment later, she helps herself to the food that I reject, and I have to listen as she slurps the bones and sucks on the grizzled fat with her toothless gums. The sound is so irksome that I try to inch away. From across the fire, Achak’s eyes meet mine, and it is as though he is warning me to be respectful, to watch my step in the presence of the grandmother whom they all revere.

  When at last the meal is done, someone begins to beat a drum and the singers start up with an eerie wail that crescendos before dropping low and rising again to a shrieking pitch. In front of us, the fire throws out sparks and the hunter with the war paint streaked across his face stands up and begins to dance. Tucking myself back against the wall, I watch as the hunger pains rip through my gut. Still I refuse to eat. Even when they place a reed basket full of dried salmon at my feet, I stubbornly reject the offering. I will not eat their fish or caribou. I will not give them the satisfaction. They will learn to treat me like a goddess because of the color of my hair. I’ll make them think I don’t need their food. After tonight, I’ll expect respect.

  As the night wears on and the old woman instructs the skraelings to dance for me, I think of Asta and Grelod and Snorri and Gunnar and Finnbogi and Helgi, too. Logatha I miss most of all. It feels strange to be inside this family tent where I am surrounded and yet I am alone, dying like a flapping fish, struggling in the fight for one last breath.

  Achak sits across the fire talking with an older man. His face looks animated; his smile reveals a set of perfect teeth. Yet there is nothing perfect about him. His shoulders are broad, and he is slightly taller and stockier than the other men. His black hair trails to his shoulders, loose and flowing and bone-straight with one lone braid ornately decorated with seashells gathering hair together at the side. There are red ochre markings caressing his cheeks, and his face is clean-shaven. Some would call him handsome. I would not, although his eyes hold something mysterious – a light of sorts.

  Turning my head towards the door, I try to recall Logatha’s face. Her sweet, gentle smile. I pray that her bairn is safe. That she isn’t starving. Oh gods, I hope she isn’t sick.

  The skraeling longhouse is uncomfortably hot and I shed my furs. Inside my head, Finnbogi’s voice cautions me to be careful before he whispers that I am a disappointment, that I have failed Logatha most of all. I feel the prick of tears and a lump rising in my throat. My movement draws a curious eye. Achak ignores the hunter at his side and stares at me. Beside me the old woman is fast asleep.

  Without hesitating, I scramble up and make my way towards the entrance of the tent and peek outside. No one stops me. The banks of snow look to be about ten feet high. It is snowing heavily and very cold. Somewhere out there lies the settlement of Leifsbidur. I must go back. I must check to see that my kin are safe.

  Achak startles me when he sneaks up behind me and shuts the door. When I turn around, he studies me before offering me a piece of meat. My eyes meet his. Hesitating, I accept his offering knowing that the only way I will be able to leave this place is if I have built back my strength.

  “Where is my coat?” I ask overtop all the noise. I gesture to the furs a female wears and rub my arms as if I am cold. For a moment, Achak looks confused before his face breaks out into a smile. Then he turns and points to a hook where my sealskins with the polar-bear collar are hanging all splattered with specks of dried blood and mud.

  “What about my spear, my bow and arrows, and my gear?” I try. Instinctively I point to the weapons hanging around the room. Achak frowns before looking up.

  “I want to go back to Leifsbidur,” I say boldly, hoping he will understand. His eyes find my face. He throws a little shrug.

  “I need my leggings and my weapons, too.” The tears come unbidden and I swallow, feeling the lump building in my throat, feeling embarrassed that this Red Man should see me cry. His eyes work their way down the scar that runs the length of my cheek bone to my mouth. I hate him for staring at it.

  “Can you help me return to Leifsbidur?” I ask.

  Achak’s gaze homes in on my missing lock of hair. I wish I could tell him that Logatha is waitin
g for me and that the settlement of Leifsbidur needs me back.

  Someone thwacks the caribou-hide drum and an undulating voice begins to chant as another group of Red Men stand up to dance. Their fluid, bending forms replicate the movement of swaying grass.

  Directly across from me sits a woman nursing her infant with bare breasts exposed. The bairn’s little hands wiggle up against the mother’s breast. A moment later, Achak tugs on my arm and points to a collection of pinecones that he has quickly placed beside me. Then he points to another collection he has placed in front of his own feet. Leaning down, I watch him pluck a pinecone from my pile. Slowly he pushes it towards his own pile. The pinecone message doesn’t make sense. I shake my head.

  “Leifsbidur,” he manages awkwardly as he points to the pinecones by my feet. He plucks another single cone from my pile and points to me. Then he moves this pinecone to his pile. In a flash, I see the meaning of his game. Gingerly, I reach over and pick the most recently moved pinecone up.

  “I want to return to Leifsbidur,” is all I say as I gently place the pinecone back in my pile. Without looking up, Achak shakes his head and reaches forwards to retrieve a piece of rabbit fur that is soft and white. He startles me when he grabs my pinecone and throws it roughly on the ground. Then he takes the rabbit fur and throws it over top of the pinecone while muttering skraeling words and pointing to the snow outside. A moment later, he picks up a stone and grinds it into the rabbit fur to crush the pinecone underneath.

  The meaning of the message is clear enough. The falling snow will cover me and I will die. Behind us the Red Men’s drums go wild. Achak sighs deeply. He looks at me with lugubrious eyes before he begins picking off pinecone remnants from his pants.

  “Home,” I mutter. “I need to go home.” As I go to turn from him, Achak stops me. His hand is warm. I brace myself, looking down, but his touch is gentle. He points to the bed depression full of furs where they make me sleep. Then he points at me and his eyes fall shut. For a moment I just stare at him, breathing in the smell of the aromatic woodsmoke, listening to the noises around us – the sounds of the beating drums, the sounds of laugher, the sounds of the tribal gathering at its peak in this skraeling longhouse with its roaring fire.

  There is a tingling feeling in my arm. I glance at this man who muttered prayers over the deer I killed, who kept me alive, and who gave me willow bark tea. My eyes stay fixed on his long, dark eyelashes flickering like a butterfly before my gaze falls to his crooked nose and the redness of his smooth, angular cheeks and the kindness of his gentle smile.

  When I stir awake at the break of dawn, the snow has stopped but it is freezing cold and I can see my breath. After rolling up the hide that covers me, I tiptoe towards the firepit that is filled with snow-white ash. In the shadows by a pile of hides, I spot one of the reed baskets but there are no fish left inside. Swearing underneath my breath, I scan the tent. The sleeping forms look comfortable tucked into nooks and crannies and cedar-lined dugouts carved into the ground.

  Groping frantically in the faint light of an early dawn, I am startled by the sound of men’s voices in the yard as I am reaching down to steal someone’s boots. In a panic I throw a glance at the door. All is quiet in the tent.

  Without making noise, I pick my way to the door before I crack it open and peek outside. Achak is standing in the snow, all wrapped up in his sealskins, his breath pluming puffs of mist into the frosty air. He is talking with the sour-faced skraeling who doesn’t like me, and their voices drift towards me in a hushed rumble. . Achak’s hunting spear is strapped securely to his back and he is helping his friend tie a rope on a sled. In the distance behind the snow-covered trees, the horizon is a smudge of orange as the sun begins spilling beams of light into the ice-blue winter sky where the oval moon still lurks, as if reluctant to fade away.

  Without blinking, I rip my furs off the hook and look around the tent to see where the Red Men stashed my gear. I can’t see my weapons anywhere. Cursing underneath my breath, I tiptoe around the longhouse, trying not to make any noise as I pick up items I think I’ll need and stash them in the pockets of my coat.

  The old woman is cuddled against a little girl, snoring loudly with her white hair curtaining her face from view. In another shallow cradle in the ground, I notice a boy stirring. When I look down, I spot the thief, Abooksigun. His face is barely visible underneath his furs. Someone must have allowed him to return to the tent late last night after the feast was done.

  Glancing down at the boy’s sleeping form, I am tempted to hack off his braid before I go, but I resist the urge. Disturbing the peace inside this tent would only serve to disadvantage me.

  Someone behind me stirs and my heart stops. For a moment, I freeze. Outside, I hear the voices fading as a crow begins to caw. The sound jets me out of a frozen place. With stealth, I leap across the firepit and make my way towards the door without waking anyone. When I step outside into the quiet yard, I breathe in sharply when I’m hit with a sudden blast of cold.

  The men are gone. I see their tracks looping around a circle of conical huts. One structure has a smoke hole that spews out greyish plumes into the pale blue sky. I avoid that tent and try to make it across the yard, but I do not manage to get too far before I sink into a mound of snow.

  “Shit,” I mutter into the air, and the crow caws again as if offended. Grunting, I fight to struggle free before I am forced to double back. I spot a pair of snowshoes leaning against the old woman’s tent, but just as I am working to dig them out of the ice with my mittened hands, an explosion of noise comes from inside the tent. Abooksigun’s voice cracks the air, rising up in a thin, high pitch before falling into a rich blend of sonorous sound.

  Carefully I unkink my fingers and start digging fast. When I finally free the snowshoes and put them on, I waste no time leaving the settlement. Already I am crazed with thirst, but there is a desperation whirling through my bones, an eagerness to join the hunters before I lose their trail.

  The fields are blanketed with white and the land is ghostly silent and deathly still as I forge my way through the snow, doggedly following in the Red Men’s tracks that thread through a forest of snow-capped tuckamore before circling a marsh where a patch of brittle brown cattails are sticking out. Then I follow the tracks leading into the hills where the windswept drifts are very large.

  I make steady progress all morning, moving inland across a bleak landscape. Then the snowshoe tracks peter off in a patch of ice running the length of a lake that slivers through a canyon.

  I cannot think. My toes and fingers are far too numb and my nose is cold. Just then, an icy blast of wind blows a dusting of snow in my face causing my eyes to well up and my lashes to freeze. Shivering, I rub my hands together to generate a little warmth. Up ahead, there is a snow-capped peak that will give me a view of the valley below. Hopefully I will be able to spot the men.

  With effort, I push myself to carry on. When I reach a large spruce tree that lies directly in my path, I find the frozen carcass of a caribou lying in its tree well. Its eyes are open and its death stare beckons me to jump into the hole and lie with it. The thought frightens me. I back away and lose my balance, falling softly in the snow.

  Black thoughts come unbidden, sneaky, and instantaneous. If I could just fall asleep and ignore the bite of the bitter cold,, I’d wake refreshed. The desire to just give up gnaws at me, itching fiercely, tugging hard. From far away I hear Finnbogi’s voice.

  Get up, he shouts. You have to move!

  I blink three times and will my body to find the strength to struggle up. There is nothing in this frozen wasteland, this godless place where I am alone. All I have is one pathetic knife and one hunting spear. I was a stupid fool for leaving the skraeling camp without all my gear. I don’t even have enough food and water to get through the day.

  I feel a surge of panic as I scoop up snow and start to suck. The liquid soothes me as I stare across the land, taking in the vastness, the utter emptiness and loneliness
of it.

  “Achak!” I call out into the stillness. He doesn’t answer. No one does. “Achak!” I scream again. My cry echoes in the wilderness, fading into nothingness. The silence is absolute in all this snow. When I look back and see the crooked snowshoe trail that marks my passage up the bank, I am overcome and terrified by the silence of the place.

  In the chilly air, the shivers come. I have been a fool. Logatha needed me to come back to her. I was bound to her, to all of them. Even now, I see their faces around the fire.

  A resolve sets in – a survival instinct that makes me struggle up. In front of me, there is a craggy bank of treacherous rocks that borders a frozen lake. At the top, a blast of icy wind hits me squarely in the face. Miserably, I gather my furs against my chin before looking out across the land where I see only a sea of white broken by clumps of snow-covered trees. The landscape is a dreary wide-open space, a land of white where the silence … the silence screams.

  A shiver of movement rattles me before I realize it is only birds. Then my thoughts slow like a trickle of tree sap, and I suddenly realize I could die out here. Oh gods, what if another blizzard comes? For a moment I am tempted to go back to Achak’s tent, but then I square my shoulders and set my jaw. I need to try for Leifsbidur. I made a promise to Logatha.

  As I begin to inch my way down the slope, my snowshoes hit an icy patch and I lose my footing and begin to slide. Trying to break my fall, my arms flail wildly and my ankle twists. Horrified, I release an ear-splitting scream as my body picks up speed and careens towards the ledge that drops off steeply to the lake below. There is blinding panic that cuts off air when I realize there are no bushes to break my fall and no rocks sticking up to stop me sliding over the precipice. In a terrifying whirl, I howl again before suddenly careening over the bank and dropping suddenly, falling with my legs and arms outstretched. My spear dislodges from my pack, and in my periphery, I watch it fall to the lake below as I try to brace myself for the fall.