The Voyage of Freydis

by Tamara Goranson

  Achak steps between us, blocking the huntsman from my view. The old woman says something in her guttural language and shakes her head. When she raps Askook on the back of his legs with her walking stick, she mutters something underneath her breath and he talks back.

  From underneath my furs, I feel a little smile forming when Askook suddenly glares at me. In a huff he leaves the tent, throwing open the door so wide that a rush of cold air slips inside, making us all shiver. The old woman grunts. Achak slides a look her way and Nashushuk coughs out a bunch of words.

  In the shadows cast by the flickering fire, Achak reaches down to adjusts the pell-mell furs that I’ve stirred up, and the smell of him lingers in my nose and hair; the warmth of him lingers everywhere.

  I catch his eyes, the glint of them, silver-flecked. On the edges of memory, floating in the shadowed labyrinth, Logatha haunts me.

  Shame on you! Watch your step and beware, sister. The Red Men will only disappoint. Just remember that you are Norse and they are not. Do not succumb to their skraeling games. Do not let them seduce you. Remember, your only job is to concentrate on getting well.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  When goose pimples rise

  The blizzards howl for weeks on end and I am bed-ridden because of my blasted leg. In the dead of winter, the skraeling longhouse is a busy place with families coming and going. The old woman seems to be in charge. She is always welcoming her people in and encouraging them to sit with her around the fire. Her wizened face is cobwebbed by wrinkles but her eyes are bright and she treats me like I should be worshiped and revered. To my delight, she often sends little gifts: smoked salmon wrapped in dried seaweed, a little shell, a shiny piece of rock, a raven’s feather that is a blend of bluish-purple and black.

  Lying in the old woman’s earth cradle, I watch everyone as Achak tends to me. He is my guardian – a huntsman turned healer. I sometimes wonder if he has been assigned to watch over me and guard me so I don’t try to get away.

  In his free time, Achak sits by the blazing fire with a chiseling tool in hand, concentrating on etching patterns into bone. He likes to carve. I like to watch him, lying cozied underneath my furs.

  Unbelievably – especially in this Red Man’s tent where everything is uniquely strange yet simultaneously familiar – the men are helpful. They cook. They sew. They even care for the young ones while their women work. I wonder that they are not ashamed.

  One afternoon when my ankle is particularly stiff and sore, I motion to Achak to bring me water in a birchbark cup. Immediately he understands. Not only does he bring the drink, but he tips the cup so that I can swallow more easily without using my injured shoulder which has been bound up tightly in a sling. I take two giant gulps before Achak gently cautions me to slow down. In the process his fingers unexpectedly brush against the back of mine. Startled, I pull back and swallow wrongly which triggers another coughing fit.

  Achak leans forwards to tap my back. His shirt is loose. I catch a glimpse of the red raven tattoo on his muscled chest. In that moment, my coughing stops and I avert my eyes; I feel myself begin to blush. What am I becoming in this skraeling place where Loki tricks me into seeing men who truly care?

  Achak sits up straight and studies me. I hate that his gentle eyes display concern. I drop my chin. Even if I had the words, I doubt he would understand. He is a hunter who likes to kill. I turn my face into the wall.

  Over the next few weeks I try to walk, but I am so hesitant to put weight on my ankle that I feel as dependent as a newborn fawn. Achak offers me his shoulder and I lean on him when the old woman makes us circle around their house – a dwelling they call a mamateek. It is an impressive structure about ten feet wide with six sides and earthen walls covered over with skins and birchbark with poles starting at the forest floor and meeting all together at the roof. Grandmother likes to sit in the middle where they make their fire. She watches me walk around the firepit, but other than that she won’t let me do anything and I grow bored.

  From my perch in the old woman’s sleeping hollow, I memorize the skraelings’ routines, learning what makes them angry and what makes them laugh. I even try to learn their words. My efforts are met with stares and a round of laughs. Abooksigun teases me most of all, but somehow I no longer mind. He has earned the right.

  My presence in the old woman’s tent and my mispronunciations of the Red Men’s words stir up trouble when Askook comes. He is friends with Achak but he doesn’t like me, I can tell. When he scowls at me, memories of Thorvard of Gardar come flooding back and I withdraw into the shadows, feeling as though I am a skunk, as though I am someone as worthless as a grain of sand.

  When I am well enough to get out of bed for good, the old woman invites me to take the seat of honor around the fire, but I offer it up to Askook, hoping to avert trouble. It means nothing to me and from Askook’s look I can tell it means everything to him. The hunter lifts his chin with the air of a proud man and I remain silent, remembering the promise I’ve made to myself. I will no longer give away my power or allow myself to tolerate any man’s grumblings. I have toughened up.

  As winter settles in, the snowbanks grow even deeper but the tribe makes the best of it with their storytelling, music, and dancing. When the drummers pound their drums and sing in undulating voices that rise in cedar smoke, grandmother seems to be at her happiest.

  During the day, the women like to sit around the fire crafting shell-bead necklaces and sewing clothing out of hides while the men fix their tools and carve etchings into wood and bone. Then the weather clears and the hunters go out on several occasions to look for meat. Achak’s hunting eye must be keen. He brings back rabbit, fox, marten, caribou, and deer, and when he has finished attending to the meat, he brings me ice wrapped in a piece of hide to use as a cold compress to soothe my foot and shoulder pain.

  Several weeks pass. One morning I wake to a quiet, empty mamateek. The air smells fresh and there is no wind, just sunshine spilling through the smoke hole and cutting through the haze and tickling the cobwebs in the corners. In the filmy light, Achak stops his carving and looks up. His pitch-black hair is haloed by a sudden beam of light.

  Lazily I stretch before easing myself out of bed. My ankle still looks deformed and I feel too scared to walk on it without support. Achak grins broadly when he sees me. For a moment, I hold his eye before glancing in the direction of the door.

  “Where did the others go?” I ask a little shakily.

  Achak lets me know with gestures that the men have gone to check the traps and the women have gone to gather wood.

  “Don’t wait for me,” I mumble as I motion for him to go outside. “The fresh air would be good for you.”

  His eyes flit towards the door. A moment later he jumps up and scampers out the door, moving as smoothly as a huntsman slipping through the bush. For a few moments I am alone, nurtured by the quiet whispers of the mamateek and the sudden sense of unbridled peace. When Achak sticks his head back inside, no words pass between us and yet we speak.

  He gestures for me to come outside.

  I point to my ankle. “I’m still too sore and weak.”

  Achak grins. As fast as a rabbit, he makes his way towards my bed, leans down, and scoops me up. Startled, I inhale sharply, and he staggers a little as he shifts my weight in his arms. Without thinking, I wrap my arms around his neck and tuck myself in close to his tattooed chest. Then, in a few quick strides, he carries me outside into the glorious sun. Instantly, I am rendered blind.

  One lone bird perched on top of a mound of snow begins to chirp. It tilts its little head back and forth, studying us for a moment before it begins to hop around in the melting snow. The sun licks my face deliciously, but without a coat the cold sets in, birthing goose pimples on my skin. Achak jerks his chin in the direction of a pair of hawks soaring high above our heads. Their majestic wingspans and white bald heads are clearly visible in the clear blue sky.

  Shivering, I draw myself in close to him to benefi
t from his body heat. Achak looks down. Our eyes connect. Then he takes one final breath and turns to go back inside. I am aware that I am a skeleton – a mere whisper of what I once was – when he easily carries me through the doorway.

  Inside the stuffy room, it is dim and smoky. Achak gently lays me down on my bed of furs, taking special care to cover me. The bear skin tickles. I swat at it. My reaction draws an easy grin.

  “Why do you keep your face so red?” I murmur.

  He searches my eyes before he mimes batting bugs away. When I look confused, he mimes lathering up his face and then waiting for a bug to land on him before he squishes it before it bites.

  “You mix the ochre with fat and smear it all over your skin to keep the insects from biting you?” I laugh.

  Achak smiles. Breathing hard, he hesitates. I choke back fear and force myself to stay still as he leans in close and lifts a lock of my red hair. Then he smiles at me reverently.

  My senses are pinging. I have a tingling sensation in my chest that travels up my neck when I catch a whiff of cooking smoke, whittled pine, fresh outdoor air, and melting snow wafting off his hides.

  With care, Achak moves his hand towards my cheek and I let him caress the scar that runs from my nose to my ears. Sweet Freyja, it takes great effort not to blink. Memories of the abuse that I endured pop up and I kill them quickly, piercing them with my hidden sword by remembering Achak’s kindness when I was ill. He tended to my broken bones. I drank in the smell of his berry-perfumed tea and his fresh pine-smelling poultices.

  Achak stares at me. After a long moment of trying to still my thoughts, I get lost again in his handsome scent, a mixture of woodsmoke, herbs, earth, and snow. In that moment, I come alive and find my smiling self, that piece of me that I had lost. Once Logatha was the one to help me find that gem. Oh gods, what would she think of me in this place?

  Trembling, I let Achak take me in his arms. I love his lips, his chin, his throat, the red lines scrolling across his cheeks. As he traces his finger down my neck, I throw my head back and begin to laugh, feeling his tickles, reveling in the warmth of his gentle touch. Then, with caution, I let myself relax, bracing myself so I don’t drift into another time where the dark memories lurk.

  Achak’s skin is rough. Nervously, I begin to entwine my fingers into his. In response he mumbles softly in his own tongue. I feel the heat of him, marveling when I suddenly feel the spark of skin tingles. I take a jagged breath. He takes one too and his eyes flash with a lustre more brilliant than the springtime sun dancing across a frost-covered meadow.

  “You never asked my name,” I whisper, blinking twice. I tap my chest. “I am Freydis. Freydis Eiriksdöttir. Freydis of the Norsemen’s tribe.”

  “Freydis…” He releases my name as though murmuring a hallowed prayer. It is not at all what I expect.

  “You are Achak,” I say quietly as I stare into his large grey eyes.

  “Achak.” He sweeps his arms around the room. “Beothuk.”

  “You are Achak of the Beothuk tribe?”

  He grins. With his free hand, he tentatively reaches out to touch my hair.

  “Red,” he says with difficulty. I feel a rush of heat in my cheeks.

  “My hair has always been like this – curled in ringlets and wildly red,” I whisper, certain he doesn’t understand. “I am the only one who has my faðir’s hair. My brother Leif is not like me. He has raven-colored hair like Mother’s. Leif is…”

  Achak’s eyes light up and he smiles at me with his perfect teeth. “Leif. Red vyking?” he repeats incredulously. He lifts his hand to approximate my brother’s height.

  “Já,” I say, laughing at the way he pronounces his words in Norse.

  “Furs. Vykings. Trade.” He waves his arm around the tent. “Beothuk tribe.”

  I am so shocked that he knows some Norse that tears well up. I snatch a breath.

  “You knew my brother?” My voice is tremulous; I am so proud.

  “Já,” Achak replies, trying to copy the way I pronounce the word. The sound bounces across the empty room. For a moment we laugh together before a comfortable silence settles between us.

  “The others will be returning soon,” I finally say as I try to convey the message without using words. Achak slowly shakes his head. A look of amusement creeps into the crease lines that edge his eyes.

  “Beothuk… hun… hunt,” he manages quietly.

  I study his mouth. My heart is beating very fast. Tentatively I reach out and touch his cheeks but his red tattoo barely smudges underneath my thumb.

  His gaze wanders across my face as the rumble of a low-pitched, mirthful sound begins to erupt from somewhere deep inside his chest. My fingers stop and he reaches up and cups my hand. His eyes take me in. After a moment, I extract my hand and with my index finger I begin tracing a line down his handsome cheek. When he throws a tiny smile, I continue moving my finger down his neck and down his smoothly contoured chest where the red raven tattoo sits above his left nipple.

  Slowly his body moves into mine. With a jolt, I roll back onto the bed of furs and feel the warmth of his gentle hands tentatively reaching out to caress my skin. Hesitantly he comes towards me once again. His eyes pull me in and I let him kiss my neck, reveling in the feel of him.

  We come together, quivering with the same desire, a hot passion rising like a building wave. I lose myself in the feel of him, tingling as though I am sipping wine, marveling at the feelings that I have always wanted but never known.

  Achak carefully moves his body on top of mine and I hold his kiss, feeling the dizziness of the moment and the relief that he knows my injuries, that he knows where he can put his weight. For a moment I curse Thorvard’s name just as Achak whispers mine. Then there are pleasure sparks and I try to still the thunder in my chest and ease the tingles exploding everywhere.

  Achak’s eyes caress my lips but then he stops. Slowly, he tilts his face to the side and studies me as though hesitating. He points to me. Then he lays his hand on his heart. In the silence, a single tear drips from my eye and he reaches forwards to brush it off. It is enough. He sees me with his gentleness.

  There are a thousand prickles in my fingers and in my toes as the warmth of him slides up against my skin. My heart explodes and I draw him closer, feeling the muscles in his back, grabbing lower, sighing with a longing ache.

  Slowly, his hands begin to work their way up my thighs and hips, and we fall into kissing as though we are two mating birds sharing the magic of our warbles. Groaning, he cups my breasts and I grip the back of his thick, warm neck to keep his lips on mine while I pull him close. With more tender kisses, he lets me know that he likes the color of my red hair, which makes me laugh. Then I throw caution to the wind and slip my tongue inside his mouth.

  The passion flares and I work his shirt off with my good arm. His chest is smooth. His skin is warm. Tentatively, I reach out and touch his raven tattoo with my eager thumb, tracing around the contours, poking the edge of my nail into the outline of the black feathers, all the way to the tips of them. Just then, Achak throws a lovesick grin my way and I think my heart will surely burst. With gentle hands he grips my body and draws me in, and I revel in the feel of him as he slowly moves my legs apart.

  I am so eager that I gasp when he enters me. As I arch my back, our bodies come together and he pleasures me in such a way I have never experienced. When he lowers his forehead into the furs, I feel my heart beating wildly, his chest moving up and down. How is it that it can feel like this?

  Achak whispers in a low voice and I toss a smile. This language takes no effort to understand. One more time he kisses me deeply and then we lie back, exhausted and content. I lie snuggled underneath his chin with my naked body pressed into his. Achak finds each of my scars one by one and gently caresses them with his calloused finger.

  “This one was when Thorvard threw me down,” I say, feeling an embarrassed flush move up my neck even though the words mean nothing to Achak’s ears. “And this on
e was when he pushed me hard and I fell against the counting table.”

  Achak gives each scar a kiss. His lips are gentle. When my eyes well up, he shushes me with a string of words, guttural yet magical, the soft harshness of them pleasurable to my listening ear. Just then, a log splits apart and shoots out sparks in the firepit. When Achak untangles his body from mine to see to it, I follow his naked form around the room and admire the way his muscles move. When he finds his loincloth – a skimpy garment made of well-worn hides with patched-up holes – I try not to stare, but I promise myself that I will make him a new one when I can.

  “Oosuck,” Achak says, pointing to me as he throws a crooked grin. I prop my good elbow up on the bed of furs and shake my head in an effort to communicate that I don’t understand. He points to himself. He points to me.

  “Oosuck,” I laugh teasingly. “Am I your wife?” He cocks his head and smiles at me.

  “Now I am Freydis of the Beothuk tribe?”

  He pauses. The laughter drains from his eyes and face.

  “Great Wolf will be angry?” I ask, feeling the sudden weight of everything. I make a fist and point upwards. I don’t know what they call their gods. “Great Wolf” is a guess that is not quite right. Achak frowns.

  “Freydis.” He gestures to his heart then points to me. “Achak.” When he smiles, my fear melts away.

  He comes back to me and we kiss some more, and the yearning for him starts again. Praise Freyja, the owner of brísingamen, the gleaming necklace, who rides her chariot pulled by cats across the sky wearing her cloak of falcon feathers. The goddess of love has heard my prayers in this unlikely place, in this skraeling tent that smells of smoke and hides and aspen logs.

  When the others finally return to the mamateek at dusk, they bring fresh venison. The other oosucks roast the meat charcoal black, and I don’t get up until the fire hisses and the fat starts dripping down the roasting sticks. Even though I am ravenous, I can’t stop staring at Achak’s hair and his hunter’s build. When he talks, I listen to the inflection of his voice and savor the sound of his rhythmic speech. The music of it unlocks the chains around my heart.