“Trekking back to Leifsbidur in spring is not easy. Your oosuck should stay behind,” he says.
“She comes with me,” Achak replies.
“Paw,” he says.
I look between them, feeling terrified. Achak reaches out and touches my face tenderly before he makes me take up my walking stick.
In the end, it is not my ankle but my shoulder that causes me so much pain. I often ask to stop to rest, and the men honor my request. In the bush, the bugs are bad. Despite the red ochre paint mixed with grease that Achak slathers on my face and arms, the mosquitoes swarm us and soon there are ugly welts swelling on almost every part of me. Achak tells me not to scratch, but I do so anyway behind his back. Later, when the other men go off hunting, Achak stays with me and rubs my swollen feet while the mosquitoes continue humming above our heads.
Two days into our journey we encounter a bank of snow that blocks our path. This forces us to backtrack and find a different route around a marsh that is still iced over in some spots. The surrounding marshlands are edged by an uneven ring of new-growth trees which makes the route almost impassable. Eventually we find our way by dodging a muddy creek and making our way up a hill where it is cold, but the snow is gone.
That evening we camp under the twinkling stars beside an open fire next to the wide expanse of open sea. Even though I snuggle close to Achak, I can’t get comfortable. I think of Logatha and Finnbogi and worry about what they will say about my pregnancy.
“The Great One will set things right,” Achak says as he struggles to keep the fire going. The campfire smokes from the wet wood we have been forced to use.
“My friends will not know me anymore,” I say, looking up into the nighttime sky where the stars are blinking like thousands of accusatory eyes.
“Be still, oosuck,” Achak whispers as he too looks up. From somewhere distant, we hear a screeching owl.
“How can I be still? They will wonder why I stayed away for so long.”
“I am beside you,” Achak murmurs, but his voice sounds tired.
That night, my sleep is poor. The baby is restless. I feel its little legs kicking me repeatedly in the ribs. Not only that, but my shoulder aches. The next morning, and the morning after that, I am grumpy and miserable as I follow the men navigating a path into the wilderness.
On the fourth day, we hike all morning and finally arrive in Leifsbidur late in the afternoon. Everything is quiet in the yard. We pass the smithy with the forge unlit and the door flapping open and closed in the wind. The entire settlement is a haunted place where the seagulls squawk and then skirr away.
I am about ready to enter the main longhouse when Achak reaches out and pulls me back.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Ravens,” he says pointing skyward to where two black birds soar. Glancing up I watch them circling as they catch the wind currents.
“Something isn’t right,” I say. The baby shifts underneath my ribs.
Achak’s strong arms pull me against his smoky hides just as the wind picks up. In the ditch, the crocuses with their purple petals peeking out of a dirty patch of snow have just started blooming.
“Oosuck, you must go inside alone,” he says as he points to the longhouse door.
“Neinn,” I say. I hear the fear in my voice. “You must come too.”
He shakes his head. I catch a glimpse of the other Beothuk who are looking around the yard. Abooksigun is out by the bog-iron pit while Nashushuk and Askook are heading in the direction of the pit house and the byre.
“Watch for men who take the shape of fox,” Achak whispers softly in my ear. He scans the yard before pushing me gently towards the door. I hesitate before turning back. There is a strange softness in his eyes. For a moment, I feel myself between worlds.
“Kiss me again,” I murmur as I turn to him. Achak stands very straight. Carefully, he scans the yard before he pulls me into a tight embrace. His kiss is just as intense as it is long.
“Oosuck, you must go,” he says as he attempts to pull away from me. His baritone dips low. There is something in his eyes that stirs up fear. I hold his gaze. Even as his arms gently try to push me away, he kisses me tenderly once again.
“I don’t want to leave you,” I whisper in his ear.
“It is time for my pinecone to leave the safety of the circle,” he says with a careful smile. The Beothuk words slip easily from his tongue. For a long moment I stand there watching the wind tussling his long black hair. Then he turns. In two quick strides, he rounds a bend.
I am halfway to the longhouse when I look behind me one last time. Achak is gone. The baby kicks. My throat chokes up.
When I try the latch on the longhouse door it opens easily and I barge inside. As soon as I enter, I am blasted with the stench of sickness, the smell of rot. Instantly my hand shoots up to cover my nose and mouth.
“Logatha?” I call out uncertainly. From the shadows comes a faint, weak voice.
“I am here,” she says as the door slams shut.
“Which bed platform?” I ask as I begin to search the shadows. In my haste, I tug at the bed curtains and hold my nose because the stench of sickness is vile and it sticks to me. The bed chambers are either empty or full of sick, haggard-looking Icelanders whom I hardly recognize.
In a darkened corner at the back, Logatha is half sitting up, but her eyes are closed. She is gaunt and pale and the mound of her belly is not large enough considering that she is almost due. Beside her on the bed of matted furs lies Asta. Startled, I step back in shock. Asta is also pregnant, but she looks very sick.
In a few quick strides, I am across the room and leaning down to check her pulse. Her limp arm is slick with sweat and she is burning up with fever. At the far end of the bed, Logatha’s bloodshot stare is blank. Her hair, once lustrous, is a dull and stringy mess of greasy tangles that would take days to comb out.
“Art thou a ghost?” she mutters in a garbled rasp as her chapped lips begin to bleed.
“Neinn, sister! It is me, Freydis.”
“Freydis?” Logatha parrots in a shaky voice. “Freydis Eiriksdöttir? Art thou dead?”
“Neinn, sister. I am very much alive,” I say, but my lips are quivering and my palms are wet. Logatha is all skin and bones. To look at her is to see the walking dead.
“What fiend is this coming towards me in my house?” she yells with sudden energy. There is a fierceness in her sunken eyes.
“Logatha, I have returned to Leifsbidur.”
“Get out, you skin-changer!” She releases the words like a panting dog before she shoots up on her knees and snarls and bares her teeth.
“It is me, Logatha,” I say in shock, feeling suddenly wary as I draw back.
“You affect my mind by illusion and madness, you practitioner of seiðr,” she spits.
“I am not here because of black magic,” I say defensively. “I was waylaid by a snowstorm and then some hunters from a Beothuk tribe found me in the bush and rescued me. These skraelings took me back to their village where I fell ill.”
“You are a changeling who looks just like my friend. By Óðinn’s beard, I have started my journey to the realm of the dead. Do not come closer, spirit.” Logatha’s mouth froths foam as she madly bats her arms against her head. When I go to grab for her, she shrieks so loudly that Asta stirs in her delirium.
“Freydis is long since dead,” Logatha continues in an agitated trance. “She wandered off and died while hunting. That was many moons ago.”
She looks half-starved and half-possessed. When she begins to shake her fists and snarl, I glance towards the door.
“I didn’t forget you, Logatha,” I sputter. “You can’t see how it was for me.”
“I can’t see because you use seiðr illusion magic. You witch! Get out, I say!” Her eyes dart troll-like from side to side, and I suddenly worry that she will lunge.
“Where are the others?”
“I had six sisters but they all died,” Logatha rants w
ildly. I am confused. Asta is lying beside her. She is barely breathing but still alive.
“Where is Snorri?” I ask as I look around.
“Hunting,” is all she says.
“How about Finnbogi? Where is he?” I grip my knife unsteadily.
For a moment she stops and just looks at me. Then she releases a blood-chilling scream that makes my body freeze and the hair on my arms stand up. My terror grows when her high-pitched moan becomes ferocious and inarticulate and she begins to rock her body back and forth.
Just as I am about to muster up enough courage to approach again, Logatha releases a torrent of animalistic sobs. When she twists around, she points at me with an accusatory finger.
“Finnbogi paid too great a price to clear your name,” she yells hysterically.
I shake my head, confused, knowing that she is a broken woman who is very ill. “What madness is this? Where is he?”
“Dead,” she says.
“Dead?” I gasp. Her words gut me like a hunting knife. “How?”
Logatha raises her head. Spit mixed in with tears and a string of snot is dripping down her chin. “You deserted us! May Thor smite you down!”
“Calm yourself, Logatha,” I plead in a desperate voice.
“You abandoned our people during a time of need,” she rants, ignoring me. “Others relied on you to bring back food. When you didn’t return, many starved to death. We barely managed to save two sheep. Alas, our Icelanders did not meet an honorable death here in Leifsbidur. Neinn. They died of sickness in their beds. You robbed them of Valhalla’s feast.”
“Their sickness was not my fault!”
“Finnbogi went out to look for you. He searched and searched. He looked for you in the endless storms.” Her voice sounds shrill.
“Surely Finnbogi didn’t get lost in a blizzard and freeze to death?” It feels as though someone is trying to stop up my nose and mouth with snow.
“Neinn,” Logatha spits. She lunges as she yells my name. I easily dodge her fists.
“Freydis Eiriksdöttir, you cursed our house,” Logatha screams hysterically before she trips and falls. I grab for her, pinching air and cringing when she narrowly misses falling on Asta who is lying on the bed, curled up in a fevered state.
“I tried to bring back meat,” I say miserably as soon as I right myself.
“My husband lost his life for you.” Her ragged breath catches on the words. I gape at her and see the light leeching out of her dull, half-dead eyes.
“I am not to blame.”
“Finnbogi died at Thorvard’s hands.” Her voice drops low. “My husband challenged him to a duel. They fought a hólmgang to defend your honor. Finnbogi demanded blood vengeance to make up for the way Thorvard insulted and abused you, but my husband lost his life in the duel. He was not fast enough when Thorvard drew his sword. Did you know that Finnbogi was very ill?”
“He lost?” I whimper.
“He lost his head. Thorvard lopped it off with his gilded sword. By the gods, he made me watch.”
“Great Thor,” I cry, but Logatha continues talking over me.
“Get out, you homewrecker! You come into this house and play with my weakened mind using your seiðr illusion magic to make yourself appear alive. You are too late. You are a witch who stole my husband’s life!”
“Believe you me, I am not a witch. Look at me, Logatha. I am very much alive!”
“You are a spirit walker. Get out, I say!” She is beginning to sound like a person who is mar-ridden, not all there. “Freydis Eiriksdöttir would not have let us starve to death.” She tilts her head back, leaning against the longhouse wall. “She would not have abandoned her people in a time of need. She would not have let my husband die.”
She looks past me and her eyes are glassy as they scan the room. When she shifts her gaze back to me, she shoots up tall and begins to wail. Her sobs crescendo to a peak as her bare feet get tangled in a mess of jumbled sleeping furs.
“Finnbogi fought for me?” I say when my thoughts finally work it through. “To avenge the abuse that I endured? When?”
“Finnbogi died at Thorvard’s hands last Saturn’s day,” she sobs. “It was your fault.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, letting the words snake out, feeling the stinging poison of them as I hang my head, wincing.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I have the moon
I have barely blinked when I hear a tremendous battle cry coming from the yard. There is a warning shout and a heavy thump. On impulse I run outside only to see Abooksigun lying face down in a pile of mud. I feel my knees buckle and my breathing stop. There is an arrow sticking out of his skinny back.
In shock, my eyes well up, and I rub them, forcing some air between my teeth. Then, with every breath I have, I struggle to move him, taking care to lift his braid out of the mud and pooling blood. Once he is lying on his side, I touch his face, his arms, his bony boy-man chest. His glassy eyes are staring at the sea, dead and blank.
“Abooksigun,” I wail, struggling to push down grief. I would gladly give him my whole head of hair just to have him back, this fierce protector, this rescuer.
An eerie feeling comes over me. In that moment I realize that I am weaponless. My bow and arrows were left inside.
“Achak? Where are you?” It comes out as a whisper as I choke back a sob.
Standing quickly, I do an about-face, but I don’t get far. Just as I am picking my way through the muddy yard, Logatha begins to scream. Looking up, I catch sight of her in the arms of one of Thorvard’s thugs.
“Stop!” I scream as he strikes her violently from behind. As she falls, her hands jut forwards to protect her bairn. My legs freeze up. He strikes again, kicking at her, and she crumples in a heap.
Behind me, someone whistles a grey jay’s song. It sounds like Nashushuk’s call. He must be close. I spin around and come face to face with the man I hate. Thorvard’s eyes are mere slivers in his hardened face. He has Achak by the throat, backed against the doorframe of the thrall’s hut.
“Let him go,” I shriek. Panic flares in Achak’s eyes.
“This pond scum tells me you are his oosuck?” Thorvard over-pronounces the Beothuk word. I grit my teeth. “Have you become this Red Man’s whore?”
In a whoosh, memories of Thorvard’s mistreatment shove their way into my head. I scream again.
“Shut up, you two-faced bitch! Your faðir would disinherit you if he knew that you had a relationship with this worm. Your mother would collapse like she always does.”
“By the gods, I beg of you, let him be!” I shout as Thorvard begins to squeeze Achak’s throat. “He is nothing to you. Let him go!”
Thorvard growls before releasing Achak with a kick. My baby’s faðir doubles over with a heavy groan.
“Get up,” Thorvard commands as Achak makes eye contact with Thorvard’s knife. Thorvard lunges and Achak ducks.
Lurching forwards, I stop when Thorvard slices his knife across Achak’s arm. He yells, and Thorvard reaches down and drags him up, twisting his arms behind his back, not caring whether he gets smeared by blood.
My legs are tree stumps growing roots. My palms are wet. Achak takes another ragged breath, squirming as he releases a war cry that snakes its way into the air. Thorvard snarls and jerks him back, lodging his knife against Achak’s throat. Achak’s shoulders sag and his face twists up. If I try anything, Achak is a dead man.
“You vicious animal! You violent brute!”
Thorvard drags his eyes across my face and his gaze comes to rest on my little bump. I blink at him owlishly. The muscles in my jaw tense up.
“Freydis, where were you for all these months?” The air slithers through his teeth. His eyes are cold. “I’ll ask again. Where were you, Freydis of Gardar?”
Achak blinks. Thorvard digs the edge of his blade into Achak’s throat, drawing a thin line of blood.
“Stop!” I screech. Achak’s panicked eyes fix hard on mine. In silence he pleads with me to
back away. Thorvard glances between the two of us.
“I see that you have been busy making skraeling friends,” he snarls.
“I’ll do anything to spare this Red Man’s life,” I beg softly, feeling chilled. My request is met with a crooked smile before Thorvard unexpectedly pushes Achak into a barrel where Achak bangs his head. Without flinching, Thorvard kicks him hard before leaning over him. Then, with a violent yank, Thorvard plucks him up. Achak looks too dazed to try to struggle free, and I stand there watching helplessly.
“This pond scum isn’t worth it, but I’ll be generous just this once,” Thorvard smirks as he flips back his hair. He hocks a wad of spit into Achak’s face. “How about we trade a life for a life?”
I will my pulse to settle down. “I beg for mercy,” I manage, sucking back a building sob.
“Mercy?” Thorvard’s eyebrows arch high. I know his tricks. I know his games. I know the timing of his posturing. My muscles twitch. Thorvard smirks again. I stare at him.
“Freydis Eiriksdöttir begs for mercy here on Vinland’s shores where there is no Althing to adjudicate the fairness of her case.”
My mind is racing. My breathing stops.
“Your lies cost me everything,” Thorvard fumes.
“I have never lied,” I manage as I gather courage and muster strength.
“You were never sick on your brother’s farm,” Thorvard scorns. “At Leif’s house you duped me, you little wench! Then you destroyed my name when you chirped about the harshness of my fists. Thor give me strength, I should smite you down! Do you think I am a fool? I know your games, you little fox.”
“Enough,” I mumble pathetically.
“You are my wife and I’m in charge. When we return to Greenland, you will restore my reputation. Then, for your impudence, I will take your lands and all your sheep. Afterwards, I will tell the good people of Gardar and Brattahlíð that you murdered our people here on Vinland’s shores.”
The Voyage of Freydis Page 28
