Sidroc the Dane

by Octavia Randolph

  His shield was at his feet. He had painted the leather-covered face in a spiral of red and black, radiating out from the iron boss in the centre of the round. He turned the shield, looked at the inside, above the hand grip in the boss. He had already carved the rune Sigel there, the first letter of his name. Now he knelt and carved in another rune, for Tyr on top of the Sigel.

  This bind-rune would be his. He and the God were one.

  The next morning, packed and eager for the road, Sidroc and Toki made their farewells. They would travel on foot, for Yrling had ridden his good mare, meaning to sell her there in Ribe to bring him final silver, and the farm horse must of course stay behind. The packs they shouldered had each a bedroll of wool-stuffed linen, the latter waxed against fleas; a ground sheet of cowhide to guard against damp; bread, soft ewe’s cheese, and half a cold roasted capon for the walk; and a change of clothing. Sidroc’s wool leggings and linen tunics were of the simplest; but that which Toki wore and carried were of finer make, his tunic edged round with bands of tablet-weaving, his leg-wrappings equally bright, demonstration of Ginnlaug’s care for her handsome husband’s appearance. They carried no cooking gear with them, for Yrling was seeing to all such things.

  Toki had left Ginnlaug weeping at the door, and had given quick pecks to the two babes he was leaving her with. Toki had slipped his harp into its fitted leather bag, and had that foremost in his larger pack, that it suffer no hurt. Ginnlaug wondered briefly at his taking it on so short a trip as this; could not he live a Moon or two without his music? But singing, and drinking too, was when he seemed happiest, and she would deny him no pleasure; mayhap he might even compose a song of her while he journeyed. She was smiling through her tears at him as he and Sidroc said their last farewell, to Signe. The old woman was seated as she often was, at the table in the kitchen yard, the faithful thrall-woman Ebbe standing just behind.

  Sidroc stood before Signe, and bowed his head. She had given him a home, he knew, and was grateful for it, flawed as it had been. A poor marriage and her fainting-illness had left her a worn and pallid shell, but looking upon him, her voice, cracked though it be, was strong.

  “You will not return here.”

  “I will not return,” he agreed. They had not spoken of this before, but he was glad she had discerned it.

  Signe closed her eyes, tight, and now said, “Hrald.”

  Sidroc had one thought at this. I will not be lost at sea, as my father was.

  Her son Toki stepped forward, and she looked on him. His long yellow hair was loose, and despite the stricken look on his mother’s face he was grinning, as he often was.

  “I fear your going,” she managed, “but you will return.”

  Toki was ready with his answer. “Já, I will return, when I can. You have plenty here, and Ginnlaug to help.” He bent and wrapped his arm about her for a moment.

  The two cousins turned then, slinging their shields over their packs, lifting their spears.

  They had not walked far when Sidroc broke their silence. He was thinking of the farm folk gathered behind them, waving them off.

  “You will not return, either,” he decided.

  Toki laughed. “Of that, you are right.”

  The ease of his reply hung in the air.

  “If you do well in Angle-land, you can send for Ginnlaug and the children,” Sidroc posed.

  “Já,” Toki agreed, after a pause. “But she dislikes the sea. She sailed to Skania once. Short as that was, she did not do well. The voyage to the land of the Saxons would not agree with her.”

  Sidroc said nothing to this. The shallow mound that covered the bones of his dog Hlaupari was the only cherished thing he left behind. All he laid claim to was on his back. Toki walked away from his farm, his wife, their two babes, and an aged mother. He gave it up so lightly.

  Early as they started, the walk took all morning. The Sun was overhead when they passed over the planked road spanning the dike around Ribe. Sidroc’s low boots, already worn when he set out, suffered from the distance. Once inside the palisade they passed by the plot on which three Summers ago they and Ful had stopped, where he had sold their surplus rye, and where Toki had met his wife. Today a large waggon was there, its bed arrayed with heavy soapstone pots.

  They went on, moving past stalls and booths offering hides and pottery, passing women selling cheese-stuffed loaves from arm baskets, and the King’s guards moving slowly about, collecting fees or quelling arguments. They made their way to the shipwrights at the river bank, and Yrling.

  They found him easily enough. His ship had already been floated, and he moved within the hull with several others. The warm and smoky smell of pine tar wafted from their work, for they daubed away, stuffing any small gaps in the straked oak planks that made up her sides with a mixture of tar and twisted wads of woollen fleece. The ship was barely out in the shallow river, held in place by lines to the end of a massive post, and Sidroc and Toki dropped their packs and spears and clambered aboard over the steep gangplank.

  Yrling greeted them, a wooden dauber in his hand, a smear of black tar across his brow. Jari straightened up from where he had been kneeling within the hull. He had a blob of tar smudging his red hair, and a ready grin when he saw Sidroc and Toki. “Now that we are done, you are here,” he chaffed, as tar-stained hands were scrubbed with tallow and sand. Though the heavy work of rigging and lading remained, Sidroc, walking the narrow deck of the sleek craft, envied Jari even the tarring, wanting to know the vessel as closely as he did.

  It was small for a drekar, six-and-twenty oars, but there was no denying her beauty. Despite her graceful form Yrling had given her a fearsome name, Dauðadagr, or Death-Day.

  The mast was up, to give more room for the caulking-work, and even without a sail the ship looked both able and ready to plough the watery distance she would soon be tried at. She was almost all of oak, save the tall and smooth pine mast, and the spar to which the sail would be fixed. The gleam of her rivets and newness of her wood, unblemished by worm-hole or scar, suited most of her youthful crew. Both prow and stern beams rose above the hull in graceful arcs, the stern to coil in on itself like a tail, the prow to fittingly hold the carved head of a gaping-mouthed dragon.

  Nestled in the stern, not far from where Yrling would stand at the steering-oar, another carving had been installed: the face of one-eyed yet all-seeing Odin. One eye socket was blank, reminder of the God’s forfeit for a drink at the well of wisdom. The other was a chunk of quartz, which flashed and sparkled in the afternoon Sun. The God himself would look over the crew, and look forward over the seas to the lands they sought.

  Besides Jari, there were eight or ten young men who Sidroc and Toki had never before seen, all working on or about the ship, or at the little tented camp on the river shore that served as base. Others were about Ribe, or had gone home to return with their packs and weapons.

  “Une is at the sailmaker,” Yrling told his nephews after they had stowed their packs. “They are nearly ready with it; we will go see.”

  The sailmaker Yrling had dealt with was a family of weavers and stitchers, father, mother and grown children all at work in the covered shed, standing at floor looms or bent over needles. Yrling’s sail was indeed almost done, a mass of interwoven panels of bleached white and bold-dyed madder red panels. A stitcher bent over it, reinforcing with heavy thread a bottom edge grommet from which a hempen line would fix it to the spar. Even lying in folds on a long trestle the bold red and white sail caught the eye.

  They found Une at another of the tables, his thumb in his mouth, sucking the blood from the needle-prick he had just given himself. The father of the business was looking on, shaking his head, when they walked in.

  He turned from Une to Yrling and asked a question as greeting. “And would you know how to mend a rent in the sail?”

  Yrling was quiet just long enough for the man to make up his mind.

  The sailmaker took the scrap of linen sailc
loth from before Une, and laid another small piece over the tear it bore. “This is how you must sew it. Fold the edges of the patch over, and stitch through those, into the sail. The mend will be stronger, and the patch not fray, and fail, if you do so.”

  Yrling recalled the time, sailing with Gye, that a careless move with a spear had punctured the sail. He recalled too the speed with which one of his fellows had mended it, lest the rift in the fabric grow.

  They all took turns with the mend, Yrling, his nephews, and Une as well, until the sailmaker was satisfied. He would be sending along a spare length of cloth when he delivered the completed sail, along with waxed thread and large-eyed needles, and all must be placed in able hands.

  Over the next few days they added a heavy layer of stone under the decking as ballast; took possession of the striking two-hued sail, lugged to them in a hand-cart; rigged the shrouds on starboard and port to hold it in place, carried on the newly-carved oars, and began the lading. Yrling, Sidroc, Toki, Une, and Jari slept aboard the ship at night, the others in the small tents on the shore. They kept a cooking ring to complete their camp. Any of them could roast fish on sticks, but one of the men, Bjarne, proved an able hand at stirring up savoury stews of shredded pig, barley, and new peas. He even waded into the shallows to pull up wild cress, that he might crown each bowl with its fresh greenness.

  It was Yrling’s silver feeding them all now, and in these final days he and Une were much concerned with the taking on of dried cod, and arranging for several score of loaves, boiled eggs, a crock of butter, and cask of ale to be carried to the ship just before they weighed anchor. That anchor itself was not yet procured. Unlike the one of iron he and Sidroc had seen and admired at Haithabu, Yrling must content himself with one far simpler, which he fashioned himself from a yoked piece of wood he got from a waggon-maker and a large wedge-shaped stone he scavenged from the river bed.

  Before she had felt free waters beneath her Yrling already felt pride in his dragon ship. Everything he owned, save his weapons, had been put into Death-day. Hardest of all to part with was his fine mare, which he had traded for silver here in Ribe. He had owned her thirteen years, and she had produced five colts and fillies for him, all of which had profited him by their sale. To sell the mare herself was akin to the loss of someone dear to him; and Yrling, deprived young of both his parents, did not easily form attachments. He trusted Dauðadagr, this new and mightier steed, would bring him even more good fortune.

  One lack concerned Yrling more than any other. His ship was one of six-and-twenty oars, but he had gathered only twenty men. Three of the twenty – his nephews and Jari – were untried as seamen and warriors. Five were those who had sailed with Yrling before, on Gye’s ship, and looked now for new adventures; these were men he could trust. The other twelve he had found himself. Though he had made no secret of his destination and his aims with shipwright, sailmaker, and various artisans supplying him, few adventurers had found their way to the river frontage where his new ship tied up. It was Yrling, going to brew-house and meal sheds, and walking the trading roads, who found himself eyeing likely looking fellows, asking if they sought treasure in Angle-land.

  Eight men he could trust and twelve unknown to him was not the ratio he had hoped for. The simple truth was he had found it more difficult than he had wagered to attract more of Gye’s former crew to sail with him. Gye’s last venture had ended in disaster, with Gye dead and his ship captured. Une had made it back, and was more than ready to venture out with Yrling, but others who had returned had reason for caution.

  At least on land the spirit of the crew was good. One noon, a day or two before lading was complete, they sat about the cooking ring, having eaten the bean and sausage soup Bjarne had spooned into halves of oat-flour loaves. Bits of tough sausage casing had been flung into a pile of refuse not far off, and now two half-wild cats were digging at it.

  “We must have a cat, to keep our food sound,” Jari judged, thinking ahead to the foodstuffs they would carry. He had certainly watched rats scavenge through the very same pile of refuse that the two cats were now pawing through.

  Jari continued to eye the two felines. The black and white one looked scrappy and a good bet; it might even have extra toes, for good luck. He looked to Yrling, and then to his own brother. “Une has been to sea with rats; nothing is worse.”

  Toki lifted his eyes from the harp strings he was tuning, and jeered. “A cat! We are not setting up house-keeping, we are raiding. Next you will want a cow and some hens.”

  Jari took this more seriously than was meant. “A cow takes up too much room. But hens would mean fresh eggs.”

  Laughter arose from all, save Jari, who warned them if they got hungry at sea, he should not be blamed.

  Sidroc laughed with the rest, but kept on thinking. He turned to his uncle. “A fishing net,” Sidroc said. “Men adrift have lived, if they can fish.”

  Yrling nodded his assent. A small net could be cheaply had, and what Sidroc said was well true. A few near him fell silent, considering life aboard a dismasted ship.

  This talk of food spurred Une’s own thoughts, for now he asked, “For cooking kit?”

  “We will carry it, já. But there will be no fires aboard the ship,” Yrling answered. “We can eat cold food for four days.”

  “Four?” repeated Une. He shook his head. “Five, if we are lucky.”

  “We will be lucky,” Yrling declared.

  The sea-God Njord must have been listening, and scoffed.

  Toki had taken a large purse of silver from the farm, and indeed his wife had almost pressed it upon him, so that he might know more comfort. Silver was ever hot in Toki’s hand, and he had not been in Ribe two days when he parted with most of it. At a weapon-smith’s he spied a sword, pattern-welded, its bluish blade deeply etched, the grip encased by some rare black wood, the pommel of that grip ending in waves of thin silver set into the steel. There was no waiting with Toki, no reasoning that a good blade could be had for half the silver, or even won at the price of his courage and skill from some Saxon warrior on a field of battle. Yrling sported a sword, and he would have one as well, and so he made the beautiful thing his own.

  Then he needs must have a belt and scabbard, and he and Sidroc found themselves at the same worker in leather who had fashioned a sheath for Sidroc’s new knife a few years ago. It was blue-dyed leather that Toki chose, adding to the bright show of the new sword. It took the woman two days to fashion both scabbard and hanging-strap, and Toki carried the naked sword with him to her stall, just so he might slide it into the woad-rubbed scabbard, throw it over his shoulder, and then walk as slowly as might be through the crowds on the way back to the river bank and Yrling’s ship.

  His cousin was again with him. They were due to push off in the morning, if the wind was fair, for the tide would be in their favour just after dawn. It was a cloudy afternoon, and a fresh breeze made it feel cooler than an early Summer’s day. As Sidroc waited for Toki to pay the leather worker he looked about. He was aware, as he scanned folk moving from booth to booth, that he might likely never see Jutland, or any part of Denmark again. If those here in Ribe’s trading roads glanced up at him, it was oftentimes to look quickly away again, unaware of such thoughts.

  As he had grown older, people stopped asking about the scar on his face. When he was younger strangers would often look, then ask how came he by it, as if they deserved to be a part of its story. As he grew taller that tapered off, then ceased. It was his height, he thought, but mostly his scar. His look was a menacing one, he knew. Folk glanced at the scar but no longer questioned him, as if they had a right to the story.

  Sidroc stood, his back to the leather maker’s booth, looking out. At first he did not notice a tall, thin woman staring at him. He did not know why she looked at him; he had never seen her before. She was old; at least she looked old to his eyes. She was poor, and simply dressed. An undyed head wrap was tied over her grey-streaked brown hair. Her ey
es were fixed upon him. Her mouth moved, and her left hand rose slightly, as if towards him. She held the hand of a small child with her right, and other children were about her. She kept looking, taking him in. Yet she said nothing.

  Toki finished, and Sidroc found himself returning her look for one moment more before turning away.

  Jorild remained looking after him, knowing she had seen her son.

  She had come to Ribe for the day with her nephews and nieces; it was a treat that made the long walk worthwhile. After leaving Hrald’s farm Jorild had never wed. Between fields and house she had made herself useful at her cousin’s farm, tending to the cows, washing wool and spinning, helping to care for the children, and spending increasing time as well caring for her aunt, Gillaug, who now was grown old.

  Her uncle Oddi, lately returned, had told her much about her boy. She knew how tall he was, and also that his face had been marred by his cousin’s knife. And her uncle had told her that Sidroc had resolved to quit Jutland and seek his fortune in Angle-land.

  Now standing there, she had no doubt it was her own son. He looked like his father, who she knew from Oddi had been lost at sea years before. Yet Sidroc looked his own man, looked, even at the age of twenty years, to be growing into the name she had bestowed on him, that of a great war-chief.

  It seemed a blessing, or boon from the Gods that she could see her boy now, as he headed into a new life. To see him, tall, strong, and vital before her, was some return for all she had suffered in losing him.

  The children who surrounded her grew restive, but Jorild did not move until the tall form vanished from view. She had at last again seen her son. Her eyes were wet, but a smile was on her lips.

  Chapter the Eighteenth: The North Sea

  FROM the hour they cast off, they were the sport of Njord, the sea-God.

  Yrling had offered two geese at the carved and painted likenesses of Odin and Freyr; secretly hoping as he dispatched the birds that the succulent flesh he surrendered would not be regretted in a few days by a hungry crew. He gave thought as well that Njord got nothing, though it was into that God’s hands he must commit his ship and men. While on land one gave Offering to those Gods of Heaven and fields, that was custom; and he would trust that Odin and Freyr would grant both protection on the journey, and increase at its goal.