“I do not blame you for what Hoskuld did,” Bjarni said.
Ulf put out his hand and gripped Bjarni’s arm. “I know you do not.”
“If you continue it, I will blame you.”
Ulf’s eyes narrowed. Bjarni walked away from him. Behind him a great cheer went up; and a stallion whistled.
The sun sank below the horizon but its light still streamed across the sky. Eirik Arnarson had a suit before the Althing. Bjarni with the rest of his family went to stand behind his chieftain. When Eirik had received the verdict, Bjarni left the others and walked off along the foot of the valley wall. He met eight other men and they climbed up to the top of the wall and walked across the lava flow.
The cold wind blew. The broken surface of the rock was flecked with volcanic glass. Spurs of frozen lava towered up over the men. Ketil Longheels led a horse along by a braided rope, and the others followed him in single file. There were boulders heaped and scattered over the plain. Ash crunched under their feet. They came to a great square rock heaped around with bones.
The nine men made a circle. They passed an old knife from hand to hand. Each as he touched it said the names of the gods. By chance Bjarni was ninth to touch it. He spoke the name of the Thunderer who had preserved him through everything.
He killed the horse. The others helped him cut it up and drag the pieces onto the flat top of the rock. Old bones littered the rock, and he kicked them off. Three ravens circled over him. Another joined them. Another came, and another. Bjarni laid out the flesh of the horse on the rock.
The birds screeched, their wings flapped all around him. They dropped down, tearing at the meat, pecking his blood-covered hands. He climbed down the side of the rock. The other men were standing silent in a circle among the bones. He took his place among them.
The old knife was still in his hand. Once it had killed men to the glory of Thor. He put his head back. He longed to drive the knife into his chest, to give the god his blood. The birds clamored and fought over the horseflesh. Blood dripped down the side of the rock.
The sun was rising again. One by one the men stirred. Bjarni left the circle and wandered off onto the empty plain to collect himself. The rock was crowded with birds. With the other men he walked back toward Thingvellir.
Ketil came up beside him as they walked. Bjarni said, “This place has not been used for sacrifice in years.”
“Maybe not for a century,” Ketil said. It had been a hundred years since Iceland turned Christian. He added, “Maybe never again.”
“Why did you not ask my brother to join us?”
“Ulf?” Ketil shot a sharp look up at him. “Ulf kisses the Cross now, Bjarni. Did you tell him we were coming here?”
Bjarni shook his head. “Everything has changed.” He had guessed at what Ketil told him, but he had not believed it.
“Be careful.” Ketil pointed to Bjarni’s bloody hands. “You should wash that off, before anyone else sees you.” He walked away across the lava.
Bjarni hid his hands in his coat. He washed the blood away in a barrel of rainwater, behind Eirik Arnarson’s booth.
Hiyke was within the booth, kneeling by her chest. When she saw him, she came to him, and they stood in the doorway. She said, “Why did you make that poem? Now Sigurd is paying men to call you a pagan.”
“Is he?” Bjarni said.
She had her shawl in her hands, and she lifted it up over her head and folded the ends over her breast, so that her face was framed in it. She said, “Be careful. People are killed, sometimes, for making poems.”
“I will make another,” he said.
He went off around the Althing, putting the words together, and found men to speak the poem about.
Sigurd Green-Tongue
Talks and talks
He talks so much
Grass grows on his tongue
The sun shines
The dew falls
The shit accumulates
The grass grows on his tongue
That one went around so fast he heard people laughing over it ahead of him, as he went back to Eirik Arnarson’s booth.
Later there were horse-races on the lower part of the plain. He went there to watch and saw Gudrun and Sigurd standing together, deep in talk. He walked by close enough to let them know that he saw them, and went up on a rusty outcrop of lava to watch the races.
Ulf was still short with him. He could not bear Andres, who fawned on him like a dog now. Gifu was back at Hrafnfell, and Hiyke would not let him alone with her. He drifted by himself through the crowd, or sat in the sun by Arnarson’s booth door. In the late afternoon there was a brawl over a law-suit in which many people were involved, and the fighting spread from booth to booth as more and more men took sides. Bjarni kept out of it. He found himself standing near the Law Rock, with the great lava shelf behind him, and Eirik Arnarson and some other men nearby, all trying to avoid the fight.
They shook hands, and someone asked him about the English court. He told them of the richness and idleness of the men around the king, and of the king’s great-heartedness.
Eirik said, nervously, “That would make a fine poem, very uplifting.”
“Oh, Red William’s court is much uplifted,” Bjarni said, “nearly all the time. Don’t you like my recent poems, Eirik?”
“You are making trouble where none need be,” Eirik said. “Here, is that knife of English work?”
He showed Eirik the knife. They talked of England, and the men passed the knife from hand to hand.
One man said, “Is England a fair place, as it says in the old songs?”
“All forest and tilled ground,” Bjarni said.
“Bah. There is tilled ground in Iceland, too, but nothing ripens.”
Eirik lifted his eyes from the knife. “Is that true?”
One of the other men said, “This year I will have no harvest at all, and I put eighteen bushels of seed into the ground.”
Their voices changed, speaking of this; their voices hardened and saddened.
“No one will thresh grain this year. Last year we gathered only a hundred bushels in the whole province. And there was ice in Breidavik until Pentecost, and there is ice in Hvitafjord yet.”
“It’s the damned horse-eaters,” one of them said, “spitting in the face of Christ, so that God blights our land in vengeance.”
Bjarni put his dagger back in the sheath. His eyes moved from face to face. The men talked on.
“Did you hear that someone spilled blood for the ravens—here, right here, during the Althing?”
“I can’t give credit to it,” Eirik said. “They are not so bold.”
“They are a curse on us, all over Iceland.”
Eirik elbowed the speaker in the side. But the hot words came forth.
“They ought to be hanged, all of them.”
Eirik said, “Forebear.” He aimed his gaze at Bjarni.
One by one, they remembered; they turned toward him, their faces taut. Bjarni put his hands on his belt.
“Nothing grows in Iceland that you can make rope from, either,” he said. “But mark me. When more men spilled blood for the ravens here, we had good harvests in Iceland.”
He walked away from them. On the plain, the fighting had stopped, and the bells were pealing for another lawsuit.
THE ALTHING ENDED, and Bjarni and his family went back to Hrafnfell. The sea was flat-calm, and the air warm and gentle, yet Ulf made no mention of taking Swan out after the fish. He and Gudrun stayed abed until well into the day.
Gifu rode the grey mare across the hillside. Bjarni had spoken of going with her, but she had put him off. Awhile after she had gone, he saw Kristjan stealing away.
At the corner of the barn, he stood watching his stepbrother’s dark head hurrying away above the waving grass. He held down his temper. Gifu would do as she wished. Taking the axe, he went up to the woodshed to cut wood.
Late in the day, when the tide was coming in, he drove the sheep in off the rocks
where they had been grazing on the seaweed. The sun was shining on the bulging cliff where the ravens nested. On Midsummer’s Day the sun rose behind that cliff. He climbed the hillside toward the farm hall. Already the days were shrinking, the sunlight dwindling, and thinking of it he felt something tighten in him. He began to hurry.
Ulf was sitting in the High Seat. He wore a fine shirt stitched with red rosettes. Bjarni sat down on the bench beside him.
“Where have you been finding the fish? We should go out tomorrow, if this weather holds.”
Ulf sat forward, looking angry. “I will decide that.”
Andres walked in, his heavy feet clomping on the floor. Jon was behind him.
“I will take the ship,” Bjarni said, to goad Ulf. “If you don’t want to.”
“Swan is my ship,” Ulf said. “This is my farm.”
Andres came toward the table. “I agree with Bjarni,” he said loudly.
Ulf and Bjarni stared at one another. Roughly, Ulf said, “Don’t try to give orders on my farm.”
“It should be his farm,” Andres said.
“Andres,” Bjarni said, “I do not need your help.”
Hiyke came into the hall with a basket of bread under her arm. She watched them through the corners of her eyes. Stooping, she put the bread down on the stone of the hearth. The silver cross swung in the air under her chin.
Ulf said, through his teeth, “Do not make me regret that I have let you stay here.”
“I will stay here,” Bjarni said, “if you let me or no.”
Ulf rose and tramped around the table and toward the door. Andres glared across the table at Bjarni.
“There is no being friends with you anymore.”
Bjarni spat over the table into the dust of the floor. “That’s more of a friend than you are.”
Hiyke was taking off her shawl. She said, “Andres, fetch in the milk from the barn.”
Obediently he went off. At the door he glowered back at Bjarni, who pretended not to see him. The door slammed.
“Not even the fire can warm this hall,” Hiyke said. “Have you seen my son?”
“He is with Gifu,” Bjarni said.
She flung up her head. Coming to the edge of the table, she leaned toward him and said, “They went off together?”
“They will come back separately,” he said.
“God throttle him.”
“It is her doing. With her, everything goes by her measure.”
“She is a child,” Hiyke said hotly. “And far from her home.”
“You judge her poorly if you think she cannot mind herself.”
Hiyke sat down on the bench opposite him. She put her elbows on the table and set her chin on her hands.
“She lies, and she steals, which is child’s work.”
“What has she stolen?”
“A trinket of Gudrun’s. Gudrun thinks it is lost—she has not left off nagging me to find it since we came back from Thingvellir.”
He put out his hand to her, and promptly she laid her hand in his. He said, “I will handle Gudrun for you.”
He raised her hand to kiss it, but she drew back. He let her go. She turned half away from him. He thought she was about to speak, but then the door burst open and Kristjan came in.
She sprang up to her feet. “You lazy, lecherous brat,” she cried. She fell on her son, caught him by the nose, and smacked the side of his head so hard Bjarni startled at the sound.
“Mama.” Kristjan escaped from her grip. His nose was red.
“Keep away from her,” Hiyke cried. “Can you not let her learn to be good?”
Bjarni watched Kristjan circle away from her, avoiding her. The boy blushed. Hiyke gave chase to him, calling him names, and cornered him and struck him again.
Gudrun appeared on the steps. She ran down the length of the hall and pulled Hiyke away from Kristjan. “Leave him alone—your own son!” she cried. “You call yourself Christian!”
“He is my son, to chastise as I wish,” Hiyke said.
The two women, one fair and one dark, were nose to nose. Kristjan slid by them out of the corner and ran from the hall. The rest of the family was gathering for supper.
Hiyke cried, “Shall he grow up like you, a slave of pleasure?”
Gudrun crossed herself. “Or like you, passing judgment on others for your own sins?” Straight-backed, she walked away from Hiyke.
Ulf went to his wife and kissed her. Hiyke’s face was suddenly fiery red. She ran up the steps and out of the hall. Bjarni watched her go. Gudrun was near the mark, then.
Ulf slid into the High Seat on Bjarni’s left. He said, “Women fight like geese, over nothing.”
“Unlike us,” Bjarni said.
Ulf grunted. He moved away from Bjarni.
Gifu brought a cheese and a dish of onions into the hall. After her came Hiyke with the meat and fish and the soup. Gudrun sat on the hearth, smoothing down her skirt with her hand. Bjarni had never seen her work. The other women put the meal on the table, and the men sat down to eat.
Gifu sat down beside Bjarni, her hands on the small of her back. She groaned.
“I’m getting fat as a monk.”
“What is that?”
She followed his eyes to the front of her dress. Turning out the top of her bodice, she showed him the amber star clipped to her shift. “Isn’t it pretty?”
Gudrun was sitting down in the High Seat, beside her husband. Hastily Gifu closed her gown.
“Give it back to her,” Bjarni said.
Gifu’s eyes narrowed; she shot an evil look at him. Gudrun leaned past Ulf to see them. Gifu said to Bjarni, “Why should I tell you anything?” She glanced at Gudrun. Reluctantly she unfastened the clip and gave it to Ulf’s wife.
Gudrun cried out. “My clip!” She showed it to Ulf. Everyone in the hall turned to look. Gudrun wheeled on Gifu. She leaned forward across her husband as if he were furniture.
“You went through my things! What else did you steal?”
On the far side of the High Seat, Hiyke said, “Remember you are a Christian, Gudrun.”
Ulf pushed his wife back into her place. “What kind of a woman have you brought here?” he asked Bjarni.
Bjarni turned toward the food. He pulled a platter to him and began to slice the mutton.
The three women were staring at one another. Gifu said hotly, “Sweet, kindly Gudrun, please forgive me, saint of saints—”
Gudrun said, “You foul-mouthed slut.”
“You butterfly-tongue!” Gifu got up from the bench. In a good imitation of Gudrun’s swaying, short-stepping walk, she went off down the room. “Oh, Ulf!” Her voice was a squeak. She stroked her hand over her hair, her eyes half-shut. “Pray, saddle the horse. Pray, Hiyke, bring me the milk so I may wash my face. Pray, Gifu, bring me the face so I may wash my milk.”
Everyone was laughing, except Gudrun. Even Ulf laughed. Gudrun pulled on his arm.
“Stop her!”
Ulf straightened his face. He winked past her at Bjarni.
“Stop her,” Gudrun said, “or sleep with the stock.”
Ulf turned away. Gifu had come to Kristjan, sitting at the end of the table, and she leaned down to whisper in his ear. Kristjan stopped smiling. He pushed her away, so that she staggered.
“Gifu,” Bjarni said.
Her face turned toward him, her eyes wide with malice. Her hair stood out in fuzzy tendrils like an aura. “Gifu! Gifu!” Up and down the hearth she aped a long-legged, heavy walk that set the others laughing again; Bjarni realized that it was he whom she mocked. His ears burned. Yet he had to laugh. In a deep voice she said, “The King of England would have made me his knight, but I came back to my true-love.” She thumped her chest. “The sheep!”
“Be still!” Gudrun shouted at her.
“What offends you?” Hiyke said. “Does she remind you that you are barren?”
Gifu was mimicking Andres now, cajoling and smiling and bowing. Her great belly made her awkward. Ulf turn
ed to Bjarni.
“Stop her. Who knows what she might say?”
Bjarni said, “What are you afraid to hear?”
Another howl of laughter went up from Hiyke and the people watching Gifu. Gudrun stood up in her place. “I will not bear this.” She rushed out of the hall. Ulf swore. He left the High Seat to follow her. Bjarni watched him go.
Gifu watched also; she squared her shoulders the way Ulf did, and her mouth opened, full of words.
Bjarni said, “Gifu!”
She turned; she stuck out her chin. He said, “Come and eat.”
After a time she did as he said.
When the meal was done and the table cleared, Hiyke went to her loom, and the other people of Hrafnfell found things to do. Bjarni sat at the table and watched Gifu.
She was trying to catch Kristjan’s eye. The boy sat with his head bent, his gaze pinned to the ground. Gifu stamped her foot; she cleared her throat, and yet he would not look up. At last she left the hall. As soon as her back was turned, Kristjan raised his eyes to her. But he did not go to seek her. He went to sit by his mother instead.
Ulf had come in again. Bjarni called to him, “Play chess with me.”
His brother threw him a wild, angry look and stamped down the hall toward the door into the little room where he and Gudrun slept.
When night had fallen Bjarni crossed the yard to the sleeping booth. It was set back into the hillside; heavy beams of driftwood supported the sod roof. In the middle of the long room a fire burned. Andres and Jon sat on the bed against the right-hand wall, taking their shoes off, when Bjarni came in.
He said, “I am going out to fish tomorrow, if anyone wants to come with me.”
His half brothers lifted their heads in unison. “In Swan?” Andres said.
“Swan is Ulf’s ship. I will take one of the boats.”
Ulf stalked into the long room. His heavy jaw was thrust out like a codfish’s. He came straight up to Bjarni and said, “You let that happen! You let your English whore tease my wife to tears. She is crying now.”
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