A Bone to Pick

by Gina McMurchy-Barber

  Renee — otherwise known as Svanhilda up to a few minutes ago — looked at John with knowing eyes. “Well, good on ya. Bet Bertha will keep ya on yer toes.” She and John had a little chuckle.

  “Peggy’s not just an ordinary cook’s help,” John added. “She’s really here because she’s interested in archaeology and wants to learn more about the Vikings.”

  “Ya are?” said the girl. “I’m interested in archaeology, too. That’s the only reason I agreed to help my ma here at the Meadows. I’m goin’ to be an expert on Vikings.”

  “Louise, it would be nice if ya showed Peggy around sometime,” suggested her mother.

  “Would ya like that? I know my way around here like it was my own backyard.”

  I couldn’t have been happier. I was standing in front of a Newfoundland version of myself. “That would be awesome. It would sure beat being alone.”

  “Alone? Ya mean ya don’t like to hang out with the archaeology students? I sure would. I’d pick their brains,” Louise said.

  “Well, first of all they don’t want me around. And secondly, I don’t think there’s much in their brains to pick.”

  Renee laughed. “Let’s hope that’s not true. I’ve noticed they don’t seem much interested in us, either. I suppose they’re just too busy. Pity, because the guides here know plenty. Like Niko Ekstrom, over at the forge. He’s a Viking saga expert. He could tell ya ’bout them shield maidens, too, if ya want to know more.”

  “Really? I’d like to talk to him.” Talking to the friendly guides was a nice change from the cold shoulders I was getting from the field school students. “Would I be able to talk to him now?”

  John looked at his watch. “I see it’s nearly five o’clock. I’m afraid he’s gone home by now.”

  “It’s five already? Agh! I’m late. Bertha’s going to kill me.” I grabbed my raincoat and headed for the door.

  “Don’t worry ’bout Bertha,” called out Renee. “Her bark’s worse than her bite — usually.”

  As I headed into the wind, I was sure I heard laughter coming from inside the sod house.

  “I’m tired and I’ve had enough,” whines Gunnar.

  “Don’t be so feeble. We just got started,” Sigrid says.

  “Just started? Take a look at the setting sun.” He points to the horizon where the sun is nothing but a sliver, nearly fallen down behind the hill. “My mother will be wondering where I am. We don’t want her coming to look for us. If she knows what we’ve been up to, we’ll be flogged for certain.”

  Sigrid sighs. “All right. But tomorrow we must practise again. I can feel that I’m making progress. We should hide the sword somewhere nearby.”

  “Sigrid, where’s Snorri? Gunnar’s eyes are wide as he searches the meadow and the nearby beach.

  “Snorri?” Sigrid realizes she has not even thought about him since the moment she picked up the sword. Where could he be? He could not have gone that far — after all, he is only a toddler. “Snorri!” she calls again and again. As the minutes pass with no sight of the little boy, Sigrid’s pulse quickens. “Snorri! You little menace, if you’re hiding, you come out right now or I’ll —” What will she do? It is not his fault that she completely ignored him or forgot to keep an eye on him. She gazes out to the grey, cold ocean with its choppy waves, then to the marshlands to the west and the forest beyond that.

  “Quickly, Gunnar,” Sigrid commands. “You go to the beach. I’ll head into the forest.” The two go in opposite directions, calling out the little boy’s name.

  As the minutes mount, Sigrid grows more frightened. What will Aunt Gudrid do to me? she thinks. “Snorri, where are you?” It seems unlikely he could cross the wetlands without getting stuck. Perhaps he has fallen down and is trapped in the mud. “Why can’t I hear you crying? Cry, Snorri, cry for help,” she wills him.

  Sigrid reaches the crest of the hill and looks back to where she has come from. Gunnar is there, waving and beckoning her to return. Maybe he has found him, she thinks. She races over the dense, wet ground, tripping every few feet. Each time she falls, her dress gets wetter and heavier and causes her to stumble even more.

  “There’s no sign of him. I think we need to get help,” says Gunnar.

  It will be dark soon, and Sigrid knows what he says is true. As they run to the settlement, Sigrid’s mind flashes images of tiny Snorri in the hands of a wild cat or drowned in the sea or marsh, or even worse, fallen into the hands of the wicked skraelings.

  Silently, she prays to Frigga — I know I cursed you before, and I am very sorry for that. But, Great Goddess, do not take out your anger on Snorri. Please watch over him. Show us where to find him. If you do this, then I promise to become the woman you want me to be. And if you absolutely insist, I will marry that old man Uncle Thorfinn has chosen and have a child of my own one day … probably … most likely. But only if no harm comes to Snorri!

  Through the dark night, every man and woman from the settlement searches meadow, hillside, and beach for Snorri. His name is called so often it becomes one with the wind. The search continues until the day breaks. But the only son of Gudrid and Thorfinn is nowhere to be found. Sigrid cannot look any of the settlers in the eye for the shame of her neglect. “Poor Snorri,” she cries.

  “It was the skraelings, I’m sure,” wails Gudrid. “They took him from me. What have they done with my little boy?”

  “Wait, what’s that there?” one of the men calls out. He points to a thin line of smoke rising from the forest. They all turn and see it.

  “Skraelings!” screams Hanna, Gunnar’s mother. “Skraelings have started a fire in the forest. What are they doing?”

  The men who are already with shield and sword charge up the hillside first. Gudrid and Sigrid follow close behind. Once inside the woods they smell the fire and follow the scent. As they come to a small clearing, though, they do not find an unchecked blaze but only a small firepit with flames licking up the last of the night.

  “Wait here!” commands Hellava, one of the men. “I don’t know what we’ll find.”

  Gudrid whimpers, and Sigrid holds her hand as Hellava approaches the fire.

  With a burst of energy Hellava calls to her, “Come, Gudrid, come quick.”

  Sigrid and her aunt run toward him. When they arrive, they look down on a sight more peculiar than can be imagined. Next to the fire, lying on a bed of moss and covered in a deerskin, is Snorri, peacefully asleep. Only when Gudrid speaks his name does he open his eyes. He smiles and yawns, not a care on his mind.

  “But who? Who did this?” sobs Gudrid as she buries her face in Snorri’s neck.

  “It was Frigga who saved him,” Sigrid announces. “I prayed to her and she has saved Snorri. She saved him from the beasts and the savages. Thank you, Frigga.” Sigrid falls to the forest floor in a heap of relief.

  A moment later Snorri lifts his sleepy head. That is when they notice for the first time the streak of red paint that reaches from his forehead to his chin. He smiles again and opens his chubby little hand, revealing a small, carved charm.

  Gudrid gasps. “What does this mean?” she whispers.

  In the following weeks no one speaks of the ordeal, and Sigrid is a perfect helpmate to her aunt. Not once does she argue or shirk her duties. Never does she begrudge caring for Snorri, nor take her eyes off him when they are outside the home. And not for a moment does Sigrid forget the dreadful promise she made to Frigga, but she is no longer certain that it was the goddess who saved the boy.

  I burst into the kitchen, half expecting Bertha to be standing there ready to chuck tomatoes at me. Miraculously, she wasn’t around. I hit the floor running.

  “Biscuits, biscuits. What’s in biscuits?” I asked out loud. Flour! I ran to the pantry and hauled out the bag of flour. “How much?” After a nanosecond, I decided ten cups would do. “Okay, what next? Water.”

  Taking the large metal mixing bowl over to the sink, I turned on the tap and let the water run until it looked about rig
ht — not that I knew what looked right. “Okay, what now? Stir it, you idjut,” I said, hearing Bertha in my mind. I grabbed the nearest spoon and started mixing the flour and water. A recipe might have been helpful, but I kind of remembered Great-Aunt Beatrix teaching me once to make baking powder biscuits. “Ah, right … baking powder,” I said. “But how much?” I took the new box of baking powder off the shelf. It was only a small box — hopefully it was enough.

  After dumping it all in, I continued mixing. Then I got the idea to shred some cheese to add flavour. Aunt Margaret did that sometimes. I knew it would be only minutes before Bertha burst through the door. “Oven! Turn on the oven, Peggy.” I flipped the dial to three hundred and fifty degrees. Then thought better and turned it to four hundred and fifty. Then I suddenly remembered the chili I’d burned at home and turned it back to three hundred and fifty.

  While the oven got hot I buttered a few baking sheets and then plopped scoops of the biscuit mixture onto them. They weren’t uniform in size, but what the heck — it would give people a choice of small, medium, or large.

  Miraculously, I slid the sheets into the oven just as Bertha came through the door. That was close.

  “Well, good. There’s me tinking I’d arrive and ya wouldn’t be here.” She peeked through the oven door. “They’re not very attractive, girl, but never mind. Looks aren’t everything.” She put on her apron and washed her hands. “Okay, don’t be standin’ with yer gob open like an idjut. Go and set the tables. Go on. I’ll watch over yer biscuits and won’t let them burn.”

  Ten minutes later people began filling the dining hall. When the timer sounded, I went to the oven and took out my biscuits. Whoa — every one of them was the size of an extra-big muffin. Maybe that just meant they were extra-fluffy. I set the first batch next to Bertha’s stew. Her eyes widened at the sight of them. When I took out the second sheet, I decided to try one. I chomped down, but it was so tough and chewy my teeth couldn’t even tear through it. Then came a funny, bitter taste. Yuck!

  “C’mon, Princess, bring them here. We’re running out of the first batch.” I chucked the one I’d tasted into the garbage. If possible, I would have done the same with the rest of them, but Bertha kept waving at me to bring them over.

  As the students and professors lined up for their suppers, I felt a little jealous listening to them chatting excitedly about their day.

  “Did you manage to get signed up for the kiddy program, Peggy?” I looked up to see Robbie and Maile smirking at me. “Don’t look so serious, kid. I’m just joking.”

  When Robbie helped herself to a large biscuit, I nearly bit my lip. Boy, I’d sure like to see the expression on her face when she stuffed it in her gob. Then I saw Eddy in the line.

  “Peggy, I’m sorry about this afternoon,” Eddy said quietly when she reached the counter. “When I’m teaching, I really need to give my full attention to the students. You understand, right?”

  “Sure,” I said, even though I didn’t really get what the big deal was if I dropped in on her while she was teaching.

  “This evening we’re having a talk from one of the local experts. I thought you might like to join.”

  “A talk about what?”

  “Viking sagas and folklore,” Eddy said. “I’ve enlisted the help of one of the guides from the site. It will be very interesting. Will you come?”

  “Is the expert named Niko Ekstrom?”

  She smiled at me, the way she always did when I surprised her. “You know about him?”

  I nodded. “Heard about him, that’s all.” I glanced over at the table where Robbie was wrestling with her biscuit, and I nearly laughed out loud. “I’d really like to come, but will that upset anyone?”

  “No, I’m sure it will be fine. So I’ll see you in the main centre around seven, okay?”

  I was so happy I nearly floated around the kitchen.

  After dinner I went out to the tables to gather up the dirty dishes. And on every plate, pushed to the side, were biscuits, small, medium, and large.

  “This is turning into a habit, girl,” said Bertha when she came out from the kitchen to help me clear up. “Show me yer recipe.”

  “Ah, well, I didn’t use a recipe. I like to just wing it when I’m cooking.”

  Bertha’s eyes opened to the size of baseballs. “Wing it? There’s no wingin’ it in my kitchen … unless you’re a chicken headin’ fer the oven.” She picked up one of the leftover biscuits and took a bite, or at least tried. “Ack … these things are like rubber. If this is what ya get fer wingin’ it, from now on —”

  Just when Bertha was in the middle of blasting me there was a knock at the kitchen door. It was Professor Brant, the director of the field school. He asked Bertha to step outside with him. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but there was no mistaking that Bertha was upset. When she came back into the room, her pinched red face confirmed it.

  “Well, His Highness isn’t too pleased about the food, and I can’t say I blame him. He as much as said we either get our act together or he’s goin’ to find someone else fer the job.”

  Instantly, I felt like celebrating and would have started doing the victory dance if it hadn’t been for the look on Bertha’s face. She sat down on the stool with a thump.

  “The biscuits were my fault — and the eggs,” I said. “There’s no reason for you to lose your job.”

  “I won’t deny that, but it seems he didn’t much like the broccoli in with the macaroni, either.” She pulled a cloth out of her apron pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “My husband’s out of work, and I’ve got two daughters to put through college. I’ve been countin’ on this money to help us get by.”

  If I got fired, I’d spend my time learning about Vikings, wandering around L’Anse aux Meadows, and hanging out with Eddy. Maybe I could even move in with her and finally get a decent sleep. It would be like the perfect vacation. But when I watched Bertha wiping tears off her face, my heart went soft. I didn’t want to see her lose her job, especially since she really needed it.

  Bertha reached into a drawer, pulled out a box, and handed it to me. “From now on ya don’t cook or bake a thing unless ya get the recipe from here — understand? And not only that, ya must follow it to the tee. Get me, Princess?”

  I nodded. “I promise. From now on no more winging it.”

  “That’s a good girl. Run along then. I’ll finish up here.” I looked around at all the dirty pots and pans that were left from dinner and opened my mouth to object. “No, I tink I need to have a bit of time alone. It’ll be fine. Go see yer friend.”

  An hour ago if she’d told me to leave I’d be out of there so fast they’d have to give me a ticket for speeding. But now things were different. I might be the cause of Bertha losing her job. And by now the professor had probably blasted Eddy for recommending me as the cook’s help. I bet everyone else, like Robbie, knew about it, too.

  I looked out to the Atlantic Ocean. It reminded me of home — only home was about eight thousand kilometres away. Whenever I needed a place to think, I went to the beach. As the waves washed away footsteps in the sand, they washed away bad feelings, too. I glanced at the sign that read BIRCHY NUDDICK TRAIL AND BEACH THIS WAY. So just like that I was off to find myself a log by the shore. With any luck I’d have the place to myself.

  Chapter Six

  Fog was rolling in from off the water, and the damp air nipped at my ears and seeped inside my sweater. Not far offshore floated an iceberg as big as a ship. I watched it silently pass by.

  “Ya should’ve been here a month ago. There were almost as many icebergs as fishin’ ships.”

  I leaped off the log and spun around to find the girl I’d met in the Viking sod house. Only now she was dressed like a normal kid.

  “That one there’s about half the size of the one that sank the Titanic.”

  “What?” I blurted.

  “You’ve heard of the Titanic, right? Sank about six hundred kilometres off Newfoundland’s shore
in 1912. The berg that sank her was half the size of the one you’re gawkin’ at.”

  “Oh.” I slumped down on the log again.

  “Remember me?” she asked.

  “Runa, right?” I said. I wasn’t much in the mood for talking at that moment and hoped she’d act like an iceberg and float away.

  “That’s just my work name when I’m playin’ the part of a Viking kid. My real name’s Louise. So what’er ya doin’?” she pried.

  “Just looking.” Obviously, Louise wasn’t going anywhere soon, so I finally asked, “What are you doing?”

  “I’m scoutin’.”

  “Scouting? You mean like ‘Scout’s honour,’ ‘be prepared,’ ‘build your own fire and shelter,’ that kind of stuff?”

  Louise laughed. “Not that kind of scoutin’. I like to hunt around, see if I can find something old, something the archaeologists missed. Want to look with me?”

  I snorted. “You seriously think this place hasn’t already been picked over with a magnifying glass?”

  “So I take it that means you’re not interested. That’s fine.” Louise scooted past me and started up the trail. “Too bad, ’cause I found something, and it’s pretty big.”

  As I watched her go, I suddenly panicked. What if — no matter how slim the chances might be — she really had found something? It might be my only opportunity to do something even remotely related to archaeology.

  I jumped up. “Wait. I’ll come with you,” I said, trying to sound only a little interested. She didn’t stop, just waved at me to hurry. We headed up the same boardwalk trail that led to the main centre.

  “We’re not going there, are we?” I asked, suddenly worried Eddy would see me. If she did, I knew she’d do everything possible to get me to join the group for the lecture.

  “Why? Do ya want to go there? They’ve got Niko Ekstrom talkin’ to the archaeology students tonight about Norse sagas. That’s a first. They usually ignore us folks who play the part of the Vikings. I guess they don’t tink we know too much. So, anyway, ya want to go hear him?”