The Greenlanders

by Jane Smiley

  The red silk gown disappeared. It was not to be found in any of the Gunnars Stead chests. No bits of it or of the remnants of the fabric were used to decorate Gunnhild’s little dresses. It did not appear on any altar or sewn into the vestments of any priest. It was not among the items sent to Lavrans Stead, for Birgitta had packed those herself, not allowing Margret to touch anything until it was time for her to take it out of the boat. Folk said that Birgitta was not a little parsimonious, giving Margret the oldest and most easily spared pots and bits of furniture. One article only was thick and richly made, and that was the white cloak Margret had given Birgitta as a bridal gift.

  The little farm, called Steinstraumstead, Margret found to be in great disrepair. Of the three rooms in the house, only one had all four walls, and none was dry or cozy or tightly roofed. The storeroom, being the smallest, was the easiest to put in good order, and this Margret quickly did—setting stones, cutting and replacing turves, clearing the floor with a wooden spade and a broom made of willow brush tightly bound with reindeer sinew. The room was dark and cramped, however, and one oil lamp rendered it smoky and warm, so Margret spent little time there once it was clean and she had arranged her stores. After this she surveyed the byre, which had once been tightly built, with stalls for four cows. As she had no cows, though, and intended to have none, she could leave the byre much as it was, only clearing a protected spot for whatever hay and seaweed she would be able to find, and piling turves along the north wall to shelter her five sheep in the worst of the winter storms. Her own room presented more difficulties, for it was large and nearly roofless and the built-in bedcloset (for there was one, although it was roughly made) was staved in on two sides. For some days, she left these things as they were, and merely followed her sheep in their new pastures, first along the river and then in the other direction, which led toward the bottom of Eriks Fjord. These new walks were some pleasure to her, and though she brought the sheep back at the end of each day, it was only to sleep a little, milk the ewes, and then set off again. The child within her moved but little while she was walking, and sometimes she was seized with the certainty that it had died. When she sat, however, or lay down to sleep, it rolled and jumped until she had to get up.

  The hillside, once a little cultivated, although never as rich as Gunnars Stead or any other farm in Vatna Hverfi, was much overrun with herbs and other plants, including ones that she had seen little of in Vatna Hverfi. The fjord, down a little slope from her door, was full of cod and ocean-going trout, although the glacial stream for which the steading was named was cloudy with silt and contained few fish. The strand was narrow and pebbly, and sloped abruptly upward. She had no boat.

  The child was little trouble to her. The pains and discomforts of pregnancy, such as Birgitta and Svava spoke about, were absent. Birgitta, in particular, had often complained of the baby’s head catching her just below the heart so that she had no air for walking, and sometimes even for speaking. Another time, rather toward the end of Birgitta’s term, the girl had been seized with a sudden long pain, lasting most of the morning and running from her heart down to her legs. It was the child turning upside-down to be born, she said, and worse by far than any of the pains of confinement. Svava recalled of Kristin of Siglufjord that her feet burst out of her shoes, and her legs could not fit into her stockings, and at times it seemed that the skin itself would burst, for her toes were as big as loom weights, and this with every child, from the first quickening to the birth. There were worse things, and Svava knew most of them. Such discomforts as she and Birgitta spoke about were almost laughable, but even these Margret didn’t have. She was simply herself, with a large belly, in a loose dress, well able to follow her sheep as far as they wished to wander.

  One day a rather large piece of driftwood, V-shaped and rounded at both ends, as if it had been drifting for many years, was caught below the farmhouse on the strand, and her first thought upon seeing it was that Skuli Gudmundsson could make good use of it, for it was a large piece of wood, six or eight ells long and at least an ell broad in the widest spot, and no branches at all, and she remembered how he had spoken of carving her a chair with fish for arms and a whale in low relief across the back, but a good piece of wood had never come to him for such a project. And now she was taken with longing for him in such a way as she hadn’t yet been since his death, for the piece of wood below her began to take the shape of two wiggling fish, curved and shining, caught in the piece of wood as if in ice, or amber, or water itself made solid. The two fish seemed to arch and writhe for freedom, as they do in a net being pulled from the water, and Margret could not drag her gaze away from them. When after a small space, they ceased moving and resolved themselves once again into the two halves of the piece of driftwood, she was seized with such grief that she began screaming and screaming, until at last she fell forward in a fit, and it was thus that it came to her what changes had been wrought around her, that Skuli Gudmundsson was dead and she was to be alone with her child for the rest of her life.

  Before this, in the time since the killing, she had thought of little except what she would be taking to Steinstraumstead and how she would be living there. During the killing itself, and the retrieval and burial of the corpus, and during the time she spent at Undir Hofdi and Gunnars Stead before moving, she had felt calm, as if dead, but not unhappy. She had followed many commands—Birgitta’s commands to free her little birds and rip apart, seam by seam, the red gown, Pall Hallvardsson’s commands to pray for God’s forgiveness and to beg for the forgiveness of her husband and brother, as well as that of Kollbein Sigurdsson for luring his hirdman into sin and death. Even Olaf had commanded her. He had commanded her to sleep in Ingrid’s old bedcloset and never to be inside when he was, nor outside when he was. She had done every task set her day after day, and then fallen into such sleeps as she had never known before, dreamless and black. Then she had come to Steinstraumstead, following Gunnar’s commands not to speak to him and not to look into what Birgitta had packed for her until he was away.

  After her coming, there was such novelty and labor to establishing herself that she had thought of little, and dreamed of nothing still, but now, after seeing the fish caught in the driftwood, dreams came to her every night of Skuli Gudmundsson, whole and beautiful, sometimes as if he had been resurrected, more often as if there had been no killing. The yearning for him that she had never been without after their first meetings doubled and redoubled, so that she could not sit or walk or run or lie down or pray or eat or sleep or set one stone on top of another. She thought of tales she had heard of fiery demons that sometimes got into folk, so that they looked the same, but when they died, as they always must, their insides were black and putrid, unlike the flesh of godly souls. A few Greenlanders maintained that the skraelings were such folk, others declared that they were not, that these things were more often seen far to the south, in hot places. However it came about, Margret thought that the entrance of such a demon would surely feel much as her longing felt, and would be as difficult to relieve. The V-shaped piece of driftwood sat as if enchanted on the tiny strip of strand for many days. Storms and high tides seemed only to lift it higher, never to carry it off. Margret grew both afraid of it and fond of it, but she never approached it or touched it.

  One day when Margret returned from pasturing her sheep, she saw that a small boat was pulled up on the strand, and that an old woman and a young man were sitting on the hillside in front of the farmstead. These folk were Marta Thordardottir, the sister of Osmund Thordarson, the lawspeaker, and her son, Isleif Isleifsson. Both lived in the Brattahlid district, and Isleif was one of the Greenlanders who had been made a priest by the bishop. Marta was not an old woman, but her husband had died during a coughing sickness. Now she lived in great state on the farm of Osmund at Brattahlid and her other son, Ragnleif, farmed her old farm. Now Margret approached her visitors and welcomed them to Steinstraumstead, and invited them to take some ewe’s milk as refreshment. They greeted her in
a friendly fashion, and Marta said, “My Margret, you little resemble my friend Helga Ingvadottir. All the Gunnars Stead lineage has looked just the same for generation after generation, with never a soul who resembles the mother’s line.”

  “It seems to me that I know your face well, too, Marta Thordardottir, though I have not seen you for many years.”

  Isleif was not unhandsome, with fair hair and straight teeth, but Margret saw that his eyes were weak, for he habitually narrowed them when he looked at anything, as if to bring it into focus. He said, “And I would know you, Margret, from the warm tales that Pall Hallvardsson relates of your many virtues.”

  After they had finished their milk and Marta had wiped her mouth with the hem of her sleeve and settled herself on the hillside, she asked Margret when she expected to be confined. Margret said that she had once calculated St. Mary Magdalen’s mass, but that she had since lost track of the dates, and did not now know how soon this would be. Isleif said that they had just passed the feast of Sts. Peter and Paul, and so Margret’s date would be some twenty days off. Neither Marta nor Isleif spoke to her with contempt, but as they spoke of these things, Margret sat with her eyes cast down, feeling shame that she felt not a whit of when she was alone. Marta now invited Margret to come to Brattahlid, where she lived, and to stay there as she wished, and the child would be fostered by Osmund, or, if Margret preferred, by Ragnleif, or even Isleif, on behalf of the church. “Otherwise,” she said, “all of the folk of the Brattahlid district, but especially friends of Asgeir Gunnarsson and his father, will feel it to be a shame on them that Margret Asgeirsdottir is living so poorly, in danger from starvation or accident or even the skraelings, and on such a tiny steading so close by.”

  Now Margret looked up, into Marta’s gaze, to see if this was a command, but Marta and Isleif were smiling at her, and she saw that it would be possible to refuse, but that if she did so, the offer would not be made again. Finally, she said, “The case lies thus, that I have brought shame enough to my brother and husband, as well as to myself and my child. Through my own wish, I left Vatna Hverfi and came to this poor steading, although it is true that my brother and husband wished nothing else than this. It seems to me that such a course as my coming to live at Brattahlid would speak ill of my folk to all of the Greenlanders, and people would say that they had left me to wander from place to place, seeking charity. Also, they must say that I had traded on my sin and gained a statelier home than I deserved.”

  Seeing the direction of Margret’s response, Marta said, “But no woman can be brought to bed in solitude, without midwives, or a priest. Such a thing courts death and worse, and your folk are greatly to blame for putting you in such peril.”

  Margret smiled. “Peril to me has not been our foremost concern, and, to speak the truth, things that haven’t yet happened always seem the farthest away.”

  “It seems to you now that all will go well.”

  “Or, that whatever will happen will be good enough.” But she could see that these words were unpleasing to Marta and Isleif, both. She dropped her eyes again. After a few moments, she said, “I have no wish for a solitary confinement, although about this, as about much else, I have been careless. But I also have no wish to leave Steinstraumstead, and my five sheep, and my little house, for there is much to be done with it before the winter, and each day I do some little thing.”

  At this, Marta Thordardottir sat silent for a while, gazing across the fjord at the cloud shadows moving across the face of Brattahlid. Finally she sighed, and said, “The trip across the fjord is not such a great one, and one of the servingmen from Brattahlid might make it each morning until the birth of the child, and after that we may talk again about the arrangement of your affairs. But still this seems to me the less satisfactory course.” Margret was much pleased by this, and she took Marta Thordardottir’s hand and kissed her fingers, and thanked her heartily. Then Sira Isleif spoke with Margret and confessed her and prayed with her, and the two visitors went into their boat and rowed back to Brattahlid, and Margret watched them the entire way. But after this, she felt much ashamed, and longed even more painfully for Skuli Gudmundsson. It was said that Osmund Thordarson was not a little displeased that one of his servants should take the time for such an errand every morning, but that in this business as always, his sister must have her way.

  Margret Asgeirsdottir was brought to bed of a boy, and all went well with him. He was christened by Sira Isleif, and his name was Jonas Skulason. A girl came to live with Margret, whose name was Asta Thorbergsdottir, and this girl was so strong that she liked to compete with boys and men in swimming contests and other tests of strength, although she was past the age of marrying. Many laughed at her, and Osmund said that he was well rid of her, although she was his cousin’s granddaughter. In addition, a carpenter and another of Osmund’s servants came one day and repaired Margret’s bedcloset and the roof of the room where she and Asta slept. Margret was very grateful to Marta Thordardottir for all of these benefits, and loved her as a daughter her mother forever after this until Marta’s death.

  One day Olaf Finnbogason took the small Gunnars Stead boat, and rowed to Gardar. As he had not been there in four summers, he was much surprised at the change he found, although, as before, folk greeted him in a familiar way, as if he had been gone only a few days. Here, of course, the hay crop on the huge homefield was as green and thick as ever—so thick that a man could hardly find the earth under the grass with his fingers. But there were few servants, boys, or priests running from here to there. The herd of cattle had diminished somewhat—about thirty cows and fifteen calves grazed on the hillside above the homefield. Even so, they were lovely big beasts, with shining red rumps and patches of white spreading like snow over their necks and shoulders. The Gardar bull grazed in a separate pen, as big as a rowboat and vigilant, able to graze and watch the comings and goings of the cows at the same time. He eyed Olaf. Olaf found much to admire in the animal—the Gunnars Stead bull was old and mild, and Olaf was fond of him, but it seemed to him that it would be a fine thing to care for this beast, a daily test of wills dangerous not to win. After looking for a long while at the bull, Olaf approached the hall.

  Only a single figure leaned over some writing, and there was no singing. Sira Pall Hallvardsson lived now at Hvalsey Fjord, and Olaf did not know this man, who was dressed as a priest. A servingwoman named Anna Jonsdottir came up to him wiping her hands on her gown, and greeted him by name and asked him his business. Olaf inquired after the bishop. Anna replied that the bishop was sleeping, but that Sira Jon was anyway in the habit of receiving all visitors and she took him off with her to find the priest.

  When Sira Jon came forward, Olaf pulled off his hat and, with little grace, dropped to his knees and kissed the priest’s ring. Jon looked at Olaf for a long moment, and then declared, “Olaf Finnbogason, you are so changed that I would not have known you, although I remember you well from your earlier visit.”

  “Many say this of me, and ask me if I have been ill, but I have not,” said Olaf. Now Sira Jon asked for the news of Gunnars Stead, and sent Anna Jonsdottir away for a bowl of milk and other refreshments, and he invited Olaf into his chamber. The man’s clothing was so soiled and humble that Jon could not forbear staring at it, for the folk at Gunnars Stead were known for dressing well, in the thick, purplish Gunnars Stead wadmal that was so desirable. Even folk who laughed at Gunnar’s womanish weaving were not slow to trade for some of it when they could. The two men sat without talking until Olaf had finished his meal. Olaf kept his eyes down and ate carefully, for even though those who knew him as a child at Gardar had died long ago, Gardar reminded him of how he had been teased for eating like a beast, snorting and snuffling into his food as if he had never seen a spoon in his life.

  After eating, Olaf pushed away his bowl and turned to Sira Jon. “I beg you,” he said, “to prevail upon the bishop to let me be made a priest now, for I am but thirty winters old, and that is of an age with Petur, the
plague priest, when he began his training.”

  Jon sat back and stared at him.

  Still with his eyes down, Olaf went on, “Once I had everything by memory, every book that I was read, word for word, so that even though my eyes may be ill-suited for reading now, I know what should be said, and when to say it. Those things I have forgotten, I might learn again, for though my memory is not what it was, it is still larger than is common, and a trial would prove it.” He looked up. “My mother did intend me for a priest, after all, as the bishop himself well knows.”

  Sira Jon cleared his throat. “It is true,” he said, “that of the seven churches in the eastern settlement, only four, including Gardar, have resident priests, and Sira Nikolaus at Undir Hofdi would surely have retired before now if such things were ordered in Greenland as they are in Norway. But why have you changed your mind? Why do you so suddenly wish to serve God, when you did not have this wish before?”

  “Indeed, Sira, I do not think that I knew my own wishes before, because I was young, and I blindly shunned the sign of God. I have since found cause to regret my mistake, and I seek with all my heart to correct it.” As he spoke, he pressed his spoon against a drop of sourmilk and brought it to his tongue. Sira Jon turned away, and called for Anna to take away the vessels.

  After she had left again, Jon addressed Olaf as follows: “It is well known that the bishop has been unwell, both during this summer and for much of the last winter. Such business as I do from day to day is beyond his strength, although he thinks clearly and often on more important matters, and we have great hope of his returning to health. Until this event, no new students can begin, for only the bishop can divine the true nature of their calling, and only he can conduct their religious training. When they are trained, only he can ordain them and guide their progress. Greenland is full of boys who will repay their training with years of service.” His voice faded into silence, but the import of this last was not lost on Olaf. They sat quietly again.