‘Empty and longing,
Lonely as I,
The wind howls as it searches,
For…’
‘Hooooooowwwwwwl!’
It was impossible to tell if Snarf was joining in, or complaining about the noise. Hekja broke off singing. She laughed and hugged him. The mouse rustled again, and Snarf darted after it. Hekja began to sing again.
The door opened.
‘Who is that?’ demanded Snorri the Skald. ‘Who is singing?’ He was dressed in furs, a fur hood and fur-trimmed boots and mittens, and there were flakes of snow on his face.
Hekja stood up respectfully. ‘No one, Master Skald,’ she said. ‘My dog was howling, that was all.’
‘Arf,’ welcomed Snarf, his mouth full of mouse. He swallowed it. ‘Arf arf.’
‘It didn’t sound like a dog,’ said Snorri. He stepped inside. The sheep moved restlessly as they watched the newcomer. The snow was melting on Snorri’s face and he wiped it off.
‘Maybe it was the wind,’ offered Hekja. She picked up the spindle and began to twirl it.
Snorri looked at her curiously. ‘Perhaps. Or maybe the ice giants were calling, up in the mountains.’
‘Are there really ice giants?’ asked Hekja cautiously. Gudrun had told her there were, but she had never quite believed it.
Snorri smiled. ‘Not that anyone has ever met. Not anyone sober at any rate. Or maybe they have, and haven’t lived to tell the tale.’
He walked down the hall, then sat down in Thorvard’s chair, and looked around the house. ‘There is a legend that poetry was stolen from the dwarfs,’ he added. ‘Maybe the dwarfs sing in this land, in winter when the people are indoors.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Hekja. She looked down at her spindle as though it was the most fascinating thing in the world. ‘I have only been here since past mid-summer.’
‘Where are you from?’
Hekja shrugged. ‘I don’t know the name your people give to my island. No one bothered to tell me,’ she added bitterly. ‘They simply came and killed and left.’ She lifted her chin. ‘Perhaps you would like to make a chant of that? A tale of heroes, fighting girls and women and men who have no swords.’
For a moment Snorri looked shocked. Then he looked angry. Suddenly Hekja realised what she had done. It was the song, she thought. I forgot I was a thrall when I was singing. Now she was here alone with a Norseman, one that she had angered and insulted.
Could she reach the door before he grabbed her? Then the anger left his face.
‘You don’t understand,’ he said gruffly.
Hekja nodded. ‘No. That is true.’ She spoke respectfully, and hoped he didn’t sense what lay underneath.
‘All men fight,’ said Snorri, ‘it is what men do. And the best men win. How can a man test his courage except in battle? And the brave deserve their reward.’
And what of those who lose, thought Hekja, or who never wanted to fight at all? But she kept twirling her spindle. Snarf sniffed Snorri’s feet, then lay down again at Hekja’s side.
‘Tell me truthfully,’ said Snorri, now in a gentler voice. ‘Was it you singing?’
‘Yes,’ said Hekja. There was no point denying it now.
Snorri shook his head. ‘What is your mistress thinking of?’ he cried. ‘She should have brought you to the feast! A voice like yours would drive the dark away!’ He stood up, and made his way back to the door. ‘And I’ll tell her so at once,’ he added. ‘Yule isn’t a time to spend alone.’
‘Please…’ Hekja ran to the door and called after him.
He turned. ‘What is it?’
‘Please…please don’t tell them I can sing.’
Snorri stared. ‘Why ever not?’
Would he understand? Or would she anger him again?
‘Because…because a slave has nothing. No belongings, no past that anybody cares to know, no future unless her mistress gives her one. My songs are all I have. If you tell them, they will own those too.’
Snorri stared at her as though he had never seen a thrall before. Then he turned and stamped through the watching sheep and out the door. Hejka watched him trudge across the snow through the endless twilight towards the feast.
Would he tell Freydis to punish her? She couldn’t tell.
Hekja went back to the fire and stirred it up so the sparks rose in the smoky air. The wind was rising; it muttered down the smoke hole, sending a gust of snowflakes through the house. Hekja threw on more wood—the updraught of a good fire kept even a blizzard out.
Suddenly the door opened again. It was one of Erik’s thralls, an old woman, with almost as good a beard as Erik, though his was soft and hers spiky like a seal’s whiskers. ‘Your mistress says you are to go to the feast,’ she said. ‘I will stay here in your stead.’
Hekja stared. ‘When did she say this?’
‘Just now.’ The old woman smiled. ‘Off you go, girl. It will do me good to have a rest, away from all the noise. I will mind the house and animals.’
‘Did the mistress say anything else?’ asked Hekja. ‘About singing, maybe?’
The woman shook her head. ‘Nothing else.’
Hekja pulled on her boots and fastened her cloak. Snarf bounded out after her and they set off across the snow.
Light gleamed through the doors of Erik’s farmhouse. There must be dozens of lamps burning, thought Hekja, driving away the winter dark. She could hear men’s voices singing; and the scent of bread and roasting meat filled the air that the heavy snow had left odourless.
Freydis was sitting just inside the door, a mug of mead in her hand. She nodded to Hekja. ‘The young poet there suggested someone else take your place.’ Freydis sounded amused. ‘I should have thought of it myself,’ she added. ‘Old Sigrun is more than happy to snooze Yule away by a fire.’
Gudrun smiled at Hekja from the seats by the fire pit, and Hikki moved over to give her space on his bench. Hekja glanced at Snorri, but he didn’t even glance her way—he was too enthralled by Leif’s tale of the farmhouse further up the fiord that had been crushed by a glacier that had grown unexpectedly, killing all inside. He even ignored Snarf when he sniffed hopefully at the pouch where he had once kept dried meat.
So Snarf went to sniff Bright Eyes instead, and for once she didn’t growl at him to go away.
It was a grand Yule feast. There were games with the other thralls, and music from the skald and Leif’s daughter, and stories from Erik in his great chair. Once Leif spoke of Vinland, it’s giant trees and lush grass, and Freydis’ gaze burnt as bright as the fire. And then the week was over, and no one had mentioned Hekja’s singing at all.
Chapter 26
A HERO’S FAREWELL
Erik the Red died towards the end of winter. Many people died at winter’s end, from poor food or not enough, and from the bitter cold. But Erik died from none of those. He was in his chair, playing chess, pondering his next move, just as he had pondered settling a new land twenty years before. And then he gave a cry, toppled from his chair and died.
Freydis was weaving, and Hekja and Gudrun were spinning when the thrall came running with the news. ‘Mistress,’ he panted, as Freydis looked up from her loom. ‘His Lordship…his Lordship’s dead!’
There was no doubt which Lordship he meant—The Lordship always referred to Erik. Freydis stood up, her face expressionless. Thorvard had been carving a new runner for the sleigh. He stood too and looked as though he might make a move to comfort her. But she shook her head at him.
‘Come,’ she said shortly. ‘We will help with the funeral.’ She reached for her cloak and gestured to the men to come as well.
It took both households three days’ work to prepare Erik’s grave. He was a Christian—his wife had built the first church in Greenland—but it was fitting that he be buried as a Viking hero too.
Hekja and Hikki were sent to run to every household within a day’s journey, to let them know of Erik’s death. The seas were too frozen to send out ships.
This time both ran together—running in winter was dangerous, and both carried ropes in case the other fell into a fissure in the snow. If it had been summer the whole colony might have been invited to the funeral, but this was not possible in blizzard season.
It was strange running in the winter silence. Even the trees and rocks were white, and the ice mountains gleamed in the sunlight, and always behind the silence the rumble and grind of the glaciers as they carved their way out to the sea.
The husbondi of the last farmhouse they reached offered them a place in his sleigh, so Hekja was back at Brattahlid for the funeral.
The thralls had dug a pit, a giant one, and Erik’s ship was lowered into it. His grave goods were piled around, his sword and shield, the carved chair he had sat in since his house was built, his sleigh and snow shoes, even his sleeping furs.
Snorri carved a funeral poem in runes in the shape of a snake onto a stone. No one told Hekja what they said, but she imagined that they spoke of heroes.
There was some talk of killing a female thrall as well, to keep him company in the afterworld. Hekja’s face whitened when she overheard this, but nothing came of it—not because a thrall was valued, but because it was a pagan custom and too many disapproved.
Finally, as women wailed, Erik’s final ship was covered by a mound of dirt, outlined with big stones and a cross put at the head.
Freydis stood silent as the frozen dirt was shovelled back into the pit. Even when Thorvard tried to comfort her as they watched the grave being covered on the hill, she shook him off and went to stand alone on the hillside, staring down at her father’s grave.
What was she thinking, wondered Hekja. Of songs and games when she was young? Of how her father hadn’t lived long enough to see his daughter claim a country too, as he and her brother had done?
It was impossible to tell.
Finally the echoes of the last song had died away and the mourners left the graveside.
Erik the hero, discoverer of Greenland, founder of the colony, fighter and chief, was gone.
It was fully dark when Hekja heard the noise outside. The lamp had flickered down, and the hall was quiet. At first she thought the men were singing another lament for Erik. But this sound was different.
Hekja made her way across the hall and passed the restless sheep as quietly as she could, then looked outside. The night was lighter than indoors, for the full moon cast shadows on the snow.
The noise came again. ‘Hoooooowwwwwwwwwwl!’
Hekja peered across the fields to Erik’s grave. Bright Eyes and Snarf sat on the great mound. As Hekja watched they lifted up their heads again and howled for the dead master.
The sound floated past the farms, over the fiords, up to the mountains of ice and snow, across the glaciers, above this cold and foreign land that Erik had made his own. The dogs sang their own song, one that had no need for human words. A song to honour a hero, in the best way they knew how.
The rest of the household was still asleep when Snarf slipped indoors. When Hekja cuddled him his fur felt like ice, and so did his nose. She hoped that Bright Eyes had found someone to give her comfort too.
Chapter 27
AFTER THE FUNERAL
Freydis was rich now. Erik’s big house and the main fields would go to Leif. Freydis inherited two smaller farms, with the allegiance of the men who worked them, as well as the farm Erik had given her on her marriage. Erik’s wealth of silver was divided between Leif, Thorvard and Freydis.
Hekja watched Freydis at her weaving the day after the funeral. Freydis had never shed a tear since the news had come of Erik’s death, not that Hekja had seen.
Freydis’ face was still expressionless. She said nothing all morning until it was time to order Gudrun to serve the meal—fish stewed in water and thickened with reindeer moss, for now at winter’s end all of the meat was gone. The household was spooning up the tasteless stew from the big pot when Leif bent his head under the door lintel. No Norse door was ever tall enough to walk through with one’s head held high—it was easier to slice off an enemy’s head if he had to duck to come in the door.
But today Leif was no enemy. He took off his cloak, shook off the snowflakes and came in to stand by the fire.
Freydis didn’t offer him fish—Erik’s, or rather Leif’s, household had many times as many thralls and beasts as hers, and was better supplied. While her household ate dried fish, Leif’s still dined on meat.
‘What is it?’ Freydis asked her brother shortly.
Leif took a breath. ‘The Vinland expedition—it is impossible now. We must send runners to the other households to let them know.’
Freydis didn’t even look up from her fish. ‘Why?’
Leif stared. ‘Surely you must see that! I must take Father’s responsibilities here. I can’t go wandering off beyond the horizon.’
‘Why not?’ said Freydis coolly. ‘That is what Father did.’
‘Father was outlawed for three years and had his lands forfeited for unlawful killing. He had no choice but to leave Iceland. But I have my duty here.’
Freydis put her bowl aside. ‘Then we will go without you.’
Leif stared at her. ‘A woman, lead an expedition?’
‘Why not?’
‘You know why not! How will you get men to follow a woman? You have never been to Vinland! How will you even find it?’
Freydis laughed. ‘You forget, brother. You’ve been boasting of your voyage for two years! You gave the poet every detail, so many days to the south, so many to the west. In fact I am sure we can do better than you, and sail straight to Vinland, without your troublesome adventures on the way.’
‘Freydis…’ Leif looked at Thorvard. ‘You are her husband! Say something! Tell her it’s impossible.’
Freydis didn’t give her husband time to reply. ‘The ship is mine,’ she said shortly. ‘And the farm men are mine as well. Whether my husband chooses to come or not, I am going.’
‘I am coming,’ said Thorvard, just a bit too softly. He held Leif’s eyes as though in challenge.
Freydis’ gaze was triumphant. ‘We shall see how many choose to follow Erik’s daughter, instead of staying mouldering at home with his son.’
‘But…’ began Leif. He stopped and shook his head. ‘There is no arguing with you. A proper wife would…’ He stopped at the expression on Thorvard’s face.
Thorvard’s fingers inched towards his axe. ‘You may be her brother, Leif Eriksson, but I will have no man insult my wife and live.’
Leif turned on his heel, grabbed his cloak and left.
Chapter 28
FREYDIS’ FOLLOWERS
It seemed to Hekja that one day they lived in twilight, then all of a sudden the days were so bright they hardly needed the lamps at all. Gudrun laughed at her surprise. ‘It’s the ice giants,’ she explained, ‘they sit up in the ice mountains and watch the winter sun. They are so big they hide it from everybody else. But as soon as the sun begins to rise higher in the sky for spring they sit down again. And bump! The days are longer, hey?’
Hekja longed for spring to come properly. By now the salt fish was so hard it needed soaking for three days. Most of the household had coughs from months of breathing smoke and fish-oil fumes, and her voice was hoarse as well. The house and every person in it stank of sweat, sheep and fish.
The snow melted in the warmer days, dripping down the smoke hole then freezing again into icicles overnight. More snow fell; this time it looked like silvery puffs that the fresh sunlight turned to magic, then that snow melted too.
Finally the patches of mud amongst the drifts of snow turned green, then the green all turned to flowers. Butterflies hovered just out of reach when Snarf tried to snap them. His fur was falling out in big thick handfuls, and finally Gudrun made good her threat to spin some into thread. It looked quite fine, but smelt so much like wet dog that Freydis refused to weave it.
Thorvard and the thralls carried the cattle out onto the green
grass—the cows were too weak to stand by now, much less walk, for there had been little hay and no grain at all for the last month of winter. The pigs staggered out as well and began turning the fields to mud. Only the sheep were still steady on their feet. They too had gone short of food, but at least they had been warm inside the hall.
Spring was busy and hungry too, despite the first leaves of sorrel and rose root shoots and onion tops. But after the first reindeer hunt there was fresh meat, even though it was winter tough and stringy with not a speck of fat. There was fresh fish to eat as well. The hens were well fed on fish guts and reindeer heart and soon began to lay as the days grew longer. A whale was sighted out past the fiord, too, so even if there was no grain or milk or cheese there was more whale meat than anybody wanted. Hekja could no longer feel Snarf’s ribs through his fur, or her own underneath her dress.
She was glad of the good food, for now that the snows had partly cleared Freydis sent Hekja running, and she needed all the energy she could get. She ran to the farms of the men who had promised to join Freydis’ expedition, to tell them of her plans and bring back details of what men and ships they each would bring.
But each time, Hekja came back with a refusal. Freydis took each message calmly, but with each setback her face grew stonier than before. Without Leif’s leadership the men had changed their minds.
Hekja was sent to Finnbogi’s farm last, as it was further away than the others, up north where the snows kept their grip for longer. He and his brother relied more on hunting seals than on farming, and it had been to sell their sealskins that Finnbogi had accompanied Leif on the voyage when Hekja had been taken.
It took Hekja four days to run to Finnbogi’s. Each night when she stopped to rest she saw him in her dreams, his face above her mother, his laughter and the blood. Finnbogi had made no sign he ever remembered chasing Hekja or killing her mother. Hekja was just another thrall now, among so many. At least she hoped so.
Finally Hekja came to the fiord with the black rock slope and the glacier above it, white and cold, just as Thorvard had described. There was the farm too, a big main house with a few thin cows and long lines where sealskins flapped in the wind. Down below Finnbogi’s ship rode the milky fiord water. Even this early in the season it was evident they had been fishing or sailing north to seal. Whatever else Finnbogi was, it was evident he was an excellent seaman.
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