The Wolf in the Whale

by Jordanna Max Brodsky

  As I watched the sea behind us, searching for the missing knarr, I kept an eye on the distant shore as well, searching for signs of my past—and my future. The others thought it an unrelieved coast of dark trees. Markland. But to me every landmark emerged heavy with memory. My past unspooled before me: the long days walking across the earth alone, then with my pups—then with my Viking. From the ocean, the land looked different than it had from onshore, but certain landmarks were unmistakable: the shape of the mountains, the curve of a bay, the shadow cast by a steep-sided island. We saw no sign of the red men’s camp where I’d first shared Brandr’s dreams—it was too far inland—but after only a few days, the forests dissolved, and we passed the place where my friend had first arrived with a brown bear fast on his heels.

  Soon after, the familiar whale’s carcass, now stripped of every morsel of meat by scavenging birds and foxes, appeared onshore. Its snow-covered ribs marked the site of the massacre; its long, sharp jaw pointed toward me like an accusing finger as I sailed past on the wooden ship, traveling amid enemies.

  What had taken me so many agonizing moons to traverse on foot now passed by in a matter of days. Soon we would be in the place the Norse called Helluland—Land of Flat Stones. Home.

  We left the coast behind and entered the strait. What had been melting drift ice and wide leads when I crossed with Issuk was now open ocean, broken only by floating patches of grease ice. But as we neared land, mush ice formed along the shore. The next morning, wide disks of ice floated around the boat, man-size flower petals strewn on the sea. As a child, I’d thought one could leap from disk to disk, like a giant bestriding tiny ice islands. Now, as I watched the knarr’s hull plow through the white circles, I knew the great sea would soon freeze solid around us. There were no sleds or dogs on board to cross the ice. These Norse are as arrogant as Issuk, I thought. Either the ice will rip holes in their boat and we will drown, or it will trap us until spring and we will starve.

  Ingharr ordered the sail taken down and sent the thralls to man the oars. The knarr moved more slowly after that, carefully wending its way through the open water while the freemen pushed aside the pans with long poles.

  The farther north we rowed, the more I felt Taqqiq’s eye upon me. Malina walked along the mountaintops and across the waves only briefly each day before sinking once again. And as she weakened, her brother’s lust to catch her only increased. Every day, he remained overhead a little longer, ruling the sky at night and lurking in Malina’s wake for much of the day. I felt his stare like an icy chill as he watched for his chance to finally destroy me.

  Like me, Freydis often seemed haunted. She, too, kept watch on the shoreline, either from fear or from longing. As the air grew colder, her mood darkened. The thralls got the brunt of her ire as they stumbled about the treacherously rocking ship, trying to obey her orders. I could tell she resented her lack of control over this floating household. Sweaty sailors constantly got in her way, and the pitching of the ship could snarl even her spinning. Yet at times, when she stood at the prow with her red hair whipping around her face, she seemed almost peaceful. Some spark of her famous father’s Viking spirit burned bright in this woman.

  Freemen such as Ingharr stayed out of her way, busying themselves with the tasks of sailing and navigating. Those who were useless on board, such as Freydis’s lumbering husband, Thorvard, or one-armed Magnor, stayed seated on the sea chests, repairing weapons if they were hardworking, or telling stories if they were not. A good number of them had little strength for either task—thralls and freemen alike were often sick with the motion of the boat. When the wind calmed, the whole place stank of vomit.

  I scoffed at their weakness; the motion of the waves comforted me like the lapping of a mother’s womb. But I had other problems. The strange milk foods I’d grudgingly accepted played havoc with my bowels. I didn’t understand how these Vikings ate such large chunks of hardened cheese and drank bowl upon bowl of sour, watery skyr. Were they babes at the breast to guzzle milk so greedily? When I ate more than a few bites, my innards clenched and roiled all night. Eventually the cramps plagued me so much that just the sight of sheep, to say nothing of the smell of milk, made me ill.

  Finally, one morning when Muirenn came to me with my portion of skyr, I placed a hand on my stomach and groaned, shaking my head. Freydis arrived later to check on my progress. “Muirenn says you won’t eat. I didn’t spend my time teaching you to be useful so that you could starve yourself to death.” She turned to the old thrall. “Try some meat.”

  My mouth watered at the words, and when Muirenn offered me a sliver of dried mutton I gobbled it down and grinned. It was no caribou meat, and it would’ve been better raw, but it was still the best thing I’d eaten in days.

  Snorri was livid. “And if I decide I’d prefer a nice morsel of meat to a bowl of old skyr and a flake of stockfish, do I just have to ask nicely?”

  The old woman ignored him and patted my head. “I’ve never seen the girl smile so broad. Isn’t that worth a little meat?”

  Snorri merely rolled his eyes.

  Muirenn looked to her mistress. “Maybe we’ll be landing soon, and there’ll be fresh meat for all.”

  Freydis looked up at the sky. Her voice was distant, as if she spoke to the clouds or the winds or the spirits themselves. “The air gets colder. The Sun sinks faster every day.”

  “The ice will only get worse the farther north we go,” Muirenn noted, echoing my own concerns. “We’ll be trapped until the spring.”

  “Trapped?” Snorri asked.

  Freydis’s attention snapped toward him. “The gods keep open a path for us. We will make it home.” As always, Erik the Red’s daughter sounded completely confident. Snorri and Muirenn looked far less assured.

  On Freydis’s orders, Ingharr steered the boat ever northward, just out of reach of the landfast ice quickly forming along the rocky coast. Though their home in Greenland lay straight across the sea from the northern tip of Markland, they had to follow the coast in order to navigate, which meant traveling past Helluland before they could head east. We rowed without stopping to collect fresh water, cook food over a fire on the shore, or sleep on solid ground. Only once did we pause—to welcome the second knarr, which finally appeared on the southern horizon.

  Heart racing, I hurried to the rail as the larger boat pulled close. A small crew of Greenlanders worked the oars. A grizzled man with a missing eye stood with his hands on the steering oar. I remembered him vaguely from Brandr’s memories: Olfun. The one who’d so admired Ingharr’s skill at spread-eagling the painted man.

  I looked past him to the cargo hold between the decks, desperate for a glimpse of Kiasik’s black hair, his sparkling eyes. But I saw only plunder: towering piles of tree trunks and great mounds of pelts.

  My knees weakened. Only my grip on the rail kept me from sinking to the deck. Kiasik is dead. I thought the words but could not bring myself to say them aloud. The Norse wouldn’t have known to lay his body on the earth, where the birds could take his soul to the sky. They would’ve thrown him overboard. Do you live now as Sanna’s captive beneath the waves? I wondered. Or did Sila take pity on you and lift you into the stars? I squeezed my eyes shut, sending a silent prayer to all the spirits who haunted me. Do not punish Kiasik for my failings. Let his soul be born anew. Let him return to the family that loves him.

  When I opened my eyes again, I saw only the massive piles of furs, each mound as big as an iglu. I had always believed that the spirits of the hunted animals would return to earth somewhere else, just as an Inuk’s did. But I’d never seen such slaughter. Bear, wolf, caribou, fox. Enough to feed many families from one Great Darkness to the next. The Norse break every rule. Their very presence rips through the aglirutiit that bind our world together. I felt suddenly sure that even the spirits could not overcome such wanton destruction. The animals would not return. And neither would Kiasik.

  From that day on, I lived only for revenge. The new knarr fell behind
again, moving slowly through the spreading ice with its heavy cargo and undermanned oars. I could rarely make out more than a bright speck on the horizon. Freydis didn’t wait for it. She pushed the men as if the spirits themselves goaded her on. I could’ve told her it was hopeless.

  My prediction came true—more swiftly than I’d even imagined. The ice appeared not with its usual slow crawl, but with a sudden, vicious lunge. I woke shaking beneath a frost-rimed blanket. The sailors looked like old men, their once-bright hair limned in white. The ship sat unnaturally still. I rose to my knees and peered over the side.

  The cold had arrived so quickly that the waves themselves had frozen; a great swell of clear ice streaked with seaweed lay off the bow. To the east, a vast expanse of white stretched as far as the eye could see, trapping the knarr in place. To the south, the Icelanders’ ship sat motionless on the horizon. To the west, a snowcapped mountain rose above the shore.

  I caught my breath, blinking in astonishment. I knew the shape of that mountain. Even from far out at sea, I recognized its silhouette—large and square like the head of a whale, a tall spur of rock rising from its flank like a fluke, then tapering down to disappear in a deep valley to the south. I’d grown up in its shadow. I’d journeyed through its valleys on wolf’s paws and soared above its peak on raven’s wings.

  I clutched the blanket closer to my shoulders, chilled now by more than just the bitter dawn air.

  My visions of revenge were forgotten. Once more I heard Nua’s screams and Kidla’s pleas. I saw Ingharr’s foot crash upon the baby boy’s head. And threaded through the memories of the past—a vision of the future. One I couldn’t banish no matter how hard I tried: Ingharr Ketilsson running toward a domed qarmaq with yellow hair flying and sword raised high.

  And Puja standing helpless and trembling before him.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Come!” Ingharr shouted to the gaping sailors. “Looks like we’re not getting home after all. So unless you want to stay on this boat all winter, we need to set up camp. Throw down the ladder and get going.”

  My only thought was of escape. Even with the whale mountain in sight, my family’s camp still lay several days’ travel away. I’d need a weapon and food for the journey, but as soon as I could gather supplies, I’d run. I’d make my way to Puja and the others and lead them far from shore. We wouldn’t return until the ice melted and the Norse left.

  Though clearly unnerved, the men followed Ingharr’s orders. Bjarni, the brawny freeman who never went anywhere without his bow, swung over the rail to test the ice. Finding it solid, he whistled in awe. “I’ve never seen a cold snap come up so fast.”

  Magnor leaned his one arm on the rail to peer over. “We’re like flies in amber.” Only I was close enough to hear him murmur, “And just as dead.”

  Across the ice, the crew of the Icelandic knarr left most of their precious cargo on board, but they unearthed a large, strange sled from the ship’s hold, piled high with supplies. The Norsemen called it a wagon. It rolled off the ship on circular disks that spun like stone whorls—quite impressive until these wheels slid uselessly across the ice. It took three men to keep the wagon going in the right direction.

  Among the bustle, I was momentarily forgotten. I headed toward the food supply, thinking to steal some dried stockfish for my escape, but Muirenn stopped me. “You can help me across the ice,” she said, linking her arm through mine. Despite her fragility, she dug her fingers into my forearm like a bird’s talons. “Why don’t you carry my pack?” She pushed the large bundle of blankets and clothing toward me with a sweet smile, but her eyes gleamed knowingly. “My old bones can barely shoulder the load anymore.”

  Grudgingly, I hefted her heavy bundle. I would’ve rather carried meat, but I trusted that once ashore, I could steal a knife or a spear. With a strip of cloth stolen from Muirenn’s pack, I could at least fashion a snare. I will not starve. I will not slow. I will make it home.

  The morning sunlight created a thin sheen of melt on the ice. Muirenn clung to me, fighting to stay upright. Around us, men stumbled to the ground regularly, their boots slipping out from under them. Freydis clutched a cloak of white bear fur across her breast, her chin high even as she staggered and slid. No one dared say aloud what we were all thinking: she’d been wrong about reaching Greenland that winter. Whatever gods had opened the ice before had now turned their backs on her.

  Eyeing her mistress, Muirenn sighed. “She’s regretting having left Leifsbudir, mark my words. Now we’ll have to build a whole new winter camp and be trapped here until the summer thaw when we might’ve stayed cozy right where we were.” From the barely restrained muttering around us, Muirenn wasn’t the only one missing the warm longhouse they’d left behind.

  Before long, we reached the beach. The Norse scrambled gratefully up the snow-covered slopes. Many of the thralls simply sank down, oblivious to the cold seeping through their garments.

  “There’s no time to rest,” Freydis called angrily. “We must find a place to camp before it grows dark.” For the first time since my capture, she wore a wimple that tied tight beneath her chin; without her flying red hair, she looked diminished, like a lamp wick turned to cold ash. I wondered how much longer her men would listen to her foolish ideas.

  As Malina rolled across the sky, we came to a sheltered spot among the foothills. After a short consultation with Ingharr and her husband, Freydis signaled a stop. Standing with her hands on her hips, her cloak thrown back to show off her fine chains and brooches, she spoke to her men.

  “We Greenlanders will live no longer in Leifsbudir. This is Freydisbudir.”

  I could sense their displeasure with her arrogance, but they obeyed when she ordered half of them to erect cloth tents as temporary dwellings and the rest to start building the sod longhouse that would shelter them for the winter.

  While the freemen and thralls got to work, supervised by Olfun, the one-eyed man I’d seen at the Icelanders’ steering oar, Muirenn led me to a low rise overlooking the campsite. She handed me a basket of wool and a spindle and admonished me to stay put. By this time, I could acknowledge my understanding of a few words, much like a puppy, and stay was one of them. But as she moved away, I had no intention of obeying.

  I forced myself to breathe, to wait until Muirenn was out of sight.

  Consumed by thoughts of escape, I almost didn’t hear the man striding toward me up the hill. Ingharr had avoided me since our first too-intimate encounter, but now he tromped up the slope to my overlook, his face pink with anger. “Skraeling! Who told you to sit up here like a queen while the rest of us work? Come! Up!”

  I tried to look confused, but he saw right through me.

  “I know you know what come means.” He reached down and grabbed my wrist to drag me to my feet. Last time he’d handled me, my hands and ankles were bound. No longer.

  I stood up just as he pulled and let his own momentum drag him backward. I slipped easily from his grasp as he fell awkwardly on his side—the same side I’d once wounded with Patik’s harpoon. I looked at the dull gray sword belted at his waist. With such a weapon, I could hunt, I could make an iglu, I could survive the trip to my family’s camp.

  And I could kill the murderer before me.

  I lunged for its hilt, but Ingharr lurched away, clutching at the old injury in his side. He swatted at me as he might at a gnat. I ducked his blow and skipped to the side, hoping to circle around and tackle him to the ground.

  I tripped on the hem of my long dress and fell to my knees instead.

  Ingharr grabbed my waist, hauling me off the ground. He swung me over his shoulder feetfirst. I hammered my fist into his stomach, but before I could land a second blow, he snatched my arm with his free hand and pinned it behind my back until it almost ripped from its socket. He galloped down the hill, every pounding step sending waves of pain down my wrenched arm.

  For a moment, I saw only the snow-covered rocks beneath his booted feet. Then I was sailing through the ai
r, flung to the ground like a caribou carcass. I tried to break my fall, but my numb arm crumpled, and I skidded on the slick ground, ice burning my cheek.

  “Here’s your skraeling, Freydis. I told you before to get rid of her. She tripped me. Struck me. Looked ready to kill me.” He drew the iron blade I’d tried so hard to steal. “Let me kill her. One less mouth to feed this winter.”

  I dared a glance up at Freydis. She’d protected me before—maybe she would again. But as I looked at her stony gray eyes, Brandr’s memory flashed before me. Freydis had murdered the Icelanders’ women with her own hands and without hesitation. The moment I got in her way, she’d do the same to me.

  “Stupid girl,” she spat. “You may not understand much of our tongue, but I thought you weren’t quite so foolish.” She made a sound of disgust deep in her throat. “Do what you want, Ingharr.”

  The yellow-haired man leveled the tip of his sword at my throat.

  Muirenn threw herself at Freydis’s feet. “The girl didn’t understand, I’m sure! She doesn’t know a thrall’s place, but she can be taught. She picked up the spinning quick enough. Please, give her one more chance. I’ll take responsibility.”

  “You already had responsibility, old woman, and you’ve already failed.”

  Ingharr drew back his sword. One blow. That was all it would take to sever my neck.

  A gentle breeze fluttered against my cheek. Sila, I thought, suddenly aware of Its presence. You alone have not abandoned me.

  The breeze blew some of the anger from Freydis’s face. “Hold, Ingharr,” she said. “No food for three days. To teach her obedience. But, Muirenn, if she ever attacks one of us again, she will die. And you will be severely punished. I’m tired of dealing with disobedient thralls.”