by Jodi Taylor
I squatted on the bank and thought about it as they moved around the camp, sorting out themselves and their gear.
Let’s use our imaginations a little. How could this have happened? At this time there were, or soon would be, newly founded Viking settlements in North America, or Vinland as they called it, but that was thousands of miles away. As was Greenland. And Iceland. And Scotland. And Scandinavia.
Suppose, just suppose . . . suppose these men, intentionally or otherwise, found a way through the northern ice. The Northwest Passage. Climates change, as we know only too well these days. There was the Medieval Warming Period from about 950 to 1250AD. Suppose this had caused the ice to break up sufficiently for them to find a way through. They’d have emerged somewhere around Alaska and turned south, heading down the west coast – although they wouldn’t have had much choice because that’s the way the current flows.
It’s rude to stare, so I sat cross-legged and stared into the dying fire. Picking up a stick, I drew a square in the sandy soil, carefully filled it in and began to think. Hugging the coast, they’d work their way south until . . . until they reached that narrow spit of land off the west coast and the Gulf of California. There they could have turned north, hoping to return back the way they’d come. Except they weren’t in open sea as they thought – they were in the Gulf. They wouldn’t know that – it was too wide for them to see the other shore. Did they think they were retracing their steps? Sailing back the way they’d come?
At some point they must have realised they couldn’t go any further. That they weren’t in open sea after all. What would they do then?
I stole a glance. I was looking at men who had travelled further than any of their kin. Whose exploits deserved an entire saga. Several sagas. Whose names should be as known and revered as those of Erik the Red. Or his son, Leif Erikson. Or Ragnar Hairy Breeks. Here they sat, occasionally muttering something among themselves. One or two were cleaning their swords. One seemed to be mending a strap of some kind.
My brain was racing. Once they’d realised they were trapped, what would they have done next? A river. They’d leave the gulf with no exit, choose a promising river mouth and strike out upriver. It’s what they did.
Vikings travelled from Scandinavia all the way down to the Black Sea and Constantinople simply by following the major European river systems. There’s Viking graffiti in Hagia Sofia in Istanbul. When they ran out of river, they would pick up their boats and carry them to the next one. Their boats were shallow enough for river travel and light enough to be carried.
How far could these men go on this continent? I stared at my feet, picked up my twig and scratched little rivers in the sandy soil. There was the Colorado, of course, that restless, constantly moving river, which in those days flowed into the Gulf of California. And the Mississippi River system was massive. If they could get themselves from the Colorado into one of the Mississippi’s tributaries . . . then into the Mississippi itself . . . they could travel north from there, up to the Great Lakes or Cahokia. Or turn south and sail downriver, out into the Gulf of . . . Something-or-other . . . yes, Mexico, then around Florida and from there, eventually, back across the Atlantic . . . Was that even possible? How far could their boat carry them? How long had they been travelling?
I was so excited. This was so exciting. My mind began to race as I tried to piece together the events that could have brought them here – to this place – where I could accidentally fall over them. They could have no idea where they were. No idea how vast was the land in which they now found themselves. There were no maps, no charts. Every day brought new sights and sounds and every day took them further from their homeland. Did they know this?
I looked at them. Big, strong, silent men who, every day, turned their boat and their faces north. Did they hope that one day they would burst forth into the Atlantic Ocean and find their way home? Or that they would find the ice again and their cousins in Newfoundland? Or did they know, secretly in their hearts, that they were about as lost as anyone could be. And yet they had never given up.
They must have reached native settlements and traded with them. Put in for repairs. Sought shelter in bad weather. There must have been any number of opportunities to settle down and yet they hadn’t. Every day they loaded their boat – their one fixed point in this unknown world – pushed themselves out into the water and set off again. Was it the urge to return home that drove them? Or simply the desire to see what was around the next corner? They were true explorers. I looked at them and knew in my heart that these men would never get home.
I considered their boat. Some shields hung on the side but there were empty spaces. I suspected there had once been many more than eleven. These were not young men any longer. There would be fewer of them year by year. What would it be like to be the last one? Sitting alongside the beached boat that had been his home for so long and now would never move again. Or would he and the boat go together? A Viking funeral. He and his ship, blazing orange flames, sailing slowly but surely into the bigger fire of the setting sun.
I gave myself a shake. Their fate was their own. They wouldn’t thank me for my sympathy. They probably wouldn’t even understand it.
I stood a little apart on the bank and prepared to wave them off but it would seem they had other ideas. While his men cleared the camp, the chief placed himself before me, pointed at me and then the boat.
Ah.
I shook my head, pointed at myself and then back into the woods whence I’d come.
He shook his head.
I shook mine and gestured at the woods again.
He shook his head. Not allowing myself to become alarmed, I tried to step around him. That didn’t happen. I was getting mixed messages here. There was no force but I wasn’t being allowed to leave. No – wrong. I wasn’t being allowed back into the woods. He was pointing at his ship. Boat. Whatever. Ask Peterson. That’s just the sort of useless stuff he crams his head with.
I smiled politely because I was outnumbered eleven to one by the eleven biggest men on the planet and again indicated my intention of returning back the way I’d come. Not least because St Mary’s must be looking for me by now and while I was just one person and completely harmless, the Vikings might not feel the same way if confronted by half a dozen of St Mary’s finest. It was definitely time for me to go.
There was no chance. The chief sighed – why do men do that? – picked me up and stuffed me under his arm where I hung like an old pillow. I didn’t struggle. For one thing I had my dignity to think of and for another, he had arms like iron bars.
He waded out into the water, which wasn’t deep. From what I remembered, Viking longships were flat-bottomed and had a shallow draught. Did I get that expression right? I made a note to ask Peterson. If, of course, I ever saw him again. There was a very good chance I was being hauled off to perform housekeeping – and other – tasks for eleven directionally challenged Northmen – not a particularly attractive prospect. To say nothing of a lifetime of porridge.
The chief passed me up to someone. I was seized around the waist and hauled on board. Like ballast. I folded my arms and prepared to become vociferously indignant. And then I looked around. I was on a longship. I was standing on a Viking longship. Not a replica. A real Viking longship. Right here. Right now. I could organise my escape or rescue later on. After I’d had a chance to see a real Viking longship in action. This was not an opportunity to be wasted. Escape could come later. Always deal with the now.
5
Typically, I was so busy dealing with the now that I missed us casting off. Or upping anchor. Or whatever the correct expression is. I’m utterly at sea in all this mystique concerning boats. Or ships. Whatever.
I was nudged gently but firmly towards the back bit where the steersman stood grasping the large oar. I would imagine he was a bit underemployed these days. They were on a river, for heaven’s sake. You could go upriver or
downriver or waggle about a bit in the middle but that was it.
I watched him with great interest. There was a dragon’s head at the back of the boat, as well, so it could travel in either direction. Neat. You didn’t have to do a three-point turn or whatever. When faced with peril you simply stood up, turned around and rowed hell for leather back the way you’d come.
The steerboard was to the right of the rear dragon – hence the expression ‘starboard side’. The steersman rested his hand lightly on the big, flat oar, staring ahead, apparently in some sort of trance. I suspected the river was talking to him.
The chief roamed up and down, standing at the front bit and surveying the river ahead of them or exchanging a word or two with his men as they pulled on their oars. No one was straining away. They rowed with the minimum of effort. Enough to make headway against the current but not enough to wear themselves out. There was a peaceful rhythm to it. We weren’t moving very quickly – although I suspected we could, should we need to – but we were making steady progress.
The morning wore on. The sun rose higher and the river mist burned away. One or two men pulled their tunics over their heads and rowed bare-chested.
I stationed myself against the side, well out of the way and looked around, wondering how far we’d come as the crow flew. I had no idea how far I’d strayed from our campsite. There had been a lot of running, but in which direction I had no idea. However, our camp had been within sight of the river. This river. Yes, there were a lot of bends and meanders, but sooner or later we had to come across our campsite.
If we were rowing the right way. I was almost certain I’d run downstream so we were heading in the right direction. Almost certain. I think we’ve already established my bump of direction is not the most reliable organ in my body. Along with my bladder and my brain. It could well be that every pull of the oars took me further away from Leon and Matthew. To an uncertain future and . . .
I pulled myself together. I was tagged. Leon knew to within a couple of miles where I was likely to be. He’d find me, eventually. Or if not him, then Markham. Everything would be fine. I should relax and enjoy this once in a lifetime opportunity.
So I did. I watched the bank slide by. Once or twice we disturbed animals who’d come down to drink. They threw up their heads and fled back into the trees. I wish I could tell you what they were. Brown and with four legs. Not horses and probably not cows is the best I can do.
The steersman grunted at me and nodded towards the water barrel. I filled a big jug, picked up the wooden cup and took a cup of water to each of our rowers. Each man grunted his thanks and drank deeply. They leaned on their oars, resting, but keeping enough speed to avoid being washed back downriver again. When the last man had drunk, the chief shouted something and they picked up the stroke again. In perfect unison. As if they’d been doing this almost every day of their lives. Which they probably had been.
Another hour passed. I began to twitch. This river meandered all over the place but surely I hadn’t run this far. Had I got it wrong?
And then we swept around a big, wide bend and there was a familiar tree hanging over the water, where Leon and Matthew had tried their luck at fishing every afternoon. And over there was TB2, looking suddenly very big and unfamiliar when seen from the perspective of a Viking longship.
Sykes was standing on the bank. Waiting? Yes, of course she was. They’d picked up my tag and were waiting for me.
Sadly, I don’t think she saw me. She saw only the boat. Shouting a warning, she disappeared. I didn’t really blame her.
I shouted to the chief and gave him a these are my people gesture. I ran to the rail and jumped up and down shouting, ‘Leon! Leon! I’m here. It’s me,’ and other intelligent remarks.
Markham and Evans appeared from behind the trees. Very cautiously. They said nothing, just standing, looking, their blasters pointing downwards.
It suddenly dawned on me that because they’d treated me well – apart from the porridge – their intentions were friendly. Suppose they weren’t. Suppose they’d scooped me up and then decided to see if there were any more like me. To trade. Not to trade with . . . but just to trade. Because if Vikings weren’t raiding, then they were trading, and depending on how you do it, there’s sometimes very little difference between the two.
And Markham and Evans had no idea how I’d been treated. I was on a Viking ship that had come out of nowhere. They might assume these giants were the reason I didn’t return to the pod last night. That I’d been captured and was being held against my will – and all this jumping up and down was me shouting to be rescued. Actions can easily be misinterpreted when people are nervous.
I stopped jumping up and down and stood still. Around me, the men stopped rowing and picked up their weapons.
Shit. Shitty shit shit. Now what?
There was no sign of Matthew. If Markham hadn’t had him straight inside TB2 as soon as we heaved around the bend, then he and I would be having words later on. If we both survived.
I didn’t know what to do. If I shouted, ‘Friends, friends,’ to Markham and he laid down his weapon and the Vikings suddenly attacked . . .
If I gestured ‘friends, friends’ to the Vikings . . .
I stood by the steerboard, under the great dragon head, where all parties could see me, and made ‘lay down your weapons’ gestures. I held out my hands, palms down and gestured towards the ground. Or in this case, the deck. Everyone stood stock-still.
Markham turned his head and spoke to Evans, who melted back into the trees. Markham himself walked slowly towards the riverbank, very ostentatiously laid down his blaster, held up his hands and stepped back.
I looked behind me. No one moved. I wondered what would happen if I just jumped overboard. I could swim to shore and they could row on and . . . and come back in the night, was the nasty thought running through my mind. And I couldn’t expect Markham to do any more. His job was to protect my team and he’d do it. He was risking himself but he wouldn’t risk anyone else.
I turned to the chief, a hairy pillar of still watchfulness. I mimed eating, spooning something into my mouth and gestured to the bank. I made all-encompassing ‘everyone’ gestures. In other words, I invited them to lunch.
Markham was shouting from the bank. ‘Hey, Max.’
‘Hey, yourself. I’ve found some friends. I’m trying to persuade them to eat with us.’
‘You all right?’
‘Fine. They’ve treated me very well.’
‘I can’t make the same promise. Leon says he’s going to kill you when he gets his hands on you.’
I turned back to the chief. I should jump. Interaction with these people probably wasn’t a good idea. And anything that could impact on the fabric of time in America is too dodgy to risk. It was time to go. I pointed to myself and then mimed jumping over the rail.
He grunted his ‘no’ grunt – I was beginning to pick up the language – and shook his head. He barked out an order – probably using up all his day’s word quota in one go – and there was a big splash as someone chucked the anchor overboard. Deliberately, I hoped, and not some shipboard mishap.
The boat inched closer to the shore. Nice bit of boat handling. We drew ever closer. As did Markham. I wondered if it was going to be like a hostage handover and I’d walk from one to the other, and just as I thought I was safe I’d get an arrow through the shoulder blades. Which was ridiculous – why would they do that? There was a slight bump and the rowers on the right-hand side – sorry, steerboard side, pulled in their oars. We’d landed.
Markham waded into the water. It only came up just past his knees. They must have a really shallow keel.
Someone picked me up and I was dangled over the side. The water was very cold. And then there was a splash as the chief jumped in after me. We waded to the shore. I pointed to Markham and said, ‘Markham.’
I p
ointed to me and said, ‘Max.’
I pointed to him.
He rumbled his name. Either Hrolf or Rolf – sound still didn’t always emerge very clearly from his massive beard. Markham held out his hand and Hrolf grasped it firmly. Markham said afterwards it took everything he had to maintain his manly composure and not yelp in pain.
Now St Mary’s began to emerge. No sign of Matthew, I was pleased to note. And Sykes and Mikey stayed well back as well. The men exchanged hand clasps which was obviously some sort of test because having done that, the chief shouted over his shoulder and his men jumped from the boat and waded ashore. There was a whole orgy of manly hand clasping, under cover of which Leon put his hand on my shoulder and said amiably, ‘Want to tell me what happened?’
Under cover of all the male bonding around us, I said, ‘The official story is that I got lost on my way to the latrine, but actually I think there might have been someone or something here last night.’
‘If there was, it’s gone now. We’ve been combing the woods quite thoroughly while looking for you and there’s definitely no one there.’
Markham appeared. ‘Who are these people and why have you brought them home with you?’
‘Vikings,’ I said. ‘They shouldn’t be here. We always thought they only settled in Newfoundland. This is incredibly exciting.’
He rolled his eyes.
Sykes was still staying well back. I was about to commend her discretion – a bit of a first for both of us – when I realised she had her recorder going. That’s my girl.
Markham hadn’t finished. ‘Whatever are we going to do with them?’
‘Feed them,’ I said. ‘They’ve been living on some sort of grey goo usually referred to as porridge.’
He looked the nearest one up and down. ‘Good God. How big do you think they’d grow on a meat diet? But yes, we can feed them.’
So we did.
6
I think our guests thought we’d have to go off, hunt and kill something, drag it back, skin and gut it, joint it, chuck it on the fire and wait for it to cook, so we sat them down and prepared to show off.