Erik the Red

by Tilman Roehrig

  The journey home went well. It was raining, but the wind was good, and the servants rarely had to push out the oars. Tyrkir stood at the bow by the dragon’s head, a vigilant pilot whose calls or hand signals were immediately obeyed by his friend on the aft steering deck.

  During the second day, the gentle green coast retreated, and rugged, steep rock cliffs appeared, interspersed with narrow, deeply cut bays.

  They’d set out soon after the wedding feast, equipped and overloaded like a train of settlers. Thorbjörn had taken it upon himself to escort the bridal couple and their servants from Hawk Valley over the pass to the Bocksfjord in the east. At the front, Valtjof’s bull pulled the cart with the timber, while each packhorse trudged under its heavy load of presents, new household goods, and clothing.

  “You didn’t exaggerate.” As soon as the big farmer saw his son-in-law’s ship, he let out an appreciative whistle. “Your knarr really is a mount of the sea.”

  “I know none better!” Erik stroked the slender bow like a sweetheart, and Thjodhild nudged him, a gleam in her eye. “I come first, you Viking!”

  They’d fastened the dowry and the wood, and then Erik ordered the bull and horses to be hobbled in the hold—they’d manage the journey north better lying on their sides.

  The farewell had been short. The daughter had waved to the father standing on the beach until the ship had slipped out of the bay.

  For the past hour, the wind had been blowing more violently. The waves carried crowns of foam, and Erik navigated even closer along the shore. Tyrkir signaled from the bow deck to avoid the dangerous reefs. The ship’s speed had to be reduced, and Erik commanded the line guards reef the sail halfway. “We’ll be there soon,” he shouted to Thjodhild.

  She stood next to him, shielding her eyes against the rain. She saw stony beaches and black cliffs passing behind them; even the small fjords of the morning had been left behind. Once we’re around the next headland, the area will open up again, she told herself, trying to soothe her increasing restlessness. But even after the next rocky ridge, and the next, she saw no sign of land that would entice a farmer to settle there.

  “There, you see?”

  “Where?” she asked.

  “Up there!” Erik pointed to the ridge of a cliff.

  “I can’t see anything.” She shrugged. “What am I looking for?”

  But her giant was too busy and did not answer.

  She went forward to Tyrkir. “Tell me, what’s up there? And why are we landing here?”

  He wiped his wet face. “This here is Hornstrand. Up there, that’s Sharpcliff.”

  When she remained silent, he added, “Well, everything looks better when it’s not raining.”

  Erik left it to the servants and maids to free the horses from their shackles and to get the cargo ashore. With Tyrkir, Erik escorted his wife up the steep path. Twice, she slipped in the rubble, but without complaining, pulled herself up again. She kept her gaze fixed firmly upward. Finally, they reached the top.

  Thjodhild stood staring at the smoking mound of grass and earth and the slightly smaller one next to it from which she saw no smoke rising. Finally, she asked, “Is this your farm?”

  Erik turned to Tyrkir for help, but the servant shook his head. Erik gnawed at his lower lip, pushing it back and forth. Finally, he said, “Well, you can’t see everything from here. There’s another barn between the stable and the house,” by which he meant, the poorly covered shed layered with stones.

  “You’re right. I can’t see a thing.” Just as well that it is raining, she thought unhappily, mopping at her eyes. “Lies? Then everything was a lie?”

  “It’s not like that at all,” he muttered. “Not everything.”

  She yanked his arm violently. “Look at me, Erik Thorvaldsson! You not only deceived me but you also deceived my father, my mother, and all my relatives. Why, by all the gods? Tell me!”

  “Because . . . well, because otherwise, you would not have taken my fur.”

  She pressed both fists against her temples. “How stupid you are. So stupid!”

  Before Erik could get upset, Tyrkir suggested they go into the house. They could discuss the matter by the fire in peace, or better yet, tomorrow when the mistress was rested from her journey.

  Hawk Valley

  Erik first dared hope that things would be all right when he heard Thjodhild laughing with the maids in the pantry three days later. “I knew it.” He winked at Tyrkir. “She’ll get used to it,” he said, more to convince himself, then clapped his hands on his thighs. “Well, that’s the truth of it: a woman belongs to her husband, no matter where they live.”

  Tyrkir was carving the notch on a new whip stick. “You’d better not brag about it that loudly. I think the mistress is laughing because there’s nothing else to be done.”

  The wound tore open again. “This is your fault!” Erik growled. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

  “I couldn’t have guessed, sir, how generous you would be in assessing our estate.” No, no mockery, Tyrkir scolded himself. Bad enough that we lured the poor woman into this wasteland.

  “Let’s stop arguing about who’s to blame. We should focus on how to make her life with us as good as it can be,” Erik said.

  “Yes, enough.”

  Looking ahead, that was what the friends were about, rather than arguing over mistakes made in the past. Immediately after arriving at Sharpcliff, Tyrkir was appointed manager of the farm. Although he’d long since assumed the responsibility, Erik wanted to define Tyrkir’s role for the new servants.

  Thjodhild shall want for nothing! This statement was like a command for them both. And they made every effort to make it so. By the end of September, the hay had been harvested, the salt butter barrel had been filled, and dried herbs and roots, pots with honey-sweetened berries, and plenty of fish and seal meat had been cured and stored in the pantry. During the last two weeks of October, Erik and the farmhands built a small house right next to the main building, which was easy to keep warm. “For you,” Erik shouted proudly. “I promised your parents. And you see, I keep my word.”

  He didn’t earn any extra thanks. After the first days of her despair, Thjodhild had grown more pleasant, and she didn’t withdraw from him at night, but she spoke only when necessary. She quickly found out which maid her husband had been particularly fond of before their marriage. In private, she gave Katla a choice: “Either you keep your knees closed for him in the future and become my confidante, or you can sleep with the cattle from now on, and I will prove to you how demanding I can be as a mistress.”

  The young woman laid both hands on her left breast. “Never again. And if the gentleman should be too forward, I’ll send him to you. Let me be your friend.”

  “You are a clever child.” Thjodhild nodded, and shortly before the three holy nights, she moved into the newly built house with all of her maidservants. This meant no real separation; she continued to share a bed with Erik, but there was now a shelter on the farm for the women that belonged to them alone, undisturbed by the looks of men.

  Winter could come.

  The first ice storms howled from the sea over Sharpcliff. Soon snow fell, and the wind piled it over the earth and grass roofs. Every day, the servants dug their way to the stable to feed the cattle.

  On the deepest night of the year, wrapped in darkness and cold, they celebrated Yule. There’d been no barley to brew beer, and no boar since Erik had no space to keep pigs. Thjodhild, however, understood how to season the soup and then let the scent of the seal meat run through the living hall until mouths watered, and this roast seemed to them to be the most delicious Yule feast.

  Days later, Thjodhild was standing at the loom. She evenly guided the weaving sword, and every time she moved forward and back, the weights of perforated shards of clay jingled and tinkled at the bottom of the warp yarns. She watched Erik from the corner of her eye.

  Even if you lied to me, she thought, you really are diligent and capable. Non
e of the young men back home can work like that. He was sitting with his legs apart on the stool next to her, plucking wool from the distaff and letting the spindle whirl in his hand. As was proper for the clan leader, Erik knew how to swing the battle-ax, to navigate a ship, and of course, how to spin a good wool thread. A man only becomes a man when he has mastered every job. Thorvald had lived up to this motto and had raised his son accordingly.

  Thjodhild paused her activity. She stepped close behind Erik and laid her hand on his shoulder. “I am no longer alone.”

  He turned around, surprised. “Have you forgiven me?”

  “No, never.” There was no resentment in her voice, though. “Let’s not talk about it, not now. I wanted to tell you that we are no longer alone.”

  He didn’t understand, but Katla standing near her did. She was already whispering the news when Erik finally dropped the spindle. “By Thor, that’s good! And after this child, we must have another! Yes, here on Sharpcliff, our family will take root.” He stood up and carefully pressed her against him.

  But that wasn’t enough for him. With mighty strides, he paced before the great fire, crossed his arms, then uncrossed them, only to cross them again, all the time moving his lips soundlessly. Finally, he pulled Tyrkir into the semidarkness of the opposite side room. “What do you say to that? A child. Although she is still angry at me, she is having a child!” He scratched his beard. “That’s what I call a good woman.”

  “She is the best. I knew it right away.” They grinned at each other like boys. Erik was to become a father, although the thought also made them a little uneasy.

  “Don’t I have to give her something?” Erik said. If he could go to a market now, he’d buy her a chain or a bracelet. But until the nights got shorter again, they were locked up in this place.

  Tyrkir nodded. “It doesn’t have to be anything valuable,” he said. “Just a symbol of joy. Still, it will be hard to plan a surprise in such close quarters.”

  “You can do it,” Erik decided.

  During the next evenings, Tyrkir sat with the servants in the front part of the hall where the equipment of the house and farm was repaired or replaced. He hollowed out a soapstone with a burin and a knife. It was the last soft stone he had brought from Norway, and his skilled hands quickly turned it into a bowl, the rim of which he notched six times.

  Until then, he’d been a lively participant in the never-ending stories of dwarves, Norns, and creatures that lived in the roots of the World Ash. Now, occupied with his task, nobody was allowed to talk to him. First, he drew the design on the outside of the bowl with charcoal, assessed his work with a critical eye, then carefully cut a woman who was breastfeeding a child into the light stone.

  For a long time, memories of his home village on the Rhine had been forcing their way back into his mind. This picture? It was not foreign to him. A mother held her son on her knees. What was her name? He couldn’t recall.

  When Tyrkir was finally satisfied with his work, he called Erik. “Here, the gift is not quite finished yet. I think you should at least contribute a little.”

  “Not so loud,” Erik grumbled. He knotted six thick wool threads together at the ends, placed the bundle in the middle of the bowl, and pulled the loose ends a bit over the six edge notches. He put whale oil in the soapstone container and waited until the wool had soaked it up before he lit the wicks.

  Solemnly and slowly, he walked over to Thjodhild. She was standing in front of the loom and didn’t notice him immediately. As soon as she saw the shining lamp in his hand, her eyes widened.

  “For the child,” he said. “I mean, for you, because then you both can keep away the dark.”

  She took the bowl, her fingertip stroking over mother and child, and she could not hold back her tears. After a moment, she whispered, “We have to be all right, you hear me?”

  “I want to, but . . .”

  After that, she talked with her husband more often, sitting with him and Tyrkir, even taking part in verses the German forged for the entertainment of all. The evenings passed more cheerfully than before. But as soon as plans were mentioned, her face again grew hard.

  By the beginning of February, the days were already more distinguishable from the nights. One of the servants returned from the stable and quietly gestured Tyrkir to follow him.

  A flickering oil lamp was brought into the barn during the short milking and feeding times; at all other times, the cattle were surrounded by darkness—darkness for months. Each pen was separated from the next by a thin, mid-hip stone wall and was only big enough that the animals could stand or lie down, nothing more.

  The servant pointed to an emaciated cow, which had sunk onto her forelegs and showed no signs of even trying to stand.

  “Is she still eating?” Tyrkir understood the threat. “How many cows can we get through the winter?”

  Without a word, the servant lifted two fingers.

  “I will talk to the master. Wait here!”

  After consideration, only one possibility remained. “We have to put her down,” Erik decided with a heavy heart. He’d spent a few hours hoping to hide the defeat from his wife, but the misfortune was not only written on his face but on Tyrkir’s and all his servants’.

  Thjodhild distributed the stew, waiting until the last person had licked his spoon and put it back into his belt. “What is it?” She looked at her husband, but when he said nothing, she turned to Tyrkir. “Tell me!”

  “No, it should come from me.” Erik laid both hands on the tabletop. When he’d finished, she held his gaze.

  “I stand by you, like everyone else here in your household.”

  Her trust gave him courage. Even if happiness had abandoned them for the moment, it had to return. “Fate is provident, I know it.” As soon as the snow melted, he wanted to buy new cows, find more meadows in the area, and work even harder. This year, they’d have more at their disposal than the last. And next winter, every head of cattle would survive. “We’ll also buy sheep. And we’ll fatten a boar for Yule.” His enthusiasm spread to the maidservants and servants. Even Tyrkir clenched his hands full of hope.

  Thjodhild leaned back quietly and stroked her rounded belly. My child, she thought. You in there. Have no fear. Your mother will take care of you.

  In mid-April, the first yellow flowers bloomed on the steep slope that led down to the shore. The snow began to melt, except in those areas shaded from the sun, and here and there, it took on the smell of warm earth.

  While the women were bathing in the house, the men outside cleaned themselves, cut their beards, and searched each other for lice nests. Although the master had generously left it to each slave to wear their hair long, most of the men cut off their winter manes to win the battle against the nuisances. “We are also building a sauna,” Erik shouted. “Every Saturday, we will sweat in steam.”

  Thjodhild stepped outside. She walked tall and proud, not even a slight bend in her back despite the weight of the unborn child. “Follow me.” Without waiting for Erik, she walked over to the grave on the cliff.

  “The air does you good.” He looked at her with a smile as the wind pressed her dress against her body, clearly revealing her rounded shape.

  “I have to talk to you about that.” She faltered. She had carefully weighed each word, thinking how to explain her decision. The time had come. She could no longer delay. “My child and I are suffocating here. I will not remain on Sharpcliff, Erik.”

  He staggered, drawing a sharp breath, as though he’d been punched, then fixed his gaze on the stone ship. “The storms are hard up here. I’d best reinforce it. What do you think?”

  “Did you hear me?”

  The red man fussed over choosing a stone. Finally, he heaved a boulder up onto the grave.

  “Erik! I’m not staying here.”

  He let the stone fall back and his shoulders dropped. “I have . . . No, I know nothing. Only . . .” He shook his head and turned away. After looking out at the sea for a time,
he said, “I was as good to you as I could be.”

  “I know. But it’s better this way.”

  “Better?” Erik’s broad back trembled. “It’s better for a wife to stay with her husband. And the husband to be with the wife and child.”

  She stepped behind him, carefully placing her hand in his. “That’s what I believe, too.”

  “What?”

  Thjodhild touched him with her belly. The most difficult part was before her. Great Frigg, goddess of all mothers, she begged silently. For our happiness’s sake, let me now find the right words! “We must stay together, Erik. I wish for nothing more. For the child, and also for me. Together, yes, but not here.”

  “I don’t understand.” He was still staring at the water. Suddenly, a jolt went through his body, and he slowly turned around. “You don’t want a divorce after all?”

  “Never. Unless you lie to me again. I might think about it then.”

  “You mean, we should leave here . . . ?”

  “Yes.” He should give up Sharpcliff. She understood enough about harvesting, keeping cattle, and good and bad soil. This area was infertile, and the enemy of every hardworking man. “Should our child grow up here among the rocks?”

  “Father chose this place.”

  “Because he had no other choice.”

  “That’s true.” After some hesitation, he mumbled, “But even if I wanted to, I couldn’t find another place for us.”

  Thjodhild regarded him. “There is land enough. Down in Habichtstal. Good land, too.”

  He lowered his gaze. It was impossible. What would his father-in-law, her mother, and all her relatives say? Erik the liar! He tricked his way into the marriage contract! Impossible. It would be better for her to leave him with the child than lose face like that. “Shame is worse than death.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll talk to my parents myself, and I won’t even have to lie. I’ll just omit part of the truth. I promise. You’ll be received honorably and with open arms in Habichtstal.”