Erik the Red

by Tilman Roehrig

  Hravn considered the gesture a strike. “Now, I will finish you. You will atone for the death of my friend!” And he let the broad side of the blade crash against Erik’s helmet. Erik fell to the ground near the spearhead, which he had cut off at the beginning of the fight.

  Above him, the giant sneered. “Your blow. What are you waiting for?” He looked triumphantly over to the onlookers. “Patience, friends! The feast will begin soon.”

  Laughter carried from the crowd; even the judge howled cheerfully, and the first chants about the invincible Hravn began.

  Erik arched his back and slowly pulled himself to his knees, resting his right hand on the short segment of the spear shaft. Then, swiftly, he shot up and drove the sharpened point under the chain mail, deep into the body of the giant.

  Hravn roared, staggering back and forth. He raised his sword, swayed, and then he took his strike. Momentum pulled him forward, and he stumbled over Erik, lost the weapon, and fell facedown into the grass outside the hazel passage.

  Horrified, the arbiter rushed to Hravn’s side and bent over the moaning man. The giant rolled onto his back. He tried to pull the iron out from between his legs, but in vain, and the huge body began to tremble, limbs twitching uncontrollably.

  Tyrkir could hardly believe Erik’s luck. “He f-fled,” he stammered. But the judge was silent. “Didn’t you hear me, old man? Hravn lost by the rules. By all the gods, announce it: Hravn has fled! The fight is over. My lord has defeated him.”

  Only reluctantly did the judge remember his office. Tears wet his wrinkled face as he turned to Erik. “It must be so. But it wasn’t your spear—it wasn’t your weapon that wounded him. But it must be so.”

  Loudly, he announced, “Hravn Arisson has fled. The gods have passed judgment. This is the victor.”

  There was no cheering. Silently, all eyes followed Erik. Exhausted by the battle, he left the leather carpet and picked up the pieces of silver from the bowl.

  “Kill me,” gasped Hravn. “Do not leave me lying here like this. Kill me!”

  “You’re already dead.” Erik turned away. The arbiter stood in his way. “The sacrifice for the gods? Do not sin!”

  “Enough blood has flowed today.”

  Now the spectators were growing restless, feeling betrayed about the feast they’d been promised. Muttered curses and threats became louder.

  Erik paused for a moment. He picked up his opponent’s weapon and rammed it into the bull’s neck, then hurled the sword far away from him. Without even acknowledging the judge or the gawkers, he nodded to Tyrkir and mounted his horse. Stiffly erect, the Red rode off.

  On the shore of the lake, just before the forest began, Tyrkir caught up with his master. He led the pack animals behind him but did not dare approach Erik.

  Halfway up, rain started to fall, and the wind whipped the water from the Hvammsfjord into the riders’ necks.

  “It was the rain,” Erik finally grumbled. “That’s what caused the landslide, not us.”

  “Should I have a look at your arm?”

  “Leave it! Thorbjörg can do a better job than you.”

  Thjodhild didn’t know how many times she’d climbed the basalt boulders above the path. She hadn’t heard her mother’s quiet admonition. “Stay in the house, child! No woman should show her worries so openly. The man will come back or he won’t. You can’t do anything to change that.”

  When her daughter wrapped the scarf around her shoulders again, Thorbjörg stopped her at the door. “What will they say in the valley if servants bring him back hurt and see you? The proud Thjodhild stood like a sheep on the stones looking for her lost lamb. Your husband won’t like that. Not even if he comes back healthy.”

  “Silence, Mother!” Thjodhild suppressed her anger. “Forgive me, but I can’t stop my heart. I must be the first to see what’s happened to Erik and Tyrkir. And I need to be alone.”

  The old woman heaved a great sigh. After a moment, her eyes softened. “Do you think I don’t know how hard these hours are for you? I just want you to become a lady of the house, respected by everyone, my little one. But go if you must.”

  Thjodhild climbed the rocks many a time. She’d found a spot below the highest boulder, hidden from view. From there, she could see down to the ridge in the valley and spot every rider long before they reached Hawk Farm. But so far, she’d seen nothing. The gray of the night gave way to the lighter gray of the day. Thjodhild hadn’t slept, and still nobody had come around the black rock and up the path. Now rain clouds obstructed her view.

  Disappointed, she was retreating to the house, when . . . there! Weren’t those black spots moving among the black stones? She wiped her wet eyes, and the outlines grew more defined. Riders—two of them—riders with packhorses! Thjodhild waited until she was sure. A towering figure, and next to it, a slender one, both men sitting upright in their saddles. Upright—that was enough. She quickly left her lookout.

  Back in the house, she stopped near the door and pressed her forehead against the beam. She sighed in relief and her heart pounded against her temples. Calm yourself, she pleaded, but how could she, now that all her fear had been transformed into joy? Oh, curse it! Mother is right. I’m still far from being the wife of a Viking. I’m nothing more than an unrestrained silly goose.

  Thorbjörg watched her daughter from the loom. She waited until the slender back tightened, then went to her with a shoulder cloth in her hand. “Now everything will be all right, my little one!”

  “How do you know?”

  Her mother gave her a smile instead of an answer. “Give me your scarf and take this dry one. After such a ride, every father rejoices when he is received not only by his wife but by his son.”

  Finally, they could hear voices outside. The farmer greeted the riders. Erik spoke little, but Tyrkir explained briefly what had transpired. There was no laughter. They were voices devoid of the joy of victory.

  The door opened and Erik entered, followed by Thorbjörn and Tyrkir. The fighter’s drawn face lit up at the sight of his wife and little Leif. “How good to see you . . .” He saw his mother-in-law and dutifully greeted her first. “Both murderers are punished. Our honor is restored.”

  “I’m so proud.” Thorbjörg handed him a cup of sour milk. His hand trembled, and before he could bring the drink to his lips, he sloshed half of it into his beard and over his chain mail.

  Thjodhild rushed to his side. “You’re hurt?” The shredded ring mesh on his left arm was soaked, and blackish blood coated up to his fingertips. “Oh gods.”

  “My muscles and bones are still good.” To prove it, he moved his hand, drawing in a sharp breath.

  The old farmer’s wife waved at him. “Come into the kitchen with me this instant.” First, she wanted to wash out the wound with a brew of veronica, then apply a powder of crushed bedstraw, then leaves of plantain, and then a bandage. She assured him that he was in the best of hands and she would hear no protesting.

  Thjodhild gave Tyrkir a smile. “Drop your arms.”

  He obeyed, and while she watched him put his helmet and sword aside, he suddenly longed for a touch from her—a little tenderness after these miserable hours. She seemed to sense the desire, smiling again, and stroking little Leif instead. “We are happy you’re back. Both of us.”

  The moment passed. Thjodhild calmly handed the boy to Tyrkir and went to give her mother a hand. Erik slipped his chain mail over his head. He could pull out his right arm himself, but it was painful when the iron rings were loosened from the scabbed wound. Blood once again seeped from the deep gash.

  Thjodhild brought fresh warm water and cut long strips for the bandage. She did not dare ask what had happened; Erik said nothing. Later, he sat silently, exhausted, next to her at the great fire. Tyrkir reported in detail about both fights.

  The farmer had him tell the end of the Holmgang twice. “You kept to the rules, son-in-law.” Thoughtfully, he turned his finger in his gray beard. “Only bad that the judge was from Spie
l Farm.”

  As soon as Erik had stretched out on the hay sack, weariness overpowered him. He lay there with his mouth open, gasped, and then snored.

  The master of the house had gone to bed with his wife. The servants had also gone to rest. Tyrkir sat alone by the great fire. The glow from the embers flickered across his face.

  “Is it really over?” Unseen, Thjodhild had sat down next to him.

  He glanced at her. “Yes, the murders are avenged. But . . . I care only about Erik. He fought well. You should be proud.”

  “What are you trying to tell me?”

  Tell? I will never be allowed to tell you how I feel about you. Tyrkir shook his head. “Anyone else would have triumphed after such a victory. But he carries it as a heavy burden.”

  “It’s good that he has you as a friend.”

  “Us. He needs you and your son, just as much as he needs me. Only together will we find happiness.”

  To Be Read from the Rune Stone of Remembrance:

  The inscriptions are weathered. The eye can decipher only a few words and lines with difficulty:

  . . . the year 934: War, blood, and devastation . . . Denmark . . . defeated by the German king Heinrich I . . . Archbishop Unni proclaims Christianity in the conquered territories of the north. He cannot convert the wild Danish king Gorm, but he succeeds in winning Prince Harald Blue Tooth over to the new teaching. Hate and mistrust are sown between father and son . . .

  . . . the year 965: The runes become clearer: For thirty years now, King Harald Blue Tooth has ruled. Again, a battle against a German ruler is lost. During the armistice, Bishop Poppo proclaims Christianity in front of Harald. The pious man carries a glowing iron and shows the king that his hand is not burnt. This miracle removes Harald’s last doubts about the power of the Christian God. He is baptized, and with him, the whole Danish army. Blue Tooth forces his ally, the Norwegian Jarl Hakon and his entourage, to accept this faith as well. But no sooner is the insidious Jarl back in his homeland than he mocks the hated doctrine . . . Again, the rune stone tells of war, blood, and misery . . . because Harald Blue Tooth devastates the coastal areas of Norway . . .

  . . . the year 981: Bishop Fredrekur comes to Iceland with a ship. Because he doesn’t speak the language, Thorvaldur Konradsson accompanies him. Only a few landowners are impressed by the sound of the bell, the incense, and the singing. The missionaries are met with hatred, insulted, threatened with clubs, and often enough that they move on quickly . . .

  The first messengers of faith have entered Iceland! But this news does not reach Hawk Valley. The sharp wind from the fjord drove the rain clouds out of the valley and over the mountain ridges to the east. For two days and two nights, the sun has been shining and the water in the river gleams as blue as the sky . . .

  Oxens Island

  Thanks to the care Erik received, he quickly recovered from his injury. He never spoke a word about the fight. When Thorbjörg was not nearby, he stood and secretly planned with Tyrkir about continuing the extension of his house. As soon as the strict mistress caught him, she sent her patient back to bed under a torrent of insults. “Thick skull! I decide when you are healthy!” To ensure the success of her healing arts, she finally ordered that Leif should sleep next to his father after breastfeeding.

  Thjodhild cooed over the arrangement. “How well you fit together. And be careful, you must not wake him!”

  “Babysitting! What have I become?” Erik complained and looked at the small head of golden curls on his right side. “That’s no job for a man.” But he obeyed the women all the same, and a new optimism tinged life into the house.

  The big farmer, on the other hand, was worried. Since the Holmgang, no neighbor had stopped at Hawk Farm to refresh himself over a chat and a cup of sour milk. In fact, all who approached sped their steps or spurred their horse, as though they wanted to pass the homestead as quickly as possible.

  On the third morning, hoofbeats lured the gray-bearded farmer outside. Half hidden behind the towering basalt boulders, he watched a farmer pass the house meadows in a fast tölt. He was wearing his Sunday best.

  Before he had disappeared behind the ledge farther below, there was more clatter. Four of the neighbors from the upper valley followed. The hooves of their strong horses whirled through the air. They carried their heads high, and behind their bulging manes, the riders sat almost motionless in their saddles. They were all clothed in festive capes and fur caps.

  Thorbjörn stared at the dust cloud. “But today is Thursday,” he muttered as he returned to the house.

  During the morning, he withdrew to his high seat, where no one was allowed to approach him without being asked. At lunchtime, he leaned silently over his wooden bowl and soaked chunks of bread in his gruel.

  Tyrkir, to the delight of Thjodhild and his servants, presented a verse about Erik and his childminding skills. Only Thorbjörg noticed the change in her husband, but she said nothing so as not to disturb the serenity of the shared meal.

  The sound of horses clopping, neighing, and snorting carried inside.

  In the living hall, Tyrkir interrupted his verses. The riders did not pass by but appeared to be drawing closer. Now the dogs sensed the visitors, and the barking became louder. All eyes flew to the weapon stands to the right and left of the door. Some servants made to jump up to arm themselves.

  “Stay,” ordered the landowner. “Only those who have a guilty conscience greet their visitors with an ax in their fist.”

  “So, that’s it.” Thorbjörg took a deep breath. “You believe . . . ?”

  Her husband looked at her. “I’ve feared it. Now I hope that we’ll be saved from the worst.”

  A powerful voice shouted, “Thorbjörn, lord of Hawk Farm, here waits Ulf Einarsson, the gode of all valleys on this side of the Hvammsfjord. I have honorable men with me. We come in peace and ask you to welcome us outside your house.”

  The big farmer wiped his shirt sleeve across his face and smoothed his beard. Before he reached the narrow corridor, he hesitated, then turned back and instructed four servants to arm themselves. “For safety only. Wait here. I’ll call if necessary.”

  He stopped in the open doorway, and his squat, slightly bent figure blocked Tyrkir’s view and that of the others in the hall.

  Thorbjörn silenced the dogs with a sharp whistle. “A good day,” he began. “And what an honor for my family that the judge himself set out to visit us. Welcome, Ulf, and also you, my friends and neighbors.”

  “Yes, the grass is good,” replied the gode. “This summer, we do not need to make any more sacrifices for the hay harvest.”

  They exchanged pleasantries, talked about sheep, horses, fishing, and as if by chance, Ulf Einarsson steered the conversation toward the distribution of the driftwood washed up on the beach. The quantity was sufficient so that every farm, including the forest owners in the upper Habichtstal, could be taken into account. “Except for your son-in-law. As I was told, he cleared enough.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You mustn’t exclude Erik,” demanded the big farmer. “He received land from me and thus the same right as all of us.”

  “Your friends, Thorbjörn, came to me and brought charges against him.” The judge’s tone became brusque. “Where is he hiding?”

  “Hiding? No member of my family needs to hide. Or do you wish to offend me, Gode?”

  “Be calm! The matter does not concern your clan, only this Erik. And I must assume that he is somewhere in your house.”

  “Because he . . . because he recovers from the wounds,” Thorbjörn explained with painstaking control. “It was an honorable fight.”

  “Nobody wanted to wait for the Thorspitzthing in two weeks. We’ve held a council. Let Erik come out, or if he’s too weak, lead us to his camp.”

  “Nobody shall dare to cross the threshold of my house!”

  In the hall, the servants gripped the shafts of their axes and spears more tightly. Thorbjörg beckoned Thjodhild to hide with the maids beh
ind the kitchen in the storerooms. At her quiet command, Tyrkir went into the sleeping chamber to inform his friend of the situation. When he returned a little later with the undressed Erik, the exchange of words outside had become sharper.

  “You are all on my land. Do not force me to break the sacred privilege of hospitality.”

  “Be reasonable, Thorbjörn,” the judge barked. “You’re putting the peace of your neighbors at risk. For the last time: Surrender the defendant!”

  “It’s not me that’s causing trouble. It’s you and your jurors.”

  Inside, at the great fire, Erik growled, “Maybe they want the prize money back for Hravn? No matter. What else can they want with me? I have nothing to be blamed for. Still, if we wait any longer, it could grow dangerous for Thorbjörn. Let’s go outside.”

  Tyrkir held out Erik’s shirt to him. “Here, I’ll help you.” Erik waved his servant off—“There’s no time”—and slipped through the corridor of peat and sod. “Calm yourself, father-in-law. It’s all right. Let me talk to these men.”

  The old man reluctantly cleared the exit, and Erik stepped outside. His appearance, naked except for the bandage on the upper arm, struck the gode speechless. Even the twelve festively dressed farmers could not believe their eyes.

  Tyrkir pushed in beside his friend. Silence reigned. Strengthened by the presence of his father-in-law and steward, Erik stretched his chin toward the delegation. “Why are you staring at me like that? Do you think that I lie in bed with my coat and cap?”

  “You . . . you don’t know . . .” Ulf Einarsson took a moment to regain his composure. “I am the highest judge in this county. You could show me a little more respect.”

  Surprised, Erik scratched his chest hair. “You wanted to see me immediately. Here I am. What have I done wrong?”