Erik the Red

by Tilman Roehrig

  “Father!” Leif jumped in, grabbed it with his bare hand, and returned the gift to his mother unharmed.

  “Thank you.” Thjodhild left the high seat. “Enough for today,” she said. “Wounds don’t heal in a day.” She asked the voyagers to go to bed. Without a word, Tyrkir left the hall with Leif.

  After some time had passed, Erik followed her into the chamber. Like a child, he sought shelter. Her touch freed him from the tightness and soon aroused his desire. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, dearest. Today is your feast day, and I want to celebrate it with you.”

  She let him, without showing how little pleasure he gave her. Maybe that must be my task, she thought later as she listened to the quiet snoring next to her. Perhaps I can keep the peace on Steep Slope.

  The Baptism

  “A dead man!” It was four days later that the scream tore through the servants’ house. A milkmaid ran into the living hall, interrupting the family’s breakfast. “Master, a servant is lying behind the main b-barn,” she stammered. “I came back from milking, and he was just lying there on his stomach.”

  “Calm down and get back to work!” Without delay, Erik emptied his cup of sour milk. “I’m sure he’s just sleeping.”

  Freydis bent over the pot with a giggle and stirred the meat with a ladle. “You’d better have a look, Father.”

  She was scolded by Thjodhild. “This is men’s business.”

  Erik got up. “Are you coming?” he asked his eldest. “Now that the ships have been unloaded, you should get used to your duties as a junior farmer again. And what about you, Know-It-All?”

  Both men willingly followed Erik outside. On the way, he reported how many foals and calves had been born since they’d left. “We can be satisfied.”

  He had not mentioned their first evening, not even the priest, who was still living on the ship, and Tyrkir was grateful for that. Let’s fall back into the daily routine, he thought. Then, we’ll gradually convince my Viking that the new faith will not poison his Greenland.

  Some slaves were waiting near the long hayloft. “What are you standing around for?” Erik asked. “Do you think the grass will cut itself? Off you go!”

  They found the servant behind the barn, lying between scythes, rakes, and pitchforks; the frame on which the tools were usually hung had fallen over. Erik lightly poked the man with the tip of his foot. “Hey, wake up!” The man lay there motionless, his arms twisted; his nightshirt had slipped up to the back of his knees.

  Leif crouched next to the still servant. “It’s useless, Father. He’s lying on a hay rake.” He gently rolled the body around. The sharp wooden teeth were still stuck in the man’s neck.

  Without looking, Erik grumbled, “Close his eyes first!” Then he looked at the face distorted by shock and turned to his friend. “He was with you on the journey. Or am I wrong?”

  “He was part of the crew.”

  “What was he doing hanging around the barn?”

  Tyrkir shrugged and pointed up to the attic hatch. “Perhaps he lay down to sleep on the hay bundles up there, fell down, and, unfortunately, fell on the rack.”

  “That’s what must have happened. Poor fellow. We’ll miss him.” Erik did not show more regret. The death of a slave meant the loss of a worker, and he needed everyone urgently for the hay harvest. “Providence has willed it so. When the workers return from the meadows, I’ll have him buried in a slave grave down by the fjord.” With that, the matter was settled for Erik. “Come on, let’s go check on the horses.”

  “No, Father.”

  “What?”

  Leif approached him calmly. “A Christian has the right to lie in consecrated ground, and this man has been baptized.”

  The vein of anger jumped onto the giant’s forehead, but he fought it. “Good, good, Son. I swore to your mother I would do nothing against the priest. She also demanded that I let the Christians do as they would, and I must keep my word. Consecrated ground? Where is it?”

  Surprised by the question, Leif was silent. Before he found an answer, Tyrkir realized what a chance this was. “It is a field of eternal peace. Something like a sacred farm where the living and the dead find protection. If it is not given to the Almighty God, he will hurl his curse on our pastures and houses. And believe me, my friend, the Lord God has more power than the Aesir in Valhalla put together. That’s why we need a piece of land.” Tyrkir rubbed his scar violently. “Why didn’t I think of it right away? Father Ernestus must sanctify this field with prayers and holy water before it’s too late.”

  “You know a great deal, Know-It-All. And your god doesn’t strike me as particularly friendly.” Erik was met with blank stares. “Very well. Choose a place for him, but far enough away from my home.”

  Leif lowered his head. “Thank you, Father.”

  “Tell your mother, not me. I . . .” With a nervous gesture, Erik pointed across the meadows. “I have to go up to my dam, check the wall.” And he was already on his way. Over his shoulder, he called back, “The Christian body is your problem. Take it away!”

  For a while, the two men watched Erik’s back grow smaller. “Do you think he will be converted, Uncle?”

  “It would be better for all of us, but I know that pigheaded man. We’ll have to wait and see.” Tyrkir pointed to the dead man. “As terrible a death as our crewman suffered, we should be grateful to him.”

  Leif did not understand, and Tyrkir gave him a small smile. “Without struggle, we got land from your father. The first piece of land for the Christians in Greenland! Untouchable! Do you understand now? And not just for the dead. Why shouldn’t there be room for the living next to the cemetery?”

  “Father Ernestus.” Leif struck his forehead. “You’re brilliant, Uncle. We can build a home for the pious man, and he can move there from the ship. No, I have a better idea. We could put his church right next to it.”

  “The harbor is still a long way off, boy,” Tyrkir said, dampening his zeal. “A small house with a hearth and a weatherproof roof will do for now. May God forgive me for this little ruse. Your father is, and always will be, my best friend. I want to provoke him as little as possible, or he’ll never find the faith.” His gaze again drifted to the dead man. “But now we should hurry.”

  Tyrkir stopped and looked at the smock shirt more closely. It wasn’t the bloodstained chest area that interested him. He pointed to a palm-sized patch deeper down. “The injury to his neck killed him. But where did this blood come from?”

  Leif freed the corpse from the hay rake and pulled the gown up. Above the pubic hair, a broken arrow was stuck in the abdomen. “Damn,” he whispered. “What now, Uncle?”

  “I don’t know yet, boy.”

  Was an enemy threatening them? The thought was frightening at first but was quickly dismissed. There was no feud with any neighbor. Still, the arrow wound could not be denied. Enemies, after all? But how had the servant fallen victim to them? Suppose he’d been upstairs sleeping in the hay. No archer, no matter how good, could have shot him in the guts. The servant must have been standing directly at the opening of the storehouse, making him an easy target. And if he was hit that way, he would have fallen onto the hay rake.

  “No, impossible.” Tyrkir smoothed the smock shirt. “There’s no hole. The blood has soaked the fabric from the inside.”

  “So, he was naked?” Leif grinned. “He stuck his cock out of the hatch up there because he wanted to pee. That’s what happened, Uncle.”

  His godfather searched the ground around the body. “Then the feather shaft would have to be here. No, the boatman was hurt, and before he fell, the arrow was broken off. No doubt he knew the person, or he wouldn’t have exposed himself in front of her. There’s no enemy, but there is a murderer!”

  “You mean a maid? He met her in the hay? Then a fight?”

  “Not here!” Tyrkir said sharply. “We must decide what to do, and we must decide now.” If they waited for Erik to return, there would be a lengthy interr
ogation. A maid might even be convicted. A forbidden meeting with a Christian! “She will have taken an arrow from necessity and will surely escape without punishment. But this incident gives your father one more reason to see Christians in a bad light.” Tyrkir nodded grimly. “The servant has fallen onto the hay rake. It should stay that way. We’ll have to take our chance now and stake out that piece of land before Erik changes his mind.”

  Leif agreed but decided to keep an eye out for the murderer. They shared the tasks. While the godson fetched the priest from the ship, along with incense and holy water, Tyrkir wanted to go to the house and ask Thjodhild to choose the field for the cemetery and the pious man’s home. Time was pressing.

  “Et requiem capiat sempiternam. Per dominum nostrum.” Only two stones’ throws west of the embankment near the brook, Father Ernestus stood in the afternoon sun scattering dirt into the grave.

  “Amen,” muttered Leif and Tyrkir. Two of the Christian boatmen grabbed the shovel.

  Thjodhild had watched the burial within earshot. The priest approached her, beaming. How changed he looks now, she thought. He had seemed so small and inconspicuous on the ship in his brown robe, but the white, billowing gown and his shawl transformed him.

  “Though the occasion is a sad one . . . I am happy to meet the wife of the Gode Erik Thorvaldsson.” He gave her the back of his right hand. Thjodhild did not know what to do with this gesture, and because a handshake was not possible, she only briefly touched his fingertips.

  “Welcome to Steep Slope, Father Ernestus.”

  “Welcome. This word is a gift to me. Blessed be the Lord for bringing me to this place of peace and devotion after a rough journey. How wonderful the view is from here across the waters of the fjord and up to the snowcapped mountains.” Ernestus spread his arms. “Yes, praise and thanks be to the Lord!”

  Thjodhild smiled. “I must confess, my husband did not do this of his own free will. It would be better if you stayed out of his way.”

  A shadow crossed the smooth, soft face. “Leif told me about the fight, and it grieves me, but I did not mean his father, but him, the Lord of heaven and earth. My first thanks go to the ruler of all destinies.” He embraced her with a fervent gaze. “My second thanks go to you, and I hope to welcome you to our community soon.”

  Although Tyrkir stood nearby and wanted to intervene, he had not been able to prevent the last sentence. Angrily, he pulled the priest away from Thjodhild. “What’s the hurry?” He pointed to the simple burial cross. “There stands the first sign of the Christians in Greenland. Isn’t that enough for today?”

  Father Ernestus nodded. “I got carried away. She is a truly impressive woman.”

  “I agree with you on that,” Tyrkir said. Deep below, the water flashed and glittered. In the late afternoon, the sun cut a silver road from the west across the bay. “You should leave here as soon as possible if we do not want to endanger what we’ve achieved.” He helped the priest collect the holy utensils and left him to his godson. “I think until we build a permanent place for our guest, he’ll be safer aboard the Falcon.”

  On the way back to the house, Thjodhild strolled next to her friend. She felt lighter. Maybe it’s because you’re near, she thought. “Do you know why I chose this particular meadow by the stream for the sacred grove? After our arrival, this is where I rested for the first time.”

  “A good omen. And I am grateful to you for it.”

  She looked at him from the side. “Have you changed?”

  Tyrkir stopped. Before he could answer, she added, “I do not mean you as a man. I only ask, has this other faith of yours changed anything in you?”

  “No, I feel the same.” Thoughtfully, he stroked his scar. “Only a few months ago, I begged my beloved Tyr or the other Aesir for help, and today it is Jesus and his mother Mary, or even the great God himself.” He raised his shoulders and smiled. “So far, I’ve only changed their names, that’s all. Admittedly, the Christian faith may be simpler. Instead of the many, now a single one has all the responsibility.”

  “And what of Thomas, your Christian name? Will you retake it?”

  “No, I don’t want the change to go that far. That would be betraying myself. Everything I am connects me to Tyrkir, and I’ll hold fast to it.”

  Thjodhild waved her cloak. “The priest looked so festive. And his singing during the ceremony, I loved to listen to it.”

  “I only hope”—Tyrkir looked over at the farm buildings—“that our Viking will soon be able to bear this singing.”

  In an instant, the lightness of the moment fell away. “I try to make us happy.” She didn’t tell her friend how long the time felt every evening before Erik had finally fallen asleep next to her.

  The lord of Steep Slope said nothing about the cross. When the Christian servants went over to the holy grove night after night after their day’s work, he remained silent. But then one morning, it became clear that a house had been built there.

  “Damn it! By Loki!” All the pent-up anger broke out of him. “Cursed by the Midgard Serpent! Let her eat the Christian vermin!” Erik roared in the hall, outside in the yard. One servant who didn’t move fast enough was knocked down as Erik hurtled inside, screaming as he looked for his son.

  He finally found him at the smelting furnace in front of the forge. “How dare you? I’m still the head of our family, and I tell you, I will never tolerate a priest near me.”

  “Ernestus needs a place to stay.” Without looking up, Leif smashed a piece of slag and threw only the small lumps of iron back into the melt. “He has my hospitality.”

  The courage of his firstborn child took Erik’s breath away. Dangerously quiet, he warned, “Order is shattered if a son dares to rebel against his own father!”

  Leif flinched. He stopped working and turned around with his chin raised. “I’m not fighting you, Father.” He threw the hammer aside to underscore his words. “I love and respect you.”

  “Then prove it. Send this hypocrite back!”

  “No. The Christians on our farm need a priest. The roof will be ready tomorrow. And from then on, Ernestus will live by the cemetery.”

  “My land—”

  “It no longer belongs to you,” Leif interrupted him. “Mother gave me the meadow, and I made it available to the true faith.”

  “Oh, how brave,” Erik sneered. “My son is hiding behind his mother’s skirt. But that won’t help you. Her word is worth nothing.”

  “Father! She is your wife!” Leif’s lips trembled, and he struggled to remain calm. “Mother has as much right to the embankment as you do.”

  “Don’t talk like that, boy.” But Erik knew that he could do little about Thjodhild’s decision, and that powerlessness brought sweat to his brow.

  “Very well.” His voice sank to a whisper. “For ten days, I’ve tried peace, but my generosity just gets taken advantage of by you all.” His voice became louder and grew cold. “From now on, son, I won’t be so benevolent.”

  After that, Christian servants were no longer allowed to sit with the others at the front of the hall during mealtimes. Instead, they had to retreat to the stable corridor in the back. “Your prattling will only spoil the decent slaves. And you—you will sit with them. I don’t want to see you at my table again.”

  Leif blanched. He nervously reached into his hair and wiped his mouth but couldn’t form a response. It was inconceivable that the young farmer on Steep Slope, the heir, should share the soup with the servants! This meant humiliation, a loss of honor and standing. “Let’s talk this over,” he said. “Please, Father!”

  “It’s too late. And do not think your mother will change my mind. You must obey my order, and you know it.” But though Erik had scored a victory, no triumph shone in his eyes as he left his son and stomped away with heavy steps.

  Leif took the smelting pan from the embers—the iron could wait—and he hurried to his godfather’s workshop. “The peace is broken,” he began, and after a brief report, only on
e pressing question remained: “Can he inflict this dishonor on me?”

  Tyrkir nodded. The woman ruled the house and the maids. She also owned half of the property. But in the education of the children, the parents had equal rights. “Your mother must not disobey the order. At best, she could persuade Erik to take his verdict back.”

  “If you’d seen the old man, you’d know it’s no use. He’s decided to fight.” Leif threw himself onto a stool. “I only made the solemn oath to King Tryggvasson to introduce Christianity here to keep violence and torture away from Greenland. And what have I achieved? My father’s at war with me.”

  “Easy, boy!”

  “You’re one to talk! Tonight, I sit with the servants.”

  “Damn it, stop whining!” Tyrkir gave Leif a sharp look. “These men stood by you in your worst hours in the Hebrides. It won’t kill you to share their food now.”

  Leif pressed his fists against his temples. “Yes, yes. But what should we do next, Uncle?”

  “Now you’re thinking. ‘Never retreat, but move forward!’ That’s your father’s motto, not mine, but maybe it’ll help us now.” Tyrkir stared out through the doorway. A path—he could see it, but his fear swelled. O God, he begged silently, you cannot let this family be torn apart because of you.

  He turned back to his godson. “I have a plan, lad. No, don’t ask, and you won’t be blamed if it fails. I expect you to obey your father’s orders without complaining.”

  Leif jumped up. In his face, pride struggled with reason, but finally, he said, “I trust you, Uncle.”

  The servants didn’t care where they ate. When they returned from the meadows, they were told about the order. There was no confusion in the hall. The non-Christians sat at the front of the hall, and the baptized sat in the passage to the stable. When the young farmer sat down among his boatmen, there were astonished glances, but as the young gentleman silently filled his bowl, no one dared to ask. Soon the servants left the hall, happy and full. Leif also retired shortly before the family came in.