“It was Edgar! I saw him walk before me along the pathway!”
Colm’s words choked in his throat and he gulped at them. The blood drained from his face. Geirrid saw his father’s reaction and there was no way now to lessen his fear. Any words Colm could manage were overpowered by his expression.
Colm gathered himself. “Edgar has been dead for more than three years, yet only now is he seen walking?” Colm shook his head. “This is An, somehow. All of this began with him and the mistreatment of his corpse. We must find a way to quiet his spirit.”
Geirrid was not satisfied but he left without saying anything more. Colm dropped his face into his hands and recalled Edgar’s resignation, his composed appearance, as Bjorn heaved him over the cliff. Then he thought of Grim clutching his guts and waving his stump as he dropped to his knees, and the old Frisian with the look of sorrow on his face as he realized he was about to die, and Gunnlaug’s body sliding from the knife that had touched his heart – if An had started a series of hauntings, then there were many more to come. Colm knew he had to do something.
The next day, Colm rode over to Thorolf’s farm and told him that dead men were walking. Thorolf sat quietly, one eyebrow cocked, and heard Colm out. Then he said, “I had not thought you would be the one to tell me ghost stories! Bjorn has been off-balance ever since Aud died, but you are a level-headed man.”
Colm picked his words carefully. “I have seen nothing myself, but talk is everywhere and I think it would be a good thing if it could be silenced.”
“All right,” said Thorolf, “Do you have a plan?”
“An died in the Crossfield. I think we should ask the advice of a Christian,” said Colm. “Thorkel Teitsson is said to be Christian and it is said that he sometimes has Christian visitors from abroad.”
“All right,” said Thorolf, “We will visit Thorkell and see if he knows how to banish spooks.”
Thorkel Teitsson admitted to being a Christian and to knowing something about that faith. He asked to see the place where An’s body was found. So they travelled to the Crossfield, Thorolf, Colm, Ketil, and some others. The three boys that had discovered the corpse came with them and Geirrid pointed out the exact spot where An had lain.
Thorkel examined the ground closely. He crouched suddenly and picked up a small cross that lay on the earth. The cross was made of two pieces of bone lashed together with a strip of hide. “Was this beside the body?”
Men said it might be so. They hadn’t noticed one cross among many and, anyway, their attention was focused on An’s corpse.
“So, was An a Christian?” asked Thorkel.
No one knew for certain but several said that he might have been.
“Then perhaps this was his cross,” said Thorkel. “Perhaps he came here to pray for his crippled body to be straight and his pain to be relieved.” Thorkell looked around him. “And if he did so, his prayers are answered and he lives now, straight and whole in Paradise.”
“Then how is it his ghost walks?” asked Thorolf.
“Perhaps there is something he left here and he has returned for it.” Thorkel held the bone cross aloft.
They all went then to An’s gravesite. They rolled the boulder away – it took several strong men – and opened the grave. Thorkel cut open the sealskin shroud. They all saw the skeleton inside. Thorkel placed the bone cross in An’s bony hands. Then he showed everyone a small vial. “This is holy water, blessed by a priest.” Thorkel sprinkled a few drops of the precious fluid on An’s body while he recited a prayer in Latin that he had memorized. “Now,” he said, “The dead will walk no more.”
And so it was. There were no more hauntings in the district, not for a long time. Geirrid slowly returned to normal and Colm was relieved. Still, at night, he lay on his bench and felt the false penny weighing on his chest. He thought of exchanging it for another token, a cross of Christ or a hammer of Thor, but he had no faith in any of the gods anymore. There were men and deeds, Colm thought. Fate might lock all in its plan, but men must act regardless. Then they carried the weight of their deeds for the rest of their lives like the thief in the moon who would bend under his load of stolen wood forever. As they aged and performed more actions, so men became more burdened. Colm felt now the load he had made for himself pressing down on his breast like the coin of lies, resting on his heart like a stone.
12.Bjorn Dies
After the death of Aud, his first wife, Bjorn alternated between frenzied action and deep melancholy. People said that Aud stabilized the man, but that Gerda was too much a girl to be able to steady him. They never said this to Gerda’s face, though.
After Gudbrand’s death, Bjorn became listless and moody. He showed little interest in his other children. Hallvard was the eldest son now but there were two other boys, Asgrim and Ahmund, and a girl, Marta, named for Gerda’s mother who had also passed on. For twelve years, Gerda had been either pregnant or nursing a newborn. People laughed and said Bjorn was quite the old stallion but after Gudbrand’s death, Gerda had no more children.
Each month that passed, Bjorn sank deeper into sadness. Sometimes he burst into tears and could not tell anyone the reason. Colm tried to speak to him as a friend but there is a great gulf between former slave and one-time master. Anyway, Bjorn said less and less to anyone any more until it became a rare day that two sentences fell from his lips. One autumn during harvest, four years after Gudbrand’s death, Bjorn banged his leg on a stone. A great bruise formed on his shin and Bjorn said, “Well, that will be the end of me.”
The bruise never healed but seemed to grow larger every day. Gerda asked Bjorn if he thought he was bewitched but he only shrugged in reply. That winter Bjorn’s entire leg was swollen and black up to his hip. Gerda wrapped it in poultices and healers visited with this remedy or that. Bjorn did not send them away but he did not acknowledge their presence either. He lay there silently while mud plasters or stewed herbs were pressed against his flesh, he drank the concoctions the healers brewed, but he said nothing. He died in silence before the spring.
Colm told Gwyneth, “He died because of Gudbrand.”
“You didn’t do that. And you had to protect the one who did.”
Colm said nothing more but he believed that, somehow, he was responsible for Bjorn’s death. Another to add to the list, he thought.
“Buck up,” said Gwyneth. “Don’t give up and die like Bjorn. He killed himself or, anyway, he let himself die. You didn’t do it.”
Colm nodded. Then he held up his head and smiled into Gwyneth’s face.
“There,” she said, “That’s the way I like to see you.”
Gerda was a wealthy widow. She held Bjorn’s farm – though her children had a claim on it – and since her father, Thorolf, had no other surviving children, she stood to inherit his godord, unless he sold it before he died.
One day Gerda rode to see Thorolf. “You are getting on,” she said, “And will die before too many more years pass.” Thorolf agreed that this was the case. “Your grandson Hallvard is now thirteen,” said Gerda, “I think he will make a fine godi. I want you to acknowledge him as heir.” Her words pleased Thorolf a great deal for he loved his grandson very much but he did not want to seem too enthusiastic. Thorolf knew that his daughter was wilful and stubborn and that she would resist any attempt to steer her onto a particular path. He had learned when Gerda was young to wait until she was completely set on a course before showing his approval. Now he said only that her words were something to consider.
“Well, consider this,” said Gerda, “Hallvard is too young now to be a decent godi so you must promise to live another four years. In the meantime he will come to live with you and, at the Althing, you will announce that he will be your heir. Of course,” Gerda added, “If you insist on dying early I might just re-marry and turn the godord over to a man who is a stranger to you!” Gerda was a widow and, in theory, could remarry at any time with or without her family’s approval.
Thorolf shook his head. “
You drive a hard bargain,” he said, “But I’ll hold up my end.” He agreed to her terms and Hallvard came to live with him. Thorolf tried to teach the boy all that he could and Hallvard soon seemed as wise as many an older man. People said that he would make an excellent godi.
13.The Missing Cattle
Ketil Tree-Foot shared some upland pasture with a farmer named Gunnar. It was fine grazing and they both sent cattle there in the summer. They built a milk-shed there and each farmer supplied a woman or two to live there during the summer and milk the cows and make cheese and skyr. It was not too far up the mountainside but a little difficult to get to since there were treacherous cliffs and crevasses on the way.
Ketil had a fine milch-cow named Mikla-Tit. She had borne eight calves and always gave more milk than other cows. She was smart, too, and the herd followed her as it picked its way up to the summer pasture. Ketil swore that he would feed her even after she dried up because she was so valuable to him as herd-leader.
It was a fine summer with early warmth. The grass grew rich and thick on the upland pasture and Ketil and Gunnar sent their herds up a week earlier than usual. A young man named Skeggi watched Ketil’s herd and an older slave woman, Berta, worked in the milkshed. Gunnar sent up a man called Brand and a young female slave, Arnfrith. Arnfrith was only about fifteen but very skilled at dairying. For a while, everyone got on well and both Ketil and Gunnar were pleased with the quantities of cheese and milk they brought down the mountain.
Berta first noticed that Mikla-Tit was missing from the herd when the cattle came in for milking. She called to Arnfrith but the girl was nowhere to be found. She looked for Skeggi and Brand but they did not answer her call either. Berta counted the herd. Besides Mikla-Tit another cow was missing. Troubled, Berta set about milking.
After a while, Arnfrith showed up at the shed. She was breathless from running. “Where have you been?” grumbled Berta. Arnfrith’s eyes widened and she began shaping an excuse for being late. “Oh, never mind,” said Berta, “Get on with the milking.” After a while she said, “There’s two cows missing.” Arnfrith shrugged. She knew nothing about it.
After the herd was milked, Berta went looking for Skeggi. She found him asleep in a haypile. “Get up, you lazy scoundrel!” She kicked him and he rose from the hay. “Have you seen Mikla-Tit?”
Skeggi was all attention. “What do you mean? Isn’t she with the herd?”
“No. Another cow is gone as well, one of Ketil’s, I think. Take a look and make certain.”
So Skeggi examined the cattle and their markings and confirmed that the missing cow was indeed one of Ketil’s. “Where’s Brand?”
“You tell me!” snapped Berta. “You two good-for-nothings have let two of our master’s cows disappear. Now you’ll have to go explain to him!”
Skeggi hung his head. The next day, after the morning milking, he followed the cows up to their pasture and searched the area, but he could not find Mikla-Tit. Nor was Brand anywhere to be seen. There was nothing else for it. Skeggi, heart in his throat, went to tell Ketil what had happened.
Ketil was angry and cuffed Skeggi’s face. “What do you mean, missing?” he shouted and took another swing at the boy. Skeggi fell to his knees and Ketil leaned down and hit him some more, still yelling. Finally Ketil stopped. Breathing hard, he said, “We’ll go up the mountain and look.” Skeggi nodded, blood streaming down his face.
They searched the path leading from the sheds to the pasturage and gave particular attention to the cliffs that it skirted. The path wound along a great crevasse for a hundred yards or so at one point and men examined the lip above the crevasse for signs that a cow had gone over. And they scanned the rocks below for signs of either Brand or a dead cow; nothing could survive that fall. But all the searching failed to turn up any sign of man or beast. They kept looking until it was dark then picked their way back down the mountain. Ketil was very upset. He sent a runner to tell Gunnar what had happened.
The next morning, early, Ketil again went up to search the mountain. Gunnar was already there. Around noon, when they had found no sign of the missing cattle, Ketil spoke some words that had been souring in his skull. “Well, it’s no mystery what happened.”
“How is that?” Gunnar was uncertain what to make of these words.
“Your man has run off with my cows, that’s what happened.”
“That could not be! Brand has been with me for years. He is loyal and trustworthy.”
“Now he has violated that trust,” said Ketil.
“I think not.”
“You would say that, seeing as it’s your man that’s run off with the livestock.”
Now Gunnar grew angry. “My man, yes! And a capable and responsible man, too. Which is why I sent him up here after I learned that you were sending a good-for-nothing boy to work the herd.” Ketil swelled with rage but Gunnar ignored him. “Tell me,” he said, “Just where was your man when the cattle vanished?”
Ketil had no answer for that. He turned on his peg leg and stumped away without a word.
Back at his farm, Ketil sat and stewed. His wife, Ingunn, spoke to him. “I believe you need some help with this.”
“I know who has the cows, I just don’t know where he is.”
“Well then,” said Ingunn, “Perhaps you need to consult someone who can find things.” Then she went back to her spinning, for an intelligent wife knows how to plant the seed and allow it to take root.
Ketil mumbled to himself for a while but Ingunn’s words kept recurring to him. Finally, he got up and yelled to a slave to make a horse ready. “I need some cloth,” he told Ingunn. She went to her store and took three cloaks from the pile. “Do I need so much?” said Ketil. He was calculating just how much silver this cloth might bring.
Ingunn shrugged. “Better to overpay and get the best answer.” Ketil agreed and bundled the cloth into a roll. He threw it onto his horse and rode off to Spa-Gils’ house.
Spa-Gils was a well-known seer. He was lean and pale with a long, flat nose and narrow eyes. Most people thought he had some Sami ancestry. No one said this to him though, for it was insulting to be called a Lapp. On the other hand, no one really thought the worse of him. Being part Sami meant that Spa-Gils was a good seer, since the Sami were very gifted at this practice. It also meant that Spa-Gils was excused his peculiarities. He had never married, for example, and lived alone. His farm was not very prosperous and people said that was because the Sami did not understand sheep.
Ketil rode into Spa-Gils’ yard and shouted. Tools and pieces of equipment lay scattered about. Chickens pecked here and there. A dog ran from behind the house and began barking. Ketil sat patiently. After a time, Spa-Gils emerged from inside and slowly, wordlessly, spread his open hands in something like a show of welcome. The dog stopped barking immediately.
Ketil clutched the roll of cloth and rotated his wooden leg over the horse’s head, then slid off to land on his good foot. He got right to the point. “I need your services. I’ve brought you a gift.” He handed over the cloth. This would have seemed abrupt and discourteous to most people but Spa-Gils just nodded and beckoned Ketil into his house. He took the roll of cloth and threw it onto a bench without examining it. He sat on the bench and put his hands on his knees and waited for Ketil to speak. He did not offer food or drink.
“I need your help with a problem,” said Ketil. Spa-Gils said nothing, just stared into Ketil’s eyes. Ketil became uncomfortable; for a moment he feared that Spa-Gils might be trying to charm him in some way. He looked down at the floor. “Two of my cattle are missing and so is the hand that was supposed to be watching them. His name is Brand and I suspect he is the thief who has made off with my livestock. Anyway, find my cattle for me!” He raised his eyes and met Spa-Gils’ direct gaze. “Please,” he added.
Spa-Gils sat silently, then nodded. “I will look for your cows.” He went to the far end of the bench and lay down, pulling a long cloak over his entire body. Ketil sat and waited. He thought tha
t, under the cloak, Spa-Gils had sent his soul flying over the island, looking this way and that, seeking the lost cattle. Ketil wondered what lay on the bench now – Spa-Gils’ body, shrivelled into a dry husk? Or perhaps nothing at all, just a place where a man had once lain? But he knew better than to touch the cloak or bother the man in any way. He caught a hint of motion behind him and looked out through the door to see Spa-Gils’ dog sitting patiently. A mouse scampered across the yard but the dog did not chase it. Ketil wondered if the mouse was Spa-Gils’ fetch and the dog recognized his master. He shivered and thought about moving outside into the sun but he was fearful of disturbing Spa-Gils’ dog – or any other creature for that matter.
Spa-Gils lay under his cloak for several hours. Ketil waited motionless the entire time. Finally the cloak stirred and Spa-Gils emerged. He rubbed his face and raised a hand to silence Ketil. He gathered himself and moved down the bench to sit before Ketil. His face hung with weariness and his voice cracked. “I have seen your cattle. Listen carefully and heed every word.” Ketil nodded. Spa-Gils glanced at him, then began to speak. “Your cattle have not gone very far. Don’t think of Brand; he is past blame. Remember the value of a good neighbor.” Spa-Gils waited then repeated everything he had said, word for word as he had spoken before. “Do you want me to repeat it again?” he asked.
“No,” said Ketil, “I have it all now.”
“Every word is important.”
Ketil nodded. “I understand.” He rose and thanked Spa-Gils and mounted his horse. His brain whirled. The cattle weren’t far. Brand hadn’t taken them. A good neighbor is valuable. Ah, what then of a bad neighbor? And if the cattle were nearby then that meant Gunnar must have them! All the way home, Ketil thought and planned his next move.
The Saga of Colm the Slave Page 13