B0046ZREEU EBOK

by Elphinstone, Margaret

  It was a man called Gudleif, whom Karlsefni knew. Like Karlsefni, he’d made a great reputation for himself as a seagoing trader. We wondered to see him so far north of his own home in Borgafjord at the beginning of winter, but he said there was a matter he needed to discuss with Karlsefni. As soon as he and his men had eaten and drunk, he told us his story.

  The hall at Glaum is filled with shadows. The fire glows along the length of the hearth, and half a dozen oil lamps cast little pools of light from brackets in the wall. The people shift on their benches, and settle down to hear Gudleif’s story. As soon as he has well begun they are motionless, their attention palpable. Karlsefni sits in his carved chair, his chin in his hand, his face a little in shadow so it’s not possible to see what he is looking at. On his left hand his son Snorri gazes at Gudleif as if he were listening with his eyes. He looks shocked, like a man being unexpectedly told his own dreams, or some tale that he had forgotten that he knew. Beside him, Thorbjorn watches Gudleif appraisingly. The only time he looks like his mother is when he frowns; there is the same vertical line between his eyebrows, which will one day be permanently etched. On Karlsefni’s right hand Gudrid sits leaning on her elbow, with her hand covering her mouth. Her eyes give away nothing, except that she never takes them for one moment from Gudleif’s face.

  Gudleif sits on the bench on the opposite side of the hearth. As he speaks he knows his own power. He can make these people see pictures in their minds. He can take them on a journey far from their own hearth and show them another country. He has brought the image of it back with him from the ends of the earth, and it is in his gift to pass it on. These people can never go there; the way is closed. The place where he went is only an idea now, but when he looks at their faces he knows he has carried them away, and his words are all that is needed to make the story real.

  The previous summer Gudleif had left Norway for Dublin on a trading voyage, his plan being to sail home to Iceland from there. It was already well into the autumn when he finished his business in Ireland and set out for home. He was less than a day’s sail west of Ireland when he ran into an easterly, which veered north and by nightfall had turned to a full gale. There was nothing he could do but run before it into the open ocean, and for days there was little visibility, and no sign of land. At last the wind began to abate; it was close to the equinox, which made it very difficult to guess how far south they were, but the air was warm and when Karlsefni asked him, Gudleif said there had been no ice. They did see land at last, due west. It was nothing like Iceland or Greenland; there was just a long line of low-lying hills with no mountains. When they came close they saw the hills were covered with forest that was still green as if it were summer.

  It wasn’t anywhere they recognised, but they were exhausted, and they needed water, so they closed the coast and sailed along it until they found a sheltered bay with a beach of white sand, where they moored and went ashore. While they were filling their water casks at the stream, they heard a sound, and when they looked round, they saw strange brown people running along the beach from both sides. Gudleif and his men had put down their weapons so they could manoeuvre the full barrels, and in any case there were so many skraelings that when Gudleif’s men did try to fight with their bare hands they were quickly overpowered. The skraelings seized them all and carried them into the forest.

  They didn’t go far. There was a good path, though narrow, so they travelled quickly through the dim light of the trees, and then came out, blinking, into a sunny clearing, where they found themselves in the strangest encampment any man ever saw. There were several small fires burning outside, and grouped around them there were round tents made of skins sewn together, stretched over wooden frames. As soon as the skraelings came in with their prisoners a group of children came running, and pushed their way right up to the Norse men, not showing any fear at all, but chattering in a strange language, and even trying to touch the strangers. There were women there too, who came away from the fires to stand and stare, and although they kept their distance, no one tried to call the children to order.

  Gudleif and his men were brought into the middle of the camp, and hobbled together with strips of hide; their hands were tied behind their backs. No one tried to speak to them, but it was clear that some kind of argument was going on among the skraelings. Gudleif could only suppose that the debate was whether to kill them or to make them slaves. It occurred to him that they were obviously too dangerous to use as slaves unless they were made harmless, and when he thought about how that could be done he knew it would be better to die, even if they had to do the job themselves. But the argument died away, and nothing was done. Everyone seemed to be waiting. It was hot in the middle of the clearing, and the prisoners grew more and more thirsty. Sometimes they spoke to each other about the chances of escape, but at present far too many people were watching. So they sat still, while their skraeling guards watched over them.

  At last a new group of men came into the camp. One seemed to be some kind of chieftain, because their captors bowed before him and spoke to him with deference. Gudleif hardly noticed him. He was looking at the man beside him. An old man, with white hair. A man more than a head taller than any skraeling in the camp. A man tanned by the sun, but still paler-skinned than a skraeling could possibly be. A man dressed in a deerskin tunic and leggings just like the skraelings, but with a tattered woven cloak worn over one shoulder, leaving his sword arm free, although he had no weapon. Gudleif watched as the skraelings conferred, never taking his eyes off the strange man. The group moved closer, and Gudleif saw that though the man’s cloak was torn and full of holes the ring brooch that fastened it was bronze, and carved on it was an elongated beast, its mouth swallowing its tail. The chieftain, with the strange man beside him, stood looking down on the prisoners. Gudleif looked into the eyes of the stranger, and saw that they were a clear pale blue.

  ‘Well, well.’ The man looked them over, and shook his head. It didn’t occur to Gudleif to be surprised that he spoke to them in Icelandic. ‘So where’ve you landed from?’

  Gudleif stood up, and the skraelings made no attempt to stop him. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Just what I was about to ask you, my friend.’

  ‘I’m Gudleif, Gudlaug’s son, from Iceland.’

  ‘From which part of Iceland?’

  ‘Borgafjord.’

  ‘Where in Borgafjord?’

  ‘From Reykholt. You know it?’

  ‘Oh yes, I know Reykholt. Did you have an uncle, or a great-uncle perhaps, called Thorfinn?’

  ‘You know my family?’

  ‘I think we must have a talk.’ The stranger turned to the skraeling chieftain beside him, and began to speak rapidly in the skraeling tongue. Gudleif looked from one to the other, trying to follow the discussion. He could make nothing of it, but eventually the Icelander turned back to him, and said, ‘If your bonds are released, will you guarantee that you and your men will behave peacefully while you are here?’

  Of course Gudleif promised at once, as this seemed a far more hopeful turn of events. But the man interrupted him. ‘That’s not all. You’ll have to stay here tonight, as it’s almost dark. But I want you to promise to leave as soon as it gets light, and furthermore, you must swear never to try to come to this place again, and never to tell anyone else where it is.’

  ‘I couldn’t if I tried,’ said Gudleif, ‘since we don’t know where we are ourselves.’

  ‘All the better. Swear to me you’ll sail east again until you reach lands you know, and never try to discover again where this place is. There must be no sailing directions, you understand?’

  ‘I understand what you say. But why not?’

  ‘This isn’t your world. There’ll be worse trouble if you don’t keep out of it. If I hadn’t been here they’d have killed you. If you, or anyone else, comes back, I won’t be here any longer, and then there’ll be no mercy.’

  ‘You won’t be here? You’ll come back with us now, I hope?’
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  But the man was speaking to the skraeling chief again. Then he said, ‘Gudleif, will you swear?’

  Gudleif spoke to his men, and they willingly agreed to the terms offered. Then he made a formal oath, and when he had spoken, the Icelander repeated what Gudleif had said in the skraeling language. After that all the men had their bonds cut. They were still rubbing their wrists and ankles when water was brought to them, and they drank eagerly.

  ‘Now, you Icelanders,’ said the stranger. We’ll bring you food tonight and you can sleep where you are. Do you swear to stay where you are and cause no trouble, while I speak to Gudleif privately?’

  One of the men said he’d sleep where he was, but he’d rather not shit there, and it was agreed the crew could go one at a time as far as the edge of the forest if they needed to. Then the Icelander took Gudleif into his tent. Presently a skraeling woman appeared with freshly cooked meat, which she served to the Icelander, and then to Gudleif, before going away again and fastening the flap of the tent behind her. The two men ate, and then they talked on through the night, while the moon rose and set again outside, and at last the brief darkness gave way to dawn.

  The Icelander was full of questions about all the leading people in the Borgafjord area, and then he went on to ask about Breidavik and Snaefelsnes. He asked about Snorri the Priest, and about the outcome of the feuds in the Snaefel area. Eventually he began inquiring about the farm at Frodriver, and Thurid who had been married to Thorir the farmer there, and about her son Kjartan. Gudleif told him about the death of Thorir. He didn’t know Thurid, but he was able to describe Kjartan very well, because he’d met him at the Thing only three years earlier, and had been very impressed by him. Everyone spoke well, he told the Icelander, of the way Kjartan had handled the ghosts that haunted Frodriver after his father’s death, although he’d been scarcely more than a boy at the time. He had an authority that everyone respected, both the living and the dead. It seemed to him that the Icelander couldn’t hear enough about Kjartan, whom every- one called Thorir’s son, and Gudleif did his best to tell him every- thing he could.

  At last Gudleif broached the subject that had been in his mind since the Icelander had first spoken to him. ‘And what of yourself, sir?’ he asked. ‘I won’t ask about this long exile of yours, if you don’t want to tell me how it happened. But you’ll come back to Iceland with us now, won’t you?’

  There was a pause before the Icelander shook his head, but Gudleif was sure that he had already made up his mind. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I won’t go back. The time is long past for that. I don’t want to end up as a living ghost in my own country. No, Gudleif, I’m a dead man now, and it’s better if I stay that way. But there is something I’d like you to do.’

  Of course Gudleif said he’d do anything that he could. The Icelander turned back the skins that covered the bedplace in the tent, and brought out a good Norwegian-made sword. Then with some difficulty he twisted off the gold ring that he wore on the third finger of his right hand. ‘Take these,’ he said, ‘And give the sword to Kjartan of Frodriver, and the ring to his mother Thurid.’

  ‘And what shall I tell them about the man who sent them the gifts?’

  ‘Tell them he loves Thurid of Frodriver better than her brother Snorri the Priest at Helgafell. And tell them you swore that no one would ever try to come to look for me. They wouldn’t find me if they got here. This is a large country, with few harbours, and it’s a mistake to think that meetings are possible beyond the mortal world.’

  That was really all that Gudleif had to tell. He and his crew set sail the next day, and even though it was so late in the year, they managed to sail east until they reached the coast of Ireland. They wintered in Dublin, then went home the following summer. Gudleif travelled to Frodriver and handed over the gifts as soon as he could. He told Thurid and Kjartan he wanted to talk to Karlsefni, not in order to break his oath, but to ask questions about Karlsefni’s voyage in order to satisfy some questions in his own mind.

  I was touched, Agnar, that even in the midst of such strange events, Thurid sent messages to me. She told Gudleif to say that she’d not forgotten the child that Halldis used to bring to Frodriver, and she could tell even when I was quite little that I was going to be beautiful. She said she was an old woman now, but she’d be glad to see me again if it were possible. We knew Kjartan, of course, because we met him occasionally at the Thing, but I remembered, as I had not done since the day it happened, the first time I ever saw one man kill another, and how a little boy had run with shining eyes to dip his axe in the dead man’s blood. But most of all I was thinking of Bjorn of Breidavik, who used to come to visit us at Arnarstapi. I could see him in my mind most vividly of all. A strong, fierce man in a Norwegian cloak, who used to sit drinking at our hearth, but who could still be bothered to talk to someone else’s little girl, and carve toys out of wood for her, when her own father didn’t care whether she existed or not.

  I was thinking of all this, while the murmur of conversation broke out again around me. Men talk of Vinland during the winter at every hearth in Iceland, but who bothers to go there now? Only Greenlanders desperate for timber. It was just a dream, I suppose, that it should ever amount to anything else, but men like to have their dreams.

  Snorri had been very quiet all evening. It was Thorbjorn who kept asking questions, in that truculent way he had, as if he wasn’t prepared to believe anybody’s answers. In the end Gudleif turned to my elder son, and said to him, ‘And what about you, Snorri? Do you have any ambitions to go travelling?’

  Snorri was never a great talker. He told Gudleif briefly that he was going to Norway in the spring with his father’s ship.

  ‘Oh yes, Karlsefni keeps up his interests there, I know. So you’re off on your father’s business, as a good son should be?’

  ‘Yes.’ My son might be inarticulate, but he had a dogged regard for the truth, and would make sure he told the whole of it, unoriginal though it might be. ‘But it’s on my own account as well,’ Snorri explained to Gudleif. ‘I’ve heard enough stories. I want to see the world myself.’

  Well, he did see the world, Agnar, for what it’s worth. And so have I, and so have you. I’m old and I’m tired, and sometimes I think that the more we see, the less we know. Yes, I’m tired, and it’s late: the shadows have crept almost the whole way across the wall there. Another day, Agnar. It will all keep for another day.

  POSTSCRIPTUM

  December 22nd, 1051, at Rome

  I, Agnar Asleifsson, finished the task today which was set me by His Holiness Cardinal Hildebrand. This morning I wrote an official report of the work I have done over the past six months: three months of interviews with the woman from Iceland, and three months making a Latin transcription of those interviews, and writing out a fair copy for the Cardinal. What will he do with it? Read it, presumably, since he commissioned the work in the first place. I have a feeling, however, that the moment of need has passed. That controversy over Adelbert’s treatise, what has come of it now? Adelbert is dead, conveniently enough, of Roman fever. There is a notorious ague in this city that comes in off the marshes and strikes men down, particularly those who are not accustomed to it. It is a city of sudden death, and the noxious air seems to have become much more virulent since Pope Leo came back to Rome in ’49.

  The divisions of June are forgotten in the new alliances of December. This is the spiritual heart of the world. This is the place where the boundary between the temporal and eternal is closed; this is the city of St Peter, and here our salvation is always before us, the word made flesh. I have believed this always; I was told of it in a far-off, outlandish country, and since then I have been slowly drawn towards Rome, the centre of my world, on a pilgrimage that has taken my whole life.

  I miss her more than I can say. In the autumn she was still frail after her long illness, and that was why I wrote to the sisters at Viterbo. I thought the hot springs might benefit her; she had often told me how healing such springs could be
in her own country. The message came just as we were finishing for the day. It was the 23rd September; I know that because it’s the last date in the manuscript. I could see how the prospect delighted her. She craved clean cold air, she said, and mountains. Rome was soft and wet and feverish, and it made her tired. ‘Agnar,’ she said to me, ‘you thought of this. You’re like a son to me. There’s nothing I’d like better. I can go at once, can’t I? In the hills, you say? Hot mud springs, and clear air, and perhaps snow when the winter comes? I can go tomorrow, can’t I? I’ve finished the story, really. Of course, I would have gone on as long as you liked, but I’ve told you everything of significance that I have to say. How will I go? Can you escort us?’

  At first I thought that was impossible, but at her request I did ask permission, and was granted leave to see her as far as the lake Bracciano. I would have hired a litter for her, but she insisted on riding. ‘I’ve ridden since I was two,’ she said. ‘What kind of fine southern lady do you think I am? I want to see where we’re going.’

  The change in her was remarkable. I hadn’t the heart to say we’d stopped the narrative right in the middle of a scene, and when I thought about it later, I thought perhaps we hadn’t. After all, what else did I expect her to tell me? Did I want some kind of answer? I’d forgotten even what the question was, until I turned back to the letter I’d had from Hildebrand. I’d read that letter before I met Gudrid, but from the moment that she began to speak I’d never referred to it, and barely even thought of it again. Death, Judgment, Hell and Heaven. Did Hildebrand expect her to come up with something definitive? Of course not. Did I realise it was just a ploy, ammunition to be used by one faction against another? Hildebrand intended to discredit Adelbert, but Adelbert is dead, and already almost forgotten. I was frustrated that our work came to so sudden an end. I had somehow thought she had more to tell me.