The Snow on the Cross

by Brian Fitts

  I heard a familiar voice and recognized it as Bjarni’s. He was shouting to the men who surrounded me. The smells overpowered me, and the bulks of the men blocked out my sunlight. I saw the gray ground rising to meet me, and I slipped into sleep.

  ***

  God had a plan for me. He wanted me to die there in the cold.

  My bones ached with cold, and I had convinced myself I would never truly be warm again. I shivered violently beneath the ragged furs they piled on top of me. Some of the furs, I couldn’t help notice, had traces of blood on them. Others were warm and wet; as if they were fresh from whatever animal these men had slaughtered it for. Another harsh voice, and I could feel the weight of yet another fur dropped on top of me. The weight was crushing, and I almost couldn’t breathe. When I opened my eyes, I could see the shadows that had collected against the ceiling, and I could hear the voices of the North Men drifting in and out. The scent of smoke was trapped around my head, and whenever I took a breath, the smoke seared my lungs.

  I had a fever, but it was apparent the North Men didn’t realize that. As I lay sweating and shivering beneath the odorous bulk of the fur, I wondered if I would truly die. I would not die in Le Mans as an old man in the warmth of his own bed, but in the frozen wasteland of the barbarians. This was to be my final resting place.

  None of these men spoke my language, save for Bjarni, and I had not seen or heard him since my arrival. I didn’t even know how long I had been there. It might have been hours or days. I couldn’t move my arms under the weight of the fur, so I rolled my eyes upward and tried to get a glimpse of my surroundings.

  I was apparently in one of the larger dwellings, for there was a stone fireplace across the room to my left. I saw that I was lying in the floor on a sort of makeshift bed, and if I turned my head, I could stare across the dirt floor into the heart of the fire that fizzled sadly in its stone casing. Bizarre shadows danced out of the firelight, and they seemed hypnotic and soothing. I could see the shadows stretching along the floor of some of the North Men standing near. They spoke to one another in their strange, harsh language, and they spoke in low voices. I wondered if one of them was Eirik.

  I realized I was lying in a hallway with rooms that opened up at either end. This must have been one of the meeting places, for long tables with benches lined the walls on either side of the wall. Beyond the doorways, I could see nothing but darkness and shadows that flittered randomly across the ceiling and floors.

  Although I didn’t know it at the time, Eirik was there in the meeting hall. He had been standing out of the firelight in the company of a man named Broin, who had come with him from Iceland. Eirik, I was later told, was the one who was keeping watch over me and waiting for me to awaken, but it was Broin who kept throwing furs on me. Broin didn’t know where Le Mans was, and he was worried that my body was too accustomed to the warmer temperatures of southern lands. It wasn’t until I drew a map in the snow for him many days later that he tried to grasp where it was I had come from. I sketched Greenland, made lines that represented water, and at the bottom of the picture, I drew a large circle and called it France. I planted a twig toward the center of my circle and pronounced it “Le Mans.” Broin nodded as he looked at it, but I still do not think he fully grasped where it was I had come from.

  God’s hand guides mine, and so I speak to you only God’s truth.

  My fever broke after a period of hazy blackness where I drifted in and out of the light. My robes were soaked with sweat, and the steaming pile of fur over me was saturated as well. I managed to kick some of them off of me, and the coolness that flooded over me was chilling and harsh. My teeth clattered together viciously, and the North Men who were in the hall at the time noticed my movements. Two of them, men I had not recognized from before, came to me and propped me against the wall. One of them held a wooden bowl filled with clear broth and tried to press it upon me. I looked down in the bowl and thought I saw specks of dirt floating there.

  “You men,” I murmured. “Go find Bjarni. Let him speak to me.” My words were mumbled and low, and I do not think they understood what I was telling them. I hoped, if nothing else, they would hear Bjarni’s name and go find him for me. They stood there blinking their shining black eyes at me and pushed the bowl back toward me.

  “No,” I said, my voice becoming stronger. “Go find Bjarni. Do you understand? Bjarni.”

  I said my words slowly and loudly. One of them, the one with the bowl, set it down upon the floor.

  “Bjarni,” he stated simply.

  I nodded. “Yes, go find Bjarni.”

  The two men looked at one another. My head began to hurt, and I could see the piles of furs that were once my prison lying on the floor where I had kicked them. The coolness of the hallway was overtaking my chilled body, and I began to shake. I pointed at the furs, hoping that one of the men would hand some of them back to me, wet or not. Across the way, the fire in the fireplace was producing no heat that I could feel, and not for the last time did I think about the fire on the beach to welcome my arrival.

  “Bjarni,” I whispered. “Go get him.”

  My weakness was returning. Soon I felt I would return to the restless slumber that had plagued me since my arrival. I didn’t care anymore if Bjarni came or not. He spoke my language, and I could communicate to him.

  “Bjarni,” I said before drifting away. Somewhere as I slept, I felt the weight of the furs being stacked over me once again.

  * * *

  It may have been days until I awoke again. As I slept, I dreamt of smoke and shadows and felt as if someone was watching me. It would turn out to be Eirik, always Eirik, who kept a stern vigil by my bedside, even though I didn’t know it until much later. I muttered in my sleep, and apparently I kept saying Bjarni’s name.

  When my fever returned, I knew I was ready to die. I felt the fires of hell licking at me from beneath my furs. I was trapped between circles of ice and fire as I shivered and sweated simultaneously. This was not part of the plan. The end would come for me, Bishop Arnald of Le Mans, on a dirt floor in the Viking household of Eirik the Red.

  But it was not to be, as my eyes opened through a haze of cotton only to see the fireplace roaring and spitting with as great a blaze as I had ever seen. The silhouette of a man sat beside the fire, half-lit in profile by the light. Although I could not see much about this man, I saw the color of his beard, and I knew Eirik was watching over me. As it would turn out, Eirik was concerned that I might die, and so he wanted to keep Thordhild happy by making sure I didn’t.

  Although Eirik had kept watch over me, he did little else for me. I would often feel rough hands pressing my forehead to see if I was still burning to the touch, but I knew Eirik never touched me. To this day, I do not know what on that island made me so ill. Perhaps it was the cool temperature combined with my dislike for the place. I had barely glanced around when I stepped off Bjarni’s boat, but I knew this Green Land held nothing of interest for me.

  So when I emerged from my half-conscious state some time later, I felt my fever had ebbed away and left me an empty shell. My body quaked with hunger, and my robes were sticky with sweat. The light coming from the fireplace was dim, and I did not know if it was daylight or not, for I could not see any windows. As it would turn out, it was daylight, and I assumed it would be for another few months. I often wondered what kind of person would settle in a land of no nightfall, but then I had never met Eirik the Red before, either.

  The men pressed their broth upon me again, and this time I sipped a bit of it. It was bitter, but the warmth spread through my body. I never thought to ask what it was made of. Instead, I ignored again the tiny flecks floating in the bowl and drank again. I grew accustomed to the taste and was able to swallow a bit more with each mouthful. The men watching me seemed satisfied, as if making up their minds that I was going to live. One of them stood up and, as I watched, pulled back a dark cloth that had been draped over a small window. As he removed the cloth, the natural white
light of outside gushed through the dimness, and I was left sitting there dazzled by its brilliance.

  “The dead lives,” a familiar voice wafted from the shadows. “Your god is strong, Bishop, if he can return you to us.”

  I recognized the voice as Bjarni’s, but I could not see him. I held my hand up to try to block out the light coming through the window, but it was too strong. I was left staring in the direction of a disembodied voice, hoping he would step forward so I could see him.

  “How long?” I asked, and I remember my voice was harsh, like hammers dragged over rocks.

  “How long what?” Bjarni replied. I could detect the faint trace of anger still deep within his voice, so I knew I had to be careful.

  “How long have I been here?”

  One of the other men, and I think it may have been Broin, began speaking in his guttural language. Bjarni responded to him with the same strange tongue. I could have understood, if the heathens had not defiled my God at the tower of Babylon. I strained for a familiar sounding word, but there was none. Perhaps Bjarni would tell me what the other was saying. This was always my hope that one would step forward and translate the speech for me, but it never happened. Time and time again, the Vikings would speak in their language in front of me, and I was helpless in understanding it.

  As I lay there, the half-empty bowl of broth all but forgotten in my hand, I thought about Le Mans. Spring was close, and it would be about the time my first plants would begin to take root in the fresh soil I would have carefully prepared for them. I heard Bjarni laughing, but I did not know if it was directed toward me or not. I resisted the urge to throw my bowl at the men and waited.

  “Bishop,” Bjarni’s voice abruptly switched from his language to mine. “Are you feeling well enough to walk? Your company is requested.”

  My head was spinning, but I nodded. I decided it would do me good to walk around a bit to regain the strength in my legs. I wobbled to my feet, holding on to the wall for support. The Vikings made no move to help me stand as I swayed and almost fell back. I could sense them as they stared at me with impatience, as if I was keeping them from their business. I took a hesitant step toward them, my broth sloshing over the rim of my bowl. I left a trail of liquid after me as I walked and eventually I dropped the bowl. It clattered on the ground near the fireplace, the rest of its contents splashing around it. I looked at it quickly. Good. Let them clean it up.

  I stepped through the shaft of light and into the shadows where the Vikings waited. I then saw it was Broin after all who had been standing there, so my earlier assumption was correct. Bjarni was standing beside him, half glaring at me as he looked back at the mess I left behind me. I nodded to both of them.

  “Who has requested me?” I asked, not knowing if they would tell me Eirik or Thordhild.

  I secretly hoped they would tell me Thordhild. I desperately wanted to see the woman who was responsible for bringing me here, and the kind of woman who would dedicate her life to living with these men.

  “I did,” said Bjarni. “I have requested you.” He laughed at his own joke, punching Broin in the side as he continued. Broin, I assume because Bjarni was speaking in my language, didn’t understand why Bjarni had jabbed him. A shadow passed over Broin, and he suddenly looked ready to draw his axe. Bjarni was too busy laughing at my earnestness to notice Broin’s reaction, and he continued to slap and punch him.

  I frowned at this display. Bjarni did not strike me as a frivolous man. On the ship he had seemed serious and stern, and his men who sailed with him seemed to respect that. Now, home again, Bjarni had metamorphed into some kind of buffoon.

  My head began to hurt. “For God’s grace,” I said. “Be serious and tell me who wants me, otherwise, I will return to my bed.”

  Bjarni’s laughter faded and he cleared his throat. “Bishop, forgive me. We are walking south today, to the seashore.”

  “Why?” I asked, my patience draining away.

  Bjarni grinned. “We are going to Brattahild.”

  * * *

  Brattahild was the name of Eirik’s farm, and it was not to the south, as Bjarni had said, but rather to the east. I stepped outside, blinking in the harsh light and twitching with cold. I saw hills in the distance, but no trees. Again I noted I saw no color green here, only brown and gray rock, dotted by pale scrub brush. This stretched in miles for all directions, although I could see streams of smoke coming from other stone houses nearby. I could smell the scent of saltwater, and so I knew the sea was just over the hill to the south. The sound of the gulls crying was easily heard, even if the birds could not be seen. Bjarni and Broin stood looking at me as I stared all around me. I noted their impatience drawn in clear lines on their faces behind their heavy beards, and Bjarni’s eyes narrowed.

  “Bishop, come,” he spoke sharply as if calling his dog. He and Broin started walking, leaving me shivering in the doorway of the house I had lain in for no telling how long. My knees were buckling from my weakened state, and I had no fur cloak like the Vikings had. The soft wind cut through me with ice teeth, and I slumped against the doorway, moaning.

  “Help me,” I murmured. My body was giving out. The weakness of the flesh: St. Augustine wrote of it often.

  I sank to one knee, and it touched the ground. The sharpness of the rocks jabbed my knee, but I paid it no mind. I simply watched the bundles of fur walking away from me up and over the far hill. How could they not notice I was not following them? The stupidity of these men was staggering to me. My eyes closed, and I found myself thinking of my gardens in Le Mans, and the sound of my quill, and the warmth of my fire . . .

  Coarse hands grabbed my shoulders and hauled me to my feet. I looked into the faces of the Vikings who had returned for me. They hoisted me up, brushed me off, and dropped an impossibly heavy fur around my shoulders. Broin said something and Bjarni began laughing. I felt my face burn.

  “Tell your god to give you strength, Bishop,” Bjarni said, his voice mocking. “We have a long walk.”

  I took a step forward. The fur helped against the cold air, but my body still shook from its weakness. They were taking me to Eirik’s farm. I didn’t know how far it was, but when you are not used to walking anywhere, the smallest distance seems endless. I followed the two men. I found it hard to look up as I walked, so I focused on putting one foot before the other until we arrived. The Vikings were traveling at a brisk pace, but not so fast as to lose sight of me. At least for that I was grateful.

  Apparently, the house I had been resting in was apart from the other homes of the village. It sat by itself nestled between two hills. As we crested the hill to the east, I could see the landscape of Greenland. As I have said before, there was not much to it. This time, however, I could see the water and the blackened remains of the wood that had been burned at my arrival. It looked like a flattened spider against the beach, and the water kept creeping up to it to steal a little bit at a time. Soon, it would be gone, washed away toward infinity. I looked to the south out over the water, and I kept picturing the coast of France out there, and beyond that, Le Mans.

  The other stone houses were lined up against the hills. I counted five of them. All looked the same: small, square, with a woven roof. Stone chimneys jutted out of the thatched roofs, and puffs of smoke, endlessly, coiled toward heaven. I never considered what the Vikings were burning for fuel, since there was no wood to speak of on the island for easy harvest.

  “How far is Eirik’s farm?” I asked, trying to catch my breath as we walked. Old men do not travel well up hills.

  “Not far, Bishop,” Bjarni called from ahead of me.

  Bjarni’s definition of “not far” it turned out, was quite far indeed. Before we had left the sight of the building I had lain in, my legs were aching and my heart, which was thudding so hard it hurt, did not seem able to keep up with the rest of my body. I knew my heart was going to rupture if we did not stop for a rest. The muscles in my legs were on fire as they tightened up. We climbed yet another hil
l, and I lost sight of the houses near the beach. There were no more in sight, and my spirits fell. Bjarni and Broin, however, showed no signs of slowing.

  I decided for them. I sat down at the crest of the hill we were climbing and felt the blood roaring through my head. The pain in my chest subsided, as my heart finally seemed to catch up. My legs, however, started to cramp, and I rolled over in the cold grass, trying to straighten them out. They refused and curled up beneath me. Christ on the cross could not have possibly suffered more than I did at that moment. Every breath was an inhalation of fire.

  The pain in my body was replaced by the bitter cold that seeped into me as I sat there. The ground was ice, and soon I felt numbness only to be shattered by the cramps in my legs. I began to call out to my companions, who apparently had not noticed I was no longer vertical.

  “For the love of God!” I shouted. “Stop!” My voice echoed through the valleys, and as it came back to me, it sounded small and sad.

  I do not remember much after that. I do know that the two came back to me, looks of anger and amusement etched on their faces. They were enjoying my torment, especially Bjarni. Broin seemed confused most of the time, and again I assumed because something was lost in the translation as Bjarni spoke to him about me.

  They picked me up again, and began to drag me. My feet scraped the ground, and I struggled to break free so I could regain my footing, but they seemed to insist on carrying me. We started down the side of the hill, and I kept worrying they would slip and send me tumbling down to the ravine below. They held their steps firmly, and they whisked me along with them as they walked.