Fargoer

by Hannila, Petteri

  Vierra felt a wave of nausea rising inside her. She tried to contain it with her will but lost, and knelt down to vomit. Only green bile came out; it had been a while since her last meal.

  “Blackboy, stay and make sure that the Wolfgirl can work soon. She must try the fish traps.” There was threat in the master’s voice. Vierra knew that if she couldn’t work, she would suffer for it soon.

  “Can I give her food? She would recover more quickly to work,” Oder replied. There was a strong foreign accent in his speech, even more so than in Vierra’s.

  “So be it, but hurry. We will go and harvest the turnips.”

  Vierra sighed. The master was indeed in a good mood.

  Oder and Vierra shared a simple meal of turnips, fish and birch-leaf beverage. Oder used this chance to eat as well. The master kept close guard over the food, and the slaves didn’t get to eat every day.

  “You have been nauseous for many mornings,” Oder stated when they were finishing their meal. “Are you ill?”

  “No,” said Vierra thoughtfully as she licked the grease off her hands.

  Oder looked at her intensely for a moment. Her hips were waiting for food in vain, food which would round them up to more healthy measures.

  “You carry a child inside you,” Oder said finally with a whisper. “Children are the gift of God, but I already grieve for its destiny.”

  Vierra knew it, had known it deep inside her even though she hadn’t admitted it to herself. She felt chilled about giving birth to a child in here, amid all the horror. Something would have to happen before it.

  “It is a bitter gift,” Vierra finally answered, wiping bile off the front of her ragged woolen coat. They finished their meal quickly, as any further delay would’ve been followed by punishment.

  Outside, the early autumn day had gotten the best of the morning dusk, and they started to walk toward the field with rapid steps. The forest was silent, as always, except for the quiet whispers. Little birds didn’t sing in the glade, nor did the animals of the forest make their trails there. Even the domestic animals that the master brought had to be forced to come there, and it took a long time before they got used to their new life.

  The walkers crossed the bridge and stepped toward the working men.

  “Are you sick?” the master blurted to Vierra as they arrived to the site. “I have no use for you, if you cannot work.”

  A sudden burst of mutiny struck Vierra, one she hadn’t experienced in a long, long time.

  “You should be happy, master, because I give birth to your son soon. He will be your heir and your keeper in your old age.” The wording was kind, but Vierra didn’t manage to hide the mockery from her voice.

  The master wasn’t slow-minded. Still, Vierra’s straightforward message took away his confidence for a moment. He had the same cure for loss of confidence as for many other problems: violence. The back of his hand fell heavily to Vierra’s cheek, throwing her to the ground.

  “I will not bring up brats, and if you cannot work, I will drown you to the river with it, too. And from the fall market I will get two stronger slaves to replace you.”

  Vierra’s weak defiance snapped like a twig. The boat that was about to save her from drowning sank back to deep, dark waters.

  I just sit here. Maybe the master will beat me to death, she thought.

  As she sat on the ground holding her cheek, Alf switched everyone’s attention to the edge of the forest, where he was pointing.

  “Look,” he yelled.

  A man had stepped out of the forest, staggering to the glade with feeble, unsure steps. The beard and hair of this large man glimmered red in the sun. There was bear-like softness in his impressive figure as well as brisk strength in his movement. His clothes were well made, although worn and torn after traveling through the woods.

  The whole group hurried silently closer to this strange apparition. Even Vierra got up slowly and trudged after the others. The red-bearded man brought with him a simple truth: if someone could reach the glade through the forest, it was also possible to leave the same way. Such thoughts were not hers, though. The old Vierra would have darted into the woods, long ago, whatever threats the forest could raise against her. But years of blows, repression and subjection had driven that Vierra deep into hiding. She couldn’t rise up in an instant.

  The group of four people met the redbeard, and saw that his clothes were soaked in blood and his face and arms bruised. There was a glassy, burdened look in his eyes.

  “All my men dead... need to get back home...” the man slurred, and clearly didn’t realize there were people around him.

  “I am Bothvar, also known as the Blackbeard. Who are you and how did you find my home, hidden in the forest?”

  The man didn’t react to the master’s question at all.

  “Wolfgirl will get water and Loosetooth, you drag him into the house. The Blackboy will go get food to the guest - and make sure you don’t stay and eat yourself.”

  The orders were fulfilled without delay. The master himself followed the actions closely and sharply, and let out malign yell if he thought any of the slaves was working too slowly. Vierra carried out the orders with her head held low and in grim thoughts, as usual. Oder’s eyes had a new kind of glow, however, and, when the master’s eyes were occupied, he secretly glanced to the edge of the forest. Alf worked in an even, emotionless rhythm, as if the foreigner didn’t exist at all.

  When everything possible had done for the redbeard, the master took his slaves to the summer hut and latched the door from outside. Confused, they stood and watched the locked door. It had been quite a while since they were without work and there was still light.

  The afternoon passed and nobody had anything to say. Oder was the first to break the silence.

  “If that redbearded man could get here, we can get out. I for one am going to try.” Oder’s strengthening mood to escape didn’t encourage the other two who shared his fate, however.

  “Breaking the door will rouse the master’s attention,” Vierra replied.

  Alf seemed distressed. The strange situation confused his reason which, now, only understood the need to work.

  “Stop, stop.” He pressed his hands to his ears, as if trying to deny what was happening around him.

  “Shut up, or the master will hear! Should we just sit here and wait, doing nothing? I’m trying my luck in any case,” Oder replied. He fiddled with a cross that he had made from reeds. “may God let me succeed.”

  A cold breeze blew through Vierra’s mind. She had seen too many bad things to have hope. Gods wouldn’t bother for their sake. She went to her mattress and took out the rusty knife. Others looked at her, dazed. Vierra had not shown the blade to anyone, and nobody would have even guessed that she might have one hidden. Vierra stepped to the summer hut’s door and pushed the long blade through a narrow gap placing the edge below the latch.

  At the same instant the latch rose up with a clang and the door was wrenched open. Whether it was the knife’s own will or strength of Vierra’s instinct, none could tell, but as the latch opened, the weapon slipped behind her back and vanished under the hem of her shirt, light as a shadow.

  The master’s dark eyes met those of Vierra that were openly staring back at his, green and unyielding. It took only a moment for Vierra’s eyes to lower to the level of the master’s shoes, but he didn’t fail to notice this. A heavy hand slammed against the woman’s face once again, sending her sitting down to the floor. Vierra bowed her head even lower, but the hand holding the knife behind her back didn’t lose its grip.

  The master’s gaze went around the group of slaves and met only downcast, dispirited eyes. He had never smiled in their presence, but at that moment he was clearly satisfied.

  “Wolfgirl and Blackboy, you will go and offer the guest drink and entertainment. Alf will stay here.”

  Alf looked almost relieved. The ones who left the hut with the master were sullen, and one of them felt the blade of the knif
e behind her back.

  In the dusk

  Shadows of the day were stretching to their evening length when the slaves had completed their assigned chores in the house. Vierra had been amazed by it at first because, unlike most Viking houses she’d seen, there were exquisite wood-carved tables and benches, in addition to a normal bunk that rounded on the edge of the wall. Here and there were also skillfully crafted ornaments and items which represented men and beasts. Still, the master did not carve them, at least they had never seen him do that.

  Bothvar was a fine host and offered his best to the guest by the fireplace. It was peaceful in the house, because the animals were still in their outside shelters after summer. The guest was noticeably rejuvenated from his state in the morning, and awareness had returned to his brown eyes. The blood on his clothes was mostly not his own, but he didn’t want to explain any details about how it got there. A large bruise in his head had been covered with a piece of cloth that was wrapped around it.

  According to the custom, the men went on to discuss the guest’s heritage, and it soon turned out that the man’s name was Ambjorn and that the master knew his brother and father from a long time ago.

  The master told Oder to fetch more beer, and it was drank heartily, so that Ambjorn’s voice soon became loud and his speech more rakish in tone.

  Where Ambjorn relaxed, the master became more and more silent, and watched his guest even more firmly. Soon Ambjorn answered even the most intrusive questions, which probed the depth of the man’s soul. Anyone else would have been offended and would have accused the master of breaking his hospitality. Ambjorn did not, but rather unburdened his heart as fast as he could, and soon the master did not need to ask anymore.

  “I have carved boats to the king and kept a tight house, so that our whole village flourishes, but do my villagers appreciate that? Or me? They do not, but rather sing songs in honor of my brother Thorleik. He comes from his journeys every autumn, often without any mentionable loot, but still it is the food I provide that he tastes in his mouth all winter. And when the work begins in the spring, he gathers the men and takes the best with him for the whole summer.”

  “But you have a handsome wife, do you not?” the master broke in.

  “Handsome and stern, yes. She does not fiddle with silver, works from dawn till dusk and keeps the house well. The house, aye, but not me. Her hair is golden and her eyes blue, but she is cold as ice.”

  Ambjorn sighed and drank from his stein.

  “Now I have to go. I still have time to travel home before dark, if I still have one. I thank you for the hospitality and help, and when I reach home I will send you ten buckets of meat and a cask of beer as a reward. Be thanked three times for all your troubles.”

  Ambjorn got up, ready to leave, but the master placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “If you leave in a hurry you can easily go astray, and it is a short while from evening to night. I will get better beer for us to drink, and maybe you can tell me why you hurry to a home, where you are not thanked with song. Wolfgirl!” he ordered.

  Vierra rushed to hear her master’s order. She had waited out of sight, as it was not wise to be close to the master any more than was necessary. It was a habit dictated more by the will of survival than fear.

  “This woman is skinny and unpredictable, but I have beaten the will out of her with my own hands. If you want, you can have her to warm your bed. I guarantee that she is not an icy woman, if I so command.” There was mockery in the master’s voice and eyes, but Vierra was not touched by it. To her this would just be another ordeal in a long line of ordeals, and it did not raise any surge of emotion inside her anymore. Even expecting a child did not. Vierra knew that the knife, under her shirt, would talk and persuade even more convincingly the next morning.

  The master put Vierra to stand beside the table, where Ambjorn could see all of her in the glow of the fire. Ambjorn looked at her for a while.

  “Unfortunately I have to refuse your offer, but please do not be offended, for it is not for lack of your hospitality. The fault is mine. I do not want by my side a woman who only does it because she is told to.”

  A wrinkle appeared between the master’s eyes. Normally someone had to pay for that look with bruises and sores. The look disappeared as fast as it had come, however.

  “So be it, I will fetch the beer.” The master got up and left Vierra and Ambjorn alone to the room in the longhouse.

  Vierra looked at Ambjorn with new eyes. Viking men were stranger to her than the animals of the forest. The men of her own people could be fierce, but toward women they were always respectful, even if the woman was a bad hunter or from an unknown tribe. These men were different. They respected their own, but slaves were like cattle to them. Ambjorn’s refusal had brought up memories in her mind, memories from a time when she had some value, and her will some weight. Behind those brown eyes was hidden something that she hadn’t faced during her three years of anguish.

  “How do you live by yourselves, alone here in the middle of the forest?” Ambjorn asked Vierra, who was absently standing beside the table. The note of his speech had changed from a stiff guest’s talk to a more direct, intimate one.

  Vierra bent over toward the man and whispered an answer.

  “Be careful, or you will stay too. You do not cross that forest so easily. How on earth did you manage to even get here?”

  Vierra’s speech was cut off when Oder, who had noticed that the master had left, ran to the room. Words from the hasty man flowed quickly, stumbling onto each other.

  “How did you cross the forest alive? Let us leave at this instant, now is our chance. This is a sign from God, do you not understand this, man?” As he spoke, Oder grabbed Ambjorn by the shoulder, as if wanting to drag this seated, large man to the edge of the forest with his two hands.

  Ambjorn looked at Oder with resentment, and didn’t move an inch. Emptied pints could be heard in his voice.

  “Should I leave like a thief in the night and break the hospitality given to me? I do not think so. Your master has done nothing wrong, so I have no reason to be dishonorable.” He swept Oder’s hand away from his shoulder. Oder couldn’t say a word, he just breathed heavily.

  “Well, you know best what you do,” Vierra blurted. There was bitterness in her voice.

  Ambjorn prepared to answer, when the opening door interrupted him. The master returned to the house.

  He was carrying a small barrel made of dark wood. He ordered the slaves to the table and told Oder to get more wood for the crackling fire. Then he struck the barrel open and ran a thick, dark drink to the guest’s stein.

  “This is my best and strongest beer. When I came to this place, that oak was already growing in the glade, just like it is now. Its acorns and sap I have always mixed to the festive beer, which I have saved for special moments. This is one of those.”

  The master filled his own pint too, and drank a toast with the guest. Then he lifted one more stein to the table and said plainly:

  “Wolfgirl, now you will have beer as well.”

  Vierra obeyed her master’s order. The drink was bad and bitter, but it warmed her half-empty stomach fast.

  There was strength in the dark drink. Already after one pint Vierra had to squint her eyes to see properly, and when she turned her head she felt like falling. Voices of the men mixed in her ears, and Vierra was no longer sure where they came from. There were other voices as well; strange, silent whispers that seemed to come through the walls.

  The master’s face glowed with satisfaction as he spoke over the table:

  In the bowels of The Oak

  Secret knowledge lies

  Wisdom from the elder time

  There the sour lore cries

  Hear me now you honored guest

  See who sits beside you

  She is not a slave at all

  Your wife I brought here to

  Ambjorn looked at Vierra, but his brown eyes did not see a wiry, thin slave gir
l. He grabbed the woman in his arms and carried her away with shaky steps, until finally laying her down on the wall bench, in the furthest corner of the house. The master’s beer churned inside them both, doing its own magic. From the background came the master’s laugh. Bitter and sardonic, it flew in their faces. It mocked their worthless wills, which the master seemed to hold in his grasp and direct according to every whim of his malevolent mind.

  What happened between Vierra and Ambjorn wasn’t at all unknown to her. Often she had been forced to the thing that men, through the ages, have been able to force women into. It had been violent and ugly, and a free woman from the Kainu tribe could not have imagined that kind of thing to be even possible.

  This time it was different. It was as if the man had opened gates holding tenderness inside him and allowed the emotion to flow out. For long years that gate had been closed, without any destination to vent that abundance of feeling and goodwill, which this exceptional man carried within him. A man of his stature could not show that kind of weakness in presence of other Vikings.

  As far in the darkness as Vierra was, the man managed to reach and touch her soul. Ambjorn blew to life that withering flame, which before had burned wildly inside the young woman, and brought a spark of hope amid all that cruelty and misery. The stream of passion took the woman with it and brought her back to life.

  Vierra fell to a deep sleep, into a dream where she could hear a small voice from her stomach speaking.

  “Can you see me?”

  Vierra could. The girl had dark hair like she did and dark eyes like the master, but the man’s evil had not infected her.

  The girl caressed Vierra’s hair with a solemn look in her dark eyes.

  “I will wait for you until you are ready.”

  Vierra tried to answer, but her consciousness slid back towards the world of the awaken, and the girl with her dark eyes faded away into nothingness.