Swishing forwards, we see no signs of life, no tracks, no hidden entries to animal burrows buried underneath the drifts, no frozen animal droppings anywhere. Then, in late morning, we hit a trail that meanders up a hill. At the top, we find fresh caribou prints that peter out when we lose the trail in a patch of ice. In sheer frustration, someone releases a string of curses while the most seasoned tracker among us, a man with a frost beard and a red, bulbous nose, scans the area for more markings.
“Why don’t we continue in the direction of the headlands where the caribou used to be plentiful?” I suggest.
“I don’t like that idea,” Gunnar sniffs.
“Let’s draw for it. If Freydis pulls the longest stick, we’ll follow her,” Ospak says.
In the end, I win. In the growing darkness we crest a hill and find a barren wasteland of frozen rock stretching out towards the sea. My eyes sweep the snow-covered plains, but there are no herds, no deer, no anything, not even birds.
“Let’s go further beyond that point,” someone shouts overtop of the wailing wind.
“Neinn,” I shout. “I have come this way before with Einar when it was summertime and the sheep were grazing in the fields. The cliff edges are unstable. There are slippery rocks underneath the snow and a sheer drop-off straight ahead.”
Leaning down, I remove my snowshoes. Then I stand up tall and turn around, shielding my eyes to look beyond the land towards the sea. Just then, I spot a seal whose head is partially sticking out of the still grey waters where there are sheets of floating ice. I lick my lips. Then I grab my spear. A moment later, I start to run, even as I hear the men cry out.
“Stop. You’ll scare it off!”
“You’ll fall through the ice!”
Heeding their warnings, I slow my pace and take stock of where to place my feet as I continue to track the seal. In one quick move, it dives down deep and disappears. When it fails to resurface, I grow impatient. My breathing is ragged, my thoughts are sharp. Fingering my spear, I take aim below the water line. An instant later, the seal returns and without hesitating I release the shot.
“You hit it!” someone shouts amid joyous cheers.
Shading my eyes against the frosty brilliance, I try to spot my kill. Far off in the distance, I see its body pop up again with my spear sticking out of it. An instant later, the seal dives down deep, taking my spear with it. Behind me the shouts echo through the blustery white against the cries of the moaning wind.
My throat begins to close.
“Your aim was good,” Thorgrim says as he runs up, followed by the rest of them.
I ignore them all as I continue to scan the open sea. Nothing moves. In the winter haze, the grey sky turns dark and the northern lights begin to dance in a display of purplish-blues. The patterns gyrate wildly, morphing into bands of greens and orange-red, swirling hypnotically in the dark.
Thorgrim looks up. “It’s clear that you’ve been well-trained, Freydis Eiriksdöttir. I will be sure to tell the chieftain that I’m impressed.”
That night I shuffle into the longhouse in a dejected state. As soon as I step across the threshold, I catch a whiff of roasting meat and my stomach growls. Warily I look around.
“Freydis. Come and receive your share,” Thorvard calls. I remove my sealskin boots and my heavy frozen hides. He is rotating a roasting stick full of sizzling meat that sits across an open fire.
“Come eat,” Thorvard says again. “By Óðinn’s beard, I can’t have you starve to death.”
The room grows silent. The fire spits out sparks. My mouth starts to water as I step forwards into the light. As I pass Éowyn, she glances down.
“Where’s my goat?” I suddenly ask as I scan the faces in the room.
“Here,” Thorvard mumbles. He is chewing meat. Grease layers the hairs that line his whiskered lips.
“Where?” I ask.
“We are eating mutton for dinner at my hearth tonight.”
“Where is Brúsi?” I ask carefully.
Thorvard turns to Ivor. “Didn’t I tell you she would be difficult?”
Ivor sighs. His hands fall open. His shoulders slump.
“The good people of Gardar would like to thank you for fattening up your goat in these harsh times,” my husband continues as he leans forwards to pluck the chunks of meat off his roasting stick. He almost burns himself when he goes to bite the remaining piece of chevon that has been cooked to perfection.
Staring stupidly, I have difficulty discerning what is real and what is false. Nothing seems as it should.
“Where is my goat, you bastard!”
Impulsively, I lunge, and Thorvard is caught off guard. With a little cry, he falls backwards as my fists fly up and I begin to slap him repeatedly. As if in a fog, I hear the high-pitched wail of my own cry. Then, with a fiendish look, I take a giant breath and give a tremendous shove that propels Thorvard backwards into the fire.
Swearing, he regains his footing and struggles up, but I am ready. My hands lock around his throat, and I kick his balls and hear him choke. The wad of meat clogs his airway so he can’t breathe. Gleefully, I watch his eyes go wide before his face begins to turn a shade of purplish-grey. In a panic, he struggles to pull my hands off his throat, but he gurgles wetly and I see the terror in his eyes.
When it looks as though he might pass out, I run my fingernails down his cheek with such force that rivulets of beet-red blood spurt from the gash. Gleefully, I spit on him, drawing on my villainous she-devil’s blood, my dragon’s fire, my shieldmaiden self.
“May your stomach writhe with cramps and your arse bleed in pain from the waste you shit out after ingesting my little goat,” I scream hysterically. I am aware of horrific heart pain, of a grief so raw that I am sliced in half. My head reels and I see stars as my toe delivers such a vicious kick to Thorvard’s balls that he doubles up in pain.
They pull me off him. It takes three men. In the fray, my nails connect with Thorvard’s flesh, and I delight when I hear his desperate sounds – the sweet blood-gurgling breathless gasps. By the gods, I hope to leave him scarred for life, he is such a dog.
In the end, the settlers of Gardar do not understand my grief. I listen uncaringly as they grumble about my hot-headedness and my lack of respect for starving men. Hild’s husband – a sour-faced Norseman whom I do not like – labels me “a difficult wife” which makes me frown. Einar and Éowyn say that I am overreacting to Brúsi’s loss. Even when the children look at me with their hungry eyes, I say nothing in my own defense. No one seems to understand. Even the Asgard gods have failed me.
I have no one.
Chapter Six
I have never worn a Jorvik cap
In the weeks that follow I am morose and moody, a husk of a woman with no more to lose, no more disappointments to endure. To distance myself from Thorvard, I volunteer to go out hunting almost every day. I get good at harpooning and gaffing seals, but when I make the kill I feel nothing – no pride, no joy, not even the relief that comes in knowing that we will have food to eat for a few more days.
When winter turns to spring, the settlers, still reeling from the hardships faced over the long winter months, return to their huts. After they leave, Thorvard has no reason to restrain himself, and I grow more and more afraid of him. In working hard to pluck out the worry that thistles deep, I suffer sleepless nights and abhorrent thoughts. Thorvard has made me into someone cruel, someone who is consumed by so much fear and sorrow that I cloak myself in anger and push them all away.
I am standing with Ivor in the yard one day when we hear the galloping hooves of a fast-approaching horse. Glancing up, I am surprised to see Faðir’s messenger.
“We haven’t seen him all winter. If he came all this way in the melting snow, the message must be dire,” Ivor mutters underneath his breath.
“Hear ye! There is news for Freydis Eiriksdöttir,” Alf calls as he reins his horse in and dismounts. His face is mud-splattered and his cheeks are flaming red. He throws the gro
wing crowd a hasty glance and then he bows to me. “Mistress, the message concerns your faðir.”
“Speak,” I command.
“Our great goði of Greenland, the fearsome Eirik the Red, has…” He glances sideways, and my body stiffens. The messenger leans in closely. “Freydis, your faðir has died.”
I gawk at him. Far off in the distance, I spot an eagle flying in circles and instantly I know that it is Faðir’s fylgja. They say that when a person dies, the guardian of his spirit appears in a different form. How fitting. The powerful eagle is the bravest of all birds, symbolic of freedom and victory, of inspiration and the courage to look ahead. As I stare at it, the eagle leaves me, swooping low across the land.
“I swear by Óðinn’s eye that it was for the best,” Alf continues in a rush. “Your faðir was suffering. After he fell off his horse, the wound festered, and his skin turned green. The good women of Brattahlíð tried herbs and salves and blood-letting to no avail. The gyoja even advised that the leg be removed, but your faðir pushed her off.”
I feel the urge to cry, but no tears come. The wind cuts into the furs that line my back and I flip up my hood as the seagulls begin to shriek.
“Your goodly mother wants you home,” the messenger whispers softly. I resist the urge to throw myself into his arms. “She asks that you return before the body starts to smell. We kept him frozen in the snow, but the ground is thawing.”
I turn away and stare across the ice-capped sea.
“Come, mistress. Sit thee down,” the messenger whispers softly as he takes me gently by the arm. “I’ll go find your goodly husband and share the news. Gods willing, he will see the need to return at once to Brattahlíð only because my lady, your poor mother, is not doing well.”
“Is the path clear of ice and snow?” I whisper, my voice breaking.
“Yes, but the mud is bad and some areas were flooded so we needed to take a different route.”
Faðir’s image flares, and for just a moment I see his laughing eyes. Then the vision fades and all I hear is the whistling wind, a rise of voices, thin moans, and gasps.
“Your mother needs you, Freydis,” Alf says, squinting as he looks at me.
Faðir is dead. He is lost to me. He is dead and gone. I would have gone to him, but I had been waiting for the snows to melt. Now there is no one to defend me from Thorvard’s fists.
“I will go to her,” I say just as Thorvard comes to sit beside me on the bench.
Taking charge, he orders a thrall to fetch my best apron dress – the one with tailored panels and an embroidered kyrtle to mark my rank as mistress of his house. The thrall scurries off and quickly returns with the dress in hand. She also brings a wool caftan with a single silver-rimmed chest-brooch.
“I’ll have nothing to do with these garments!” I say hotly. I have never worn a Jorvik cap, and I am no longer accustomed to the embroidery, the couched cords, the colored strips of fabric, the woven bands, and the fancy stitch work that a woman of my station should be displaying in an attempt to demonstrate her husband’s wealth. Neinn! These garments are not for me. My shieldmaiden breeches should suffice.
“Come now, Freydis,” Thorvard admonishes. My husband keeps his voice low and his tone even. I smirk when I see him working hard to hide his shame. “You’ll dishonor your faðir’s memory if you don’t dress finely.”
“Faðir wouldn’t care about my clothes,” I say, glancing up when he sniffs. I do not tell him that I have no fear of Mother. She will understand when she discovers what I’ve been through living on this godsforsaken farm.
I call for my horse, feeling my husband’s eyes burn my back. Behind me I hear shuffling feet. When I turn around, Alf is fiddling with his cap. I wouldn’t put it past him to gossip about my defiance and disrespect. By Óðinn’s beard, I’ll be glad if my manly garb becomes the talk to beat in the coming days.
“Let’s be off,” I announce. No longer will I wait for men. No longer will I pander to my husband, the mighty Thorvard of Gardar.
We ride into valleys still half-covered in dirty clumps of ice and snow. It is hard going, and my horse whinnies as it struggles to plough through the mud.
When we reach the mouth of the fjord, Alf advises Thorvard to take a different route – a longer one where the snow is not waist-deep. Thorvard follows Alf’s advice, and we pass through areas with slippery rocks covered with a matting of frost crystals that sparkle brightly in the sun. When thoughts of Faðir pop up unexpectedly, I try to close off thought and focus on the speech I’ll make when I tell Mother about Thorvard and what I’ve lived through. Even now, he disgusts me, dressed in all his finery.
As soon as we arrive in Brattahlíð, Mother, Thorvald, and Thorstein come out to greet us. Mother’s hair has greyed since I’ve been away, and there are crow’s feet and dark half-moon circles that line her eyes. Dismounting quickly, I fall into her outstretched arms and drink in her homey scent before registering just how bony she has become.
“Welcome home, döttir,” she whispers with a tired smile that quickly fades when she pulls back to study me. “Your appearance is much changed.”
“How so?” I ask. I do not break. Her eyebrows arch into a frown.
“Your nose,” she says. I shrug. Thorvard is hovering behind my back.
“We’ve missed you,” my brother, Thorstein, interrupts as he steps forth. He is a handsome boy who has grown taller since I’ve been away. Respectfully he bows his head and fumbles with the brooch that holds his fox furs together at his throat. I throw him a sad little smile, and he blinks at me and smiles as he steps into my embrace.
“Faðir called your name before he died,” he mumbles so softly I can barely hear. His voice snags. The room falls silent. Mother draws a hand up to her mouth and I release myself from Thorstein and go to her and clasp her hand. She draws me in.
“I am home now,” is all I say. For many months I have longed for this moment, imagining how it would be. Strangely, I feel nothing.
Mother rubs my back before she lets me go. Then she invites us to follow her to the gathering hall where Faðir and his advisors used to meet. The place is eerie and dark and far too quiet. As I glance around, I see a spider web hanging from a blackened beam.
“It doesn’t seem the same now that Faðir isn’t here.” The words come out in whispered breaths.
“I’m glad you came,” Mother says.
Thorvard coughs to clear his throat. When he steps forwards, he places his hand on the small of my back. “Freydis couldn’t stay away,” he says, glancing down at me.
“Come. I’ll show you to your bedchamber,” Mother says. “I’ve put you in a private annex at the back beside my two remaining sons.”
Thorvard sighs. “As a family, it is important that we grieve together.”
“There are also other matters that we must discuss,” Mother manages. Her face goes pale.
“Good lady, you mustn’t worry now that I am here,” Thorvard says. I glare at him.
“I knew I could rely on you,” Mother smiles. Her eyes well up.
“Thorstein, bring us all a flask of wine,” I say quickly. There is smoldering rage that I must stomp out before the anger flares, morphing into a wildfire I can’t contain.
“We’ll drink to Faðir’s memory,” Thorvald says. He looks uncomfortable.
“He would like that,” I say simply.
That night we hold a feast in Faðir’s honor. Thorvard insists I wear my Jorvik cap, and he sits beside me in his finest garb holding himself like the rooster he has become. I am certain he anticipates great things now that Faðir is dead and Leif is gone.
As for my grieving mother, she orders the thralls to serve dish after dish of Faðir’s favorite foods. While we are eating, she becomes a woman of decorum who floats around the great hall, asking our clansmen about their farms, about their families, about their health. When our kinsmen offer their condolences, Mother assures them that even in Faðir’s absence, the land will flourish and more set
tlers will come to Greenland’s shores. Hearing her speak, I am convinced that she is blind. Even I know that Faðir’s advisers are fighting men who plot to steal Faðir’s land. She fools herself if she thinks these so-called trustworthy pirates will allow her to keep her farm and all her wealth – unless, of course, she weds again.
The feast drags on and the skål is refilled with beer and shared among Faðir’s friends many times. Then the skald takes up his lyre and begins to tell the saga of Faðir’s life, strumming softly as the hearth fire flares. As he speaks, the crowd goes silent and Mother stills. Afterwards, she comes to sit beside me on the bench. We are surrounded by Faðir’s most loyal men, who blink like owls and drink like fish.
Mother takes a breath. “Freydis, you have disappointed me,” she says, leaning into me so that no one hears.
There is a cacophony of rumbling voices whirling around us. It is all I can do to contain myself. Shocked, I shoot up tall.
“Thorvard told me that you are difficult to live with and that your womb is barren,” she continues soberly. “Your faðir worked hard to make the match. How come you have not conceived a child?”
I feel the insult so deeply, it is like someone stabbed me with a knife. I draw my shaking hand across my mouth. “Mother, life with Thorvard is not what you think,” I manage.
“Tomorrow at the break of dawn you’ll go to see the gyoja,” Mother sighs in a brittle voice. “I asked her to prepare a bundle of fertility herbs. She will bless your marriage once again.”
A volcano of hot anger bubbles up and I vow to avoid the gyoja and her vexing spells. Mother silences me when I go to speak.
“You should do your duty to your faðir’s house and speak with his advisers. They are pleased to see you wearing such a fine Jorvik cap.”
She turns her face away from me, and as she gazes out into the crowd, I study her in the firelight.
“I need to speak with you alone,” I finally sputter as I feel my hands balling into fists.
“Not tonight. I am too tired,” she whispers without moving.
The Voyage of Freydis Page 6