The Voyage of Freydis

by Tamara Goranson

  Just before the dark, cold winter months arrive, we celebrate the Feast of Ullr where the weapons are blessed. The next day, Alf arrives from Brattahlíð.

  “Hail to you, Thorvard of Gardar. I bring joyful news from the Eiriksson farm. Your good brother, Leif the Lucky, has just returned to Greenland.”

  In my excitement, I lose the rhythm of my spindle work. A ball of wool falls off my lap and unravels as it rolls pell-mell across the floor.

  “By the gods, we must rejoice,” Thorvard announces carefully as he stands. His lips are bloodless; his eyes are hounded by anger amidst a wash of confusion. For the first time in many moons, I feel alive when I see the panic trampling across my husband’s face.

  “Sweet Óðinn, Leif has come home to us!” I exclaim, glancing uneasily at Thorvard.

  It is as though I can breathe again.

  “I thought we had lost the boy!” Ivor exclaims as he emerges from the dappled grey shadows at the back. The room erupts.

  “How long has Leif been back on Greenland’s shores?” someone shouts overtop the noisy din.

  The messenger is given a drinking horn. “Leif the Lucky came home two days ago.”

  “Leif the Lucky? What name is this? That boy never courted Lady Luck,” Ivor says good-naturedly.

  “Thor’s hammer, I’d like to know his tale,” someone yells.

  “Leif will tell his tale himself,” Alf announces loudly. He wipes the sweat off his ruddy face. “Forsooth, he is soon expected in your yard.”

  “In my yard? Does he bring his men?” Thorvard frets. His brows furrow into knots. .

  “Já. Not only that, but he brings his bride.”

  “His bride?” I gasp as my head swivels. I look towards the door and feel a sudden shift, almost like the ground is moving.

  “Her name is Thorgunna,” Alf informs the gathering crowd. The messenger takes a swig of ale and then swipes his forearm across his moustache hairs to remove the froth. “She is the döttir of a Scottish chief – a vyking raider from one of the Hebrides islands.”

  The redness in Thorvard’s face works its way into his neck. “Does your tongue have thistles in it? Speak up so all of us can hear,” he barks in a harsh tone that squelches the jocularity in the room.

  “Leif chanced upon her ship on his way back,” Alf replies as he eyes my husband uneasily. “It was Greenland-bound when it was driven off course in unfavorable winds. Leif says he found the skerry grounded on a rock.” He clears his throat before nudging the blacksmith, Bjarke Akselsen, with a wink. “Leif tells me he had his work cut out to save her kin, but he somehow managed to anchor close to the reef and send his rowboat over to rescue all fifteen of them. Despite his efforts, Thorgunna’s faðir failed to like him. Thorgunna’s brothers liked him even less, but Leif has wolf blood, as we all know.”

  The men laugh boisterously. I steal a glance at Thorvard who is slouching against a post, listening with his arms folded stiffly across his chest. I can almost feel the heat steaming off him from where I stand.

  My eyes dart back to Alf who hooks his knobby thumb into his belt. His hefty gut sticks out as he throws himself back on his heels. Thorvard’s men lean forwards to catch his words.

  “The wreck had been carrying house timber to the Greenland settlement. Leif tried to salvage as much as he could, but his own holds were full. He’ll go back for it next spring, I’m sure.”

  “What about the maid?” someone yells from the back.

  “By the time the winds died down and Leif was ready to set sail again, Thorgunna said she was in love with him.” Alf stops and grins. Someone whistles loudly overtop of a flurry of catcalls. Alf quiets the crowd with an outstretched hand. “Given that Thorgunna is a woman of such high birth, her kinsmen were not of a mind to let Leif marry her, even though they knew that the young lovers had been together in a carnal way, but Leif is a lucky bastard, is he not?” The messenger crudely points down low. Thorvard’s men explode in laughter and I feel a rush of heat in my cheeks.

  “Did he tell her that Greenland was her destiny?” Hoskuld, a Norseman with a grizzly beard and a hawk-like nose, banters teasingly. The messenger ignores the man, but his eyes sport a playful gleam.

  “Leif was reluctant to elope, but he was even less inclined to make a formal offer of marriage to the maid’s noble faðir. In the end, he gave Thorgunna a gold ring, a wool cloak, and a belt of walrus ivory, and they stole away like two young doves while her faðir slept. Praise Loki for giving Leif such trickster’s luck!”

  There are more heckles from the back. Alf is jovial as he fiddles with his drinking horn. “Save your toasts,” he says good-naturedly. “Leif and Thorgunna will soon be here.”

  Thorvard pushes his way through the rowdy crowd. It is evident that jealousy licks him like a dog.

  I circle around the crowd like the ethereal ghost I have become and follow Vali, a tall broad-shouldered Norseman, into the yard. When Leif and Thorgunna and their retinue of thralls ride into Gardar on well-groomed stallions that have been loaded down with furs and goods, I bite my tongue and hold back tears.

  Thorgunna is a striking woman with white-blonde hair and unblemished skin. The polar-bear skins that trim her long-sleeved ankle-length coat contrast nicely against the pallor of her face and her rosebud lips. I gawk at her. Ivor glances at me from underneath a darkened brow.

  Just then, I catch a glimpse of my handsome brother, whose face shines with tempered pride. With a burst of joy, my heart swells and a profound relief sweeps over me, and my hand flies up to cup my mouth.

  Leif greets Thorvard with a magnanimous smile. My brother has fattened up since I saw him last. I marvel at the sight of his short-whiskered beard, at the beauty of the fox’s pelt draped across his massive chest. He throws Thorgunna a lovesick look. From the expression on his face, he is clearly proud of his trophy wife. In truth, he has never looked so fine.

  When Leif spots me in the crowd, I run forwards like a silly maid and throw myself into his outstretched arms. “Brother, my brother, you are home at last,” I whisper before my voice cracks. Leif crushes me against his chest. Afterwards he holds me back and stares at the fading bruises working their way down my jaw and neck, at the scar that cuts across my cheek, at my crooked nose and the black smudges underneath my eyes.

  “Dear sister…” A shadow falls across his face. His eyes are pools of flickering light. “How now? Dost thou weep for sorrow or for joy?”

  For many moons I have yearned to hear his gravelly voice, to see his handsome face. By the gods, there are no runic inscriptions long enough to encompass the prayers that I have invoked to see him safely home.

  “I have some news to share,” Leif says as he leans in and whispers in my ear. “I have brought my goodly wife to your farm. Her name is Thorgunna. She knows how much you mean to me.”

  I am suddenly shy and awkward, a little jealous, and somewhat vexed. Leif grins at me with his dimpled cheeks, the ones I used to like to pinch.

  “I am glad that you are wed,” I finally manage as Leif turns from me and scans the yard.

  “Come, Thorgunna. Meet my sister, Freydis of Gardar.”

  Thorgunna greets me with the perfect mix of grace and charm. As she goes to embrace me with her outstretched arms, I unexpectedly feel something underneath her furs. A bump. A hard, round pregnant bulge. She has managed what I cannot. Leif eyes us closely with a beaming face, but there is something in his countenance. He has matured. Certainly, he has become a man during our time apart. In my periphery, I see my husband striding towards us.

  “Welcome to my farm,” Thorvard calls. He is agitated, a man uncertain of his place. “Why don’t you shed your furs and set down your things. We will set a feast, and you can tell us all about your voyage across the northern sea. Of course, I will insist that you stay with us over the winter months.”

  “Your farm is not rich enough to host my men for all that time.”

  Thorvard takes the insult with a grin and I look away, embarra
ssed. Just then, Thorgunna tugs on my arm and I steer her into the longhouse that I have come to hate. A hearth fire has been stoked and the room is way too warm. Thorgunna rubs her hands as a joyful grin spreads across her face.

  “The journey to your farm has been long and hard. I didn’t realize you lived so far away from Brattahlíð.”

  Thorgunna is so stately and refined that I am suddenly conscious of my appearance.

  “Thorvard’s farm is remote,” I say carefully, choking on the words. “I’ll let you rest after bringing some food and drink. Then I’ll show you to your own private bed closet. You can rest there for a while.”

  She lays her hand on my arm. “Thank you, sister,” she says as she studies the bruises along my hairline with her ice-blue eyes the color of mountain water. “Leif was worried about you. He insisted that we come.”

  Pulling back, I snag a breath. “You’ll be comfortable here on Thorvard’s farm. He is a wealthy man, as you can see.”

  She stills her face. “I’ve heard Leif talk about Thorvard’s wealth.”

  “I’m sure you have,” is all I say.

  By the time we sit down to a hearty feast, the longhouse is overcrowded with thralls and farmers who have come to welcome Leif back home. Thorvard is the perfect host and my brother is the perfect guest. I am seated between the two of them. The smell of men who have toiled all day wafts towards me, and I can barely concentrate for the stink of them.

  “Leif the Lucky, we are eager to hear about this new land you discovered,” Thorvard says officiously. I hate the false sweetness that drips from his serpent lips. Leif laughs openly before beckoning for a thrall to bring him wine.

  “Let no man call me coward,” Leif calls out as he begins his tale. “I was bold enough to travel to a northern land where I discovered heavily wooded shores.”

  The noisy din dies down and I study Leif carefully in the firelight. He is encircled by the men and women of Thorvard’s farm who hang on his every word as the hearth fire smoke threads up and out through the smoke hole. When he cracks a joke or addresses them by name, their eyes light up and they banter back and forth with him, treating him as if he were a god.

  “After leaving Greenland, we sailed in calm, flat seas for days on end, surrounded by majestic chunks of ice. Then we hit a wall of fog and we had to wait for the winds to turn.” Leif is confident as he addresses the avid crowd. Thorvard has had a wood fire lit, and the smell of cedar, pine, and juniper is luxurious.

  “Eventually we passed a stone-slabbed land that was so flat we dubbed it ‘Helluland’. There we cast anchor and went ashore. Finding nothing, we put out to sea again and found a second land that was forested with many white-sand beaches along its coast. I named that land ‘Markland’. Even though my men begged me to explore some more, I took a chance and sailed for two more days. Then I found a third land where my longboat became stranded in a low tide just off the coast. Instead of waiting, we abandoned ship and went ashore with our sleeping-sacks and enough provisions for the night.

  “Once on the beach, we discovered that the shoreline waters were teeming with all kinds of fish. The salmon and cod fed us well. And the land! It was plentiful with berries and fruits of every kind. So I said to the crew: ‘This place will be our new home! Look yonder at those grassy fields. That land will feed our cows and provide the needed grasslands for our sheep.’”

  “What did you do when winter came?” I ask as I stand to fill my husband’s goblet with the berry wine my brother brought.

  “Good sister, I see that you are eager to hear my tale. Have patience, Freydis. I’ll answer as I go along.”

  “Take all the time you need,” Thorvard says as he throws me a nasty look.

  “I’ll tell you this,” Leif continues, ignoring us. “The land offered good hunting, but we all agreed that to venture inland and lay down traps before the winter snows began would be foolish. Instead, we dug a pit house into the ground with a turfed-over roof. When that was done, we immediately built a large byre with stalls for cows and sheep before turning our attention to finding the best turf for building a longhouse. We had no time to spare before the snows set in. Truly, I tell you, it was the harshest winter I’ve ever seen. Those storms! They almost froze us out, but we survived. When the spring thaws came, I called the place ‘Leifsbidur’.”

  “I hear you brought back timber to trade.” Thorvard’s voice is lost in a sudden swell of noise as the food arrives. He clears his throat. “Were the forests plentiful?”

  “Já! We felled so many trees that I lost count. Before I left, I loaded up my ship with enough timber to build another ship. If you want, I’d be willing to trade you logs for iron ore and a herd of milking cows. Thorgunna sure does like her cream.”

  “I’ll think on it.”

  “I swear, wood is so much better to burn than peat.”

  Thorvard quickly reaches forwards to grab the arm of a passing thrall. Her eyes grow large when he orders her to bring out one of his few remaining kegs of wine that he imported at great cost.

  “Thorvard, were you not saving the wine to mark the birth of our firstborn child?” I whisper quietly.

  “Do not question me, woman! I have waited too long for you to conceive. I’ll drink it now.”

  When the keg is tapped, Thorvard pours himself a generous horn and swigs it down in one giant gulp. Then he offers wine to all. Leif waves him off.

  “I only thirst to tell my tale!”

  My husband emits a harsh, raspy laugh. Outside, we hear a rush of wind pounding against the door of the feasting hall and rattling the hinges with a hissing sound. As the wind dies down, Leif leans forwards.

  “Remember Tyrkir, from childhood?” he asks me with a wink. “He was the one with the protruding forehead and the darting eyes and deep wrinkles in his face.”

  “Já,” I say. “I remember him fondly. He was a master of all types of tricks. You called him foster-faðir, if I recall.”

  “He sailed with me to Vinland’s shores,” Leif says as he fingers the tip of his drinking horn. “By the gods, he is a curious man – a true explorer with courageous blood.”

  “Why mention him?” I ask, glancing sideways. My husband is still fuming about the way my brother snubbed his wine.

  “It came to pass that shortly after we arrived in Leifsbidur, Tyrkir disappeared for many days on end.” Leif takes an earspoon and begins to dig out wax. “Only foolish, desperate men do that, considering that there are skraelings with red faces running wild in that wilderness on those distant shores.”

  “You saw skraelings?” Ivor asks. His eyebrows arch high as he stabs a chunk of meat with his hunting knife.

  “Já, good man! We traded with those outlanders over many seasons. Those Red Men know their furs.”

  At this, Ivor sniffs and my brother laughs. Leif turns back to me. “After Tyrkir disappeared, we worried about his whereabouts. Some wondered if he had been captured by a group of natives who had been skulking around our settlement the day before. In truth, we wondered if Tyrkir had been eaten, beard and all.”

  “Do the skraelings eat men in those northwestern lands?” I ask, horrified. My brother shrugs. The hearth fire shimmies across his face as he reaches forth to snag a handful of grapes from a bowl.

  “When Tyrkir finally returned to Leifsbidur, he came bearing clumps of grapes like these. The grapes were so sweet that we gorged ourselves until our bellies ached. The next day he showed us where to find these grapes on the vine. He also showed us fields of self-sown wheat and forests of trees that stretched beyond our line of sight. By Óðinn’s beard, we will not have to rely on the Danes – those marauding pigs – to bring us anything anymore.”

  A shout rises from the men who feast. My brother grins and turns to Thorvard, who sits between us, nurturing another drink.

  “Good brother, listen closely. Tyrkir sat me down the other day to calculate how much profit we made after sailing all the way to Vinland. He says I am a wealthy man. Trading for these
wine grapes alone will make me rich. Next spring, I plan on making a voyage to Norway to sell my furs. Eventually I’ll build another ship.”

  Thorvard’s eyes linger on Leif’s black hair as he slowly takes another sip of wine. From the back of the smoke-filled room, someone asks about Tyrkir.

  “I’ll tell you this, my friend,” Leif announces as he stands up and motions to the crowd to simmer down. “Tyrkir is on board my ship guarding the trading goods we brought back.” The noisy din crescendos until someone blows a cowhorn to hush the crowd.

  “Good people of Gardar,” Leif continues as his eyes scan the room. “I have dubbed the new territory that I found ‘Vinland’ because of these plentiful and delicious grapes that you see in my hands. These grapes make the most excellent wine. I have brought some for all of you.”

  At this, a noisy cheer erupts. Leif sweeps up Thorgunna’s fine-boned hand and raises it to his lips. “The gods have blessed me many times,” he announces as he grins at her. “I am Leif the Lucky, son of Eirik the Red of Brattahlíð. I am a vyking explorer of northern lands. Two goði titles I now possess. I am the goði of Greenland and the goði of Leifsbidur on Vinland’s shores!”

  A gleam of anger sizzles in Thorvard’s hawk-like eyes. When one of his thralls offers him more wine to drink, he snaps at her. He has lost his title. He is no longer the favorite. Without power, he is a no one, and I am glad of it.

  Thorvard waits for Leif to sit before he addresses him with stone-cold eyes. “Why are you so eager to reclaim the title of goði of Greenland?”

  His baritone cuts through the chatter as sharply as the cracking ice on a frozen lake.

  “You are newly home, and the council must meet to decide on who will rule,” Thorvard continues, speaking fast. “In your absence I have been in charge.”