That night, Achak and I lie together on his bed of furs in the presence of the men and women of his tribe. They barely pay attention to what we do even when the moans escape from Achak’s throat. As the fire flickers across the markings on his chest, his raven tattoo almost seems to come alive, and I blink and smile and kiss and groan. In response, Achak whispers wondrous words – words that land like dandelion fluff, tickling my ears with their wonderfully strange rhythms.
In the dark, I shiver, knowing that if I could make him understand, he would mend the bruises and stop up the blood leaking from my broken heart.
One night, as the moonbeams stream through the open smoke hole illuminating our red-white flesh moving together as we make love, I look deeply into Achak’s eyes and see myself as someone undeserving of his tender touch. I worry that I will never be good enough, that my red hair is no match for some other girl’s Beothuk skin, that Achak will tire of me and go off to hunt and leave me here to sleep alone.
Our fervent kisses are long and hard, our pulses quick, our heartbeats loud. Just as I am falling into a sticky cobweb that holds me hostage in a place of uncertainty, Achak’s loving lifts me up. He has an uncanny way of honoring me with his hands and convincing me that I am worth more than just the red color of my hair.
That night my dreams are strange. The Beothuk moon god comes to bless our union while the god Freyja opens doors. Then the raven comes sweeping low across the sky as if attempting to hide us with its molten feathers in order to protect us from the hungry predators that are waiting in the shadows. I bolt awake. Achak stirs beside me and pulls me closer before he comforts me with a string of Beothuk words. Then he kisses me with his Beothuk mouth.
In the coming days, Achak’s people accept me as though the two of us were meant to be. I am convinced they think I seduced him with my red hair. As for the old woman, she smiles at us with her toothless gums before nattering away at Achak who bows his head respectfully. Her only insistence is that I try to eat, that I try to laugh, that I sit cross-legged beside her when she takes her seat around the fire. It is almost as though I have morphed into someone I no longer know.
It is women’s month back in Greenland – that time of year when Norsemen celebrate the Feast of Góablót by taking special care of their wives. The feast has never meant too much to me, but now I understand why the day is marked. It seems like Achak celebrates this feast day all year long. He treats me as though I am an honored wife, a special oosuck, a treasured gift. If truth be told, he dotes on me.
By the time the spring thaws come, Achak’s people have made a special place for me around their fire, and I am beginning to understand a few Beothuk words. One of the young women of the tribe is trying to teach me the Beothuk creation stories while Nashushuk has taken it upon himself to try to tell me, through gestures, about the Great Spirit they revere. Their skald makes me feel at home in their mamateek, even though he is accompanied by a drummer’s beat instead of a lyre and narrating in a language I can’t understand. If Logatha were here, I would tell her that they are like us … and yet they’re not. Their mamateeks are just like our longhouses, but they sing too much when they beat their drums.
One night, I shift uncomfortably in my seat, knowing that Logatha will fault me for all that has happened and that she will blame me for staying in this Beothuk village with these men and women who are not my kin. She will shame me openly. I can’t imagine what I’ll do then.
I get up in silence, searching for a drinking cup. Standing in the shadows, I remember the Norse drinking horns all lined up perfectly on the longhouse shelves back in Leifsbidur. The thought niggles. I begin to tremble and my knees go weak. A moment later, I feel Achak’s arms slipping around my waist, his nose nuzzling at my neck. The darkness closes around us and I take a breath and give in to him. I can’t seem to get enough of him.
Two more weeks come and go, bringing spring storms that violently shake the rafters and rattle the birchbark walls as the snow and ice pelt down, tinkling wildly as the wind gusts roar. Indoors, the fire is cozy and warm, and I spend my time sewing hides and worrying about the fate of my Icelandic friends.
As soon as the storm lets up, I ask Achak to escort me back to Leifsbidur. He tries to tell me that the route is impassable at this time of year but I shrug him off.
“I must go back,” I say.
“Great One will give a sign,” Achak reassures. His voice sounds gruff.
“My people might be dead by then.”
“Hush, oosuck! Release guilt to smoke.”
Logatha’s face is so crystal clear that it is like she is sitting beside me. Outside, there is commotion in the yard sparked by two crows fighting. Abooksigun stands up quickly and goes to check. As he is leaving, Achak turns to me and tries to speak in Norse.
“Little Fox says snows stop. We go.” He points to Nashushuk and Askook. “Friends come. The boy – Abooksigun – takes journey, too. We make trade with Norsemen.”
“We’ll take the canoe when the sea ice melts?” I ask to clarify.
Achak nods.
“It will be too late if we have to wait for the ice to melt.”
“Snowbanks are…” He lifts his arms to show their height.
“Too big?” I finish.
Nashushuk grunts from across the tent and I slide my eyes in his direction. I like this Red Man. He seems to understand that I feel responsible for the welfare of my kin. Staring at him, I think of the dangers I would have to face on my trek back home. The tree wells are likely very deep and the path will be poorly marked; there is probably flooding at this time of year. Worse yet, there are unstable cornices hanging over unseen rocks.
“As soon as we can, we need to leave,” I manage, glancing at the two of them.
Nashushuk brings forth a load of wood to restoke the fire. On his way past, a pinecone slips from the pile. When it hits the ground, the damn thing rolls, and I accidentally step on it and crush it into a misshapen blob. Wincing, I swear when I notice that a prickly part full of tree sap has become lodged into the sole of my foot. When I go to pluck it out, my foot starts to bleed.
The next day the black, sticky sap residue is still there. Try as I might, I can’t seem to rub it off. In that moment, I am reminded of broken pinecone circles and my obligation to return to Leifsbidur to make the circle whole.
For one whole month I am forced to wait. I feel guilty for experiencing joy in the Beothuk tent. I feel guilty for being Achak’s lover, considering that I am Norse. I even feel guilty for rejoicing in the fact that spring is late. It means I can wake up next to Achak every day and I don’t have to worry about traveling back to Leifsbidur.
But guilt takes its toll. For days on end my stomach lurches and I can hardly eat. Even Achak is concerned for me. He melts fresh snow and boils it to make dogwood tea that is known to help with stomach cramps but nothing works. Every morning when I first wake up and catch a whiff of roasting winter flounder and seal-oil broth, I throw up. Then at night when the smoke is thick I feel like gagging and my stomach roils.
I can’t stop worrying until I discover why I feel so ill. Then my lips slip into a ready smile. There is newfound joy, a burst of hope.
On the day Achak asks to braid my hair, I make up my mind to disclose the secret. In a rush as powerful as a waterfall spilling over a mountain ledge, I gather my courage and begin to speak.
“I am with child,” I say in Norse. My lips are quivering and I cannot suppress a growing smile. Achak continues to work my braids. Turning a little in my seat, I feel compelled to repeat myself. This time I try speaking in the Beothuk tongue.
Achak drops his hands. The braid partially unravels as he pulls back and stares at me. For a moment I hold my breath, watching his silhouette flickering in the firelight. He blinks and I see his smile, a smile that fills my eyes with tears. A moment later I find myself wrapped up tightly in his arms as he holds me closely against his chest. When his lips begin to caress my neck, I peek down his shirt and his rave
n tattoo blinks at me.
“The Great Creator will give Raven a döttir,” Achak predicts.
“I will bear you sons,” I tease with a sudden swelling in my chest. I pull back and gaze up into his glassy eyes. His voice catches.
“You will give me a little acorn,” is all he says.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Spirit walkers
With the onset of spring, the days start to lengthen and I begin to feel my body changing and a tenderness in my breasts. Achak is particularly attentive in the evenings when I am so fatigued. He wipes my brow and whispers loving words – the kind of words I have longed to hear. Then he rubs my swollen feet and gives me a soothing tea to sip. Later, when the moon shines down, we come together in the dark and love each other tenderly.
One day, as the melting snow drips steadily outside our tent and the icicles tinkle precariously in the wind, Achak sneaks up behind me and throws his arms around my waist. When I stop laughing, he hands me an ornately carved red wooden box. I marvel at the workmanship. With shaking hands I gently open the birchbark lid. There, cushioned in a bed of moss, I find two earrings made from caribou bones painted red. Etched into the bone are precisely mirrored images, each of two ravens with their wings spread out as they soar across a moonlit sky. The design is intricate and ornate. It is the most beautiful carving I have ever seen.
“Did you make these from the caribou antlers you stole from me?” I ask, swallowing deeply to stop the emotions from bubbling up.
He grins and takes the box from me. Slowly and carefully he draws the earrings out. Tilting my head back, I sit very still so he can fit the treasures into my lobes. When he is done, he stares at me. There is a dimple carving its way into his cheek that I have never noticed, never kissed.
“The earrings are beautiful,” I murmur.
He takes up my hand and places it against his lips. “Ravens play,” he says.
I nod. The dangling earrings bob up and down, brushing against my cheek and my chin.
“I have nothing to give you in return,” I say. Achak shrugs and I catch another whiff of his handsome smell. I love his smell.
“You give me döttir,” he says in broken Norse. He lowers his eyes and glances at my belly where our child grows, and I release a ready laugh.
“The child will make us happy.”
“Achak of the Beothuk tribe is happy inside this tent,” he croons. I cock my head. Behind us, we hear grandmother cough. “See moon?” he says as he points to the earrings. I take one out and stare at it. There is a tiny circle above one raven, a tiny dot that gives off lines of light.
“When I see the moon, I will think of oosuck,” Achak says as if embarrassed. “When you look at the moon, you must think of me.” He looks so serious, I feel myself frowning.
“I think of you always.”
“Listen to the spirits: the air, the water, the fire, the earth. They tell us things. They tell me now to watch the moon.”
“Why?” I ask.
His voice dips low. “Oosuck, when our moccasins follow different paths, both of us will have the moon. We will be together if we look up and share the moon.”
“I will never be apart from you,” I protest. Outside, I hear the songbirds chirping excitedly in the yard.
“When you go hunt caribou, you will leave me,” Achak breathes against my ear.
“Each time I have gone out hunting for caribou, I have found you,” I reply in a teasing tone. I feel confused. He pulls away. I bring my fingers up to trace the red markings on his cheek.
“You go hunt. I go carve,” Achak says with a simple shrug. I smile again. My index finger slowly moves down his chin towards his throat and chest. Moving lower, I circle his raven tattoo with my nail and he smiles a lopsided grin before his eyelids fall shut.
“Our bairn will grow up with a noble faðir,” I proclaim. Achak flicks open one eye before he cracks another smile. Then he studies me with a sober expression on his face.
“The geese return. Listen. They honk,” he says uneasily when we hear them flying overhead.
“Spring is here,” I whisper softly. I keep my voice steady, my face calm.
“Oosuck must want to leave?”
“Is it time to return to Leifsbidur?” I turn my head towards the tent flap where the mosquitoes like to lurk right outside the door. Achak makes an injured noise. When he stands, he begins to pace. I take in the hardened beauty of his face that has lived and risked and fought hard to love.
“Nashushuk speaks. He says there is no more snow on the trails. The path to Leifsbidur is clear.”
“My people need me. It’s time to leave.”
“The raven visits me in sleep,” Achak groans. “The spirits speak.” It seems like he is searching hard to find a word. I am suddenly distracted by the ripple of activity underneath my furs. Gasping delightedly, I reach out for Achak’s hand and pull him closer to feel the magic of our child.
“Already he is strong and brave,” I say energetically as I search Achak’s face. From across the mamateek grandmother senses our excitement and comes to us. Her wrinkled face is a map of lines. She takes the fox collar that she is wearing and draws it tightly closed around her neck.
“Red hair leaves?” she rasps.
“Já,” I say. I feel a rush of gratitude bubbling up. Before meeting her, I was an ugly caterpillar trapped inside a drab cocoon.
“May your moccasins go in peace,” grandmother gushes in the Beothuk tongue. I bow my head respectfully. “Songbird will make new mukluks. You must walk. The ocean ice is still too thick to take a canoe.”
Achak glances at my pregnant belly and my swollen feet. “Is your ankle strong enough to make the trek?”
“I managed before without your help,” I reply.
“I will carve a walking stick,” Achak says. He looks worried. For a moment grandmother studies my pregnant belly before she grabs hold of Achak’s arm and speaks so fast that I can’t comprehend her Beothuk words.
“Grandmother says to rest your feet. It is not good for you to go out hunting anymore.”
I feel an easy grin moving into the corners of my mouth. Achak sees it too.
“Be careful, oosuck,” he says to me in Norse. “I think she wants to keep you here.”
I turn towards the other men in the tent. “Grandmother wants Achak to carry me to Leifsbidur,” I say as loudly as I can, trying to suppress a growing smile. Nashushuk and Abooksigun begin to laugh. Askook stares into the fire.
“Your white bones are too weak to make the hike back to Leifsbidur,” the hunter grunts. I glance at him.
“Askook will carry dried fish back to your people,” Achak says in a gentle voice. “Nashushuk and Megedagik want to come as well. They will hunt along the way.”
“I will come to offer you protection,” Abooksigun chirps. His boy-man bravado makes me grin. If he were Norse, he would rival Loki, the trickster god.
“Grandmother says I may need some brave huntsmen to help me find my way back,” I announce.
Askook’s eyes meet mine. There is something about him I don’t like.
That night, as Achak and I sit around the cooking fire, I lean into him as he inspects his carving piece. When he puts it down and starts with another chore, I take a breath.
“Why does Askook have to come with us?”
“Askook wants to hunt,” he says as he begins knapping an arrowhead. After he is done, he examines it carefully in the firelight. A moment later, he begins to grind away the edges to make them sharp.
“He should stay behind,” I say.
“Askook has long been our friend,” Achak says without glancing up.
“I don’t care,” I pout. “He doesn’t like me, and I don’t trust him.”
For a moment Achak stares into the fire. Then he takes up the arrowhead in his hand and leans into the fire to better see. “Askook does not give trust away too easily,” he says. Leaning back, he reaches over me for a tool.
“One needs to e
arn my trust, too,” I say.
Achak keeps his shoulders bent into his work. “It is not you, oosuck. Askook does not trust Abooksigun. It is hard to let little owls leave the nest without watching over them. Askook wants to come to keep his eye on Abooksigun.”
I release a heavy sigh.
“The trek will be long. Great Spirit will watch over us.”
“Óðinn will guide me home,” I say.
“The walk is far.”
“I would walk to the ends of the earth for my kin.”
“The walk to Leifsbidur will be tough enough.”
The fire leaps before dying down into orange ribbons of flickering light. I stare into the glowing embers and get lost in them.
“I shall be glad to see my friends,” I sigh.
Achak glances up. His eyes meet mine. “The winds will guide you home, and your people will be surprised to see you,” he says in the Beothuk tongue.
At least that is what I think he says.
On the night before we leave, the Beothuk honor me with a feast. I have grown to love and trust them. Forsooth, I have learned.
Grandmother is the hardest person to leave behind. She cracks a toothless grin as she pats my cheeks and strokes my hair. Then she touches my belly and whispers a Beothuk prayer. When she hands me a new pair of mukluks, my eyes well up. I tell her that she has been more than kind and welcoming. I tell her this in Beothuk, and she smiles again.
Askook is eager to leave at the break of dawn. As we are packing up, he irks me with his stern, judgmental tone, his scowls, his standoffishness, and his arrogance. When Askook starts his grumbling, Achak takes me by the arm and tries to steer me away from him, but he follows us.
The Voyage of Freydis Page 27