Šeará, watching all this, nodded. She did not speak again, but just stood looking at Tindr. Now he made a little bow towards her. He touched his right hand lightly to his right ear, then touched his chest. This is my name and my sign, he was telling her. He repeated the movements.
She looked at him, but shook her head. She touched her finger tips to the corners of her eyes, then pointed to him. I will know you by your eyes, she was telling him.
No one had ever given him a sign other than that which he had given himself, that for his deafness. He smiled then, and nodded to her.
He kept looking at her, and then took both his hands, fingers splayed, and lifted them a moment to his temples as if they were antlers. Deer. Then he pointed to her. I will call you Deer.
Something like a smile bowed the Sámi woman’s lips, and she nodded back.
Tindr once again cupped his hands, then pointed to the ren: Please. Šeará nodded back, gesturing that he could help with the second harness. Together they freed the big deer from their slight trappings. Tindr’s face as he handled the ren showed his delight, and he looked from the animal’s driver back to it, and to the Sámi woman again. He led the way to the second paddock, passing the first where Tyrsborg’s three horses lifted their heads, pointed ears twitching, to look at the new beasts walking before them.
Young Ulmmá was hanging on the paddock fence, staring at the horses, Yrling dangling from a lower rung. Ceridwen, watching from the table, wondered if their horses seemed as wondrous to Ulmmá as his ren did to them.
Once all had slaked their thirst the trading began. The contents of Osku’s deer-drawn waggon did not disappoint. The Sámi opened bundle after bundle of glossy round beaver pelts, large waterproof hides of ringed seals, long narrow pelts of otters and martins, and the dense-furred skins of surpassing softness of the brown creature called mink. There were four pelts of fox in their Winter whiteness, and seeing them Sidroc knew would try for all of these. Brought out last of all was the Sámi’s pride, the pelts of three great brown bears. These Osku handled with special care, unrolling them and laying them out on a tanned hide-skin one by one so that they might be admired each in turn. Sidroc wanted at least one of them.
He knew from Gautvid that the bear held a place of highest honour to the Sámi. It vanished into its den before snow blanketed the ground and lay in death-like sleep for months before being re-born in the Spring. Bear cubs emerged with it, born to a mother who seemed dead. This alone was strong magic, and made the Sámi revere this strange creature. The eating of bear was always a sacred meal, and some years Sámi only lived through harsh Winters by being able to partake of its fatty meat and rich marrow of its bones, which would feed a family for weeks.
Yet the bear was the animal most akin to folk themselves. Like men, bears stood up on their hind legs. They could sit on the ground as men did, and their paw prints looked like that of men. Like men they were clever. Gautvid said that skinned, even the body of a bear looked like that of a man. He said the claws and teeth of bears were always saved by the Sámi, and never sold or traded, and in fact Osku had never offered any such. Now the skins of three brown bears were laid before them, and Sidroc must decide how many he would trade for, and what price he was willing to give.
His task was made harder by news that had come in late Spring. Paris, the stone city on an island in the great river Seine of Frankland, had been a ready buyer of the furs Runulv had carried for him, but this year Runulv had not made it that far. A fleet of Danes in their fast and narrow war-ships had sailed up the Seine, and asked leave to pass by the fortified city. This was denied. The Danes laid siege, and after long and bloody battles overran and sacked the island city. Charles, the King of the Franks, was not at Paris, and was slow in sending any aid to his people stranded there.
Runulv told the tale of his ship, of how when he first landed on the coast of Frankland he had been warned of the marauding Danes. He dare not approach the mouth of the Seine and sail to Paris; there was little left. He learnt that Charles was far inland, a journey that would take Runulv and his men away from the safety of their ship. All Runulv could do was turn back. He stopped at the lesser trading places along the coast of Frankland, and then at Aros in Dane-mark, and sold what he could, but carried back almost half of the furs rather than let them go for too little silver. Likewise, denied the chance of showing them to the noblemen surrounding Charles, he had found none willing or able to meet his price for the two trained goshawks he carried.
As Sidroc had listened last Spring to the returning Runulv’s tale of the sack of Paris, his first and fleeting thought had been, Would I were there. This was followed in an instant by a smothered oath. Paris was the source of his riches. Her noblemen and King had filled a chest buried under the treasure room with Frankish silver and even gold. Now his brothers had come and ruined it, robbed his best trading partners of their wealth.
He had unsold furs and hawks, and lacked the silver they should have brought him. He did not know if Runulv could return to Paris and its rich markets next year, or ever. Yet the beauty of the furs spread before him now made his mind up. Without risk there could be no reward. He would take from even that which he held in reserve to buy more. If he could not return to Frankland he would seek other ports to send Runulv to. One of the things Sidroc prized was a broad silver arm-cuff of great value, bought last year from his profits. He would give it up without regret if need be. He would have enough.
It was time to bring out their own goods. Osku did not trade for silver, but for goods. In the past he had wanted bags of grain, caskets of salt, lengths of cloth, balls of wool thread, and Tindr’s sweet and pure honey. Sidroc had learnt two more things in recent years, that Osku valued the good steel blades made here on Gotland. The other was that the Sámi people liked ornaments of silver. Osku did not wear such things, nor, perhaps, did the women of the Sámi, as his daughter had none. The way Osku had handled the little things he had claimed from Tyrsborg the last time he had been here made Sidroc think they would be left as Offerings to his Gods.
Together Sidroc and Tindr went to the stable and pulled out the hand-cart, heaped high with bags of barley cut from the upland farm. Tindr fetched two crocks of honey from one of the kitchen store houses and placed it on the table where the ale cups sat. And Ceridwen and Helga carried out folded lengths of red, blue, and green wadmal, the heavy woollen cloth they had spent months weaving. Sidroc vanished into the hall and returned with a wooden box. This he sat on the table, and drew out five well-hammered knife blades, two small and three large. From the bottom of the box he lifted a linen bag, and set three pieces of sparkling silver on the wood table-top. The first was one of the big domed box brooches the wealthy women of Gotland favoured, its silver sides worked in an open weave, almost like a basket. The second was the larger half of a belt-buckle, the work of Angle-land Sidroc thought, incised with golden wire and bearing a small red garnet. The third was nothing more than a bunch of tiny silver keys Sidroc had asked the silver-smith to make up. The keys were too small and too soft to be used for any lock, but they shimmered in the sunlight, and strung together as they were on a linked silver chain made a jingling noise, like unto small bells, when shaken.
Osku’s face had been immobile as they brought these things out to him, just as Sidroc had tried not to betray excitement at the furs he had cast before him. Ulmmá, with Yrling at his heels, was still over by the paddocks, but Šeará stood a few paces away from her father, watching with an unmoving face at all brought before them. Only when Osku began handling the goods did he allow his interest to show. He plunged his hand into a barley-bag that Sidroc opened for him, and with a sweep of his hand showed us that he wanted the entire cart-load. He took two lengths of green wadmal, two of blue, and three of red, and set them at one end of the table. His face broke into a smile when he lifted the wooden top from Tindr’s honey crock, recalling well the goodness that lay within. He dipped his finger in and brought it to his mouth, and
smiled as he had the first time he had traded for it. His daughter looked at him, the question in her eyes, but he did not motion her forward to test it herself. He went on to the knife blades, selecting four of the five, and set them aside. The silver ornaments pleased him very much, and he held each in his hand, turning it about and studying it. The little bunch of keys he held and shook several times, laughing aloud with the jingling they made. He claimed all three ornaments, and lay them with the rest of the goods he desired.
Then began the work of bargaining. Sidroc chose those furs he wanted, three of beaver, many of otter, a number of the soft mink, and two of the great brown bear skins. He chose only two of four white fox pelts, which would have surprised his wife if she did not know he aimed for all four. In their bargaining the two men moved the piles, took or added things, offered others. Gautvid and Ceridwen sat down and watched them, but Šeará remained standing, even though Ceridwen gestured her to sit. Tindr too remained standing, looking sometimes at Sidroc and Osku as they bargained, and other times darting a glance at the Sámi woman who stood across from him.
After a long while and much moving of goods Sidroc had only three of the white fox pelts, and had let go of the second bear skin he had taken. Osku had surrendered one of the knife blades he wanted, as well as the green lengths of woollen wadmal. Neither man seemed happy. Sidroc stood over the goods, some on the table, some on the ground, some piled on the handcart with all the barley Osku asked for. He ran his hand through his hair, then looked up at the sky.
“Apples,” he said aloud, and made off to the outbuilding in which they were laid up. He brought a barrel out, rolling its round iron-bound heft toward his guest. Osku had seen them before; his eyes lit. Sidroc took one from the barrel and offered it. The Sámi’s teeth crunched through the red skin and into the juicy flesh. He ate it all, even the core. As he licked the juices from his hand Sidroc took the fourth fox and laid it upon his pile. Osku nodded and grinned.
The trading concluded, the bartered goods were now collected, those Sidroc had won to the treasure room, and those Osku claimed lashed into the back of his waggon, waiting by the stable wall.
With such fair weather the meal was taken out of doors. As they gathered to sit, Šeará stood apart. Ceridwen gestured with her hands, come and sit, but she gave a small shake of her head.
“It is not the custom that Skridfinn women eat with the men,” Gautvid explained.
Ceridwen showed her surprise on her face; Osku had taken meals with them in the past, always with her and Gunnvor and Helga there as well. But she knew different folk had ways unlike her own.
She looked to Gunnvor, who rose with her. Gunnvor took up the bowl that had been set for the woman, and filled it with browis. Ceridwen took another and lay a portion of the fish, a loaf, and a smear of butter upon it. They carried this to the kitchen work-table, and Gunnvor brought her work stool. Ceridwen opened her hands to Šeará, gesturing her, come. She did, and seated herself with a nod of her head and the smallest of smiles.
Tindr had been watching this. He had hoped to sit by Deer, and had lingered himself, waiting to see which place she would be called to by Bright Hair, so he might place himself at her side. Now she was at the work-table, alone. He watched her lower her head over her food, the slender white hands unmoving at either side of her bowl. She had been given one of the deer-antler spoons he had fashioned, and he watched her pick it up and look at it, running her fingers along its smoothness. After a moment she dipped her spoon and began to eat.
“Their chief Goddess is a woman, and lives under the floorboards of every well-kept house,” Gautvid was saying. “It is the women who speak to her. But men and women eat apart.”
There was ale on the table, and Ceridwen rose as lady of the hall and filled a pottery cup for Šeará. She placed it in her hand, wondering if she had before tasted it; she had taken nothing earlier in welcome. She smiled at the woman, prompting her with a gesture to lift the cup. Šeará took a sip, the narrow nose wrinkling. After a moment her face relaxed, and she made another small smile.
On an earlier visit Gautvid had told them that the only drink the Sámi had was that of the rich ren deer milk, well-watered; and another of the washings of the cheese the women made by pouring the milk into a ren-hide bag and letting it form hard and chewy curds. By shaking the curds with water they made a second drink. Both were sustaining and had nourishment, but neither had the power ale or mead possessed, to make men forget their cares.
After the food had been cleared from the large table Šeará rose. Tindr watched her walk to the waggon, and pull a hide bag from it. He stood as she swung it down; it was fairly heavy. He went to her, and took it from her hands. Those at the table saw them head for the paddock where the ren deer browsed.
Ceridwen looked after them, then at Osku, whose sharp blue eyes also followed. She felt some concern; if the Sámi women were not to eat with men, perchance Tindr was giving unknown offense in being so close to Osku’s daughter. Osku had always seemed well-disposed towards Tindr, but now the man’s daughter was with him. Tindr had not touched her, but they walked shoulder to shoulder together, and he had scarcely stopped looking at her since she had climbed down from her waggon board. But the man only nodded after her, neither telling young Ulmmá to help his sister, nor calling out to her.
Tindr handed her the bag, slipped the latch on the paddock gate, and followed her in. Her deer came to her, noses forward, thick necks extended at the sight of the bag she held. She took handfuls of grey-green moss from the bag and scattered them over the short grasses of the paddock. The great racks of antlers lowered at once, muzzles following from clump to clump. Tindr had the chance to truly look at the beasts, studying the large nostrils, heavily furred ears, and solid legs. He bent down and peered beneath one. It was male, but when he looked, saw the deer’s stones were gone; it had been gelded like a horse. He looked beneath the other, and looked again. He straightened up, pointed to the animal, and made a milking gesture with his hands.
Šeará nodded her head. It was female, despite the sweeping rack of antlers it sported.
He raised his hands in wonder, and smiled at her. She smiled back. She looked at the female ren deer, and made the same milking motion Tindr had. She made a gesture like drinking, then as if shaking something in a container; he thought it might mean making butter or cheese. She drank their milk, she was telling him, and made these things to eat. She looked down at her leathern leggings and touched them, then laid her hand upon the thick leg of the deer. Her leggings were made from the very hide of the ren deer’s legs. The deer still had its head lowered, and she bent to touch the broad brow of its head. Then she pointed to the boots she wore. This thick brown hide from the beast’s face made up her furred boots.
She pointed then to Tindr’s own boots, the fur still on them like hers, but of such different hide.
He nodded and turned his ankle so she saw the tusk that served as toggle. He lifted his fingers to his mouth, in flaring imitation of the boar’s great teeth. She looked at the tusk on one boot, and then the other. She knew boar, and knew their danger. She nodded at him gravely, her lips pursing for a moment.
Tindr could not move his eyes from her. They were alike; he saw that. Deer wore the skins of the beasts she counted on for food and for travel, just as he counted on the red stags and boar of the greenwood to feed and clothe him.
He kept looking at her. He knew she spoke, had seen her sing to her beasts. But unlike all others, she did not speak to him when she faced him. She watched his signs to her, and repeated them back, and made signs of her own. Her lips were sometimes gently parted, but did not move in speech.
He looked at those lips, full and soft-looking in her narrow face, and looked too at the deep blue of the eyes above those lips.
She looked back, unabashed, meeting his gaze. At last she let her eyes drop once more to Tindr’s boots.
She pointed to them, then looked at him, her question on her br
ow. He cocked his head. She made a motion as if she flung a spear.
He shook his head, then crossed his fists at the wrist. She watched, understood. He drew an invisible arrow to a phantom bow, opened his string fingers.
She nodded. A bowman. Her people hunted mostly by trapping, that and the spear and net. They hunted for furs, and to add to their food stores, but their ren deer gave them almost all they needed to live.
I will show you, tomorrow, Tindr was telling her now. His hands went to his temples, flaring like antlers, then pointing at her as he smiled. He touched his eye. He pointed to the lowering Sun, then drew an arc in the sky. Tomorrow I will show you.
As she stood watching him her head turned sharply. He looked too. Fur Man was standing near the table he had risen from, calling. She picked up the hide bag and he let them out of the paddock.
Osku could not sleep in a house he had not built himself; to do so was to invite evil spirts to enter his soul as he slept. When he had before passed the night at Tyrsborg he had pitched a tent, and he did so again. Ulmmá and Šeará joined him in raising it, past the spruce trees, on the grassy swath near the pathway into the forest. Tindr had wished to help, but the slightest shake of Šeará’s head stayed him, and the three Sámi had the tent up before Tindr had finished milking the cows and penning the fowl.
When they had done, the Sámi family stood before Sidroc and Ceridwen, bowing their heads and pressing their hands together in thanks for the meal. Gautvid walked them to their tent, and stood speaking with Osku. Eirian and Yrling had scampered after them, wanting to spend the night in the tent, and a smiling Ceridwen had to retrieve them and send them to their own beds. The Sámi joined his children in the tent, and Gautvid returned.
To celebrate the trades that had been made Ceridwen had brought out mead, and poured out cups for her household and guest; Osku did not take strong drink. Tindr, his chores done, sat with them a while.
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