North Child

by Edith Pattou

  One happy event that occurred at about the same time was that my sister Sara and Harald Soren became engaged to be married.

  Sara told me that at first it was her gratitude to Soren that made her like him so well. But as her health improved and they spent more time together, the gratitude ripened into love, and though he was a good deal older, it became clear they cared very much for each other.

  Sara didn’t want to set a date for the marriage until Rose returned – which we all understood – but we also felt that Rose would want her to go ahead with her life.

  “She’d hate to think that you are delaying your happiness on her account,” I said to Sara.

  Sara nodded, then replied, “What of you, Neddy? Harald has said that you only have to say the word and he will get you a position with one of the leading scholars in Bergen, or even Trondheim, which is not so very far away. What you have said about me is just as true for you.”

  Sara was right. I had put off deciding to go, because of Rose. What if she came to visit and I was not at the farm? But receiving her letter had changed things. I gave serious thought to taking Soren up on his offer.

  The matter was settled when Soren convinced Father to move the mapmaking business to Trondheim. Though not as large as Bergen or Oslo, Trondheim would afford a larger market for the maps Father made as well as more people he could hire to do the work. In addition, Father and Soren had discussed building a printing press in Trondheim. Printing presses had come only very recently to Oslo and Bergen, and were thriving. Soren felt the time was ripe for the business.

  I still had my doubts. A part of me felt that if we moved on, it was as if we were accepting that Rose was gone for ever. But a bigger part of me knew that she was not. Rose was alive somewhere and travelling the path she must, the way she always had.

  A week and a half after telling Thor of the white bear, I spotted a seabird. At first I did not take in its significance. I was at the steering oar and, despite the chill in the air, feeling drowsy. It had gotten bitter cold in the past few days, and I was wearing all the clothing I owned. Thor had been sleeping for a long time, the result of his latest round of drinking. It was just after dawn and I watched the bird soar, its whiteness vivid against the blue sky. It dipped low, almost to the surface of the water, then rose again. The white bird had come from the west and, wheeling around, eventually headed back in that direction.

  Then I remembered: a bird means land! How many times had Thor made that point? Even as recently as the day before, he had told me a story about a Viking explorer who had been lost at sea for weeks, near starvation, and the sight of a gull had caused him to convert to Christianity on the spot.

  I let out a shout. “Thor!”

  There was no response, so I left the steering oar and went to shake him awake.

  “A bird, Thor,” I said. “I saw a seabird.”

  He came awake and, though groggy, raised himself to a sitting position.

  “A bird, eh? Where?”

  I explained that it had flown away in a westerly direction.

  “Is it possible?” he muttered to himself. “Could it be…?” A strange look of pain passed over his face.

  Grabbing his crutch he hobbled over to the steering oar, ordering me to adjust the rigging while he changed course. He set the nose of the knorr due west, then ordered me to bring him a new cask of ale. I hesitated. “Get it for me now, you lunkheaded laggard, or I’ll throw you overboard!” he roared with such force that I decided it was best to do as he said.

  I scanned the western horizon eagerly, but by midmorning there was still no sign of land. Sunset would come in only a few hours. The sun was then setting in the early afternoon, which meant either that we had travelled quite far north or that it was almost winter solstice – or both.

  We sailed through the long, frosty night. I slept fitfully, keeping watch over Thor, who was helping himself to frequent draughts of ale.

  At dawn I offered to take over the steering oar, but Thor refused, though he reeked of drink and his movements were clumsy. I was the first to spy what looked to be a thin white finger of land. I pointed it out to Thor. He grunted and poured more ale.

  The wind had weakened and shifted to the south, so it took a long time to tack towards land. To make matters worse, an icy sleet had begun to fall.

  By the time I could make out features of the land, Thor was roaring drunk. He was zigzagging sloppily through the water and finally stopped steering altogether, slumping sideways on the bench, singing under his breath a song about “journeying on to Vinland”. I suddenly saw that we were bearing down on a snow-covered headland, and I hastily squeezed in next to Thor and took the steering oar in hand.

  I managed to avoid the boulders sticking up out of the water, but with a sinking feeling I saw that there were many of them. It did not look like a promising spot for me to try to land the knorr, inexperienced as I was. Because the wind was coming from the south, I steered a northerly course, hoping to find a better landing place.

  With no one to secure the rigging, the sail flapped. I silently cursed Thor. Why had he chosen this of all times to drink himself into a stupor? And just what was that land? I bound the steering oar in place with a strap of leather and went to find my pack, pulling out the map that Sofi had given me.

  I scrutinized it. Based on the shortening days, Thor had said he believed we were at least as far north as Suroy, perhaps farther, but he had no idea how far west we had been driven by the storm. Then the land could be Iseland, or…it could even be the desolate land called Gronland.

  And then I remembered.

  Not long before I’d spotted the white bird, and during one of Thor’s rare sober spells, he had told me about the death of his wife and son. Thor had been working for a prosperous merchant seaman but had hopes of one day owning his own ship. Then he was offered a place on a vessel that was going to Gronland, a place the Vikings had first settled but long ago abandoned. There was said to be good whale hunting off the coast of Gronland. Because the profits promised were large, and because of his great admiration for his Viking forebears, Thor leaped at the opportunity.

  The voyage had not been a success, due to bad weather and an outbreak of sickness. In fact, the ship did not even reach Gronland before it had to turn back. Thor returned home to find that in his absence his wife and son had been killed by thieves. The next few years he was lost in barrels of ale, followed by several more years spent in gaol for killing a man he had mistakenly thought to be one of the killers.

  After he got out of gaol, Thor worked a series of odd jobs, eventually scraping together enough money to buy himself a very old, decrepit Viking knorr, which he rebuilt. He set himself up in business as a merchant seaman and, for the past dozen years, had been able to make a living.

  As I remembered all of this, I realized that the prospect of our coming to Gronland had brought back memories of Thor’s failed voyage – and of all he had lost.

  I felt pity for him then, but I was angry as well. I would never be able to land the knorr on my own; certainly not along such a rocky coast. My only hope lay in finding some kind of natural harbour.

  The sun had set by then and I managed to steer the ship through the night. The moon shone inconstantly, moving in and out of cloud cover, and I could only occasionally make out a dim outline of the land we glided past. Finally I decided to drop anchor, thinking to wait until morning to try to find a place to land. Shivering, I covered the snoring Thor, noting that he had almost completely emptied an entire barrel. I burrowed under my own layers of cloth and quickly fell into a deep sleep.

  I awoke to find snow falling, and a good two inches of it already accumulated on the cloths covering me. There was a trace of light from the predawn sun.

  Dusting the snow off, I got up and stretched. Thor was still passed out, his mouth hanging open and his breathing loud. I gazed towards land and in the grey light could just make out what looked to be a slim outcropping a little to the north. I wondered if th
ere might be a harbour of sorts within it.

  After attempting in vain to awaken Thor, I raised the sail and steered the knorr towards land. As I went closer I saw that the arm of land did provide protection for a cove of sorts. Suddenly all I wanted was the feel of land under my feet, and I recklessly pointed the bow towards shore. The light was so dim that I could barely tell where the sea ended and the shore began, but I didn’t care.

  The water was fairly calm in this natural harbour, and the knorr glided through the grey waves, snow still lightly falling. My eyes straining, I thought I saw a cluster of shapes on the beach ahead that from such a distance looked like standing stones.

  All was silent; even the slapping of water against the hull seemed muffled by the falling snow. Somehow I managed to avoid the rocks. There was a grinding sound as the prow of the knorr slid up onto the snowy beach and came to a stop.

  I sat for a moment, unnerved by the lack of motion. Thor let out a grunt and shifted on the bench, still passed out. I stood and made my way forwards to the prow. The sun had not yet risen and the light was the same dim grey. Despite my many layers of clothing, I was shivering again. I lowered a plank from the side of the knorr. Using it as a bridge I descended to the beach.

  I stood by the hull for a moment, swaying dizzily after such a long time at sea. But then I heard a noise coming from the beach. I turned and saw the strange shapes I had thought to be stones moving across the beach towards me, their feet making quiet crunching sounds in the snow. The one closest to me raised a hand and all the others stopped, but the small figure with the raised hand kept moving towards me. I stayed very still, my heart beating fast.

  It was a woman with dark, creased skin and narrow bright-black eyes. She was dressed from head to toe in various animal skins. She wore a hood with silver-grey fur around her face. The fur obscured her features, save for those penetrating black eyes.

  She stepped forwards until our noses were almost touching, and stared directly into my eyes. I stared back, which turned out to be the right thing to do, for I found out later that she was the local shaman and was then reading my soul with her eyes. Had I looked down or away from her, the shaman would have deemed that I had things to hide – and I most likely would have been killed.

  As it was, the shaman apparently found my soul to be satisfactory, or at least harmless, for she smiled at me and then spoke. I didn’t understand her, though the language was vaguely familiar to me, with a faint echo of Njorden.

  I said, “I am from Njord.”

  “Ah, Njord.” She nodded, then gestured at the knorr, taking several steps towards it.

  Assuming that meant she wished to board the ship, I led her to the makeshift gangplank. She followed me aboard and slowly made her way from fore to aft, her eyes sweeping the battered knorr. She came to a stop in front of Thor, who was still sprawled in a drunken stupor. Leaning over his prostrate body, she reached out and held up the tarnished hammer necklace he wore, inspecting it closely. Then she took her thumb and raised his eyelid, revealing the bloodshot white of one eye.

  Looking at me she said something that sounded like the Njorden word for illness. I shook my head and pantomimed drinking a mug of ale.

  A slow smile creased her face and she nodded in understanding. Then she crossed to the prow and called out to the figures standing on the shore.

  They responded by gathering around the knorr and pulling the vessel far up onto the beach. I clung to the mast to keep my footing.

  The woman gestured for me to follow her as she disembarked. “I am Malmo,” she said as she stood facing me on the beach.

  “My name is Rose,” I replied, wondering if we should shake hands. But she did not offer her hand.

  Instead she said, “You will come with Malmo.” She then set out across the beach, away from the knorr.

  “But my friend…”

  “We bring him, too,” Malmo said.

  And I followed her. For some reason I trusted Malmo. Perhaps I had inadvertently looked into her soul as she was inspecting mine; I sensed that she meant me no harm.

  She led me away from the water until we came to a cluster of stone buildings. Malmo directed me to one of the larger buildings and opened the flap of animal skin that served as a door, gesturing for me to enter.

  “Malmo home,” the shaman said by way of explanation. The building was a small structure made of stone, clay, and dried grass. It had two rooms, both small; one was for cooking and eating, the other for sleeping.

  Malmo gestured for me to sit, handing me a fur-skin for warmth. Then she went outside again, leaving me alone briefly. She soon reappeared with several of her people, who were carrying Thor. He was still unconscious and they laid him on a raised sleeping platform, then covered him with fur-skins.

  Two women entered the home, bearing bowls of stew and steaming cups of mead. Malmo smiled at me, saying, “Eat, rest.” And once again she departed.

  Hungrily I ate, then bundled myself into the furs. I sat there, Thor snoring softly nearby, and thought about all that had happened since I’d left the castle. And for the first time I found I could think about the white bear with some kind of hope. I was getting close to where he was. Warmed by those thoughts, and by the stew and hot mead in my belly, I drifted into sleep.

  We had come to the village of Neyak on the northeastern coast of Gronland. Malmo showed it to me on the map. She and her people were Inuit and had lived on that land since Sedna, the Mother of Sea Beasts, came to guard the oceans. Malmo knew the Njorden language because whale hunters from Njord had come to their land before. She had nothing good to say about them, though. Her opinion of the Vikings was even lower. They had been the first to come in their longboats – with their hammers of the thunder god Thor around their necks – bringing devastation and fear to the Inuit, whom the Vikings called Skraelings, or “the ugly ones”. It had taken the Inuit years to get rid of the marauding invaders, and there remained a distrust that had been passed down through the generations. Still, it was clear that my particular “Viking”, with his broken limbs and giant hangover, did not exactly inspire fear.

  Thor remained in his ale-induced sleep while Malmo and I talked. She knew enough Njorden that we were able to understand each other fairly well. I told her of the deadly storm we had encountered and of the loss of Gest and Goran. She asked where I was bound.

  “North,” I said. “Can you tell me about the lands that lie north of here?”

  Malmo nodded gravely. “There is a land north of Gronland that forms the ice sky of the earth. There are tales from Inuit who lived long ago about an ice bridge that connects Gronland to the ice sky, but there is no one living now who has found the ice bridge – or at least who has returned to tell the tale.”

  “I will find it,” I said.

  “You? Find the ice bridge?” She chuckled, eyeing my clothing.

  Pulling my cloak tighter around me, for I was cold even inside Malmo’s home, I replied with a rueful look, “I know. But I am set on travelling north. I will do whatever I must.”

  “Why?” Malmo asked.

  And I told her the entire story, just as I had told it to Thor – and to Sofi and Estelle before him.

  She listened closely, her bright eyes intent on my face.

  “Seku nanoa,” she said, with a note of reverence in her voice. She took a stick from the fire and, using only a few strokes, deftly drew the exact likeness of a white bear.

  Then she looked at Thor in his near comatose state. “What will you do with the Viking?”

  I was silent. I was ashamed to realize I hadn’t thought about Thor at all, not when it came to my journey north. I gazed sideways at him, his beard and hair matted and wild, an arm and leg still wrapped in cloth that was stained with seawater, blood, and ale. And his ship was in little better shape than he.

  The shaman looked from one to the other of us, then she leaned forwards, gazing into my eyes.

  “You journey on,” she said, “and the old Viking will stay. Ther
e is healing here, if he will be healed. If not, he will find his own journey.”

  “Thank you,” I replied.

  Thor awoke soon after, groggy and ill tempered. Malmo arranged for food to be brought to him, ignoring his request for ale. Then she gestured to me, saying, “You eat later. Now, you need much.”

  Thereupon we embarked upon a most extraordinary “shopping” expedition. In the first place we entered, Malmo held a lengthy conversation with the man who lived there, gesturing at me several times, saying “seku nanoa” (“white bear”). The visit wound up with the man bustling around his home, collecting a variety of things that he then gave to me. Malmo said the name of each thing in Inuit, but I had no idea what most of them were.

  We then went to another Gronlander home, where I was given even more gear. Then another and another, until I was laden down with such a dizzying array of objects that Malmo had to help me carry them.

  When we finally returned to Malmo’s house, we found Thor asleep again. I wondered if he had gotten his hands on more ale, but Malmo said no, he had been given a healing drink that brings sleep.

  She set about explaining to me each item I had been given.

  There was an ulu, the most important of the various knifelike objects I had received. It consisted of a sharp slate blade embedded in a bone handle. Then there was a snow knife made of narwhal ivory, which was used for making snowhouses; and a snow beater, a larger blunt-edged blade, also of ivory, which a person used outdoors to knock snow off clothing.

  Among the other things were: a long, thin tube of ivory used for drinking meltwater off the surface of ice; a needlelike probe for locating the breathing holes of seals; a pair of ivory snow goggles, to protect the eyes from the brutal glare of sun on ice and snow; a bola, a contraption made of ivory balls attached to a length of sinew that was thrown up into the air to snare birds; several small, thick pins made of bone, to plug the wounds of seals so their blood wouldn’t leak out (apparently Inuit cooking used seal blood, a delicacy I was not all that eager to try); something called a kitchoa, or ice scratcher, made of seal claws and used by hunters to simulate the sound of seals moving across the ice, so that while at their breathing holes they would not be frightened away by approaching hunters; and a pair of short skis made of whalebone, with a strip of reindeer fur on the underside, hairs pointing backwards. (Apparently the backward-facing hairs allowed for greater speed for a skier going downhill while acting as a brake against slipping backwards when going uphill.)