My father grunted at that part of the tale, as if he had been dug sharply in the ribs. But his glare made me ashamed I had said it.
I told him then that I felt no pang about taking Bjarnis sword. Or the large amount of salt, or any of the other supplies I thought necessary. Fuck Bjornshafen. Fuck Gudleif and fuck both his sons.
My father grinned at that.
Taking Bjarnis sword was the worst thing, for a sword then was a thing not to be taken lightly. It was expensive and, more than that, it was the mark of a warrior and a man of substance.
The Greeks in Constantinople who call themselves Romans, but speak no Latin think all Northmen are Danes and that all Danes fight in mail and with swords. The truth is that most of us have only the seax, a kitchen knife the length of your forearm. With it, you can chop a chicken or gut a fish or kill a man.
You get to be good with it, since mail is too expensive for most. Any good blow will kill you unless you avoid it and only if you must do you block it, so that the edge of your precious seax isnt notched away.
A sword, though, was a magical thing, a rich thing and the mark of a warrior, so not to be trifled with but I took dead Bjarnis sword out of spite, right off the hook in the hall, while Gudleif grunted and farted and slept. In the morning I was gone early, before he noticed it was missing.
Bjarni would notice but I made my peace with him on my own and prayed to big, bluff Thor to intercede. Then I added a prayer to Odin, made wise by communing with the new-dead, who had hung nine nights on the World Tree for wisdom. And one to Jesus, the White Christ, who hung on a tree like Odin.
That was deep thinking, right enough, my father said when I told him this. You can never have too much holy help, even if this Christ-following lot are a strange breed, who say they will not fight yet still seem able to field warriors and sharp steel. As for the sword well, Bjarni wont need it and Gudleif wont mind. Ask Einar for it. He will let you keep it after what you did.
I stayed silent. How could I tell them what I had done? Pissed myself and run, leaving Freydis to die?
The first sight of those great bear pugs in the snow, maybe two weeks after I had struggled through to her hov, had set Freydis to barring doors and hunkering down. The night it came we had eaten broth and bread by the glimmer of the pitfire embers, listening to the creak of the beams and the rustle of straw from the stalls.
I lay down clutching Bjarnis sword. That, an old ash spear of her dead mans, the wood axe and Freydiss kitchen knives made the only weapons we had. I stared at the glowing embers, trying not to think of the bear, prowling, sniffing, circling.
I knew whose bear it was and, it seemed to me, it had come seeking revenge after all these years.
I knew whose bear it was and, it seemed to me, it had come seeking revenge after all these years.
I woke to soft singing. Freydis sat, cross-legged and naked, the hearthfire glowing on her body, her face hidden by the long, unbound straggles of her streaked hair, one hand holding upright the ash spear. In front of her were objects.
I saw a small animal skull, the teeth blood-red in the light, the eye-sockets blacker than night. There were carved things and a pouch and, over them all, Freydis hummed, a long, almost continuous drone that raised the hair on my arms.
I hung on to the sharkskin hilt of Bjarnis old sword while the dead crowded round, their eyes glittering in the dark holes of their heads, pale faces like mist.
Whether she called them for help, or called the bear, or tried to weave a shield against it, I dont know. All I know is that when the bear struck the wall, the hall boomed like a bell and I jumped up, half-naked, sword in hand.
I shook my head, scattering memories like water drops. A last, brief flash of the curving swipe of paw and her head, spinning, flailing blood to the rafters. Had there been a smile on it? An accusing look?
My father rightly guessed the memories, wrongly assumed I was mourning for the lost Freydis and clapped my shoulder again, giving it a slight squeeze and a half-smile. Then he walked me slowly to the hall across the sun-sparkled snow. The eaves were dripping with melting spires of ice.
Everything seemed the same, but the thralls avoided my eye, keeping their heads down. I saw Caomh down by the shore, standing by a pole with a ball on it one of his strange White Christ totems, probably. Once a monk, always a monk, he used to say. Just because he had been ripped from his cloister didnt make him less of a holy man for the Christ. I raised a hand in greeting but he never moved, though I knew he saw me.
Gudleifs hall was dim inside, misted with cold light from the smoke hole. The hearthfire crackled, breath coiled in wisps and the figures hunched on benches at the foot of the high seat turned to us as we came in.
I waited until my eyes had accustomed and then saw that someone else sat in Gudleifs high seat, someone with hair to his shoulders, dark as crow wings.