Authors: Nadine Crenshaw
The wind rose to gale force. Clouds flew low across the heaving ocean. The atmosphere was one of roaring water and blinding rain.
Night came, and still the wind rose. The Vikings couldn't put up their tent; the dragonship remained completely open, offering no shelter for the shivering crew and petrified passengers.
For Edin, time became a haze of screaming wind and pounding waves. She huddled with her teeth set and her eyes wild. In her worst nightmares she'd never dreamed the sea could assume such proportions. Sometimes the deep green towered as high as the mast, reared above them and hung over them before it toppled down, smashing everyone to the boards, smiting the longship like a stick of wood in a tide, swirling it around and around. She lost her sense of direction, her sense of the world, her sense of herself.
The low sides of the dragonship admitted great sloshes of water. There were small drain holes at the level of the deck, but since the deck was loose, made up of planks set over a skeleton of supports, before the sea water could rain out the holes, it poured between these planks into the shallow hold. This called for constant bailing. Men had to crawl down into the bilge and pass up buckets for dumping. It was slow, exhausting work, bailing by bucket and muscle, and it went on for three days and three nights, until the Vikings began to swear in voices that were exhausted threads, and to kick at any captive who happened to get in their way. The two injured men lay on the boards, groaning and begging their friends to slip a knife into their ribs so they might not have to endure another day of torment. The jarl's eyes grew as chill as the sea.
The captives, a man, a child, and four women, who had all thought to live and die within walking distance of their birth places, prayed and moaned through it all. What were they doing on this vast expanse of unknown water? Once Juliana cried out a Biblical text: "'It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God!'"
No, Edin told herself, what was fearful was to be cast out of the hands of the living God, which was what she truly believed had happened to her. Her God had forsaken her. Somehow she had offended him, and now she was on her own.
Arneld's eyes were sunken. Dessa's elfin-shaped face was pale. They had been snatching food and drink whenever it came within reach—usually nothing but salted fish and cold meat — and they were all long past fatigue. There was a queer apartness about each one. Edin sensed their spirits were almost gone.
Wet to the bone, rubbing her bare feet together against the cold, she had a dull premonition that they would all drown, mayhap even all be thrown overboard by the increasingly surly Vikings —unless they did something in their own behalf.
The jarl stood on the prow platform, his head level with the bottom of the dragon's head. With one arm hooked around the serpent's neck to keep himself from being tossed overboard, he stared forward into the world of barreling, thunderous clouds and mountainous waves, looking exactly what he was: a man full of cruelty, appetite, and death lust. As protection against the wind and spray, he wore oiled-skin garments now. He seemed miles away from where Edin now got to her feet, determined to make her way to him.
She'd seen men fall while trying to move around on the washed deck, and as a rolling wave caught the keel, she too slipped. The way the wind blew the rain, it was like a sandstorm, stinging her flesh, burning her lips, and blinding her vision. She stumbled several times more before she at last stood behind the jarl.
"Thoryn Kirkynsson!" The wind sucked her voice away before it could reach his ears. As best she could, she scrambled up onto the unprotected, windswept platform. There she paused, chilled by the presence of a primal force and instinct too potent for her understanding: a Viking. Then she shouted again, "Thoryn Kirkynsson!"
He swiveled. His features above his drenched golden beard were set in a look as black as thunder. He took in the sight of her still wearing his cloak which drug the deck, then abruptly threw his free arm around her and pulled her against him. Stabbed by fear, she felt his hand clutch her bottom, bracing her against his thigh. At the same time he shouted, "By Odin, what do you want now!" The ropey veins in his neck stood out.
She shuddered like an eel feeling the touch of the skinning knife, but lifted her wrists between them. "Unfetter us!"
He seemed disbelieving. "You little ... go back to your place before you're swept overboard, robbing me of the pleasure of tossing you in myself!"
She looked up at him, and if it weren't for his arm fast about her, she would have stepped back, appalled by the naked malignity in his face. Nonetheless, she shouted, "If you unfetter us, we can help."
"Help? You could help by serving as sacrifices to the Great Bearer of Life. Kol Thurik— " he nodded over his shoulder —"the one who fell this morning and sits there chewing his broken tooth — he claims Freya has shown her back to us."
She looked over his restraining arm, down at a powerful middle-aged man who was hanging on to his lashed sea chest as he rolled against the violent motion of the ship. His lip was bloody, and Edin could imagine the pain of the broken tooth behind it.
She looked back. The wind was seething around her, roaring, ripping the green waters on all sides. With the rush under the keel, the rise and fall against the grey world, she couldn't help but lay her hands on the jarl's chest for balance. She felt the deep throbbing of his heart —while her own pattered out a frightened cross-beat. He'd used the word sacrifice. These were heathens. There was every chance he was completely serious. She said, "If you throw us over, Viking, we will only feed the fishes — and the only life we'll bear forth is that of herrings."
The wind surrounded her, whipping her words away, and for a moment she thought he hadn't heard her. But then she felt his chest move with what might have been a huff of grim humor. She said again, "Unfetter us. We can help bail."
Another shower of spray blew her voice back in her face. He'd heard her this time, she knew, but he only tugged the hood of the sodden grey cloak better around her long hair. His face was changed; for an instant the malignity was replaced by lines of sheer exhaustion.
Finally he nodded. He turned and pressed her between him and the tall prow-stem, so that he could let go of the dragon's neck and use his belt knife to cut her bonds. The sea heaved; he grabbed for the stem-post while Edin grabbed for him. She found him so deep of chest that her arms would not meet around his back.
For hours she bailed, until she was in a daze, fighting against the sea that washed again and again over the sides. Her uncallused hands were chafed raw, her back felt nigh to breaking, and the blood sang in her temples. Suddenly she heard Arneld's childish voice explode with horror. She turned her head and whispered, "God help us."
Less than a thousand paces away, hanging like a toothed crag, was a massive cliff of water. From its dark green base, it towered a hundred feet or more to its wind-scourged crest. As Edin watched with drenched face and open mouth, it slid closer, rumbling.
And then it stood directly over them. It cut off the wind; there was silence. It was a moment to freeze the blood. There wasn't an eye aboard not fastened on that green mountainside of water.
The blow fell. The dragonship was buried beneath hundreds of tons of violent water. An instant before the wave hit, Edin threw herself over Arneld—just before she herself was squashed by another body. Her lungs nearly burst. Now she would die. She felt the sea opening its wide foamy mouth—but by some miracle the ship broke the surface. Water poured out the deck-level drain holes, but the ship was wallowing and stumbling like a dragon with an arrow through its heart.
"Quickly!" The jarl was on his knees beside Edin. Had it been him who had thrown himself on her as she'd instinctively thrown herself on Arneld, to protect him? The question hung unasked on her lips as the Viking shouted, "Bale! Or the next wave will surely bury us all."
Saxons and Vikings alike tipped out the storm wrack, using any vessel that came to hand. The jarl used his own helmet. Gradually, the ship floated more freely, until at last she rolled with the great waves again.
After the mammoth wave, yet another day and night of violent weather tossed them. It began to seem to Edin that drowning might be better than such voyaging.
Then, the morning of the fifty day, the gale let up, hushed . . . gentled . . . stopped. The sky cleared, and the tall seas and wild waves smoothed to glass, a sheet of glass as broad as the ocean, as muscular as a sleeping giant's back.
As the wind had quieted, Thoryn could hear again the slap of water against the planking and the liquid gurgle of the sea as it was cut by the stern. He commanded Leif the Tremendous to fetch up a keg of stiff barley beer from the forehold. The storm had abated, and miraculously, all aboard were still alive. That called for a drink.
The beer was passed around in helmets for all to swill, even the new thralls. "Thank you, Jarl!" came several shouts. The maiden, who had never tasted Norse barley beer before, sampled it before she drank. Watching her, Thoryn seemed to taste its sweet, honey flavor anew.
He cast his eyes over the
Blood Wing
looking for signs of damage. The vessel was a shambles of men and tumbled plunder —cups, swords, money chests and streams of cloth and skins.
But the mast still stood, the sail still filled, and the steering oar still answered to his pressure. Thank Odin for his compassion.
Fafnir Longbeard and Rolf were seeing to the two battle-injured men, who also had somehow come through the storm alive. Sweyn's color was high; he probably had a fever. Thoryn heard him shout, "Lie off me lest I ram you, Longbeard!" Where did he get the energy? Thoryn felt nearly dead with exhaustion. But before he could rest, Rolf called him to Beornwold's side. He went reluctantly, for he knew what the summons meant.
He knelt by the dying man. In a voice flat and dead, Beornwold said, "Thoryn Kirkynsson?"
"Aye, it is Thoryn. How goes it, Norseman?"
Beornwold was long in answering. "Could be better, lad." He tried a smile, but his lips stopped midway. "I'm tired."
"Then rest, ship-brother."
a Aye . . . and if I do not stir from this sleep, go you to my wife and son beside the fjord and give them my regards."
"I will do that. And I will give them your share of our profits, and a goodly share of mine" The blood-payment for a husband, a father . . . how to measure the loss in terms of silver? "I will tell Hrut that his father met the three basics of a good warrior: courage, skill, and grace before the presence of death."
Beornwold whispered, "Hrut ... a man must abide by the worst of his acts, and I will stick by mine: Hrut has been spoiled. He has a native cunning and a wild heart. Guide him . . . tell him that man is but a little creature, with a life hardly longer than a fly's."
"Lie easy, brother, don't talk."
"Aye."
It was his last word. His jaw dropped open; his eyes became dazzled and unseeing. Thoryn touched his shoulder. "Go easy, neighbor; you have nothing to fear. You were a man. The gods know that and wait for you."
He stood and stepped back, chaffing in his skin, very angry, though he couldn't show it. Sometimes being jarl put him in an isolation so profound it was painful.
Others moved in to wrap a blanket around the dead man, shrouding him for his burial. All stood silent as the corpse was heaved over the side of the ship.
The body lay quietly for a moment on the breast of the sea. Thoryn caught sight of the Saxon maiden watching this with eyes that dared not blink, with a face as white as a snow maid's. What was she thinking—that he had vowed to throw her overboard in the same way? The body of Beornwold sank, showing first man-sized, and then small, and then miniscule as he went to his sea bed. The sight seemed to fascinate the maiden. Thoryn felt disgust for himself. She was beautiful and noble and knew no fear of anything—except drowning. And he had used that one fear against her. Surely it was wrong.
Thoryn settled himself to steer the
Blood Wing
. The wind had fallen to the smallest whisper. It was getting late in the day, and he saw nothing but sea. They were far off their course and had a deal of sailing to do before they reached home now. The wind changed direction; he felt it and altered his course.
The maiden was looking at him now. Her head on her slender neck swayed gently with the ship, like a field flower in a gentle summer wind. Her look hurt him. Suddenly he shouted, to no one in particular and everyone in general, "It ill-becomes a Northman to sail with his decks uncleared! We have cleaning up to do."
The
Vikingar
began to straighten the deck. The maiden helped in her own portion of the ship. Soon everything was heaped in a sort of order. But then, unaccountably, the Saxon boy began to weep. Reaction had set in, Thoryn supposed. The three servant women also started to sniffle and wipe their noses on their sleeves.
The maiden took the exhausted boy's head in her lap and murmured to the others, and after a moment she began to sing. Gently patting the boy's shoulder with one white hand, she marked the time of her melody. Thoryn stared at that small hand, fascinated. He glanced at his own hands gripping the steerboard and noted the difference with a pang. He knew he was a man of some height and powerfully built, while she was but a little maiden and all alone.
The bustle stilled all up and down the longship. Freemen and slaves alike settled and sat enthralled by the woman's ballad. Of the Norsemen, only Thoryn understood the words — something about green sleeves —yet everyone was caught by her high, sweet voice.
He saw when she grew aware of the fact that she'd become the center of attention, saw her face blanche, then color. She paused at the half-song, and he feared she would stop; yet she didn't begrudge the
Vikingar
their pleasure. She sang on, in that clear, high voice, with the barley ale warm in her head and the sea wind cold on her cheek, till the end was reached.
The hush held when she stopped. For a long moment there was only the sound of the sea lapping the ship. A scent of spells seemed to cling to the air. A little at a time, normal noises resumed. Thoryn saw that his men were satisfied somehow. The sad tune had seemed a respectful way to bid farewell to Beornwold. Occasionally, one or another of them glanced at her, their faces blank and impassive, expressing regard in the subtlest of ways.
Thoryn gave the steerboard to Kol Thurik and strode down the deck. The maiden shrank back to see his legs stop before her. He started to reach for her arm, but saw the way she cringed, so he straightened again and simply gestured for her to follow him.
She rose slowly. And followed slowly. He was at the stern platform several breaths before her. He knew she thought that he'd made his decision and her time had come.
Sensing she was behind him, but not looking to see, he spoke as if to the dragon's head. "Shieldmaiden, as you know I've more than once thought of tossing you to the fishes; but since you helped save all our lives with your bailing, and since that song of yours, well, you entertained me, and I'm at the edge of changing my mind and letting you stay aboard."
He turned to see her face gone blank.
Eyes so green you need to look again to feel sure—
He cut into the thought, saying roughly, "How would that suit you?"
It pleased him to see her recover enough to answer him as plainly as ever: "It would suit me well enough, Viking."
He didn't smile, only nodded and gestured her back to her place.
Suddenly, as if some doom the Norsemen hadn't even been aware of had now passed, there was a burst of easy-going merry-making aboard the longship, even a little horsing. Jamsgar Copper-eye told Kol Thurik that the loss of his front tooth would be no great handicap, " . . since I hear you're a man who likes a woman merely for what she has in common with a man, and when you take her from behind like that, she can't see your teeth anyway."
Kol muttered from his sore mouth, "At least I do like women, Copper-eye, unlike you, who I hear is seduced by any available behind straining to pull a cart."
"Not any," said the irrepressible Jamsgar. "I honor only those who aren't slow to lift their tails, being in much demand as I am."
Leif the Tremendous leapt in with "Was that why my horse nipped you last winter? Was that a coy invitation, Copper-eye?"
This chiding didn't last long. The men were too tired. Soon Thoryn was the only person aboard still awake. The breeze was steady. It had backed a little farther into the southwest, and that meant it wouldn't fall off before night. He peered ahead. They were on the high seas, out of sight of land. They'd been blown far off course. Throughout the storm, they'd been pushed away from the land as though Loki had been pushing at their stern. Now it was up to Thoryn to get them home. The men slept, assuming their jarl would stay awake a little longer and not steer them off the edge of the Great Void.
In the pre-dawn three days later, the ocean was absolutely calm, like pale greenish-blue satin. The clouds took on a rosy blush, and the sea became pink; then the sun appeared, flaunting its rays across the sky like banners. Thoryn leaned his back against the stern.
We can't be too far out now
, he thought.
I hope no one at home has been worried. There's only Inga to worry about me. Of course, but many of the men have wives who might fret Many have sons and daughters, too.
As the sky lightened, a lone sea bird suddenly appeared and whirled and cried over the creaking, leaking, battered dragonship. The sight of shore birds meant just one thing. "Land," Thoryn said aloud, "I smell it." He strained to see, and after an hour a storm came up in his veins. There! That was what he'd been praying for: Jutting over the aquamarine horizon was a hazy outline of darker blue. It could only be the tall, grizzled shoreline of Norway. The wind seemed to freshen at just that moment, as if to drive the
Blood Wing
toward her harbor.
By noon, everyone aboard could see the landfall, could see even the little waves ruffling the edge of the myriad outer islands. Now a cloud of birds flew over the
Blood Wing
. Thoryn knew where they were now, and it was nothing to get home.
Near sunset, he put the helm hard over, and they passed the promontory called Outer Rock. The lean-lined longship entered Dainjerfjord.
***
Inga Thorsdaughter stood on the summit of the headland above Thorynsteading, where she had a clear view of the mouth of the fjord. Only the sound of the water lapping the gravel shore far below broke the evening silence. The sun had no more than an hour left before its setting. Already the sheer sides of the fjord had shadowed themselves.
For the past week Inga had climbed to this cliff-edge lookout several times a day, hoping to see the dragonship's swollen sail. So far she'd been disappointed and, after an hour, went back to supervise the day's sewing and fish-salting and care of the goats, or the evening meal and the bedding down of the steading folk on their various pallets. This was the fate of a Viking woman: While her men lived like heroes, she had to wait.
Would they come back?
The same painful question was asked in a hundred homes.
Would they winter away? Would she see them ever again?
Stalwart, dry-eyed, proud by necessity, and controlled unto death —these were the qualities of a Viking mother, wife, daughter. Ever prepared to receive the news that her loved ones were lost forever. The sea was her master, her enemy. The sea made her strong so that she might wait for months, years, caring for the farmstead, the harvest, managing the thralls, and coping with her neighbors.
Inga clutched her red cape about her. In the distance, the white sea sparkled and breathed. She thought,
The great sea may be our enemy, but the wind is our friend. The wind brings our men home.
Sometimes.
She squinted, looking toward the place she knew the dragonship would first appear—and there it was! She spotted the huge sail first, almost lost in the sea dazzle. The red-striped splotch grew larger and larger, and then a dark shape appeared low in the waves. The
Blood Wing!
Several emotions coursed through her at once: gladness, relief, nervousness. She was glad she'd worn her best dress today, the blue one that was the color of the high summer sky, the same color her eyes had been once. Her hair, thick and heavy like Thoryn's, was arranged in a knot atop her head, signifying her position as a matron. It was a source of pride to her that it was still blond, not as lustrous as in her youth, but not grizzled with age, either. She patted it girlishly, tucking a stray tendril into place. She wanted to look her best for her son.
She was relieved because being in charge of the steading while Thoryn was away was a big responsibility. This was not a small farm on which the half-grown children and a hired hand could do all the work. There was a large staff of workers indoors and out, men of Viking birth and thralls captured in raids. Their labor had to be directed, their ailments treated, their disputes settled, and the welfare of the whole considered.
Inside the house, she oversaw the cooking, the cleaning, the spinning and weaving of the flax and wool, the provision of food and the care of the furnishings. Outside, there was the sheep-shearing in the early summer, and the flax harvest, then the washing and carding of the wool and the preparations of the flax stems for spinning. The dairy work was a daily round. The steading had a blacksmith shop where Eric No-breeches had to be kept busy forging tools, shoeing horses, and repairing equipment. There was the tar pit where the tar for daubing ships and treating ropes had to be distilled from resinous woods, and the tannery where the hides had to be cured into furs. There was always the lumbering and carpentry as well as the wood to be chopped for the fires. Inga even had to supervise the saltworks; they used a great deal of salt in food preparation and at the table.
She had to know what was being done everywhere, and had to judge if all was going well. And always without a man to lay his tall body over her and kiss her leisurely.
She sighed. The sea sighed.
Last but not least of the several emotions that surged through her was an incredible nervousness. Thoryn had grown into a severe man in the fifteen years he had been jarl. Few dared stand against him in his wrath. In many ways he was like his father.
Kirkyn. His memory followed Inga always. She could suppress it but never really destroy it; eventually it returned, with slow repeated hammering. Kirkyn, her blond, bright-cheeked husband. She'd loved him recklessly. The world had shimmered with her love. She would have given her right hand for one of his huge enfolding smiles. Then he'd gone to the faraway isles of England to gather gold and silver, riches and thralls. It was just an evening as this when he returned, his eyes unwilling to meet hers anymore. Everything had changed after that, everything was ruined. He'd come in from the ever-winking sea filled with deceptions.
For he'd brought home a thrall-woman. He hadn't needed to say a thing; all Inga had to do was see how he looked at her. The woman had bewitched him, and Inga didn't know how to break the spell. To see him thus had choked her with hate. What was so surprising about that? Nothing. What surprised them all was the end to which it had finally come.
As the sun slipped a little farther down the side of the blue sky, the dragonship drew close enough that Inga could see its oars digging deeply into the fjord water. The
Vikingar
were eager to be back to the windy sheep runs and butter-laden grass of Norway. At least for a while. The sun caught the edges of the sail and glinted from the long, flashing oar blades; the ferocious dragonhead rose with glowing ruby eyes above the elegant hull; points of light mirrored from polished helmets, spear tips, and axe blades. The warriors' round shields hung in a row along the outside of the ship in a fine display. Suddenly one man —was that Magnus Fair-hair's son, Ottar? —leapt outside the gunwales and commenced to "walk" around the outside of the ship by jumping from one moving oar to another. Those aboard cheered him on, and those on shore who had spotted them and were running down the path to the dock shouted.
And there! There in his smoothly polished helmet — Thoryn! Inga drank him in with her eyes as her hands plucked nervously at her skirt. She could hardly wait to touch his cheek, smooth his hair, to reassure herself he was really back and that the great love between them lay intact.
Her excitement grew to such heights she could hardly breathe. And she got a strange taste in her mouth, that coppery, sweet taste.
No, not now!
She was apprehensive for a moment. But then it went away. It passed. It was gone. Shaken, she nevertheless put an expression of absolute tranquility on her face and set off down the path. Her beloved son was home.
***
Norway! Edin knew little about it save that it was vastly barbaric, an unknown realm on the upper edge of the world from which swift Viking ships swept down to make terrible raids. She'd never considered what kinds of homes the warriors returned to, what garments they changed into out of their ship and battle dress, what foods they ate, what games they played, or what else they might spend their time at between journeys. She'd never thought of Vikings as men, as people, with the needs and feelings and interests and habits everyone else had.
She gazed over the gunwales at the rugged and precipitous shore the longship was approaching. Already they'd passed a sort of girdling shield of thousands of islands, most of them smooth, bare rock. The sea around those had been comparatively shallow. Nearer the mainland it seemed to get deeper again, affording, as even she could see, an exceptionally sheltered shipping lane.
From a distance the mainland itself had seemed nothing more than mountain ranges tumbling into the sea. Waterfalls dropped off sheer cliffs, sparkling from rock to rock as they descended. Deep inlets cut into shoreline, many only a hundred feet or so wide, others very wide, with steep bluffs rising on each side.