The Far Traveler - Nancy Marie Brown
Chapter 2: Ransacking the Past
Chapter 3: A Very Stirring Woman
Chapter 4: The Terror from the North
Chapter 6: Eirik the Red’s Green Land
Chapter 7: Land of Wine or Walrus
Chapter 8: The House of the Sagas
Copyright © 2007 by Nancy Marie Brown
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Maps by Jeffery Mathison
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Brown, Nancy Marie.
The far traveler: voyages of a Viking woman/Nancy Marie Brown.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. Gudrid Thorbjarnardottir—Travel. 2. North America—Discovery and exploration—Norse. 3. Iceland—Discovery and exploration—Norse. 4. Women—Iceland—Biography. 5. Women—Greenland—Biography. 6. Vikings—Biography. 7. Sagas. 8. Viking ships. 9. Excavations (Archaeology)—Iceland. I. Title.
DL65.B77 2007
970.01'3092—dc22 [B] 2007006081
ISBN 978-0-15-101440-8
eISBN 978-0-547-53939-3
v1.1112
For Mom and Dad
Wits must one have who wanders afar.
—Hávamál
The Icelandic alphabet has three letters that are missing in modern English, although Old English had them. The letter “ð” (called “eth”) sounds like the voiced “th” in “the”; “þ” (“thorn”) is an unvoiced “th,” as in “thought”; “æ” (“ash”) makes the long “i” sound. A few Icelandic words appear in italics in this book but, for ease of reading, I have anglicized all the Icelandic names, changing the “ð” to “d,” “þ” to “th,” and “æ” to “ae,” and omitting accents. (I have also omitted accents from names in other foreign languages; on the acknowledgments page and in the list of sources, the names are given their proper spellings.) I have retained the nominative endings (as in “Sigridur”) for most modern Icelandic names (the exception being place-names ending in “-fjord”); for saga characters, I have dropped the endings (turning “Gudridur” into “Gudrid”) to be consistent with other saga translations. For names known by several spellings—such as Eric, Erik, or Eirik the Red—I have chosen the Icelandic version. Most Icelandic last names are patronymics, made by adding “son” or “dottir” to the possessive form of the father’s name. Gudrid Thorbjarnardottir is, literally, Gudrid, daughter of Thorbjorn. Leif Eiriksson is Leif, son of Eirik. For this reason, modern Icelanders always go by first names, no matter how formal the situation. I have followed their practice.
Gudrid the far-Traveler
Making a voyage to Vinland was all anyone talked about that winter. They all kept urging Karlsefni to go, Gudrid as much as the others.
—The Saga of the Greenlanders
A
THOUSAND YEARS AGO, AN OLD WOMAN NAMED GUDRID
stood on the threshold of her house contemplating her next voyage. Now I stand there in her stead, looking out at a long bank of treeless mountains. A pass to the east leads up along a leaping stream into high pastures that, as I watch, are lit by a shaft of sunlight and, as quickly, fade back to gray. I turn away, get back to work. I have spent the summer with a team of archaeologists, uncovering the remains of Gudrid’s house with shovel and trowel, and today, in a misty cold rain, my Icelandic sweater smeared with mud, I must help rebury it.
For five long weeks we traced the outline of this Viking longhouse, finding the four rooms Gudrid lived in, the doors she entered and left by, our only clues the colors and patterns in the hard-packed earth. The house, built of blocks of turf or sod laid up in a herringbone pattern, was abandoned and flattened sometime in the half century between 1050 and 1104. The date that sticks in my mind is 1066, the end of the Viking Age. In the years since then, Gudrid’s house was buried by windblown soil and so preserved for the archaeologists to find, eight inches below the plow zone in the hayfield at Glaumbaer, “Farm of Merry Noise,” in northern Iceland. For the scientists, laying landscape fabric on top of the walls and piling dirt back on by the bucketful is an ordinary end-of-the-season chore; “putting the site to bed,” as they say. They don’t even complain about the rain.
To me, it is the untimely end of a grand adventure. True, we have photographs and drawings. The computers store a floor plan of Gudrid’s house keyed to a GPS grid, so it can easily be found again. But a remote-sensing device called ground-penetrating radar had given us tantalizing images of what could be a flagstone patio outside Gudrid’s front door and the central hearth in her main hall. Those floor-level features are a foot deeper than we had dug this summer, not to mention the needles, combs, spindle whorls or spoons, glass beads, brass pins, and parts of a loom that we could expect to find forgotten on a Viking woman’s floor. There wouldn’t be much to collect. Gudrid’s family had not left in a hurry, and they hadn’t moved far, just a few hundred feet up the hill to build a grander house overlooking the river plain. They would have taken all their valuables with them. But there might have been enough to let me feel I had held in my hand something Gudrid herself had dropped.
Then there was the puzzle of the horse skull, found two days ago in the middle of what should be Gudrid’s weaving room. The rest of the horse might be there, too, and perhaps even a human skeleton, for in Viking Iceland a man or woman was often buried with a favorite horse. And other graves had been found just down the valley, dug into a ruined longhouse. But the archaeologists, knowing they were out of time and money, were practical. They recorded the skull’s position and covered it right back up. I seem to be the only one fretting that there is no money—and no plan—to reopen the dig next year.
But the Gudrid I imagine, standing on her threshold a thousand years ago, watching the winds comb the woolly clouds across the flat-topped mountains, would not have been sad. She would have turned to look north, where the valley widens out to sea, and smiled. For her, a new adventure was beginning. Despite her age (she was soon to be a grandmother), she was on her way across the sea to Norway and then south to Rome.
This pilgrimage was not the first—or the farthest—of her voyages. Twenty years before, she had sailed west from Greenland off the edge of the known world. She was nineteen, newly wed for the second or third time and pregnant for the first. With her were her husband, Thorfinn Karlsefni, and three Viking crews in clinker-built boats. They were sailing to Vinland, a fabulous land that Leif Eiriksson, son of Greenland’s founder Eirik the Red, had washed up on a few years back, when he was caught in a summer storm, sailing west across the icy North Atlantic from Norway. It was Gudrid’s second attempt to get to Vinland. She meant to settle in this New World.
At summer’s end, the crews beached their ships on a grassy shore and built a longhouse out of turf; there Gudrid gave birth to her son Snorri. For three years they explored their Vinland, or “Wine Land.” They found salmon and halibut, tall trees and lush grasslands, wine grapes, and a grain like wheat. They saw islands full of eider ducks, bears, or foxes, mountains and marvelous beaches, fjords with fierce currents and wide tidal lagoons. And they met strangers whose language they could not understand, strangers who had never seen an axe or a bull, who were delighted by the taste of milk and traded packs full of furs for thin strips of red wool cloth; strangers who fought with stone-tipped arrows and whose numbers were overwhelming.
After three years, the Vikings abandoned their settlement. Only one of their three ships made it back to Greenland. From there, Gudrid, Karlsefni, and little Snorri sailed to Norway, where they sold their cargo of exotic goods, then turned west again, wealthy, to settle in Iceland. They spent the first winter on Karlsefni’s family farm. But his mother and Gudrid did not get along, the story goes, so the couple bought a farm nearby. They named it Glaumbaer, “Farm of Merry Noise,” put up a longhouse, and had a second son. When Karlsefni died a few years later, Gudrid ran the farm and raised her sons alone. She prospered and endowed a church and, as an old woman, stood on the doorstep for a moment or two, watching the wind hurry the clouds across the mountains, before setting off for Rome.
Most people know the Vikings explored North America five hundred years before Columbus. They recognize the name Leif Eiriksson and his father Eirik the Red, who discovered Greenland in 985 and set up a settlement there, for which Leif was heading when he was blown off course and spied land farther west.
Fewer have heard of the voyages of Gudrid the Far-Traveler. Yet in the 1960s, archaeologists proved part of her story true when they found a Viking settlement on the far northwestern tip of Newfoundland. After forty years of argument and analysis, the experts conclude that this small settlement, called L’Anse aux Meadows after a nearby village, was a base camp from which Vikings from Iceland and Greenland explored North America just after the year 1000. Butternuts and a burl of butternut wood worked by a metal tool prove the Vikings went well into the Gulf of St. Lawrence toward modern-day Quebec, or south to New England, where butternut trees—and the wild grapes for which Wine Land was named—naturally grow. The whorl from a spindle used for spinning yarn proves a Viking woman was with them.
Then in 2001 John Steinberg, an archaeologist from the University of California at Los Angeles, began working in Skagafjord, the valley in northern Iceland where the stories say Gudrid finally made her home. He and his crew planned to map all the Viking Age and later medieval houses in one part of the valley, to see how the settlement had changed over time. They took small soil samples to gauge the richness and depth of the soil and to look for charcoal or other signs of human activity. Where things looked interesting, they walked over the area carrying a remote-sensing device.
Surveying Glaumbaer, Steinberg and his crew found signs in the hayfield—where tradition said no houses should be—of a Viking Age longhouse. A map of the walls beneath the soil, drawn by the remote-sensing gadget, and two small test trenches suggested that the longhouse at Glaumbaer looked like no other known house of its time in Iceland. Its floor plan most resembled one found at L’Anse aux Meadows.
When I heard about the buried house at Glaumbaer in August 2002, I knew Steinberg had found the house Karlsefni had built for Gudrid when they returned from their Vinland adventure. It seemed that Gudrid really had quarreled with her mother-in-law. Plus, if the two houses were alike, Steinberg had proof that someone (Gudrid) had moved from Newfoundland to Iceland a thousand years ago. Steinberg was not ready then (and still isn’t now) to make either of these claims. But he did let me help excavate the house. When I showed up at Glaumbaer in July 2005, awkwardly wielding my brand-new Marshalltown trowel, he had a few words of warning:
You’re going to like archaeology,
he said.
Five weeks won’t be enough.
He was right. Archaeology used to be about finding artifacts. A bronze cloak pin and a handful of ship’s rivets told us L’Anse aux Meadows was a Viking site. In Iceland, an inlaid cross and a silver Thor’s hammer amulet found in the same tenth-century grave told us the Vikings hedged their bets, while a hoard of hack-silver, arm-rings, and chains proved the Vikings did bring home and bury their treasure.
But in the last ten to twenty years, modern science has made the world of the Vikings much more vivid—and complex. Studies of volcanic ash and the Greenland ice cap have allowed scientists to date layers of soil in Iceland (and thus the house walls found in them) to exact years. New ways of collecting minuscule evidence, such as pollen grains, seeds, flies, lice, and fleas, have revealed disastrous environmental changes caused by Viking farming methods. The isotopes of carbon in skeletal bone, the wear on sheep’s teeth, the frequency of headless fish in garbage heaps, and the geographical distribution of seal parts have revealed what Gudrid and her peers ate, how they traded for favorite foods from farm to farm, and how they managed their sheep herds to maximize wool exports. Tree-ring studies can pinpoint when and where a Viking ship was made—or patched—while sea-trials of replicas reveal their speeds, their special handling qualities, and their weak points. DNA analyses can say where the settlers of Iceland (and thus Greenland and Vinland) came from, and show whether the tension between the new Christian religion and the ancient cults of Odin and Thor tore families apart. Metal detectors and the newer remote-sensing methods that use microwaves and other electromagnetic waves to see through the surface of the ground are locating not only buried turf houses like the one at Glaumbaer, but Viking garbage pits and hay barns and boathouses and graves; by allowing experts to map out whole Viking settlements they can reveal who was richer than whom and how power was gained or lost.
Science can now tell me what a woman like Gudrid ate and wore, what she worked at, where her place was within her society. What it can’t tell me is why Gudrid was so remarkable, so utterly unlike our image of a woman of her time.
Medieval women, everyone knows, did not stray far from home. But Gudrid traveled from Canada to Rome. She crossed the North Atlantic eight times. She earned the nickname “Far-Traveler”—although no one called her that in her own day. The tag was attached to three Viking men whose travels took them through Russia and Greece and Constantinople, and on to the mysterious East.
Like theirs, the story of Gudrid the Far-Traveler comes down to us in the medieval Icelandic sagas. These forty-or-so tales of glory, love, hard times, and strife are Iceland’s claim to literary fame. Scholars have called them “muscled, powerful narratives” that are surprising in their “seductiveness” and whose “artistic effects are often very finely calculated.” They have inspired countless authors, from Kipling and Longfellow to Milan Kundera. J. R. R. Tolkien found much of his Middle Earth in Icelandic literature; he and C. S. Lewis started a saga-reading club at Oxford University and translated the texts from Old Norse, the Viking language. Another saga translator was the Victorian writer and designer William Morris. Asked once if he was going on a trip to Iceland, he replied, “No, I am going on a
pilgrimage
to Iceland.” Quoting Morris, the Argentine poet Jorge Luis Borges said, “This is also my answer. Any specialist in Anglo-Saxon literature is sooner or later drawn to Icelandic literature. It is like admiring a sunset or falling in love.” The American novelist Jane Smiley ranks the sagas beside the works of “Homer, Shakespeare, Socrates, and those few others who live at the very heart of human literary endeavor.”
Written in Iceland in the 1200s, the sagas tell of the Viking Age, particularly that part of it, between 870 and 1030, in which Icelanders played a starring role. Much of what we know otherwise about the Vikings was written by their enemies, by monks and clerics who—in spite of the fact that some Vikings were Christian—cast the “terror from the north” in the role of Antichrist. The Icelandic sagas do not deny that warriors from Norway, Sweden, Denmark, and Iceland terrorized the coasts of Europe for hundreds of years, beginning with the sack of the English monastery of Lindisfarne in 793. But the sagas put that bloodshed into context from the Vikings’ point of view. We learn what it was like to be one of those brash, blond-headed swordsmen embarking from a dragonship itching to steal the chalice from an English church or the chest filled with silver from a French merchant’s loft. We sail on their swift ships to the white-marbled cities of the East, and farther west than West to Wine Land. In the sagas, we meet men who will recite a poem or tell a joke while succumbing to mortal wounds, men who excel at drinking bouts, wrestling, ball games, swimming, oar-walking, and horse fights, but enjoy nothing so much as sitting around a longfire listening to tales of heroes like themselves.
We also see the less sexy side of Viking life. A warrior hides in a tub full of whey when he’s outnumbered. An old Viking, blind and shaky on his feet, hunches by the fire, ridiculed by his womenfolk for always being in the way. There’s the strong man who’s afraid of the dark and his neighbor who has bad dreams. There are years when they run out of hay, and the sheep all starve. There are shipwrecks and landslides and general bum luck, hopeless love affairs, and the tragic drowning of a beloved young son. And there are countless mothers and wives holding the farm together while their men mope and quarrel and fight and kill each other and take off overseas.
Compared to some sagas, the two short ones that tell of Gudrid,
The Saga of Eirik the Red
and
The Saga of the Greenland
ers,
known collectively as the Vinland Sagas, are bare-bones. Their plots don’t hang together. Their settings and characters are weak. Their use of folk-tale motifs—fortune-telling, belligerent ghosts, one-footed humanoids—is clumsy and repetitious. They read like sketches from a writer’s notebook, not finished works. Once I mentored a college student in an independent-study project, assigning him an analysis of the women in half a dozen sagas. Gudrid did not fare well in the comparison. My student concluded in his final paper: