"So Leif is back," said Merewyn to her friend. "How glad my Orm will be, he always admired Leif, and has missed him these two years of absence, though to be sure, Leif is so much older."
"Orm is a fine lad, Merevyn," said Astrid in her gentle voice. "I hope my Helgi will be as fine."
The two women were twirling their spindles — the first step in the making of Greenland woolens for which there had developed a foreign market. The annual trader from Norway now carried back several Greenland products besides walrus tusks and sealskins.
This sitting in the sunlight outside the homestead was like the time at Langarfoss in Iceland, so long ago, Merewyn thought. And yet, nothing else was like. Here were no beautiful mountains to look at, only black hills, and frozen sedge, and the shadow of the all-pervading gray ice cap. And there were many other differences. At Langarfoss, Orm had been a baby, and now he was nearly eighteen, big and strong as Sigurd. Ketil had been there too at Langarfoss. My poor father, she thought. Ketil had spent many months dying from some dreadful pain in his middle. Sometimes he'd be out of his mind, and run around the Hall brandishing "Bloodletter," completely berserker, while he fought imaginary battles and shouted the old Viking war whoops. Then only Sigurd could manage him.
Once during KetU's illness, Sigurd sent for a seeress, who lived near BrattaHd. Her name was Thorbjorg, and she was much respected for her ability to predict the future. She came to Ketilvik, and was elaborately dressed, since all who consulted her gave gifts.
She wore a blue cloak embroidered with tiny pearls, glass beads about her neck, and had on a black lambskin hood which she refused to remove, nor would she take off her gloves which were made of white catskin. Around her waist was a belt of touchwood, from which hung a big pouch containing the charms she needed to help her prophesy. She ate nothing of the dinner they offered her except a seal's heart. Then when they had finished, she asked Merewyn if she knew the "V^arthlokur" chant.
Merewyn said "No," anxiously, but added that if Thorbjorg would repeat it, she would echo each line, for it seemed that two
or more women must do the magic chant if the spirits were to come.
They were very quiet in the Hall when Thorbjorg began her spells. Ketil dozed in the High Seat — it was one of his quiet days, Orm was out fishing, but Thora's wide-eyed gaze was rigidly fastened on the seeress.
Merewyn recited the chant in rote, while she and Sigurd watched the mysterious procedures with Thorbjorg's staff, her knife, and sundry small shriveled objects from her pouch.
At last Thorbjorg said, staring into the peat-fire smoke, "Some things are clear. Ketil is not mad, he is dying. And you, Sigurd, will prosper for a few years, I cannot say how long. But for your wife, I see big changes someday. She will voyage far — far — she will not die on Greenland." There was a pause, and Merewyn asked, "Orm?" on a sharp breath.
"Your son? He is not here. People must be here, or I see nothing. For this child," she pointed to Thora, "there is some danger ahead — yet she will not die on Greenland."
That was all they got from Thorbjorg, who was rewarded with a beautiful black sealskin and shortly left because she had been summoned to another homestead.
At the end Ketil insisted on boarding the Bylgja though the ship was still wintering in her naust. He died on the Bylgja giving phantom orders to sail, and vomiting blood between each order.
They buried him behind the homestead, and laid "Bloodletter" beside him, with his favorite knife, and his horned war helmet, and his own slaughtered horse.
Another change was Thora. Merewyn glanced at her with the anxious love and pity she had felt for the child ever since it had become plain that Thora was not right. Thora now was crouched over the new grass, yanking it up and piling it, just as little Orm had done at Langarfoss. But Thora would be fifteen at Yuletide. She was red-haired and very pretty, yet there was
blankness in her dark blue eyes, and she had never quite learned to talk. Merewyn understood her, but it was hard for others to do so. When Thora did speak it was mostly in a language of her own, a prattling, which seemed to please her for she often giggled as at some secret joke. She was sweet-tempered except at the times when she wanted her mother to feed her, and petulantly pushed away a dish of meat or skyr. She wet her bed most nights, though by day Merewyn had trained her to use the outdoors privy, or the iron chamber pot when the weather was too fierce.
"Thora," said Merewyn speaking half to herself and half to Astrid, "is very much as Orm was when we came here. She will always be a small child, I fear."
Astrid also sighed. "It must be that the trolls got at her, after her birth."
"Trolls!" said Merewyn impatiently. "It was that Freydis. She has the evil eye, and I'm afraid of her. Do you know that she stopped here last month, with that puny little husband of hers, and she spent a lot of time with Thora, stroking the child's arm, squeezing her. And once when I came back from the larder, I found that woman kissing Thora."
Astrid looked up and said quietly, "What's so wrong with that?"
"That Thora liked this attention. And that when I sent off Freydis and her husband — believe me as soon as Sigurd would let me — I found that there were bruises all over Thora's arm, and a tooth-cut on her lower lip. And then Thora made me understand that she wanted to follow Freydis. She cried for her."
"Oh . . ." said Astrid, her mild eyes startled and full of sympathy. "Then you should perhaps not take her to Erik's feast, since, of course, Freydis will be there."
"Sigurd wouldn't let me leave her behind. He's so fond of her, and refuses to admit that she is — well.. . and he always thought my hatred of Freydis was silly. And he wouldn't let 77ie refuse
to go. This is Erik the Red's first feast in two years, and it would be a grievous insult if I refused it. He is still our chief. And I wish," she added passionately "we had never come to Greenland. It was all poor Ketil's doing. God rest his soul,"
"Perhaps," said Astrid, always striving to comfort, "the Valkyries took Ketil up to Valhalla, where he may drink and fight forever. He'd be happy."
"Does Valhalla receive any man who didn't die in battle?" asked Merewyn uncertainly.
Astrid was skeptical, but she said, "Sometimes, I'm sure, and Ketil was in many a battle, earlier."
"Yes," said Merewyn, tightening her lips. There was the "battle" of Padstow against peaceable and defenseless people. That battle in which Uther and others had been killed, Breaca raped and maimed. Another "battle" at Padstow with killings, and my capture later. And similar battles, like the ones in Ireland which had brought them Brigid and Cormac as thralls.
"Oh, WHY do men want to fight, and kill, and conquer — and roam!" she cried, thinking of Orm who was restless, and had picked a fight with Thorstein Erikson purely for the fun of it. Even Sigurd was restless. He was planning a voyage to Norway this summer on the Bylgja which he had, of course, inherited from Ketil. And he would take Orm with him.
There was always love when she thought of Sigurd, but the wild heyday of their passion was over. They had been married — what was it? Eighteen, nineteen years. "And we are no longer young," said Merewyn aloud, knowing that Astrid would placidly follow any remarks her friend made.
Astrid smiled. "You look young, Merevyn," she said. So much hair, and you've kept your figure, and your teeth. Me not. Too many babies, I suppose."
Startled out of her own preoccupation, Merewyn inspected her friend. Astrid had grown dumpy; her yellow braids had dwindled to wisps; her sweet smile was marred by the loss of several front teeth. Her husband had pulled the teeth out for
her when the pain grew too bad. And Astrid had borne four children after Helgi who was nearly Thora's age. At each birth Merewyn had been with her friend, and finally learned something of midwifery. The support the two women gave each other had been a precious thing to both of them.
"How is Bjarne?" asked Merewyn, referring to Astrid's stepson.
"Sailing again very soon, though I suppose he'll wait for Erik's feast. The Eriksons are always so eager to hear what Bjarne can tell them of the countries he saw to the west, though it is to Bjarne's shame that he didn't land anywhere, and as you know, when he went to Norway, they blamed him quite a bit for not having explored. But then," said Astrid, "Bjarne is not an inquisitive man, and he was anxious to reach his father before winter set in. He's a good son."
"No doubt somebody will go off to explore those places now," said iMerewyn, thinking of Jorund — and Rumon. "My father always wanted to, and there are trees there," she sighed. "I've heard nothing about England in years, but Leif must have brought news. Ah yes, I'm eager for the feast," she said with a youthful laugh. "And you will help me guard my poor Thora from Freydis!"
Erik the Red's feast was lavish, and attended by all the families from the settlements who were well enough to get to Brattalid. It seemed that there was much sickness in the Western Settlement. Many grew fiery hot and then freezing cold, they had headaches and they sweated and had painful bellies which became covered with red spots. A few had died. Thorbjorg, the seeress, had been sent for, and after her incantations said that the sickness came from a crew member named Arne, who was off a fishing boat which had put into Gothaab. This seemed like nonsense to everybody, for Arne was a jolly, likable lad, who was gladly received in the homesteads, not only for his amusing tales of the southern voyage he had recently taken, but
because he helped with the milking, and the carv'ing of meat at whatever house he visited. The women doted on him, especially girls. How could he have anything to do with the sickness?
l^^hen pressed, Thorbjorg said that though Arne was healthy himself, and meant no harm, he seemed to give sickness to others.
It was generally felt that Thorbjorg was losing her powers, particularly when she said that the sickness would spread to Brattalid if anybody went down to Erik's feast. And that she, herself, would not attend the feast. This was ridiculous.
The news of illness in the upper settlement would have distressed Erik more if he had not been inflicted with a much greater catastrophe.
Leif had no sooner landed and greeted his parents than he presented commands from the Norwegian King, Olaf Trygva-son. King Olaf commanded that all the Greenlanders were immediately to be baptized as Christians; Leif had a black-robed priest with him, brought for the purpose. Leif and his crew had already been baptized in Norway. Iceland, said Leif, would certainly vote for the new religion at the Althing this year, for there were many priests there now, and everybody knew how unhealthy for trade it would be to disobey the Norwegian King who had himself been converted somewhere in England.
Erik was at first incredulous, dazed. His bloodshot eyes popped and he tugged at his red beard. "I don't understand you, Leif," he muttered. "What has that Christ to do with us Greenlanders?"
"Christ is the only begotten Son of the one true god," said Leif. "Those gods we have worshiped — Thor, Odin, and the rest — are bad. King Olaf has convinced me of that. We will tear down the unholy temples, and build Christian churches."
"Tear down my temple to Thor ..." repeated Erik in a wheezy voice, and heard his wife, Thiodild, give a murmur of assent.
Rage spurted through Erik, and he turned on Leif. "How dare you come to me with this trash! How dare you tell me
what to do! / am the Chief of Greenland! Get that man out of here!" He pointed a shaking forefinger at the silent black-robed priest who stood just behind Leif.
"I can't and I won't, Father," said Leif.
Erik quivered. He turned purple, he lunged forward, and hit his son a powerful blow on the face. Then he spat at the priest.
Leif staggered. He put his hand to his nose, which was knocked askew and began to bleed. The priest wiped the spittle off his habit and put a calming hand on Leif's shoulder.
Leif gritted his teeth. "If you were not my father, and old, I'd kill you for that."
Erik looked around, and saw his son, Thorvald, watching. "Help me," he said to Thorvald, "up to the High Seat, which is mine, and always ivill be in this land of mine."
Thorvald, who was Erik's favorite, hauled his father up to the High Seat where Erik slumped down, clenching his fists, and glowering.
At Thiodild's gesture, a servant brought ale to Erik, but his wife did not go near him. Instead she brought moss to staunch the blood pouring from Leif's nose, and she said to the priest, "You may baptize ?He, sir, at once. I've long been discontented with the old gods, and wish to worship a new one, if he is powerful, as I have heard he is."
"He is powerful, madam," said the priest, who was called Father Frederic, and had been born in Saxony; ordained at Bremen; and subsequently sent north to attend the newly baptized King Olaf in Norway. The priest was a short, stolid man, who would — as his superiors knew — do his duty even in this barbarous Greenland. He was a man who lived calmly, without thinking of the past or worrying about the future. The scene between father and son he accepted as part of the necessities involved when one Christianized a country. It occurred to him that it was fortunate that the chief's wife appeared to be willing to lead the vanguard, but also he longed for his dinner, since it
was not a fast day. He thought of roast pig, and was soon gratified.
The quarrel between Erik and Leif took place before most of the guests had arrived. But the sultry atmosphere at Brattalid was apparent to all.
Erik sat on the High Seat, and muttered. He greeted his guests with sulky grunts, occasionally saying, "Had I known Leif's treachery, there'd have been no welcome feast."
Merewyn and her family arrived with Astrid's just after the episode. They were courteously greeted by Thiodild, who conducted the women to the Cross Bench beneath the gable. Ale was poured, huge pieces of roast pig handed out, but Merewyn was so mystified by what she saw that she could not eat. What was a priest doing here? He was certainly some sort of priest, with those black robes, silver crucifix, and tonsure. And why was Leif Erikson, his face all bloody, his nose crooked, sitting beside the priest at the very bottom of the benches, instead of up on the High Seat with his father who did nothing but glare.