The Gargoyle (45 page)

Einarr grunted appreciatively and took another gulp.

That night, as Sigurðr walked back to his own house, he absent-mindedly rubbed his fingers with the patch of sharkskin he had not given to Einarr. He had sliced it from the top fin because he knew it would make fine sandpaper, but somehow he had not found a good moment to hand it over. By the time he arrived at his own shabby dwelling, his fingers were so numb he didn’t notice they were covered in blood.

In the afternoons that followed, Sigurðr discovered that while he had no real feel for woodwork, he did have a talent for paints. He ground the pigments—blacks from charcoal, whites from bone, reds from ocher—and applied them to the finished work. Sigurðr was thrice pleased: by the new skill he was developing; by the colors themselves; and by the smile on Einarr’s face.

Einarr, too, was content. Not only did Sigurðr’s painting improve his work, but also the young man was a good companion—not quite a friend yet, but certainly not only a workmate. To recognize this fact, one day Einarr handed over a long package, wrapped in worsted fabric and tied with a leather string. Inside was a sword with an intricately carved dragon handle. “It would be good for you to have a proper blade,” Einarr said, “not that fish-cutter you have now.”

Sigurðr nodded, because he didn’t know what else to do. Since his parents had died, this was the first gift anyone had given him.

“Now,” asked Einarr, “would you like to learn to use that?”

Einarr set about correcting the weaknesses in Sigurðr’s technique, and the pupil was quick to incorporate the suggestions. Einarr was impressed. “Your body naturally knows which way to move, and this is good. There are many things that can be taught, but a feel for the attack is not one of them.”

Sigurðr looked at his feet. He didn’t want Einarr to see the blush the compliment had brought to his face.

“You will need a name for that,” Einarr said. “I suggest Sigurðrsnautr. Because if you ever need to put your blade into a man, it will not be a gift that he soon forgets.”

When Sigurðr returned home that evening, he turned the sword over and over in his hands. He liked the name—“Sigurðr’s Gift.” He carefully tied together the ends of the leather strap that had wrapped the package, and hung it around his neck. From that day forward, he was never without it, but he always made sure the strap was carefully tucked into his tunic. There was no need to display it; it was enough to know what had once been in Einarr’s fingers now constantly touched his skin. To think of the fact sometimes raised small bumps on Sigurðr’s flesh, the way a blast of the northern wind might.

When the inevitable day came that Einarr left for a series of Viking raids, Sigurðr expected this would mark a return to his lonely ways. But Svanhildr invited him for pancakes and ale each morning and—to his own surprise—Sigurðr kept showing up. Bragi was growing bigger and soon added a new phrase to his growing vocabulary. He knew
mother
and
father
and
wood,
but one day he looked at the man who had the mouthful of pancakes and said: “Sig Sig.”

Though Einarr may have built the supply chests in the home, it was Svanhildr who controlled them with her chain of keys. Not without careful planning could a Viking household make it through the brutal winters, and Sigurðr grew to appreciate her work. She knew all the methods for preserving meat—smoking, salting, pickling, and more—so her husband did not grow tired of the same meals. After a while, Sigurðr found himself helping her after breakfast, slicing the meat into strips while she prepared the brines in which they would soak.

Not once during her husband’s absence did Svanhildr mention a fear that he might not come home—but when word came that the ship had returned, Svanhildr rushed to the shore and jumped into Einarr’s waiting arms. She kissed him passionately, then punched him twice in the face, and then gently kissed the blood off his lips. Sigurðr wasn’t quite sure, but it almost seemed that when Svanhildr pulled back her fist, Einarr offered up his chin to receive the coming blows.

Sigurðr helped to carry the plunder back to the longhouse and was amazed by the volume of goods: precious metals and bags of coins, jewelry, tools snatched from foreign workshops, and the bottles of wine that had not broken on the return voyage. But for all this, it was clear that Svanhildr was waiting for something more. Then Einarr drew out a jeweled book mount he had ripped from the cover of an edition of Gospels at one of the English monasteries, and pressed it into Svanhildr’s hand. She admired it for a few moments before adding the bauble to her treasure necklace, and finally Sigurðr understood from where the great variety of her charms had come. Everywhere.

They drank ale and wine late into the night until Sigurðr, too drunk to stumble home, passed out on one of the benches that lined the walls. Here he lay, until awakened by the sounds of a fight—or so he thought, in the disoriented moments before he realized he was overhearing the coupling of his hosts.

Einarr thrust brutally into his wife from behind, his hands pulling back her hips. It appeared that Svanhildr was desperately trying to escape, and she was, but not really: it was part of their game. When she finally managed to break free, Einarr grabbed her kicking legs and flipped her over. When he entered her from on top, she dragged her fingernails across his back, carving streaks of blood into his flesh. She bit his neck so hard that he had to pull her head away by a fistful of hair. She barked in pain, then smiled wickedly and told her husband that he smelled like old fish and fucked like a girl. Einarr growled that she wasn’t going to be able to walk straight come the morning.

It took a long time for Sigurðr to fall back asleep.

When he woke again, it was clear that Einarr—teeth marks ringing his throat—had already washed the stench from his body in the nearest hot spring. Bragi was running around, reacquainting himself with his father, while Svanhildr—bruises running down her arms—implored the boy to keep his voice down as she patiently untangled Einarr’s hair with a whalebone comb. Every once in a while, she threw her arms around him from behind to whisper,
“Ég elska Þig. Ég elska Þig. Ég elska Þig.” I love you. I love you. I love you.

When Sigurðr exaggerated a yawn to signal that he was awake, Svanhildr jumped up from her husband and went to get a bucket of fresh water so their guest could wash himself. Even before she had brought it over, Bragi had launched himself into Sigurðr’s arms. By now, his vocabulary had improved and he squealed with joy: “Uncle Sig!”

It was not long after that Einarr, for the second time, extended an offer that would change Sigurðr’s life: this time, to join the Viking crew. As Einarr explained, the long voyages were boring and he missed his life back home; perhaps the company of a friend would help ease that.

The offer was not without appeal, because Sigurðr often feared he was not enough of a man. In the mornings, he jumped into water and scavenged for dead animals; in the afternoons, he worked as an assistant; when he felt lonely, he helped another man’s wife with domestic chores. Sigurðr only promised to think about it but he already knew that he would accept the offer, and not least of all because Einarr had called him friend.

Sigurðr soon found himself being considered by the Vikings. There was some dissent—whispered rumors that Sigurðr was
fuðflogi,
a man who flees in horror when faced with the prospect of sexually servicing a woman—but no one wanted to offend Einarr. When one’s existence depends upon the longboat, it is inadvisable to upset the master carpenter. Besides, the Vikings believed there was nothing inherently wrong with queer feelings in any case, so long as one was the aggressor. The man who would submit himself to another in sex might also do so in other matters, like battle, but there was no evidence that Sigurðr had ever surrendered to another man, only the suggestion that he might not mind doing so. After a few tests of Sigurðr’s strength and skill with weapons, he was accepted on a trial expedition down the English coast.

The ship was an imposing thing, with cowhide shields and woolen sails, at its head a fierce carved serpent. They steered by the sun and the stars, the Vikings sitting on empty chests that would be full by the time they came home. It was clear that there were members of the Viking crew who relished the fight to come. They would prepare for the siege with chants, by slapping each other across the face, by cutting their own skin to whet their blades’ thirst for blood. Some would even imagine themselves as possessed by animal spirits, and aided the process by taking large mouthfuls of
berserkjasveppur—
berserker mushrooms—before hitting the English shore.

Einarr advised Sigurðr not to bother. He had used the mushrooms on his first raid, but they only disoriented him. However, he did confess he sometimes used them back in his workshop when he lacked inspiration for his carving. After a few mushrooms, he said, it was easy to envision the flowing designs that elude a man while sober.

Sigurðr soon discovered that the fighting came easily to him and that it was a simple task to overpower the English; they would mostly just hand over the loot in an effort to have done with it, especially the monks. The raids were a great success and Sigurðr, with Einarr’s help, acquitted himself well. He was invited for a second run, then a third, and after that he became a regular crew member. For the first time in his life, Sigurðr felt that he belonged. He’d moved from having no family to having two—Einarr’s, and a fraternity of brothers—and he believed that his newly earned manliness would, at the end of his days, allow him to enter Valhalla.

So it went for years. In the intervals between the raids, Sigurðr and Einarr practiced their weapons and improved their woodworking partnership. Einarr’s carving became ever more imaginative, perhaps because of the ale he sipped with increasing regularity or the mushrooms he took when in particular need of inspiration. Sigurðr’s skill with paint likewise progressed. The men spent most days together and, usually, on each new day they liked each other better than they had on the previous one.

It was inevitable, of course, that Sigurðr fell in love with Einarr. It was no longer simply lust’s first bloom, but something deeper and truer and better. It was equally inevitable that Einarr knew, but he had become an expert at pretending not to notice Sigurðr’s occasionally lingering looks. This is how they dealt with it: by acting as if it didn’t exist. Nothing good could come from talking about it, so they didn’t, and it hung between them like a long night with a dawn that never came.

As for Svanhildr, her love for Einarr also grew with each year; however, the excitement of his Viking way of life gave way to the harsh reality of his absences, and she became moody in the weeks leading up to each raiding expedition. Then came one time that was worse than any that had come before. She snapped whenever Einarr asked for a refilled frost-cup, berated the gods for no apparent reason, and even broke down into tears when Bragi scraped his knee while playing with a toy sword.

When Einarr could no longer stand it, he grabbed her shoulders and shook her until she gave up her silence.

“The problem is
you
,” she said. “And your trips, when I’m with child.”

A smile spread across Einarr’s face.

“Stop that! I’m not supposed to be pregnant again,” she lamented. “I’m old.”

“But not
too
old,” said Einarr. “Apparently.”

On the night before the men were to leave, Svanhildr served them smoked pork and her latest ale but barely spoke. The following morning, she did not accompany Einarr to the shore. She just slapped him once across the mouth at their front door to say goodbye.

The raids went as they always did. The reputation of the Vikings was almost enough to win any fight before a sword was lifted and by the time they approached their final target, their ship was loaded heavily. Perhaps they had grown complacent, because they were less prepared than usual. The English village had been attacked many times without difficulty, but recently the townspeople had learned some methods to defend themselves in an attempt to restore their pride. They didn’t expect to defeat the Vikings, but they desperately wanted to take a few of the intruders down.

As the Vikings poured out of their boat and across the sand, there came an unexpected exclamation of arrows across the sky. Sigurðr had a good eye; he spotted one arrow that posed a particular threat. He readied himself to move out of its path but then realized that if he did so, the arrow would hit the man behind him.

Einarr.

And so he did not move.

The arrow cut through the pelts across Sigurðr’s chest and he fell to the ground with a sharp yell, his fingers wrapped around the shaft.

After their initial surprise, the Vikings quickly regained control and the village fell to the attackers, as it always did. But the battle no longer involved Einarr Einarsson or Sigurðr Sigurðsson, who were back on the shore. The arrow was lodged deep in Sigurðr’s chest, embedded past the barb, and could not be pulled out without ripping the wound open.

Sigurðr knew this. He was afraid but gathered his courage even as he felt his eyes glazing over like ice forming on idle oars. “Einarr?”

“Yes.”

“I am dying.”

“You are not.”

“Remember me.”

“How could I forget a man,” Einarr replied, “so stupid that he believes he’s dying from a flesh wound?”

“Einarr?”

“What?”

“There is something I need to tell you.”

“You’re talkative for a dying man.”

“No,” Sigurðr insisted. “
Ég elska—”

Einarr cut him off. “All this prattling makes you sound like a woman. Save your strength.”

The look on Einarr’s face let Sigurðr know that the discussion was finished, so he closed his eyes and let his friend carry him back onto the longboat. There Einarr cut away the flesh around the arrow’s shaft, and Sigurðr howled in agony with each slice. When the trench had been dug wide enough, Einarr used tongs to pull out the arrowhead and then held it up so Sigurðr, barely conscious, could see the meaty fibers that clung to it.