The Memory Painter: A Novel (16 page)

TWENTY-ONE

NORTHERN ATLANTIC OCEAN

986

The wind hid Odin’s breath—Bjarni knew only a god could have conjured such a storm. He dropped sail to slow his speed, but the gales continued to push him off course. The ocean waged its war against his ship for a second day until Bjarni began to believe it wasn’t Odin, but Hel herself from the Underworld, raising her hands within the waves in an attempt to capsize them. He would never reach Greenland.

Bjarni prayed once more to Njord, God of the Sea and protector of all sailors, to keep them from her clutches. He gripped the
vegvísir
tighter in his palm and felt the stone grow warm in his hand.

A magical charm, the vegvísir was said to keep anyone from losing his way on the roughest seas. Bjarni looked down at the stone’s rune-like symbol, its ornate lines stretching in all four directions, cross-points perfectly carved, and had to believe it would. Garnissa had made it for him when she realized he would return home and find her gone.

Every winter Bjarni went back to Iceland to stay with his father, Herjólfr, at Eyrarbakki until the weather cleared. Bjarni was one of the best traders in the land, and he had accumulated his wealth over the years for one purpose—to build the finest longhouse for Garnissa and obtain good farmland. He had been planning to settle the agreement with her father for her hand. But when he had arrived, he had not even begun to unload his cargo when his old friend Guid had come running to deliver the news.

“Your father’s gone—Garnissa too with her family,” Guid had said.

A swift panic rose within Bjarni and he had fought to hide it. “Gone?”

“They all joined Erik the Red to sail for the new land he’s discovered.”

“Erik’s returned?” Bjarni frowned. Erik had been banished from Iceland for the past three years. He had killed two of his neighbors in a dispute over pasture lands. Before the controversy, Erik had been a good friend of Bjarni’s father and Bjarni had grown up playing with Erik’s sons, Thorvald, Thorskeinn, and Leif, often getting into mischief with them.

Usually the boys preferred to be caught and punished by Bjarni’s father, who was much more soft-spoken in comparison to Erik, who had a temper to match his flaming red hair. Even when he was a child, to Bjarni, Erik had been the strongest, most intimidating man he had ever met. He possessed the spirit of a true leader, charismatic and bold, and he hated fools. It did not surprise Bjarni to hear now that Erik had returned and been able to persuade most of the village to follow him to a new land where he would be Chieftain.

“He’s calling this grand new frontier Greenland,” Guid said with a hint of skepticism. “People left their farms and took their trade.”

“How many ships?” Bjarni asked, unable to believe Garnissa and his father had gone without him.

“Twenty-five. They left late spring to settle well before winter.”

Twenty-five ships meant hundreds of people. Bjarni said nothing, his thoughts racing ahead as he weighed his options.

“Garnissa asked me to give you this.” Guid handed Bjarni a small object wrapped in hide.

Bjarni had opened the bundle to find the vegvísir, and his heart had quickened when he saw the stone’s intricate design. He would have recognized Garnissa’s hand anywhere—she was the finest carver in the village next to her mother. Leaving the gods’ compass with Guid had been the best message she could have sent:
Come and find me.

Without question, Bjarni had decided to continue on to Erik the Red’s new land—a brash move considering winter was almost upon them and he did not know the way, nor would they be traveling with the support of other boats. And to make matters worse, he had twenty crewmen eager for land.

Keeping his face expressionless, Bjarni had tucked the stone into his belt. His crew could not know that he was trying to beat winter to Greenland because of a woman. The men would have taken their cargo and refused to sail.

Bjarni had gathered them on shore and looked each one of them in the eye. “Accompany me to this new paradise and see what you will gain. I promise a land of plenty as Erik’s described it, with boundless edibles and wildlife. The markets in Iceland have been slowly dying for years, the land overharvested … we are all restless for something better. Greenland promises a new beginning for those of us who are willing to grasp it. Come with me.” The men had grumbled but were game to follow him, and they had left port that same day.

Now they were lost at sea.

Bjarni did not believe in the magic of the Old Ways as Garnissa did, but he held on to the belief that her vegvísir would help him find his way. After two days of ceaseless battle with the storm, the crew was exhausted, sleep-deprived, and weary from bailing water to keep the ship afloat. Bjarni gripped the stone tighter. He was not ready to die just yet.

He yelled out over the wind, “Secure the spare sail to the mooring line! We’ll pitch it aft and make a
droug
!” Perhaps a crazy move in such a storm, but he saw no other choice.

All accomplished seamen, the men took action, knowing it was their captain’s final attempt to gain some control of the boat. They managed to lose speed but continued to sail on blindly.

Bjarni fought the wind to reach the tiller and relieved Olvir to man it himself. If any
knarr
could survive Odin’s storm it would be the
Gata
. He had built the boat with his own hands ten years ago, guided by his eldest uncle, the finest shipbuilder in all of Iceland. The trees had been carefully chosen from his father’s land and blessed by his mother. And when he and his uncle had split the first piece of wood for the helm, Bjarni had not looked away but had chosen to see the boat’s fate. Few men did.

“Look, boy. The wood split even and true,” his uncle announced, slapping his back in celebration. “I swear by the gods this boat will not shipwreck you.”

His mother had cried while the men laughed in relief. Bjarni bent down and picked up the two pieces, fitting them together perfectly.

“She will never fail you,” his uncle said solemnly. “Remember that.” And then the old man had walked off to build it.

The ship’s name had come to Bjarni on the morning it was ready to meet water—the
Gata
, which meant the road. His ship would be a road through the sea, and no vessel would travel it better.

True to his uncle’s words, the
Gata
did not fail him but rode out the storm until its fury broke on the third day, leaving only fog behind. Bjarni raised the sail to catch what wind he could and took out his sunstone to find the sun’s position. But even his treasured crystal could not help him. That night Polaris—the North Star—and its two pointer stars remained hidden as well. Odin was not through with him yet.

The
Gata
sailed for two more days. Fortunately, the crew had plenty of casks of fresh water and dried food for the journey, and the men took the time to rest. Only Tarr was discontent.

This was Bjarni’s first voyage with the man, and he had begun to question his decision to allow him passage, but he had been in need of an extra hand. Olvir had vouched for the stranger, though not with any conviction—Tarr had been a raider most of his life and bore the hardness of it in his eyes. Bjarni had heard tales of raiders since he was a child, of looting and murdering on foreign lands—how men skirted coasts and swiftly attacked sleepy villages, leaving behind only burned buildings and sorrow.

Tarr looked as if he could tell such stories. His skin was marred with scars from battle-axes and arrows, more so than most. He had paid for his passage on the
Gata
with
wadmal
and coin like the other men, but Bjarni could not help but feel that the moment his back was turned, Tarr’s knife would appear to rob him of both. It would be a hard fight if it came to pass—the men were both of equal height with strong builds, though the similarities between them ended there. Tarr was dark-haired to Bjarni’s blond, and where Bjarni’s eyes were warm and green like a forest in summer, Tarr’s were the palest blue ice and hid the same coldness.

Bjarni had caught Tarr watching him more than once. He had never disliked any man without good reason, but he disliked Tarr and did his best to ignore him.

On the fourth day, the fog lifted. Bjarni heard the birds first and then saw the coastland.

Olvir joined him portside. “Have we found it?”

Bjarni studied the land and shook his head. “It’s not Greenland. There are no glaciers, and look at the trees.” Rich forest stretched as far as they could see. Bjarni had heard every seafaring story and knew this was undiscovered land. Excitement filled him and he almost called out to change course and head for shore. He could claim this land—he could be as famous as Erik the Red. He could—but then he stopped. Going ashore carried too many risks, risks that increased the chances that he would never see Garnissa again. He would rather die than take them.

“We should go to shore,” Tarr said, coming to join them.

Bjarni shook his head firmly. “Then we’ll never beat winter to Greenland.” He could not let Tarr or any of the men know he was resisting the same urge.

“This could be our own Greenland,” Tarr countered, raising his voice so all could hear him. “Our own frontier. Unspoiled land with untold riches waiting.”

Bjarni turned to Tarr, standing his ground. “Then build your own boat, gather your own crew and return.” He met the gaze of all the men. “We go to Greenland.”

Tarr’s hand snaked out and grabbed Bjarni’s, turning it over to expose the vegvísir. “Does a woman wait for you there?” He sneered. “Is that why your manhood’s missing?”

Several men snickered. Bjarni jerked his hand away, refusing to be baited. “Olvir, man the tiller,” he ordered, and headed toward the bow. He took out his sunstone again and this time he located the sun behind the clouds. Testing the wind and seeing that they had gone too far west, he directed Olvir to steer a new course.

As he watched the new land retreat into the distance, doubt tugged at him. Was he doing the right thing? In any other circumstance he would have stopped. How he wanted to stop—but he couldn’t. He tried to assure himself that perhaps one day he would return with Garnissa beside him.

As if the three fates were tempting his steadfastness, the next morning Bjarni sighted more land with the same forested terrain. Once again Tarr tried to sway him. “The fates are smiling on us, Bjarni, don’t be a fool. These are undiscovered lands. We would be the first to settle upon them.”

Everyone gathered around, their excited eyes turned to shore as they listened to Tarr carry on. Again Bjarni resisted the urge, reminding himself that if he stopped now, they would never reach Greenland—he would never see Garnissa. The fates were not smiling upon them. This was a test. Who knew what this new frontier held or if they would have enough provisions to last the winter. Everything in his bones told him to reach Greenland before it became frozen in ice.

“We continue on,” Bjarni said, as he stared Tarr down.

Tarr went for his dagger, but Bjarni grabbed him first. The men jerked and twisted, each trying to pin the other to the deck. Tarr pulled one of his arms free and punched Bjarni full in the face. Bjarni staggered backward and hit the side of the boat, holding on to it.

The crew gave them a wide berth. No one would interrupt this fight, no matter how much they wanted to sway the outcome. A man’s battle was his own.

Bjarni wiped the blood from his nose and tried to clear his head. He took his best stance, relaxing his arms and legs. Tarr may have had more experience with a sword, but Bjarni was by far the superior wrestler. Using all his skill, he advanced quickly, feigned right and went for Tarr’s inside leg. Before he knew it, Bjarni had him in a headlock and was jabbing at Tarr’s face with his fist.

Tarr stood up with a roar, taking Bjarni with him, and threw him over his head. Bjarni hit the deck hard and he struggled to stand up. The two faced each other. Blood dripped from Tarr’s chin, and he bared his teeth like a feral beast from Hel’s den. The boat rocked and swayed, as if trying to knock both men off balance. Tarr staggered forward, but Bjarni remained sure-footed and confident, letting Tarr come at him. With perfect timing, Bjarni took Tarr’s body and twisted him into the air, using his own momentum to throw him down. He had practiced the move a hundred times in his youth, and Bjarni would not be beaten aboard his own ship.

Tarr strained with all his might, but Bjarni had him pinned. He humiliated Tarr further by ordering Hugi, his biggest and most loyal man, to take Tarr’s weapons.

“Throw them overboard,” Bjarni commanded.

Hugi saw the murderous gleam in Tarr’s eyes and hesitated.

“It’s either him or the weapons,” Bjarni said.

Hugi threw everything into the sea and motioned for the men to disband and leave the captain to deal with the usurper.

Bjarni kept Tarr pinned to the deck. “Now you maggot-ridden fool,” Bjarni said softly, “I can either tie you up until we reach Greenland or release you. But try to strike at me again and I will kill you.”

Seething, Tarr gave a curt nod of consent and Bjarni let him go.

Tarr stood up. “Bjarni Herjólfsson.” He spat his name on the ground. “You will regret this day and remember me when you die.”

That was the only thing Tarr said to him for the rest of the journey. Bjarni tried to shake off his sense of unease, but when he woke the next day, Garnissa’s vegvísir was missing from his belt. He knew Tarr had stolen it and prayed to Forseti, keeper of peace and justice, to guide him. To accuse Tarr would result in a fight to the death, and that was exactly what the raider wanted. So instead Bjarni went about his business with the ship, sailing the rest of the way without trouble until he reached his father’s port.

True to Erik the Red’s tale, the lands were rich for farming and nestled right among the glaciers. The settlers all gathered to greet them. Bjarni’s father, Herjólfr, stood beaming at the front.

“I expected you to come to us next summer, boy,” he called out laughing. “How did you find your way?”