The Saga of Colm the Slave (2 page)

And there it was! Colm heard the distant
racket of men yelling. He pretended to work along and listened out
for more.

Bjorn, too, heard the noise and came out
into the farmyard to look way off down the path. He caught sight of
Colm in the byre and beckoned him forward. “Come on! Let’s see what
that is.” Bjorn hesitated, then went inside the hall and returned
carrying a sword and a spear. He handed the spear to Colm. The two
of them walked briskly along the path.

A half dozen men bustled about under the
ice-hung cliffs. They shouted and gestured, pointing here and
there. At their center, Thorolf stood silently, watching as Bjorn
and Colm approached.

Bjorn and Thorolf greeted one another.
Thorolf pointed at the body. Bjorn walked over to it, recognized
Hastein, and returned to Thorolf. He explained that he had tried to
make Hastein stay the night but the man lusted for a slave girl and
insisted on leaving with her.

“What about the girl?” asked Thorolf.
And Bjorn told how Hastein was sick with drink and the girl had
returned. Thorolf grunted and turned his eyes to the body. “He was
stabbed in the throat,” he said. Colm stopped breathing. Bjorn went
back to the corpse. He knelt and examined it.

A great patch of frozen blood spread
around Hastein’s head and shoulders, like a cloak laid upon the
ground. His body was covered with shards and pieces of broken ice.
Slowly Bjorn raised his eyes upward. There were no icicles directly
above. Slowly Bjorn turned his head and fixed his gaze on the
massive icicles hanging from the rest of the cliff. Slowly he
returned his gaze to the empty space above Hastein. Slowly he
brought it down to the body.

Bjorn was no fool. He never uttered a
sound but by his manner indicated what he thought happened here.
Colm stood motionless. Thorolf said, “There is some doubt the ice
would make a wound like that.”

Bjorn stood and faced him. Hastein had
been Bjorn’s guest. If the man was judged to be murdered then Bjorn
must pay, in gold or blood. Bjorn said, “We will have a test.” He
looked at Colm and Colm knew fear, afraid that he might be the test
subject. But Bjorn said, “Fetch a goat. Quickly!” Colm dropped his
spear and began running back to the farm. “The old one,” Bjorn
yelled after him, “The one with the patchy coat.”

When Colm returned with the goat, Bjorn
was hunched over the body, picking up icicle spears and testing
their points with his finger. He chose a sturdy, sharp one and
started toward the goat.

“No,” said Thorolf, “Unless you think a
person stabbed Hastein that way.”

“No,” said Bjorn. He gestured and Colm
brought the goat over to him. Bjorn walked the goat underneath the
great hanging sheet of ice on the cliff next to the empty space
over Hastein’s body. He examined the ice carefully, then selected a
spot directly beneath some great sharp spears, perhaps four feet
long. He tethered the goat there.

“Now what?” said Thorolf.

Bjorn pointed at the mass of ice. “See
how it is beginning to crack along there? When that crack deepens
or runs the length of the ice, it will fall, with all its
weight.”

“Shall we wait till spring?”

“No,” said Bjorn. He stood opposite the
goat and picked up a stone. He stood for a moment, looking up at
the ice, selecting a spot. Colm waited anxiously. This was exactly
what he had done the night before to bring down the ice onto
Hastein’s body. Everyone now was thinking what he had hoped they
would think – that Hastein was killed by his own drunken misfortune
and a falling icicle – everyone with the possible exception of
Thorolf, that is, and Thorolf’s opinion was the only one that
mattered.

Bjorn prepared to throw a stone and Colm
prayed. He had not seen a priest since he was a child and he had
little memory of what a prayer should be. He addressed God the same
way he might try to persuade any master -- he appealed to his
vanity: “You are powerful, Lord! Show these pagans your
strength!”

Bjorn hurled the stone and it struck the
ice mass just below the cliff’s lip. Another crack started in the
ice but the icicles did not fall. Everyone was silent. Unable to
stop himself, Colm suddenly seized up a stone and threw it at the
crack in the ice. The stone bounced off. Then, as everyone watched,
the crack lengthened and spread toward the edge of the ice. There
was a grating, gritting sound. The goat looked up above just as a
huge chunk, toothed with icicles, dropped from the cliff.

The goat staggered and fell as the mass
struck it. It was not an icicle but a piece of embedded rock that
opened the animal’s throat. A geyser of blood sprayed up. Blood
pumped dramatically onto the steaming earth. The men were
transfixed by the spectacle. Colm hoped that no one would notice
that the icicles all had shattered on the goat’s back. Not one had
pierced its hide. Nor could he make a falling icicle pierce
Hastein’s body the night before. He had even poked one into
Hastein’s neck wound but the body held enough warmth to melt its
tip and the icicle had fallen away.

That rock was lucky, thought Colm. Then
he was frightened of his thought. “I don’t mean to offend you,
Lord! I know it was your power and not heathen luck that did this!”
Hastily, he prayed other words of flattery and appeasement. He did
not want to anger this master!

The blood stopped flowing and the men
began milling about, talking excitedly, waving their arms, running
from the goat to Hastein, creating narratives of just how he must
have been walking and where he was when the ice fell. Someone
struck the cliff wall and leaped back as a stray icicle fell from
above to shatter on the earth. The other men laughed at his fear.
Then they said perhaps Hastein had bumped the rock wall and brought
down the ice. After all, another man had just escaped death from a
falling icicle! So they chattered and wove a story that they would
believe.

Thorolf and Bjorn stood quietly by,
listening. Finally, Thorolf turned toward Bjorn and muttered,
“Hastein always was a fool when he was drunk.” Bjorn smiled but
kept his counsel. Thorolf turned back toward the body. “It’s good
to settle these matters without controversy. No one wants to bring
the law into it.”

“It is good that we know the truth,”
said Bjorn.

“Truth is indeed a rare thing,” said
Thorolf. “Well, I should go to Hastein’s place and tell what has
happened.” He gestured at the other men still talking and excited.
“These will help me, I’m certain.” He turned back to Bjorn. “You
must visit me soon. We will discuss the Althing and other
matters.”

Bjorn smiled with undisguised pleasure.
Thorolf’s words meant he was going to replace Hastein as Thorolf’s
lieutenant. “I will do so. Before the lambing. And you must visit
me.” Thorolf nodded and they slapped hands.

The men gathered up Hastein’s body and
slung it over a horse. Someone said, “The goat should be dedicated
as a sacrifice.” And others took up the words. “Pitch it over the
sea-cliff!” they said. “Hang it from a pole!”

Bjorn smiled and said nothing. He waited
until Thorolf and the others had left before telling Colm to fetch
the goat’s carcass.

“We’ll take it back with us. I don’t
think the gods will miss one scrawny goat.” He grinned, “And some
meat will be welcome.”

Colm felt saliva squirt into his mouth.
Meat! He slung the goat across his shoulders and they started back
to the farm. Bjorn hadn’t actually said there would be any for him,
of course, but a slave could always dream!

No words passed between Colm and Gwyneth
about the events of that night, nor did they ever whisper about it
to others. If anyone were to know the truth, then Gwyneth would
die. Colm held the secret close and thought it a tie between them.
After all, if two people carry the same burden, then they are
joined like yoked oxen.

2.The Necklace Of Glass

Thorolf’s farm was full of bustle:
neighbors who had not seen one another all winter slapped hands in
greeting and fell into farmer-chat about the miserable spring, the
new crop of lambs, and prospects for a good summer; their wives
embraced old friends, greeted less-liked women more coolly, and
eyed one another’s dress and decorations; slaves bundled their
masters’ belongings into the long hall and herded their horses into
the near pasture. Thorolf, the godi, looking as regal as possible,
presided over all. Marta, his wife, welcomed the guests with words
and gestures that subtly reminded them of her status. Gerda, their
pretty, plump sixteen-year-old daughter, chatted and flirted with
Gunnlaug, a young man who had a small farm.

Ordinarily, Colm didn’t like to attend
the sacrifices. Slaves usually didn’t get to share the meat and, if
they stayed back on their farm, they could run the place with a
slack hand and enjoy being masterless for a few days. But this year
Bjorn ordered Colm to accompany him to look after the horses and
run whatever errand might come to mind. Even so, Colm didn’t mind
going to this sacrifice because Gwyneth would be there and there
might be opportunity to share a few words with her, or even flirt a
bit.

Bjorn’s wife, Aud, had brought several
slaves along. Aud’s only daughter was married to a Hebridean and
her sons, too, lived far away. There were only slaves to look after
her. She seemed not in good health, thought Colm, and looked as
though she were losing weight. Gwyneth attended her carefully,
steering her out of the crowd toward the benches where she could
rest.

A sudden commotion caught Colm’s
attention and he caught the arrival of Magnus, a well-to-do farmer.
But it was Ingveld, Magnus’ wife, who was at the center of a hubbub
of women, all exclaiming and marvelling at her necklace. Ingveld’s
necklace held five large pieces of colored glass, two blue, two
green, and the largest, a brilliant red, all polished smooth as
eggs. Women chattered and reached forth tentative fingers as though
to touch the object, then pulled them away. The men stood back
silently, envious of Magnus that he could so adorn his wife. But
Colm suspected that the necklace had actually been the gift of one
of Ingveld’s sons, Eystein, who had been raiding in Ireland.

Colm’s eyes narrowed as he watched the
crowd buzz around Ingveld and her necklace. He himself had been
stolen from Ireland as a child, sold as a slave to Bjorn, then
brought to Iceland. Probably the glass in Ingveld’s necklace had
once studded a reliquary or a crucifix and been turned into women’s
jewellery by a goldsmith – perhaps himself a slave – in a Norse
holding in Ireland.

Ingveld’s other son, Halldor, made his
way through the women and tried to greet Gerda, Thorolf’s daughter.
But Gerda’s greedy eyes were fixed on the necklace and she would
not turn her face to Halldor. Eventually, the young man gave up and
moved away.

Now everyone had arrived. It was time
for the sacrifice. Thorolf, dressed in a white robe, hushed the
crowd. People sorted themselves out, men to one side, women to the
other, as Thorolf walked between them toward the stone-walled
shrine that held the figures of the Gods. A white mare was tethered
near the temple. The only marking on the horse was a patch of brown
on one flank – a vertical stripe with a crossbar. Maybe it looked a
little like Thor’s hammer or Tyr’s spear or some other symbol of
some other deity. Perhaps the Gods had marked this horse for their
own. Bjorn turned the mare toward the crowd so that they could see
the mark that had doomed this animal to sacrifice from the moment
of its birth.

Colm looked at the mare’s fat flanks and
felt his mouth water. He hoped, for a moment, that he might have
some morsel of meat from the feast but he knew that, with all this
crowd, there would be none for the slaves. He pushed the hope from
his mind before it could fester into resentment or anger or any of
the other emotions that might lead a slave to his doom.

A large bowl was placed before the mare,
who dipped her muzzle into it briefly. The crowd murmured its
approval, thinking the horse was looking to its fate. But Colm
thought the animal sought to find water or feed in the vessel.
Thorolf flourished a great sharp knife and spoke a few words,
dedicating the sacrifice to the Gods, then he cut the mare’s
throat.

Blood gushed in a great spurt. The mare
sank to her knees as Thorolf steadied her head over the brimming
bowl. Blot was the word for sacrifice and blood was its meaning.
Thorolf lay the dead horse’s head upon the ground and took up a
whisk of birch branches. He dipped it into the bowl of blood then
entered the shrine. He chanted some words, then reappeared, dipped
the whisk again, then went back inside. Colm knew that Thorolf was
feeding the idols in the temple, lashing them with blood. Thorolf
came outside and dipped the whisk again. His white robe was
spattered with red. Colm had heard that there were three figures in
the shrine. One of Thor, the much beloved god; one of the goddess
Freya, mistress of herds and crops and all fecund life; and one of
Njord, who had to do with ships and sailing and also that final
voyage, death. Thorolf kept returning and taking blood back inside
the shrine until the bowl was emptied. Sometimes the men or women
in the crowd would chant, not words so much but sounds from deep in
the throat that made the hair on Colm’s nape prickle. Mostly
though, they watched in silence.

Now Thorolf, covered in blood, walked to
the group of men and pressed his thumb to each man’s forehead,
marking it with blood and calling out the man’s name as he did so.
The women would have their own ceremony in the morning, possibly
something to do with Freya, but that was something Colm knew
nothing about.

Having named all the men in his
community, Thorolf signalled to several who quickly skinned and
butchered the horse. Just inside Thorolf’s longhall, others built
up the fire under a great cauldron. The women poured in water to
boil, then added great chunks of horsemeat. Choice pieces, like the
liver, were roasted separately and would be given to favored
guests. Thorolf called all inside the hall to be seated and drink
beer until the women brought around the horsemeat to eat and the
broth to drink in toasts to the long life and good fortune of all
present, to those who had passed on, and to those gods that oversaw
all.