Paths of the Norseman, page 12
part #2 of The Norseman Chronicles Series
I quietly poked into my rucksack and pulled out my own two-sided comb made of walrus tusk ivory. I read the Norse runes on the band in the center which read, “Thor, the mighty god.” Standing now, I sheathed my sword and walked confidently holding my comb. Leif said we would someday trade with these people, so I thought I might as well begin with my comb.
When I rounded the tree to see the stone-covered beach I called, “Nashoqua! Nashoqua!” twice, hoping that the comb I waved in my hand was a nashoqua.
I must have looked like a wild man to them with my fair skin and bearded face. I was larger than the largest of them. I think my shoulders alone were as wide as one and one half of their own. The handsome one was nearest to me, about ten paces, and procured a short axe from his belt, standing at the ready. The other two I had not seen earlier were behind him several ells. One of them had a stone-tipped spear with the feather of an eagle tied near the head. The other pulled a small axe from his belt, too. Finally, the stern fellow with the red face stood near a low boat made of birch bark with high, rounded ends that sat at the water’s edge on the shore. He held the comb he borrowed from the handsome man frozen in mid-air while he peered at me.
The four young men looked at me with a sincere bewilderment. We stood in silence for several heartbeats. Then I said, “Nashoqua, nashoqua. Trade,” indicating with the comb that I wanted to give it to them.
When I said their word again, they looked confused. The handsome one blinked several times trying to ascertain what exactly was happening. The stern man at the boat shouted something loudly with such speed I could not gather anything he said. The tall, handsome man turned quickly and hushed the vain, combing one. He turned back to me and while pointing to the comb said, “Nashoqua trade?” He looked around behind me, considering what danger might lurk there.
I smiled while nodding my head. “Yes!” I proclaimed.
“Trade? Yes?” the handsome man asked. He said the words with an air of uncertainty.
“Yes!” I said again. I made no hostile motion. I only smiled and extended my comb toward the near man.
He approached me slowly while lowering his weapon. The man looked me up and down, paying particular attention to the sword at my waist. I am certain he had never seen one before, but I am equally certain he knew it was a weapon of some kind. Still he came. When he stopped about two ells from my reaching hand, I bobbed the comb once or twice and nodded, saying, “Nashoqua, trade.”
He reached his strong arm out and took hold of the comb. The handsome one studied it while turning the comb over in one hand. He slid the axe back into his belt and said, “Nashoqua,” while nodding with a smile.
We studied each other for a moment. I could see in his eyes that he was intelligent, thinking. He was a good man. I decided I would like him. I pointed to my chest and said, “Halldorr.”
He pointed to his chest and said, “Halldorr?”
I shook my head, “No, my name is Halldorr. Halldorr.”
He smiled again, letting a small chuckle roll as naturally as if we had been friends for years and pointed to his chest saying, “Kitchi. Kitchi.”
I nodded and repeated what I heard, “Kitchi Kitchi.”
Kitchi laughed louder now and shook his head, “Kitchi.” He pointed to me saying, “Halldorr,” then back to himself, “Kitchi.”
Then he turned his back to me. Kitchi spun to the other men and pointed to me while saying a host of things with my name thrown in periodically. The man with the spear and the other axe-wielding man both lowered their weapons and listened intently. But the vain man shouted an interruption over Kitchi’s words.
I smiled broadly while settling my hands at my waist. Something in that motion agitated the red-faced one greatly for he immediately dropped the comb into the boat, unveiling a bow. He was fitting an arrow in one fluid motion and drawing it back to aim it in my direction. Kitchi held up both palms to stop whatever was happening. He screamed, “Megedagik!” But it was far too late.
Passions and fear overtake men. I’ve seen it in the shield wall. I’ve seen it on the floating battle platform at sea. I saw it in that red-faced man’s eyes that day. The arrow sailed and I surely would have died if it wasn’t for Kitchi. He stepped in front of the arrow meant for my heart and so it pierced his. The force knocked his already-dead body back into my arms.
The red man screamed a wretched scream and a string of words. The other two men sprinted in my direction. Their faces told me what they meant to do. If I had time to sigh, I would have, but events were changing far too rapidly. I set Kitchi down as gently as I dared while shouting, “No. No.” The first one to reach me swung his axe down toward my skull. I still thought I could salvage this encounter for good so I did not draw my blade. Instead I caught his sinewy arm in my hand to stop the blow. We stood there, he and I, staring at one another. He was young and quite scared, I could see. I tried to tell him with my eyes and the shaking of my head that I did not intend to fight. I think he began to understand, but then I felt a terrible, searing pain in my left thigh.
I looked down to see the stone spear head buried in my leg. Blood already spilled out my torn trousers. A barbaric shriek erupted from my mouth while I shoved the axe man down to the ground. The spear thrower looked uncertain as to what to do next, so I tried to pull his weapon from my wound. It was stuck so with another loud scream I broke the wood handle short, hurling the stump of a handle at the man on the ground. Red Man screamed more instructions of encouragement to the two attackers, while staying near the boat. They gained heart and surged at me in accord. I gave a heavy sigh, partially out of pain and partially out of concern as to what I knew would come next – death, unnecessary death.
I pulled my sword, the sword I had used to kill many well-trained warriors, from its resting place. The now unarmed man checked his attack but the axe man did not. He was the first to meet the sharpened steel edge. With my left arm I deflected his powerful strike. A bright light flashed in my eyes as I felt the bone of my arm break with a pop. Still I was able to slip the blade deeply into the man’s belly – so deep that it protruded a full foot from his back. He dropped the axe when I shoved him off my sword.
I wavered on my feet. If the next man was a little more patient, he could have simply waited until I keeled over from pain or the loss of blood. He was not patient, though. He was young and foolish as are all young men. He bent down, grabbing the loose axe. My head felt thick with clutter, my eyes came in and out of focus. I did not have the time to let him regain his footing. With my useless left arm dangling at my side, I swung the fierce blade in order to disable him with a single blow. His right arm was hewn at the elbow. The axe hit the ground a second time, but now still in the clutches of a body-less arm. The man clasped at his wound where blood poured out like a waterfall. He fell to his knees, crying. He slowly turned onto his side, as if he were turning in for the night, breathing shallowly.
At last I turned to the red-faced skraeling who started all this needless killing. I howled at him. I barked. I roared like my days as a Berserker. One step at a time I limped toward him, the spear stump wobbling, causing intense anguish with each footfall. I thought I would likely die when the astonished vain man remembered to launch another one of his missiles in my direction. He never did such a thing, though. He threw his bow into the boat then pushed the craft into the water. It was light and danced across the pebbles into the surf in mere moments. He ran two steps with it into the sea before jumping in on his knees and paddling away.
Unmoving, I watched him for a long time while he struggled to control the boat on his own in the unforgiving waves. After a long time he was gone, slapping a path to the south and west past an island that sat in the harbor.
When I could no longer see him I looked down at my leg. The gaping wound burned greatly. The blood-flow had slowed somewhat. It was already starting to darken to a deeper brown-red. My left hand was splattered with my own blood, dangling uselessly at my side. A congealed drop hung from my ring finger where I still wore my wedding band from Kenna. I moved the finger which sent a blinding jolt of pain throughout my arm.
I leaned heavily on my sword, using it to pivot around to walk toward the men I had fought. My movement was slow and unstable. It took several minutes just to reach the last man I killed. His face, which used to be ruddy, was now drained of color. A pool of the poor young man’s blood gathered around the stub of his arm which jutted out from his shoulder.
Next I reached the man I had run my sword through. He yet lived. He cried and mumbled incomprehensible words, repeating them over and over. With great pain and effort, I knelt to him and held his hand. It occurred to me to get his axe so I rolled to where it lay, still grasped in the severed hand of his companion. The dying warrior nodded his appreciation through panting groans when I forced the weapon into his hand. He died shortly thereafter, life vanishing from his eyes.
Finally, I crawled to Kitchi. I marveled at the peaceful expression that remained on his face despite his abrupt, tragic death at the hands of his own men. Kitchi was older than I originally thought, perhaps thirty summers had passed in his life. Now there would be no more battles for him. Kitchi likely had a wife who would grieve when she heard the news of his death. He likely had children, perhaps a boy of twelve or thirteen years old who would miss his father’s hunts. A tear formed in my own eye. We would have been good friends. I hoped to meet him in Valhalla or the Lord’s heaven one day.
I could feel my mind slipping out of consciousness as I saw that Kitchi still held my comb tightly in his hand. I put my own hand atop his, squeezing it tightly around the ivory. The last thing I remember before passing out was the sound of voices calling. I swore they called my name.
. . .
Leif had often told me how our fight with the skraelings all those years ago in Greenland could have been avoided with intelligence or cunning. It was our own fault, he said, for not understanding how to avoid the conflict. I think Leif was wrong. Some things happen no matter how perceptive you may be.
Olaf was going to be defeated no matter what I warned him about. He grew careless when he followed the evil fork-tongued man from Wendland. Kenna would die no matter what efforts I put in, no matter how diligent Sif the midwife would be. I would kill those skraelings that day on the pebbled beach no matter what smile or comb or other gift I brought to them. The One God’s Providence willed it. The three Norns spun it. Their will mattered, not mine. I needed only to accept what fate or doom struck me.
For a season, I seized upon my destiny while exacting revenge in the fjords of Greenland. But that was no longer than a moon or two. My life quickly returned to what I had grown to expect. Fate was thrust upon me.
These are the first thoughts that swam in my mind as I recovered from my wounds. My eyes fluttered open to see a roof made of wood timbers, blanketed with birch bark, and covered with sod. The wood was fresh for it did not have the distinctive black soot covering that came with the normal aging of a longhouse. I turned my head to scan the room, shaking the cobwebs from my mind. The room looked familiar, like the longhouse I helped Leif build in Leifsbudir. A fire burned quietly in the central hearth, its smoke idly creeping along the peak to find its way to freedom through the smoke hole.
Then a musical humming touched my ears. Really it touched me to the very soul often talked about by the One God. So melodious was it that I knew I would love whoever uttered the sound. The sound grew closer, and I saw Gudrid enter the room humming an old song about a woman mourning the loss of her warrior chief husband.
Surely death had claimed me. Only I was not in Valhalla, the raucous hall where men sang and drank with the one-eyed Odin. This must be Christ’s heaven, his paradise. I remember thinking that I was happy with the change from my daily life as well as pleased that I would not be in the drinking hall. Oddly enough, I can almost say I was at total peace with my death. I was brought here to live with Gudrid for eternity.
Then the thought occurred to me that if I was in heaven then Gudrid, too, must be dead. I gasped audibly which caused the woman to look in my direction. She dropped the black iron kettle she carried, smiling despite the water which splashed down her red dress.
We looked at each other for a moment. Then without a word, we both moved to greet one another. I quickly discovered that I was not in heaven for the pain in my leg and arm caused me to tumble back to the bed platform, exclaiming several curses. Gudrid came to my side, and we embraced. My left arm was held in place by a splint, but still I lifted the cumbersome device from the bed and smothered the woman as we kissed.
No words passed between us as she slowly pulled my covers back while simultaneously lifting her clothing up and over her head. I was only somewhat surprised that her desire for me matched my own desire for her, such had been our connection while in Greenland. I discovered that I wore no trousers so she was able to gently lower herself onto my aroused manhood. With a hard swallow by both of us I found myself inside her.
When I made love to Kenna, I had to fight all my aggressive impulses because of her physical frailty. With Gudrid that day, it was she who fought allowing her passion to run like the wolves of the forest. Each time her movement rose to a crescendo, a small wince brought on by the pain I felt in my leg brought her back to a slow rhythmic motion. I wished that pace went on forever, but I was soon exhausted from my injuries and finished spilling my seed into her. She closed her eyes as if my seed’s entry gave her additional pleasure.
I took this silent time to study the woman who would be my wife. Her golden hair was lush like a carefully tended garden. It carried more curl than I remembered it having when I last saw her. The ends of the flaxen locks turned upwards in a gentle caress of her erect nipples. Her breasts were those of the dreams of mature men. They were not the large tits like those of Freydis, for they captivated men when their whiskers were yet new. We all thought we wanted more breasts. They were not like the small firm breasts of Kenna. Gudrid’s chest was ample, but fell between the two extremes. I reached up with my good arm and lightly ran a finger over one of them in a circular motion. My finger then worked its way down past her ribs and across her stomach where she had two beautiful, prominent moles that formed a line angling away from her navel.
Eventually my fingers made it to her legs where they quickly slipped between. She lifted herself off to lie next to me while I ensured that the woman had more pleasure despite my exhaustion. I had never done such a thing before, and I think Gudrid had not had this happen because at first she gave an uncertain glance. But soon those eyes quivered closed. Watching her body writhe as she experienced a last burst of ecstasy was one of the most delightful experiences of my life.
When we finished making love, we pulled the covers back over top of us and held each other. Still we spoke not. I tried to stay awake to relive the moment again and again – to dream of our future, but sleep came swiftly as if I had been on a days-long hunt, ceaselessly tracking my quarry.
By the time I awoke the sun had begun to set. The sky through the smoke hole looked like the red of dusk. To my left, I saw that Gudrid was awake watching me while leaning upon her hand. She wore only a smile of regret or sadness.
“What is it?” I asked. “Why do you stare at me?”
“You were a good husband to Kenna, I’m sure,” was her answer.
I wanted to roll toward her, but my leg prevented me from doing so. Instead I reached across to her face, moving a shock of her thick hair. Afterward I set my large hand atop her temple. “And I’ll make a good one to another woman soon,” I said, slowly rocking her head.
“You will,” she said in a far away tone.
“And I’ll make certain that I spend time in the longhouse to see that children come in the springtime.” I chuckled at my own joke.
Gudrid crawled out from under our cover and began to dress herself. “I’m sure you will.” Tears came down her unblemished cheeks. To this day I do not understand the feelings of women. We had been separated for two full years, then upon reuniting we joined our bodies, but now she cried.
“What is it?” I asked again.
This time Gudrid ignored my question while she finished clasping her brooches at her shoulders. She then found a comb on a nearby shelf, running it though her hair.
“Gudrid,” I said with slight firmness. “What is going on with you? Why do you not speak to me? After all we are to be wed soon. Without asking, I can tell you want it to be so.”
It was good that Providence had given me a weak body that day. If I had been in complete health, I would have gotten up and shook the woman, she frustrated me so.
When she finished combing out her hair she began to slowly, tightly wrap it into braids. I watched her in uncomprehending silence as she tied her hair into two taut bundles which she then wound atop her crown. Gudrid then stood before me with her hands on her hips with the appearance of anger having replaced the sadness.
Astonished, I asked, “You’re married?” Only untethered women wear their hair draping about their shoulders.
Gudrid gave a terse nod.
“When? To whom?”
Then her emotions which had clearly been brewing together for some time boiled into an angry spout. “Who are you to ask who I choose to marry? I did not see you for two years. What was I to do? Would you have me turn to an old maid while I wait on you? Should I have hoped that you would come running back to me so I could replace the good man Thorstein with an adopted member of Erik’s family?” She remained frozen with those hands on her hips, hips which just hours ago had been atop my own. Now her foot tapped rapidly on the packed earthen floor.
I mustered a weak, “Yes, I had hoped you would wait.”
Then the crying started again. Through her tears she uttered, “Well, I wanted it too. But my life is not my own. Fate constantly intervenes to give me what it will. Do you think I wanted Thorstein to die in his own sweat? Though I accept the new God of Leif and the king, I do not think he enjoys sweeping the plans of men away any less than the old gods.” Gudrid plopped her behind down on the hearth, setting her face into one hand while the other hand balled into a fist and repeatedly hit the stones beneath her.
