Paths of the Norseman, page 20
part #2 of The Norseman Chronicles Series
Because of their obvious pleasure, Thorfinn called for a large basket of cheese to be gathered from all of our possessions, brought out, and placed in front of the old skraeling with whom I shook hands. Gudrid set it down and retreated behind her husband who said, “I offer this as my first item of barter between your peoples and mine.”
The skraeling seemed to instantly understand, and he directed one of his youngest men to run to the shore. While his runner was gone the good-natured old man asked of me, “Aanek azhiwasin gichi-akiwenzii danaanagidoonowin an?” His face was open, yet inquisitive and reminded me of Kitchi’s face who died on the beach south of Leifsbudir several years earlier.
We all looked back and forth to one another not sure of what he asked. As the uncertain silence inched by, Thorfinn goaded me to do something, so I opened my mouth to offer some words, but was pardoned from speaking by the return of the young man from the boats. In his thin arms he carried a large mound of pelts from all kinds of creatures, beaver, marten, deer, and rabbit. As their leader directed, the runner placed the pelts in front of me as the oldest member of our contingent, assuming I must be in a leadership position.
We all nodded our approval and then, after another uncertain pause, began to cautiously rise from our seats, to indicate our meeting was over. The skraelings understood and carried their cheese basket back to their boats where it was loaded safely in the center of the old man’s hold.
There were no parting speeches, no goodbyes, no waving arms, though almost the entire village watched as they paddled away toward the mouth of Straumsfjord and then circled south out of sight.
. . .
It was like that for a few months. Our new trading partners would arrive in the morning in groups of about thirty men. No women ever came with them. They paddled their low, bark-covered boats into the fjord from the sea, so I was not certain where their village was situated. I wondered if they were from the village near our battle at Kjalarnes where Thorvald died, but Straumsfjord seemed like a long distance to paddle such small boats. In any case they would arrive unannounced with the early sun, the leaders of each boat spinning their wooden staffs in a sun-wise direction. We became quite practiced at our own greeting, even having the white shields stacked at the ready next to a particularly proud larch tree, so that whoever happened to be down at the shingle would confidently signal to the new, valued customers in the fjord.
The skraelings’ favorite good for which to barter was easily cheese. They devoured hunks, large and small, in front of us and, before I understood the tongue, the traders indicated with hand gestures that they desired more filled baskets to take back home. So much of our cheese did they take that the women soon complained that we would have none left for ourselves when winter came, to which Thorfinn would answer, “With all the high quality pelts we are receiving in return, you may be able to buy all the cheese in Greenland, so pipe down.”
Ahanu, which was the name of the old man who seemed to be their leader, means “he laughs.” I do not know if he was given the name at birth by a soothsayer or someone gave it to him later in life, but I do know that it’s a name that was aptly bestowed for once he became comfortable with us, like a gift offered to a new bride, he offered his laugh frequently and with zeal. It was not the cackling whistle that emanated from the old master shipwright, Skaffhog, nor was it like the hearty guffaws men gave around the mead table as they lied their way through mug after mug. It was, rather, a gentle snicker with such a musical quality that whenever it fell upon someone’s ears, that person could not help but like the man. I was one such person taken in by its charm; I liked him very much. Ahanu would, of course, laugh when expected. But he would also laugh when it was most unexpected or even inappropriate. But his giggle always brought happiness to me, even when we disagreed on some topic of importance.
After the their third or fourth trip to our growing village, Ahanu and I found time to stroll into the forest to teach one another the simplest words of our respective languages while the other men stayed behind to barter with Thorfinn and his band.
Ahanu led our discussion off by pointing to a pine tree declaring, “Zhigwaatig oog.” As expected, he laughed gently while I slaughtered his native tongue, but smiled genuinely, like my old teacher Crevan, when I finally mastered my first phrase of these Vinland peoples.
We pointed at a stream, “ziibiins,” a turkey, “mizise,” and even my nose, “injaanzh.” It was during this walk that I recalled the word I had used to describe the vain one that caused the death of Kitchi. When I asked Ahanu about the word, segonku, he joyously laughed and bade me to follow him deeper into the forest. Despite his age and long grey hair, he was nimble with strong legs so that soon we came to a place where a small creek or “ziibiins” flowed at the bottom of a ravine then curved around a large boulder, disappearing in a cave-like mass of gnarled trees, before reappearing some ells away. With surprising agility, the old man scampered up the smooth rock, and without question I followed. When we reached the short summit, Ahanu pointed down into the thick underbrush on the other side, whispering, “Segonku.” With his tattooed arms and hands silently waving me on, his face betraying nothing but excitement, I lowered myself down amongst the branches until the sun’s light was almost entirely swallowed. I must admit that although I had no reason not to trust Ahanu, I blinked to get my eyes used to the shadowed darkness with ample concern, fingering the hilt of my blade. Was this segonku a claw-filled beast that would rip my arms from my body – a bear, a wolf? To be safe, I finally slid my father’s saex out from its place in my belt and peered into the mangled darkness.
After an eternal moment I quietly beckoned up to the old man, “What is this segonku?” He gave me a chuckling hiss, demanding silence so I looked around again, even taking an uncertain step forward. Then I saw a small creature toddle out from a burrow that was well hidden, tucked between a large root jutting from the hillside and a partially eroded rock. Despite its small size, it initially gave me a start, quickening my pulse. But after settling down, I whispered to myself while nodding, “So you’re a segonku little one? But why did Kitchi call the vain one by your name? Oh well, I think I’ll make a nice warm hat from your hide.”
Ahanu’s laugh was quietly building now so that it was quite loud. I smiled at the thought of my new friend up above me, having me so worried over this tiny harmless creature, while taking my first rapid step toward my prey. That little segonku’s response was surprising to say the least! I expected to have to cut him off before he dove into his home, but he stood his ground, unleashing a powerful spray of liquid like that from a miniature whale’s blowhole.
Instantly I knew I was in trouble. I knew why Ahanu laughed while keeping a safe distance between himself and the segonku. The liquid was among the most pungent, foul smells I have ever inhaled in all my life and it now covered me, burning my eyes in the process, soaking into my beard. My surprised screams and hoots brought more, louder howls from Ahanu, who stood with tears rolling down his pronounced, handsome cheeks when I crawled out from the stinking segonku lair. While I was certainly angry with his practical joke, I must admit that it was a memorable vocabulary lesson.
. . .
We returned back to the Straumsfjord village to find an argument had broken out between the two groups of traders. Several of the younger skraeling men were demonstrably agitated, with arms flailing, while speaking at the speed of a ship under full sail in a good wind. I could not decipher their words. I did understand what our men were shouting, and it made me nervous for our immediate future with these men.
“I said no!” shouted Thorfinn. “No. No. No.”
Snorri the Elder chimed in, “I don’t care how much you admire our swords or how much your old man likes our old man, we’ll trade neither our steel nor iron!”
The young skraelings shouted while pointing at a large pile of goods they had assembled outside Thorfinn’s longhouse to offer to us in return for weapons. Among the menagerie of implements on the pile were several smartly bundled sets of arrows with brightly tipped stone points that the brave young men apparently viewed as an even exchange for a sword.
While we stood there looking at the scene, Ahanu placed his hand upon my shoulder as if to steady me from acting rashly. However, he then thought better of it, removed the hand, sniffed it, and offered one of his chuckles while wiping the now pungent hand on the skins he wore for leggings, seemingly oblivious to the growing danger not three man-lengths away.
The argument continued when Snorri stopped in mid-sentence to now say, “By the God of this earth, what is that smell?” Apparently both sides sensed my odor at the same time and paused their shouting long enough to turn to see Ahanu and me watching them. “Oh, I should have known it would be that old goat urine-smelling half-wit, Halldorr.” Snorri then returned to his belligerent shouting at the skraelings.
Ahanu walked over to the party and questioned his men on the fringes of the crowd. He nodded several times, asked more questions, before nodding again. He seemed completely nonplussed by the events, as I grew frustrated by what could be a potentially dangerous situation for all of us. And so even though I agreed with Thorfinn that we should not trade away our superior weapons to these men, the situation needed to be controlled before someone, like Snorri, did something foolish.
So I did something foolish. Although even at the time I knew making Snorri my target would only make him more of an enemy, I disregarded the thought as irrelevant. I strode over to the blathering idiot, shouted, “Knife!” and used that as an excuse to tackle Snorri to shut him up. Using my knees to pin his arms to his sides, I proceeded to break his nose again with three rapid jabs to his face. By the third stroke, the already misshapen nose had turned to the consistency of cooked walrus blubber, with its oozing blood intermixed with semisolid bits of bone. He wailed mightily while I drew back for another colossal blow.
But Arnkell and Folkvar grabbed me by my shoulders, pulling me, still swinging, off Snorri’s heaving chest. Now my Norse brothers were shouting at me, but I smiled as they dragged me away for my plan had worked long enough as a diversion to let the cooler head of Ahanu prevail upon his men. Our men roughly took me to the nearest maple, tossing me on its exposed roots, yet I didn’t even bother to struggle under their grasp, preferring to send a wicked grimace toward elder Snorri.
In truth, I think the skraelings liked to watch the two tall light-haired strangers fall into a scuffle. But whatever their reason, soon the young men began to make signs that they would respect Thorfinn’s decision to disallow trading weapons.
Instead of swords, while Snorri the Elder limped off dripping blood onto his clothing and the earth, Thorfinn, the master trader, helped the skraelings divert their focus onto some large bolts of red cloth our five women had woven the previous winter. Gudrid, in her tight braids, brought it out and now rested it atop little Snorri’s head, using it like a table while the men negotiated the cloth’s value as if the argument never occurred.
Ahanu came and sat in the dirt next to my stinking body and bloodied hands. Together we watched as little Snorri kept reaching his short arms up to grab the fabric from his head only to fail again and again. Undeterred he repeated the attempts, despite the fact that Gudrid tortured her son, our son, by whisking the cloth away each time his hands got close. Adding to the mayhem for poor little Snorri, while still negotiating, Thorfinn took his mighty foot and tapped the boy on his backside each time his hands went up for the cloth.
Ahanu’s chuckle started and mine soon joined him. It was, after all, a joy to watch my son. But when Ahanu muttered, “Segonku,” I knew he laughed not at little Snorri, but me.
And I laughed all the more, for I had a good friend.
. . .
I should have known that life would not be that pleasant for too long. After all, you know my feelings on the norns and their wicked sense of humor when it comes to laying out my path. But I was so easily drawn into thinking that my plans, made in conjunction with the successful, Thorfinn, would bring fantastic achievement. We would secure a valuable trading franchise from Greenland to Vinland and beyond to the mild lands of Hop. I would become richer, though I didn’t care about the riches. I would lead a band of military men in protecting the trading lanes with our new friends, the skraelings. I would train these men to be intelligent fighters, but savagely brutal when necessary. Some, out of necessity, would be vicious or cruel even. Outside of battle, however, I knew that my role as their leader would involve using the skills they brought. Whatever their other characteristics, they would be utterly loyal to me and our way of life. I would grow old, though not too old, perhaps dying in one last great battle to protect our women and their children from evil wrought by the low serpent spoken of in the One God’s book of Genesis. I contemplated all these things while we traded with the skraelings that year. I count nine “woulds” in the previous sentences; would means plan, plans have no place in my life. I should have disregarded all my thoughts as completely lunatic. I should have known that my life would soon change, in a most unexpected way.
Following the disagreement about weapons, we still traded successfully using simpler items such as cloth and the always popular, cheese. So it was of no concern to anyone when on the chilly morning of the equinox, the skraeling men with their boats came swinging the rods in the familiar way.
Ahanu was ill, coughing with snot draining from his nose, but remained his normal cheery self. His illness certainly did not impede his ability to laugh other than making the sound a touch more robust. Ahanu offered a smile of appreciation and a laugh when I pulled one of the arm rings from my bicep, giving it to him as a gift. His strong, sinewy arms were not as stout as my own and so the ring slipped down past his pronounced elbow time and again. At last I took it back, squeezing the ring between my muscled hands so that it would fit. Ahanu took the opportunity to flex one of his biceps, squeezing it with the opposite hand then comparing it with a squeeze of my own bicep. He acted very impressed by the size of my arm, chuckling merrily.
But soon he indicated his throat was sore from his ailment that day, so I mostly talked with another man called Nootau while Ahanu stood back and watched with a bright smile showing teeth worn short from years of grinding on venison and berries. Nootau seemed to be a reasonable sort of man while we chatted. We spoke for a long while about many diverse subjects. I soon learned he had a wife, four children, and six grandchildren even though he must have been about my age. He and Ahanu both looked genuinely saddened when I told them of Kenna’s and little Olaf’s death.
In his own tongue, Nootau offered, “Your woman, she is with the Earth Mother now. Your son, he runs in the open fields with Glooskap, the good son who would rise from the dead, killing deer with his own small hunting bow.” He made some sweeping motions with his arms, palms upward facing while he spoke, making his words dramatic. As I began to translate his words then slowly comprehend them, my mouth gaped open.
“We call Glooskap by the name of Jesus,” I said after a heartbeat. “He’s the son of the God mother who rose from the dead, as in your story.”
Ahanu and Nootau exchanged approving nods that I recognized their story of the gods, but my old friend quickly turned melancholy, offering in a deeper-than-normal, gravelly voice, “I have lost a son too, Halldorr, though he was full grown with a wife and son of his own. I know of your pain for I think of him often. No man should have to bury a son.”
I put a hand on Ahanu’s shoulder, “You have a grandson to look on and remember your son. I am sure you see him in the boy’s eyes.” He worked hard at carving a smile in his face to show he appreciated my words. “Your son, was he lost in battle?”
Father-like he patted my extended arm saying, “It is not important today how he died, though I may tell you someday.” At that moment, bellowing from Thorfinn’s cows echoed over the hill from their pasture. We ignored the intrusion on our conversation as the cows often made racket in the morning in order to make their presence known, trying to get a spare bit of grain put before their snouts.
“Very well, I will ask only one more question on the subject. I wish to pray to the One God about your son. What name shall I use for him when I pray? What did you call him?”
Ahanu kindly waved his fingers at me indicating he didn’t want to talk about it anymore, as he sat there on a stump, but Nootau picked up the conversation, “Ahanu prefers not to talk of it, but I think he should honor his son. I know he means to in his own quiet way, but I do not have any such distaste for speaking on the subject. The boy’s name means brave in our language. He would be our chief someday, but he is dead, hunting with Glooskap and little Olaf. We called him Kitchi.”
The cows bawled. My ears rang. My eyes glazed. I am sure my face went completely white at the news. I felt pain flare in the place where my left arm was broken in the skirmish with Kitchi’s men. Instinctively, I grasped it with my right hand, kneading it as a thrall does bread. I felt the place in my thigh where the stone spear tore my muscle and bone, nearly killing me; even now it sent fire shooting up and down my leg. Cursed, that is how I felt. The one chance I had been given for peaceful friendship with these people, and I was there when this man’s son was killed. When, at last, I stumbled against the wall of the nearest longhouse, both Nootau and Ahanu moved to steady me.
“You look ill, my friend,” whispered Ahanu. “Let’s sit you down,” and they lowered me to the stump on which he sat just a moment earlier.
“I am sorry,” I started after throwing away all hope at peace and camaraderie in the future. Pulling my sword and saex from their places in my belt while teetering on my seat, I handed them to Nootau, who looked at me with surprised concern. “Nootau, you will use those on me if you must.”
