Paths of the Norseman, page 28
part #2 of The Norseman Chronicles Series
Still looking at the words spread across the parchment before me, I set a hand upon Right Ear’s head, patting it lightly, while saying, “You may call him. If he comes to you, he must truly be yours.”
In a mocking tone she sweetly called, “Halldorr, come Halldorr. I named him Halldorr because of his ugliness and grotesque ear.” Thankfully, Right Ear didn’t move. Instead, he cocked his head to the side as dogs often do then bolted for another adventure, this time in the rolling surf.
Trying to overcome the defeat, Freydis said, “We’ll profit handsomely from these two loads of trees. I plan on selling them to Leif for a price just under what they cost from Norway.” I nodded absent-mindedly, for it sounded like a reasonable plan. “And I trust the men I send back with them. They will do my bidding and return to me for more trees in the autumn.”
I looked at her. It was the first time I looked into her face since she was obscured by the shadows created as I lay on my back in the killing yard. I saw her self-inflicted wounds were nearly healed – they must have been awful the day Bedwyr watched her in the forest. I pushed the thoughts of that day from my mind. “You mean to stay behind?”
Almost startled by my question, Freydis answered, “Of course I intend to stay. This is my domain, my kingdom, even though I don’t intend to allow Torvard to reign in any capacity, certainly not as king.” She chortled at the thought.
Her kingdom. Her domain. God, I prayed silently, please let her be mistaken. Please see to it that this woman and her band leave Vinland and never return. “Et quodcumque petieritis in nomine meo hoc faciam ut faciatis laus Patri Filio” from the gospel of John formed in my mind at that moment, lending comfort. This was my domain. Leif declared I would be its steward, to rule over it. I did not mind that I ruled no man, but felt powerful having Vinland, the land, under my control. I returned to my book, trying to dispense with Freydis once again.
Freydis said some more words to me, which I chose not to hear, before she, thankfully, tired of me, finally trudging off awkwardly through the sand to oversee loading more logs into her stolen vessel. It made me ill to think of Freydis and her wretched family, and some bodyguards, I was sure, to be a constant burden on Vinland, my Vinland, for much longer.
But then an idea popped like a spark from a log on the hearth. It was a scheme I thought I had previously discarded altogether. But since the image was now bouncing in my skull, I had clearly been mistaken. With only a handful of men surrounding her, I could avenge Helgi, killing the entire bunch at will. I was a killer, a warrior, the God willed me to be a weapon. They were not. Could I kill the children? I asked myself this question. I had killed Bjarni’s rodent son and felt no guilt. Yet, he was a pig, like his mother and father. I asked myself again, could I kill the children of Freydis? Spending my youngest days in Norway, I witnessed infanticide many times, especially of female babies. But as a practice, its use was waning with our new faith demanding so. Yet, it could be done; I could do it, I could kill the children. But then I thought I might take her children as my own, raising them to be sane rather than the miscreants they were likely to become.
Freydis and Torvard, choosing to stay behind as they had, clearly did not fear me. They should, or would, rather, I thought, before an evil, curling smile formed as I tenderly closed my precious book. I would take my revenge.
. . .
But I killed no more Norsemen or women. I kidnapped no children – though I am confident I would have done both the killing and stealing, feeling no remorse. The canoes came instead, finally giving Freydis an opportunity to do something which would be of benefit to me and many others even though the impulse of her actions was rooted in the same insane selfishness I had come to expect.
It was morning – a morning where the air was as fresh as I ever recall. The spring breeze came off the salty sea, filling my nostrils with its very own vigor, making me believe that with the passing of a few short days, my vengeance could begin. I was alone on the shore, walking with Right Ear, who was now my nearly constant companion. He followed me all over Vinland, even bothering me when I stretched over the dung hole.
That morning I threw bits of drift wood out into the rolling surf for him to chase and retrieve. With each successive toss, I sent him further into the sea so that he eventually had to paddle his paws instead of running on the sandy bottom. Despite planning a certain amount of evil, choosing to withdraw from my reading for the past few days so as not to be accused of iniquity through the Word, I was light hearted, allowing myself to focus on the happiness of the moment. The repetitive nature of walking and throwing brought me a sense of peace.
On my longest throw so far, I saw black dots forming far on the horizon. A pod of whales, perhaps, I thought. But they did not appear and disappear like the bobbing beasts of the sea. Instead these dots I watched were constants, moving up and down with the waves. Right Ear had the stick again and was jumping on his hind legs, rubbing my chest with his front paws, poking the stick into my face to encourage me to continue the game. I took the stick, but hurled it toward the trees which caused the dog some confusion until he heard it rattle down against branches to a crunching stop on the underbrush. Right Ear ran after it, not returning for much of the day, obviously side-tracked by some scent.
The dots grew in number and soon turned into blobs, finally becoming bark canoes paddled by menacing-looking warriors. I chose to stand on the shore for a time while they came closer and closer. A quick count gave me an estimate of eighty or more men. Still I remained, watching them come. None stood in the bow yet swinging a wooden pole, for they were too far away.
I prayed that when they did stand, that they circled the pole in a sunwise direction so that I was sure they came in peace. There was no doubt in my mind they came from the village of Kitchi, Ahanu, and Nootau. The canoes looked of the same construction, and many of the men had similar dress as the many times I visited with them in Straumsfjord. Their faces were too far away for me to recognize anyone.
I stood alone with my hands upon my hips when it occurred to me that I had no allies if we were to fight. Why should I fight with Freydis and her band of animals? And if I chose to fight with them, would they have me on their side? Or, would one of them seize the moment and plunge a spear into my back, later blaming a skraeling?
But if I did not fight with my own people, for whom would I fight? Did I stand a chance if I retrieved my weapons, for I was weaponless that morning, except for my saex which never left my belt, then waded to the nearest canoe to offer my services? No, I would be cut down with countless arrows before I uttered a single word of friendship.
Perhaps I should fight for or against neither. Instead I should run into the forest like my dog and hide, waiting for a victor by one side or the other. Like my dog! Huh! If I ran into the forest, I would be like a dog, cowering from the stern hand of God or man as the case may be. No, I would stay and fight.
But I held out hope, for there is always hope. When nothing is left, there is hope. When we were surrounded by Sweyn Forkbeard and his innumerable allies while we sailed Long Serpent there was hope. Even when all of our own number was dead, save three, there was hope. If there was no such thing as hope, or if it was just the dream of simpletons, I would not have been standing on the shore that day. Hope, even though I discount it much at times, hope brought me there. So I hoped that their leaders in the bows would soon stand and rotate those wooden rods sunwise.
They were closing, and I saw hand signals and heard indecipherable shouts. These were followed by a stirring of the men in the prow while they steadied themselves to stand in the rolling waves. Soon I would know if blood would spill this day, or if we would celebrate around a table of merriment, eating cheese and trading red cloth.
One boat pulled ahead of the rest and the man in the prow stood wide-legged so as not to fall. I squinted to get a better view, even bringing my hands to my eyes to shade the sun’s reflection. The man was bending at the waist, reaching to pull something, probably a pole, out from the canoe. He shouted something back at the men behind him, sounding like a good scolding, but the words were muffled. When, at last, he raised himself again to his full height, bringing the rod with him, I knew we would have blood.
Standing at the front of the lead canoe was Segonku, Megedagik, or Mukki. His other names meant nothing to me, he would always be Segonku. It didn’t matter what direction he spun the pole I knew he wanted blood, and I intended to give it to him.
Calculating all the possibilities of battle and success, I decided to dash off to Freydis’ longhouse to rouse the men. I could be there and back before any of the skraelings landed for home was close by. I ran.
In short order I burst into the longhouse where men lounged about eating a breakfast of smoked fish and cheese. Freydis sat uncomfortably on a sleeping platform with a light dress and tunic and no shoes. Her feet looked swollen and fat, her toes uncomfortable. “Skraelings attack us. Get your weapons and come to the shore. They are upon us!”
Freydis began berating me already, “Oh, Halldorr you act like a child. Why. . .”
I cut her off, “Freydis, you should choke on your own tits, God knows you’ve shoved them on the rest of us enough! Now shut up.” I pointed to the nearest man, “Give me your bow and a quiver.” Though confused, he dutifully handed them over to my extended hand. I was half-way out the door when I again shouted, “You can either die in here when they attack or try to kill them in their boats. Now come!”
I raced to the shore, not knowing if they followed, but soon had the answer to my question. They came. At first two or three arrived, still strapping their belts about their waists. Then the rest came in a large bunch. We were less than forty. Only half or so had a shield. Some had spears, some had swords. We were a ragtag bunch with no hope of killing many of them, let alone prevailing. Most of us, all of us really, would likely die.
We were wholly unprepared for battle, and so the only hope we had was to frighten them into not landing, turning back to the sea. I began screaming curses at them, encouraging others to join me. When they began to carry on the chorus, I felt into the quiver for an arrow, grasping one, setting it in place on the taut cord. I aimed for Segonku, hoping to kill him with one draw. There are those who say there is no honor in killing a man from such distance. These men say that you must look into your opponent’s eyes to see his fear, to smell his piss in his pants. They say you must give your enemy a chance to properly defend himself. To these men I say, “Eat pig shit!” These men, these “they” are wrong. They have never stood in a shield wall with death surrounding them on every side, with their best friend’s blood stinging their eyeballs from the arrow that sliced into his neck – bowels, arrows, and bladders loosened everywhere. These “they,” they are fools. I would kill Segonku from across the sea if I could.
I pulled the cord back to my ear. It felt strange for it was not my bow, and when I released I knew I missed. It sailed badly off course, plunging into the sea three or four ells ahead of Segonku’s canoe. I cursed, but reached into the quiver for another arrow, laying my hands on it, setting it in place, drawing the missile, adjusting my aim, releasing. I thought it would kill him, but it slapped into the curved prow of his boat. One more, I thought, one more, and I would have him.
I reached into the quiver a third time, reached deeper, felt all around, then pulled it up to see that it was empty. Who is so careless as to have a quiver nearly empty? “Arrows!” I shouted. “Who has more arrows?”
I looked down our line of disheveled defenders and saw that none other had brought a bow. Not a single arrow was to be found. In a fit of rage, I took the quiver from my waist and threw it into the sea where it landed gently atop a wave, soon bobbing up and down like a piece of driftwood. All I had was my saex.
We were one warrior with a child’s blade and a group of cowardly killers inexperienced in real battle with an ensemble of unsharpened weapons. Our group would have been perfect as bait in our battle at Straumsfjord, but we were not perfect today in Leifsbudir. We were the bait and prey. We would all die if we stayed.
So as much as I wanted to kill Segonku, to stay and kill and die, I called, “Retreat! We must retreat to the forest!”
Their faces turned to my own, showing me the fear they felt. Torvard looked pale and sickly. Skraeling arrows slapped two or three shields, then one ripped into Thorbrand Snorrason belly. He tumbled back, gasping, dropping his sword straight down into the sand so that it jutted, pommel up, ringing back and forth. He heaved in death throes for an instant then died when a heavy rock was launched into his head from the approaching canoes.
That was enough. Killing the defenseless family of Helgi was effortless for these cowards, but true contest and battle was more than they cared to endure. They broke and fled. I shouted behind them orders on where they should go so that we could regroup and somehow, with hope, prevail. But they did not hear or care to hear. They ran in all directions like scattering horses, some plunging into the forest, some running to Leifsbudir, others fleeing down the beach to follow the brook.
Perhaps what I did next is not heroic, but it is what I did so I must tell it. I looked over my shoulder and saw that Segonku was mere feet from landing. Thinking for a brief moment of confronting him, I hesitated, placing my hand upon my saex. Then I too, broke and ran. I planned to run to my home, gather my weapons and then head into the forest to survive on my own, killing him at a time and place of my choosing – the way of an old warrior, not a rash, young, dead warrior.
Then I saw the ambling, struggling pregnant Freydis finally arriving at the beach. She swore, cursed, and shouted, wincing with her swollen bare feet, their skin stretched entirely too tightly. I ran right past her while she continued on to the shore. I remember thinking that perhaps she would die so I and the world would finally be rid of her. I decided to witness her death so I skidded to a stop, turning to watch Segonku or a stray arrow cut her down. I would still have time to run to my home, I told myself.
The wretch Segonku jumped out of the starboard bow of his canoe where the surf was an ell deep. He gave a high-pitched war cry while pulling an axe from his belt. His red-painted face was frightening, even to me where I stood. Freydis would be terrified, I snickered, when she met her death.
But still Freydis marched forward. She cried to no one in particular, “Why do you flee such miserable opponents? Why are the men around me cowards, looking to me to be capable of killing these beasts off like sheep? If I had a stick between my legs, like the limpest of you all, I would fight better than any of you! If I had a weapon, any weapon, I would fight better and kill more than any of you weak, powerless ball-sacked, dung-splattered deserters!” Freydis cursed more and more, piling obscenities on the old gods and the One God. Her arms flailed about while Segonku closed in on her raising his stone axe high to crush her face. But her hand fell upon Thorbrand’s sword which danced in the sand, a lone soldier ready for action. Without looking, her hand clasped the hilt, swinging it up to her own chest.
Segonku paused when he saw the weapon and then watched in amazement as did I. Freydis did not attack the skraeling, instead she used the sword to slice her tunic and dress off at the shoulders, baring her large, milk-swollen breasts. She then used the fuller or blood gutter of the sword to slap one of her breasts, lifting it with her other hand. “Do you see this, you skraeling dog? These give me more power than anything your wilted stick can give to you.”
I was mesmerized by the scene, my feet planted in the earth while I watched. The other canoes were captivated as well. They stopped paddling, just watching wide-eyed at the crazed flame-headed female demon before them. Their boats bobbed uncontrolled in the waves. Segonku, too, was spellbound. He lowered his axe to his side, examining Freydis with wonder, mouth agape. Then in one swoop, Freydis lunged with the sword, slicing through the full front half of Segonku’s neck. For a split second, he looked simply like he would be nauseous. However, a thin red line formed across his neck, then blood like water pouring from a bucket spilled down his chest.
Segonku’s body fell straight down into a heap on the beach, and with two hands Freydis gripped the sword, hacking, hacking, hacking the remains. She shouted more, “I know you watch me Halldorr! I know because you want nothing more than to be like me, to be in me. But you will never be in me again. You are timid, running away today as you fled the skraeling battle at Fridr Rock. I loathe you!” She hacked.
The skraelings looked horrified at the loss of one of their princes at the hand of a flaming, fire-breathing woman. At first they looked from canoe to canoe, not sure what to do. But then they began shouting back and forth, finally settling on a course of action. One by one, they turned their canoes, paddling away with such haste it was as if they were pursued by the ghost of some underworld god. In our stories of the old gods, the world was formed from the icy depths of Hel. It would end in a fiery death following the end of the gods, or Ragnorok. While, perhaps, someday in the future a volcanic demon would scorch us all, I was thankful for this day, the life of Segonku met its ruin in the form of Freydis, complete with searing curses, burning hatred, and blood splattering madness.
CHAPTER 10
My death was likely to be slow and painful, maybe torturous. Strangely the notion did not concern me at the time. It was a fact like the warmth of the sun, the feel of a woman, or the grip of a sword hilt. Nor does it weigh upon my heart even today in my old age. My contact with my countrymen was likely to be forever broken; I was alone, by choice – the Enkoodabooaoo. Leif, whose predictions were always so accurate in the past, the Thing, my return to Greenland, was wrong this time – I would not find a wife in Vinland.
The entire band of Norsemen left Leifsbudir just days after Segonku was chopped down on the beach. Freydis, too, and her family set sail with their tree harvest and stolen boat, bound for Greenland, but not before Freydis freshened with two new bastard pups. She gave birth right there on the beach next to the hulking mess of Segonku’s remains, letting out a massive screech while the skraeling canoes fled. At first I thought she was letting out her rage vocally, but then I saw her dress darken below her ass and she toppled to all fours, panting.
