Paths of the Norseman, page 30
part #2 of The Norseman Chronicles Series
The going was difficult. The rain stopped on the second day of our voyage, and I thanked God truthfully. But as we pushed toward Ahanu, the wind came into our faces, making my light boat like a sail pushing us backward. I had to strike the oar through the waters three or four times just to move the distance normally traveled with just one pass. So I thanked God’s Providence again when, after paddling all day and all night without ceasing, I saw a cragged shoreline looming in the morning light. While it was not my destination, I fell down and kissed her granite rocks after pulling Sjor Batr out of the sea.
Right Ear and I stayed on that island for two straight days while we waited for the wind to change directions or at least fall. It was a truly isolated, small island without any wildlife other than a myriad of seabirds. I sent the dog running into the flocks of birds to scare them away while I gathered their eggs for each of our meals. It had been some time since I had eaten eggs, for the chickens we raised were all taken by Freydis back to Greenland. They were delicious.
After resting long enough that I had forgotten about the pain in my shoulders, we set off again despite the still-present wind.
In a short time, with joy, I called out to Right Ear that I already saw Kjalarnes where Thorvald buried the keel years before. The monument was long gone, but the beach remained. I gained strength at the sight. Right Ear became so excited that he jumped out of the canoe which caused many tense minutes while I shouted at him above the wind-driven waves to paddle back to the boat. Even when he finally did, I remembered how difficult it was to retrieve someone from the sea in a small boat. With strength, patience, and luck I eventually hauled the dripping dog back into the boat, being blown nearly the full way back to our island respite.
Again I paddled. The wind was stiffer that day, blowing bits of seawater into my face so I had to blink constantly, and sending the waves taller. I realized my error after one or two hours, but could not bring myself to simply turn around, allowing the wind to hasten us back to the safety of the island. Instead, I remained stubborn. Young men are supposed to be stubborn, for they are certain in their inexperience that they are right. Yet I was not young. I was forty-two years old. Forty-two! My, but I paddled with my sore, burning shoulders thinking about how God-awful old I felt. It was the first time in a long while I thought that I should have been sitting next to a great hearth with my feet upon a stool and a woman, some years younger than I carrying my child while preparing a bounteous meal. Yet I was stubborn in my age, embarrassed to admit a poor decision even with no one around to know. I paddled. I struggled.
For the rest of the day and that night, I toiled against those waves. It was not until the late morning of the next day that I skidded the canoe into the fine sand, dropped the paddle, and toppled over the side fully exhausted. The waves lapped all the way up to my waist so I used the last bit of strength I had left to pull the boat to safety and collapse onto the dry sand. I slept.
In my sleep, I dreamed. This dream warrants a telling because of how truly vivid it was. I lay there, passed out, sleeping in the sand with my wet face and hair gathering any stray grain they touched when my friend the One God came to me as a gentle friend. When my eyes flickered awake, I saw him crouching next to me gently nudging me to consciousness with a soft push and even softer words. He beckoned me to follow him and when I rose, I found that I was at full peace, rejuvenated, feeling no pain or regret or sorrow or any of the things which pang at a man’s deepest thoughts. I was sated. The One God walked up from the rolling surf, his clean priestly robes catching traces of wind, flickering at the ends. At the edge of the beach where the sand met the forest sat a simple wooden throne. He seized a single piece of carved, smoothly sanded wood and affixed it to the chair. I realized it was not the One God before me, but his carpenter son, the Christ Jesus. He made his own throne from the trees of the forest by the work of his own hands like he had done on the cross many years before. The last piece he set in place was the armrest for the left side, and it fit snugly without any pounding or nails or wedges. I watched silently, impressed at his craftsmanship.
When he finished, the Christ stepped back admiring his work with his hands upon his hips. Then he pointed at the throne, and I, without a word, knew it was for me. So I walked to it and though I was confused, still felt at ease as if receiving a visit from a dear friend who brought the gladdest of tidings. So I sat, awaiting his eloquent words.
But Jesus, the Christ, simply sat himself. But he chose a mangled, dry section of driftwood that teetered a little when he put too much of his weight on it so that he had to keep his feet firmly in place on the ground to steady it, working. Jesus pulled out a small knife and picked up a stray piece of wood, unable to refrain from exercising his carpentry skills. I thought we all must be like those pieces of wood to him, on which he needed to continually work. In mere moments he had made a flute or whistle. I noticed the Christ’s hands at that moment. They were muscled with strength like the biggest man I had ever seen. His hands were calloused from constant shaping, squeezing and moulding, yet they were impeccably clean. Not a smidge of stray dirt soiled his light sun-bronzed skin.
While finishing the whistle, he spoke, “Halldorr.” When he said my name a profound happiness grew within me. “Halldorr, you are a faithful reader of my Word. Do you remember Abram?” Jesus looked at me, his long Norse-like hair blew across his face from the ocean breeze.
It pleased me that I knew the answer, “Yes, he was a righteous man from Ur. The Father God made a covenant with him and he became the father of the nations.”
Jesus smiled broadly, “True enough. And his children?”
“The One God promised they would be as numerous as the stars in the heavens,” I answered, proud of myself.
The carpenter’s simple answer was, “And so it will be with you.” He set the whistle down and went to work carving a spoon from another scrap.
But my response was not the righteous response of Abram. Instead I reacted more like Zechariah when, from Gabriel, he learned that he and his wife would be the parents of John the Baptist. “How can this be? I am already old. My woman is dead. I have no wife. I am alone.”
Thankfully, Jesus, the Christ, is merciful, more so than Gabriel to be sure. The Christ chuckled, finding great humor in my answer. At last he sighed, “It is always the same with my children. But you should know that I have said the words. It will be so with you.”
Then he put the whistle to his lips and played a merry tune. He smiled behind the instrument, bouncing and bobbing his head to the music. I tapped my feet and hands even though I did not recognize the song. Christ got up from his seat and slowly walked away down the length of the beach, still blowing his tune. I did not follow for I knew my time with him was done. Even though he grew further and further away, the sound of his music seemed to grow and still I danced in my chair. Then he was gone out of sight and the music became louder and louder. Then the music was so loud it was not in any way pleasant. The tune was gobbled up by the volume, and it pierced my ears, creating great pain. I winced with scrunched eyes, tried to cover my ears with my hands, but I could not. My arms were exhausted again and I could not move them.
A sting shot through my back and I fell out of the throne, hitting the sand again. Extreme bouts of pain stabbed my back and sides. I rolled down the beach, back to the spot where the Christ found me. Then my eyes popped open again.
Chaos reigned in my corner of the sand. Several ells away Right Ear growled, howled, and barked angrily. Closer, I saw the makizin feet and legs of at least four skraeling men. The feet alternated going up out of sight and back down to the beach. Each time another foot went up, I felt a new bout of pain in my back. I know now they kicked me, but at the time, confusion ruled my mind. The men made shrill war cries as they beat me.
My muscles would not respond to command. I did not even curl up to protect myself, instead lying there flat to receive the full brunt of the punishment they dealt. Then they rolled me onto my back and I thought would begin the process of beating my face, chest or stomach. One or two bent to punch me in the cheek, but they were merciful, grabbing me by my arms, dragging me.
I spoke some words in their tongue to them about friends and Ahanu and peace, but they ignored my pleas. I mentioned Nootau and visit, but another swift strike upon my brow brought a welcome respite from my pain for I fell into unconsciousness.
The next memory I can recall is that I awoke with an old woman standing over me with some type of shovel. She cackled like a crow as she drew the shovel up into the air over her head. I thought she meant to strike me with it and that I would surely die at the hand of the hag, not able to defend myself. However, it was then that I felt a searing pain upon my chest. All the strength left in me marshaled at once, and I rolled over, spilling hot embers off my bare chest. Where my jerkin was, I do not know. A crowd had gathered around me, all laughing, jeering. Right Ear or some other dog barked nearby.
I admitted my grave mistake in coming, resolving to endure the torture for only a moment longer while I prayed for renewed strength. I rose to all fours to slowly crawl away between two birch bark homes, but the old hag kicked me in my ass and I tumbled onto my face. Then powerful hands clasped around my belly, heaving me into the air. In an instant, I hung upside down like a limp bundle of hay. Then whoever held me began spinning, at first slowly, then ever faster. I saw the villagers in blurs. I saw flashes of sunshine, shadows, and cooking fires. Then I forced my eyes shut to keep control of my nausea, but it was too late. I vomited while still spinning, with my stomach contents running up my nose and into my eyes and hair. Soon I was sure I would die with my intestines pushing into my mouth from the spinning.
When my tormentor became dizzy himself, he halted and I thought I would survive, but a compatriot took up the task, spinning me faster yet. I vomited again, but the contents were just the acrid yellow juices from my belly. Laughter and shouts greeted the torturer when he, at last, dropped me into a heap, head first. Through my blurry vision, I saw his stumbling feet walking in the dust next to me. I pictured his smiling face, wanting to snuff the life from it.
For a moment, I was forgotten as the group celebrated its gaiety. I would stand and flee to the forest now, but when I gathered all power, the only thing that happened was that my arms and legs flailed like a fish cast upon the deck planks of a longboat. This only called attention to me again, and I felt my limbs seized by four men. They lifted me from the ground, swinging me back and forth until they began counting. One, two, three, then each of them released me at the same time so that I crashed into the hard earth on my back which had been so badly beaten earlier.
I couldn’t breathe. I prayed, not for escape this time, but for death. Please God, command this torture cease. They clutched my limbs again. “God!” I cried out as they hefted me into the air. The men laughed at what they likely thought was a funny word. Then I remembered their name for Jesus and called, “Glooskap!” This time one of the men looked down into my eyes. I thought I saw a moment of pity, but his glance went to my Charging Boar tattoo. He pointed it out to his friends as if he was noting an interesting rock formation – just something of a curiosity.
They began their counting again. One, two, three. I did my best to prepare for the extreme pain that would arrive in a moment.
“Stop this!” came a high-pitched scream from a woman. I could not see her through my blurred vision. The men briefly halted, but then started swinging again in order to drop me. But whoever she was, she shouted again, “Stop torturing this man!” The voice was closer this time, right behind the man who held my right hand. I think blood came from my eyes, mixing with the vomitus on my teetering head.
They stopped swaying my limp body, holding me while one of them answered, “Who are you to tell me what to do? You know you are nothing but a woman?”
“I am but a woman, but I know my chief’s will. You are like the porcupine, blustering up to appear bigger than you are. You are a fool, assuring that you will never hold any power among our own people. You will stop harming our visitor at once!” Her tone was powerful, demanding, but was conveyed with a calmness that spoke volumes of self confidence.
“Visitor? He is one of the foreign invaders! He is likely a spy.”
“A spy who came in broad daylight to our village with a barking dog? You are more foolish than I thought.” Several chortles from the assemblage said that the woman struck a nerve.
“What would you have us do?” asked my torturer.
“I would have you set him down and walk away. I will then tend to his wounds.”
“And then who will pay his ransom?”
“If he is a captive, the chief will pay a ransom to keep you and your warriors from attacking him. If the chief wishes it, that is. If he is not a captive, there is no ransom to pay, you simple-minded tree.”
He and the other three men quickly debated her words, then the leader said, “It will be as you say. The chief and council will decide.” But instead of setting me to the ground gently, the men dropped me one more time onto my aching back. Again consciousness fled.
. . .
There was no position that would be comfortable, though the woman did her best to decide on what would likely be the least painful. I awoke inside one of the birch bark dwellings when the sun had already fallen outside. A diminutive fire lit the small space where I lay on my belly, the bare wounds from the old woman’s embers on my chest nearly made me swoon in pain as they dug into the soft fur of a pelt on which I sprawled.
Moving only my eyes, I scanned my surroundings. Jagged wooden poles formed a frame on which the bark had been set. From those poles hung all sorts of items, pots, various herb bundles, several strings of wood and bone carvings, small cutting tools made of stone, and weapons. A spear was tucked neatly, adjacent to a main support pole. A quiver of arrows hung next to it. Even a bow was available. I slowly lifted my head and saw that I was completely alone in the home. I would confiscate the weapons and fight my way out of the village. Just another moment to regain strength was all I needed, at least that is what I told myself. But the moment turned into many minutes while I struggled to even move my hands up from my sides, bracing them to push into the ground.
Footfalls outside told me someone approached so I let out a groan, pushing myself up, locking my elbows straight. I was exhausted; I could move no more, my breathing was labored. The footsteps entered the low door behind me and my savior, the kind woman who rescued me said, “You’re not able to go anywhere. So lie down and conserve your strength.”
Unquestioningly, I obeyed, dropping my weakened body back to the hide. She fiddled with some of the herbs, crushing a handful into a bowl she brought in. The woman then came to the fire, sitting next to it and me, pulled out a spoon-like utensil of some sort, and began dabbing it on my wounds. I looked at my naked arm, the only part of my body I could see, and saw that she had already cleaned the dried blood and vomit and was now applying a green paste to my abrasions.
I followed the movements of the spoon as it sprang smartly from bowl to my skin and back again. I noted her slender, though not thin, fingers gripping the utensil. They were fixed on the ends of young hands, certainly not those like the old hag who attacked me earlier. In the distance I heard the rolling surf hit the shores where Thorvald had killed the skraelings under the hide boats years earlier. The green paste stung the wounds for just a moment, then my skin felt soothed, cool.
My eyes wandered further up her bare arms. They were strong arms, developed from years of working for her people, somewhat tan in color. She had no sleeves, for her light brown tunic was cut off at the shoulders, running straight down her sides. The dress was simple with no designs at all except for the fringe and beads that encircled the neck. She wore a single necklace with a triangular-shaped bone carving affixed at the end. Dizzily, I looked down past where her breasts pushed out at the fabric. If I hadn’t been in such pain, I have no doubt my glance would have lingered there for a time.
Her bare knees faced me while the woman sat with her ankles crossed in front of my nose. On her feet she wore plain leather makizins, cinched at her ankles with a tight leather thong. Beyond her shoes, I could see into her dress where I saw the parts of her that could delight the men of her village, hidden by her thick black curly hair. I looked there for a long while and it pleased me. The woman hummed a song that was foreign to me.
I had already seen between her legs and decided I should finally gaze upon her face, so I turned my head more so I could peer up. A shot of pain almost blinded me, causing a quiet groan to rumble from my throat. The woman whispered, “Shhhh shhhh shhhh shhhh,” setting the bowl down and petting my head with her free hand.
I looked at her face from below. I believe I fell in love with the woman at that moment. Her hair was black like the hair of all her people. It shone like the shining coal cliffs I had seen on my travels. She had the long locks pulled tightly into a horse’s tail, tied securely by a cord at the nape of her neck. The hair was smooth and beautiful. Her nose and cheeks were strong, broad and long at the same time. Above those cheeks she had rich brown-black eyes. Enormous eyes. Beautiful eyes. I have said I loved her instantly. I found her enchanting.
I guessed her to be about ten years younger than I was at the time. Some skraeling warrior of influence would be under a blanket with her tonight which explains why she felt powerful enough to save me.
Footsteps came into the home behind me. A young man’s voice said, “Word comes back. The party will return in two suns.”
The woman looked toward the young man, nodded, saying, “Thank you. I will be to the mamateek shortly. Off with you.” He left without another word. She went back to her humming.
