The United States of Vinland: The Landing (The Markland Trilogy) (10 page)

They
briefly travelled in silence, the oar strokes the only thing to sound as they
drifted past the promising shore.

Eskil
turned to look up the fjord, to where they were headed, but his attention
stopped as a call came to them from the shoreline.

“Eskil,
keep your filthy Ravens off my land!”

It
was unmistakably Thoromr.

They
all turned to search the distant woods, trying to spy him out.

Eskil
stopped himself from shaking his head or offering some ill-considered rebuke.
He raised his voice instead and yelled, “We only pass by the free lands of
Markland!”

Thoromr
stepped out from amongst the trees near the shoreline, his father’s axe in hand.
“These are my lands...Lakeland!”

Eskil
despaired at the stubbornness of the young man. So much like his father, he was
perhaps even destined to be worse. Their boat had already drifted past, yet
Thoromr persisted in his challenge, “Get away from here, all of you!”

Eskil
answered him, “It would be fair to say your border would come in at the islands
we have only passed, not here. You cannot claim all of Markland. You are no
king!”

“I
shall claim what I want, even if it be all of this side of the fjord!”

“Let
it go, Thoromr, as you can see we are not stopping.”

The
big man, face red, raised his axe and shook it. “A good thing too, for I will
bloody any of you who try!”

Eskil
glanced at his fellows. Ballr wanted to reply, but was held in check by Eskil’s
presence. Torrador was bemused by the young man and his impotent anger.
Meanwhile, Alfvin watched impassively, as Seta sat next to him and glared, not
hiding her hate for the Lakelander.

Eskil
wondered aloud, “If there is only him and Trion, and one of them must watch
over the women, they can not get much done.”

Seta
frowned. “Him bad man.”

Ballr
said, “They will starve this winter if they do not get enough food stored.”

Eskil
agreed, “Yes, and guess where they will come when they get desperate?”

Thoromr
could see them talking, but could not hear their words. He shook his axe and
cursed, “By Thor, Ballr, why are you not at home with the women! That skraeling
beside you has bigger balls than you!”

Ballr
tensed and took in a breath, about to hurl a retort.

Eskil
went to put a hand to his shoulder to stop him, but they were silenced by Seta,
who stood up, making the boat rock, as she yelled, “Thoromr stink bad, worse
than sheep!”

Her
voice rang out across the fjord and then echoed back over the water.

Thoromr
stood stunned, his raised and shaking axe stilled.

She
added, “Or is sheep dead? Have you put axe in it, too?”

The
Godsland men all burst out laughing, doubly silencing the Lakelander, who
flushed redder than his beard.

Eskil
tried to gather himself, indicating for Torrador to keep on the oars. “Come
now, let us move on.”

Ballr
and Torrador nodded, but could not quiet their mirth. The latter glanced back
at Seta, admiration in his eyes.

Seta
looked to Eskil, embarrassed.

Alfvin
chuckled, while announcing. “I cannot wait to tell your sister!”

Eskil
smiled, trying to reassure her. “Are you alright?”

“Thoromr
bad.”

“Merely
angry.”

“Full
of angry.”

“Yes,
it blinds him, but maybe one day he will calm down.”

“Blind?”

“He
cannot see.” Eskil used his spare hand to cover his eyes.

She
gave a quick nod of understanding. “No,” she said, before shaking her head. “He
die blind.”

They
continued on, Thoromr disappearing back into the woods behind them as he cursed
loudly and worked his anger out hitting his axe to the trees.

Eskil
said to Torrador, “I do not want them coming to Godsland in winter if they lack
food. We shall have to watch their preparations. We may have to help them or
even destroy their raft so they cannot get across unexpectedly.”

“Wise
words. Upsetting the raft would be easy; we would simply need to cut the
binding ropes. They could still try and cross the ice, but it would be a
dangerous journey, and one undertaken when fully exposed to winter.”

“We
shall see how they are going when autumn comes around.”

Torrador,
Alfvin and Ballr nodded. Even Seta seemed to understand enough of what was said
to quietly agree.

They
continued for a long way, reaching the glades and the variety of plants they
held. Seta confirmed some of them were edible, particularly a low-growing and
long-leafed root with bitter tubers that stored well over winter. Eskil and
Torrador helped her dig those up while also collecting some other plants,
including various shooting berry bush canes.

Meanwhile,
Alfvin stood at the shoreline, looking farther down the sound to where he could
see low hills around the entrance to a larger vale, all framed by bluffs and
peaks.

Torrador
asked him, “Can you see something?”

Alfvin
smiled. “Yes.” He turned and raised his voice so Eskil could hear. “You may as
well not hurry. I can see an area we need to check for bog iron. But it is too
far away for us to spend real time there today.”

Eskil
got up, brushing his dirty hands on his pants. “What is it?”

“A
place of promise. Looking down there, I can see something that reminds me of
the land back home.”

Eskil
smiled, and he was not alone. “When we finish here, we will go a little closer,
to see what we can, then head back so we still make Godsland by dusk.”

Alfvin
looked to Seta, a grin on his face. “I hope Thoromr will be waiting on the
shoreline so we can give him another rousing.”

Her
face lit up at his words.

––––––––

G
udrid
looked at Frae; the woman kneeled in the dirt, only paces away, using a
stripped branch, with a sharpened end, to break the soil. With strong hands,
the skraeling lifted the wood high and then, with a grunt, brought its point
down, stabbing into the stubborn earth. The work was hard, but broken up by
other tasks as they loosened the soil and prepared the garden bed.

They
worked where the turf had originally been removed and used to build their
hall’s walls almost a year ago. In that naked earth, after stripping out the
worst of the rocks, Gudrid had established a small garden for cropping. They
now worked to expand it.

This
year, with the last of the salvaged seed brought from Iceland, they needed a
good harvest, but not just of roots and vegetables. No, this summer Eskil
wanted her to grow her crops not only for food, but also to replenish their
seed stocks.

The
plot lay at the centre of the gully, beside the stream that drained it, in
front of the birch grove, and well back from the seashore. The spot received
good sun, and the shoulder of the hill that curved around to form the hall,
amidst the rock outcroppings and overhangs, sheltered it from the wind. The
other side of the gully likewise offered shelter from the worst of the seaborne
winds.

The
soil they worked was as much gravel as dirt, yet Gudrid had been adding manures
to it from both the sheep and the hall – a farmer’s trick learned from her
mother many years ago – to provide depth. Now, turning the soil mixed up what
they added, and also kept it loose. They would plant the bulbous roots that
Seta harvested during their expedition up the fjord.

Frae
knew the tubers and said they were good for winter eating, though she also
indicated they did not possess a pleasant taste.

Lost
in her thoughts, Gudrid stabbed at the stubborn earth with her own sharpened
stake, which had become blunt after a long morning of use. She did not notice
she had uncovered a rock, an upward thrust of stone that lay in wait for her
fingers, as she again brought her tool rushing down.

The
pain came suddenly, a kind of burning, as the skin tore open and blood flowed.

Gudrid
gasped and then hissed out a curse.

Frae
looked up to see blood on Gudrid’s hand. She cried out and got up to hurry
over, then dropped down to kneel beside her.

Gudrid
let go of the stake and held out her hand, palm downwards, spreading the
fingers to examine the hurt. Blood ran freely from grazed knuckles and a cut
running across three fingers. She cursed again and moved to wipe away the dirt.

Frae
reached across for a water skin and brought it to Gudrid’s wound. With a quick
look to the Godslander for approval, she then began to pour the cool liquid
over the wound.

Gudrid
let out a pained hiss.

The
skraeling continued, using her darker fingers to carefully clean the dirt away
so they could better see the extent of the wound.

Frae’s
touch was firm, the water numbingly cold.

With
a sigh, Gudrid sat back on her legs and turned to look at their work. They had
done enough digging for the day; it was time to focus on planting. Besides, she
thought to herself, she would then have a chance to rest her hand so it could
scab over and dry.

The
water revealed the wound to be shallow, more of a graze and a bruise.

Once
the water skin was empty, Frae gave a grunt of satisfaction and looked to
Gudrid before saying in her broken Norse, “Not bad.”

Gudrid
gave a weak smile, despite the rising sting coming from the wound now that the
icy water had stopped. “Thank you. The rock got me.”

Frae
looked into the hole being dug, spying the stone’s tip. She frowned, reached
for the stake and used it to ram the pointed rock, knocking it loose. She
pulled it out and tossed it to the pile of others they were building beside the
garden. “Bad rock.”

Gudrid’s
smile broadened, and she even chuckled. “Yes, Frae, bad rock.” She sighed, but
then added, “Let us do some planting.”

The
skraeling woman smiled and nodded.

Gudrid
stood, followed by Frae. Together they went to the small pile of rootstock.

Frae
gathered up several roots, being careful of any green leaves, as Gudrid
watched.

The
Godsland woman stood there holding her bloody hand. The flow had all but
stopped, but it was still wet. She was about to bend down and pick up some of
the roots when Seta came out of the hall with Halla, the two women carrying all
four babes. Ballr’s wife was the only one of them still expecting.

Frae
called out, “Gudrid hurt!”

Halla
frowned and looked to Gudrid standing there, still holding her hand. She walked
over, followed by Seta. “What happened?”

Frae
offered up, “Bad rock.”

Gudrid
laughed, glancing at the smiling Frae, before turning back to Halla and Seta.
“Yes, a bad rock. I caught my hand.”

The
women all gathered to look at the wound, which was now beginning to dry.

Seta
said something to Frae, but her words were in their own tongue.

Halla
tensed and took half a step back.

Frae
chuckled as the two Norsewomen turned to look at her. After a moment she said,
“Seta say roots good winter food, but taste bad, worse than bad rock.”

Gudrid
began to laugh again.

Frae,
Seta and a surprised Halla joined her. The sound, not a complete stranger, but
one not heard enough, rolled through the gully. Afterwards, under the sun, the
late spring greens of the gully looked that much greener.

––––––––

B
y
the shore near the hall, Halla checked over the rock pools with Seta, wading
carefully through the cool shallows the low tide had almost finished leaving
behind. The daily search often turned up trapped fish, crabs and other sea
creatures. The haul gave them more variety in their eating and often a small
surplus of fish to be dried and stored for winter.

While
Halla liked the hunt, and Seta also seemed to enjoy it, they did not often
speak. If the skraeling woman did talk, she used a broken Norse that could be
confusing when she tried to communicate anything more complicated than a simple
question or to point something out, yet Halla persevered.

Gudrid
had asked her to spend time with Seta, to get a sense of what the woman was
thinking in relation to the Godsland Norse. Between them, Gudrid quietly
confided that she wanted to see both of the thralls freed.

Halla
was at first surprised by the idea, perhaps even shocked. Gudrid explained she
wanted the women to choose to stay at the hall – and to do so freely. As the
two Norsewomen discussed the idea, Halla began to understand that Gudrid hoped
if the skraelings chose to commit to Godsland, they would all benefit from Frae
and Seta’s local knowledge – of plants, animals, the weather and sea, and of
neighbouring skraeling bands. Gudrid suggested the women might offer the
information more quickly and willingly if they wanted to see the Godsland
settlement thrive. She insisted such a generous sharing of knowledge was
unlikely to happen if the women lived as thralls, in a world of fear.

Halla
was not convinced.

Gudrid
asked Halla to watch Seta, in the time they spent working together, to see if
she could get a feel for the woman’s deeper thoughts.

She
did.

The
work was not hard, despite Halla nearing her own birthing time – at most
another season away – yet being with Seta made her uncomfortable. The skraeling
was aloof and quiet, often not showing any type of emotion. In fact, it was
only after the joke made a few days before about how bitter the roots would
taste that Halla had finally seen Seta not only open up a little, but also try
to speak more Norse.

The
change tempted Halla to warm to her.

Yet,
she was still so distant and unreadable.

Over
the past half-season, as they’d settled into a routine of checking the few
pools near the hall, Seta had begun asking about ranging further away to find
new and better spots.