The United States of Vinland: The Landing (The Markland Trilogy) (4 page)

On
their sea crossing, like so many others who had come before to settle new
lands, whether Iceland, Greenland or the Faroes, they brought not just
themselves, but seed, livestock, and the tools to build a new world. Fourteen
sheep and three cattle were on the ship. So far, similar to the way it been
with their lost fellow settlers, they had accounted for well less than half
their number. The sea had given up the bodies of three sheep, but still others
were out there, most likely dead, but perhaps alive, as these tracks suggested,
and that gave the men hope.

Following
the trail as it cut along a gully, Samr grinned and yelled out to Torrador,
“You are not thinking of milk or cheese, or wool or mutton!”

Torrador
laughed. “What else could I be thinking of?”

“That
you are about to meet your new wife!”

They
both laughed, but the comment also struck at something deep inside each of
them. Samr, for all his humour, had lost his wife in the landing squall, as had
Torrador, and while they said little about the loss, they both still ached from
it.

What
hope did either of them have of finding a woman to marry in Markland?

Such
a thing would not happen, not until they had a ship to take them to Greenland.

Torrador
called back with a grin, “I would take the wolf as a wife, not some old sheep.
Then perhaps Gudrid would have some fiery company!” as they came to a bend in
the gully,

Samr
laughed. “She already had one argument with your wolf-wife and she won,
remember?”

“Indeed
she did.”

Both
men then froze when they heard the bleat of a lone sheep.

“She
is near!” Samr exclaimed as he launched forward.

They
rounded a bend in the gully, where the land again spread wider across a
rock-studded pasture divided by a stream. On the far side of the flowing water
stood the sheep, its coat black and bedraggled. The miserable creature
unfortunately was not part of a herd, but it seemed uninjured and moved freely
when it stepped back up towards some large boulders looming behind it.

The
two men slowed, Torrador holding out a hand to warn Samr, for he was the first
to see it; the wolf was also there.

Samr
cursed, “By Thor, we have to get her!”

But
as he spoke, the great wolf launched itself towards its shaggy prey, the beast’s
snarl filling the rock-strewn vale.

“Come!”
Torrador called as they both charged.

The
two ran straight for the lunging wolf, knowing they would not get there before
it reached the sheep, yet they had to try. They yelled as they charged,
thundering through the cool waters of the stream, barely distracting the wolf
in its attack and only confusing the terrified sheep. Instead of trying to
escape the wolf, the startled sheep turned to face the men, leaving itself
backed up against the rock face.

Samr
rushed forward, barrelling straight for the wolf, planning to give it a mighty
kick in the ribs. As he moved, the beast flew towards the sheep, flashing long,
yellowed teeth in its mighty jaw.

Torrador
reached down for a rock as he ran, aiming to come alongside Samr and smash in
the beast’s head. Yet, as Torrador rose from his rushed stoop, with a good rock
in hand, he still had several paces to cross as the wolf reached the sheep, its
jaws snapping shut on the poor thing’s neck.

The
sheep cried out in terror.

The
wolf used its momentum to follow through with the attack. With not enough room
to turn, the wild creature cruelly wrenched its victim’s body by folding it
back around, as together they crashed into the boulder behind the sheep. With a
great thump and crack, and a renewed rumble from deep within the beast’s
throat, the wolf rose to all fours, with the now limp sheep still held in its
jaws.

Torrador
arrived a pace ahead of Samr, his rock clutched in hand. He swung it down hard,
aiming for the beast’s head.

The
wolf held the sheep in front of itself, as if a shield, and prepared to duck
back and spring away with its prize. It faced Torrador more than Samr because
of the man’s speed, leaving the beast’s side open to Samr. The creature
unsuccessfully tried to dodge the kiss of the rock, yet its movements were so
quick that Torrador only managed to graze the side of its skull and ear. Blood
ran from the wound, but the raw scrape was quickly lost under the creature’s
ragged coat.

Samr
then came in and put all his weight and power into a mighty kick. His old,
worn-yet-heavy boot came swinging in to seek the wolf’s ribs.

It
was too late for the beast to react to the threat, the boot hitting home with a
crack.

The
impact shocked the wolf and caused it to open the bloody jaws clamped around
the limp sheep. When its grip was broken, the sheep sprang back to life and
scurried away from the two men and the wolf, stumbling towards the stream.

The
two men stepped back, both uncomfortably close to the great wolf that was now
not only bloody and injured but also snarling furiously.

Torrador
yelled at it, cursing the beast.

Warily,
the wolf kept low, and then backed away along the side of the boulder.

The
three watched each other, none focused on the sheep. Soon the wolf drew further
back.

Torrador
said to Samr, “I shall watch the beast, but I think we have hurt it enough for
now. Check on the sheep.”

Samr
agreed and began to move.

The
wolf continued to back up to the boulders, and then circled around behind the
rocks. As it moved, it favored the side Samr kicked, showing that his great
boot had caused injury.

Torrador
called to Samr, “Is it there? Is it alright?”

“She
is here, but her wounds are grievous.”

“The
wolf is also hurt. The beast is limping, with blood running from its head.”

“Should
we finish it?”

As
if understanding the words, the wolf padded off across the hillside.

“Too
late; it is gone.”

The
days passed, and each new dawn brought satisfaction as the men and women of
Godsland thanked Asgard for providing them with another chance. Summer’s peak
came and went, and the toil of the Godslanders continued as they raced the
waning days in preparations for winter.

Some
finished the walls of the hall to enclose the overhang and small caves while
others completed other tasks. Gudrid prepared a small garden and planted some
of the seeds they had been able to recover from one of the salvaged chests.
They caught and dried fish for food, and cut and stored wood for winter fires.
They scoured the island for anything useful for getting through winter’s long
and bleak season, including leaves and grasses for feeding their healed, but
lame sheep.

Finally,
as summer passed into autumn, their world became a home to more than fog and
frequent rain. The winds rose and the air chilled, followed by the first
snow-charged squalls of grey.

Soon
after the weather changed, expectant Gudrid was ready to deliver her babe.

It
was a night not long after they started living in their mostly-finished hall,
the rough structure finally enclosed and preferable to the turning weather. The
tents, erected in the gully, were no match for the storms that increasingly
came off the sea, the tempests woven of gales, sleet and snow.

Gudrid
was tending a fire at the very back of the overhang, in an alcove she named
Gods’ Hall. She set up the wooden chest to serve as an altar for the carved
statuettes, and put a small fire pit in front of it. As she made to rise, a
pain stabbed at her, making her gasp aloud before she cried out, “Eskil!”

He
was there in a moment.

Ballr
and Halla were also only steps behind.

The
two men aided Gudrid as others came to offer what help they could.

Some
of the few sounds in their new home were the crack of the main fire pit in the
long hall and the bleat of their crippled, lone sheep settled by the altar. But
the moan of a rising wind outside, as a huge squall came ashore to blast the
island, could also be heard.

Halla
decided to settle Gudrid in one of the mostly empty caves, giving the labour
some privacy. The chamber opened into the space of Gods’ Hall, which in turn
looked over the long hall.

Once
he and Ballr settled Gudrid in the cave lit by the flickering light of the
Gods’ Hall fire pit, Eskil made to follow the Icelander and leave. He wanted nothing
more to do with the birthing than he must, not because he lacked love for his
wife, but because it seemed a woman’s task and no place for a man.

Yet
Halla had other ideas. “Stay. I attended a cousin’s birthing back in Iceland,
but never midwifed such a thing alone.”

Eskil
complained, “I cannot help; this is no task for a man! What do I know of a
woman’s birthing?”

Gudrid,
recovering from the cramping pain of a contraction, moaned, “Eskil, you knew
enough about it to put a babe in me!”

Halla,
in no mood for discussion, worried about the task before her. “Would you prefer
I go fetch one of the other men who might be more willing to swallow their
pride, in return for the chance of handling your wife while her body leers open
and naked at them?”

That
silenced his protests.

Gudrid,
reclining as comfortably as she could on scraps of material from the re-cut
sailcloth, was propped up against the rock of the wall. She looked out through
the cave’s opening into the Gods’ Hall. The entry framed a view of the chest
and statuettes, the fire, and the lame sheep.

With
each contraction, she moaned and gritted her teeth, her eyes locked onto the
idols.

The
others of their group left them to it, doing little more than delivering water,
rags and wood for the small fire burning before the statuettes.

Gudrid
lay with her legs spread and her dress well-hitched. Eskil knelt beside her,
with concern and great bewilderment on his face.

Halla,
meanwhile, knelt on the other side of Gudrid, allowing the firelight to
illuminate her expectant charge’s opened legs, as she worked at checking her
and tried to remember all she had learned back in Iceland.

So
they began their birthing campaign, while the worst of the turning season’s
squalls came to coat the land outside in snow and ice. The wind increased its
blustering wail and turned harsher, more primal, roaring as though it had been
forged in the underworld.

Back
in the makeshift birthing room, Gudrid’s intermittent calls overwhelmed the
increasing snarls of the storm outside. Each gasp, grunt or scream was followed
by the urgent instructions of Halla. Eskil, forgetting his earlier awkwardness,
eventually found his voice and worked to reassure Gudrid as best he could, his
concerns blooming for his unborn child and beloved wife.

The
labour drew on, running into the night, as, likewise, the storm deepened
outside. When the gales shifted, they heard movement several times from the
piles of cut firewood and salvaged timber that lay stacked outside against the
walls.

Their
lone sheep added to the sounds of the birth. The beast called out from where it
had now settled between the altar and entrance to the birthing room, sitting
awkwardly because of its crippled, improperly healed leg.

The
storm raged on, and the wind howled.

Gudrid
again yelled out and gritted her teeth.

At
the same moment, the sheep struggled to stand unevenly on its legs and called
out.

Eskil
said to his sweat-soaked, pale wife, “See Gudda, the sheep waits for the chance
to feed milk to our babe. Do not keep her waiting!”

Halla
almost smiled at the comment, while Gudrid looked lost. Finally, with a sigh,
she gasped. “Simply deliver this thing before it kills me!”

“I
think the child is ready. Soon enough you will be a family of three.”

Eskil
smiled and took Gudrid’s hand, holding it tight.

It
was then that sounds of commotion came from the main hall. The roar of the wind
grew louder and more brutal, a sudden draft blustered to suck away the hall’s
heat and stir the light. Timbers groaned, and the door rattled against the
rough frame. Outside, a sharp and loud crack sounded, followed by a heavy thump
and crash that reverberated throughout the entire hall.

Eskil
wondered if the wall was collapsing.

Voices
cried out in alarm, followed by the sounds of panicked movement, as the men of
the hall rushed out into the storm to deal with the damage it had done.

Eskil
yelled, “What is happening out there?”

Halla
snapped, “Forget them; you are needed here!”

A
taste of the furied storm came to them as the door blew in, unleashing elemental
anger throughout the hall, even finding them in the birthing room. The fire of
the main hall, buffeted by the wind, flared and surged. The light danced – dim
one moment, bright the next – accompanied by sprinting sparks and a billowing
haze of smoke. The Gods’ Hall fire mimicked the display.

The
sheep cried out.

Despite
Halla’s words, the chaos of the main hall drew the eyes of all in the birthing
room. Nothing was visible but the sheep turning to face the hall with wide
eyes.

At
that moment, Gudrid called out again as another contraction wracked her body.

Halla
turned back to her and hissed, “Push!”

And
Eskil lost all care of what was happening elsewhere as his focus locked on to
his wife.

Halla
whispered, “I can see the babe’s head!”

Eskil’s
jaw dropped as his eyes went wide, for he could also see the crown of their
child coming into the world.

Gudrid
groaned, pushed and did as told. Her eyes locked on the sheep standing in the
opening, as the fire’s flickering light, flaring sparks and smoke swirled
behind it.

She
growled in pain, sweat running from her brow.

A
dark figure slunk into Gods’ Hall, mostly lost between the dancing shadows and
chaotic light. It headed for the altar before turning towards the birthing room
and the lone sheep.

In
the large hall, amidst whatever disaster had unfolded, calls of confusion rang
out, punctuating the roar of the storm.

Ignoring
the chaos, Halla hissed again, “Push!”

Eskil
held Gudrid’s hand tightly and begged her to deliver their child. Nearby, the
sheep began to retreat into the birthing room, through the opening, before
bleating once loudly.

The
figure moved quickly and quietly, like a shadow, and came into the opening.

It
was then Gudrid gave a loud curse that fell into a groan, as at last, the babe
slid free.

Halla
sighed with relief.

Gudrid
turned to Eskil as she gripped his hand and gave it a furious squeeze. But her
gaze only lingered before she gestured with a nod towards the shape stepping
forward to come up beside Halla. A figure that now blocked the wind-tormented
light.

Seeing
the wide-eyed stare of Gudrid and her gesture, both Halla and Eskil turned.
Their noses also filled with a new odour that joined the smells of the birth;
the stench of an animal, wet-haired, with the sickly sweet-stink of corruption.

There,
standing at the entry to the birthing room, threatened the great wolf, its fur
dusted with snow. One side of its body, by its back leg, was swollen, and the
hair was matted with a wound gone bad. On its other side, by an eye, its head
likewise sported a bloating, swelling and discoloured wound.

All
three of them understood what had happened in the main hall: the wolf came in
through a blown-in door, or perhaps through another way, as part of the wall,
buffeted by gales, collapsed. Either way, at that moment, none of that
mattered. What mattered now was Gudrid lay prone and Halla cradled a young
babe.

Eskil
sprung up and took a step forward as he threw his shoulders back and spread his
arms, prepared to throw himself at the beast if need be. To him, the most
important things in the world lay behind him. He yelled, “By Odin, I will kill
you!”

The
great beast lowered its head and began a deep and rumbling growl. But, unable
to keep its head level or still, it kept shifting it to the side.

Eskil
said, “The beast is sick, the side of its head unclean!”

A
great and ugly scar sat between the wolf’s left eye and ear. At the centre of
the pink and horrid tissue rose a weeping lump of yellowed infection. The eye
closest to the injury was swollen half shut.

Eskil
took another step forward, spreading his arms and flexing his fingers before
clenching them into fists. He bellowed, “No wolf is welcome in this hall! I
will tear you apart if I have to, even if I must use my teeth!”

The
men of Godsland, in their own storm of noise and fury, then came charging back
into the main hall with the axe, the hall’s blades, fire-hardened spears and
burning brands.

The
wolf swung around and snarled, snapping its yellow teeth ferociously, but was
overwhelmed by so many foes.

Ballr,
Steinarr, Erik and Torrador fell upon the great beast with their weapons,
stabbing and carving, kicking and punching.

The
wolf was pinned down, blood leaking from its wounds to darken its matted coat.
The great beast struggled against them, lashing out with claw and maw, but it
seemed unable to find flesh. Realising the futility of attack, the creature
tried to escape, but quickly losing its strength, it could not rise, but rather
slipped on its own lifeblood.

Within
a few more heartbeats, it was over.

Eskil
advanced on the tangle of dying wolf and men with their crude and bloody
weapons. “What happened?”

Ballr
shook his head. “It must have been outside when the worst of the storm came. We
were checking the old tent after the door blew in, since some of the old
timbers hit the top of the hall’s wall and damaged it and the door frame.”

With
the wolf dead, Steinarr rushed to help his brother, who was struggling against
the storm to close the damaged door.

“What
did it?”

“The
tent frame collapsed, the supporting timbers fell down to hit the corner of the
hall. When we went out to check on what happened, the wolf must have made its
way inside.”

The
swirling wind died down.

With
a glance, Eskil could see that Steinarr and Samr had forced the door closed
against the storm, and shoved two salvaged oars in place to hold it.

Eskil
turned back to Gudrid and his newborn son. “No matter, the wolf is no longer a
threat.”

Steinarr
grinned. “Not to the Hall of Ravens!”