Robert Low - The Whale Road
That night, as the men fell to talking quiet and lazy as smoke drifting from the hearth-fire, I fell asleep and dreamed of the white bear and how it had circled the walls and then fallen silent.
I turned to say to Freydis that her walls were well built; I was sure that we had weathered it, that the bear was gone. I was smiling when the roof caved in. The turf roof. Two massive paws swiped and the earth and snow tumbled in and then, with a crash like Thor's thrown hammer, the bear followed: an avalanche of white; a great rumbling roar of triumph.
Numbed, I pissed myself then and there. The bear landed in a heap, shook itself like a dog, scattering earth and snow and clods, and then got on all fours.
It was a cliff of fur, a rank, wet-smelling shriek of a thing that swung a snake neck with a horror of a head this way and that, one eye red in the firelight, the other an old, black socket. On that same side, the lips had been straked off, leaving the yellow tusk teeth exposed in a grim grin. The drool of its hunger spilled, thick and viscous.
It saw us; smelled the ponies, didn't know which to go for first. That was when I ran for it and so decided the skein of all our lives.
The white bear whirled at my movement—the speed of it, and it so huge! It saw me at the door, scrabbling for the bar. I heard it—felt it—roar with the fetid breath of a dragon; I frantically tore the bar off and dragged the door open.
I heard it crash, half-turned to look over my shoulder as I scrambled out. It had risen on hind legs and lumbered forward. Too tall for the roof, its great head had smacked a joist—cracked it—and tumbled it down into the fire.
I swear I saw it glare its one eye at me as it shrieked; I also saw Freydis calmly stand, pick up the old spear and ram it at the beast's ravening mouth. Not good enough. Not nearly a good enough spell, after all.
The spear smashed teeth on the already ruined side, snapped off and left the head and part of the haft inside.
The bear lashed out, one casual swipe that sent Freydis flying backwards in a spray of blood and bone. I saw her head part company from her body.
I ran stumbling through the snow. I ran like a nithing thrall. If there had been a baby in my way I would have tossed it over one shoulder, hoping to tempt the beast into a snack and giving me more time to get away . . .
I woke in Gudleif s hall, to a sour-milk smear of a morning and the sick shame of remembering, but everyone was too busy to notice, for we were leaving Bjornshafen.
Leaving my only home and never returning, I realised. Leaving with a shipload of complete strangers, hard men for the sailing and raiding and, worse yet, a father I hardly knew. A father who had, at the very least, watched his brother's head part company from the rest of him and not even shrugged over it.
I could not breathe for the terror of it. Bjornshafen was where I had learned what every child learns: the wind, the wave and war. I had run the meadows and the hayfields, stolen gulls' eggs from the black cliffs, sailed the little faering and crewed the hafskip with Bjarni and Gunnar Raudi and others. I had even gone down to Skiringssal once, the year Bluetooth buried his father Old Gorm and became King of the Danes.
I knew the place, from the skerry offshore where the surf creamed on black rocks, to the screaming laughter of the terns. I fell asleep at night rocked in the creaking beams as the wind shuddered the turf of the roof, and felt warm and safe as the fire danced the shadows of the looms like huge spiders' webs.
Here Caomh had taught me to read Latin because no one knew runes well enough when I could be pinned down to follow his hen-scratching in the sand. Here was where I had learned of horses, since Gudleif made his name breeding fighting stallions.
And all that was changed in an eyeblink.
Einar took some barrels of meat and meal and ale, as part of thèbloodprice' for the bear, then left instructions to bury Freydis and drag the bear corpse in and flay the pelt from it. Gudleif s sons could keep that and the skull and teeth, all valuable trade items, worth more than the barrels taken.
Whether it was worth their father was another matter, I thought, gathering what little I had: a purse, an eating knife, an iron cloak brooch, my clothes and a linen cloak. And Bjarni's sword. I had forgotten to ask about it, it had never been mentioned, so I just kept it.
The sea was grey slate, capped white. Picking through the knots of dulse and rippled, snow-scattered sand, the Oathsworn humped their sea-chests down to the Fjord Elk, plunging into the icy sea with whoops, boots round their necks. White clouds in a clear blue sky and a sun like a brass orb; even the weather tried to hold me to the place.
Behind me, Helga scraped sheepskins to soften them, watching, for life went on, it seemed, even though Gudleif was dead. Caomh, too, watched, waiting by Gudleif's head—until we were safely over the horizon, I was thinking, and he could give it a White Christ burial.
I said as much to Gunnar Raudi as he passed me by and he grunted, `Gudleif won't thank him for it.
Gudleif belonged to Odin, pate to heel, all his life.'
He turned back to me then, bowed under the weight of his own sea-chest and looked at me from under his red brows. 'Watch Einar, boy. He believes you are touched by the gods. This white bear, he thinks, was sent by Odin.'
It was something that I had thought myself and said so.
Gunnar chuckled. Not for you, boy. For Einar. He believes it was all done to bring him here, bring him to you, that you have something to do with his saga.' He hefted the chest more comfortably on his shoulder.
`Learn, but don't trust him. Or any of them.'
Not even my father? Or you?' I answered, half-mocking.
He looked at me with his summer-sea eyes. 'You can always trust your father, boy.'
And he splashed on to the Fjord Elk, hailing those on board to help haul his sea-chest up, his hair flying, streaked grey-white and red like bracken in snow. As I stood under the great straked serpent side of the ship, it loomed, large as my life and just as glowering. I felt . . . everything.
Excited and afraid, cold and burning feverishly. Was this what it meant to be a man, this . . . uncertainty?
`Move yerself, boy—or be left with the gulls.'
I caught my father's face scowling over the side, then it was gone and Geir Bagnose leaned over, chuckling, to help me up with my rough pack, lashed with my only spare belt. 'Welcome to the Fjord Elk,'
he laughed.
2 The voyages of the Northmen are legendary, I know. Even the sailors of the Great City, Constantinople, with their many-banked ships and engines that throw Greek Fire, stand in awe of them. Hardly surprising, since those Greeks never lose sight of land and those impressively huge vessels they have will go keel over mast in anything rougher than a mild chop.
We, on the other hand, travel the whale road, where the sea is black or glass-green and can rear over you like a fighting stallion, all roar and threat and creaming mane, to come crashing down like a cliff. No bird flies here. Land is a memory.
That's what we boast of, at least. The truth is always different, like a Greek Christ ikon veiled on feast days. But if anyone boasts of spitting in Thor's eye, standing in the prow, roaring defiance at the waves and laughing the while, you will know him for the liar he is.
A long journey is always being wet to the skin and the wind bites harder as a result and your clothes are heavy as mail and chafe you until you have sores where the cloth rubs on wrist and neck.
It's huddled in the dark, bundled in a wet cloak, feeling the sodden squash every time you turn. It's cold, wet mutton if you are lucky, salt stockfish if you are not and, on truly long voyages, drinking water that has to be strained through your linen cloak to get rid of the worst of the floating things and no food at all.
There wasn't even a storm of any serious intent on this, my first true faring; just a mild pitch of wave and a good wind, so that the company had time to erect deck covers of spare sail, like small tents, to give some shelter, mainly to the animals.
Einar huddled under his own awning, aft. The oars were stacked inboard and the only one with serious work was my father.
And my task? A sheep was mine. I had to care for it, keep it warm, stop it panicking. At night I slept, my fingers entwined in the rough, wet wool while the mirr washed us. In the morning, I woke with spray and rain washing down the deck. If I moved, I squelched.
The first week we never saw land at all, heading south and west from Norway. My sad ewe bawled with hunger.
Then we hit the narrow stretch of water which had Wessex on one side and Valland, the Northmen lands of the Franks on the other. We made landfall a few times—but never on the Wessex side. Not since Alfred's day.
Even then we kept to the solitary inlets and lit fires only when we were sure there was no one for miles.
Nowhere was safe for a boatload of armed men from the Norway viks.
We sailed north then, up past Man, where there was much argument for putting in at Thingvollur and getting properly dry and fed. But Einar argued against it, saying that people would ask too many questions and someone would talk and the news would get to Strathclyde before we did.
Grumbling, the men hauled the Elk further north, into the wind and the white-tressed sea.
Three more days passed, during which no one spoke much more than grunts and even the sheep had no strength left to bleat. For the most part, we huddled in solitary misery, enduring.
I dreamed of Freydis often, and always the same vision: her receiving me on the morning I arrived. She wore a blue linen dress with embroidery round the throat and hem, her brooches had strange animal heads and between them was a string of amber beads. She made no movement save for the rhythmic stroking of the growling cat.
`From the pack, I take it you have come from Gudleif,' she said to me. 'Since he would only miss this journey if he were sick or injured, I presume that to be the case. Who are you?'
Òrm; I replied. `Ruriksson. Gudleif fosters me.'
`Which is it?'
`Sorry?'
`Sick or injured.'
`He has sent for his sons.'
Àh.' She was silent for a moment. Then: `So were you his favourite?'
My laugh was bitter enough for her to realise. 'I doubt that, mistress. Why else would he send me through the snow to the hall of a—' I stopped before the words were out, but she caught that, too, and chuckled.
À what? Witch? Old crone?'
Ì meant nothing by it, mistress. But I was sent away and I think he hoped I would die.'
Ì doubt that,' she said crisply, rising so that the cat sprang off her lap and then arched in a great, shivering bow of ecstasy before stalking off. 'Call me Freydis, not mistress,' she went on, smoothing her front. Ànd ponder this, young man. Ask yourself why in . . . how old are you?'
I told her and she smiled gently. 'In fifteen years, you and I have never met, though we are but a day apart and Gudleif came every year. Ask that, Orm Ruriksson. Take your time. The snow will not melt in a hurry.'
`He sent me to die in the snow,' I said bitterly and she shrugged.
'But you did not. Perhaps your wyrd is different.'
Then the hall changed, to the one I had sat in under her bloodsoaked sealskin cloak, with the roof caved in. Yet still she sat on her bench, the cat somehow back on her lap.
Ì am sorry,' I said and she nodded her head off her shoulders, so that it tumbled into her lap, sending the cat leaping up with a yowl . . .
I woke to the cold and wet, wondering if she was fetch-haunting me. Wondering, too, what had happened to the cat.
Then Pinleg yelled out from the prow, where he was coiling walrus-hide ropes. When he had our attention, he pointed and we all squinted into the pearl-light of the winter sky.
`There,' shouted Illugi Godi, pointing with his staff. A solitary gull wheeled, staggered in the wind, dipped, swooped and then was gone.
My father was already busy, with his tally stick and his peculiar devices. I never mastered them, even after he had explained them to me.
I knew that he had two stones, like grinding wheels, free-mounted. One pointed at the north star and the other was fixed to point at the sun. That way, my father knew the latitude, by seeing the angle of the sun stone. He could calculate longitude by using that and what he called his own time, marked on his tally stick.
I never understood any of it but at the end of four days I knew why Einar valued Rurik the shipmaster, because we found the land at the point where we were supposed to find it, then my father, leaning over the side, watching the water, announced that a suitable inlet lay no more than a mile away, one where we could get ashore and sort ourselves out.
He read water like a hunter reads tracks. He could see changes in colour where, to anyone else, it was just featureless water.
The mood had changed and everyone was suddenly alert and busy. The sail came down, a great sodden mass of wool which had to be sweatily flaked into a squelching mass and stowed on the spar.
The oars came out, that watch of rowers took their sea-chest benches and Valgard Skafhogg, the shipwright, took a shield and beat time on it with a pine-tarred rope's end until the rowers had the rhythm and away we went.
Pinleg swayed past me, smiling broadly and clapping a round helmet on his head. He had a boarding axe in one hand and a wild light in his eye. It was hard for me to realise that Pinleg was older than me by ten years, since he was scrawny and no bigger than I was.
I wondered how such a runt—his leg was permanently crippled, from birth I learned, so that he walked with a sailor's roll even on dry land—had ended up in the Oath-sworn. I learned, soon enough, and was glad I had never asked him.
Ì'd leave the sheep, Bear Killer,' he chuckled. 'Grab your weapons and get ready.'
Àre we fighting?' I asked, suddenly alarmed. It occurred to me that I had no idea where we were, or who the enemy would be. 'Where are we?'
Pinleg just grinned his mad grin. Nearby, Ulf-Agar, small, dark as a black dwarf and with an expression as sullen, said, 'Who cares? Just get ready, Bear Killer. Pretend they are lots of bears. That will help.'
I glanced at him, knowing he was taunting me and not knowing why.
Ulf-Agar hefted his two weapons—he scorned a shield—and curled a lip. 'Stay behind Pinleg if you are worried. Killing men is different from bears, I will grant you. Not everyone is cut out for it.'
I knew I had been insulted; I felt my face flame. I realised, with a sick lurch, that Ulf-Agar was probably deadly with his axe and seax, but a slight is a slight . . .
A hand clasped my shoulder, gentle but firm. Big-bellied Illugi Godi, with his neat beard and quiet voice, spoke softly: 'Well said, Ulf-Agar. And not everyone can kill a white bear in a stand-up fight. Perhaps, when you do, you will share your joy with Rurik's son?'
