Newfoundland Stories (10 page)

THE SKRAELING
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R
alf drained his tankard and wiped his beard with his sleeve. He leaned forward and the din of the longhouse subsided. He waited until he had their undivided attention. They watched him expectantly, listening intently. For most of them, it had been a long dreary winter, and they were restless and eager for action. The inactivity and tedium of the frozen months had rendered them lethargic, and they needed something to snap them out of their state of boredom. This could be the moment.

Massive, with long red hair and matching beard, piercing blue eyes, and a perpetual scowl, Ralf was the undisputed leader of this small cluster of humanity perched precariously on the northernmost tip of the large island now known as Newfoundland, two thousand miles from the homeland they had left four years earlier. Outside, ice pellets battered the longhouse, but in the sweltering dimness of its crowded interior, sweat glinted on Ralf 's high forehead and flickering light from the oil lantern projected and distorted his shadow on the peat wall behind him.

Kjersti was as anxious as the others to hear what her husband would say. Swollen in her seventh month of pregnancy, she knew that her condition would have little or no bearing on his decision, yet hoped, futilely perhaps, that he would at least take it into consideration. If he and the others went away now, they might be gone for a long time, perhaps months or even longer, and she wanted him to be here with her when their child was born. Woman's foolishness, she conceded, but such were her thoughts nevertheless. Perhaps he would wait a while, just a few more weeks.

Her wish was not to be.

“It's time,” Ralf told them. Anticipation rippled through the room. “We leave in a fortnight,” he continued, “as soon as we can get the knarr ready.”

The voyage had been talked about for months, although many of the details entailed in such a venture had scarcely been mentioned. Ralf would articulate these in due course, and the others were just as happy to leave them to him. All that was important to them was the date of their departure and their destination. They were rovers, and the sedentary existence of the past three years had made them uneasy. Weeks of debate had centred on which direction they would take, with some favouring going south along the east coast of the strange new land, while others promoted the idea of sailing westward again. Their purpose was to seek a suitable location for a second settlement or the relocation of their present site, somewhere a little warmer and a little more forgiving than here, where the winter winds blew incessantly and fog sometimes shrouded the land for weeks on end.

“We'll take a crew of seven, including myself,” Ralf told them. “Gunnar and Kjell, of course, and Kai. Ambjorg, too, and two others. Bjoern and Andor, I think they'd be best. The rest of you will be needed here.

“In case the skraelings come,” he added.

Both elation and disappointment filled the longhouse. Every man there wanted desperately to be included in the venture, yet knew full well that they all couldn't go. Ralf had spoken, and argue as they might, those not named knew there was little likelihood of getting him to change his mind.

One person in particular felt the disappointment more keenly than anyone else. Despite being rebuffed on a number of previous requests, Peder still held the hope of being among the chosen few who would go when the time came.

“I want to come, too,” he pleaded. “I can do a man's work, and I'm not really needed here all that much.”

“Peder, Peder, what am I to do with you?” Ralf 's strong hands gripped the boy's shoulders. “Three times you've asked me, and three times I've told you no. You're too young. Your turn will come, but not yet.

“Besides,” he continued, “You're more important here than you think. I'll be counting on you while I'm away.”

Ralf 's words did little to diminish the boy's disappointment. Since the voyage of exploration had first arisen, Peder's thoughts had been dominated by the desire to be a part of it. Nothing else mattered. The prospect of venturing off where no one had ever gone before thrilled him, and his obsession had grown with each passing day. The boy's dream was now crushed.

The ensuing days, charged with renewed energy and sense of purpose, saw the knarr's canvas unrolled and spread out upon the ground to be scrutinized for defects. The vessel's riggings were inspected, repaired, and replaced where necessary, and boiled pitch was applied to its hull. Innumerable other repairs, both small and major, were performed under the careful eye of Kjell, the carpenter, to make the knarr ready for the voyage ahead. Two years of being beached and neglected had taken its toll, and much work was needed to restore the vessel to its previous seaworthy condition.

Finally, two days later than Ralf had hoped, the knarr was ready. The wind was right and the day fair. With supplies for an extended journey stored on board and the seven seafarers at their positions, the vessel, with its big black sail unfurled, slowly navigated the narrow channel toward the open sea, picking up speed as it moved away from the land. Those left behind watched. Some waved and cheered. Some, Kjersti among them, felt sadness. Ralf 's child kicked inside her, within weeks, perhaps days, of being born.

Ralf and his crew sailed southward, skirting the shoreline, exploring the numerous bays and coves, noting specific areas of interest for further investigation on their homeward journey. They took on fresh water whenever they needed it from some of the great flowing rivers they happened upon. The fine weather held, although the nights were still very cold and the morning sun invariably took an hour or more to thaw the ice that had formed overnight on the knarr's riggings and gunwales.

On the second morning out of port, none other than Peder emerged from his hiding place among the knarr's cargo – a stowaway. His desire to be part of this expedition had overwhelmed his fear. He reasoned that Ralf would not turn back just to take him back home. They might put him ashore to make his own way home or, at worst, throw him overboard into the sea. He hoped they would let him continue on with them.

Now exposed, he waited for Ralf 's reaction, his young body tense and defiant.

Ralf, as Peder had feared, exploded into violent rage. Only the gentle interjections of Kjell, the carpenter, saved the boy from a serious beating – or worse. The leader, thus checked, vented his great anger instead through an expletive-laced tirade against the youth, some of it directed at Kjell as well. The crew, having experienced Ralf 's violent temper before, kept their distance and maintained their silence. Gradually, Ralf brought himself under control until eventually he seemed to find some humour in the situation. He threw his head back and laughed uproariously.

“Peder, you young devil,” he said. “There's not much I can do about you now but make you work your fingers to the bone. 'Ere long you'll be begging me to take you home.”

Thus, Peder found himself a member of the expedition, albeit of untenable standing. He vowed to himself that in the coming days he would make Ralf come to see him as a worthy addition to his crew.

The next two days went well from Peder's point of view, although he gave Ralf as wide a berth as the confines of the knarr would allow. Ralf himself seemed to have put the episode behind him. In fact, Ralf was beginning to feel apprehensive. He couldn't pinpoint the cause of his uneasiness. Perhaps it was the fact that they had completed several days of uneventful and leisurely exploration of the ragged coastline. Such a long period of tranquility was rare.

Late that afternoon Ralf decided to go ashore. The beach, at least half a mile long, with glistening sand and a rushing river flowing into the sea, beckoned him. It held interesting possibilities for the relocation of their present settlement. He decided they would spend the night there. He guided the knarr slowly toward the beach until its keel grated softly against the soft sand. Leaving only Bjoern on board, he and the others waded the final few feet to the shore.

No sooner had they reached the sand than a horde of screaming assailants descended upon them, brandishing fearsome weapons of all types.

“Skraelings!” yelled Ralf. “Go back, go back.”

But it was too late. Their attackers were upon them instantly. Peder, the last one to leave the knarr, saw Kai pirouette and fall to the sand, multiple arrows protruding from his body. He watched as Gunnar fell under a torrent of axes. A little farther up the beach Ralf was trying vainly to fend off a pack of attackers, swinging wildly with his great fists even as his life's blood flowed from his body. To Peder it all seemed to be happening in slow motion, violent images frozen in time.

In just minutes they were all dead, their mutilated bodies strewn about the beach, their blood discolouring the sand and the waters of the nearby shoreline. Only Peder, and perhaps Bjoern on the knarr, remained alive.

Peder now awaited his certain doom.

Two men grabbed him and screamed at him. A third raised his ax to deliver the fatal blow. Despite his terror, Peder did not look away. His Viking soul compelled him to look into the eyes of his slayer even to the moment of death.

But the blow did not fall. A fourth attacker stayed the arm of Peder's would-be executioner. An argument ensued among the four. Loud guttural utterances and menacing gestures punctuated the discussion. At one point the fourth man grabbed Peder's long red hair and gestured violently.

Finally, the four reached some type of agreement, and Peder's life was spared. He was led away as a captive of the feared skraelings.

Days later he was led into the skraeling encampment where he was immediately surrounded, an object of great fascination. Hands poked and prodded him, examining him all over as the people tried to satisfy their curiosity about this strange young man with the white skin, blue eyes, and flaming red hair – attributes all in stark contrast to their own dark features. It was his hair that seemed to interest them the most, and they took turns running their hands through it, tugging at it, smelling it, and in some cases licking it to see if the colour was fast or perhaps applied like the red ochre that many of them wore on their own faces and bodies. Most of them were relatively gentle, although one or two attempted to manhandle him until they were deterred by a sharp reprimand from one of the elders, whom Peder assumed was the leader of the tribe. Children howled and hooted as they whirled and danced around him. One woman touched his face softly and Peder recognized a hint of compassion in her eyes. Although the skraelings had known of the existence of white warriors in the area to the north of them, this was the first time any of them had actually seen such a creature in the flesh. This one didn't seem as fearsome as they had envisaged. He was young, though, and perhaps not yet hardened into the brutal ways of adulthood.

His first few days in the encampment were a blur of misery and activity totally foreign to him. He was given over to the women, where he was expected to help with womanly work – cooking, curing animal hides, gathering fuel, cleaning, and a multitude of other tasks. For hours on end he was made to chew on caribou skins until they were soft and supple enough to satisfy the women. His teeth ached and bled, and the residue from the fresh hides stuck in his throat and kept him constantly nauseated.

His initial efforts were invariably met with laughter and hoots of derision. Gradually, though, as he learned to do the work better, and as the weeks passed, he was left increasingly alone. The novelty of his presence in the encampment was wearing off, and his days and nights no longer found him the object of ridicule.

Aside from a scattered slight cuffing or swipe with the hand, Peder was not seriously mistreated, and he somehow managed to get enough food to stay alive. He often felt cold and wet, for some days still brought bitterly cold temperatures and hard rains. Although he was grateful for being left in peace much of the time, he was often lonely and sad. At times, he even harboured a longing to talk with the people. Now accustomed to their ways and manner of living, he could see that they were not quite the savages he had always thought them to be.

The woman who had caressed his cheek the day he arrived came to see him now and again. She sometimes brought him a morsel of food, and on one occasion, a garment of caribou skin. When he shed his own tattered and threadbare clothing and put it on, the soft hide felt comfortable against his flesh. Her visits cheered him.

A boy not much older than himself also established a relationship of sorts with Peder. The skraeling youth had, at first, been hostile toward Peder and had threatened him with fierce scowls and menacing gestures. Peder stood his ground, however, and refused to flinch or give way to the threats, until finally the young skraeling turned abruptly on his heel and left. Successive appearances followed the same pattern, and, although the skraeling's visits were rooted in intimidation and belligerence, Peder began to look forward to them. A least they provided a departure from the monotony of his meagre existence.

Then one day Peder's adversary, having completed his usual charade, thumped his own chest with his fists and uttered the word “Asbut.” He did it repeatedly, enunciating the word each time until Peder grasped the notion that the skraeling was telling him his name, whereupon he pounded his own chest and said, “Peder,” repeatedly, until the skraeling nodded. Unable to understand another word of each other's languages, they now knew each other by name, and a fledging friendship began.