They Came On Viking Ships (7 page)

Freydis’ farm was on the other side of the fiord, through cow pasture first, then cows munching at the wiry grass. Hekja felt a pang of homesickness at their familiar chomp, chomp, chomping, and Snarf tried to sniff at every cow pat.

The next fields had stranger animals, smaller than Snarf but hairier. ‘Sheep,’ said Thorvard briefly, smiling at Hekja’s obvious amazement. ‘Where wool comes from.’

Raina and Reena, the chief’s daughters, had worn woollen dresses, made from cloth traded for a side of smoked beef. But Hekja had always worn cowhide.

The sheep made a funny bleating noise, like old women complaining around the fire. Hekja peered down into the fiord. The men were still unloading the boat. The icebergs drifted by, bobbing about the milky water like Viking ships that no one had bothered to carve into shape.

They walked over the crest of another hill, with a spring bubbling from its side, and suddenly below them there were more buildings, none as large as Erik’s, nor as many, but still amazing to Hekja’s eyes. Each one was made of stone, with a high turf roof, all covered in grass even greener than the fields, as there were no cows up there to eat it.

There were what looked like storerooms, so many that she wondered if even Hikki’s numbers could count them. There was one that looked like a dairy, with cheeses and butter barrels along its walls, and another giant empty one. And more rooms and more rooms, so many she wondered if she would ever get used to them.

Now there was a new noise, like seagulls clucking, but not quite like any Hekja had ever heard. They had reached the courtyard now. Tame birds
¹⁷
ran around picking at the ground. They were the ones who made the new clucking sound, Hekja realised. Great long walrus-hide ropes were stretched out across the courtyard to dry, with racks of drying fish and cod tongues and meat and hides, and smoke pits draped with hard tanned skins, much like the ones Hekja had known at home. Finally they came to the biggest building of all.

It was almost as big as a hill, but long instead of round. Three of its walls were made of straw, and one of carved wood. Then suddenly the wood wall opened!

Hekja gasped. It was a door! The first wooden door that she had ever seen. Freydis ducked her head under the lintel and went inside, and so did Thorvard. Snarf lifted his leg on the corner of the house, and produced a proprietary dribble, then he and Hekja followed.

It took a moment for her eyes to get used to the dimness indoors, after so many days in brightness on the sea. And then the house stretched in front of her, longer than she thought any house could be, and higher too, with great white rafters
¹⁸
supporting the roof.

The walls were lined with wood, with webs of moss poking out here and there, so hardly a breath of outside air came in the house. The floor was dirt, swept hard and clean. Three fires flickered in a long, stone fire pit, halfway down the house. They smelt of wood and fish oil. Above the fire pit a great roast dangled on a metal chain and above that was the smoke hole in the roof.

Beside the fire was a great carved chair. There were benches too, with sheepskins draped across them, and a big wooden table. More skins stitched together hung from the roof beams at one end of the house, marking off a private room.

There was a platform with a strange device
¹⁹
with a length of cloth draped over it, a ladder up to a loft—there had been a ladder on the ship but Hekja had never seen it used—and two more doors with skins draped across their openings.
²⁰

‘Welcome home, mistress!’

‘It is good to be home, Gudrun,’ said Thorvard, as an old woman with fat ankles waddled forward. Her face was as wrinkled as an empty sausage skin, her mouth shrunk and toothless, and her thin plaits grey. Saliva sprayed from her gums in her eagerness to talk.

There was a torrent of words after that, from Gudrun to Freydis, most of which Hekja found hard to understand. It seemed to be about the farm and people and animals, but too many words were new. Beside her Snarf sat on his haunches and stared at the roast meat, in case someone decided to take it away.

Finally Gudrun stopped talking. Freydis waved a hand at Hekja. ‘Gudrun, this is Hekja. She’s a runner from the islands. I don’t know what else she’s good for. She may need training before you find her much use.’

Gudrun peered short-sightedly at Hekja, and ran her hand across Hekja’s face as though examining her features. She looked down at Snarf dubiously.

‘Arf,’ said Snarf. He rolled over at Gudrun’s feet in his dead dog position. Hekja recognised his way of saying, ‘I am at your command.’

Old Gudrun smiled, and rubbed his tummy with her booted foot. Then she looked back at Hekja.

‘Well, girl?’ she demanded, a bit indistinctly, as Thorvard and Freydis lifted the skins and went into their room at the other end of the house. ‘What can you do, hey?’

Hekja hesitated. ‘At home I minded the cows on the mountain. I made butter and cheese. I dried the fish with Ma and collected shellfish and…’ Her voice broke off. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t! But the tears ran nonetheless at the thought of home and Ma.

Hekja waited for Gudrun to laugh at her weakness, as Freydis might. But Gudrun patted her arm awkwardly instead with her age-spotted hand. ‘And where is your ma now, hey?’ she asked gently.

Hekja shook her head. She made no other reply, but Gudrun understood. ‘Well,’ she said, even more gently, ‘there are cows to watch and cheese to make here as well as in your homeland. Perhaps your life won’t be so different after all.’

Hekja’s face was wet. ‘You are a thrall too?’ she whispered.

Gudrun nodded. ‘All my life, and my mother’s too, and my grandmother, since the beginning of time. I came with the old master’s wife from Iceland. But I’ve known others be taken from Ireland or the islands. You’ll find it hard at first, but you’ll get used to it. There’s food enough and shelter. What more can we ask for, hey?’

Hekja said nothing. The old woman patted her arm. ‘Are you hungry? There’s food if you like.’

‘Arf!’ said Snarf enthusiastically. He’d recognised the word.

Hekja shook her head.

‘Arf,’ Snarf barked again. He sniffed towards the hanging roast, as though it was a hare he’d hunted.

Gudrun laughed, and patted his head. ‘You’re hungrier than you know, after all those days of dried fish,’ she said to Hekja comfortingly. ‘You’ll feel better when you’ve eaten.’

She made her way to a cupboard—its door carved with tinier shapes than Hekja had thought a knife could make—and pulled out some cheese and a barley loaf, just like what she used to eat at home, but much more plentiful, and a large hunk of cold meat too. Snarf knelt before her and slobbered on the floor.

Gudrun pulled at the small knife on the chain on her belt, and hacked off some pieces of meat and cheese. She handed them to Hekja, then threw the rest of the meat to Snarf.

Gudrun was right. The food stopped Hekja’s tears. And meat! All the meat she wanted, and meat for Snarf too, given so easily by one who was a thrall as well. So far Greenland was better than she had hoped.

After she’d finished eating, Gudrun ordered Hekja to the
outbuildings, to help store the goods that had been unloaded from the ship. The size of everything confused Hekja at first, so Gudrun told her to sit and wipe the new weapons and tools with fish oil. Meanwhile the men carried the ship to its cradle in the giant empty shed, where it would be stripped of barnacles and caulked with rotted birch leaves to stop the water coming through the cracks.

Snarf bounded at everyone’s sides, as though he was making sure that he was everywhere at once—in case a wolf attacked or an iceberg decided to invade the land. He kept an eye out for places he’d missed lifting his leg on, and snapped at passing butterflies or the tail feathers of the hens.

It was late by the time everyone had finished, though the sun still hovered near to the horizon. Despite all that had happened it was still not far from mid-summer, when the days were longest.

By now the smell of meat roasting for the feast floated across from Erik’s farm. It seemed that only Freydis and Thorvard were going to go. Freydis changed her dress and put on a necklace and more bangles and different brooches made of shining metal and encrusted with sparkling stones, then she and Thorvard walked across the fields to Erik’s without a word to Hekja. Freydis had more important things to do now than talking to a thrall.

‘Here, boy! Sit!’ Gudrun beamed at Hekja. ‘What a good dog he is! He comes when he is called!’

Hekja smiled tiredly. Snarf came so eagerly because he smelt the roast hanging from its chain.

‘Good dog,’ said Gudrun approvingly, patting his head. ‘He’s bigger than any dog I’ve ever seen. Do you know how to cook meat?’ she asked Hekja.

Hekja shook her head. ‘I can cook barley bread, and fish stew. But I’ve never roasted meat before.’

‘Just keep the meat turning, then, and turn the pot so it doesn’t get too hot, or the pudding will burn. You understand?’

‘Yes,’ said Hekja. She poked the great roast of meat carefully. It spun gently as she touched it, and juice dripped down into the pot of grains and greens below.

Then a group of men came in—two thralls, and three free men who worked on the farm. They looked curiously at Hekja, but asked no questions. Hekja was grateful. Her tongue felt thick with tiredness, and she was afraid that if anyone asked about where she came from she might cry again. The men sat by the smoky fire and talked about straying sheep and a sow that almost crushed a piglet—more words that Hekja didn’t know. The two thralls also spoke to each other in a language the others didn’t seem to understand.

‘They are from Ireland,’ Gudrun whispered, as she passed with a platter of barley bread. Hekja nodded, though the word Ireland made no sense.

Gudrun put the meat down onto a platter and sliced it up. Her portion was minced into tiny bits, as she had no teeth to chew with. There were slabs for everyone else and the meaty bones and scraps for Snarf. Snarf gulped the meat scraps then rolled over, panting, so Gudrun could scratch his belly with her booted foot.

Each person had a spoon to eat the pudding from the pot. Hekja had never seen spoons so small. She watched how the others used them before dipping in her own.

The pudding was the best thing she had ever eaten, rich with cream and meat juices, sweet with fruit and
honey, the soft grains melting with the greens. Even toothless Gudrun was able to eat it with ease, as it needed no chewing at all.

The fire burnt low, till it was only coals. The house was dark, except for the twilight through the door. The men rolled themselves in sheepskins from the benches and went to sleep beside the glowing fire. Gudrun nodded to Hekja to do the same.

She felt stranger than she ever had—stranger even than on the boat, the smells of meat mingling with the scent of a foreign land, mixed with the scent of ice and smoke. But Hekja was too tired to stay awake, and the sheepskin was the softest, warmest thing that she had ever felt. She fell asleep with Snarf by her side, and didn’t even notice when he rose to investigate more smells from outside, including Erik’s bitch.

Even when Freydis and Thorvard returned she didn’t wake, till Thorvard stumbled against one of the sleeping men, then kicked him drunkenly.

‘Wake up, you lazy louts!’ cried Thorvard, as he staggered past.

Hekja started to her feet, but Thorvard and Freydis were already in their room. The great wood door had been left open. Outside the sun was rising above the storerooms, and the hens were running after insects. The sheep were bleating, and the cows calling to be milked.

Her life in Greenland had begun.

They ate leftovers for breakfast—cold meat and cold bread and fermented milk. Hekja milked the cows as they stood with their heads through the stalls and munched at a handful of hay, while Gudrun watched.

Finally Gudrun nodded. ‘You know what you are about, girl,’ she said, hauling herself off the milking stool and onto her swollen feet. ‘Finish the milking yourself, then take the cows out beyond the barley fields, and stop them straying. I’ll ring the bell when it’s time to bring them in.’

‘What’s a bell?’ asked Hekja, stumbling over the new word.

Gudrun shook her head. ‘What place have you been living in, hey? A bell is…a bell is…when you hear a loud noise, girl, a ding-ding-ding, then you’ll know it’s time to milk again.’

‘Arf,’ said Snarf, wagging his tail in case Gudrun had another hunk of meat with her. She patted him on the way out, and slipped him a bit of barley bread from her apron.

One by one the cows were milked. One of the men came to take the buckets of milk back to the dairy. Hekja
was just stripping
²¹
the last cow—a big red beast with horns that could lift a deer—when she heard a whistle behind her.

‘Where is that blasted hound!’ It was Thorvard. ‘Here, boy! Here!’ He grabbed Snarf by the scruff of the neck, and pulled him to his feet. Snarf grunted in surprise, then flopped back down again, onto his tummy, to show he’d do whatever was wanted.

‘What are you doing!’ Hekja leapt to her feet, so suddenly she knocked over the bucket of milk. The cow pulled its head out of the wooden stall to watch them curiously.

Thorvard stared at her. ‘Get on with your milking, girl!’ He bent to haul Snarf up again.

‘No! Stop it! You’ll hurt him!’

Thorvard struck her across the face. Her eyes watered, and she staggered, but she didn’t cry out.

Snarf growled, deep in his throat. He could accept orders from other humans, but no one was allowed to touch Hekja while he was near.

Hekja put her arms around Snarf’s great neck. ‘Leave him alone!’ she yelled.

For a moment she thought Thorvard would strike her again. But then he began to laugh. ‘The dog is as big as you!’ he roared. ‘And you think you will protect him!’

‘What’s happening here!’ It was Freydis.

Thorvard stopped laughing, but his grin was as wide as a cheese. ‘It’s your new thrall here. It seems she objects to my disciplining the dog. Perhaps you would like to fight me for him, hey, thrall?’

Freydis looked at Hekja coolly. ‘I thought we had this out on the ship. This dog is mine now.’ Her words were hard, but her eyes were amused.

Hekja shook her head, confused. ‘I…will fight…if you want me to,’ she stammered. ‘But you are not to hurt Snarf.’

Suddenly Thorvard seemed to understand. He lifted Hekja’s chin with his fingers. ‘I was joking, girl. But the dog needs to be trained if he is to be of use.’

‘What will he be used for?’ demanded Hekja.

Thorvard glanced at Freydis. ‘She doesn’t give in, does she?’ There was admiration in his voice now. ‘He is a hunting dog. He needs to learn the hunting commands. Do you really want him to sit with you all day, a fine dog like that, while you watch the cows?’

Hekja was silent for a moment. Then she said slowly, ‘In our village the chief’s dog did what the chief commanded at the hunt. But I never knew how to teach Snarf what to do.’

‘I know dogs, girl,’ said Thorvard. ‘My dog, Silvertail, died on our way to Norway. I will train your dog well.’

‘My dog?’ enquired Hekja. She wasn’t sure if she had heard correctly.

‘Your dog,’ Thorvard said seriously. ‘But you are my thrall, so he is mine as well. Understood?’

‘I understand,’ said Hekja.

Thorvard shook his head. ‘What is the world coming to? Making bargains with a thrall.’ But he was grinning.

Freydis looked at Hekja. And then she nodded. ‘I think,’ she said, and there was approval in her tone, ‘I may have won more than I realised when I captured you from my brother.’

And so Snarf went to work with Thorvard, learning to come when he whistled, to sit when he clicked his fingers, to run at his heels until he gave the signal to chase. He learnt to follow the scent that Thorvard chose, and not to be distracted; to bring game back, and drop it at his feet; and to point properly when he sensed an animal in the bushes.

Finally Thorvard took him hunting. That, it seemed, was what most of the free men did in this new land, while the women ran the farms.

The men hunted reindeer; and polar bear, with their thick white coats; or walrus, prized for their ivory tusks and tough skin that was made into leather ropes and belts. They tracked the auk as well, giant birds who were too docile to even run away, with their precious feathers and their meat that stank of fish, and seals and eider ducks as well. The soft duck feathers were as valuable as the waterproof sealskins, and earned much silver from Norwegian traders.

Sometimes the men rode horses
²²
—shaggy beasts as tall as Snarf, but with broader backs. But mostly the horses were kept for ploughing, or for stallion fights, the great horses nipping, kicking, striking and rearing to see which one was strongest.

But after every hunt, as the men and women of Brattahlid streamed out to greet the hunters and exclaim at what they had brought back, Snarf would sniff out Hekja. She would hug him and he would lick her face as though to say, ‘No matter how far I have hunted, I am still your dog.’ Even when Thorvard whistled for him the
next day Snarf would wait till Hekja gave him her own signal that he should go.

Life was busy for Hekja too. While Thorvard hunted, dressed the skins for trade, and went fishing or whale hunting with the other men of Brattahlid, Freydis managed her thralls and men to make sure the cows were getting fat for winter, or as much as this icy land would allow; that they were milked twice a day, that the butter, cheese and skyr
²³
was made and stored, and the sheep shorn.

The farm had been a gift to Freydis from Erik on her wedding day, and it prospered under her care. It was Freydis who oversaw the ploughing of the fields, and their harvest too, and saw the grain ground into flour, or parched and stored in barrels for the winter. It was Freydis who ordered the fish hung and dried or smoked, the bear and deer meat salted, the whale blubber boiled for oil, the cods’ tongues pickled, the onions hung in bundles in the shed, the moss and rose root dried and stored for when the sunlight vanished for the year.

Gudrun helped with all of this, but she was getting old. Once Freydis found that Hekja knew how to handle cows, and crops, and dry the fish, more and more was left to her—especially once she learnt that Hekja would work with no one watching her, and pass on her orders to the men as well.

But there were quiet times too, that Hekja could spend with Snarf up on the hills beyond the fiord watching the cows, just as they had watched them back on the great mountain at home. Here the air smelt of ice,
as well as cow, and even in summer the glaciers cracked and grumbled down to the sea.

Hekja often saw Hikki as he jogged across the hills with his messages to other farms, but he never stopped to talk—it was as if he thought his time was too valuable to waste talking to a cattle herder.

Sometimes she gazed at the mountains and dreamt of escape, but in her heart she knew it was impossible. This wasn’t the green land she had hoped for, where she and Snarf might find a cave and live by foraging and hunting. Even in summer people needed a good shelter here. And winter was coming…

No, there was no escape. Not yet, anyway.