They Came On Viking Ships (9 page)

Once out of sight, Hekja slowed down. She knew there was no way she could keep that pace for long.

Where was she supposed to run to? North, Erik had said, and hug the coast. That should be easy enough, thought Hekja. And Hikki said that he could make the run in less than two days. Surely she could run that long. But fast enough to beat Hikki? Hikki had run messages for years. He was used to finding his way across country. Somehow Hekja knew that there was more to being a runner than just putting one foot in front of another.

She was now past the familiar hills where she had herded the cattle. She crested another hill, and suddenly there was a fiord in front of her, a deep gash of rock and cliffs with the waves crashing down below. Snarf began to bound down between the rocks, but Hekja called him back.

‘This way! Good dog! We need to go around, not down!’

‘Arf,’ said Snarf happily, as though this was the best game he’d played for days. He galloped along the cliff edge, just as Hekja caught sight of Hikki, in the distance.

He was wearing a strange shift, just two lengths of cloth tied together at the sides and fastened between his legs, so his arms and legs were free to run, and he had a sealskin pack over one shoulder. He was running further inland, so he had missed the fiord altogether, loping along as though he had done this all his life. Which of course he had.

Hikki waved and grinned, but didn’t slow down. In a few heartbeats he was gone.

Hekja bit her lip. Hikki was ahead of her now, and likely to remain so. But all she could do was try her best.

Over rocks and up cliffs she ran, scrabbling at the loose gravel and sliding down the slippery rock faces. Several times she had to stop and go back and find another route, each time keeping the smell and sound of the sea to her left. And all the time the thought pounded through her brain: Hikki knows how to judge the land. He wouldn’t have to double back like this. We will never catch him. Never.

Hekja had seen one of the thralls beaten, when he had left an axe out in the rain and it had rusted. There had been blood down his back and face.

‘I would rather run forever than be whipped,’ muttered Hekja under her breath. ‘Run up into the ice, so the ice giants can catch me, and freeze me forever…’

The sun sank below the horizon. The summer twilight filled the sky, dark enough for a few bright stars, but still bright enough for Hekja to find her way, as long as she stared at the ground and not at the bright horizon.

But even Snarf was tired now. Hekja’s breath came in long, deep pants. But she refused to stop.

Then Hekja tripped. ‘Ow!’ She examined her knee anxiously, but it was only a bruise.

‘Woof!’ Snarf lay down beside her, as though to say, ‘We’ve played enough!’ Hekja ran her fingers through his fur. ‘We’ll have to stop till it gets light. Do you think Hikki will run all night?’

Snarf scratched a flea instead of answering.

There was a clump of rocks a little way ahead, enough to shelter them from the chill breeze that was blowing up from the sea. Hekja wrapped herself around Snarf’s warmth. The ground was hard and cold, and she hadn’t even brought her cloak. But she was so tired that sleep came despite it all.

The first light woke her, the sun gleaming above the icy mountains. She was almost too stiff to move, and hungry too. She had run for half a day and half a night, and it had been a long time since Gudrun’s strawberries on the hill. Snarf was already snuffling around the rocks, hoping to find mice or lizards. But he followed her as soon as she began to run.

The shadows shrank and the day grew warmer, and the sun dried up the dew. There were streams to drink from, chilled by the falling snow, but hunger ate at her insides. Worse, it was slowing her down. Several times she stumbled, dizzy and unsure of where to put her feet.

Then suddenly Snarf stopped, and sniffed the wind.

‘Snarf! What is it?’ Hekja whistled. ‘Come!’

Snarf whined. He’d come if she wanted him to. But there was something he wanted to investigate, down on the beach.

Hekja hesitated. ‘Go on then,’ she said. ‘I’ll rest, just for a moment.’

Snarf whined again, signalling Hekja to follow.

Hekja nodded and did as he asked.

There was an animal track between the rocks, which led them down to the sandy beach. And there it was—the carcass of a whale. It was as long as a farmhouse and almost as high.

Perhaps it had beached itself. Or maybe fishermen had brought it in. But certainly men had taken all the meat along the spine—the tide and ravens would never have picked it off so cleanly. The only meat left was right at the head. Hekja stuck her hand into the blowhole. The meat was still warm, still fresh. The fishermen could not have left it long ago.

She would never have considered eating raw blubber before, though the Irish thralls back at the farm had talked of whale feasts on the beach, eating the whale meat while it was warm and raw. But Hekja was too hungry to care. This was food, and it would keep her going. No matter how bad it tasted she would force it down.

Snarf tore at a piece of blubber, and chewed it hungrily. Hekja tried to do the same, but without a knife it was impossible. Finally Hekja shared what Snarf had managed to tear off with his teeth. It tasted better than she had expected—tough but juicy. Best of all, it filled her belly, and gave her enough strength to keep going.

Once she was full she finally washed the blood from her hands and mouth in the cold sea water. Snarf wiped his mouth on the grass, too.

Then Hekja began to run again.

They ran all that day, fuelled by the whale meat, with only short stops to take a drink. That night they slept
again, for the few hours the sun spent below the horizon. The next morning, Hekja had to force her legs to move, they were so stiff and sore.

And then they ran some more.

The mist came slowly, drifting like fine silk at first, down from the mountains and up from the sea, till it was like barley flour around them, then thicker, and thicker still, till finally it was impossible to see the ground.

Hekja slowed, till she realised that the mist made little difference to Snarf. She couldn’t see, but he could smell, and this was quite enough for them to find their way.

Now Snarf’s nose led the way, with Hekja at his tail. The path was stony in places, and the lichen-covered rocks were slippery. But Hekja’s bare feet were steady.

Suddenly Snarf stopped, and sniffed the air. The mist clung to his fur, tiny jewels like the stones in Freydis’ brooches. ‘Gruff,’ he snorted.

Hekja bent down. ‘What is it, boy?’

Snarf gave a short ‘yip’ and this time Hekja heard it too.

‘Help!’

Snarf barked again, more loudly this time. Whoever had cried out must have heard him, because they called out louder now. ‘Please! Help me! Please!’

Hekja looked around in the fog, but there was nothing to see but white. She laid her hand on Snarf’s
head, and signalled to him to be quiet, so she could listen more closely.

Girl and dog stood motionless—all that could be heard was the sound of their breathing in the quiet air, and then the rustle of a bird. And then it came again.

‘Help! Please!’

‘Hikki,’ breathed Hekja.

‘Arf,’ said Snarf, pleased that Hekja had finally worked out what his sense of smell had known all along. He looked at Hekja, waiting for her order. Keep running, or find the man?

But Hekja didn’t hesitate. ‘Find, boy, find,’ she said.

Snarf bounded into the mist, and disappeared. Hekja tried to follow him, then stopped, confused. ‘Snarf!’ she called.

‘Arf!’

Hekja followed the sound through the mist. Suddenly she saw something, a different colour from the mist and grass and rock, and then she saw Hikki lying twisted at the bottom of a cliff.

Snarf barked again, as though to say, ‘Look, he’s over there.’

‘My foot! It’s caught!’ cried Hikki.

Hekja ran towards him. It was obvious what had happened. Hikki had missed his step in the mist. As he slithered down the cliff face the rocks had crumbled under him as he fell, trapping his leg.

Hekja knelt down and examined the rock fall, then pushed at the rock above his ankle. Hikki grunted in pain and shook his head. ‘I’ve tried,’ he said. ‘It’s caught fast. Maybe a lever—a bit of wood to prise it off. Otherwise you’ll need to go get help.’

Hekja could hear uncertainty in his voice. Would Greenlanders venture out in the mist to help a thrall? In Norway Hikki had been the king’s slave, and valued, but things were different here.

She looked around. There was a stand of crooked trees growing near a crevice, not far away. Hekja pushed at one of the trunks until it snapped at the base, then shoved the branch under the rock, Hikki giving orders all the time.

‘No, further in, the other way, no, you’ve gone too far. Now shove…’

Suddenly the rock began to move, just a bit at first, so Hekja could shove another rock beneath, then shove again.

This time the rock shifted, just enough for Hikki to draw his foot away. The rock crashed down. But Hikki was already free.

He sat there for a moment, the sweat dripping down his face, even though his skin was blue with cold. Then he felt his foot carefully, and the ankle too, then held his hand up to Hekja.

‘Help me up,’ he ordered.

‘Are you sure?’

Hikki nodded. ‘It’s bruised, that’s all. I can move my toes. It will swell tonight but for now I can keep on going.’

Hekja helped him up. He put his weight on his foot gingerly and then more heavily.

‘It’s sore, but I can run,’ he said. He looked at Hekja for a moment without expression, then reached down and picked up the sealskin bundle by his side and unwrapped it. There was barley bread inside, made
sweet with dried berries, and rich with butter, as well as some strips of dried meat.

‘Here.’ He divided it into three portions—one for him, one for Hekja and the other for Snarf. Snarf gulped his down as the others ate theirs more slowly.

‘I didn’t think you would get this far,’ Hikki said at last. ‘You really are a runner, even though you’re a girl.’

Hekja smiled. It was obviously the highest compliment he knew. ‘Thank you,’ she said, swallowing the last of her barley bread.

‘It’s not easy running in a new land,’ added Hikki. ‘Especially when you don’t know your way and it’s dark and misty and you’re all alone.’

‘I wasn’t alone,’ said Hekja as she patted Snarf and rubbed his ears.

‘Even so,’ said Hikki.

Hekja waited for him to set off again, as fast as he could limp with his bruised leg. But instead he took Hekja’s hand.

‘Thank you,’ he said. He hesitated. ‘I would like to say that I would have done the same for you. But I wouldn’t have. I would have seized my chance to be the winner and left you here. You have taught me something.’ He glanced at the sky as though to work out where the sun was, but the mist was still too thick. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait here for as long as it takes to roast a hare, before I run again.’

Hekja frowned. ‘Isn’t your leg too sore to run?’

He shook his head. ‘No. I am giving you a chance to win. It surely isn’t far to go now. Call it runner’s honour. Now run!’

Hekja ran.

She had lost all sense of direction now, but it didn’t matter. Snarf seemed to know which way to go, and Hekja trusted him. Soon she realised what he had been following—the scent of smoke, and fainter still, the smell of roasting meat. People! They were nearly there.

Slowly the mist began to lift. They topped a hill and there was the farm below.

There was no mist here, just a few drifting clouds, already almost vanished in the sky. Instead there were fields and sheep and goats and thralls cutting the grass for hay with long sweeps of their scythes.

Snarf lifted up his nose to bark, to announce that they’d arrived. But Hekja put a hand on his head.

‘Ssh,’ she whispered. ‘Not yet.’ She turned around and walked back down the hill the way they’d come and sat and waited. Soon she heard the thud of footsteps and there was Hikki, loping through the remnants of the fog, not even puffed.

He stopped when he saw her. ‘What’s wrong?’ he demanded. ‘Are you hurt?’

Hekja stood up. She had worked out exactly what she was going to say. It would have been better as a song, but there wasn’t time to make one. ‘Call it runner’s honour, even if our masters never understand,’ she said formally. ‘We may be slaves, but we have both run well. Let us end the race together, so no one wins, or else we both do.’

Hikki looked at her for a moment, then he nodded.

And so the race ended with the two runners striding down the hill, hand in hand, to deliver the message to Thorstein Eriksson, with Snarf running at their side.

They returned to Brattahlid in Thorstein’s boat, along with his bales of hides to sell to the traders, a keg of mead
²⁵
for the feast and Thorstein’s neighbours, who wished to join the celebrations.

Someone must have seen the ship as it travelled down the coast, as there was a crowd waiting for them at the pier—Freydis and Thorvard, Leif and Erik and their men, Snorri the Skald and the other traders, and Bright Eyes too, gazing down disdainfully at Snarf as he yapped in the prow of the boat. The news of Freydis’ and Leif’s bet had spread.

‘Well, younger brother?’ demanded Freydis, looking from Thorstein to Hikki and to Hekja as Snarf bounded up to greet Snorri the Skald, to see if he had any dried meat in his pouch again. ‘Who won?’

Thorstein shook his head. ‘Both of them!’ he exclaimed. ‘I have never seen the like! They came running down the hill together, hand in hand.’

‘Hand in hand!’ cried Freydis. ‘Is this true?’

Hekja lifted her chin. ‘Yes,’ she said.

Freydis’ eyes narrowed. ‘I ordered you to win,’ she said. ‘Not play handies with my brother’s thrall.’

‘You told me I would be beaten if I lost,’ said Hekja. ‘I didn’t lose. I promised I would run my best, and so I did.’

Beside her Snorri gave a shout of laughter. ‘She’s got you there!’ he cried.

Freydis looked from him to Hikki, to Hekja then to Leif. And then she grinned. ‘So! I get to keep my cow!’

‘And I keep mine,’ agreed Leif. He too was grinning.

Erik clapped Snorri on the back. ‘Have they given you an idea for a song, skalder boy?’

Snorri smiled, as though the idea was ridiculous. He didn’t even look at Hekja and Hikki as he shook his head. ‘I make songs about heroes, not thralls.’

‘And your heroes are all men,’ said Freydis.

Snorri nodded, his hand still on Snarf’s head, fondling the big dog’s ears. ‘Of course. Heroes like your father, finding a new land, and your brother, sailing to unknown Vinland and returning.’

Freydis looked out at the ocean for a moment, and was silent.

‘Woof,’ said Snarf, sniffing at Snorri’s pouch again.

Erik looked pleased at being called a hero. He slapped Snorri on the back again, so hard he nearly jolted him into the fiord. ‘By thunder, that was well said, boy,’ he cried. ‘Come and see how heroes feast this afternoon and you can give us your song. And you thralls too.’ Erik turned to Hikki and Hekja, and tapped them with his stick. ‘You can come and listen to his chant, in honour of your run.’

‘Woof,’ said Snarf, as though he could smell the meat already.

But first there was the milk to churn. Feast or no feast, there were jobs that must be done. Gudrun’s hands were twisted with arthritis nowadays, so she was grateful for the help with the butter and she needed a hand lifting the cheese stones
²⁶
too.

But now across the fields came the smell of smoke, and laughter. The feast was ready. Gudrun sat back on the butter stool, and looked at Hekja, weilding the butter paddle fiercely like she was trying to paddle life itself into shape. ‘You want to go to the feast?’ she asked.

Hekja nodded.

Gudrun sighed. ‘Be careful, child. The men will have drunk a lot—and they are men.’

Hekja lifted her chin. ‘There is no way I will forget that,’ she said softly. ‘I wouldn’t let any Norseman touch me.’

‘You may not get a choice,’ said Gudrun dryly.

‘I can outrun them,’ declared Hekja. ‘Like I did before.’

Gudrun looked shocked for a moment. Then she shook her head. ‘A thrall takes what is handed out to her.’

She shook her head as Hekja shrugged. ‘No, child, I am quite serious. If a master wants you, you can’t stop him. If you try—if you run—it will be the worse for you. A master can chop your hand off, or kill you if that is his pleasure. The only way for a thrall to be safe is to make sure she stays out of the way, especially when the
drink flows freely. Why do you think the mistress hasn’t given you a good dress for the feast?’

Hekja stared at her. Gudrun nodded. ‘The mistress is wise. In that dress you look like a child, not a woman. The men will go for better game than a barbarian who’s dressed in tatters. But you take care. I knew a girl once…’ Gudrun bit her lip.

‘What girl?’ demanded Hekja.

‘Dear girl, I tell you these things only so you will be careful. She was a thrall, from Ireland, when the old mistress was alive. She had a baby, and who the father was no one knew, or cared, except its mother. But winter was coming, and food was short. So one night the mistress ordered the baby taken out and left on the rocks.’

Hekja stared. ‘What happened to it?’

‘It died,’ said Gudrun simply. ‘And its mother cast herself off the cliff, down by Erik’s farm. See, you can see the spot over there, by that twisted tree. And no one cared, for she was just a thrall.’

Hekja lifted her chin. She whistled softly. Snarf came up to her and she hugged him close. ‘I am only a thrall in their eyes, not in mine,’ she declared defiantly.

Gudrun looked worried. But she only said, ‘Try not to get noticed.’

Hekja crossed the fields. She wasn’t sure why she was going—Gudrun’s words had frightened her, even though she had refused to show it, and the noise and strangers laughing held no attraction.

‘I will only stay a little time,’ she promised herself. ‘Then I will sneak back.’

The feast was held outdoors. Big as Erik’s house was, so many people had come from farms up and down the coast for this feast that no house could have held them all.

So the sheep had been moved from a field near the farmhouse, and great fires of driftwood lit there, with whale oil to keep them burning well. Two giant bears were roasting and walrus and reindeer, with great stone platters of wheat bread to soak up their juices. The traders had brought the wheat, for none grew in Greenland. It was their gift for the feast.

There were trestles of other food too—big stone pots of pickled cod tongues and oat cream puddings with onions and sorrel, which were plants the settlers had brought from Iceland, and dishes of buttered angelica and rose root, that grew naturally in Greenland. There were fat ducks stuffed with berries and fish stewed with cream; fermented whale liver, and fresh whale steaks; barrels of barley beer and mead and big stone jugs of buttermilk that had been cooling in the ice-flecked stream, and skyr too.

All the benches had been brought out as well as Erik’s great carved chair, and rocks had been brought up and covered with sheepskins for people to sit on.

No one noticed as Hekja crept up to pick some scraps from a reindeer carcass, stripped of its best meat now and pushed away from the fires, so it didn’t scorch. The visitors all carried their own knives to cut the meat but Hekja didn’t have one. But there were spare knives on the tables, as well as long spoons for scooping out the marrow from the bones.

Hekja sliced off some scraps and laid them on a slab of bread, then handed a chunk of meat to Snarf. Snorri
the Skald glanced at her. He frowned, as though wondering what thrall had the impudence to help herself to food at the feast. Then he must have recognised her as the runner, for he said nothing, but kept chatting to the girl at his side. It was one of Leif’s daughters, with gold and brass at her wrists and throat. She had her grandfather’s bright hair and a look of softness in her eyes, from her mother perhaps, thought Hekja, as there was no softness in Erik, Leif or Freydis, or Thorstein either. She overheard two women talking and nodding at the couple as they ate their meat.

‘It would be a grand match for her. His family has great lands in Norway, so they say.’

The other nodded. ‘Maybe the lad would like to mix his blood with that of heroes!’ They laughed together, but Hekja could see that they were half serious.

Hikki was sitting at the back of the crowd with a big hunk of meat on a slab of bread. He raised a hand to Hekja and she slipped across and sat next to him, grateful for a friendly smile.

Hekja sat beside him, on the ground, not on a bench. The noise and crowds and laughter frightened her a little, as did the men who had drunk too much beer or mead or skyr. The women kept the men’s drinking horns full and, as no horn could be put down or it would fall over, it was easier to drain it in one gulp and then call for more. The field was full of shouting and yelling, and already there was a fight, with onlookers cheering the men on.

Suddenly she heard a voice that she remembered. She peered through the wool-clad legs. There was the man Finnbogi, watching the fight, tearing at a hunk of meat with one hand, his ale horn in the other.

‘Into him!’ he laughed, as one man threw another over his shoulder, then pounded his face till he cried for it to stop.

Hekja tensed, and hid the trembling of her hand in Snarf’s fur. She forced herself to look at other things—the fire sparks streaming to the sky, the girls and women splendid in their brightest scarves, wearing their best necklaces, bangles and brooches. Even Erik’s serving thralls had clean aprons on and coloured scarves, although theirs were wool, not silk.

All at once Hekja was conscious of her tattered dress, so short you could see her knees now, and her bare feet hard and callused instead of in soft boots.

Suddenly Erik yelled, ‘Quiet!’ He banged his great stick three times on the ground.

The noise hushed. Bright Eyes, his dog, sat up straight, as though to say, ‘Pay attention to my master!’ People moved closer to Erik’s chair, forming a circle around it. All that could be heard were hens muttering indignantly and a calf lowing in the distance for its mother, as the people sat in silence.

‘We have been honoured,’ cried Erik, ‘by a visit from our good friends.’ He gestured to the traders. ‘May they return to us often, by thunder, with good profit to us all!’

The crowd roared their approval. Erik banged his stick again. ‘But we have another honour here tonight! Silence for the skald!’

The young man walked into the circle. His sea-stained clothes were gone. In their place were a silken tunic trimmed with fur that looked as soft as snow, and a blue cloak embellished with gems all down the edges. His cloak pin and rings shone in the sunlight and the handle
of his dagger was carved and bejewelled, and his yellow hair was tied back with a bronze clip. He held himself proudly. They all do, thought Hekja, half admiring, half resentful, every person in this land, except the thralls. But this youth looked as though from birth he had known that he was heir to great estates.

Even the men who had been fighting were silent now.

The skald lifted his head to the sky for a moment, then began to sing:

‘A song in praise,
Of heroes I raise,
Of danger and death,
And the ocean’s great depth.

‘But one man defied them,
Though they would destroy him,
For courage fills sails,
With more force than the wind.’

The great crowd was silent. Hekja stared at the singer. She had heard her father sing, his voice also so true that people sat quiet even after he had finished. She had heard the men sing on the ship to Greenland. But she had never dreamt a voice could carry as much power as this.

Finally the song’s echoes died away and the audience roared again, the men lifting their drinking horns to toast the singer. Erik tore off one of his great brooches and thrust it in Snorri’s hand, then clapped him on the back. The young man accepted the brooch as his due and fastened it onto his furs.

Leif’s daughter sang next, accompanying herself on a small harp held in her hands. Everyone listened politely, but they weren’t standing motionless, like they had for Snorri.

People helped themselves to food after that and drank deep draughts of skyr and mead and beer. Snarf snuffled round for crumbs. Snorri saw him, and clicked his fingers at him. ‘Here, boy!’ he called.

Snarf bounded up. The young man tossed him a hunk of walrus from his plate, and laughed as Snarf gobbled it.

People called for him to sing again. This time it was a song about a prince, enchanted into ice, and the princess who learnt to sing to the winds so she could rescue him. The crowd cheered again. There was a pause after that, as people waited to see if anybody else would sing.

Suddenly Hekja wondered what would happen if she began to sing. Her voice was better than Leif’s daughter. But probably, she thought, singing was something for free men and women, not for thralls. And then Hekja thought: even if I could, I wouldn’t sing for them. If I sang it would be a gift to them. I will give them nothing.

For a moment the words almost shaped themselves into a song. Hekja smiled to herself. If I ever do sing where they can hear me, she thought, that will be my song.

It was growing dark now. Someone poured more oil on the fires. Fish-oil lamps flickered on the tables, to drive away the night.

A group of men were singing to one side, but their voices were too slurred for Hekja to make out their words. Finnbogi was one of them, waving his horn mug in time with the song. Hekja thrust the memories away.

Suddenly Erik’s stick beat on the ground again. ‘Silence! Let the skald sing us another song!’ His voice was more quavery than it had been earlier. Erik might have been a hero, but he was getting old.

The people nearby quietened, but the men kept on singing—their noise was so loud they hadn’t heard his voice.

In a sudden fit of rage, Erik picked up his carved stick and struck one of the thralls, who was bringing more food out to the tables, on the shoulder. ‘You! Tell them to be quiet!’

The man nodded. ‘Yes, master.’ He made his way over to the men. Hekja saw him pull the sleeve of one, to get his attention and then begin his words.

Hekja was never sure what happened then. But suddenly there was a drunken roar across the crowd.

‘No one tells Olaf Njalsson to be silent!’

Metal flashed in the firelight. Hekja bit back a scream, and stared across the crowd.

Erik’s thrall lay on the ground. His neck was severed. The man he’d asked to be quiet stood over his body, a bloodied axe in his hands. It was one of the traders.