Back | Next

CHAPTER XV

Winter in Norway starts in mid-October. In late October you can pick bearberries in Jaeder if it isn't raining. Rich men can go hunting if it isn't raining. Poor men thresh grain if it isn't raining. And the swallows fly south, proving that God gave more sense to them than to us.

It's a cold rain, the rain of Jaeder in October. It blows in from the sea with the ocean's lungs behind it, and it soaks through your cloak and your shirt, and works in around your ankles and down your collar, and drives an icy spike next to your heart, so you're a long time by the fire getting warm again.

"This country isn't fit for men," I said one evening in the hall. "It's fit for rats and gulls and toads, but not for Adam's sons."

"Well, it's no worse than Ireland," said Erling.

"Slander," I said. "Ireland is fair and green, with gentle breezes and warm sweet rains, and the children go barefoot even in February."

"Only because they're too poor to get shoes. I spent a year in Ireland, remember, and some of the lads thought it colder and wetter than Jaeder, and others said not, but we all agreed it was no better."

He had passed me the horn while he spoke, so I was swallowing when he finished and didn't get a chance to reply right off.

"Has anybody gotten a look at the Milky Way?" asked old Bergthor. "You can tell how the winter weather will be by studying the different parts of the Milky Way. I used to know how to do it when I was younger."

"You have to get a look at the Milky Way first," said I. "I'm not sure I'd know it if I tripped over it, it's been so long."

"God is good to us," said Erling. "He gives us winter that we may better enjoy the summer's warmth, and hunger that we may relish our food, and thirst that we may get drunk with a good heart."

"If you put it that way," said I, "that could be what the Lord meant when He said that the poor are blessed, although I doubt it."

That was when one of the men came in and said, "There's a balefire lit, my lord."

Erling sat up, aquiver like a hound. "One of the jarl's, or one of ours?"

"One of ours. To the north, at Randaberg."

"Then it must be Vikings. Sound the horns for a levy. Send runners to question the watchmen, so we'll know whether to expect company by land or sea." He called to the men, "Get some rest! It'll be an early morning, whether we march or sail. The wind's northerly, so if it's ship business we'll have to pull for it."

The men scrambled up and those who slept in the hall began rolling out their beds, while the thralls dismantled the tables.

I went to my own bed then, and it was still dark when Erling's shoeboy shook me awake. Erling stood in the doorway.

"We're sailing; you might as well come too," he said to me. "You've been owley lately—I think you need the excitement."

 

Out into the black rain we went, down to the fjord where Fishhawk was being launched from her house. The moment I stepped up the gangplank I knew I'd be sick, and I was hard tempted to beg off; I wasn't much practical use after all. But pride prevented. I kept trying, without success, to find a place to stand where I wouldn't be in somebody's way. 'Tis a fine thing to be part of a well-drilled team, where every man knows his job. It's less fine to be a stumbling stone.

At last the weapons were stowed, and the lines secured and the first shift of rowers seated on their sea chests, and as the western mountains lightened the lead man started the rower's song, and we pulled away from Somme. I did not row. I puked.

Imagine a world made entirely of water—all of it black, all of it moving against you. The water in the air flies in your face and blinds you and soaks you; the water below you lifts your ship the height of its masthead and then slides suddenly from under, letting you drop. And this goes on over and over, through a pale morning that does not end. Is this Hell, O Lord? If so, I repent all my hard words and thoughts. Anyone who could create such a sweet thing as dry, solid land must be good beyond imagining, and if You'll only bring me back to it safe I'll never blaspheme again, I swear it.

My clothing weighed like the turf roof on the hall, and it was woven of ice. A man who has only a suit of ice to warm him is miserable indeed. And yet it might not have been so bad if only my stomach had kept still. . . .

I sat in the stern near the steersman, and I had to tug my robe loose where it had frozen to the deck. I'd had the sense to wear boots, but the wind wormed in underneath and painted my shins blue. I got to my feet and stomped, blowing on my fingers. Our ship looked like an angel craft, rimed all over with ice. The wind had calmed somewhat overnight and fog walled us in; we sat quietly in the water, the men dipping their oars from time to time to keep us in place. I thought I'd be all right for the time being if I didn't eat anything.

"Ready for breakfast?" asked Erling, coming up behind me and slapping me on the shoulder.

"Today's a fast day," I said.

"Really? What's it in honor of?"

"I'll think of something."

"Well I'll explain where we are, since you're a stranger hereabouts. We're facing northeast as we sit. Aft is Tungeness. It's the northern tip of Jaeder, where the jarl's balefire is. East and south, though you can't see them for the fog, are the Boknafjord and Sokn and Bru islands, and between them runs Soknasund, where I chased the Orkneymen. Our watchmen tell me our visitors were headed in here, so they'll probably have overnighted somewhere in the Boknafjord, and if they're headed south along the seaway they'll tumble into our arms like a newborn into a midwife's. We'll see their sails before they see us."

"And until then we wait?"

"Until then we wait."

"They could have gone past in the night."

"Unlikely. It's bad enough sailing in the daytime this time of year."

"Is it indeed?"

Erling said, "The wind's picking up again. It's almost due north. That's good." Then he called to the steersman to keep us headed into it.

He settled his elbows on the rail. "It's odd about Soknasund," he said. "I keep coming back to it somehow. Like a dog who's always underfoot, no matter where you walk. I killed my first man there—an outlaw who'd raped a 15-year-old girl. We ran him down like a mad dog, but it was I who put the first spear in him. They made much of me for that, and a good thing too. You need a lot of assuring the day of your first kill."

I found no reply to that. My first kill had been during the sea fight rounding Jutland, and I'd never been troubled an eyeblink by it.

I said, "It's a kind of mercy to kill a man that sunk in evil."

"A hard mercy, Father. Life has too many hard mercies, I think."

He roused himself. "Well, come on! Somebody do something! This waiting makes a man heavy-hearted."

Someone shouted, "I see something!"

"What do you see?" yelled Erling.

"Two ships—coming our way!"

We all stared to starboard through the wall of mist. At first I saw nothing, but then there was the glint of silver or steel through a rent the wind tore in the fog, and soon we could make out a pair of sails—one striped in red, the other a solid yellow.

"They're coming to us," said Erling. "Hold steady, lads."

It seemed to take forever for the strangers to approach, close to the wind as they sailed. As they drew nearer we could see that these were warrior ships, nothing else, white with ice like us. They sailed heavily under men and steel. I went to the arms store and got me an axe, shield and helmet.

Erling was about to hail them when the call came from their side.

"Who are you?" came a ringing voice. "Where are you from and what do you want?"

Erling told the steersman to cut them off and shouted, "That's for me to ask," as our oars dipped and rose. "I am Erling Skjalgsson, hersir of Sola and north Jaeder. If you come in peace, you're welcome to guest at my home. If you come for a fight, we're ready for that too. Who are you?"

"No one for so great a man as you to fret over. I'd hoped to come and go unmarked, and no man the worse. My name is Ole, I am an honest Viking out of Russia and England, and I only wish to go home."

"And where is home?"

"The Vik."

"You're off course if you come from England."

"We sailed directly oversea, and made land at Moster inside Boml Island. Yesterday we got this far south and thought it best to overnight in the fjord. We put ashore on an island and had morning mass."

"Are you a Christian?" Erling called. "Have you a priest with you?"

"I have six priests from England. Are you a Christian?"

"I am that. I have a priest too. I know he'd be glad to meet yours."

Don't be so sure of that, thought I.

"Perhaps another time, Erling Skjalgsson. As it is, we're late in the season, and we must make sailing time. Let us part as friends, and I warrant we'll meet again."

"But surely you can take a meal with me!"

"Nothing would please me more, for I know your name and reputation. But today it cannot be. Will you be so good as to give us seaway?"

Erling ordered the men to row us out of Ole's course, and we sat and watched as the two long ships sailed by. They were a tough-looking crew, and well outfitted. I waved at the English priests, who looked sour when they saw my Irish tonsure. And we all stared at this man Ole, who wore a red shirt and a fur hat and cloak, and stood very tall and handsome.

"What is your farm?" cried Erling. "Who is your father?"

"I have no farm now," said Ole, and his blue eyes sparkled even at that distance. "My father is dead. But I'll have my inheritance one day, and you'll hear from me."

We watched them disappear in mist, and somebody said, "That's a lot of priests for two ships."

 

Back | Next
Framed


Title: The Year of the Warrior
Author: Lars Walker
ISBN: 0-671-57861-8
Copyright: © 2000 by Lars Walker
Publisher: Baen Books