He put a hand to my shoulder and he looked on me in silence for a long time. I remembered how I had looked upon Sigrid, when I had fixed her in my mind for the very last time. And then he was gone.
Gifts came, in the days that followed. Grain, salted fish, brought to us in the arms of a tongueless slave – a man of Olaf’s household, who could not speak of what he saw. Perhaps it would not matter if he had, for there would be few who would believe him.
That was how we lived, that first year. And all the years afterwards, until you were old enough to work the fields yourself.
I struck a bargain with you, in those first days. That I would raise you and protect you, as best I could. That you might think of me as a father if you wished, but that I expected no love or kindness from you, though I offered both freely to you. But as a boy, you looked me in the eye and you accepted that bargain.
You remember that, don’t you?
It is a hard life I have given you, but you have lived it well. You have grown into a man and I have grown old.
There is safety in solitude and so I have taught you to wander as a ghost on the haunted lands that are your birthright. The other men of the valley shun you and call you mad: the mad son of a ghost, wandering restlessly. And in that madness is your safety. You have grown up almost wordless, wild blue eyes like a wolf.
The Wolf, I call you, for there is no other beast that could live as you have lived. And so I think you must be half a wolf at least. Not as fast or as strong as other hunting beasts, nor as crafty. But you endure. You would die for your pack. You are like me, are you not?
You have never asked about your past. Does the wolf question its ancestry? Does it inherit revenge, as we do? It does not, and neither have you. I raised you to be free of the feuds. In this place, in our own way, we have been living as the first settlers thought we might. We live alone on the land, free from kings, free from the feud, sharing the love of a father and his son. Waiting for the rest of the Icelanders to join us. For the people to learn how to live as we have.
At night I tell you stories. Endless stories and songs, of heroes and gods and monsters. But I have never told you this story before, and you have never asked.
You wonder why I tell this story to you now. It is because there is something that I need from you. It is because there is something that you must do.
35
Go now and look outside the door. My old eyes may be playing tricks on me. But I think I see the sun creeping there: fingers of light crawling beneath the door, beckoning to us. Go, and see if I am right.
The sun has risen? Good, good. Let the fire die, then. No need to waste wood now. We shall finish just in time.
I have told you many stories, have I not? And you are kind, for you listen in patience and thank me for the telling. But perhaps you have bested me in this, as you seem to in all things. For the story that you have told me – that I think I cannot match. I would not believe it, from any other than you.
It is ten centuries now since the miracle of Christ, a miracle of death. Now, in our island, you tell me of another miracle.
For the word of the White Christ has been spreading. Men like Thorvaldur have come to preach the Word, and many of those who sail abroad – great men who seek favour in the courts of distant kings – return baptised, wearing crosses around their necks. All across the old lands, in Norway and Sweden, they kneel before the White Christ. It has only been here that men have clung to the old faith, cowards lurking beside a dying fire. We have become a people divided by the gods. And on this island, for the first time, you have brought me whispers of war.
Thorvaldur longed for such a war, between one god and another. But that is not our way. With men preparing for war, with distant kings contemplating an invasion of our island, you tell me that our people gathered at the Althing and decided what must be done.
A gathering in a field, a raising of the hands, arguments spoken and heard. You tell me that the Lawspeaker retreated to his tent, covered his face with his cloak and thought to himself for a full day and a night. At last the Lawspeaker made his decision. Thus are the old gods forsaken and the true God followed. In other lands the God has been brought at the point of a sword, the whim of a tyrant, with bribery in gold and threats to the soul. But not here. Not in our country. I have never been so proud of our people as I am now.
And yet I know we must leave.
You know that I love our God. I have taught you His stories, taught you His words. Yet I know He will destroy this place. This fragile land where there are no kings. This one God will teach us to love a single ruler. We will long for a man to kneel to, not just a God. We will have a king soon. We will be a country like any other. The dream of a free land will be gone, and I will not stay and watch it happen.
Where shall we go, you ask? Far from this place. But not to the old lands. We go to the new.
You have heard of Greenland. That joke of a name, to attract foolish settlers to an unlivable country. That is not the place for you. It will be destroyed in plague or famine, or it will become another land beneath a king. We must go farther than that, to a place untouched.
There is another land out to the west, beyond that sea we thought boundless. I have heard the stories that the sailors have brought back: storm-tossed, the sparks of Thor raining down around them, they have seen a new land to the west. Vinland, they call it. A land with forests that stretch on for days. A place where the sun is still high in winter. A country with land enough for every man.
I have sought to live as a landless man and saw how it made me a slave. So you must go to a place where a man’s land has no value, where there is space enough for all. You must go there, to begin a new life, a new world. Perhaps there we shall get it right.
Yes, my child, you will go there. But there is one last thing you must do for me. I did not raise you to flee from what you owe, and you have a debt to settle before your journey.
Come out, with me. Come out into the sun. Bring your sword with you, that gift I gave to you when you became a man. Gunnar’s sword. Kari’s sword. The sword that killed your father.
We come out blinking into the sun, our eyes aching from the dark. And you do not see it at first. You look out towards the sea, back to the pale hills behind us, and you wonder what it is I have to show you. Look closer. Look there, upon the ground.
You see now there, don’t you? An oxhide that I have laid upon the ground. The corners marked with hazel wands. It is not on an island, as it should be, but you know it for what it is. The ground of a holmgang. The place where men duel.
A wolf’s smile upon your face, and you look around once more. You ask who it is who has wronged us, who it is you must fight. You are eager to duel, as you should be, and will let no insult go answered. But already I see the smile fading, for I think you begin to understand.
We are the last links of the feud, you and I. None of Gunnar’s people remain except for me. Björn and their kin are all gone except for you. And so it falls to you. The duty of revenge. The greatest gift of all.
I killed your father and let his grave go unmarked. I killed what remained of your kin. I drove your mother into madness, and somewhere she lies unburied. I stole you from your people.
Be quiet, do not speak. You will tell me that you forgive me, but that is of no consequence. It is to our God that I make restitution. Against His forgiveness, what does yours matter to me?