Bearded Viking
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“The gods are watching you,” he whispered into the still night as the rain fell around him. His breath clouded in front of his face. He felt the chill and wondered how far south they had come today, and if it was enough to avoid a winter storm that might catch them on open water. It didn’t seem like one would be coming anytime soon anyway from where the clouds were rolling over their small group.
There had been no more sightings of the Norsemen after the last time they saw them off the north side of Ireland, but there seemed to always be at least two or three ships following them, which made Thorgrim nervous because those men could see just fine in the dark, whereas they themselves were having to use torches to find their way through the black water of the Irish Sea. They had been traveling for weeks now with no sign of any other ship in either direction.
The weather continued to stay clear so Thorgrim knew that this stretch of the North Atlantic Ocean between Ireland and Greenland must have very shallow waters, which would explain why the Norsemen never went farther north than Iceland.
But now they were going north again toward the edge of the world, and Thorgrim thought back to what Ragnar had said about these islands is a place of death and destruction, and if they stayed here much longer the gods might not let them go home alive.
He looked up at the stars above. Their light was faint under the thick layer of cloud cover. “Maybe we should have stopped at Iceland,” he said quietly. Then, louder: “It’s all Ragnar’s fault! He wanted us out here!”
They had taken to calling the Norseman by name now, which seemed odd to Thorgrim since they hardly ever spoke with him. But there were times when they needed Ragnar’s help with something so Thorgrim had asked him to come along, which wasn’t easy because Ragnar’s crew did not welcome the presence of a Christian among them.
“You want me to tell them?” Ragnar had asked Thorgrim.
“If you can.”
Ragnar had shrugged then and walked away to deal with the issue as best he could.
Thorgrim shook his head at himself for thinking such a thing and turned to look back down the trail they’d cut through the thick pine forest. There was no sign of any other travelers.
He sighed as he watched the smoke curl up from the campfire that burned in front of the tent, and then stepped forward to put his hand on its topmost flap and peer inside. They slept well wrapped in furs against the damp night air.
Most nights there was only a thin line of light around the edges where the canvas parted company with the wood floor of the tent; some days they even got a glimpse of the sun as it rose over the hills, and though Thorgrim hated admitting it, they often found themselves standing at the edge of the clearing, staring at the bright yellow orb hanging high in the morning sky while they tried to decide whether or not they should go looking for breakfast.
As far as Thorgrim could tell they had not seen the hide nor hair of the Norsemen since leaving Ireland behind. That was good news, but Thorgrim still felt uneasy, though he had no idea how Ragnar planned to deal with the situation.
Perhaps they could make another run across the North Sea, this time hoping to find a way to stop before they reached Norway and get their hands on some real food instead of fish that tasted better if you boiled it in milk. Or maybe Ragnar would turn back for Ireland. He wouldn’t blame the man for that.
“I’m sorry, lads,” Thorgrim called out as he pulled away from the tent, “but I think we’ll just have to make do with some oatmeal tonight.”
They groaned as one as they scrambled out of bed, shivering despite the heat of their blankets. As they dressed in their wool tunics and leggings they talked about what was ahead for them.
A few weeks ago Thorgrim could have sworn they had traveled all the way to Sweden in the space of a day or two, and then they had been heading northward, toward Denmark, and there had been talking of raiding castles and taking land as a reward for a job well done, and all the men had been happy and eager for the challenge.
Now that same land was an enemy to be fought and killed, and most of them seemed reluctant to admit that they had gotten too close to those shores.
As he stepped outside he was pleased to note that they were already packed and ready to leave. Thorgrim liked it when they were organized and ready to move quickly. He looked up at the sky. No sign of the sun yet, and that worried him a little bit, but he guessed that they would reach Ireland long before nightfall.
It was hard to guess how far they’d gone since setting out, but he estimated at least six leagues.
“How many leagues will it be before we arrive at the edge of the world?” he asked as he strapped on his sword belt. “And what will we do then?”
He was expecting the answer to be “die,” and he was not wrong. But it took them a moment to get to that conclusion. In fact, Thorgrim was so surprised he didn’t know what to say. The others just stood there waiting expectantly for their leader to speak.
But he didn’t feel like talking. And then the men noticed he wasn’t saying anything, and that started another round of discussion and argument over the meaning of “edge of the world,” and how many miles away they were from it.
The truth was that they had no idea, but Thorgrim knew the distance wasn’t the point. They were headed into trouble and they needed to face it together.
So he cleared his throat, made eye contact with each man who stood beside him, and said in Norse: “When we get to the edge of the world, then we will die.”
***
By evening they had crossed the last ridge they needed to cross and they saw the Irish coast off to the west and beyond it the wide expanse of water known as the sea that separated Ireland from England. They camped that night on the beach in the shelter of a low hill, and Thorgrim was sure the ground was soaked with the blood of his enemies. At least they would never see Ireland again.
A few hours after they set up camp the rain began to fall once more, a steady drizzle that settled into a cold gray mist. Thorgrim woke at dawn and saw it hanging over the hills behind them like a blanket. The wind picked up and the fog rolled in.
It was dark under those gray skies, but by noon the sun came out and they could look up from their lunch of salt beef, potatoes, and ale and watch clouds scudding across blue, cloudless skies, and the wind died down and fell to a constant breeze.
By late afternoon it was warm enough that they unrolled their tarps and stretched out to catch the faint rays of sunlight that pierced the thickening haze.
In that place, at that moment, it was almost easy to believe that they had arrived at the end of their journey. But there were still miles ahead. Thorgrim was aware, though it hadn’t occurred to any of his men to ask, that there was only one path leading south and the road they followed had taken them to a certain spot in Ireland.
There had been no mention of a road that led farther south as if a highway ran straight through Ireland from the edge of the world to the other side of the world.
But there were no roads in Ireland; that was true. That was why they were here in the first place. They were going to have to find one and follow it and hope that it ended somewhere in the southern part of Ireland.
Maybe they should have spent more time on that question while they had sunshine and a clear sky. It wasn’t as if they had much choice now. If they stayed near the coast they might run into ships, but they’d be running into English ships too. And maybe English warships. Or worse. So they would go inland, following a road, or failing that some trail they hoped to pick up.
They moved out in the late afternoon, following a broad trail along a riverbed, which was mostly mud at this stage of the season. As the sun set, they stopped for the night, and once again they were lucky to find a suitable place, a rocky outcropping that would shield them from the wind.
In his mind, he counted up how many days they had covered. He figured two weeks at least to get to Dublin and he guessed they were about four or five leagues from the city. Not bad; they weren’t even halfway there and already the weather turned sour and the seas calmed and all seemed right with the world.
“We will be home in seven days!” Thorgrim shouted as the men gathered wood for their fires. “Seven days of walking and sleeping under an open sky! Seven days until we return to the warmth of my bed at Whitestone!”
He heard snickers around the fire. He was getting used to their reactions—when he yelled they laughed at him. When he smiled they thought he was joking. They did not yet realize that he meant every word of it.
“There are seven days in a week and seven is a good number,” he added, thinking perhaps they could understand numbers better than words.
His tone was light and jovial and the men listened to him, although they looked puzzled. No one mentioned Whitestrand and there was nothing said about a bed. Perhaps it was just that they were too hungry and tired to care about anything else.
Thorgrim watched them eating, and he realized what a difference a day made. Before they had left they had eaten the food in their packs, then gone hunting and caught rabbits, squirrels, fish, and shellfish to fill up with.
Then they hunted boar, deer, hare, and rabbit as they traveled north along the coast. Now there was no game. No boar, no deer; not even a fish. The only meat they’d seen since crossing the North Sea had been from birds that flew overhead, and when they were close enough to roast them they had done so.
The meat of a bird was lean, thin as string, and Thorgrim’s mouth watered for a steak or some mutton.
“I don’t think you can call this a feast, boys,” Gunnar said around his third helping.
“That’s because there isn’t a feast, boy!” Thorgrim shouted back and then took a deep breath before shouting, “You’ve got to make a feast where you are, that’s why we’re doing it, right?”
The laughter began again and Gunnar grinned and shook his head. But there was also a bit of envy in his eyes. He was still young, not much older than these boys, and he had never known the life of a Viking. They were all young, the youngest just thirteen.
He had been born a slave, owned by one of the Danish kings whose son was king now. The sons of the Danes’ enemies were often treated as slaves, and so he was. And now he was free. A warrior and a fighter.
The way he imagined it he had fought like a beast and beaten down all opposition to become an accepted member of Thorgrim’s crew. His dream was to fight beside Thorgrim and Gunnar and Grimarr and Thorolf Hrafnsbergsson on their quest for loot and glory.
He dreamed of fighting in the battle and being recognized as a man. And maybe someday his dreams would come true, but for now, he knew better than most that his chances were slim and the odds long.
The End