The Snow on the Cross (9 page)

Eirik was speaking in that loud voice
of his that rumbled through the room.  He seemed quite proud of his kill, and I
knew he was scanning his home, looking for the best place to hang the wretched
corpse on the wall.  Malyn’s face held no expression.  She simply clutched the
mead pitcher as she looked at the mess Eirik was making.  I pitied the poor
girl for the cleaning she would be undertaking shortly.  Eirik dropped the head
against the wall by the door and walked over to the table, still grinning,
still listening to the excited shouts of his men.  I make a note that he
bypassed the bowls of water to clean his hands before he sat down.  He reached
for his mug, and took a deep drink.  Trickles of mead crept out of the side of
his cup and down into his beard.  He drained the cup with two more gulps and
slammed his mug down.  Malyn was there in a flash, filling it up again.  Eirik
seemed pleased.  His hands left red smears around his mug.  I felt very ill for
noticing such things.

It would seem Eirik had not
acknowledged my presence.  He was too wrapped up in consuming as much mead as
he could in as little time possible.  He reached for the bread, tearing off
half the loaf and chewing on it.  He began to launch into a loud conversation
about whatever it was he had killed and dragged back to the house with him.  He
used his hands a lot when he talked, waving them around in grand gestures
indicating the size of the rest of the beast, and how, with a couple of swift
axe strokes, he had made short work of the head.

          At least this is what I assumed Eirik was talking
about.  It could have been about anything.  He could have been talking about
me, for instance.  I could be made quick work of with an axe as well, I
suppose.   I was beginning to feel quite unseen in my spot sitting beside the
fire, almost too comfortable as I watched these men tell their tales to one
another.  Eirik seemed like a natural leader, and it was obvious the men looked
on him with a great admiration.  Yes, I could see how with Eirik leading these
men, they could be capable of just about anything.

Their talking continued, and Malyn
slipped me some more fish as she escaped from the confines of the table.  When
she looked at me with those sad, dark eyes, I felt truly sorry for her and her
dismal fate.  Perhaps if Eirik converted before his death, this girl could be
spared from her sacrifice.  I remember thinking that even Thordhild could
probably never sway Eirik in his opinions.  He was too strong.

When Eirik took notice of me, I had
finished the second slice of fish Malyn had given me and was in the process of
finishing my last cup of mead.  Eirik shouted something, and the men fell
suddenly silent.  Eight pairs of shining eyes turned to ogle at me, and the
quiet that loomed over us was quite disturbing.  I paused in mid-drink, and
looked at those men.  They would have taken as much pleasure in a fine meal as
they would rampaging through a church, and they seemed to be waiting for me to
speak.  Eirik pulled a small stool over from the wall and slid it over next to
him at the table.  He waited and stared.  I swallowed my mouthful of drink and
dabbed at my mouth with a cloth Malyn had given me.

Eirik patted the stool, and I felt as
if I was the center of the world.  I made my next move very deliberately and
very slowly.  I set my bowl down next to the hearth, took my cup, and slowly
stood.  Whether or not Eirik was going to kill me and serve me as dessert to
his men was not far from my mind as I stepped over toward the table.  Malyn
nodded at me, and I felt comfort in her look.  It was as if she was giving me
her approval and her assurance that I was going to survive the night.  I wished
Bjarni were around, not for the last time.

So, I sat at the table with the
Vikings: the men who had sacked a great portion of my country, the men who
showed no mercy or quarter for any of their captives.  I was going to break
bread with them.  I immediately knew how Christ felt at his last supper,
looking around at his table companions.  I placed my cup on the table, and
Malyn filled it.  Eirik began speaking, and his voice rang in my ears.  I had
no idea what he was telling his men, but he seemed to be talking about me
because every exaggerated gesture Eirik made was greeted with raucous laughter,
presumably at my expense.

Eirik’s tale grew louder, and he
became more invigorated as he kept speaking.  With a wild yell, he jumped up
from the table and began moving around the room, as if performing on a stage. 
His men were growing bright red from the exertion of their laughter, and Eirik
continued to dance around.  He pointed at my direction, then suddenly flung his
arms out wide to either side, and I knew with a sad, sinking feeling that he
was imitating Christ on the cross.  Eirik let his head roll around limply, as
if dead, and he sagged the center of his body.  He suddenly had the appearance
of a dying puppet on strings, and he fell silent.

His men were still laughing.  Eirik
looked up and winked.  His face turned suddenly serious, and he gazed at me as
if I was the poor beast he had just slaughtered hours before.  I peeked down at
where he was looking and saw the little golden cross the monks at
Bayeux
had given me the morning we left
France
.  I forgot I had put it on, and now
it hung, glittering like a piece of sunlight in the firelight, down the center
of my chest.  Eirik was reaching for it before I could move.  With a jerk, he
snatched it from around my neck, snapping the chain and sending sharp little
stings through my flesh.

He was speaking as he held it up for
his men to see.  He flapped his arms to either side again and pointed to the
cross, as if to emphasize his demonstration.   I felt the horror sweep through
me at this man’s blasphemy.  I saw Eirik marching through the city of Tours,
leading his men with their torches as they set peasant houses ablaze, and I saw
the defiance in his eyes as it must have been when he came face to face with
the poor monks who tried to defend their home, only to be met with the sharp
edge of his axe.  What could I do?  Eirik would have surely killed me if I
tried to stop him.  I thought of the martyrs and how they died defending their
faith, and I decided martyrdom was not for me.

Instead, I watched sadly as Eirik
continued his little show.  Presumably, this was a test of my character, for
Eirik was trying to upset me, and he continued his mocking ways while he
watched for my reaction.  I gave him none, save for a hard glance I hoped he
would take as stern disapproval.  When Eirik grew tired of his charade, he sat
back down and drank his mead.  I noticed he still had my cross in his hand and
showed no signs of returning it to me.

With one last cheer, Eirik lifted the
cross, letting it catch the glint of the fire for a moment, then tossed it into
the heart of the fireplace.  Satisfied, he let the cheers of his men sweep
around him in approval.  I, however, watched as my chain with the cross on it
slowly scorched in the heat of the fire.   Soon it would be an unrecognizable
lump, and I would have nothing to show Thordhild if she arrived.

The remainder of the meal was nothing
notable, and I was careful when I returned to the cold church that I was to
sleep in later, to note that very thing.  When I left the house of Eirik, I did
it with jeers jabbing me in the back.  One clay mug even sailed near my head as
I walked out, shattering against the wall in a spray of sharp pieces.  I
stepped out into the coolness of the darkening air, leaving the smoke and noise
behind me.  I noticed the darkness of the night, and it confused me.  All the
stories my brothers the monks had told me said the lands to the north were
never dark.  I wrote it down anyway, thinking that perhaps they were mistaken. 
It would not have been the first time.

The firelight streaming out of
Eirik’s small windows showed me the way back to my stone church, and I thought
about carving a little path up to my door.  I would dismiss that idea later as too
much work for too little reward.  No one would be coming to visit me there, so
why would I give them an invitation?  The wind was gusting, and I dismally
noted that I still had no firewood for my home when I returned.  In all of the
light and heat and good food, I had forgotten what was waiting for me here.  I
sat on the crude bench that would serve as my bed and stared at the ice-gray
ashes.   I slept little that night, shivering violently and waking up to
vicious dreams.  I would dream of
Le Mans
, and my warm feather bed, only to have images of burnings jar me
awake.  

In the end, it was the blessedness of
Malyn who would come to my salvation that night.  That poor child who was
marked for death by the hands of a madman was pure, and I was certain God had
sent her to me as a sign to keep hope in the goodness of humanity, for in
between one of my nightmares, she came to the door of my church with a large
blanket in her hands and a sparkling brand of fire.

It would be Malyn, not Bjarni, who
would serve as my guide for the next few days.  She knew enough of my language
to communicate, and having lived with Eirik for two years, she knew his almost
as well as her native tongue.  She was a bright girl, and God, in His wisdom,
saw fit to reserve a place in Heaven for her when she met her doom.  Between
the blanket and the fire I soon had burning, I knew I would be protected no
matter what happened.  God delivered me to
Greenland
, and He saw to my comfort there.  I write only God’s truth, friends, as
you see here.  The signs were telling me to survive here, and so I did.

My fire burned brightly that night,
and I was able to write on the parchment I had brought with me.  I wrote about
my impressions of Eirik, much the same as I am doing now.  I could still see
the blood on him.  Animal or human, it didn’t seem to matter to the man.  If he
slaughtered his fellow men as quickly and easily as he had slaughtered his
hunt, then he would see no reason to keep me alive.

He did not kill me.  If he had, I
would not be imprisoned where I am now.  I would have joined Malyn in the
afterlife in God’s good glory.  Instead, he seemed to take cruel delight in
making me fear that he would kill me every day I was there.  At night he would
play bizarre tricks on me, such as rattling against my windows to awaken me, or
throwing stones at my door.  Once I returned to my church to find the wooden
cross that had been hanging down from the rafters flipped over and around, so
that the top was pointing down.  Although I never saw Eirik do these things, I
knew he was responsible.   I scratched every detail onto my page, and the sound
of the quill soothed me and reminded me of
Le Mans
.

The Hunt

Malyn began visiting me often in my
church.  I think I reminded her of her homeland, and she felt a kinship with
me.  I welcomed her company, for I was growing tired of my solitude.  For the
first month of my stay in
Greenland
, she
was the only person who seemed to desire any contact with me.  The men, Eirik
included, left me in peace, for which I was thankful to God.  I would watch
them coming to and from Brattahild, sometimes carrying large sacks, sometimes
wheeling large carts back and forth.  The carts held goods the traders had left
along the docks, and the men would always trek up the hills to show Eirik their
wares.  Sometimes, the carts were rolled down to where the other homes were and
the spoils were divided out among the men there.

This was fairly uninteresting
activity, but I recorded it as I watched.  The simple act of recording things I
saw gave me a familiar feeling of my old life, and Malyn would sometimes sit
and look at my pages and pages of marks.  She admired my strong handwriting,
and sometimes I would read to her what I had written that day.  Since I had
arrived here, I had lost track of the days, so the pages were simply numbered. 
This is what I read to Malyn one day after Eirik had left his home and she had
come down to see me and bring me breakfast.

“
Midday
. 
Today four carts were brought into the fenced area of Brattahild.  Five men,
whom I had not recognized, began taking the large sacks off the carts and
throwing the seed on the ground.  I believe it was corn they were pouring out,
for the beasts who lumbered in the fields ambled towards them, snorting and
huffing.”

I wrote many pages of these
observations that are best not to be repeated here among this writing.  I tell
this now only to show the mundane that occupied my day.  It was an accurate
record of events, and God allows me to write the truth then as now.  Malyn
seemed more interested when I read to her than reading it herself.  I was
reminded of a child who delights in stories before bedtime to fill them with
fantastical dreams.

“Eirik is going to the north,” Malyn
told me one day as I sat and wrote.  She was sitting by the fire and casually
throwing bits of twigs into the flame.  “He is taking fifteen men with him.  He
told me he wants you to go with him as well.”

I was surprised, for, as I have said,
Eirik seemed to have no interest in me, except perhaps leading me into the
wastelands and using me as bait for his prey.

“Hmmm,” I murmured, trying not to
seem interested.  I simply sat and wrote, “Today Eirik the Red invited me to go
with him to the North.”

I stopped writing.  “Why?”