Across the Sea, Alan Eiland [popular books of all time TXT] 📗

and squirrel fur. He brought them to the shopkeeper, a thin old man with a pinched face and stern features named Thorolf, and placed a string of smoked herring on the counter.
“I’ll also need food for a long journey, about 3 weeks worth, as well as drink.” Bjarni said.
“Then you must give me more goods. Herring is as common as mud, barely worth anything.” Thorolf sneered. Bjarni grimaced, before reaching within his robes and removing a handful of amber beads. Thorolf laughed.
“Those are not worth much. I might be able to give you a fur for the lot.” Thorolf said. Leif stepped forward, and Thorolf’s face brightened as Leif removed a silver torc from his neck and placed it on the counter. But then the man frowned.
“This is good silver, but still not enough. This will fetch a week of food and water, no ale.” Thorolf said. Bjarni cursed.
“Swindler! That silver is finer than any you’ve set your unworthy eye on!” Bjarni howled. He reached for the hilt of his knife. Leif put his hand on Bjarni’s shoulder and stepped forward, appraising the storeowner with his cold blue eyes.
“Do you know who my father is?” Leif said coolly.
“Yes!” the shopkeeper blanched at the mention of the ruler of Greenland.
“I do not think he would take kindly to you trying to cheat his son. So I ask you once more, what can I get for this silver?” Leif said. The shopkeeper, terrified by the reputation of Erik the Red, gave in.
“Let me see, three weeks of food and beverage as well as the furs.” Thorolf said. The innkeeper snapped his fingers and immediately, a young slave boy, with lank blond hair, began to pull down the requested dry meats while Thorolf selected barrels of ale, wine, water, and mead.
“Store it for us. We shall return in a few days.” Leif said. He did not worry about being robbed, as his father would punish anyone who dared to steal from his son. Leif and Bjarni also purchased horses. Leif’s horse was small and sturdy, a bay with white markings on the head and legs and a thick mane. He was named Grani, after the steed of the hero Sigurd. Bjarni’s horse was of the same breed, but an all black mare, named Freyja, after the goddess of beauty. Leif, being a Christian, had objected to the name, but Bjarni shrugged, pointing out that Leif’s own sister, named Freydis, was named for the goddess. The pair spurred their horses, shooting across the icy tundra.
A full day later, they arrived in Brattahlid. The compound consisted of a long hall on a small hill, used to hold audiences, as well as being a mead hall, next to which was a small chapel, founded by Leif’s mother, and a larger longhouse, where Leif’s family lived. Around it was a small town, complete with a well and a collection of farm building. Leif and Bjarni rode quickly toward the long house. They stopped on the grassy field in front of it. A tall, thin woman with flaming red hair to match Leif’s stood outside the hall boiling whey in a cauldron. She glared at Leif as he walked by, her angular blue eyes spewing disproval.
“Greetings, coward!” she called.
“Greetings, Freydis.” Leif replied. He was used to such insults from his only sister, who since his boyhood mocked him for his lack of bravado. Leif and Bjarni entered the hall, as Freydis led their horses to the stables.
Within the hall were three long oaken tables with benches cushioned with velvet. Each seat was placed with a drinking horn. The tables were set with trenchers, though they were bare. At the head of the central table was a gilded throne, in it sat a middle aged man. The man’s flame red hair had gained him his name, Erik the Red! His blue eyes were like the sea ice, his skin was the white of a cloud. He wore all red, from his cape to his trousers, with black boots trimmed with seal fur. His cape was fastened with the pagan valknut and he wore a red woolen cap on his head. He also wore a sword on his belt. Leif and Bjarni bowed when they saw him but Erik waved it off, gesturing for them to sit. So they, did, Leif on his left, Bjarni on his right. A serving maid appeared, filling Erik’s drinking horn with mead. Erik swigged the honey wine, flavored with strawberries.
“Would you like refreshments?” Erik asked.
“Akvavit.” Bjarni said.
“I’ll take elderberry wine.” Leif said. The serving maid scurried off to get the drinks. Erik gulped the mead down quickly. The serving maid returned, giving each man the requested beverage. Leif made a point of saying grace before sipping the wine, earning a glare from his pagan father.
“You drink like a nun!” Erik said.
“How so?”
“You say grace before you daintily sip your wine.” Erik laughed.
“As opposed to swilling it like a pig?” Leif countered.
“At least I can hold my wine!” Erik snapped.
“I can out drink you any day, old man!” Leif bragged. Bjarni took a deep swig of his Akvavit.
“I can out drink the lot of you!” he said.
“Maid! Bring more mead!” Erik howled. And the drinking began. The drinking horns were emptied in rapid succession. The maid continually poured drinks for the men, who swigged their mead in a frenzied fashion. Finally, Leif collapsed, heaving, in his chair, sprawling across the ground. His father sneered.
“Can’t hold your mead?” Erik sneered. Leif was too sick to answer, everything was blurred. Bjarni slumped beside him, thoroughly drunk. Erik sat smugly in his chair, still sitting, though his face was pale and drawn and he was drooling slightly.
Leif awoke the next day, exactly where he fell, his clothes soaked with vomit and with a splitting headache. He groaned, staggering to his feet slowly. He was alone in the mead hall. He slowly stood, staggering from the hall, sore in his joints. He left the mead hall, bathing in the freezing fjord. Then he washed the vomit out of his clothes, putting them back on and walking over the snowy fields to his home.
He found his father in a hall with Bjarni. A slave girl bore a bowl of fresh water. Erik was in the process of washing his brilliant red hair in the bowl. He combed it with a silver comb, removing the scraggly knots and dirt. When he was finished, his hair shone like burnished copper. He then cleaned his ears with a silver ear-spoon and waxed his thick red mustache until it curled upwards at the tips. Erik spit and blew his nose into the bowl, then dried off with a towel. The slave girl then emptied the bowl and refilled it from a bucket and offered it to Bjarni, who carefully groomed his thick white hair until it shone, then waxed his beard into two distinct sections. He also brushed his thick muttonchops and heavy moustache. He was even more imposing when clean, looking for all the world like a great ice bear. The slave girl refilled the bowl, offering it to Leif, who washed his hair and combed it, then scrubbed his face until it shone. He shaved his stubble with a razor blade and thinned his mustache with tweezers. He parted his hair and tweezed his eyebrows. Erik laughed as he saw Leif’s pruning.
“You dress as a lady, tweezing your brows, thinning your mustache. Are you not capable of acting as a man?” Erik asked. Leif was about to respond, Erik’s steward entered. Erik immediately began giving orders.
“Ready our horses. Then prepare a feast for this evening. Bring it to the mead hall.” Erik said. Then he headed to the stables. Erik and Bjarni followed. The stableboy brought them their horses. Leif mounted Grani and rode ahead, tearing over the icy tundra. Soon, Erik stopped. Leif and Bjarni stopped as well. Erik pointed over the ice. Leif squinted after him.
“Look, an ice bear!” Erik said. Leif peered again, and this time he saw it. It was difficult to see, a great white splotch moving through the snow. But once Leif saw the black nose, he knew how to find it.
“Let’s hunt.” Erik said, a manic glint in his eye. He drew his sword, causing his horse to rear and whinny. Leif looked at Bjarni and their eyes met.
“Father, this is a foolish idea. We have no spears, only our swords and knives.”Leif said.
“Nonsense! Bjarni had his axe!” Erik said, spurring his mount. And that was the end of the discussion. Leif and Bjarni reluctantly followed. As the bear saw the small hunting party, it wathed impassively. But as Erik neared, it reared up on his hind legs. Leif expected his father to slow as he neared the bear, but he simply sped past it, slashing with his sword. The bear roared and swiped with his paw, but Erik leapt to the ground and stabbed upwards, drawing blood. The bear bellowed and threw itself down at Erik, who rolled away at the last second. Leif rode up beside the bear, stabbing it in the shoulder. The bear lunged at him, but Grani trotted out of the way, while Bjarni, on Freyja, struck the bear with his axe. Erik lunged in on foot as the bear reared to attack its mounted enemies, stabbing it in the gut, then quickly dodging the bear’s buffeting blows. But this time, the bear followed Erik, bearing down on him. Erik stood still, sword leveled. Bjarni roared and rode towards the bear, but he was too far away to reach Erik in time. Leif was the only one close enough. So he dug his heels into Grani’s side, racing across the ice. The bear closed the distance rapidly, it was nearly as fast as the horse. Leif leaned in, kneading his fingers through Grani’s mane. He and the bear were neck and neck. Leif drew his sword and leapt from his horse, colliding with the charging bear. The blade pierced the bear’s skin, stabbing it in the heart. The bear collapsed at Erik’s feet, gasping and heaving on the ice, its blood staining the white expanse a rich red as it gushed from the deep wound. Leif lay beside him, bruised but not seriously injured, the bear having cushioned his fall. Bjarni arrived quickly, decapitating the brute with his heavy axe.
“Someone gut it.” Erik said, unperturbed by his close brush with death. Leif rolled over as Bjarni went to work with his knife. He cut it open, preserving some of the rich red meat of the paws and thighs. He then skinned it. Meanwhile, Erik had reached his horse and was unpacking a toboggan from the back of his horse. He tethered the toboggan to the horse and placed the meat and skin on it. Leif snarled at him, outraged.
“You intended to hunt this whole time, didn’t you? You could have gotten yourself killed!” Leif shouted.
“No. The god of the hunt, Ullr, was protecting me! I sacrificed to him at blot, as should you.” Erik said, his blue eyes growing colder as he spoke.
“Blasphemy! The fires of Hell shall be your hearth if you do not repent your paganism.” Leif hissed. Erik laughed.
“Repent! Fool, I should not repent for worshipping the Gods who created this Earth. You should repent for forsaking them. You, like all Christians, are imbeciles to forsake the old ways” Erik said “King Olaf is a Christian!” Leif said.
“A prime example of an imbecile!” Erik said.
“It is unwise to call King Olaf an imbecile, old man.” Leif said.
“Olaf is not here, he is in Norway. He cannot hear me, I