Читать книгу Viking's Dawn - Henry Treece - Страница 6

Table of Contents

In the feast hall men were merry. Spruce boughs lined the walls, turning the long log shed into a forest glade. Resinous pine boughs burned in iron wall sockets, throwing their flickering light over the many laughing faces of the shipmen and the villagers who served them with mead and corn wine, or carried in the great wooden platters laden with barley bread and fish, or tender suckling pigs.

The smoke of the fire in the middle of the hall blew back in gusts from the high chimney hole, for the wind was in a bad quarter. It was blowing out to the mouth of the fjord, and when that happened the smoke always seemed to come back, thick and choking, into the feast hall. But this night no one minded that, for all men spoke with great enthusiasm of the voyage they were about to make, no man knew where, in a great new ship as yet without a name.

Harald said to his father, “It was a journey worth making, that through the forests, to reach such a place as this, and to be accepted among such men as these.” The boy’s bright eyes lingered on the gay figure of Thorkell, who had dressed his beautiful hair with gold braids for the feast and wore a sky-blue cloak that seemed to be woven of the very texture of summer.

Harald’s father, Sigurd, curled his lip a little disdainfully. “It is always thus, my son,” he said, “before a voyage. Men seem heroes in the torchlight at a feasting. But we must wait till the harsh salt cakes on their hands and the bitter wind tears their fine cloaks from them before we can judge whether they be true men or no.”

The boy gave a quick glance toward his father, an angry comment already forming on his lips. Then he thought the better of it and said nothing after all. Yet in that moment Harald hated his father a little for those slighting remarks about Thorkell Fairhair.

Seated next to Thorkell at the head of the long trestle table was the village headman, an old peasant with a fine leathern face, whose white hair hung down in snaketails on either side of his head. He wore a thick frieze wrapper about his shoulders, for he was a sick man and the wind that blew down the valley at nighttime brought on his rheumatism. Although a horn of corn wine was set before him, he did not taste it, for he was an abstemious man who had never drunk anything but water from the springs, or at the best, goat’s milk, when there was too much to be made into cheese. But this he did only infrequently, for he looked on such drinking as waste. A man might drink in five minutes enough milk to make a cheese that would last a family a week, he said to himself. This headman’s name was Thorn. He was as sharp as his name. Although his hands were now too crippled to hold a stick, all the boys went in fear of him, and stopped whatever they were doing when he hobbled along the village street. It was this Thorn who had conceived the idea of building the long ship and of sending it out to bring back treasure to the village. It was Thorn who had said, “I choose Thorkell Fairhair for her master, if he should travel this way before we have finished her.” And all the villagers had agreed in their council, for every man liked Thorkell, and would trust their venture in his hands.

So it was that Thorn sat at Thorkell’s side. And at last Thorn said, “Master Thorkell, all goes well. The ship is ready and the crew chosen. If this wind holds, it will carry you out to sea tomorrow to begin your viking. But one thing is lacking. The ship has not been named, nor has she an emblem carved on her prow as most of our long ships have. A raven or a dragon or a wolf-head.”

Thorkell smiled down at the old man lazily in the torchlight. “Master Thorn,” he said, smiling, “how call you this wine before the corn has been put into the mash tub and wetted?”

All men listened as he spoke, some puzzled, some laughing. The old man blinked up at Thorkell, “How call you it?” he said, wondering. “How can we give it a name, for it is not yet made. It is nothing until the water is put on it and the corn has fermented. Nothing. It has no name.”

Thorkell said, “What right has a man to call his sword ‘Brainbiter’ until it has bitten a brain?”

The old man smiled tolerantly and said, “We are talking of our ship—not of wine, nor of swords, Thorkell.”

Thorkell said, “Should a man name his ship ‘Land Ravager’ if she is destined to sink before ever she sights a land to ravage?”

When he said these words, many men crossed their fingers or spat upon the floor, to keep away the evil omens. “He should not have said that,” whispered Aun Doorback, looking first over his right shoulder and then over his left, to see if the wicked ones were listening.

Thorkell sensed the unrest about the table at his words and he laughed loud, “My friends,” he said, “we are fighting men, not shivering old women, to be frightened with a strange word! I tell you that nothing ever happens unless it is fated to happen, long ago, before today or yesterday. Before last sowing or ten sowings before that. What happens was written down by Odin when the world was first made. It is there, in his writings, and nothing a man says can change it. Now, be still.”

“What then will you call the long ship, Fairhair?” asked the old man, Thorn, impatiently. “We built her and gave our money for her. We must know what her master will name her.”

At that moment Thorkell paused in his drinking, and with a shrug of his broad shoulders stood up, so that all men watched him, wondering. Thorkell Fairhair pointed down the long table toward the Finn, Gnorre, who was at that moment hacking away with great concentration at his piece of salted beef. All men’s eyes turned on the Finn, who looked back wide-eyed and surprised.

“Tell me your name, friend,” said Thorkell. “I have forgotten it in the excitements of the day.”

The Finn said, “Gnorre, Master. I am from Finland. I told you so earlier.”

Thorkell smiled again. “By what other name are you known, Gnorre?”

Aun Doorback’s face flushed and his great red hand began to fumble for his ax. But Gnorre patted him gently on the arm and whispered, “Have patience, Aun. Perhaps he means well. You shall kill no more men for my sake. I can fend for myself, come the worst.”

Gnorre stood up, a strange bent figure in the torchlight, which played about his thin lined face. Then he spoke so proudly that all the hall was still and men listened.

“I am Gnorre Nithing, shipmaster,” he said. “I took the knucklebones from you today as a viking, not as a prisoner to be handed back to those who would slay me for my past misdeeds. Now stand I here a warrior with a warrior’s weapon and who takes me shall need to be a good swordsman.”

With that Gnorre leapt backward with a speed that startled every man. And they saw that his sword, Grunter, was out and shining in the torchlight.

Then Aun Doorback had moved and the bench fell over, scattering the men who had been sitting on it, among the rushes.

A woman screamed and one of the villagers dropped an earthen pitcher of wine. But Thorkell never moved a muscle. His gay face still smiled fixedly and his golden hair wafted softly in the breeze that stole in through the hide covering of the door.

Then he stretched out his hands toward Gnorre and Aun, almost in an attitude of pleading. “I have picked two real men, my friends. I know a man when I see one, never fear. But when I asked your name it was so that everyone should see what I mean. Nothing more. All Finland must come to take you back, Gnorre, if they want you. But they must find their way beyond my sword guard to do it.”

Now Aun and Gnorre looked at each other like fools, a smile of embarrassment on their faces. The men who had fallen to the floor got up and scratched their heads, puzzled. The headman, Thorn, shook his gray head a little more, petulantly.

“Gnorre Nithing,” said Thorkell, “you have given our ship her name. She shall be the Nameless. She shall wander as you have done, Gnorre, an outlaw of the seas. Perhaps all men’s hands will be against her, as they are against you. But though she may be nothing at her launching, she may prove to be something at her beaching when she returns. Then we will give her another name, you and I.”

At first there was a hush in the long room, then everyone began to talk at once, and though the villagers did not seem to like the name, the shipmen were pleased with the way in which Thorkell had chosen it. For it seemed to free them of all responsibility. Now they would become outlaws, their own masters, to do as they pleased, obeying only their shipmaster, Thorkell.

Now men began to call to the villagers to fill up their wine pannikins again, and here and there they began to slap each other on the back, sometimes a little too hard. And just when it seemed that the feast might become an excuse for rough horseplay among the vikings, Horic Laplander leaped onto the table, a weird misshapen figure in his bundled clothes, with his thick pigtail flying out behind him.

Now he whirled about in a strange winter dance of his people, striking grotesque attitudes, of bear or wolf and even of a pine tree. His padding feet now grew as noiseless as those of a mouse and he danced hither and thither among the drinking horns and dishes without disturbing a thing. The men of the village, whose own dance was a heavy-footed stamping affair, gazed open-mouthed at his skill.

Then even Horic appeared to tire. He sank down in the middle of the table and seemed to roll himself into a great ball. In this position he stayed still for such a space as a man might need to count twenty. Then without warning he sprang into life again, his hands held upwards and outwards, his feet wide apart and his thick body swaying. No man understood the language he spoke, for it was of the farthest northern forests and not spoken along the fjords for many hundreds of years. But they knew that Horic was telling them a story—a grim tale of the great forests and the wolves and the bears, and, worse still, of the old gods who demanded sacrifices in return for a good harvest, or a good reindeer foaling, or a good catch of fish. And they shuddered as they heard the gods speak through Horic’s mouth, heard the forests sigh in his deep breathing, heard the wolves howl about the winter stockades, or the bears grunting outside the doors when all else was still and the children were asleep.

Now no one drank any more, or bothered to eat, though they still held their bread in their hands. Many even lost all knowledge of where they were, for the man’s spell was so strong.

And then, when all stared at the Laplander, and even the torches set along the walls had stopped flickering, there came a great laugh from the darkness outside, and a moment later the hide covering at the doorway was flung aside with a single, rough movement. The men in the hall turned slowly round, bemused, to see who had come, and then the spell was broken and Horic was no more than a little Laplander squatting on the table. The one who stood in the doorway had broken the magic, like an earthenware pot, it seemed.

Immensely tall and swarthy-faced, his raven hair hanging below his dark and burnished helmet, the newcomer stood, his long black cloak reaching down to the straw on the floor. Men saw that his strong arms were bound about with ring after ring of gold. They saw the deep tattoo marks across his forehead and cheekbones, the oiled beard and the curling mustaches. This was a fine man, thought those who did not know him. This is an evil omen, thought those who did.

Thorkell gave a little gasp, “Ragnar,” he said. “Ragnar Raven! I thought not to see you ever again!”

Ragnar smiled, a soft, dangerous smile, showing his white teeth. “Do you mean ‘thought not’ or ‘wished not,’ Thorkell Fairhair?”

Thorkell’s face stiffened slightly and a cold air blew in through the open doorway from the fjord. He stepped forward.

“Enter and sit at the table top, Ragnar,” he said. “We are blood brothers and come what may you shall share my fortune.”

Men moved away to let the proud stranger sit beside their leader.