When Thorkell came to himself he was in bed in the pitch dark. He felt
about him and found that he was in a sort of bunk, a wall on his right
hand and, on his left, a polished board. He ran his hand along its
upper edge. He was rather deep down in his berth and under him was an
infinity of yielding feather-bed. He was well covered with warm quilts.
He tried to stretch, but the space was too short for him. He composed
himself and slept again.
When he woke the second time it was daylight and he saw by his bunk a
tall, spare, elderly noblewoman, severe-looking, hatchet-faced, with a
lean and stringy neck and gray hair. She was clad in garments of undyed
wool of the usual rusty brown.
“Son,” she warned him, “you must not try to speak. Drink this slowly.”
And, as he weakly tried to raise himself in the wall-bed, she supported
him with her right arm, at the same time holding to his lips with
her left hand a silver goblet. Thorkell tasted a delicious posset,
compounded of milk, mead, honey, barley-meal, and of other ingredients
unknown to him. He swallowed most of it, fell back among his down
pillows and slept again at once.
His third waking was again in full daylight. He felt more like himself.
He saw that his bed occupied most of one side of a fair-sized room,
wainscoted in dark wood and with a low ceiling, similarly panelled.
Opposite his bunk stood a high, narrow table. In the wall by the foot
of his bunk was a low doorway, its door shut. In the opposite wall
was a window, whose contracted casements had small panes of fish-gut
membrane, stretched across wooden lattices. The panes were bright with
the glare of brilliant sunshine full on them and much light filtered
through, so that the room was well-lighted. By his bed, facing the
window, in one of the two chairs, sat a tall, magnificently dignified,
elderly man, gray-haired, ruddy of complexion, broad-shouldered,
wrapped in a reddish-brown mantle of fine wool. He wore a gold
neck-chain from which hung a large, flat, oval gold amulet-case.
“Son,” he said, “you must not yet attempt to speak. Hearken and
remember. You are housed at Hofstadir, on Revdarfiord, by Faskrudness,
on the east coast of Iceland. I, Thorstein Vilgerdson, am master of
Hofstadir. We know nothing of you except that my daughter and my two
nieces found you early in the morning, day before yesterday, on the
strand by Faskrudness. My wife has been caring for you and she now
tells me that you will soon be able to be up and about. Only after you
are well and strong will I permit you to tell your story. Meanwhile you
are our guest. Do as I bid you. Be silent, compose your mind, repose
yourself, and help my wife to restore you to strength and vigor. When
you are yourself we shall talk again. Now sleep.”
Thorkell was compliantly mute and his host rose and left him.
Two mornings later Thorkell woke to find Thorstein again seated by his
bed. And he saw, on the table opposite his bed, a tray with a goblet
and a hunch of bread on it.
“Son,” the old man queried, “are you entirely awake?”
After Thorkell’s affirmation Thorstein said:
“My wife judges that you are now sufficiently recovered to tell your
story. But you had best first fortify yourself with some food.”
And he himself rose and fetched the tray from the table. Thorkell
acquiesced and swallowed a few mouthfuls. Then he settled himself back
on his pillows, his host resumed his armchair, and Thorkell began his
story by naming himself.
“A Vilgerdson!” the old man exclaimed, “and from Rogaland! We must be
cousins, however distant. In my long life I have never known or heard
of any Norwegian Vilgerdsons; as far as my knowledge goes our family
has long been wholly Icelandic. We are descended from Floki Vilgerdson,
of Rogaland, the first voyager who ever wintered in Iceland. A hundred
and thirty-six years ago he sailed past the headlands of Faxafloi and
wintered in the Breidifiord. But he and his associates were so carried
away by the abundance of fish and the ease of catching them that
they neglected to cure enough hay and their live-stock all perished.
Therefore he sailed home next spring. But, twenty and more years
later, when past middle age, after most of the west and north of
Iceland had already been settled, Floki returned and chose a home here
in the east on this very spot. I am his great-great-great-grandson and
heir to him and all his.”
“I,” said Thorkell, “am great-great-great-great-grandson to Snorri
Vilgerdson, younger brother to Floki the Viking and settler. For both
were sons of Vilgerd Vilgerdson of Rogaland.”
“Then,” said his host, “you are a fourth cousin to my children and they
are your fourth cousins. You are one of us. And now tell me your story.”
When Thorkell had said his say and had answered all his host’s
questions the old man said:
“My wife opines that it will now benefit you to be out of bed and in
the open air. My younger sons, Thorgils and Thorbrand, will help you to
dress and will assist you to walk about, for, although you may resent
the suggestion, you are not yet strong enough for it to be well for you
to attempt walking unassisted.”
And he called his sons, handsome youths, who clasped hands with
Thorkell, called him “cousin” after their father’s explanation, and,
when the old man had gone out, assisted him to rise. He found he
needed assistance. They helped him to don a shirt of the finest linen,
knitted hose of soft wool, noblemen’s shoes, a doublet of the best
woolen cloth, and a fine crimson mantle of wool delightful to feel and
handle. They girded him with an outer belt, but there was no sign of
sword-belt, sword, poniard or knife. Each of them wore a belt-knife
with a staghorn heft, and a dagger and sword, with steel guards and
hilts of walrus ivory, pommelled with gold.
One on each side of him they supported him as he strove to stand and
they guided him through the doorway into a spacious, plank-floored,
high-raftered hall, lighted by many small windows placed high up in
the tall gable-ends; low, narrow doors were all down both long sides,
with an ample fireplace in a big chimney-piece midway of one side; at
one end was the main doorway, at the other a door almost as large.
His helpers conducted him out through the main doorway and to a bench
in the sunlight where they seated him. Thorbrand sat by him, Thorgils
walked away.
Thorkell found the cool, soft breeze invigorating and yet mild, for
it was near midsummer and as genial as it ever is in Iceland. The
slant sunrays warmed him. He basked and gazed about him. He saw
close by a strongly built storehouse of stone and great ash beams,
high-gabled, though its roof was not as steep and tall as that of the
mansion. Further away he made out a big sheepfold, with sheds, a large
cattle-byre, an ample stable and two very large barns. In whatever
direction he looked the extensive level space in which the buildings
were grouped was bounded by a stone wall, breast-high, and not of
boulders, but of roughly squared blocks.
Some two hundred yards or more distant, topping a low hill, was
a temple; for, with its great size, its high and steep roof, its
scalloped shingles, its horse-head and fish-tail ornaments at the
ridge-pole ends and eave-ends, its carven gable-ends, it could be
nothing else.
Some of the thralls were busy about the buildings and several
maid-servants passed in and out. Thorkell saw no men-at-arms, nor any
of the family except the two brothers. Thorbrand sat smiling, but
mute. Thorkell kept mute and basked. After a time Thorgils came back
and Thorbrand strolled away. When Thorbrand returned he said:
“Mother thinks that you were best back in your bed.”
Thorkell acquiesced and suffered himself to be escorted indoors. In bed
he ate some food brought by a tow-headed serving-maid. Soon he slept.
He woke near dusk of the long northern day and again ate what the same
maid brought him and was again soon asleep.
Next morning Thorstein was again sitting by him when he woke. As before
he enquired how he felt and himself served him with food and drink.
When he had reset the tray on the table and reseated himself he said:
“Young man, I and my family have talked over you and your story. I and
my daughter and my nieces believe you. But all five of my sons, my two
daughters-in-law, my accountant, my seneschal, my skald and everyone
of my men-at-arms are convinced that you are not a castaway from any
ship, though likely enough a Norwegian and no Icelander. They are
unanimously of the opinion that you are a spy craftily insinuated into
our community by our enemies. They point out that your clothing was dry
when you were carried in here: that neither it nor your hair showed any
signs of your having been swimming; that such a marvel as your having
leapt ashore from a ship’s-boat drifting without sail, oars or rudder
is too improbable for them to believe it other than a clumsy invention.
They all insist that I would imperil myself and all my household if
I were to accept your story and keep you here as a guest. My word is
law here, but I feel that it would be unwise for me to disregard so
unanimous, so insistent and so clamorous a dissent from my views.
“Now, young man, if you have in fact been sent here by the
Miofifirthers or the Seydisfirthers you had best admit it at once and
make a clean breast of the whole matter. You shall not be harmed in any
way. I will have you fed and cared for until you are fit for a short
journey, and then I will equip you with flint and steel, a belt-knife,
a dagger, a sword and sword-belt, a horseman’s cloak, a good horse,
well bitted, saddled and girthed, and a supply of food; and I will
send a thrall to guide you round the head of Revdarfiord and to speed
you on your way. But if you are what you assert you are and claim our
protection and hospitality as the dues of a castaway, you must convince
all my household of the truth of your tale.”
“I am Thorkell Vilgerdson of Rogaland in Norway,” he replied. “I know
nothing of any Miofifirthers or Seydisfirthers or of any foes of yours.
I never set foot on Iceland until I leapt ashore from my drifting boat
soon after sunrise of the morning on which I encountered your daughter
and nieces. I have never, in Iceland, set eyes on any Icelanders except
members of your household. What I have told you is true in every
particular. But how may I convince you of its truth?”
“As you must know from my name and my sons’ names,” Thorstein answered,
“we are steadfast adherents of the old faith. Those who suspect you,
and my wife, the most embittered of those against you, in particular,
would be at once convinced if you take formal oath to the truth of
your statements, an oath sworn upon your own blood and the sacred
ring of our holy temple, calling Thor and Odin to witness. If you are
willing to take oath, as I suggest, no one here will any longer doubt
you.”
“I am entirely willing,” Thorkell declared. “I am more than willing,
I am eager. The suspicions of your household are natural, if you have
crafty enemies near at hand and live under threat of being raided. I
will swear as you suggest.”
“I infer,” said Thorstein, “that you also, then, like all here at
Hofstadir, are a firm believer in the gods of our fathers.”
“I am indeed,” Thorkell affirmed.
“Have you met Christians?” his host queried.
“Too many,” said Thorkell, “too many by far.”
“Have you talked with any about their beliefs?” the old man inquired.
“With many,” Thorkell said.
“And what do you think of them?” Thorstein pressed him.
“It seems to me,” said Thorkell, “that they claim to have a system
of sorcery and magic far more efficacious and far cheaper than ours.
That is about all I can gather from their talk. Their religion costs
far less than ours because they hold that no blood-sacrifices are
necessary, stating that one man, hundreds of years ago, achieved one
sacrifice by which all men may benefit forever, no other being required
after that one. How this could be or can be I cannot conceive. But such
appears to be their view. Then they seem to think that priests can be
largely dispensed with: certainly they have far fewer than we and their
priests are cheaper to maintain than ours, as they require less in
the way of ornaments, raiment, food and servants. Then, though no one
of them has conveyed to me what they mean, they all allege that their
invocations win surer and more effective responses than those which
we receive from our deities. That is all I can make out about their
novelties.”
“Your impressions,” Thorstein said, “tally with mine. Christians are
utterly incomprehensible to me. In particular, they all rant about
peace on earth and good-will to men. Yet, since they became Christians,
the Miofifirthers and the Seydisfirthers are just as implacably hostile
to us here as before. My father repeatedly made overtures to them
proposing conferences to negotiate for a reconciliation, for mutual
concessions, for laying our differences and the damage done to each
side before the Althing for reference to the courts and for a decision
and settlement, for a termination of the feud and the establishment of
harmony and amity. I have made similar proffers. But they have been
inexorably hostile. In fact, since they became Christians, they seem,
if possible, even more ferocious, rancorous and blood-thirsty than
before.”
“That,” said Thorkell, “is just about the attitude towards us heathen
of all the Christians I have ever met or heard of. Their idea of peace
is unqualified submission or total extermination for us, and complete
triumph and unquestioned domination for themselves. Not one will listen
to proposals of compromise, accommodation or mutual forbearance. They
seem to me opinionated, bigoted, fanatical, overbearing and arrogant.
We must fight or perish, there appears to be no other way.”
“You speak sensibly, my son, it seems to me,” the old man said. “You
have convinced me that you are sincere. Your oath in the temple will
convince all my household and all my retainers.”
Then he rose and went out.