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them flying northwestward. The ship was driven farther and farther from the island
shore. Unsure whether to be more fearful of their captain than of what was happening
around them, the men obeyed as Hjálmar bellowed his orders. They followed his
lead and beat out fires with wet animal skins and buckets of ash-flecked seawater.
That night, when the fires were finally out and men and sheep calmed, Captain
Hjálmar, who had experienced an underwater volcanic eruption on a previous voyage,
did his best to explain the hot sea, the eruption, and the resulting tidal wave
and wind that had pushed them so far off course. Even Freki laughed with relief
that it was over and the ship and crew had come through the experience relatively
unharmed.
At dawn, the crew, amazed at Nature’s might, settled to the task of turning back
toward the coast of Thulé, hours away to the southeast. But a steady wind blew up
the Danemark Strait to send the Norsemen steadily northwestward until they came
upon a land no one had seen before. In the dim light were massive ice mountains.
These western ice fields, greater than any on the east coast of Thulé, ran down into
the sea. There was no vegetation, no place safe to beach and go ashore.
Fighting the wind, Captain Hjálmar and his crew urged the ship slowly southward
along the jagged coast. For many days they battled wind and strange currents.
Finten and his monks recited their prayers in muted voices. Late into the second
week following the volcanic eruption, the wind turned at last. The sail was set for
steady progress and all on deck was secured for the night. It was time to ease up
and let the gentle wind carry them where the gods willed. As darkness fell, all went
below to rest from the struggle. The cook prepared a good fire and fresh mutton to
slow roast for a breakfast feast; then joined his mates below. Only Pungr, The Heavy,
was to remain on deck to keep first watch and turn the roast from time to time. He
had slept while others fought against the wind. Now it was his turn to stand watch.
A roster was set and the man on duty was to call out should there be any need for
change in steerage or trimming the sail.
The crew awakened to the crack and scrape of ice against the wooden hull. A
clinging fog had drifted down bringing sleet, biting cold and intermittent gusts of
gale force wind. Without warning, the knarr had been pushed into a field of treacherous
flow ice.
“Up! Up!” Captain Hjálmar shouted, first on deck. Men scampered at random,
looking in amazement and alarm at the jagged cliffs of ice on all sides.
“Drop the sail.” Four crewmen stood with oars extended to ward off the mountains
of ice. On both sides of the ship, huge chunks revolved and spun over in the
frigid water. Opaque whites glistened against deep green undersea ledges that seemed
to glow in the dark. Like another devouring monster, the floe roared and grumbled.
Growlers – chunks of hard ice – twisted and turned. All moved in terrifying confusion
with the combined effects of gale winds and current. Broad jumbled rafts of ice
piled up on ice. The entire floe rocked like a seesaw on the swell.
Fingers grew numb. Men stamped their feet and swung their arms, one arm at a
time, trying to warm up while still holding on to the ship’s railing. As night turned
to day, fog banks gathered over the ice making it impossible to see openings. Patches
of open water led to ice barriers. Sharp ridges forced quick turns and retreats.
Wind howled against the steady bleating of panicked sheep, buffeted from one
side of each pen to the opposite. Rams climbed the backs of rams.
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