excerpt
Several weeks of intensive labour had kept the Norse crew too busy to consider
visiting the Native village, though the invitation to do so had been repeated by gesture,
on two occasions. Now, with sheep fattened and only last minute caulking, fodder
and water to be taken care of, Hjálmar finally declared a day of rest and accepted
the sachem’s invitation to a hunting feast.
Father Finten watched the Norse warriors prepare to go off with the near naked
Natives. He noticed that the Norsemen picked up swords and knives though they left
shields and helmets behind. “Why are they carrying weapons in the company of such
gentle people? These Natives have not been arming themselves,” he murmured.
Finten was still troubled with memories of past violence. Despite some recent
kindnesses, he found it difficult to trust these warring men. Then another thought
entered his mind. Oh, God! Do these Vikings intend to pillage their hosts? Finten
had seen too much bloodshed. That is the most horrible thought. I must protest.
He approached the captain with a plea for peace.
“Why do your men carry knives and swords?”
“My men go armed. It is our right. Why do you ask? We do not know if we can
trust these creatures. What if they turn on us?”
“Trust them? They have done nothing but bring you food and invite you to their
village. And you cannot trust them? If these men go armed, we cannot join you.”
When Hjálmar shrugged in disgust, Finten saw there was no use arguing. It was
easy enough to find an excuse to remain behind although he’d be disappointed not
to see the Native village. Still, he had his principles.
“Brother Brógán is down with a fever of the intestines, and Rordan will be needed
to assist Berach in looking after his companion of many years.”
“Good. You can all stay behind. While we are away, you will work with Kyrri to
complete the caulking. You will mix wool and fir sap. Tomorrow, we sail.”
With that, the captain turned and climbed ashore. Rordan watched the captain
leave with his Irish thrall, Svend, walking silently ahead.
Atall, much to his disgust, had been ordered to remain as guard in case this was a
ruse for the thralls to escape into the woods. Atall, as with Illska and Hrafen, did not
like these Celts. They did not understand the ways of Viking might.
A haze of indigo smoke draped lazily above a maze of shaggy thatched-roof
reed houses, mingling perfume of burning cedar with a mouth-watering aroma of
fish soup. Screeching like seagulls, a flock of naked children raced down a winding
path toward the visitors. They stopped short to gape in amazement at the strange
bearded faces.
White Eagle, wearing a knee length wolf pelt coat and white moccasins, came
toward Captain Hjálmar, arms outstretched in greeting. Three eagle feathers in a
colourful band crowned his head of flowing white hair. The chief escorted Hjálmar
and his men back to the village.
Captain Hjálmar brought a large mirror for the sachem and every man had been
ordered to bring gifts of ornamental clasps and copper bracelets, which Norsemen
not only loved to wear themselves but also kept for wives and sweethearts at home.
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