Odin’s Child (9 page)

The recitation completed, the day's business could commence. Now it was time for the proclamation of lawsuits

Wrapped in a skin cloak, his pig's eyes screwed up tight, Strife-Hrut charged out of the crowd like a boar from a thicket and, scrambling onto the Rock, bawled his accusation, the words nearly drowned out by the loud cheering of his men.

“…notice of an action against Odd and Gunnar Thorvaldsson … did afflict my son with gut wound, brain wound, and bone wound, the which did cause his death … full outlawry.”
Full outlawry
—the rock walls flung the words up and down the chasm. “To have no harbor, help, nor hand, no friend, and no food in this island forever!”

He flung out an arm in our direction and every head turned toward us. On that cue, his men commenced to bang on their shields and chant his
name. Snorri's men, who were there in force too, joined in. Here and there in the crowd others picked it up, people, who a moment before had had no notion of who we were or what we had done.

“Hrut—Hrut—Hrut—!” Strife-Hrut, gesturing and grimacing, danced like a troll on his mountaintop, whipping them on.

Being at the bottom of a chasm in the middle of a thousand angry Icelanders is not for the faint-hearted. If a hand had so much as brushed the hilt of a sword, we might have been cut to pieces on the spot.

We didn't let out our breath until we were up on the plain again and walking rapidly—I won't say running—to our tents.

“Hah!” cried Hoskuld, putting on a brave face. “We'll see who packs up and says farewell to Iceland come tomorrow morning. It shall be Strife-Hrut, much to his surprise, who finds himself facing a charge of unprovoked murder.”

My mother responded by giving him a smacking kiss on his forehead and then got busy at once clanging pots and pans together and chivvying Vigdis and Katla and the servants to get our midday meal. It was her way, I suppose, of keeping down fear.

Roused by all this bustle, the source of our new found optimism poked its head out through the tent flap. “Let a man sleep, at least. Christ and Thor, there's naught else to do in all this wearisome time that I must stay holed up here.”

“No call for such a sour tone,” said my uncle sternly. “You'll come out of this affair better off than anyone—as well you knew when you came to us. 'Twill all be over shortly.”

“Well then, I am hungry,” said Sigmund yawning, “
and
thirsty. I will have some more of that mead, if you please.”

Gunnar frowned at the man's impudence and doubled up his fist, but Hoskuld stopped him with a look. “Just get our friend some mead, would you, Katla?” he said quietly. “There's a good girl.”

When the porridge was ready we took our bowls and drifted into separate groups—Kalf and I sitting in one spot, Jorunn, her brother and Katla in another, Gunnar in front of his tent with his wife and baby, and Thorvald, alone in front of our tent—simply staring out over the peaceful lake, while his porridge got cold.

In fact, only Sigmund ate heartily, sitting in the dirt with his leg tucked under him, shoveling the mush into his mouth with the serving
spoon and washing it down with our mead. At the rate that he and Thorvald were going at it, my uncle's store of that tasty liquid would soon be exhausted.

Our meal was barely over when the gorge emptied its human burden up onto the plain. The day's session was over and Iceland streamed back to its tents to eat and drink and stroll and argue and gawk and bargain and wonder and drink again for another afternoon, evening, and night on which the sun would never set.

Now, it was that each of the forty-eight godis would sit in state in his turf-walled booth, flanked by his thingmen, his sword laid across his knees, to receive petitions.

“And so,” said Hoskuld, getting creakily to his feet and arranging his cloak on his shoulder, “to business. Brother-in-law,” he spoke to my father's back, “asking favors is not—ah—your particular talent, is it? And anyway, these affairs are best conducted with the smallest possible audience. I will take only Kalf to guide my steps.” He waited as long as politeness required, not expecting an answer, and got none.

But when he had gone, my father spoke—in so quiet a voice that we scarcely heard him at first.

His sword was in his tent, lying where he or someone had tossed it when we unpacked. Obeying his order, I went and fetched it for him, while the others stood by, as silent as if they all had water in their mouths. He took it from me and with great deliberation in his movements, laid it on his knees. Like a godi.

†

We got through the time until uncle Hoskuld returned as best we could. The sun, by then, was once more brushing the mountaintops.

Even with Kalf to lean on, my uncle's steps were slow and faltering. We lowered him gently onto a stool and waited for him to get his breath. Katla, meanwhile, flapped around him like a lunatic bird until he shooed her off.

“It is a bitter day,” he began with a sigh and a shake of his head, “when one finds that a friend is false. Today I have found more than one false friend.”

We did not dare speak.

After a pause, he went on in a trembling voice that scarcely resembled his usual rich bass. He had gone first, he said, to the booth of Hjalti Skeggjason, a godi of Thjorsariverdale—the same who had intervened in the scuffle at the stallion fight a year ago. This Hjalti was deeply in Hoskuld's debt owing to a scrape that his son had gotten into some years back. The high-spirited youth, it seems, had assaulted a bride on her wedding day. Thanks to Hoskuld, the damages sought by the lady's husband were quite a bit less than they might have been. Notwithstanding, Hjalti had begged off with feeble excuses about his own suits going badly and having no room in his house just now for another man's bad luck.

After that, he had gone in turn to four other godis and all had been delighted to see their old friend, but all had pleaded one excuse or another to put him off—even when a bribe was discretely offered. Hoskuld's chin was on his chest as he concluded this catalogue of rebuffs.

“Here!” struck in an all-too-familiar voice behind us—Sigmund Tit-Bit, looking full of consternation. “What's all this about, then? Friendless, d'yer say? Christ and Thor, if I'd but known that yesterday, I never….”

“Quiet, you,” snarled Gunnar, raising the back of his hand. But Hoskuld's weak eyes sparked to life.

“Did I say friendless? Not quite. Disappointed, yes. But friendless? No indeed!” And suddenly, it was a different Hoskuld—shoulders squared, chin up. “Forgive an old man his love for the dramatic—I've saved the good news for last.

“I paid my final visit to young Hall Thorarinsson who, you may know, has recently become a godi in my own district of Hawkdale. I was his father's thingman for many a year, though the son I scarcely know. To my delight, I found him a most agreeable young man, polite, generous, frank—every inch the image of his father.

“To be brief, I explained our case, and laid our evidence before him. He did not even wait to hear it all, so eager he was to oblige me with both money and men.”

Hoskuld leaned forward to speak in a confidential whisper. “He will attend us tomorrow with a force of a hundred thingmen
and
will swear in court to the truth of our case.” My uncle spread his hands on his knees and looked triumphant.

Expressions of thanks and praise burst from our throats. Jorunn threw her powerful arms around her brother and near squeezed the life out of him.

Throughout Hoskuld's long recitation, my father had sat impassively, hardly seeming to listen. Now he said in a weary voice, “Hoskuld Long-Jaws, what does this godi want in return for supporting us?”

“Why, he does it to oblige me, his father's friend.”

My father shifted his weight sideways on his stool and farted. “I would feel happier if he had named a price, for I never knew the godi who didn't have one.”

“Rubbish!” snapped Hoskuld. “The young man's word is as good as gold. He is a faithful Chri….” He thought better and swallowed that word.

We got no more speech from Thorvald that night. While Hoskuld preened and basked in the admiration of us all, my father fell to work on another wineskin until he toppled off his stool, whereupon Gunnar and I dragged him by his heels into the tent and threw a cover over him.

That night, as I lay close alongside my parents in the little tent, I was awakened by my father's thrashing and muttering in his sleep.

What night-hag rode his back? What gruesome visions did he see? I was getting up the courage to touch him, when my mother put out her arms and pulled his head onto her lap. Without waking, he sighed and became still.

I crawled outside to leave them alone.

The air had grown hot and thick overnight, smelling of rain, and ragged dark clouds hid the mountains.

The morning bell dinned in our ears, and again all Iceland tumbled out of its tent, plunged its face in cold river water, brushed its teeth with a birch twig, and put on its finery—all in a great state of excitement, because today was the day set aside for trials. Before this day was out, there would likely be corpses on the grass.

What else but this, after all, drew the gawking crowds and made the Althing worthwhile?

Sigmund Tit-Bit began complaining as soon as his eyes were open. Gunnar flung a hooded cloak at him, telling him to put it on and stop his squawking until time came for him to testify. “And then just you do your part, my friend.”

“Do my part? Christ and Thor, don't you worry about me doin' my part. Just you see to it that Strife-Hrut doesn't have off my head first … friend.”

“Odd,” said Jorunn, crawling out of the tent, “your father wants you.” The look in her eyes told me something was wrong.

I found him crouching at the back of the tent with his arms around his belly.

“I won't go, I'm sick.”

“Well, then, you won't. Why tell me?” Seeing him yesterday with his
sword on his knees, a spark of hope had caught fire in me. How foolish. Of course he would fail us when the moment came. I just wanted not to look at him.

“Don't leave me yet—”

“Take your hand off me!”

“Just for a minute. I … I have something for you.” He put his hands behind his neck, under his hair, and pulled a cord over his head. From the end of it hung his Thor's hammer, the iron polished smooth with years of rubbing against his skin. Even when he had stopped sacrificing to Redbeard, he kept that hammer for the magic in it.

You don't see them much nowadays. It was an amulet in the rough form of a hammer but shaped enough like the Christmen's cross so that a man who wore it could pass it off as one thing or the other depending on the company he was in.

“I don't want this.”

“Take it. It'll protect you when the waves come over your gunwales, for even the Christmen call on Thor in a storm!”

“What storm? What are you talking about?”

“Out there, boy. When you measure yourself against Hrut and Snorri.”

“I? And where will you be, Father? Hide now and you'll go on hiding forever.”

“I'm sick, I told you. Take the hammer!” He thrust it at my chest and pushed me away from him.

Outside, I told the others.

“I'll change his mind,” said Jorunn grimly.

“Leave him, Mother, what's the use?”

But I hung the hammer around my neck. Maybe there was a little luck in it yet, though I doubted it.

Gunnar looked at me quizzically as he handed me a shield and a spear from the arsenal we had brought with us. He was armed in the same way.

Forcing a cheerful voice, I said, “Kalf, where's your bow and quiver? We have bigger game than meadow hens to shoot this morning.”

He flashed me a brave smile, but Hoskuld, staring with sudden fright out of his clouded eyes, cried, “No! No, I forbid it! Kalf, come here. Give me your hand. Come, you'll do no fighting here.”

Kalf stopped. He stood torn between us, his fists clenched, his face hot with shame and anger.

“Best do as he says, Kalf …” I urged in a low voice, pressing his arm, “this time.”

“Odd Tangle-Hair, you'll see one day how I can fight.” He was close to tears. He took hold—not gently—of his grandfather's hand. A look of peace spread over the old man's face.

“Well, Uncle,” said Gunnar, “where is this godi of yours? Wasn't he going to march up with us?”

“Don't you worry about that, Handsome Gunnar,” Hoskuld replied. “His quarters are at the far end of the gorge. No doubt he'll meet us along the way.”

With Gunnar and me in the lead, our party started across the plain to the spot appointed for the meeting of the South Quarter Court. There we found, seated on a curving row of wooden benches, the thirty-six jurors who would hear our case. Around them, a crowd of the curious had already collected. There were just ten of us, including the womenfolk and Hoskuld's two servants, who wore swords and, perhaps, could use them. Sigmund, his face well hidden by the hood, stayed in the back as we'd told him to.

At the opposite end of the row of benches were Hrut and his son, backed by a mob of armed men. Also in plain sight was Snorri, whose head overtopped them all. Altogether, I figured there were three or four hundred fighting men there, and every one of them hoping to warm his sword in our guts before the day was done.

“Jesu,” said Jorunn in a hushed voice to her brother, “they have come for war, not justice. Where is this Hall Thorarinsson of yours?”

“Quiet!” he snapped. “He'll be here. And if it's bloodshed they want, it's bloodshed they shall have.”

To my surprise, Snorri detached himself from the throng around Hrut and made his way toward us. He reminded me of some great dragon ship: his belly like a prow, making the waters part, and his cloak of red wool the size of a small sail, billowing around him. He was armored in a coat of mail that two ordinary men could have stood up in. At his heels a white bull mastiff trotted.