Sometimes I feel like I’m living in a forest.”
Again the men spent the day together; this time it was the maintenance of the tools that was explained. When Svanhildr extended another dinner invitation, Sigurðr accepted. She served chicken stew with seaweed and, as the men ate, she rocked the dragon cradle until Bragi fell asleep.
They sat around the longfire until late in the night, smoke drifting through the vent in the ceiling. Svanhildr heated a small cauldron of ale and when the men’s frost-cups neared their dregs, she would dip the ale-goose into the cauldron to refill them. When Sigurðr commented on the brew’s excellent taste, Svanhildr explained her secret lay in the combination of juniper and bog myrtle. “It is often said that a man’s happiness depends on the quality of his food,” she explained, “but in Einarr’s case it’s more the quality of his alcohol.”
Einarr grunted appreciatively and took another gulp.
That night, as Sigurðr walked back to his own house, he absent-mindedly rubbed his fingers with the patch of sharkskin he had not given to Einarr. He had sliced it from the top fin because he knew it would make fine sandpaper, but somehow he had not found a good moment to hand it over. By the time he arrived at his own shabby dwelling, his fingers were so numb he didn’t notice they were covered in blood.
In the afternoons that followed, Sigurðr discovered that while he had no real feel for woodwork, he did have a talent for paints. He ground the pigments-blacks from charcoal, whites from bone, reds from ocher-and applied them to the finished work. Sigurðr was thrice pleased: by the new skill he was developing; by the colors themselves; and by the smile on Einarr’s face.
Einarr, too, was content. Not only did Sigurðr’s painting improve his work, but also the young man was a good companion-not quite a friend yet, but certainly not only a workmate. To recognize this fact, one day Einarr handed over a long package, wrapped in worsted fabric and tied with a leather string. Inside was a sword with an intricately carved dragon handle. “It would be good for you to have a proper blade,” Einarr said, “not that fish-cutter you have now.”
Sigurðr nodded, because he didn’t know what else to do. Since his parents had died, this was the first gift anyone had given him.
“Now,” asked Einarr, “would you like to learn to use that?”
Einarr set about correcting the weaknesses in Sigurðr’s technique, and the pupil was quick to incorporate the suggestions. Einarr was impressed. “Your body naturally knows which way to move, and this is good. There are many things that can be taught, but a feel for the attack is not one of them.”
Sigurðr looked at his feet. He didn’t want Einarr to see the blush the compliment had brought to his face.
“You will need a name for that,” Einarr said. “I suggest Sigurðrsnautr. Because if you ever need to put your blade into a man, it will not be a gift that he soon forgets.”
When Sigurðr returned home that evening, he turned the sword over and over in his hands. He liked the name-“Sigurðr’s Gift.” He carefully tied together the ends of the leather strap that had wrapped the package, and hung it around his neck. From that day forward, he was never without it, but he always made sure the strap was carefully tucked into his tunic. There was no need to display it; it was enough to know what had once been in Einarr’s fingers now constantly touched his skin. To think of the fact sometimes raised small bumps on Sigurðr’s flesh, the way a blast of the northern wind might.
When the inevitable day came that Einarr left for a series of Viking raids, Sigurðr expected this would mark a return to his lonely ways. But Svanhildr invited him for pancakes and ale each morning and-to his own surprise-Sigurðr kept showing up. Bragi was growing bigger and soon added a new phrase to his growing vocabulary. He knew
Though Einarr may have built the supply chests in the home, it was Svanhildr who controlled them with her chain of keys. Not without careful planning could a Viking household make it through the brutal winters, and Sigurðr grew to appreciate her work. She knew all the methods for preserving meat-smoking, salting, pickling, and more-so her husband did not grow tired of the same meals. After a while, Sigurðr found himself helping her after breakfast, slicing the meat into strips while she prepared the brines in which they would soak.
Not once during her husband’s absence did Svanhildr mention a fear that he might not come home-but when word came that the ship had returned, Svanhildr rushed to the shore and jumped into Einarr’s waiting arms. She kissed him passionately, then punched him twice in the face, and then gently kissed the blood off his lips. Sigurðr wasn’t quite sure, but it almost seemed that when Svanhildr pulled back her fist, Einarr offered up his chin to receive the coming blows.
Sigurðr helped to carry the plunder back to the longhouse and was amazed by the volume of goods: precious metals and bags of coins, jewelry, tools snatched from foreign workshops, and the bottles of wine that had not broken on the return voyage. But for all this, it was clear that Svanhildr was waiting for something more. Then Einarr drew out a jeweled book mount he had ripped from the cover of an edition of Gospels at one of the English monasteries, and pressed it into Svanhildr’s hand. She admired it for a few moments before adding the bauble to her treasure necklace, and finally Sigurðr understood from where the great variety of her charms had come. Everywhere.
They drank ale and wine late into the night until Sigurðr, too drunk to stumble home, passed out on one of the benches that lined the walls. Here he lay, until awakened by the sounds of a fight-or so he thought, in the disoriented moments before he realized he was overhearing the coupling of his hosts.
Einarr thrust brutally into his wife from behind, his hands pulling back her hips. It appeared that Svanhildr was desperately trying to escape, and she was, but not really: it was part of their game. When she finally managed to break free, Einarr grabbed her kicking legs and flipped her over. When he entered her from on top, she dragged her fingernails across his back, carving streaks of blood into his flesh. She bit his neck so hard that he had to pull her head away by a fistful of hair. She barked in pain, then smiled wickedly and told her husband that he smelled like old fish and fucked like a girl. Einarr growled that she wasn’t going to be able to walk straight come the morning.
It took a long time for Sigurðr to fall back asleep.
When he woke again, it was clear that Einarr-teeth marks ringing his throat-had already washed the stench from his body in the nearest hot spring. Bragi was running around, reacquainting himself with his father, while Svanhildr-bruises running down her arms-implored the boy to keep his voice down as she patiently untangled Einarr’s hair with a whalebone comb. Every once in a while, she threw her arms around him from behind to whisper,
When Sigurðr exaggerated a yawn to signal that he was awake, Svanhildr jumped up from her husband and went to get a bucket of fresh water so their guest could wash himself. Even before she had brought it over, Bragi had launched himself into Sigurðr’s arms. By now, his vocabulary had improved and he squealed with joy: “Uncle Sig!”
It was not long after that Einarr, for the second time, extended an offer that would change Sigurðr’s life: this time, to join the Viking crew. As Einarr explained, the long voyages were boring and he missed his life back home; perhaps the company of a friend would help ease that.
The offer was not without appeal, because Sigurðr often feared he was not enough of a man. In the mornings, he jumped into water and scavenged for dead animals; in the afternoons, he worked as an assistant; when he felt lonely, he helped another man’s wife with domestic chores. Sigurðr only promised to think about it but he already knew that he would accept the offer, and not least of all because Einarr had called him friend.
Sigurðr soon found himself being considered by the Vikings. There was some dissent-whispered rumors that Sigurðr was
