The Gargoyle

few tests of Sigurðr’s strength and skill with weapons, he was accepted on a trial expedition down the English coast.

The ship was an imposing thing, with cowhide shields and woolen sails, at its head a fierce carved serpent. They steered by the sun and the stars, the Vikings sitting on empty chests that would be full by the time they came home. It was clear that there were members of the Viking crew who relished the fight to come. They would prepare for the siege with chants, by slapping each other across the face, by cutting their own skin to whet their blades’ thirst for blood. Some would even imagine themselves as possessed by animal spirits, and aided the process by taking large mouthfuls of berserkjasveppur-berserker mushrooms-before hitting the English shore.

Einarr advised Sigurðr not to bother. He had used the mushrooms on his first raid, but they only disoriented him. However, he did confess he sometimes used them back in his workshop when he lacked inspiration for his carving. After a few mushrooms, he said, it was easy to envision the flowing designs that elude a man while sober.

Sigurðr soon discovered that the fighting came easily to him and that it was a simple task to overpower the English; they would mostly just hand over the loot in an effort to have done with it, especially the monks. The raids were a great success and Sigurðr, with Einarr’s help, acquitted himself well. He was invited for a second run, then a third, and after that he became a regular crew member. For the first time in his life, Sigurðr felt that he belonged. He’d moved from having no family to having two-Einarr’s, and a fraternity of brothers-and he believed that his newly earned manliness would, at the end of his days, allow him to enter Valhalla.

So it went for years. In the intervals between the raids, Sigurðr and Einarr practiced their weapons and improved their woodworking partnership. Einarr’s carving became ever more imaginative, perhaps because of the ale he sipped with increasing regularity or the mushrooms he took when in particular need of inspiration. Sigurðr’s skill with paint likewise progressed. The men spent most days together and, usually, on each new day they liked each other better than they had on the previous one.

It was inevitable, of course, that Sigurðr fell in love with Einarr. It was no longer simply lust’s first bloom, but something deeper and truer and better. It was equally inevitable that Einarr knew, but he had become an expert at pretending not to notice Sigurðr’s occasionally lingering looks. This is how they dealt with it: by acting as if it didn’t exist. Nothing good could come from talking about it, so they didn’t, and it hung between them like a long night with a dawn that never came.

As for Svanhildr, her love for Einarr also grew with each year; however, the excitement of his Viking way of life gave way to the harsh reality of his absences, and she became moody in the weeks leading up to each raiding expedition. Then came one time that was worse than any that had come before. She snapped whenever Einarr asked for a refilled frost-cup, berated the gods for no apparent reason, and even broke down into tears when Bragi scraped his knee while playing with a toy sword.

When Einarr could no longer stand it, he grabbed her shoulders and shook her until she gave up her silence.

“The problem is you,” she said. “And your trips, when I’m with child.”

A smile spread across Einarr’s face.

“Stop that! I’m not supposed to be pregnant again,” she lamented. “I’m old.”

“But not too old,” said Einarr. “Apparently.”

On the night before the men were to leave, Svanhildr served them smoked pork and her latest ale but barely spoke. The following morning, she did not accompany Einarr to the shore. She just slapped him once across the mouth at their front door to say goodbye.

The raids went as they always did. The reputation of the Vikings was almost enough to win any fight before a sword was lifted and by the time they approached their final target, their ship was loaded heavily. Perhaps they had grown complacent, because they were less prepared than usual. The English village had been attacked many times without difficulty, but recently the townspeople had learned some methods to defend themselves in an attempt to restore their pride. They didn’t expect to defeat the Vikings, but they desperately wanted to take a few of the intruders down.

As the Vikings poured out of their boat and across the sand, there came an unexpected exclamation of arrows across the sky. Sigurðr had a good eye; he spotted one arrow that posed a particular threat. He readied himself to move out of its path but then realized that if he did so, the arrow would hit the man behind him.

Einarr.

And so he did not move.

The arrow cut through the pelts across Sigurðr’s chest and he fell to the ground with a sharp yell, his fingers wrapped around the shaft.

After their initial surprise, the Vikings quickly regained control and the village fell to the attackers, as it always did. But the battle no longer involved Einarr Einarsson or Sigurðr Sigurрsson, who were back on the shore. The arrow was lodged deep in Sigurðr’s chest, embedded past the barb, and could not be pulled out without ripping the wound open.

Sigurðr knew this. He was afraid but gathered his courage even as he felt his eyes glazing over like ice forming on idle oars. “Einarr?”

“Yes.”

“I am dying.”

“You are not.”

“Remember me.”

“How could I forget a man,” Einarr replied, “so stupid that he believes he’s dying from a flesh wound?”

“Einarr?”

“What?”

“There is something I need to tell you.”

“You’re talkative for a dying man.”

“No,” Sigurðr insisted. “Ég elska—'

Einarr cut him off. “All this prattling makes you sound like a woman. Save your strength.”

The look on Einarr’s face let Sigurðr know that the discussion was finished, so he closed his eyes and let his friend carry him back onto the longboat. There Einarr cut away the flesh around the arrow’s shaft, and Sigurðr howled in agony with each slice. When the trench had been dug wide enough, Einarr used tongs to pull out the arrowhead and then held it up so Sigurðr, barely conscious, could see the meaty fibers that clung to it.

“Svan must have fed you well,” Einarr said. “There is fat near your heart.”

Through the return trip, Einarr washed the bandages and checked Sigurðr’s wound for infection but it seemed to be, if not healing, at least not getting worse. Almost before Sigurðr knew it, he awoke to the sight of Svanhildr holding out a bowl of leek and onion soup.

“The warmth will be good for you,” she said.

“I can leave. It is not wise for a sick man to be in the home of a pregnant woman.”

She seemed amused. “You are family, and we will hear of no such thing.”

“But the baby…”

“Drink up. If I can smell the onions through your wounds, I’ll know your insides have been damaged.”

Over the following days Einarr and Bragi prayed to the goddess of healing, and Svanhildr continued to tend Sigurðr’s wounds. The local healer blessed a number of whalebone runes in exchange for one of Einarr’s best chests, and scattered them around the bench on which Sigurðr slept.

It seemed to work; Sigurðr’s wound remained onion free. The first thing he did, when it was obvious he would live, was head into the workshop to bore a hole through one of the healing runes. This, he handed over to Svanhildr.

“I would be honored,” he said, “if you added this to your treasure necklace. You don’t have to, but-”

She cut his sentence short by throwing her arms around him, and nodding vigorously.

The recovery was not easy. Sigurðr had difficulty lifting his arms and occasionally there were shooting pains when he least expected them, but he soon grew tired of being looked after. He joined Einarr on his latest