Diary of a Greenland Viking
Created | Updated Aug 17, 2005
2nd of June, 1402 A.D. The Decision:
Our chief, Thorstein the Bone Head, gathered us all in the long
banquet hall today to make an announcement. He stood and banged his
sword on the table until silence finally fell. Bone Head is now nearly
blind, so his aim wasn't good, and the silver flaggon of state went
clattering away from him and was passed slowly back along the table.
He didn't notice. Maybe he is going deaf too? Anyway, he solemly held
aloft the patched and worn Holy Garment, that was worn by our last
minister from Rome, and recited the holy words: In Spiritu Sancti.
Amen. We grunted a reply. No one, of course, now knows what the
Blaserk these words mean, but sometimes it is comforting to hear what
one heard in one's childhood, especially in times of great changes.
In his harsh and gutteral voice, Bone Head began to speak in the
direction of the south wall, until his loving wife Freydis rotated
him. He said he has consulted our manic sybil, Gudrun the Big Eyed.
She lives in a cave half way up Ragnar's Peak. Taking her advice he
has decided that we shall leave the cursed shores of Greenland, that
have become colder in recent years, and strike out with our three
remaining long boats to the south, to Vinland where the wild grapes grow!
A great excitement rose from us. Erik Karsefni then stood. He is a
decendant of him who tried to settle in Vinland hundreds of years ago.
He said excitedly that he had had a dream in which his ancestor had
blamed our recent harsh luck on the fact that he had failed to
colonise fertile Vinland. In the dream he blamed himself and beat his
head in penance with a leafy birch branch. None of us have seen a
living tree branch, only the one picture in our bible, so this was
taken as a meaningful dream and received with a hushed awe. Only
Baldass Vifilsson the Shrill stood up to dissent. He said that the ice
off our coast was thinner this year, in the area south of Godthaab,
and so we can expect warmer weather to come. No one agreed with him.
Everyone knows he has had commerce with a heathen Skraeling
women from the nearest igloo village, so we do not trust him.
Thorstein replied calmly that the recent thinness of the ice was a
good reason to leave this year. In a typical year the ice melts only
for a week or so in August. This year we may see a longer duration of
ice-free sea in which to sail south. We are indeed in a bad way. Our
last sheep died over the winter and we now can look to only fish as a
source of food. I think Thorstein was right. We have to leave or face
extinction. I want my children to grow up in a place where they do not
have to struggle against endless cold, and the Skraelings, to survive.
As I write, my wife is murmuring for me to blow out the candle...
3rd June, 1402. Harold:
After morning prayers I left my wife and kids and made my way down
the the pier through the light morning snow with Snorri Haralsson.
Snorri owns the farm called Bratakhlid just up the hill from ours
(an enviable position because the sun warms his land for an extra
half hour through the day). He's a smug bugger, but has a sense of humour.
For example: when we are working in our respective gardens
he always waits until I'm plunged into the Shadow of Blaserk, and
he's still warmed by the sunshine, then he sits down with his home
made beer, smiles broadly and waves at me.
Anyway, on leaving the chapel he asked me if I would visit his
farm (he was giving a party to discuss the recent Vinland decision
of Bone Head) and would I read Karlsefni's account of Vinland to
the gathering? This is because I can read and write. I agreed of
course, since the Haralsson's are rich, and the food they serve
is the best, and I mused how funny it is that he is rich and owns
the only copy of the Vinland story but can't read it! My father
would have loved the irony because he always used to say that the
rich man is not he who owns, but he who understands the world:
this is why he taught me to read. My father was an intellectual romantic,
and what is the point of that in a marginal place like
Greenland where there are only five books to read? I say that
having both riches and understanding is nice! But I here spit on
my hand for the sin of greed.
Snorri and I walked silently down to the pier. I was imagining the
fertile land I would have in Vinland: would I be able to have a
tree? Our two fishing companions were already in the boat: Briklas
and Svein. Briklas was in a jovial mood, having found his lost
chicken. Now I must say that he has been driving us mad during our
fishing trips lamenting this lost chicken, which apparently was so
much better than all his others. On a small boat you can't get
away from inane chatter: unless you chuck the chatterer overboard.
We once tried this on Briklas - his teeth chattered all the way
home, and we joked that the sound of his teeth chattering made more
sense than his normal conversation. I spit on my evil hand...
Anyway, we were preparing our fishing boat when an inhuman cry
sounded from up Bratakhlid Hill. It was Snorri's wife. A minute
later we could see her running down the snow-dusted hill, with
her kitchen laddle still in her hand. I was surprised because she
is stocky and unfit and I'd never seen her do more than amble
before, but, there she was, moving along as fast as an Ice Bear,
calling out for Snorri. He, poor chap, looked up from the
rope he was unwinding, his eyes were wide as he looked at me.
'What did I do now?' he said
He threw the rope away, and rushed off the boat, stamping along
the wooded pier and ran to meet his wife. But, instead of beating
him about the head with the laddle, as she sometimes does to our
amusement, instead she collapsed into his arms wet faced and weeping.
Well, it was most serious. A group of Skraelings had appeared at
the house, asked her unintelligible questions in their language,
and when she had told them to 'go piss up a tree', they had
snatched and run off with Snorri's youngest son, Harald.
Now some Skraelings are alright, and we trade with them, but in any
community there are bad apples, and many of the snow people have
nothing but hatred for us, since there have been many brutal wars
in which many of them have been killed. They now see also our
declining population and our weakness. Snorri was weeping as he
came back onto the boat, his wife had simply collapsed in despair
into the slush by the pier. He went down on his knees, apologised
for any bad behaviour he had ever indulged in, and begged us to
go help him and rescue his child. I must say that often he makes
my blood boil, but he's a good man. You can have a good conversation
with him, if you stear him away from his farm for a moment. We all
felt bad for him: we have children ourselves so we agreed to help.
We have been tracking them all day (Svein is good at that) and we
have determined that Harold is with two Skraelings, though we don't
hold out much hope of catching them. The snow people are very quick.
Snorri knows this and has been silent.
As I write this we are camping at the apex of the Djaevlen Korsla
(Devil's Slope) preparing for sleep. Briklas, our first watch
keeper, lovable and strong, but chicken-minded, is telling the
dark Fjord below us that he'll be a useful chap to have along on
this quest - having successfully found his best chicken.
4th June, 1402. Iron:
This morning Snorri woke up early, keen to be after Harold. I had
been awake since Briklas had woken me at sunrise. I had passed the
time watching the sun rise over the fjord's wall and carving an
Arctic Hare from a soapstone I'd brought with me. Snorri set off
at once, and we following, grumbling mildly. We were still half
asleep, and not thinking very clearly when, half an hour later,
we entered the dark ravine that we call 'Baumkrak'. This is one of
the few sheltered places in Greenland where trees are able to grow,
although, because of the lack of sunlight, liquid water and pretty
much everything else in Greenland these so called 'trees' are only
about two feet high, and tend to grow along the stoney ground rather
than perpendicular to it. All the same, it was comforting to see
the wall of green leaves and the delicate white blooms and we
stopped to admire them. Only then did we realise our mistake.
An arrow thwacked into the ground beside Snorri and a voice from
above us called out something like:
'Imaat!'
I looked up to see probably about a dozen Skraelings pearing at us
over the edge of the ravine. Instinctively, we had all drawn our
swords, but Snorri motion us to place them on the ground, which we
all did, with some nervousness. Snorri whispered to us:
'If they wanted to kill us, they would already have done it.'
He turned to Svein
'What do you think?'
'They want something.' said Svein.
'Agreed, but what?'
A delegation of five Skraelings was now walking down the ravine
towards us. They wore thick coats with hoods and had round, dark
faces, and narrow inscrutable eyes. They had no beards. In front
was the senior, the leader, we assumed, next to him was a taller
man (perhaps his advisor) and behind them were three larger men,
with spears. They stopped a few metres in front of us.
'What do we do now?' said Briklas, unusually quiet.
'Behave ourselves.' said Snorri.
I became rather worried when the Skraeling leader took out a small
knife and held it up in the air. He seemed to be admiring it. He then
used it to cut of the branch of one of the treelets, looking at us
all the time. Snorri gasped
'That's Harold's little sword!'
He moved forward abruptly, but Svein held him back, giving him a
significant look.
'I would advise calm! I think he likes our iron knives.'
'I'd like to know where Harold bloody well is!'
'He might be suggesting we trade our swords for Harald.'
Snorri looked at Svein as the significance of this sank in...
Copyright 2005 Mike McCulloch
Our chief, Thorstein the Bone Head, gathered us all in the long
banquet hall today to make an announcement. He stood and banged his
sword on the table until silence finally fell. Bone Head is now nearly
blind, so his aim wasn't good, and the silver flaggon of state went
clattering away from him and was passed slowly back along the table.
He didn't notice. Maybe he is going deaf too? Anyway, he solemly held
aloft the patched and worn Holy Garment, that was worn by our last
minister from Rome, and recited the holy words: In Spiritu Sancti.
Amen. We grunted a reply. No one, of course, now knows what the
Blaserk these words mean, but sometimes it is comforting to hear what
one heard in one's childhood, especially in times of great changes.
In his harsh and gutteral voice, Bone Head began to speak in the
direction of the south wall, until his loving wife Freydis rotated
him. He said he has consulted our manic sybil, Gudrun the Big Eyed.
She lives in a cave half way up Ragnar's Peak. Taking her advice he
has decided that we shall leave the cursed shores of Greenland, that
have become colder in recent years, and strike out with our three
remaining long boats to the south, to Vinland where the wild grapes grow!
A great excitement rose from us. Erik Karsefni then stood. He is a
decendant of him who tried to settle in Vinland hundreds of years ago.
He said excitedly that he had had a dream in which his ancestor had
blamed our recent harsh luck on the fact that he had failed to
colonise fertile Vinland. In the dream he blamed himself and beat his
head in penance with a leafy birch branch. None of us have seen a
living tree branch, only the one picture in our bible, so this was
taken as a meaningful dream and received with a hushed awe. Only
Baldass Vifilsson the Shrill stood up to dissent. He said that the ice
off our coast was thinner this year, in the area south of Godthaab,
and so we can expect warmer weather to come. No one agreed with him.
Everyone knows he has had commerce with a heathen Skraeling
women from the nearest igloo village, so we do not trust him.
Thorstein replied calmly that the recent thinness of the ice was a
good reason to leave this year. In a typical year the ice melts only
for a week or so in August. This year we may see a longer duration of
ice-free sea in which to sail south. We are indeed in a bad way. Our
last sheep died over the winter and we now can look to only fish as a
source of food. I think Thorstein was right. We have to leave or face
extinction. I want my children to grow up in a place where they do not
have to struggle against endless cold, and the Skraelings, to survive.
As I write, my wife is murmuring for me to blow out the candle...
3rd June, 1402. Harold:
After morning prayers I left my wife and kids and made my way down
the the pier through the light morning snow with Snorri Haralsson.
Snorri owns the farm called Bratakhlid just up the hill from ours
(an enviable position because the sun warms his land for an extra
half hour through the day). He's a smug bugger, but has a sense of humour.
For example: when we are working in our respective gardens
he always waits until I'm plunged into the Shadow of Blaserk, and
he's still warmed by the sunshine, then he sits down with his home
made beer, smiles broadly and waves at me.
Anyway, on leaving the chapel he asked me if I would visit his
farm (he was giving a party to discuss the recent Vinland decision
of Bone Head) and would I read Karlsefni's account of Vinland to
the gathering? This is because I can read and write. I agreed of
course, since the Haralsson's are rich, and the food they serve
is the best, and I mused how funny it is that he is rich and owns
the only copy of the Vinland story but can't read it! My father
would have loved the irony because he always used to say that the
rich man is not he who owns, but he who understands the world:
this is why he taught me to read. My father was an intellectual romantic,
and what is the point of that in a marginal place like
Greenland where there are only five books to read? I say that
having both riches and understanding is nice! But I here spit on
my hand for the sin of greed.
Snorri and I walked silently down to the pier. I was imagining the
fertile land I would have in Vinland: would I be able to have a
tree? Our two fishing companions were already in the boat: Briklas
and Svein. Briklas was in a jovial mood, having found his lost
chicken. Now I must say that he has been driving us mad during our
fishing trips lamenting this lost chicken, which apparently was so
much better than all his others. On a small boat you can't get
away from inane chatter: unless you chuck the chatterer overboard.
We once tried this on Briklas - his teeth chattered all the way
home, and we joked that the sound of his teeth chattering made more
sense than his normal conversation. I spit on my evil hand...
Anyway, we were preparing our fishing boat when an inhuman cry
sounded from up Bratakhlid Hill. It was Snorri's wife. A minute
later we could see her running down the snow-dusted hill, with
her kitchen laddle still in her hand. I was surprised because she
is stocky and unfit and I'd never seen her do more than amble
before, but, there she was, moving along as fast as an Ice Bear,
calling out for Snorri. He, poor chap, looked up from the
rope he was unwinding, his eyes were wide as he looked at me.
'What did I do now?' he said
He threw the rope away, and rushed off the boat, stamping along
the wooded pier and ran to meet his wife. But, instead of beating
him about the head with the laddle, as she sometimes does to our
amusement, instead she collapsed into his arms wet faced and weeping.
Well, it was most serious. A group of Skraelings had appeared at
the house, asked her unintelligible questions in their language,
and when she had told them to 'go piss up a tree', they had
snatched and run off with Snorri's youngest son, Harald.
Now some Skraelings are alright, and we trade with them, but in any
community there are bad apples, and many of the snow people have
nothing but hatred for us, since there have been many brutal wars
in which many of them have been killed. They now see also our
declining population and our weakness. Snorri was weeping as he
came back onto the boat, his wife had simply collapsed in despair
into the slush by the pier. He went down on his knees, apologised
for any bad behaviour he had ever indulged in, and begged us to
go help him and rescue his child. I must say that often he makes
my blood boil, but he's a good man. You can have a good conversation
with him, if you stear him away from his farm for a moment. We all
felt bad for him: we have children ourselves so we agreed to help.
We have been tracking them all day (Svein is good at that) and we
have determined that Harold is with two Skraelings, though we don't
hold out much hope of catching them. The snow people are very quick.
Snorri knows this and has been silent.
As I write this we are camping at the apex of the Djaevlen Korsla
(Devil's Slope) preparing for sleep. Briklas, our first watch
keeper, lovable and strong, but chicken-minded, is telling the
dark Fjord below us that he'll be a useful chap to have along on
this quest - having successfully found his best chicken.
4th June, 1402. Iron:
This morning Snorri woke up early, keen to be after Harold. I had
been awake since Briklas had woken me at sunrise. I had passed the
time watching the sun rise over the fjord's wall and carving an
Arctic Hare from a soapstone I'd brought with me. Snorri set off
at once, and we following, grumbling mildly. We were still half
asleep, and not thinking very clearly when, half an hour later,
we entered the dark ravine that we call 'Baumkrak'. This is one of
the few sheltered places in Greenland where trees are able to grow,
although, because of the lack of sunlight, liquid water and pretty
much everything else in Greenland these so called 'trees' are only
about two feet high, and tend to grow along the stoney ground rather
than perpendicular to it. All the same, it was comforting to see
the wall of green leaves and the delicate white blooms and we
stopped to admire them. Only then did we realise our mistake.
An arrow thwacked into the ground beside Snorri and a voice from
above us called out something like:
'Imaat!'
I looked up to see probably about a dozen Skraelings pearing at us
over the edge of the ravine. Instinctively, we had all drawn our
swords, but Snorri motion us to place them on the ground, which we
all did, with some nervousness. Snorri whispered to us:
'If they wanted to kill us, they would already have done it.'
He turned to Svein
'What do you think?'
'They want something.' said Svein.
'Agreed, but what?'
A delegation of five Skraelings was now walking down the ravine
towards us. They wore thick coats with hoods and had round, dark
faces, and narrow inscrutable eyes. They had no beards. In front
was the senior, the leader, we assumed, next to him was a taller
man (perhaps his advisor) and behind them were three larger men,
with spears. They stopped a few metres in front of us.
'What do we do now?' said Briklas, unusually quiet.
'Behave ourselves.' said Snorri.
I became rather worried when the Skraeling leader took out a small
knife and held it up in the air. He seemed to be admiring it. He then
used it to cut of the branch of one of the treelets, looking at us
all the time. Snorri gasped
'That's Harold's little sword!'
He moved forward abruptly, but Svein held him back, giving him a
significant look.
'I would advise calm! I think he likes our iron knives.'
'I'd like to know where Harold bloody well is!'
'He might be suggesting we trade our swords for Harald.'
Snorri looked at Svein as the significance of this sank in...
Copyright 2005 Mike McCulloch
