I, Eyvindur: To the Land of Wine (I - Ginnung)

Preface & Glossary: https://www.abctales.com/story/fabiandekerck/i-eyvindur-land-wine-preface-glossary

GINNUNG

Eyvindur the Gold Wolf of Iceland had finally seen what Árni had been so bent on telling. All the doggindales and ice swamping only in the fogs of what surely was the eternal njól. Ginnungagap peering into Miðgarðr again. A bleak omen, grim, but glorious in enticement. It boded honour ahead.

Leif the lucky, Christian and Hirð by Olaf Tryggvason, King in Vikin, would have none such pagan talk. Nor would old Tyrker or most of the crewmen. But the words of Odin were the oldest truth, and if Steinnþór was to be reminded of that at such a viewing, then surely Leif might too. No need to hail him for it; for that misted stretch was their next journey. If their captain was going to see it, he’d see it.

Helluland, Land of Flat Stones: a barren place. Eyvindur sneered at the horizon. A bitter breeze carried Eyvindur’s disapproving phlegm a few metres over the nearest of such black, smooth rocks. Ásbjörn the Sea Bear moaned without turning his face, frozen over; a stone-carved man by a distanced account, only contradicted by his blond braids flapping in that squall. Ásbjörn was wise and Eyvindur’s elder, but not much a talker by any standard.

‘You after a walrus or something? Net and harpoon won’t bring cod up clean, Ásbjörn.’

Ásbjörn sneered, unmoving. Eyvindur expected no less. ‘Well if you do bring up some blubber, share it with me first. We’ve enough oil and fish for the voyage to next land, but I wouldn’t say no to extra shares,’ the young Norseman said. His brows were twice as thick as Ásbjörn’s, but his beard and hair were comparatively restrained in length or honey colour. Not as bushed as the grizzled amongst them, but his face was hardly less worn; his eyelids sufficiently caked in salt enough that he had made the thirty-five companions.

 An echoed horn slipped past the mists to reach Eyvindur, though Ásbjörn was in no rush to reload the ship like it told. Eyvindur considered it his end of their deal to make his work double. Prestige was promised either way; work might make only the sip from that horn and bit from that fat all the more satisfying.

Save the dozen that were stalking and mapping the island for anything more than snow and stone, and Ásbjörn, the sailors were in unison, merry in song, as they piled wood boxes and barrels high. Leif worked among them, as a fair Christian would. Though it seemed more to stir the swiftness of reloading than out of good faith.

Eyvindur wondered at what drew Erik, the father for which Leif bore his name, to pull from the expedition. A land told by the crazed merchant Bjarni Herjólfsson to be beyond Greenland – confirmed then by Leif’s own venture off course from Greenland, bringing back with him two gleeful men and a tale of land where wine grows on trees. The Red was no stranger to the perils of pioneering, nor one to so easily quell the temptation of such things told by four good men, with one his dear son. The rumour told that it revolved around an omen, disguised by an injury, and yet Erik’s sons still mounted it all the same.

‘Enough of your trifling gawk, Eyvindur Snorrisson. We’ll hit those promised lands in time due to our efforts,’ Leif acclaimed from a few steps behind. ‘And so it should be soon. Come now, collect Ásbjörn. We leave once this wind decides what it will do, and as soon as that.’

Eyvindur did not move at first. The fogs of yonder were inviting challenge, but Erik Thorvaldsson did not halt challenge without good reason. Perhaps that peaceful God bled the strength from him to Leif. Eyvindur brooded. Onward to where wine grows upon trees.