I, Eyvindur: To the Land of Wine (II - Njól of Draumr)

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

NJÓL OF DRAUMR

Squally conditions were not kind in icy waters. Rowing was hard enough, the slurry of half-frozen brine no aid to that end, but Leif’s proficiency at keeping order was certainly a help. Árni rowed with Eyvindur, both behind Leif’s brother, named for their grandfather, Thorvald Eriksson. A less appealing type, not bent on the goodness of a god or God, but the rewards that come with building a following for him. His furs were twice as thick as any save Leif’s, but he had adorned it with the trimmings of golden holly leaves to perhaps take one over his brother. Árni was determined he was a great man. Eyvindur saw no such radiance to assume anything more than an untested highborn.

‘Sea-whip or lindwyrm might swim amongst here, ay Thorvald,’ Árni laughed.

‘I don’t believe in serpents of the deep,’ Thorvald groaned back.

Eyvindur watched Árni amuse himself in hopes that Thorvald might break into curiosity. It was certainly an interesting topic; that of the cousins of Selma, or the nix of folklore. But Eyvindur wasn’t abject as Thorvald to the possibility. Especially not when ice bled fog and sea a deep abyss amongst untravelled waters moating a forest of wines.

‘I’d watch yourself, Árni Far-Crier. There’s no myth amongst the finalities of men that cause a stir such as you might with those lying ways,’ Thorvald said. A sly of the fox ran through his words. And Árni even claimed amicable with that threat-bearer, unproven as yet.

‘I fear for the ghosts of dead men.’ Eyvindur broke out. ‘Spectres at sea. Strandvasker. I call them draugen, but those are demons for which I beg reality, Eriksson. I fear we would win no race against them, nor repel them in their waters as are these. Hold your tongue then, save a draug rise,’ Eyvindur grimly demanded.

Árni hollered in a chuckle. ‘Oh, Eyvindur, the most superstitious húskarl to which I have the pleasure of sailing with. But don’t lose our stroke,’ he laughed, patting Eyvindur’s wolf-hide shoulder. ‘Fear not young Thorvald, for no drowned men nor their spirits will haunt this journey. At least not like this one, eh? Eh, Eyvindur?’

Neither Eyvindur nor Thorvald did respond. Eriksson continued his rowing in word with his brother’s vociferous booming of orders. Even the winds carrying daggers of frozen bitterness parted for Leif’s words. Eyvindur knew not that Thorvald might fear such tall tales. Thorvald was a great son of Erik the Red, and his is a tale of magnitude and grandeur. But the looming of great beasts below the surface of the ink were real to any man that let their mind dwell or drift. In any case, it seemed to humble the boy.

Rowing was ongoing. Save the odd rests and water breaks, giving time for the cartographers to make their sketches, or to drift beyond jagged floes, the rowing continued. Until a ripple seemed to follow the ship, as if some ophidian devil might really lurk. The portside rowers were observing it, breaking their time some, but kept quiet of it; it was Thorvald who, when first seeing it, missed his stroke. And he jolted from his seat, rocking the compass-bowl, before some jet of crystalline droplets flew into the glint of what light passed through the milky ambience around.

‘Calm, Thorvald,’ Leif roared. He motioned to Ásbjörn, who was already with spear in hand, over the side of the ship leaning. A spectre’s shadow radiated from just below the meniscus of Þór’s great drinking horn, with a spear reaching from where a head might’ve been. A wail of shock from portside then cut the tension too, as three further silhouettes made contact with the ship, bumping it.

But they were bumping it from where the icebergs lay deep in the sea. They guided the longship towards where land was next. Ásbjörn missed his throw from fatal damage, but the blood twisted in an inky tornado around the shadow demanded it fled. And Leif saw no evil.

Rather, the jets were the beginnings of the beauty. And in the jets glowed diamonds stained in cerulean, spraying some droplets upon the creaking wood of the deck, but doing nothing more than guiding what those narwhals thought a friend. Eriksson realised this fast. He stopped the spearing, and told his men rest, to cheerful obliging. Mead was shared as their allies of the deep did their navigation for them.