Tilman Roehrig - Erik the Red

He hadnt counted how often hed walked the stony path from the meadow up to the farmstead and back, nor how often hed passed the other servants and Erik. Theyd all been exchanging jokes in the morning, but soon everyone had fallen quiet, silently battling sweat and weariness. Were two-legged hay-creatures, he thought, and I will soon choke on this smell.

He carried the hay-filled sailcloth on his neck and shoulders. It was his last load for the day, and having reached the barn, Tyrkir dropped his burden with a sigh. He folded the cloth and shuffled back across the yard, scratching at the fleas. The new biters were everywhere, under his tunic, on his neck and arms. The two vertical jambs, the crossbeam, and the driftwood door were all one could see of the main building, which otherwise was nothing but a long, grassy hill that seemed to smoke from its depths.

The scrawny seventeen-year-old stepped inside. He was greeted by darkness. The grassy sod between the floor supports smelled musty, and after three steps, he opened the inner door.

Drink! Erik was standing by the barrel right behind the entrance to the hall, his red hair matted with sweat. He grinned at Tyrkir, dipped the ladle into the sour milk, and handed it to the slave. Our first harvest. Thanks to the gods! You will see how we get our steer and cows through the winter. Come spring, well have done it!

Tyrkir quickly emptied the ladle. He dipped it in once more and drank again. Despite their difference in class, he and the son of farmer Thorvald had formed a deep friendship, even with Erik being three years older. Tastes better than any beer back home!

This is home now. Erik clenched his fist. Forget Norway. This is Iceland, and by Thor, this forsaken rocky land will not defeat us. Never.

All right. I believe it. But the hay will only get us through a month. Before Erik could respond, Tyrkir added, I know. Weve found three more meadows with good grass. I know.

Erik threw back his shaggy mane and turned around. Its getting better, Father. Our wise German thinks so, too. All will be well, youll see.

He got no answer from the high seat near the center of the great firepit, which stretched like a glowing band through the main hall. The light from the embers flickered over the rows of rough beams supporting the ceiling before it faded into the dark of the two side rooms.

Father, tomorrow we should drag the ship higher up the beach. Who knows how long this good weather will last.

There was still no answer. Erik squinted toward the fire. No wave of the hand? No nod from the mighty head?

Tyrkir shrugged. The master is sleeping.

Nonsense. My voice wakes everyone, even those without ears. But the jest quickly died on Eriks lips. The young men shot a glance at each other, then they both dashed toward the high seat. There was Thorvald, his back stiff, his gray-haired head against the backrest, empty eyes staring into the fire.

Father?

Tyrkir put his arms around his friends trembling shoulders. They stood that way for a long time, as though waiting for the scene before them not to be true.

Outside, noise and laughter echoed down the hall. The other five male servants entered, along with two maids.

Tyrkir rushed toward them, his hands raised in warning. Quiet! Stop! The master is dead. Unconvinced at first, they quickly saw the hard edge in Eriks narrow, freckled face. Realization set in. The women pressed their lips together; the slaves nodded. One of them let out a groan.

Go outside and wait until youre called, Tyrkir said quietly before turning away.

Erik was already standing behind his father in the dark. Tyrkir approached him slowly, keeping close to the rough pillars on the right side of the hall. Catching the eye of a dead man could bring terrible misfortune. Anything but that, he thought. The danger was too great that the farmers last thought would burn itself into his mind and torment him for the rest of his existence. He slipped into one of the side rooms and felt along the benches and tables until he found a woolen rag, then quickly started tearing it into small shreds.

The two young men worked together in silence. They were ready. Erik approached the high seat from behind, reached around, and closed his fathers eyes. Now no more thoughts could escape from his eye sockets.

Only then did they dare step in front of the dead man. Quickly, they stuffed a woolen shred into Thorvalds mouth and used the other scraps to block his nostrils and ears. They could leave no opening for the spirit to slip out of the bodys protective shell so it could go on to perform terrible deeds. Only after theyd sealed every one of Thorvalds seven openings did they step back.

Why did he have to pass on like that? As a straw-corpse? Erik muttered, slamming a fist into his hand. Father was a brave Viking. If anyone was deserving of a seat in Valhalla

Tyrkir cut him off: Not now. Later. He called in the maids, and under his stern supervision, they cut out Thorvalds toenails and fingernails. He threw them all into the fire; nothing could remain of them. Soon, the stench of burning keratin joined the thick smoke.

Erik ordered the other servants to assist him, had them move the tables and benches from behind the high seat, and then he strode in a straight line from the chair to the wall. He scraped the outline of a big square into the wall with his knife. Begin.

The men removed the sod and earth from the joints, before carefully lifting out the stones one by one. Two of the men rammed their spades into the protective layer, while the other two went outside to work toward them. The earth kept caving in, and it took much effort to keep the tunnel to the outside as narrow as possible.

Itll do. The twenty-year-old man lifted his father from the high seat. Tyrkir grabbed the feet and walked ahead, and so they shifted the dead master through the opening to the outside. They carried him a good stones throw from the house, placing the corpse on a rock. Its far enough.

Tyrkir folded his arms. Behind him, the servants had already begun to relay the bricks and patch the opening. They would soon have the six-foot-thick wall sealed again. We will stand guard until were sure the masters spirit wont find its way back into the house.

The two friends stared down at the ship and out to the restless sea. The day was fading. It was July, and the sun was setting again, though its pale glow would keep lighting the night as it wandered east, beyond the horizon to reappear from behind the rim of the earth.

I mourn him. Had he known of his end, he would have asked me. Im sure of it. Tears dripped into Eriks red beard. One quick stab would have secured his eternal joy, but now he has to move to the domain of Hel.

Tyrkir understood his friends sadness. The thought of his father spending eternity in the dim afterlife under the earth rather than enjoying feasts and joys with the gods was grim. Up there, in Asgard, honorable Vikings rode out every morning to meet on the battlegrounds and measure one another with axes and swords, sparks flying and blood flowing. After the battle, all wounds would close, and the warriors would go back to the shield-covered Valhalla to feast with the gods. Every day was a feast day and a celebration. The vat of mead would always be full, and there would be an endless supply of bacon and meat from boiled hogs.

But as Thorvald hadnt fallen like a warriorsince he hadnt himself determined the time and manner of his deathhe would have to wander through darkness and cold to the realm of the goddess Hel. His path would lead him past roaring rivers, until he finally reached the golden bridge across the chasm, which would take him to the hall of the straw-dead. There, Hel reigned over all the shadows. She was awful to behold. The body and face of the cruel goddess were half black and half blue. Only her eyes glowed brightly. She would assign Thorvald his place among the silent masses, where he would endure nothingness, boredom without even the tiniest diversion, until the end of all time.