Waves crash upon the bow each time the longship dips and dives and breaches. The reed-thin steersman cannot keep the ship on an even keel, and it lurches this way and that, making me seasick. I heave over the side, spewing whatever I have digested. A muddy-orange sun bleeds across the horizon that slowly shrinks in length then disappears altogether. After the sun goes down the wind drops and the sea is lifeless and still. In the dimming light and with no wind in our sails, the longships are left idle. We sleep until dawn.
A loud crack of thunder wakes me, making me jump out of my skin. The headman is already at the bow. He is a man who never sleeps. He frowns at the menacing black skies. ‘There is no bad weather, only bad clothing,’ he says dully.
I am thankful that we are clothed well in thick cloth and animal skins. The crack of thunder is followed by driving rain, which stings my face and arms. The wind and rain escalate into a violent storm.
The vast waves pick up our boats and throw us about. I am overcome with fear but try not to show it, as again I am seasick. Helpless to stop the heaving, I groan and spit over the side. There is nothing left in my gut. The rough waters do not wane. The storm is vicious and relentless.
From across the water in another longship, above the moaning of the icy wind, I hear faint cries from the men and women aboard. I watch in horror as their longboat breaks into pieces. It happens so fast. Sick and frozen from the cold, I stare hopelessly at the devastation, my eyes unbelieving. On the other side of us, another longship breaks apart, and men and women are flung into the wild, turbulent waters. We cannot help them. We cling to the sides of the boat to save our own souls. Few of us know how to swim.
As fast as it began, the roar of the storm drops and gives way to quiet. Broken chunks of wood float about, wood that used to be boat frames. We can be thankful our ship is still in one piece. There is a large tear in our sail, but it will not stop our journey; it will only hinder it. The other ships have less damage, but the storm has reduced our fleet of ten longships to eight.
With the early-morning light shimmering upon a calmer ocean, we survey the destruction. Barely alive, a man in the water clings to a board. A longship, its mast broken, tries to make its way to him. Drained and with no will to live, the clinger slides off, joining the rest of the seamen and women who have lost their souls to a watery grave.
Everyone is silent, finding it difficult to fathom what has just happened. Our food stocks are low; barely enough to last us a week. With no land in sight, it causes worry among us. After the storm’s merciless fury, the sea eases to a swell, which leaves the longships rolling about, making no headway. The swell causes never-ending seasickness in my gut, but along with the others, I must do whatever I can to mend our broken boats. I am sick of being sick on this never-ending journey.
My heart is sick also, for I long to hear the sweet voice of Adelheid.
Come next day’s early morn, the wind picks up and the ships lurch forward. With masts haphazardly mended and the spare sails hoisted, we begin to move at a good pace. For five days and nights the wind is at our back, speeding us landward.
At length we sail until at long last we sight land. Men whistle and holler. Our women are hale and hardy, but today they openly weep tears of joy.
Once and for all we reach England. But we do not stop at the land before us. We sail forth under a blazing cold moon that leads the way south through the wide body of water between the lands of Wessex and the Kingdom of the Franks. We sail around the southern-most part of England and up Land’s End. We do not stop at the coastland of Kornbretaland; we sail on, further north, with Land’s End to starboard.
The headman signals the steersman toward a cove that is hidden from land by thick bush. Soon the entire party of seafarers stands upon hard ground. Our men and women are tall and ruddy, and proud to be Víkingr. We group on the beach to listen to orders. Each of us bears an axe, a sword, and a knife. We are eager and ready. Stomach flutters beset me. What lies ahead brings to each of us the hope of riches and glory for our kingdom of Noregr.
With our longships safely pulled in and hidden within a bight, the headman orders three men to stay back and watch the boats. The rest of us run up a bank and into thick bushes which open out into green meadows. Shielded from sight, we hide in a thicket for the night. Bedded down, I lie awake, listening to the dry rustling of the trees and watching ghostly clouds scudding across the darkened skies, the rocking and swaying of the longboat still set in my brain.
We set off at dawn, looking for places where folks gather. We find a township. Our seamen and women will comb the town for gold and silver and other treasures.
When we set foot inside the village, it is full of folks with laughing faces full of trust. I did not expect them to look like us. A thought suddenly befalls me. They are folks whose homes we will ransack and pillage. My quest for adventure suddenly dwindles.
More am I to find out; something that leaves me cold. The headman of our fleet, set apart from the rest of us by his long-braided beard and hair, signals us to gather around. Filthy faced and dressed in ragged tunics, trousers and animal skins, and bearing weapons, I am surprised the townsfolk do not notice us.
The headman issues his orders. ‘We are not to hold any captives. We are to slay every living soul in our wake and those who try to flee, whether it be man, woman, or child.’
The sick feeling in my gut grips like a vice. I curse my keen wish to come on this journey. This is utterly wrong! How can God’s men be so hard of heart? We are young, simple men and women of the Víkingr, led to think we have times of greatness to look forward to upon our return. We have been led off the path of goodness and onto a path of wretchedness; we shall all face the fires of hell.
◊.◊.◊
The townsfolk do not have weapons. With no arms, they are like wide-eyed, lost children when we strike. I watch in alarm, as my seafaring comrades rush into houses to rob and slay the innocent.
I freeze and stare at the terrible sight, utterly sickened. The headman of our gang is watching me with a leaden gaze. Wild-eyed and baring his teeth, he strides up to me, his long-shaggy hair flapping behind him. He shakes his fist and bellows at me. ‘Bare is the back of a brotherless man!’ I am mute but have no trouble understanding the threat. Aggrieved, I do not wish to slay poor innocent people, good folk who go about their simple lives in peace. I do not wish to cause the shedding of blood by any means. But I am aware of the meaning of his words — slay or be slayed. The worst is yet to come.
◊.◊.◊
The frenzied, raw, bloody rioting lasts for days. In among the chaos I stand speechless, witness to the vicious slaughter by my fellow countrymen. They hack away feverishly at bodies and limbs; their victims’ blood gushing forth; the wet slapping sound of innards spilling out onto the streets. It is madness; a sickening bloodbath of tortured screams and hot gore. Rivulets of blood trickle down narrow, cobbled lanes. Arteries of death. I cannot believe my fellow seafaring men and women are nothing but marauding savages.
Long shadows creep over the houses, heralding nightfall. Mutilated villagers lie lifeless, their oozing body parts splayed everywhere. Still in shock, I survey the carnage. My strength of mind withers to sorrow and woe. My heart is asudden steeped in despair. I feel the deep anguish of the English townsfolk wholly.
My gut instinct tells me to flee. I turn on my heels and run from the devastation, past houses and through narrow-cobbled lanes, past more houses and down hills, across meadows, and into the safe darkness of a nearby forest. But I am seen. Striding towards me with wild intent is the headman of our longship. I emerge into the dimming light and stand before him, shaking. In his eyes that flash with fire, he sees a coward.
‘Boy!’ he bellows. His calloused thick hands grab and push me to the ground. ‘One more bid do you have to prove yourself.’
The headman orders me to follow him. I fall behind but keep up with his step. He leads me to a wooden shack in the village. There is a crowd of thirty townsfolk locked inside the shack. It shocks me to see them locked in and I wonder why the headman has brought me here.
He is passed a firebrand, which he thrusts into my hands. ‘Set it to fire!’
His words throw me. ‘I … cannot.’
Men gather round me. They harry and hound me and push me about, swearing at me. ‘Soft mare! Puny wretch! Anus!’
The seafaring men of my lands are evil men from whose mouths spill evil words. One shouts, ‘If you are not a little woman, show us you are man!’
I think about Faðir’s words. A man should be fair to others. A man should be kind to others. I should not have to prove I am a man by the cruelty on which they bid me; a malicious and terrible state in which I now find myself.
I made an enormous mistake by coming on this journey. I was naïve. I do not want to slay innocent folks, kin with simple lives who go about their day with no wish to cause harm to others. I am not made of the right pith, nor do I bear a heart of wretchedness and evil. I am not made like them.
The headman presses his will upon me. ‘Do it!’ My body lurches forward from a heavy thump at my back.
With trembling hands, I carry the firebrand towards the ramshackle, tinder-dry shack and hold it against kindling that has been set up at the base of the shack. Once the fire establishes itself, the shack bursts into a fiery-red blaze. I let the flaming piece of wood fall from my grip.
The harrowing, anguished screams of men, women, and children I will hear in my head until the day I die. Images of their forms twisting in agony I will see whenever when I lie down my head and close my eyes. Guilt cripples me. In pained despair, I fold at my middle and vomit over my feet. The hails and cheers of the men of our lands who stand behind me seem distant and hollow.
In my cot, I lie awake, beset by the screams. My head spins. The sight of the boy whose frozen eyes stared at me through the narrow slats of timber, shortly before the fire razed his small body, shall never leave me. In my mind it is rooted evermore. He shall never know the deed I have dealt him was carried out under duress. Nor will his soul ever forgive me.
Repulsed, I cradle my knees and pitifully cry myself to sleep.
◊.◊.◊
On my own in this unknown land, I cannot find a place to hide and safeguard myself from harm. If I break away from the cruel men of my lands, they shall regard me as an enemy. I will be hunted down and slaughtered.
With a heavy weight upon my heart, for weeks I play the part of a tough man and carry out the headman’s wishes. We break into houses and rob the townsfolk of their treasured wares. We slay husbands who try to shield their kin. In all manner of ill, their women are savagely violated by my fellow countrymen in the most lewd and sickening way.
What I have done is far from the beliefs of my father, that a man should be of good stead and strength. He says a man should be looked upon and judged in the highest regard. I can only be thankful that Faðir has at least been spared from living the hellish ordeal I live today. I have spared him from witnessing the sins of his landsmen; the Víkingr driven by their greed and hunger for riches.
◊.◊.◊
To keep myself alive, I need to prove my loyalty as a thief and slayer of innocent folks. Sadly, I know the headman will charge upon me many more misdeeds to come. He will force me to stand shoulder to shoulder with my kinsmen, ransacking towns and villages. He will force me to pillage and plunder and collect our spoils, and rape terrified women.
I drop to my knees and ask for forgiveness.
◊.◊.◊
We come to a grassy ridge. I draw alongside the others and follow their downward gazes to a pretty valley where, in its heart stands a church. Thatched-roof houses squat around the church that towers over the hamlet like a watchful grandfather. My group is eager to rob this place as the headman thinks there are treasures and gold hidden within the church. My heart weeps, for I see a quiet hamlet about to be torn apart, leaving many a grief-stricken soul.
Several men slink into the church grounds under cover of darkness. They comb the grounds then make known to the headman what they discover. He chooses me and five other men to steal precious gold objects such as crucifixes and lamps from the church as well as marble statutes, brass jugs, vases and plates. We break in and remove numerous marble casts and carvings. We find a chest of gold which the priests had hidden well. The men whistle in triumph. All the while I feel wretched for the sins I am forced to carry out upon the Church of England — upon God.
A man shoves me from behind. ‘Eirik, go in the back and find more.’ The air turns as cold as ice. I feel the onset of danger, as if I am walking into a trap. I edge myself around the benches, careful not to knock my knees on the benches’ sharp edges. It is dark in the church; moonlight shines feebly through the stained-glass panes, and I can barely see where I am walking.
As I open the door to the vestry, I am thumped on the head with great force by something heavy and solid. I drop to my knees; my head hammering. The burn of a sword slices deep into my back. I feel another piercing burn as it is withdrawn. A man stands over me, clenching his jaw. Another man boots me in my side. He kicks me repeatedly. The first man hacks at me with his sword, withdrawing and plunging time and again. I drop to my side and he drives it through my heart. The sword makes a wet sucking sound as it is pulled out.
In my last moments of life, I call upon the gods. I ask them to forgive me because I was not a brave fighter. I ask them to forgive me as my death was not one of honour.
‘Goodbye, Faðir, goodbye, Móðir and Amma,’ I whisper hoarsely.
‘Goodbye, Adelheid.’
I know I shall not be feasting in the halls of Valhalla. They have no place for a coward. I will enter my death as a shadow enters darkness, and that will be the end of me.
