He drew smiles on their faces. Then, lowering himself onto his knees in front of the prisoner, he held up a delicate bronze necklace and placed it around the prisoner's neck.
“We are friends. We do not want to hurt you. Please do not attack us. Do you understand?”
Although the skraeling watched every move Thorfinn made, he gave no indication of understanding. Thorfinn nodded to Bjorn. Bjorn walked over to the grass and lifted up a small sealskin craft that was completely enclosed, except for a small hole into which the paddler sat. A double-ended paddle stuck out through the open sitting area. Thorfinn stepped behind the prisoner, removed a dagger from his belt and cut the ropes binding his hands and legs. Thorfinn's wife passed him a small leather bag. The skraeling opened it and examined the contents. He seemed surprised to see dried fish and blueberries.
“For your journey home,” Thorfinn said. He pointed to his kayak with an open palm. “Go.”
The skraeling first looked at the kayak, then back to Thorfinn. Without a word or gesture, the man stepped over to the boat, placed the food bag inside the covered bow and climbed in. The whole village watched silently as the kayak and paddler disappeared around the bend of the river. Bjorn stepped up to Thorfinn and joined his gaze towards the ocean.
“Do you think it will work?”
Thorfinn looked over his shoulder and stared at the charred remains of the animal shelter. “We can only hope.”
THREE
The following week was one of hard work and grim determination. The four longboats that had transported the Nordic community to Vinland sat dry near the river. Due to the bountiful and busy summer, it had been several months since they had last touched water. The raised ships were being sheltered under a crude, thatched roof for protection against both the drying summer sun and the ice of the upcoming winter. After a quick inspection, Thorfinn and the other men chose the smallest ship of the four. It was also the one that required the least amount of repair for what could end up being a lengthy and risky voyage. Originally, they had planned to do the repair work during the long winter months when there was little else to do. But last night's attack had changed everything.
First, they ripped away rotten planks from the ribbing and began the laborious task of repairing the damaged sections with fresh timber. Fatigue soon etched its mark onto the faces of the labourers as they ceaselessly sliced and shaped the plentiful trees into long, narrow planks. Upon hammering the planks into place, the mariners sealed the cracks in the hull with a foul-smelling mix of hot tar and animal hair.
From a small building near the sheltered ships, a bellows breathed a continuous roar, adding to the shipbuilding symphony of zips, bangs and curses. Bjarni the blacksmith, struggling with the pain of an arrow wound to his upper arm, ignored the sympathetic gestures of his friends and maintained a blistering pace of productivity. Kiera cringed as she passed the pile of soiled bandages growing outside the entrance to his shop. The burly blacksmith would simply change his bloodied dressing several times a day, while continuing to pound out the endless number of glowing nails and fittings that were essential for the ship's repairs.
The women, however, prepared for the upcoming voyage in a different way. Some were filling bags and caskets with food and drink. Kiera helped several of the older women mend the holes and rips within the worn white sail which would soon power the Viking vessel along the Atlantic shoreline. Her fingertips burned with pain from the endless number of self-inflicted needle pricks. She gritted her teeth and persevered through the discomfort, knowing that their future might depend on the next few days.
The women chattered continually to help them cope with the stress brought on by the attack. They never tired of matching up the single men and women of the village, debating the pros and cons of each couple, often embarrassing Kiera in the process, as she was one of the few remaining unclaimed young women. The possibility of marriage would certainly be a means of escape from her role as a slave. A marriage to a Viking would lift her to equal status among her Nordic captors. She wondered what it would be like to experience all of the rights and freedoms allowed to the Viking women.
Secretly, if it came down to it, she hoped that young Mats would be the first to approach Bjorn and Dagmar with the proposal of marriage. Mats had come to Vinland to escape the memories that continually haunted him. His young Icelandic wife had suffered a terrible death while in the grip of a debilitating illness. Kiera could tell from his empty gaze that even after all this time, he was still mourning his loss. But he had been more talkative of late, and the occasional look that he gave her from the corner of his eye allowed a glimmer of hope to flicker within her heart.
When bored with the talk of future couples, the women would then begin to reminisce about their faraway homelands. Kiera's occasional contribution to the conversations would often come to a sudden and painful end. Talk of home would instantly flood her mind with memories of emerald green fields and Celtic banter. Most disturbingly, the ghostly images of her parents, brothers and sisters would drift into her consciousness. The shadowy memories of their faces, the laughter and embraces, retained for so long in her young mind, were slowly being eroded by time. She was terrified that she would lose the memories of her family altogether. Her heart broke at the thought of the time that had passed since her abduction. Did her family still think about her with the same longing and grief that she felt? Would they even recognize her if she should miraculously make it back to Ireland?
Kiera was thankful when Bjarni stuck his head out of his darkened shop and bellowed her name. She politely excused herself from the group and trotted down the path to the blacksmith's shop. Sitting in a bucket of water, next to the bloodied rags, were two dozen blackened nails. She stuck her head inside the door, and heat smacked her across the face. She recognized Bjami's silhouette against the glowing oven as his brawny arms pumped the hissing bellows. She noticed the damp, red stain on the cloth that was wrapped around his huge arm.
“Kiera, I need you to run these nails over to the ship. Mind yourself, though,” the smith's voice boomed. “Those nails may still be hot!”
Kiera bent down and carefully touched the nails before grabbing them. Several were still warm. She scooped them out of the bucket and began the trek towards the ship. She smiled as she wandered through the colony of workers as they lovingly nurtured their thirty-five foot long, timber-lined queen. Kiera ducked underneath the arching keel and moved towards Mats, lying on his back, red-faced, and holding a plank up with one hand against the bottom of the hull.
“To the gods above,” he moaned, “it's about time! Quick! Quick! Bring them here before my arm falls off!”
Kiera passed the nails to his free hand, then watched as he placed the majority of the nails on his chest, stuck the last two in his teeth, then, with three expert cracks of the hammer, drove his first nail deep into the plank. Slithering backwards, Mats worked his way along the length of the keel, driving in nail after nail, his hands flying with quickness and precision. Securing the board, he gave a great sigh, rolled onto his side and smiled at her.
“Thanks, Kiera. Sorry if I was grumpy a moment ago.”
“That's all right,” she said, trying to be casual. “How is it going with the ship?”
“She was in rough shape, but with all of us breaking our backs on this job, I think she will be ready to go in a day or two.”
“And I guess you'll be going?”
Mats shrugged and turned his attention back to the hull. “Don't know. Thorfinn hasn't yet decided who's going, as far as I know.”
She frowned as he began to repair another section. The short conversation was over.
