but boats. On the slope above, the regular green knolls resolved themselves into turf-roofed buildings, and smoke rose from the roof of the nearest. Cattle and sheep grazed on a hillside already starred with dandelions, the first spring flowers, and as we stood into the western shore there came a smell of growing grass that brought tears to my eyes, because it smelt of home.
I’m tired now, Agnar. It’s a long time since I let myself remember so much. Have the rest of the day to yourself. Go for a ride in the hills. It’s not natural for a young man to be indoors all day. Go on, off with you. I want to be alone now, but you’ll find me here tomorrow.
July 14th
July at Brattahlid. Gudrid Thorbjarnardottir sits at the door of Eirik Raudi’s house with Eirik’s daughter Freydis. They are scraping sheepskins to soften them, but neither is working very hard. White clouds sail slowly over the fjord, and the sun shines between them. The fjord is ice-blue, and small waves lick at a stray berg that is stranded offshore. Below the mountain called Burfjell on the opposite shore, a line of newly calved icebergs seems to block the way to the sea, but here at Brattahlid it is high summer. The doors of the long byre are thrown open, and the winter dung is piled outside ready for spreading. Hay is ripening in the fields, and around the house hens scrape the trodden soil. The angelica that grows near the door is level with the house roof, and its flowers are entangled with the lines of fish hanging up to dry. On the beach below the house swarms of flies hover over drying seaweed, and two men are patching the hull of an upturned boat.
Gudrid Thorbjarnardottir is happy. Eirik’s house is built in a safe place, sheltered from behind by an outcrop of rock, and its walls are strongly built of turf and stone. His pastures are good; he has twenty-seven cows and nearly fifty sheep, with this year’s lambs. Every day his men come in with boatloads of salmon or cod, and yesterday his sons came home with a cargo of caribou, seal and whalemeat from the northern hunt. There is going to be plenty to eat here, and hunger and bad dreams seem far away.
Gudrid is a beautiful young woman, and she is new here. There are not enough women in this land, and Eirik Raudi has three sons. He needs grandsons, because in this place he intends to found a dynasty, rulers of the Green Land, and of the lands further west where there is untold wealth for men who have the courage to take it. Eirik has had twelve years to make his mark here. The Green Land will be his and his sons’ for ever. But just now he is on the look-out for suitable young women. His son Leif left for Norway three days before Thorbjorn turned up with his daughter. That was fate at work; if Leif had been at home Eirik would have had Leif and Gudrid married before the summer was out. He could always give her to Thorvald or Thorstein, but his instinct is to wait until next spring, for Leif to come back. Eirik’s wife Thjodhild is also waiting for Leif to come back. Although her eldest son laughs at her new faith, he is attached to her, and he will honour his promise to her, to bring a priest back with him from Norway, and the consecrated vessels for a church. Eirik knows nothing of this, but he sees clearly that his younger sons Thorvald and Thorstein admire Gudrid, and there are other men here seeking women. Eirik keeps his eye on Gudrid, and makes her father so very welcome that Thorbjorn is overcome. He had no idea he meant so much to Eirik Raudi, or that Eirik had waited so eagerly all these years for his coming.
As Gudrid sits at Eirik’s door, she considers the meaning of the warm welcome that she and her father have been given. The sound of trotting hooves interrupts her train of thought, and a pony appears from the shore path, and breaks into a canter. The rider is Eirik’s youngest son Thorstein. Stirrupless, he rides easily, holding the reins in one hand. He doesn’t look round,
I’m tired now, Agnar. It’s a long time since I let myself remember so much. Have the rest of the day to yourself. Go for a ride in the hills. It’s not natural for a young man to be indoors all day. Go on, off with you. I want to be alone now, but you’ll find me here tomorrow.
July 14th
July at Brattahlid. Gudrid Thorbjarnardottir sits at the door of Eirik Raudi’s house with Eirik’s daughter Freydis. They are scraping sheepskins to soften them, but neither is working very hard. White clouds sail slowly over the fjord, and the sun shines between them. The fjord is ice-blue, and small waves lick at a stray berg that is stranded offshore. Below the mountain called Burfjell on the opposite shore, a line of newly calved icebergs seems to block the way to the sea, but here at Brattahlid it is high summer. The doors of the long byre are thrown open, and the winter dung is piled outside ready for spreading. Hay is ripening in the fields, and around the house hens scrape the trodden soil. The angelica that grows near the door is level with the house roof, and its flowers are entangled with the lines of fish hanging up to dry. On the beach below the house swarms of flies hover over drying seaweed, and two men are patching the hull of an upturned boat.
Gudrid Thorbjarnardottir is happy. Eirik’s house is built in a safe place, sheltered from behind by an outcrop of rock, and its walls are strongly built of turf and stone. His pastures are good; he has twenty-seven cows and nearly fifty sheep, with this year’s lambs. Every day his men come in with boatloads of salmon or cod, and yesterday his sons came home with a cargo of caribou, seal and whalemeat from the northern hunt. There is going to be plenty to eat here, and hunger and bad dreams seem far away.
Gudrid is a beautiful young woman, and she is new here. There are not enough women in this land, and Eirik Raudi has three sons. He needs grandsons, because in this place he intends to found a dynasty, rulers of the Green Land, and of the lands further west where there is untold wealth for men who have the courage to take it. Eirik has had twelve years to make his mark here. The Green Land will be his and his sons’ for ever. But just now he is on the look-out for suitable young women. His son Leif left for Norway three days before Thorbjorn turned up with his daughter. That was fate at work; if Leif had been at home Eirik would have had Leif and Gudrid married before the summer was out. He could always give her to Thorvald or Thorstein, but his instinct is to wait until next spring, for Leif to come back. Eirik’s wife Thjodhild is also waiting for Leif to come back. Although her eldest son laughs at her new faith, he is attached to her, and he will honour his promise to her, to bring a priest back with him from Norway, and the consecrated vessels for a church. Eirik knows nothing of this, but he sees clearly that his younger sons Thorvald and Thorstein admire Gudrid, and there are other men here seeking women. Eirik keeps his eye on Gudrid, and makes her father so very welcome that Thorbjorn is overcome. He had no idea he meant so much to Eirik Raudi, or that Eirik had waited so eagerly all these years for his coming.
As Gudrid sits at Eirik’s door, she considers the meaning of the warm welcome that she and her father have been given. The sound of trotting hooves interrupts her train of thought, and a pony appears from the shore path, and breaks into a canter. The rider is Eirik’s youngest son Thorstein. Stirrupless, he rides easily, holding the reins in one hand. He doesn’t look round,
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