but canters across the top of the beach, and out of sight behind the bank of the stream. Gudrid watches him until he has gone.
Gudrid Thorbjarnardottir is happy, and yet her foster parents died for her sake, and she has not atoned for the death she brought to them. Only one winter has passed since then. The past is terrible, so terrible that she has locked it away in one corner of her mind where for the present it cannot escape. Only sometimes she is aware that there is something she should have done that she has not done, and that by living in this sunlit world as if she were an innocent woman, she is tempting a worse fate. Sometimes she has bad dreams, but when she wakes in the night she sees light at the chimney hole, and the soft breathing of the women of Eirik’s household surrounds her. She has only to put out her hand to touch Freydis, who sleeps beside her. Freydis is a square, solid girl with her father’s build and none of his charm. Apart from a grim insistence on having her own way, she seems harmless enough. There is no evidence that she has bad dreams.
Sometimes Gudrid’s own good fortune overwhelms her. She is a young girl again now, and that is all. Men are attracted to her. Maybe she will marry one of Eirik’s sons. Maybe she will have children, and work with the other women on this farm in the sheltered fjord under the ice mountains, and life will be ordinary. The peril that she fears seems far away in the household of Eirik Raudi. There are other dangers, certainly, but they belong to the waking world. The family quarrel with their neighbours, and with each other, but there have been no killings in the Green Land. They dream of wealth, and seem to feel no guilt. Theirs, at the moment, is a daylight world, and Gudrid is reassured. She would like to belong to it for ever.
Agnar, would you say that you were happy?
* * * * *
I’m glad you don’t think it’s wrong to talk to me sometimes. It seems that for both of us happiness is about the past, and about a place. I wasn’t always happy at Brattahlid, far from it, just as you’ve been unhappy sometimes at Reims. But the innocent times exist, just as much as the other. You’ll find that when you’re old. Sometimes the early days are so near, I wouldn’t be surprised to open my eyes in the morning and find myself there, a girl on a summer morning at Brattahlid. She still exists, you know. I don’t just mean in mind and memory.
And now I’m thinking too of a boy at the Cathedral school in Reims, who discovered through new learning that the boundaries of the world were greater than he thought. I’ve never heard any stories from these authors that you mention, but you speak of them as Karlsefni spoke of Bjarni Herjolfsson, or Bjorn the champion of Breidavik. You’re an Icelander, and of course you respond to sailing directions. It’s in your blood. These men you speak of – this Cicero,Seneca, and the other one – these are the men who gave you directions for your voyage into an unknown world. Yes, and I understand how you got hurt too, in fact I should say it was inevitable. We’re only human, and we need an authority to tell us where the boundaries are. Oh, I understand you had to disobey. How could you not? Another headland, another island, another fjord: promises, always promises of riches yet to come, and if you go a little further the dream may become real. The gifts of this life are boundless, but it’s still dangerous to go too far.
* * * * *
Don’t ever regret what you have done. I don’t believe in advice. No one takes it, and usually they hate you for giving it, but if you were my son I’d tell you what I think. You’d have punished yourself more if you’d turned your back on the way that was opened to you. You’d never have forgiven yourself. I know nothing of your Clunyites; I’ve always hated feuds, but men must have them. Very well, so these men say that you were wrong to study pagan gods. Your master whom you loved
Gudrid Thorbjarnardottir is happy, and yet her foster parents died for her sake, and she has not atoned for the death she brought to them. Only one winter has passed since then. The past is terrible, so terrible that she has locked it away in one corner of her mind where for the present it cannot escape. Only sometimes she is aware that there is something she should have done that she has not done, and that by living in this sunlit world as if she were an innocent woman, she is tempting a worse fate. Sometimes she has bad dreams, but when she wakes in the night she sees light at the chimney hole, and the soft breathing of the women of Eirik’s household surrounds her. She has only to put out her hand to touch Freydis, who sleeps beside her. Freydis is a square, solid girl with her father’s build and none of his charm. Apart from a grim insistence on having her own way, she seems harmless enough. There is no evidence that she has bad dreams.
Sometimes Gudrid’s own good fortune overwhelms her. She is a young girl again now, and that is all. Men are attracted to her. Maybe she will marry one of Eirik’s sons. Maybe she will have children, and work with the other women on this farm in the sheltered fjord under the ice mountains, and life will be ordinary. The peril that she fears seems far away in the household of Eirik Raudi. There are other dangers, certainly, but they belong to the waking world. The family quarrel with their neighbours, and with each other, but there have been no killings in the Green Land. They dream of wealth, and seem to feel no guilt. Theirs, at the moment, is a daylight world, and Gudrid is reassured. She would like to belong to it for ever.
Agnar, would you say that you were happy?
* * * * *
I’m glad you don’t think it’s wrong to talk to me sometimes. It seems that for both of us happiness is about the past, and about a place. I wasn’t always happy at Brattahlid, far from it, just as you’ve been unhappy sometimes at Reims. But the innocent times exist, just as much as the other. You’ll find that when you’re old. Sometimes the early days are so near, I wouldn’t be surprised to open my eyes in the morning and find myself there, a girl on a summer morning at Brattahlid. She still exists, you know. I don’t just mean in mind and memory.
And now I’m thinking too of a boy at the Cathedral school in Reims, who discovered through new learning that the boundaries of the world were greater than he thought. I’ve never heard any stories from these authors that you mention, but you speak of them as Karlsefni spoke of Bjarni Herjolfsson, or Bjorn the champion of Breidavik. You’re an Icelander, and of course you respond to sailing directions. It’s in your blood. These men you speak of – this Cicero,Seneca, and the other one – these are the men who gave you directions for your voyage into an unknown world. Yes, and I understand how you got hurt too, in fact I should say it was inevitable. We’re only human, and we need an authority to tell us where the boundaries are. Oh, I understand you had to disobey. How could you not? Another headland, another island, another fjord: promises, always promises of riches yet to come, and if you go a little further the dream may become real. The gifts of this life are boundless, but it’s still dangerous to go too far.
* * * * *
Don’t ever regret what you have done. I don’t believe in advice. No one takes it, and usually they hate you for giving it, but if you were my son I’d tell you what I think. You’d have punished yourself more if you’d turned your back on the way that was opened to you. You’d never have forgiven yourself. I know nothing of your Clunyites; I’ve always hated feuds, but men must have them. Very well, so these men say that you were wrong to study pagan gods. Your master whom you loved
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