approaching the late spring.
Soon, what little snow that fell would cover us all and conceal the fact we
were ever here at all. So nature has its way of wiping its slate clean. It
would take a lot more snow to cover up the bloody tracks I began to spot in
front of me as I walked. The red smudges stretched ahead of me in crooked
lines, as if something had been dragged across the ice. It couldn’t have been
the remains of the reindeer, I assumed. Most of the carcass had been left
behind us near the fire. It could have been human, but I tried not to think of
that too much. It could have been me.
The sound had faded, and although I
strained for it, it did not come again. Now, the panic settled over me, and I
began to run, unmindful of the ice and unconcerned that I might have fallen. I
was truly alone, and I knew I would never be able to find my way back to
Brattahild by myself. I kept following the blood trail, hoping it would lead
me to Eirik and the others, but, in the back of my mind, I kept thinking I
would come across the true slaughter on the ice. The Vikings and whatever it
was that had dragged them there would come after me next. My running slowed,
not out of fear, but because I was fast becoming winded. I finally stopped
altogether, bending over and breathing rapidly, the cold air searing my lungs.
I felt like lying there on the ice
and letting nature have its way with me, but I restrained myself. Instead, I
looked up and noticed how far I had come in my panic. I could no longer see
the dead deer or the fire sight behind me, and there seemed to be a natural
opening through the rocks on the far end of the field. I began walking, my
hope growing with each step. What would I find on the other side there? Would
it be Eirik? Or something else?
When I rounded the rocks and began
the climb up the icy hillside, I almost thought I could hear voices.
Anticipating the Vikings, I hurried my pace, but now being careful not to slip
and fall. There was more blood on the rocks, easy to see since it was a harsh
red against the dull gray, and I crested the hill and looked at the land
beyond.
There were men there, but I did not
recognize them. They were not the ones who had come on the hunt with us. Were
they enemies? I strained for a better look. Splotches of red dotted the
ground before me in the distance and beyond that, another herd of reindeer was
moving over the plains. But these men . . .
They looked like Vikings, as much as
one can assume based on first appearances. Certainly they dressed like Eirik
and the others, with their thick furs and heavy beards. Some of them carried
long spears, and others simply stood, talking. Some were pointing north in the
direction of the herd, and others were motioning to the south, facing my
direction. I was beginning to wonder whether or not I should approach them
when an arrow clinked off the rocks near my left foot. I actually felt the
chipped stone hit my leg, and as I was trying to figure out why an arrow was
suddenly there near my foot, another arrow hit near my other foot.
The men on the ground had spotted me,
and I thought it would be a good idea to duck down when I saw the archer
stringing another arrow to shoot at me. They were not aiming to kill me, I
realized. They were trying to get my attention. I wanted to tell them there
were better ways, such as calling out to me or waving a flag, rather than
shooting arrows at me, but I figured something would be lost in the
translation. Something always is.
I waved timidly, and the archer put
down his bow. I climbed over the rocks and began half-sliding, half-walking
down the other side of the hill. I slid until I rested at the bottom, and I
could see these men more closely. I could see the blood on them, which did not
fill me with much confidence. Nevertheless, I stood up and began approaching
them, putting my trust that God would not let any harm come to
Soon, what little snow that fell would cover us all and conceal the fact we
were ever here at all. So nature has its way of wiping its slate clean. It
would take a lot more snow to cover up the bloody tracks I began to spot in
front of me as I walked. The red smudges stretched ahead of me in crooked
lines, as if something had been dragged across the ice. It couldn’t have been
the remains of the reindeer, I assumed. Most of the carcass had been left
behind us near the fire. It could have been human, but I tried not to think of
that too much. It could have been me.
The sound had faded, and although I
strained for it, it did not come again. Now, the panic settled over me, and I
began to run, unmindful of the ice and unconcerned that I might have fallen. I
was truly alone, and I knew I would never be able to find my way back to
Brattahild by myself. I kept following the blood trail, hoping it would lead
me to Eirik and the others, but, in the back of my mind, I kept thinking I
would come across the true slaughter on the ice. The Vikings and whatever it
was that had dragged them there would come after me next. My running slowed,
not out of fear, but because I was fast becoming winded. I finally stopped
altogether, bending over and breathing rapidly, the cold air searing my lungs.
I felt like lying there on the ice
and letting nature have its way with me, but I restrained myself. Instead, I
looked up and noticed how far I had come in my panic. I could no longer see
the dead deer or the fire sight behind me, and there seemed to be a natural
opening through the rocks on the far end of the field. I began walking, my
hope growing with each step. What would I find on the other side there? Would
it be Eirik? Or something else?
When I rounded the rocks and began
the climb up the icy hillside, I almost thought I could hear voices.
Anticipating the Vikings, I hurried my pace, but now being careful not to slip
and fall. There was more blood on the rocks, easy to see since it was a harsh
red against the dull gray, and I crested the hill and looked at the land
beyond.
There were men there, but I did not
recognize them. They were not the ones who had come on the hunt with us. Were
they enemies? I strained for a better look. Splotches of red dotted the
ground before me in the distance and beyond that, another herd of reindeer was
moving over the plains. But these men . . .
They looked like Vikings, as much as
one can assume based on first appearances. Certainly they dressed like Eirik
and the others, with their thick furs and heavy beards. Some of them carried
long spears, and others simply stood, talking. Some were pointing north in the
direction of the herd, and others were motioning to the south, facing my
direction. I was beginning to wonder whether or not I should approach them
when an arrow clinked off the rocks near my left foot. I actually felt the
chipped stone hit my leg, and as I was trying to figure out why an arrow was
suddenly there near my foot, another arrow hit near my other foot.
The men on the ground had spotted me,
and I thought it would be a good idea to duck down when I saw the archer
stringing another arrow to shoot at me. They were not aiming to kill me, I
realized. They were trying to get my attention. I wanted to tell them there
were better ways, such as calling out to me or waving a flag, rather than
shooting arrows at me, but I figured something would be lost in the
translation. Something always is.
I waved timidly, and the archer put
down his bow. I climbed over the rocks and began half-sliding, half-walking
down the other side of the hill. I slid until I rested at the bottom, and I
could see these men more closely. I could see the blood on them, which did not
fill me with much confidence. Nevertheless, I stood up and began approaching
them, putting my trust that God would not let any harm come to
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