didn’t know. The two thralls also spoke to each other in a language the others didn’t seem to understand.
‘They are from Ireland,’ Gudrun whispered, as she passed with a platter of barley bread. Hekja nodded, though the word Ireland made no sense.
Gudrun put the meat down onto a platter and sliced it up. Her portion was minced into tiny bits, as she had no teeth to chew with. There were slabs for everyone else and the meaty bones and scraps for Snarf. Snarf gulped the meat scraps then rolled over, panting, so Gudrun could scratch his belly with her booted foot.
Each person had a spoon to eat the pudding from the pot. Hekja had never seen spoons so small. She watched how the others used them before dipping in her own.
The pudding was the best thing she had ever eaten, rich with cream and meat juices, sweet with fruit andhoney, the soft grains melting with the greens. Even toothless Gudrun was able to eat it with ease, as it needed no chewing at all.
The fire burnt low, till it was only coals. The house was dark, except for the twilight through the door. The men rolled themselves in sheepskins from the benches and went to sleep beside the glowing fire. Gudrun nodded to Hekja to do the same.
She felt stranger than she ever had—stranger even than on the boat, the smells of meat mingling with the scent of a foreign land, mixed with the scent of ice and smoke. But Hekja was too tired to stay awake, and the sheepskin was the softest, warmest thing that she had ever felt. She fell asleep with Snarf by her side, and didn’t even notice when he rose to investigate more smells from outside, including Erik’s bitch.
Even when Freydis and Thorvard returned she didn’t wake, till Thorvard stumbled against one of the sleeping men, then kicked him drunkenly.
‘Wake up, you lazy louts!’ cried Thorvard, as he staggered past.
Hekja started to her feet, but Thorvard and Freydis were already in their room. The great wood door had been left open. Outside the sun was rising above the storerooms, and the hens were running after insects. The sheep were bleating, and the cows calling to be milked.
Her life in Greenland had begun.
----
17 hens
18 whale bones
19 A loom, for weaving.
20 storerooms
Chapter 18
GREENLAND
They ate leftovers for breakfast—cold meat and cold bread and fermented milk. Hekja milked the cows as they stood with their heads through the stalls and munched at a handful of hay, while Gudrun watched.
Finally Gudrun nodded. ‘You know what you are about, girl,’ she said, hauling herself off the milking stool and onto her swollen feet. ‘Finish the milking yourself, then take the cows out beyond the barley fields, and stop them straying. I’ll ring the bell when it’s time to bring them in.’
‘What’s a bell?’ asked Hekja, stumbling over the new word.
Gudrun shook her head. ‘What place have you been living in, hey? A bell is…a bell is…when you hear a loud noise, girl, a ding-ding-ding, then you’ll know it’s time to milk again.’
‘Arf,’ said Snarf, wagging his tail in case Gudrun had another hunk of meat with her. She patted him on the way out, and slipped him a bit of barley bread from her apron.
One by one the cows were milked. One of the men came to take the buckets of milk back to the dairy. Hekjawas just stripping 21 the last cow—a big red beast with horns that could lift a deer—when she heard a whistle behind her.
‘Where is that blasted hound!’ It was Thorvard. ‘Here, boy! Here!’ He grabbed Snarf by the scruff of the neck, and pulled him to his feet. Snarf grunted in surprise, then flopped back down again, onto his tummy, to show he’d do whatever was wanted.
‘What are you doing!’ Hekja leapt to her feet, so suddenly she knocked over the bucket of milk. The cow pulled its head out of the wooden stall to watch them curiously.
Thorvard stared at her. ‘Get on with your milking, girl!’ He bent to haul Snarf up again.
‘No! Stop it! You’ll hurt
‘They are from Ireland,’ Gudrun whispered, as she passed with a platter of barley bread. Hekja nodded, though the word Ireland made no sense.
Gudrun put the meat down onto a platter and sliced it up. Her portion was minced into tiny bits, as she had no teeth to chew with. There were slabs for everyone else and the meaty bones and scraps for Snarf. Snarf gulped the meat scraps then rolled over, panting, so Gudrun could scratch his belly with her booted foot.
Each person had a spoon to eat the pudding from the pot. Hekja had never seen spoons so small. She watched how the others used them before dipping in her own.
The pudding was the best thing she had ever eaten, rich with cream and meat juices, sweet with fruit andhoney, the soft grains melting with the greens. Even toothless Gudrun was able to eat it with ease, as it needed no chewing at all.
The fire burnt low, till it was only coals. The house was dark, except for the twilight through the door. The men rolled themselves in sheepskins from the benches and went to sleep beside the glowing fire. Gudrun nodded to Hekja to do the same.
She felt stranger than she ever had—stranger even than on the boat, the smells of meat mingling with the scent of a foreign land, mixed with the scent of ice and smoke. But Hekja was too tired to stay awake, and the sheepskin was the softest, warmest thing that she had ever felt. She fell asleep with Snarf by her side, and didn’t even notice when he rose to investigate more smells from outside, including Erik’s bitch.
Even when Freydis and Thorvard returned she didn’t wake, till Thorvard stumbled against one of the sleeping men, then kicked him drunkenly.
‘Wake up, you lazy louts!’ cried Thorvard, as he staggered past.
Hekja started to her feet, but Thorvard and Freydis were already in their room. The great wood door had been left open. Outside the sun was rising above the storerooms, and the hens were running after insects. The sheep were bleating, and the cows calling to be milked.
Her life in Greenland had begun.
----
17 hens
18 whale bones
19 A loom, for weaving.
20 storerooms
Chapter 18
GREENLAND
They ate leftovers for breakfast—cold meat and cold bread and fermented milk. Hekja milked the cows as they stood with their heads through the stalls and munched at a handful of hay, while Gudrun watched.
Finally Gudrun nodded. ‘You know what you are about, girl,’ she said, hauling herself off the milking stool and onto her swollen feet. ‘Finish the milking yourself, then take the cows out beyond the barley fields, and stop them straying. I’ll ring the bell when it’s time to bring them in.’
‘What’s a bell?’ asked Hekja, stumbling over the new word.
Gudrun shook her head. ‘What place have you been living in, hey? A bell is…a bell is…when you hear a loud noise, girl, a ding-ding-ding, then you’ll know it’s time to milk again.’
‘Arf,’ said Snarf, wagging his tail in case Gudrun had another hunk of meat with her. She patted him on the way out, and slipped him a bit of barley bread from her apron.
One by one the cows were milked. One of the men came to take the buckets of milk back to the dairy. Hekjawas just stripping 21 the last cow—a big red beast with horns that could lift a deer—when she heard a whistle behind her.
‘Where is that blasted hound!’ It was Thorvard. ‘Here, boy! Here!’ He grabbed Snarf by the scruff of the neck, and pulled him to his feet. Snarf grunted in surprise, then flopped back down again, onto his tummy, to show he’d do whatever was wanted.
‘What are you doing!’ Hekja leapt to her feet, so suddenly she knocked over the bucket of milk. The cow pulled its head out of the wooden stall to watch them curiously.
Thorvard stared at her. ‘Get on with your milking, girl!’ He bent to haul Snarf up again.
‘No! Stop it! You’ll hurt
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