Northern Fiction - The Saga of Freydis Eiriksdattir
Chapter 5
“Aside from a king like Ahab, in your Book, what king steals from his own people? That is what strangers are for,” Freydis observed.
“Yes, Magnus stole lands from the bonder men. Truly, Sigvat warned the king. But Magnus was young and ill-advised. Did he not change his ways? Did he not promulgate the Gray Goose Book, wherein all the laws of the land were recorded for all to read: Provision made for the poor, the equity of weights and measures, protection for the markets and sea harbors provided. Did not the law provide for orphans, inns for travelers, wages of servants and support for the workers in sickness, protection of pregnant women and even of domestic animals from injury? The roads, bridges, vagrants, beggars, all were subjects addressed in Magnus the Goods code of laws. Thus was he a bad Christian man and a bad king? Where else will you find laws comparable to the Gray Goose?”
“Hrolf, you are so much fun to banter with! You have a ready answer to all my arguments. So quick. So clever. Such a bright boy. And yet, so stupid of you to anger me, my dear. Sometimes you have more balls than brains. But, I do so love you for your young courage”
“Then, hear me more. Did not the Vik men lay waste the land and churches of Our Lord? Did they not rob and loot and ravish monasteries and churches from Ireland to Russia destroying Holy Books and taking Holy vessels of gold and silver and gems?”
“For the treasure, yes. . . but, be reasonable Hrolf, that was where the gold was. Did not your Christians nail ‘Daneskins’ to the church doors, flayed from the bodies of men, and brag how the evil were justly punished for ‘desecration’ of the sanctuaries? The men took treasure, but not for proving religious truth or chastising the so-called ‘wicked sinners’ as you Christians did, they merely wanted loot. ‘Sin’ is your guilt tormented and sin-obsessed specialty.”
“Our day is come. The old gods are no more,” Hrolf said passionately.
Coldly the reply: “Not yet, my young friend. Though perhaps all too soon.”
“There are signs. . . “
“There are always signs! True, our time is characterized by fragmentation, but then, are not all times?”
Holf said: “At such times men’s eyes turn to the heavens for help, and marvelous signs appear from on high. At least that is what some people seem to believe.”
Then sharply: “Tell me priest: What type of parent acts as does your God? Now then, you must tell me. Our Odin suffered the death of his son, Baldar the Beautiful, to treachery. It was permanent loss. Your God let his son, Jesus, die. But, then Jesus rose again from the dead. It was foretold. If He rose again it was no loss at all. It was just a charade. Jesus came back. His Father suffered no loss. But, was the crucifixion just? Is that what a loving father does? Who sends his only son to do the father’s job?” Continuing, Freydis observed: “Odin suffered himself. Odin was nine days hung upon Yggdrasill, the World Tree. Nine days was he pierced by spears.”
“It is said, by Odin:”
Nine long and freezing nights,I was wounded,
Pierced by a spear, an offering pledged to Odin
Pledged by myself to myself:
The wise-ones know from whence grow
The roots of that ancient lance shaft.
Odin suffered himself that he might attain wisdom and power. Your God did not suffer. Your God let his son suffer in his place. Even then, he was on his rood-tree but a few hours in one day. Therefore, who has suffered more? Who earned more knowledge? Who has the power? Odin!”
Then reasonably: “This girl you act so distressed about, this. . er. . Vaner, she was merely a Skraeling slave. Now she is a help-meet for her lord Agdi in eternity. And these ‘sacrifices,’ now, now, my dear young man, you must think of those animals merely as food for a feast to honor our friend Agdi. ‘Unholy rites,’ indeed. These are our time honored burial rites of the noble dead. Are you not Icelandic born? Are you not Norse like us? These are your traditions too! Hrolf, you are so sweet and young, but you do run on about all the wrong things. Do not trouble this ‘old lady’ with your ranting. Say a few prayers if it makes you feel better, say a few prayers . . . even for me . . . to save my soul, if you will. I have lived so very long and need some saving I am sure; but, now I am so weary.”
They had reached the compound gate. Freydis turned and looked up into the bright blue eyes of the young priest: “Give me your hand you handsome child. Thank you for helping me to my house. I need to rest. I have had a long and tiring night’s work.”
He replied: “I must write to the bishops in Iceland and Norway. I must send word to my superior priests at Gardar, in Greenland, My Lady. I must ask advice in this situation. I may be youthful, but I am Christ’s priest here. I have obligations to my God, my Church, my bishop. This business last night! It goes beyond all I've been taught, all I believe. I cannot wink at such acts, not even when they are committed by you.”
“Let us see, Hrolf: If the offense were pilfering and I a mere free-born woman I could be exiled or executed. For hvinnske, petty theft, I could have my head shaved, tar rubbed into my scalp, and be made to run a gauntlet of nine bow lengths while my fellow townsfolk pelted me with sods, and rocks, and invective, and then I would be outlawed. Were I a bondswoman who stole I would loose an ear for the first offense, the other ear were I to steal again, and the third time caught I would loose my nose. But thereafter I would be free to steal, as the law states, that after the third offense ‘she can sniff and steal as much as she likes,’ in its grimly humorous way. As a heretic I could be burned alive. As a lapsed Christian, tortured first, then burned. What would you have done with me the Landtaker and Jarl of Vinland. Well? Well, boy?” she asked bitterly.
In a suddenly gentler turn of mind, Freydis reached up and gently held his face in her hands: “Give us a kiss my sweet lad.” What he expected to be a tender contact of cheeks turned into a lascivious deep tongue probing of his mouth, as the death-pale woman held him firmly with her gripping talon-like fingers. She rasped to him, as saliva flowed from her pressing mouth to his: “Naughty boy! There, there my boy. You will do, you will do . . . you will do what you will do, Hrolf.” Hrolf’s mouth was filled with the over-sweet taste of decay and the dank scent of ancient sepulchers.
Then coyly: “Now, do be a good boy. Stand aside so I may enter into my home. I am so tired, and your hot youth makes me feel ever so old. Thank you for your assistance, sweet Hrolf.”
Then a wink. Leering, with a lolling tongue that circled her wetted lips, Freydis said: “Please, please kiss the pretty altar boys for me, please.” Then archly: “I understand you do kiss them. Am I wrong? You blush hot, yes. . . I was correct.”
“Many condemn such behavior my lady. Still it is written, in Samuel I, 18, that ‘Jonathan loved David as his own soul, and stripped himself and gave his garments to David.’ When Jonathan died, David lamented, according to Samuel, II, 1:
Very pleasant hast thou been unto me:
Thy love to me was wonderful’
Passing the love of women.
“Well, Hrolf,” Freydis said: “go play David and Jonathan or Jesus and Mark. Kiss the boys for me, . . yes, even so, just as I kissed you! Give them some of Christ’s love as well. I hear you priests have that as a tradition too, dear youth.”
Then dismissively: “Good day now. Pox Vobiscum. ‘Go in Peace,’ but do go, just leave us now. I am weary.” She irreverently signed the cross at Hrolf, then laughed. She waved off the young cleric with a lazy fluttering of fingers in his direction. Freydis turned and slowly crossed the yard to the familiar doorway at Kraekleroost, the Raven’s Nest.
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