Northern Fiction - The Saga of Freydis Eiriksdattir
Chapter 2
Hrolf walked back to the table and sat next to Aran. “Want more cheese?” An eager nod. Then he guilefully asked in an innocent tone, “Do you really think we should?” Smirking to himself in the knowledge that he had done right to encourage the telling of the story.
Hrolf licked the spoon and passed the spoon and bowl back to Aran. “Well, Alan sailed to England with a boatload of twelve cattle, a pet deer, his family, and some supplies as well. After some weeks they arrived at the Island of Angelsey off the coast of Wales. They built a farmhouse, with space for the cattle, and a stall for the pet deer as well. Then, they built a church.”
Aran looked up: “Why did they not build the church first? Were not they there to spread the word of God? Was it winter? Was the farmhouse like ours of stone and wood or was it if turf as is the hall of Lady Freydis? What was the breed of cattle and the name of the deer? Huh?”
Put off his pace, Hrolf stammered somewhat, then continued. “I don’t know, I don’t think that it was winter. Such questions.“
“I just want you to know I’m paying attention,” grinning broadly.
“Pay attention more quietly.” Hrolf could not resist the smile. Never could, “I only know what I told you, that’s just the way it was told to me. Anyway, no sooner was the church built that some armed pagans arrived to look things over. ‘Who said you could build here?’ they asked. Alan said they had seen nobody in all the time they had been on Angelsey and they had built where God directed.”
“Got another apple?”
Ignoring the question, the story teller droned on,“The men said, ‘Our king, whose name is Cadwallon, will be very displeased,’ Then, in a short time, Alan’s cows started disappearing. Alan went to the king. ‘I want my cows back!’ he declared. But the king said, ‘I don’t like your God very much. I’m not impressed with you little church. What power has your God? What he can do? I’ll just keep those cows.’ Alan prayed ‘God, show Cadwallon how strong you are Lord.’ And God let Alan know that He was not pleased that Cadwallon thought so little of The Lord.” Hrolf turned to Aran with up-lifted hands, and said: “And, God made Cadwallon and his followers blind! Blind as stones for doubting the power and goodness and mercy of God.”
“Sounds fair to me,” chirped Aran.
“Alan went back to his church. He waited. In a while Cadwallon sent a message for him to come to the palace. When he got there, the king said, ‘If you will make me unblind, I will give you ten cows.’ Alan explained that God made the king blind because Cadwallon did not respect God. The king cried out: ‘If you let me see again, I will give you whatever you ask for in my kingdom!’ Well the king needed to be taught respect, the cows were only a side issue to God, but Mother Church will always accept a little something, or better yet a lot of something, for the trouble involved in spreading the Lord’s Word. Therefore, Alan told the king that if Cadwallon was really sorry he should give Alan the cows back, grant the land around the chapel to the Church, and send his subjects to hear Alan preach. The king promised, and immediately he and his followers regained their vision. Naturally, this impressed the pagans quite a bit. Alan’s church prospered. The king’s subjects all became Christians, and Alan was declared a saint. Ever since then January 22, is Saint Alan’s Day. Llanelian in Angelsey is named after him. And, King Cadwallon is buried in Bangor Cathedral.”
Aran looked at Hrolf with large sad eyes, and said: “What happened to the deer?”
Hrolf snorted: “What about the deer? I don’t know.”
Aran: “But, it was mentioned in the story. It must stand for something. Do you know what happened to the deer?”
Shaking his head, Hrolf said; “The deer was killed by the king’s hunting dogs. Ripped apart mercilessly. Perhaps they ate it for diner. I don’t know why it was in the story at all.” he said somewhat angrily. “But, I have heard that the cows hoof marks are still to be seen in the rocks of the shore at Angelsey Island.”
“Really?” Then, Aran asked pointedly: “What does this all have to do with Freydis?”
Hrolf replied, “Well, like Alan, we need a miracle to put the fear of God into Freydis and effect her conversion.”
Suddenly, the young priest realized that it was into Sexte (12-3 P.M.) and he was remiss in attending to the duty’s of his office. “Aran, I believe you are to be working in the garden now. Off with you, I will see you later.”
The youth snorted with disdain: “Weeds! I would rather hear of deeds than weeds.” He slid past Hrolf who stood at the narrow doorway to his cell, absently gazing into the courtyard.
The priest mussed Aran’s hair and the youth flashed him his very finest and most mischievous leer: “Later?” Hrolf laughed at the implication. Aran flashed another broad grin as they walked to the garden. Parting Aran burst off with the gangling exuberance of youth running across the courtyard at full speed with arms pumping and long powerful legs flailing.
Hrolf watched the lithe figure disappear through the open gateway, “Only a couple of years separate us but he seems so young, so bursting with energy, like a colt or a young hound.” Then he turned his thoughts to Freydis: “How much easier it would be if God were to deal with her like He dealt with Cadwallon.” Wistfully he thought that, perhaps God, in his mercy, would help him at least communicate with Father Gnupson in Greenland. Mused out, Hrolf walked across the garden toward the church. Entering he dipped his hand in the font of Holy Water, crossed himself, and bowed toward Christ on the wall. Then he walked to the altar.
Hrolf knelt and prayed: “Father, give me guidance, in this my hour of need. I pray to you as Our Lord taught, saying:”
Sanctificetur nomen tuum
Adveniat regnum tuum
Fiat voluntus tua
et in terra sicut in coeol
Panem nostrum quotidianum
da nobis hodie
Et dimitte noblis debita nostra
sicut et dimittemus debitoribus nostris
Et ne nos inducas in tentationem
sed libera nos a malo.
Amen.
He knew that, in the word’s of Saint John’s Gospel: “The Word is God. . . All things were made through Him, and without Him nothing was made that has been made.” He also knew that: “In Christ all things are possible.” Hrolf thought, “Just a little extra help about now would be most appreciated.” Then he prayed to Mary, the Holy Sainted Mother of God:
Dominus tecum
Benedicta tu in mulierbus
Et benedictus fructus ventris tui.
Amen.
Then, to Saint Alan (Just in case he was listening in and decided that he could lend a hand. Especially since Hrolf had been so nice as to remember his little story and tell it to someone new.). Then Hrolf prayed to each saint that he could imagine might intercede for him in addressing the trying problem.He fervently prayed seeking guidance from Saint Quentin the Martyr because it was his day, and to all the saints collectively, because it was All Hallows Eve. The day grew late and passed into evening. Finally, he recited the Apostles’ Creed just to be on the safe side and leave nothing to chance:
Creatorem coeli et terrae
Et in Jesum Christum Filium eius unicum
Dominum nostrum
Qui conceptus est de Spiritu Sancto
Natus ex Maria Virgine
Passus sub Pontio Pilato, crucifixus
Mortuus, et sepultus
Descendit ad infernia
Tertia die resurrexit a mortuis
Ascendit ad coelos
Sedet ad dexteram Dei Patris omnipotentis
Inde venturus judicare vivos et mortuos
Credo in Spiritum Sanctum,
Sanctum Ecclesiam Catholicam,
Sanctorum communionem
Remissionem peccatorum
Carnis ressurectionem
Et vitam aeternam.
Amen.
Then he realized that he was tired and hungry. He rose with aching knees and went to join the others in the parish house across the garden. It was well past None (late afternoon, or three to six P.M.) and nearly Vespers (Even song: 6-9 P.M.). He shuddered at thoughts about what Freydis might be up to this Matins: Midnight on All Hallows Eve.
Freydis soundly slept from eyktarstathr (nine AM) to dagmalastathr (four PM) and dreamed of the Norns: Uad, “the Past,” Verdandi, “the Present,” Skuld, “Shall be.” The goddesses wove the fates of mankind as they sat beneath Yggdrasill, the World Tree of Cosmic Life, irrigated by Urd’s Well. Freydis dreamed of her childhood in Greenland: The wonderful Spring months: Cuckoo Month and Sowing Time, gather wild bird Egg Time, and Lamb’s Fold Time when the meadows by the home farm were a carpet of new flowers and bright green grass. Then, Sheiling Month which was spent high in the distant meadows where the flocks fattened on the rich mountain grasses. She dreamt about the taste of skyr, the fresh soft curd cheese, and the taste of fermented sour milk. Trips with Eirik her father to the assembly of freemen, the Greenlander Thing and then finally to the arrival of the trading ships filled with supplies from Iceland and Norway. Once the winter ice was gone from the sea lanes to Greenland, merchants brought clothing in the latest fashion from Norway, swords and tools and bar iron, and all the little trinkets that made life enjoyable. The Greenlanders traded polar bear skins, rare white Arctic Falcons, walrus-hide ropes and ivory, and twisted Narwhale horns that are sold as ‘Horn of the Unicorn,’ and the rich Greenland woolen goods, dried fish and rich cheeses, made of the milk of their cows and sheep and goats fattened on the lush meadows of Greenland, lumber from Markland, furs and hides from the Arctic, and the many small craft objects that had been laboriously created over the long winter months.
It was during those few glorious weeks of warm weather that Freydis rode her pony with her handsome big brothers Leif, and Thorvald, and Thorstein in the tall grass of the summer pasturage and they played at games of war. She was a warrior maiden. She was the Valkyrie who brought home the glorious dead across her pony’s withers to the hideaway Valhalla in the mountain grove. She dreamed too of the end of summer in Haymaking Month when the men and women labored together in the fields, gathering the fodder to winter-over the animals. As a young woman she had lusted and tumbled in the heady sweetness of the new mown hay with so many handsome youths. She sighed, thinking about the boys with long blond hair, broad shoulders, and hot hard bodies wet with the strong gamy sweat of labor and passion. Corn Cutting Month marked the end of summer, the harvest home. And, Autumn Month, the last few days that closed the half year spent out of doors in the sun and warmth that she so dearly loved.
The rest of the year she put out of her memory as cold and gray, and grim. She hated the dreary hearth-bound months. She loathed being forced to work among the women in the endless tasks of homemaking. She could remember listening jealously to the boys in the loft at play: Giggling, wrestling, softly whispering secrets, loudly boasting of the brave adventures they would have when grown. And then the silences, when the boys were doing the secret things boys do together, when they are free from adult supervision.
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