Susanna Gregory: The Sacred stone

Jorund ignored it all, seeing only the hated face in front of him — the man who was determined to spoil the harmony of his village, and who had murdered his beloved son. He did not see Sigrid slide a dagger into Aron’s back, or hear Ivar screaming for everyone to stop. Brand was looking frightened, but the man’s cowardice acted as a spur, causing Jorund to respond with a series of vicious swipes, one of which caught him just above the ear. It was a killing blow, and Brand toppled to the ground.

Once Brand and Aron were down, the skirmish quickly ended. The bloodlust drained from Jorund, leaving in its place a sense of sick shame. Thirteen men lay dead, some of them Brand’s would-be deserters, and some men who had rallied to Jorund’s side. Panting hard, he gazed around him and wondered how he had allowed such a situation to come to pass. What sort of leader was he, to draw weapons against his people?

‘It does not work,’ wept Ivar, and Jorund saw he was trying to press the sky-stone into his brother’s hand. ‘It will not make him sit up.’

‘Why would it?’ Jorund demanded harshly. ‘It is only a piece of iron. But Brand will have his wish. We will leave Brattahli? today — he said the ship is ready.’

‘Today?’ asked one of the villagers, startled. ‘But we cannot! You said yourself that the weather is not yet warm enough for long journeys.’

‘We will go to the Western Settlement,’ Jorund replied. ‘It is a big place; they will find a corner for us. Release the animals and gather warm clothes. There is nothing for us here.’

‘But what about the dead?’ asked Sigrid, shocked. ‘Wild animals will come and-’

‘Leave them,’ ordered Jorund, resolutely turning his back on the slaughter. ‘Let the land have them. It is what it wanted, after all.’

Twenty years later

‘I am not sure this is a good idea,’ muttered Jorund, standing next to Ivar as the prow of the boat nosed up the memory-laden waterway towards Brattahli?. ‘It was hard living here — Brand was right to encourage us to leave.’

‘Our people never liked the Western Settlement,’ replied Ivar. Since his lame leg had been cured, he had grown into a tall, strong man; Jorund thought it a pity that he had announced a calling to become a monk, when he would have made a fine warrior. ‘They are all pleased to be coming home.’

‘Then let us hope they are not disappointed,’ said Jorund.

‘They will not be,’ declared Ivar with great conviction. ‘They have been homesick ever since we left. And there is not a soul among them who thinks Brand was right, even if they do remember him. Besides, the green lights were bright in the sky again this year. It is right to come here now.’

Jorund said nothing, but his stomach lurched when the boat’s keel scraped on the beach and it was time to disembark. All around, his people were scrambling overboard, calling to each other in unbridled delight as they recognized familiar landmarks. Wordlessly, Jorund and Ivar walked towards the village, leaving the others to unload the supplies. When they drew close to the church, Jorund stopped.

‘I cannot go any further,’ he whispered. ‘We left the dead unburied…’

‘But Qasapi did not,’ said Ivar. ‘He sent word to say that he and his people had covered them decently with stones. We shall bury them in the cemetery later, and that will mark an end to the business. This is a good place, and our people will prosper here.’

‘I wish you were staying,’ said Jorund unhappily. ‘We will all miss you. Are you sure you want to go to Iceland and become a monk? I have heard they keep you inside all day, reading and praying.’

Ivar smiled. ‘It is all arranged, Father, and I must follow my promise to God.’

‘And all because of that sky-stone,’ said Jorund bitterly. ‘I wish Leif had never found it.’

‘It is a great gift, if used properly,’ countered Ivar. ‘You were sceptical at first, but even you acknowledged its power when it saved Mother after she almost died giving birth to Olaf. And it has brought us luck.’

‘Some very good luck, and some very bad,’ agreed Jorund. ‘But I am glad you are taking it away. It led to fights when the people of the Western Settlement learned about it, and it is unpredictable — it does not always do what one wants.’

‘Such as failing to save Leif,’ said Ivar sadly. ‘And Aron’s little son, when he fell in the fire. I suppose it wants to be seen as a boon, not a given. But regardless, the monks will know how to use it wisely, and I do not think we should keep it any longer.’

Jorund smiled, pleased his son had grown so wise. Would Leif have shown the same qualities? And would his third son, Olaf, who was being groomed as village leader now Ivar was making good his promise to take the cowl? He supposed only time would tell.

The following day, while the rest of the villagers mended fences and enclosures, Jorund and Ivar removed the stones Qasapi had laid over the bodies of the thirteen men and one boy who had died so long ago, and began the process of taking them to the cemetery.

Despite the Skraelings’ care, animals had been at the bodies, and rain and snow had done their share of scattering, too. It was impossible to tell which bones belonged to whom, so they buried them in a common grave to the south of the church, placing the skulls in a long line against one side.

‘We may have put Brand next to Leif,’ said Jorund anxiously, staring down at what they had done. ‘A killer next to his victim.’

‘It does not matter,’ said Ivar comfortingly. ‘And they were all friends once. Let us put the earth over them and make an end of this dismal business.’

A week later Ivar packed the sky-stone in a bag with some warm clothes and prepared to head south with the traders. He bade a tearful farewell to the parents and brother he would never see again, and watched Brattahli? and its little church until they disappeared from sight. Then he turned his eyes to the seas he would have to cross before he reached his final destination.

In the following days, with his thoughts far away, Ivar did not notice the man from the Western Settlement who watched him intently. Called Saemund, he was not much older than Ivar, and had not dissimilar Norse features. Like everyone from the Western Settlement, he knew all about the sky-stone. He had also heard Ivar telling his father that he intended to give it to a monastery, and he thought it a pity that monks in Iceland should benefit from something that belonged in Greenland. Before they had even sailed, Saemund had decided to kill Ivar and tip his body into the sea; accidents were not uncommon on ships, and it would be assumed that Ivar had been washed overboard.

And the sky-stone? Saemund would grab it before he threw Ivar’s corpse into the sea, and then he would keep it safe. When he returned to the Western Settlement the following year, he would take it with him. Of course, he might use it to accrue himself a little wealth in the meantime — such a prize could make a man very rich.

Late one day, with no one else near the stern, Saemund began to edge towards Ivar, but as he pulled out his knife the ship gave a peculiar lurch. He glanced upwards and saw dark clouds scudding towards them. Surely, they had not been there earlier? It had been clear and calm all day, and the captain had been muttering about an unusually placid crossing. Keeping a wary eye on the sky, Saemund eased forward again.

The squall hit the little ship with tremendous force, dousing those on deck with a vicious shower of rain and spray. Saemund blinked water from his eyes. Were the gods providing a diversion for him, so he could take the stone from Ivar without being seen — knowing he would bring the treasure back to Greenland? Or were they warning him to leave well alone?