Jerry Autieri - Islands in the Fog

Gunnar again nodded as Toki accepted him with a mock expression of pain. "How heavy you've become. You should carry me instead."

Ulfrik laughed. "Thanks for watching Gunnar. He looks more like his mother every day. Looks more like your brother than nephew."

He left Toki to entertain Gunnar, and he sought the company of the other jarls. Runa had been right, he realized. He had not used the festival to mingle and risked losing the real opportunity of hosting the festival: to become another key player in the informal politics of the islands.

So as men raced, threw spears, hurled rocks, wrestled, and dueled, Ulfrik moved among the groups of on-lookers. Hardar walled himself behind a clique of men from the northern islands. While not hostile, their faces were closed to Ulfrik. He realized they could not be won over, so ignored them.

As the day drew on, he noted that Hardar finally regained his jovial manner. But Ulfrik also noted that Hardar followed up wherever Ulfrik had visited. At first he thought it was coincidence. Yet soon it was obvious. Is he following behind to check what I said or to smear my name , he wondered.

Though the sun would not set for many hours, the evening feast was soon. Ulfrik cast an eye down the gentle slope to where the buildings of Nye Grenner clustered. Without a single tree on any of the Faereyjar Islands, timber was an expensive import. The locals had shown him how to build with stone and turf roofs. It made for solid homes, if strange ones to Ulfrik's mind. He had built his hall with imported birch wood and stone. It chugged hearth smoke, scents of roasting meats making him hunger. Beyond the rectangles of green roofs the ocean glittered.

Snorri found him staring at his hall. He stood next to Ulfrik and shared a smile with him, then turned to face the hall. "You've done well. In just five years, you've built a thriving home."

"Still can't believe it. I never thought I'd own two sticks, never minds ships, a hall, and a forge. Fate has been kind to me."

"Your father would've been proud to see this place."

Ulfrik nodded silently. Suddenly he felt an unmanly lump in his throat. Snorri was an old man now, over forty years of age. He was the last link Ulfrik had to anyone from his youth. Snorri had stood beside him in his first shield wall. He was the last of what Ulfrik considered to be the heroic, old breed of warriors. His thoughts and opinions counted heavy in Ulfrik's heart.

"We should gather in the guests for the feast. It's going to be the best thing these men have seen, better than anything before."

"Aye, my wife Gerdie and Runa have got to be the best cooks in the world. The poor fools haven't really tasted good food until they've eaten from our table."

They laughed together, and started for the hall. "Let's make sure all is prepared. I can't wait to see Hardar's expression once he tastes my hospitality."

The hall reverberated with carousing and merriment. Ulfrik had built his hall large, but tonight it filled with so many men it seemed a hermit's cottage. The hearth pit glowed orange, casting laughing faces in a golden hue. Two women fed it dried juniper branches to keep it burning. Smoke from the roasting lamb whorled at the ceiling as it sought the hole in the roof. The doors were thrown wide, allowing a sea breeze to freshen the room. So many had come to sample Ulfrik's hospitality that they had to sit outside the hall. The women of Nye Grenner squeezed between the revelers, bringing them mead and food, laughing at jokes, fending off wandering hands, and settling friendly debates.

Ulfrik beamed from the high table. Runa sat at his side, radiant in a fine dress and a jeweled pin at her shoulder. Gunnar squirmed on her lap, equally confused and excited by the crowds in his normally quiet home. More tables had been set upon the stage of pounded earth to accommodate the other jarls and their families. Ulfrik wanted to ensure his guests felt respect for their status. They had spent half the night toasting each other, and Ulfrik began to grow dizzy.

"Your mead is the best I've ever tasted, and I've tasted much!" Jarl Hermind the Fat patted his belly, drawing laughter around the tables. "Do you keep your own bees?"

"We do. Only started a few years ago. One of my men comes from a line of beekeepers."

"Then you should trade this mead with me! I cannot wait another year to drink such nectar again." Hermind slapped the table and chortled, spit flinging from his mouth. Others laughed again, only Hardar refrained, barely fitting a trite smile on his swollen face. Ulfrik realized the assumption of his holding the festival again rankled Hardar. He pressed Hardar's sore spot.

"Indeed we should. But if you wait until next year, we will have perfected the brewing of it. Next year when you return it will be even better."

"Truly a fine feast. I am humbled by the skill of your people." Hardar spoke overloud. "Let me toast your wife's skill at the hearth once more."

Everyone raised a mug or horn to Runa, who smiled demurely. Ulfrik put his arm about her waist as he raised his own. "To the best cook I've ever known!"

Hardar and Ulfrik watched each other over the rims of their mugs. Hardar's wife and daughter sat beside him, shrinking into his shadow. They had not spoken the entire night, unlike the wives of other jarls. Hardar's wife Ingrid, her skin still clear and tight for her age, had seemed outgoing when they first arrived. But now she fluttered like a ghost vanishing from sight. Hardar's daughter behaved the same.

"You have made yourself rich in a land where sheep outnumber men. It's no small feat." Jarl Ragnvald now turned the conversation down a new track. He sat opposite Ulfrik. Both he and his wife were soft and gentle folk from the northern islands. Ulfrik had liked him the moment they met. "Your name as a hero of Hafrsfjord has brought you many followers, even to these distant rocks."

"Men follow success, don't they?" Ulfrik sent his words straight at Hardar, glanced at him, then laughed. Runa elbowed him gently for his immodesty, which drew polite laughter. Hardar wore a smile like a day old corpse.

"As I know it, King Harald destroyed all his foes at Hafrsfjord. Odd to call utter defeat a success." The quip came not from Hardar, but from the morose and unfriendly Jarl Vermund sitting at his side. It was the first Ulfrik had heard from this man since his arrival.

Faces of those who could hear above the celebration glanced at each other, then expectantly turned to Ulfrik. He held his smile as he chose his words. "I escaped with my life and the lives of my sworn men. I made no claim for glory on that bloody day. The success I referred to, if Jarl Vermund had been listening, was the rebuilding of Nye Grenner on this island."

Ulfrik held Vermund's gaze, but knew Hardar was studying him closely. Vermund, for his part, gave the faintest smirk. "I apologize, Jarl Ulfrik. I must have misunderstood."

Ulfrik nodded, still holding Vermund's gaze until he finally turned away. It seemed a signal for Hardar to interject his thoughts. "This is an interesting point, though, Jarl Ulfrik. You arrived here with a ship full of men and their families. The freemen of this place got you started on the path to your current happiness."

"I owe the free families who dwelt here everything I am. I feel my work here has bettered their lives. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Certainly," Hardar picked a bone from his plate and turned it over in his hands. He swept his gaze over the other jarls. "But I wonder if they feel that way?"

Small conversations halted, and smiling faces froze. Ulfrik straightened himself, peering at Hardar with slit eyes. "And why would you wonder such things? Do you not see the prosperity here?"

"When you arrived, you were but a few boatloads of people. Now this island is filled with fighting men. Warriors who make claims on the land, desire their own fame and wealth. We people who have lived in the Faereyjar all our lives value the peace of our island homes. It is why we stay here."