Andrew Davidson - The Gargoyle

The dwelling was typical of the Icelandic style, constructed from the materials at hand. Rough stones had been laid in as foundation around upright posts of timber, and the walls were turf-sod with birch branches for infilling. Einarr proudly displayed one feature that was not common: in a corner of the longhouse, he had dug a trench that ran under the wall from a nearby stream. It was not even necessary to go outside to get clean water, because all one needed to do was lift the floorboards and dip in a bucket.

Every inch of the place was piled high with wood: some native to Iceland, some imported from Norway, and some that had washed up on the coast. All had to be kept inside so it was dry enough to work. On the walls hung dozens of irons, files, rasps, knives and chisels, and there were shelves to house the oils used to finish the woodwork.

Nearly all the benches, shelves, and even farming implements were carved with intricate designs. Sigurðr ran his finger gently along the twisting grooves of one such object, a cradle sitting near a wall. From the four corners of its body, posts extended upwards; each was a dragon’s neck with a head that fit perfectly into the parent’s hand so the child could be rocked to sleep.

“It is for my boy, Bragi.”

Sigurðr knew that Einarr was a father and that he was married. He didn’t need to be reminded of these facts. “It’s good,” he replied, then pointed to a barrel overflowing with thin wooden cylinders. “What are those?”

Einarr pulled one out and held it in front of his face, looking down its length, before handing it over.

“I have no particular skill with a bow, but tooling a shaft straight and true is another matter altogether.”

“Einarr is showing off, is he?”

A woman, cradling an infant sucking at her tit, had come into the house unheard. Her eyes were an even brighter blue than Einarr’s and her hair, swept back with a colorful headband, had streaks of bright blond where she had bleached it with lye.

“You must be Sigurðr. It is good to meet you finally.”

“This is Svanhildr,” said Einarr. “My anchor.”

“Ah, your steadying influence, then?” asked the wife.

“No,” answered the husband, “that which is dragging me down.”

Svanhildr slapped him hard across the shoulder, and Einarr reached out his own hand-not to strike in return, but to cup the baby so its balance was not lost.

“The lucky little one,” said Einarr, “is Bragi.”

Svanhildr handed the child over to her husband, adjusted the treasure necklace around her throat, and closed her apron-dress. A chain of keys around her waist rattled in time with the many ornaments of her necklace and, as a result, her every movement was musical. She slapped her husband once more, tunefully, before taking the child back into her arms. From the look on her face, this was a woman pleased with her life.

The man and boy worked through the afternoon-mostly, Einarr demonstrated the uses of the tools-before Sigurðr returned home after declining Svanhildr’s invitation to dinner.

The following day, when Svanhildr answered the longhouse door, Sigurðr handed a sack to her. “I brought shark,” he said.

“How very kind,” she said, politely exaggerating the bag’s weight. “I will ferment it, and you will eat it with us when it is ready.”

In the pause that followed, Sigurðr blurted, “It’s good to find dead whales, but sharks are also useful.”

“Yes. Come in.” She kicked aside a stray piece of lumber. “That is, if you can find room among these logs. Sometimes I feel like I’m living in a forest.”

Again the men spent the day together; this time it was the maintenance of the tools that was explained. When Svanhildr extended another dinner invitation, Sigurðr accepted. She served chicken stew with seaweed and, as the men ate, she rocked the dragon cradle until Bragi fell asleep.

They sat around the longfire until late in the night, smoke drifting through the vent in the ceiling. Svanhildr heated a small cauldron of ale and when the men’s frost-cups neared their dregs, she would dip the ale-goose into the cauldron to refill them. When Sigurðr commented on the brew’s excellent taste, Svanhildr explained her secret lay in the combination of juniper and bog myrtle. “It is often said that a man’s happiness depends on the quality of his food,” she explained, “but in Einarr’s case it’s more the quality of his alcohol.”

Einarr grunted appreciatively and took another gulp.

That night, as Sigurðr walked back to his own house, he absent-mindedly rubbed his fingers with the patch of sharkskin he had not given to Einarr. He had sliced it from the top fin because he knew it would make fine sandpaper, but somehow he had not found a good moment to hand it over. By the time he arrived at his own shabby dwelling, his fingers were so numb he didn’t notice they were covered in blood.

In the afternoons that followed, Sigurðr discovered that while he had no real feel for woodwork, he did have a talent for paints. He ground the pigments-blacks from charcoal, whites from bone, reds from ocher-and applied them to the finished work. Sigurðr was thrice pleased: by the new skill he was developing; by the colors themselves; and by the smile on Einarr’s face.

Einarr, too, was content. Not only did Sigurðr’s painting improve his work, but also the young man was a good companion-not quite a friend yet, but certainly not only a workmate. To recognize this fact, one day Einarr handed over a long package, wrapped in worsted fabric and tied with a leather string. Inside was a sword with an intricately carved dragon handle. “It would be good for you to have a proper blade,” Einarr said, “not that fish-cutter you have now.”

Sigurðr nodded, because he didn’t know what else to do. Since his parents had died, this was the first gift anyone had given him.

“Now,” asked Einarr, “would you like to learn to use that?”

Einarr set about correcting the weaknesses in Sigurðr’s technique, and the pupil was quick to incorporate the suggestions. Einarr was impressed. “Your body naturally knows which way to move, and this is good. There are many things that can be taught, but a feel for the attack is not one of them.”

Sigurðr looked at his feet. He didn’t want Einarr to see the blush the compliment had brought to his face.

“You will need a name for that,” Einarr said. “I suggest Sigurðrsnautr. Because if you ever need to put your blade into a man, it will not be a gift that he soon forgets.”

When Sigurðr returned home that evening, he turned the sword over and over in his hands. He liked the name-“Sigurðr’s Gift.” He carefully tied together the ends of the leather strap that had wrapped the package, and hung it around his neck. From that day forward, he was never without it, but he always made sure the strap was carefully tucked into his tunic. There was no need to display it; it was enough to know what had once been in Einarr’s fingers now constantly touched his skin. To think of the fact sometimes raised small bumps on Sigurðr’s flesh, the way a blast of the northern wind might.

When the inevitable day came that Einarr left for a series of Viking raids, Sigurðr expected this would mark a return to his lonely ways. But Svanhildr invited him for pancakes and ale each morning and-to his own surprise-Sigurðr kept showing up. Bragi was growing bigger and soon added a new phrase to his growing vocabulary. He knew mother and father and wood, but one day he looked at the man who had the mouthful of pancakes and said: “Sig Sig.”

Though Einarr may have built the supply chests in the home, it was Svanhildr who controlled them with her chain of keys. Not without careful planning could a Viking household make it through the brutal winters, and Sigurðr grew to appreciate her work. She knew all the methods for preserving meat-smoking, salting, pickling, and more-so her husband did not grow tired of the same meals. After a while, Sigurðr found himself helping her after breakfast, slicing the meat into strips while she prepared the brines in which they would soak.