The Saga of Colm the Slave (36 page)

“No, Frosti, I told you before, you are
made of better stuff.” But Frosti only shook his head.

The sun climbed higher in the sky and
Snorri and Hallvard began to assess the captured thieves. Colm saw
that most of them were young, runaways from a father who beat them
too often, perhaps, or a farmer who worked them too much or just
foolish boys full of romantic notions of being a robber. Maybe, he
thought, they were young enough to learn how to be a useful man. He
looked at Skeggi’s ruined corpse and remembered him as the youth
who had neglected his duties for the sake of a roll in the hay.
Many a sixteen-year-old would have made the same choice! Still,
Skeggi caused a problem that could have developed into a serious
feud with many dead. So, Colm thought, how to deal with these
matters? He was struck that Snorri had offered mercy to these young
men. Perhaps that was the way a Christian godi should act. It
helped that none of Skeggi’s gang had killed anyone.

When Hallvard asked if any of his
followers would take on any of the gang, Frosti stepped forward
immediately to accept one as a farmhand. Colm also took one of the
robbers, a young man named Cran, to install on a secondary farm
that he had purchased from Svart’s widow. The man who ran it was
steady and wise, Colm thought, and perhaps could bring this fellow
around. Cran was a bit older than some of the others but Colm
thought he looked intelligent enough to learn.

Colm asked Hallvard, “Did everything go
as you hoped?” It seemed to him that both the young godis had done
well, far better than he himself could have done.

“Yes. We all shared a useful experience.
We outdid the men in the North Quarter, too.” Hallvard shook his
head. “Of course, Snorri will get most of the credit.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Snorri seems wise enough. That was a
good idea, to show mercy to these men. Still, I don’t want to bend
my knee to him.” Hallvard shrugged. “For now, this is good
enough.”

So everyone went home, well pleased with
their work.

36. Gerda’s Treasure

Gerda’s children had all left home now.
Perhaps she was put out that none of them asked her to live with
them but she became cranky and difficult. She yelled at her
servants and had nothing good to say about anyone. She seemed angry
all the time. She had gotten quite fat and found it difficult to
move quickly. She spent a lot of time in the stove-room sitting
before her loom, grumbling about this or that. About the only thing
that gave her any pleasure was fondling the valuables she had put
away in a locked casket that she kept in a compartment under the
platform.

The casket was large and very fine,
decorated with inlays of ivory and whalebone. Gerda would wait
until she was alone, then take the chest from its hiding place and
unlock it with a key that she always kept with her. Then she would
stroke the fine cloth that was folded on top and reverently lift
it, piece after piece, from the casket. Various pieces of jewellery
were kept under the layers of cloth. Gerda would unwrap them, heft
them in her hand, stroke them with her fingers, and hold them up to
the light. She especially loved to look at the beautiful necklace
of glass that Ingveld had given her. After a time, she would
replace each item and refold the cloth on top. She would lock the
casket, lower it into place, and cover the hiding place. This was a
ritual Gerda performed every week or so.

Gerda had not given any of her treasures
to Marta. “Time enough for her to have them after I am dead,” she
said. Perhaps she resented not being able to live with Marta and
run her life or perhaps she just had too much pleasure from her
treasures to part with anything.

One day, Gerda was alone in her
stove-room, caressing the necklace of glass when a serving-girl
suddenly entered. Gerda leapt to her feet and yelled at her. The
servants were all frightened of Gerda and usually kept away from
the stove-room when Gerda was in there, but this time one of them
thought the room was empty and brought in a pail of drinking water.
When Gerda shouted, the startled girl jumped and spilled the water
into the stofa and put out the fire. Gerda turned red with anger
and rose from her seat. She started to yell, then her face seemed
to swell up and flush red, then shrink and turn white. She grabbed
at her chest and fell forward off the platform.

The serving-girls approached her warily.
One finally touched her and found that she was dead. They fluttered
about, confused as to what to do. It was as though they were afraid
that Gerda might rise from the ground and berate them if they did
the wrong thing. Finally they ceased babbling and flapping their
hands and sent for the nearest priest. He was an Armenian, one of
the foreign priests that had come to Iceland. He had a thick accent
and people weren’t always certain of his words. He prayed over
Gerda and anointed her while the servants watched. Later, they told
everyone of the magic rites that he performed.

Gerda’s death was the first suffered by
a Christian in the region after the new religion was adopted. Soon,
there were others. Mar died in his sleep. Groa stayed on the farm.
She hired a manager and, after a time, began sleeping with him.
Marta Bjornsdottir died in childbirth. There was some question as
to whether her stillborn baby would go to Heaven since it had not
been baptized. Some priests said that it would not and people
grumbled that the child might as well have been exposed for all the
priests cared. Ljot spoke to them and tried to satisfy them that
God looked after all, but there are always those who complain about
the gods. Some other children died, here and there, from falls or
illness or drowning, but these had all been baptized so no one
thought that they would be denied a place in Paradise. Even so, it
seemed to Colm that the hope of eternal life caused people as much
worry as the bleak finality of death had caused pagans.

37. Frosti Tries To Save A Horse

Early in the winter, the second after
Skeggi’s death, Frosti noticed that one of his horses had failed to
come down to winter pasture. He strapped cleats to his shoes and
climbed up through the snow into the high meadow. He heard his
horse whinny and called back to let it know that he was coming.
Frosti located the horse, a young mare, shoulder-deep in a pocket
of drift. He tried to lead and pull the horse free but it only
thrashed about in the powdered snow. So Frosti climbed into the
snowpit beside the mare and put his arms under her and lifted with
all his strength. The mare struggled as Frosti heaved and she
managed a purchase on the rim of the pit. The horse scraped and
scrambled until she was suddenly able to pull up out of the snow.
Her thrashing hind hoof caught Frosti, hard, in the belly.

Frosti sank into the snow, doubled over
with pain, then straightened up as the mare nuzzled him from the
edge of the pit. He grabbed her mane and she pulled back, drawing
Frosti into the shallow snow where there was footing. Frosti knew
that he could not lie out in the open very long. If he did not get
back to the house before dark then he would freeze to death during
the night. He pulled himself erect and threw his arm around the
horse’s neck. Half walking, half skidding and sliding, Frosti and
the mare made their way back down the mountain.

Frosti left the horse with the rest of
the herd in the winter pasture. He made his way slowly back to the
house, pulling himself along the stone fence. When he got to the
yard he could only walk a little way before he fell to his knees.
Then he began to crawl.

A farmhand caught sight of him and gave
a shout. Men grabbed Frosti and carried him to his doorway. Thurid
was already there, the latest baby in her arms, six children
milling about her feet. Frosti usually loved seeing his children
swarm to see him come home. They were so young; they had few
thoughts but only the immediate feelings that bloomed on their
faces. They could not deceive him the way adults could. He felt he
understood his children as well as he did his horses and loved them
for being simple. Now, in his pain, Frosti ignored them. Men laid
him on a bench. They pulled back his shirt and all could see a
great purple bruise forming under the skin. It grew as they
watched.

Thurid let out a wail and called for
Braga who knelt beside her son. Braga sent men to fetch those who
might be able to help Frosti – people who knew something about
healing, Colm, and, after a moment’s thought, Ljot.

When Colm arrived, two healers were
standing over Frosti. They had applied snow to his midriff but
stood now shaking their heads. Everyone could see this was a
serious matter. Frosti was able to speak a little and he greeted
Colm with a smile. “A horse’s hoof caught me...”

Thurid was distraught and wrung her
hands. “Kill it!” she yelled. “Which one was it? Kill that
animal.”

But Frosti pretended that he didn’t
remember which animal it was. “Don’t kill any horses, Colm.” He lay
quiet for a moment. “You know, I never much liked that part of the
sacrifices.”

Ljot arrived. He saw Frosti’s condition
and immediately draped his stole across his shoulders. He walked
over toward Frosti but Braga dropped on her knees before him. “A
miracle, Father! Please, a miracle!”

“Pray,” said Ljot. He knelt by Frosti
and made the sign of the cross. “I think I should hear your
confession,” he said.

Frosti nodded. “I agree. I don’t think
I’ll see the spring. Or next week for that matter.”

So Ljot heard Frosti’s confession and
administered the Last Rites. Braga knelt, praying loudly, and
Thurid and the baby in her arms both wailed. The other children
cried and watched wide-eyed as their father died.

“There was no miracle,” said Braga.

“The miracle is that Frosti’s soul was
saved and he will be waiting for you in Paradise,” said Ljot. Braga
set her mouth and did not answer.

This was the first Christian death Colm
had witnessed. He asked Gwyneth about it for she had taken strongly
to the new religion and he thought she understood it better than he
did. “What were the words that Ljot was saying over Frosti?”

“A spell to keep him from Hell,” said
Gwyneth.

“Keep him from Hell?”

“We all die, then receive life
everlasting in Heaven or eternal torment in Hell.”

Colm shook his head. “This new religion
is harsher than I thought.”

“It is not so new to you.”

“I remember nothing about this from when
I was a boy, though I did try to pray a few times when I was
younger.”

“God heard you and heeded your prayers,”
said Gwyneth.

Colm wondered if that were true. “How is
it that this young man holds the power over all eternity for us?”
he said.

Gwyneth smiled. “The young hold power
over us in all things now. Or so it seems, once we become old.”

And Colm considered that he and Gwyneth
were past sixty. Most godis and priests were younger.

38. Colm’s Confession

After Frosti’s death, Colm spent a long
time thinking about sin and salvation. Sometimes he felt his sins
lying on his belly like an undigested meal, other times it seemed a
great hollow emptiness lay beneath his heart. Colm had seen a toad
swallow a poisonous insect then vomit up its entire stomach to get
rid of it. Colm’s sins were poison, he thought, and he wished he
could vomit them out. Finally he decided to talk to Ljot about
these matters. “There are some things on my mind,” he began.

Ljot nodded. “Would you like to talk
about them?”

“I have done some bad things in my
life.”

“All men are sinners. Shall I hear your
confession?”

Colm looked at the bright young man
before him. He remembered advising him on how to avoid a feud with
his brother. It was hard not to see Ljot still as a child. “I don’t
know,” he said.

“Perhaps you would like to talk to one
of the other priests. Who usually hears your confession?”

Colm had gone through the motions of
confession once or twice but he had never trusted any priest with
the memories of the sins that haunted him. He had been silent so
long and become so used to being silent that his jaws would stick
and his tongue freeze if he tried to speak of these matters. Colm
grasped the coin of lies that he wore around his neck.

“Is that a cross?” asked Ljot.

“No. It is a coin, something I got years
ago. It speaks to me of truth and lies.”

“May I see it?” Colm leaned forward and
Ljot took the coin into his hand without removing it from Colm’s
neck. “I see. It is false coin, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I got it raiding.” He paused. “I
killed a man then. He did me no harm, just a poor man who got in
the way of my robbery.” Ljot nodded but did not speak. Colm went
on, “I think this coin has grown heavier over the years with the
wrong things I have done...” He choked then and could not go
on.

Ljot hefted the coin. “Many men bear
heavier burdens than you, I think. Still, it is not for anyone else
to judge the weight of your sin. God will forgive you for that
killing if you ask him.”

“I may have wronged my son.”

Ljot nodded. “I think you had good
intentions. You were trying to avoid bloodshed. You did not sin by
protecting him.” He meant when Colm sent Geirrid away, after he had
cheated Frosti. Ljot looked at Colm and waited for more. But Colm
could no longer speak. His throat had closed completely and no word
could issue from his lips. Finally he nodded. Ljot dropped the coin
and sat back. “So is there something else?” Colm sat in silence for
a time, then, finally, shook his head. “Then, you must pay a
penance.” He named an amount of silver and Colm nodded. “All
right,” said Ljot, “You are absolved.” He made the sign of the
cross on Colm’s forehead. “Go and sin no more.”