The Memory Painter

Bjarni prayed once more to Njord, God of the Sea and protector of all sailors, to keep them from her clutches. He gripped the vegvísir tighter in his palm and felt the stone grow warm in his hand.

A magical charm, the vegvísir was said to keep anyone from losing his way on the roughest seas. Bjarni looked down at the stone’s rune-like symbol, its ornate lines stretching in all four directions, cross-points perfectly carved, and had to believe it would. Garnissa had made it for him when she realized he would return home and find her gone.

Every winter Bjarni went back to Iceland to stay with his father, Herjólfr, at Eyrarbakki until the weather cleared. Bjarni was one of the best traders in the land, and he had accumulated his wealth over the years for one purpose—to build the finest longhouse for Garnissa and obtain good farmland. He had been planning to settle the agreement with her father for her hand. But when he had arrived, he had not even begun to unload his cargo when his old friend Guid had come running to deliver the news.

“Your father’s gone—Garnissa too with her family,” Guid had said.

A swift panic rose within Bjarni and he had fought to hide it. “Gone?”

“They all joined Erik the Red to sail for the new land he’s discovered.”

“Erik’s returned?” Bjarni frowned. Erik had been banished from Iceland for the past three years. He had killed two of his neighbors in a dispute over pasture lands. Before the controversy, Erik had been a good friend of Bjarni’s father and Bjarni had grown up playing with Erik’s sons, Thorvald, Thorskeinn, and Leif, often getting into mischief with them.

Usually the boys preferred to be caught and punished by Bjarni’s father, who was much more soft-spoken in comparison to Erik, who had a temper to match his flaming red hair. Even when he was a child, to Bjarni, Erik had been the strongest, most intimidating man he had ever met. He possessed the spirit of a true leader, charismatic and bold, and he hated fools. It did not surprise Bjarni to hear now that Erik had returned and been able to persuade most of the village to follow him to a new land where he would be Chieftain.

“He’s calling this grand new frontier Greenland,” Guid said with a hint of skepticism. “People left their farms and took their trade.”

“How many ships?” Bjarni asked, unable to believe Garnissa and his father had gone without him.

“Twenty-five. They left late spring to settle well before winter.”

Twenty-five ships meant hundreds of people. Bjarni said nothing, his thoughts racing ahead as he weighed his options.

“Garnissa asked me to give you this.” Guid handed Bjarni a small object wrapped in hide.

Bjarni had opened the bundle to find the vegvísir, and his heart had quickened when he saw the stone’s intricate design. He would have recognized Garnissa’s hand anywhere—she was the finest carver in the village next to her mother. Leaving the gods’ compass with Guid had been the best message she could have sent: Come and find me.

Without question, Bjarni had decided to continue on to Erik the Red’s new land—a brash move considering winter was almost upon them and he did not know the way, nor would they be traveling with the support of other boats. And to make matters worse, he had twenty crewmen eager for land.

Keeping his face expressionless, Bjarni had tucked the stone into his belt. His crew could not know that he was trying to beat winter to Greenland because of a woman. The men would have taken their cargo and refused to sail.

Bjarni had gathered them on shore and looked each one of them in the eye. “Accompany me to this new paradise and see what you will gain. I promise a land of plenty as Erik’s described it, with boundless edibles and wildlife. The markets in Iceland have been slowly dying for years, the land overharvested … we are all restless for something better. Greenland promises a new beginning for those of us who are willing to grasp it. Come with me.” The men had grumbled but were game to follow him, and they had left port that same day.

Now they were lost at sea.

Bjarni did not believe in the magic of the Old Ways as Garnissa did, but he held on to the belief that her vegvísir would help him find his way. After two days of ceaseless battle with the storm, the crew was exhausted, sleep-deprived, and weary from bailing water to keep the ship afloat. Bjarni gripped the stone tighter. He was not ready to die just yet.

He yelled out over the wind, “Secure the spare sail to the mooring line! We’ll pitch it aft and make a droug!” Perhaps a crazy move in such a storm, but he saw no other choice.