The Memory Painter

“Look, boy. The wood split even and true,” his uncle announced, slapping his back in celebration. “I swear by the gods this boat will not shipwreck you.”

His mother had cried while the men laughed in relief. Bjarni bent down and picked up the two pieces, fitting them together perfectly.

“She will never fail you,” his uncle said solemnly. “Remember that.” And then the old man had walked off to build it.

The ship’s name had come to Bjarni on the morning it was ready to meet water—the Gata, which meant the road. His ship would be a road through the sea, and no vessel would travel it better.

True to his uncle’s words, the Gata did not fail him but rode out the storm until its fury broke on the third day, leaving only fog behind. Bjarni raised the sail to catch what wind he could and took out his sunstone to find the sun’s position. But even his treasured crystal could not help him. That night Polaris—the North Star—and its two pointer stars remained hidden as well. Odin was not through with him yet.

The Gata sailed for two more days. Fortunately, the crew had plenty of casks of fresh water and dried food for the journey, and the men took the time to rest. Only Tarr was discontent.

This was Bjarni’s first voyage with the man, and he had begun to question his decision to allow him passage, but he had been in need of an extra hand. Olvir had vouched for the stranger, though not with any conviction—Tarr had been a raider most of his life and bore the hardness of it in his eyes. Bjarni had heard tales of raiders since he was a child, of looting and murdering on foreign lands—how men skirted coasts and swiftly attacked sleepy villages, leaving behind only burned buildings and sorrow.

Tarr looked as if he could tell such stories. His skin was marred with scars from battle-axes and arrows, more so than most. He had paid for his passage on the Gata with wadmal and coin like the other men, but Bjarni could not help but feel that the moment his back was turned, Tarr’s knife would appear to rob him of both. It would be a hard fight if it came to pass—the men were both of equal height with strong builds, though the similarities between them ended there. Tarr was dark-haired to Bjarni’s blond, and where Bjarni’s eyes were warm and green like a forest in summer, Tarr’s were the palest blue ice and hid the same coldness.

Bjarni had caught Tarr watching him more than once. He had never disliked any man without good reason, but he disliked Tarr and did his best to ignore him.

On the fourth day, the fog lifted. Bjarni heard the birds first and then saw the coastland.

Olvir joined him portside. “Have we found it?”

Bjarni studied the land and shook his head. “It’s not Greenland. There are no glaciers, and look at the trees.” Rich forest stretched as far as they could see. Bjarni had heard every seafaring story and knew this was undiscovered land. Excitement filled him and he almost called out to change course and head for shore. He could claim this land—he could be as famous as Erik the Red. He could—but then he stopped. Going ashore carried too many risks, risks that increased the chances that he would never see Garnissa again. He would rather die than take them.

“We should go to shore,” Tarr said, coming to join them.

Bjarni shook his head firmly. “Then we’ll never beat winter to Greenland.” He could not let Tarr or any of the men know he was resisting the same urge.

“This could be our own Greenland,” Tarr countered, raising his voice so all could hear him. “Our own frontier. Unspoiled land with untold riches waiting.”

Bjarni turned to Tarr, standing his ground. “Then build your own boat, gather your own crew and return.” He met the gaze of all the men. “We go to Greenland.”

Tarr’s hand snaked out and grabbed Bjarni’s, turning it over to expose the vegvísir. “Does a woman wait for you there?” He sneered. “Is that why your manhood’s missing?”