The Memory Painter

The crew gave them a wide berth. No one would interrupt this fight, no matter how much they wanted to sway the outcome. A man’s battle was his own.

Bjarni wiped the blood from his nose and tried to clear his head. He took his best stance, relaxing his arms and legs. Tarr may have had more experience with a sword, but Bjarni was by far the superior wrestler. Using all his skill, he advanced quickly, feigned right and went for Tarr’s inside leg. Before he knew it, Bjarni had him in a headlock and was jabbing at Tarr’s face with his fist.

Tarr stood up with a roar, taking Bjarni with him, and threw him over his head. Bjarni hit the deck hard and he struggled to stand up. The two faced each other. Blood dripped from Tarr’s chin, and he bared his teeth like a feral beast from Hel’s den. The boat rocked and swayed, as if trying to knock both men off balance. Tarr staggered forward, but Bjarni remained sure-footed and confident, letting Tarr come at him. With perfect timing, Bjarni took Tarr’s body and twisted him into the air, using his own momentum to throw him down. He had practiced the move a hundred times in his youth, and Bjarni would not be beaten aboard his own ship.

Tarr strained with all his might, but Bjarni had him pinned. He humiliated Tarr further by ordering Hugi, his biggest and most loyal man, to take Tarr’s weapons.

“Throw them overboard,” Bjarni commanded.

Hugi saw the murderous gleam in Tarr’s eyes and hesitated.

“It’s either him or the weapons,” Bjarni said.

Hugi threw everything into the sea and motioned for the men to disband and leave the captain to deal with the usurper.

Bjarni kept Tarr pinned to the deck. “Now you maggot-ridden fool,” Bjarni said softly, “I can either tie you up until we reach Greenland or release you. But try to strike at me again and I will kill you.”

Seething, Tarr gave a curt nod of consent and Bjarni let him go.

Tarr stood up. “Bjarni Herjólfsson.” He spat his name on the ground. “You will regret this day and remember me when you die.”

That was the only thing Tarr said to him for the rest of the journey. Bjarni tried to shake off his sense of unease, but when he woke the next day, Garnissa’s vegvísir was missing from his belt. He knew Tarr had stolen it and prayed to Forseti, keeper of peace and justice, to guide him. To accuse Tarr would result in a fight to the death, and that was exactly what the raider wanted. So instead Bjarni went about his business with the ship, sailing the rest of the way without trouble until he reached his father’s port.

True to Erik the Red’s tale, the lands were rich for farming and nestled right among the glaciers. The settlers all gathered to greet them. Bjarni’s father, Herjólfr, stood beaming at the front.

“I expected you to come to us next summer, boy,” he called out laughing. “How did you find your way?”

“With some help,” Bjarni said, walking to greet him. His eyes scanned the crowd and easily found Garnissa. Her long tresses fluttered in the wind along with the colorful ribbons adorning her red and blue skirts. Her hair was pale gold and her eyes were a mixture of green and blue like the sea. They twinkled back at him—she knew he spoke of her.