8
They approached the longhouse after having pulled their boat ashore and retrieved their weapons. It looked ordinary, windowless and indistinguishable from the ones in Iceland, save for its smaller size. Surrounding it was a farm. A few sheep grazed. Barley grew. But even Dvalinn held his breath as they approached, for the ordinary was still a sight to behold if you happened to come across it at the end of the world.
"Stay ten paces back and keep your weapons down," he said. Iceland had taught him that remoteness could make even a good man prone to panic. "I expect hospitality, but if we should be met otherwise we retreat to the boat. No fighting unless we have no choice."
Erlandr and Goll nodded in agreement.
Dvalinn walked the ten remaining paces to the longhouse door and knocked.
The door opened.
A bald, bearded man older than Dvalinn appeared. He had alert, weary eyes that did their best to mask his surprise at seeing three unannounced visitors. "Icelanders?" he asked.
"Yes," Dvalinn said.
He had expected the man to ask their names or for news from the east, but he did neither. "I don't want to know anything about you," he said. "I was raised to give bed and board to travellers and that's what I'll do, but I only have room and food for one, so the others will have to knock on doors that aren't mine. They'll find more farms further up the fjord."
It was a fair and safe decision. Dvalinn wouldn't have let three strangers into his home, either. "Thank you," he said.
He told Erlandr and Goll to continue further inland, toward the other longhouses. Then he bowed and under the watchful gaze of the bald man walked inside this one.
The interior was dark and dry, cozy. By a table, a woman with long red hair was stirring the contents of a pot and humming to herself. She stopped humming when she saw Dvalinn. He bowed. "Greetings."
The bald man cleared his throat. "Prepare an extra seat at the table. We have a guest. If there isn't enough food, Drudge can go without." He turned to Dvalinn. "That's my daughter, Agata. She is without a husband."
The words flushed Agata's cheeks. "Kaspar," was all she managed to say before the bald man cut her off—
"Kaspar is a boy. You are a woman."
"And you are an old lecher."
This time it was the bald man's cheeks that turned ruddy. He opened his mouth, then thought better of it and ground his jaws together before forcing out a smile. "Please excuse our squabbles, stranger. A family is a rocky plot of earth. Are you married, by chance?"
"I am," Dvalinn lied.
Agata laid out three bowls and filled each with stew from her pot. She placed them on the table.
The bald man rubbed his temples. “And the men with you?"
"They are not."
Dvalinn guessed the bald man was ruing not inviting Erlandr or Goll into his home, but it was too late to extend an invitation now. "Perhaps at another time I may meet them," the bald man said. "In the meantime, stranger, eat our stew. You must be hungry after your voyage."
Dvalinn thanked him and took a seat at the table. The bald man and Agata sat, too.
The thick aroma drifting up from the bowl made Dvalinn's mouth water. It reminded him of his wife's cooking. Three bowls on one table reminded him of the family he'd once had. He dug in with his fingers and shovelled the stew greedily into his mouth. When the bowl was empty, the bald man said, "Are you staying permanently? Are you settlers? The soil here is harsh but tameable, and there's ample wood for construction."
"I am looking for someone," Dvalinn said.
"There aren't many of us here, but the ones who are know each other well," Agata said. Her voice was as red as her hair.
The bald man shot her a look to shut her up. "If it's an outlaw you're after, that business is your own," he said to Dvalinn. "Men escape their pasts in Greenland. We believe in second chances."
"I am not hunting a bounty. I am searching for my son," Dvalinn said.
The bald man's expression softened. "A much less despicable pursuit, to be sure, and one with which we'll help in any way we can. What is your son's name and when was he last known to be in Greenland?"
"Framarr," Dvalinn said. "He arrived seven years ago as part of a settlement expedition led by Rikard the Scargiver. That is the last I know of him. Do you remember this expedition?"
Agata looked down. The bald man's voice became grave. "Yes, I remember it. Rikard and his people settled the Birchwood Fjord."
"Is that far from here?" Dvalinn asked. His fingers clutched his empty bowl, lifting it slightly off the table. His hope was rising.
"A day's sailing. But you'll find nothing but ruins there now. The settlement was abandoned."
Dvalinn let the bowl drop. "And what of the people who lived there?"
"Birchwood Fjord was always only temporary. A few of their number stayed, integrating into our other settlements, but most of the men sailed on."
"Sailed on west?" Dvalinn asked.
"West," the bald man said, letting the syllable fill the entire volume of the longhouse.
Dvalinn's hope evaporated. The already pale outline of Framarr's face to which his mind was clinging paled even more. Soon, it would vanish. His son would be gone forever. Then what? A life without purpose was no life at all. "They never returned," Dvalinn said. It was a question posed as a statement.
The bald man filled the entirety of the room with two more syllables:
"Never."
"Drudge would know more," Agata said.
The bald man handed her his bowl. She picked up Dvalinn's and her own and got up from the table.
"I apologize for being unforthcoming, but we common Greenlanders know little about any of this," the bald man said. "Just that the settlement existed and was a shadowy business. The things rumoured to have gone on in Birchwood Fjord should remain unspoken. One mustn't tempt evil. But my daughter is right. If you must know more, speak to my servant, Drudge. He was one of the few in the expedition who stayed. You'll find him in the nearby woods, felling trees. If he refuses to answer your questions, you are free to beat him."
Dvalinn stretched his legs. "Thank you for the good stew," he said.
"You're welcome for supper too, stranger."