The Saga of Colm the Slave Read online

  THE

  SAGA OF

  COLM

  THE SLAVE

  by

  Mike Culpepper

  Some of this material was first published, in somewhat different form, in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine: "The Icicle Judgement", Jan.-Feb., 2009; "The Necklace of Glass", Nov., 2009; "The Trollfarm Killing", Dec., 2009; "The Silver Pennies", July-Aug., 2010; "The Berserk Feud", Jan.-Feb., 2011; "The Witch Couple", April, 2011.

  Cover illustration is from the Hunterian Psalter (c.1170), held at the Glasgow University Library.

  Mike Culpepper has a blog: http://shrineodreams.wordpress.com/

  Copyright 2014 by Mike Culpepper

  ISBN: 978-0-9879017-1-2

  The Saga of Colm the Slave

  1. The Icicle Judgement

  2.The Necklace of Glass

  3.The Trollfarm Killing

  4.The Silver Pennies

  5.The Berserk Feud

  6.The Witch Couple

  7.Geirrid and Gudbrand

  8.Bjorn's Sadness

  9.Thurid Three-Mothers

  10.Egil Bloodhead and His Wife Gunnora

  11.The Crossfield

  12.Bjorn Dies

  13.The Missing Cattle

  14. Gunnar’s Gift

  15. Gunnora And Thrain

  16. Ingveld’s Illness

  17. The Amber Pendant

  18. Marta Wants To Marry

  19. Colm And Frosti

  20. A Feud Is Averted

  21. Some Icelanders Return

  22. Geirrid’s Travels

  23. Raven’s-Mane Fights Again

  24. Iceland’s Outcasts

  25. Frosti And Raven’s-Mane

  26. Ljot And Styr

  27. Thurid In Love

  28. Snorri Kills Arnkel

  29. Ljot And Styr Discover A New Problem

  30. The Missionary And The Sacred Stone

  31. Religious Troubles

  32. Thurid Is Unhappy

  33. Gunnora And Freydis

  34. The Althing Considers Religion

  35. The Robber Gang

  36. Gerda’s Treasure

  37. Frosti Tries To Save A Horse

  38. Colm’s Confession

  39. Thurid Re-Marries

  40. Gwyneth’s End

  41. Colm Reflects

  CHRONOLOGY

  AFTERWORD

  1.The Icicle Judgement

  Gwyneth was in the pasture already, testing the fleece on the pregnant ewes for pull. Birthing would begin in a month or less and some of the sheep had already begun to loosen their wool. Colm scraped the thin snow from a patch of ground and the sheep ambled toward the exposed grass. He climbed up on the round stone-walled hayguard and began forking hay onto the cleared patch. From time to time he glanced up at Gwyneth as she moved through the sheep, one hand gently stroking at their wool, the other clutching at the ragged cloth she wore for a shawl. Her breath rose in clouds about her face, her cheeks red with the cold.

  “Fine thing,” muttered Colm, “A man like me doing this kind of labor, descended from kings as I am.”

  Gwyneth looked up at him. “Oh, yes, as are we all! Not a thrall on the place but isn’t royalty gone astray.”

  “Oh, but it’s so! A king I would be in my own land!”

  “King of the liars!” She looked directly at him and Colm caught his breath. Gwyneth had blue eyes brighter than any sky and hair blacker than any night.

  “Well, I’m not saying my kingdom is the grandest in the world but my father set a raven flying across it when I was born and I was old enough to talk when it reached the far border.”

  “Speaking from the cradle, were you?” She turned away but Colm could tell she was smiling.

  “I don’t want to brag, but I had three languages by then and those not half what was required to give direction to all the tribes in the realm. Indeed, they were so many we could never finish a census. By the time you counted the last of my father’s subjects, the ones you began with had birthed whole new families with children of their own and you had to begin counting all over again!”

  “Oh, indeed, more subjects than lice on your head, no doubt.”

  “Well, I don’t want to brag…”

  “No, please don’t.”

  Colm grinned. “It so happens that…”

  “Colm! Where is that lazy good-for-nothing?” Bjorn was yelling. “Colm!”

  “Coming!”

  “I want the cowshed shovelled out before dark so you better hop to it!”

  “Excuse me,” Colm said, “But I must attend to matters of state.”

  “Certainly, your majesty,” said Gwyneth, “And don’t forget your dung-fork.”

  Colm was in a fair state of mind when he reached the cowshed but Bjorn soon darkened his mood. Yelling and ordering him about as though a man needed directions to shovel shit! Bjorn wasn’t a bad master but he was trying to impress his visitor, Hastein, so he fussed and blustered. Hastein was slightly higher in rank than Bjorn – both were free land-owners who followed the chieftain Thorolf, their godi, to the Althing, but Thorolf trusted Hastein and sometimes sent him about to do his bidding. No doubt he reported back what he saw of the other farmers, too. Bjorn had only come to Iceland a few years before with his family and slaves including Colm and Gwyneth. He was well received at first – Hebrideans were all supposed to be rich from piracy and plunder – but it was soon discovered that Bjorn had little more than what was needed to buy his land and set up farming. Still, he worked hard and his wife, Aud, was an efficient manager, so in time Bjorn might become wealthy. Colm could be proud of his master.

  Like all slaves, Colm dreamed of being free. He could not yet see a way this might happen but he was only seventeen, so he thought everything was possible. When he was very small he saw one of his brother’s heads lifted on a raider’s spear. Later, he heard his other brother screaming in agony from inside a burning church. Not set ablaze by foreign pagans, either, but by a war party up from Munster -- just another skirmish in the everlasting conflict over the high kingship. Colm was ten when he was seized by raiders and taken, first to the Hebrides where he was dealt to Bjorn’s family, then to Iceland. This was not the worst place in the world, Colm knew. There were neither foreigners raiding from without nor wars within. Only the occasional feud spoiled the peace. That, and the slave’s chance of being sacrificed to a pagan god, or murdered for some offhand reason or for no reason at all.

  On the other hand, peaceable though it might be, Iceland lacked bread. Colm sat on a longhall bench and spooned up skyr – the thickened sour milk that was his supper – and wished he had even a stale crust of the coarsest loaf ever baked to chew on. But what little grain this country produced was all brewed into beer – not that Colm would have minded a mug or two of that as well. Might as well wish for meat, he thought, and cake, too, while I’m at it.

  Gwyneth swept through the longhall, carrying a great pitcher of beer like a vision of plenty right out of Colm’s imaginings. She passed into the end room where Bjorn entertained Hastein. Colm moved toward the doorway so he could look in and watch her as she moved about, serving the men. A small pair of scissors dangled from her apron, forgotten and left from her work of trimming the woven cloth. It flashed like a jewel in the lamplight of the inner room.

  Bjorn and Hastein drained their cups, matching each other drink for drink, as men must do. Gwyneth refilled them and Hastein looked up and studied her face for a long moment. Colm crept up to the doorway and pressed himself against the turf wall, listening.

  “…But stay the night!” said Bjorn.

  “No, I want to be going back,” answered Hastein, his voice slurred with drink.

  �
��It’s dark and dangerous.”

  “The moon is shining bright as day. Anyway, send a slave with me to light the way. Oh… That one perhaps.”

  “If you insist on going, I’ll get one of the men…”

  “No. She’s the one I want.” Colm stiffened. He knew that Hastein meant Gwyneth.

  “And just how long do you plan on keeping her?” Aud’s voice. “There’s work she needs to be doing, you know.”

  “I’m not used to being questioned by a woman.”

  “You take a female slave, you interfere with women’s work.” Bjorn setting Hastein straight. He and Aud worked well together. But now he was setting into a dispute with his chieftain’s agent.

  Hastein backed away from a quarrel. “She’ll be back by morning. I just want her for the night.”

  “Early morning, mind. We can’t be short-handed this time of year.” Aud wanted to avoid a confrontation that might wind up in bloodshed. Many a feud had been started by hasty words. And a slave’s virtue was of no account.

  A few minutes later, Hastein and Bjorn came into the longhall, heading toward the door. Gwyneth came after, carrying a torch, dragging her feet. Aud walked behind, urging her on. The four walked outside, then Bjorn and Aud returned. Aud went back into the end room to make certain the slave girls had cleaned up properly. Bjorn surveyed the longhall.

  Most of the slaves were already asleep on the benches. Colm lay still under his cloak, eyes shut. He felt Bjorn’s gaze track over him, then heard the door to Bjorn’s sleeping compartment open. Aud came into the longhall, muttering to herself, and a moment later Colm heard the bed-chamber door shut. He waited a few minutes, listening to Aud and Bjorn talking softly to one another, sifting through the events of the day, then Colm reached into a hiding place he had made beneath the bench and took out the knife he had hidden there, a single-edged scramasax he had lifted from the belongings of a dead English slave. He crept from the bench to the door and glanced back. In the low firelight his bunched cloak looked as though someone were asleep beneath it.

  Outside, the bright moon reflected from the frosted earth. Everything glowed with pale light. There were no shadows anywhere. The cold cut through Colm’s thin shirt but he ignored it and began trotting out of the farmyard toward the path that ran to Hastein’s farm, about four miles away. He kept one hand on the handle of his knife. Colm had no idea what he was going to do. He was slow and cautious in his plans and liked to think carefully before acting, but now he was swept up by dark feelings about Hastein and Gwyneth.

  About a mile along, Colm saw Gwyneth on the path ahead, coming toward him. They came abreast of one another and looked directly into each other’s face. Neither said a word. Then Gwyneth began walking back toward the farm and Colm continued on the way.

  Ahead were cliffs rising above the path. South-facing, they caught an hour or two of sun each day. Great icicles formed there and hung in glittering rows from a frozen shelf that jutted into space. Below the ice, lying beside the path, Colm could see the crumpled shape of a man’s body. He walked up slowly and crouched down, examining the body in the moonlight.

  Hastein was dead. Blood had poured from a steaming wound in his neck and was already freezing into the earth. Colm rocked on his heels, thinking. Something caught his eye in the crusted snow nearby. He scratched it up: a small pair of scissors like those women used to trim cloth. Colm closed his fist about it and sat thinking a long while.

  In the morning, Colm walked out of the longhall into sun so bright it hurt his eyes. He crossed the farmyard to the cattle-byre to begin his day of work and, all the time, he was listening for the shouts and cries that meant Hastein’s body was discovered.

  He caught sight of Gwyneth ahead and caught up to her. She jumped at his touch when Colm pressed the scissors into her hand. “You dropped this,” he said. Her face was deathly pale and her eyes wide with fear. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It will all come right. Keep to your story.” He walked away before anyone saw them talking together.

  Gwyneth had told the other women that Hastein had become sick from the beer and lost all appetite for anything but going home and passing out. So she had returned. Maybe there was a pool of frozen vomit somewhere along the path, thought Colm, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t unusual for drunken men to spew their supper but generally they just started drinking again. People would ask if the lust-filled Hastein would really be deterred from his satisfaction by such a small thing.

  And there it was! Colm heard the distant racket of men yelling. He pretended to work along and listened out for more.

  Bjorn, too, heard the noise and came out into the farmyard to look way off down the path. He caught sight of Colm in the byre and beckoned him forward. “Come on! Let’s see what that is.” Bjorn hesitated, then went inside the hall and returned carrying a sword and a spear. He handed the spear to Colm. The two of them walked briskly along the path.

  A half dozen men bustled about under the ice-hung cliffs. They shouted and gestured, pointing here and there. At their center, Thorolf stood silently, watching as Bjorn and Colm approached.

  Bjorn and Thorolf greeted one another. Thorolf pointed at the body. Bjorn walked over to it, recognized Hastein, and returned to Thorolf. He explained that he had tried to make Hastein stay the night but the man lusted for a slave girl and insisted on leaving with her.

  “What about the girl?” asked Thorolf. And Bjorn told how Hastein was sick with drink and the girl had returned. Thorolf grunted and turned his eyes to the body. “He was stabbed in the throat,” he said. Colm stopped breathing. Bjorn went back to the corpse. He knelt and examined it.

  A great patch of frozen blood spread around Hastein’s head and shoulders, like a cloak laid upon the ground. His body was covered with shards and pieces of broken ice. Slowly Bjorn raised his eyes upward. There were no icicles directly above. Slowly Bjorn turned his head and fixed his gaze on the massive icicles hanging from the rest of the cliff. Slowly he returned his gaze to the empty space above Hastein. Slowly he brought it down to the body.

  Bjorn was no fool. He never uttered a sound but by his manner indicated what he thought happened here. Colm stood motionless. Thorolf said, “There is some doubt the ice would make a wound like that.”

  Bjorn stood and faced him. Hastein had been Bjorn’s guest. If the man was judged to be murdered then Bjorn must pay, in gold or blood. Bjorn said, “We will have a test.” He looked at Colm and Colm knew fear, afraid that he might be the test subject. But Bjorn said, “Fetch a goat. Quickly!” Colm dropped his spear and began running back to the farm. “The old one,” Bjorn yelled after him, “The one with the patchy coat.”

  When Colm returned with the goat, Bjorn was hunched over the body, picking up icicle spears and testing their points with his finger. He chose a sturdy, sharp one and started toward the goat.

  “No,” said Thorolf, “Unless you think a person stabbed Hastein that way.”

  “No,” said Bjorn. He gestured and Colm brought the goat over to him. Bjorn walked the goat underneath the great hanging sheet of ice on the cliff next to the empty space over Hastein’s body. He examined the ice carefully, then selected a spot directly beneath some great sharp spears, perhaps four feet long. He tethered the goat there.

  “Now what?” said Thorolf.

  Bjorn pointed at the mass of ice. “See how it is beginning to crack along there? When that crack deepens or runs the length of the ice, it will fall, with all its weight.”

  “Shall we wait till spring?”

  “No,” said Bjorn. He stood opposite the goat and picked up a stone. He stood for a moment, looking up at the ice, selecting a spot. Colm waited anxiously. This was exactly what he had done the night before to bring down the ice onto Hastein’s body. Everyone now was thinking what he had hoped they would think – that Hastein was killed by his own drunken misfortune and a falling icicle – everyone with the possible exception of Thorolf, that is, and Thorolf’s opinion was the only one that mattered.


  Bjorn prepared to throw a stone and Colm prayed. He had not seen a priest since he was a child and he had little memory of what a prayer should be. He addressed God the same way he might try to persuade any master -- he appealed to his vanity: “You are powerful, Lord! Show these pagans your strength!”

  Bjorn hurled the stone and it struck the ice mass just below the cliff’s lip. Another crack started in the ice but the icicles did not fall. Everyone was silent. Unable to stop himself, Colm suddenly seized up a stone and threw it at the crack in the ice. The stone bounced off. Then, as everyone watched, the crack lengthened and spread toward the edge of the ice. There was a grating, gritting sound. The goat looked up above just as a huge chunk, toothed with icicles, dropped from the cliff.

  The goat staggered and fell as the mass struck it. It was not an icicle but a piece of embedded rock that opened the animal’s throat. A geyser of blood sprayed up. Blood pumped dramatically onto the steaming earth. The men were transfixed by the spectacle. Colm hoped that no one would notice that the icicles all had shattered on the goat’s back. Not one had pierced its hide. Nor could he make a falling icicle pierce Hastein’s body the night before. He had even poked one into Hastein’s neck wound but the body held enough warmth to melt its tip and the icicle had fallen away.

  That rock was lucky, thought Colm. Then he was frightened of his thought. “I don’t mean to offend you, Lord! I know it was your power and not heathen luck that did this!” Hastily, he prayed other words of flattery and appeasement. He did not want to anger this master!

  The blood stopped flowing and the men began milling about, talking excitedly, waving their arms, running from the goat to Hastein, creating narratives of just how he must have been walking and where he was when the ice fell. Someone struck the cliff wall and leaped back as a stray icicle fell from above to shatter on the earth. The other men laughed at his fear. Then they said perhaps Hastein had bumped the rock wall and brought down the ice. After all, another man had just escaped death from a falling icicle! So they chattered and wove a story that they would believe.