You have not seen how my land lies. About two miles to the west is the bay; the thorps at Reykjavik are about five miles south. The land rises toward the Long Jökull so that my acres are hilly; but it’s good hayland, and there is often driftwood on the beach. I’ve built a shed down there for it as well as a boathouse.
There had been a storm the night before, so Helgi and I were going down to look for drift. You, coming from Norway, do not know how precious wood is to us Icelanders who have only a few scrubby trees and must bring all our timber from abroad. Back there men have often been burned in their houses by their foes, but we count that the worst of deeds, through it’s not unknown.
I was on good terms with my neighbors so we took only hand weapons. I my ax, Helgi a sword, and the two carles we had with us bore spears. It was a day washed clean by the night’s fury, and the sun fell bright on long wet grass. I saw my garth lying rich around its courtyard, sleek cows and sheep, smoke rising from the roof hole of the hall, and knew I’d not done so ill in my lifetime. My son Helgi’s hair fluttered in the low west wind as we left the steading behind a ridge and neared the water. Strange how well I remember all which happened that day, somehow it was a sharper day than most.
When we came down to the strand, the sea was beating heavy, white and gray out to the world’s edge. A few gulls flew screaming above us, frightened off a cod washed up onto the shore. I saw there was a litter of no few sticks, even a baulk of timber… from some ship carrying it that broke up during the night, I suppose. That was a useful find, though, as a careful man, I would later sacrifice to be sure the owner’s ghost wouldn’t plague me.
We had fallen to and were dragging the baulk toward the shed when Helgi cried out. I ran for my ax as I looked the way he pointed. We had no feuds then, but there are always outlaws.
This one seemed harmless, though. Indeed, as he stumbled nearer across the black sand I thought him quite unarmed and wondered what had happened. He was a big man and strangely clad—he wore coat and breeches and shoes like anyone else, but they were of peculiar cut and he bound his trousers with leggings rather than thongs. Nor had I ever seen a helmet like his: it was almost square, and came down to cover his neck, but it had no nose guard; it was held in place by a leather strap. And this you may not believe, but it was not metal, yet had been cast in one piece!
He broke into a staggering run as he neared, and flapped his arms and croaked something. The tongue was none I had ever heard, and I have heard many; it was like dogs barking. I saw that he was clean-shaven and his black hair cropped short, and thought he might be French. Otherwise he was a young man, and good-looking, with blue eyes and regular features. From his skin I judged that he spent much time indoors yet he had a fine manly build.
«Could he have been shipwrecked?» asked Helgi.
«His clothes are dry and unstained,» I said, «nor has he been wandering long, for there’s no stubble on his chin. Yet I’ve heard of no strangers guesting hereabouts.»
We lowered our weapons, and he came up to us and stood gasping. I saw that his coat and the shirt behind was fastened with bonelike buttons rather than laces, and were of heavy weave. About his neck he had fastened a strip of cloth tucked into his coat. These garments were all in brownish hues. His shoes were of a sort new to me, very well cobbled. Here and there on his coat were bits of brass, and he had three broken stripes on each sleeve; also a black band with white letters, the same letters being on his helmet. Those were not runes, but Roman letters—thus: MP. He wore a broad belt, with a small clublike thing of metal in a sheath at the hip and also a real club.
«I think he must be a warlock,» muttered my carle Sigurd. «Why else all those tokens?»
«They may only be ornament, or to ward against witchcraft,» I soothed him. Then, to the stranger. «I hight Ospak Ulfsson of Hillstead. What is your errand?»
He stood with his chest heaving and a wildness in his eyes. He must have run a long way. Then he moaned and sat down and covered his face.
«If he’s sick, best we get him to the house,» said Helgi. His eyes gleamed—we see so few new faces here.
«No… no…» The stranger looked up. «Let me rest a moment—»
He spoke the Norse tongue readily enough, though with a thick accent not easy to follow and with many foreign words I did not understand.
The other carle, Grim, hefted his spear. «Have Vikings landed?» he asked.
«When did Vikings ever come to Iceland?» I snorted. «It’s the other way around.»
The newcomer shook his head, as if it had been struck. He got shakily to his feet. «What happened?» he said. «What happened to the city?»
«What city?» I asked reasonably.
«Reykjavik!» he groaned. «Where is it?»
«Five miles south, the way you came—unless you mean the bay itself,» I said.
«No! There was only a beach, and a few wretched huts, and—»
«Best not let Hjalmar Broadnose hear you call his thorp that,» I counseled.
«But there was a city!» he cried. Wildness lay in his eyes. «I was crossing the street, it was a storm, and there was a crash and then I stood on the beach and the city was gone!»
«He’s mad,» said Sigurd, backing away. «Be careful… if he starts to foam at the mouth, it means he’s going berserk.»
«Who are you?» babbled the stranger. «What are you doing in those clothes? Why the spears?»
«Somehow,» said Helgi, «he does not sound crazed—only frightened and bewildered. Something evil has happened to him.»
«I’m not staying near a man under a curse!» yelped Sigurd, and started to run away.
«Come back!» I bawled. «Stand where you are or I’ll cleave your louse-bitten head!»
That stopped him, for he had no kin who would avenge him; but he would not come closer. Meanwhile the stranger had calmed down to the point where he could at least talk evenly.
«Was it the aitchbomb?» he asked. «Has the war started?»
He used that word often, aitchbomb, so I know it now, though unsure of what it means. It seems to be a kind of Greek fire. As for the war, I knew not which war he meant, and told him so.
«There was a great thunderstorm last night,» I added. «And you say you were out in one too. Perhaps Thor’s hammer knocked you from your place to here.»
«But where is here?» he replied. His voice was more dulled than otherwise, now that the first terror had lifted.
«I told you. This is Hillstead, which is on Iceland.»
«But that’s where I was!» he mumbled. «Reykjavik… what happened? Did the aitchbomb destroy everything while I was unconscious?»
«Nothing has been destroyed,» I said.
«Perhaps he means the fire at Olafsvik last month,» said Helgi.
«No, no, no!» He buried his face in his hands. After a while he looked up and said. «See here. I am Sergeant Gerald Roberts of the United States Army base on Iceland. I was in Reykjavik and got struck by lightning or something. Suddenly I was standing on the beach, and got frightened and ran. That’s all. Now, can you tell me how to get back to the base?»