The only facts that could be pinned down were that the merchant said he came from Finnland and that he had an aversion to very warm weather, although even on the hottest days he wore long sleeves and long pants, as well as gloves made of soft leather. He made no friends and kept very much to himself. The other interesting facts that Mother told us were that the skin on his face was odd, scarred and ridged, and that he had an unusual voice, rough and deep, as though he had a perpetual sore throat or cough.
One happy event that occurred at about the same time was that my sister Sara and Harald Soren became engaged to be married.
Sara told me that at first it was her gratitude to Soren that made her like him so well. But as her health improved and they spent more time together, the gratitude ripened into love, and though he was a good deal older, it became clear they cared very much for each other.
Sara didn't want to set a date for the marriage until Rose returned—which we all understood—but we also felt that Rose would want her to go ahead with her life.
"She'd hate to think that you are delaying your happiness on her account," I said to Sara.
Sara nodded, then replied, "What of you, Neddy? Harald has said that you only have to say the word and he will get you a position with one of the leading scholars in Bergen, or even Trondheim, which is not so very far away. What you have said about me is just as true for you."
Sara was right. I had put off deciding to go, because of Rose. What if she came to visit and I was not at the farm? But receiving her letter had changed things. I gave serious thought to taking Soren up on his offer.
The matter was settled when Soren convinced Father to move the mapmaking business to Trondheim. Though not as large as Bergen or Oslo, Trondheim would afford a larger market for the maps Father made as well as more people he could hire to do the work. In addition, Father and Soren had discussed building a printing press in Trondheim. Printing presses had come only very recently to Oslo and Bergen, and were thriving. Soren felt the time was ripe for the business.
I still had my doubts. A part of me felt that if we moved on, it was as if we were accepting that Rose was gone forever. But a bigger part of me knew that she was not. Rose was alive somewhere and traveling the path she must, the way she always had.
Rose
A WEEK AND A HALF after telling Thor of the white bear, I spotted a seabird. At first I did not take in its significance. I was at the steering oar and, despite the chill in the air, feeling drowsy. It had gotten bitter cold in the past few days, and I was wearing all the clothing I owned. Thor had been sleeping for a long time, the result of his latest round of drinking. It was just after dawn and I watched the bird soar, its whiteness vivid against the blue sky. It dipped low, almost to the surface of the water, then rose again. The white bird had come from the west and, wheeling around, eventually headed back in that direction.
Then I remembered: A bird means land! How many times had Thor made that point? Even as recently as the day before, he had told me a story about a Viking explorer who had been lost at sea for weeks, near starvation, and the sight of a gull had caused him to convert to Christianity on the spot.
I let out a shout. "Thor!"
There was no response, so I left the steering oar and went to shake him awake. '
"A bird, Thor," I said. "I saw a seabird."
He came awake and, though groggy, raised himself to a sitting position.
"A bird, eh? Where?"
I explained that it had flown away in a westerly direction.
"Is it possible?" he muttered to himself. "Could it be?..." A strange look of pain passed over his face.
Grabbing his crutch he hobbled over to the steering oar, ordering me to adjust the rigging while he changed course. He set the nose of the knorr due west, then ordered me to bring him a new cask of ale. I hesitated. "Get it for me now, you lunkheaded laggard, or I'll throw you overboard!" he roared with such force that I decided it was best to do as he said.
I scanned the western horizon eagerly, but by midmorning there was still no sign of land. Sunset would come in only a few hours. The sun was then setting in the early afternoon, which meant either that we had traveled quite far north or that it was almost winter solstice—or both.
We sailed through the long, frosty night. I slept fitfully, keeping watch over Thor, who was helping himself to frequent draughts of ale.
At dawn I offered to take over the steering oar, but Thor refused, though he reeked of drink and his movements were clumsy. I was the first to spy what looked to be a thin white finger of land. I pointed it out to Thor. He grunted and poured more ale.
The wind had weakened and shifted to the south, so it took a long time to tack toward land. To make matters worse, an icy sleet had begun to fall.
By the time I could make out features of the land, Thor was roaring drunk. He was zigzagging sloppily through the water and finally stopped steering altogether, slumping sideways on the bench, singing under his breath a song about "journeying on to Vinland." I suddenly saw that we were bearing down on a snow-covered headland, and I hastily squeezed in next to Thor and took the steering oar in hand.
I managed to avoid the boulders sticking up out of the water, but with a sinking feeling I saw that there were many of them. It did not look like a promising spot for me to try to land the knorr, inexperienced as I was. Because the wind was coming from the south, I steered a northerly course, hoping to find a better landing place.
With no one to secure the rigging, the sail flapped. I silently cursed Thor. Why had he chosen this of all times to drink himself into a stupor? And just what was that land? I bound the steering oar in place with a strap of leather and went to find my pack, pulling out the map that Sofi had given me.
I scrutinized it. Based on the shortening days, Thor had said he believed we were at least as far north as Suroy, perhaps farther, but he had no idea how far west we had been driven by the storm. Then the land could be Iseland, or ... it could even be the desolate land called Grönland.
And then I remembered.
Not long before I'd spotted the white bird, and during one of Thor's rare sober spells, he had told me about the death of his wife and son. Thor had been working for a prosperous merchant seaman but had hopes of one day owning his own ship. Then he was offered a place on a vessel that was going to Grönland, a place the Vikings had first settled but long ago abandoned. There was said to be good whale hunting off the coast of Grönland. Because the profits promised were large, and because of his great admiration for his Viking forebears, Thor leaped at the opportunity.
The voyage had not been a success, due to bad weather and an outbreak of sickness. In fact, the ship did not even reach Grönland before it had to turn back. Thor returned home to find that in his absence his wife and son had been killed by thieves. The next few years he was lost in barrels of ale, followed by several more years spent in gaol for killing a man he had mistakenly thought to be one of the killers.
After he got out of gaol, Thor worked a series of odd jobs, eventually scraping together enough money to buy himself a very old, decrepit Viking knorr, which he rebuilt. He set himself up in business as a merchant seaman and, for the past dozen years, had been able to make a living.
As I remembered all of this, I realized that the prospect of our coming to Gronland had brought back memories of Thor's failed voyage—and of all he had lost.